The Tattered Banner

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  ‘I am Carlujko, may I ask to whom I have the pleasure of speaking?’

  Soren stood but did not offer his hand. He was a banneret after all, and this man was only a tradesman, despite his skill and reputation. ‘Banneret of the Duke’s Cross Soren, Captain of the Duke’s Legion of the Eastern March.’

  ‘Welcome to my establishment, Banneret. Please sit,’ said Carlujko. Soren did and Carlujko sat also, turning Soren’s block of steel over in his hands.

  ‘This is perhaps the finest piece of steel I have ever held. I realise I am prying, but I cannot help myself but ask how you came to possess it.’

  ‘I was on a diplomatic mission to Ruripathia some time ago, the steel was a gift from the Royal Court,’ said Soren.

  ‘A generous gift indeed! I can tell you that from the size and weight of this block there is enough steel here to make both a sword and dagger blade of more or less the standard length. There is plenty of room for customisation though, taper, point of balance and so forth. If you have any preferences these can of course be accommodated. While I am always eager to have the opportunity to work on steel of this quality, I do require some latitude with the minutiae of the design. It is what gives my work its signature. If I were to follow my client’s requests to the letter, it would be their blade, rather than mine, if you follow me.’

  ‘I have no difficulty with that, Maestro, your reputation speaks for itself,’ Soren replied.

  ‘Excellent. Hilt design is all that remains to be discussed. Again I like to be able to make my own judgements in this regard, but I do like to agree on the general design with my client before beginning so as to ensure it will meet its functional requirements.’ He reached to a small bookshelf behind the desk and withdrew a well worn folder full of sheets of loose paper.

  ‘I have drawings here of my previous work, which you can go through for ideas. I am sure an experienced swordsman like you will have some of your own specific requirements and these of course can be accommodated. I would say this however. For a fighting weapon, the poorer the skill of the wielder, the more elaborate the hilt. For steel of this quality, I would suggest something austere but bold, beautiful but not ostentatious. I pride myself in being able to visualise what I like to consider the perfect match for each piece of steel,’ said Carlujko, with infectious enthusiasm. He very clearly took great joy in what he did. He took a sheet of paper and a piece of charcoal from a drawer in the desk and began to sketch. It took only a moment for the image to take shape.

  The pommel was disc shaped with rounded concave sides. A long slender cross guard that flared at the ends protected the handle. A knuckle guard curved back from the cross guard toward the pommel but stopped just short of touching it. The only concessions to artistry were the two curved arms that reached an inch up the blade and framed it with an ellipse, but even this afforded the hand extra protection. It was simple, but there was something elegantly beautiful about it. Carlujko sketched out half a dozen pictures of his idea from every angle. As he drew, he talked through his reasoning, and Soren knew this was the right man to make his sword.

  ‘This is a true fighting design. Not too elaborate, but with just enough flair to make it an individual. I believe there will be enough steel to make the hilt. To pair the blade I have in mind with a hilt of any lesser metal would simply be a crime. Now, I’m sure you would like a quote. The steel is difficult to work, but the design is not so complicated. You’d be amazed how many people want hilts that cost ten times more than the blade!’ He chuckled. ‘The beauty of your sword is in its steel. I think five hundred crowns should cover it. That will buy you something your grandchildren and their grandchildren will wield with pride!’

  Soren swallowed hard. He had been paid eighty crowns in back pay and he got thirty a month on half pay, but much of that was taken up by rent. He would need to find well paying work and fast.

  ‘Ordinarily I have a waiting list of two years, but I honestly will not be able to restrain myself from working this steel for that long, so I will begin as soon as I have finished my current piece, which will only require another ten hours or so of work. I would expect your sword to require roughly two hundred hours of work, say six weeks from today to be on the safe side. I will require a ten per cent deposit.’

  ‘Thank you, Maestro.’ He counted out fifty crowns, almost the sum total of his wealth, and left them on the table.

  ‘Very good, I shall see you in six weeks,’ said Carlujko, with an anticipatory smile.

  In one instant he had gone from being reasonably well off, to facing an impending debt if he wanted his sword. It was feasible for a swordsman to make that kind of money in six weeks, but a sword was a prerequisite, and needless to say he didn’t have one. He had left the one he purchased before returning to the army in the east behind at the camp and had long since discarded the barbarian weapons he had used to kill the shaman.

  He pondered the quandary all of the way to his apartment. When he arrived, there was a note waiting for him. It was sealed but there was no imprint on the red wax. It seemed the General did not intend to let him rest for long.

  C h a p t e r 4 6

  CLOAK AND DAGGER

  The cloak and dagger aspect of the summons and the meeting seemed a little ridiculous at first. He always seemed to find it difficult to absorb the fact that he was living a life of importance, rather than just surviving on the street. He wondered if that would ever change.

  He was not altogether happy at having been forced into a role as an assassin, even if it was in the service of the Duke, but now that General Kastor had discharged him from the army, a military career was no longer open to him. He could have refused Kastor; he had after all already undertaken one suicide mission. It seemed a little much to expect more from him, but he could not see any other viable options if he alienated the General and through him whomever of the Duke’s court was assigned the responsibility of security and counter-espionage within the city. Too many doors would be closed to him if he did. Joining a family retinue was the only other alternative, but the opportunities were slim there also. No family associated with Amero would have anything to do with him. To any others, he would just be a blow in with no proven record of loyalty. He knew that Ranph would always employ him, but that would only serve to put him back in a situation where he was reliant on another’s goodwill to earn his livelihood. He was determined that he would stand on his own two feet, and if being an assassin was the only way he could do that for the time being, then he was all right with that. Eventually, another opportunity would pass his way, but until that time, at least his work would be of importance in keeping the city secure from those powerful enough to cause serious unrest.

  He was to meet his contact by the campanile of the Cathedral just off Crossways Square. The contact would identify himself to Soren and give him instructions. He left his apartment a little earlier than was necessary, and stopped at a pawnshop on one of the small streets off the Crossways. He bought a cheap but serviceable sword and dagger, probably an old army issue and certainly not a banneret’s weapon, before continuing on to the Campanile. In keeping with the clandestine nature of the meeting he ensured that he arrived before the appointed time, and surveyed the location from all directions. It was probably a little pointless, but he felt inclined to do so nonetheless. He might as well start forming cautious habits early.

  It was early evening and there were fair sized crowds moving past the Campanile. It had the usual bustle and noise of a busy city street and seemed as good a place as any for a meeting that did not desire undue attention. He approached the Campanile trying not to appear as though he was looking for someone. He felt a hand on his arm and warm breath against his neck.

  ‘Abelard Contanto, Anton Spiro, Tanto dal Trevison. Repeat them to me. Quietly,’ said an unfamiliar voice.

  Soren repeated the list of names. He recognised each one of them. Abelard Contanto’s name was one he was all too uncomfortably familiar with. He was known to be the leading fig
ure in Ostenheim’s underworld. He passed himself off as a wealthy merchant, but everyone knew what he really was. He was just too powerful to touch by legal means. A magistrate had launched a campaign to investigate him several years before, but had been found dead in a drug den not long after, seemingly of a self-administered overdose. The rumours were that his body was also badly bruised, not a side effect of the narcotic that killed him. He had also placed a two hundred crown bounty on Soren’s head for the killing of his nephew, despite not knowing that it was Soren specifically. Killing Contanto would be as much a service to himself as to the General.

  Grand Burgess Anton Spiro was the head of the Congress of Guilds. His presence was understandable. As figurehead of the guilds, he wielded considerable power and it was common knowledge that he had a poor working relationship with the Duke. On his word, all of the members of the various guilds in city would down tools. It was a vast amount of power for a commoner to wield.

  Tanto dal Trevison was the head of one of the oldest noble families of Ostia. His grandfather had been Duke, which ruled him out of eligibility for the office but he remained an elector count and one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the Duchy. He was also the First Lord of the Council of Nobles, a position of considerable influence, but one of inheritance rather than one of personal merit. His mind raced with the possibilities of conspiracies as he repeated the names.

  ‘An account has been opened in your name in the Austorgas’ Bank. There are fifty crowns in it for expenses. On confirmation of each successful completion, a further two hundred will be deposited. The task is to be completed by the Feast of Eilet.’ With that the man disappeared into the crowd. Soren had not even seen his face.

  He stood by the Campanile for some time unmoving, trying to assimilate the information he had been given and the task before him. Which should he go for first? His mind was racing, but he fought to keep a leash on it. His ordeal on the plains was still far too fresh in his mind to allow him to plunge in recklessly. Killing them would not be difficult. The only challenge for him would be getting away. All of the men were high profile, and all of them would have bodyguards.

  He turned and walked back to Crossways and looked across it to the Guilds’ Hall. Most of the guilds had smaller private houses scattered through the guild district, but they all contributed to this one, a majestic tribute to their wealth and power. Anton Spiro would be somewhere within. He would most likely keep a home in Highgarden, which Soren would need to find, as it might be a suitable location for Spiro’s assassination. The Barons’ Hall was to his right, but the council was not in session and would not be until after the Feast of Eilet. He would have to find dal Trevison elsewhere.

  Abelard Contanto would be first. Despite Dornish’s assurances and what the General had said to him about short memories, Soren had killed Contanto’s nephew, and he could not dismiss the potential threat to him that existed so long as Contanto lived. With Contanto dead, this threat would be gone, and he would be able to move about without having to look over his shoulder ever again. He would need to move more quickly with this kill, as he didn’t want to spend too much time hanging around places that he might be recognised. Perhaps he was being paranoid, but even still he was not willing to take the risk.

  His overriding concern was not to cause too much of a mess. He was confident that he could deal with any number of guards, but slaughtering dozens of men to get to one target was far from ideal. The quieter the better, as it would allow him to get away cleanly to prepare for the next kill. Having to lie low for several weeks, or even worse, having to leave the city because the Watch were looking for him would be a disaster. There would have to be no witnesses.

  As he expected Contanto was not difficult to locate. Soren spotted him for the first time walking down a street in Docks. He was chatting in friendly terms with some of the business owners as he passed. Most, if not all of them were paying as much protection as they could afford without it shutting down their business, yet they greeted him with a smile and a handshake. He had four men with him, all large and rough looking. They were something of a cliché, but Soren supposed that the mean look was as much of a deterrent as actual violence.

  He followed them for an hour or so as Contanto continued his route before returning to a building beside a warehouse in Docks. He remained there for the rest of the day, which Soren spent on the rooftop of a small merchant’s offices on the other side of the street. Boredom was his worst enemy as absolutely nothing of any interest happened. A few men came and went, most of them tough looking individuals, a few less so, some well dressed, others not so. He found himself trying to work out what each of them was in relation to Contanto’s crime empire, but realised it was a distraction that might cause him to miss something of importance and tried to stop.

  It was well after dark when Contanto left, escorted by a different group of goons. He lived in an older part of the city, that had once been the exclusive suburb of Oldtown, but now was on the fringes of Highgarden and would certainly not be considered to be part of it by the more elitist of citizens, but then again, neither would Contanto. It was a fine and solidly built house though with a pleasant garden and a very visible security presence. Soren didn’t know if Contanto’s family lived here with him, but if they did, it could create an unpleasant complication.

  That night, Soren slipped into the building in Docks that Contanto had spent the day in. A roof window posed little challenge to his pry bar. Slowly and methodically, he worked his way around each floor, inspecting every room, corridor and closet as he built a map of the entire building in his head. The most obvious room to be Contanto’s office was on the second floor. There was nothing else of any significance on that floor, just the office that occupied over half of its space and two small guardrooms, along with a corridor that ran along the front of the building, allowing access to those rooms and overlooking the street. There was a stairwell at either end of the corridor.

  The office contained a large dark wooden desk and several comfortable leather chairs. The walls were lined with filing cabinets, filled with thousands of pages of numbers. There wasn’t any ideal hiding place, but there were windows at the back through which he could effect his escape if necessary. He examined the desk more closely. There was generous space underneath it; just enough to hide in, but it still wasn’t ideal. He did discover a small loaded crossbow tucked away there and a red pull cord. It disappeared down underneath the lush carpet, and Soren could barely contain the urge to pull on it to see what would happen. He expected that it was an alarm of some description. He had not encountered anyone in the building thus far, but he would have been surprised if there were no night watchmen lurking around somewhere. Probably asleep on the lower floor, although with Contanto’s reputation, Soren didn’t like their chances if they were caught sleeping on the job.

  He continued his stalking of Contanto for several days until he was sure of the crime boss’s routine. He was quickly learning that there was something about all men that when identified, made them easy to kill. Despite living a life under the constant threat of a violent death, even Contanto left gaps in his security. He was always heavily guarded, but he was a thug of the old school. He liked to be present when his rivals, or someone who had betrayed him was being beaten or killed. He liked to randomly inspect his gambling dens and brothels and even from time to time the legal businesses that his organisation extorted.

  There would be many opportunities to get to him, but there was a balance to be found between ease of access and discretion. Contanto would be harder to get to quietly, but Soren found he was relishing the challenge. It might also mean a slightly higher death toll, but all of those men knew the job they were doing and whom they were working for; there would be no innocent blood spilled. So long as the numbers did not get out of control, too much attention should not be an issue. The death toll around Contanto would be less of a concern to the Watch due to the nature of the men he was killing. A crime den full of corpse
s would be less of a problem than a similarly filled mansion in Highgarden.

  And so it was that Soren decided to kill Abelard Contanto in his office, his own sanctuary, his own fortress. It was as much a statement of his belief in his own ability as it was the most logical choice. Then he would slip into the warren of streets in Docks, hopefully to disappear.

  C h a p t e r 4 7

  THE DANGEROUS AND THE POWERFUL

  One of his brothels and two of his drug dens were reporting reduced takings. His first thought was always that someone was trying to take advantage of their position of trust. It was costly to replace the operator of one of his businesses, so he liked to be sure. Swift action was needed though, or it would send the wrong message to the other businesses. There was no such thing as a quiet life, he thought. They would have to be visited regularly to let them know that he was watching. If his suspicions were confirmed, the culprit would be dealt with harshly and held up as an example to dissuade others from similar behaviour.

  He was always glad to get back to his office after his morning inspections. It was a cool sanctuary, sheltered from the heat and noise of the city, where he could be alone with his thoughts and make the decisions that would keep his empire running, and more importantly, him at its head. He closed the door with a click behind him and walked to the comfortable leather chair behind his desk. He sat and allowed his body to sink into the plush leather padding. He would never cease to appreciate the simple pleasures that life offered. As he sat looking idly out of the window with his back to the door, it clicked again. He swivelled his chair around to look at the door and instinctively slipped his hand beneath the desk and tugged on the alarm cord that was hidden there. There was a tall man standing where a moment before there had been nothing. He was draped in a dark hooded cloak that partially obscured his face. The hilts of the pair of blades at his waist were not obscured.