In front of them, Faelen strode along the Blue Mile like a prince, hands clasped behind his back and chin held high. He was a fool, plain and simple, his bright shirt and that ornate sword setting him apart from everyone else – a thick-skulled fool. He might as well be wearing a sign. Daric stayed well back, even allowing horses and peddlers to come between them. With only a few men dressed in bright colours, Faelen would be easy to find again, even with his hair cut short and the beginnings of a beard sprouted upon his chin. Daric had to admit he probably would not have recognised him, though, but Evin was sure they had the right man – something in the way he moved. Daric had no reason to doubt her. Besides, he could smell the arrogance from twenty paces away.
Quite a few palace guards were about, watching the merchants pack their wagons. They were probably here to keep the King’s Peace, but Daric wished they had chosen a better time to be efficient. Not that he was bothered about them making trouble, but if one of them recognised him… Still, at least the merchants hadn’t hired the Black Hand to watch their wagons, not so far as Daric could tell, anyway. Even so, he wouldn’t be surprised if some of the innkeepers had a few of the Black Hand standing in doorways or lurking in alleys. He had expected a few of them; merchants moving their inventory would often hire mercenaries. The fact he could not see any bothered him. But Evin said she trusted the informant, so maybe this wasn’t a trap, maybe it was just his suspicious nature rising to the surface – it wouldn’t be the first time.
A large wicker basket fell off the back of a wagon with a loud clang. Pots, pans and saucepans bounced along the cobbles, making an unearthly racket. Heads turned and people stopped to watch. Some laughed. Daric found himself stuck behind a sedan chair with two of the palace guards standing either side. He stretched to look around the sedan just in time to see Faelen turn onto West Avenue.
Dancing with a guard, Daric tried to get past, but every way he went, the guard moved in the same direction. He let out a sigh and was about to tell the guard to move when Evin pulled at his sleeve.
“Husband, you must be patient. We’ll get there no faster rushing.” Pointing at the shop window opposite, she said, “Come. I want to look at the dresses.”
That was their code. If they saw something, and couldn’t speak freely, they were to say they were “looking” for something.
Daric followed her to the window. “What is it?” He whispered, but couldn’t help putting a snap in his tone.
“Don’t look now, but Alliandra is on the other side of the road.”
Daric froze. The last person he wanted to see was his mother-in-law. Well, maybe not the last, but she came close. “She won’t recognise us,” he said. He didn’t know whether he said it for Evin’s benefit or his own.
Evin hunched in closer as they both stared into the window of a near-empty tailor’s shop. “Can we risk it?”
“No,” Daric admitted. “Come on, we’ll go through the alley. With any luck, we can catch up with Faelen on the other side.”
Without looking back, Daric pulled Evin into the alleyway between the tailors and the bookbinders. The alley was narrow, but empty. Before long, they came to a junction. Daric took the second exit. He had not been down here before, and only hoped it would bring them out in the right area. After squeezing past empty crates and a thin cart with a broken wheel, they emerged onto West Avenue.
Still part of the Blue Mile, West Avenue and the Westgate were a poorer part of the main road. Cutlers displayed steel wares instead of silver, and as a replacement for silks and fine woollens, the tailors’ shops displayed roughly cut gowns made of plain linen and thick wool. Narrower than the main route, no wagons waited outside these shops, and where sedan chairs might have cause a nuisance, men only pushed one-wheeled barrows. Less than a mile to the Westgate, no rich merchant or well-to-do would come this close to the Wickham, with its shrillers and pickpockets – not to mention muggers and street urchins. There were no guards, either, which was probably why Faelen had come this way, Daric thought.
But where soldiers might have been, members of the Black Hand were standing guard, sometimes roaming in twos and threes. The mercenaries were all over; none were patrolling, though. Indeed, they didn’t seem to be paying attention to anything, other than their dice. Some were just talking amongst themselves. Daric knew merchants down this end of the city were forced to “hire” the Black Hand, and while their presence was undeniable, their function was a mystery. Still, they kept the peace, in a fashion.
Daric wondered where Faelen was going. The Black Hand’s headquarters changed from week to week; could it be down this road? The thought that this could be a trap rumbled around in his mind. Maybe he should take Evin back, continue on his own. Still contemplating the idea, he saw Faelen thirty paces ahead. So did Evin…
“That’s him. Up there, in front of that warehouse.”
Daric nodded. “You should go back. It’s not safe down here.”
Evin tightened her grip on his arm. A look of indignation in her eye, she whispered, “We are here now, let’s just finish this. Besides, it would be more dangerous walking back on my own.”
Daric had to agree with that, unfortunately.
While they spoke, Faelen had gone into the shingle-roofed, wood-built warehouse. Daric crossed the street, and once they were at the side of the building, he looked right and left before turning into the alley that led to the rear.
Two storeys high, the rear of the warehouse was windowless apart from a small pane of glass in the back door. Daric, his back to the wall, sneaked a quick look inside. He saw Faelen talking to another man sitting at a low desk made of flat planks of wood lying on two upturned barrels. The stranger’s face was in the shadows, but he appeared to be a big man; not fat, but broad. Faelen handed something to the other man. Taking the package, the big man shook Faelen by the hand. He looked pleased with himself.
“He’s meeting a contact,” Daric told Evin. She was standing behind him, trying to make herself small against the warehouse wall. “He just handed something over. A pack—”
The door in front of the warehouse slammed shut, and Evin jumped. Holding her hand to her throat, she laughed. “We should go,” she said. “If this is their headquarters, we should send for help, have it watched.”
Daric nodded. “Yes, time to pick up Faelen.”
He looked through the window again. The warehouse was empty; the package Faelen had delivered was still on the desk. “Wait here; I want to see what the ambassador brought with him.”
Evin grumbled but said nothing.
Easing the door open, Daric stepped softly onto the dirt floor. Sacks of grain were heaped along the left wall, and to the right, open crates of what looked like potatoes and turnips had been stacked three high. In the middle, a narrow stairway with a flimsy banister led up to the first floor. The only window, next to the front double-doors, was closed. Daric could see people passing by. Nobody was looking in this direction; maybe Faelen had already moved on – he had to be quick. Shuffling over to the desk, he picked up the package and then started when Evin’s face appeared at his shoulder.
“I told you to wait.”
“If it’s all the same, I’d rather stay next to you.” Evin sniffed and began looking around the warehouse. “What’s that smell?”
Daric shrugged. “I don’t know. Something upstairs, I expect.”
“It smells like lamp oil.”
Daric sniffed. “I suppose it does.”
Opening the small box, he realised why the warehouse smelled of lamp oil. The package was empty. A single word had been written on the bottom on the box: Goodbye!
Daric spun on his heels and grabbed Evin by the wrist. They hadn’t made it halfway back to the door before it slammed shut. He shoulder-barged the closed door. It wouldn’t budge. When he looked through the small window, a long, thick piece of wood had been jammed between the handle and the wall opposite. The sound of breaking glass drew his attention, and he turned in time to see a li
t lantern thrown through the now-broken window at the front of the warehouse.
“Up the steps, quickly.” Daric pushed Evin towards the flimsy stairs and then waited a few seconds – that felt like minutes – while the woman climbed. The lantern had come to rest on one of the crates, but it was leaking oil, and the fire was spreading. Daric managed to get his foot on the second rung before it spread to the oil-dampened ground. A wave of blue fire rolled across the floor, setting alight the sacks of grain, the crates, and everything else on the ground.
Evin was already clambering over boxes and crates when Daric pulled himself up into the top room. Doubtless, she was looking for a way out, but there was none. No windows, no skylight, they were trapped.
Smoke was already rising through the hole in the floor when Daric decided to try to kick his way out. Throwing boxes and crates to the side, he made a gap at the left-hand wall. He began to kick at what looked like a boarded-up window, without much success. “See if you can find something to pry the boards,” he told Evin. “Anything, a shovel, a hoe… look in the crates.”
The smoke was beginning the fill the room. He could hear Evin coughing amid the sound of crates striking the wooden floor. She was barely three paces away, but he could hardly see her. Frantic, he repeatedly kicked at the same plank. Finally, it split. Forcing his fingers through the gap, he yanked the plank free just as Evin grabbed his shoulder.
“Here,” she said, handing him a long hardwood pole, probably used as a handle to something or other. “It’s all I can find.” Evin sat by his side, hand covering her face. Her eyes were streaming.
Using the pole as a lever, Daric managed to free three more planks until a window, two feet wide and three tall, opened on the side of the warehouse. Poking his head through, he could see a gap of two spans between them and the roof of a neighbouring shop. People were in the street, shouting. He heard one of them call for a ladder, but he didn’t think he and Evin had time to wait for a rescuer.
Grabbing Evin’s arm, he pulled her to the hole. “I’m going to jump over, and then I’ll catch you.” Evin only nodded, her hand still covering her mouth. Daric gripped each side of the glassless window, and after a swinging count of three, he jumped. Slipping on the tiled roof, he steadied himself before waving Evin across. Her face was white and her eyes barely open. “Just one big effort, Evin. I’ll catch you, I promise.”
“You bloody better had, Daric Re’adh,” she shouted.
She, too, wound herself up for a jump. Taking the leap, she managed to get a toe on the other roof. Daric took a handful of dress and pulled her the rest of the way. Evin wrapped her arms around him and laughed.
“Next time you plan on using me, Daric, remind me to say no,” she said, once she had steadied herself.
From the rooftop, Daric could see plumes of black smoke rising all along the north wall, the largest of which was coming from the Highgate. Behind him, too, the sky was full of smoke. It seemed that every tenth building was ablaze. Men and women were running back and forth, shouting for water, frantically trying to save their properties from the flames. Further west, a loud bang signalled an explosion of some kind, Daric could only guess at what had exploded to make such a noise. East, towards the Highgate, the sound of fighting drifted through the air.
“How could I be so stupid?” he whispered.
“It’s hardly your fault,” Evin told him, but only after gasping at the sight. “Come on, let’s get off this roof.”
They took a step and Daric heard a crack. A second later, he felt the sensation of falling. Then a pain, like someone hitting him with a mallet, struck the back of his head. He had enough air left in his lungs to moan. Then darkness.
* * *
With Ialin, the fat guardsman from Gieth’eire as an escort, Si’eth followed Daric and Evin along the street known as the Blue Mile. Of course, Ialin wasn’t really an escort; the young man was only there to stop Si’eth standing out too much. He knew he still looked… foreign, even with his now deeply tanned skin and new clothes. His grey eyes and bald head were enough to cause a few second glances; enough to cause a problem, maybe.
Si’eth was enjoying himself, he realised. For years, he had looked south with a scornful hatred of his southern neighbours, and not without good reason. The Surabhan were selfish, power-hungry and controlling. Since the war ended, some thirty-five years ago, the Surabhan had not let a single opportunity go by for reminding the Salrians who had won. The Treaty of Brion was a thorn in the side of the Barath council. Its purpose, so it seemed, was to keep the Salrians under the cosh, to prevent them from prospering. Ridiculous taxes, border controls, limits on the size of the army; even a “non-habitation” zone, preventing Salrians from settling too close to the border. Thinking about it still filled Si’eth’s gut with acid. Yet, for all that, he was strangely happy at the prospect of working with Daric and the others.
Maybe it was because he knew he could never go home. At least not as long as General Alaf’kan held any influence. The thought conjured an image of Bre’ach, an image of his own son attacking him, defying him. That was another thought that turned his stomach sour. Still, he wondered if the boy was well. Alaf’kan would probably give Bre’ach a medal if he managed to deliver that accursed map. Not for the first time, Si’eth wished that he had never laid eyes on the thing.
“Is this anything like Barath?” Ialin asked.
Si’eth scowled at the boy. “Why don’t you say that a bit louder? I don’t think the guards heard you.”
He was a guest at the palace, and while the guards might arrest him, he was in no danger. Nevertheless, the fuss would doubtless ruin Daric’s plans, if not alert Faelen of his presence.
Ialin gave him an abashed look. “Sorry,” he whispered.
“No harm done,” Si’eth told him. “And no, it’s nothing like… my home. Bailryn is twice the size, if not more, and this place is all stone and slate, mostly. I doubt there are a dozen stone building in… Barath.” He whispered the last. “We certainly don’t have as many shops, and, of course, we don’t have a palace.”
“Ah… interesting. That’s because you don’t have a king.”
Si’eth sighed, “Again, can you keep your voice down, boy? You have as good as said I don’t belong here to anyone in earshot. One good look at me and they will know for sure.” He glanced sideways to see if the boy had listened, then whispered, “And yes, we do have a king, but he answers to the council, which is as it should be.”
“Why wouldn’t you—”
“Enough, boy. Let’s just concentrate on our duty. Keep the chatter for later.”
Ialin mumbled an apology. Or at least Si’eth thought it was and apology; it might have been a curse. Regardless, the boy shut his mouth, which was all that mattered.
Si’eth froze. Grabbing Ialin elbow, he pulled the boy to a stop. Daric and Evin were standing in front of a shop window. From what he could see, they were deep in conversation. Something had happened. But what? Evin was looking over her shoulder at a group of Surabhan – an old woman and two men. The woman was pointing at crates, and then at a cart to her right. The woman flicked the ear of one of the men, who then bowed, before picking up a crate and running to the cart.
Why was Evin looking at her? From where Si’eth was standing, he couldn’t see Faelen. Was the woman a friend to the traitor? Before he could think of another reason, Daric and Evin disappeared down an alley. “Come on, boy. We can’t let them out of our sight.”
Si’eth dragged Ialin into the nearest alley, hoping it would cut around the back of the shops and meet up with the one Daric and Evin had used. The alley headed west. It was narrow with high fences at either side. It wasn’t until the first junction that Si’eth realised they were going in the wrong direction. He jumped to get a look over the fence, but could not get high enough. “Kneel down, Ialin. I need to see where that alley went.”
Ialin gawped at him. The boy’s face was a picture of indignation. “What? In the dirt? I just bought
these breeches,” the fat man said, tugging at the dark green breeches under his darker green shirt.
“Evin gave you those, Ialin. If I don’t find out where they went, Evin could end up in trouble. Now, do you want that to happen to the woman, or do you want to keep your clothes clean?”
Without a word, but with a dry look and a shake of his head, the boy knelt on all fours at the base of the fence. Si’eth stood on his back and peeped over the fence. Ignoring Ialin’s complaint that his boot heel was sticking in his ribs, Si’eth followed the direction of the alley Daric and Evin had used. A dozen paces to the left, it turned north. Eyeing the alley they were in, he could see that this route also turned north, but not for a hundred paces.
Jumping down, he slapped Ialin on the back. “Come on, boy, we have to run.”
Ignoring Ialin’s pleading to slow down. Si’eth ran as fast as the alley allowed until he reached the right turn. He stopped at the corner and peeped around. Two of those Black Hand that Daric warned him about were squatting in the alley thirty paces away, playing dice by the look of it. Beyond them, he could see the opening onto another road. The road must be where Daric and Evin were, but that would mean getting past those men.
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