Stalking Darkness (36 page)

“Sergeants, I’m as new to this as the rest of them. Are there any special words to be spoken?” “Whatever you want to say,” Braknil replied with a shrug. Beka raised the arrow in front of her. “May we all fight together with honor, mercy, and strength.”

With that, she touched the arrowhead to her tongue and the coppery tang of the blood flooded her mouth. She wanted to grimace and spit, but she kept her face calm as she cleaned the arrowhead in the snow and dropped it back into her quiver.

“Honor, mercy, and strength!” echoed the others, doing the same with arrows and sword blades. “I guess that’s it. Now we’ve got supplies to deliver,” she told them. “Anyone seen my horse?”

That evening Captain Myrhini’s troop feasted on the first fresh meat they’d had in weeks and drank the health of Beka and her turma several times over.

When they’d finished and were settling in their tents for another cold night, Captain Myrhini drew Beka aside.

“I’ve been talking with some of Mercalle’s riders,” she said as they walked together past the campfires of the various turmae. “Sounds to me like you kept your head and took care of your people.”

Beka shrugged. She’d been doing some thinking of her own. “It’s a good thing. I made a mistake sending out two riders when three were already up on point. I don’t think it was any accident that those ambushers jumped us when they did.”

“Oh?” Myrhini raised an eyebrow. “What could you have done differently?”

“I was going to relieve Mercalle anyway. I should’ve ridden up alone and sent the other two back for their replacements.”

“But that would have left your riders without an officer or sergeant.” “Well, yes—“

“And the way I hear it, it was you who kept those green fighters from wasting all their arrows on the bushes, which the raiders were probably counting on. The fact is, it was me who made a mistake today.”

Beka looked at her in surprise, but Myrhini motioned for her not to interrupt. “I assumed that because we were in neutral territory, it was safe to send a decuria out on its own. If you’d had the turma with you, those brigands would never have attacked. Of course, you were far too tactful and inexperienced to bring this to my attention when I gave you that order, weren’t you?”

Beka couldn’t quite read the officer’s cryptic smile. “No, Captain, it just never occurred to me that we’d need any more people than that for a supply run.”

“Then we were both in error,” Myrhini said. “But learn and live, as a certain friend of ours always says. You did well, Lieutenant. Sergeant Mercalle thinks you’ve got the makings of a good fighter, by the way.”

“Oh?” Beka asked, caught between pleasure at the veteran’s appraisal and a certain pique that the sergeant had evidently not had the same confidence in her abilities before now. “What made her say that?”

“I think it was the way you were grinning as you fought,” Myrhini answered. “At least, that’s what she hears from those fighting beside you. Tell me, were you scared?”

Beka thought about that a moment. “Not really. Not during the fight, anyway.” “Sakor touched!” the captain exclaimed, shaking her head. But Beka thought she sounded pleased.

C
lutching the stolen loaf beneath his shirt, Skut sprinted through the late afternoon crowd filling the marketplace.

Behind him he could hear the furious bread seller shouting, “Stop him, stop thief!” A few people made halfhearted grabs at him, but the sympathy of the waterfront crowd was obviously with him.

Reluctant to leave his wares open to further depredations, the bread seller quickly gave up and returned to his handcart.

Hunger knotted Skut’s empty belly. Tym’s death had thrown him off his game for three days now, and he’d had almost nothing to eat. Grabbing the loaf had been a desperate move, but he couldn’t stand the gnawing ache in his gut any longer.

Keeping one eye out for trouble, he threaded his way through filthy alleys to a ruined warehouse on the western fringes of the lower city, his current home.

One wall had burned and fallen in and the whole place reeked of old smoke, but an attic loft was still sound. Picking his way over the rubble, he climbed the makeshift ladder leading up to it.

Sunset light spilled across the floor below but the back of the loft was already lost in shadow. The grey doves roosting overhead shifted suspiciously as he peered over the edge of the platform.

“Kaber, you here?” There was no answer.

That was a relief. He hadn’t seen Kaber in a week and good riddance. The older boy had provided a certain amount of protection, but he was lazy and had lately taken to punching Skut when he didn’t bring home enough for them to eat.

He went to the rusty brazier at the center of the loft and felt for the fire makings. His hand had just closed around the tinder bowl when suddenly he sensed movement behind him.

Skut was a quick lad, but not quick enough this time. Before he could stand up someone had thrown a heavy cloak over his head and pinioned his arms.

Snuffers! Skut thought desperately.

He squirmed wildly, struggling for his life, and felt his foot hit something with satisfying force. There was a soft grunt of pain, but strong arms caught his flailing legs. His captors lifted him off the floor, holding him so tightly he could scarcely wiggle.

“We’re not here to harm you,” said the one holding his arms. It was a man’s voice, and soft. “I want to know about Tym.”

“Don’t know nothin”!” Skut whimpered, bucking helplessly.

“Oh, let’s not go down that route, shall we? Word is you’re the one who saw it happen. I only want to talk to you about it. Settle down now and I’ll make it worth your while.”

Skut resisted a moment longer, his thin body taut as a bowstring, then gave in. Whoever had a hold of him clearly wasn’t about to let go.

“All right then, I’ll tell you. Only let me down.”

“Put him down.”

Skut felt his legs released, though the one behind him maintained a strong hold around his chest and arms.

“Are you going to behave yourself?”

“Said I would, didn’t I?” Skut mumbled, heart hammering in his throat.

“Sit down where you are.”

Skut obeyed, then cried out in fear as something heavy settled on his thigh. Looking out from under the edge of the cloak, he saw that it was a rough sack.

“Go on, open it,” the man urged, still behind him. He could see the boots of another just in front of him, the one who hadn’t spoken yet.

With trembling hands, Skut opened the bag and was amazed to discover a small sausage, a wedge of cheese, and half a dozen boiled eggs. The toothsome aroma was unbearably good, but he was still suspicious. The one doing all the talking had a highborn sound to him. What’d he want with Tym?

“It’s all right,” said the second one, speaking for the first time. Another man. “Go ahead and eat. You look like you could use it.”

The smoky garlic scent of the sausage was too much. Praying it wasn’t poisoned, Skut took a cautious nibble, then another. “What happened to Tym?” asked the first one. “Fell off a roof, that’s all,” Skut replied around a mouthful. “Tym fell?”

Skut shrugged, peeling one of the eggs with dirty fingers. “Saw him go over. He didn’t yell or nothin’, just toppled down.”

“No one’s found his body. Are you certain he was dead?”

“Course!” Skut snorted. “Think I wouldn’t make sure? The bastard hadn’t paid me yet. His head was all stove in and broken. He didn’t have so much as a groat on him, neither, not even his knife.”

His unseen interrogator seemed to consider this for a moment. “What were you doing there? What was it he was going to pay you for?”

“Well—” Skut hesitated. “I guess I could say, since he’s dead and all. I was watching a house for him, the one he fell off of.”

“What house?”

“Tenement house in Sailmaker Street. Tym said I was to keep an eye out for any shady sorts, especially breakers and gaterunners. And Scavengers, too.”

“How long did you watch?”

“Most of a week.” The sausage was good, best he’d ever tasted. On the strength of this, he added helpfully, “I seen one, too. Pry the Beetle come by day before Tym fell.”

“Did Tym say why he wanted you to watch for these fellows?”

“No, and I didn’t ask. When Tym wanted something done, you done it, that’s all,” Skut told him, adding somewhat pointedly, “Would’ve paid me, too, if he hadn’t gotten his self killed.”

The man chuckled in a friendly way. “A true man of honor, our Tym. Did you see anyone on the roof, or hear anything strange before Tym fell?”

Skut absently cracked a louse on his sleeve as he thought hard. “No, nothin’.” “What was he doing up on the roof in the first place?”

“Said he was going to have a listen on the feller he was watching, lived up on the top floor. That’s where he went over, right at that window. You ain’t going to kill me or nothing, are you?”

“No, but I’ll give you a word of advice. Keep low and stop blabbing. You don’t know who else might take an interest in you. Now I want you to sit tight awhile, until you know we’re gone. I wouldn’t want to have to hurt you after you’ve been so helpful.”

“I won’t twitch!”

A strong hand clamped menacingly down on Skut’s shoulder. “And not a word to anyone about this little visit, right?”

“Right! You wasn’t never here,” he whispered, suddenly fearful again.

The hand withdrew. Skut heard a shuffle of boots, the creak of the ladder, then silence. He made himself count to a hundred twice before he dared pull the cloak off his head. When nothing stirred, he scrambled to kindle a light and found a sturdy dagger and a small cloth purse lying on the brazier grill. The bag held at least a sester’s worth of pennies.

Highborn or not, those gents knew a thing or two, Skut thought wonderingly. Showing gold or silver around these parts could get you killed right quick, especially a skinny brat like himself. But a few coppers here and there were safe enough and a stash like this could keep him going a month or more. He turned the knife over with something like reverence, testing its wicked edge against his thumb. Just let Kaber try knocking him around again! Gathering what few belongings he owned, together with anything of Kaber’s that struck him as useful, he set off in search of new lodgings.

“Sounds like an accident,” Alec said as soon as they were well away from the ruined warehouse. “He must have slipped coming down those slates, just like I did.”

Seregil looked doubtful. “It’s hard to believe Tym could fall. He’s been over those roofs all his life. And the missing knife, that bothers me. Tym only drew his blade when he meant to use it. If it was in its sheath when he fell, Skut would have taken it. He said himself it wasn’t there. Besides, if Tym had gone clattering over the slates, the boy would have heard it.”

“And what happened to the body?” mused Alec. They’d already made the rounds of the charnel houses. “From the sound of it, he didn’t just get up and walk away.”

Seregil shrugged. “There are plenty strange characters in Rhiminee who’d pay for a corpse.” Alec grimaced. “Like who?”

“Oh, the mad and the curious, mostly. There was one man, a lord, no less, who wanted to determine which organ contained the soul. Artists have been known to use them, too, sculptors in particular. I recall a woman was executed after it was discovered that she’d used human skeletons as armatures for statues she was casting for the Dalnan retreat house. According to the story, a priest stopped by her shop to see how the work was coming along and inadvertently knocked over one of the life-size clay models. The head struck the floor at his feet and split open to reveal an all too lifelike mouthful of teeth.”

“You’re joking!”

“It’s the Maker’s truth. Valerius has told that story a hundred times. ‘Burn ‘em or leave ‘em alone!’ was generally the moral of the tale. As for Tym, though, it could be necrophiles or just some poor starving sod—“

“Enough, I get the idea,” Alec growled. He had no idea what a necrophile was and didn’t think he wanted to know; the thought of cannibalism was nauseating enough all by itself.

“What? Oh, sorry. All that aside, I think it’s more likely that Rythel or some of his associates caught Tym spying and wisely disposed of the body. We’d better have a look up there ourselves.”

They waited until it was full dark, then rode down to Sailmaker Street. The inhabitants of the house were still awake and at their suppers; their own clatter would cover any noise Seregil might make going over the slates.

With Alec on watch below, he climbed the rickety stairs at the back of the house and pulled himself onto the roof. Looping a rope around a chimney pot, he crept cautiously down to the eaves just over

Rythel’s window. He spotted the knife at once, its naked blade gleaming cleanly in the gutter.

Stretched out on his belly, face just inches from the knife, Seregil regarded it for a moment, wondering how Tym—quick, clever, deadly Tym—could have been caught out on the edge of a bare roof and not drawn a drop of blood before he died.

You were good, Tym, but it looks like we all meet our match sooner or later, he mused, reaching for the dead thief’s knife. The thought sent a brief chill up his spine as he grasped the scarred hilt. Hurrying on its heels, however, came the still more chilling memory of sending Alec to burgle the room by himself. Was it any more than Illior’s luck that whoever Tym had run afoul of had not been on hand for Alec’s visit?