Kaschar's Quarter (5 page)

A grunt from the larger one summoned Matthieu after them. He struggled to keep up as they made their way down a long corridor. Some of the rooms they opened were empty while others held more dead from the previous night’s battle. Finally they stumbled upon one that held only a few bodies but more importantly for Matthieu, a pile of tapestries.
Much softer than mud
. Judging by the faded colors and rough forms of the men and beasts that marched across their surfaces, he guessed them to be over a century old.

“Here’s as good a place as any,” the wiry one said as he pushed open the door and guided Matthieu inside. “Mind you don’t wake the others.” Beside the tapestries lay a pair of men, one in the colors of Lemaste and the other in those of Mennish. A stained blade jutted through the former’s back while the latter bore the marks of a studded club across his broken face.

Had Matthieu not faced so much revulsion already, he would have turned at the sight before him. Instead, he merely looked away from them as he laid down on the tapestries, drawing out a dull haze of dust.

Sleep came instantly.

What felt like a moment later, the door slammed inward.

“Wake up,” a voice called. Matthieu did so and looked to the doorway with bleary eyes. It was the wiry man from before. “Jan’s got something for you to see.” His limbs were stiff but his mind felt clearer. He shuffled after the farmer, who did not speak again until they had reached the council chamber.

“Watch,” he said, pointing to Hassebeck. The man had seated himself in the gilded chair of the Lords of Heilicon, but what drew Matthieu’s attention first was the proceedings before the dais. A cluster of people in ragged finery stood under guard while a man and woman of their number faced Hassebeck midway between him and the others.

“You will die like the rest,” the woman said. “There is some foul sickness here. I can only suspect that the Mentites brought it with them.” Some of the farmers started shifting and murmuring to themselves. Hassebeck moved quickly.

“It is only a trick, my good men,” Hassebeck replied. “These wretches will do anything to keep you tight in their grip. Do not be afraid.”

“Ask your men if you think us liars,” the man said. “Send them over to Fish Market if they doubt us and let them see the bodies covered in rashes and sores.”

“I shall do no such thing. For all I know, you have laid some trap for us there. Let your fellows come meet us here on equal terms; a welcome change for this place, I should think.”

“There is no one left, I tell you,” the woman replied. “Everyone the Mentites did not murder in their beds either died of the fever or fled the city. We are all that remains.”

“That and your treasure, you mean.”

“Is that what this is about? Your city is ash, its people slain and scattered, and all you can think of is gold?”

“No, not all. It is only a means to an end, which you and the rest will provide for us.”

“We will tell you nothing,” the man said.

“Not now,” Hassebeck replied, “but soon. Get these two out of my sight.” He gestured at some of the farmers. “Do whatever is needful.” Strong hands dragged the pair protesting from the room. It was quite a while before their screams finally faded.

“And now we continue,” he said. “Who will tell me what I need to know?” Silence met him; there was defiance in some eyes but most looked on the verge of tears. “No one?” He looked to a hulking man clutching a bloody sword too fine to be his own. “Kill one of them until someone talks.”

The farmer hesitated. “They’ve done me no harm. I jus’ want my gold, that’s all.”

“Oh, but they have,” Hassebeck replied. “They feasted on the fruits of your labor while you shivered in the darkness. Is that not sinful enough?”

“And you are one to condemn us, then?” called a man from the crowd. The proud yellow-and-pink slashes on his doublet told Matthieu this man had been a soldier once, likely decades ago when such a garment had been in fashion. The intervening years had thinned his hair, if not his courage.

“I remember you,” the man said. “Hassebeck is your name. You once-”

“Yes, I did. I once sat here on the town council with other such esteemed gentlemen as Lord Alfonse Mennish and Gerhardt Feine. Tell me: where are they now? Did the noble Lord Alfonse leave you all here to die?”

“He perished with his household guards at the foot of the Victory Tower. A pity I cannot say the same for you.”

“Would that I could die a martyr’s death with one so good as he, but alas; I am left here to execute at least a little justice in this cruel world of ours.”

“This is no justice,” cried another man. “Thievery, more like.”

“You will all scream before the end,” Hassebeck said, rising from his seat with spittle flying from his lips. “And when you do, you will tell me what I need to know! Take them all away.” Only after the defeated nobles had been led away did Hassebeck turn to Matthieu again.

“Quite the performance, was it not?” he said, removing a kerchief from his pocket to wipe his mouth. “The theater rises to its feet in wild applause.” Booming steps brought him before Matthieu, his face twisted in a devil’s smile. “Now that you have seen that I am serious, I ask you once more to cooperate.”

Matthieu wished he could ask Hassebeck why. Why separate him from the others? Why even keep him alive when he clearly valued the others’ lives so much less? It occurred to him that the rest must have had some dealings with the man in the past, before his storied fall. He determined that to voice such concerns could mean his death. Instead, he would attempt the man’s game. A trap it was indeed, but he preferred the trap he knew was there to the one he could not anticipate.

“I will give you what you want,” he replied. The look of shock on Hassebeck’s face was genuine.

“Will you now? And what brought about this change? Surely not the threat of punishment similar to these wretches.”

“I gave much thought to your kindness to me, as well as to their greed,” he lied. “What you said is true: it is not fair that one man should starve while another profits. You are right to share the city’s bounties with those who toiled for them.”

“Go on.” Hassebeck’s lust for treasure had taken Matthieu’s hook. Now was his chance to escape.

“I know a place not far from here. He was a competitor of my father’s. I saw his household dead as I passed to the Serpent Gate this morning.”

“How do we know you are telling the truth? Maybe you will just try and escape.”

“Nonsense,” he lied. “I can hardly run away. I have no love for this man, much less his gold.”

“Then go to it. These men will accompany you.” A trio of farmers approached with crude weapons in hand. “I await your return.”

His beloved’s home lay roughly halfway between the farmers’ court in the City Hall and the Serpent Gate; horseback on the now-empty streets, it would be an easier journey than his first earlier that morning afoot.

The horses were still tied up outside the City Hall, feeding on bunches of hay evidently scavenged from the ruined market. Matthieu started towards a bony gray mare when a rough hand took him from behind.

“You walk, scum,” the farmer said. “No sense lettin’ you run away.” Matthieu knew better than to respond, even with a look. The most dangerous men were those who had never known power until it was given to them with a blade.
Some help those horses will be inside,
he thought. He would have to hope that these men were as slow of foot as they were of mind, or else his escape attempt would end just as had those of the men and women in Hassebeck’s tribunal.

Though he felt more rested now than he had this morning, he still shuffled along through the mud as pitifully as he could without giving away his ruse. Arriving at the house would take longer this way; all the more time to conceive of a way to confound his captors and make it out of the city before they could catch him again.

Once inside, he could lose them in the wine cellars and climb over the garden wall. He thought of the stables and Master Kerns’ bay trotter, but he forced that little hope from his mind. Surely, the Mentites had taken the horses with them while they left the city to burn. Only his own strength could save him now; that and his determination not to die at his companions’ hands. If his legs could take him beyond the Falcon Gate and onto the road to Cyrnne, then he might be able to make the trees on the south. From there, he knew little enough about the forest to survive out there for long but it still offered his best chance to escape.

When the steps to Beate’s home came into sight, he only spared a single glance at her body, his eyes drawn one last time to the brilliant stains across the front of her dress. He offered up a silent prayer that the men with him would not mention her.

“Here it is,” he said. As the farmers rode their horses up the steps in search of a place to hitch them, Matthieu knew that now would be the test of his strength.

He ran faster than he had anticipated. One of the men shouted after him but it was too late; he had already made his way into the hall and up a flight of stairs before he heard heavy steps charging after him. Large as it was, the Kerns’ home was known to him as well as his own; they would not be able to find him here even with twice as many men as they had.

The library and its enviable collection fell behind him as he came up short of breath in a small bedroom. Inside, the bed was still made while the closet doors hung open to reveal an empty space. He tip-toed his way inside and lay down beside the bed opposite the door. Angry voices could be heard downstairs, sometimes moving closer but more often than not fading into silence. His heart nearly gave out when he heard one much closer, piteous where the others had been rough.

“Please, do not hurt me…” He knew that voice. His heart leaped within him at its sound: Heide was still alive.

“Heide?” he called. “Where are you?”

“Matthieu? Is that you?” It had come from directly in front of him, under the bed. Pulling the blankets up, he saw her there, cradled in old clothes and pillows. He wondered how long she had hidden here; her brow was moist with sweat. “How are you-?”

“I should ask you the same. You have to come with me; there are men outside who want to kill me. I will not allow the same fate for you.” He took her hand gently and almost recoiled at the searing warmth. “We must leave now.”

When she had emerged fully, he saw that Heide could barely stand. Angry red blotches splashed across her face and arms like burns.
No
, he pleaded.
Please, God, not her too
. She hobbled after him for a few steps before it became clear that she would not be able to run with him. Stealing a single glance down the hall to make sure no one had followed him, he took Heide in his arms and edged his way through the doorway. She felt as light as a doll.

The hallway was clear; beyond were the kitchen and the stables. As he made his way to the first, Heide let out a weak groan. Matthieu caught her eyes through her grimace and shook his head. A single sound now could betray them. They entered the kitchen, where only a feeble wisp of smoke above the cook fire told that people had been here the night before. He knew not where Master Kerns’ household had fallen and hoped desperately that they were far from Heide. Step by step, they came closer to the back door that led outside to the stables when a shout rang out from behind him. He did not need to know what the voice had said, only that he had to flee before its owner found him.

It took all his faith to run out into the stable yard without first peeking around the corner. He suppressed a cry of joy at the sight of the gates lying in splinters before him; the horses were gone but at least their way was clear.

“Hold on tightly,” he whispered to Heide as he summoned all his strength and left the house and its occupants behind them forever.

TO BE CONTINUED

IN

THE DEFAULT KING

VOLUME 2

NO DARKNESS AT ALL