City of Light & Shadow

by Ian Whates

  She arrived home with a feeling that this had been her most honest day's work in years.

  As she opened the front door, Jeanette was assailed by the rich aromas of braising meat and spices. She smiled, relieved that at least here was one job she wouldn't have to do today; cooking had always been a chore to her rather than a pleasure, perhaps because she'd never really found the time to enjoy it. Sharing her home with somebody else would take some getting used to, but the advantages were many; especially when the guest could cook. Her partner emerged from the kitchen, smiling warmly. They embraced, the novelty of such greetings still fresh.

  The horror of nearly losing him – for good this time – shot through her anew, and she wondered how long it would be before she could forget, before this wasn't the first thing she thought of whenever they hugged. It had been so close. If she hadn't called around to see him when she did… With an effort of will she suppressed the thought, not wanting it to haunt her face when he looked at her. In the event, she even managed to smile as they separated.

  "Had a good day?" she asked brightly, as if no dark thought had troubled her.

  "Yes, thank you. As a matter of fact I have."

  "What have you been up to, then?"

  "Absolutely nothing," replied the man who had served Thaiburley for so many years as its Prime Master. "And it felt wonderful."

  NINETEEN

  Life was good. Thaiburley had survived its darkest hour in more than a century and there was a palpable sense of relief among those who had lived to tell the tale. The very air seemed redolent with the heady scent of optimism; society was in the mood to celebrate. By all means grieve the fallen, but not today. There was no room for sombreness or regret at this event. It marked a fresh beginning, and the survivors of the recent horrors saw themselves as the buds of a new spring, intent on bursting open to brighten the world.

  Carla Birhoff studied her image in the restroom mirror and liked what she saw. She ran her hands down the sides of her figure-hugging dress, taking in the trim tuck of her waist and the blossom of her hips. For her age, she looked magnificent. The latter part of that sentence delighted her, while the first was something that couldn't be helped. Given that one caveat, she could not have been happier. Her star had risen dramatically during the crisis, her position as liaison between the council and the assembly gaining her enormous credibility, while the way she'd survived the massacre at her own party against all odds and alerted the authorities to the Rust Warriors' return had caused many to revise their opinion of her. She was now seen as something more than merely the supreme socialite, the decorative fluff at the Assembly's periphery. To cap it all, the survivors of the mission to the city's core had reported first not to the council, but to her. All of which meant that people were taking her seriously for once and her opinion carried weight. She loved this newly acquired status and revelled in the limelight. This was her time and she intended to grasp the opportunity fate had presented with both hands.

  Affirmation of her newfound celebrity came when she was invited to present the honours at this, the official celebration of the city's triumph. Naturally she'd accepted, allowing herself to be persuaded after a suitably brief moment of feigned modesty. Who was to say that one day, if she made the most of current opportunity, she might not be in line for a position on the council itself? Imagine that: Councillor Birhoff.

  Odd how cyclical life could be. For her this whole business began with a society event at which she was the star; and here it was about to culminate in another such gathering at which she was, if not the star, certainly a star. So much had changed in the interim. Little had she known as she crawled on her hands and knees among the dead and dying of her autumn ball how propitious ensuing events would prove to be.

  She was seated at the top table, not so very far from the new Prime Master, Thomas; the youngest man to hold the position in centuries. Carla remembered Thomas from his time with the assembly; handsome enough in a soft-faced sort of way but he took life far too seriously. The man was so dedicated to the job that she doubted he had room for much else. Relaxing and having fun seemed alien concepts to him.

  The Council Guards on the other hand tended to know all about having fun. They were renowned for working hard and playing hard, as she'd learnt to her considerable delight over the years. She always did have a weakness for a man in uniform, and only men in their prime ever made it into the Council Guard. Take the second officer she had to present a medal to today – the guard who had accompanied the street-nick Tom all the way to the core, the same man who had been among the party that materialised so unexpectedly in her bed chamber. Tall, well-muscled, ruggedly handsome, with a chiselled jaw and the sort of strong features she favoured… so dashing in his white and purple dress uniform. She would happily melt into those arms any day. And he'd already seen her semi-naked. She'd love the opportunity to remove the word "semi" from that statement. She smiled warmly at him and made a mental note of his name, which she hadn't really paid attention to before: Jayce. She determined to seek him out later. The third officer to stand before her received a far more perfunctory acknowledgement. She'd met Captain Verrill before – a cold-faced, rigidly formal man, a total bore who seemed impervious to her flattery and wiles. Apparently he had triumphed in some pitched battle with a force of Rust Warriors and then brought a wounded man – the only other survivor of the skirmish – back safely. So what? Wasn't that the sort of thing an officer was supposed to do?

  The meal that followed the ceremony was sumptuous: a wild duck terrine served in a cradle of crystallised ailie-bloom petals, with a piquant chutney on the side and still-warm rolls which smelt wonderful as they were broken open. Next, tiny wine glasses, no taller than a finger, which proved to be fashioned out of tiger berry sorbet. Each "glass" held a drop of a clear, potent spirit. Next came a dainty selection of smoked and pickled river fish, mere slivers of each, arranged tastefully around the small, halved egg of a ketzal bird – boiled but with the bright orange-yellow yolk still soft at the centre – which itself was topped with beads of oily black caviar that exploded like salty bombs on the tongue. The fish selection wasn't entirely to Carla's taste but she recognised several to be rare delicacies, including a smoky mouthful of claw meat from the mighty blue claw, the giant crab that was one of the Thair's most formidable and elusive denizens. The main course was beef baschelle – prepared by a chef from the Familé Perdan. Carla detected the trademark touch with her very first mouthful. That infusion of herbs and spices and the way the meat melted on the tongue but remained succulent and packed with flavour was unmistakeable. She had been trying to wheedle the recipe out of the family for decades.

  Dessert consisted of an assortment of fruits, delicate patisseries and ices. Mouth-watering no doubt and certainly colourful, but Carla rarely found room for such things. Besides, while the meal may have been of the highest quality, the conversation around her proved to be anything but. It was the price one paid for such a swift elevation in social rank, she supposed.

  She breathed a discreet sigh of relief when the final crockery was cleared away by attentive serving staff, which heralded the start of the less formal part of the evening.

  Able to leave her seat and mingle, she made a beeline for the young officer she'd noted earlier. What was his name again? Jayce; yes, that was it.

  He was deep in conversation with some elderly woman, being polite, no doubt. Perfect. The poor man was most likely as bored as Carla had been during dinner and would surely welcome being rescued.

  "Ah, Jayce, isn't it?" she said as she joined them, adopting her most dazzling smile.

  "Assembly Member Birhoff!" The lad looked startled that she'd addressed him. Flattered, perhaps?

  "Please, call me Carla."

  The old crone was still standing there. Couldn't she take a hint? Carla prepared to take the young officer's arm and steer him away, when he said, "I believe you know my aunt, don't you, Assembly Member?"

  His aunt? Oh great. Carla sp
ared the woman a glance. Perhaps she wasn't as old as she'd first assumed, and there was something vaguely familiar about her now that he came to mention it, though Carla couldn't place where from. Couldn't be bothered to, truth be told. She was more concerned with taking this handsome young officer away from prying ears to somewhere she could charm him unhindered.

  "Aunt Arielle?"

  Arielle? Carla's head whipped around again and she looked at the old woman more closely. Impossible. It couldn't be, surely, not after all these years… but it was. Here stood the one woman in all of Thaiburley who knew enough scandal to ruin her. How? Carla had dismissed the artist from her life, hadn't thought about her in years until she stumbled on that old painting, and had supposed the artist dead when she did, or at least banished forever. What was this woman doing here, now?

  Carla was suddenly conscious of the strident beat of her own heart, so rapid, so insistent – as if trying to burst free of her ribcage – while the room started to draw away from her. It was as if she viewed the young guardsman and this vengeful ghost from her past through a telescopic, distorted tunnel, which grew longer by the instant. Her perspective tilted and she caught a glimpse of startled onlookers and then the ceiling, as her knees buckled.

  Words came to her from a long way off, as the world dimmed and darkness closed in. "Oh dear," said the last voice she'd ever wanted to hear again. "I do believe the assembly member's fainted."

  Night had settled over the City Below. The streets were all but deserted, fear and superstition keeping folk indoors at this hour. Only those with good reason to be abroad dared to venture out. Twin wrought iron gates creaked open in the squat, solid block of the under-City's principle gaol, allowing a small coach pulled by a team of four burley oxen to exit. They made slow progress, the coach evidently heavy despite its compact size. The coachman held the reins loosely, giving every impression he'd rather be somewhere else. Not that Kat could blame him. She stayed motionless in the rooftop shadows, but he didn't once glance up towards her.

  Kat studied the main body of the coach: lacquered wood braced by a lattice of iron bands and bolts, no windows. No getting out of there without help.

  The oxen made their plodding way up the street, paced by the uncertain shadows cast by the street lamps. At the junction it turned left, heading for the docks. Kat followed, using the rooftops as her highway, easily keeping pace with the prison cart on her right, conscious of the looming presence of the grand conveyor to her left. The place where she'd so nearly died. One of the places, she corrected herself.

  The cart made its ponderous way down Chisel Street, passing the conveyor's terminal before turning into North Wharf Road, which skirted the Runs. Soon after, it came to a halt, having evidently reached its destination. The driver stepped down wearily and strolled around to the back of the coach, where he fiddled with a bunch of keys attached to his belt, selecting one and using it to unlock the carriage door.

  Fittingly, the hinges of the wooden slab creaked ominously as the guard pulled it open. Kat watched impatiently as the set of concertinaed steps slid from a slot in the carriage floor to unfold in staggered stages to the ground. A guard stepped down, one foot on a middle step but otherwise disdaining to use the short flight. He turned to face the door even as he exited. Behind him came a tall, slender man, hands cuffed before him. The prisoner took advantage of every single one of the four steps, as if to demonstrate how it should be done. He trod carefully, almost daintily, taking his time, and, on reaching the bottom of the steps, he paused to look around, assessing his surroundings. Kat pressed further back into the shadows. She didn't want to be seen, not yet.

  The man said something she couldn't catch from her vantage point, the voice carrying through the still night but the words themselves lost to the air. Neither of the guards responded, though the driver stepped forward and, finding a smaller key from among the bunch tied to his belt, released the man's cuffs. At the same time, the guard refolded the small flight of steps and closed the cart's door.

  Both men then climbed onto the driving board and, with a flick of the reins, the oxen started forward.

  "Hey!" This time Kat could hear the man's shout plainly. He stood with feet firmly planted, hands on hips, staring at the slow moving cart. "What about my sword?"

  After a brief pause, the guard flung a belt supporting a scabbarded sword out onto the roadway. Muttering to himself, the man strode after the cart, snatching up the weapon and tying the belt in place.

  Kat was glad. At least now she wouldn't have to kill an unarmed man.

  As the cart turned a corner and disappeared from sight, the man straightened his shoulders, adjusted his clothing, and started walking the short distance towards the wharf at the end of the road, where a barge waited, lights still burning bright.

  Night sailings were rare but hardly unheard of. Presumably this was one such, clearing the scum from the city before the sun globes warmed up. The City Below was used to scum, and Kat for one had no objection to this particular piece staying in Thaiburley, so long as it was no longer breathing.

  She stepped from the shadows and strolled out to stand in the centre of the road, between the man and the barge. She stood with arms crossed.

  "Leaving us already, Sur Brent?"

  He'd stopped walking as she appeared, and now smiled. "Sadly, I have little choice." He pulled down the neck of his shirt to display a thin, snugly-fitting metal band which encircled the base of his neck. "I'm told that if I'm not a significant distance beyond the city walls by the time the sun globes start to warm, this charming piece of jewellery will sever my head from my torso."

  "And you believe this nonsense, do you?"

  He shrugged. "I don't think I'll bother putting it to the test; particularly as my work in the city is done. They want me to leave, I want to leave; why fight over it?"

  "Ah yes, and you doubtless have to report back to these mysterious 'employers' of yours."

  "Exactly so."

  Kat nodded. "So that's it, is it? After all you've done, the powers that be are just gonna exile you, are they? Rather than tying you down, cutting your body open from throat to balls while you're still alive and letting the spill dragons feed on your innards."

  He laughed; a loud, brief exclamation. "A colourful punishment, no doubt, but presumably your authorities don't have the, ehm… shall we say stomach for that sort of thing. Now, it's very kind of you to come to see me off, but this collar is itching a little and I'd hate for it to get any tighter, so, if you don't mind…?"

  He stepped forward as if to brush past Kat, but she moved quickly across and continued to block his way. "Maybe you're right, maybe they don't have the stomach for that sort of thing, but then I'm not the authorities, am I."

  "Get out of my way, Kat."

  She did step back then, hands straying towards her sword hilts. "That's never going to happen."

  "You don't really want to fight me," he said. "I was more than a match for your sister, remember, and they tell me that of the two of you, she was comfortably the best."

  Kat's smile was thin-lipped and cold. "Thank you so much for mentioning my sister, not that I needed any reminding." She drew her blades, moving with deliberate slowness so that the sound of them sliding from their scabbards spread through the night like a protracted sigh.

  With a resigned look, Brent drew his own, longer sword. "You'll forgive me if I make this brief, only I have a boat to catch."

  Kat smiled. "As brief as you like. I wasn't planning on hanging around long myself."

  His blade flickered out, like the silvered tongue of a serpent. She blocked it with ease but this had only been a feint. The very instant steel struck steel his sword turned to attack from another angle, only to be met by Kat's other blade. As those clashed, Kat struck with her free sword, but found only air as Brent danced out of the way. He stepped back, seeking to create some room and thereby give his longer reach the advantage. Kat followed, determined not to let him.

  Kat kn
ew what to expect – she'd seen him fight Chavver, after all – but watching someone and actually facing them were entirely different things. During these initial exchanges Kat took his measure, as he doubtless did hers. He was strong, fast, confident and well-balanced, never overextending. His footwork was as proficient as his swordplay, the co-ordination of hand, eyes and feet apparently faultless. In short, this wasn't going to be easy.

  Good. His death would be all the more satisfying, then.

  Kat moved onto the attack, launching a rapid series of strikes, first one sword then the other, in a familiar pattern that had overpowered more than one opponent in the past. Not this one, though. He moved and swayed and blocked and parried with a nonchalance she couldn't help but admire. She felt certain that Brent was fighting within himself, and put enough effort into her own swordplay to hope that he wouldn't suspect the same of her.