The Telastrian Song (11 page)

S
oren walked
up to the door quickly and assertively, a fashion he hoped would draw the least attention and, ignoring the bell chain, rapped on it with his knuckle, the required signal to indicate he was a friend to the occupant. There was some scratching around behind the door before a small hatch opened. Soren could see nothing but a pair of eyes peeking out at him.

‘Who are you?’

‘The Baron of Westway sent me.’

The hatch shut and the door opened. There was no Baron of Westway, the westerly of the two rivers that ran through the city; it was another of the codes Ranph had told him to use to identify himself.

A servant led him into the house and through to another room. The apartment was squalid, and had the scent of stale alcohol. Not a promising sign. Soren’s hand was tight on the hilt of his dagger.

‘My master will be with you in a moment,’ the servant said.

So far, so good. No mob of city watchmen waiting to drag him to a dungeon. No Intelligenciers sharpening their torture implements. No sign of Amero waiting to deliver a self-serving monologue conceitedly extolling his victories with Emeric watching over him in his usual threatening manner. Any of those scenarios would mean a painful death for Soren, so the meeting was already exceeding his worst-case expectation.

‘You’ve come from Venter?’

Soren recognised the voice immediately and it sent a chill down his spine. His dagger was unsheathed and he was crouched low before he realised what he was doing.

The man standing at the doorway went pale when he saw Soren. ‘It’s not what you think,’ he said, holding his hands out defensively.

‘What is it then, you prick?’ Soren said.

‘I’m not with Amero anymore. I’m just like you. Dead if he finds out what I’m up to.’

The last Soren heard of General Kastor was that he had been promoted and ennobled. He was involved in Amero’s plot up to his elbows, and had faithfully done his master’s bidding, committing treason and attempting to send Soren to his death in the process. He had shaved his beard and head and lost some weight, but it was definitely him.

‘Start explaining,’ Soren said. ‘You don’t have long before I give in to the temptation to cut your throat.’

‘The bastard threw me to the wolves,’ Kastor said.

‘I’m a very long way from being convinced.’

‘He put the blame for the defeat at Hohnbach on me. All of it, even though he was there, giving his nod on every order. Giving most of the orders. Fifteen thousand men killed and the only battle lost in the war after Amero became duke. I was pelted with eggs and rotten fruit when I came back to the city. The bastard knew he didn’t even need to throw me in the dungeons. I could tell anyone I liked about all his plots and assassinations and treasons, and no one would listen. Not to mention the fact that I’m in that mess up to my armpits. I’m a fucking hero of Ostenheim! The old Duke awarded me the Duke’s Cross with his own hand. And this is how they thank me? Fucking rotten fruit and fucking eggs. I want to see that bastard burn.’

‘Not the best feeling when people use you and cast you aside, is it?’ Soren said.

Kastor’s face darkened and Soren thought he might have to use his dagger. That didn’t bother Soren in the least. When Soren matched his gaze, Kastor took a deep breath and relaxed.

‘You brought the money?’

‘The money’s in the city,’ Soren said. He didn’t trust Kastor enough to hand it over, not yet. Probably never. Even when he was on top, all Kastor was interested in was his own advancement. Soren thought it unlikely things would be any different now.

Ranph didn’t know who the agent in Ostenheim was, and even if he had he would certainly not have known the extent to which Kastor was involved in Amero’s plot. The earlier defeat at the Battle of Sharnhome was the key event that completed Amero’s plot, and that had come about because Kastor, when he was still a general, had marched half the army around in circles while the other half—loyal to the rightful duke—were cut to pieces. Ranph had entrusted this money to Soren, and he would not hand it over unless he was certain that it would be used in good faith.

‘Why didn’t you bring it? Where is it? How soon can you have it here?’ Kastor’s voice verged on manic. He was like a child demanding the early giving of a gift.

Soren held up his hand. ‘I’m to make the final decision on whether or not to give it to you. I need to know your plan to free the prisoners before I can.’

Kastor smiled, and there was a crazed quality to it that Soren found unsettling.

‘Arrangements have been made. I need that money,’ Kastor said.

‘I don’t think you’re any more popular with the Ostian exiles than you were with the citizens when you got back after Hohnbach. If they knew who you were, I doubt they’d be happy to hand over any money. I can’t give it to you until I’m certain it will be used properly.’

Hate would have been too strong a word for Soren’s feelings for Kastor over the treatment he had received at the general’s hands—dislike was closer to the mark—but Soren knew that treatment had come as a result of Amero’s orders. That was where all the hate Soren could muster was directed. Where Kastor had once seemed all-powerful, the roles were now reversed. Soren knew that he had to put personal feelings aside; the lives of a number of imprisoned people hung in the balance, but there was something about the whole scenario that did not quite sit well with him.

‘I’ll need more details first, as I said.’

‘Like what?’ At times Kastor’s voice reverted back to the command-giving tone that Soren remembered, the one that showed his expectation that every word he uttered would be acted upon instantly and without question.

‘Like how many people the money will free? Who the money will be paid to? What aid those released will receive?’

Kastor’s brow furrowed. ‘I already made all of this clear in the communications I sent.’

‘Perhaps. But I’d like you to tell me again.’

Kastor smiled, revealing teeth ravaged by several years of bad living. ‘You hate Amero as much as I do, don’t you?’

‘More, I would have said. What’s your point?’

‘The money. What if I told you it could be used for more than just freeing some over-privileged aristocrats who’ve had a bad turn of luck? What if I told you it could be used to kill Amero?’

Soren suppressed a smile of satisfaction. He knew there was more to it, and now the truth was getting closer to the surface. He also had to grudgingly admit that Kastor knew how to get his interest. ‘Go on…’

‘You want to kill Amero, don’t you?’

‘If you’re trying to get me to admit to treason, you’re wasting your time. There’s nothing I can say that would make my reception at the castle dungeons any warmer.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I can see it in your eyes. We may not always have been working with the same interests in mind, but I am certain we both want Amero dead.’

Soren said nothing, so Kastor continued.

‘There are men from my old regiments who know what really happened at Hohnbach. Many of them are fighting in the mercenary companies in the South, in Auracia. Some have stayed here in the army, but they’re still loyal to me. Amero’s army is weak—all but non-existent. He’s broke and can’t afford to keep it up to strength. With my officers in the ranks of what’s left, it’s weaker still. They’d be hard pressed to take on the City Watch. With your money, I can pay off my own men and hire enough mercenaries to take the city and drag Amero, kicking and screaming, out of the palace and straight to the headsman’s block.’

‘What about the people in the dungeons? The people who the money is supposed to be for?’

‘What people?’ Kastor said, smiling.

‘You made that up?’

‘They’d never have sent the money if they knew the real reason. They’d have wanted to take control. Too much plodding and planning. Idiot aristocrats. Word would get out and the whole thing would fall apart. This is the only way. They’ll be grateful with the result when they can return to their lands and their titles. You want this as much as I do. I know that. I know how he treated you. What he’d do to you if he got his hands on you. That’s why I’m telling you all this. Now that you’re in the city, your help will be invaluable. I remember what you’re capable of.’

‘Civil war with mercenaries? It’ll be even less civil than they usually are. The men you bring to the city won’t have any connection to the place, and won’t give a damn what happens. They’ll burn it to the ground without a second thought.’

‘If that’s what it takes. With Amero gone, we can rebuild.’

‘Your sense of patriotism is touching, if uncharacteristic. What’s in it for you?’ Soren had seen two cities that had experienced civil war. One was reduced to rubble, while the other was deserted and a haunting reminder of happier times. He had no wish to see either scenario play out in Ostenheim. There was no way he could hand over Ranph’s diamonds for a purpose other than intended, but this was another step beyond simple misuse and deception. Even if Kastor’s plan succeeded, the returning nobility might well find nothing more than smouldering ruins. They might also find a new king in Amero’s place.

Kastor ignored Soren’s question. ‘The money. Where is it?’ he said, with the greedy need of a dream seed addict looking for more.

Soren looked him directly in the eye, his decision made. ‘Somewhere far from you, where you’ll never get it.’ He had his dagger at the ready.

Kastor’s eyes flashed with anger, but he restrained himself. Soren had killed people on Kastor’s command, so the old general knew only too well how good he was at it.

‘I need that money. Preparations have already begun,’ Kastor said, in a measured tone that strained to contain his anger.

‘You’d best get to cancelling them then, hadn’t you?’ Soren said, part of him hoping that Kastor’s self control would crack and that he would lunge forward, giving Soren the excuse to kill him. Kastor had it coming, but Soren couldn’t bring himself to do it just to settle old scores.

Kastor did not move from where he stood, even though he bristled with impotent rage. ‘The men I am dealing with are not to be trifled with. If you don’t give me the money, I’ll have to tell them so. You don’t want to make enemies of these men, Soren. Not even with your skills.’

‘I couldn’t give a damn, to be honest,’ Soren said. ‘Tell them whatever you like. Tell them who I am, where I am and tell them that I’ll be ready for them if they fancy trying their luck. I’m not giving you the money.’

‘So we’re finished then.’

Soren nodded, although he knew it was not a question.

Kastor’s sword and dagger were in their scabbard, hanging from a peg by the door. His eyes moved to them and lingered there for a moment before returning to Soren. Soren kept his hand on the hilt of his dagger. If Kastor went for the sword, a fast dagger strike would be the best option. If Kastor still managed to reach his sword, Soren would have enough time to draw his own.

He had no idea how good Kastor was with a sword. He was old and it was a long time since he would have done any fighting. His body was tense, his weight on the balls of his feet, the demeanour of a man about to get himself into a fight. He relaxed, and Soren smiled.

‘You know where the door is,’ Kastor said.

His voice was less strained than it had been, which bothered Soren more than when it was bubbling with rage. Soren left, and he had only gone a few paces down the street before he began to regret not having just gotten his hands dirty and killed Kastor there and then. Kastor had always been a solid tactician. He could identify a battle he could not win, and knew when to withdraw and marshal his forces. Soren felt certain that was what was happening. He had not heard the last of the matter, and when it came up again Kastor would be in a far stronger position.

K
astor was
the last person Soren had expected to see leading the resistance against Amero. Once the shock subsided, he was left with a quandary. While he had not formed any concrete plans on his journey from Venter, he had been relying on the idea that the underground would be of some help. He hadn’t deluded himself into thinking they would be everything that he would need to get to Amero and successfully assassinate him, but he thought they would be a starting point with contacts and resources that would be of use.

Now he was back to square one, with nothing but a goal and no idea of how to achieve it. It was enough to unsettle him and allow other thoughts to pull him down farther. Since they had been reunited in the corridors under the Khagan’s palace in Shandahar, Soren and Alessandra had spent hardly any time apart. Soren had never missed anyone before. Not like this. He had felt absence when parted from familiar things, but now he had an ache inside him that would not go away.

It was a distraction that he could have done without, but he knew his decision to leave Alessandra with Ranph in Venter was correct. As much as he missed her, he would be able to think more clearly knowing she was safe.

Without any obvious route to Amero and without the chance of any help, a plan would be harder to come by and take longer to put together, but he had to be patient and careful. Otherwise Amero would stay safe on his throne and Soren would end up on the headsman’s block.

W
ith the embryonic
plan that had been floating around his mind dashed, he needed to go right back to the very start. Gather information, then put it together into something he could move forward with. The streets of Ostenheim were the place to start that process.

There was an energy in Ostenheim that could be felt at almost any hour of the day. It was one of the things Soren always loved about the place, even when he was living on the streets; the sense of excitement and opportunity, like anything was possible. He had not expected opportunity to come his way back then, but it had. It proved to be a poisoned chalice, but Soren had to admit that he was better off than he would have been had he not met Amero. Probably dead in a gutter somewhere, many years previous.

The news was read out every hour between dawn and dusk at Crossways, the large market square that dominated the centre of the city, so it was there that he intended to go the next morning. There was one pressing matter that topped his list for the following day, however.

He had grown accustomed to the presence of the two diamond-filled socks hanging beneath his armpits, but it was not a long-term solution to keeping them safe—and having them on his person was a continuous source of worry. He kept checking they were still in place and firmly secured to the cords that attached his sleeves to the body of his doublet—something that now bordered on obsession. He knew the action drew attention to there being something there, the complete opposite to his intention. In a city filled with pickpockets, thugs and criminal gangs, it was only a matter of time before Soren’s attention to his armpits was noticed and provoked curiosity. There was also Kastor to consider. Judging by the smell of the apartment and the old General’s appearance, Soren had taken Kastor’s threats to be no more than bluster, but he knew it would be imprudent to discount them completely. Just another danger in a city full of them.

There was only one place that a fortune of that size and nature could be safely left, and conveniently it overlooked Crossways. Austorgas’ Banking House was ancient and steeped in legends of wealth, power and the ruthless pursuit of commerce. Soren had dealt with a minor Austorga once before in the Spice Isles, a junior member of the Humberlander branch of the family. Even in that far away outpost, the banker was a model of impartiality. No questions were asked and no explanations expected.

That was exactly how they behaved in the Ostenheim branch the next morning. Some formalities needed to be complied with to ensure he could be identified correctly when the time came to collect the diamonds, but other than that the bankers showed no interest in what Soren intended to place in the safety deposit box he was renting.

There was both a physical and psychological weight lifted from Soren when he walked out of the bank after leaving the laden socks safely secured within. The key to his deposit box hung from a thin silver chain around his neck, but he had left instructions for the value of the contents to be transferred to the Voorn branch in favour of Ranph if Soren didn’t collect them after one month had expired. After that, either Soren would be dead or Ranph would be able to collect them at the Ostenheim branch in person. With one worry set aside, Soren was able to apply his mind to the others.

T
he edges
of Crossways Square were lined with stalls, large and small, colourful and unremarkable, where almost anything could be bought. It was easy to lose oneself and one’s thoughts there for an hour or two. Soren had always walked through the square when he could, fascinated by the array of things that could be had there. Usually he just went to look, which in itself was dangerous when he so clearly looked like a beggar. Occasionally he went to steal, but only when his need was great. The City Watch was particularly vigilant on the square, and would think nothing of beating someone to death in a back alley if they caught them stealing.

Even now, many years later and dressed in clothes that allowed him blend seamlessly with the crowd, he still had a difficult time walking past watchmen without a shiver of frightened expectation running up his spine. Although they paid him no attention now, Soren wondered if the sensation would ever go away.

He stopped next to one of the city criers, of whom there were several located around the square, and listened for a few minutes. There was talk about how the principalities in Auracia were at war with each other once again. They never seemed to remain in federation for more than a few months at a time. It was rumoured that Amero had his eye on the south, now that Ruripathia was firmly under his control. That war was still too fresh in the minds of the citizens, too fresh for there to be much enthusiasm for another. It would take something more than stories of how they were a fruit ripe for the picking to change that opinion, Soren suspected. It only took a few minutes walking the streets to observe a greater number of begging children and maimed veterans than he had ever seen in the city before.

The stories would become ever more outrageous as Amero lost patience in waiting for the public fervour for another war to build, and eventually the people would take up his cause. To push for it so soon, not much more than three years since the last ended and with so many still mourning the dead, would be too rash an act for Amero. He was a master plotter, but Soren suspected that already his patience would be starting to wear thin. Stories about the Principalities of Auracia in Crossways were the first step to sounding out popular opinion and building hostility toward the southern neighbour. Soren had no doubt that every word uttered by the criers was seeded with exactly what Amero wanted the people to be told. Few would question the truth of the news they were fed on a daily basis. Eventually he would get his support.

What Soren was most interested in hearing about was anything that might give a hint as to when Amero would be somewhere other than the palace, and where that would be. Soren knew the interior layout of the palace reasonably well from his time working with the previous duke, and knew also how well it was guarded. He would give it another look, but expected that getting to Amero when he was out of the palace would be far easier than while he was in it.

‘…which will be attended by his Grace, the Duke of Ostia and Prince of Ruripathia.’

The crier was referring to the final session of the Council of Nobles before it closed for the summer break. The Duke always attended it. Considering how many noblemen had been killed, both leading up to Amero’s accession and immediately after it, Soren wondered sardonically if Amero would be there on his own. But he would no doubt have stocked the Council’s ranks with men that were loyal to him, giving them lands and titles to ensure they remained so.

The final session was a few days away, so Soren would have a little time to explore alternative options and continue gathering information on Amero’s movements and habits. An axiom that Soren found to be true was that all men left themselves exposed in some way, no matter how careful or heavily guarded they were. He had learned that lesson in the employ of Kastor, when he was still a general in Amero’s pocket. It was the lessons learned through Amero’s manipulation of him that would be of most use to Soren in killing him. There was irony in that, which Soren found oddly satisfying. The only question was where that gap in his defences would be.