Retribution (Drakenfeld 2) (28 page)

A couple of vendors were out selling food, but I couldn’t understand why so few people were about.

‘The place seems unusually quiet,’ I remarked.

‘People are scared,’ Leana replied.

‘Why?’ Nambu asked, stifling a yawn.

‘They are your people,’ Leana said. ‘Do you not know them? If you do not know them, how can you lead them?’

For me, Leana’s comments were now in the context of knowing that she had once been destined to lead a nation. Nambu didn’t seem to be put off by her stern words. In the few days I had been unconscious a new level of respect had grown between the two.

We continued through the empty lanes and decided to eat some street food for breakfast. Nambu said she wasn’t hungry. While Leana and I chewed on our flatbreads, a unit of a dozen soldiers marched past us in green and white, their bows slung across their shoulders.

Without expression or comment Nambu turned to watch them as they proceeded down the street. It couldn’t have been more than a minute before we saw another unit marching by at the top of the road, turning into the distance.

‘Well, I certainly feel safer,’ I muttered. ‘Don’t you feel safer, Leana?’

‘The killer will most definitely not strike again with soldiers rattling through the streets,’ she replied dryly. ‘After all, how could they concentrate with that noise?’

We went through the gates of the prefecture and around the main wall, a region with an entirely different atmosphere. Hundreds of people filled the uneven roads. Woodsmoke drifted up out of ramshackle buildings. To one side, a priest in a green cloak, bearing the symbol of a bull, brought a knife across the throat of a goat. He spilled its blood into the outstretched hands of his faithful, who knelt on the floor in front of him.

‘Nambu, this hasn’t anything to do with Astran and Nastra, has it?’

‘No. That is the Cult of Hymound.’ She gave a laugh of disbelief. ‘That priest is mad to be doing that sort of thing so close to the Sorghatan Prefecture. Mother hates the cult. She hates all the old gods. Look how savage they are – the people are drinking blood!’

The people who knelt before the body of the goat brought their cupped hands to their lips as the priest gibbered in a much older form of Kotonese.

‘Who is Hymound?’

‘I do not know much, because it is forbidden to teach his ways, but his other name is the King of the Multitudes. Our people worshipped him when we roamed the plains. Well, when we roamed them a thousand years ago. He has a small but stubborn following.’

The priest fell to his knees and plunged his fingers into the open wound in the animal. Before long the act became obscured by the crowds.

‘It frustrates Mother that she cannot reform out here as quickly as in the Sorghatan Prefecture,’ Nambu continued. ‘She wants to help people get better, eat better and live better. She wants them to have the same luxuries and rights as those in the Sorghatan Prefecture.’

‘It cannot happen overnight,’ I offered.

And indeed it had not in this part of the city. Everything was a shade more drab. The colour of the other prefecture had gone, and instead crude, dirtied furs and cheap leather were all around us. The decay of rotten fish and stench of manure was intense to the point of being overwhelming. In little passageways between wooden buildings and tents, men sat half-naked in the warm light insulting passers-by. Many of them wore animal horns around their necks. Weird, brutal-looking implements were strung up from windows. The main thoroughfares were packed, however, with people going about their business as best they could. I was almost certain we would not find the murderer among them. The killer was probably behind us, in the other prefecture, but for now our investigation carried us elsewhere.

It took us the better part of an hour to reach the dockyard walking down from the Kuvash Prefecture.

The dockyard was like a whole new city. Nestled along a wide, serpentine river, which went round part of the Sorghatan Prefecture, was a vibrant community. From the white walls separating the two prefectures, large and gleaming in the morning sun, the city descended gently, and then very suddenly down to the river. Shacks, timber houses, precarious constructions – only a few of which were crafted from stone – stretched as far as the eye could see. Long grasses stirred in the breeze. The river looped back and forth across the landscape, widening towards the sea, which stood as a thin grey-blue line on the horizon. The smell of marine food and dubious vegetation was intense and, combined with woodsmoke, horse-shit and the tang from a tannery, it made for an assault on the senses. Though there were hundreds of boats of all types in the river, people still managed to find gaps to wash themselves or their clothing – or to pour dubious-looking fluids away into the water.

‘What is it that you’re looking for exactly?’ Nambu asked, pulling the top hem of her brown cloak around her mouth and nose.

‘The office building of Naval Exports,’ I replied.

‘I know that. I mean when we get there.’

‘If we are to investigate the affairs of Grendor of the Cape, then his offices are bound to give us a clearer picture of his businesses.’

‘So . . . what are you hoping to find?’

‘I don’t know, if I’m honest. We’ll have to wait and see. At the moment it is a case of sketching out the lives of those who have been killed, and identifying where there is any overlap.’

‘There’s a lot of uncertainty in your job, isn’t there?’

‘Of that, we
can
be certain.’

We passed a large, rectangular building, in notably better condition than the rest of the street, surrounded by a large perimeter fence made from wood. Between the posts I saw dozens of children dressed in rags, running around a courtyard and playing games with pebbles.

‘Is that a school?’ I asked Nambu.

‘No, it’s Kuvash’s largest orphanage.’

Some of the children came forward to stand at the gates and held their arms out towards us. Only then did I notice how malnourished they were – and just how many had been crammed into this area. I felt a sudden guilt at my own upbringing – a relatively comfortable one, with the exception of my mother’s death when I was a few years old. I had everything I needed and more. A stable family, good schooling, wealth and interaction with the higher ranks of Detratan life. And when I contemplated the day I could settle down and raise a family myself, safety and comfort were absolutely what I wanted to offer. That was on the assumption my life would ever get to that stage.

Nambu stood alongside me to regard the children.

‘They are the same age as me,’ she whispered in reflection.

‘The gods have given you a good place in life,’ I said. ‘The question is, do you realize the fact?’

‘I think I do,’ she replied. ‘I used to watch this place from the walls of the prefecture, from one of the viewing points. I had no idea that they were so . . .’ She never finished her sentence.

A farmer called for his two oxen to control themselves, as they lumbered past, nearly knocking Nambu over before trudging on through the dusty streets. He shouted back an apology.

Once the hubbub had died down, we continued on our way.

The business end of the docks, the trading area beyond the long grasses, looked no less decrepit and sprawling than the residential areas. Wood yards, woodworkers and craft stores were doing a roaring business. Merchants wore gaudy costumes. Towards the banks of the river, men were mostly topless, their skin glistening with sweat. Some wore stained, ragged shirts as they hauled cargo aboard the boats.

The ships and boats were of all kinds. Curious figureheads were fixed to each vessel: quasi-religious figures, dragons, naked men or women, half-human hybrids.

Various types of grain in sacks, wool and leather in bales, were being lugged aboard the ships. Gang-members loitered with little subtlety by some bales, suggesting there was even more precious cargo to be found passing through.

We passed along a line of faded business-fronts, which were as to be expected – little more than cheap wooden shacks with a painted sign to indicate the owner. Most of them featured the names of individuals, and presumably it was those individuals who were standing proudly with their hands in their jacket pockets regarding the workers. Some would shout orders or random insults now and then, before spitting on the ground. Others dozed in the sun.

Naval Exports was a considerably larger structure than the surrounding shacks, and of better quality. Its wooden walls had recently been constructed, or upgraded, and it was the only building to feature wooden shutters that faced out onto the vessels berthed a few yards in front. There was nothing on the sign to indicate that the property belonged to Grendor.

A stubbled young man who looked like he could do with a good meal shoved his head through the open shutters and leered at Nambu. ‘What d’you lot want?’ he drawled in a particularly coarse form of Kotonese. ‘This is a place of work, not somewhere to pro-men-ade your wife.’

Leana grabbed the man by his collar and hauled him out from the other side of the window and onto the wooden decking with a thud. She placed a boot over his neck as he spluttered his apologies. ‘I meant no harm, sir – m-madam.’

Leana eventually rolled her boot away and glanced casually at the surrounding labourers, who had stopped working to watch the spectacle. She unsheathed her short sword, but made no threatening gesture with it. It was a simple statement:
get back to work
. I wasn’t so sure this lot would get back to work, though. They were huge men, a dozen or more, and many carried machetes. Eventually, after the scrawny man waved them away, they went on with their work.

‘They’re a lively lot, so you want to watch yer manners. They’ve killed stronger folk than you, madam.’

Leana remained indifferent to his comments.

The man picked himself up. Garbed in a scruffy white shirt and tattered black waistcoat, he looked far too weak to do any manual work. His eyes were cold, distant and bloodshot. His nose was thin and long, and he had the kind of facial hair that never got past a promising start. An insincere grin widened across his face. ‘And how can I help sir and madam.’

‘My name is Lucan Drakenfeld, Officer of the Sun Chamber.’

He raised his chin a little, his interest now piqued. ‘Oh aye, Sun Chamber you say? Heard of them. Though many round here probably haven’t. You’re like lawyers, ain’t you?’

‘Some are, some aren’t,’ I replied. ‘The three of us are here to investigate the murder of Grendor of the Cape. We’re on the queen’s business, as a matter of fact, so some prompt and honest answers would save us all some valuable time. And maybe even your life.’

‘Grendor, eh.’ The man rubbed his chin and considered his options. I still couldn’t quite place his age – at first he had appeared so young, but on closer inspection his face appeared weathered. He looked like a worrier, too. There was a nervousness about him that was part of his being – the way he’d hunch slightly within himself, the way he’d hold his hands. He oozed subservience.

‘You think I killed my boss?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I replied. ‘I don’t think you’ve got it in you.’

‘Well everyone pisses downwind when it comes to things like this, don’t they? Get some lackey’s head on the block. Sign some papers. You walk off and take yer money. Job done.’

‘If you didn’t kill Grendor, there’s no need to be worried about your head being removed,’ I replied, ignoring his barbed comments on people of my station. They were probably well founded regarding local officials and those who did not serve in the Sun Chamber. But such an abuse of power would not be tolerated within our ranks.

‘Sure. That’s what the soldiers say before they rough someone up on the streets to keep order, or whatever their excuses are.’ He looked down to the floor then, and back and forth between Leana and Nambu. ‘So what can we do for you?’

‘I’m here to find out a little more about Grendor’s business interests.’

‘He never bothered us all that much, if I’m honest. Did more important things than that. Come inside.’

We followed him into the building, which looked as if it doubled up as a warehouse. Crates and sacks filled one side of the single room, while on the other side stood a desk and shelves filled with ledgers. One wall was covered with remarkably detailed maps of the Vispasian continent, and there were more charts piled up on a table in the corner. Food remains sat on metal plates. Partially filled cups were scattered around on tables, chairs, on the floorboards. I noted two bone dice on the floor and could guess what people used these premises after hours.

‘Naval Exports,’ I said. ‘The name sounds very official.’

‘Grendor said the same thing when he employed me. Lends us an air of authority, he often said.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Dek. Dek Sunni.’

‘Who do you do business with, Dek?’

‘People here and there. We export a lot of animal skins – leather in various grades for the most part. We ship out from the tanneries and sell along the coast down Venyn way, Gippoli, sometimes west to Detrata. We bring back grain and sell it on to the officials here, who then distribute it. That’s where the official name comes in handy. Says we’re trustworthy. Reflects Grendor’s knowledge.’

‘Aside from grain and leather,’ I demanded, ‘what else do you trade in?’

‘We sometimes transport prisoners,’ he muttered, his eyes betraying nervousness about discussing the topic. ‘We don’t do it all that often. Frowned upon, ain’t it.’

Quite rightly – that was strange business indeed. ‘Where do you take the prisoners?’

He shrugged. ‘I’m not a sailor.’

Leana pressed the tip of her blade to his chest.

‘Hey, I’m talking,’ he spluttered with bulging eyes, ‘we don’t need torture.’

‘It’s OK, Leana. We can keep him alive for the moment.’

‘I’m not worth killing,’ Dek laughed awkwardly, but I didn’t answer him – a little gentle pressure would be enough for his type. Sweat was visible on his shirt. As Leana lowered her arm, I walked around to examine the charts, noting the thick ink lines extending outward from the coast of Koton. ‘You must know
where
they go.’