“I believe that Lady Yeardnott's social standing may survive her own diabolical machinations,” declared the Baron of Nettlefield. “I confess I had not credited you with such gallantry, Sir Beyda, but here you are, willing to interpose yourself between a damsel in distress and certain disaster.”
Bey bowed. “Mistress Cheva Clerrance, may I present Lord Kamier Herok, the Baron of Nettlefield?”
“You are gallant, but it is quite unnecessary. His Lordship and I are well acquainted.” Clerrance permitted the customary kiss on her outstretched fingers. She seemed unperturbed when his Lordship's lips loitered well beyond what was considered seemly.
“So I see.” He had by now ceased to be surprised by Herok, though he was mildly perturbed to see that his perverse manners seemed to be contagious. “Though I hardly think that her Ladyship requires our intervention, my Lord.”
Herok quaffed his glass and cast about for a laden waiter to rob. “On the contrary, Chur. Without your extraordinarily elegant and timely rescue, she'd be chum for the sharks by now. Not that you need anticipate her to visit fawning gratitude upon you, however. She's much too thick to appreciate how close she came to oblivion.”
Bey glanced about nervously, wondering whether Herok intended for the entire room to overhear his indiscreet remarks. He could perceive no reactions though, leading him to suspect that the peerage of Fellport were well accustomed to feigning deafness in his vicinity.
Clerrance caught the eye of a waiter and thrust drinks in their direction, raising her own glass in a sardonic salute. “Then we should humbly rejoice in our charitable deeds,” she said, nodding in the direction of her Ladyship, who was holding court with a claque of aged spinsters, “and be grateful to have avoided their consequences.”
Herok laughed and drank to her toast. Then his eyes locked on something across the room. “Ah, now, there's someone I want you both to meet.” Without waiting to see whether they were following, Herok ploughed into the throng. Bey observed that a path naturally formed to facilitate his headway, once each individual obstacle noticed that he was not embarked to speak with them. He imagined Herok considered it a demonstration of respect. With a small glance from Clerrance, which he interpreted to indicate that she didn't believe they could safely decline the honour, they followed.
Dame Jasmin Colliford wore an expression that might have been chipped from stone as Herok made the introductions, though when Bey's title was announced she arched one fine-trimmed, silver-dusted eyebrow in query. “Deremar, is it?” she sniffed with haughty curiosity. “You must be related to Lady Hemberdale, with whom I studied at Lorengreen College?” Her companions, Fellport's First Seneschal Walder Addenfarrow and Lady Charmaine Delarchre, who was a cousin of Duke Vormura's and Baroness of someplace Bey had not quite caught, attended with polite disinterest.
“Indeed, she is your cousin's mother, is she not, Sir Beyda?” said Herok with smooth insolence, before Bey had a chance to conceive of an appropriate evasion.
Dame Jasmin froze him with a glare that wilted the edges off even Herok's calculated levity. “Your responsibility to speak for Sir Beyda does not extend to a recitation of his hereditary credentials, Baron Nettlefield. I am quite sure your late mother would not have approved of your assuming a career in heraldry.”
“My mother was deeply opposed to my employment in any worldly occupation, Dame Jasmin. But alas, would that she had prevailed upon my father not to ruin himself before I could assume my inheritance.” Far from taking offense at Dame Jasmin's apparent disdain, he affected complete agreement with it. “It is all I can do not to besmirch their legacy further.”
“Come now, Herok, you needn't be disagreeable,” sniffed Addenfarrow, with a glance at Dame Jasmin. Hurriedly diverting attention back to Bey he said “Sir, I perceive that you are newly arrived in Fellport. How are you finding it?”
“Agreeably hospitable, Seneschal,” he replied, mimicking Addenfarrow's tone of lofty urbanity. “I have longed for the opportunity to express my gratitude for your generous concession on my behalf. I trust that I have not disappointed that faith.”
“Indeed not, indeed not. Herok here tells me that you have worked splendours on the dear old Cardinal, and under such trying circumstances. I hope you won't take it ill that I have yet to attend, but the Korsoltens were such close friends I simply cannot bring myself to it.” Bey inclined his head in polite acknowledgment. While he would in any case have preferred to dissuade discussion of the Moistened Cardinal's late owner, he noticed a distinct jolt of reaction on the part of Lady Charmaine when the name Korsolten was uttered. She had met his eye for an instant but it was long enough for him to see pain there. “Consider our doors always open, Seneschal, should you change your mind.”
“Ever open,” murmured Dame Jasmin to Lady Charmaine, pitched at a precise tone audible beneath the hubbub of the crowd. “I believe that is also the policy at Nutmeg, is it not?” Lady Charmaine gave no indication that she had heard the comment, but neither was she its intended audience.
As the gentlemen stiffened in alarmed anticipation of a retaliatory scene, Clerrance dipped an exploratory finger into her glass and trailed wine around its rim. “You mentioned Lorengreen College, Dame Jasmin. Oh, I had the honour of visiting there once, you know, some years ago. Such beautiful grounds, so many dear old buildings, so very steeped in its own quaint traditions and its stately grandeur, now fading, alas, towards ruin.” She dotted the tip of her tongue with her finger and mimed exquisite rapture at the flavour. “But now I am confused. For you see I could have sworn I was told that Lorengreen is a finishing school for the genteel.”
***
He couldn't make out any details in the darkness but Jedlow already suspected what he would find. To his surprise he was wrong about the details.
The Chattering Casket so little resembled the Moistened Cardinal that he had felt obliged to search for some evidence that it was even a functioning saloon. Where his fleeting experiences of the non-public areas of the Cardinal had conveyed a sense of lively bustle, even on the morning of its owner's murder, by contrast the Casket's atmosphere was thick with the suggestion of dispirited dreariness. He had removed his uniform to perfect his civilian disguise and found it surprisingly effective; his presence had not once been challenged. His most significant human contact was a sullen glance drawn from some nondescript servant who passed him in the hall. In a burst of bravado, he had asked the way to Sir Udo's office. To his surprise, he had received perfunctory but entirely accurate directions.
He found the designated room unattended and the door unlocked. He pilfered a candle from a hallway sconce and entered. Inside was a compact office shelved from floor to ceiling with books: old ledgers, mostly, though manuscripts on subjects ranging from the law to natural science, guides to heraldry and the astrological mysteries. The entire eclectic collection seemed arranged according to no observable method and from the depths of accumulated dust much of it had gone unread for some years. The sole exception visible in the weak candlelight was a stack of ledgers labeled 'Casket', atop which sat a well-thumbed leather journal.
Jedlow was not a habitual reader; though he had learned his letters diligently as a child, the knack had not seemed important to his expected lifetime career as a dairyman. Since joining the Sentry, he had resumed sporadic reading, though without dedication – his instructors passed on their wealth of experience verbally and would have regarded with supreme distrust any suggestion that they should write down what they knew.
So it was with some surprise that he found he could follow the gist of the journal's author with almost complete clarity, beyond certain multisyllabic esoterica (with which he would largely have been unfamiliar even if he had heard them) and variances references to individuals unknown to him. The handwriting, though small, was even and square, and were it not for the occasional scratched out phrase or blotted smudge, would have resembled machined print to Jedlow's untrained eye.
Sir Udo liked to take his time over his letters, it seemed. He also liked precision bordering on tedious detail. As Jedlow became more familiar with the themes of the content – the minutiae of managing the saloon, various encounters with persons of note, the circumstances of the author's poor state of financial wellbeing and an alarming number of observations regarding bodily functions – he spontaneously taught himself to skim over the boring bits. Of which there were many.
There were also frequent references from the past two weeks to Casimir Meldaran. In the beginning of their acquaintance – initiated by Meldaran, it seemed – there were contemptuous observations regarding his insufferable arrogance and presumption, not to mention frequent reiterations as to his damnable foreignness. It appeared that a business proposition had been made and accepted with only the greatest reluctance and under strenuous conditions. Thereafter the descriptions of their interactions became less detailed and somewhat less derisive. Jedlow concluded that the business dealings had met with success, though Herronvale had conceded the point with considerable grudging for so private a forum.
Jedlow only reread a single passage, which began “Meldaran's men have brought a prisoner to the sea cellar”. It went into labourious detail as to Sir Udo's outrage at this imposition on his hospitality, his disgust at overheard discussions of the captive's mistreatment and his concern for the potential repercussions. It did not, crucially, mention either the identity of the kidnappee or the location of the sea cellar, but the timing of the incident had been highly suggestive to Jedlow.
It had not been too difficult to deduce that the sea cellar might have something to do with the voluminous warehouse adjacent to the Casket, which extended more than a hundred yards and terminated only at a sea pier. Jedlow had broken out of the Casket and broken into the warehouse. He began his search at the ocean end of the warehouse, starting with an abandoned kitchen with ground-floor windows. Opening a door framed inside with an odd seal of oilskin revealed a dark stone stair. He had forgotten to steal a spare candle and there were no replacements to be found in his immediate vicinity, but he decided to chance the stairs.
He had descended about twenty steps when he reached the water. Dimly perceiving that there was still a short way to go, he had braved the teeth-chattering cold and took a few more steps. When he was submerged to his knees and a cautious exploration with one foot indicated that he had still not reached the bottom, he was about to abandon the expedition when there was a slosh of movement from the darkness. He hoped he was right in guessing that whatever made the noise, it was too big to be a rat.
“Hello?” he ventured. Presumably any rat would be scared off, wouldn't it?
“You took your fucking time, didn't you?”
“Magistrate! You're alive?” Jedlow was genuinely shocked. He'd expected to find a body. He swept down the remaining stairs, touching bottom as the water reached his armpits “Not for much longer I – Watch the fucking splashing, boy! Those fucks blocked the drains. It's been filling up in here a bucket at a time all fucking day.”
Jedlow could hardly recognise the voice. There was such a tiredness there that even the swearing lacked the conviction of real anger. “How are you restrained, Magistrate?”
“Manacled to the wall. Find a pry bar. Hurry. I can't hold myself above the water much longer.”
“I don't understand, Magistrate. The water isn't above my shoulders yet.”
“Yeah, well, that's because some shit juggling Corphenite bastard didn't cut off both of your feet.”
***
Sir Kowan Dart sent away yet another solicitous waiter attempting to refresh his untouched drink. Lady Yeardnott ought to be congratulated for the quality of her servants, he reflected, to have one go to the effort of attending to every out of the way corner.
He'd taken a balcony position above the entrance, affecting the air of a jaded fop simply too, too bored with such dreary pursuits as dancing and conversation. His wife, completely convinced by his performance, had taken umbrage at his social negligence and had joined her sister below. Coincidentally she was now in the very company of the most interest to Dart.
“Good evening to you, Sir Kowan. Magnificent occasion, is it not?”
“Magistrate! Join me for a drink or two, I beg of you.” With an unhurried review of their surrounds, he satisfied himself that while they could not go entirely unobserved, their current position was unobtrusive and could not easily be eavesdropped upon. “I think we can dispense with the hearty camaraderie for a moment or two.”
“I take it from your signal you have an observation to report.” Broden made no effort to moderate his tone. For one thing it was not in any case very loud; for another, he trusted Dart's expertise in these matters completely.
“My agents' efforts since we spoke have all but eliminated the majority of our suspects. I have the remainder under direct observation.” Dart could not help but indulge a note of professional pride in the comment.
In spite of his usually unshakable inscrutability, Broden was obviously impressed. “Really? Can you be specific without attracting attention?”
“Catch my wife's eye and cast her a nod, Magistrate.” This Broden did, picking Lisellete Dart out by her pretty chestnut hair worked like ivy about a towering aquamarine cornet. She curtsied in polite reply. “To her immediate right are Sir Kamier Herok of the Offices of Titles, Registrations and Works and Seneschal Walden Addenfarrow. Both have access to information which could be of benefit to enemy powers. I have reports of unusual behaviour, questionable decisions and frequent absences on the part of each, which I may say I find both suspicious and suggestive. Addenfarrow in particular has become noticeably erratic in recent weeks.”
Dart recognised that Broden's reaction to the news was not what he had expected. The Magistrate sucked in his breath, glanced to his left and stood upright with such sudden force that Dart thought for a second he must have stood on his foot or something. “Magistrate?”
Broden's head came around like a whip. Dart could scarcely credit his expression of fear and dismay. It could not have looked more out of place on Broden's face.
“Sir, we've known for some time there is a strong possibility of a highly placed traitor. What is so startling about this revelation?”
That seemed to get through to Broden. He snapped out of his reverie, saying in an urgent whisper “You're mistaken. It can't be Addenfarrow. He's Dame Jasmin's man, hand and heart.”
“Then it must be Her-”
Broden hissed “We'll discuss it later!” Standing aside to give Dart a clear view of the stage. “In the meantime, perhaps you have some idea what the fuck the Duke is doing here?”
Dart was suddenly aware that the babbling of the crowd had vanished. Below, a gushing Lady Yeardnott was climbing onstage, accepting the gallant assistance of his Grace Duke Yate Vormura.
***
“Leave the lamp in the hall, Sergeant. I don't want anyone seeing a light in here. Besides, it's in your interest not to give me something to aim at.”
Staff Sergeant Kilritch carefully placed the lantern at his feet and stepped forward, hands raised.
Sellton tilted his crossbow in the direction of Kilritch's writing desk. “Have a seat, Siner. No need for either of us to get jumpy.” He was propped up on the cot, slumping against the wall. He might have seemed asleep if not for the weapon held steadily at eye height.
“How did you get in here?” It was a fair question. This hour of the evening, with dinners done and the bulk of the off-duty guardsmen in transit to the nearest hospitable tavern, the dormitory floor was subject to heavy traffic. Sellton knew the ins and out of Coalface Estate as well as anyone – he'd grown up there after all – but since the attempt on the Duke's life, any holes in its security had been shored up. Even he could not have sneaked in unobserved, dark as it might be.
Not without assistance, that is. Sellton still had friends in the Sentry. Probably more than Kilritch had now. “Neither of us have time for me to dignify that with an answer, Staff.”
“Then what do you want?” grumbled Kilritch. “Not to kill me, or you'd've done it already, yeah? Talking to a dead man's not your style.”
Sellton grinned invisibly. “Styles change, Staff,” he cautioned. “But no, on the contrary, I'm here to do you a favour. Listen up.” In scant detail, cutting short any attempts at interruption with significant wobbles of the crossbow, he told Kilritch about his deal with Ductio, about Ilchard's infiltration and betrayal, about Casimir Meldaran's mad scheme. When it was done he said “Tell me you've got that all straight, Staff Sergeant Kilritch. Tell me you've got fresh men rostered on duty. Tell me you can have a hundred sober lads en route in an hour. Tell me you can handle this.”
Kilritch blinked, trying to make Sellton's face out. “It's covered. Believe it or not, I did listen to all your tedious bloody talking about drills and discipline, you know. Occasionally you did make some sense. Occasionally.” He picked up a quill and began scratching notes to be ferried to the usual drinking holes. He no longer had any fear of being shot; Sellton lowered the bow and set it beside the bed. “But why in the hell did you come here in person? If I'd have seen you I'd probably have had you executed on the spot as another assassin. Why risk it?”
Sellton said “I spent a lot of years in this office. Thought I'd take the opportunity to get reacquainted. Didn't think I'd -”
“If you think they'll take you back for this, you must be mad, Sellton. Being the hero of the hour doesn't make you any less of a liability. It's politics, and the likes of you and I don't get a say in politics. We just do as our lords and masters direct, yeah? See and hear what they want us to see and hear and speak when spoken to. Don't expect thanks, Sellton. Not from the Duke, not from your new best friend the Magistrate and certainly not from me.”
He completed his notes and rose, grabbing his coat and hat from their hooks on the door. “Don't be here when I get back,” he said. He left without noticing that Sellton had stopped moving.
***
“Who's he?” Bey's words were barely more audible than mime; his Grace the Duke was congratulating Lady Yeardnott a few feet away and from his red-faced merriment Bey doubted that he would care to share the room's attention. This was the first time he had laid eyes on Vormura, not counting the impressions on the thousands of locally minted coins that had passed through his hands recently. He was not interested. To him the upper ranks of nobility held no attraction. Accepting that they were forever closed to him, short of uprising by a second generation of Saints, he wasted no time pining over accidents of birth nor showering adulation on their fortunate beneficiaries. His efforts were better spent finding some way to cement his own lucky breaks.
Herok's head rocked around as though he was making a wry remark to Clerrance; Bey could see that he was following the direction of the nod he'd given him. The gentlemen on the balcony were in tight and almost imperceptibly agitated consultations, looking askance at the Duke. If they noticed that Bey and now Herok were returning their inspections, they gave no sign.
“The broad gentleman is Zamuler Broden, Magistrate of the Ducal Guard. Ductio's equal and opposite. His stern and virile companion is Sir Kowan Dart, a gentleman of exquisite taste, formidable wealth and remarkable physical presence. He had the splendid judgment and breeding to choose the charming Lady Lasilette for a wife.” Herok jogged Bey's memory with a nod at the bobbing cornet before him. Unnecessary, as Bey made a habit of never forgetting an introduction, but Herok was obviously used to company that demanded repetition. “She and her nubile sister are the Duke's cousins, you know.”
Bey was wary. “Are you attempting to be significant, my Lord? I observe that Lady Charmaine is wearing a mourning corsage.”
“My dear Sir Beyda, it would be in extremely poor taste for me to recommend that you attempt to court above your station. Now that you mention it, I wish I had.” Herok flashed his teeth with disarming irreverence. “But in fact you are mistaken. Her Ladyship's husband died of rotten lungs several years ago. Lady Charmaine is mourning her only daughter's accidental death by drowning a few days ago. I could not in good conscience suggest now as a good time to put your chat on her.”
“I bow to your wisdom, my Lord,” said Bey with some relief. Sooner or later Herok was going to call him into his service. He'd assumed so far that it would not be as some sort of stud bull to the Murb royal court. “It appears their conference is at an end. Sir Kowan is on his way down here.”
Indeed, Sir Kowan was circling with affected nonchalance towards the stairs, his attention fixed rapt on the amusing scene below, as Lady Yeardnott simpered with vociferous fervour and his Grace attempted to extricate himself from her presence. Bey was only half attending to the excruciating play onstage, with Lady Yeardnott recounting an anecdote of a hunting encounter between her late husband and the Duke's favourite horse, the amusing details of which in her excitement she had neglected to include.
“Do you know,” whispered Herok, “I don't get the impression he's on his way to join his wife.” He made a face as though he was making his mind up about something. Then he said to Bey “I may ask you for a small service in a moment, if you aren't busy.”
“I... am ever at your disposal, my Lord Herok.” Bey tensed. What was this?
Sir Kowan reached the stairs and began to descend, moving with as much discretion as possible so as not to interrupt his Grace. Bey guessed that the Duke would by now have awarded a generous grant of land to anyone that could pierce Lady Yeardnott's narrative; she had not paused for breath in over thirty seconds. People all around Bey were fidgeting with impatience and embarrassment. He couldn't blame them. In the few seconds she caught his attention Lady Yeardnott had tiched thrice, made two awkward corrections of unimportant details and lavishly and inaccurately praised his Grace's legendary good humour and patience.
Bey leaned across to press Herok for details and realised just in time that he was about to whisper to Seneschal Addenfarrow instead. He looked around but could see no sign of the shorter man. There was a rustle of movement near the stage. With alarm Bey raised himself to his toes to see whether Herok was about to preempt the encounter with Dart by raising some sort of spectacle.
His Grace finally broke into a lull in Lady Yeardnott's wall of reminiscence, seizing the moment with a hearty wave to his subjects and bellowing “I know that I speak for all of us, Lady Yeardnott, when I declare yours the most amusing – the most -” He trailed off. “Ah!”
Those to the rear of the room, thinking that he must be quietly adding some sort of wickedly cruel comment, strained forward, anxious to hear. So when the first screams began from the front of the room, chaos descended almost at once. Those whose love for the Duke compelled them to surge to his assistance collided and merged with those who, having seen blood or the knife, were fleeing in the opposite direction.
A narrow funnel in the crowd opened between Bey and the Duke, allowing him a clear view. His Grace was bent forward at the waist, both his hands wrapped around the flower-clad wrist of the slender woman. Her hand in turn was wrapped around the haft of a thin dagger, which she had driven through his black velvet doublet at the stomach and up under his ribs. A single thread of blood was trailing down to drip off the meat of her palm. The Duke's eyes were on those of his murderer's, his blotched face looking more sorry that pained.
As Bey watched, she wrenched the knife away and pushed it into his gut a second time, twisting it for good measure. Now the Duke's voice joined the chorus of screams with a baritone wail of pure horror.
Sir Kowan Dart burst from beyond a petrified Lady Yeardnott and grabbed the assassin's arm, his momentum throwing him from the stage on top of her. As the two of them crashed to the floor, her face turned towards Bey. Lady Charmaine, as he had supposed.
The identity of the killer rocked him, though he could not say why. He was almost wholly unschooled in the hidden shoals and eddies of Murb society; he had no useful context from which to consider this event. He felt certain of two things. One: that Duke Vormura, from the depth of the wounds and their gushing discharge, had a minute or two left at most. Two: the immediate consequences of his death would be fearful.
Bey was frozen on the spot and felt ridiculous for it. By rights he ought to do something, but what? Even less so than most of these vapid ineffectual courtiers, he served no valuable purpose. In a wild bid for validation, he looked about for Herok, who must somewhere have been pulling strings and moving pieces. He was nowhere to be seen.
Duke Yate Vormura, in the last seconds of his life, did something odd. Throwing off the concerned attentions of a clutch of shocked onlookers, he crawled slithering through his own pooling blood to the edge of the stage and dropped off it, landing with a thump next to Charmaine. Pushing Dart's protestations aside with strengthless arms he clasped her hands again and dipped his head like a beggar, murmuring some pleading question over and again.
Charmaine slapped his hands away, spat in his face and stood with a look of indignant righteousness. The Duke tried to raise his head and hands to plead again, but his limbs now failed him. As he slumped, Dart caught him and maneuvered him into a resting position at his side, one arm supporting the slumping ducal head. There was a short exchange between them, then Dart, after a respectful pause, withdrew his arm and set the Duke's head down. He rose and removed his cloak, placed it on Vormura's face and said “He is dead. The Duke is dead.”
Bey would have expected the news to be greeted with silence, even reverence – even for people of the best class, it was hardly common to be present at so significant an occasion – but he now perceived that while the screaming had more or less stopped, there was not let up in the level of agitation and noise. A familiar face appearing on the stage told him what that was all about.
“Well that's an unexpected bonus,” pronounced Casimir Meldaran in his best harbinger intonation. “I wonder, ladies and gentlemen, whether I'll get the blame for that!”
Five large men with pikes and cudgels trooped up behind him like a chorus line of murderers. All around Bey was seeing scuffles and hearing cries of dismay and pain. They seemed fiercest near the exits.
“Now that the warmup act has taken its bow – and let's give them a round for being such good sports! I love an old fashioned theatre of blood, don't you? But let's not linger, that act's done and we've so much more prepared for you this evening! So much to get through!”
He strode across to centre stage like a leading man about to take his bows. “Let's get started, shall we?”
***
“Magistrate Ductio does not look well enough to be in command of a horse.”
Startled, Jedlow realised that Mistress Chalcer had been standing in his line of sight for some time without his noticing. Well, she was standing in the shadows and wearing quite dark clothes, and he was distracted with the Magistrate, so it was no wonder he'd not seen her approach. Though now that he came to think about it, he did wonder how she had arrived at the blind end of the alley without walked straight past them. Perhaps there was a gate or door further on that he hadn't noticed.
“He's wounded too grievous to walk, Mistress. But he's on the Duke's urgent business, so I found him a mount.”
Lynnis cocked her head and grinned. “You stole a horse? An upright servitor of the laws of the realm?”
Jedlow smiled back tiredly. “Yes I did. But when it's for the Magistrate, apparently it's called commandeering.” Conscious of his appearance, he went back to attempting to remove Ductio's smeared blood from his hands. His tormentors had intended to disable the Magistrate to prevent him from escaping the rising waters, so they had bandaged the wounds with cruelly tight but effective tourniquets. Crippling pain in Jedlow's back had prevented him from lifting the wounded man, so he had been forced to drag him free of his prison; the rags had not survived the rescue unscathed. He had replaced them under Ductio's terse instruction, using dust covers he'd found draped over antique furniture in Herronvale's warehouse, but had become covered in grue himself in the process. “May I ask what you're doing here?”
“I told you I'd pass on anything I learned in person. I've learned something you should know.”
“You've learned that Master Meldaran is leading an act of organised piracy against a ballroom full of Fellport's most distinguished persons as an escalation of his campaign to control this city?” Something deep inside Jedlow wanted to rebuke him for being impertinent to Mistress Chalcer, but the rest of him was rather smug and told it to shut up.
She didn't seem to be taking it ill. “Yes. Well, something like that, anyway. You're rather well informed. I was operating on speculation and guesswork.” She stepped out of the shadows, her skirts swishing despite the deepening rain. Something about her smelled off, like something had gone rotten. He hadn't noticed it before, but he had been in a hurry. Odd. She seemed like the type who would go in for regular washing. Maybe it was an theatre thing.
“Runners from the Sentry caught up with me when I was stea- commandeering the horse from the stables,” he said, nodding in the direction of a strangely subdued dockside pub nearby. “They were making a fuss of themselves, calling all Guard hands to duty, saying it's an emergency. Of course I had to help the Magistrate, so I got left behind.”
She fell in beside him and they began to walk together, perfectly naturally, towards the pub. “It seems I've gotten myself soaked for nothing then. You must think me a proper fool.”
“Never so, Mistress,” declared Jedlow. “I'd like to think I'd never underestimate you so. Besides, your wet skirts are having a flattering effect on your legs.” With Ductio gone, it seemed as though all responsibility had gone with him. He was free of all concern and found that it removed the nervous shackles from his tongue. It was as though he was watching two actors playing a scene on the stage.
Mistress Chalcer took mock offense, ruffling her sodden skirts into a more demure arrangement. “Cheeky! Well, it consoles me to know that my death of a chill will attract favourable reviews.” She hitched the skirts a little and began a cheerful dance, turning and splashing from puddle to puddle as she made her way to the tavern. “Or maybe a pot of ale and a spot of bread and broth will spare me for another day. Are you coming, Sentryman Jedlow?”
Jedlow said nothing, just followed in frank admiration and clapped along to unheard music. He took no insult from her obvious intention to distract him. He had already decided that he would not question her motives in assisting him, nor probe further to find how much she knew about what was going on. She had her secrets, he had no doubt, but she had made a sincere effort to help him, for whatever reasons of her own. So for tonight at least, he would take her at her word and let the matter lie.
She'd bear watching though. That much was obvious.
***
Meldaran and his Golden Haired Boys had sealed Yeardnott Estate tighter than a plague house, with a band of armed men now watching every exit. In the first moments of the siege, a group of alert ballgoers had recognised the danger and attempted to break a cordon at the front entrance. Joined by Lady Yeardnott's butler Sheltingdon, they had grabbed whatever weapons they could find at hand – which happened to include two of his late Lordship's prized dueling rapiers, displayed beneath his portrait in the antechamber – and had charged the gangsters while they were still establishing their positions. The desperate gambit had been repelled with brutal force; the gangsters were far more familiar with the finer points of brawling than their victims. Sheltingdon had been the first to fall, his skull staved in by a heavy length of chain. In his final instant of consciousness, he had a flash of recognition; it was a component of Soldock's Bridge.
Herok had escaped into the safety of the grounds to evade what he suspected might be a tricky encounter with Sir Kowan Dart. His long-held suspicion that the big Murb courtier might be more than a mere sycophant with the wit to marry well was not precisely confirmed by his apparent contact with Magistrate Broden, but nor was it dispelled. Either way, Herok did not welcome a confrontation on anyone's terms but his own. Since his own absence would be missed far less than that of the highly visible Sir Kowan, he had contrived to duck out for a quick breath of fresh air during the Duke's speech.
Upon squeezing through an incredulous and quietly scandalised group of more devoted Ducal subjects – who would doubtless circulate the fact of his impertinence, adding to his cultivated air of impertinence and frivolity – he had emerged into the cool evening air to catch a surprising sight.
Soldock's Bridge, which he found one of the few pleasing architectural features of the routinely grim and grotesque Fellport, was on fire. A tremendous blaze had caught hold of it, throwing flames high into the air in defiance of the evening's downpours and the still showering sky. Moreover, silhouetted against the inferno he could make out more than a dozen men approaching, some with burning brands and all with some form of weapon besides.
Herok took no chances. He circled away from the house, from within which the conflagration at the bridge would be invisible, and made for a stand of shade trees in the western garden. A tea table provided a leg up into the tallest of these. He climbed halfway up its height. From his new vantage point, which stood him roughly at window height for the manor's second floor, he could see three sides of the island. The Bridge, already unrecoverable from the blaze, had obviously been destroyed to prevent escape or rescue. To the west he could make out a dozen longboats, the sort favoured by smugglers if he was any judge, dragged up from the banks of the Catgang, under guard by four hefty lads. Everywhere he could clearly make out, there were now gangs of three and four skulking figures, creeping up from various angles to converge on the estate. From within, he could hear screams – some vanguard must have arrived early, before everybody was quite in position. Sloppy.
A movement from below caught his attention. Two men had taken up positions at the foot of his hiding spot. Probably they sought to benefit from the same wide field of observation he currently enjoyed. He considered his options if they concluded that climbing a tree would give them a better vantage point. He never went anywhere without a knife or two, and the small phial tucked into a hidden pocket in his collar contained a fast and effective nerve poison. But though he counted himself a scrappy fighter, he could only count on taking one out for certain. The other might have a chance to raise the alarm, and he was no Raker. If it came to a faceoff with a whole mob of them, he'd find himself wishing he had saved the poison for himself.
As the sounds of alarm rose from the direction of the ball, creating great merriment for the two below, Herok decided he could no longer afford to wait. Provided he could dispose with his inadvertent captors, his best bet would be to make a break for the eastern bank of the river. He had no fear of swimming to safety and it would take even a skilled boat crew – a quality he doubted these street toughs could boast – at least a few minutes to reach the point of confluence to cut him off, by which time he could expect to be well clear.
Grasping the treated knife in a stabbing grip, he lowered himself carefully, using on the sturdiest branches for support to avoid rustling noises or telltale showers. The two men were standing quite close together, which gave him some hope that he could drop on one and stab the other. As he crept closer, however, one moved away to urinate.
So be it. Sucking in a deep breath, he fell feet first from a body's height above the solitary guard. He misjudged the jump. One bootheel caught the base of the man's neck, knocking him out with the force of his entire weight, but the other foot missed its mark and threw off the angle of his fall. His knee twisted sharply as he landed, falling to one side in a tangle with the unconscious man. Herok grunted in pain, aggravating his strained joint further as he struggled to get free of the man.
The other guard turned, eyes narrowed. He moved forward quickly, a long knife already at hand. A seasoned street warrior. Herok cursed his luck and Paracastra's name for good measure. No promises were worth this sort of risk. As the man prowled forward, cautious at seeing the knife in his hand, Herok worked his foot free and came up on his good knee.
The guard made eye contact and must have seen something he didn't like. He raised two fingers to his mouth and whistled three sharp shrieks. Realising his time was short, Herok chanced a feint; he went to stand, then buckled at the knee and folded over with an agonised whimper.
The gangster bought it, coming forward to stick him as he recovered his balance. Herok dropped under his guard and rolled forward, driving his blade straight up in the man's lower abdomen. Without waiting to see whether it had been a killing blow or whether the poison had taken effect, he set off at a stumbling run towards the water.
As he ran, the knee already beginning to swell, he dragged off his doublet and cast it aside. So too his woolen waistcoat, which was warm but heavy, leaving him in just a thin linen undershirt. He slipped his second knife, a palm knife with a stumpy handle and fat blade, from its trousers sheath at the base of his back. He couldn't see anyone about to intercept him before he hit the water, but he was taking no chances.
He risked a glance back and saw that neither of victims were in pursuit. Feeling the knee starting to give, and knowing he'd need it for the river crossing, he eased his pace as he approached the bank. He looked out across the water. It was too dark to make out details on the far shore, but it was less than fifty yards, and though the strength of the current would certainly carry him some way downstream, he didn't think it would be too hard to ford it before he was pushed all the way to the wreckage of the bridge.
He squatted to pull off his boots and was surprised to find the view of his feet obscured by feathers.
“Oh. A crossbow bolt,” he observed in stupefaction. It seemed to have come from somewhere out there in the darkness. He grasped the shaft with both hands and tried to rise, but his other knee chose that moment to give out as well. “Who put this h-”
He toppled face first into the water as other bolts jabbed into the ground about him. One actually hit his ankle, but Herok was past caring.
***
Kilritch was obliged to look in two directions at ones as a runner approached from upstream and a rider hauled up the road from behind. Snapping closed his telescope – damn thing was next to useless in this light in any case – he chose the rider.
Magistrate Ductio was bearing down on him like he meant to hurl them both into the bridge ablaze behind him. There was something odd about his riding technique – he had both arms wrapped firmly about his mount's neck and its girth, made of sheets, seemed to extend up to encompass his waist as well. Ductio was howling with incoherent belligerence, his mouth a ragged mess of swollen flesh and gaping wounds. His white flesh reflected the orange of the flames and the thick puffs of vapour sizzling off the horse's hide gave him the appearance of a demon rising to take bloody vengeance. Which, knowing Ductio, would not be far from the mark.
“Magistrate -” he began, but Ductio wheeled his steed and cut him off.
“Fucking save it, Staff! Just tell me what's going on and then get the fuck out of my way.”
Kilritch was temporarily saved from the embarrassing admission that the Sentry had been completely cut off by the timely arrival of the runner. “Begging your leave, Magistrate. The scouting group spotted a boundary patroller and put him down with a crossbow shot. But we had to pull back to the trees when reinforcements arrived. Looks like they've got some bows of their own.”
“How many are out there?” he and Ductio asked at the same time.
The scout said “Hard to tell, sir. We don't have line of sight to the whole island. The house provides cover, of course, and there's trees along the east and north sides -”
“How fucking many, you bent pricked cur?” Kilritch abruptly realised that the Magistrate was neither wearing boots nor appeared capable of doing so any longer.
“Ah, Magistrate, I guess at least fifty, maybe sixty.”
Kilritch discerned that Ductio was in no mood for anything other than plain facts. “Lady Yeardnott's got around a hundred and twenty guests. All top class of course. Rumoured to include the Duke himself.”
“Is that so? That'll save some time later,” observed Ductio, but did not explain the cryptic comment. “Right, Staff, get chains set across that river to cut these murdering pricks off, get some fucking boats up here and get me some fucking guardsmen on that island. You've got a troop from Dockside right behind me, probably liquored up and spoiling for a fight. And you,” he said to the scout, “get back to your squad and tell them to keep shooting anything that doesn't flash a fucking tiara. I don't want one of those fucks getting off that island alive, you understand me?”
Kilritch said “Boats are on their way, sir. I sent for them just before you arrived.”
“Right then,” said Ductio. “Give me your sabre and get out of the way.”
“What are you going to do, Magistrate?”
“What do you think? I'm going to cut some fucking heads off.” He slapped the horse's flanks with the flat of the sword. With a protesting whinny, the horse reared and charged. As Kilritch watched with open-mouthed astonishment, Ductio leaped the horse into the river and swam it to the far bank.