Splashing round the last corner, Markus waved to the sentry beside the doors at Gita’s boarding house. ‘Inside!’ he tried to shout, sucking in breaths through clenched teeth, ‘get upstairs, now!’
‘Lieutenant? What’s wrong?’
The guard wore an eye-patch; Markus had seen him in Gita’s shadow for the past Twinmoon, but didn’t know his name. ‘Upstairs!’ he repeated.
Eye-Patch stayed at his post but drew a pair of hunting knives regardless. He wore a bow slung across his back and had a quick-access quiver full of goose-feathered arrows on his belt. ‘No one’s gone inside all morning, sir,’ he said.
Markus skidded, fell in the muddy road and rolled to his feet. ‘Listen, I don’t—’
‘Barrold!’ Sharr called, stumbling round the corner, mud-splattered and leading a handful of partisans, none of whom looked like they had any idea why they had been rallied like this. Behind the winded posse, Stalwick staggered, one hand pressing against his side as he gasped.
‘Barrold!’ Sharr shouted again, ‘go!’ He panted, then gave up and pointed towards the second floor.
Eye-Patch, Barrold Dayne, who had lost his left eye to Steven Taylor in the caverns below the Medera River, turned suddenly and kicked the boarding house door nearly off its hinges.
‘Go,’ Sharr panted to Markus, following him inside.
Barrold was already on the upper landing, already inside Gita’s apartment, and already shouting for help.
‘Rutters,’ Markus cursed and bound up the stairs three at a time.
There was a shout, a crash, then silence.
Sharr’s vision blurred, he saw swirling spots of yellow and white and knew he was about to pass out. The room spun, then lurched back into place. He sucked in a breath, another, then dropped his sword, shrugged out of his cloak and doubled over, his hands on his knees.
He heard the others; they were all right. The danger, for the moment, had passed, but with adrenalin addling his thoughts, he was glad there was no one here to fight.
‘Help him up,’ Gita said, then gave a string of orders to the crowd gathered in the corridor.
‘Whoa there, old man,’ Markus said, holding him beneath one arm.
Something clanged and banged outside the chamber and they heard shouting. ‘Let me through,’ a familiar voice said, ‘I’m with them, I tell you, I’m with them. I need to get in there.’
Sharr half walked and half staggered to a chair, found a mug pressed into his hand and swallowed a few mouthfuls of water. That was better. He coughed hard and felt all manner of stickiness come loose in his chest. ‘More, please,’ he gasped, and passed the mug to Markus, who passed it to Stalwick, who had managed to get past the guards at the door to take up station next to his friends.
‘Get him a beer,’ Markus said.
‘But I just got here, Markus,’ Stalwick explained. ‘I just got up the stairs and through that throng, and what’s happening in here? Is everyone all right? Did I miss something, and who is that?’ Stalwick pointed behind the table where an overturned chair, a map of southern Gorsk and a broken breakfast tray half-hid the inert body of a maid.
Sharr wiped his face on his sleeve, felt his heart slow and managed a smile: Stalwick had been right.
‘Just get him a beer, Stalwick. Move it.’ Markus shoved him towards the corridor.
The room came back into focus. ‘It’s all right,’ Sharr said, unwilling to stand yet. ‘I’m all right. Give me a moment; that’s more running than I’ve done since before you were born, Markus.’
Barrold slapped him hard on the back. ‘Better you than me, sir!’
‘Go easy on me, Barrold,’ Sharr waved up at him in mock surrender. ‘I’m still spinning down here.’
Gita pulled a chair up beside him. ‘How’d you know?’
‘It was Stalwick,’ Markus said. ‘He said something this morning. Sharr caught it. I don’t even remem—’
‘He said he would miss you when you were gone,’ Sharr said, nodding thanks as Stalwick handed him the froth-topped mug. He drank half of it in one swallow, then handed the mug to Gita who finished it in similar fashion.
‘Miss me?’
‘It just came out of him,’ Sharr explained. ‘You know how he gets, rambling on about gardening and boils and pest control and his great-aunt Gaye from Southport? No offence, Stalwick.’
‘That’s all right, Sharr. I do go on sometimes. I mean, not all the time, and well, my aunt’s name isn’t Gaye, it’s Mavene, and she’s not really a great-aunt, more a cousin, although we all call her Aunt Mavene, and she’s not really from Southport, she’s from a little village not far from here really, but you know, if you were just using that as an example, well, then, I understand what you’re—’
‘Stalwick.’ Gita raised a finger at him. ‘Please.’
‘Sorry, ma’am, sorry. Sharr, sorry.’
‘Anyway,’ Sharr went on, ‘when he said it, I knew we had to get over here in a hurry.’ He nodded towards the body in the corner, ‘but it looks like you had things in hand.’ Outside, the sleet had stopped; the street was silent. Drops from the roof above plunked an irregular rhythm on the wooden sill.
Gita gave the tired fisherman an uncharacteristic hug, then opened the windows, reaching on tiptoe to get the higher latch. She looked more like the partisans’ grandmother than their leader.
‘What happened, ma’am?’ Barrold picked up the chair, the map and what remained of Gita’s breakfast. He turned the body over with his foot. The woman was younger than Sharr, but not young. She was dressed as a maid, but it was impossible to know if she was merely a terrorist, sympathetic to Malakasian rule, or one of the occupation soldiers who had remained behind when the rest of them disappeared across the North Sea.
‘She brought a knife with my breakfast,’ Gita said calmly. ‘It was a mistake.’
‘A knife, ma’am?’ Markus asked. ‘Don’t they always bring a knife with your breakfast?’
‘I was having eggs and booacore.’
‘Well, you don’t need a knife for those things, ma’am,’ Stalwick broke in to state the obvious. ‘What needs cutting, really? I mean, what would you cut with a knife? It isn’t as though she brought you a loaf of old bread or anything.’
Sharr tested his legs and went to close the windows. ‘It’s cold.’
‘You all right?’ Gita asked.
‘Fine, fine.’ Sharr checked the street in either direction. ‘Just too rutting old for this business.’ The temperature had dropped again, and the sleet would freeze by the dinner aven, coating the town in ice. It would be a cold night for chainball.
‘Don’t talk to me about old, my friend.’ Gita smiled. ‘Anyway, if this one was Malakasian military, we have to be alert. Who knows what the others might be up to? How many did you say they had left?’ She ignored the body as she circled the table, shuffling through maps until she found one of Capehill.
‘There was a squad, maybe a handful more,’ Sharr said, ‘so fifteen, perhaps twenty soldiers.’
‘So we assume they’re in civilian clothes, hiding here somewhere amongst us.’ Gita bent over the map, her nose nearly touching the parchment.
‘That’s troublesome,’ Markus said.
‘And there’s no way to smoke them out,’ Barrold added.
‘Unless we round up the locals. You know them, Sharr. Pull two or three soldiers from each platoon, no more than ten from a company. Spread them out; blanket the town. See if anyone’s heard anything, seen anything. Find these motherwhoring pukes and bring me one of them alive.’
‘Very good, ma’am,’ Markus said.
‘And Sharr—’ Gita tugged her dagger loose from the treacherous maid’s chest with a grunt, ‘stay on your friend Hernesto. I want as much information as possible on the condition of the roads, the surrounding farms, the winter stores, the slaughterhouses, all of it.’ When he nodded agreement, she turned to Barrold and asked, ‘Any new additions overnight?’
‘Most of one platoon fro
m the Central Plains, and almost a full company from Gorsk,’ he said.
‘Anyone from Rona?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Bloody Sallax.’ Gita frowned. And no word from Gilmour and the others either. When’s the Twinmoon, anyway?’
‘Maybe another day or two.’ Sharr checked again out the window, looking north.
‘We’re going to lose sleep over these leftover soldiers, boys. This isn’t good. Sharr, you’d better be right about Hernesto, because if he’s dirty, I’m going to eat his heart.’ Ignoring the map now, the grey-haired little woman prowled back and forth on bare feet, twirling her bloody dagger absentmindedly. ‘We have what… a thousand?’
‘Just over a thousand, ma’am,’ Barrold said.
‘Just over a thousand soldiers to feed, clothe and house this Twin-moon. I want to know that we’re hauling nets and booacore traps, that we’re running carts and wagons out to every farm with a storage cellar or a grain bin, that we’re contracting with every tailor, smith— rutters, even any schoolchild who can sharpen a blade or sew on a whoring button, understand?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ they echoed in unison.
‘This corner of Eldarn is the closest thing we’ve had to freedom since before your great-grandmothers were in nappies – even yours, Sharr! – and I don’t want us making a bloody mess of it. If an armoured division is riding north along the Merchants’ Highway, I want to know. If a Malakasian sympathiser is putting chickenshit in the water supply, I want to know. If a local whore is selling information to a Malakasian spy, I want her gutted and served up with greenroot and pepperweed. I want every able-bodied farmer, merchant, sailor, fisherman, bartender, gutter-digger, fruit-picker and teacher armed and ready to defend this town, or to march on my orders. History will not recall that we had this opportunity and buggered it up; I don’t care how many knife-wielding scullery whores they send in here to stick holes in me.’ Gita stood toe-to-toe with Markus Fillin. She was a full head shorter than the Falkan farmer, but Sharr wouldn’t have wanted to bet on who would win in a bar fight, especially hand-to-hand.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Markus said. Sharr nodded, and ushered Stalwick towards the door.
‘And find me these terrorists! Our hold on this town remains in jeopardy until we do.’
Markus saw the first fire before dawn.
Sharr was sleeping. They had been up much of the night, organising the search teams. By the middlenight aven, Markus had questioned hundreds of locals and dispatched pairs of their people to investigate nearly as many reports of suspicious strangers, unknown vagrants or potential terrorists. The people of Capehill either had no idea where twenty Malakasian warriors could have secreted themselves, or they knew exactly where to find the terrorists and were happy to lead Markus and his team to the hideouts. Naturally, each of these forays beneath the coastal town’s damp underbelly yielded nothing, and Markus, falling asleep on his feet, dismissed the search deployment for a few avens’ sleep.
But now he had the chance, Markus couldn’t sleep. He had met Sharr back at the boarding house – they had taken the room next to Gita’s, with Stalwick and Barrold in the chamber across the corridor. The big fisherman, exhausted after his heroic sprint across the town, had collapsed in his cloak and boots. He snored loudly for a few moments, then rolled onto his back, his mouth lolling open. Sharr owned an apartment near the waterfront; his wife and two sons were there, but he preferred to spend the night near Gita, on hand should another clandestine plot unfold before dawn.
Markus stirred the coals in their small fireplace, added a few bits of wood and some dried-out corn cobs Stalwick had hauled from the bin in the canning cellar, and warmed his hands. Someone shouted outside: a warning or a cry for help. Markus shuffled to the window, more out of curiosity than concern.
‘Who’s yelling at this aven?’ he asked of no one.
A shadow, dark and quick, hustled towards the town centre. Another followed. There was a second shout, louder this time, from the direction of Argile Street, the downtown business area.
‘What’s this?’ Markus whispered, his breath fogging the blurry pane.
Then he heard the cry again, this time from three or four streets over. Fire!
Someone moved in Gita’s room. There was a thud, some footsteps, and then the tired creak of her window hinges, complaining in the cold.
The first orange and yellow tendrils danced in the predawn haze. A plume of thin smoke rose above the merchant district, trailing in the light breeze.
‘What’s wrong?’ Sharr asked, without moving.
‘Nothing,’ Markus said. ‘Go back to sleep. One of the alehouses is on fire … I think. I’m not sure if it’s the Cask and Cork, the one we were in the other night, or the building right next door. It’s hard to see from this far away.’
‘Next door?’ Sharr sat up and rubbed his eyes. ‘Which side?’ He yawned.
‘Um, to the east,’ Markus said. The noise outside grew as more locals and a few of Gita’s Resistance soldiers hurried to fight the blaze.
‘East? That’s the fish market.’ Sharr poured a goblet of water from the bedside pitcher. He swallowed and said, ‘That’s odd.’
‘What’s odd?’
‘What’s to burn at the fish market?’
Markus shrugged. ‘Probably some drunk kicked a brazier over. You want to go help?’
‘No.’ Sharr fell back into the blankets. ‘The locals can handle it. We’ve got to be up and on our way before the—’
‘Wait,’ Markus said suddenly, ‘oh no, Sharr, this isn’t good!’
The first fire was joined by another as the old occupation barracks near the town livery went up in flames. The sound of horses whinnying wildly joined the cries for help as smoke billowed through one of the corrals. From the window, Markus watched as stable hands ran here and there, herding the animals to safety. Then another fire, still just a flicker of colour against the whitening dawn, glowed near the waterfront. It diffused into another and then another; flames burned rooftops across the town, making Capehill look like a monstrous pyre at a holiday festival.
‘That’s the harbourmaster’s office,’ Sharr said quietly. ‘And that–’ he pointed south, ‘is an assay office. There’s a mining equipment shop, a glassworks, and a grain and feed store on that block.’
‘Whoring Pragans.’ Markus tallied the devastation as he looked across the false dawn rising over Capehill. ‘That’s six – no, seven fires we can see from here. What’s happening?’
‘It’s them.’ Sharr was up and on his way across to Stalwick’s room when Gita appeared, fully dressed, in the corridor.
‘You’ve seen outside?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ Sharr replied. ‘I want to look up north. There are more offices, some critical supply businesses there.’
‘I think we’ve answered any lingering question about the soldiers they left behind.’
‘Strike quickly. Burn what you can, and fade back into the populace,’ Markus summed up. ‘A cunning tactic.’
Before Sharr could knock, Barrold opened the door. He wasn’t wearing his eye-patch and Markus winced at the sight of the ragged, hollow socket.
‘There’s ten, maybe twelve fires burning out here.’ He didn’t seem surprised to find the rest of them gathered, fully dressed, in the hallway.
Sharr nodded. ‘It was probably all planned, or if it wasn’t, they decided to move after the attempt on Gita’s life failed.’
‘They’re using slow fuses, I’d bet,’ Barrold added, ‘rolled tobacco leaves will burn slowly before igniting whatever tinder they’re using. It gives them time to get away.’
‘On to the next target,’ Markus said. ‘We’ll be three streets behind them all day.’
Stalwick emerged from behind Barrold. Still groggy, he didn’t say anything.
‘Mother of an open-sored slut!’ Gita kicked at the wall, shouted an unintelligible curse, then regained her composure. ‘Stalwick, go get the others, all the company command
ers, even the ones from Gorsk. I want them downstairs in the front room before my tecan gets cold. Sharr, you’ve got to think. What else will they hit? Come up with five or six likely places that aren’t in flames yet, and let’s dispatch platoons – no, squads – to those locations. Be ready to brief the others when they arrive. Stalwick?’
‘Yes, ma’am?’
‘What are you still doing here?’
‘Sorry, ma’am.’ Stalwick hurried for the stairs, tightening his cloak. ‘I’ll just… well, I’ll just go.’
Markus smirked. ‘Good show, Stalwick. Hurry back.’
‘They’re trying to hurt us from within,’ Sharr said. ‘They’re a handful of soldiers, not enough to fight us. So they’re attacking our food, horses, supplies, even the water won’t be safe.’
‘We need to catch one of these motherless bastards!’ Gita was fuming. ‘We’ll dunk him in the harbour until he talks, make him eat broken glass!’
‘I don’t understand why they abandoned the town,’ Barrold said. ‘Why give up Capehill, flee around the Gorsk Peninsula, and then leave a squad of spies to terrorise us? What do they have to gain by making our Twinmoon here miserable? Do they really think we’ll just sit around and starve, that we won’t boil water or buy grain on the Central Plain? Why are they doing this?’
‘I’ll tell you why,’ a strange voice said and someone clomped up the wooden staircase. He had the road-weary look of one who’d competed a forced march, and the soiled cloak and tattered boots to prove it. In the candlelight, his face was drawn and tired and angry. Markus knew he had seen this man before, but couldn’t place him until Gita jumped up and screamed in delight.
‘Brand! Thank the gods!’ She ran to the stranger and threw her arms around him.
Capehill burned all day, the flames reaching skyward as vast swathes of the city, both business and residential property, were reduced to ash. Resistance squads worked with local citizens to fight the fires, but the old wooden structures, many with thatched or wooden-shingled roofs, ignited and burned so quickly that little was salvaged. Sparks blew into neighbouring homes and whole blocks were quickly lost in a fiery haemorrhage.
The Larion Senators Page 45