The Righteous Blade

I

won’t do anything to harm Caldason, uncle.’

‘How long do you think you’re going to be in there?’

Kutch smiled. ‘You really don’t have to come, you know, Reeth. I’m quite capable of doing this by myself.’

‘I’m mindful of what happened the last time you were out alone.’

‘You’re not going to let me forget that, are you?’

‘The streets aren’t safe. Best we stick together.’ He glanced towards a pair of militia standing on the other side of the road, watching the crowds.

‘You’re the wanted man,’ Kutch reminded him. ‘I would have thought you were more at risk.’

The look Caldason gave him dispelled any doubt about his attitude to danger. But he had made concessions to his status as an outlaw; he was wearing a grey, hooded jerkin with the cowl pulled up, and he’d temporarily dispensed with his trademark second sword.

For his part, Kutch had refrained from wearing his blinkers, though he had them ready in his pocket.

They were making their way through the press of people in central Valdarr, with several blocks to go before they reached their destination. Watchmen were out in force, along

with militia and regular soldiers. There was no shortage of distinctive red-garbed clansmen either.

‘I’ve never seen so many paladins,’ Kutch remarked.

‘The word means heroes,’ Caldason informed him rancorously. ‘Did you know that? It says something about their arrogance that they should have chosen it.’

‘Perhaps this isn’t the best time to be out and about after all,’ Kutch suggested, gauging the Qalochian’s mood.

‘We’re nearly there. No point in turning back now.’ He mellowed a little and added, ‘Don’t worry, there won’t be any trouble.’

They pushed on silently for a moment, Kutch gathering mettle to raise a subject.

‘Reeth.’

‘Hmmm?’

‘About what you told me.’

‘What was that?’

‘That you think you were responsible for…’

‘My mother’s death?’

‘Yes.’ He was treading softly, nervous of how Caldason might react.

‘What about it?’

‘It was a vision, Reeth. Can you be sure it was true?’

‘I can’t swear that what I see in the visions is truth. But I’d swear to them feeling like it.’ He turned his gaze to the boy. ‘You’ve had some experience yourself now. Do they seem real to you?’

‘Real? Yes. Remember the first time we met, at my master’s house? You said something I didn’t understand. As you were going into your fit you spoke about it being a dose of reality.’

‘Did I?’

‘Yes, and I didn’t understand it at the time.’

‘I meant that this other place I glimpse sometimes seems as real as reality. Sometimes it seems…

more

real.’

‘I know, it’s the same with me. I realise how

genuine

it seems. But…suppose it’s some kind of really convincing glamour or-’

‘You’re clutching at straws. The way I used to.’

‘What are you saying? That it’s

actual

? If that’s the case, why were you seeking out my master, and all those other sorcerers you’ve consulted? You must have thought it was some kind of hex.’

‘I don’t know what I was thinking, Kutch. Like I said, clutching at straws.’

‘Phoenix says we shouldn’t close our minds to any possibility until we have proof that what we believe is true. You’ve no evidence that the visions show the truth.’

‘That’s what I was hoping the Source could do. Disentangle truth from lies for me, and free me.’

‘So why are you throwing the chance away?’

‘What?’

‘To find the Source you have to find the Clepsydra’s hiding place. To get

there

you need the help of the Resistance. Refusing to deliver the gold to Darrok isn’t going to make them happy to help, is it?’

There was a flash of anger in Caldason’s eyes, hot and deep. ‘Did Karr put you up to this? Or Disgleirio?’

‘You know me better than that, Reeth. Don’t you?’

After a pause, he replied, ‘Yes. Sorry.’ There was a hardening then. ‘I’m thinking of saying to hell with the Resistance and getting there by myself.’

‘How?’

‘Find the money to charter a ship, maybe. Work as crew if it comes to that.’

Kutch’s objections came out in a flood. ‘And where exactly would you be going? Has Phoenix given you precise directions? Where would you get a captain prepared to search through a thousand and more islets? And if you found the

right one, what if it was guarded by something even you couldn’t handle? Would a hired crew fight for you? You’re used to doing things alone, Reeth, the way I’m having to learn to. But you can’t do

everything

alone.’

At least there was no acid rebuke. Caldason seemed to contemplate the boy’s words. But all he said, almost under his breath, was, ‘You’re not alone.’

They lapsed back into silence after that, and soon got to the district they sought.

It was one of Valdarr’s more prosperous quarters, a mix of fine residences and fancy stores. Affluent enough for the tradesmen to afford glamoured signs for their shops. Above a butcher’s, a corpulent, illuminated pig incessantly foraged. For the boot maker it was a pair of shoes, endlessly plodding some invisible highway. A purveyor of musical instruments sported a jaunty pipe and drum; the baker had his steaming loaf; an armourer displayed two crimson blades, engaged in an animated duel.

Caldason hoped Kutch wouldn’t notice the sign over a bordello further along the street.

The boy touched his arm. ‘It’s down here.’ He led them into a side turning, a less well-heeled thoroughfare than the one they left. There were shops here too, but slightly meaner, many needing a lick of paint and their stock dusting.

Halfway along, they came to a particularly dilapidated storefront. It didn’t have a spruce exterior like its main-street neighbours, just peeling grey boards where a window might have been. There was a glamoured sign above its frontage, showing an open book with its pages turning, but it flickered and spluttered fit to expire. The faded letters over its door read

The Wordsmiths’ Repository

.

Caldason raised an eyebrow. Kutch said, ‘All right, it sounds a bit pretentious, but it should have what I need,’ and reached for the door handle.

An old lady shuffled their way. She was warty and little and bent-backed, and her silver hair was trying to escape an ancient, battered bonnet. A tattered shawl of indeterminate colour draped her shoulders. Her ankle-length dress was shapeless, and she wore scuffed, buttoned boots. She, too, was heading for the bookshop.

Kutch opened the door, setting off a tinkling bell that almost masked its creaking, and held it for her. Arthritically edging past, she croaked, ‘Thank you, young man.’

He smiled, and made to follow. But didn’t.

‘You all right?’ Caldason asked.

Kutch came out of his reverie. ‘Eh? Oh. Yes, I’m fine.’

‘What was it?’

‘Don’t know. A little…You know when people say somebody’s just walked over their grave? Like that. It’s gone now.’

‘Sure you’re all right?’

‘Yes. Come on.’ He walked into the shop. Caldason pulled back his hood and went in after him.

They were confronted, not unnaturally, by a great many books. Shelves ran floor to ceiling on every wall, and there were enough large tables to restrict the floor space to narrow aisles. Every surface was laden with books. Fat books with rusty iron hinges, slim books, multi-volume sets, dog-eared pamphlets. Though other colours could be seen, the majority had brown bindings. Some were shiny new, others were practically falling apart. Tomes with gold-embossed spines stood next to fellows whose lettering had worn to anonymity. The smell was glorious, though it was hard to say why, given it consisted of rotting paper, mould and crumbling bindings. It was the odour of antiquity.

The sole break in the shelving was to allow for a door-sized opening into a further room, also stuffed with books. Next to it, a rickety staircase rose to another floor.

There was no sign of the old woman. The only person they

could see was the proprietor, hunched like a vulture on a stool behind his littered counter. He was a needle-faced individual of indeterminate age, bony thin. His wire-wool black hair ended in a widow’s peak, and he had tiny, dark, acquisitive eyes. Though he was unlikely to demonstrate it by smiling, his teeth were probably bad.

Kutch took a folded sheet of parchment from his pocket and approached him.

‘I wonder if you have any of these?’ he said, offering the list.

The bookseller didn’t look at it, let alone take it. ‘What are they?’

‘Books.’

‘What

kind

of books?’ His half sarcastic, half disgusted tone spoke of the long-suffering patience of a man forced to deal on a daily basis with people he regarded as morons.

‘Oh. Yes, sorry. Books on the Craft.’

‘Down there.’ He waved vaguely towards the far end of the shop.

Kutch caught a whiff of bad breath and took a backwards step. ‘Er, thanks.’

‘And be careful how you handle the merchandise, some of it’s expensive.’ Curt dismissal issued, he went back to reading a book he had open on the counter.

Caldason was standing by the staircase. Kutch joined him. ‘Seems what I want is down there.’ He jabbed a thumb.

‘I heard. While you’re doing that, I think I’ll take a look upstairs.’ He indicated a chalk board on the wall. An upward pointing arrow had been drawn on it. Underneath was written: