The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.) (89 page)

‘Are we here?’ Mirage asked hopefully.

Thorin went to the door of the coach. ‘We are.’ He undid the latch and pushed the door open, letting in a gust of wind. A sheet of rain struck his face, making him squint. ‘Get your cloak,’ he told Mirage.

Mirage quickly rummaged through the things beside her on the bench. She had taken very little to the estate, but her cloak was foremost among them. Clutching it in her hands, she waited until Thorin departed the coach before going to the door. Thorin, standing in the mud, held a hand out to help her. Mirage peered out and saw the looming estate, an ancient home of stone and wood brooding in the rain. The house was larger than Mirage had imagined, though only a small fraction of Lionkeep’s size. The men that had accompanied them from Koth – all mercenaries –
waited in the rain with Thorin while a pair of servants hurried out from the house to join them.

‘It looks better in the light!’ Thorin assured her with a smile. ‘Come on.’

Without hesitation Mirage took Thorin’s hand. Jumping down from the coach, her boots hit the muddy ground with a splash. With her cloak over her head, she dashed for the warmth of the precious estate.

For Corvalos Chane, the ride to Richter was miserable, a lonely trek of muddy roads and never-ending rain. He had left behind his soft life in Hes nearly four full days ago, hurrying out of the capital to join his comrades near Baron Glass’ remote estate, hoping to beat the baron and his lady queen. But the rain and mud had made that impossible, and Chane had pressed on through the misery, crossing over the border and taking the valley road north toward Richter. Because the road was rarely traveled, used mostly by huntsmen and trappers, it was overgrown in most spots and not really much use at all. Still, it provided an easy to follow map for Chane, who followed it all the way into the mountains until it disappeared. There was, he knew, a better way to the estate, but Chane couldn’t risk it. The main road – the one the kings of Liiria maintained – would be the one that Glass and his people took to Richter. And because he wanted no mistakes, Chane avoided it.

Everything he did was meticulous. Corvalos Chane would take no chances. This one, wonderful opportunity to kill the Black Baron had fallen like a lucky star into his lap. Determined not to waste it, Chane worked over every detail with precision, confident that his plan would work.

Still, there was much that could go wrong, and as he made his way through the stormy night Chane considered the countless contingencies. Baron Glass might come late to his estate. He might not come at all. Worse, the men of the Red Watch might have already been discovered.

No, Chane told himself. That was impossible. He had trained the Watch himself, years ago. They didn’t make mistakes like that. In the days before the peace with Liiria, when Raxor was Reec’s War Minister, he had formed the Red Watch to assassinate the newly crowned Akeela. Years of attrition had convinced Raxor of the rightness of the move, but Akeela had proven to be more than anyone expected. The young king willingly gave Reec the river Kryss, and the Red Watch faded into obscurity, killing minor nobles and criminals instead. But they always kept their skills honed, and their loyalty to Chane was unshakable. Now they had been given another mission, this one far more difficult than any previous one. Chane knew that killing Thorin Glass would be difficult.

But he is just a man, he reminded himself. And all men die.

To Chane, it didn’t matter that some called Glass immortal, or that he wore a suit of god-forged armour. He could not let himself be swayed by talk. This would be his last, most important mission. Corvalos Chane would not taste failure.

At last he came to the place he was seeking. After hours of darkness, he saw the fork in the valley road. To the east the road branched upward, almost invisibly toward the mountains. To the west it meandered aimlessly, flat and overrun with weeds. Chane slowed his horse and shook the rain from his face. Up behind the clouds he could just make out the shimmering moon, peeking weakly through the storm. Richter Estate was about a mile away. After days of riding, he had finally arrived.

Chane began to sing.

‘Farewell to you, sweet lady of Torlna, farewell to you, sweet lady . . .’

He kept his tone measured, loud enough to hear over the rain. As he sang he trotted slowly upon his stallion, keeping an eye on the surrounding trees. Listening, he heard the slight rustle of the branches, then glimpsed a tiny movement up ahead. Then, a figure spilled out onto the road.

‘Ah, sweet lady, there you are,’ crooned Chane.

A big smile bloomed on the figure’s face. A handful of men came out to join him.

‘You must have ridden that horse backwards to get here so slowly,’ said the man. He came forward to help Chane with the beast. ‘Believe it or not, I was starting to worry.’

Chane slid down from his saddle to face him. His name was Kaprile. He was about the same age as Chane, with the same lanky frame. His balding pate glistened with rainwater. He was dressed like a mercenary, as were they all, bearing no particular colours or insignia that would give them away as Reecians. Each man greeted Chane warmly. There were six of them in all, seven including their leader, Chane. All of them took turns embracing Chane and kissing his cheeks.

‘So?’ Chane asked impatiently. ‘Tell me.’

The man named Kaprile spoke first. ‘Glass is already at the estate, Corvalos. He arrived last night.’

‘What about Carr? Is she with him?’

‘She is. We watched them from the trees. The rain gave good cover.’

Chane turned toward Horatin, a man with a haggard red beard and puffy blue eyes. ‘You were supposed to get yourself inside. What happened?’

‘Couldn’t risk it,’ said Horatin. ‘Glass might have seen through the ruse.’

Chane was disappointed. He had expected at least one of the Watchmen to make it inside the estate, posing as a traveler in need of rest. ‘You should have tried,’ he said, not crossly. ‘We need someone inside.’

‘We don’t,’ said Kaprile. ‘I’ve seen the place, Corvalos. It isn’t big. Glass brought only a half dozen guards with him. He’s cocky, for sure.’

‘And how long have you been here?’

‘We set up camp a few days ago,’ said Horatin. ‘Me and Kaprile arrived first. Robb and the others came a day later.’

‘So, I’m the latest to the ball,’ sighed Chane. ‘I could use a fire.’

‘We could all use a fire,’ said Horatin, commenting about the rain. ‘This way, Corvalos – let us show you something.’

Chane left his horse with Noan and Robb, two more of the Watch, and followed Horatin back toward the trees. Kaprile and the two others – Calan and Travor – followed close behind. Pushing aside the wet branches, Horatin led them toward their makeshift camp, a clearing cut away among the trees and cleaned of debris. Here, the men had hidden their horses and supplies, including one item that struck Chane at once – a wagon filled with leather containers. Guessing immediately what they were, he went to the wagon and inspected the containers. The rain had stained them, but they were sturdy and stable, and when he poked them they moved like jelly.

‘You brought more than I thought you would,’ said Chane, pleased by the discovery. ‘Half this much should have the house burning.’

‘It’s the rain,’ said Kaprile. ‘We’ll need more oil to get it to burn good.’

‘True enough,’ agreed Chane. He had asked them to bring enough of the flammable fuel to get a good blaze going. Usually, the oil was used for lamps, but this special, viscous variety had been made for the Red Watch. Because it was so sticky, it wouldn’t wash away as easily as normal lamp oil. And it had very little odour, an advantage considering how they planned to use it. ‘How are you planning to get it inside? Have you thought about that?’

Kaprile said, ‘Once we take care of the guards we’ll get it through the windows. We’ll slit the bags and toss ‘em in.’

‘That’ll do it?’

‘The place is old,’ said Horatin. ‘Old drapes, old furniture. And there’s plenty of wood to burn. Believe me, Corvalos – it’ll go up like kindling.’

Like kindling. Chane tried to grin but couldn’t. Things had worked out perfectly, but it was a terrible way to die.

‘Even Glass won’t be able to survive it,’ he told himself. ‘What about the door?’

‘There,’ said Kaprile. He pointed toward a pile of chains and padlocks. ‘There are only three or four doors. Once we get those chains on, no one’s getting out.’

‘Three or four? Shouldn’t someone make sure?’

‘Can’t,’ said Kaprile. ‘Not without getting closer.’

‘All right. Crossbows for the guards?’

‘Probably. We’ll be able to get a shot at some of them. The others will have to be cut.’

Chane’s thoughts went at once to the dagger at this belt. Every member of the Red Watch carried the same weapon, so sharp it made no sound at all when dragged across a windpipe.

‘That’s everything, then,’ said Chane, satisfied.

Kaprile shifted and asked the obvious question. ‘When do we go?’

Chane looked at the wagon full of oil sacks. If they had forgotten something, he couldn’t think of it. ‘Tomorrow night,’ he told them. ‘Sharpen your knives, Watchmen. Tomorrow we draw blood.’

By the afternoon of Mirage’s second day in Richter, the rain had finally stopped. After the long deluge, it was good to see the sun, but Mirage continued to stay indoors. All the day before – when the rain had been relentless – she had stayed with Thorin inside the estate, letting him show her its quaint wonders and listening to his stories about how life used to be. Despite the downpour, the day went remarkably quickly, as did the following evening. Mirage had been given a splendid room on the second floor of the house, overlooking the impenetrable woods. The room was much like the one she had left behind in Hes, well appointed and quiet, with a huge, comfortable bed thick with downy linens and fine old furniture. Though not a large room, it was more than serviceable for the Mirage, who slept like the dead as the rain pelted her window, secure in the knowledge that Thorin and his Devil’s Armour was protecting her.

That next morning, while the rain still fell, Mirage broke her fast with Thorin, seated in a room near the kitchen. The estate had a lovely dining room, but Thorin had not wanted to waste such splendour on their morning meal. Instead he told her that tonight his servants would treat her to a feast. Mirage had no idea of the romantic scene that awaited her. She spent most of the day away from Thorin, who decided to go riding. Alone with the quiet servants and the handful of bodyguards, Mirage enjoyed the tranquility of the estate, venturing outside only briefly to feed the ducks in the nearby pond. She ate her midday meal alone, napped in her giant bed, and when the day was over felt surprise at how quickly it had gone. By the time the maid Stella came to retrieve her for dinner, Mirage was extremely well rested. She set aside the book she was perusing – a volume of poetry Thorin had selected just for her – and went to the door to let Stella inside. The maid, who looked as though she had spent her entire life in the remote estate, politely averted her eyes.

‘My lady, Baron Glass has returned,’ she told Mirage. She wore a perfectly pressed uniform of grey and black, complimenting her salty hair. Mirage, on the other hand, had dressed for the evening, and looked
radiant in a gown that Thorin had purchased for her. The surprise had been waiting for her when she returned to her room, including a note from Thorin requesting that she wear it for him. Made of silk and threaded with gold, the emerald gown fit her perfectly, and in it Mirage felt like a queen.

‘Thank you, Stella,’ said Mirage, still not sure how to address the servants. In Hes, she had become friends with the maids, and never liked ordering them about. Giving orders was counter to everything she had learned in Grimhold, a place that worshipped equality. Mirage stepped back from the door. ‘How do I look?’

Surprised, the old woman raised her gaze. ‘My lady looks lovely.’ Then she smiled. ‘You are beautiful.’

‘Beautiful? Really?’ Mirage still couldn’t believe that word applied to her.

‘Yes, my lady. Baron Glass will not be bothering much with his meal, I think. He will not be able to take his eyes off you.’

Mirage blanched. All the people in Richter seemed to think they were lovers, though they plainly knew of Thorin’s relationship to Jazana Carr. ‘Let’s pray that the food is excellent, then,’ laughed Mirage, ‘for I myself won’t be on the baron’s plate.’