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A little smile touched her face but then she sighed and it faded. He knew that sound. It came from the bottom of her soul and was a sound he’d heard many times. It couldn’t be faked. And from that single exhalation of breath he knew the shape and the weight of her loss. Fray wasn’t quite ready to wade in, so he stalled and mentally began to prepare for what would be needed.

  “Would you like some tea?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  He ducked into the small room at the back, set the kettle over the fire and they chatted idly about the weather as they waited for it to boil. The glasses were old and battered and the pot didn’t match, but she didn’t care. He set the pot on the table to steep, put out a few withered slices of lemon and even the pastry he’d been saving for later. She accepted the tea and lemon, but refused the pastry, for which he was grateful as hunger already gnawed at him.

  “I’m Fray.”

  “Sanna.”

  “Tell me about yourself, Sanna,” he said, sitting back and waiting for his tea to cool.

  “Not much to tell,” she said in a firm voice. He raised an eyebrow and Sanna relented, shaking her head slightly. “I used to be a dancer, not a gaudy titty-flasher. A proper one you only saw in theatres. Things were going well, but I was young and stupid. I trusted the wrong man, someone with money. Then I ended up with a child, no husband and no money. After that I took work where I could find it, and we got by. We did all right, me and my boy.”

  Despite the tragic turn of events she’d described there wasn’t any resentment in her voice. But then her bottom lip began to wobble. Before it went any further Sanna took a loud slurp of her tea and cursed that it was too hot. Fray looked away, giving her time. When she spoke again her voice didn’t waver.

  “My boy, Jerrum, grew up to be a good man. He made me proud when he joined the Queen’s army. Then the war came along.”

  Fray didn’t need to hear the rest. She wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last person who’d lost someone in the war to set foot in his shop.

  “Do you have something that belonged to him?”

  Sanna reached into her basket and brought out a blue shirt, a pair of trousers and even a battered hat. She set them on the table and Fray lightly ran his hands over the items, feeling the fabric and stretching his senses, waiting for the familiar prickle across his scalp. He tapped the shirt with two fingers and with some reluctance she let him pull it to his side of the table.

  From under the table he produced a blindfold, but before she put it on, her expression became sheepish. It couldn’t be about the blindfold. If she knew where to find him then she would already be aware of his rules. Everyone believed it was necessary to protect them from the spirits and Fray did nothing to correct this misconception.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “I don’t have much money to spare.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “I heard you took goods in trade,” she said, reaching into her basket again. Fray touched her hand and she stopped cold, as if he were holding a knife to her throat. He quickly withdrew his hand and she relaxed, but then had the grace to look guilty. But she didn’t apologise. He swallowed the bitterness and felt it pass through him. It was just how things were at the moment.

  “We’ll sort it out after,” he said, filling the awkward silence that threatened to swallow them both. Pointing at the blindfold again he settled back, taking the shirt in both hands and waiting until her eyes were covered.

  Fray took a few deep breaths to calm himself and then stared down at the shirt. Reaching out with his mind he stretched towards the sound of the sea at the edges of his perception. It was always there, almost out of reach. All he had to do was concentrate on it. The world around Fray juddered slightly and a ripple spread out with him at its centre, as if the air was made of water.

  Everything around Fray shifted slightly, becoming brighter, the colours deeper, the smells richer. Staring at the shirt he could see the weave of the material, smell the faintest whiff of leather and feel the coarseness against his fingertips. Pulling his focus away from the shirt he searched the air around him for a faint thread. Something to indicate the connection that he’d felt earlier.

  After a few seconds he could see it. A faint red wire that sparkled like a string of pearls dipped in blood. It stretched away from the shirt across the room, disappearing through the wall on his right. Although it didn’t have any physical weight Fray imagined himself pulling on it and his hands involun tarily made a beckoning gesture. To his surprise the shade responded quickly, appearing in the room as if he’d been waiting to be summoned.

  “I see him,” said Fray, staring at the broad-shouldered man who had Sanna’s eyes and smile. For some reason Jerrum wore his Yerskani uniform, suggesting his devotion to the army. He didn’t show any of the fatal wounds he must have suffered, for which Fray was grateful. Being told how someone had died was bad enough; he didn’t need to see it. Most didn’t show any injuries, but some shades were so shocked by the moment of their death it imprinted itself upon the fragment that remained.

  “How does he look?” asked Sanna.

  “He’s wearing his uniform. He looks… happy,” said Fray, knowing how strange that sounded, but it was the truth. He felt some sadness from Jerrum, no doubt at being separated from his devoted mother, but mostly Fray felt his sense of pride. Jerrum gestured towards his mother and Fray heard the corresponding words in his mind. “He said to mention the red brooch he gave you for your birthday when he was a boy. The one he stole from the fat jeweller with the wooden leg.”

  “Blessed Mother,” wept Sanna, dabbing at her eyes as a sob escaped her lips.

  Fray offered her a wry smile, even though she couldn’t see it. “He said to tell you that so you’d know I wasn’t tricking you.”

  “What else?” she asked and Fray cocked his head to one side, listening as Jerrum made a complex series of gestures.

  “He misses you and he’s sorry to leave you alone. He hopes you can forgive him.”

  Sanna sobbed and laughed at the same time. “Tell him there’s nothing to forgive.”

  Jerrum turned away from his mother and stared at Fray, his expression turning serious. His mouth moved silently and Fray’s eyebrows arched in surprise.

  “Is he still there? What’s he saying?” asked Sanna.

  “A minute, please,” said Fray, his attention still focused on the shade. “You can trust me. I swear it by the Maker.”

  “I know I can trust you,” said Sanna, thinking he was speaking to her. Jerrum nodded gravely and then made another series of gestures, pointing at his mother several times.

  “He wants you to know that he’s still going to take care of you.” Fray saw Sanna shift in her chair, suddenly uncomfortable despite the cushions. This wasn’t what she’d expected to happen. A few personal anecdotes, a message of love and something to help her move on with the rest of her life. That’s all they wanted and what most needed to hear.

  “He saved a portion of his monthly wages after he joined the army. It was supposed to be money to set up a brewery when he got out. He wants you to have it.”

  Despite knowing the rules, Sanna started to reach towards the blindfold. She needed to see his face and look at his eyes to make sure he was telling the truth. Fray put his hand over hers, bringing it back to the table before she did something she would regret. Knowing this had already gone on too long he scribbled the address Jerrum had given him.

  “Do you want to ask him anything else?”

  “Why did he linger? Why is he still here?”

  Fray smiled. If he had a coin for every time someone asked that question he would be richer than the Queen’s first cousin, the Duchess. “For you. He stayed because he wanted to make sure you’d be looked after.”

  Sanna began to weep quietly as Jerrum looked on benevolently. Fray let go of the thread and his connection to the spirit slowly faded away. The world around him rippled again, becoming smaller and quieter, dull
and washed-out by comparison. He went into the back room, taking his pastry with him and giving Sanna some time alone. When he returned a few minutes later she’d stopped crying, but her eyes were red rimmed. There would be more tears to come, but hopefully they would be those that healed instead of driving the pain deeper into the heart where it could fester.

  Sanna set her basket on the table and took out several items. Three loaves of bread, half a dozen apples, two pairs of black trousers, a sturdy pair of boots and a slightly worn leather belt.

  “I was going to ask you what you wanted, but you should have all of it. You look about the right size. It’s the least I can do.” She put everything back in the basket and pushed it across the table.

  Fray gave her the piece of paper with the address, shook her offered hand and was pleased to see she didn’t cringe this time.

  A familiar middle-aged man with touches of grey in his wavy brown hair and moustache stepped into the shop as Sanna approached the door. As he held the door open for Sanna, he locked eyes with Fray, which made a flurry of emotions roll through his stomach. They both waited until the sound of Sanna’s footsteps had receded before moving.

  Fray gestured at the chair opposite, resuming his own seat. His visitor paused on the threshold, his eyes sweeping the shop and no doubt recording every detail in his analytical mind.

  “How long has it been, Byrne?” said Fray, running it through in his head.

  “About five years,” said Byrne, his eyes finally coming to rest on Fray’s face. Byrne had visibly aged since Fray had seen him last. There were bags under his eyes, more lines around his mouth and Byrne’s moustache now had flecks of grey running through it. There was only ten years difference in age between them but Byrne looked a lot older. “Since just after the funeral.”

  “You’re not here for personal reasons,” said Fray and Byrne shook his head.

  “I need your help.”

  “You’re just going to plough straight in?” said Fray, raising an eyebrow. “Not even one question about how I’ve been, or what I’ve been doing since he died.”

  At first Byrne said nothing and his expression remained unreadable. But then he sighed, blinked and his intense stare faded, which was a surprise. Perhaps he’d softened a little in the years since they’d last been face to face.

  “I made a promise to your father. Several actually,” said Byrne, correcting himself. It was an annoying habit Fray hadn’t missed. Byrne was always so precise and rigid that he not only corrected everyone else, but also himself. “But this promise concerned you. Right before the end, he asked me to watch over you.”

  Fray was stunned. “Why am I only hearing about this now?”

  Byrne scratched his moustache. Fray knew it was a mannerism Byrne used to buy himself some time when he didn’t have the right words. “You made it very clear that you wanted nothing to do with the Watch or the Guardians. After your father died, I thought I’d be the last person you’d want to see, so I stayed away.”

  “Byrne, you’re an idiot.” The Guardian blinked a few times, but said nothing. Fray suspected it had been many years since someone had said anything like that to his face.

  “I was in pain after he died,” said Fray, clutching his chest where a ghost of the agony remained. “You were the only person I could’ve talked to, who would have understood, and you weren’t there.”

  Byrne sat back in his chair, utterly speechless as a mixture of emotions passed across his face. Fray took a minute to try and settle himself, but old feelings he’d buried were rising to the surface.

  Finally Byrne’s expression settled into one of regret. “There’s nothing I can say to make it right. I never meant to hurt you and I certainly didn’t abandon you.”

  Fray waved it away, pretending it didn’t hurt. “It doesn’t matter. Why are you here now?”

  “There’s been a string of unusual murders in the city. The Khevassar needs it to go away as soon as possible before it attracts more attention.”

  “Unusual?”

  “Magic is involved. More than that I can’t say,” said Byrne.

  “Why me?”

  Byrne raised an eyebrow in surprise. Fray needed to hear it.

  “Because I trust you, and so does the Old Man, which is amazing because he doesn’t trust anyone. Because you were born here and know this city better than almost anyone. And because your father was the best Guardian of the Peace I’ve ever known.”

  “That doesn’t mean I’ll be half as good as him.”

  “Don’t play coy with me, Fray,” said Byrne. “We both watched him on the job. I was his partner for only ten years, but you saw him every day of your life. I also know you’ve got his journals, and I doubt you threw them on the fire. How many times have you read them?”

  Fray didn’t answer, especially as he didn’t want to admit Byrne was right. Those journals were priceless. Not because they detailed every case his father had ever worked on, the victories and the failures. The journals were his one remaining link to his father. Every time he read them Fray felt as if he understood the man a little better. He could hear his father’s voice in his head and smell him on the pages.

  Byrne cleared his throat, interrupting Fray’s thoughts. “We could try to find someone else, but it won’t be easy. Besides, I think you need this,” he said not unkindly, gesturing at the shop.

  Before the war Fray’s shop had been in a good part of the city and his customers had included some wealthy and well-connected people. Business had been good, the money paid for a comfortable lifestyle, and he’d been happy. Now he had to hide his ability and had relocated to a fairly seedy part of the city, and most of his customers traded goods or a hot meal as they couldn’t afford much else.

  These days anyone with any magical ability or a Talent didn’t announce it. Those who’d previously made their living using magic either did something else or customers had to seek them out in dark corners like this one. People still wanted closure, still wanted to speak to the lingering dead, but most were too afraid to visit him.

  The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on Fray that someone with magic was needed to solve the murder case.

  “I don’t want your charity,” said Fray, clinging to the remaining shreds of his pride.

  Byrne ignored him. “You can help people. You can save lives.”

  “But only by hiding what I really am,” he said.

  Byrne’s expression turned grim. “If you say yes we’ll start tomorrow. You’ll be a novice Guardian, partnered with me, and you’ll receive on-the-job training. We can’t afford any more delays. The Khevassar will take care of the rest, paperwork, a uniform and so on. Given your history, and your name, no one will question it.”

  Normally someone had to serve five years in the Watch before they’d even be considered for the Guardians. If he jumped straight to being a Guardian it would put a few noses out of joint.

  Fray sat back in his chair, looking around at the bare walls of the dingy little shop. It had been a while since he’d eaten three good meals a day and been warm at night. All he had to do was break a promise he’d made to himself not to follow in his father’s footsteps. But it had been made in a moment of anger by a young and naïve boy. That boy had grown up into a realistic man who’d faced hardship and disappointment many times. Ultimately he knew there were many worse things he could become than his father’s son.

  Byrne sat quietly and let him work it out for himself. He’d always been patient. Fray remembered countless nights where Byrne and his father had sat up late discussing various cases. Byrne never seemed to raise his voice or lose his temper.

  “All right, I’ll do it.”

  “You don’t have to decide now. If you need more time—”

  “I’m ready,” said Fray. Byrne stared deep into his eyes, weighing him up, before a broad smile stretched across his face.

  “I thought it was going to be more difficult to convince you.”

  “I might be my father’s son
, but I also have my mother’s common sense.”

  “For which I’m enormously grateful,” admitted Byrne with a grin.

  CHAPTER 6

  For the last two nights Katja had been calling in every favour and speaking to every contact. Unfortunately she was no closer to finding any real information about the plot to assassinate the Queen. There were rumours, but that was all it amounted to. The lack of solid leads was frustrating, but a little reassuring too, as it suggested the plot was nothing more than gossip. However, she would keep digging until the truth came out.

  From what Roza had told her last night the rest of her network in Yerskania was faring no better. This only made them angrier and led to even more drying blood under fingernails. Someone had to know something and they were determined to find out. The network was stretched thin and no one was getting much sleep.

  Every lead was being chased, every avenue explored, which led Katja to her next appointment. Roza stood waiting for her a couple of streets away from the Blacksmith’s Arms.

  “Remember, he’s not someone we can put any pressure on,” said Roza without preamble as they set off. “Let me do most of the talking. Listen carefully to what he says, and if he gives his word, don’t question it.”

  Katja could see the tension in Roza’s shoulders by the way they were bunched up. Setting up this meeting had taken a lot of careful negotiation and delicate work. All they had been given was a place, a name, which was probably fake, and a time.

  “Why am I here?” asked Katja.

  “Because I don’t feel safe going to this meeting alone, and I’m told you’re good at reading people. Be polite, but also be ready for anything.” Roza stopped her on the corner, scanning the street and buildings neighbouring the Blacksmith’s Arms. “Are you armed?” she asked, her eyes still watching the people.

  “Yes.”

  Roza had told her to come prepared. A hole in the pocket of her trousers gave her access to a long narrow blade strapped to the outside of her left thigh. The dagger tucked into her right boot and the knotted leather cord, acting as a belt, were there as backup weapons, just in case.