Katarina emerged from the bathing room minutes later in a demure emerald green dress that proclaimed simple elegance without the need for the frills and lace that Norvek nobility seemed to equate with style and rank, something that they had no doubt learned from Meracian lords and ladies. The hem brushed the tops of Katarina’s shins, leaving an inch of earthy skin before moss-coloured stockings began. It was demure by Sudalrese standards but, judging by what Katarina had seen of Norvek fashion, the dress was just short enough to raise eyebrows and spark conversations without inciting a tedious diplomatic incident. Stetch was nonchalantly leaning against the wall as Katarina emerged, making no effort to hide the tankard in his hands, which just made the display even more irksome.
‘How did you get a mug of ale without leaving me unguarded?’
The idiot just grinned. ‘Resourceful.’
Katarina frowned. Stetch seemed far more relaxed than was proper; less angry than a vengeful god, but still more furious than the average mortal. It was hard to read a man that betrayed so little of his thoughts, but Katarina felt she was beginning to get used to his little nuances. ‘That isn’t your first, is it?’
Stetch shrugged, his face returning to its usual disinterested mask, and Katarina decided to let the matter lie, though she sighed heavily just to remind him of her displeasure. ‘It is time to pay the duke a visit,’ she said. ‘The look on his face when I tell him what’s happening in his lands ought to be priceless.’
*
Dusk had died its daily death as Katarina entered the castle grounds. With its night-black walls, many would liken it to Katarina’s own home, but where her father’s manor was peppered with colourful tapestries and gaudy paintings, Duke Tirian’s home was broken only by faded watercolours, unremarkable busts, and canvasses in dark oils. Not a happy home, she reminded herself as she passed through the oak doors into the reception hall. There was plenty of activity – as there was back home – but no camaraderie or joy, as though the duke’s staff felt obliged to mimic his sombre mood in their every activity.
Katarina presented herself to one of the duke’s household staff, smiling courteously as the man explained the hour was late and asked if she might return in the morning.
‘I’m afraid that will not be possible,’ she told him, ‘I must depart for my homeland in the morning, and I have news that the duke simply must hear tonight.’
The servant was caught in two minds for a moment, but promised to inform the duke of her arrival, scuttling off like an ant spying a sugar mountain.
‘Stop looking at me like that,’ she told Stetch, her eyes still fixed on the back of the departing servant, ‘I am in no mood to be kept waiting in a freezing hall, and the duke really should know that his subjects are being murdered.’
Stetch grunted, and it took a moment for Katarina to identify the meaning of this particular sound. He used it rarely, and Katarina thought of this one as Number Nine: Mild Surprise. She glanced at him, saw his eyes fixed on the upper level and followed his gaze. Two ladies in cloaks were striding alongside the balcony towards the castle’s small chapel. Katarina frowned, realising something was wrong. They walk like men, she realised. A glance at the hem of their cloaks showed muddy boots, confirming her suspicion. Their hoods were up as they strode along the landing, but the second man – clad in pale pink – turned in Katarina’s direction as he increased his pace. For a moment the hood slid from his head, hurriedly replaced, but not before Katarina caught a glimpse of a familiar face.
‘Steven,’ she murmured. ‘What are you doing?’
A guard cut across her vision, walking towards Katarina as he approached the stairs. She saw what had spurred Steven on: as the guard climbed the stairs he would have a clear view of the intruders; all he would have to do is turn his head and the ruse would be up. I hope I don’t regret this.
Katarina reached forward, clasping the guard’s arm as he came past. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘do you know how much longer the duke will be?’
The young man was flustered, Katarina’s attire and seductive smile disarming him swiftly as any snare. ‘No, my lady,’ he stammered, pink cheeks flushing scarlet. ‘Has one of the servants informed the duke you’re here?’
‘Oh yes, but it seems like such a long time ago I wonder if His Grace might have forgotten me.’
‘I’m sure that isn’t possible, my lady. I’m afraid I have to relieve the guard upstairs, but one of the servants can check for you if you’re worried.’
A glance over the guard’s shoulder showed Steven slipping into the chapel and Katarina released his arm. ‘Thank you, that is most kind, but I am sure that the Duke will not be much longer. I am sorry to have troubled you, Captain…?
‘Just Guard, my lady, Guard Tommel.’
‘Thank you, Guard Tommel, please don’t let me keep you from your duties.’
The guard nodded and hurried up the stairs as Stetch’s disapproving glare found her. She stared back at him until he looked away, though it took longer than she would have liked. ‘It was a small thing.’
Stetch grunted noncommittally.
‘He looks rather dashing in pink, don’t you think?’
Stetch replied with the same grunt, which Katarina thought of as Grunt Two, a popular choice that the warrior used with alarming frequency.
‘I wonder what Steven is doing here. He doesn’t strike me as the praying type.’ Katarina kept glancing at the chapel’s door as they waited for the duke, seconds ticking away as servants bustled in and out of the reception hall.
‘Perhaps there were no priests in the church.’ A sharp scream echoed through the hall, echoing off the walls as every servant and guard froze in place. ‘Perhaps not,’ Katarina sighed, her eyes returning to the chapel’s entrance.
The inactivity lasted a couple of seconds before the guards gathered their wits and sprang into action, half a dozen of them racing past Katarina and bounding up the stairs two at a time as a shout came a man at the top. ‘I don’t think this is going to end well,’ she confided in Stetch.
The chapel’s door flew open, Steven and another man bolting out onto the landing and racing back towards the corner room they had come from, a string of guards streaking along on an intercept course. Katarina found herself holding her breath as the two groups of runners raced towards the corner, letting it out in a slow sigh of relief as Steven flung the room’s door open, his companion slipping in after him just as the first guard reached them, the half-dozen who had passed her only a few yards behind.
‘Lady Sarah’s room, I think.’
The guards were pounding on the door now, more queueing up with each moment. A woman came stumbling out of the chapel, shouting to be heard above the din. ‘Stop! He saved my life.’
‘And there’s the lady herself,’ said Katarina. ‘How interesting. Aren’t you glad I decided to pay the duke a visit?’
Katarina didn’t hear Stetch’s reply as another guard hurled himself against the door, generating an impressive sound but little in the way of results. Almost certainly another grunt, she guessed. The guards ignored the duke’s sister-in-law as she ran towards them screaming, hurling themselves again and again against the stout oak door. As Lady Sarah reached them, the door flew open, one guard stumbling into the room as his comrades barged in behind him, steel already drawn. It was over in seconds, the guards hauling a bedraggled figure from the room just as Duke Tirian strode purposefully along the landing. He recognised the intruder, his step faltering slightly as the guards dragged their prisoner onto the landing. The hall fell eerily silent, the servants all gaping at the spectacle playing out above them.
‘He saved me, Tirian,’ a breathless Lady Sarah told the duke, pushing her way past the first few guards. ‘Assassins came and he saved my life.’
The duke’s head swung slowly towards her, though Katarina couldn’t make out his expression. He said nothing, holding Lady Sarah’s gaze until she lowered her eyes. Duke Tirian returned his attention to the prisoner. His v
oice was low, a furious whisper drifting through the hall. ‘Kartane.’
28.
‘About bloody time,’ Tol muttered to himself as he finally saw the church belltower. He had managed to lose the guards in Karnvost’s haphazard network of alleys and side streets, and also managed to lose his bearings in the process. The last ten minutes had been a nerve-wracking hunt for the inn while praying that he didn’t stumble blindly into a guard patrol. Again and again their muffled footfalls pursued him, and just when Tol thought he had evaded them he would hear another patrol coming from another direction. Ducking from alley to alley, Tol had become desperate and angry, cursing himself, Kartane, and anyone else he could think of. Now, though, he could see the belltower, and walked swiftly towards it. The sharp cold of a dying winter was settling in for the night, and few people roamed the streets, huddled up in the warm, at home, or in taverns. Tol approached the crossroads, the inn only yards away. I’d gone too far, he realised. His circuitous route had taken him past the inn, and he was now doubling back, following the same road that had first led him to the inn and the crazy knight who had drawn him into yet another ill-advised venture. He could see the inn now, sitting on the corner, the church’s belltower looming above its roof. Tol sighed in relief, belatedly hearing the slow drumbeat of boots coming down the street that intersected the crossroads. He increased his pace, running lightly to avoid arousing suspicion.
‘He’s long gone,’ he heard someone complain, voice travelling in the quiet. The guards were close now, almost at the crossroads. Just round the other side of the inn, Tol realised. He ground to a halt at the inn’s door, grimacing as he levered the door open, expecting it to creak. A short whistle was the door’s only protest, but it was enough to alert the guards.
‘Did you hear that?’ he heard as he slipped inside, pushing the door closed behind him and leaning against it. A glance to his left showed shadowy figures right outside, three or four of them scuttling past the windows to crossroads. Tol didn’t dare move; it was dark in the inn, but with one or two lacklustre lamps the guards just might see him if he moved. He held his breath as the shadows passed from view, but he heard their footsteps, right outside the door. If they come in, I’m done for.
‘He definitely came this way,’ one of the men outside said.
‘Keep looking,’ Tol heard another say. ‘We have to find him, he can’t have gone far.’
The footsteps began anew, this time heading away from the inn. As they faded to a soft pitter-patter, Tol sighed, stepping away from the door and heading towards the stairs at the back.
‘What trouble you got yourself into, boy? You look like you gone ten rounds with a demon.’
Tol’s eyes were still adjusting but he could make out Clyde’s beady eyes well enough, the innkeeper’s arms splayed out as he leaned over the bar like some newly made lord surveying his domain.
‘Asking questions gets people killed,’ Tol growled, glaring at Clyde as he stomped up the stairs. The last few days had been a journey from one disaster to the next, and instead of finding help in Karnvost, all Tol had found was more trouble. He reached the top of the stairs, flexing his fingers and trying to calm himself. And now I have to leave. It was a truth he didn’t want to admit, but Kartane had been right: everybody talks. The duke’s guards had him now, and if Kartane was still alive it was only because they wanted to find his accomplice. Sooner or later they’d turn up at the Black Hand and Tol really didn’t want to be there when they did. He unlocked his door, slipping inside the tiny room and striding over to his pack at the foot of the cot. As Tol knelt down to check its contents he couldn’t help but look forlornly at the cot. The straw smelled mouldy, but that was a small price to pay for a bit of comfort. So much for a warm bed. Tol reached into his pack and pulled out the book, still wrapped in its burgundy cloth. He unfolded it, releasing a long sigh upon seeing the words etched on its cover. So much grief for such a little thing. Tol re-wrapped the cloth, freezing as he heard a creak on the floorboards outside his room. He hurriedly stuffed the book into his tunic, rising to his feet and turning to face the door as it opened, one hand already on his sword hilt.
Clyde slipped into the room, closing the door softly behind him. ‘Where’s Kartane?’
Tol’s hand dropped from the sword hilt. ‘You know who he is?’
The burly innkeeper nodded. ‘Every innkeeper in the city knows him, and he still owes most of them money. He knows I can keep my mouth shut though, that’s why he chose this place.’
‘The guards have him now. He held them off so I could get away.’
‘Kartane?’ Clyde laughed quietly, his face darkening. ‘Now I know you’re lying,’ he said as he took a step towards Tol. ‘That man’s never done a noble deed in his life. I don’t know how you got him – a knife in the back, I guess – but that man was my friend.’
‘It’s true,’ Tol said quickly, raising his hands. ‘We saved Lady Sarah, and he held off the guards. On my honour, I swear it’s true.’
‘Sarah?’ Clyde’s face clouded over. ‘The duchess’ sister?’
Tol nodded. ‘Assassins disguised as priests. We followed them and broke into the castle.’
Clyde’s face split into a grin and he shook his head slowly. ‘That I can believe,’ he said. ‘That’s just the kind of stupid thing he’d do for her. If you helped him… maybe that’s why he let you go. Even so, it’s the first good thing that old dog’s ever done. Don’t let it be for nothing, lad.’ Clyde studied him for a moment. ‘The guards will be looking for you; where Kartane’s concerned the duke’s got a blind spot and by the time the duke sees reason you’ll likely be swinging in the wind. You need to leave.’
‘That’s what I was doing,’ Tol said. He donned the warm fur coat given him by Sir Brounhalk, and slung his pack over one shoulder, Angel’s Truth safely tucked inside his tunic.
‘Don’t dawdle,’ Clyde told him. ‘One of the lads left soon as you came upstairs, and if there’s a scrap of coin in it you can be sure he’ll bring the guards.’ Clyde stepped forward, one hand clamping on Tol’s shoulder. ‘Doesn’t matter you saved the duchess’ sister, lad. The duke’ll be hopping mad Kartane escaped the iron mines and he’ll say you were an accomplice. Maybe Lady Sarah will talk the duke out of killing Kartane but you… you he’ll hang.’
Tol’s expression soured. ‘He’ll have to join the line; right now there’s plenty more people trying to kill me.’ He frowned as he heard the sound of footsteps on the cobbles outside. They were drawing nearer, Tol realised, and he didn’t think the ale was anywhere near good enough to bring men running. In the other direction maybe.
‘Is there another way out of here?’
*
Tol hadn’t liked Clyde’s answer, but with no other choice he cracked the window open and hoisted a leg over the sill. There was a gap of two or three feet between the inn and its neighbouring building and Tol braced his back against the opposing wall, using his legs and arms to keep himself from dropping. He couldn’t bring his legs up far, the wall was too close, and the strain on his muscles was flaring into an exquisite pain as Tol inched his way down, the sound of approaching guards ringing loud in his ears and spurring him on. A glance down showed the ground only a few feet away and Tol let himself drop, regretting it as his knees bent on impact and his forehead came forward to kiss the wall. Blinking the spots away, Tol heard the inn’s door creak open, heavy boots tramping inside. He ducked down below the windows, shuffling along at a crouch until he reached the street, turning away from the inn and jogging down the street as quietly as he could. I can’t get caught, he told himself, glancing over his shoulder as he ducked into the first reasonably-sized alley he passed. He walked quickly, conscious now of several injuries he had accumulated since arriving in Karnvost: a scratch under his chin from the assassin’s knife, which his exertions had now opened up again; grazed hands from scrabbling down between the walls; and a painful gash on his upper left arm, which Tol was fairly certain came from an
arrow as he had crested the wall of the duke’s grounds. He moved quickly and quietly down the alley, knowing that time was short. The guards’ confusion at his escape would be short-lived and they would be back out on the street in moments. Tol had thought that the duke might let him go if he got caught, maybe even get a reward for saving Lady Sarah, but Clyde’s brusque assessment had killed that particular dream and now getting out of the city was Tol’s priority. It was full night now, and Tol knew his departure would raise the suspicion of the city’s guards, but it couldn’t be helped. He slipped out of the alley, stepping lightly as pale candlelight from the city’s homes cast an eerie glow on the frost-cracked cobbles. A sound drew his attention, and as Tol peered along the road he glimpsed a man-sized shadow slipping into another of the city’s innumerable alleys. Tol stopped, sure he had heard a muffled scream. He froze, listening, but beyond the muted sounds of revelry that drifted from the city’s plentiful supply of inns all he heard was a dull thump, and he couldn’t tell where it came from. Jumping at shadows, he told himself, but he let one hand drift towards his sword and set off at a slower pace, treading lightly. He stayed close to the buildings, though this road was far narrower than the main boulevard that ran straight from the gate to the castle. He passed an inn, brightly lit unlike the Black Hand, and lost his night vision as he looked through the steamed glass, his passage unnoticed by the patrons within. A baker’s was next, its interior dark, but the sweet smell of bread still lingered. Between the baker’s and the tailor next door, a narrow alley opened up, and as he passed Tol glanced into its mouth, his gaze taking in the slithering shadows as he tightened his grip on his sword. He was two strides beyond before the darkened image made sense, a bubbling groan issuing forth from the alley and removing any doubt from his mind. He stopped, bowing his head. Just beneath the ebbs and flows of laughter from the inn he could hear it: a man’s excited gasps and the weak, ineffectual struggling of his victim.
Angel's Truth (Angelwar Book 1) Page 19