The Copper Promise (3 page)

‘A lord of some sort.’ Sebastian took a sip of his ale, and shrugged.

‘A lord! Bound to have plenty of coin, then.’

Wydrin’s eye was caught by a slim figure pushing his way through the crowded tavern. He walked with a stick and had a shock of white hair, but as he got closer she saw that he was startlingly young; no older than her, certainly. He had a livid scar down one cheek, and he was glaring around at the patrons as though they had each done him a personal insult.

Wydrin looked at Sebastian and tipped her head towards the newcomer. Sometimes they would keep an eye out for easy targets, men or women who wouldn’t last the night in a city like Krete and might be in need of protection. It was an easy way to make some coin.

Sebastian looked, and then sat up straighter in his chair.

‘By Isu, I think that’s him.’

Wydrin raised her eyebrows.

‘I thought you said he was a lord?’

Spotting them, the white-haired man came over, doing his best not to limp too obviously. He wore a heavy black cloak that didn’t quite disguise his emaciated frame.

‘My lord?’

The man eyed them, an expression of distaste turning his mouth down at the corners.

‘You are Sir Sebastian Carverson, the Ynnsmouth knight? And the … Copper Cat of Crosshaven?’

‘We are, my lord.’ Sebastian gestured to a seat and the man sat.

‘I’m the Copper Cat.’ Wydrin thrust a hand across the table and when he didn’t move to take it, picked up her tankard instead. ‘Although you can just call me Wydrin. The Copper Cat thing, well, it’s my meat and gravy but it takes half a bloody day to say it.’

‘We are told that you have a journey in mind, one that needs a couple of strong sword arms.’ Sebastian waved at the barkeep for more drinks.

‘It is a journey, yes, but not a long one. I need to get inside the Citadel, to explore its lower chambers.’ The white-haired man rested his stick against the table. ‘There are stories about the Citadel and what it contains. I assume you have heard them?’

Sebastian nodded.

‘Legends, yes, everyone knows them. Even in Ynnsmouth our old women tell tales of the long-dead mages of the Citadel.’

Wydrin leaned over the table eagerly.

‘I’ve heard there’s an entire hall filled to the ceiling with gold coins and jewels from across Ede, and that they had a sword that sang in the presence of demons and a set of armour that summoned an army of ghosts.’

Sebastian glanced at his colleague before turning back to their client.

‘I’m afraid tales are all they’re likely to be, my lord.’

‘All rumours contain an element of truth. The Kretian council keeps a guard on the one entrance, but I have already taken care of the bribe. My main concern is the interior of the Citadel itself.’ The white-haired man took a slow breath. ‘It is said to be a labyrinth in there.’

‘That is where we may be able to help you.’ Sebastian reached into his belt and pulled out a length of parchment covered in inky squares and circles. ‘My friend had a map to the Citadel, and I have a partial copy. It may get us part of the way at least.’

‘Where is your friend now?’ asked the white-haired man.

Sebastian frowned.

‘I don’t know. He … went ahead without us.’

‘Then you must assume him dead?’

Sebastian looked down at his tankard.

‘He is not so easy to kill,’ he said eventually. ‘He may still be in there, exploring the lower reaches, or else he has made his way back out again under the cover of night, too ashamed by his failure to seek me out. If we get into the Citadel and find him, we can make use of the complete map.’

The white-haired man leaned forward to glance at the parchment, and as his hair fell across his brow Wydrin saw that there was a gnarled lump of scar tissue in place of one of his ears. It had been cut off and none too carefully either.

‘It is a start.’ He sat back in his chair and looked at them both. Wydrin didn’t like the assessment in that gaze. ‘Now, if I am to employ you I would ask some questions.’

‘All you need to know is that we’re the best,’ said Wydrin with a shrug.

The white-haired man raised an eyebrow at her, perhaps suggesting that he was yet to be convinced, before turning to Sebastian.

‘Why did you leave the Ynnsmouth knights?’

‘Who says I left?’ There was a flicker of anger in Sebastian’s voice. ‘I still carry the shield of Isu.’ He indicated a badge sewn to the shoulder of his cloak. It depicted the outline of a jagged mountain top picked out in silver thread against a red, storm-laden sky. There was a series of letters in an alphabet Wydrin could not read sewn along the bottom, which Sebastian had told her spelt ‘Isu’. ‘My sword was blessed at the mountain spring of the god-peak.’

‘Every man I spoke to told me how you were expelled from the order for some unspecified crime. They all knew the truth of this, although none of them knew exactly what it was you had done. I will not go on this journey with a man whose crimes are an unknown factor. I must trust you both to some degree.’ The white-haired man glanced at Wydrin. ‘And the last I heard, the Knights of Ynnsmouth do not take up petty mercenary work.’

Sebastian pursed his lips, scowling down at his ale as though it had turned to bile. In the silence the barkeep bustled over bringing three fresh tankards. Sebastian waited for him to leave before he spoke again.

‘The Order of the Knights of Ynnsmouth, in their wisdom, exiled me. I will not speak of why, but I will tell you that I do not consider what I did to be a crime, and that
you
are certainly in no danger.’

Wydrin laughed at that. ‘Let us just say that his idea of brotherhood was not quite the same as his superiors’.’

Sebastian shot her a dark look before turning his attention back to their client.

‘You are correct, my lord, raiding temples is hardly a knightly pursuit, but a man trained in the way of the sword has to make a living somehow.’ His lips creased into a faintly bitter smile.

‘Actually, I have a question.’ Wydrin took a gulp of ale and belched none too quietly into her hand. ‘You intend to come with us on this trip to the bowels of the Citadel?’

‘Of course. It is imperative that I come. There are certain items, certain knowledge that I must acquire.’

‘Exploring the Citadel is likely to be dangerous and exhausting, and that’s even if we don’t meet with some nasty surprises down in its darkest depths.’ She turned over a few more cards at random; the ace of wands, the crystal ball, the bear. ‘We will need to be quick, and strong. And you do not look quick – or strong.’

The white-haired man looked down at the table for a moment, every line in his face rigid.

‘You do not know me, Wydrin of Crosshaven, otherwise you would not ask such a question. I am Lord Frith of the Blackwood, and the Friths are not so easily put aside.’ Again there was that look, as though he were holding on to a rage he could barely contain. ‘I’m stronger than I appear.’

Wydrin shrugged.

‘Fine. That brings me on to my favourite subject, our fee.’

Lord Frith glanced at Sebastian and then back to her.

‘I have already spoken of this to your contact. We agreed a fee then. I see no reason to negotiate further.’

‘Oh, I don’t know; I enjoy a bit of negotiating myself.’ Wydrin winked at Frith. ‘What have we got? Expenses, danger money, a spot of body guarding too, I reckon. Let’s go over the details once more for fun, shall we?’

There then followed a protracted argument over their fee that cost Lord Frith the promise of a further eight hundred pieces of gold and Sebastian two more rounds of ale. When everything was agreed Wydrin sat back in her chair feeling pleased with herself; an interesting job for a ridiculous amount of coin, and someone new to argue with.

‘That’s settled then, we’ll leave in the morning. Consider our swords at your service. And the copper promise should always be sealed with a toast.’ Wydrin lifted her tankard. ‘To sacking the Citadel!’

Sebastian and Frith raised their own drinking vessels reluctantly, and she crashed her tankard into theirs, spilling more than a little over Lord Frith’s embroidered cuff.

‘We’ll have such stories to tell.’

‘Krete is less a city and more an infection,’ muttered Frith as he hobbled his way through the crowded streets. The Citadel was the pustule in the middle of it, rising from the city’s heart to stare blindly across the desert lands beyond; the houses and taverns and markets, the brothels and warehouses and gambling dens that grew beneath its walls, were the signs of its feverish pestilence. Even in the early morning light the day was already too hot, and the sun was a white disc in the pale sky.

‘A hideous place.’ He limped around a market stall selling birds roasted on sticks. They’d left the brightly coloured tail feathers on. ‘So many people, so little space. And the
stink
.’

‘Do you think so?’ The mercenary called Wydrin walked just ahead. ‘It doesn’t smell half as fishy as Crosshaven. Where I’m from this would be considered an especially fragrant day.’

Frith frowned. ‘I’m sure it would.’

He had heard many stories on his long and painful journey from Litvania. The Copper Cat of Crosshaven, they said, was a fearsome swordswoman with flaming red hair, a pair of daggers at her hips and a love of danger almost matched by her love of men and gold. It was said there was no deadlier dagger for hire in all of Crosshaven, and, given the latter’s reputation for privateers and scoundrels, that was quite impressive in itself. Her partner, they said, was a cold-eyed killing machine filled with the fury of his icy mountain gods, with as much warmth and mercy as those perilous peaks.

Frith had imagined a tall, curvaceous woman, with hair as red as blood tumbling unbidden to her waist, a pair of green eyes as playful and cruel as a cat’s, and armour that perhaps did not leave much to the imagination. In truth the Copper Cat was a young woman of average height with short, carroty hair, freckles across her nose and almost every inch of her covered in boiled leather armour. As he watched, she paused to kick a lump of something unmentionable off one of her boots; it didn’t appear to make the boots any more presentable.

The Ynnsmouth knight at least looked formidable. Even on such a warm day he wore the traditional armour of his Order, a mixture of boiled black leather, fine mail and silvered plate, and people seemed naturally to move out of his way, like a river flowing around a rock. Other than his size and the enormous broadsword slung across his back, he gave no further impression of barbarism. His face was long-featured and clean-shaven, his eyes clear and blue.

‘Have you seen the Sea-Glass Road before, my lord?’ Sebastian asked.

‘I have not. I came to Krete from the North, travelling down through Creos.’ He opened his mouth to say more, and then thought better of it. ‘It was an uncomfortable ride.’

‘It is quite a sight. One of the wonders of Ede.’

‘I am not here to see the sights.’

Frith had to imagine it was finer to look upon than the streets of Krete itself. Timbered alehouses crowded to either side, each belching out a hot wind reeking of stale beer and old vomit. Butchers flung their offal directly into the streets, so that a tide of feral dogs moved from one shop to the other, only pausing to fight over the choicest scraps, and whores dangled out of windows, resting their doughy breasts on windowsills and calling down to the men below. Oxen moved slowly through these streets, hauling wagons piled high with produce rushed across the Creos desert from distant Onwai and the island of Crosshaven, whilst traders rushed between them, doing deals on the run. Men and women shouted to each other, children screamed and shrieked, and over it all the baking desert sun beat down, making everything fever-bright and fever-strange.

As they moved closer to the centre of the city the houses grew more ramshackle, the people poorer. The Citadel sat at its heart at the top of a small hill, surrounded by the impoverished and the desperate. Although it had been dormant for centuries, no one liked to live too close if they could possibly help it. On quiet nights, they said, you could hear the ghosts calling.

Frith found it hard to imagine there could ever be a quiet night in this place.

‘There, look, my lord.’ Frith looked where the knight was pointing. Between two warehouses, one of which appeared to have partially burned down recently, he could see a wide strip of startling blue-green, rippled with bright sunlight. It truly was like suddenly coming upon the sea in the middle of the city. At the sight of it he felt his heart quicken, and he forced himself to walk faster.
The path of the gods.

‘Good, let us hurry. I have had more than enough of this pestilent city.’

When they reached the edge of it, though, Frith found that he had to pause. The Sea-Glass Road swept up through the city of Krete like a great frozen river, the surface warped and glossy, and it was indeed an arresting sight. The heat shimmered off it in waves, and if you could bear to look for long enough you could follow its path up the hill to where the Citadel crouched, red stone and black shadows under a merciless sun.

Frith reached down and quickly massaged his stiff leg. It was already aching from the walk through the city.

Wydrin appeared at his side, her hands on her hips. She, too, glanced up towards the Haunted Citadel, and nodded as though this were exactly what she was expecting.

‘How about it, princeling? Race you to the top?’

Wydrin took the lead. Sebastian and Frith followed behind, the latter taking great care on the slippery surface beneath his feet, the discomfort evident on his face. After a few moments Wydrin paused, letting them catch up with her.

Unfortunately for Frith, the Sea-Glass Road was the only way into the Citadel. The four iron gates set into the red-stone walls had long since been soldered shut to keep out the curious and the greedy, whereas the Sea-Glass Road ran straight up from the Creosis Sea, across the sands and up to the very walls of the Citadel, meeting a wide stretch of broken masonry. It was a curious thing, wide enough for ten of the heaviest carts to roll up it side by side, if the horses could abide walking on the warped, shiny surface. Most of them disliked it as much as Frith. It was sufficiently steep so that even Wydrin in her tough leather boots was making slow progress. The glass beneath her feet was a deep green, like the sea it was named after, and the early morning sun created shimmering white lakes of light ahead.