The Demon Horsemen (10 page)

‘He’s fading,’ said Word. Rainbow’s shadowy form steadily lost clarity as he moved further from the portal entry.

‘I was afraid of this,’ said Law. ‘I’ve sacrificed him. Killing is one of the greatest sins.’ He made the sign of the circle and fell to his knees to pray.

Word put a hand on his colleague’s shoulder. ‘Rainbow was given a choice to serve Jarudha and he chose to serve. His fate is not in your hands but in Jarudha’s. You have no responsibility in this. Ask Jarudha to be merciful to his faithful servant, but do not ask for your own forgiveness because you are not in need of it.’

Law looked up at Word and nodded acceptance. ‘I wish I had your wisdom,’ he said.

Word smiled and stared into the blue haze.

A
zeem A’Khamat hurried along the echoing metal corridor within the Ranu dreadnought, ignoring the salutes from guards every twenty paces. His patient was awake and he could not keep him waiting. It had been only six years since his promotion to surgeon-general, a rise in status he had long aspired to but had not expected to achieve in his lifetime. The unfortunate death of Surgeon-General Karshem from a heart attack had surprised everyone, and had filled Azeem with sorrow because Karshem had been his mentor. But the death had also bestowed on Azeem his new rank so, in a strangely satisfying way, he appreciated his mentor’s passing. He stopped outside the metal door to smooth back the grey side hair below his balding pate, acknowledged the four bodyguards, and entered the room.

It was spacious, and filled with paintings of scenes from different parts of the Ranu empire: mountains, forests, open plains, cities along shorelines. A massive Ranu national flag—a rampant black dragon on a white field—hung from the ceiling, filling one wall.

‘He is quite lucid,’ said a matronly figure dressed in white.

Azeem smiled at the president’s chamber woman, Renza, and asked, ‘How long has he been like this?’

‘A good hour,’ she replied.

‘Fluids?’

‘He’s maintained a good intake.’ Renza reached for a glass container and held it up for the surgeon to inspect. ‘One of the wounds is still weeping,’ she explained.

Azeem adjusted his nearseeing lenses to assess the yellow fluid. He cleared his throat. ‘Has he made water or waste yet?’

‘Not yet.’

Azeem waved the sample aside and headed to the bed on the far side of the room. The president’s eyes were closed and his face was pale grey in complexion, but there were hints of colour that gave Azeem hope. The dressing around his neck was clean. He would inspect the other wounds later in the day. The president’s eyes opened and stared at him.

‘I was told that you wished to see me, President,’ Azeem said quietly.

A Ahmud Ki swallowed and licked his dry lips. ‘It seems I am meant to live,’ he rasped.

‘There’s never been any doubt of that,’ Azeem replied.

‘Perhaps not for you,’ A Ahmud Ki said, and smiled weakly.

‘It will be some time before you are able to leave this bed,’ Azeem explained. ‘We are steaming back to Tul Ethta. By the time we make port you should be well again. Of course, having heard the rumours of your assassination, the people will see you as invincible.’

A Ahmud Ki forced a weak cough and said, ‘We are not going back to Ranu Ka Shehaala. I am awaiting news.’

Azeem was surprised. ‘But, President, it is not—’

A Ahmud Ki’s eyes narrowed and the anger on his face warned Azeem to avoid contradicting him. ‘Your job, Surgeon-General, is to make sure I am well.’

‘Yes, President,’ Azeem answered.

A Ahmud Ki’s expression relaxed and he sighed. ‘Azeem, as far as anyone outside this room is concerned, I am close to death.’

Azeem saw the steady intent in the president’s grey eyes and understood. He nodded.

‘Thank you,’ A Ahmud Ki rasped. A faint smile crossed his lips. ‘Now, make sure the opposite is true.’

General Shalam placed his white cap with its black and gold markings on the table beside the president’s bed as he took the seat that Renza offered. He greeted the president as the chamber woman withdrew. ‘You are looking much more alive than dead, President Ki,’ he noted with a wry grin.

‘Thank you, Shalam. I would sit up, but the wound in my side is still tender. Please excuse me. Any news?’

‘Not enough,’ Shalam replied. ‘We’ve uncovered the chain at least as far as the Kerwyn capital. A Kalan local must have been the link in Yul Ki. He was murdered the same day you were shot, three streets from the incident, and people who knew the man said he was seen with strangers. The strangers were known to have boarded a Kerwyn trading barque,
The Princess
, which set sail for Port of Joy the same afternoon. We tracked down a sailor from that vessel when it stopped at a Jaru port two weeks ago, and he informed us that two strangers fitting the description given by Kalan informants were thrown overboard mid-ocean on that trip. We also learned that the barque’s captain disappeared in Port of Joy that same trip.’

‘Convenient,’ A Ahmud Ki murmured and coughed.
Seeing the general’s concern, he waved a hand, saying, ‘I’m fine. What else have you found?’

‘Nothing, President,’ Shalam said apologetically. ‘The trail ends in Port of Joy.’

‘Assumptions?’

Shalam snorted. ‘The obvious one is an assassination attempt by Kalan insurgents who hired foreign assassins to avoid direct implication or to deflect the blame.’

‘But?’

‘Every Kalan we’ve interrogated utterly denies Kalan activity. The murdered Kalan was a member of an insurgent group, but a peripheral one. There’s no other Kalan link beyond the murdered man and incidental contact.’

‘The peacemakers?’

Shalam shook his head. ‘It’s easy to get even our latest weapons on the black market with the right money. Whoever organised the attempt was a professional with substantial financial backing.’

‘Which also eliminates the Kalan suspects. So who’s next?’

‘The evidence points back to the Kerwyn monarchy or a Kerwyn interest group. The murder of the ship’s captain confirms that suspicion.’

‘I thought he just disappeared?’

‘His corpse turned up in an area of Port of Joy called the old docks. Apparently murders in that area are not uncommon so no one was all that concerned. Our people there haven’t been able to find any clue as to who might have killed the captain. His corpse had been looted, but that’s a given in that part of the city.’

‘Coincidental death?’

‘Always a possibility,’ Shalam conceded, ‘but too convenient. The captain seems to have been the only person to have known the strangers, and they seem to be the only real suspects for the shooting.’

‘Why those two?’

‘Our people in Port of Joy found out that one of them, Ream Baker, had a reputation for marksmanship with peacemakers and thundermakers. The other man was less known, went by the name of Ham Creeper. Neither had been seen much in recent times.’

‘So why would the Kerwyn monarchy want me dead? Don’t we have good diplomatic relations with King Shadow?’

Shalam gave a grim smile. ‘With all due respect, President Ki, our steady domination of the world is no longer subtle. If I were the ruler of another country, I would be very wary of us.’

A Ahmud Ki nodded. ‘I have to keep reminding myself that other powerful men think like I do,’ he noted, smiling. ‘Can you get proof of the Kerwyn complicity?’

‘I will try, President.’

‘If you do, I need to know at once. This could open a door we hadn’t planned to open yet.’ A Ahmud Ki’s smile faded. ‘Thank you, Shalam. I will remember your service.’

Shalam rose, collected his cap, and saluted.

Rumours were spreading that there were men looking for anyone with information about Shipmaster Gaffer’s murder. From his perch in the loft of the abandoned leather factory, Runner listened to Swing the butcher and Limb, the one-armed man, discussing the matter as they cooked a fish for their evening meal.

‘Carve Sawmaker says they’re foreigners,’ said Limb. ‘Says they’re paying for information.’

‘How much?’ the butcher asked, his craggy face bright in the firelight.

‘Five shillings.’

‘Bullshit!’ Swing exclaimed. ‘Sawmaker’s lying.’

‘Carve don’t lie,’ said Limb angrily. ‘He might be stingy on his prices at times, but he don’t lie.’

‘Why so much interest in a dead body?’ Swing asked. ‘Lots of people end up dead in the old docks. No one cares two hoots about them.’

‘They say it’s something to do with politics. How’s that fish?’

‘Politics my arse,’ Swing growled as he tested the fish. ‘It’s done.’ He lifted the meal from the fire onto a slab of concrete. ‘What would an old sailor know about politics?’

‘They’re strange, those who go to sea,’ said Limb, bending towards the fish to tear away a piece of flesh.

‘Five shillings,’ Swing repeated. ‘That’s a week’s wages for a working man.’

‘Carve says they’ll pay a lot more for the right information,’ mumbled Limb as he chewed the delicacy.

Runner’s mouth was watering from the sight and smell of the fish. He scrambled down from the loft and sauntered towards the two men, the firelight flickering shadows across his legs and feet.

‘Well, look what the stink of fish brought out of the darkness,’ said Swing. Limb glowered at the intruder, but Swing gestured for Runner to join them. ‘Hungry?’ he asked.

‘The little bastard is always hungry,’ Limb complained, ripping more flesh from the fish before Runner could reach it.

Runner glared at the one-armed man.

‘Don’t take any notice,’ said Swing. ‘Have a bite, lad. You can find us something for tomorrow night, all right?’

Runner dug his fingers into the fish flesh and lifted the hot food to his mouth. ‘What’s this about a dead body?’ he asked.

Limb scowled but Swing gave a brief summary.

‘Where was he found?’ Runner asked.

‘No idea,’ said Swing. He looked at Limb. ‘What did your friend Carve say?’

Limb scowled, but then said, ‘For what it’s worth, he was found near the temple, in a vacant lot.’

Swing chuckled as he took a chunk of fish. ‘There’s a hundred of those in that area. Your mate could have been a little more original.’

‘Carve knows what he’s talking about,’ Limb said.

Runner’s hand slid to his pocket and fingered the scrunched paper stored there. He’d spent the shilling and pawned the ring, but he remembered Dingo’s words about writing. Maybe the paper was worth something to the strangers.

The strangers were easy to recognise, despite their clumsy attempts at disguise; their darker skin, trimmed beards and moustaches marked them from the locals. Runner observed them from the roof of a cobbler’s shop as they talked to vendors and passing citizens. They seemed wary of the City Watch and when a pair of soldiers came along the street they entered a hardware shop and waited in there until the men left, then headed in the opposite direction.

Runner left his observation post and loitered beside a tanner’s shop two streets further along, hoping the owner wouldn’t come out to chase him away as usually happened. As the strangers approached, he assessed their potential to pose a threat to him and determined how he would escape if the meeting went badly. Then he stepped into their path. ‘Good morning,’ he said as politely as he could muster.

‘What do you want?’ the shorter man asked, distrust manifest in his tone. His companion’s hand went to a sword pommel jutting from his thick brown belt.

‘You want information about a dead man?’ Runner said.

The short man glanced at his companion and turned back to Runner. ‘What do you know?’

‘How much is it worth?’

‘Depends on what you’ve got to tell us.’

‘What I’ve got is worth more than twenty shillings,’ Runner said cockily.

‘We should go inside,’ suggested the taller man.

‘There’s a tavern over there.’ Runner pointed to a ramshackle building displaying a battered sign of an emu. ‘No beer any more, thanks to the stupid priests.’

The strangers followed him into the dark interior, where a young man greeted them and asked if they intended eating.

‘Water only,’ said the short man, and indicated a chair to Runner. When they were all seated, he said, ‘So what do you have?’

Runner extracted the crumpled paper from his pocket. ‘It’s a letter,’ he said, but held on to it tightly.

‘Well, hand it over,’ said the short man curtly.

‘Twenty shillings.’

‘We didn’t agree on anything,’ the man snapped.

Runner stood and pushed the paper into his pocket. The waiter arrived with a jug of water and three mugs. The tall man stood too, as if to convince Runner that it was wiser to sit, but Runner remained where he was, assessing his escape plan.

‘Look, how do we know you aren’t trying to trick us?’ the short man said. ‘Twenty shillings is a lot of money for a boy like you.’

‘It’s four weeks’ wages,’ Runner told him. ‘I’m not stupid.’

‘I didn’t say you were,’ the man replied. ‘But we’re not stupid either. If you let us look at the paper we can tell you if it’s any good to us.’

‘And if it’s not? Can I keep it?’

The short man shook his head slightly. ‘If it’s no good to us you can eat it for all I care.’

Runner looked at the two men. ‘He has to sit down,’ he said, pointing at the taller one.

The short man gestured to his companion and he sat. ‘All right?’ the short man asked.

Runner pulled out the paper and placed it in the short man’s open palm. The man squinted and read, then passed the paper to the tall man.

‘Well?’ Runner asked.

‘Ten shillings,’ the short man offered.

‘Twenty,’ Runner said.

The men looked at one another, and the tall man nodded. ‘All right, fifteen,’ the short man offered.

‘Twenty,’ said Runner.

‘We haven’t got twenty shillings on us!’ the man hissed.

‘Then give me back the paper and I’ll wait here until you bring the rest,’ said Runner.

The man drew a sharp breath and again looked at his companion. This time the tall man folded the paper neatly and leaned forward. ‘If you got twenty shillings, what would you do with it?’

Runner snorted. ‘Spend it.’

‘On what?’

Runner glared at the tall man. ‘On food. On new pants.’

The tall man smiled. He leaned back, dropped the letter on the table top and fished from his trousers a heavy money pouch which he placed on the table. ‘That’s a lot of money, lad. Don’t lose it.’

He nodded to the short man and the two strangers stood, the tall one picking up the paper. He looked at Runner closely and said, ‘Did you read this?’

‘I don’t read other people’s private business,’ Runner answered smugly.

The tall man grinned and nodded. ‘Good answer.’ With that, the strangers left the tavern.

Runner carefully checked that no one else, aside from the waiter and the taverner, was in the room, then he quietly poured the coins from the leather pouch onto the table. Twenty-four shillings. The strangers had made a mistake. He recounted twice to make sure. He had never seen so much money. He looked around furtively again, scooped the coins back into the pouch, pulled the drawstring tight and knotted it twice. For the first time in his life he was rich.