Bloodmage Page 11

  She didn’t want to hear anything he had to say, especially now. So Choss just waited in silence, but over her shoulder he could see Brokk’s brother looked uncomfortable. As if he knew more about it than she did.

  “It was that filthy Vorga. Why did Vinny let it into the ring with my Brokk?”

  “I don’t know,” said Choss, trying to catch the brother’s eye, but he kept looking away, maybe on purpose.

  “The Vorga hate us. They’re nothing more than vicious monsters. It should be strung up by its neck. We beat them in the war, but they’re too stupid to know it’s over. All they want to do is kill people.”

  Choss let her words roll over him as he knew they weren’t true. He heard enough to nod in the right places, but his attention stayed focused on the brother. They both knew the truth wasn’t what the wife claimed. One day she might accept her husband had been less than perfect, but not today.

  The priest approached them, taking the wife aside where they spoke in hushed tones. Choss took advantage of the distraction to step close to the brother.

  “I’m Choss,” he said, offering his hand, which the other man accepted.

  “Tarnus.”

  “Have you ever been to the Jolly Crispin, down on the waterfront?”

  “With the brewery out back?” asked Tarnus.

  “That’s it.”

  “I know where it is, why?”

  “We should meet there later for a drink,” said Choss.

  Tarnus glanced over his shoulder at the widow. “I’m not one for drinking.”

  “I’m not asking,” said Choss, trying to smile to soften his words, but it still came out as a threat.

  The priest moved away and Choss took a step back as the widow turned around.

  “I have to go,” said Choss, before she could offer more advice on what should happen to all Vorga. “I just wanted to pay my respects.”

  “Thank you for coming.”

  He waited a moment, locking eyes with Tarnus, then turned and walked out of the church.

  One of the jolly Crispin brothers was serving drinks behind the bar when Choss pushed open the front door. The big bearded man looked up but didn’t smile. In fact his was a face that looked as if it never smiled. Choss wondered if the bar had been named after someone else.

  Even this early there were a few people drinking. Sailors just come off the water or those preparing to go back out. Dock workers on a break, and a few lounging merchants. Six big tables sat in the middle of the room, huge oak things with scarred surfaces. An assortment of mismatched chairs and stools sat around each. All of the drinkers ignored the tables and were standing around the edge of the room, leaning against the wooden rail at waist height.

  The decoration in the room was minimal, bare walls and a simple but sturdy bar. At first glance the floor looked unusually fancy, made of heavy black stone tiles, until you noticed the channel around the edges of the room that ran straight into the drains. A lot of beer and spilled blood had been washed off those tiles, night after night.

  As a young man with more fire in his belly than common sense, Choss had come here a few times for a fight. To get back at his old man. To break faces and release some of his pent-up anger. The fights didn’t happen every night, but the owners and the room were always ready, just in case.

  To his surprise the bar smelled of fresh bread and bacon. There wasn’t even a hint of old blood in the air. It had been a long time since his last visit. Perhaps the fights happened less often these days.

  Even here, one or two people recognised Choss, but after a nod or a wave they left him alone. Choss bought a drink from one of the dour-faced owners then found a space against the wall. He’d nearly finished his ale, and was about to order another, when Tarnus finally showed up. Tarnus bought a drink and leaned back against the rail, facing into the room. He’d been here before then. You didn’t show your back to anyone in the room.

  Choss waited, giving Tarnus time to think, sipping the last of his ale. It was dark and rich, with a hint of liquorice. The smell of bread and bacon made his stomach rumble.

  “My brother was in pain,” said Tarnus. A catch in his voice made him stop, so Choss waited again. Being in the ring had taught him patience. Rushing in headfirst was stupid. Amateurs and those whose anger ruled their heads did that. You watched, you listened, you waited and then you attacked. “About six months ago he had a bad fight.”

  “In the arena?” asked Choss, thinking back to that time.

  Tarnus shook his head. “He needed some extra money so he took a turn in one of the pit fights. One of those one-night things in the warehouse district.”

  Choss bit his lip and said nothing. The Watch stamped down hard on pit fights and were becoming better at finding them. Illegal rings could spring up at any time, but they never stayed in the same place as it was too risky. Pit fights meant there were no rules, high stakes, quite often bad injuries and sometimes dead fighters.

  “Something felt wrong in his left arm after the fight. There was a bruise for a few days, but then it faded. Brokk thought it had mended, but then it kept hurting even though there wasn’t a mark. He took some snuff for the pain and rested for a few days.”

  “He said something about your mother being sick,” remembered Choss.

  “She’s been dead for years. He just needed a rest.” Tarnus shrugged by way of an apology. “But it didn’t help. He tried a couple of surgeons, but there was nothing to see so they couldn’t help. The snuff stopped working so he got something else for the pain.”

  Choss leaned closer. “Where did he get it?”

  Tarnus glanced up at him and then away. “He knew if Don Jarrow found out he’d be in trouble. So he went into the west end.”

  “Where?” asked Choss, forcing himself to breathe slowly and stay calm. If he frightened Tarnus now he’d run and probably never talk to him again.

  Tarnus took a long drink before answering. “From one of Don Kalbensham’s dealers, in the meat district. He thought if he got the venthe outside of Don Jarrow’s turf, it wouldn’t get back to him.”

  Don Kalbensham ran another of the crime Families in the city and he controlled one of the worst areas. No one ever went into the meat district unless they worked in the meat trade, worked for Don Kal, or were searching for something special on an evening. Gambling, drink, drugs and prostitution came as standard, but there were also a few other things that happened in the area that city officials didn’t know about.

  There were also lots of slaughterhouses in the west end, which meant a lot of screaming animals and trickling blood. A few human screams amid the noise and the occasional odd-shaped carcass hung on a hook was easy to miss.

  Choss knew the Watch had recently started patrolling the area, but so far their incursions had been small. They always happened during the day, were always in big numbers and heavily armed. The pain must have been bad if Brokk had been desperate enough to go into the west end.

  “Are you going to tell Don Jarrow?” asked Tarnus.

  Choss shook his head. “It wouldn’t help. I’ll keep it a secret.”

  Tarnus looked relieved. Perhaps he’d thought there’d be some repercussion against him. He finished up his drink in three long gulps and left without another word. Choss lingered, bought another drink and something to eat, while he thought it through.

  Dońa Jarrow had said she would use her influence to help the arena if he solved the venthe problem. Going into the meat district wouldn’t be easy, but he didn’t know what else to do. He’d have to be cautious in another Family’s territory. If Don Kal found out he’d been there, he’d accuse Don Jarrow of spying. Then the Family feud that threatened to blow up would happen that much sooner.

  The front door opened and a group of sweaty labourers came in, calling for drinks and food. One of the burly men nudged his friend and they all turned and smiled or called out in his direction. Choss lifted his mug and smiled. Not for the first time he wasn’t happy to have such a recognisable face
. It made him realise that if he did go into the meat district, he’d have to wear a disguise.

  CHAPTER 13

  It still felt strange to be dressed as a Guardian of the Peace, but if anyone noticed Fray’s nervousness they didn’t mention it. As Fray waited with two other novices outside the Khevassar’s office his eyes began to wander.

  The Khevassar’s outer office, much like the rest of Unity Hall, was sparsely furnished with heavy wooden furniture stained with black lacquer. The polished wooden floors were painted a deep red, the colour of fresh blood, and yet more red and black dominated the rooms and corridors. A Guardian had adopted the style two hundred years ago and no one had bothered to change it. The consistency was reassuring in some ways. It reinforced the idea of dependability and the unwavering arm of the law in Yerskania.

  From floor to ceiling the office walls were lined with shelves filled with hundreds of identical books with red spines. A Guardian’s history of the city over the last thirty years, written by the Old Man himself. Fray suspected his view of the events in Perizzi would bear little resemblance to that of other people’s. The journals recorded crimes and their investigations, the victims and the horrors people inflicted upon one another. Miserable reading to be sure, and there were tens of thousands more just like these in the vaults, written by other Guardians going back several centuries.

  Rummpoe, the Old Man’s fussy assistant, hadn’t acknowledged Fray and the other novices, as if they were beneath his attention. He’d also given no indication that he remembered Fray or recognised his name, which struck him as odd but he’d said nothing. Today he wasn’t here as the son of a former Guardian, a witness or victim of a crime. This formal interview with the Khevassar marked the official start of his apprenticeship with the Guardians of the Peace.

  The other two novices were very nervous. One kept biting his nails and the other couldn’t sit still, as if there were ants crawling inside his clothes. The Old Man had a fearsome reputation, and although they’d earned the right to be here, some more than others Fray realised, no one wanted to be in a locked room with the most intelligent man in the city.

  The office door opened and the Old Man stepped out. It had been a few years since Fray had seen him, but the leader of the Guardians looked almost exactly the same. A small old man with wavy white hair and dazzling blue eyes that moved slowly but missed nothing. He glanced briefly around the room before turning to his aide.

  “I’m feeling a little parched,” said the Khevassar, smacking his lips.

  Rummpoe carefully cleaned the ink from his pen and set it down before looking up. “I’ll have a pot of tea sent along.”

  “Thank you,” said the Old Man, going back into his office, but he left the door open. “And send in the first novice.”

  Rummpoe glanced across at Fray and gestured towards the open door with two fingers.

  “Close the door,” said the Khevassar as Fray stepped into his office. His most recent journals lined the walls and there was yet more black painted furniture, red books, red curtains and grey stone walls. The Old Man gestured at one of the two seats in front of his desk and Fray sat down.

  “How are you?”

  “I’m well, Sir. Thank you.”

  The Old Man’s smile was wolfish. “No need to be so formal, boy. I’ve known you since you were born. This isn’t an interview like the others.”

  “I didn’t want to assume.”

  “Which speaks well of you. If anyone asks, we spoke about why you want to be a Guardian. I also asked you some difficult questions that made you feel uncomfortable. Understood?”

  “Yes, Sir. I mean, yes.”

  “Good. I actually asked you here to talk about the case. What did you find?”

  Fray told him what they’d discovered at the most recent crime scene. Despite his magical Talent they were no further forward on the case. The Old Man’s expression became thoughtful for a few seconds, but he didn’t react like Byrne.

  “I don’t think my help was all that Byrne had hoped for. Perhaps he’d thought I’d be able to find the killer immediately.”

  “How did he take the news?”

  “Not well.”

  “Hmm,” said the Khevassar, and his eyes became distant. With someone of a similar age it would have been reasonable to assume his mind had wandered. Fray knew from his father’s stories it meant the Old Man was working something through in his head, weighing various options and running scenarios. He said nothing and waited. A few seconds later blue eyes found green.

  “I want you to do a favour for me.”

  “Of course, Sir.”

  “Keep an eye on Byrne.” It was the last thing he’d been expecting to hear.

  “What am I looking for, Sir?”

  The Khevassar cocked his head to one side. “How much do you know? About what really happened with your father at the end?”

  “Not much,” said Fray. The Old Man’s raised eyebrow formed a question. “I have his journals, but the last few pages were torn out. Anything about his final case is missing.”

  “Have you asked Byrne about what happened?”

  “Yes, but he didn’t tell me very much. I don’t think he really knows either.”

  The Khevassar grunted. “No one really knows what happened, only that something was averted at great cost. Byrne took your father’s death very hard as they were closer than brothers. I thought he’d recovered, but he became a different man afterwards. Cold, more reserved. Then the war started, there was that business with the Queen abdicating, and we had Chosen flooding the streets.”

  “I remember their brutality.”

  The Khevassar grimaced. “We became prisoners in our own city. They left us to investigate crimes, but they were always there, watching for signs of sedition. Byrne felt as if he were the one that had been neutered, not the Prince.”

  Fray winced and tried not to squirm in his chair. Once the Chosen had been driven out of the city the Queen had resumed her rightful place on the throne. But now there were many questions about who would wear the crown when she stepped down. Some had suggested she would break with centuries of tradition and stay on the throne until death instead of retiring like her ancestors. Others thought the crown might skip a generation and pass to one of her grandchildren or a blood relative instead.

  There were many rumours and wild stories about what had happened to the Prince, which Fray discounted as nothing more than gossip and fantasy, but there was one detail on which they all agreed. Once Perizzi had been liberated the Prince rode out of the city and had not been seen since.

  “We started resistance groups,” said the Khevassar with a short barking laugh. “Held clandestine meetings and whispered in dark corners. We spread rumours and finally a real rebellion began in earnest. Byrne led one of the squads that destroyed the Chosen’s temple. A year on and the streets are still not as they once were. And neither is he.”

  “Should I send you reports?”

  “No. We won’t be able to speak in private like this unless it’s an emergency. If you see any unusual behaviour just leave a note with Rummpoe. He’s been briefed but there’s no official record of this. Are we clear, Novice Fray?”

  “Yes, Sir,” said Fray, knowing that erratic or unusual behaviour would mean an internal investigation of Byrne’s activities, and no one wanted that. Even the Guardians had their own internal investigators, who everyone loathed, but they were a necessary evil.

  “We’ve been in here too long. I’m going to shout at you now, but don’t take it personally.”

  “Sir?”

  “No one likes favouritism, Fray. You bypassed serving in the Watch and immediately became a Guardian. This is the only way to stop you being an outcast. You can’t afford it. Some jobs are just too big. You’ll need help from other Guardians in the days to come. It will be hard at first, but give them time to come around.”

  As usual the Old Man was five steps ahead of everyone else. The Khevassar cleared his throat and gave Fray
a cheeky wink.

  “I don’t care what you heard, or who your friends are,” he bellowed, directing his voice towards the door. His voice was so loud and there were so many hard surfaces in the room it made Fray’s ears ring. “Your father earned his position and you’ll do the same. Now you listen to me, boy, I don’t want to hear one more word about this, or I’ll cut off your balls and shove them down your throat. Now get out of my sight!”

  Fray adopted a shamed expression, yanked open the door and stormed down the corridor, avoiding all eye contact. The other two novices were sweating profusely and they made a point of not looking at him.

  “Send in the next one and where is my damn tea, Rummpoe?” Fray heard the Khevassar yell just before he turned the corner.

  Fray spent the rest of the afternoon training with the other novices in a seemingly endless series of drills. Somehow word had already reached the other novices about what had happened and they did their best to avoid him, as if the wrath of the Khevassar had become contagious. Fray had been an outsider all his life, so it wasn’t new. For the time being he decided to grin and bear it and trust the Old Man’s judgement that it would eventually get better.

  He spent hours running, swimming in a narrow and freezing cold tributary of the river, then more running and climbing ropes. After that came a test to measure the novices’ proficiency with a blade and many sparring sessions. It quickly became clear to Fray just how far behind the others he was in terms of physical fitness. He struggled to run very far without wheezing, barely clawed his way up the ropes using both his legs and arms, and managed to come last during the swimming. A few months of good food and doing this every day would soon change that, but for now the distance between them was obvious.

  The only time he excelled was during the sparring sessions where he bested seven of his ten opponents. What he lacked in style and grace he made up for in brutal efficiency, making him unpredictable and dangerous. All afternoon their grizzled training instructor had mocked his physical fitness, but as Fray pinned his last opponent to the floor he received a grunt of approval.