The Scrivener's Tale #1

SIX

Loup led them back toward the priory.
Leaving the hut hadn’t been difficult. Cassien had been dreaming of this day. Leaving Romaine had been another matter. Fynch had shown him where her nesting burrow was and Cassien had been amazed that her mate — the one he called Flint — permitted them to approach. Even in his wildest dreams Cassien would not have attempted to get past Flint unarmed. But with Fynch present the huge male wolf had sat back on his haunches. Fynch scratched the back of his ears while Cassien stepped forward to hug Romaine farewell.
‘I’ll be back when these cubs are grown,’ he promised in a whisper.
He watched with affection as the four fat, sleepy cubs snuggled closer. Blue eyes would yellow in the coming moon. Three of the cubs were dark like their father but the third, the smallest, resembled her mother. In his mind he called her Felys and, as the name formed and stuck, she stirred and he saw her tiny tongue lick at his finger. His heart swelled and he blew softly on the cub’s face. Cassien was sure it was an old wives’ tale, but he had been told that if you blew into the nostrils of a puppy, the dog it grew into would always be loyal to you and you alone. The baby blinked blindly but he glimpsed her pale blue eyes and smiled. She knew him now. And he already loved her nearly as much as her mother. He turned to Romaine and gave her a kiss on her forehead.
‘Thank you for being my friend,’ he whispered and stood.
Fynch had nodded. ‘Let’s go.’
The smells had changed as the forest gradually thinned. He was excited but it was nonetheless daunting to know that he was going to be amongst people again. He’d have to teach himself how to integrate, how to converse easily, how to be friendly even if he didn’t feel friendly, how to be polite despite his mood, how to cope with noise.
The reassuring perfume of the trees, the aroma of the damp earthiness of the forest floor, the daily meal — a soup usually — of vegetables he could forage for, were all comforting smells that would no longer be part of his daily life.
Initially, these had given way to the intoxicating scent of baking bread and he’d forgotten how heavenly it was and how it made his belly rumble in anticipation. But there were soon other smells that assaulted him — far less pleasant … the metallic, tangy blood of slaughtered animals mixing with the fouler smells of urine and dung from the local tannery. There was a yeasty smell of ale and a vapour of smoked plants that someone was using for healing. However, the all-pervading aroma was of people: sweat, perfumes, cooking …
‘Where are we again?’ he asked. Loup had obviously led them a less direct way to the priory.
Fynch paused. ‘I asked Loup to bring us through Barrowdean.’
Cassien nodded. He’d never heard of it.
‘I’m not sure why,’ Loup admitted. ‘Farnswyth is more direct.’
‘Because, Loup, this is where we shall part company,’ Fynch replied.
Loup blinked. ‘But I thought …’
Cassien looked between his two minders uncertain of what this impasse meant.
‘Yes, I know,’ Fynch said evenly, ‘but I will guide Cassien from here. We look obvious enough as a pair, but as a trio we draw far too much attention.’
‘Brother Josse didn’t say anything to me,’ Loup replied, his brow furrowing deeply.
‘Brother Josse knows he is being paid for Cassien’s services, Loup. He gave me the freedom to set up Cassien’s mission — that he is aware of — as I choose. He made no stipulations.’
‘This is very unusual. He always briefs me. And he said nothing other than to take you into the forest to Cassien and then to bring you both back.’
‘Bring us both back to where I required,’ Fynch corrected. ‘I agree it’s probably unusual but then this is a very unusual mission. So, thank you, Loup, for bringing us to this point. I can recommend the Jug and Hare for a night’s rest.’ He extended a tiny jangling pouch to Loup. ‘This coin should cover your stay and a very good meal with plenty of ale. You have earned it.’
Loup stared at it, nonplussed. Cassien would have been surprised if Loup had taken it. No member of the Brotherhood was motivated by money.
‘You can journey to Hambleton tomorrow.’ Still the man didn’t move, but raised his gaze to Fynch and Cassien saw a hint of defiance in it. ‘This is beyond your control now,’ Fynch continued, with gentle caution, his voice just fractionally firmer, but no louder. He didn’t jangle the pouch, or push it any further forward.
‘Loup,’ Cassien began, feeling obliged to get involved, ‘you know where my loyalties lie. They’ve never been in question and I hope you don’t question them now. I am told this is for the Crown. We must assist. It is our purpose in life.’ He put a hand on the man’s thick shoulder. ‘It’s what you’ve trained me for. Let me do my work.’ He eased the pouch from Fynch’s outstretched palm into Loup’s reluctant one, believing that his conferring of the money might make it easier on his Brother’s conscience. The move seemed to work. Loup looked down at the tiny sack in his hand and didn’t move or speak.
Cassien turned to Fynch, who nodded. They walked away, not in a hurry, but also not dragging their heels. Neither looked around, although Cassien didn’t have to in order to know that Loup watched them until they had long disappeared.
‘That was well done,’ Fynch admitted.
‘Did you think he wouldn’t let us go?’
‘It crossed my mind. I didn’t want any attention drawn to us.’
‘Why do I think you didn’t discuss us coming to Barrowdean with Brother Josse?’
‘Because you are intuitive,’ said Fynch.
‘So is Loup.’
‘But Loup is obedient.’
‘So am I.’
‘But you live by your instincts. Loup doesn’t. He does only what he’s told. He can’t deviate.’
‘Except today,’ Cassien said, feeling a sudden surge of guilt.
‘Forget Loup. From now on you need to assume that everyone is your enemy.’
Cassien scoffed. ‘That’s dramatic.’
‘I can’t tell you from whom the threat might come.’
Cassien frowned as they walked, skirting the town, struggling with the noise, the dusty air and the new smells most of all.
‘You’ll have to get used to it,’ Fynch remarked and when Cassien threw him a glance, he added: ‘Your expression says droves, but you need to adjust quickly. I can’t have you staring in wonder at everything, or looking as shocked or disconcerted as you do, or you’ll be noticed.’
Cassien nodded absently, well aware that while his life had been slowed to a crawl, the rest of the world had clearly sped up. There were many people on the move, lots of yelling and frustrated carters angry with people in their way, while other people tried to weave around the disruptions, busy with their own chores. He saw a young woman lugging a basket as big as herself, full of linen. His inclination was to help her carry it but he knew by the set of her mouth how independent she obviously was. Dogs barked and gathered in groups, a bit like the old men sitting outside the dinch-houses grumbling about younger men and ogling the women who passed. There were so many people, so many horses and carts, wheelbarrows and activity. It made him feel dizzy.
‘Look at that,’ Fynch remarked, nodding toward the men clustered around their steaming pots. ‘We didn’t even know what dinch was in my time. Now we have watering holes dedicated to it.’
‘Really? Even I know dinch,’ Cassien replied.
‘You’re a lot younger than me,’ Fynch said with a wry smile. ‘It came over with the travellers and merchants. I gather the Penravens are particularly fond of their dinch and guard their recipes zealously. Would you like to take some with me?’ Fynch guided him to a table outside another dinch-house.
A serving girl was at their side immediately. She grinned at Cassien, who blinked.
‘I’ll have a pot please,’ Fynch said.
‘And for you, handsome?’ she said winking at Cassien.
‘The same,’ he said, amused by her saucy manner.
She bent down to place a jar of honey on their table, making sure that Cassien enjoyed a generous view of her breasts. ‘Right back, sirs,’ she said, casting him a jaunty smile before taking her next order. ‘Going to the bathhouse later?’ she quipped.
Cassien was too busy hungrily watching her to register her comment and it was several long moments before his wits came back and he turned to Fynch, realising how quiet it suddenly was. Fynch was smiling at him.
‘Sorry,’ Cassien said.
‘Don’t be. How long is it since you’ve been with a woman?’
He was not ready for such a direct question.
Fynch grinned and just for a moment Cassien glimpsed a boyish innocence. ‘Was that too direct?’
‘Er … it just took me by surprise.’
Fynch chuckled, genuinely amused. ‘I wanted to put you at your ease so you don’t have to apologise for enjoying the sight of a pretty girl. Did the priory make provision for your … needs?’
Cassien’s brief gust of a laugh was answer enough.
‘Ah,’ Fynch said, ‘that explains the phiggo root I noticed in your hut.’
He stared at the older man, confused. ‘I was instructed to brew a liquor from it each week and drink a spoon of it daily.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you were and I’m also sure that Loup checked on that brew and your supplies regularly.’
Cassien nodded. ‘He was quite particular. Assured me it was for strength, good health.’
Fynch sighed. ‘It’s traditionally used by armies to keep the men focused on their soldiering. It’s why you haven’t gone mad with pent-up lust.’
Cassien looked at his companion, astounded by this information. It made instant sense but that didn’t lessen the shock. ‘They drugged me?’ he murmured, shaking his head.
‘How else could they keep a virile young man in the forest without companionship for so long?’ Fynch nodded at the approaching serving girl. ‘Anyway, I’m sure you’ll rectify the situation soon enough, although perhaps it should wait until we reach Pearlis.’
Fynch hurried the serving girl on with a bigger than usual tip. He gently tossed the moneybag and a second one he’d dug from a pocket across the table. ‘You’ve had no need of coin in the past. But you will need it from here on. Tie those to your belt, although I do think we should kit you out with some fresh garb.’
Cassien looked down at his clothes. They were certainly the worse for wear. Dun, colourless, shabby.
‘Have we time?’
Fynch nodded. ‘Plenty. You could use a shave, a haircut, too. Drink up, Cassien. And while you do, I’ll talk.’
He took his first sip of dinch sweetened with honey, although sparingly, knowing all of these rich new substances hitting his belly might bring him some grief. He could taste flavours of cinnamon and shir, and something else he couldn’t identify. The taste was complex and delicious. He sipped slowly and paid attention as Fynch looked away, lost in his thoughts, before beginning to speak. Gone was the light-hearted tone of their previous conversation. His voice was grave now and his expression sombre.
‘I told you I don’t know what the re-emergence of the magic means, but it was a cynical, sinister and destructive magic when it was first cast so I can’t imagine that part of it has changed. There is a demon called Cyricus who is likely to be its puppeteer but I don’t know who will be its host. I warned her majesty of it more than fourteen moons ago. I felt it stirring then. The Wild is like that. It is highly sensitive to changes, not just in our world but in the spiritual world that surrounds us. My experience with Wyl Thirsk and the evil curse on his life meant I would always know the taint of the same magic.’
Cassien didn’t like to interrupt but couldn’t help himself. ‘You said you warned the royals.’
‘As best I could. The chancellor believed me, or at least in taking seriously any threat to Florentyna, magical or otherwise. He supported my efforts to have an audience. Darcelle, I learned, sneered at the suggestion; regarded me as some sort of senile herbwizard. The queen gave me a fair audience but she couldn’t countenance the threat of a demon.’
‘Does she trust you?’
‘That’s tricky. I sensed she wanted to but demonic threat is hard to prove … and she wanted proof.’
‘So?’
‘We decided to find it.’
‘We?’
‘The chancellor and I. He offered his help and I took it.’
‘What of Briavel? Every little morsel of news I could glean from Loup I would turn over in my mind for days, trying to piece it together with other titbits he’d give me. I got the impression that Briavel’s and Morgravia’s relationship was strained.’
‘To say the least,’ Fynch admitted. ‘While Cailech and Valentyna unified their realms, their grandchildren allowed the strong bonds to slip. Briavel became touchy when much of its rich farming land was given to members of the Morgravian aristocracy and Briavel’s nobles didn’t seem to warrant equal generosity. There were high hopes for the great-great-grandson, Magnus. He was fond of a very senior and beloved noble’s daughter from Briavel. It was exactly what the empire needed; a marriage between those old realms and their families to reinforce the imperial bond. But when he died so did our hopes.’ Fynch shrugged with a soft sigh of despair. ‘It could all break down quickly because the union   was only ever as strong as the royal couple that led it.’
Cassien noticed Fynch had not touched his dinch, just as he had not eaten a morsel since they’d met. There was clearly something otherworldly about the man, if indeed he could call him a man. ‘All right, that’s in the past,’ he began, finding it easier to leave that confusion behind. ‘Obviously you believe there is hope for the empire or you wouldn’t be conscripting help.’
Fynch nodded, pushed his untouched dinch forward. ‘Help yourself to more,’ he said absently. ‘I do believe in the empire. We can only have this conversation once, Cassien, so you need to understand all that you can now. Once we get deeper into the capital, there are ears listening everywhere, and I also don’t trust how long we might have. So with that in mind let me quickly sum up what you need to know. I believe our hope is Queen Florentyna.’
‘So you want me to protect the queen from any potential threat from her sibling or from an otherworldly attack,’ Cassien concluded.
‘Her life is paramount — there are no heirs other than Darcelle.’
‘How old is Florentyna?’
‘Twenty-two summers. She thinks like Cailech, looks like Valentyna, has all the dash and daring of her Briavellian line, and the courage, agile mind and determination of her mountain king forebear. And she has the green eyes of Wyl Thirsk. When I looked into them, I saw him there. I know he lives on through her.’
‘But what of the threat of Cyricus?’ Cassien demanded.
‘Indeed. Who sits on the throne is only one half of our frightening equation.’
‘Fynch,’ Cassien began, his voice hard, looking directly at the older man, ‘explain precisely to me what you believe Cyricus aims to achieve?’
Fynch took a deep breath. ‘The magic that was once the witch Myrren’s is, I believe, returning in a more dire form. It was formerly focused on revenge, Myrren finding a way from the grave to punish Morgravia for her torture and burning, but particularly its nastiest son, King Celimus, for his part in her demise. This time I think it will be used directly against the imperial Crown.
‘I have seen Cyricus in my dreams and in my spiritual wanderings. I don’t know from where he comes but he is an old, old mind. He is not of this region. He was ancient even when Myrren was casting her curious magic. I was too young, too caught up in the curse on Wyl Thirsk to notice Cyricus. But he was there — an interested bystander you could say, watching us. And I suspect his curiosity was pricked by her unique, twisted magic.’
‘What is he?’
‘A demon, as I told you,’ Fynch said, standing. ‘I think we should give you a chance to bathe, to get new clothes.’
‘But what about —?’
‘I realise I have given you a sense of urgency but in this matter we must show a little patience,’ Fynch said, raising a hand. ‘Now, you are wrinkling your nose at the smells of the town but I can assure you, the other travellers are going to pinch theirs when they get a whiff of your particular aroma.’ Fynch beamed Cassien the bright smile that lit up his eyes and warmed anyone it touched.
Cassien sniffed the sleeve of his leather jerkin.
‘That bad?’
‘Eye-watering,’ Fynch assured. ‘You’re going to meet a queen. We want you at your best.’
Cassien found himself immersed in an oaken barrel of hot water. He was mesmerised by the feel of the soap’s slipperiness on his skin, and the sensual pleasure of having someone wash his hair, rubbing his scalp clean. The fact that it was the bark-smoking Wife Wiggins with her black teeth and gravelly voice, rather than a pretty young woman like the inn maid, didn’t matter. It was heavenly.
Wife Wiggins was not in the least moved by his nakedness; she’d raised her eyebrows in disdain at Cassien’s bashfulness and cast a sigh over her shoulder towards Fynch. Nevertheless, Cassien emerged from the depths groaning with satisfaction.
‘I’m surprised you have no lice,’ she remarked, ‘you’re so grubby. Make sure you use the soap on your —’
‘Thank you,’ Cassien said, cutting off her advice. ‘I can manage now.’
She looked at Fynch, who nodded. ‘Right then, I’ll leave you to it,’ she grumbled. ‘I suggest you soak for a while. You seem to have leaf mould growing out of your ears, young man.’
‘I’ll see to it. Thank you again for the clothes,’ Fynch said.
‘Yes, well, you’ve paid handsomely. And I’ll be burning those old rags he wore when he walked in here.’
‘Do we tip the water out or —’
‘Tip it out?’ she cried from the doorway of the barn she called a bathhouse. ‘Are you mad, sir? I’ll wash three more men in that water before it gets tipped. Just leave it as you found it.’ She left, pushing the bark smoke back between her lips.
Cassien blinked. ‘What a scary woman.’
Fynch’s eyes sparkled with amusement. ‘You can just imagine the array of men who pass through her tubs. It started out as a service she offered the tanners but now she has to run ten tubs, and in high season can bathe fifty men a day. She doesn’t usually scrub them down herself, I must admit, but you’re special.’
‘Fynch, I must know more about this demon. It’s as though you hesitate.’
‘Maybe I don’t want to accept it as real and by getting you involved I must fully accept the reality of his threat.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I told you Cyricus has been watching us from afar for decades.’
‘And you have been watching him.’
‘I have watched you too. You are suited to the role.’
‘What role?’
‘To kill the demon when he presents himself. You are all we have. Your killing skills and your very special magic.’
Now, finally, it made sense. Fynch was after the weapon of his mind. He could see in Fynch’s open face that the old man knew Cassien understood that.
Fynch sighed. ‘Cyricus will come to Morgravia in the guise of a man, of that I’m sure. He must travel in that form in order to walk our land, otherwise he has no substance.’ Fynch held up a long, slim finger. ‘But as flesh he is also vulnerable in the way a man is.’
‘How will I know him?’
‘You won’t. But he will attack the Crown. That will be part of his plan. To bring it down. He will seek to destroy first the royals and then seize power.’
‘Why would he want to?’
‘Because he can,’ Fynch said in a weary tone, handing Cassien a linen, signalling it was time for him to clamber out of the tub. ‘Because he is bored. Because he enjoys stirring trouble, bringing problems. He sees an unsettled people and he wants to spice up the discontent. And because he has reason to destroy a single region of the empire that I will not, cannot permit.’
‘And where is that?’
‘It’s called the Wild. It is our bad luck that his attention has been attracted and focused on our empire but it’s no good bleating. We must act.’
‘Surely an army is better than a single man?’ Cassien stood with the linen wrapped around his lower body, water pooling around his feet. He knew Fynch’s story sounded far-fetched, and yet because Romaine trusted him Cassien felt compelled to follow suit.
‘An army against another army perhaps,’ Fynch replied. ‘But an army is no match against a foe it can’t see, or doesn’t know is there. What’s more, I have no desire to give Cyricus warning that we know of his presence. Right now he believes himself unknown — and to most he is. But I know him. I feel him. I smell him. I taste him and his hungry interest on a bitter wind. One day I may hear his cries for mercy or touch the dead body he chooses to inhabit, but right now surprise is my only defence … and you and I the only people who stand in his way.’
‘Has our world faced a demon before?’
‘Not to my knowledge, although Myrren’s curse on Wyl Thirsk could be viewed that way. But, while I might be old, this demon is as ancient as the Razors, maybe older. He comes from the east, I believe.’
Cassien pulled on the ill-fitting pants and shirt, posing for Fynch, who made a face of amused resignation. ‘That will have to do for the moment.’ As Cassien continued dressing and tidied his hair, Fynch finished what he could of the story.
‘Cyricus was astonished, excited by the power of the Wild when he discovered it, and sought to use it. The magic within the Wild repelled him, bouncing his acolyte, the sycophantic Aphra, out of our plane to another, trapping her and weakening Cyricus. This is very ancient history, mind you,’ Fynch warned, ‘long before my time. Cyricus did nothing until the scent of the magic of Myrren reached him centuries later, stirring him from whichever depths of thought he lived in.’
‘And being cautious now he simply watched?’
‘Exactly,’ Fynch said. ‘Ready?’ Cassien nodded. ‘Then it’s time to call on the tailor,’ Fynch said, looking up as they departed Wife Wiggins’s barn.
‘How do you know all of this information about Cyricus?’
‘I told you I’m old. I’ve mentioned I’ve travelled — and not just in this plane. On this you must trust me. I’ve had a talent since childhood for gathering, memorising and being able to collate vast amounts of what might appear to be unrelated pieces of information. And the beasts of the world are far more attuned to the natural order of things, especially if they are disrupted in any way. They know he is coming.’
Fynch guided Cassien to a small lane that dipped down and led to the centre of the town. ‘We don’t have to go all the way in. Just a few doors down is Master Zeek.’
‘You said he needs a host,’ Cassien wondered aloud.
‘He will inhabit a mortal to gain power before he begins to lay waste to the forests and the Wild as well as its creatures.’
Fynch had his hand on the door-knob of a shop doorway.
‘This is the tailor. We must stop our discussion now. I know you have more questions but there are only two points that matter in all that I’ve said.’ He raised a finger. ‘Your role to protect the new queen with your life.’ He raised a second finger. ‘And to find a way to slay Cyricus when he presents himself … and he will.’
The door was opened and Cassien had to bite back the flood of new thoughts because a smiling, rotund man emerged from behind a small curtain.
‘Master Fynch, welcome back. And this must be your nephew.’
The small shop smelled of endless rows of fabric, slightly oily and earthy and pleasing to Cassien. It was quiet too, which he appreciated after the bustle of the small lanes they’d walked to get here. Bolts of linens were piled high behind the smiling tailor in towers of colours of all hue; others lay on the ground in smaller heaps and others still, the finest cloths, were in glass cabinets.
Cassien watched Fynch smile warmly at the man. ‘Tailor Zeek, this is him, yes. Do you think we made a good fit between us?’
Zeek’s waxed moustache twitched as he appraised Cassien with a knowledgeable look, his head cocked to one side. ‘Indeed, Master Fynch. I doubt few, if any, adjustments may be required to what I made up on your instructions. Shall we try?’
Fynch turned to Cassien. ‘Would you care to try on some new clothes?’
‘They’ll scratch at first,’ Zeek warned, ‘but this particular yarn from the senleng plant softens like no other. You’ll barely know you’re wearing the garments in a moon or two.’
Cassien looked between the pair of them, realising that Fynch had had these clothes made for this moment, had obviously decided some time ago to steal Cassien away from beneath Loup’s nose and Josse’s rules and the Brotherhood’s care, and had planned their escape. ‘I’ll be glad to try them on,’ he replied, and stepped into the back of the shop.
‘I shall hang them here,’ Zeek said, placing a shirt, vest, trews and cloak on a hook nearby. ‘Take your time, young man.’ He disappeared to the front of the shop and Cassien could hear the men talking in low voices.
He regarded the clothes. The trousers were dark … the colour of scorched wood. The shirt was a lighter hue, but not by much, while the cloak was soft wool, black as the forest night and whisper-light. Each item was cut and sewn together beautifully. He’d never handled such fine garments before and could barely believe they were for him. Guiltily he climbed into them, amazed by their nearly perfect fit.
He came out from the back area and Zeek cast an appraising eye up and down, getting Cassien to turn this way and that.
‘Those trousers are not snug enough around the waist.’
‘Yes, I think you might have worked a little harder in the last few moons, Cassien, than I calculated,’ Fynch admitted, regarding him.
‘They fit like a dream,’ Cassien replied, unsure of what they were both unhappy with. He turned to stare at himself in the tall mirror on one side of the shop and blinked. He’d not seen himself from the chin down in a long time.
Fynch sidled up. ‘Recognise yourself?’
Cassien looked with surprise at the man staring back at him from the mirror. He was familiar with the face but the frame that these new dark clothes hung from was surely too tall, too hardened beneath the linens. He could see muscles outlined on a chest he’d never realised was that broad. He’d arrived in the forest as a youngster and he’d left it as a man. His hair was darker than he ever remembered it, even despite its dampness.
‘Now,’ Zeek continued, ‘as per your instructions, Master Fynch, I had these made in a town in the far north. Only recently delivered — I was worried, I’ll admit,’ he said, reaching behind his counter and straightening, holding an odd contraption of leather straps.
‘This is for you, Cassien,’ Fynch said. ‘I’m sure you’ll work out its use.’
Cassien studied what now lay in his hands, knowing instantly what it was. Fynch had obviously commissioned a special holster, not just a belt for a sword, but with straps that wrapped diagonally across his body and over his back so that he could also carry two concealed daggers on his back. Except he’d not brought any weapons. Loup had taken them.
Even so, he was thrilled to tie on the holster and marvelled at how its colour matched the shirt so as to blend in and almost disappear.
Zeek came up behind him and placed the hooded cloak around his shoulders, tying it at his throat. ‘This covers everything, but you should find it light enough that if you need to draw your weapons it can be flicked aside.’
‘I can see you are happy,’ Fynch said to him.
‘I am privileged,’ he remarked, unsure of what to say. ‘Thanks to you both.’
‘Well, there’s more, Cassien,’ Fynch continued. ‘All of that leatherwork is useless without its weapons. I presume you have my parcel, Master Zeek?’
‘Oh yes, indeed. I have kept these hidden and am very glad to finally pass them to their owner. They are fearsome. I hope you never have to use them, sir,’ he said to Cassien. He disappeared once again behind the shop.
Zeek returned, this time carrying a box. ‘Impossibly beautiful craftsmanship, Master Fynch, as only Orkyld knows.’
Fynch nodded. ‘Master Wevyr is a magician with weapons,’ he admitted.
Zeek placed the box with great care on the counter and Cassien, holding his breath, peered in. He could barely believe he was looking at the most beautiful set of sword and daggers he’d ever laid eyes on.
‘Aren’t you going to hold them?’ Fynch asked.
He tore his gaze away and turned it on Fynch. ‘These are truly for me?’
‘I can’t handle them, and I know Master Zeek is a wizard with a needle and thread, but a sword?’ Fynch shook his head in mock despair. ‘We are old men.’
‘I couldn’t even swing that more than once, Master Fynch,’ his co-conspirator, Zeek, agreed. ‘My shoulders aren’t what they used to be.’
Cassien reached in, holding his breath, and reverently lifted the two daggers first. ‘Caronas,’ he whispered.
‘Wevyr said you’d know them.’
‘Matching. Ancient styling. Perfect balance. To be drawn as a pair over each shoulder.’
‘Hence the special holster,’ Zeek remarked rather unnecessarily, but it seemed all three men were under the spell of the beautiful blades.
Fynch gave some explanation as Cassien ran his fingers over the metalwork of the throwing daggers. ‘The metal on all of these has been forged personally by Master Wevyr of Orkyld. Wevyr said he’ll discuss them if you pay a visit. For now I’m to tell you that they contain three metals each, and one additional ingredient that is a secret only Wevyr and I know is in the sword. They have been heated and cooled, hammered and re-heated many times. Their strength is unrivalled but within that strength is a flexibility you will appreciate. That pattern on the blade you see …’
Cassien touched the exquisitely expressed symbol of the Brotherhood — a twisted knot — that ran the length of the blades in a lighter metal. ‘Beautiful,’ he murmured.
‘No other sword or dagger will ever bear that marking again. He said he has done this for you alone.’ Fynch smiled. ‘He called this the Cassien Collection.’
‘Master Fynch, they must be worth a fortune,’ Cassien said, shaking his head.
‘Indeed, and if Master Zeek wasn’t such a reliable man I would have to ask you to use that blade on his throat right now to ensure secrecy.’
Zeek gave a soft squeal of horror. The weapons possessed a presence of their own — frightening in a quiet, elegant way. Fynch chuckled to reassure Zeek that it was a jest, but Cassien frowned. It was the first time that he’d heard a note of insincerity in Fynch’s laugh; he wasn’t so sure that Fynch had been jesting. In that moment, he saw the toughness, the spine that Fynch possessed; beneath the kindly fa?ade was a man on a mission.
Zeek laughed nervously. ‘Oh, Master Fynch, you know I would never discuss private business matters,’ he assured him.
Cassien noticed what would be invisible to most people … tiny beads of perspiration on the man’s forehead.
‘Did you get the boots as I asked, Zeek?’ Fynch continued.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said with forced merriment. ‘Let me fetch those too. I hope they will fit.’ He disappeared once again.
‘He’s lying.’
Fynch regarded Cassien. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Small signs betray him.’
Fynch had no time to ask more, for Zeek was back, his forehead patted dry of its telltale beads, although Cassien’s keen sense of smell picked up the tangy dampness of fresh sweat. He was sure now.
‘Here we are,’ the merchant said brightly. ‘Boots, as you asked, Master Fynch.’
Fynch forced a smile at Cassien. ‘Hope they fit.’ He could smell the leather that creaked beneath his touch; it was soft yet held the shape of the boot perfectly. He knew they would be comfortable and this was proved as soon as he slipped them easily on to each foot.
‘Once again, perfect. Thank you, Master Zeek.’
‘Expensive, but worth it. I’m afraid I have no money to return to you, Master Fynch. But then we did —’
‘Yes, we did,’ Fynch agreed. ‘Have you kept any record of the transactions, Zeek?’
‘None at all,’ the tailor replied, scratching his head. Then he busied himself with clearing away the string that held the boots together. He began talking about the onset of bad weather. ‘I hope you don’t have far to travel, Master Fynch. There could be a storm in the region.’
Fynch ignored the small talk. ‘And you spoke to no-one else about the weapons or the belts, the boots or the garments … or of my presence?’ he pressed.
‘No, no,’ Zeek protested, his tone defensive. ‘I am as good as my word,’ he said, irritation beginning to crease his face but Cassien saw that his gaze never lighted on Fynch.
Fynch glanced at his travelling companion, but Cassien’s attention was drawn abruptly to the mirror … which held the image of Romaine. It was as if time stood still, just for a heartbeat.
He can describe you. He must be dealt with.
Her image shimmered away. He blinked, confused. Fynch was still looking at him.
‘Must be time to go,’ he said.
Cassien nodded. ‘Thank you, Master Zeek.’
‘Oh, any time, any time,’ he prattled, coming around the counter to show them out. ‘Watch that storm now. Farewell to you both,’ he said, hurriedly closing the door behind them.
Once outside and out of the shop’s line of sight, Cassien pulled Fynch into a small alley. ‘He can point me out, lead the enemy to either of us.’
‘You’re sure?’ Fynch pleaded.
Cassien nodded. He chose not to mention Romaine. ‘You impressed on me that surprise is our real weapon.’ He nodded toward Zeek. ‘No matter how innocent, he could have already ruined that.’
‘Who could Zeek have told that would trouble us?’
‘Does it matter? He’s talked, that much is obvious. I have to find out who to and then kill him.’
Fynch’s gaze dropped and he seemed to sag like a sack of flour. ‘I saw Romaine. I was not privy to what she shared, but I know she was present. She agrees, doesn’t she?’
‘That he must be dealt with, yes.’
‘I’ve known him a long time.’
‘Master Fynch, I’ve had to take you at your word, trust your instincts, believe all that you claim. I am even having to ignore orders from the Brotherhood.’
‘I have no reason to lie to you. Even letting Brother Josse in on this plan was dangerous, and by that I mean it endangered his life. Right now Josse doesn’t even know what you look like. He can’t describe you. No-one can.’
‘Zeek can.’
Fynch nodded. ‘Make it silent and clean.’
Cassien heard the familiar soft buzz behind his ears that arrived just before one of Loup’s tests. It spurred him on. He spun on his heel and walked back into the shop. It was deserted as before, but this time he didn’t wait, easily jumping the counter and pulling back the curtain where he found Zeek clearly packing up.
The tailor turned and gave a soft, terrified shriek. ‘Please, I didn’t mean to bring any trouble,’ he begged.
Cassien took a deep breath. The man was confessing before he’d even exchanged a word. ‘Who have you told?’
‘No-one important, I promise.’
‘Who?’ Cassien’s arms were relaxed at his side although Zeek’s gaze kept flicking to them in case he suddenly moved to draw the weapons that the tailor had just seen him strap on.
‘You were sworn to secrecy.’
‘Yes,’ the man whispered, trembling.
‘You were paid handsomely for that secrecy, as I understand it.’
‘I was. More than I dared dream of.’
‘So why, Master Zeek?’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen so much money at once. I drank too much. I went to the brothel and probably said more than I should. But she was just a whore. What can she do?’
‘What did you tell her?’
Zeek began to moan. ‘I can’t remember. But it wasn’t the local brothel. It was the one at Orkyld, when I picked up your weapons. She probably can’t even remember the fat, blathering drunk who fell asleep on top of her,’ he wept.
Cassien moved closer to the tailor and felt sympathy for him as he shied away. ‘She may not mean to but she could pass on information to any number of others. There are men who would want these weapons.’
‘You look like you can defend yourself,’ Zeek bleated.
‘Yes, I can. It’s not that. It’s the knowledge being out there that I have them. You have marked me by your loose mouth. What is her name?’
‘Name?’ He shook his head. ‘How should I know? I was drunk.’
‘Think. It will help your case.’
Encouraged by the titbit of pity, Zeek strained to remember, closing his eyes. He shook his head, his cheeks wobbling. ‘I can’t remember. Oh, please, I’m sorry.’
‘Try harder. Any clue?’
Zeek reached hard. ‘Pila? … No. Petal?’ He held his head. ‘I can’t recall. Something like that. I’m nervous, forgive me.’
‘Describe her,’ Cassien suggested.
‘Flame-haired, arresting eyes. Very popular.’ He sighed. ‘I was her tenth that day, she said. I know she won’t remember me or my ramblings.’
Cassien nodded.
‘I will give you the money, whatever remains,’ the tailor tried.
He knew it was hopeless. Not only was this man unreliable and untrustworthy, he was also a coward and he would beg on his knees to anyone who came around asking questions about Fynch or his so-called nephew, or the weapons.
‘You see that out there, Master Zeek,’ he said gently, pointing to the window.
Zeek frowned in spite of his fear and obediently looked … and it was in that moment of distraction that Cassien acted. In a heartbeat he had wrapped the man up into a hold favoured by the Brotherhood known simply as ‘the Tomb’. It was an effective death-hold that depressed a pressure point in the man’s neck rendering him unconscious. As soon as Zeek went limp in his arms Cassien laid him gently on the ground.
‘I’m sorry, Tailor Zeek,’ he murmured and then silently recited the Prayer of Sending that all the Brothers accorded their victims. It was short, committing Zeek to Shar’s safekeeping and acknowledging himself as the killer but on Shar’s authority to protect the Crown.
‘Search your heart until you see it as pure, Brother Cassien,’ Josse had said in parting on the day Cassien had been taken to the forest. ‘You cannot undertake the work of the Brotherhood until you have no conscience about it.’
‘How can we take a life coldly and absolve ourselves of any crime, any responsibility, any remorse?’ he’d queried, feeling angry. He recalled his mood well because Brother Josse had snapped at him.
‘You don’t absolve yourself. Shar does! But that’s not the point. You take responsibility for the killing because you are safekeeping the Crown and for no other reason. It is the law that guides us.’
‘Outside of the priory we’d be put on trial as murderers. Why are we any different?’ he’d argued.
Josse had regained his patience. His voice had been gentle when he spoke again. ‘Cassien, our work is on behalf of the royals alone. The ancient royal house of Morgravia that absorbed Briavel and the Razor Kingdom to form its new imperial throne decades ago was the seat of the dragon. You understand this, don’t you?’ Cassien had nodded. Of course he knew it. The sovereigns of Morgravia — and only those of royal blood — were linked with the dragon as their motif, the spiritual power that guided their reign. ‘The imperial throne answers only to Shar. Do you understand that too?’
‘Of course,’ he’d replied, trying not to sound exasperated.
‘Then the work of the Brotherhood, which is exclusively on behalf of the imperial throne, answers to no-one other than the imperial ruler. We are above all other courts or claims. It is not our collective conscience that should be troubled.’
Josse had made it sound reasonable. Since then — in the short space of not a decade — the empire’s structure had crumbled. The three realms that had been unified had since pulled apart with their quarrels, and now each had local governments and had settled into a loose triumvirate. The imperial throne was still acknowledged as Morgravia but any semblance of empire had fractured. Empress Florentyna had a long road and hard task ahead of her to rebuild what her father had allowed to slip.
He looked down at the unconscious Zeek. He could still walk away and the man would regain his wits shortly. But he was obliged to protect the Brotherhood as much as himself and Fynch. Besides, he’d already said the Prayer of Sending.
He smothered the tailor soundlessly. It would look as though the older man’s heart had given out. Cassien quietly overturned a chair to make it appear as though the tailor had simply fallen as his heart failed. He double-checked for any signs that he and Fynch had been in the shop, quickly gathering up the old clothes that Wife Wiggins had supplied and he had discarded. He knew there would be no written record of any of the transactions involving him.
He left silently via the back door but his mind was already reaching toward the next step of damage control. He found Fynch sitting on a low wall just beyond the alley, his head turned toward the sun. He thought the man was smiling but as he drew closer he saw that Fynch was grimacing.
The spry old fellow opened his eyes. There was sorrow reflected. ‘Is it done?’
‘Yes. No-one will suspect anything other than that his heart gave up.’
‘Then our secret is safe.’
‘Not quite. There’s a whore. He told her things. I don’t know how much she knows or whether she could even be bothered to pay attention, but I’m not inclined to gamble.’
‘A whore,’ Fynch repeated to himself, staring at the ground, although he didn’t seem surprised. ‘Does it end there?’
‘I hope so. But there’s more bad news.’
Fynch looked up.
‘Her brothel isn’t local,’ Cassien continued. ‘It’s in Orkyld.’
Fynch closed his eyes as if in pain.
‘We can’t undo it, but we can fix it.’
‘Quite right,’ Fynch replied with resolve.
‘I think we should ride, rather than take the coach. It will be faster. I can take us on a more direct route through the forest on horseback.’
‘Fine. Go to the stables and organise the horses — you have plenty of coin. I will get some supplies.’
‘This Wevyr, he’s reliable?’
Fynch snorted. ‘We have nothing to fear from Wevyr. The brothers Wevyr, in fact. They understand secrecy — were raised on it. I’m afraid your shave and haircut must wait.’