The Red Knight (7 page)

He looked around for the fastest way down, and spotted a drainpipe about four feet away. It was old, rust pitted, and covered in flaking paint. It could be a
very
quick way down if it was as rotten as it looked. As soon as he committed all of his weight to it, a metal bracket snapped off and spun into the crowd. He froze and thought light thoughts. The pipe groaned ominously, but didn’t peel away from the wall. He wasn’t going to hang around long enough for it to change its mind and slid down, bracing his feet against the wall to slow his descent. About eight feet from the ground he dropped, slightly behind and to the right of the Hadami.

Her face was turned away from him as she watched the knights’ approach. He tried to push through the crowd to get a better look at her, but was blocked by the soldiers who were keeping the road clear. All he could make out was her profile; her face was framed by thick, black hair, typically Hadami, and her skin was tanned. She smiled at some fellow as he squeezed by her, but the moment he passed, the smile vanished. Garian slipped his knife from its sheath and held it blade-up by his side. As he continued to watch the woman, doubt crept in and he began to question his instincts. She looked so ordinary, cheering and craning to catch a glimpse of the knights. But wasn’t he ordinary? Was she like him? Was she a killer, or an innocent?

When the knights drew closer he got his answer. She glanced around to see if she was being watched. For a second their eyes met. That was all it took, for both of them. She flicked another glance towards the knights who were almost level with her, and then back to Garian. She shouldered her cloak aside, revealing the business end of a small handbow.

Hesitation kills.
Garian never forgot anything his master taught him, especially not that piece of wisdom; it had saved his life on more than one occasion. The assassin could either stick to her intended target, or go for him. While she was deciding, he rushed her, and stabbed her in the heart. There was a brief flash of anger in her dark eyes. He pulled her close, and kissed her; just a pair of lovers, locked in a passionate embrace. She struggled, tried to cry out. He drove the knife deeper. She breathed her last breath into his mouth; it tasted of blood.

The knights rode on; waving to the crowds, completely unaware that death had been stalking them. Garian supported the assassin’s dead weight against him, and danced her down a side street, her hot blood soaking into his shirt. Even out of view of the main road he continued the pretence of courtship until he turned down another, darker alleyway. After making sure it was deserted, he pulled the knife from her chest and let the body fall.

Other than the small bow, which he decided he’d keep for himself, she was carrying papers that identified her as a Hadami of the Vodoni clan. Whatever she was, she wasn’t Hadami—she didn’t have a single tattoo. Her pouch contained a few small coins and a glass vial of dark brown liquid. He carefully removed the waxed stopper and wafted his hand across the mouth of the vial. It smelled acrid, with a slight hint of rotten fruit. He didn’t recognise it, but guessed it was poison, either that or the worst perfume ever created. He put the stopper back in and dropped it in his pouch. He’d test it later; right now he had to get rid of the body.

After uttering a few choice oaths, he managed to drag the grate off a nearby sewer. He tipped the body into the darkness, there was a muffled splash and she was gone, carried away with the rest of the city’s waste. Garian was confident that his dark blue shirt would hide the blood stains well enough to pass a casual inspection. He should go straight to Hyram and make his report. Should—but wouldn’t. He’d tell the City Guard they could call off the hunt, then he was going to find a quiet inn somewhere. Killing left a foul taste in his mouth. A few mugs of ale would help wash it away, or at least numb him enough that he didn’t care.

Alyda’s heart quickened when she saw the spires of Weyhithe Arth spearing into the sky above the city’s rooftops. Lyco sensed her excitement, and trotted proudly through the gates of the barbican.

The Arth had been built on a massive outcrop of stone that loomed above the city. A fortress of one kind or another had stood in the same place since the Tamalak Clan Lords had ruled Antia, over a thousand years ago. It had been destroyed and rebuilt many times over the centuries, always rising from the ashes bigger, and more impressive than its previous incarnation. Queen Thea had softened its hard edges over the years by planting gardens and importing fine sculptures, but for all the embellishments it remained a fortress, there to guard the city and busy river port.

The Arth protected the city, but it fell to the 5th Company of the Royal Guards to protect the Royal residences. Resplendent in russet and silver, the knights of the 5th patrolled the Arth walls.

The whole of the court and hundreds of guests were waiting in the bailey. King Daris, Queen Thea and their sons, Princes Talin and Olin were seated on a raised dais in the middle of the ward. It was the greatest honour to be received by the King and his family, but it was the presence of Matlin Trease, the Commander of the Royal Guards that caused Alyda to sit a little straighter in the saddle. The Knight Commander was standing in front of the dais. Physically unremarkable, he was a slight man who could pass unnoticed in any crowd, but Trease’s reputation was legendary, and the man’s presence more daunting than the Arth itself.

As she rode before him, Alyda was conscious of every movement, every shift in weight and posture, aware that nothing would escape his critical gaze. By some miracle Lyco was behaving impeccably. His neck arched gracefully, his hooves picked at the cobbles with uncustomary precision. It had been a gamble riding the foul-tempered destrier into the city, but he’d earned his place amongst the warriors who’d fought in Suvia. Perhaps on some level he understood the honour and had decided to be reasonable, or perhaps the long gallop she’d taken him on this morning had made him more tractable. Whatever the reason, Alyda was grateful for his rare good mood.

High above the bailey, Hyram closed the window against the thunder of three hundred knights dismounting and the raucous cheering of the crowds. He much preferred it up here with the gulls, far from his official chambers and the mundane matters of state. This was where the real work was done. It was from here that he waged a subtle war against those enemies who threatened the stability of the kingdom. He’d been careful to ensure that those few who wandered the dusty reaches of the tower never noticed the door to his chamber. At no small cost, he’d acquired a little Fey made cat that he’d placed outside on the door lintel. Its particular magic caused the eye to slide over the door without really noticing it. It was petty magic, and wouldn’t deter a determined search, but it was enough to distract a casual glance. Of course, the downside to privacy was that no one had ever been in to clean. A heavy mantle of dust had settled over the room. The carved oak panelling was thick with cobwebs, and his old four-poster bed was sinking into stately decay. His desk groaned under the weight of books and papers, piled in precarious stacks, some of which were so high he imagined they might very well crush him to death should they ever fall.

He was dangerously close to running out of space for his vast, and still growing, collection of books and scrolls. He guessed that he had—at most—enough floor space to grant him another year’s grace, but then he’d have to move into a bigger room or, gods forbid, get rid of some of his beloved books. The fire crackled and spat in the grate, he dabbed sweat from his brow and opened the window he’d just closed.

The noise of shouting peasants was a lesser evil than frying in his own fat. It was an unfortunate superstition that he’d developed, but he couldn’t bring himself to let the fire die. He knew it was irrational, but he was sure that the moment the flames died would be the exact time he’d need to destroy something quickly. That fear, that madness of his own creation, kept the fire burning, and the sweat running down his face. At times like these he considered that for a supposedly intelligent man, he could be exceptionally stupid.

After hours of anxious pacing and pointless staring out of the window there was a familiar knock at the door. It creaked open, Garian peered inside. Hyram’s sense of relief that the boy was alive was almost immediately usurped by annoyance that he’d kept him waiting. It may have been an unavoidable delay, but no one had ever accused Hyram of being reasonable.

“Don’t stand there gawking, get in here!” said Hyram.

After giving his report, the boy handed over the papers he’d taken from the assassin. When he’d devoured their meagre content, Hyram tossed them on the table and sighed.

“Was there anything else that might indicate who wanted to spoil the party?” He didn’t try to hide his disappointment; he was a starving man that had been fed just enough to enrage his hunger. These crumbs of information were not enough.

“If there’d been anything else, I’d have brought it, my Lord.”

“Watch your tone boy, I’m in no mood for your insolence.” Hyram propped his chin on his hands and glared at the papers, trying to imagine the hand that had forged them, and the reason behind the deed. “We were lucky this time.” He tapped the papers. “But why the bloody knights? Why not Daris, or Thea, or the princes? Why such a crude attempt?”

Garian poured himself a glass of wine. “You sound disappointed.”

Hyram recognised the tone, the awkward body language. The boy was unhappy about something. It was probably the killing. It didn’t sit well with some people, not even after they’d done it a few times; the revulsion never left them. Garian seemed to be such a person, which was a pity—for him. He’d have to learn to wall off his feelings or it would destroy him, Hyram had seen it happen. He hoped it would be the former; he’d spent a lot of time training the boy.

“There are far too many missing pieces, we must rectify that. And where in the Void have you been by the way? You look a mess, and you smell worse.”

“Oh you know; killing an assassin, saving lives, the usual.”

“After that—you stink of cheap ale and pipe smoke.”

“I had
one
ale. I didn’t think you’d mind; I haven’t slept for two days.”

“Do not try to take advantage of my generous and kindly nature, Master Tain. You may rest all you want after the feast tonight.”

“Why, I’m not…”he sighed, “I’m going to the feast, aren’t I?”

Hyram smiled, took a scroll from his robes and tossed it to his apprentice.

Garian eyed the parchment suspiciously. “What is it?”

“Your promotion,
Captain
Tain. You’ll have to imagine the fanfare and all that foolishness. Your salary will be increased accordingly.”

A flicker of genuine pleasure lit his apprentice’s face, but it was fleeting. The mask of bored indifference was back in place almost instantly. He’d taught the lad to hide his feelings, but sometimes he thought he might have done his work too well.

Garian tucked the scroll into his shirt. “And I quite fancied a parade. Oh, well…”

“Alas, there’s no parade, but I do have a uniform for you to wear tonight. It’s in the chest over there.”

His apprentice approached the chest with a healthy measure of caution. Hyram stifled a chuckle as the boy flipped the lid and cautiously poked at the contents which were a saffron doublet and pair of lime green hose.

“It’s what the servants will be wearing. I think they’re your size; they looked small enough.”

“I really don’t know what to say my Lord,” Garian intoned.

The King gave a rousing speech. When he finished, hundreds of doves were released, and rose petals fell like red rain, carpeting the Arth in scarlet. It was a magnificent end to the parade. Trease officially dismissed the Guards, and without further delay preparations began for the feast.

After making sure the Company horses were stabled and fed, Alyda slipped away to her room. She could have gone to one of the many receptions being held in their honour, but chose instead to steal some time alone before the feast.

Once she’d bathed and changed, she let her feet wander where they would while she ordered her thoughts on the day’s events. She would be seeing her parents tonight, for the first time in many months—too many if she was honest. Guilt threatened to take the shine off the day, but she wouldn’t let it. If any people on earth understood why she did what she did, why she hardly saw them from one year to the next, it was her parents. They had joined in her the free spirit of the Hadami and the hearth-bound heart of the Tamalak.
And what a restless, striving creature they’ve made me
.

After what felt like hours of wandering through the amber shaded labyrinth, she found herself in a windowed corridor. The leaded panes had captured the dying rays of the sun and spun a web of light and shadow across the marble floor. On the windowed side, an arched doorway led to a lush courtyard garden. Alyda allowed herself to be drawn by the subtle scent of flowers that wafted into the corridor.

The garden was a tranquil refuge in the heart of the busy castle. The walls dripped with twining honeysuckles and hundred petal roses bowed on slender stems. In the centre, a marble fountain burbled quietly. Alyda went and sat beside it and trailed her calloused fingers in the cold water. Lulled by the song of the fountain, she closed her eyes and let her thoughts drift amid the perfume.