by Julia Knight
“I’m always pleased to serve the prelate,” Petri answered.
“Don’t give me that piffle, Petri. We’ve known each other too long. Aren’t I the father you should have had? Haven’t I always treated you as a son?”
“You have.” And that had been enough for a long time. Bakar had been the one person he’d been able to rely on. Only now it wasn’t enough. Restless thoughts kept him awake at nights, wondering if the rest of his life was going to be like this – all mapped out, no surprises.
“Well then! Now, you’re chafing in that office, and I know it. It was necessary, I’m afraid, given who you are and who your father was. Equality sadly doesn’t take into account politics, and memories linger. More’s the pity. For a long time it was all I could do just to keep you in the office and not have you turfed out. But now I have something more challenging for you. And perhaps a way to exorcise some of those ghosts I know still haunt you.”
Petri said nothing – from long habit he now spoke little and thought more. It was safer that way, in among the rest of the clerks, who sneered at his accent and laughed at him. He’d borne it because he knew why, because Bakar had taught him that these people had had nothing before because of men like him, and they were long on forgetting it. He’d borne it but lately found he didn’t want to any more.
“Eneko,” Bakar said, and Petri sat up straight. “I’ve been keeping an eye on him, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. He’s always been a slippery bastard. After I took power he behaved himself for a time, but for a while now I’ve been sure he’s slipping back into his old ways. Slaves, money, power, but it all starts with the slaves. Who he sells them to I don’t know, though it’s possible some are going to Ikaras, and that makes me very suspicious. I’m almost sure he’s doing it. Not to mention a few people have, over the years, how shall I put this? Turned up dead, and not by natural causes either, unless you count a cut throat as natural. More lately not just slavers either. Last week one man who’d spoken out against the guild was found dead, and I think we can safely say he didn’t stab himself accidentally in his sleep. A few others have died, mostly my supporters, tradesmen I rely on, people who follow my lead within the council or are otherwise important to me. No one too obvious as yet, and the deaths often look like something else, accidents or random thievery gone wrong. But I see a pattern here, a slow and subtle one, killing my support. And here’s Eneko with a guild of men and women trained in fighting, and killing when they need to, and a grudge against me besides. I want to find out if it’s true, and if so which of them is doing the blood work. And who better than you?”
Petri could think of any number, but Bakar barely paused for breath.
“You know many of the men and women who are now masters, or you did. I know you watch them spar on the bridge sometimes, and even join in – no, don’t deny it. I never minded because you’re your own man and I know I have your loyalty. But you’re a face they know, perhaps trust. Eneko never told what happened to you that day, why you left. He swore the masters in attendance to secrecy. All the rest know is that sometimes you come back for a visit. I want you to visit again, and I want you to use your ears and listen. Find out what Eneko is up to and which of the masters are helping him. Wriggle your way into the guild if you can. Find out what his purpose is. I need proof, Petri, so I can string the bastard up, finally get rid of the guild for good.”
Petri hesitated, but in the end he had little choice but to agree. He hesitated because his trips back to that greensward were always bittersweet. He watched the unofficial sparring, the banter, the familiarity, with something that approached jealousy. That could have been his if not for his father, if not for Eneko. If not for Bakar.
Which was how Petri found himself back sparring with Kacha. She had a way with a blade that was elegant and simple but devastating, but it wasn’t that which had him entranced. He didn’t know what it was – perhaps that she didn’t look at him like just another fallen noble or a prelate’s man, didn’t mock his accent, didn’t mock him at all. She saw only an opponent. She won, as he’d thought she would, and he congratulated her and saw surprise flash across her face.
She took him to Soot Town for something to eat. It had been years since he’d set foot there – if the clerks in the palace hated him, the clockworkers and smiths down in Soot Town hated him and his accent worse. Yet somehow this time it was all right.
He wouldn’t have called it a restaurant – it was someone’s house with extra tables crammed into the tiny front room and the smell of fried fish lingering in the corners. He sat down, wary at first because the place was full of duellists and soot-streaked working men, but no one said a word. Kacha sat, but she wasn’t still for a moment. Foot tapping, fingers playing with the tassel on her scabbard or twirling her hair.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” she said.
“Not much,” he agreed and wondered why she’d brought him here.
She laughed at that, but she was frowning too as though she was trying to figure him out. Any moment now she’d get it, that he was the prelate’s little spy trying to winkle what he could out of her. But then she shook her head, smiled at him, really at him, and started talking about their sparring, about this move and that, just like he was any other duellist, anyone else. She didn’t seem to care about his accent or who his father had been or who he worked for now. By the time the food came he’d quite forgotten that he was supposed to be spying.
When the ever-preening Vocho turned up in a blast of raucous noise, plunked down and threw a purse full of bulls onto the table, Petri was more annoyed than he ever remembered, but Kacha only laughed at Vocho’s antics.
“Where did you get all those?” she asked. “Mugging old ladies? Are they all you can manage to fight?”
“Oh please,” Vocho said with a sideways glance at Petri. “If I was going to mug ladies they would at least be young and attractive.”
“So where did you get them then?”
Petri remembered that smug smile, remembered hating it back then, and he hated it now.
Vocho patted the hilt of his sword. “My little secret, Kacha. My little secret.”
Kacha rolled her eyes and waved him away. Thankfully Vocho took the hint, and with a last penetrating glare at Petri wandered over to some other duellists and showed off to them instead, ordering jugs of “the most expensive wine you have” then throwing them over the others, toasting himself and generally being an obnoxious sod.
Kacha started saying something but Petri didn’t catch it. Vocho was an extraordinary duellist, it was true. And one with a secret income. Quite a substantial income too – that purse would be enough to feed and house a family for a month or longer.
“I’m sorry?”
“I said, Vocho’s a bit of an acquired taste,” Kacha said. “Would you like to go somewhere else? Your choice.”
Something about the way she was looking at him, as though she was surprising herself. Something in the way her lips tilted in a half smile. His choice. He wondered if Bakar’s precious clocks had predicted this. Was it really his choice or was he just playing to the mechanism of the prelate’s clockwork universe? Did he care?
“I’ve never been to the night market,” he said. Bakar couldn’t have foreseen this. Not the way his heart seemed loud enough to deafen him, or how the way she looked at him made him want to grin like a fool. Free will or running on rails? There were no rails to describe what was happening to him. The clockwork that seemed to have taken up residence in his head came to a shuddering halt and he was surprised that cogs didn’t fall out of his ears.
“Then it’s about time you did,” she said and looped her arm through his.
It was about then that his world had collapsed with a crash that should have shaken the foundations of the Shrive, and a new world had started to rise in the ruins.
Chapter Seventeen
Vocho cracked open an eye and tried not to breathe too hard. Whoever had been in here before him – wherever the hell
s here was – hadn’t cared too much about little things like personal cleanliness. When he managed to get his eyes open properly, he figured they probably had other things on their minds. Like the rack in the corner, or the brazier full of various pokers and brands, their ends cherry red where they rested on the burning coals. Yup, they’d take a man’s mind off whether he was sweating or make him a little less conscientious about where he pissed.
He scraped a hand over a day’s growth of stubble, found that was the limit his hand could move in the chains he suddenly noticed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. His head felt very odd, and the patch on his back that he’d never quite been able to see, even in a mirror, burned like buggery.
He was just getting to grips with that, and the fact he seemed to be somewhere underground with thick stone walls that probably wouldn’t let the screams out, when a door in a dark corner groaned open.
Egimont was first in, and Vocho tried to get himself a bit straighter. Pompous dick. He didn’t have time to dwell on Eggy though, much as he’d like to; for Kacha’s sake, he’d have loved to kick the man in the nuts. Others appeared behind Egimont – the king swaggered in, all pomp and grandeur, perfumed kerchiefs and dripping jewels and clockwork gizmos that were probably worth ten duellists. Behind him scurried a small man, shoulders folded over a little paunch like he spent his days hunched over a desk, with ink stains on his fingers. A few wisps of grey hair, carefully arranged. A pair of spectacles that reflected the flames from the brazier, made his eyes into shifting red mirrors that hid who he was. Last came a dark figure that lurked in the shadows, leaving only the shine of his eyes and the bloody patterns on his hands in view.
Vocho’s stomach shrivelled in on itself. Magician. It was only when he’d told Kacha that he’d truly remembered him, his mind not wanting to probe too deeply for what it found. He’d had an inkling in the coach, a sense that he’d met this man before and a dread of meeting him again, but it was only now that the fractured memories stitched themselves back together. Bloody patterns swirling in his head. A deep voice that followed them, saying… saying all sorts. That woman, Alicia she’d called herself, had been there too. He still couldn’t remember much, only there’d been blood, he knew that, and…
“Ah, Vocho.” The king came forward, kerchief held delicately over his nose against the stench from the straw. Vocho had a flash of who Dom reminded him of before the king breezed onward. “You’ve been such a very helpful fellow, even if you did run off to the back of beyond. And stealing those papers, well, we’ve had to move a little quicker than we anticipated, which may mean a slightly bloodier time of it than I wanted. But Sabates here has a new plan. I like it very much. Hopefully you will too. In fact, I’m positive you will. First things first. Sabates?”
The magician stepped forward, and Vocho had to work very hard not to shuffle back. Something about the man’s eyes unnerved him, made more black memories come to mind. The priest, the screams as he died and… and… the magician watching, those shining eyes urging him on.
“Egimont, help Vocho strip, please.”
“Strip? Oh now, just wait a minute. I don’t think there’s any need for that. I mean, I don’t swing that way or—”
“Shut up,” Sabates said. “Egimont?”
Eggy grabbed him and ripped the shirt from his back, managing to get a good wrench of his arm in while he did it, before twisting it up behind Vocho’s back. It startled Vocho, and seemed out of character for the honourable Egimont. Of course, he hadn’t been the same since Kacha…
Sabates peered at Vocho’s back, and the patch there burned worse than ever, so that sweat dripped from his forehead, slicked his arms. He tried to use it to wriggle out of Eggy’s hands but his grip just got tighter.
“Still there. Very good.”
“What’s still there?” Whatever it was, he didn’t want it.
“A tattoo. A blood-magic tattoo.” Sabates’ voice was smooth and dark and cold, like the waters of the Reyes river. “It’s lasted quite well. Should only need a top-up.”
“But—”
“Shut up,” Licio said. “I have a proposition for you, one which you’re in no position to refuse. I understand Sabates can do quite nasty things through a tattoo like that.”
Sabates was behind him now, and Vocho could feel even Egimont’s distaste as he edged away. A sharp pain almost blinded him and dimly recalled another night, another time. His back was on fire, so hot all the blood dripping from it should evaporate.
“Now then,” Licio continued. “The good news is, I can get you pardoned. More than that, if the renowned Vocho, exonerated from the lies and treachery that led to him being charged with murder, leads my cause, I can give you lands, titles, money, renown. I can give you everything your shallow little heart desires.”
“That’s nice,” Vocho said, and then had to grit his teeth against what Sabates was doing to his back. He’d have preferred the rack, or maybe one of those red-hot pokers. Anything was preferable to the grinding pain that shot through his back as the magician ran his fingers over it.
Licio frowned at Vocho’s flippancy but carried on. “Actually, you’ll do it anyway. The tattoo will see to that. Correct, Sabates?”
“Oh yes. To a point.”
“Well, that’s fantastic. Why bother offering then?” The scream came through his gritted teeth; he couldn’t stop it.
Eggy muttered something under his breath, but Vocho was past hearing it.
“Oh, the tattoo is just to be sure.” Licio said. “Magic’s all very well, but it’s not reliable, is it? Not part of the clockwork universe, isn’t that what Bakar has against it? Not orderly, not logical according to our new Clockwork God, a magician’s whims too much an element of chance. No, I want you to join me of your own free will. Ha! Yes, the free will that Bakar derides so much. Think of the glory, Vocho. Think of the money, the adulation. Vocho the Great, who led the revolt against the prelate, who killed him to set his fellow men free from the tyrant Bakar has become.”
“You want me to kill the prelate? You’ll need more than a tattoo to make me do that. He already wants me dead; I don’t want him flaying me alive first.”
A sudden twist in his back, the slice of a blade, and Vocho couldn’t control his legs. Someone appeared to be groaning, and it was him. Eggy pulled him back up gently enough.
“There. All done.” Sabates appeared in front of Vocho’s sweating face. “A tricky bit of magic. But it worked on you well enough before. Didn’t it?”
Vocho couldn’t seem to get his breath – his throat was dried up like a fish left out in the sun. He could barely even manage to move his head. Only Eggy’s arm kept him upright rather than lying on the floor like a beaten dog, and Vocho was bizarrely grateful to him. Which meant he must be going mad.
“Very nicely,” Licio agreed. “First though, I need you to persuade your sister. Poor Egimont tried, but he didn’t get very far, except into her underwear.”
The hand gripping his arm tightened, and Eggy’s teeth clacked shut by his ear.
“Persuade her to do what?” Vocho managed in a whisper.
“Join the cause, obviously. And give us those papers back. Then, once your names are restored, the ever lovely Kacha, apprentice to the guild master, now on our side and keeping Eneko’s mouth shut, will be an enormous asset to Petri when he takes over the guild.”
Vocho couldn’t help the little giggle that escaped. “I don’t think she’ll—”
Licio’s voice snapped out, cutting him off. “I don’t give a shit what you think. You’ll persuade her, or Egimont here will have to kill her. I can’t have her running loose against me. Especially if she still has those papers.”
Again the tightening of the grip on his arm, a mutter from Egimont.
“Persuade her to come to us with those papers, and then perhaps she can live.” Licio turned to the magician. “Sabates, that tattoo will stop him running again?”
Sabates shrugged, but the shining eye told Voch
o all he needed to know. The magician wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
“Good. And don’t worry, Vocho. Think of all you’ll gain out of this. Everyone will know your name, and not just as a priest murderer. Vocho the Magnificent has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”
Licio gave him a bright smile and left, the little folded man at his heels. Sabates lingered for a while, looking Vocho up and down. “I’d consider agreeing, if I were you. There really isn’t much choice.” Then he too left.
It was only Vocho and Egimont now, and when Eggy let go, Vocho sagged to his knees. Sweat pooled in the small of his back; pain sat on his shoulders.
“Eggy.” He wasn’t able to say it very loud, but Egimont stopped with his hand on the door. “What happened? With you and Kacha?”
“What’s it to you?” The voice was cold, but Vocho thought he heard a tremor in it, as though Egimont was suppressing some emotion he daren’t show.
“She’s my sister. She was kind of upset.” Understatement of the century. “I don’t like to see her upset.”
“Then surely she told you? She didn’t tell me, except to send my ring back with a suggestion as to what I could do with it.”
“And that makes you hate her enough for this? Are they going to put one of these bastard tattoo things on her? Will you kill her if they ask you to?”
Something very strange happened to Eggy’s face. It looked like someone was trying to pull it inside out. In the end he gritted his teeth, got his face under control and slammed the door behind him without answering.
Interlude
Seven months earlier
Kacha moved warily along the wall that topped the guild buildings. It was a long drop to the river, and while she’d had plenty of practice on this wall, Eneko had plenty of guile. Even after all this time he wasn’t above surprising her in the name of “experience”.
The moon was up, good and full in a clear sky, which hampered her only a little. This side of the guild had been built for defence from outside, and the crenellations and lowered walkway largely concealed her. Even if they hadn’t, “apprentice meets master” was hardly worthy of gossip. Still, out of habit she moved with silent care and made sure no one saw.