City of Light & Shadow (36 page)

  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 "Indeed, though my understanding is that recent events may have superseded such ambitions."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.

 
 

 
 
 

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 grubbers 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.

  "Coming," called a voice from within. After a few seconds during which he tried to calm his breathing, there came the sound of a bolt being drawn back and then the door opened partway, to reveal the wrinkled face of an elderly woman. "Ah, you're a fine looking lad and no mistake," she said. "What can I do you for? A love potion, is it? Some young maiden's head you're desperate to turn? Or a luck potion; perhaps you've suffered a run of bad fortune of late and would like to turn that around… No, not luck I don't think. Stamina! Young fellow like you, I'll bet you take part in plenty of sports and are seeking an edge… unless it's stamina of a more intimate nature you're worried about, eh? I can help with that too, if that's what you're after."

  He stood silent, trying to decide how best to reply. He'd rehearsed this meeting and what he was going to say a hundred times in his head, but none of his imaginings had featured such an opening barrage and, now that he was actually here, he couldn't remember the lines anyway.

  The woman had stopped talking for a second and was considering him, scratching her chin and frowning. "Though to judge by the cut of your clothes, you're not from round here, are you? You're from up-City, maybe even the Heights." She seemed suddenly suspicious. "What's someone like you doing here in the under-City, calling on a simple apothaker?"

  "Arielle?" he said uncertainly, thinking that perhaps he could see in this aged apparition the ghost of the vibrant, beautiful woman he remembered, but not quite believing she could have changed so much.

  The instant he spoke the name she started as if slapped, and then whipped a knife from under her robes, pointing it towards him menacingly.

  "Who are you?" she hissed. "Some agent of Birhoff's come down here to finish the job, or are you just here to gloat, to see how I've suffered? Well you can tell the spiteful bitch that I've suffered plenty. Is that what you want to hear, eh? Is it?"

  "No, nothing like that, I promise you… Aunt Arielle, it's me, Jayce."

  Her mouth opened slowly, though no words emerged, and her eyes widened. He thought he saw recognition dawning in their depths. "Jaycie," she said at length, "
my Jaycie
… is it really you?"

  "Yes, aunt, it's me."

  The knife tumbled from her fingers. The hand that had held it rose uncertainly towards his cheek, perhaps to stroke his face, but then stopped short, as if afraid that should she touch him he might disappear. "Look at you, you're all grown up." A single tear trickled from the corner of her eye. "Jayce…
my Jaycie
…" She spoke his name as if the repetition might somehow make this all the more real. "How did you find me? Why… what are you
doing
here?"

  He felt his own eyes welling up. His beloved aunt, whose presence illuminated so many childhood memories; he'd found her again after all these years. He could scarcely believe it, and his voice was far from steady as he said, "I've come to take you home, Aunt Arielle. I've come to take you home."

• • • •

There were two people Tom was determined to see. He wasn't sure what it said about him that both were girls, or rather women, or maybe a bit of both. Actually, it might easily have been three. He still felt a twinge of guilt that he'd never checked up on Jezmina, the girl he'd been besotted with when he ran with the Blue Claw, but he understood she was settled now, working for a seamstress and even
engaged
, which he found hard to believe: the timid young girl he remembered blossoming into a bride-to-be in such a short time. Even so, he concluded it was probably best for both of them if he didn't call around raking up the past. So that just left two.

  He decided to start with Mildra.

  He found her in the same temple he'd been brought to the first time they met, when the Dog Master's creature had latched onto his back and tried to infect him with the parasite that was subverting the will of the street-nicks.

  "Tom!" She looked genuinely delighted to see him and didn't seem at all surprised, almost as if she'd been expecting him to pop out of thin air at some point. Perhaps she had.

  He'd been a little worried about seeing her again now that she was back in her normal environment and they were no longer constant companions. Part of him had expected her to be formal, aloof, reserved at the very least. The way she immediately rushed forward and hugged him dispelled any such concerns.

  "I've missed you," she said, breaking the embrace.

  "Me too," he replied. "Missed you, I mean, not me."

  She laughed, and led him to a chair. Were these her private quarters? If so, they were more modest than he would have anticipated. Plain walls, two leaded sash windows that looked out onto a small courtyard, a hearth – not lit, but clean and looking as if it hadn't been used in a while – a low table and a few chairs. Arrangements of fresh flowers decorated the mantelpiece and the table; flowers were never cheap in the City Below so they were something of an indulgence perhaps, but a minor one given her status.