Angel's Deceit (Angelwar Book 2) Page 22

  She changed quickly, straightening her long brown hair and nodding at the tired face that peered out of her mirror: not a face to snare a prince, but not one to send small children running. She tried a smile, but her reflection just looked like it was snarling. Where’s Stetch? He should have returned by now, and Katarina was starting to worry. The man had so very many flaws, but abandoning his duty was not one of them. If something had waylaid him, then either she was exceptionally beautiful (though it was doubtful anyone that beautiful would succumb to Stetch’s charms), or someone very, very dangerous had crossed the Sworn man’s path; possibly several someones.

  She tried his room, but found it empty, and a visit downstairs yielded similarly fruitless results; Estella had not yet unlatched the door, and the dour woman hadn’t opened it since last night’s unwanted visitors had arrived.

  She chewed her lip as she returned upstairs. Had Stetch succeeded in his mission? Had he been killed by the Meracians – or even caught? If they had him then that meant they would soon discover her too. He would hold out for as long as he could – of that she was certain – but her father had told her many stories concerning Meracian Intelligence and their particular methods for getting answers. How long can he hold out? she wondered as she reached the door. A day? Two? The sensible course was to leave at once and either seek sanctuary with the ambassador or flee High Mera before anyone realised who they had been hunting.

  She sighed, opening the door to see Vixen jerk herself back to full consciousness. Her eyes drifted to the pale body lying on the bed. And then there’s Steven. If the Meracians found she had been here then anyone still around would find themselves prompted by a fiery poker. Even if Steven was still alive when they arrived, they would most probably kill him once they realised he was too weak to withstand any meaningful torture. The sensible course was not entirely appealing.

  ‘How is he?’

  Vixen yawned. ‘No change.’

  Katarina sighed. The chances of Steven surviving even a day seemed remote. His skin looked paler, more wax-like than at dawn, and a large pile of damp cloths were strewn across the floor; the result of Vixen’s ministrations. Katarina closed the door behind her, made her way over to the bed and perched just beyond Steven’s feet. She kept her eyes on Vixen; it was easier.

  ‘Here.’

  Vixen shook her head, refusing the offered journal. ‘I don’t want to know any more.’

  ‘The truth is never painless,’ Katarina told her, rising to her feet. She thrust the book towards her. ‘You will finish what you began.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You believed he might hear you, that it might bring him back if only to say goodbye.’ Katarina pressed the journal into Vixen’s hands, her delicate fingers folding the calloused Northern hands around the leather. ‘We are out of time, and have no other options. Will you not help your friend?’

  ‘You’re enjoying this.’

  Katarina released Vixen’s hands and sat back down. ‘I enjoy nothing about this entire situation, including your presence here.’ She straightened up and pointed at the book. ‘Stop mewling like a child and read.’

  *

  The first day of our church began with seven knights carrying a delirious, drunken priest to our rooms. We took turns watching over him through the night, grim-faced and angry. We saved the world, but it wasn’t enough and now we had to save a drunk and turn him into a leader.

  He woke round noon, squinty-eyed with a corpse’s pallor. The seven of us crowded in the room, watching and waiting.

  ‘Galandor sent us,’ Valeron began. He stopped as the wandering priest winced and pleaded with us not to shout. Looked pretty scared, too, and gave the window a glance more than once. Conscious less than five minutes and already he was thinking about leaving. The others saw it too, and Patrick moved to stand in front of the window, the look on his face daring the priest to try and pass him. Wouldn’t have helped anyway, we were on the second floor, but a crippled priest would have slowed us down.

  The priest blinked, and finally spoke, his voice barely a whisper.

  ‘Who is Galandor?’

  ‘The pigeon-man,’ I told him when the cursing died down.

  ‘That was real?’

  Turned out the face of our new religion was so drunk he had thought his encounter with Galandor a brandied dream.

  Valeron was always the speaker among us. Don’t know when it happened, but he was the one who wrote down Galandor’s words and somehow became the one who dealt most often with the priest. A kinder temperament than the rest of us maybe, or just more patient. He laid it out then and there, told the priest what had happened on the Spur, told him Galandor had chosen him to start a new church and that it would bring people together, uniting them against the Gurdal. Left out some of the more choice details – we’d all agreed on that – but Valeron told him enough to sober up a lesser man. We had never considered the priest might not want to start a new church. The man was still drunk enough he couldn’t quite remember his name, so maybe we shouldn’t have been surprised.

  Valeron explained the importance of our task, though even his patience was waning. The priest listened, and when Valeron had finished he asked but a single question:

  ‘What’s in it for me?’

  Maybe it wasn’t my finest hour but I lost my temper then, and didn’t even notice when the priest sneezed a thin stream of puke over me as I choked the life out of him. My brothers pulled me off him, but I can’t say as they were too enthusiastic with it. Reckon they’d have been happier if we let the bugger die, but we’d sworn a vow so I didn’t hold it against them.

  It was the quietest argument I ever heard, my friend Valeron trying to convince the priest to help us in hushed tones. Every time the priest winced, Valeron dropped his voice further until the rest of us could barely hear and crowded round, a semi-circle of warriors listening in earnest. Didn’t work, of course, the priest had decided he liked his life as it was, without complications. The argument ended when he again asked what was in it for him. I jammed my thumbs into my belt so I didn’t draw and cleave him in two. Instead, I leaned forward, my face lost in a cloud of soured breath and last night’s ale.

  ‘Problem is, Brother Soiled-Breeches, you know the plan, and if you ain’t going to help us save the world then we got no cause to keep you around.’

  He backed away, wincing at the sound, but I wasn’t done. ‘And that means you’re just a danger we don’t need. So, Breeches, what’s it going to be? You want to save the world or lie under it?’

  The priest hiccoughed, his nervous eyes dancing from one face to the next but there weren’t no friends there.

  ‘You wouldn’t harm a man of faith,’ he said.

  I grabbed his stinking robes and hauled the man to his feet. ‘We’re the knights of the pigeon-man,’ I told him as I dragged him out onto the landing, the others following meekly, ‘and we killed more men then flagons you’ve drained.’

  I looked back over my shoulder at Valeron as I dragged the priest downstairs. ‘We need a new priest,’ I told him. I’d seen a narrow stream running round the back of the inn, so that was where I dragged the priest, and none of my brothers stopped me.

  ‘Last chance,’ I snarled. ‘Save the world or die.’

  He was shaking, more than just the drink would bring, and there was familiar smell that any man who’s survived a battlefield knows.

  Patrick barked a laugh as he sniffed. ‘Looks like Breeches done filled his breeches again,’ he said.

  Nobody stopped me so I buried the priest’s head in the stream and drowned him.

  *

  ‘No more,’ Vixen pleaded, slapping the journal shut. ‘I don’t want to know any more.’

  Katarina held out her hand and took the book from her. ‘Get some sleep,’ she told the woman.

  Vixen released the book and smiled, like they might one day be friends or something. ‘You’ll need it when the Meracians come,’ Katarina added, ignoring the dark look she rec
eived as Vixen flounced off and slammed the door behind her. Oh well, Katarina thought, it’s not like the sound will wake him.

  She castigated herself for pitying the northern woman. The story had just been getting interesting, and if Steven died then trying to get Vixen to finish it would most likely be a futile effort. And I’ll only have to kill her afterwards.

  Kur Kraven reminded Katarina of his distant descendant. The knight from the time of the church’s founding seemed a lot like Steven: stubborn, self-confident, and utterly incapable of listening to anyone. But worse, she reminded herself. Where there was some give in Steven, Kur was a rope already taut, liable to snap and snarl across the deck under a slight strain, whipping at whatever was in his path and leaving only death and destruction in his wake.

  She looked down at Steven’s unconscious form. But is that all there was to the man? True, Kur seemed like an untamed animal, but there seemed to be some streak of honour in him; he had, after all, given the priest a chance and Katarina wasn’t sure the same could be said if Stetch – or any of the Sworn – had been in that position. And what of my own forebear? Why did Father never tell me – does he even know? What was one of our family doing on the Spur?

  Katarina sighed, knowing that the answers were so close, but frustratingly unreadable, unless she could convince Vixen or some other Havakkian – they weren’t numerous, so it didn’t seem likely – to read Kur’s journal. And answers are rarely what we expect, she reminded herself. Most frustrating of all though was the ache in her chest that bloomed every time she looked down at the dying body of the world’s most irritating man.

  Don’t you dare die, she warned him.

  32.

  They sat in the top of the church’s bell tower as the horde grew closer, no longer black specks on the smeared skyline. Closer and closer, so that now banners were clearly visible as they hung limp in the windless sky. Still they waited.

  Kal was restless at the approach of an entire army. We should run while we can, he thought. Sitting here like targets? It’s insane! Sir Benvedor seemed content to wait, staring out over the high walls of Shade with such malice that Kal thought he was trying to wish the Gurdal to death. Beside him, the Sudalrese warrior Salazar stood relaxed, gazing out on the army with mild interest, as if it was a new delicacy to be sampled. Sir Vrillian, his expensive Meracian clothing shrouded in dirt and sweat, leaned against one of the pillars. He kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze flicking from the army to Salazar as if unsure which threat deserved his attention. His hands, too, did not remain still, drifting from sword-hilt to trimmed brown goatee and back. Sir Catardor, young like Vrillian, waited at the bottom of the stairs in shadow. Kal had seen him unsheathe his sword, leaning back against the wall as he had done when he guarded the church’s entrance, sword tip resting on the wall so that his arms did not bear the sword’s full weight. Kal liked neither man, though of the two at least Sir Catardor seemed to have a sense of humour. The pair looked down on both Kal and Sir Benvedor, whom they regarded as little more than a savage with a title. It was said that the Meracians had developed the chivalrie codus, the set of rules that governed knights’ behaviour and responsibilities. Other nations, at least according to Vrillian and Catardor, had copied the model of this martial and social system where a lord’s most loyal warriors were rewarded with knighthoods, land, and greater freedom than the unwashed masses, all of which were poor copies indeed compared to the magnificence of Meracian society. That was how they put it anyway. Kal thought they had said it just to annoy Sir Benvedor, but the knight had just laughed and said that he was glad they hadn’t copied all of Meracia’s habits. Kal wasn’t sure what he meant, but Vrillian and Catardor had both turned a deep shade of beetroot and thereafter never brought up the topic again.

  ‘How many do you think, southern man?’ asked Sir Benvedor.

  ‘Twenty-five, maybe thirty thousand.’

  Sir Benvedor nodded, drops of sweat flying from his long blond hair. ‘Time to leave.’

  Kal sighed in relief, his cheeks colouring as Sir Benvedor glared at him. He hurried down the rickety stairs of the tower, glad of the cool air inside. It was quieter, too: outside they could already hear people thronging the streets as they fought to flee north. He followed Vrillian back into the church’s back rooms, stepping over the dead acolyte while trying not to inhale the stink. The knights gathered round Sir Benvedor in the nave, Salazar joining them too.

  ‘It is time for us to part ways,’ Salazar said. ‘Thank you for allowing me to see the army from your tower.’

  ‘You can stay longer if you like,’ Sir Vrillian suggested.

  Salazar shook his head. ‘I must head north and bring word of the enemy’s strength to my kinsmen.’

  ‘As do we,’ Sir Benvedor. ‘Go with the Maker, and perhaps we shall meet again. You have my thanks for the boy’s life.’ He clasped hands with the Sudalrese warrior, Catardor and Vrillian following suit somewhat reluctantly. Last of all Salazar shook hands with Kal, smiling as Kal tried to thank him.

  Salazar sketched a quick bow then headed out of the door, two shadows detaching themselves from nearby buildings and falling in with him.

  Benvedor adjusted his sword belt, rolling his meaty shoulders. ‘Squire, stay close once we’re in the street. Remember, watch the eyes of those we pass, not their hands.’

  Kal nodded. ‘Yes, master.’

  The quartet strode out into the sunlight straight into a throng of people heading towards the north gate. Kal understood at once why Sir Benvedor had waited. The crowd offered protection of a sort, and it would be harder for the priest’s killers to find them.

  Pressed in among the mass of bodies, the knights were swept along, Kal’s eyes searching left and right as common folk jostled against them. The pungent scent of spices and sweat assaulted his nose as they followed the street north, passing between the rough-shaped dwellings of merchants and traders, stone worn smooth by years of sandstorms. Many stood empty already, while Kal saw movement inside others as residents tried to decide what they dared leave for the Gurdal and what they could not bear to be parted from. Others, he noticed, stayed in their homes, watching the fleeing residents with sour stares. For many, he knew, the city was the only home they had ever known. Perhaps they think the Gurdal will be merciful, Kal thought. He doubted it, but people were wont to believe whatever suited them. Surely they don’t think the city guard can repel them? A few hundred poorly trained guardsmen against the eastern savages? Kal didn’t think much of those odds.

  The street opened up like a chasm before them, the knights flooding into Shade’s central market. Here the sights and smells were more vibrant than ever, a mess of vivid colours: rugs woven by the gnarled nans and nut-brown maids, ripe fruits brought south, and gaudy pottery painted by children not yet turned to thievery and murder. The market was busier than Kal had ever seen it, the rows between stalls packed to bursting with two-legged flies. Order was failing as many tried to filch and pilfer from the traders as they were swept passed the stalls. The traders had armed themselves with sticks and had mostly given up trying to stop the thieves, instead lashing out at anyone passing in an attempt to deter them. The crowd, innocent and guilty alike, were losing patience by the end of the gauntlet and Kal saw one trader swept along, trampled after lashing out once too often. Another screamed as blood gushed from his neck like a spring.

  Sir Benvedor shouldered his way across to the left wall of the market, his large frame and craggy features preventing anything more than muttered curses from the crowd. He cleared a path, and Kal, Vrillian and Catardor followed in his wake as the scene in the centre of the market descended further still towards chaos. Sir Benvedor’s head swung right, taking it all in at a glance as the crowd’s voice rose towards a crescendo. Kal lost sight of him for a moment as a young woman grabbed his arm, begging for coins. Then something had his left arm and he was dragged from the square into a narrow alley.

  Kal went for his sword, stoppi
ng as Sir Catardor stepped back and released him. The Meracian arched an eyebrow, and Kal let his arm fall back to his side. ‘Sorry,’ he yelled, trying to be heard over the din.

  ‘Quickly, boy, it’s about to turn ugly.’

  Kal followed him down the alley, craning his head round as screams ripped the air.

  ‘We should help them,’ he yelled ahead. He didn’t think Sir Catardor had heard him so Kal grabbed his arm. The knight spun, his face furious. ‘They can’t be helped, boy. It’s too late for them.’

  Sir Catardor’s face shifted to surprise and he flung Kal against the wall as something whizzed past. Kal felt chunks of the alley’s stone hit him. He blinked, looked back and saw a man with a crossbow, slipping into the alley after them and trying to reload. Someone must have knocked him as he loosed the quarrel, Kal realised. Sir Catardor pushed past him.

  ‘Go with the others,’ he shouted, running towards the crossbowman.

  Sir Benvedor and Sir Vrillian had looked back when the quarrel skimmed past, but were already moving towards the end of the alley. For a moment Kal was caught between them and Sir Catardor, looking from one to the other. Then he was running, frantically trying to catch Sir Benvedor as he and Sir Vrillian exited the alley and joined the throng of people.

  Kal came out of the alley onto a less tightly-packed road. The street was still crowded with old and young alike, but Kal managed to thread his way through the crowd, shouldering people aside as he tried to catch up with Sir Benvedor. Half a foot taller than anyone else, he was a hard man to miss, even in a crowd. Kal was glad of the knight’s size, but he realised that in a place like this it would still be easy for assassins to find him. Easy, but the crowds will help us not them. At least, that was what he hoped.

  The citadel was looming to Kal’s right as he finally caught up with his master, following in his wake like a dutiful servant. They veered sharply left, into another narrow alley, and Kal only just made the turn, knocking a clay bowl from an old woman’s arms but not having chance to apologise. He hurried over to Sir Benvedor as the knight made a stirrup of his hands and hoisted Sir Vrillian up. The knight pulled himself up onto the roof of small shack and Sir Benvedor waited for Kal to catch up.