The ship cruised in towards port, and Massoum took yet more solace from the huge harbour, constructed in a crescent shape and forming a bay filled with an array of different boats flying sails of every colour. The
Reigning Sceptre
wove expertly between them, heading for an empty mooring that sat in the apex of the bay, directly below the shadow of Steelhaven’s vast harbour gate.
Ropes flung ashore were deftly caught by diligent dockworkers and hastily secured to mooring plinths. Before the
Reigning Sceptre
had even come to rest against a wooden pier, a gangplank was thrust out from the bow and a dozen sailors began to loose ropes and nets constraining several piles of cargo secured on deck.
Massoum moved forward, not waiting to be told to disembark. He had paid his passage in full, and was not about to ask permission to rid himself of the ship that had been so troublesome to his faculties.
The gangplank wobbled beneath his feet as he carefully traversed it, causing his heart to thunder in his chest for a second before the stark sweat of relief washed over him as he set foot on the wooden pier. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the stench of stale fish, but he cared little; it was the first breath he had taken on dry land for days.
Massoum began the long walk uphill towards the harbour gate, but immediately tottered as though the very ground beneath his feet were moving. He had heard the seamen of the
Reigning Sceptre
talk about ‘sea legs’ but he thought it was only a malady that would afflict experienced sailor-types. Clearly he was wrong, as a wave of nausea joined in the dizziness and he had to clench his teeth lest he retch all over the harbour.
Suddenly all Massoum wanted was a glass of anise tea, to feel its warmth soothe his stomach and the sweetness of the cinnamon and honey take away the stinging bile that threatened to rise from his gullet. Reluctantly he reached into his shoulder bag, that precious bag, and fished within, rifling through the random contents until his hand closed around a small pewter flask. Frantically he pulled it out, unscrewing the cap and pressing the spout to his lips. The thick spirit burned his throat as it went down, but it stifled the taste of vomit and within moments the nausea passed.
Feeling a little more himself, Massoum proceeded up the cobbled ramp towards that huge gate, hemmed in by merchants and sailors making their way to and from the city with heavy bales, crates, and various beasts of burden laden with their wares. Drawing closer he could see over the gate’s threshold into the city proper, as the thronging crowd moved off like a vast swarm into the myriad streets beyond. Massoum had to pass the gate guards who scrutinised those that might enter, sporadically pulling a merchant or sailor from the crowd to question them and check their possessions for contraband. What was considered contraband in this pit of iniquity Massoum did not know, but he was well aware that with invading forces at the country’s border the city’s custodians would be on the lookout for any kind of spy or infiltrator.
Keeping his head down, Massoum moved with the crowd. His best chance was to avoid eye contact, not draw attention to himself, though he realised that might be impossible. His dress alone marked him out as a foreigner, and he instantly regretted not adopting a more drab attire that would have allowed him to fit in with these filthy western masses.
Regret turned to dread as the two merchants on his left-hand side were roughly bundled out of the way and a thick hairy hand planted itself on his shoulder.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ said an amused voice as he was pulled from the crowd and quickly surrounded by burly looking militiamen. There were three of them, wearing identical green jackets, and Massoum could barely tell them apart. Each had a flat broken nose, missing teeth and piercing, porcine eyes. One of them pulled the bag from his shoulder and Massoum felt panic suddenly grip him. Nevertheless he adopted his usual easy smile; a smile that had helped secure peace in five nations and charmed sultans and warlords across all the eastern lands.
‘My lords,’ he said, touching a finger to forehead and then lips, ‘I am merely a merchant brokering trade – a seller of spices. I understand Steelhaven has great need of such—’
‘Shut it, camel shagger,’ said one of the guards, using an insult Massoum had been told to expect from these uncouth westerners. ‘What’s in the bag?’
‘Meaningless trinkets. Keepsakes from my homeland,’ he replied, but the burly guard was already rummaging through its contents. He pulled out a small rag doll, the lifelike horsehair on its head flopping back and forth pathetically before it was dropped back in the bag. The guard dipped his hand in again and this time pulled out a small leather wallet and a smile crossed his face. He dropped the bag to the floor, the rest of its worthless contents now forgotten.
‘What’s this then?’ he said, opening the wallet and looking eagerly inside. His face dropped as he saw what it contained. ‘What the fuck is this load of shit?’
Massoum opened his mouth to frame some answer, but he didn’t have a chance to speak before the guardsman dropped the wallet to the floor and reached forward, grasping him by the front of his robe and lifting him from his feet. From the delicate silk hem came a painful ripping sound and Massoum prepared himself for the worst.
‘Enough!’
At the command the guard froze in mid strike. He looked left, and Massoum followed his gaze to see a tall, fine-looking figure standing just inside the gate, flanked by two towering knights in armour, thorn branches of etched brass entwined around the crimson plates. They were Knights of the Blood, the personal retinue of King Cael Mastragall himself.
‘We’ll take it from here, serjeant,’ said the handsome westerner, but the guardsman had already released Massoum’s robe and taken a step back. Massoum quickly stooped and picked up the wallet, stuffing it into his bag of precious trinkets and protectively pulling it close to his chest.
With an authoritative gesture, the man beckoned Massoum forward. He was only too glad to accept, moving past the guards who now stood back, staring warily either out of respect or fear, Massoum didn’t care which.
‘This way,’ said the man, moving off, and Massoum followed obediently. He had been told his contact would be waiting, but a member of the King’s Guard of Honour? That was something he hadn’t foreseen. But if this man wasn’t his contact? Perhaps … no, that didn’t bear thinking about. He couldn’t have been discovered – not so quickly.
He was led through the streets, the tall man in front, his fitted uniform neat and rigid, its collar high and severe, with the two knights at the rear, their armour clanking quietly as they walked behind, not too close, not too distant.
It was when he was marched into a dark alleyway, far from the thronging crowd, that Massoum suddenly began to fear the worst. His instinct for self-preservation took over. It was time to do some talking.
‘Although I am grateful for your aid, and you have my undying thanks for pulling me from the jaws of a certain beating, I can assure you I am able to proceed through the streets of your city without such a … sturdy escort.’
The man stopped ahead of him, the knights behind. Slowly he turned, and in the shadows of the alleyway his face became grave, the square cut of his uniform giving him a dark and ominous bearing.
‘Massoum Abbasi,’ he said.
Curses – he knows my name
, thought Massoum.
I am dead.
‘Did you think that King Cael would not have agents of his own? You were tracked all the way from Dravhistan. We have been expecting your arrival for days.’
With a nod, the man signalled to the knights behind, and Massoum heard them draw their broadswords.
‘Wait,’ he said, panic rising within him. ‘I have information. You should interrogate me at least.’
‘Oh, we will. And we will find out everything the Elharim prince has planned, even if we have to flay the flesh from your bones.’
‘I can assure you that won’t be necessary,’ said Massoum, his voice growing shriller. ‘You’ll find I can be most compliant.’
‘But where would be the fun in that?’ replied the handsome soldier, the corner of his mouth rising in a sadistic sneer.
Massoum spun around to stare at the two knights, his eyes wide and fearful. The first of them stepped forward, reaching out with one massive gauntleted hand, his well-oiled armour barely making a sound as he did so.
It was then the shadows moved.
Something shone for the briefest instant despite the dimness of the alley and the knight’s arm, even encased as it was in sturdy plate, suddenly fell to the ground. He grunted, staggering back and gripping at the stump, which spurted dark blood in an arterial spray. A figure, black as shadow and fast as the sea wind, shot forward. Another flash, and Massoum could see a sword, thin as a sabre but straight as an arrow. It sliced forth with precision, above the knight’s gorget but beneath the lip of his full helm, cutting a red line across his throat. As he fell back gurgling, the second knight raced forward, growling in rage, the sound amplified from behind his helm; but the shadow moved faster. Massoum heard that flashing blade cut the air twice in quick succession and the knight fell silently, his head still in the full helm rolling to the left, his arm lopped off at the shoulder sliding to the right.
All this happened in a blink, and still the shadow moved in a fluid motion, spinning and flinging something past Massoum’s head. He felt the air whistle close to his ear, then heard a sickening thud as the missile embedded itself in the uniformed man behind him.
Massoum saw him drop, his face slack, a sliver of silver skewering his eye. He collapsed in a heap, his hand still on the hilt of his duelling blade, still only halfway out of its scabbard.
There was silence in the alley. Massoum dared not turn back towards the deadly shadow, even though it had saved him from certain death. He trembled as the figure slid silently past him, its tread not making a sound in the soft earth. It knelt, pulling the metal sliver from the eye of the corpse.
‘Amon Tugha sends his greetings,’ came a silken voice as the shadow turned to regard Massoum. The face was half hidden behind a cloth mask but the eyes were two golden pools, unmistakably Elharim. ‘I was sent here to watch over you, Massoum Am Kalhed Las Fahir Am Jadar Abbasi. To make sure you complete your task in one piece.’
‘Thank you,’ Massoum replied. ‘And my thanks to Amon Tugha.’
‘My lord and master does not require your thanks, but for the reward he has agreed he does demand your loyalty. An offer to betray him so quickly at the first sign of adversity might be seen as treacherous – might be rewarded with certain death. But luckily for you, my master is merciful.’
Massoum was about to speak, to protest his innocence, to try to say he would have revealed nothing, even if tortured by the most merciless of King Cael’s inquisitors, but he knew the words would be worthless. This Elharim could see right through him and into his heart, that much was clear, so he merely bowed low, touching his finger to brow then lips.
When he stood upright once more the Elharim assassin was gone, but Massoum knew he would not be very far away. Without a further glance at the corpses, Massoum made his way down the alley, eager to carry out his task.
S
tanding on top of the stool, she could see out of her open window, out across the city almost as far as Northgate. The sky was darkening outside, but the coming of night didn’t bring any relief from the unseasonable heat. The air was still and muggy, and enclosed as she was in so heavy and uncomfortable a gown her flesh was getting clammier with every laboured breath.
‘You’re fidgeting again,’ said Dore in his heavy Stelmornian accent.
Janessa breathed in deeply, sucking in her waist just as he had ordered when this current bout of torture began, and went back to standing like a statue. Dore Tegue might well have been the best dressmaker in the Free States but surely she was the one suffering for his art.
‘How much longer?’ Janessa asked through gritted teeth.
Dore stopped ministering to the silk brocade that adorned the front of the gown and took a step back, looking at her with an arrogantly raised eyebrow. ‘These things cannot be rushed. It takes as long as it takes. Would you like to be announced at the Feast in a threadbare gown or would you prefer to be the talk of the evening?’
‘Right now I’d settle for something that didn’t cut me in two,’ she muttered under her breath, but it was clear Dore heard. It was with a sharp exhalation through his wide nostrils that he went back to attacking the dress with needle and thread.
Janessa glanced over to Graye, who was sitting on the sill next to the enormous window that looked out onto the city – a city of wonders, secrets and adventure that she had been forbidden to ever enter. Her lady-in-waiting had a sly smile on her face, maybe deriving some sadistic pleasure from Janessa’s discomfort, but that wouldn’t last long. Janessa was determined that her friend would suffer similar torment in her turn.
A sudden sharp prick of pain in her thigh made Janessa flinch, squeal and almost fall from the stool.
‘Dore, what are you trying to do, fix the dress or cover me in pinholes?’
‘I’m sorry, my lady,’ Dore replied, holding up the offending needle innocently. ‘But you keep moving. How am I expected to work under these conditions?’
He looked as forlorn as an artist forced to paint without easel or brush.
‘Oh, I’ve had enough of this for now.’ Janessa gathered up the heavy dress as she stepped from the stool, then wrenched out the band holding her long, red hair in a knot on her head, allowing it to fall about her shoulders in curling rivulets.
‘But my lady, I still have to fix the hem, gather in the bodice and finish the shirring on the sleeves.’
‘It can wait, Dore. If I have to spend one more second on that stool I’ll explode.’
Petulantly Dore began to throw his scissors, bobbins, thimbles, yarn and needles into the various compartments of his small wooden tailor’s box. ‘I was treated like a lord in Stelmorn,’ he mumbled. ‘Ladies of refinement used to beat at my door, begging for the benefit of my skills, and here I am, reduced to little more than manservant. Prey to the whims of the ungrateful aristocracy. Whatever was I thinking?’