Darien, page 6
Daw Threefold had not been born to real money in Yew Street, no matter what Nancy thought. His parents hadn’t had enough to pay for proper schooling, though he’d learned his letters and some history from a lodger one year. At twenty-four, Daw was not a wealthy man, but he had turned years of work and a fair skill for thieving into valuable pieces, all small enough to be carried on his person. All powerful enough to aid him in the getting of more. He had been on his way to a small fortune and a complete lack of fame when a single night of roistering with Nancy had set him back to his eighteenth birthday, just about. Without his coins, without his knife or his compass or his charms, he had very little to show for six years in the city, beyond a few scars and the tip of one finger gone. It was heartbreaking, and he looked up as the tavern clock chimed.
Daw grew still then, seeing the clock Basker had been given on his retirement. It was just a painted face that hung from a silver chain off a roof beam, perhaps the height of a man above the bar. You could see such a thing in any market, with a tiny blessing charm on the crystal behind. It kept good time and showed hands as lines of light that glowed but did not burn. Daw had glanced up at it a hundred times before, whenever Basker called last orders, though never with such complete attention as he did then. It was a magical item, admittedly cheap and tawdry, no sort of reward for a twenty-year man like Basker. Yet it swung in the same building as Nancy – and it still worked. Local effect. Had to be.
With one swift move, Daw leaped onto the bar, jumping up and snatching the swinging clock from its nail. Basker gave a great roar of confusion and rising anger as Daw scrambled down with it held to his chest and raced back across the tavern, staring at the clock hands as he went. The door to his room was perhaps some dozen paces away and a flight of stairs above.
5
Levers
Elias looked through the bars, resting his hands on the door-lock. He did not know how long he’d been asleep, though he felt better than he had in a while. The small cage that held him stood like an upright coffin on the vast camp field, just about big enough for a man, with room to sit down only if he pulled his legs up or put them through the bars. He could at least look out on the bustle and smoke of the encampment, with all the soldiers around him apparently intent on ignoring his presence.
Elias made an exasperated sound. It seemed that the commanding officer of the Immortals was a clever man. General Justan had hesitated only long enough to blink. When the sound of gunfire had died and Elias was still upright, the general had snapped an order that surprised those in the circle of Immortal soldiers almost as much as Elias himself. ‘Hold hands’ was not the kind of thing a Darien general usually roared at his men, but they’d done it even so. Elias had found himself at the centre of an unbroken ring.
In his heart, Elias thought he could have won free – men holding hands like children could not defend themselves. One thumb to an eye or a sharp kick at a kneecap, and the circle would have broken, enough for him to slip out. If he’d been in good health, he might have done it just to spite them, just to show they couldn’t hold him. He didn’t like being hemmed in and surrounded. Elias preferred the open land or the deep forest, where he could breathe.
Yet they’d made him reach more with their gunfire in those few moments than in a season of hunting. Elias had already been ill – and about weary enough to just lie down and die. He had let them make their circle and think they’d caught him. That much he remembered. He’d heard the general calling for the doctor, and then Elias had either fallen or fainted – he had no memory of it.
He realised his bladder was full and that he was both hungry and very thirsty. The sun was rising and he assumed he’d slept a whole night, recovering. With trembling hands, Elias touched the places on his skin where he had felt welts before. They were definitely smaller, but also different somehow, so that he sensed the poison had been drawn. The itching had certainly lessened and the lumps in his armpits felt softer, though one had burst and dribbled a foul-smelling slick down the inside of his coat. Even so, he was on the mend, he was certain of it. It was the difference between being consumed from the inside out and just being nauseous and weak. He began to hope. If they valued him enough to cure him, perhaps they’d also kept their word over Beth and the girls.
That thought brought a wave of dizziness that made him cling to the bars. He had been resigned to losing just about everything when he’d staggered from the tavern in Wyburn. Some part of him had accepted he was finished, his last card played. To find himself alive, once more with hopes, was almost too painful. He let the bars hold him up and Elias suddenly wept for his son Jack as if a wound had been pulled open. No, it was worse. A wound would not have made him weep.
A troop of soldiers crossing the field looked over at the sobbing man, but Elias did not see them. After a time, the fit of grief passed and he could breathe slowly once again, without shuddering.
The sun had risen halfway up the sky by the time he realised they were coming for him. Vic Deeds was unmistakable, even at a distance. A good hunter studied the gait and shape of everyone he met, just as Elias learned the members of a wolf pack and could identify one he knew from far off. It was strange to feel liking for the gunman in that moment of recognition. Elias shook his head at his own weakness just as soon as he understood it. Vic Deeds was the only man he knew in that vast camp, that was true. Yet the gunman was not a friend. Deeds would sell him for a penny if he needed one. For that matter, perhaps he already had.
‘Good morning, meneer,’ Deeds said cheerfully, stopping before the cage. ‘I must admit, I thought you might not make it, you were so sick.’ The gunman leaned right in and peered at him. ‘The general would have had my skin if you’d died, after what we showed him.’
He gestured to the cage door. One of the soldiers put a key to the lock and Deeds raised his hand to stop him, watching Elias all the while.
‘You wear your thoughts on your face, meneer, do you know that? Even with that strange thing you can do, I don’t think cards are your game, not really. How can I let you out, knowing you can slip past a dozen men, eh? No, no. If we let you out, we can’t stop you just walking home, can we? Even with all our guns and swords and arrows.’
‘Maybe,’ Elias said. ‘Let’s find out.’
Deeds laughed.
‘A cage, though – that works well enough, doesn’t it? You can’t dodge bars or see which way they are going to step …?’ He watched carefully. Elias tried to keep his features still, though the man was reading him anyway and smiled. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? The general was right then, the clever old sod. You can see a small piece of what will happen. It explains the cards – and even the bullets. But how long ahead? That’s the key to it, isn’t it? How far can you look? What if someone chooses to step the other way? Can they do that?’
Elias stared back in silence, irritated by the man and his chatter. He sensed a cruelty still in Deeds, or a coldness. He’d seen it in hunters a few times and it had served them well for the most part. There was not much room for sentiment when they were out alone. Not much room for mercy.
Deeds tapped a thick iron bar with his knuckle.
‘General Justan was impressed, you know. He said, “Find a cage to hold him, Deeds.” Just like that. This box won’t do, though, will it? You’re no good to us trapped. Ah, you don’t like that idea, do you? I’m sorry then, because I had to trap you. You’re just too useful. I saw it in the tavern and the general knows it now. He’ll find a use for you, believe it. And he’ll find the right cage as well.’ For a moment, Deeds looked at his feet and Elias had the sense he was ashamed. ‘I am sorry about that part.’
Elias looked around in confusion as Deeds nodded to the men with him. They took hold of the cage, tipping it up and lifting it and the man inside with grunts and curses. Deeds waited until they had it steady. Elias had clung to the bars at first, then settled down and sat in grim silence.
‘Onward,’ Deeds said. ‘The general has a plan for this one.’
Tellius had fetched his best jacket and trousers to stand at the Masters’ Court. It was true his widest leather belt and huge old overcoat hid holes eaten by moths. It was also true one of his boots had come away at the seam, though it was not obvious when he stood still. It had been a long time since Tellius had concerned himself with any sort of public display, and he thought he could feel the sneers of rich men and women, making him want to rub a hand over the bristles on his chin. It was ridiculous, he knew it. In his own home and his own streets, he was like a king, but in this wealthy quarter, where true noblemen brought their sons to show or be shown, he half-expected a hand on his shoulder and a boot in his rear at any moment.
The one he had named Arthur showed no sign of nervousness, of course. Another scrubbing and some old clothes from Tellius’ store of ‘best used’ revealed a boy who might have been almost respectable. Yet Arthur had kept that peculiar stillness and watchfulness about him. Tellius smiled inside, though no trace of levity made it to his features. The boy Arthur was a mystery and he did not like those. He might also have been a gift from the Goddess, for a man who had the wit to see a chance when it came. Tellius was that man. He raised his head and applauded with the others when Master Aurelius stepped onto the rush-covered square.
‘Watch him,’ Tellius murmured, leaning down.
He did not need to say it. Aurelius was an arresting figure and always had been. Even at fifty, with more white than black in his hair, the man moved extraordinarily well. There were perhaps a dozen in Darien city who might have recognised the source of that grace. Three of them were students to Aurelius himself, his ‘Master Pupils’ as he called them. Six made up the king’s personal guards, graduates of that very school. The last two were Tellius himself and his own pupil, Micahel, who was at least the match of any of the rich men’s brats Aurelius had taught. Perhaps. The truth was that Aurelius taught much more than the Mazer steps, however he described them. The man truly was a master swordsman and had studied the skill like a science, reading the thoughts of others and even writing two books of his own on the subject. Tellius had bought and read both of them. In return for his service, the king had given Aurelius the property now open to the public for just one day a month, the rent paid by the performance they would witness.
Tellius watched Aurelius limber up, his movements crying out ‘Mazer steps’ to anyone who knew them. It brought back Tellius’ past. He closed his eyes and saw the emperor’s personal guard in armour of black and white enamelled iron, in balance, moving like smoke across the ancient Hall of Saints. Tellius breathed slowly as the memory grew bright before his inner eye. The columns of polished mahogany as tall as forest trees in dark red, the lines of warriors smearing shapes over a glass-polished floor. The smell of incense and wax. His people. His youth. Tellius had wanted nothing more than to be one of that elite number. His grandfather had wanted the same. It was an old ache and an entire life lost in one foolish day. He could not go back. The order paper of his execution had been issued, but never marked with his blood. Though it had been almost forty years, Tellius had no doubt there would be a dozen men setting out on the long journey to Darien if they ever heard he was still alive.
He opened his eyes at a cheer from the crowd. Hundreds of men and women had come to watch, some of them so young it made Tellius wince to feel his own age. Many years before, when Aurelius had first rented rooms above an old horse yard and advertised sword classes, he had struggled to keep his creditors from the door. With an empty purse, Aurelius had come up with the idea of a public display to drum up students, like any other tradesman showing his wares.
For an audience of just a few locals, he’d demonstrated the use of two swords and a dozen other weapons. He’d impaled beef carcasses borrowed from a slaughterhouse and climbed walls at a run. When Aurelius had trained a couple of students, they had made a regular performance of it, laughing and leaping, cutting thrown fruit in mid-air. The performance eventually became a fixture in the city calendar, until the tickets were prized and given as gifts. Royal approval had made the school the best-known in Darien.
Tellius felt his eyebrows lower. Aurelius had always been a showman, prancing about like a damned minstrel. He had sold his mastery like any other skill – like a great musician teaching chords to tin-eared children. Tellius wanted to believe the king’s Master of Swords could not feel the music beyond those simple steps, but the truth was different. In every city, there will be one who is faster than the rest, just as there will be one who is slowest, or a danger only to themselves. When the skill is valued and admired, there might arise a swordsman whose balance is superb, who can make judgements of life and death in the blink of an eye, so that opponents can only hack and swish like farmers until he puts a sword through their hearts. Aurelius was that master, Tellius admitted it. The old man knew he could never have beaten him, not even when he had been arrogant enough to confront the man after his very first demonstration bout, twenty years before.
That was a darker, more disturbing memory. Tellius tried to concentrate on the somersaults and leaps Aurelius made, moving at great speed through the equipment until he was gleaming with sweat. Tellius had still been young enough to forget his caution back then. When he’d seen the younger man perform the sixth Mazer step flawlessly, the small crowd had cheered but Tellius had been filled with soaring indignation. Who was this usurper to have stolen such knowledge? He’d barely held his anger in control until the traders had all filed out and Aurelius had come past him, laughing with one of his servants.
Tellius grimaced as he recalled what had followed. His demands, his humiliation. In his fury, he had struck the younger man. In return, the young Aurelius had held him helpless over a post and beaten his buttocks with a scabbard. Tellius felt the heat of embarrassment rise in him once more. He had not been back to the school since that day and it had taken years for Aurelius’ laughter not to come to mind when he closed his eyes.
Perhaps that was why he had begun teaching his lads the Mazer steps. Age had borne him down and he’d needed to mend his wind, that was true. He could hardly have practised in the attic without the boys seeing and asking questions. Still, it had been an old ache, a scar in him to know there was another in the city who had come from the east – or been taught by one who had. Tellius had never been completely sure. It had helped ease that discomfort to walk the boys through the steps of his youth, one by one, getting faster and more sure himself as it came back to him. The years had flown and he’d hardly even known that the memory of his humiliation still hurt, until it had begun to fade.
Yet there he was, back once again. He wondered if he’d learned anything at all. Was he not there to spite the man? To bring him down a peg or two? It was a petty fantasy and Tellius knew he was not a petty man, except for this one arrogant little … He closed his eyes again, seeking calm.
On the open square, Aurelius had brought out his three students, two young men and a woman. As one, the crowd leaned in at the sight. There was nothing so attractive in male or female as the lithe grace and fitness of a trained killer. Tellius knew that well. It was almost like watching big cats at play as they leaped and struck and spun for the delight of the crowd.
They did not smile, he was pleased to see. They were not entertainers or circus tumblers, but warriors with blades to open someone up. Tellius looked away only once to see if Arthur was watching closely. He was, his gaze unwavering, so that Tellius allowed himself a small smile.
The king’s rent required a demonstration of Darien martial skill, with at least one master coming from the school every few years. The rest was mere show for the crowd, though Tellius had certainly paid a small fortune for his chit to stand where he could see. All the talk of war in the markets had almost doubled the price. It was a good time to be teaching the skills of the swordsman, all in all. Tellius saw royal-liveried guards on the balcony above, standing back from sight but no doubt delighted at the chance to watch for free what others had to purchase.
A drum roll ended the performance and Tellius watched sourly as the three students raised their arms to indicate their master, like actors calling a director onto a stage. Aurelius came out once more in stern dignity, bowing to their crackle of applause. Tellius hated him and felt himself flush again at the memory of the man’s blows. He stood still as the crowd began to push out of the open doors to the courtyard and the city beyond. In that way, Tellius made himself a stone in a moving stream. He felt the flicker of Aurelius’ gaze sweep over him, trained to spot threat in any form. Tellius looked up, meeting eyes he had not seen for twenty years. As if it was nothing, as if to a servant, Tellius gestured for him to come over. He looked away then, knowing it would irritate a man of Aurelius’ pride to be summoned in such a way. Tellius leaned down to the boy at his side.
‘Did you see all that he showed you?’
Arthur nodded. Tellius stood up straight and almost recoiled at the swordmaster suddenly standing in front of him. He had not heard Aurelius approach and he felt his face grow red.
‘I know you, don’t I?’ Aurelius said. ‘Is it you, old man? The one I put over my knee for insulting my home?’
‘You did not put me …’ Tellius began, mastering himself too late. Aurelius laughed at his reaction. Prods and pokes with every word, that was his style. The man was infuriating and Tellius thought he had never known a more unpleasant enemy.
‘You’ve not aged well, old fellow,’ Aurelius said. ‘Eh? Can you hear me? I said you’ve not aged well.’
