Angel's Deceit (Angelwar Book 2) Read online

  Stetch released his hold, and Katarina dropped heavily to her heels, rubbing her throat with one. She couldn’t see a hint of remorse on Stetch’s face, and doubted whether he felt any. A threat was on the tip of her tongue, but Katarina couldn’t quite bring herself to utter it, not after witnessing the Meracian’s assault. He was fast, she thought. Faster than me, maybe.

  ‘I would prefer it if you did not die just yet,’ she said in her best haughty voice, marred somewhat by the slight croak. ‘Who will carry my bags back to the ship?’

  Stetch’s lip twitched slightly, about as close to a smile as the dour man ever got. Good. We understand each other. The homeland comes first. There would be time enough for her father to punish Stetch when they returned.

  Katarina straightened her clothes and gave a sharp nod. ‘Ready.’

  Stetch opened the front door.

  *

  The encounter seemed to have shaken Stetch. Gone was the sullen, brooding exterior of a man whose only thoughts were the location of the next tavern and the next wench. In its place was a taut spring of violence, barely restrained and awaiting only a target. He ushered Katarina out into the street, leading them through the warrens of High Mera’s narrow side streets, eyes scanning every face, every shop window. Katarina remained silent, half-fearing that if she so much as coughed he might stab her before realising there wasn’t a threat after all. Left and right, back and forth, Stetch ushered her through alleys and narrow streets, his frame jostling her back and guiding her by touch from behind. Occasionally, he grunted “left” or “right” when she wandered from the haphazard course only Stetch seemed to understand, and twice Katarina caught glimpses of the waterfront and the small skiffs that ferried travellers across the bay, colourful sails flapping in the spring breeze. After minutes of wandering, Stetch finally conceded they had eluded any pursuit, and they rejoined the main street, following the curve of the bay as it circled east back towards the Ninety-Third Passage.

  Once on the main road, it took every ounce of persuasion available to her to get Stetch to continue with their assignment rather than delivering Katarina back to the inn. Threats and curses failed, ricocheting off Stetch’s maudlin face with no response other than the occasional grunt or – once or twice – a firmer “no”. Reason finally prevailed, and Katarina’s assertion that Meracian Intelligence was too small to leave men outside all of the informants’ houses brought the first shadows of doubt to Stetch’s stony countenance. Eventually, Katarina had convinced him that the sooner they investigated the disappearances of her father’s spies, the sooner they could return home, a fact the Sworn man grudgingly conceded with a thoughtful grunt.

  ‘It’s just a shop,’ Katarina repeated as they stood watching the store across the road. They had been standing for a couple of minutes, watching the shop and the crowds passing by. So far, there were no signs that anybody was watching. But there wasn’t last time, Katarina reminded herself. He was good enough that neither of us suspected a thing. Her stomach fluttered slightly. Either way, we have a job to do.

  ‘Well?’ Katarina looked up at Stetch, and saw the tiniest of nods. When did the balance of power shift? she wondered. Why am I asking him? She cleared her throat, and stepped out into the street. ‘I’m going to look at the dresses,’ she announced. ‘Are you coming?’

  There was no answer but when she looked over her shoulder a moment later Stetch was there, striding towards the doorway with her. I guess so. ‘Try not to frighten the womenfolk,’ Katarina warned him. ‘And no fraternising with any young women in there.’ She reached the door, and looked him up and down: scruffy as ever, and more menacing than usual. ‘Try not scare anyone.’ Stetch would fail, of course, but Katarina felt she had to make some token effort to discourage the man from giving the women inside nightmares.

  *

  The interior of Felene’s Dresses was a riot of colour. Silk and satin dresses in every colour imaginable crafted in the latest Meracian styles hung from the walls, and racks of less expensive skirts and dresses dangling tantalisingly from racks lined up to form walkways; rich greens next to deep purples and bright yellows, the splashes of colour more gaudy than the painted Meracian architecture that lurked outside. In the back left corner of the room was a small counter, a young, frail woman hiding behind it with a look of fear lining her face. As soon as she saw Stetch, the expression deepened, and Katarina half-thought the girl would burst into tears. She sauntered over, ignoring the two other customers in the shop and plastering a false smile across her face as she reached the counter, studiously ignoring the latest dresses on display. Those with coin to spare always ignored the racks.

  ‘I would like to make an appointment,’ she began without preamble. ‘I am only in town for a few days and would like to commission Felene to design—’

  She stopped as the girl burst into tears. Not an encouraging sign, she thought. Normally it’s Stetch that makes them cry. The crying built in volume, and Katarina struggled to keep the irritation from her face. The other customers seemed to have found something interesting in the far corner of the shop, and Stetch’s sawing chuckle really wasn’t helping.

  Really? Katarina thought as half a minute later the girl was showing no signs of stopping, a much-used handkerchief appearing from her sleeve as the waterfall continued. Perhaps they were lovers, Katarina thought. A few loud snorts into the handkerchief followed, and Katarina revised her opinion. Definitely lovers. I would guess Felene was particularly talented to induce such devotion.

  The tears and sniffles finally subsided, the girl’s eyes red and puffy. ‘Is there a problem?’ Katarina asked, fighting to keep the grin from her face.

  The girl managed a weak nod, finally finding her voice. ‘Mistress Felene is dead,’ she sniffed, another deluge seemingly imminent. ‘Two weeks ago.’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ Katarina said. ‘Might I enquire how she passed?’

  A few more sniffles followed before the girl finally answered. ‘The mistress was attacked on the way home one night,’ she said. ‘Thieves, the Watch said.’ She blew loudly into the handkerchief. ‘Mistress Felene never carried the day’s takings, so they must have lost their temper.’

  ‘I am so sorry,’ Katarina said, her displeasure now genuine. ‘How long ago did you say this happened?’

  The girl sniffed, counting days on her fingers. ‘Sixteen days ago,’ she eventually calculated.

  Just before the last round of missives were sent home. Katarina didn’t think it was coincidence. Carefully orchestrated. How typically Meracian.

  Stetch was more than happy to leave the blubbing shop assistant behind, and the pair returned to the Ninety-Third Passage, a slow bustle building up as the lunch-time trade began to filter in through the doors. Lunch, and then it’s time to check on some of the other informants, Katarina decided as she thumped up the stairs, Stetch already making himself comfortable at the bar. She followed the corridor down to the end, unlocking her room and stepping inside. Something moved underfoot.

  She looked down and found a sheet of parchment under her boot, folded over on itself with a red wax seal holding the edges together. Katarina felt her heart racing. Who knows we’re here? she wondered. She ignored the message, stepping further into the room, a dagger already in her hand. A minute later, certain nothing had been disturbed and no-one was lying in wait, she returned to the parchment. She studied the wax seal carefully, the design unfamiliar. Certainly not Sudalrese. She broke the seal with her dagger and read the enclosed message carefully. Her face hardened, and she re-read it to make sure. Not good. Stetch was not going to be happy. Katarina smiled.

  14.

  Bugger.

  The day had begun badly with a late start and an ale-induced headache, and Tol was beginning to feel it might just have got a whole lot worse if the view at the end of his spyglass was anything to go by.

  The Sudalrese serving girl from last night had furnished Tol with directions to the three lords’ homes, and Tol had trudged off
towards the market. The bright, garish colours weren’t limited to Meracian architecture, he realised as he had reached the square, dozens upon dozens of cloth awnings forcing Tol to squint in the mid-morning sun. The noise from the crowd only antagonised him further, and Tol remained convinced he had been bilked on the brass spyglass by the over-keen trader who had sold it to him. Still, as the purse had been provided by Duke val Sharvina, Tol didn’t feel quite as bad as if it was his own money. That, of course, had sparked a post-ale bout of self-pity which faded only as Tol left the city’s central gate behind and made his way out into the fresh spring quiet that surrounded High Mera.

  The rivers Khah and Shal nearly joined as they reached the bay, but outside the city’s walls, the pair went their separate ways, heading north-west and north-east respectively. The meandering waterways split the countryside surrounding High Mera into three sections, and it was the central section that met up with the noble’s district beyond the walls which Tol chose. Lush grassland interspersed with ripening orchards littered the landscape for as far north as he could see, the only mar on the horizon a rectangular block of stone dead centre between the two rivers: Lord Fel Drayken’s manor. Tol stuck to the west side of the land, strolling along beside the Khah as innocently as he could manage. It was almost noon when he slipped into an orchard, the manor house still some distance away. The river Shal was already out of sight, veering east, deeper into the kingdom. Gradually, Tol worked his way through the orchard, listening for sounds of company even though he knew it was too early for fruit pickers.

  Near the orchard’s edge, Tol climbed a suitable tree, the sun positioned directly overhead and already making its way west. With no chance at reflected light giving away his position, he settled in between a couple of sturdy branches and pulled out his spyglass.

  Lord Drayken’s mansion was huge, a perfect square of gaudy yellow brickwork three stories high with a gently sloping roof. And a bloody great tree in the middle. As Tol played the spyglass over the structure he realised there was a courtyard in the centre, the giant oak springing up from its heart, the longest branches brushing the roof that surrounded it. The building appeared neither as sturdy as Norvek dwellings – or what little Tol remembered of houses in his native Havak – nor the gentle grace of Sudalrese architecture he had glimpsed as the Moontide had deposited him in Katarina’s homeland. The Meracians, it seemed, compensated for this by building larger and taller than anyone else. Tol shifted the spyglass, sweeping over the grounds surrounding Drayken’s manor. There was a large garden area encircling the building, and although there were plenty of trees and even shrubs, there was just too much open space to attempt any kind of trespass in anything less than total darkness. Ammerlac was on the wane, the grey slate of Griskalor replacing it in the sky, so that might be possible. Tol sighed. Then again…

  An eight-foot high wall bordered the garden. At first glance it appeared as nothing more than a deterrent to foil the most lackadaisical of intruders, nothing like the kind of fortification encircling Karnvost. Sunlight glinting off the wall’s peak told another story, though: glass on top. Not insurmountable, but another difficulty, nonetheless.

  Tol watched the movements of the household staff for half a bell, his heart sinking with each passing minute as he realised that the Meracians were probably aware of their defensive frailties. Too many guards, he soon realised. A pair patrolling the front, another pair patrolling the rear garden, and another couple comfortably ensconced in a sturdy gatehouse just inside the wall. Tol frowned as he watched the pair pacing the front gardens. It can’t be bandits. Marauders and robbers were a problem in Norvek, out in the remote wilderness, but from what Tol knew of Meracia, the lords would never tolerate such flagrant disregard for the rule of law. Unless it suits them, of course. So, why? What are they guarding? It seemed an excessive number of guards for a lord’s estate, especially once you took into account the other guards, no doubt waiting in the courtyard, more still in the house protecting the lord… A king’s coinroom, maybe? The guards out front were replaced by two others, and Tol watched as they returned inside. There’s a barracks inside, for sure. He puzzled over the security for a few minutes more. The most likely explanation was that Drayken knew he wasn’t on the side of angels, and that sooner or later someone would come for him. Which means I’m right, he thought. Kill the idiot before he loses the war for us. Tol folded up the spyglass and rubbed his chin. It was a shame, really. A room of gold and jewels would have been preferable. Sneak in, kill the fool, and maybe fill my pockets on the way out. Just spending money, of course, so he could pay his way to the Spur. Maybe a little more to purchase some armour. And some for if he survived. Definitely a shame, that. Instead of riches, Tol would find a house full of guards, and if Drayken really was a traitor they’d be expecting him. Bloody great.

  He climbed down from the tree and began retracing his steps, working his way south through the orchard. Getting in unseen would be difficult, if not impossible. Because, before he snuck over the wall, before he killed the guards, before Tol wandered through fifty rooms searching for Drayken, he would have to cross hundreds of yards of open ground, either coming through the orchard from the west, or through the distant woodland on the estate’s eastern side. Neither of which came even close to the walls. Anything other than a night assault would be suicidal, and if so much as a single guard saw him, if a single man cried out, Tol could expect two dozen more finding him within minutes.

  Bloody great. So much for a simple task.

  Tol walked until he reached the southern edge of the orchard, High Mera a smear of colour on the horizon. It was time, he decided, to tell Kalashadria what he had found. He looked around one last time. There was no-one around, so Tol stepped out from under the outermost branches.

  ‘Kalashadria.’ I feel like a fool. Tol called her name again, louder this time. ‘I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’ve found who’s stopping the army.’ He paused, glancing around again and waiting for a few moments, his eyes scanning the sky. How long would it take for an angel to fly down from the moon? A minute? Ten? Will she even come? He started pacing back and forth, under the shade of the apple trees and back out again. He waited impatiently, turning his head to the sky in the hopes of seeing her diving down to see him again, to talk again – even if only for a few minutes.

  Eventually he realised Kalashadria wasn’t coming, some part of him inside twisting in disappointment. ‘Kalashadria,’ he shouted again, unable to keep the anger from his voice. Three times he called, but the sky remained clear, unblemished. Tol cursed and turned his head to the sky. I hope Alimarcus is listening. If Kalashadria wouldn’t come to him, then Tol had to hope that the Voice of Heaven – Alimarcus, some strange, unfathomable intelligence – would hear Tol’s words and relay the message. ‘I don’t know if I can do this alone,’ Tol shouted. ‘There are three of them, all working against us. They’re all bloody mad here – I don’t know whether the lords are working for the Gurdal or just stupid…’

  Tol worked a kink out of his neck and took a deep breath. ‘There’s no time to find out for sure,’ he called up at the clouds, ‘I’m going to have to kill them all.’

  If that doesn’t bring her down then nothing will.

  He waited. A minute passed, then two. Tol resumed his pacing, the sun slowly reaching its zenith. At last, after a quarter-bell, he realised she had abandoned him.

  Alone again.

  ‘Alimarcus!’ Tol yelled at the sky, following it with an outpouring of sailor’s invective that made him feel a little better. ‘Tell her, tell her I’m alone and outnumbered.’ He paused, considering what to say. ‘Tell her I strike tonight.’ She should be here. I want to see her again. Annoying as the angel could be, it was true: Tol missed her. And that just made him angrier. ‘If you don’t hear from me by dawn,’ he snarled at the sun, ‘tell her I’m dead. Tell her to bring a fucking skyhammer and burn the city.’

  Tol wasn’t sure she could do that, still wasn’t really s
ure what a skyhammer did or if burning was any part of that, but he figured she’d get the message: if he failed then it would be down to her, and the angel would have to decide whether to save humanity or damn the whole world alongside her own slumbering people, letting the Gurdal and their demon masters conquer Korte until such time as the demons could repair the damaged worldholme on Griskalor, Korte’s other moon. Kalashadria had told him that such long-lived creatures as the demons could wait for centuries until – and this sounded impossible – the people of Korte could themselves travel among the stars, and would have the resources to repair the shattered worldholme where the demons languished. At first Tol had thought Kalashadria was teasing him, but he had eventually realised she was serious. And if the angels are as old as she says, then who knows what is possible? A ship that sails among the stars? Still, once you accepted that there were creatures in existence with wings, a flying city seemed a little less impossible. Might still be a joke at my expense, though.

  He cast one last angry glance skyward, then Tol stalked off back towards High Mera. Now for the other two lords, he decided. He was really hoping that their homes would be easier to breach, otherwise his night was going to be very short and tinged with failure. And blood, he thought. There’s always blood.

  I just hope it’s not mine.

  15.

  Something was different, wrong. Katarina could not identify what exactly, but a vague sense of unease had tickled her throughout lunch. She chewed her lip, watching Stetch as he took an inordinate amount of time to read the note she had discovered under her door. She had waited until lunch was nothing more than a memory on his plate, hoping that with one of Stetch’s appetites sated he might be more amenable to what she was about to propose. Not likely though. Another second passed, and Katarina began to wonder whether his mind had wandered. How long does it take to read? The note was brief, to the point: “I know what happened to your spies. If you want answers, be at the Lady Garden, third bell this afternoon.” It was signed simply, “The Gonk”, but even that was telling - someone knew enough about Sudalra to use the prophet’s distant homeland as a name.