Night of Knives (37 page)

‘Were you?’

‘Oh, yes. But I prayed to Hood himself all night and the demons passed me by.’

‘Hood?’ Kiska echoed, startled.

‘Oh, yes. Hood, I prayed. Ol’ Bone-Rattler. Please pass over my poor, thin, worn-out soul. Take my neighbour instead. And sure enough – he took my neighbour.’ The old woman cackled and winked.

Kiska laughed uneasily. Oponn deliver her from this crazy island! She banged again on the door while the old woman shooed flies from her sweetbreads. ‘Agayla! Open up! It’s me, Kiska.’ Silence. She pushed on the heavy plank door and it swung open. Surprised, she gazed for a time into the dark shop. Leaning in, she called, ‘Agayla?’

‘Go on in, lass,’ the old woman urged from across the way. ‘No one enters there that she don’t wish to. Go on.’

Kiska stepped in and closed the door. Just to be careful, she barred it as well. ‘Auntie?’ No one answered. She edged in between the shelves. In the rear, she found Agayla sitting before a stool, head bowed under a towel.
’Auntie?’

Agayla raised the towel, peered up blearily. ‘Oh, hello, child.’

‘Auntie, what are you doing?’

Agayla sat back, pressed the towel to her face. A bowl of water on the stool sent up whisps of aromatic steam. ‘I’ve caught a terrible cold.’

‘Oh. Are you all right?’

‘Yes, yes. Just tired. Very, very tired.’ She raised a hand to Kiska. ‘What of you? Safe and sound I see.’

Kiska pulled a chair next to her. ‘Yes. Auntie, the most amazing thing has happened. This is the best day of my life—’

‘You’re leaving Malaz.’

’Auntie!
How did you know?’

‘Only that could possibly make you so happy.’

Kiska gripped her arm. ‘Oh, Auntie. It’s not that I
want
to leave you. It’s just that I have to get off this island. You understand that, don’t you?’

She covered Kiska’s hand, smiled faintly. ‘Yes, child. I understand.’ Then a coughing fit took her and she held the towel to her mouth.

Kiska watched anxiously; in all the time she had known her, never had she betrayed the slightest illness before. ‘You
are
all right, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, yes. Quite. It’s just been a very trying night for me. One of the most trying I have ever known.’

Kiska eyed her critically. ‘I thought I saw you—’

‘Just a dream, child. A vision on a night of visions.’

‘Still, there
was
something . . .’

The same ghost of a smile raised Agayla’s lips. ‘Mere shadows.’

Kiska didn’t believe her, but time was passing. She stood. ‘I have to go – I can’t wait.’

Agayla used the chair to help herself to her feet. Kiska steadied her arm. ‘Yes, yes,’ she urged. ‘Certainly. Go. Run to your dear mother’s. Let her know you’re fine.’

‘Yes, I will. Thank you, Auntie. Thank you for everything.’

Agayla took her in her arms and hugged her, kissed her brow. ‘Send word soon or I swear I will send you a curse.’

‘I will.’

‘Good. Now run. Don’t keep Artan waiting.’

Kiska was halfway down Reach Lane before the thought occurred to her: how on earth did Agayla know that name? She stopped, half a mind to turn around. But time was pressing and she had a suspicion that saying goodbye to her mother would take much longer than she thought it might.

Though his vision swam and he had to rest at every landing to stave off passing out, Temper climbed Rampart Way up to the Hold. It was madness for him to be about and walking, but there was no way he would miss the morning’s excitement at the keep. A crowd already choked the main entrance –
tradesmen and citizens in a panic with pleas and complaints for Sub-Fist Pell. Wearing a thick cloak taken from the Hanged Man, Temper bulled his way through. He found Lubben snoring in a chair tilted back against the damp wall, his chest wrapped in dressings under his unlaced jerkin.

‘Wake up, you lazy disgrace!’

The hunchback cracked open his eye. Temper was amazed by how red it was. Lubben looked him up and down. He smacked his lips and grimaced at the taste. ‘What in Hood’s own burial pit are you doing here?’

‘Got the day watch.’

‘The what? The
day watch
? Gods man, give it a rest! You make me feel old just looking at you. Go on sick call.’

‘What, and miss all the entertainment?’

Lubben rolled his eye. ‘Well, if you must . . .’ he raised a pewter flask to Temper. ‘A little fortification for the trial ahead.’

Temper tucked the flask under his shirt. ‘Thanks. See you later.’

Lubben shifted his seat, hissed in pain as he flexed his back. ‘I suppose so. Can’t be helped.’

Before he even got to the barracks Temper was challenged four times. In the Hold there was more general rushing about, more whispering and pale faces than ever before. He chuckled about that as he carefully drew on his hauberk and guard uniform. He might have laughed, but he gritted his teeth as he flexed his stiff arms and stretched his battered back. Guards hurried in and out and Temper was pleased to see most of them alive and well, though none were up to the usual banter. The one face he didn’t see was that braggart, Larkin’s.

Temper stopped Wess, a young recruit from the plains south of Li Heng. ‘Where’s Larkin?’

The youth stared, his eyes wide with awe. ‘Haven’t you heard?’

Temper’s stomach tightened. ‘Heard what?’

‘He’s under arrest. Refused to stand his post last night. Defied orders.’ Temper’s burst of laughter caused Wess to jump. He gaped. ‘It’s a serious charge.’ Temper waved him past. The youth spared him one last quizzical glance before running on.

Chuckling, Temper picked up his spear outside the barracks and headed for the inner stairs. He felt in a better mood than he’d known in a long time. Chase stood at the battlements. Temper never thought he’d be happy to see the green officer, but this morning he was. For once the Claws had kept things entirely to themselves and ignored the local garrison.

Chase turned to him. ‘You’re late, soldier.’ He sounded more distracted than irritated.

‘Had a bit of a wrestle with a bottle last night. I lost.’ Temper leaned his elbows on a crenel.

‘Why am I not surprised?’ Chase sneered.

‘So,’ Temper began, waving down to the inner bailey and the men rushing in and out, ‘what’s all the commotion?’

‘You mean you don’t know?’

‘No,’ Temper drawled, ‘can’t say as I’m sure.’

‘Hood’s bones, man! And you’re a guard here!’ Chase choked back his outrage. He seemed unable to comprehend Temper’s lack of concern. He almost walked away, dismissing him as an utter lost cause, but sighed instead. ‘While you were blind drunk last night there was an assassination attempt on the visiting official.’ He leaned close to lower his voice. ‘The fighting was real quick and ugly, so I hear.’

‘So you hear? You mean the garrison wasn’t roused?’

Chase cleared his throat, uncomfortable. He looked away. ‘No. Everything happened upstairs, inside the tower. We didn’t hear a sound.’

Temper hid a smile. The fellow was actually disappointed. He scratched his chin. ‘What about the night watch?’

Chase stepped up beside him, all disgust and disapproval forgotten. ‘That’s the thing! I heard it’s come out that the entire night watch saw nothing! So there you are.’

Temper blinked, ‘Sorry—?’

‘The Warrens,’ he whispered, confidingly. ‘We didn’t have a chance.’

‘Ahh.’ Temper nodded his understanding. ‘How unfair of them, hey?’

Chase jerked away. His hazel eyes flashed anger. ‘There you go again! Taking the high ground. Always mocking. Well, it’s just chance, you know. The Twins of Chance and age. You’ve just had more luck. So I say to Hood with you! Where were you when the cats caught fire here, eh? You had your nose trapped in a bottle! And you look like you got into a drunken brawl, too!’

He marched off and Temper watched him go. He wasn’t sure what to make of all that so he chuckled softly to himself. Ahh, youth! So sure, yet so uncertain. He rested more of his weight onto the crenel, leaned his head against the limestone merlon. He felt as if he’d been dragged by horses across broken rock, which, he reflected, wasn’t too far from the truth. But he couldn’t keep a satisfied grin from his lips; he’d done it again-stepped into the gap. Held the wall.

All last year he’d done nothing but run. And the suspicion had haunted him: did he still have what it took? Could he still make a stand anymore? Or more importantly, was there anything left worth fighting for? Well, now he knew and felt more comfortable for the knowing. More at ease with himself. He even felt a measure of gratitude for all that had happened.

Corinn especially. He couldn’t have done it without her. He’d have to tell her that tonight, and ask if she was leaving now that what she’d come for was over. Maybe he could even tell her that he hoped she wouldn’t go, because he suspected
he’d be spending a long time on the island. A long while to come at Coop’s Hanged Man Inn.

He rubbed his shoulder and flexed his leg, all the time grimacing. At least he was in no danger of falling asleep, what with half his body yammering its pain at him. Down the wall, Mock’s Vane stood silent on its pike. Temper eyed it – the damn thing appeared frozen athwart the wind. He turned away from the day’s glare to ease into what always got him through the day: watching the sea.

Down below, the bay glimmered calmly. The Strait seemed to be holding its breath. In the shimmering distance a few warships were passing. Closer in, anchored in the bay, merchant caravels and barks rocked gently in the harbour’s lee. The message cutter caught Temper’s eye. Sails up, it was on its way out of the bay with good speed – even in this relative calm. He’d seen it arrive just before dusk yesterday, and now today towards the noon bell it was again on its way. Message delivered, Temper supposed.

What a night to have lain over! Idly, he speculated on the coincidence. Could that be Surly or another, on their way back to Unta or beyond? Probably not. Too mundane. Surly and the others would have left already by way of the Warrens. In either case, he bid them all a warm farewell and added the heartfelt wish that none should ever again set foot on the island.

He tossed back a swig from the flask to salute the thought.

A
T HIS CRIPPLE’S PACE EDGEWALKER STRUGGLED ACROSS THE
chamber of slanted walls dark as vitrified night. He followed a path smeared through a finger-bone’s thickness of otherwise undisturbed dust. The trail ended at two prone men, motionless as the dust itself. He paused, stared down at them for the longest time as if searching for signs of life.

‘What in the Word of the Nameless Ones do you want?’ croaked one.

Edgewalker inclined his head in a shallow bow. ‘Greetings and welcome, Lord, to Shadow House.’

The one who had spoken sat up. Aside, as if to a third party, he offered the tired flick of two fingers of his left hand. Edgewalker turned to his rear where a twin to the other man now stood with barred blades. As he shifted to study the shape on the floor, it shimmered from sight.

The sitting one giggled. ‘My apologies. Old habits. You are?’

‘Edgewalker.’

The man nodded thoughtfully. ‘Ah yes. I recall the name. You are mentioned . . . here and there.’

The man raised an arm. ‘Help me up . . . ah, that is . . . Cotillion.’

The weapons in Cotillion’s hands disappeared and Edgewalker saw that in fact they had not been true weapons at all but the shadows of weapons, and that from now on these two might create whatever they wished from the raw stuff at their disposal.

Standing, the man hardly reached Edgwalker’s breast. Hunched and grizzled, he gave the appearance of an old man, yet his movements betrayed no hesitancy. He glanced about at the slanted angular dimensions of the chamber and grimaced his distaste. ‘No,’ he decided. ‘Not to my liking at all.’ He waved and the chamber blurred, shifting. Edgewalker now found himself standing in a keep’s main hall. Stone flags lay beneath his bare feet and a stone hearth flamed at one wall. Above, blackened timbers spanned the darkness. The man cast a sharp eye right and left then nodded, pleased with himself. ‘That will do. For the nonce. Now, Cotillion, care to make a turn about the Realm?’

‘What of this one?’

‘Ah. Edgewalker. You may be our guide.’

‘I think not.’

The old man paused, blinking. ‘I’m sorry. You said . . .?’

‘I do not take your orders.’

A walking stick poked Edgewalker at his chest. He could not quite recall exactly when it appeared in the old man’s hand. ‘Perhaps I should summon the Hounds to tear you limb from limb.’

‘They would not do so.’

‘Truly? Why?’

‘Because we are all kin. Slaves to Shadow.’

The old man peered closely at him, raised his brows. ‘Ah, I see. You have been taken by Shadow. You are a slave to the House. Very well. I shall allow you your small impertinences.
But remember, while you are slave to Shadow, I
command
Shadow. Remember that.’