Broken Crossroads (Knights of the Shadows Book 1) (18 page)

“You delay the cataclysm. Plenty of the conspirators will still be out there. The ringleader will still be anonymous. Maybe it will take them some time, but they'll make another move.”

“Some battles win you a campaign, and some just give you space to breathe, lass.”

“In that case,” she said, “you get us that breathing room. I'll win this campaign.”

* * *

Sergeant Niath gave his instructions to the troop of watchmen, observing closely to see how they took them. Most of the faces were nervous. They expected trouble, it was Market Day night. The city would be filled with farmers come to sell their wares and drink the proceeds. The whores, tavern keepers, and pickpockets would suddenly acquire a work ethic. The friction of the crowds and the fumes of the liquor against the tinder of tension already in the city would need just the faintest spark to roar into cataclysmic life. Most of the Watch were cynical enough to be sure such a spark would make its appearance.

He held down his own misgivings. He had only the word of that mercenary. “The spark can be stamped out tonight. But you don't want to know too much or be too close. Just help me keep the damage from spreading,” was all the man had said.

Niath trusted him, and his companion, the sneak thief, as much as he needed to. More than anyone else in this city. They saw the danger, saw the threat and saw how politics would keep anyone else who could stop it from wanting to stop it. He knew they wanted to keep the lid on this hellish cauldron as much as he did, and they had no superior officers tying their hands.

But he had no idea what they planned, and he feared what it might be. Would it work? Probably. Nether of the pair were zealots or martyrs. They'd want a plan they could survive. But would it be on he could stand by and watch, or would he feel compelled to stop it?

But could he stop a messy plan that might save the whole thing from going over the falls?

Probably best he didn't know more.

“Why are we forming the cordon here?” asked Constable Tardash, breaking into his worrying.

Niath just looked at the man until light dawned. “Sergeant?”

“This is where trouble will come. If it starts tonight,” the sergeant replied.

“But that's the High Street,” Tardash plowed on. “Why would trouble come from that way?”

Watchmen to either side of the man stepped away.

“We have information, Constable. We stand here and keep the bridge clear. Any armed men are to be turned back, anyone resists, he gets the truncheon.”

“But Sergeant, shouldn't we be keeping the rabble on this side, rather than the gentry on that one?”

Niath sighed. He did not have time or patience for this. Not this night. Not any night, but especially not this one. Tardash wasn't exactly
stupid,
but he didn't have what the sergeant called
situational awareness
. The boy could quote ordinances and regulations and procedure, but couldn't see danger if it were chewing on his arse.

“That's good thinking, Constable,” he said gently. “You'll make Captain some day, you keep that up.” He walked slowly to the young watchman, putting a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “Let me explain this a bit more clearly, so we understand what's happening here.”

“Alright, Sarge,” said Tardash

Niath suddenly snapped his head forward, breaking the young man's nose. As Tardash reeled, the sergeant punched him in the stomach, then grabbed him by the belt and the collar of his tunic, marching him to the railing of the bridge As the younger man began to struggle, the sergeant bounced his head off the railing.

Constable Tardash blinked the stars from his eyes and looked down into the swirling water. He was balanced precariously on the railing, only the sergeant's iron grip on his tunic keeping him from plunging in.

“That, Constable Tardash, is the river. You see those culverts that empty into it?” Niath asked in a calm, conversational tone.

“Yes, Sergeant,” the younger man gasped.

“That is sewage. Now, sewage is waste. Waste is trash, offal. Things that don't work anymore. Things that are useless. A burden. Things that don't do what they should, but get in the way of you doing what you need to do. Make sense?”

“Yes, Sergeant!”

“That's what winds up in the river, Constable. Not useful things. No wise man would throw anything useful in that cold, dark, filthy water. Nothing that performed the way it should,” he paused, leaned forward and whispered in the young watchman's ear. “Would you call me a wise man, Constable?”

“Aye, Sarge!” Tardash nodded. “Very wise!”

Niath pulled the man back, helped him stand and straightened his tunic.

“Now you understand things.” He smiled. “Don't ever hesitate to ask if you need things explained. That's how we learn.”

* * *

Ioresh lurked in the shadowy alley between two buildings and stole a look around the corner at the assembled troops. Conn was right; the nobles were expecting trouble. Looking for it.

A company of maybe fifty infantry, armed for street fighting, not the field. Swords and small shields, not spears and halberds. Most of the rank and file had mail shirts and helms. The leader was mounted and had greaves and vambraces as well.

Conn had forbidden the men from wearing armor. “I want you to move quickly, not slug it out. You'll move faster without armor, and you'll want to move faster with nothing but wool between you and a steel point,” he'd said. Ioreshsaw the logic in that, but had voiced another concern.

“As for steel points…” the younger man had asked.

“These bodkins have the tips filed flat,” Conn said. “But aim for the best armored enemy. Good mail over a quilted gambeson should stop them, but if you hit some poor conscript in a leather jerkin, it might still punch through. We want to taunt the troops, not kill them. This will work, and we’ll dodge the worst of the balme, but if we stat killing soldiers, we’ll never get a lid on the slaughter.”

“And if we hit somebody in the gap in his armor?”

Conn had shrugged. “Combat is not an exact science. But at least it'll be a nob who gets pierced.”

Ioresh smiled. “And once I start bouncing shafts off the troops?”

“Get their attention then fall back. Try to stick to the narrow alleys. Keep ahead of them, leapfrog your teams. We want them to chase you to where we want them, but don't get caught. They've been upset of late, and even blunt arrows will trigger their tempers.”

Ioresh shook his head.

“Having second thoughts, lad?”

“No sir. But it's not what I expected.”

“You should be happy, lad. Not only are you getting your wish of being a soldier, you're leading real troops. Just make sure those troops don’t catch you.”

He nodded to two of his companions, who fanned out, taking up positions in the shadows. Another team of three young archers was in position two streets back.

Once he saw the others in place, he took one of the blunted arrows from his quiver, knocked it and drew, pushing the bow up and out with his left arm as he drew the string back with his right, feeling the muscles of his arms and shoulders and back bunching with the effort, then loosing as his point of aim settled on the target.

It was the first time he had ever shot at a man. He shoved the thought aside, clearing his mind, just concentrating on the draw and loose.

The shaft struck the mounted officer in the shoulder and recoiled off. The man hunched over at the pain of impact, then looked up searching the shadows for his assailant. More arrows struck the assembled company, as Ioresh and his companions loosed as quickly as they could, then fled.

Roaring in pain and anger, the officer drew his sword and waved his troops forward. They responded with a rush, all the strain and tension of taunts unanswered, of nerves stretched raw, of enforced inaction while city scum and criminals ran amok coalesced into action. Finally there was an enemy before them, just a dash away, and then there would be release and a hot, crimson accounting. The soldiers surged forward, blood high, pulses pounding in an exhilarating mad charge.

Ioresh got one glimpse of their faces over his shoulder and found the energy to run faster, thinking that maybe Conn wasn't entirely wrong to try to steer him away from this life.

* * *

Conn waited impatiently as Trilisean scanned the street. Whatever she was looking for eluded him.

After a time she nodded and motioned him close.

“It has to be that house,” she whispered.

“What does?”

“There's no back way out of the house where they meet. And you never deny yourself an escape route. Not if you've survived to rise in the ranks of Laimrig's underworld. So there has to be a secret way. It must be a tunnel that leads to a nearby estate. Most of these are vacant, but that one has smoke from the chimney. It still looks abandoned, windows still boarded up, but there's hay on the cobbles near the gate, so someone is feeding a carthorse there, and the carriage house is intact. Once things go rotten, the leaders will leave through that house.”

“So that's where we catch them.”

“We'll scout it out, try to hold them while I get a message to Niath. If we're not getting paid for this, let's let him risk his own shiny dome.”

Conn nodded and waited for Trilisean to take the lead. She crept noiselessly to the outer wall, hugging the shadows. Conn followed as quietly as he could. At the old wall, Conn peered through a gap in the crumbled mortar between the stones and saw a dim light behind one of the windows. He nudged the thief and pointed.

Trilisean followed his gesture and smiled. “Nice to be proven right,” she breathed. “I'll be back in a bit. I have to get a message to Niath. You keep watch.”

“Hurry back.”

“I was going to say try to avoid any stupid heroics, but I won't.”

“Because you trust my judgement so much?”

“That must be it,” she smiled, vanishing into the shadows.

* * *

Ioresh paused, turned and loosed another shaft. The blunted head still buried itself in the surface of a soldier's shield. He and his companions were doing much more running than shooting now. The troops needed little goading after a poorly aimed arrow sunk into a sergeant's thigh, hitting him just below the edge of his hauberk.

Ducking and scrambling through the dark alleys, heavily armed pursuit at his heels, his breath coming in gasps, the nearly empty quiver banging against his lower back with every step, Ioresh finally burst out of a tiny lane and saw his goal.

The manor house was surrounded by a walled courtyard, just as Conn had said. Two guards outside the door looked up at the approaching sound.

Ioresh nocked an arrow and sent it skittering off the wall near the first man's ear, then legged it into the nearest, darkest spot he could find.

The guards drew weapons and banged on the gate, bringing more men to the top of the wall, who began scanning the night over loaded crossbows.

Their careful scrutiny was rewarded when a band of armed soldiers thundered into the street, blades in their hands and blood in their eyes.

Ioresh watched from behind a cart of decaying vegetables as two groups of armed men, nerves stretched to the breaking point, suddenly found one another.

The crossbowmen on the wall, having been alerted to an attack, loosed their quarrels at the threatening rush of soldiers, who, taking more missiles and finally seeing a static objective before them, let out a battle cry and charged the manor house.

The guards outside were more than qualified to beat sense into those who were slow to pay loans, or foolish enough to inform to the Watch, or sometimes they were even good enough to carry out or prevent the targeted killing of a member of a criminal organization. They were in no way prepared to face a charge by trained infantry. The wall of the manor had been designed for privacy, not to resist a siege.

Ioresh watched the guards, then the gate go down before the rush of troops, who poured into the yard of the manor.
Could have been you, lad
, he thought to himself, his subconscious supplying Conn's accent.

* * *

Trilisean found him in the third place she looked. She slipped up behind the urchin, waited until his fingers were clear of the sleeping drunk's purse, then caught him and pulled him close. By the hair, not the collar. The boy was too good to hold by the collar. One twist and she'd have nothing to show but a threadbare shirt.

He was also too professional to scream. He allowed himself to be led to a quiet corner of the seedy tavern.

“How would you like to earn a silver mark?” she asked.

“To do what?” he replied, any protest of her means of introduction forgotten.

“I need a message delivered. You know Sergeant Niath?”

“Big Watch sergeant?” asked the boy. “Shaved head?”

“That's him. He's guarding the Victory Bridge tonight. The one with all the statues.”