Scar Felice (The Fourth Age of Shanakan Book 3) (4 page)

The game did not interest her at first. It seemed slow. Small coins were tossed onto the table, and the men talked amongst themselves. She could see that friendships were being built, and small deals completed on the side, and she ordered food and wine for herself, drifted over to other tables to see how they played. She was beginning to get a feel for the tactics and the odds. It was a simple game.

At a table against the back wall a man dressed like a merchant was doing very well. He was a fat man, older than the other players, and supped from a great metal tankard between each hand of cards. The tankard was kept filled by a thin, nervous man who stood nearby with a jug. Felice watched closely, and after a while she was certain that the man was drinking nothing stronger than water. The jollity and waving of the tankard served merely to increase the other players’ confidence. The simplistic nature of the ruse fascinated her, and she was surprised that the other men believed the act. A glance at the table and the disposition of the winnings there was enough to give the lie to it.

When she came back to Todric’s game she was feeling amused by the whole spectacle. The feeling dissipated quite quickly. The idle chatter and deal making had faded away, and an atmosphere had grown up in her absence. She could not pick the cause, but it was clear that the guard sergeant was doing well. A sizeable stack of coins rested at his right hand. The other men watched intently as the cards were played.

She noted with approval that Todric had not diminished his wealth, but seemed ahead by a small margin, although he showed no pleasure in this. He, too, watched the cards with what seemed a grim concentration as they were played.

Felice watched a hand, trying to count the points as they were accumulated. The sergeant dropped out first, losing only a single copper, and the hand was won by one of the mates. This seemed to ease the atmosphere a little. Todric glanced up at her and their eyes met for a moment, but she could read nothing from them.

On the next hand the captain won the first two tricks, giving him north and west walls, both pure, and a promising twelve points. He raised the bet after the second win and Todric dropped out, as did one of the mates. The next hand went to the sergeant and the one after that to the remaining mate, both at five points. Nobody else dropped out and the game progressed evenly until the sergeant took the eighth trick, not gaining any points by it, but still he stood a point clear of the captain and as was his right he raised the bet again. She saw Todric raise an eyebrow at this, but it seemed a sensible play to her, He had the lead, and could control the game.

The sergeant opened with a dead card. The skull lay on the table and the mate who was still in the hand swore, threw a card onto it. The captain followed and the trick was placed into the pack by the dealer. Now there was one trick left, and still the sergeant led by a point. He threw another copper into the centre of the table, raising the stakes yet again. There was a long pause while the others considered their options. The odds were not good. The mate folded his hand. He was too far away to risk it, but the captain was only a point short and threw in his coin.

The sergeant led a second dead card. It meant that the pot was his. Felice heard a sharp intake of breath from the mate who had dropped out with Todric, and saw that the captain was shaking his head. The sergeant reached out to gather the pot.

“Count the cards.” It was her brother who had spoken. The sergeant froze in the act of sweeping the money towards his winnings.

“What?”

“Count the cards,” Todric repeated, turning to the captain, who had dealt the hand. The captain nodded and began to count the cards, carefully so that all could follow. The last trick lay on the table, two ungathered citizens of the pack, and the count plodded on.

“Are you accusing someone of cheating?” the sergeant asked. The atmosphere around the table was electric now. Both the mates looked coiled tight as springs. The captain was trying to catch the eye of someone of the other side of the room, but Todric looked relaxed; far more relaxed than the sergeant.

“The dealer has the right to count at any time,” he said.

“But you don’t have the right to suggest it,” the sergeant countered. He
had
been cheating, Felice realised, and he was about to be caught. She hardly dared breathe.

“Forty-eight,” the captain said, and looked to the two mates. They both nodded agreement with his count. Forty-eight plus two was fifty. There were two cards missing.

“You’ve been dropping cards all night,” Todric said. “You don’t play the game very well, and you don’t cheat very well, either.”

“It’s not me,” the sergeant said. “One of the others.”

Her brother pointed to the pile of coins beside the guardsman.

“You can’t prove it,” the man said, and swept the coins, all his winnings, defiantly into his hand, stuffing them into his pocket.

“We can have you searched.” He turned to the mates. “One of you go and fetch the landlord,” he said. “Tell him to send a runner to the Kalla House.”

The sergeant sprang to his feet. He looked angry, and more than a little desperate. His hand was very close to his dagger. One of the mates rushed from the room.

“If you just give your winnings back we can forget it,” the captain suggested.

“He’s a thief, captain,” Todric said.

The sergeant made a decisive move towards the door. He was going to run for it, Felice realised, and Todric saw the same movement. He was closer to the door than the guardsman, and rose quickly, his hand seizing the man by the arm as he passed. Todric was a strong man, and the fleeing figure was spun around.

Felice saw the knife, drawn as the man turned. She saw the silver light of the blade and leaped towards the man without thinking. She heard a gasp from her brother, and there was a look of surprise on his face. Then the blade was much closer, filling her vision, and something struck her face. There was pain, and then darkness.

There was pain, and light. Voices spoke somewhere nearby, urgent and concerned; arguing, she thought. The voices spoke with the familiar Scar accent, and she thought that she must be at home, in bed, but it was so light. Her father would already have left for the storehouse, taking Todric…

But the pain didn’t fit.

Todric.

Reality came back like a slap in the face and she sat up with a gasp. Her face felt as though it was on fire and she put her hand up to the pain. This was another shock. She could feel a furrow that ran from her brow across her left eye down to her chin. A wound. There was something wrong with her eye. When she closed her right eye the world became misty. She remembered the knife.

“Todric!” She shouted the name; half knowing that he would not come.

Two men burst into the tent. One of them was a drover, and the other a stranger.

“You’re awake,” the drover said. It was Kendric. He looked relieved.

“I am a doctor,” the other man said. They both spoke at the same moment.

She ignored their words. “Where’s Todric?” she demanded. The two men looked at each other. It was the doctor who spoke.

“Miss Felice,” he said. “Your brother is dead.”

She closed her eyes again and allowed her body to fall back onto the bed. Tears welled up from her eyes and flowed down her face, but she did not think. For a moment she was incapable of thought, and the tears brought pain. Her left eye burned. The scar across her face burned.

“You must try to rest,” the doctor said, his tone soothing and professional. “Your eye has been damaged, and it must be allowed to heal.”

She turned away; sought refuge in the crook of her bent arm, but it wasn’t possible. There was no refuge from the truth, or from grief.

“Get out,” she said.

She was surprised that they went, and grateful. She lay for what seemed a long time, trying not to be there, trying not to remember what was so clear in her mind’s eye, but in the end it pushed its way in and she saw the knife blade again, and Todric’s surprised face. The pain of her own injury was nothing. She clenched herself about her grief like a fist that tightened and tightened, but nothing diminished it.

After a while she was able to make some sort of accommodation with the pain and she sat up, wiped her face carefully, stood up and went out of the tent. Almost at once the doctor and Kendric were there at her side. She shut their words off with a glance.

“Have you been to the Kalla House?” she asked.

“It was the first thing we did. Other people from the tavern were there. They all swore their accounts into record.”

“And the man who killed Todric? Has he been taken?”

“I do not know, Miss Felice,” Kendric said. “We have been here, with you.”

“You do not know?” She was amazed. She was angry. “I will go there at once.”

“Your eye,” the doctor said. He was sailing directly into the storm of her fury, but he clearly valued his duty.

“What?” she snapped.

“If you must go about the town it should be protected. I have something back at my house. If you will wait a few minutes I will send a runner for it.”

For a moment she was going to ignore him, push past and go directly to the Kalla house, but something in his face stopped her. He seemed genuinely concerned, almost afraid.

“Hurry,” she said, and went back into the tent. She sat on the edge of her bed, beating down her grief with anger. Grief was weakness, and she needed to be strong. If she allowed it to rule her she would be no use at all; no use to Todric. She put her brother’s image out of her mind. It was too painful. Instead she focussed on the sergeant. What had been his name? Karnack. Sergeant Karnack. She would see him dead for this; see him die; even if it was her hand that held the weapon. She lived the moment in her imagination, and her rage fed on the image, filling her mind, leaving no room for anything else.

“Miss Felice?”

Her head snapped round. It was the doctor. He took a step back when he saw her face. “I have it,” he said. She nodded and he approached her, fitted something around her head. She could feel his soft hands touching her skin, and it took an effort to remain still, but eventually he stepped away.

Half her world was now dark. The patch that he had fitted covered her left eye completely. It was oddly comfortable, which seemed wrong. It did not even irritate the scar across her face. She did not look at a mirror.

“It fits well,” she said.

Outside the tent she started walking towards town, and noticed after a few steps that Kendric was walking just behind her. She stopped.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I am coming with you,” Kendric said.

“Go back. I don’t need you.”

He stopped, but did not go away, did not say anything more. She stared at him for a minute. He wore a dogged expression, and in such a mild man it spoke of a determination that was in its way as great as her own.

“Very well,” she said. “Follow if you must, but stay out of my way.”

As she walked through the town she began to realise how weak she was, and she was secretly grateful for the drover’s presence. It meant that she could not show her weakness, could not pause to sit by the side of the road and recover. Instead she stoked her anger and strode on, feeling a little light headed and water limbed. Eventually she came to the Kalla House. She walked straight in, not pausing on the threshold.

The door led into a hallway. There were two doors and a staircase leading off it. One of the doors was open, so she walked through it.

In the room there was a counter something like the one in the Red Sail, made of solid wood and completely unadorned. Behind the counter there was a stool, and on the stool sat a guardsman. He was bent over something that looked like a ledger, scratching at it with a pen, his face screwed up in concentration. The image reminded her so much of the small office in her father’s warehouse that she was lost for a moment.

“Just a minute,” the guardsman said, not looking up.

She regained control, pushed the anger forwards again.

“Have you taken the man that killed my brother?”

The guard put down the pen and looked at her. She could see the reaction on his face. Shock. Pity. Apprehension. She minded the pity.

“You are?” he asked. His tone was polite.

“Trader Felice san Marcos Caledon. My brother was Todric san Marcos Caledon, also a trader. He was killed in the Red Sail…” she stopped. She realised that she did not even know what day it was.

“The day before yesterday,” the guardsman said. “It was reported to us.”

“And have you taken him?”

The guardsman pulled a face. “In a word, no,” he said.

“No?” Such was the anger and disbelief in her voice that the guardsman stood up from his stool.

“I’ll fetch the lieutenant,” he said, and fled through a door in the back of the room, taking the ledger with him. She heard voices but not words, and a few moments later another man came through the door. He looked younger, neater.

“Trader Caledon,” he greeted her. “We are distressed by your loss. It is a loss to this town also. Your brother was well loved and respected here.”

“Not by everybody,” she replied. “You have not caught the man?”

“No. We have not. There was some uncertainty concerning his identity, and by the time we had cleared it up he had fled the city.”

“Uncertainty? Karnack. Sergeant Karnack. A guardsman. The others knew his name as well as I. How was there uncertainty?”

Now the lieutenant looked uncomfortable. He glanced down at the desk.

“You must understand, trader, that sergeant Karnack was not unknown in the guard. Many here had served with him. There was reluctance at first to believe the reports.”

“So you gave him enough time to get away.”

“It must seem that way,” he admitted, “but it was not. The man who took the first reports has been disciplined. We made extensive enquiries, but he was gone just before first light.”

“Where?” She didn’t have time for his excuses. She would make sure that he paid.

“Samara,” the lieutenant said. “He was on a ship that sailed for Samara before dawn. We understand that it was always his intention to sail on the ship, but he had cleared out his rooms and boarded the vessel barely an hour after your brother’s death. It is clear that he took flight.”

Samara. It was the other side of the world. She had thought he would run back to East Scar perhaps. He was a Scar guardsman – wore the blue and red tabard, but Samara. Why would he go to Samara?

“I want a copy of the warrant,” she said.

“A copy? Of course, but will you add to it first? Your words would add to the weight of the thing, but are not strictly necessary.”

“I will.”

It took half an hour, but it was hard. She had to relive the crime, and Todric’s death. She paused several times to rebuild her anger, fight back bitter tears. She had already made up her mind, set her course of action.

“I will have the warrant copied,” the lieutenant said when she had finished. “There are several pages, so it will take an hour or so.”

“I’ll be back this evening,” she said. There were things to do. She was not in a hurry for the paper. She left the Kalla House and walked down to the docks. Kendric followed. He had waited in the street outside while she spoke to the guardsmen and swore out her statement, but now he was back, a mournful shadow.

She was pleased to see that the Sea Swift was still alongside the pier, though the activity around her had diminished to almost nothing, and it seemed that she sat lower in the water. She strode up the gangplank, and was met at the top by a solicitous Captain Pelorus.

“I was sorry to hear about Todric,” he said. “It is a tragedy.”

“Thank you, captain. When do you sail?”

“On the morning tide.” He seemed taken aback by the abrupt question.

“I need to get to Samara,” she said.

“We sail to Pek,” he said, and glanced quickly along the docks. “There are no Samaran ships here,” he added. “One sailed yesterday morning. Another will probably be in soon.”

“Can you sail to Samara?”

“I cannot.” He shrugged. “It is not entirely my choice. Many merchants depend on me being in port at a certain date, or as close to it as I can manage. The men depend on me for their living. If we are late to port some of the goods will spoil, they will earn less and their families may suffer hardship.”

“Can I get to Samara from Pek?”

“Of course. But why?”

“My brother’s killer had fled to Samara. I mean to follow him.”

The captain shook his head. “Will you come to my cabin, take a glass of wine with me?”

“You will not dissuade me,” she said.

“And yet I do not think it wise to chase this man. The trading mission is now yours, and your father’s wealth is in your hands. Your family will be most concerned. They will want you at home, and with good cause. Samara is not a gentle place if you have no friends. They may be forced to mourn you both.”

“How much must I pay you to take me to Pek, then? Or should I seek another ship?”

The captain caved in.

“I will take you, because a reluctant friend is better than an eager stranger. We sail an hour before dawn on the tide. Be aboard before then. I will take you as far as Pek and arrange transport from there to Samara. I will do this because your brother was my friend, and because your father still is, though I can only hope that he will remain so after this.”

“I will be here before dawn. I will send my baggage.” She turned and walked from the ship, not really noticing how offensive her abrupt departure might be, though she would remember it later.

She walked back through the town to the camping grounds, still towing Kendric. She continued to ignore him and went back into her tent. In her mind she now held tightly to a sense of purpose. There were things to be done. She must pick up the warrant from the Kalla House. She must arrange for the wagons to go back to the Scar. She must pack and prepare for the voyage to Pek and onwards. She began to cast about the tent, looking for what she might need. She laid the leather outer skin of her baggage roll on the bed and began to lay clothes upon it. She picked out only what was simple and functional. She had heard that Samara was hot; hotter than Yasu or the Scar, and so she took that into account, though she still put a thick coat onto the pile.

“Miss Felice?”

It was Kendric. He was standing almost apologetically in the entrance with one foot in and one foot outside the tent. His face was torn with concern and worry. She had never seen Kendric look like this before. Her anger dissipated.

“What is it, Kendric?”

“Your brother, Miss Felice…”

The shutters came down again. “Is dead,” she replied.

“The … body…”

She sat down abruptly, her mind suddenly blank. No matter how she tried to think nothing came into her head. No words presented themselves to be spoken, just the image of Todric without life, no light in his blue eyes, no movement in his lithe limbs and no smile on his beautiful face. She sat for about a minute, unable to move or speak.