The Tattered Banner (Society of the Sword Volume 1) (31 page)

C h a p t e r   3 0

DELIVERING THE PACKAGE

H
e returned to the tavern the next night to keep his appointment with Braggock. When he arrived, Alessandra was not yet there, but Braggock was.

‘Ah, Soren. I had wondered if you would show, but I see I worried unnecessarily. Come, we have much to discuss,’ he said. He gestured to one of the more secluded booths, and nodded to the barman to bring more drinks.

They sat, and Soren felt a growing sense of unease. Not only of the possible mistake he had made in meeting with Braggock, but also for fear of being seen with this man by Alessandra. The confident determination with which he had set out to make this arrangement was fleeing him, but it was too late to turn back now.

‘Now, my lad, down to business. There is a package being delivered from one of the ships in the outer harbour to my associate on the docks two nights from tonight. He will need an escort to ensure he gets home safely with it. Are you up to it?’

Soren responded in the affirmative, but with a degree of hesitation that he did his best to conceal from Braggock. The barbarian dressed in the fashion of a citizen of the Duchy, but his manner was still that of a plainsman. It both made him fit in and seem out of place at the same time, which unsettled Soren.

‘There shouldn’t be any killing involved, but you might have to frighten off a thug or two chancing his arm. All the same, I’d bring a set of blades if I were you. A fright is all most of them need, and the glimpse of steel is usually enough to take care of that. If it comes to it though, do you have the stomach to draw some blood?’ asked Braggock.

Soren nodded, keeping his face a mask.

‘Good. Forty crowns for you, shouldn’t take more than an hour. Half now and half when you’re done.’

Soren nearly inhaled the ale he was drinking. Forty crowns was more than a dockworker would make in a month. What could be of such value? Then it occurred to him. Dream seed; the zombie maker. The slums were littered with addicts, who lived only to breath in the sickly sweet fumes it gave off when burned. They wandered about all day, like zombies, searching for their next fix. It was also said to be popular among the aristocracy, although the purer, more expensive form they enjoyed had fewer of the unpleasant side effects experienced by the poor. It was imported from the south, one of the many far off lands that Soren was only vaguely aware of. Doctors could import it by special licence; otherwise it was highly illegal.

‘Agreed,’ Soren said, his mind snapping firm to the decision.

‘Meet him by the steps on the slip in Oldtown at sundown. Give him this to identify yourself.’ He handed Soren a small metal disc, not much bigger than a florin coin with some symbols etched onto both sides. ‘My associate will be looking out for you. Wear dark clothes and the best of luck to you,’ Braggock said, with that smile that looked out of place on his face.

There was still no sign of Alessandra, so Soren left with a mix of relief and disappointment swirling in his gut. Relief that she had not seen him with Braggock, disappointment that he had not seen her. He passed the side door of the tavern that led to the residence above and heard the squeak of hinges.

‘I got the evening off,’ said a voice from the darkness that made Soren jump.

He turned to see Alessandra standing in the doorway.

‘I’m sorry about the other night,’ he replied. ‘It’s just that merchant. How can I compete with him, all his money and fine clothes?’

‘Silly boy!’ she said, stepping forward and cupping his face in her hands. He noticed she was wearing the pendant he had given her. ‘Money is nice, but it isn’t everything. I love the amulet you gave me, it’s absolutely beautiful, but I would far rather you had given it to me yourself. It’s the meaning behind it that matters, not the value. I’d trade it in a heartbeat if it meant being able to spend more time with you, but we are so busy, and I have to do what my Uncle asks of me. He’s been so good to me since father left and he desperately needs the help. There’s nothing to be jealous about though. I like you because you’re different to all the others, the merchant included.’ She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder and then looked back to Soren. ‘My uncle will be busy in the tavern tonight. Will you come in?’ she said, and then with a brazen look in her eye and a cheeky smile on her mouth, ‘I’ll show you how little you have to be jealous about.’

C h a p t e r   3 1

A FRIEND IN NEED

S
oren was sitting on one of the more comfortable couches in the common room of River House idly flipping through a book on cavalry tactics that he was finding it difficult to engage with when there was a commotion at the door. He looked up to see Ranph enter the room, red faced and flustered.

‘My house is on fire!’ he said.

Soren immediately thought that he was talking about Stornado, which, while certainly unpleasant was not likely to have put Ranph into the state that he was in. It had not been long since Ranph’s father had been awarded the Grand Cross, and he was still in the city attending to his affairs. The cogs of Soren’s mind turned slowly that lazy afternoon, but he quickly enough came to the realisation that it was not Stornado that Ranph was talking about. He bounced to his feet and made off after Ranph who had already turned and left, grabbing a random sword from the rack of ‘old beaters’ in the hallway as he left.

The Academy and the wealthy area of Highgarden were of particular convenience to one another, either by coincidence or design, and it was not long before the pair reached Ranph’s family’s town house at a brisk pace. On another day, it would easily have been one of the finest houses in Ostenheim. On this day however, smoke billowed from its many windows that almost concealed the flickering orange glow behind.

Intrigued by the activity of two of the better-known students at the Academy, several others had followed to see what all the fuss was about. As a group, they all stood mouth agape at the magnificent mansion that was not long for the world.

It occurred to Soren how Ranph would react a moment before it happened. He reached out to put an impeding hand on his shoulder only a fraction of a second too late and it slipped off ineffectively as Ranph rushed forward, through the great doors, and disappeared into the smoke. Soren delayed for a second before cursing and following after him.

He had not been in the house before so its layout was a mystery to him. To add to the confusion, there was smoke starting to fill the corridor and the sound of flames eating away at whatever they touched. He kicked open each door he passed, peering in without breaking his stride until he came to one that was already open. With his knuckles white on the hilt of his sword, he rushed in.

Ranph stood statue still staring across the room. Soren moved further into the room, which appeared to be a study and followed Ranph’s stare. There were two men dead on the floor and one collapsed into a leather chair, also dead. The man in the chair was Ranph’s father, Rikard dal Bragadin, Banneret of the Blue and the Grand Cross, Count Elector of Ostenheim, Lord of the County of Bragadin. There was something tragic and heroic about the scene. The two dead men had clearly fallen before him, and he was covered in many wounds, his clothes sodden with his own blood. His sword hung limply in his half open hand and his eyes stared out into oblivion. His mouth was still set with the same determination that Soren had remembered as he had walked past them in to the Cathedral. Ranph stood dumbfounded and the smoke was slowly but visibly beginning to thicken.

Soren grabbed Ranph by the shoulders and turned him to face him.

‘You can mourn him later, we have to go! Now!’ he shouted at Ranph, whose face was frozen with despair. His eyes were glassy, either from grief or from the smoke, Soren could not tell. He didn’t react so Soren grabbed him and shoved him out. As an after thought he ducked back into the office and took the rapier from the former Lord Bragadin’s hand. Ranph should have his father’s sword, Soren thought.

He rushed back out into the hallway where the smoke made it almost impossible to see, expecting to find Ranph standing there still dumbfounded. Instead he found Ranph sitting on the floor, clutching his stomach with both hands. There were three men lurking in the smoke, the orange glint of flame on steel visible at their hands.

There was no time to ask questions, or to identify friend from foe. Soren merely reacted. He reacted as he had a thousand times before in training, but this time with the indignant rage of someone who has been wronged. He screamed at them with a fury that visibly shook them and rushed at the men, spinning as he entered their midst. The two swords he held sliced through the smoke, leaving clear little trails in the air behind them. Two of the men began their drop to the floor as he stepped toward the third who had had the presence of mind to step back when he had seen Soren coming at them. As he raised his sword, it appeared to Soren to slow. He could see that it was wet with blood that began to form a drip on the lower edge.

He drove both lengths of his blades through the man’s chest. He gasped and spluttered and Soren could feel the tug on the swords as the man’s weight began to drop on them. He whipped them out quickly and booted the body out of the way as it fell. He turned to see if there were any other enemies to be dealt with, but there were none. The flames which had been rippling slowly and sensuously through the air resumed their earlier aggressive lapping at the walls. He felt lightheaded and the taste of smoke in his mouth was joined by the bitter tang of bile. He only now noticed the biting sting of the smoke on his eyes, the burning in his throat and lungs and an overwhelming feeling of exhaustion.

He didn’t have time to inspect Ranph’s wounds, but he was determined that two Bragadins would not die in that house on that day. Taking the swords in one hand, he grabbed Ranph around the waist and hoisted him onto his shoulder, and fled the inferno.

He had little time to unwind from the attack on Ranph’s house before he had to embark on his own task for the barbarian. He had been utterly exhausted by the experience. He thought hard about how the final assassin’s sword had seemed to slow. It moved faster than the belek had, but more slowly than it should have normally. It seemed as though the Gift had been stronger than normal, but not strong enough to be the Moment. It was all so confusing though, and he could never tell if he was trying to attribute explanations to things that needed none.

Ranph was safely in the infirmary and there was nothing more that Soren could do for him. He tried to push his concerns for his friend from his head and prepared for his job. He borrowed a sword and dagger from the arms cabinet in the salon where he trained with Bryn. Borrow was perhaps the wrong choice of word, as he had to force the lock, but managed to do so without causing any damage that a little careful bending of metal would not conceal. He would have taken one of the beaters from the rack in River House, but they were as they were named, old, beaten up and not to be relied upon if there was a better option.