City of Light & Shadow (35 page)

  "I'll have to introduce you to its charms, then."

  "I was rather counting on that."

  This seemed a good note on which to leave. Issie aside, Tylus was anxious to be off – and not only because he wanted to know how the building work was progressing. The sooner he could get into a change of uniform the happier he would be; not to mention the need to get his cape dried out. In its absence, he was reduced to being carried back to his makeshift headquarters in the new sling arrangement by two of the other officers, which proved as uncomfortable as it was embarrassing. Despite the skill demonstrated by the two carriers, the sling inevitably swayed disconcertingly and occasionally jerked as the tension between sling and officers proved impossible to keep entirely uniform throughout. Each sudden tip had Tylus clinging to the sides. The flight was brief but not brief enough as far as he was concerned.

  Having arrived safely back at the Pits and shed the tooclosely fitting clothes in favour of a fresh uniform, it was time to say farewell to Sergeant Whitmore and his surviving men, who were set to return up-City. Prior to doing so, however, the Kite Guard sergeant approached Tylus with a request that both astounded and delighted him. He wanted permission to apply for a post on the staff at the proposed training school.

  "This one mission has been more rewarding than seven years' worth of service in the Heights," the sergeant had explained. "The City Below just seems so much more…
alive,
sir.
" Exciting was what he undoubtedly meant.

  "Despite the smell?" Tylus couldn't resist asking.

  "Yes, sir, despite the smell. Daresay I'll get used to it."

  The exchange heartened Tylus more than anything else that had happened since he set out to establish the Kite Guard School. So, despite nearly getting himself killed, he was in good spirits when somebody else appeared: Richardson. Tylus's heart sank. The last thing he felt like doing was feigning joy at the officer's planned nuptials. So deflated was he at the prospect that it took him a moment to realise that Richardson looked anything but joyful himself.

  Oh, he smiled and said, "Welcome back," readily enough, but there was a brittleness to his good humour. It didn't reach his eyes. The two of them were alone in Tylus's office; the Kite Guard at his desk, the guardsman before it, managing to look wretched despite standing to attention.

  "Is everything all right?" Tylus asked, wondering as he did so whether someone shouldn't perhaps be asking
him
that, given where he'd just returned from and all that he'd been through.

  "Yes, sir."

  
Sir
again. Now Tylus knew something was up. "Really?"

  His subordinate drew a ragged breath. "No… not really. It's Jezmina, sir. The wedding's off."

  "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," the Kite Guard lied. "What happened?"

  Richardson's entire body slumped, any semblance of standing to attention forgotten. "It looks as if she was leading me on the whole time."

  Now there was a surprise. Tylus gestured towards a chair, sensing this might take a little while. Richardson reached backwards and pulled the chair closer to the desk before dropping into it, his face a study in dejection. The Kite Guard waited patiently for him to continue.

  "Remember I told you that my sister, Bren, makes dresses for a few of the high-end boutiques up-City?"

  Tylus nodded, vaguely recalling something of the sort.

  "Well, she landed a big new client a couple of months back – a slimy little toad of a man by the name of Birch. Middle-aged, always impeccably dressed, full of his own importance; you know the sort. Apparently he's got a nice little business set up supplying a load of the more exclusive stores in the Shopping Row. He's put a lot of work Bren's way. Anyway, she mentioned that he'd been calling around a lot lately, more than seemed necessary. She didn't mind, of course, how could she while he kept sending new orders her way? Turns out that the orders weren't the real reason he kept dropping by, though. He was finding excuses to sniff around my Jezmina. Bren told me he'd been flirting with her and she told me I should keep my eyes open, but Jezmina laughed the whole thing off, claiming it was nothin', and I believed her. But turns out it
wasn't
nothin' after all.

  "He seduced her, turned her head with all his up-City airs and promises of a better life. Even if I'd known, how could I compete with that? Seems they've been seeing each other on the sly. Here we was, making plans for our wedding, and all the while she's been slipping away into some other man's arms." He shook his head slowly from side to side, and tears threatened the corners of his eyes. "I've never even touched her, you know… not
really
…"

  "She's actually gone?" Tylus asked quickly, to forestall any further candidness.

  Richardson nodded dolefully. "This morning. Birch, the skinny little spill dragon, turned up early and whisked her away to live in this flash house of his in the Tailors Row. She's run off with him. Can you believe that?"

  Only too well. Predict it, no, but believe it? Most certainly. Tylus doubted the girl's ambitions would end there, either. This Birch character was most likely no more than the next in a long line of stepping stones, of which Richardson had been the first. A true opportunist, Jezmina would doubtless work her way through the city's Rows, maybe all the way up to the Heights before she was done, leaving a trail of broken hearts and misty-eyed lovers in her wake.

  Despite his friend's obvious distress, the Kite Guard was finding it difficult to suppress a grin, one that threatened to crease his face from ear to ear. The pain that Richardson was currently suffering would soon pass and there was no doubt that he was better off without that scheming little harlot. Her running off like this was the best possible outcome as far as Tylus was concerned; particularly as it saved him from having to intervene himself and avoided any awkwardness that might have resulted. No, Jezmina had done them both a favour, even if he was the only one who recognised as much at present.

  "How could she
do
this to me?"

  Very easily, Tylus imagined. "I'm truly sorry for your pain," he said, able to say at least that much with complete sincerity.

  Richardson pushed himself to his feet, rubbing a finger quickly beneath his right eye, as if to sooth an itch. "Don't worry," he said. "I won't let any of this affect my work."

  "I'm sure you won't, but if you'd like a few days off…" Tylus said.

  "No, keeping busy; that's the best thing for me, I reckon. I'll be fine."

  Richardson visibly pulled himself together and, giving a wan, brave smile, he then turned smartly and left the office. As the door closed behind him, Tylus leant back in his chair and allowed himself a heartfelt sigh of relief.

 

Kat was tired. She was glad to be back in the City Below and among the Tattooed Men again but news of the losses suffered in the Stain had hit her hard. She'd known the risks when going in, but had reasoned they were acceptable for the chance to hunt down the Soul Thief. Had it been worth it? No, not given the casualties, but hindsight was a wonderful thing. All of this only reaffirmed her determination to establish a more stable existence for the group – tribe; she supposed they qualified as such. For years the Tattooed Men had lived by their own rules, a separate society within Thaiburley's lowest level, but those days were gone.

  Shayna had made a start in her absence, and a good one, though Kat couldn't help but have reservations about the place chosen as the new permanent centre of operations, their "home". Iron Grove Square: where the Soul Thief had killed her sister.

  "I know we all have history here, especially you," the healer had said, "but this is the only place that makes any sense. All our other safe houses are just that: houses. None of them are large enough to hold all of us, not on a long term basis. This is the only one that can be segregated into separate dwellings, and here we can all stay close together rather than being spread across half a dozen or more locations. I promise you, Iron Grove Square really is the best, the
only
choice."

  Kat had nodded, accepting the argument. She trusted Shayna implicitly, and knew she wouldn't make such a decision lightly. "Iron Grove Square it is then." The name a bitter taste in her mouth. "But we rename it. As of today, nobody is to call this place Iron Grove Square again. From now on, this is Charveve Court."

  Shayna nodded and smiled. "Good. Yes, that's very good. I'll pass the word to the men."

  They hadn't wasted any time, those who had remained behind when she headed off into the Stain. Already work had begun on rebuilding and repairing the fire damage. Kat stood in the courtyard with Shayna, surveying progress. "I don't want the upper floor rebuilt over there," she said, pointing to the far side of the quadrangle, where Chavver had died. "Leave that wing as a single storey." She didn't want any ghosts troubling them in their new home.

  "Fair enough. We were intending to leave that one until last, just in case…"

  "In case I said something like that," Kat finished for her.

  Shayna nodded.

  "You know me too well, old friend."

  "Less of the old, if you don't mind."

  It was familiar banter but Kat needed familiar just then. She missed Chavver and wondered whether simply failing to rebuild the floor her sister had died on was going to be enough. It would have to be, she supposed. Not just Chavver; she was also missing Tom, which came as a surprise. She hadn't before, not really, but this time… he'd changed. Matured a little, perhaps. Still the same Tom but more so, as if he was starting to grow into the potential the Prime Master had obviously seen in him from the start. It was hard to think of him as "kid" anymore. Funny, but on the rare occasions she contemplated such matters she'd always taken it for granted that she'd end up settling down with one of the Tattooed Men: Rayul most likely; but Rayul was gone and the Tattooed Men needed new blood. Of course, she was a queen, so any partner of hers would have to be someone special, but Tom was special, no denying that. Besides, he was kind of cute, not to mention vulnerable one minute and all-conquering the next.

  She shook her head as if to banish such daydreams. They'd save for later. Right now there were more pressing concerns to deal with.

 

Crosston provided a natural point at which to break his journey back to the City of a Hundred Rows. After slipping out of the palace, Dewar had headed straight for the docks, boarding a ship on which he'd arranged passage in advance. It set sail just before dawn and was overtaken by the sun during the brief trip to Deliia, making port in the early hours of morning. He broke the night's fast at a dockside eatery, an establishment he recalled from his former life. It opened at such unsociable hours specifically to cater for the sailors from ships making early arrival. It was a rough and ready place but clean, and the cooking was adequate and honest. He ordered a hearty plate of crisp-fried salted fish topped with a duo of fried duck eggs and a round of blood sausage, with some lightly toasted bread and a generous pat of butter on the side; all of which went down a treat. The over-stewed coffee less so, but that was his fault for chancing that an establishment like this might know how to make a decent cup. He should have stuck to the watered-down ale that most of the folk around him were drinking.

  Breakfast completed, the assassin took a leisurely stroll through a town still in the early stages of waking up. He enjoyed the sight of others rushing around when he had no immediate cause to – there was little more he could do until the horse traders opened for business. The important thing had been to escape the Misted Isles as swiftly as possible. Barring a stroke of extremely bad fortune, Inzierto's death would not have been discovered before morning and, even once it had been, he doubted the authorities would react quickly. The murder would leave the palace with something of a dilemma. Doubtless they would want to manage the situation, considering their options before releasing news of the royal death. An announcement would be made at a time of their choosing, once they'd reached a consensus on what to say. Even so, Dewar preferred not to take any chances. Rolling up to the docks late morning only to discover that he had miscalculated and the port had been closed with rumour of assassination rife would have been frustrating to say the least. No, a quick, quiet exit had been essential.

  After securing a horse at Deliia he rode straight through, not stopping at Eastwell as he might have done in other circumstances. By doing so, he hoped to keep ahead of any news that might be filtering through from the Misted Isles. His reward on arriving at Crosston the following day was to hear not a whisper of the king's death, an event which surely would have been on everyone's lips were it known.

  Dewar couldn't have said why, having made it this far, he decided to venture once again through the doors of the Four Spoke Inn, except that it had proved to be a decent enough tavern on his previous visit, Seth Bryant aside. Good ale, good food, murderous landlord. Two out of three wasn't bad by his reckoning. Besides, the last time he'd seen Bryant the man had been face down in the waters of the Jeeraiy, dead or close to it.

  Under the circumstances he should perhaps have been more surprised to see the familiar figure keeping station behind the bar, but he wasn't. The Twelve were universally tough; Dewar wasn't the only one who was difficult to kill, it seemed.

  At first the assassin wasn't sure Bryant had spotted him, but as he drew closer to the bar the landlord finished serving a customer and glanced up. Their gazes locked.

  Dewar very deliberately claimed one of the barstools, easing himself into the seat. "A pint of your strongest ale please, landlord."