The Great Bear: The Adarna chronicles - Book 3 (3 page)

“There he is.” Ashferon broke the silence matter of factly. Tituss had vaulted the wall again and now stood waving them on. “Let’s go.”

Villius could not contain his concern. “Sir?” he asked Martius as he trotted at his side.
 

Martius did not reply; his gaze fixed on the wall and the house beyond.

“Sir?” Villius would not be ignored. This was too important. “Are you proposing that we break into Tuttel’s house?”

“Yes, Villius.” Martius’s tone was uncharacteristically sharp.

“Sir.” Every fibre of Villius’s being was torn between loyalty to the man before him and his need to obey the strictures of society. Breaking and entering was a crime. Not worthy of a man of the general’s station. Not worthy of a Danus either, for that matter. “I must counsel against this course of action. The repercussions if we are caught could be huge. You have enemies who would take advantage…”

They reached the wall. Without a word, the giant Tituss vaulted over to the other side again.
 

“Sir?” Villius had to be sure the general heard him. The man was in the throes of grief for his wife, and grief made people do strange things.

Martius stood facing the wall. He lowered his head slightly and pursed his lips.

“We have to move.” Ashferon’s voice sliced through the night. “There are militia patrolling.”

“Go. We will attend you shortly.” Martius did not look at Ashferon as he spoke.

“Suit yourself.” Ashferon clambered up the wall and disappeared.

Villius felt warm but his breath misted before him. Martius turned to face him, his mien stern and formal.

“I thank you for your advice, Villius.” A frown creased Martius’s forehead. “You are right of course. This action could well be folly, but I need to know who attacked my family. I need to know who it is that I am fighting.”

Villius could not face the general’s gaze. Pangs of shame and doubt lashed at his conscience. “Sir…” His voice cracked. “You know that I would follow you into the underworld. I just...” He took a deep and calming breath. Martius’s gaze bored through him. “I just... Your house does not need more trouble. Sir...”
Show some backbone
. The voice of his father chided him.
You are a man.
He straightened his back and returned the general’s gaze as best he could. “It is my duty as your proctor to serve and protect you. I would be derelict in my duties if I did not counsel against this course of action.” The nub of it came to him then. “How can we trust this Ashferon? Who is he?”

The tramp of boots filtered through the night. Sound travelled strangely in the city. Echoes could rebound off the brick and stone and confuse the senses, but it sounded like militiamen to Villius.

Martius glanced towards the sound. He paused for a moment, perhaps making a decision himself. Then he smiled and clapped Villius gently on the shoulder. His eyes twinkled with mischief, or perhaps hope. “Ashferon may not be terribly likeable, but he is true. Trust me.” He gently squeezed Villius’s shoulder. “Do I have your trust, Villius? Do I have your loyalty?”

“Of course, sir.” Villius knew no other answer.
I would die for you, my general.
 

The steady tramp of boots grew louder. There was no doubt now. The militia approached.

Martius nodded. “Good.” He jumped up and grabbed the wall, pulling himself atop it so that his body lay flat. “Now let’s go then, shall we?”

His decision made, Villius quickly followed suit. He winced as his scabbard scraped along the bricks, his mind amplifying the sound so that it screeched through the night like an angry cat. He imagined the running footsteps of the militiamen. Then he was over. His back rested against the bricks of the wall; they were still warm with the heat of the afternoon sun. His body pulsed against the wall as his heart thumped in his chest. For a second, it felt as if his life was joined to the inert and solid edifice.

Then a hand grabbed his forearm. Martius’s eyes glimmered in the night.

Martius nodded gently as if checking one last time that Villius was truly on board – as if assessing his resolve. “Let’s go,” he whispered and, crouched low, ran towards the house where Ashferon and Tituss stood waiting by the back door.

As he approached, Villius spotted two prone forms lying against the wall near the door. He could not take his eyes off them.
Would Martius sanction murder?
 

“They aren’t dead.” Ashferon spoke as if reading his mind. “Tituss just knocked them out and administered a sleeping draft.” He shook his head slightly as if dismissing Villius from his thoughts, then withdrew some small metal tools from his pockets and knelt at the door lock. A few seconds later, a small click announced its opening.

Villius took a deep breath and said a prayer to the gods. For better or worse, they were past the point of no return.
 

Ashferon stepped back from the door. “Tituss,” he whispered and gestured with his hand. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

Tituss opened the door just wide to slip through and passed into the shadows beyond. A muffled thump sounded from inside, followed some time later by running footsteps and a strangled yelp.
 

Then silence.
 

An all-pervading silence as the night seemed to draw in around them. Villius expected the alarm would be raised at any moment, but the crushing quiet continued unabated.
 

The door opened wide with a creak. The giant form of Tituss stood silhouetted against the soft lamplight within. He nodded at Ashferon and held three fingers of his right hand loft.

“Three men inside,” Ashferon concluded.

“I would never have guessed.” Martius replied, his tone uncharacteristically laconic.

Ashferon either did not hear the comment or chose to ignore it. “Did you get him?” he addressed his mute companion.

Tituss’s brow rose and he pursed his lips. He tilted his head to one side slightly, his gaze hinting at reproof.

Ashferon raised a finger and wagged it towards Tituss. “I think I will take that as a yes.” He squeezed past the giant and strode confidently into the house. “Upstairs, I presume?” He did not wait for an answer but vaulted the stairs two at a time.

Martius followed him. “My thanks, Tituss,” he said as he passed the behemoth.

Tituss shrugged in reply then gestured for Villius to enter.

Villius stepped into the house and quickly followed Martius up the stairs. The spiced perfume of Farisian incense assaulted his nose. Jhan Guttel clearly had not forgotten his western roots.
 

They found Ashferon in a large bedroom. He was pacing in front of a chair. On the chair sat Jhan Guttel, gagged and bound – his eyes gleaming murder.

“Nice to see you again, Master Guttel.” Martius sounded conversational as he strode into the room, as if he was welcoming an acquaintance to dinner.

Guttel’s eyes widened in shock and he released a muffled grunt in reply.
 

Villius felt a whisper of movement behind him as Tituss – who seemed to possess some magic that allowed him to move with great stealth – entered and closed the door behind him.

Ashferon continued to pace before Guttel; his feet sank into the silk and wool pile of the ornate Farisian carpet that filled most of the room. He held one hand to his chin, absently rubbing his short stubble. If he did shave, he had clearly forgotten today.

“I would like to introduce you to an... acquaintance of mine.” Martius’s eyes seemed to be plumbing the depths of Guttel’s soul. “Master Guttel, this is Simeon Ashferon.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “That is Danus Villius and behind him is Tituss.” Martius raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me, friend Tituss, I do not know your first name...”

Tituss raised his eyebrows and shrugged his huge shoulders.

Martius turned back to Guttel. “Well, Master Tituss you may not know – although I am sure you will not forget him. Have you heard the name Simeon Ashferon before though?”

Beads of sweat glistened on Guttel’s forehead. His eyes were wide but his pupils barely visible, like pinpricks. He shook his head, eyes darting from Ashferon to Martius and back.

Ashferon, meanwhile, paced between Martius and Guttel as if neither of them existed.

Who is he?
Villius could barely contain the question.
Simeon Ashferon.
There was something in the name that should have sparked a glimmer of recognition.
Simeon Ashferon
.
I have heard that name somewhere...

“No?” Martius raised an eyebrow. “Oh well, no matter. Ashferon here used to work for the old emperor.” He switched his gaze to follow the pacing man before him. Ashferon’s green cloak swished behind him as he turned to pace the room again. “Remind me, Ashferon, what was your title again?”

“Inquisitor,” Ashferon replied absently. “Grand Inquisitor.” He moved to stand before a bookcase and began examining the contents intently. “Goodlan’s almanac, very good master Guttel. A player of the great game I see?” He seemed to be speaking to himself as much as anyone else.

Grand Inquisitor Ashferon
. The words took a moment to percolate through to Villius’s subconscious.
Grand Inquisitor Ashferon!
A name from the past, but one shrouded in dark rumour and mystery. He kicked himself for not realising, but then who would suspect this strange and ragged man? The inquisitors were a whisper on the wind. A tale to scare children at night.

Ashferon spun around and raised a finger in the air. “Do you mind if I continue, Martius?”

Guttel rocked in his chair, sweat dripped freely from his forehead now. He bared his teeth in a rictus grin around his cloth gag.

“Not at all, Ashferon. Not at all.” Martius took a step back and folded his arms across his chest. His mien was grim as death itself. He stared unblinking at Guttel.

Ashferon resumed his pacing before Guttel; his feet caressed the carpet so that every step was accompanied by a rhythmic swoosh. “Do you know what inquisitors do?” he asked gently without looking at Guttel.

Guttel’s replied by rocking frantically in his chair.

“Inquisitors ask questions.” Ashferon stopped before Guttel and leaned down so that their faces were no more than a hand’s breadth apart. “Do you mind if I ask you some questions, Jhan Guttel?”

Guttel became very still. His breathing was ragged and laboured. His chest heaved with exertion or stress. He returned Ashferon’s gaze, then, slowly, shook his head.

Ashferon smiled a closed lipped smile. “Good. Very good.” He raised his hands. “Now, I am going to remove your gag. You must promise me that you will not shout out. Can you promise that?”

Guttel gave no hint of a reply.

“Oh come, come Master Guttel. Please don’t make this difficult for us all.” Ashferon shook his head in a close approximation of sadness. “You don’t want me to have Tituss deal with you, do you?”

Guttel’s head swung towards Tituss, who promptly crossed his arms over his huge barrel chest and flexed his shoulder muscles.

Guttel rapidly shook his head.

“I take that as meaning that you will comply?”

Guttel turned back to Ashferon and nodded rapidly, grunting agreement.

“Excellent!” Ashferon raised both arms in the air theatrically. “Thank you.” He quickly released the gag.

Jhan Guttel sucked in a huge gasp of air and coughed. “What... do...” another huge gasp, “… you want from me?”

Ashferon spun around and waved an arm towards Martius. “It is less what I want from you and more what the good general here wants, I’m afraid.” He clasped his hands together and leaned down before Guttel’s face again. “Can you guess what he wants? Tell me, surely you can guess?”

“No.” Guttel’s denial hung in the air.

Maybe we could start with why your men were following the general?
Villius did not have the will to say it though. There was too much at stake here, perhaps more than he could understand. It would be best to say nothing.
Your job is to support your general.
And support him he would.
 

“No?” Ashferon shook his head. “No? Oh, come on now. Surely you must have some idea?”

Guttel’s eyes flicked from Ashferon to Martius and back again. Tituss rolled his shoulders – his neck, thick as a bull’s, rigid with cabled muscle – as if in silent warning.
 

“Why did you have me followed?!” Martius bellowed the words and stepped forward, his hand grasping the pommel of his sword.

Not his sword.
Villius corrected himself.
The sword of Optuss.
Or one of the pair at least. Martius had taken to wearing it since the night of the attack on the townhouse.

Guttel leaned back in his chair, clearly shocked by the outburst

Ashferon stepped between them. His expression calm and serene, but he cast what might have been a patronising look at Martius. “We agreed you would let me handle this.” He raised a hand towards the general, forbidding argument. “You asked for my help. I will deal with this my way.”

Martius exhaled slowly. He withdrew his hand from his sword. He shook with pent-up rage or frustration.

Do not allow your emotions to rule you, for they may lead you down the wrong path.
The words of the general, taught to every cadet at the academy, echoed in Villius’s mind. He did not blame Martius though. Even the gods could not rule their emotions, or so the scriptures said.
 

“Now, Master Guttel.” Ashferon took a deep breath as if to calm himself. “Let’s stop playing games. We have established facts before us. Did you have your men follow general Felix Martius?”

Guttel glared at Ashferon for a long moment. “Yes,” he conceded in a whisper.

“Much better!” Ashferon clasped his hands together before him. “Well done! Now, tell me, why did you have the general followed?”

“He knows that.” Guttel frowned. “That mad preacher, Marek Tyll, he paid me to have him followed...”

“Marek Tyll paid you? Excellent. Now we are making progress.”

Martius huffed and ran a hand through his hair.

Ashferon raised a hand again in casual denial, perhaps pre-empting any outburst. “How much did he pay you?”