Angel's Deceit (Angelwar Book 2) Page 9

  Stetch hefted his mug and drained the dregs of his ale, slamming it onto the table with a satisfying belch. He grinned and pointed at the tankard.

  Tol burst into laughter. Aye, drinking seems like as good a way of dealing with her as any.

  Stetch shook his head to clear his thoughts and pushed his chair back, rising to his feet with barely a tilt from the vertical.

  ‘Thanks,’ Tol said as Stetch’s facial muscles tightened, the mask of the Sworn resuming its place on the warrior’s face.

  ‘Welcome,’ Stetch grunted. He turned to leave but stopped and looked back with a wry smile. ‘You buy, I’ll listen.’

  As Stetch stomped up the stairs Tol thought it might be the closest the man had ever come to making an offer of friendship.

  12.

  There was a cold snap to the morning as Katarina stepped out of the Ninety-Third Passage, layers of frost sparkling on the multicoloured facades of houses and shop fronts. It was a new day in High Mera, the day’s potential not yet lost. Steven’s transgression had not been forgotten – a poor first impression with such an influential man as Lord Calderon could not be dismissed so easily – but Katarina had set it aside for the moment. Today, it seemed, it was the turn of Stetch to annoy and confound her. It had taken three sharp kicks to his prone form to rouse the sleeping warrior, and the fool had already delayed her departure from the inn. Judging by the sour smell that radiated out for half a dozen feet, he had been drinking late last night. He was certainly more sullen than usual. But that could just because he hasn’t threatened or killed anyone for a week.

  ‘You’ll soon feel better, Stetchy,’ she said, unable to resist the temptation. ‘We are going to visit a dressmaker.’

  Stetch replied with a florid curse in Sudalrese, and Katarina felt her fledgling smile wither. So it’s going to be like that. She walked on, away from the bridge and towards the mercantile district that nestled nearby – an additional buffer between the stinking masses and the Meracian nobility.

  The crowds were slight, the day’s early risers unbothered by beggars or guards. Katarina’s eyes flitted over the passing women, but most were poorly dressed and she got no sense of current Meracian fashions. With a plan to visit several establishments – and trying to travel without attracting too much attention – Katarina had slipped into her plainest clothes: a deep blue skirt that tickled her ankles, and an understated tan tunic, bereft of lace but elaborately stitched and of the quality that a lady of a minor house might wear in public. The knives, of course, were Katarina’s final accoutrement, discreetly sheathed about her person. Probably wise, she thought as another gust of yesterday’s ale drifted over from Stetch. Maybe their vow – the one that no one knows – is to drink as much ale as they can. It was an interesting idea, and Katarina found a smile spreading across her face. Perhaps it’s not a vow of service to Sudalra at all, but some huge joke that only insane warriors understand. The Sworn all looked serious, and they could certainly murder their way out of most situations, but there seemed little more to them than glorified – and deadly – servants. And, from what I have observed, most of the situations they have to slaughter their way out of are ones entirely of their own making. Stetch seemed to have an uncanny skill for inciting everyone he met to violence, and Katarina didn’t think his comrades would be so very different. Still, she thought, a good man in a fight, even if he usually starts it.

  ‘First, though,’ Katarina said as she turned off the main road, ‘I thought we might visit a weaponsmith.’

  The grunt that came from Stetch sounded almost like he was impressed. Almost.

  *

  If anyone can tell us what’s happening here, it’s Cargal, Katarina thought as they reached the smith’s shop, a small one-storey sword-grey building. He had, her father said, left their homeland some decade ago, and the shop’s unadorned façade, lack of architectural embellishments, and the choice of a single colour for the plastered stone all suggested Meracia had not entirely corrupted the simple spirit of a Sudalrese smith. But these subtle differences that made the store stand out also suggested that even after a decade in High Mera, Cargal had not fully integrated into Meracian society. Katarina wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or not as she approached the door – and even that had a simple, brass handle, bereft of unnecessary design. It was the shop, she felt sure, of a plain man, one who chose practicality over beauty. And yet his work is much in demand among the Meracian nobles. Many nobles young and old left the relative sanctuary of their central district and crossed the river, making the journey to a man whose weapons were both beauty and function, a nod to Meracian tastes that had proved popular. And Cargal had repaid his homeland with sporadic reports, scratched scraps of parchment in a heavy-handed script that relayed court gossip and odd bits of news the smith heard from his customers. A ship from High Mera had reached Katarina’s home only days before she had returned from Norve with a troublesome youth bound in a small cabin. Only a single missive had arrived though, and it had been from the blacksmith. Two lines, the large letters scored so heavily into the parchment that ink had been almost unnecessary: “Foul mood in the city. People disappearing. Rumour is Meracian Intelligence are clearing house.”

  Some of her father’s more regular informants had failed to report anything – not so much as a word – and the content of Cargal’s message had been enough to worry Duke val Sharvina. And if Father’s worried, things must be bad. The timing, too, was suspicious: why hunt down foreign spies when an army was massing on the edges of Meracian lands? And so here she was, dangerously – excitingly – close to a war zone, despatched to hold Steven’s hand while finding out the fate of Sudalrese spies. The roster of names was graven in Katarina’s mind, but Cargal was top of the list. Assuming he’s not dead.

  A none-too-discreet cough snapped her out of her reverie, and Katarina turned the handle, a tiny bell tinkling as she stepped into the shop, heat from a furnace in the back lashing her like a whip. Stetch followed her in, and Katarina thought for a moment the man had sighed in pleasure, as though he was finally somewhere where he felt at home. Other than a tavern.

  Inside, the shop was just as plain, racks of swords lining the walls with glass cases – home to some of the more ornate weapons – dotting the floor. At the rear of the shop a counter stretched across the floor with a sullen, big-armed youth loitering behind it.

  Katarina approached the counter as Stetch wandered off, gazing hungrily at the festival of steel like all his birthdays had come at once. Damned man, Katarina thought as she smiled sweetly at the boy behind the counter.

  ‘I am looking to have a sword custom-made for my brother,’ she told the boy. ‘A friend recommended Master Cargal.’ She frowned elaborately, continuing before the boy could draw breath. ‘Are you Master Cargal? I was under the impression he is of Sudalrese ancestry.’

  The boy shook his head, jaw flapping as a rough mop of unruly hair fluttered. ‘No, my lady. Master Cargal is not here today. If you can explain what you are looking for I can relay the design to the master when he returns.’

  Katarina forced a wide smile. ‘That is most kind,’ she purred, ‘but the requirements are quite specific, and I would feel more comfortable discussing the design with Master Cargal himself; his reputation is such I might be swayed by his opinion. Do you know when he will return?’

  ‘Um, I’m not really sure. I was expecting him today… He’s never missed a day’s work,’ the boy added quickly. ‘This is most unlike him.’

  ‘That is a shame,’ Katarina said. ‘I am only in the city for a few days, and I am unlikely to return for many months.’ She tapped her lip thoughtfully, and gave the boy a sympathetic smile. ‘And I suppose you cannot leave the store unattended, lest the master returns?’

  ‘No, my lady.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Katarina pretended to ponder this at length for some moments, her face finally blossoming into a beatific smile. ‘I know! I could visit the master at his home. If he is unwell I can bring
word to you, and if not then I can describe the sword I wish him to forge.’

  There was a soft rasp of steel behind her, followed by a rhythmic whooshing, like a sword being spun in a series of strikes. Slow at first, gradually building speed. Katarina watched as the boy’s eyes kept darting past her to the sword spinning in Stetch’s hands.

  ‘Well…’

  The sound grew closer, and Katarina felt Stetch approaching from behind, the rhythm building to a dizzying crescendo as the smith’s assistant began to pale. So the man does have some uses after all.

  The boy swallowed. ‘I guess it can’t hurt.’

  And it was as easy as that.

  *

  Cargal’s house was further round the bay, away from the wealthier areas and only a short walk from the poor district that nudged against the docks. Katarina let her eyes drift back to the small house, its exterior drab by Meracian standards – painted a single colour, and decidedly lacking in architectural frills. A workman’s house. For the last five minutes she had been loitering a few doors down, pretending to examine a stallholder’s wares while keeping Cargal’s house in her periphery, watching for any signs of movement within. Stetch, as helpful as ever, just stared at the stall owner with his usual degree of menace.

  Katarina politely declined the stallholder’s latest exorbitant offer for her wares. ‘Come along,’ she told Stetch, leaving the stall and leading him towards their destination.

  ‘Dead,’ he said as they reached the door.

  Katarina knocked. ‘Probably,’ she agreed, ‘but we need to know for certain.’

  They waited a few moments, listening. Nothing.

  ‘Open it.’

  She grabbed Stetch’s arm. ‘Don’t kick it down.’

  He sighed, and Katarina knew that was exactly what he had been planning. The Sworn have no sense of subtlety, she thought. There were plenty of people buzzing up and down the street now, but the damned man still thought that kicking in the door was the best choice, either ignorant or uncaring of the attention such action might bring. Why did my father foist him on me? Surely there are others in the Sworn who are less obnoxious, less thuggish? Is it so much to ask for a man who understands subtlety, who thinks beyond killing as many people as possible?

  She heard a faint click, the lockpicks disappearing between Stetch’s gnarled fingers in an instant. Not a complete barbarian, it would seem. Stetch slipped through the doorway first, and Katarina hurried in after him. She closed the door behind her quietly, and wasn’t surprised to find Stetch already had a dagger in his hand as he moved ahead. He was probably hoping that there’d be someone here to get in his way.

  They wound their way through every room, first the downstairs and then the upper floor. The house was empty, its contents strewn here and there. The clutter of a man living alone, Katarina decided as their search ended in the smith’s bedroom. Except… the shop was neat and tidy, everything in its place. Would such a man keep his home any different? Katarina didn’t think so, which could mean only one thing.

  ‘Somebody’s been here.’

  ‘Dead,’ Stetch said, a smug grin on his face.

  ‘Almost certainly. No body, though, so whoever killed him came here after, searching for something. But what?’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘No. I rather think they were looking for evidence.’ Katarina’s mood soured as she considered the implications. ‘They knew he was one of our informants, and either Cargal knew something they want to keep from my father, or they suspect he did. I don’t like this, Stetch, not one little bit.’

  Stetch grunted, a hint of sympathy to it.

  ‘The question is, did they find what they were looking for?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is no time to be flippant,’ she snapped.

  Stetch glared at her, his lips pressed in a tight line. ‘Look,’ he grunted, gesturing at the room. ‘Properly.’

  Katarina blushed, reining in her temper and trying to see whatever Stetch had noticed. How was I supposed to know he was being serious? Finally, Katarina gave up. ‘I don’t see it. Are you just toying with me? Because if you are—’

  Stetch clamped a hand over her mouth, a finger raised forcefully to his lips. The finger moved after a moment and Stetch pointed downstairs. Katarina nodded. We’re not alone.

  13.

  Stetch moved silently to the bedroom’s front window, peering out to look at the entrance. He hesitated a second, then slipped across the room to a side window, opening out onto a narrow alleyway. He peered out of this too, and quickly examined the window’s fastenings. He cracked it open in one smooth motion then hurried towards her, jerking a thumb towards the window.

  Katarina shook her head. No, she mouthed.

  Stetch’s expression shifted, and he leapt towards her, covering the distance in a heartbeat, one meaty hand slapping her chest with such force she flew back against the bed and tumbled on top of it.

  ‘How dare you,’ she hissed, struggling to right herself and clamber off the straw mattress as a figure burst through the doorway. Katarina just had time to make out a neatly-groomed moustache before the figure reached Stetch, his hand moving in a blur, steel arcing towards Stetch’s throat.

  Katarina let out a breath as the ring of steel echoed through the room, caught a glimpse of surprise on the intruder’s young face as his attack was parried with Sudalrese steel. Again and again, the sound rang through the smith’s bedroom, the attacker lost from sight as Stetch wedged himself between the Meracian and Katarina. She slithered off the mattress slowly, transfixed by the deadly spectacle as the two men stood almost motionless, their shoulders and arms the only betrayal of stillness.

  A soft gurgle sounded as the steel fell quiet, and then the room was deathly still. Katarina released a ragged breath, her hand already on the dagger secreted in the top of her boot. A dull thump followed, and Katarina took a step towards the pair, surprised at the relief she felt.

  Stetch stepped over the body, pausing at the threshold and poking his head out to survey the hallway. He strode back a second later, eyes sweeping over the corpse at his feet.

  ‘Just one,’ he snorted. He knelt down next to the body, but ignored it altogether, instead picking up the dagger between finger and thumb. He held it out before him like a dead rat, turning it in the mid-morning light. After a moment, he brought it close to his face and sniffed the blade.

  ‘Poison,’ he said with as much disdain as Katarina had ever heard him muster.

  ‘Did it touch you?’

  The answering scowl suggested otherwise. ‘Hanwell root,’ he said with a slight shake of his head. ‘Meracian Intelligence.’

  ‘It’s true then?’ Katarina felt the colour draining from her face. She had thought the rumours of Meracian agents coating their blades with hanwell root were just a story put about to discourage foreign spies plying their trade in Meracia. Apparently not. Of all the poisons known, hanwell root was the worst. Not the deadliest, though it nearly always killed, but certainly the nastiest. The root rotted a man’s guts from the inside, and guaranteed an agonisingly slow death - but only after days or even weeks of suffering. Katarina had seen the plant once or twice: a pleasant looking little thing that appeared perfectly harmless. When properly prepared, however, it became something entirely more deadly. A poison well-suited to the duplicitous Meracians.

  Stetch nodded. ‘Time to leave.’

  Katarina followed the warrior out of the room and down the stairs. Why? she wondered. Why do the Meracians want us dead? There would be no simple answer, of that she was sure; with Meracians there was never a simple explanation for anything. Perhaps it was a renegade spy, or a faction within Meracian Intelligence directed by some malfeasant lord. Or perhaps, Katarina thought, something far worse. If the Gurdal had found a foothold within the city, their agents could already be gathering power in the shadows, destabilising the kingdom’s fickle heart. Could they be the ones behind the disappearance of my father’s informants? And if so,
to what end? It was a troubling idea because, Katarina reasoned, the only rationale for killing all of Sudalra’s spies was to prevent them from learning the truth. But what truth?

  Stetch stopped at the threshold, one hand on the door while the other landed heavily on Katarina’s shoulder. She opened her mouth to complain about his too-familiar manner, but the warrior’s face was carved in stone and as grim as she had ever seen it.

  ‘Something happens,’ he said slowly, ‘you run. Understand?’

  Katarina bit back on the sarcasm, a chill of tension in her tendons. ‘You think there’s more outside?’

  Stetch ignored the question. ‘Long Night Inn,’ he said, his face looking pained as though it hurt to do more than grunt. ‘Know it?’

  ‘East district?’

  He nodded. ‘Ask for Kaltaris. Say I sent you. He’ll get you home.’ Another pause, as he carefully studied her face. ‘Understand?’

  ‘I am not a fool.’

  ‘Don’t stop,’ he warned her. ‘Run.’

  ‘I understand,’ Katarina snapped. ‘Can we go now?’

  Stetch just stood there staring, not so much as a muscle twitching. ‘Fine,’ Katarina sighed, ‘if this goes sour I’ll find him.’ She couldn’t resist twisting the knife. ‘I didn’t realise you had such a poor opinion of your own abilities.’

  He had her against the wall before her mouth closed, an iron hand gripping her throat and holding Katarina up on the tips of her toes.

  ‘No game,’ he snarled. ‘Someone knows we’re here and they’ll kill you if they can.’

  Katarina struggled weakly, but Stetch’s free hand idly slapped her arms away each time she tried to break his hold. ‘You’re in my world now, my rules.’ He leaned in close, face inches from her own. ‘Do what I say or get trussed like Kraven.’

  ‘You wouldn’t!’ Katarina croaked, but those eyes didn’t lie, and she knew that on this matter Stetch would not be swayed, every bit as intractable as the rest of his brotherhood once they got an idea in their heads. The Sworn could sneak, spy, and murder as well as anyone – better, if she was honest – but at the first whiff of a threat to the homeland they would mutate into murderous ghouls of unrelenting violence. Demons, witnesses to such events called them. Never for long though, because a more restrained brother would come along to tidy the mess left by his comrades until all that remained was a trail of bodies and speculation.