The Lawkeeper of Samara (The Fourth Age of Shanakan Book 2) (32 page)

“They’ll find them,” Sam said.

Serhan spared him a glance that was nothing but doubt and carried on pacing.

“I should have expected it,” he said after a while. “It was obvious that they’d split up. Those were hired men – they would never be allowed to see the place.”

Sam shrugged. “We all make mistakes,” he said.

“I cannot afford them,” Serhan said. It seemed to Sam that the mage lord was inclined to speak more, but he checked himself and stood silent for a while looking down one of the streets, his hand uneasy on the pommel of this sword. “You are right, of course. We must simply hope that the cost is bearable.”

Ulric sat at his chair at the front of the law house, eating. He ate without looking because his eyes were on the door. His free hand lay casually beside the small crossbow he had concealed on a shelf behind the counter. He was alone in the place apart from the guards downstairs, the cook and the cook’s assistant, and it had occurred to him that it was not impossible that the house would be attacked again, and he would hardly be able to defend it.

If it happened, he would do his best.

The door was closed and barred, but he put little faith in that. Doors, even stout ones like this, were breakable and there was magic about. Ulric didn’t like magic much. It offended his sense of reality, pulled everything askew from where it was supposed to be. Strong things became weak. Immutable things changed. It was wrong.

He was annoyed, too, that the chief didn’t trust him. He understood why, but it still rankled. He had done so much, bent his considerable talents and resources to serve the law, and it had not been enough.

Ulric had tried to determine the identity of the spy – he did not doubt that there was one – but to no avail. It would have guaranteed his favour, cleared the hint of suspicion that he felt, but in truth it could have been anyone at the law house. The lawkeepers were not exactly a secretive crowd. He had watched for signals, looked for unusual patterns in the way people behaved, examined each of them for signs of guilt, but there was nothing. He had even set his own agents to discover what they could, but it had all been a waste of time. It was almost as though the walls themselves were spying on them.

The cook came out of the back of the house with another bowl of food. It was the little round berry nuts that Ulric liked, deep fried and rolled in a mixture of salt and spices. They were hot, but somehow not as appetising as usual. He thanked the cook and put one of the nuts in his mouth where it shattered with a satisfying crunch.

He licked his lips and touched the stock of the crossbow. He stared at the door.

The crossbow was such a limited weapon. He should have bought two of them. It was really only there to serve as a deterrent, to change the mind of anyone who was inclined to threaten the fat man at the door. In a real fight he’d get one shot and probably miss that.

Someone banged on the door. Ulric nearly fell of his chair, his heart thumping. He took a moment to calm himself, and picked up the crossbow. The door banged again.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Ella Saine.” The voice was muffled by the door, but it was her. Ulric put down his weapon and went to the door. He drew the bolt and stepped back as the door opened. Ella wasn’t alone. She’d brought her bondsman Kane with her. That was a good thing, because by all accounts Kane was a good man in a fight. On the street they called him Killer Kane.

“Is Sam here?” Ella asked.

Ulric made sure the door was closed and bolted. “He’s out. They’re all out.”

“Oh.” Ella seemed somewhat put out by the news. “I thought we could help,” she said.

Ulric told her the news – that the Faer Karani had followed the wrong people and failed to find the place where the ritual was taking place. She asked a lot of questions, but Ulric didn’t mind. He knew that the trader’s daughter was clever in a scholarly way and it helped him not think about the door.

“So they have no idea,” she asked eventually, “no clue apart from knowing that it is somewhere in the old town?”

Ulric shrugged. “Not really,” he said. “There was something the servant said, about the heart of the city.”

“The heart of the city?”

“Aye,” Ulric could see that it meant something to her, but she was unsure, hesitant.

“What exactly did he say?”

“I wasn’t there,” Ulric admitted, “but we can go and ask him. He’s still downstairs.”

“Yes,” she said.

They left Kane behind to watch the door, which made Ulric happier. Kane carried at least five blades apart from a wicked looking sword and although getting on in years was as hard as mahogany. Not many men in the city could match blades with Kane.

They went down into the cellar and were admitted by the guards. Ulric could sense that they were as nervous as he, but Ella Saine didn’t seem to notice. Ulric wouldn’t let her go into Hummel’s cell alone. Even though he was an old man he still outweighed Ella by half, and he could still be dangerous.

She sat at the table in the cell, and Hummel sat opposite. One of the guards stood behind her.

“You were Delantic’s servant,” Ella said.

The old man looked at her oddly for a moment. “You are Ella Saine,” he said.

“I am.”

“It is an honour to meet you,” Hummel said. It was such an odd thing for him to say, as though he were meeting Ella in some social gathering instead of a cell beneath the law house that it took Ella aback. Ulric could see that it did. There was no polite answer that was not a lie. Ella paused for a moment, then ignored the remark.

“I have one question for you, Hummel,” she said.

“I will answer what I can,” he replied.

“When you spoke before you named the place where Delantic and his allies would gather. What was the name?”

“I have no name, councillor,” Hummel said.

“A description, then?”

“A phrase only, I am afraid. They called it the dead heart of the city.”

“Exactly so?”

“Many times. I would not forget it.”

Ella stood up. “Thank you, Hummel. You have been of considerable assistance.”

She came out of the cell with a smile on her face. She waited until the door was locked once more and they were moving down the corridor before she spoke.

“I know,” she said. “I know where it is.”

“You do?” Ulric had heard every word, and he was none the wiser.

“It is arrogance, you see,” she said. “They think we have forgotten, that the name is lost, but books are our memory too, and there was a place much praised four centuries ago as the living heart of Samara, and I have read those words a hundred times.”

It meant nothing to Ulric. “The dead heart and the living heart are the same?” he asked.

“And will live again,” Ella said. “It is the temple. They are in the temple.”

“It would be better to start on the outside and work in,” Arla said. “The others are all working outwards.”

“Better how?” Gilan was not exactly challenging her, but he would not acquiesce without understanding why.

They stood at a street corner on the river side of the old town. Arla wanted to head down to the water and begin there. It seemed obvious to her that if they spiralled inwards they would meet those coming out, and then they would know that the search was complete. She explained this to Gilan.

“But they are at the centre. The old man said.” Gilan protested.

“The old man knew some words. He did not know the place, and perhaps it was a sort of code and not the centre at all,” Arla said.

Gilan pulled a face. “It is a big
perhaps
,” he said.

“All the others are going the other way.”

Gilan shrugged. Arla knew that he wanted to be in at the death, to be the first, if possible, to find and punish the killers. But there was another card she could play.

“It will serve duty better to search more quickly,” she said.

The big man frowned, then nodded. “Then we must do as you say,” he said. Arla felt a twinge of shame for having pulled Gilan’s strings so blatantly. He trusted her, and that made it easy, but Arla really thought that reversing the search pattern would be better, and she comforted herself with that. As always, Diara followed Gilan unquestioningly, though from her expression Arla thought she would have more questions if Gilan had not been present.

She led them down to the water’s edge where the road ran along the river bank. The houses around them were dark and it was difficult to know what was empty and what was not. They split up and banged on doors. It was time consuming, but the only way to be sure. A few words with each disgruntled resident were enough to satisfy Arla. She was looking for people who were suspiciously wide awake.

They passed the tavern where she usually ate her evening meal – dark now, but she knew it well enough to pass it by.

They passed her own building, and she knew that well enough, too. She could name everyone who lived there, and most of those in the buildings around it. Now the road bent away from the river, the bank occupied by the ruins of the temple, and beyond that by the great house and the citadel. It allowed them to walk for a while, there being nothing but a wall opposite the ruin.

“How long do we have, do you think?” Gilan asked.

Arla had no idea. The Mage Lord had said a couple of hours, perhaps longer, but that was a guess. She was beginning to feel the pressure of it. Time was passing by and with it the likelihood of them finding their quarry.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “The sooner we find them, the better.”

They were walking quite quickly now. At the top of the road they turned right and began to bang on doors again. It was quicker because the street only had houses on the east side, facing the ruins.

Arla had always been interested in the temple. That was not to say that she understood it, but she would have liked to have seen it in its heyday. Now it was broken, the variable stumps of prettily carved pillars lining the road and the remains of the façade hinted at past glories, and it was big. Tales were told about the place. Once it had housed all that was finest in Samara – paintings, books, sculpture, and there had been music there, and theatre, and dance – every useless field of human endeavour had been represented. But still, she would have liked to have seen it.

She banged on another door with the pommel of her dagger. She heard noises within and stepped back as the door opened. A young woman stared out at her, another shape in the hallway behind.

“What?” She looked dishevelled, barely conscious.

“Lawkeepers,” Arla said. “Just checking. You can go back to bed.”

Arla stepped out into the street again and walked down the road past Gilan banging on another door. Diara was standing in the middle of the street, head cocked.

“What is it?” Arla asked.

“Voices.”

“Voices?”

“Aye. In the temple. Listen.”

Arla stopped and listened, but Gilan was talking to the folk he’d roused. “Gilan!” He left them and walked over. “Be quiet,” Arla said.

Silence fell. A couple of thumps and bangs from the households they’d woken faded away and then Arla heard it. Voices. It sounded like men, chanting or singing. She felt a shiver down her spine. Was this it? Had they found them? She pulled an arrow out and put it to the string. Diara did the same.

“You think?” Gilan said.

Arla nodded. She signalled Diara to follow ten paces behind, a standard pattern with two archers, one front and one back in case they were surprised, and walked forwards. She came to the pillars and found her way choked with rubble. She moved sideways along the street, checking each opening. The sixth she came to seemed to have been partially cleared. A thin trail mounted up onto a rubble ridge and vanished into the darkness. She advanced slowly, feeling the way with her feet, edging around the bigger rocks and pushing smaller stones aside. Gilan was a pace and a half behind. She could see the glint of his drawn sword, hear his breath. She had to pause often to check the path. It was barely visible in the starlight and what little glow came from the street behind them. She wished she’d brought a lamp.

The track led to a wall that was still standing and followed it for a while. Arla edged along, one hand on the rough brick. She could hear the voices more clearly now. It was more a chant than a song, and seemed to repeat over and over, but it still barely carried to her ears above the distant murmur of the sea.

She came to a door. This was not a four hundred year old door. It was new, and made of fresh, thick planks, iron bound. She could still smell the green of the wood. She ran her hand up and down the smooth planks and found a latch, but no keyhole. Not locked? That seemed strange. She lifted the latch slowly, silently, and eased a couple of fingers around the jamb.

The door was well oiled and opened silently, revealing a space within and steps leading down. At first Arla thought there was no light at all inside, but as she looked she became aware of the faintest blue glow. She turned and looked at Gilan.

“I think we have found them,” she whispered. Diara was still ten paces back, a shadow below the wall. Arla could make out the silhouette of her bow against the rubble.

She stepped inside, and at once the voices became clearer. Men’s voices chanting in harmony, she was sure. What else could it be but the men they sought?

The steps were well cut and shallow, and so it was easy to move down them stealthily, keeping both hands free. Arla allowed a little tension to build up on the bow string. She wanted to be ready to shoot. She shifted her back, slipping the quiver into the position she favoured most for rapid shooting.

The steps ended, and she found herself in a long corridor. Now there was no doubt. Blue light showed her the way clearly enough, and she could see a blue square ahead, a doorway into a chamber in which the light was much stronger. She checked with Gilan. He looked grim, and nodded at her glance. He was ready.

She moved forwards once more, eyes fixed on the blue light ahead. She stopped just short of the doorway and peered in.

The scene she saw was like nothing she had ever seen, and yet it was more or less what she had expected. The chamber was large, maybe thirty paces to a side, and square. It must have been an original part of the temple. The floor sloped away from the door in a series of broad shelves or steps, each about two paces wide, and all the room seemed to gather about a central dais. On that dais stood four men and a table, and on the table was the source of the blue light. From this distance she could just about make out the shape of the crystals. She turned back and looked past Gilan. Diara was still the regulation ten paces behind.

Arla signalled to Diara to turn around, go back and report. The archer objected silently, holding up her bow and gesturing forwards. She wanted to be there for support. Arla signalled again, insistent and, after a further moment of silent protest, Diara turned to go.

A moment later she turned back. In the faint blue light Arla could see her frown. She signalled again – turn, go, report. Diara seemed to be struggling with something. She took a half step forwards. Stopped. She looked up and signalled back – cannot comply.

Gilan touched her shoulder. “We cannot move backwards,” he said.

She tried. She told her feet to take her back past Gilan to where Diara stood, but it was as though they were nailed to the stone floor. She slid her foot an inch towards the blue room and it moved easily. She could not pull it back, no matter how hard she tried.

Magic. It was a trap.

If she was in a web Arla was certainly going to sting the spider. She drew back her bow string, took careful aim and let an arrow fly at the men on the dais. The shaft flew across the space and stopped, halted in mid air as though it had struck a wall. That was bad.

One of the men separated from the group and walked over to them. He was wearing a hood of sorts so she couldn’t see more than his mouth and chin beneath it. Arla put another arrow on the string. Maybe if he was closer she could kill him, but she doubted it. If that was the case would he be walking towards them so confidently?

He stopped three paces away from her and threw back his hood. He smiled.

It was Gadilari.