by Conrad Mason
‘What is this?’
‘Why, this is our game, of course,’ said the cat. ‘A game for which we require your assistance. A mongrel boy with a certain wit. It is the least you owe me, after your troublesome interference when I visited Port Fayt. And who knows?’ He smiled, stirring up Joseph’s unease all over again. ‘Perhaps your little spoon will prove useful too.’
If Azurmouth smelled bad, its sewers were a thousand times worse. Even the wooden clothes peg clamped over Joseph’s nose could barely protect him from the stench of the dark sludge that flowed around their ankles, carrying with it the occasional lobster shell, broken tankard or shattered pair of eyeglasses. They said that goblins had a better nose than most, but Joseph would have traded his for anything at that moment.
That reminded him of the wooden-nosed goblin who’d tried to kill him at the Grey Brotherhood, which didn’t make him feel any better.
Instead, he concentrated on the vaulted brick tunnel extending into blackness ahead, and forced himself not to look at the sewage below. He could still feel it of course, now liquid, now uncomfortably solid … The shapeshifters were wearing long, heavy wading boots, but there hadn’t been a spare pair for Joseph. The next chance he got, he was going to scrub his feet like he’d never scrubbed them before.
Where are we going? They hadn’t killed him – not yet. They’d even given him a bowl of stew to eat, and let him have his cutlass back. When he’d asked why, the spider had laughed and replied, ‘Why not?’ It’s an insult, Joseph had realized. They know I couldn’t hurt them, however much I wanted to.
He felt the reassuring weight of the wooden spoon in his pocket. But even that gave him a twinge of unease. What was it the cat had said? You really have no idea what it could do to you … Did the shapeshifter know something he didn’t? And anyway, why was he here – what could a mongrel boy like Joseph have to offer the Quiet Three? And what had the cat meant about the spoon being useful?
So many questions. But whatever was happening, he had no choice except to go along with it. The cat and the horse went ahead, still in human form, the horse striding casually through the centre of the sewage, the cat skirting round the edge of it, hopping between bits of dry brickwork like … well, like a cat.
Every now and then Joseph heard a rustle of clothing behind him, but nothing more. The spider was disturbingly quiet as she brought up the rear. No danger of Joseph running away, with that dark presence behind him. If he was going to bolt anywhere, it would be forwards, and he didn’t fancy his chances with the massive bulk of the horse in the way.
‘Nearly there.’ The horse’s voice echoed off the brickwork.
Nearly where? They’d been going for hours, Joseph reckoned, but it was too dark to check the time on his father’s pocket watch. All he knew was that he was tired, and his feet hurt, and still they kept walking.
The sewers were empty and silent but for the distant rumble of cartwheels above and the echoes of dripping in side tunnels. Some time ago, they’d crossed paths with a pair of imps dressed in ragged, filthy clothing. The strangers had watched them with a haunted look, and only moved on when they seemed sure the shapeshifters wouldn’t hurt them.
Beggars, or prisoners fleeing from justice. The League’s justice.
‘Here,’ said the spider suddenly. She pulled the clothes peg from her nose, and Joseph and the others followed suit.
Joseph peered all around him, but he couldn’t see anything except the tunnel carrying on in both directions. The brickwork was old and ramshackle. Weeds grew through cracks, clinging on to life against the odds. Joseph was glad of the darkness – the smell wasn’t so bad here, but the dripping and scuttling noises from the shadows weren’t exactly making him curious about their surroundings.
The cat lit a lantern and held it up to a patch of the wall. In the soft glow, Joseph saw that his captor was smiling. Brimming with excitement. The game has begun.
‘Excellent work, my lady,’ the cat said.
‘It’s just a wall,’ said Joseph dumbly.
Ice-cold fingers found the back of his neck, making him gasp and flinch away. The spider chuckled, a sound like ancient, rustling paper.
‘Just a wall?’ she said. ‘But to one such as myself, a wall can be many things. A home. A ladder. Or even an entrance.’
The spider smiled, a horrible leer that made Joseph’s skin crawl. And the next moment her black clothes fell in a heap, empty. She was gone. The horse reached down and plucked something from among them, holding it up against the brickwork – a small black shape which scuttled off his hand, climbing upwards and disappearing suddenly through a crack.
‘She glides through gaps,’ said the horse.
‘Crawls through crevices,’ added the cat. ‘She will find us a way in.’
‘A way in to where?’ tried Joseph.
‘Patience,’ said the cat.
Chapter Twelve
‘Whatever you want from me,’ said Cyrus Derringer, ‘I won’t do it.’
Newton gripped the elf’s arm tightly as they made their way through the back streets of Azurmouth. Derringer was back in his make-up, and Newton wore a plain cloak with the hood drawn up to conceal his shark tattoo. Even so, they stuck to the shadows.
‘You and I haven’t always seen eye to eye,’ Newton murmured. ‘I know that, Cyrus.’
‘You betrayed me at Illon. The fleet was mine to command, but you took charge of it yourself.’
‘Aye, someone had to. And before that, you stabbed me in the leg with that fancy rapier of yours. But let’s let bygones be bygones. Trust me, I’m doing this for Port Fayt.’
‘Trust you? You won’t even tell me where we’re going.’
They turned into a narrow alleyway, where a back door was set into the rear of a large townhouse. The door was guarded by two men in silver coats, their hair tied back with silver ribbons, their cutlass hilts moulded into the shapes of roaring dragons. Probably the classiest bully boys Newton had ever seen. Above the doorway words were etched into the stone lintel – The Fencing House of the Silver Dragon.
Derringer’s eyes widened, and he stopped dead. ‘Wait … you want me to enter the Contest of Blades?’
‘I’ll be straight with you, Cyrus. The Duke of Garran took something from me, at the Battle of Illon. A sword. I need it back, and I reckon this contest is the best way to get it.’
Derringer scowled. ‘That’s ridiculous. Why go to so much trouble for a sword?’
‘I don’t know. Not exactly. I just … I have a hunch that it’s important.’ He paused. ‘For Fayt.’
At the call of the sword, twelve stones shall sing,
Twelve seraphs rise, in a golden ring …
Newton licked his lips. ‘Admit it, Cyrus. You’ve always wanted to enter the contest. You’re the finest swordsman in Port Fayt. But are you the finest in the Old World?’
‘I see what you’re trying to do,’ said Derringer. ‘It’s pathetic.’
But Newton could tell by the glint in his eye that he was tempted. Arrogance had always been the elf’s weakness. He thinks he’s the best, and I’m giving him a chance to prove it.
It was all or nothing now. Newton drew the elf’s rapier from beneath his cloak and held it out, hilt first.
‘Maybe this’ll help you trust me. Here, take it.’
Cautiously, Derringer closed his fingers around the hilt.
‘I don’t buy that story you told us,’ said Newton, still holding the blade flat on his palms. ‘You didn’t come all the way over the Ebony Ocean to arrest us, did you? Not all on your own. Where are your black-coats?’ Back in Port Fayt, Derringer had never gone anywhere without an escort of militiamen to back him up.
For a moment, the elf’s expression flickered with something unexpected. Is he … embarrassed?
‘They’re … I mean, they were … captured by the butchers.’
‘If you say so. I reckon there’s some other reason you’re here. And I don’t know what that is, but I know o
ne thing – you’ll never get a chance like this again. A chance to win the contest. Cyrus Derringer – greatest swordsman in all the Old World. Imagine it.’
The elf hesitated, and for a moment, Newton half expected him to bury the blade in his guts. His whole plan depended on this. Master Gurney had pulled a lot of strings to get Cyrus entered into the contest – a magician’s word counted for a lot in Azurmouth. But if the elf refused to fight, everything would fall apart.
‘I’ll do it,’ said Derringer suddenly.
‘Really?’
A smug smile spread over the elf’s face. He whipped the blade up and flicked his wrist, cutting the air close to Newton’s right ear with a soft hum. Newton managed not to flinch – just.
‘But if I win the contest, you and your watchmen will come quietly back to Fayt with me. You’ll surrender to the governor, and whatever punishment he deems suitable. Understand?’
Newton’s jaw clenched, but he nodded all the same. ‘Aye. It’s a deal.’
Half an hour later the crowd were chanting Colonel Derringer’s name.
‘Cyrus! Cyrus! Cyrus!’
Newton had never seen the elf look so happy. Strutting on the fencing floor, he was practically glowing with joy, which would have been easier to stomach if he didn’t look quite so pleased with himself. He raised his sword in triumph, and the chanting crashed like a wave in an almighty cheer.
The fencing floor rose like a scaffold, bounded with red velvet ropes – a touch of class that seemed a little wasted on the drunken spectators. Newton’s eyes watered from the pipe smoke that hung above them, haunting the dark, cavernous interior of the fencing house like a bad omen. Someone had sloshed a tankard of grog onto his arm, and a child who couldn’t see was shoving at him from behind. But he kept his gaze fixed on Cyrus Derringer.
One more. Just one more fight, and then we’re through. Through to the final of the contest, in the House of Light itself. Where, according to Master Gurney, Lucky Leo would be waiting for them.
Lucky Leo, and the Sword of Corin.
Newton had to admit it – Cyrus was good. He’d beaten two opponents, each in less than five minutes. The first had been a merchant with an expensive sword and none of the skill to go with it. Derringer had disarmed him on the first stroke and tripped him over. Some of the crowd had laughed, but others had jeered, angry to be cheated out of a proper fight. Derringer hadn’t liked that.
The second was a country boy, strong and quick-witted. This time Derringer had indulged his audience, showing off some fancy footwork and slashing dramatically, unnecessarily. By the end of the bout the boy was collapsed on his knees, a blade at his throat, the crowd whooping with glee.
There was a tense hush as Derringer’s final opponent climbed the steps and ducked under the velvet rope.
Just one more.
It was a League fighter, dressed in white. He was sandy-haired, big and flabby – but the easy way he carried himself made Newton nervous. He turned to smile at the crowd, and Newton breathed in sharply.
‘Ain’t seen one o’ them before?’ said the child, who’d managed to push in next to him. ‘That’s the League’s brand, that is.’ Seared into the fighter’s forehead was a symbol – a blazing sun formed of white ridges.
Newton ran his thumb over one of the red marks on his wrists. The League had scarred them both. ‘What did he do to deserve that?’ he asked.
The child giggled. ‘He ain’t do nothing! He chose to get branded. Shows how tough he is, I reckon. Like that funny shark you got on your cheek.’
Newton hastily pulled his hood across to cover the tattoo. He chose it. The pity he’d felt had disappeared at once, like a blown-out candle.
Still smiling, the branded man drew a heavy, curved blade, dulled and battered and stained with blood. It sent another chill down Newton’s spine.
A silver-coated marshal stepped forward. ‘When the handkerchief touches the platform, you may begin.’ He tossed the scrap of silver silk in the air, then scrambled into the crowd as it floated gently down.
Here we go.
Derringer struck first, leaping forward into a lunge. The branded man sidestepped and shoulder-barged straight into him, sending the elf stumbling away. Derringer rallied, swinging his blade faster than thought. The branded man deflected it effortlessly and slapped Derringer in the face with an open hand, the meaty smack of it echoing through the fighting hall.
Some of the spectators began to laugh. The man wasn’t fast, but he was nimble and strong. Smart too. He was treating this like a wrestling match, and Thalin knew, Derringer couldn’t win that kind of contest.
The elf was sweating now, his face twisted with anger. No doubt that slap had been humiliating as well as painful. He advanced more cautiously this time, his sword darting, looking for an opening. But somehow the League man managed to skip inside his guard, grab hold of Derringer’s hat and toss it aside.
There was a collective gasp as the spectators saw for the first time what many of them must have guessed.
‘Cyrus is an elf!’
‘Oi, Pointy Ears! Get it together!’
Derringer snarled and threw himself at his opponent, and the fight began in earnest.
It wasn’t pretty. Newton winced as the elf got kicked, punched and slammed around the fighting floor. All his clever footwork and swordplay was gone, his energy channelled into nothing more than staying on his feet. The League man was enjoying himself, Newton realized. It made him feel sick.
And now, finally, the man began to use his sword, chopping like a butcher with a meat cleaver.
It was only a matter of time.
Newton had seen enough. He began pushing, shoving his way to the edge of the platform. He had to get up there. Till one fighter gives quarter – or to the death. That was the rule. And there was no way Derringer would give quarter.
The League fighter began to move harder, faster and with more determination. Like a shark that had sensed the inevitable kill. He swung, double-handed, sent Derringer’s sword skittering away. It clattered across the wooden planks, well out of reach.
Newton reached the front and pushed himself up, one knee on the edge of the platform. He caught Derringer’s eye – and he hesitated. The elf was looking at him fiercely, as though in warning. Stay where you are.
The curved blade was raised for the killing blow. And all at once, Derringer made his move. Quick as a darting fairy, he rolled to the side and sprang up straight at his opponent, grabbing him by his throat.
The branded man let out a strangled sound. There was a flash of metal, and then both of them were still. It took Newton a moment to realize what had happened. Derringer had a tiny knife pressed at his opponent’s cheek. Where it had come from, he had no idea. There was no blood – not yet – but all it would take was one fast movement.
The silence which followed seemed to stretch out for ever. The crowd held its breath. And then the branded man uncurled his fingers. With a dull clank, his sword dropped onto the wooden platform.
Applause erupted on all sides.
Newton sank back, relief flooding his body, as the marshal clambered onto the platform to raise up Derringer’s arm. ‘Cyrus Derringer is the Champion of the Silver Dragon! He shall now progress to the final … at the House of Light!’
The elf was beaming, and for once, Newton couldn’t blame him. He’s smarter than I thought.
Where they were going, he’d need to be.
Chapter Thirteen
‘She is coming,’ announced the cat.
Finally.
Joseph pushed himself off the sewer wall, blinking in the dark. His legs ached, but there was no way he would have sat down in the filthy sludge swirling at their feet.
The whole time the spider had been away, the other shapeshifters had said nothing. Just waited, still and silent. Every once in a while Joseph had caught the gleam of their eyes watching him, the cat’s glowing like two yellow moons.
What are they planning for me? Whatever it
was, he was about to find out.
The horse laid a finger on the brickwork, and Joseph watched the spider squeeze out of a narrow crack beside it, onto the horse’s hand.
‘This way,’ said the hissing voice of the spider.
They set off. This time the horse went first, holding the spider in the palm of his hand like a compass. Joseph followed with the cat at his shoulder, so close Joseph could hear him breathing. He felt like a mouse caught in a trap.
Perhaps he was.
‘Here,’ said the spider suddenly.
‘Where are we?’ asked Joseph. His voice cracked a little – the first time he’d used it in a while.
‘Another wall,’ said the cat.
‘A wall that is weak,’ said the horse.
‘And weakened still further by my little expedition,’ said the spider.
‘But most of all,’ said the cat, ‘this wall is in a very particular place.’
The horse passed the spider to the cat, then reached inside his coat and brought out a metal crowbar, which he wedged into a gap in the brickwork. His muscles bulged. He let out a soft grunt, and then with one powerful movement a whole section of brickwork came free, tumbling into the sewer water in a thunder of crashing, splashing sounds.
Joseph stood back, covering both ears with his hands.
The horse thrust the metal bar in among the bricks again and levered another chunk away. Dust filled the air, forcing Joseph’s eyes half-closed. Again and again the horse struck at the wall, smashing and pulling it away.
Joseph could see that this wasn’t ordinary strength, even without Hal to explain. It was magical. Maybe Newton and the troll twins together would have been able to do this, but one man on his own, pulling down a wall like it was wet paper … Joseph had never seen anything like it. The air filled with brick dust, as debris fell into the waters below.