The Lawkeeper of Samara (The Fourth Age of Shanakan Book 2) (23 page)

At sunrise Arla assembled a group of lawmakers, about half their current strength. She made it a mix of bows and swords, not knowing what to expect, but wanting enough force to respond to anything they met.

She knew where to start. Some of Ulric’s informers had told her that Delantic owned a house on Dorian Street on the northern fringes of Morningside. It was not the very best area, but it was quite respectable – the sort of place where people lived if they wanted to get away from the bustle of the city.

She knew that such a large group would make a good target, and she had them march in high readiness, spread out like a guard patrol, arrows on the string, swords drawn and tracking opposite sides of the street with five paces between each.

The streets were quite empty when they set out. It was the time of fast breaking, and today it was a convenient custom. Arla wanted to get to Delantic’s house as fast as she could, and if they were attacked she wanted empty streets. They walked quickly. Arla watched the windows and doors on the opposite side of the street, looking for any movement that might be the raising of a crossbow, but she saw nothing. At each street corner she paused, examining the new ground for a few seconds before leading her people across to better cover.

They moved through the old city without any sign of trouble, and carried on into the wider thoroughfares of Morningside. Here they began to see people, men and women walking down the hill to their places of business. Some cast curious looks at the lawkeepers, others retreated into side streets. This was the first time she had wished they were not quite so obvious in their bright red tabards.

Morningside, too, passed without incident, and in a short while they reached Dorian Street. It was quiet, which was how Arla liked it. She was surprised that they had come so far without any kind of attack. It made her suspect a trap.

She stationed four men at the entrance to the street with orders not to allow anyone to enter or leave, and advanced with the rest of her force.

The houses here were set back from the street, and the fashion was to have small fruit trees set in paved areas before each house. Many of them bore fruit at this time of year, and the street looked quite charming and innocent.

They came to Delantic’s house. It was hard to miss. The name ‘Delantic’ was carved in stone above the front door, flanked by four cherry trees. It looked the picture of genteel living.

Arla left more men flanking the house and walked up to the door herself. It was a solid oak affair, and she doubted that even Gilan could have kicked it in.

She knocked.

It seemed that she waited a long time, standing in the street in the shade of the house. She glanced back at the other lawkeepers. They were crouched down, watching her and watching the street.

There was the sound of a bolt being drawn. The door swung open.

Arla was ready to shoot, but when she saw the man who had opened the door she lowered her bow.

“Yes?” He was old. His grey hair was neatly combed across the top of his head. He squinted up at her against the bright sky. His own body, clothed in black, made him seem just a withered head mounted upon shadows.

“Delantic?” she asked.

“Trader Delantic is not at home,” the man said. He moved to close the door, but Arla put her boot in the way.

“We’d like to come in,” she said. The old man peered past her and noted the men in the street.

“All of you?” he asked. “I told you he’s not here.”

“Who are you?” Arla asked.

“I am a servant in this house,” he said. “My name is Hummel.”

“Well, Hummel, four of us will be coming in. We need to search the house because we suspect Trader Delantic of certain crimes.”

“Crimes?” The old man did not stand aside.

Arla pushed past. She walked into a hallway that reeked of opulence. The floor was white marble touched here and there with black. A staircase went upstairs and five white doors opened off the space. The walls and ceiling were also white, and far above a skylight flooded the room with morning light.

“I did not give you leave to enter,” the old man complained.

“Nevertheless, we have.” Arla beckoned three more of her men through the door. “Search the place,” she said. “Every room behind every door, every cupboard, drawer and box. Look for hiding places.”

They left. Doors opened and closed and Arla was alone with Hummel.

“Where has your master gone?” Arla asked. “Do you expect him to return soon?” The old man stared at her, but did not speak. It seemed that the violation of his master’s threshold had rendered him stubborn. “You’d be well advised to speak, Hummel,” she said. “You would not want to be thought complicit in the crimes we are investigating.”

Hummel folded his arms. He continued to stare at her, his mouth set in a disapproving line. Arla decided that it would be best to ignore him. She walked to one of the doors that her men had not passed through and opened it.

What lay beyond was a formal dining room. A large, ornate table stood in the middle of the room surrounded by twelve matching chairs. The floor was polished wood, and to one side stood a cupboard. Arla walked over to it and pulled it open. It was unlocked, and within she found cloths, cutlery and an array of glassware. It didn’t look very suspicious, but she searched under the cloths, ran her fingers through the knives and forks and peered through the glasses. She examined the cupboard to see if their might be any hidden compartments, but after ten minutes she had to conclude that it was exactly what is appeared to be.

There was another door in one of the walls. She opened it and looked through into a well stocked kitchen. One of her men was already here. She nodded to him and retreated back through the dining room into the hallway. She approached another door, but Hummel stepped in front of her.

“Not there,” he said.

The very fact of his desire to prevent her made Arla keen to get past that particular door.

“Move aside,” she said. Hummel didn’t comply. She took him by his shoulders and pushed him to one side, reached down and tried the door. It was locked. “Do you have a key?” she asked. “It will save the door being broken.”

Hummel glared at her, and if he had the power she was certain that his glare would have melted her away. Arla put her shoulder to the door in an exploratory fashion, just testing the lock. Often you could tell if there was a single lock by the way the door bent, and even where it was. That would tell you where to put your boot to the best effect.

The door bent away from the jamb slightly, indicating that the bolt holding the door was by the handle, and indeed there was a keyhole which she should have noticed before. She stepped back, picking her spot.

With an inarticulate cry Hummel flung himself on Arla’s back, knocking her sideways. He was light, and not strong, but the attack was unexpected. She rolled, knocking him away with a swipe of her arm and regaining her feet, but Hummel hadn’t given up. He climbed back to his feet and rushed at her again. This time she was prepared.

Arla sidestepped his artless charge and tripped him, sending the old man sprawling across the marble floor.

“Don’t be an idiot,” she said.

But Hummel was determined. He rose again, and this time looked around for a weapon. He snatched a statuette from a table and advanced. Arla didn’t want to kill him, but this was beginning to get ridiculous. She drew her blade and circled away from him. He seemed to pay no heed to her blade at all, but charged once more. She sidestepped again, pushing his makeshift club past her with one hand while using the other to bring the flat of her blade down on the old man’s head. The statuette shattered and Hummel slid to a halt a few paces away and didn’t rise.

Arla walked over and checked that he was still breathing. He was.

A door opened and one of her men came out. He raised an eyebrow.

“Stop what you’re doing and find a rope. Bind this one. He’s crazy.” The lawkeeper nodded and went back into the kitchen. He emerged with a ball of string and proceeded to wrap Hummel’s hands and feet.

Arla returned to the door. Now she would see what he had not wished her to see. She raised her boot and kicked the door by the lock. She had to repeat the blow five times before the wood of the jamb gave and the door sprang open. Arla stepped through the door.

Whatever she had expected to discover, it was not this.

The room was empty. The floor was polished boards, the walls and ceiling painted white, and a pair of tall windows were dressed with thin white curtains, drawn to mitigate the sun. It was nothing less than conspicuously blank.

She walked into the middle of the room and stood there, looking all around her. Nothing. She unslung her bow and walked round the room, tapping on the floor, then the walls, hoping that there might be some hidden door to be revealed by a hollow sound. There was not.

Even so, she knew that she had found something – something important. Otherwise why had the servant Hummel been so insanely protective of the room?

“Boss?”

She turned and saw one of her men peering through the door. Boss? That was a new one. “What is it?”

“I found something,” he said.

Arla abandoned her exploration of the white room and followed the lawkeeper out into the hall and up the stairs. The rooms up here were as opulent as those below. The man led her to the end of a corridor and into another room. This one she understood. It contained a desk, shelves, and all of them liberally filled with papers.

“Here,” he said, pointing.

Arla picked up the paper. It was an official thing, a heavy parchment with a solid seal of red wax and a ribbon attached to the bottom. The writing on it was a good example of penmanship, but it was the content that startled her.

The paper was a deed of sale. It recorded the sale of a ship, the Red Fox, to one Irian Delantic. It was dated two days ago.

Arla cursed.

Ella indulged herself. She stayed with Calaine to watch the Sword of Samara slip her moorings and head out into the first glimmer of dawn. It promised to be an exceptionally fine day. The ship was towed by four boats full of oarsmen until it was well clear of its hidden dock. As the lines fell away and the boats turned for home the Sword’s three masts exploded with canvas, sail after sail dropping from the yards and gathering the breeze until she began to heel to port, racing out into the endless dark sea.

“A fine sight,” Calaine said. There was pride in her voice, and Ella had to admit it was like nothing she had seen before. The ship drew the eye like no other, sleek and pretty. It looked as though it mastered the sea more than merely rode upon it.

When the ship had become a distant blemish on the ocean Ella accepted an invitation to break her fast with Calaine. It had been a while since they had spent time together and Ella enjoyed the princess’s company. They made their way once more to her private quarters and sat on hard chairs at the unadorned table.

Food was brought. Compared to the fare at her own home it was simple stuff, but Ella found it wholesome and not lacking in flavour. She ate a bowl of oat porridge laced with honey and followed that with smoked fish and fried vegetables sweetened with a dark sauce, tamarind perhaps.

They talked of inconsequential things for a while. Calaine asked, as she always did, if Ella had found a beau. The princess knew the answer, which was always no, but it was a signal that she wished to talk about her own complicated life.

“The king is still set upon a marriage to Portina?” she asked.

Calaine nodded. “He is a good man,” she said. “Kind, handsome, clever, and he is the king of Blaye. What more could a woman ask?”

Ella knew that she could not answer. She believed that Calaine loved Ella’s brother Corban, but the princess loved her father, too, and she recognised her duty to the kingdom. An alliance between Blaye and Samara would ensure the future of both kingdoms, and Calaine was right, she could not fault Bren Portina, not as a king and not as a man. It was also true that the princess had never spoken of her feelings for Corban, but when she had fostered at the Tarnell house they had grown close, and Ella had seen the secret looks they shared.

Apart from all that, Portina, who had been a guard officer at Ocean’s Gate, had saved Calaine’s life in the last year of Faer Karan rule. More than that, he had saved her honour. It made it all the harder for her to decline his suit and her father’s constant pressure to accept him. She resisted, though. Her excuse was the city itself. When order had been restored and the civic society of Samara rebuilt she would have time for love and marriage, she had said as much.

Ella knew that the choice was no choice at all.

“He is a good man,” Ella agreed. Even as a guard officer Portina had never been overbearing, cruel or unpleasant. She had liked him, even then.

Her mind wandered for a moment to her own singularity. It was her own fault, she supposed. She did not primp and preen like other young women, did not make eyes at the sons of wealthy traders. Her love was books, books and knowledge, and now she was busy with the city council. It was not as though she was a poor catch. An alliance with the house of Saine would be a benefit to any trading family in Samara, but Ella was a friend of the Mage Lord, a confidante of the princess, a scholar, and she guessed that these things drove away those who otherwise might have sought a match. Ella didn’t mind. She hoped that one day a man would come along that wanted her because she was Ella, and not Ella Saine.

“Well,” Calaine said. “We shall have no news for several days at least, perhaps as long as two weeks, but do not let that prevent you from calling on me. You are always welcome here.”

Calaine graciously walked Ella to the gates of the citadel – a sign of favour and friendship, and they stood for a moment in the open gates.

“Corban will be all right,” Calaine said, as much for her own benefit as Ella’s, Ella thought. She smiled.

“He has three lawkeepers to keep him safe,” she said.

The arrow struck her in the chest.

It felt like a hammer blow, and she fell backwards. It was a moment before she realised what had happened, but when she reached up she could not feel the arrow, could not see it. Had it passed right through her?

“Ella!” Calaine was bending over her. Men were shouting and she heard running feet. She tried to sit up, and to her surprise found that she could. When she looked down there was no blood, not even a tear in the dress she was wearing. She touched the place where she had been struck.

“How?”

There it was – not an arrow, but a crossbow bolt – lying on the ground. She reached out and picked it up, looked at it with wonder.

“You’re not hurt?” Calaine asked. She was anxious, even afraid.

“No,” Ella said. “No, I am not.”

Calaine took the bolt from her hand and examined it. “Are you wearing armour?” she asked. Ella shook her head. She stood up and looked around. Calaine’s men were surrounding a house on the far side of the square, but there was another man standing a dozen yards away. He was mostly a silhouette against the dawn, but Ella knew him at once. She bowed.

“Mage Lord,” she said.

He smiled. As he walked closer she could see his clothes, a rich green jacket with sapphire buttons, ornamented with gold thread, a high collar, a sword at one hip. His boots caught the light like a mirror.

“Your letter,” he said. “It seems that it reached me just in time.”

“I am happy that it did, my lord,” Ella replied. She was aware that Calaine was by her side.

“You will have to tell me what is going on,” he said. “I scried only as far as I needed to find you. Apart from that, all I know is what you wrote. It seems that things have deteriorated.”

“Yes,” Ella said. “Lawkeepers have been killed, and now this,” she gestured at the bolt that Calaine still held.

“Well, I have put a stop to that, anyway. For the present no crossbows, bows or blades may harm you. Now we must talk. Calaine, you have a comfortable room somewhere in this fortress?”

She nodded. The mage lord wasn’t like Calaine. He didn’t stint his comfort, dressed like a prince and enjoyed his food and wine. This she knew from before, but it would be a mistake to think him effete. She remembered the two thousand men on Samara Plain.

“This way, my lord,” Calaine said. Ella followed. Now things would be different, she thought. Now the tide would truly turn.