He wasn’t worried about being discovered. The Greencoats in this part of town knew who Nobul was, had seen him on more than one occasion carting his wares through the streets. They might think it a bit curious he was pushing his barrow at nightfall, but even if they asked him to stop and took a look inside, Nobul didn’t care. Let them have a peek under the canvas, let them see the bodies he was carrying, let them reel backwards in horror, pressing those stupid fucking whistles to their mouths, raising their crossbows, ordering him to get on the ground while they clapped him in irons.
Let them.
But they didn’t.
He reached the Storway where it ran past the Trades Quarter, and pushed his barrow down to the little towpath. There were three canal boats moored nearby, ready to take the long journey upriver to Silverwall. Nobul paused for a second, standing stock still, barrow still held upright, waiting to see if anyone would come. Nobody did.
It took him only moments to ease the two corpses gently into the river. They floated there, bobbing on the waves like apples in a barrel, before the current caught them and dragged them off. He watched as they slowly sank below the surface on their way out to the Midral Sea. The tide might wash them up later, but it would be far away from here.
Without giving them a second thought, he made his way home.
When Nobul got back to the forge he paused just long enough to fill up the barrow with wood from his shed. He’d always kept a well-stocked woodshed – a forge was useless without one. Once inside he filled the fire pit, watching as the old embers worked at lighting the wood. Then he went to his table and pulled out the long chest that lay underneath. It was made of plain hardwood bound with iron, four foot long and a foot wide, made even heavier by what he kept inside. He paused with his hand on the top, wondering whether to open it up and take a look. There was no real need for that, he knew what was inside. No need to drag up more old memories.
After he leaned the chest next to the door he took his spade and began shovelling burning wood into each corner of the forge, then stacked kindling on top of that. It didn’t take long before there were several fires burning, filling the forge with smoke, burning up to the rafters above and setting light to the walls.
With a last look back, Nobul picked up the chest, walked out into the street and locked the door.
There was only one place he could go after that. Old Fernella was probably the last friend Nobul had. He knew her from the old days, when he’d been a boy up to no good, fighting anything that looked at him twice. It was a bit of a walk to her house, but Nobul still remembered the way. When she opened her door to his knock he saw her look of recognition. It wasn’t quite as warm as he’d been expecting.
‘Nobul Jacks at my door, after how many years?’ said the old woman. ‘Must want something.’
He glanced down at his feet, then shrugged. ‘Just a small favour. Don’t have to if you don’t want.’
‘I know that. You don’t scare me, lad.’
No, of course he didn’t scare her. She’d scared him a long time ago though, back before he wasn’t scared of anything.
‘I need you to look after this for a while.’ He passed over the wooden case and, despite her age and her withered frame, she took it from his hands as though it weighed nothing.
‘Why can’t you look after it?’
No mention of Markus. Maybe she didn’t know.
‘Got nowhere to put it any more.’
She nodded, then cocked her head towards the inside of her house. ‘Want to come in for a bit? I’ll read to you like the old days.’
Maybe she did know. Maybe this was her way of saying she was sorry for his loss.
For a moment he considered it. For a moment sitting in Fernella’s parlour, listening to her old tales, seemed like just the best idea he’d ever heard. But then he remembered. Remembered that slap he’d given his son. Remembered that last painful look in the boy’s eyes. Remembered he didn’t deserve any respite from his own pain. Didn’t deserve anything.
‘No, I’ve got to be off.’ And with that, he turned and left her at the door.
He hadn’t walked long before he could smell the smoke from his forge and heard the sound of people milling around frantically, not knowing how to deal with it. Nobul was turning away when a young lad ran around the corner. He recognised the boy, but didn’t know his name. Only a little younger than Markus was … had been.
‘Nobul,’ the boy said, breathless and panicky. ‘Your forge is on fire.’ He pointed back the way he’d come.
‘I know,’ said Nobul, just standing there.
‘Quick then. If it’s not put out you’ll have nothing left.’
Nobul smiled at that. Smiled because he already had nothing left … nothing worth a shit anyway.
He turned his back on the boy and the smoke and the raised voices, and walked away.
R
iver waited in the dark chamber, blood rushing in his ears.
Raging like a torrent towards the sea
. It had been two days since he had completed his task – two days since his return, since he had started his vigil, waiting for the Father of Killers to appear. In that time he had neither eaten nor drunk –
the cool waters
– but it mattered little to him. He was here to obey, to serve, and that was what he would do.
The sanctum was located far beneath the streets of the city, hidden deep in the arterial maze of ancient sewer tunnels just east of the Storway.
The river from the mountains, flowing fast, giving life … and taking it.
River knew the secret ways better than anyone, could walk the dark tunnels without need of a torch, could circumvent the ancient flooded rooms that would bar the way of anyone else wandering beneath Steelhaven. This knowledge served him well in his work, and he was able to move quickly across the city at will via the rooftops or the subterranean passages.
Flowing and crossing like myriad tributaries.
Despite the damp and the cold, River felt comfortable here. It was home, it was where he had grown up, grown strong and learned his craft. It was a place like no other, both prison and shelter. He was bound to this place, drawn to it.
Like a stream to the ocean
.
He heard them approaching from down the tunnels, recognising their quiet footfalls and knowing they were not intruders. Their steps were too unhurried, too surefooted in the night-dark tunnels to be those of interlopers. They could only be led by one man.
The door to River’s cell opened and there he stood, tall and rake thin, his hair and beard greying, his face lined and showing the weight of his years. But his eyes – those eyes of ice blue – they were young, and showed not a fleck of kindness within their lambent depths. The Father of Killers looked down, his smile bereft of warmth or greeting.
Behind him were River’s brothers – Mountain, standing tall and powerful, his dark brow creased by a perpetual furrow; Forest, lean and furious even in repose. They too looked on impassively, greeting him without compassion.
‘You have returned to us,’ said the Father, his voice ancient yet filled with strength. A voice to be both feared and loved. ‘Word was you had trouble, that the militia almost had you. Are you hurt?’
‘No, Father,’ River replied, bowing his head.
‘That is good. Come, we shall talk.’
River stood for the first time in two days. His legs were numb from his vigil but he still moved with grace and speed, standing quickly to follow his Father as ordered. Outside the cell was their vast training room, lit by bright torches and glowing braziers. Lining the walls was an array of weapons, wooden mannequins for target practice, beams and ropes for climbing and leaping. It was River’s home, a room in which he had lived and learned and mastered his art for as long as he could remember.
‘You have done well, River,’ said the Father as he led his sons out of the training room and through a dark tunnel. ‘I am pleased with the result of your work.’ They came out into a massive subterranean cavern, carved from the bare rock centuries before for a purpose River had never learned. ‘Our crusade to rid these streets of their wanton lechery, the disease of the wicked, is progressing well.’ He turned to face River, towering over him as he always did. ‘But you were seen. The streets have been in uproar, the militia searching for you, when Constantin Deredko’s killer should have remained a secret – a mystery for the inquisitors of this city to solve.’
‘I know, Father, and for that I am sorry.’
The Father of Killers laid a hand on River’s shoulder. ‘I know you are, my son.’ His words were suddenly warming, soothing, and River glanced up to see his Father looking down with a smile. ‘But with every mistake we are a step nearer being discovered. Every mistake puts us in ever greater danger, and our crusade cannot be allowed to fail.’
‘I understand.’
‘Yes, my son. You do understand.’
The Father held out his hand, and Forest stepped forward, placing a dark leather scourge into his outstretched palm. River was already taking off his tunic.
He dropped it to the ground and fell to his knees, bowing his head.
‘What is pain, my son?’ asked the Father, as he whipped the cat’s-tailed lash across River’s exposed back, leaving a trail of red across the taut muscular flesh.
‘Pain is my strength,’ River replied. ‘Making me powerful, like the waves of the sea against which all will break and fall.’
‘And what is avarice?’ said the Father with another vicious swipe of the scourge.
‘Avarice is the purview of weaker men. The flotsam to which they cling in the storm of the world.’
‘And what is wrath?’ Another swing of the arm, another sting of the whip.
‘Wrath is my tool, my armour and my sword. It is with wrath that I will slaughter my enemies, welling up like a flood to drown them in their own iniquity.’
‘Good,’ said the Father, taking River’s chin in one gnarled and calloused hand. River looked up into those deep eyes, seeing tears welling there. ‘You are my son, River, and the lessons I must teach are as painful to me as they are to you.’
‘I know, Father,’ he replied.
The Father smiled, and as a tear rolled down his cheek he beckoned River to stand. Despite the searing fire in his back he obeyed, showing no sign he was in pain, showing no weakness in front of his Father.
‘Mountain, bring our guest to us. Forest, attend your brother.’
With that the Father of Killers shrank back into the dark of the great underground hall.
Forest saw to River’s back in silence. Though River wanted to ask his brother who this ‘guest’ was, he knew better than to speak unless given permission by the Father. The sting of the liniment made his back burn as though being branded with hot irons, but still River made no sound as his brother cleaned and dressed his wounds. When he had finished they both waited in silence, listening to the constant drip drip of the damp cave and the distant scuttling of rats in the blackness.
River heard Mountain’s approach well before he reached the hall. Though his brother came in silence, the guest he brought with him seemed to speak constantly, complaining of the blindfold he had been forced to don, the smell of the dank tunnels, the slippery floor beneath his feet, the constant cold encroaching on his bones. He spoke in a thick accent River struggled to recognise. It was similar to those he had heard at the city’s docks, when foreign sailors would arrive speaking in broken dialects he could scarcely understand.
Mountain appeared, his huge fist grasping the man’s arm. River saw that the newcomer was dressed in strange garb, a flowing robe of blue tied at the waist with a red sash, his head wrapped in a scarf. Over his shoulder he carried a bag of velvet which he clutched to his side in a white-knuckled fist. His eyes were covered with a blindfold, beneath which poked a prominent nose. His mouth was open, constantly babbling through teeth of bright white and gold.
‘Is there really such a need to grip me so hard?’ the stranger asked pleadingly, clearly at the end of his rope. ‘And I can assure you, for the thousandth time, this blindfold is not necessary. I am a man of the utmost discretion and the secrecy of my purpose here is well understood by me.’
Mountain stood him in the centre of the hall and removed his blindfold. The man blinked in the winking torchlight, then glanced around, his eyes wide. He regarded Mountain, together with River and Forest who were now standing, surrounding him, watching him in silence.
‘Is one of you the man I am to see?’ said the weirdly dressed stranger. ‘Is one of you the Father of … the Father of Killers?’ His question was met with silence. ‘I am Massoum Am Kalhed Las Fahir Am Jadar Abbasi, former envoy to Kali Ustman Al Talib of Dravhistan. My current employer is—’
‘I am well aware of who your current employer is,’ spoke a voice from the darkness. Out of the black towered the Father of Killers, descending on the little man like an eagle on its prey. River saw Massoum take a stumbling step back before composing himself once more.
He forced a smile onto his face before bowing his head and touching a finger to forehead and lips. ‘It is an honour to meet the fabled Father. Prince Amon Tugha sends his deepest regards.’
‘Does he?’ said the Father, staring down with his sparkling blue eyes. ‘Does he indeed?’
‘Yes, he does. And, as a token of his esteem, he sends you this.’ Massoum delved into his shoulder bag. River and his brothers tensed for a moment, always on guard, always wary of danger, but Massoum merely produced a battered leather wallet. He held it out with an amiable smile.
The Father of Killers surveyed the little man, then the wallet, before reaching out a weathered hand and taking the proffered item. He opened it slowly, as though something might leap out at him if he did not use caution, and looked inside. The Father stared for several moments. Silence pervaded the hall; not even the sound of the dripping damp encroached on the moment, as though the cave itself were holding its breath in anticipation. There was no sign on the Father’s face of what he thought of this gift, even when he looked back at Massoum.
‘What would he have of me?’ he asked, closing the wallet and holding it tight in his fist.