The Keys to Paradise, page 7
‘I’ll be back.’ Giles stepped onto the boat and slung his pack and roll into a corner. In seconds he was on his way again, fully aware of the city guard following half a street away.
He rapidly calculated the distance to where the key and his dice winnings were hidden. How much time dared he spend in losing the guard? He set off at a rapid pace, wondering at the guardsman’s physical condition. If he were as good as even half the recruits Giles had trained, there’d be trouble.
After only one long block, Giles knew he’d have no trouble at all. He heard the guardsman gasping and wheezing loudly. Giles took a shortcut through the ostler’s stable, ducked into an open warehouse, then doubled back and lost the guardsman sooner than he had anticipated. He shook his head at such inefficiency. With any luck – or even more stupidity on the magistrate’s part – his brief and loud inquiry at the docks might be considered a diversion not worth even a single guardsman.
The sealskin pouch lay undisturbed among the roots of the huge nepler tree. He tucked the key and coins into his belt, smiling broadly.
‘Now, to get back to the dock without being seen,’ Giles said to himself. The embarrassed guard might well have spread the word by now.
With all the skill Giles had learned as a scout during the War, he returned to the waterfront. The fisherman squinted as he stepped aboard. ‘Right on time. Thought I had myself a pack and roll.’ He cast off, and they moved out into the harbour.
Giles sat at the stern, chuckling to himself. The fisherman worked at getting the boat on course and missed seeing the guard captain and four of his men jumping up and down, shouting insults and berating one another.
* * *
Glanport was much larger than Klepht. The people were busier, the inn not nearly so friendly. On the first night, Giles sat watching men silently drinking an ale brewed in the kidneys of an animal with gastric difficulties and pissed into clear glass bottles. A half bottle was all that Giles could tolerate.
He wasn’t likely to get any information from this sullen group.
In the morning, alone in the inn, Giles questioned the landlord. ‘Settle a wager for me, will you? A friend told me a tale about the Gate of Paradise and I…’ The landlord snorted in derision and cut him off in mid-sentence.
‘You don’t look like one of them,’ he said.
‘One of them?’ Giles asked.
‘One of them crazy old religious folk. Thought they’d pretty much died out.’
Giles laid a coin on the counter. ‘I’m not. But tell me about them anyway.’
The landlord had little to say, but Giles left the inn with nebulous directions for finding the temple.
By mid-afternoon Giles stood outside the Temple of Welcome and stared at it, shaking his head. It was run down, needed whitewashing, and certainly could have used a good sweep inside. A single candle glowed in front of the altar. It illuminated a large room, mostly empty. He saw where expensive pews had been removed and replaced by simple wooden chairs; even these had seen better days.
Giles peered down the centre aisle. As his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he made out the figure of a man sitting in the front row. The rattle of beads almost drowned out the litany.
He advanced slowly down the aisle, wanting neither to frighten the priest nor to disturb his prayers.
The priest heard him, however, and turned a worn but patient face to Giles. He fitted in well with his surroundings. ‘The Temple of Welcome opens its doors to you. What may I do for you?’
‘I need information. About the Gate of Paradise and the golden key opening it.’
‘You are interested in converting, my son?’
‘No!’ Giles said, too sharply. His experiences with priests during the War had been such that he avoided them whenever possible.
‘Ah.’ The priest sighed. ‘So few follow the Temple’s faith these days. You want to know what many seek.’ He sighed again, shaking his bald head. ‘For us the Gate is metaphorical. The seeking is the thing. We strive for a right life, a purity of heart, the utmost faith in our single god, an all-encompassing love for our fellow beings. The Gate is the promise of a more fruitful life in the hereafter rather than the reward itself.’
Giles expected little other than blather from a priest. ‘Have you scriptures?’ he asked.
‘There are no copies I can let any but a true believer take away, but if you would care to look at our Holly Book, you can read here.’ The priest gestured for Giles to follow.
He led Giles past the altar to a small sacristy where sunlight filtered down from a high window. The priest removed a leather-bound book from a ragged case of brocade and laid it on the table. Giles scooted a stool over and perched on it.
‘Treat it with care,’ the priest requested, eyeing Giles.
‘Have no worry on that score,’ Giles assured him. The priest left silently, returning to his devotions.
Giles turned page after page until his eyes blurred. The text had been hand-scribed, sometimes illegibly, often faint with age. It was twilight when Giles came upon a cryptic passage buried in a parable concerning travellers on the way to a market town. He did not understand it at first, but Giles was intrigued by a description of an area much like one in which his troop had camped during his army days. He read it again, then sat back to envision that particular bivouac some eight years before.
Giles went back to the beginning of the passage, realisation dawning on him that within the context of the teachings of an early patriarch of this church, the parable could be interpreted as directions – perhaps to the Gate of Paradise.
‘Those brandies proved beneficial. The old man wasn’t so far off,’ Giles muttered. ‘Hawk’s Prairie it is.’
Giles was straining to memorise the description when a loud noise from the nave interrupted him. Curious, he rose to investigate. In the church he saw no sign of movement, but his sharp ears detected someone attempting to move without being heard. Hand on sword, he entered the church to investigate.
Giles made his way to the front, then turned to a side room. The priest lay face down on the floor, a pool of blood expanding beneath him. Giles turned the man over and felt for some sign of life. None.
He sense rather than saw someone behind him. The blow struck him on the side of the head. Darkness swallowed Giles as he slumped forward over the priest’s corpse.
Six
Keja Tchurak stood on the sea strand, watching with some misgivings as Captain Jelk rowed back to the Feral. It had certainly been adventurous aboard the coast lugger. Storms and pirates. Keja snorted in disgust. He would have made better time if he had stolen a horse.
Keja climbed the twenty feet up the low sand dunes to the road. Pausing before he scrambled over to the road, he heard the tramping of feet in cadence. Keja sank back into scrubby, bethorned undergrowth, waiting. He had taken the sea route to avoid such meetings. Too many wanted his head on a spike.
The marching soldiers came up to Keja’s hiding place and moved past. Keja heard angry mutterings from the men. Soldiers were always grousing about something. He waited until they were well past, then cautiously moved onto the road. Keja let out a heartfelt laugh. He had the road to himself.
‘I have fought jealous fathers and storms and pirates and sailors wanting to kill me, and tupped many a wench along the way, and I have arrived unscathed!’ Keja laughed again. Even the long walk into Neelarna failed to dampen his spirits.
Neelarna proved a larger town than Keja had expected. Somewhere in this sprawling market town he would find the Mistress Mellon mentioned by Captain Jelk. From this soothsayer, it could only be a short distance to the Gate of Paradise. How else could it be when luck rode with him, as it did now? He took out the key stolen from Rosaal’s father and let it gleam brightly in the sun.
‘My key to a greedy heart’s desire,’ he proclaimed.
* * *
He became increasingly angry as the day wore on. None admitted knowing Mistress Mellon. Wherever he turned, he found only cold stares or occasionally an amused chuckle. These irritated the short-tempered thief more than anything else. Keja could have asked the city guard but discretion’s voice whispered in his ear that this might court disaster. All his usual sources, the silversmiths, the carpet merchants, the chest makers, did not know or would not speak.
Keja thought to settle his growing disquiet with a cup of tea. Crouched against the wall near a street vendor, Keja warmed his hands on the mug and wondered what to do next.
‘Give us a copper,’ came the shrill command. Keja looked up over the rim of his mug. He saw what had to be three of the dirtiest street urchins in all the far-flung country of Bericlere.
‘What do I get for my copper?’ he asked.
The question took the three urchins aback. Usually they grovelled after some small coin tossed in the dust at their feet, or were sworn at and chased off.
Keja grinned at their confusion. ‘I need information. Where do I find Mistress Mellon?’ Keja held back his trill of triumph. These beggar children knew of the woman mentioned by the sea captain. He could see it in their faces.
The children looked from one to the other. ‘Why?’ asked the oldest and dirtiest of the trio.
Such boldness on their part startled him. ‘There is a certain bit of… information I seek from her. You know her, don’t you?’ It was more statement than question.
‘We know her. All the “dross” know her.’
Keja had not heard that term in many years. The truly poor, that layer of humanity below even the dregs of society were the dross. If Mistress Mellon catered to this class, he knew why those of higher social rank – even the lowly street vendors – refused to acknowledge her.
‘It will cost you, and we make sure first that she wants to receive you. Wait here.’
The three disappeared before Keja could voice his objections. He bought another tea and waited for their return. At first content to watch the parade of citizens and foreigners who passed before him, he grew more and more restless during the hour before the three appeared as silently as they had slipped away.
The eldest one spoke, eyes darting as if he expected the city guard at any instant. ‘Five coppers for the information, and you find your own way. This evening, after dark.’ The boy sounded adamant, but the jut of his chin told the true tale. Keja did not haggle. He knew the signs. He counted the five coins into a grubby palm. The directions were specific and given quickly.
Another tugged at the largest one’s sleeve and whispered. He nodded. To Keja, he said, ‘Who do we tell her is coming?’
‘The name would mean little to her. Just tell her “The Lover.” ’
* * *
Keja sat cross-legged before Mistress Mellon’s fire, warming his hands against the evening’s chill. But the hut was stuffy, a haze of blue smoke seeking vaporous egress and not finding it.
‘A lover, eh?’ the old woman said. ‘You seek one of my potions to enhance your prowess?’ Keja started to say that he did – the idea intrigued him – but he shook his head.
‘I have no need of that.’
‘Such a lover, then,’ Mistress Mellon said sarcastically.
Keja ignored the implied insult. ‘I seek more. I seek the Gate of Paradise.’ The old woman’s harsh, barking laugh irritated him. ‘Do you find this so ludicrous?’
‘You are the second seeking the Gate this week.’
Keja looked sharply at the shapeless bundle sitting in the dark.
‘Two? Another besides myself? Who might that be?’
‘I ask no names. A Trans woman, part cat. A beauty, she was.’
Keja sucked in his breath. The serving wench from the Leather Bottle! It must be! And he had thought she was only a simple sneak thief. His admiration for her mounted.
‘If anyone is foolish enough to look for the Gate, I tell them what I know. There is more to it than just a gate.’
‘I know.’ Keja’s hand went to his chest, reassuring himself at the feel of the key beneath his tunic.
‘Ah, do you now, lover? You know all about the Gate except where it is, eh? For that you come to Mistress Mellon. Better you should take ship for the Gentian Coast and use your thievery on the wealthy there.’
‘The stories say…’
‘Yes, the stories tell of great wealth, jewels and gold, power, beautiful women and handsome men. All that is unattainable by most people, eh, lover? Don’t the stories always hold out fine promises? Something to wish for, something to hope for. A magic gate for the “dross” to dream about. Are you a dreamer, lover? Or are you a doer?’
Keja glowered across the fire at the old woman. ‘I see what I want, then I act.’ He spat into the fire.
‘Then go do, lover. Go use your clever fingers on the wealthy, eh? They will not miss it. Share some of it with the “dross”. Ah, but I see that is not the answer you want.’
Mistress Mellon sighed. In a monotone, she gave Keja Tchurak the same information given to Petia Darya only two days before. When she had finished, Keja began to fish in his pouch for some money to leave with her.
Mistress Mellon’s voice crackled with sarcasm. ‘No, lover. If you wish, give your money to the “dross”. I have no need of it. I give this information to many. You’re just another in a long line. Now go.’
Keja started to make a smart reply, but the old woman’s manner had disarmed him. He obeyed without comment.
* * *
Near the Arlien Bridge, Keja Tchurak found a horse dealer. An hour had passed in haggling before Keja and the trader argued out a deal. The horse was a beauty, black and shining, standing just fifteen hands, strong and with the look of eagles in his eye. Keja managed to get the trader to throw in a saddle, but to the horse he said, ‘Sorry, this is the best available,’ then gave his eloquent shrug. The trader glared, but the horse seemed to accept his fate.
He arranged to collect horse and saddle later and set out to purchase supplies for the journey. Clothes first, he decided.
While Keja may have had an eye for horseflesh, his taste in clothing brought many unenlightened sniggers from both clerks and onlookers. The quality of cloth, its ability to wear well or to hide the stains of the road, never entered Keja’s mind. What Keja purchased might have been useful for a social occasion and impressing the ladies.
‘Perfect,’ said the clothier, fighting to hold back his laughter. The brocade morning coat with crimson velvet collar tabs, carved bone buttons and gold piping better suited a courtier than a traveller. Keja did not notice.
‘I like it,’ he said, admiring his reflection in a full-length mirror. The haggling over price went quickly enough; the clothier whispered to his friends that he never thought to find anyone foolish enough to purchase it.
Keja didn’t care. He liked the way the jacket hung. For him, the line was perfect.
He found the three urchins waiting for him near the inn. ‘Give us a copper,’ demanded the eldest.
‘I gave you too much yesterday,’ Keja replied. ‘I’m down to my last one.’ He turned up his pouch and one small copper coin fell into his palm.
‘Wouldn’t you have any hidden on you?’ The youngest peered into Keja’s face, searching for any sign that Keja lied. Then the youngling asked, ‘You going to a masque in those funny clothes?’
The leader cuffed him. He was all business. ‘We’re selling information, important information.’
‘Not a copper more.’
‘Then it’s your misfortune,’ the urchin said. ‘The information’s valuable.’ He turned to his companions. ‘Come on.’
‘Wait,’ Keja said, sensing their gravity.
He pulled a pair of earrings from his pouch. ‘These are from Lasrunal, famed for their artisan in enamelling. Would they be worth your information?’
The eldest held out his hand, and Keja dumped the earrings into it. The boy inspected them with an old-young experienced eye, then tucked them into his filthy, tattered sash.
‘The guard’s looking for you. A special guard belonging to some rich man has come here from Klepht.’
Keja was dismayed. He thought that he had evaded Werlink l’Karm’s men. ‘Where are they now?’
‘Scattered throughout the town. They have split up, two of the city guard for every one of the specials. It will be difficult for you to avoid them.’
‘Can you take these clothes and supplies and hide them for me?’ He ducked into an alleyway and stripped off his flashy new clothing, then scribbled a note. ‘And take this to the horse dealer by the Arlien Bridge. Bring horse and tack to me outside the city walls after dark. Will you do that?’
The boys looked from one to another.
‘I’ll have something to give you for your efforts,’ Keja said. ‘Just meet me with my things outside the north gate. At dusk.’
The boys nodded and disappeared.
Keja collected his few belongings from his room. Had it not been for his sword, he would not have bothered. At the door of the inn he hesitated, caution warning him to look before he walked out into the street.
Three guards trooped towards the inn. Keja turned and ran for the kitchen. A startled cook and serving maid started to protest, but he put a finger to his lips to silence them. He turned to leave, then came back.
‘How can I depart without doing this?’ he asked the serving maid. He kissed her on the lips, as if to seal them.
‘Sir!’ she protested – but not too much.
Laughing, Keja stepped into the alleyway behind the inn. For the moment he was free. He intended to stay that way.
At the end of the alley he paused, peering around the corner. He waited until the guards entered the inn, then sauntered into the street and headed away.
He turned a corner. Three more guards. They stood nonchalantly, but Keja knew this was deceptive. He backtracked to the next street, cut over three more, and found himself getting farther from the marketplace and the protection of numbers it offered.
Keja calmed himself and said, ‘they are mere dolts. I am Keja Tchurak, thief without peer! I spit upon their boots!’ The dramatic pose he assumed drew unwanted attention. Keja bowed. One or two hesitantly applauded, then moved on. Keja quickly joined the tiny knot moving away and eventually reached the market.
