Drakenfeld (16 page)

Even at this early hour, dozens of people had come to mourn as my father was carried to his funeral pyre, and I found the gathering to be touching. A rather hungover Veron was there, as was
Lillus the barber, who nodded sadly to me across the way. Men and women from the Senate had come, but I had simply no idea who some of the others were. My father had been a man of some renown
– so, for some, I’m sure there was a certain morbid fascination to see how the mighty are fallen.

Leana stood beside me, her hand moving to the hilt of her sword, scanning every face with great attentiveness.

‘Is something wrong?’ I asked.

‘I am convinced we are being watched,’ she whispered. ‘At least, there is some unwelcome presence here. An angry spirit.’

‘Surely no one is likely to try something in such a public space.’

‘Concentrate on mourning – that is your job. I will make sure we remain safe.’ Leana resumed scrutinizing the faces leaning out of windows, and those standing silhouetted on
top of the nearby aqueduct. I noticed how one part of the structure was badly in need of repair, judging by the gaping hole in its masonry.

My father’s wrapped body, which would have been coated in a flammable balm, was carried into a small enclosed courtyard, where the rest of the pyre stood waiting for him, and his wicker
throne was hauled up on top. The pontiff began a melancholic chant of the tale of Polla, as the goddess of the sun, she who shone light into the darkest of places. It was into the light that my
father’s body would be sent. Polla was not one for blood offerings.

Torches were brought forward and the pyre was lit in several places; the flames soon began to spread, engulfing my father’s body. I felt a lump in my throat, but forced away any unsavoury
emotions as masked dancers commenced the ritual of the Passage through to the Underworld. Their graceful, wide-armed movements were comforting, a welcome distraction. Only because I had travelled
through many countries, and seen many different peoples, did the notion of ritual strike me as curious – that much of such displays was more about symbolism and tradition.

The flames became more ferocious and burned consistently, and for a long time. The painted faces of the priests and priestesses standing behind were soon blurred by the shimmering heat.

The sun banked higher in the sky and my father could no longer be seen. Later his ashes would be gathered into an urn, which the pontiff would then secure in the family mausoleum outside Tryum,
his final resting place. Though that would not happen until the priests had conducted further rituals.

The blue-faced pontiff slowly gathered up the remains, and his priestesses came forth with brushes to cleanse the courtyard of evil spirits. People began to drift away, a few old friends
lingering till the very end. One or two of them nodded to me, though I could not recall their faces – evidently, they knew who I was. Everything seemed strangely quiet, now, but that was how
funerals were done in Tryum. No celebrations of life like the Atrewens; just a simple acknowledgement of death and a show of respect to the gods.

And that was that. Well, apart from the fact that Leana was right about the fact that we were being watched.

‘Where next?’ Leana asked. ‘Are you to continue to contemplate your father’s passing at a temple?’

‘No, we’ve not got the time,’ I said. ‘We should head down into Plutum, but before that I want to find out why there was an attempt on our lives last night.’

We headed to Constable Farrum’s house.

Cutting through a small plaza, we passed where vendors in wine-coloured tunics were selling cinnamon sticks and hot chickpeas. Either side of them, two stores specialized in theatre equipment,
masks and the like. A wood yard stood at the far end, its operations spread over three precarious floors, and next to it was a large stonemason’s building, with various examples of
craftsmanship on display out the front. Several stone busts glowed in the morning sunlight.

‘Let us not be slow,’ Leana said. ‘I cannot see who it is, but we are now being followed.’

We continued towards the stonemason’s, slipping down an adjacent alleyway.

I heard their steps closing in behind us while, up ahead, two men jumped down from an open window, blocking our path.

We were surrounded by six individuals. Each of them wore a mud-coloured tunic, and only one was rich enough to sport boots. At least one face had been at the funeral. Judging by the curved blade
in his left hand, he wasn’t about to pay his respects.

‘Lucan Drakenfeld, son of Calludian, officer of the Sun Chamber.’ One lanky man spoke slowly and stepped towards us with an arrogant swagger. With more than thirty summers behind
him, his beard still appeared like that of an adolescent. ‘You owe us money.’

I withdrew my short sword a moment after Leana had drawn hers. ‘If you feel you’re owed something, why not come closer to collect it?’ I called back. For good measure, I let
him know what I thought of his beard.

‘Let’s not spill blood,’ he spat, having momentarily lost his calm. ‘Hand over what we’re owed and we’ll leave you in peace.’

They weren’t going to kill us: it would be tough getting money out of a corpse. ‘How about this for a deal: leave now and still keep your life. Or stay and be butchered.’ Sweat
trickled down my back and I longed to ditch my cloak.

The man shook his head. ‘See, this is no way to talk. You’re from a family of good standing. Should be showing us an example of pretty manners, right?’

‘Who’s your employer?’ I asked. ‘If I have debts, tell me who they’re owed to – otherwise I remain ignorant of what you claim.’

‘You don’t know about your debts?’ The man laughed, as did the others. ‘What family is this that don’t talk?’

They came closer still, two in front, four at the back.

‘I’ve only been in the city for a few days,’ I called out. ‘I know nothing of a family debt.’

‘The money is owed by a Drakenfeld,’ the lead figure said. ‘We do not care who pays it, only that the account is settled. Or we spill blood, which I don’t wanna
do.’

‘You’re not going to kill me,’ I replied.

‘Who said anything about killing? You can still pay with only one hand.’

Leana threw a dagger into one man’s neck; he dropped his sword and collapsed, but by the time he’d hit the ground she’d already sliced the arm of the ringleader and then opened
his throat before any of us knew what was going on.

On seeing this display, the four men behind us ran back into the plaza.

I stared at Leana, who set about retrieving her dagger.

‘What?’ She freed it from the body and wiped off the blood on his clothing. ‘You spend so much time talking. At least this business is over with now.’

‘We’ll have to report this,’ I replied. ‘We can’t just go about killing people and walking away without letting the authorities know.’

‘They are scum. No one cares.’

‘I care.’

‘Why are you so annoyed?’ she asked, sheathing her blades.

‘I was hoping to get answers.’

‘You got a few. Your father owed money. These people were not going to tell you who the money was owed to, they just wanted you to hand over coin. With only one hand, if they had it their
way.’

‘I do not pay you to kill people needlessly. A life is not ours to take away unless absolutely necessary.’

She regarded me with an anger that made me question if I’d gone too far. Our understanding of the topic differed greatly – I had not seen the atrocities she had witnessed growing up.
I had not seen all my friends and relatives butchered, my entire community left to rot in blood.

‘OK,’ she said, seemingly more relaxed. ‘But you should know that people from your culture do exactly the same when they go abroad. It is only you who thinks in such a soft
way.’

I couldn’t fault her on that.

Sometimes it felt as though I was the only person in the whole of Vispasia, irrespective of culture, to abhor killing. Perhaps my seizures, too, made me sensitive to the well-being of others,
though truthfully anyone who took to heart Polla’s teachings would also share the view that life is precious, not something to be taken away so easily. Other cultures long before our time had
given edicts on the fair treatment of others, and sought to preserve life wherever possible, so to the discriminating it seemed we now lived in more barbarous times, where a man casually being
hacked down in the street had become the way of things. I even struggled in my work for the Sun Chamber, when skilled torturers would walk someone close to the Underworld before bringing them back
to consciousness. How could we defend civilization without dignity?

No, removing a life is the business of the gods only, and I could live by no other code on the subject.

The visit to Constable Farrum’s house was humbling. It was situated in the relatively safe region of Tradum, a zone of Tryum that had been commandeered by the merchant
guilds and their thousands of members. Over the years Tradum had swelled into tenement blocks extending upwards from some of the more industrious smiths and grain merchants. There was little art or
finesse to be found in the architecture, only simple columns and bland facades, little in the way of colours, and the suggestion that two or three streets away a stranger might find themselves in a
very rough part of the city.

Along the fringes of the district, facing Plutum and Barrantum, more esoteric cliques and entrepreneurs could be found. There were soothsayers, curse-dealers and moneylenders; a few prostitutes,
male and female, paced under the arch of an aqueduct. Grubby, vacant faces regarded me from the cool shade of doorways.

From my youth I remembered the practice of illegal and – so my friends always claimed – ancient magic carried on in some of these back alleys. Curses were traded on tablets, and
dubious, non-approved gods were worshipped by those seeking to profit over the vulnerable. It was a dirty trade but one that Tryum seemed to thrive on.

I had clearly grown accustomed to the fineries of Tryum, even after just a few days here. Stepping into Farrum’s simple home was disarming. His wife, a wiry, dark-haired lady in her
forties, greeted us with such grace it seemed as though we were royalty. Politely I asked her to stop bowing. There were four barefoot children standing sheepishly in the corner, dressed in grey
tunics that seemed a size too small, and I wondered if they should have been attending school at this hour – Farrum should surely have been able to afford it.

Farrum came to meet us and led us through to a back room.

‘There was a fifth and sixth, but they both died of fever in the spring,’ Farrum said. ‘Still, losing only two, that’s a good record for the city, especially when
there’s so little food. Some people go without for days.’ I was shocked by his calm manner when explaining the loss of his children.

Were things really so bad in Tryum?

The downstairs living quarter was a kitchen, hall and dining area all combined into one reasonably large room. The only natural light came in through the open door, while lanterns hung unlit
from meat hooks on the ceiling. The walls were cracked and herbs had been wedged in the gaps for either storage or an offering. A small shrine to Festonia, the female co-founder goddess of Tryum,
stood in one corner, decorated with beads, trinkets and a bowl filled with scented water. There were probably just one or two rooms upstairs.

Farrum shoved a heavy oak table to one side and gestured to a trapdoor; he had kept the three offenders in a pit underneath the floor.

‘Shouldn’t you have some safer quarters,’ I asked, watching him unlock the door, ‘away from your children?’

‘Costs money,’ he said, scratching his beard. ‘The Civil Cohorts get a decent wage, but it doesn’t pay for things like that. Besides, this lot are not going to cause me
no harm here, sir.’

‘Before you open that up, we’ve some information.’ I registered the killings earlier, and informed him where we had left the bodies. I apologized for their deaths.

‘Why? You’re an official, they are thugs – it’s the way of things.’

I gave him an accurate impression of the earlier scene. ‘Do you know who they might be?’

‘Possibly. I got a hunch they were related to the buggers below.’ He stamped one foot to indicate the captives.

‘Do they talk much?’ Leana asked.

Farrum shook his head.

In the dusty half-light, Leana moved over to the trapdoor as Farrum unlocked it. After he flipped it open, Leana reached in and grabbed one of the offenders by his bound wrist, and then hauled
him up and onto the floor. She kicked him in the ribs, sending him sprawling, then she grabbed him by the hair and yanked him upright.

‘Enough,’ he spluttered. ‘No more. Get this witch off.’

‘Hear that, Leana,’ I laughed, ‘he thinks you’re a witch.’ I leaned over his squinting face. ‘She’s far worse than that, my friend.’

Leana unsheathed her short sword and crouched down on one side of him.

I followed suit and pointed to the blade. ‘See the small markings near the hilt? Venyn metal, this blade. I’m afraid Leana here left her sharpest sword at home. Venyn steel, it
isn’t so good. It’s not as sharp as some blades. This won’t do a good job cutting through your flesh – it will mess you up quite a bit. If it doesn’t kill you,
you’ll likely get gangrene, and you probably don’t want any of those things to happen. Am I wrong?’

‘N-no,’ he spluttered.

‘Now, if you would be so kind as to tell me what we want to know, we’ll not harm you at all. We’ll even let you go scurrying through the streets back to whatever hole you
crawled from.’

He locked eyes with mine.

‘You don’t have to talk,’ I continued, thinking of some of the well-used lines I’d relied upon before. ‘But I should inform you that Leana here has killed two men
this morning already and, in her tribe, the number three has great significance. Your dying would have meaning to me, too, as I’m almost certain throwing your corpse into that pit would
encourage your accomplices to talk instead. Answers will come, soon enough, and I am a patient man.’