Ironroot (28 page)

For a moment Salonius considered arguing. He didn’t like leaving his few treasured possessions in the care of someone else, no matter who they were. But still, this was a courtesy and courtesy needed repaying in kind.

“Thank you,” he replied, continuing to untie the two thongs that kept his tool roll attached. “If you have no objection, I will take this, as the contents need to be cleaned and oiled urgently.”

The guard gave him an odd look and then shrugged.

“Of course, sir.”

Salonius smiled at him and shouldered the roll, turning back to the others. He cast his eye over Varro’s horse and cleared his throat.

“Lead on,” he urged the guard commander and the four fell into step behind him as the tall man swept off into the palace, his black cloak billowing impressively behind him. The palace corridors continued the mixed theme of civic grandeur and military austerity. Everything was constructed of rare marble and expensive glass; the floors were panelled with black and white marble and occasional mosaics of heroic deeds. The only other decoration evident was statues and busts of Emperors, Gods and generals placed at strategic points.

Salonius noted with interest that a great emphasis had been placed on the last dynasty of Quintus and the architects of the Empire’s rebirth twenty years ago. Of course, Sabian had been a part of those momentous events, and yet no bust of the marshal was visible, evidence of his self-effacing modesty. A shrine to the Emperor at the end of the first main corridor exhibited a statue of Darius the Just, with a bust of marshal Caerdin to his right and some young man Salonius didn’t recognise, but who bore a look of infinite sadness.

Turning at the shrine, they strode on past a hall of generals and finally to an octagonal room, lit by a glazed oculus in the ceiling. Doors radiated from the room in four directions, with alcoves between them displaying the symbols of the Empire and of the Dynasty of Quintus. The commander came to a halt and rapped on one of the doors. Two black-clad guardsmen opened the door from within to show a much more utilitarian, whitewashed concrete corridor. The commander gestured to the men.

“These two will escort you to your accommodation for the night and explain where everything is. I’m afraid that we must leave you here. The marshal wishes to see the Lady Catilina and then I have to speak to the hospital and have the surgeons report to the palace.”

Salonius winced. Sabian would be furious with his daughter, and worried sick. As the commander saluted and he and Catilina left through a different doorway, the young man was impressed with the pride and confidence with which she held her head high. Watching her disappear, he turned back to the others to find Varro smirking at him.

“What?” he asked irritably.

“She can take care of herself, Salonius,” the captain grinned.

One of the guards cleared his throat and the two of them joined Petrus who had already stepped into the corridor. Salonius noticed that the guards were glowering at him with some unreadable negative emotion behind their stony countenances and realised how this must look to professional soldiers. Here he was, a guard himself, answering back a Captain as though they were of an equal rank. He suddenly wondered when it had started to feel comfortable referring to Varro by name and not deferring to him. Curious.

The three travel-worn men walked the corridors with their escort, finally arriving at the guest quarters a few minutes later. One of the guards who accompanied them gestured to a series of doors along the right side of the corridor and cleared his throat.

“I’m afraid that’s not your decision, sir. The marshal has given explicit orders that the three of you are to be under our protection at all times.”

Varro glared at him as though the force of his stare would make the guard back down, but Sabian’s men were of stronger stuff. The captain sighed and glanced at his two companions, looking them up and down.

As Varro leaned back on the crisp white sheets and allowed his head to sink gratefully into the goose-down pillow, he sighed with happiness. He’d extinguished the small oil lamp that burned on the small table beside the bed almost twenty minutes ago and yet, despite his weariness, sleep was slow in coming. His mind continued to reel and he continually reran the events and revelations of the last week in his head.

He was still on edge over the delay in seeing Sabian. Oh, he could understand tonight, for certain. The marshal would be tearing strips off his daughter, but that was not the reason for the pause. Sabian knew of Varro’s condition and, given the exertions of the last few days, he was being careful with them all and allowing them time and space to recover before plunging on into ever deepening circles of treachery, particularly in the case of Varro.

He sighed. Thinking about his condition made him hurt. Either he’d been remarkably lucky with his pain so far or his fortitude was greater than Scortius had estimated. He’d taken the medication for his mental state religiously three times a day but had often wondered whether he could have got away with less; his fuzzy cloudiness had never returned. And only twice had he had to take more than one dose of the pain medication in a single day: once after they had nailed up the two men in the village, when he’d exerted himself too much and wrenched his wound, and once after the crazy ride back down from Saravis Fork. The horse riding had not been kind on him. Though perhaps it was the pain, the insistent, dull, nagging pain that was really keeping him awake tonight?

For a long moment, he weighed the pros and cons of leaving the warm and comfortable bed to take a second dose of pain medication. Eventually he sighed. The pain had won; he needed the sleep. With a groan, he pulled himself slowly upright and his feet fell to the tiled floor with a gentle slap.

Hauling himself upright, he tottered quietly over to the table where his belongings sat, the medication uppermost and easily accessible. He smiled to himself about peoples’ priorities. Once they’d returned from the baths, they’d each returned to their rooms with their mind on a single task: Varro to take his medication, Petrus to grab some bread, meat and cheese, and Salonius? He chuckled to himself quietly. Salonius had been itching to finish his bath so that he could go and clean his tool kit!

He reached into the pouch and was feeling around for the three different pouches of medicine, his tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth with the effort, when he fell silent. Why, he couldn’t have said, but suddenly the hairs were standing up on the back of his neck. Very slowly and quietly, he reached down beside the table and picked up his sword. Gritting his teeth, he drew the blade from its sheath with agonising slowness, trying to mute the sound as much as possible.

There it was again. Outside the window.

Frowning with concentration, he tried to focus in the dark on the window with its intricate latticework shutters. It must be a cloudy night, for it was almost as dark outside as it was in the room. He concentrated on the window, hefting his sword.

The scudding cloud saved his life.

Momentarily, the moon peeked out from behind the high, wispy cloud, and Varro saw the outline of the man outside the window. His heightened senses as he strained to work out what was happening, caught the sound of the torsion cable at almost breaking point. He threw himself at an angle on to the bed, just as the missile was released with a ‘twang’. The delicate wooden latticework exploded into finely carved wooden shards as the small bolt passed through the shutter directly at Varro. Had he not moved swiftly he would now be lying on the floor with a foot-long shaft buried in his heart. As it was, perhaps he’d not moved fast enough anyway; the bolt had torn a piece from his neck muscle and gone on to bury itself in the opposite wall.

With a growl, he pulled himself upright, quickly checking the window before he raised himself over the protective level of the bed. There was no sign of the figure and in the silence he listened but heard nothing. Damn, this man was good!

He rushed over to the window and glanced out in every direction. The small courtyard garden was mostly in shadow. Half a dozen people could have hidden in there, but Varro knew full well the man had already gone. Hand held torsion weapons were not exactly cheap or easy to come by. They were almost exclusively in the employ of Pelasian assassins from that that great sandy land beyond the Empire’s eastern border. Since the reunification of the Empire, the treaty with Pelasia had led to there being many thousands of Pelasians within Imperial lands. Good for trade, he reflected; bad for Varro!

Rushing over to the door, he unlocked it and wrenched it open to confirm his suspicions. The two black-clad palace guardsmen lay on the floor of the corridor. They could be dealt with later. Damn Pelasians and their codes and honour. They’d kill their targets, but bystanders were outside the contract. These two had been drugged. He glanced along the corridor, but there was no sign of life. Taking a few quick and quiet steps, he gently tried Petrus’ door. Still locked.

Ducking back into his room, he ran across to the window and clambered out of it, wincing at the mixed pains of his old and new wounds. Ten steps across the shadowed courtyard brought him to what he’d feared. Petrus’ window had a neat hole in it. That ‘twang’ had been the first noise that had attracted Varro’s attention as he was rummaging in his bag.

Biting his lip in anticipation, he eased the shutters open and peered inside into the dark. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the almost pitch blackness within. Petrus lay on the comfortable bed in a wide glistening pool of his own blood. The tip of a bolt protruded from his chest.

“Shit!”

Varro took a deep breath and stepped back from the window. Time to grieve later. He rubbed his scalp, trying to think what to do next through the growing pain in his side and the throbbing in his neck.

Salonius!

He ran across to the next window and his breath caught in his throat as he saw the small, neat hole in the shutter. The assassin had had time to work quietly on these two, but had been forced to adjust his tactics when he’d seen that Varro was awake and upright. With a sigh, he leaned across and opened the shutters. The shape in the bed was absolutely still with a foot of dark hardwood protruding from the top. He moaned in anguish.

Laughing, he prodded it some more and then pulled the top sheet aside. The shape in the bed had clearly not been human, but from outside the window with the faint moonlight to the rear, the shape had been indistinguishable in the darkness.

He laughed out loud, causing himself to choke slightly as the pain in his neck twinged badly. Salonius had carefully laid out all of his pack and goods on the bed, including his saddle bags and sleeping roll. They were all neatly arranged and had been recently cleaned and polished; indeed the cleaning rags, oil and polish sat on the small table by the bed. The industrious little bastard couldn’t sleep with the knowledge that he had tools that needed oiling.

Varro laughed again and walked across to the door. Opening it, he peered outside, to see Salonius two doors down, peering around the door frame of Varro’s room.

“Varro?”

“Salonius! Gods be damned, there you are. Where did you go?”

The young man walked along the corridor, a sword in his hand. Varro pointed at it and Salonius glanced down and noticed the blade in his hand.

“So we’ve no evidence, and now we can’t even produce Petrus’ testimony! All we can do is make unfounded accusations about Cristus to the marshal.”

“Not exactly,” Varro disagreed. “Sabian’s now well aware of the problem. We’ve got the actions of the garrisons of Saravis Fork and the mountain way station backing our story. And what you noticed about the rebuilding of the fort, or lack thereof, stands as some proof anyway.”