The Lodestone Trilogy (Limited Edition) (The Lodestone Series) (149 page)

The heavier sack contained Boxx’s remains. She had not opened it since leaving Helice. To do so seemed irreverent somehow.

She opened the lighter pack, rummaging through it for inspiration. On top she found the small empty pouch that had contained the smooth oval of refined lodestone used for remote manipulation of locks and latches. Patris had given it as a gift to the little orphan boy in Kieroth. It hardly mattered—she saw no way it would have been any use in this situation. A water canister—near empty. Part of a loaf of that odd-tasting black bread peculiar to the people of Kelanni-Skell—no doubt stale. Her rolled-up blanket. Her tinderbox. Her small lamp. Her coiled-up length of rope. She scoured the rough thatch, looking for some sort of fixture she could tie a rope to, but there was none. With a sigh, she laid it on top of the meagre pile of her possessions.

There was nothing else. Almost nothing. Languishing at the bottom of the sack, abandoned and all but forgotten, was her old black Keltar cloak. There was no reason to hang onto it, other than sentiment and the fact that she still nursed an inherent distrust of the new red cloak. If it failed somehow, then she wanted something to fall back on.

As she shook it loose, an old memory fell out.
Cooperative mechanics.
The technique where one cloak pushes against the lodestone of another. During their descent into the fire pits at Kharthrun, she had used the refined lodestone in one cloak to push off another and successfully traverse a gap in the cliff path.

She swept the red cloak about her shoulders once more and secured the clasps. Then, carefully, she laid out the black cloak and adjusted its control so as to extend lodestone before tying the rope around its shoulder mechanism in a firm knot. Gingerly, she lowered the black cloak into the alley, hoping fervently that no passer-by would happen to glance in that direction. The cloak settled to the bottom of the alley.

She blipped the red cloak’s neck control and felt the familiar push from below. Calmly, she stepped off the end of the roof and drifted to the ground. Stooping, she unfastened the red cloak, folding it carefully and stowing it in her pack along with the length of rope and her faithful old black cloak. When finally she stood upright, she was just another wretch desperately trying to grind out a living among the poor of Lind’s eastern quarter.

She slipped out of the alley, her injured leg causing her to limp convincingly, adding to the effect. Disguise complete, she began to plan her next move. By now, there would be soldiers watching all of the town’s exits. She judged her cover good enough to allow her to blend into the community, but it would never stand up to a detailed search. One look inside her pack would be enough to give away her identity. She thought of leaving it somewhere together with her staff, but the risk of their being discovered was too great and she simply could not afford to risk losing her equipment.

There was one way she might get out unchallenged, and that was as a soldier. Keltar were easily recognisable, but soldiers were anonymous. Pretty soon there would be detachments of troops moving through the district looking for her. If she could just waylay some hapless grunt...

As she travelled up the street she began to notice something odd. People looked at her anxiously and then hurried on as if they had just recalled urgent business. She fought down a rush of panic and performed a self-check, but she did not appear to have overlooked any clue to her true identity.
I must be imagining it.

She rounded a corner into an open area that might once have been a thriving market but was now no more than a feeble smattering of rickety stalls and half-starved livestock. Steam rose from a large iron cauldron where a seedy street vendor was brewing up some foul-looking broth. Hollowed-out phantoms shuffled past, unseeing. She lingered, considering whether she ought to risk assuaging her hunger.

Something caught the corner of her eye. Instantly, her appetite fled and her training kicked in. There, on the corner of the street from which she had just emerged, a worn-out oppidan in a filthy jerkin that might once have been tan was trying not to look in her direction. He had appeared not long after she left the alley, hanging a little too far back for coincidence. Now he was idling. Waiting for her to make her move.

There could be no doubt now. She was being followed.

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Chapter 35

Keris stared into the bubbling urn and tried to think who might be tailing her through the bleak streets of Lind. There was no reason to assume that her cover had been blown. This part of town was well known for its lawless elements. The authorities tended not to care what its denizens did to each other, just so long as they kept it within their own community. Thieves and cutpurses were almost as common as they were in Sakara, although the pickings were a lot slimmer. But why target a common labourer? Unless they suspected that she might be carrying something valuable.

Of course, there was another more worrying possibility, and that was that someone had figured out her identity and was seeking an opportunity to turn her over to the Prophet’s men. The price on her head was probably more than most of these people could expect to see in a lifetime.

Whoever they were, she could at least take solace in the fact that they were clearly rank amateurs. The fellow behind her might as well have had a sign painted on him.

“Ay you.”
She raised her eyes, only to be confronted by the unpleasant scowl of the broth salesman. Mottled olive skin and missing teeth added to his air of intimidation. “You buyin’ or what?”

She muttered an excuse and moved on, curses beating the air behind her. Her shadow stirred on cue and sauntered after her. She waited for the hand-off, and a few moments later, it came. A too-young girl with doleful eyes and a sorrowful mouth emerged from a dark passageway, carrying a basket on one shoulder. Her grip gave away the fact that the basket was empty. Keris smiled to herself.
You people really aren’t very good at this, are you?
The girl and the older man exchanged the briefest of glances before he melted into the crowd; then she turned and began following a course parallel to Keris.

It would have amused Keris to lead them in a merry dance all over town before finally knocking their heads together, but she did not have the time for such indulgences. She would have to bring this to a quick and decisive end. Her eyes flicked back and forth, seeking a disused building or a quiet side street where she could turn the tables without attracting undue attention.

There was a disturbance up ahead. The shuffling throng parted like a bow wave and she caught sight of a tall, willowy figure with flowing white hair, clad in the unmistakeable black of a Keltar.
Glaisne.
From the keep. A member of the inner Ruling Council which had included Mordal, her former mentor. Glaisne was old by Keltar standards but his eye had not dimmed. He exuded an air of needle-sharp authority, making the detachment of leather-armoured soldiers backing him appear like a group of useless hangers-on.

Keris shrank back, caught between fire and flood. There was a fair chance that Glaisne might recognise her through her guise, but equally, there was the possibility that those who were following her, if indeed they knew who she was, might see this as the perfect opportunity to raise the alarm and claim a substantial reward.

Glaisne walked calmly forward as if he were arriving for a prearranged meeting. The angled scar over his right eye gave him a look of perpetual ferocity. He spoke with the weight of iron and the clarity of ice.

“Fealty and service be to the Three and the One. We are here on the authority of the Prophet, the Unan-Chinneroth. The criminal known as Keris has taken refuge in this town. Anyone offering information leading to the capture of the traitor will be rewarded. Those found harbouring the fugitive will be shown no mercy.”

Silence settled over the courtyard. He glared at a sea of downcast heads. “If I do not receive the necessary cooperation, then I will be forced to take some of you away for questioning.”

She knew what that meant. Those selected would not likely see their families again.

She seriously considered casting off her disguise and making a stand. However, his skills were considerable and the outcome would by no means be certain. She might be able to defeat him, but it would not be quick, and in the meantime, others would be headed this way. Sparking a full-scale battle in a crowded area such as this could lead to a massacre.
In any situation, the best strategy is always the one that secures the optimum result—even if it is retreat.
Mordal’s words spoken to her in another life made up her mind.

She began to back slowly towards the nearest side street but was stopped in her tracks by the scene being played out in the centre of the courtyard. At Glaisne’s bidding, two soldiers had grabbed hold of a scrawny boy and were holding him by the arms as he squealed in protest. “We will start with this one.”

Before she could react, another voice rang out, “May it please my Lord.” A lone figure dropped to one knee before the Keltar, head bowed.

“Speak,” Glaisne commanded.

The kneeling man raised his head. With a rising sense of panic, she realised it was the same man who had trailed her from the alley. “A woman in red and black, my Lord. She bore the cloak, so we took her for Keltar. We did not know she was a criminal. It is not for us to know the ways of the Prophet’s servants.”

“Where did you see her?”

“The Street of Veils, Lord. She flew to a rooftop and returned, dressed as one of us.”

Keris glanced around, but the young girl who had been part of the gang was nowhere to be seen.
I have to get out of here. Now.

She stumbled backwards and limped down the nearest side street, drawing more curious stares. Her escape plan was now in tatters. The whole town would soon be looking for her. She was an outcast, despised by both sides and with a price on her head.

As she dragged herself along, she saw two burly figures headed in her direction. Too late, she realised that she was their intended target. She turned back towards the courtyard and straight into the arms of a third man. She went down, kicking and struggling under the weight of all three assailants, determined to give at least as good as she got. Without warning, a door opened, and she was pitched into a well of inky blackness.

~

Everything ached. She opened her eyes, but the sight was no different to that from behind her eyelids. She had fallen a short distance, so she judged that she must be below street level. A cellar then—or a basement of some kind. A damp mustiness lingered in the air. She strained her ears, but all was silence.

She performed a quick self-examination—no bones broken. Aside from her complaining ankle, lack of food, and borderline exhaustion, she was in good shape. More importantly, she seemed to be out of danger—for the moment at least. Of course, it would not be long before the three goons who threw her in here returned to claim their prize. Then her troubles would begin all over again.

She needed to determine where she was and whether there was a way out. Her fingertips quested for the neck of her pack and felt inside for the hard smoothness that was her tinderbox. She grasped it and fumbled for the lid.

Without warning, a door opened and a shaft of light appeared. She stood and squinted at a swinging lantern that bobbed down some steps towards her. Framed within the meagre circle of radiance were three faces half-concealed in shadow.

“What is your name?”

If these people were part of the gang that had been following her, why not just turn her in? Unless they had not heard Glaisne’s pronouncement. They could be little more than common robbers who did not realise the value of the prize they had captured.

“What is your name?” the middle head repeated.

She knew how to deal with common robbers. “I will not answer impertinent questions from the likes of you. Stand aside, or suffer the consequences.”

The face on the left hissed in the ear of the one in the centre.

“It
is
her.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s her, I tell you.”

The head on the right chimed in with a female voice. “Imre served at the keep.”

Common robbers, even stupid ones, did not generally bandy their names about.

“Very well, then.” To her utter surprise, the middle head bowed formally. “Welcome to Lind, my Lady.”

~

Hunched-over figures mooched along an ochre side street. Trapped. Locked within their yearnings for a better life. Or simply wondering where their next meal was coming from. Carts trundled past, pulled by Kelanni reduced to beasts of burden. The late morning sky was a dome of rust. Heavy raindrops splashed against the cobbles in a futile attempt to wash away the dirt and degradation.