The Lawkeeper of Samara (The Fourth Age of Shanakan Book 2) (15 page)

Arla had decided that she was not the chief lawkeeper. It was not clever to think that way. Hekman was the chief, even if he hated the title. Arla was just Arla, and she was doing the best she could.

She needed an office, and had taken one of the many empty rooms in the law house. Here she could sit and think, she could speak to people without every other lawkeeper listening to what she said. Arla could read and write. It was common for guards to be so trained, but her education had been mostly concerned with warfare. The idea of lawkeeping was a challenge. There was an enemy. She was sure of that much. But they were not the kind of enemy that answered to familiar tactics. You could not lay siege to them, attack their stronghold or predict their next move. They were all but invisible: six men in a vast city.

The problem was finding them, and knowing what to do with them if and when she did. In war you killed men or took them prisoner. As a lawkeeper you were supposed to hold men for trial by the city council. Arla did not know if such men could be held.

She had sent Talis and Gadilari out that morning to try to find the smith who had made the cage while she stayed behind and dealt with other matters. It was a wonder to her that there were so many other matters to deal with, and that most of them involved reading papers and talking to people about trivial things. Even so, she was gratefully aware that Ulric did most of this work.

She had not slept much the previous night, and when Talis and Gadilari returned with no real progress to report she decided that she would leave the law house and try to get some rest. It was already dusk and she was not really hungry, having done so little that day in the way of walking.

She decided to take the same route, walking down by the river. It was becoming a habit, and one that she liked. The tavern by the water had seemed inviting, and in the absence of Ella Saine’s hospitality it would certainly do for an evening meal.

She walked slowly, taking her time to enjoy the balmy evening air, and to allow her appetite to develop. There was a breeze coming in off the sea, and it reminded her of Ocean’s Gate, but it was not a sad remembering. She had known good people there, had left behind many friends, but this life had a truer calling, a better reason for rising in the morning. She remembered her old life with fondness, but not regret.

The tavern was busy again. She had not seen its name the previous night, but now she did. It was called The Sea of Gold, and when she pushed through the door she knew at once that it was a good place. There was no fire – no need for it on such a summer’s night – but a good scattering of lanterns filled the main room with yellow light and the smell of food drew her to a small table between the bar and where a fire doubtless blazed in winter. She sat, laying her bow across the table, and leaned back, eyeing the other patrons.

The Sea of Gold was clearly a traders’ and sailors’ tavern of medium quality. The customers who ate drank and talked about her were not rich men, but not poor. They were the sort of decent folk who made a fair living. Most of them were men, but some women sat at tables with their men folk, and it was a comfortable thing. There was one man sitting alone by the door, perhaps waiting for a companion to join him, but elsewhere it was most convivial.

“Been hunting, Ima?”

She looked up at the man who had approached her. He was stout, balding, but of a cheerful appearance, and was clearly part of the tavern. Arla was somewhat taken aback by the form of address. The term Ima was a formal greeting for a woman of uncertain social standing, and she had not even heard it in years. She was used to being among the familiar, people who knew her name and rank. It had always been so at Ocean’s Gate. She assumed he was referring to her bow.

“Thieves and killers,” she replied. “I’m a lawkeeper.”

“Then I wish you joy of the hunt,” he said. “What will you have, Ima?”

“What food do you have?” she asked.

“Roasted fowl,” the man said. “There is a beef stew as well, but the fowl is better.”

“The fowl, then. And perhaps a jug of ale.”

“Wine would suit the fowl better,” the man said. “It is a gamey bird and would be flattered by a good Blaye red.”

“Wine, then, as you say.”

“Will you eat now, or will a friend be joining you?”

“I am alone,” she said. “I will eat now.”

He sighed. “That’s two solitaires in one night,” he said. “But that fellow over by the door has been nursing the same drink for half an hour. Frankly I could use the table.” He hurried off and Arla looked again at the man by the door, sitting alone.

He seemed prosperous. His clothes were good, even a little showy for a tavern like this, and he sat with a cup in his hand, head bent over the table as though he was unaware of everything else in the tavern. Perhaps he was unwell. He certainly didn’t seem to fit in with the general jollity.

Arla switched her attention to the others in the tavern. There was a family sitting at the table next to her – a man and woman in their late middle years with two sons, though they might have been apprentices, she supposed. They were certainly familiar if not actual family. The two young men were boisterous, but a word from the older man quietened them, yet they smiled and accepted it. A family, she decided. They were easy with each other, and the boys were old enough to have outgrown the posturing of adolescence.

Beyond them was a table of sailors, marked by their flamboyant garb. Arla never understood why men wedded to the sea should strut like peacocks on land, but it had been so ever since the fall. Their profession had been all but exterminated by the Faer Karan, and maybe they rejoiced in its revival, but to her eye their clothes were clownish. There wore too many colours, all bright and mixed, with broad belts and sashes, scarves and kerchiefs all motley, striped and spotted. It made her smile to see it, and perhaps that was the point.

The tavern man brought her meal, and it was a feast indeed – a whole bird and a plate of vegetables in a rich gravy. There was a bottle of wine and a glass. Arla set to, discovering that she was hungry after all. The bird was excellent, the wine too, but she had never been one for excess, and after one glass she re-corked the bottle.

The next time she looked up the solitaire by the door was gone, and his table was occupied by a couple of young men, locals she guessed by their clothes. They were talking to the man who had brought her food.

Arla ran her finger across her plate and licked off the last of the gravy. She called over the serving man and paid him the price of her meal, picked up her bottle and her bow and stepped towards the door.

“Join us, Karana!”

It was one of the peacock sailors. She had to admit that he had a pleasant, open face. At another time she might have accepted his invitation, but she was tired.

“If your eyes tell you I’ve noble blood, then you’ve had an ale too many, sailor,” she said. “And I’m off to my bed.”

“All alone?”

“Aye, and happy that way.”

“’Tis  a waste,” the sailor said. “A whole bed for just one person.”

Arla couldn’t help smiling, but she walked out onto the street alone.

There had been a time when Samara had been a hostile place for Ocean’s Gate guards. They had walked through the city expecting anything, and as often as not, something happened. Usually it was the king’s men who attacked them, a running war that had lasted four hundred years through a host of so-called kings. They had fought back, of course, and the losses had been shared out between the two forces. Their officers had tried to get the Faer Karan to solve the problem once and for all, but Borbonil, who ruled at Ocean’s Gate, had not been so inclined. In truth Arla thought he could not be bothered, and so the sniping, petty war went on.

She had lost friends here, in these streets.

The king’s men had not favoured open confrontation. They were a smaller force and had a harder time replacing men, so they usually ambushed and ran, and their favourite weapon was the crossbow. Arla had always thought it inferior as a weapon. It was heavy, difficult to reload, but accurate enough for a single shot. She had come to know the sound of a crossbow letting go – a sort of hard slap, quite unlike the note of a proper bowstring.

So when she heard the crossbow she knew what it was.

Arla knew that you can’t jump out of the path of an arrow, so she fell. She twisted and let gravity pull her down, trying to get her torso and head as far from their original position as possible. At the same time her fingers pulled an arrow from the quiver and fitted it to her bow string.

The crossbow bolt clipped the top of her shoulder. She felt pain, but it wasn’t a serious hit.

She heard her wine bottle smash on the cobbles.

Just before she hit the ground she loosed her own arrow in the direction of the crossbow, turned her fall into a roll and came up with another arrow on the string, facing her attacker. She hoped it was only one. Two crossbows and she’d take the second bolt square in the chest.

Luck was with her.

She came up again, and with her eyes to help her she could see the dark lane where the bolt must have come from, and a darker shape. She let her second arrow go and reached for a third. She heard it strike something that was not wood or stone. She stepped forwards, confident that she had time to loose one more arrow, and from closer, before her attacker could shoot again.

She drew back the arrow, taking a little more time. She wanted to be sure of this.

Something slammed into her from the right, knocking her hard into the stone wall of the tavern. She lost her arrow, and her bow bounced away on the cobbles. She went down. Someone had run into her. She tried to twist around and look up, reaching for her short blade, but a foot kicked her in the shoulder and she rolled against the wall again. She heard the sound of a blade being drawn.

She twisted again, managing to get her hand on the hilt of her sword, but she knew she couldn’t get it up in time to ward off the blow that was coming.

“Hey!”

The shout came from down the street. The man standing next to Arla hesitated. She guessed that he looked in the direction of the shout, and that was enough. She pushed against the wall, rolled her body into his legs and he fell away from her.

She made use of the space and got back to her feet, her first thought for her bow. She snatched it up and was pleased to see that it had survived its dance with the cobbles. She found another arrow and looked again, but the lane was empty.

“You’re hurt.”

She was suddenly surrounded by sailors, the men from the tavern.

“It’s nothing,” she said.

“No, there’s blood.”

She put a hand to her shoulder, felt it sting, and her fingers came away red. She flexed her arm and there was no soreness. It was just a nick, a cut in the skin.

“It’s nothing, really.”

“We should escort you,” the sailor said. He was the one that had lamented her half empty bed. She didn’t know if he was being gallant or opportunistic, but it made no difference either way.

“No,” she said. She walked forward into the lane where her first attacker had been with the crossbow and knelt down. It was too dark. “Bring me a light,” she said. One of them dashed back into the tavern and came out with a lamp and the tavern man in tow. He gave the lamp to Arla.

She studied the ground. Yes. She had been right. There was blood here. Her second arrow had hit – at least her second, she could not discount the first.

“You got him then,” the sailor said.

“She’s a lawkeeper,” the tavern man said. There was a moment of silence as they took this in.

“That was a damned fine shot,” the sailor said.

Arla ignored him. She took a few steps along the alley, holding the light up, and was rewarded by another red splash on the stones. After that it was a clear trail. Whoever she had hit was bleeding quite a lot. It was a trail she could follow.

She looked ahead. The lane turned to the left fifty paces further on. All she could see was a blank wall. The crossbow, she noted, had not been dropped. How smart would it be to follow two men, one of whom was uninjured and armed, carrying a lamp that made her a perfect target for anyone hidden in the shadows?

No. She wasn’t going to die like that, and besides, the implications of the attack were just beginning to sink in. Two men had lain in wait for her, tried to kill her. She was not arrogant enough to think that it was just her. If they were going after her they would be going after all the lawkeepers.

All thoughts of a quiet evening were banished.

“Thank you,” she said to the sailors and the tavern man. “You have served the city tonight.” She gave the lamp back to the tavern man and set off back towards the law house.

“Do you need help?” the sailor called after her, but she ignored him and doubled her pace. Ulric would still be there, and Ulric would know where they all lived. Messages could be sent. They could all be warned.

This was war.

Arla broke into a run.

Sam woke up. He stared at the ceiling for a moment. It was unfamiliar. Wooden beams crossed a whitewashed expanse, lit by bars of yellow light. There were no beams in his room.

He sat up. He remembered.

He looked inside himself for any trace of the blue crystal, but couldn’t find anything obvious. In fact he felt fine. The bars on the window in the door revealed a man sitting beyond, a militiaman. Sam watched him. He seemed half asleep, his head back against the chair he was slumped in, his mouth open. Sam could hear him breathing.

He looked around his cell. There was a splinter on the floor from where he’d broken the chair earlier, a long, ugly thing narrowing from a base the width of a finger to a sharp point. He picked it up.

The door to his cell had a smaller door, a hatch, through which his guardian had pushed food earlier in the night. This hatch opened inwards. Sam pushed the splinter into the small gap between the hatch and the rest of the door, driving it in as far as it would go, and wedging the splinter across the hatch. He went back into his cell and picked up the lamp that sat on the table. It had burned out while he slept.

He rapped on the inside of the door.

“I need more oil for my lamp,” he said.

The militiaman opened his eyes and stared at Sam.

“Oil?” He was still half asleep.

“Yes, oil, the lamp’s burned out.”

The man stood up and stretched. He came over to the door and slid open the bolt on the hatch. He tried to push it open, but the splinter prevented it. He banged it a few times with his fist, but the tiny sliver of wood held.

“Hatch is stuck,” he muttered.

“I can put the lamp down by the door,” Sam said. “I’ll stand back.”

The militiaman thought about this for a moment. “All right, but stand right at the back.”

Sam backed away until his legs were against the bed on the far side of the cell. He was still only three paces from the door. He heard the key turn in the lock and the guard reached in and took the lamp. The door closed again. The lock clicked.

The man took the lamp away and Sam could hear him pull out the jar of oil. Sam bent down and picked up the chair leg from under the bed. He held it behind his right leg so that it couldn’t be seen from the door, and he moved a step away from the bed.

The militiaman came back again and glanced in through the bars.

“Stay back there,” he said. Sam heard the lock click and stepped quickly forwards. As the man pushed the lamp through the door he seized the bars and pulled, catching his jailer by surprise. The man barely had time to look up before the chair leg connected with his head. He collapsed.

Sam examined him. He didn’t seem badly hurt. He was still breathing.

It seemed wrong, somehow, standing here. Sam turned and looked back inside his cell. He was drawn to the idea of going back inside and sitting down, waiting for something to happen, but there was a thing he had to so, a reason why he had to get out of the cell.

The coin clipping. He had to investigate the coin clipping.

He was aware that this was the middle of the night, and he couldn’t do anything until morning, but he had to get out into the city.

He stopped half way to the door. He couldn’t escape the feeling that he had done something wrong. He went back to the man on the floor and examined him again. The blow to the head didn’t seem to have done much damage, but it was hard to tell. Sometimes a blow on the head was worse than it looked, and he had a strong sense that this man wasn’t his enemy – he hadn’t meant to hurt him, just get past, out into the city.

Well, there was little that he could do now. He stepped out of the guard room and into a dark corridor. He paused and listened, but he couldn’t hear anything. There was another door at the end of the corridor. He walked to it and lifted the latch, opened it a few inches and peered out. There was a courtyard outside. He recognised it. This was the Saine house, and again he was stabbed by a feeling of wrongness that he couldn’t place.

He slipped through the door and closed it carefully behind him. He paused again and listened, looking for any movement in the open area, on the walls, but there was nothing. He walked to the gate, eased the bolt on the postern open, thankful that it was well oiled and quiet, and stepped out into the street.

The street was empty, lit by a few oil lamps on the front of the grand houses that surrounded him. He felt a burden lift. He was free.

He turned and walked slowly down the street towards the old city.