by Ian Whates
Despite his friend's obvious distress, the Kite Guard was finding it difficult to suppress a grin, one that threatened to crease his face from ear to ear. The pain that Richardson was currently suffering would soon pass and there was no doubt that he was better off without that scheming little harlot. Her running off like this was the best possible outcome as far as Tylus was concerned; particularly as it saved him from having to intervene himself and avoided any awkwardness that might have resulted. No, Jezmina had done them both a favour, even if he was the only one who recognised as much at present.
"How could she do this to me?"
Very easily, Tylus imagined. "I'm truly sorry for your pain," he said, able to say at least that much with complete sincerity.
Richardson pushed himself to his feet, rubbing a finger quickly beneath his right eye, as if to sooth an itch. "Don't worry," he said. "I won't let any of this affect my work."
"I'm sure you won't, but if you'd like a few days off…" Tylus said.
"No, keeping busy; that's the best thing for me, I reckon. I'll be fine."
Richardson visibly pulled himself together and, giving a wan, brave smile, he then turned smartly and left the office. As the door closed behind him, Tylus leant back in his chair and allowed himself a heartfelt sigh of relief.
Kat was tired. She was glad to be back in the City Below and among the Tattooed Men again but news of the losses suffered in the Stain had hit her hard. She'd known the risks when going in, but had reasoned they were acceptable for the chance to hunt down the Soul Thief. Had it been worth it? No, not given the casualties, but hindsight was a wonderful thing. All of this only reaffirmed her determination to establish a more stable existence for the group – tribe; she supposed they qualified as such. For years the Tattooed Men had lived by their own rules, a separate society within Thaiburley's lowest level, but those days were gone.
Shayna had made a start in her absence, and a good one, though Kat couldn't help but have reservations about the place chosen as the new permanent centre of operations, their "home". Iron Grove Square: where the Soul Thief had killed her sister.
"I know we all have history here, especially you," the healer had said, "but this is the only place that makes any sense. All our other safe houses are just that: houses. None of them are large enough to hold all of us, not on a long term basis. This is the only one that can be segregated into separate dwellings, and here we can all stay close together rather than being spread across half a dozen or more locations. I promise you, Iron Grove Square really is the best, the only choice."
Kat had nodded, accepting the argument. She trusted Shayna implicitly, and knew she wouldn't make such a decision lightly. "Iron Grove Square it is then." The name a bitter taste in her mouth. "But we rename it. As of today, nobody is to call this place Iron Grove Square again. From now on, this is Charveve Court."
Shayna nodded and smiled. "Good. Yes, that's very good. I'll pass the word to the men."
They hadn't wasted any time, those who had remained behind when she headed off into the Stain. Already work had begun on rebuilding and repairing the fire damage. Kat stood in the courtyard with Shayna, surveying progress. "I don't want the upper floor rebuilt over there," she said, pointing to the far side of the quadrangle, where Chavver had died. "Leave that wing as a single storey." She didn't want any ghosts troubling them in their new home.
"Fair enough. We were intending to leave that one until last, just in case…"
"In case I said something like that," Kat finished for her.
Shayna nodded.
"You know me too well, old friend."
"Less of the old, if you don't mind."
It was familiar banter but Kat needed familiar just then. She missed Chavver and wondered whether simply failing to rebuild the floor her sister had died on was going to be enough. It would have to be, she supposed. Not just Chavver; she was also missing Tom, which came as a surprise. She hadn't before, not really, but this time… he'd changed. Matured a little, perhaps. Still the same Tom but more so, as if he was starting to grow into the potential the Prime Master had obviously seen in him from the start. It was hard to think of him as "kid" anymore. Funny, but on the rare occasions she contemplated such matters she'd always taken it for granted that she'd end up settling down with one of the Tattooed Men: Rayul most likely; but Rayul was gone and the Tattooed Men needed new blood. Of course, she was a queen, so any partner of hers would have to be someone special, but Tom was special, no denying that. Besides, he was kind of cute, not to mention vulnerable one minute and all-conquering the next.
She shook her head as if to banish such daydreams. They'd save for later. Right now there were more pressing concerns to deal with.
Crosston provided a natural point at which to break his journey back to the City of a Hundred Rows. After slipping out of the palace, Dewar had headed straight for the docks, boarding a ship on which he'd arranged passage in advance. It set sail just before dawn and was overtaken by the sun during the brief trip to Deliia, making port in the early hours of morning. He broke the night's fast at a dockside eatery, an establishment he recalled from his former life. It opened at such unsociable hours specifically to cater for the sailors from ships making early arrival. It was a rough and ready place but clean, and the cooking was adequate and honest. He ordered a hearty plate of crisp-fried salted fish topped with a duo of fried duck eggs and a round of blood sausage, with some lightly toasted bread and a generous pat of butter on the side; all of which went down a treat. The over-stewed coffee less so, but that was his fault for chancing that an establishment like this might know how to make a decent cup. He should have stuck to the watered-down ale that most of the folk around him were drinking.
Breakfast completed, the assassin took a leisurely stroll through a town still in the early stages of waking up. He enjoyed the sight of others rushing around when he had no immediate cause to – there was little more he could do until the horse traders opened for business. The important thing had been to escape the Misted Isles as swiftly as possible. Barring a stroke of extremely bad fortune, Inzierto's death would not have been discovered before morning and, even once it had been, he doubted the authorities would react quickly. The murder would leave the palace with something of a dilemma. Doubtless they would want to manage the situation, considering their options before releasing news of the royal death. An announcement would be made at a time of their choosing, once they'd reached a consensus on what to say. Even so, Dewar preferred not to take any chances. Rolling up to the docks late morning only to discover that he had miscalculated and the port had been closed with rumour of assassination rife would have been frustrating to say the least. No, a quick, quiet exit had been essential.
After securing a horse at Deliia he rode straight through, not stopping at Eastwell as he might have done in other circumstances. By doing so, he hoped to keep ahead of any news that might be filtering through from the Misted Isles. His reward on arriving at Crosston the following day was to hear not a whisper of the king's death, an event which surely would have been on everyone's lips were it known.
Dewar couldn't have said why, having made it this far, he decided to venture once again through the doors of the Four Spoke Inn, except that it had proved to be a decent enough tavern on his previous visit, Seth Bryant aside. Good ale, good food, murderous landlord. Two out of three wasn't bad by his reckoning. Besides, the last time he'd seen Bryant the man had been face down in the waters of the Jeeraiy, dead or close to it.
Under the circumstances he should perhaps have been more surprised to see the familiar figure keeping station behind the bar, but he wasn't. The Twelve were universally tough; Dewar wasn't the only one who was difficult to kill, it seemed.
At first the assassin wasn't sure Bryant had spotted him, but as he drew closer to the bar the landlord finished serving a customer and glanced up. Their gazes locked.
Dewar very deliberately claimed one of the barstools, easing himself into the seat. "A pint o
f your strongest ale please, landlord."
Bryant hesitated for an instant and then nodded, almost imperceptibly. "Back here again, traveller?"
"So it would seem. I'd hazard we're both a little surprised to find ourselves back at the Four Spoke Inn."
"Perhaps," Bryant conceded. "Perhaps we are at that."
Dewar watched carefully as his would-be nemesis poured out a tankard of dark ale and placed it on the bar before him. At no point had the landlord's hand passed over the top of the glass. Surely it would have been impossible to introduce a powder or potion. Dewar couldn't have done so, and if he couldn't… Unless Bryant kept a doctored glass to hand against just such a circumstance – the same way he had so recently dealt with a king. Dewar stared into the man's eyes but gained no clue.
Deciding that Bryant had spent too many years as a humble landlord to entertain such devious forethought, he took a sip. His educated palate detected nothing untoward, though that was hardly irrefutable proof. He took another sip. A gamble, no question, but a calculated one, and he'd prefer not to leave this place knowing that a mortal enemy stood at his back. A gamble was necessary if trust was to be established. If not trust, then he might at least hope to establish understanding.
"Join me?" Dewar said.
Without saying a word, Bryant produced a second flagon from beneath the bar and poured himself an ale. He raised his glass in salute and quaffed.
"I've just come from Indryl," Dewar said casually.
He saw the other man freeze. "Really?" But he recovered quickly enough, to say, "I hear rumours of imminent war drifting from the Misted Isles."
Dewar nodded. "Indeed, though my understanding is that recent events may have superseded such ambitions."
"Oh?"
"Mm. It seems that his royal highness has suffered a misfortune."
"What sort of misfortune?"
"One of the fatal variety."
Another frozen instant, then, "That… is interesting. I'm surprised we've heard nothing about it here on the great trade route."
"It happened very recently," Dewar told him. "I'm sure word will reach you soon."
"Doubtless you're right." Bryant's expression was unreadable.
"I imagine there'll be a lot of changes in the aftermath of the sovereign's passing."
"Bound to be. Inzierto IV will be remembered as a great king. He's occupied the throne for a long, long time, and there aren't many down the years who can claim that."
"A great man, no doubt," Dewar agreed. "His passing will have far-reaching implications, including perhaps the Misted Isles' plans for war."
Bryant nodded. "A bad omen, certainly. What soldier would want to embark on a campaign when the king who ordered it drops dead on the eve of battle?"
Dewar's turn to nod. "It's enough to make any man wonder whether the gods disapprove of the notion."
"Even those who don't really believe in gods."
"Quite. A great deal is set to change in the Misted Isles, I'd fancy. Grudges once held will be discounted and yesterday's news will no longer seem as important as it once did."
"An interesting notion," Bryant conceded. "Though I'd venture that it'll take more than the death of one man, even a king, to effect such sweeping changes."
"Ah, but I hear tell that more than one poor soul has met with misfortune in recent days."
"You appear to be singularly well informed," Bryant remarked dryly. "Who else, pray, has suffered from fate's cruelty?"
"Well, for example, it seems that the commander who was set to lead the coming campaign, one General Hayt, took a careless step and fell overboard during a training exercise – sank without a trace, I'm told – while that tireless servant of the crown Captain Vargas staggered drunkenly from a tavern one night too often. He never made it home – fell off a bridge, by all accounts, breaking his neck in the process."
"How tragic. Two such sensitive souls, and Vargas now a captain!"
"Indeed, and there's more. Evidently, after so many years of whispering wise counsel into the ear of the king, Good Count Ruben succumbed to the strains of office and fell victim to a fatal heart attack."
"My, my, fate has been busy." A smile threatened to spoil Bryant's grave demeanour. "It sounds as if much will indeed have to change beneath the dreaming spires of Indryl."
"My thoughts exactly. It occurs to me that there would be ample opportunity for a man of your proven talents to find a position in the new order. After all, there will always be work for a… landlord."
"It would certainly seem to offer some interesting possibilities," Bryant said. "Ones you might perhaps be tempted to explore yourself?"
"No, no, not I." Dewar waved a denying hand. "I still have some unfinished business to attend to. First things first."
"And afterwards?"
Dewar shook his head. "Not even afterwards. Indryl's not for me, not anymore. My recent visit has convinced me of that much. I'll make my home elsewhere and do my best to forget about the Misted Isles, just as I hope they might forget about me."
"Anything is possible, I suppose," Bryant said.
Dewar took one final mouthful of ale and then placed his near-empty flagon down firmly onto the counter. "Right, I must be off."
"You're not going to stay the night this time?"
Dewar grinned. "I think best not to. After all, fate has been busy enough of late. No point in putting temptation in her way."
"Perhaps you're right at that."
Dewar climbed off the stool. Again their gazes locked. "I do wish you well, though," he said.
After only a fractional hesitation, Bryant nodded. "Likewise."
Dewar then left the Four Spoke Inn for the final time. In the process he turned his back on Seth Bryant, an act he performed with far more confidence than he would ever have done before.
EIGHTEEN
The stranger stepped boldly off the final step. There he paused, taking in his surroundings. This was the very first time he had ever set foot in the City Below. In some ways the place was exactly as he'd expected, in others it was far, far more. He'd been warned about the smell, and it didn't disappoint. He knew too that much of the under-City was derelict, though that didn't automatically mean unoccupied, but he was surprised at the pervading appearance of age down here, the sense of weariness and of things being worn out, even the buildings. He'd dressed down as much as his wardrobe would allow but quickly realised that even in his oldest and plainest clothes he stood out; but that was okay. The aim wasn't to blend in, but simply to be a little less conspicuous. After all, if things went to plan he wouldn't be here long enough for it to become an issue.
Nothing, though, could have prepared him for the sense of pressure from above, the feeling that an immense weight was resting on him, that the entire city and all its populace was bearing down on this one Row, intent on crushing him along with everyone else. It made him want to hunch his shoulders and hunker down a little as he walked, even though the ceiling here was far higher than in any Row of the city proper. It was psychological, he knew, but he couldn't entirely escape the feeling.
He checked his sword and knives for reassurance, adjusted his belt, and set out. He knew exactly where he was going, having called up the under-City's schematic on the screen before setting out and memorising the address and route. Straight ahead should be Unthank Road. He walked down its centre, conscious of the curious stares of some and the apparent disregard of others.
No one spoke to him, but on the other hand no one challenged him either, which he reckoned to be a fair trade off.
Third turning on the left: Coskermile Street, then immediately right into Tylers Lane. The houses here were at least habitable and looked to be reasonably well maintained. Small, single storey buildings, crammed side by side as if whoever built them had been determined to squeeze in at least one more property than there was actually room for. The novelty of individual dwellings took some getting used to for a Heights-dweller like him – "cloud scrapers" he believed the g
rubbers down here would have called him. The arrangement struck him as unnatural. There was no way he could ever have lived like this.
One more left turn and he was almost there. Just a case of counting down the door numbers now.
If his information was correct, this was the right one. He stopped before it; a simple plain door, cheaply made – a fact that the veneer of green paint failed to disguise. No knocker; he'd have to use his fist. Yet he hesitated, suddenly nervous, suddenly afraid that the only thing waiting for him beyond this flimsy barrier was disappointment. He delayed a few more seconds, reluctant to bring an end to hope. Then, he straightened his shoulders, drew a deep breath, and knocked.