Prisoner of Fate (14 page)

‘It was better when they minded their own business,’ Chase noted dryly. ‘I bet this is some attempt to get money out of the poor.’

Wahim laughed. ‘Wasting their time with us then, eh?’

‘Can’t even save money let alone a soul,’ Chase quipped. ‘I’m going home.’

‘Good to see you back,’ Wahim said as Chase turned to go. ‘And I want to hear about your adventure!’ he called to the young man’s disappearing back.

The tiny cottages in Workers Lane were dark as always at that time early in the morning because most of them housed men and their families who relied on factory jobs in the Foundry Quarter and work started just before dawn every day of the week. A solitary white dog trotted towards Chase, growling, but when Chase hissed, ‘Get out, One-eye!’ the dog sidled out of his path and silently watched him go by. He reached his home, knowing the green door would be bolted, and climbed up the facade onto the roof.

The cottages were two and three-roomed constructions crammed together with barely space for a skinny person to squeeze between, entry confined to doors at the front and back, but Chase had a third entry that he’d made through the slab roof which he used whenever he arrived home late and Passion was asleep. He lifted the slab trapdoor and slid into the building, swinging down from the rafters and landing on the wooden floor of the tiny main room with the soft agility of a practised thief. He stopped to listen, aware that he was still a little drunk from his session with his friends, but when he was satisfied that the cottage was silent he crept to the entrance of his sister’s
bedroom and listened. Soft breathing told him that she and her son were asleep. He smiled, stifled a burp and headed for his bedroom, happy to be home. In a few days he’d visit the old man’s granddaughter to quieten his conscience. For now he needed to rest his aching and battered body.

‘Fate. Destiny. What is meant to be. We have a constant fascination to know our future, our reason for existing, what awaits us in times to come. What is more fascinating is that we can never really predict what will happen. The homeless man today can be the emperor tomorrow. The wise man now might be the blind man tomorrow. It’s a mystery we are given and that’s why it is fascinating to be alive.’

FROM
P
RINCE
I
NHERITOR’S DIARY

M
isty rain drifted across the flickering yellow streetlight while she hung in the night shadows outside the Magpie and Maid tavern, waiting, shivering. As she pulled her wet leather hood tighter, the tavern door swung open and three figures spilled into the street, drunken voices bellowing distorted lyrics of a bawdy ballad. ‘The Miller’s daughter’s smile was wide, but her legs were even wider…’ Swift knew the lyrics. Every drunken man in Port of Joy sang the song as an integral part of the drinking ritual. ‘And happy were the many men who put their length inside her.’ The three companions clung to each other as if afraid that letting go would mean being lost forever as they staggered into the darkness, singing discordant refrains to the empty street.

Swift slid her left hand from her warm thin glove and wiped a cold raindrop from her nose before replacing the glove. As she stared at a lit window on the first storey of the tavern, a shadow crossed the thin beige curtain and a slender arm—a girl’s arm—emerged to close the window shutter. Swift glanced behind into the black alleyway where she loitered. Although she could see and hear nothing, she was restless because the
weather both served her purposes and threatened her security. The time was, at her guess, very close to the middle of the night, meaning the tavern would soon close. It was a popular drinking and whoring place, especially for the tanners and leather workers whose businesses flourished in the Foundry Quarter, but it wasn’t on the main roads and its clientele were mainly local regulars. The owner, Barrel Taverner, a generous man with a large belly and a wooden left forearm, legacy of a battle in his youth with tribesmen on the southern front when he was conscripted into the Kerwyn army, liked his food, his drink, women and sleep. If he was without one of them, his temper became foul and there were a few who’d felt the back swing of his wooden forearm.

The door opened again and two men emerged with a woman. They stood together in the soft rain, haloed by the light, as if they were making a decision. The woman kissed one man before she pulled up her shawl, and the three separated, the kissed man walking quickly in the direction of the drunken three who left earlier, while the remaining man and the woman linked arms and headed for the Main Way. Moments later, a large man with long dark hair poked his head out of the door, checking both directions. Swift recognised Barrel Taverner. He settled his gaze on the alleyway where Swift waited invisibly and nodded as if he could see her, before he looked quickly left and right again and pulled the door shut. The light above the tavern entrance went out.

Swift waited until the interior tavern lights dimmed before she cautiously emerged. She glanced up at the solitary light in the first-floor window as she crossed the street, conscious of her black leather boots squelching in the puddles between the loose cobbles. At the tavern door, she listened and checked the street for movement, before she turned the handle and slipped inside. Dying
hearth embers lit the bar and room with a red hue and she appreciated the warmth that kissed her cheeks and seeped through her clothing. From behind the bar, Barrel Taverner whispered heavily, ‘He’s up there. This better be very clean. I can’t afford a bad name. Business isn’t good here.’

‘Is the barrel ready?’ she asked. Taverner nodded. ‘Who’s with him?’

‘Ella.’

Swift knew the girl. ‘She has to go. You know that.’

‘I can’t afford to lose her,’ Taverner argued. ‘She brings in good cash. She’s popular. She won’t say anything.’

‘She has to go,’ Swift said firmly.

‘I’ll get her to come out,’ he offered, his puffy face pleading.

‘No,’ she replied. ‘Too risky. I can’t afford a struggle.’

‘Can’t you spare her? For me?’

Swift shook her head. ‘She has to go,’ she repeated. She eased down her black hood, revealing her gaunt features and shaven head with its tufts of red hair, and slid off her wet leather overcloak, handing it to the taverner. ‘I’ll be quick about it. You’ll help me get him into the barrel?’

‘I said I would.’

Swift headed for the stairs at the rear of the room, weaving between the chairs and tables, and crept up the steps, wincing inside each time one creaked. At the top, she moved quickly along the short hall, drawn by the light spilling under the third door. She pressed her left ear against the wood, her hand resting on the metal handle. He was hard at it, grunting like a pig, and the girl was making soft cries.

Swift slid her hand crossbow from her belt, expertly loaded a pair of short bolts, side by side, tensioned the
wire by winding it slowly back, and set the trigger. Then she turned the handle, opened the door, took quick aim and fired at the broad muscular back on the bed, the two bolts burying deep into the victim’s flesh. In midthrust, he groaned and collapsed on top of the girl, his legs kicking. Swift dropped the bow, drew her knife, wrenched back his head and slit his throat as he tried to grope for her. He gasped with shock and pain and clutched his lacerated throat. Terrified, sprayed with blood, trapped under the dying man’s weight, the girl started screaming, but Swift clamped her hand over the girl’s mouth and pressed the bloodied knife against her throat. Seeing the desperate fear in the girl’s wide, blue eyes, Swift whispered, ‘I don’t have any choice.’ The blonde-haired girl stared back, her eyes pleading…and for a moment she imagined the face of her sister, Passion, staring at her.

‘You’ve seen too much, Ella,’ Swift argued. ‘You know who I am.’ She tightened her grasp on the knife to make the cut, but the girl’s innocent terror held her fast and again Swift imagined Passion doing the same. It was enough. ‘I can’t let you stay here,’ Swift reasoned. ‘If I don’t kill you, you have to come with me.’ The girl stared silently. ‘Promise you won’t scream?’ Ella tried to nod. Swift eased her pressure on her hand over Ella’s mouth, but kept her knife firmly at the girl’s soft throat as she lifted her hand.

Ella gasped for air. ‘Get him off me!’ she hissed desperately. Swift heaved the dead man aside, and as he slid to the floor like a heavy sack of grain, Ella scrambled off the bed. ‘Why?’ she whispered harshly, shaking with shock. ‘Why did you kill him?’

‘No time for questions,’ Swift replied, as she wriggled her bolts from the body. ‘Put some clothes on. Something warm. I’m fetching Barrel Taverner.’ She straightened and left the room.

When Swift returned with Barrel Taverner she found Ella, retching on all fours. ‘Get some clothes!’ Swift snarled. ‘Now!’

Taverner helped Swift wrap the dead man inside a sheet and they hauled him out of the room. ‘Don’t worry about the stairs,’ Taverner muttered under the weight. ‘We can drop him out the window from my room.’ The pair dragged the sheet-wrapped body along the short hall and around a corner to Taverner’s main bedroom, where they hefted their load up to the window and heaved it out. It landed with a heavy crunch in the stable courtyard. ‘You go,’ Taverner wheezed, recovering from the effort. ‘I can clean up the mess.’

‘What about the barrel?’

‘Leave it to me. It’ll go with the other rubbish on the wagon in the morning.’

‘I’ll get the payment to you. It’ll be a few days.’

‘I know you will,’ Taverner replied and took hold of Swift’s arm. ‘Thanks for leaving me the girl.’

‘She’s not staying,’ Swift replied. ‘I’m taking her with me.’

Taverner released his hold. ‘Why?’

‘She knows too much. She knows who I am. If they work out she was here when this happened, they’ll take her away, they’ll torture her until she tells them it was me, and then they’ll feed her alive to the sharks.’

‘But I need her, Swift.’

‘There’s a hundred girls who’ll work for you in her place.’

‘But she’s different. She has beauty.’

Swift bit the inside of her cheek and winced. ‘Barrel Taverner, you know and I know that when a man’s on top of a woman he doesn’t care what she looks like.’ She walked away, but turned at the door to say, ‘The money will be here in a few days. You won’t see me again, but I won’t forget what you’ve
done for me.’ She headed for the room where a naked Ella was struggling into a tattered old black cloak, sniffing, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘You’ll freeze in that,’ Swift muttered as she bundled Ella out of the room, ‘but there’s no time to fix it.’ She stooped to collect her crossbow and pushed the girl ahead as they descended the stairs and headed for the tavern door. Swift scooped up her leather cloak, pulled it on, and held Ella back as she checked that the street was empty. Satisfied no one was out, she dragged the girl quickly towards the dark alleyway and they melted into the night.

‘Any news?’

Hordemaster Sharpeye Fist bowed and as he straightened he replied, ‘No, Your Highness.’

The inquirer rose from his plush maroon armchair, patted the head of his shaggy grey hunting dog and approached Fist’s imposingly tall frame. ‘No clues?’

Fist shook his head, gazing down at Prince Shadow’s slim figure and clipped black hair. ‘Your Highness, the clues all point to your brother having spent the night at a little tavern in the Foundry Quarter, but we searched it and there’s no sign of him, and none of the tavern regulars seem to remember seeing him there.’

‘Regulars. Shessian scum,’ Shadow snorted. ‘Of course they wouldn’t have seen anything. What do my brothers have to say about our brother’s disappearance?’

‘Prince Inheritor is organising the city watch to conduct a full investigation. Prince Thirdson is organising some of my men to search wider, under Warlord Roughcut’s orders.’

Shadow sniffed and played with a tassel on his maroon robe. ‘Roughcut,’ he mused. He looked up at Fist, noting the thick white scar crossing the man’s left
eye and nose and running along his right cheek to his chin, and said, ‘Bring me the taverner before Roughcut gets his hands on him.’

‘Your Highness, I already have him downstairs.’

Shadow chuckled and clasped Fist’s muscled arm. ‘Of course you have. Efficient. That’s why I keep you. Bring him here.’

Fist bowed and withdrew, and Shadow watched him leave before he returned to his chair. Seated, he clapped his hands and a guard entered the chamber. ‘Fetch Seer Word.’ The guard withdrew. Alone, Prince Shadow stroked his thin black beard and rested his hand in his lap, suddenly aware of his small paunch. ‘Too much eating,’ he muttered and patted the dog’s head again. ‘So, who do you think is killing my brothers, Fighter? Eh? Who wants to kill the royal children?’ He grinned, adding conspiratorially, ‘Apart from me, of course.’

Fist reappeared with two guards escorting a large man with long dark hair. The guards herded their prisoner towards Shadow and hit the backs of the prisoner’s legs to make him kneel before the seated prince. ‘Barrel Taverner, the taverner,’ Fist announced.

‘Let the man stand,’ Shadow ordered. The guards hoisted Taverner to his feet and Shadow stood to cursorily inspect him, noting that his left eye was bruised and swollen and congealed blood clung to his upper lip. ‘Who beat this man?’

‘He was reluctant to come to the palace, Your Highness,’ Fist explained.

‘Is this true?’

‘Yes, Your Highness,’ Fist replied.

‘I was asking the taverner,’ Shadow interjected and waited for the prisoner to respond.

‘He doesn’t speak Kerwyn, Your Highness,’ Fist explained.

Shadow nodded and a wry smile appeared. He then spoke in the Shessian tongue: ‘Who asked you to come here?’

Taverner hesitated, casting a surreptitious glance at Fist. ‘Your Highness, I wasn’t asked to come,’ he replied in a measured tone.

‘If I had asked you to come, you would have come?’

‘Yes, Your Highness,’ Taverner replied.

‘Barrel Taverner—that’s your name?’

‘Yes, Your Highness.’

‘Owner of the Magpie and Maid tavern.’

‘Yes, Your Highness.’

‘Married?’

‘No, Your Highness.’

‘Do I know you, Barrel Taverner?’ Shadow asked, scratching his chin.

‘I served for five years in the army, Your Highness, under your father, ten years ago. I was a Hordemaster until I decided to leave.’

‘And you can’t speak Kerwyn?’

Taverner glanced at Fist. ‘I learned a little, Your Highness.’

Shadow smiled and also looked at Fist. In Kerwyn, he said, ‘Seems the taverner played you for a fool.’ Fist glowered at the prisoner and Taverner shifted on his knees uncomfortably. ‘Why did you leave the army, Barrel Taverner?’ Shadow asked.

‘I got tired of army food, Your Highness.’

Shadow smiled again. ‘Decided to cook your own,’ he said, and patted Fighter’s head. ‘Barrel Taverner, where’s my brother?’

‘Which one, Your Highness?’

Fist raised his gloved hand, but Shadow motioned for him to hold off. ‘I think you know which one, Barrel Taverner. He was at your establishment last night.’

‘Not at my—’

‘Barrel Taverner,’ Shadow interrupted. ‘Please. I know everything that goes on in the city and what I don’t know I pay someone to know for me. Prince Shortear was at your tavern. He probably took a wench or two, and probably drank quite a lot, and probably even started a fight or two. My little brother wasn’t very good on manners or social niceties. He could have easily lived in the Foundry Quarter like all the other scum that dwell there, but he didn’t come out of the Quarter and he was last seen in your establishment. Simple logic, isn’t it, Barrel Taverner?’

‘Your Highness, I—’

Shadow waited for him to continue, but when Taverner didn’t he said, ‘I know you weren’t responsible for my brother’s disappearance, Barrel Taverner. You’re a good man, an honest man, but you see, I have a problem. Someone seems determined to kill my brothers. Shortear is the first. I want it to stop there. Are you a father, Barrel Taverner?’

‘No, Your Highness.’

‘But I hear you have young girls who live with you.’

‘They’re not my daughters, Your Highness. Just street girls I found.’

Shadow grinned. ‘Very enterprising. No doubt very profitable too.’ He winked at Fist. ‘If someone started killing your girls, Barrel Taverner, you’d want to stop that, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes, Your Highness.’