Night of Knives

CHAPTER SIX

The rich scent of stewing broth teased the tag-end of Kiska’s dreams. She smiled, stretched, then hissed as pain flared from almost every limb. Something touched her shoulder and she flinched awake. A pale, fat man yelped, jerking away.

‘What do you want?’ she demanded.

Smiling nervously, he pointed under her. ‘My apron. You’re lying on my apron.’

She recognized him: Coop, tavern-keeper of the Hanged Man Inn. She looked down and saw that she’d been sleeping on a bench cushioned by blankets, a tattered quilt and bundled clothing. ‘Sorry’ She moved her arm and the man tugged his apron free.

‘Told you she’d wake up,’ someone observed from across the room.

Kiska realized she was wearing somebody else’s clothes: a thick wool sweater of the kind she hated because it made her look like a child, and a long skirt of layered patched linen. She swung her legs down and rubbed at her eyes. She was in a private dwelling, ground level. Its door appeared to have been smashed from its hinges. Beyond, a sun-washed street lay empty. A boy with dirty bare feet scrubbed at dark stains on the wood floor while nearby a man sat at a table, his kinky black hair in his eyes, sopping up stew with a crust of bread. Coop backed away to the door, bowing his thanks for his apron.

‘See you later, Coop,’ the man called, waving the sodden crust.

Coop bowed again. Nervous laughter burst from him and he hurried out of the door.

Kiska tried to stand, hissed at the flame of pain from her knee and fell back to the bench. She limped to the table and grasped it to remain standing as her vision blurred and her heart raced. She squeezed her side. The pain there threatened to double her over.

The man jumped up and eased her into a chair. ‘Have a care,’ he warned — rather late, she thought.

She sat, wincing. ‘Thanks. What’s the matter with him?’

‘Oh, when you arrived last night you gave him something of a fright. I understand you had a bit of a scare yourself.’

She laughed. ‘Yes, I-’ She stopped herself, glared about. ‘Where are they?’

‘Who?’

‘Tay — the men I came in with.’ She jumped up, groaned as her side knotted. ‘Are they gone?’

The man drew her down again with a touch of his hand. ‘Relax. I’ve a message, and there’s hot stew over the fireplace. Have some?’

‘Who are you? Oh. You’re the medicer aren’t you? Yeah, I’ll have some.’

‘Seal’s the name. Yours?’

‘Kiska.’ She plucked at her sweater. ‘Why the clothes?’

‘Ah, sorry.’ Seal shrugged an apology. ‘Best I could do. Your old clothes I had to burn.’ He leaned to the black pot, ladled out a bowlful.

Burn? Kiska wondered. Did he really have to burn them?

‘Well, Kiska. Speaking of frights, you gave me an ugly one last night.’

She took the bowl of steaming stew, tore off some bread and started stuffing it into her mouth. She hadn’t realized how famished she was. Seal watched her eat, a smile tugging at his mouth. ‘Where are they and how are they?’ she demanded around a mouthful.

‘We’ve got time — and they’ll live. The one, a Seti tribesman I believe, I take especial credit for. The other, well… he pretty much took care of himself. I do take credit for you too, however.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. Spraining and bruising of the bones of the knee. Sundry mundane cuts and contusions of the flesh. Worst: a bruised kidney and torn musculature. Possibly resulting from a serious impact or blow.’

Kiska grimaced, remembering that. She’d felt as if that table had cut her in half, but she’d run on anyway. Amazing what being scared out of one’s wits can do. She swallowed, forced down the food against a rising tide of nausea. ‘And?’

‘And?’

‘What’s the message? Where are they?’

Seal sat up straighten ‘Ah! You ask what you should do about the various injuries you have inflicted upon your body? Well, I advise a hearty meal. And if you get sick tonight I suggest a regurgitant. Boiled alder leaves, I understand, works well for that. Also, I advise you take things easy for the next few weeks. Rest; no undue strain. Definitely no fighting or running. Understand?’ Kiska stared at the man, noted his drawn face, the sunken eyes circled in shadow and the tremor of his hands at his bowl. He caught her gaze and waved languidly. ‘Don’t bother to thank me.’

The man was utterly wrecked. He had obviously drawn upon his Denul Warren to the utmost to accomplish what was needed last night. She suspected she owed him much more than he’d suggested. Pushing the stew around the bowl for a moment, she cleared her throat. ‘So, is there really a message or not?’

‘Oh, yes,’ and he smiled secretly, pleased with himself.

‘And? That is?’

He raised a finger. ‘Ah! Treatment first. Finish your meal.’

The boy came to her elbow and handed her a ladle of water. Distracted, Kiska took it and swallowed. The water was sweet, fresh and cool, straight from an inland well. She thanked him. He stared at her with big brown eyes full of curiosity.

‘That’s all, Jonat,’ Seal said. The boy returned to his scrubbing. ‘My son, Jonat,’ he told Kiska.

She nodded, then remembered herself and glared. Stuffing down more of the bread, she said through her mouthful, ‘I think I know what the message is.’

Seal smiled simply, watching her eat. ‘You were quite a mess last night. You don’t remember?’

‘No, I don’t. I think the message is that they are down at the wharf.’

Seal started, his eyes widening. Then he coughed and laughed at the same time, thumped a fist to his chest and rocked in his chair.

Kiska was already on her feet. She gave him her own smug smile and he waved her away with the back of his hand. ‘Well done,’ he managed, ‘Very well done indeed.’

She limped out onto the Way of the Eel.

The residents of Malaz greeted the dawn like stunned survivors of a typhoon and earthquake combined. Faces peered out at the morning from behind storm-shutters and doors opened barely a crack. Though the sun already shone halfway to midday, and only thin clouds marred the sky’s perfect bowl, most of the inhabitants seemed unconvinced that last night’s nightmare had come to an end.

Walking down the streets, Kiska found faces spying on her, wary. She realized what a sight she must present, in her oversized sweater and long skirts gathered up in one hand. Seal seemed to have selected the worst mish-mash of garments he could possibly find. Still, she figured she ought to be thankful the man had a few women’s things around his place.

At first the stares bothered her. Then she elected not to give a damn. As she met knots of suspicious citizenry — usually huddled near a site of wreckage, or a suspiciously stained circle of cobbles, whispering, comparing stories — she just walked on, or hobbled actually, teeth clenched, cradling her side. They’d stop their whispers to gape openly, then, as she’d passed, start up again. At least they didn’t point, she told herself.

Soon she was down at the sea-walk and could see movement on the message cutter’s deck and gangway. Figures came and went, stowing gear and supplies. She limped down the stairs to the wharf.

At the dock she recognized most of the workers as local stevedores. A few men on board looked like sailing-hands, inspecting the rigging and handling the dunnage. Hattar, his arm wrapped in white cloth secured across his chest, sat on the roof of the mid-ship quarters, examining himself in a mirror of polished silver balanced on coiled rope. His head shone flushed, as if freshly shaved, and half his face glowed even pinker, blistered and gleaming under a greasy unguent. Beside him sat a bucket and his chin was wet with soap. The idiot was trying to shave himself one-handed.

‘Hoy, message cutter!’ Kiska called from the dock.

Hattar looked over without a word or nod hello. He banged his fist on the roof, then returned to studying his chin by twisting his mouth side to side; lips that looked strange to Kiska until she realized the man’s moustache was gone — he’d lost half of it last night and had now made a clean sweep of it.

After a moment Tayschrenn stepped up from the companionway. He was dressed in loose trousers and a long tunic of deepest cyan. His queue was pulled back, freshly oiled. He looked as if he’d slept a full night on a feather mattress.

‘Greetings,’ he called up.

‘You’re leaving.’

‘Yes. Soon.’

Kiska nodded — stupidly, she thought. She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. This was really it. Opportunity about to set sail. Could she let it slip by? ‘Take me with you,’ she blurted, relieved and terrified by having finally asked what she had been meaning to ask all night.

Tayschrenn stroked a forefinger over his lips. ‘Really? Are you formally offering your service?’ Kiska gave a tense nod. ‘Well, you’ll have to talk to my chief of staff here.’ He swept an arm to Hattar.

Kiska deflated. She knew Agayla always stressed that she should disguise her emotions, but she couldn’t help herself from glancing skyward and allowing her shoulders to fall. She prayed he was leading her on, but dared not risk the challenge. She was sure that if she jumped down onto the ship Hattar would simply toss her overboard — one arm or not.

‘What say you, Hattar?’ Tayschrenn asked.

The tribesman continued to inspect his chin. ‘She has potential,’ he allowed. ‘But little discipline.’

‘Discipline!’ Kiska shouted in disbelief.

Hattar froze, his knife held next to his throat. He stared, and even from the dock Kiska felt the icy disapproval of that glare. She swallowed, nodding her apology. ‘As I said. Very little discipline.’

‘Perhaps schooling,’ Tayschrenn suggested. ‘Training might sort that out.’

Hattar frowned. ‘Perhaps.’ He nodded. ‘Yes. Perhaps after a few years she might-’

‘A few years!’

Hattar jumped up and snapped his arm in a throw. The knife quivered, imbedded in the wood of the dock just before Kiska’s feet. ‘Perhaps in a few years she’ll learn not to interrupt!’

Kiska grimaced. Her damned big mouth! Her impatience! She wanted to apologize, to explain that it was just that this was so important to her. But this time she restrained herself. One more outburst and they’d probably send her packing. She knelt, pulled the knife free and tossed it back to Hattar. He caught it, smiled at the throw. ‘Good.’ He returned to shaving, glowering at himself in the mirror. She wanted to laugh: he’d probably never seen himself without a moustache. Tayschrenn half-bowed, retreated back inside the cabin.

Kiska leaned against a barrel to cradle her side while the dockhands came and went on the gangway carrying on kegs of water and supplies. She stared at Hattar. Was that a yes or a no? What was the decision? More silent treatment? Should she speak? ‘Well?’

Hattar glanced up. ‘Hmm?’

‘Well? What’s your answer? I’ve offered my service. Do you accept?’

Hattar eyed the mirror, scraped the blade over his chin. ‘We leave in two bells. With or without you.’ He held up the knife. ‘Understand?’

‘Yes! Oh, yes!’ She started up the dock then stopped to point back as if to prevent them from leaving that instant. ‘Yes. I’ll be here. Absolutely. Thank you. You’ll see!’ Kiska ran halfway up the steps before a cramp at her side took her breath away and left her gasping, hanging onto the chiselled embrasure to stop from tumbling back down. Slowly girl, she told herself. Don’t faint now. Steady. She’d see Agayla first, then head home and break the news to her mother. She’d be glad, wouldn’t she? Yes, she would. Agayla would support her. And she’d send word back. As soon as she could.

She walked the rising slope of Coral Way, the sun warming her neck and cheek. It drained the tension from her, eased the ache of her muscles and the burn of her cuts. She felt more relaxed, more comfortable than she could ever remember. Did this delicious sensation come from the knowledge that very shortly she would be giving her back to the island — perhaps never to return? Kiska savoured the thought.

She brushed past people who dazedly wandered the streets to stare at wreckage left by the battle, at broken windows and smashed shop fronts. They seemed to study each other as if searching for some reassurance, in the face of such proof, that the night had been nothing more than a foolish nightmare.

Kiska found Reach Lane unnaturally deserted. Any other day of the year would have seen it choked with vendors at carts, squatting on outstretched mats or standing with their wares overflowing baskets. Even the mongrel dogs that should have been running underfoot were nowhere to be seen. Terrified by the lingering scents, Kiska supposed. She banged on Agayla’s door. The garlands of dried flowers hung limp; their musky pungency surprised Kiska. ‘Auntie! Hello! Are you there?’

While Kiska waited an old woman pushed a cart of sweetbreads up the street. This she manoeuvred against one wall, then took her pipe from her mouth to nod.

‘Morning,’ Kiska responded.

‘Thank Burn and the Blessed Lady for it!’

‘Yes. Thank them.’

Breathing out smoke she announced, ‘I was nearly eaten by one of those fiends.’

‘Were you?’

‘Oh, yes. But I prayed to Hood himself all night and the demons passed me by.’

‘Hood?’ Kiska echoed, startled.

‘Oh, yes. Hood, I prayed. Ol’ Bone-Rattler. Please pass over my poor, thin, worn-out soul. Take my neighbour instead. And sure enough — he took my neighbour.’ The old woman cackled and winked.

Kiska laughed uneasily. Oponn deliver her from this crazy island! She banged again on the door while the old woman shooed flies from her sweetbreads. ‘Agayla! Open up! It’s me, Kiska.’ Silence. She pushed on the heavy plank door and it swung open. Surprised, she gazed for a time into the dark shop. Leaning in, she called, ‘Agayla?’

‘Go on in, lass,’ the old woman urged from across the way. ‘No one enters there that she don’t wish to. Go on.’

Kiska stepped in and closed the door. Just to be careful, she barred it as well. ‘Auntie?’ No one answered. She edged in between the shelves. In the rear, she found Agayla sitting before a stool, head bowed under a towel. ’Auntie?’

Agayla raised the towel, peered up blearily. ‘Oh, hello, child.’

‘Auntie, what are you doing?’

Agayla sat back, pressed the towel to her face. A bowl of water on the stool sent up whisps of aromatic steam. ‘I’ve caught a terrible cold.’

‘Oh. Are you all right?’

‘Yes, yes. Just tired. Very, very tired.’ She raised a hand to Kiska. ‘What of you? Safe and sound I see.’

Kiska pulled a chair next to her. ‘Yes. Auntie, the most amazing thing has happened. This is the best day of my life-’

‘You’re leaving Malaz.’

’Auntie! How did you know?’

‘Only that could possibly make you so happy.’

Kiska gripped her arm. ‘Oh, Auntie. It’s not that I want to leave you. It’s just that I have to get off this island. You understand that, don’t you?’

She covered Kiska’s hand, smiled faintly. ‘Yes, child. I understand.’ Then a coughing fit took her and she held the towel to her mouth.

Kiska watched anxiously; in all the time she had known her, never had she betrayed the slightest illness before. ‘You are all right, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, yes. Quite. It’s just been a very trying night for me. One of the most trying I have ever known.’

Kiska eyed her critically. ‘I thought I saw you-’

‘Just a dream, child. A vision on a night of visions.’

‘Still, there was something…’

The same ghost of a smile raised Agayla’s lips. ‘Mere shadows.’

Kiska didn’t believe her, but time was passing. She stood. ‘I have to go — I can’t wait.’

Agayla used the chair to help herself to her feet. Kiska steadied her arm. ‘Yes, yes,’ she urged. ‘Certainly. Go. Run to your dear mother’s. Let her know you’re fine.’

‘Yes, I will. Thank you, Auntie. Thank you for everything.’

Agayla took her in her arms and hugged her, kissed her brow. ‘Send word soon or I swear I will send you a curse.’

‘I will.’

‘Good. Now run. Don’t keep Artan waiting.’

Kiska was halfway down Reach Lane before the thought occurred to her: how on earth did Agayla know that name? She stopped, half a mind to turn around. But time was pressing and she had a suspicion that saying goodbye to her mother would take much longer than she thought it might.

Though his vision swam and he had to rest at every landing to stave off passing out, Temper climbed Rampart Way up to the Hold. It was madness for him to be about and walking, but there was no way he would miss the morning’s excitement at the keep. A crowd already choked the main entrance — tradesmen and citizens in a panic with pleas and complaints for Sub-Fist Pell. Wearing a thick cloak taken from the Hanged Man, Temper bulled his way through. He found Lubben snoring in a chair tilted back against the damp wall, his chest wrapped in dressings under his unlaced jerkin.

‘Wake up, you lazy disgrace!’

The hunchback cracked open his eye. Temper was amazed by how red it was. Lubben looked him up and down. He smacked his lips and grimaced at the taste. ‘What in Hood’s own burial pit are you doing here?’

‘Got the day watch.’

‘The what? The day watch? Gods man, give it a rest! You make me feel old just looking at you. Go on sick call.’

‘What, and miss all the entertainment?’

Lubben rolled his eye. ‘Well, if you must…’ he raised a pewter flask to Temper. ‘A little fortification for the trial ahead.’

Temper tucked the flask under his shirt. ‘Thanks. See you later.’

Lubben shifted his seat, hissed in pain as he flexed his back. ‘I suppose so. Can’t be helped.’

Before he even got to the barracks Temper was challenged four times. In the Hold there was more general rushing about, more whispering and pale faces than ever before. He chuckled about that as he carefully drew on his hauberk and guard uniform. He might have laughed, but he gritted his teeth as he flexed his stiff arms and stretched his battered back. Guards hurried in and out and Temper was pleased to see most of them alive and well, though none were up to the usual banter. The one face he didn’t see was that braggart, Larkin’s.

Temper stopped Wess, a young recruit from the plains south of Li Heng. ‘Where’s Larkin?’

The youth stared, his eyes wide with awe. ‘Haven’t you heard?’

Temper’s stomach tightened. ‘Heard what?’

‘He’s under arrest. Refused to stand his post last night. Defied orders.’ Temper’s burst of laughter caused Wess to jump. He gaped. ‘It’s a serious charge.’ Temper waved him past. The youth spared him one last quizzical glance before running on.

Chuckling, Temper picked up his spear outside the barracks and headed for the inner stairs. He felt in a better mood than he’d known in a long time. Chase stood at the battlements. Temper never thought he’d be happy to see the green officer, but this morning he was. For once the Claws had kept things entirely to themselves and ignored the local garrison.

Chase turned to him. ‘You’re late, soldier.’ He sounded more distracted than irritated.

‘Had a bit of a wrestle with a bottle last night. I lost.’ Temper leaned his elbows on a crenel.

‘Why am I not surprised?’ Chase sneered.

‘So,’ Temper began, waving down to the inner bailey and the men rushing in and out, ‘what’s all the commotion?’

‘You mean you don’t know?’

‘No,’ Temper drawled, ‘can’t say as I’m sure.’

‘Hood’s bones, man! And you’re a guard here!’ Chase choked back his outrage. He seemed unable to comprehend Temper’s lack of concern. He almost walked away, dismissing him as an utter lost cause, but sighed instead. ‘While you were blind drunk last night there was an assassination attempt on the visiting official.’ He leaned close to lower his voice. ‘The fighting was real quick and ugly, so I hear.’

‘So you hear? You mean the garrison wasn’t roused?’

Chase cleared his throat, uncomfortable. He looked away. ‘No. Everything happened upstairs, inside the tower. We didn’t hear a sound.’

Temper hid a smile. The fellow was actually disappointed. He scratched his chin. ‘What about the night watch?’

Chase stepped up beside him, all disgust and disapproval forgotten. ‘That’s the thing! I heard it’s come out that the entire night watch saw nothing! So there you are.’

Temper blinked, ‘Sorry-?’

‘The Warrens,’ he whispered, confidingly. ‘We didn’t have a chance.’

‘Ahh.’ Temper nodded his understanding. ‘How unfair of them, hey?’

Chase jerked away. His hazel eyes flashed anger. ‘There you go again! Taking the high ground. Always mocking. Well, it’s just chance, you know. The Twins of Chance and age. You’ve just had more luck. So I say to Hood with you! Where were you when the cats caught fire here, eh? You had your nose trapped in a bottle! And you look like you got into a drunken brawl, too!’

He marched off and Temper watched him go. He wasn’t sure what to make of all that so he chuckled softly to himself. Ahh, youth! So sure, yet so uncertain. He rested more of his weight onto the crenel, leaned his head against the limestone merlon. He felt as if he’d been dragged by horses across broken rock, which, he reflected, wasn’t too far from the truth. But he couldn’t keep a satisfied grin from his lips; he’d done it again-stepped into the gap. Held the wall.

All last year he’d done nothing but run. And the suspicion had haunted him: did he still have what it took? Could he still make a stand anymore? Or more importantly, was there anything left worth fighting for? Well, now he knew and felt more comfortable for the knowing. More at ease with himself. He even felt a measure of gratitude for all that had happened.

Corinn especially. He couldn’t have done it without her. He’d have to tell her that tonight, and ask if she was leaving now that what she’d come for was over. Maybe he could even tell her that he hoped she wouldn’t go, because he suspected he’d be spending a long time on the island. A long while to come at Coop’s Hanged Man Inn.

He rubbed his shoulder and flexed his leg, all the time grimacing. At least he was in no danger of falling asleep, what with half his body yammering its pain at him. Down the wall, Mock’s Vane stood silent on its pike. Temper eyed it — the damn thing appeared frozen athwart the wind. He turned away from the day’s glare to ease into what always got him through the day: watching the sea.

Down below, the bay glimmered calmly. The Strait seemed to be holding its breath. In the shimmering distance a few warships were passing. Closer in, anchored in the bay, merchant caravels and barks rocked gently in the harbour’s lee. The message cutter caught Temper’s eye. Sails up, it was on its way out of the bay with good speed — even in this relative calm. He’d seen it arrive just before dusk yesterday, and now today towards the noon bell it was again on its way. Message delivered, Temper supposed.

What a night to have lain over! Idly, he speculated on the coincidence. Could that be Surly or another, on their way back to Unta or beyond? Probably not. Too mundane. Surly and the others would have left already by way of the Warrens. In either case, he bid them all a warm farewell and added the heartfelt wish that none should ever again set foot on the island.

He tossed back a swig from the flask to salute the thought.