Dawn of the Dreamsmith (The Raven's Tale Book 1) (43 page)

Rawls bit his lip. “I’ll need steel.”

The bearded man regarded him levelly. “If you spill blood, lad, there’s nothing I can do to keep you from The Pit if the bulls catch you.”

It would have been easy to slink away, but Rawls stood defiantly. “I’d rather have it and not need it, than need it and not have it. I won’t be taken again, whatever happens. I swear it.”

Begrum stared at him, his face blank. After a long pause he nodded, and drew out a vicious-looking dagger. He held it lightly in his hand, watching Rawls carefully. Then, with a bang he stabbed it point-first into the table, where it quivered. Rawls grabbed at the weapon eagerly, working it free from the wood as he listened carefully to the uptown address he was given.

“Oh, and lad?” the bearded man said, as Rawls turned to leave.

“Yes Begrum?”

The thief-master grinned nastily. “Get that mop cut, you look like a fucking whore.”

Rawls whiled away the rest of the day, killing time. He visited one of the pot-shops, the owner of which had always been friendly to him before he was sent to the Clink, and cadged a bowl of stew of unknown provenance. He ambled along the city’s streets, reacquainting himself with old haunts. When he reached the bustling marketplace, he found himself eyeing up the purses of wealthy shoppers. He smiled. Old habits died hard.

As the sun began to set, he found himself in the wide, paved streets of uptown, and located the house Begrum had directed him to with little difficulty. In the pot-shop, he’d heard people talking about a curfew that had been placed on the city, so rather than risk the attention of the city watch, or bulls as the street rats knew them, Rawls surreptitiously climbed up the side of one of the houses nearby.

He found a nice spot between two peaked roofs, which sheltered him somewhat from the chill wind. As dusk fell, though, his breath started to puff out in front of his face in white clouds. He rubbed his hands together to help keep his fingers warm and limber, while eyeing up the house of the absent merchant.

It was large; three-storeys, and surrounded by a high wall topped with sharp iron spikes. Rawls grimaced at the sight of it, but with relief noticed a tree growing nearby, the upper branches of which nearly overhung the wall. That was his way inside.

Unconsciously, his fingers brushed the handle of the dagger tucked into his belt.
Won’t get taken again.
He was sure of that. If he could get the job done without waking the guard, well and good. Otherwise, he would do what needed to be done to preserve his freedom. Despite the possibility that he would take another’s life that night, he felt calm.

Rawls found his mind drifting back to the day he was taken. It had happened in the market. For the most part, it was like any other day; choose a mark, follow them, judge when the time was right and then slit the cord holding their purse to their belt. If you were good, and Rawls had been
good
, then you could snatch the coin and melt away into the crowd before the poor sap realised they’d been robbed.

But on that day he’d been strangely jittery and off his game. Perhaps his finely honed rat’s instincts had sensed what was to happen. Trailing one noble with a particularly fat purse, he’d tripped over a crate of apples and tumbled to the ground. The noble, obviously believing himself to be a kind man, the sort who would help a poor urchin in distress, had turned and held out a hand to lift Rawls to his feet. Like a fool, he’d taken it. He still cursed that moment, cursed the noble for sticking in his beak where it wasn’t wanted. He could still recall the benevolent expression on the man’s face, the wince as he felt the nick of the tiny blade secreted in Rawls’ palm, the dawning realisation of what it signified. The man’s smile had turned to anger, as rough hands grabbed hold of Rawls’ collar. They kept him restrained despite his struggles while the guards were summoned. Two years of his life gone, all because of a box of fruit and a nosy nobleman. Rawls had long ago decided that if he ever ran into the man again, it wouldn’t be his purse that he’d slit.

Perhaps it was that man’s house he was even now planning to break into. The thought amused him, a thin smile creeping across his face.

Rawls was shaken from his reverie by a tiny sound behind him. The clink of a footstep, treading lightly upon slate. Startled, he span round, the dagger clasped firmly in his hand. Surely the bulls could not have found him? His eyes scanned the ghost-like, moonlit rooftops. He was alone.

Or was he? He found his gaze drawn to a deep well of shadow around the base of a nearby chimney-stack. Trying to keep his breathing slow and silent, Rawls crept closer, the dagger held out in front of him in readiness. Not the bulls, he decided; they would have rushed him by now. Who, then? Had Begrum sent someone to keep an eye on him, and make sure the job got done? He wouldn’t put it past the cagey old bastard. He grinned. Whoever it was would regret taking that little assignment when he sent them flying onto the street below.

When he was close enough, Rawls lunged at the shadows, dagger first, but touched only air. Disappointed, he jumped around to the other side of the stack, but the roof behind it was similarly bare.

Puzzled, Rawls took a step back. His heel found a patch of ice and his legs went out from under him, sending him crashing backwards onto the tiles. At the same moment,
something
slashed through the air above his face, where his neck had been just a fraction of a second earlier.

When Rawls landed, the air knocked from his lungs, he twisted where he lay and saw a black-clad figure standing on the roof behind him. Muttering curses, he scrambled away on hands and knees, then tumbled to one side as the stranger’s blade once again flashed out towards him.

Despite shaking legs, Rawls managed to find his feet, and he shaped up to run. The stranger was too quick for him, however. A mailed hand shot out and grabbed Rawls by his tunic. The part of him that would forever be street rat took over then, pushing his terror aside momentarily. Rawls knew how to fight, he’d been fighting since the day he was born. And importantly, like all street rats who survived beyond childhood, he knew how to win
.

As the stranger pulled him close, Rawls flung his head forward viciously, smashing his forehead into the stranger’s face. Or, he realised with slowly dawning horror, where his face should have been. When Rawls looked within the stranger’s cowl, all he saw was his own terrified features staring back at him. He wasn’t ready to give up just yet, however. Without thinking, his knee crunched into the stranger’s groin, and white-hot pain exploded along his leg. Whatever he’d hit, it was as hard as iron. Rawls fell back with a agonised cry, a move that almost certainly saved his life. His tunic tore, leaving the stranger grasping nothing but a tattered fragment of cloth.

Rawls didn’t linger a moment longer. As soon as he touched the ground, he bounced up and staggered across the rooftop, moving as fast as his aching knee would allow. He heard the sound of footsteps on slate behind him, and redoubled his pace.

What
was
that? He’d never heard of an armour so thick that would allow a man to move so fast and so silently. But if not armour, then what was it? Rawls had never fought an opponent who couldn’t be felled by a Copperton kiss or handshake, yet the stranger hadn’t even flinched.

The footsteps were right behind him now, and Rawls ducked instinctively. The stranger’s blade whistled harmlessly over his head. How long could he go on being this lucky? Realising that flight was no longer an option, he lunged behind another chimney stack. A heartbeat later, when he heard the light tread approach the other side, he jumped out. With one hand Rawls grabbed the stranger’s sword-arm, and with the other struck out with Begrum’s dagger. Again and again he stabbed, the tip of his blade piercing the stranger’s cloak but glancing off something hard within with a ringing metallic sound.

It was a final, desperate ploy, and within moments Rawls could see that it had failed. The stranger lashed out with his free hand, slamming a fist into his sternum. The last of his air flew from his lungs involuntarily, leaving Rawls gasping for breath.
God’s teeth, he hits like a mule!
Another blow struck him on the side of the head, sending him flying towards the edge of the roof.

Rawls tried to stand, but it was no good. Something deep inside him had been broken, crushed by the stranger’s first punch. He could only watch helplessly as the black-clad stranger approached him one last time.

Fingers as cold and unforgiving as ice plunged into his thick, black hair and jerked his head back sharply. Then, in his final moments, Rawls knew that he had lost his mind. Before his eyes, the stranger’s hand
changed
. He would have sworn he carried no weapon, but his arm seemed to flow like water just before it slashed down towards Rawls’ exposed neck.

Before the last of his lifeblood drained away, the last sight to come to Rawls’ eyes in this world was of his own headless body, tumbling towards the cobblestones below, as limp as a puppet whose strings had been cut. Then,
he
was falling, spinning towards it end over end in the night air.

As the darkness claimed him, one last, foolish, thought flashed across his mind:
At least I didn’t get taken again.

CHAPTER 19

T
here was no mistaking the Baron’s residence. It was surrounded by a high wall of roughly cut grey stone, around which ran a shallow moat. Cole peered down into it as he was led past the outskirts of the manor house. While the moat no longer presented much of a barrier to invaders, having long since run dry, it was at least still an unpleasant one. The bottom of the channel was a sticky morass of mud, dead leaves and other substances it was probably best not to speculate upon.

They approached a small gatehouse built from the same grey stone, which granted access to the manor’s gardens beyond. It was on a far humbler scale than the one at the Crag, Cole observed, as he approached the structure flanked by the Baron’s guardsmen. However, it served the same purpose. A thick wooden drawbridge, studded with iron, could be raised or lowered by those inside, allowing those on the far side of the moat to enter. The heavy boots of his escort pounded on the bridge, and as they entered the archway beyond a pair of burning sconces cast lively shadows upon the grey stone walls.

Cole examined the passageway with interest as they passed through. Like the outer wall of the estate, the stone used to build it had been cut unevenly, if indeed it had been cut at all. Some stones were larger than his head, others as small as his fist. It gave the impression of being far older than the village that sat beside it, built at a time when the art of construction was far less refined.

Beyond the gatehouse was a garden, of a sort. A wide path of loose stone led between two rows of overgrown shrubs and trailing thornbushes. Some effort had apparently once been made to trim some of the shrubs into novel shapes, but they had remained untended for so long and grown so wild it was no longer possible to discern what those might once have been.

The loose stone crunched underfoot as they made their way up the path towards the manor house proper. Its frontage was wide, four times as wide as the tavern at least. It appeared to be built from the same materials and means as the outer wall and gatehouse, and again gave the impression of being far more venerable than the village around it. Above its second storey, crenellations had been carved into the rock, and Cole saw the dark silhouettes of sentries patrolling slowly back and forth. There was a score of plain, square windows cut into the front of the manor house. At some point during his visit to the tavern, lamps had been lit within, though the effect created was not a cheery one.

The front door was a slab of jet-black wood. Set in the centre was a gold knocker crafted to look like the paw of some great beast. The guard-captain did not bother to use it, however. As they reached the door, he pushed it open and shoved Cole through the entrance.

He found himself standing in a large reception hall, the interior of which was in stark contrast to the decay he had seen elsewhere in the village. A wide staircase led to the upper floor, covered by a luxurious, thick carpet as red as freshly spilled blood. At its foot was a floor of gleaming white marble tiles. The walls were filled with large oil paintings depicting different men in a variety of rich clothes. There must have been a strong family resemblance along the Baron’s bloodline, he decided, as there were striking similarities between the generations. All had the same high cheekbones and mane of golden hair that tumbled past their shoulders. Each had affected a stern expression for their portrait, but their green eyes seemed alive with mischief. The resemblance between them was so strong, that Cole would have assumed them to be the same man, but for the differences in their mode of dress. The subject of each portrait wore clothes obviously of the fashion of his day, with some of the older styles slightly amusing to the modern eye, such as ruffs the size of dinner plates, or tights and codpieces that left too little to the imagination. The earlier ancestors seemed to eschew fine clothes altogether; one in particular had opted for an unusual robe covered in strange runes and sigils, which alluded to an exotic origin. The style of painting also varied vastly from portrait to portrait, obviously the work of different artists.

Several doors led off from the hall, and he was pushed brusquely in the direction of one in particular. Cole heard muffled voices coming from within. His escort paused outside the door, this time choosing to knock. When the room’s occupant bade him enter, he pushed his way cautiously inside.

When Cole saw Raven, he could have cried out in relief. She was standing slightly awkwardly before an enormous stone hearth, in which a roaring fire had been lit to warm the salon. There was no sign of Harri that he could see, but another man was with her. When he first saw him, he started in surprise, for it was as though the subjects of one of the portraits had stepped right out of its frame. The man was tall, and had a noble bearing as he stood straight-backed before the hearth. He had the same high, proud cheekbones and golden hair that he had seen depicted only moments earlier. The latter had been tied so that it fell in a long tail down his back. He cut a striking figure, smartly dressed in a scarlet frock coat, matching breeches and midnight black waistcoat adorned with bright gold buttons. Both he and Raven looked up as the door opened.

“Evenin’ m’lord,” the guard-captain said as he entered, his manner obsequious. “Got the other one here.”

“Ah, another esteemed guest arrives for tonight’s soiree.” The man strode confidently towards him, with a grin that exposed bright white teeth. He grabbed Cole’s hand companionably. “It is a pleasure to welcome you to my humble abode. We receive visitors far too rarely.” Jade-green eyes danced with amusement as they regarded Cole.

“They might be more tempted, Baron, if it didn’t mean risking their lives to come here.”

The Baron tipped back his head and laughed. “Please, call me Sascha. No need to stand on ceremony here... Cole, isn’t it? And you are no doubt correct. Those who seek solitude should be content when they achieve it, no?” Though he spoke the imperial common tongue fluently, Cole detected a trace of an accent in the Baron’s speech, one he could not immediately place. The Baron snapped his fingers, and a liveried servant appeared at his elbow. “Robard, would you be so kind as to fetch our latest guest a glass of wine? The Wiesgarten red, I think.”

“You have a beautiful home, Sascha,” Cole said amiably, as the servant hurried away. “It seems as though it is older than the rest of the village, though.”

The Baron’s eyes glittered. “You show remarkable powers of observation, Cole. You are correct again. This little chateau is the reason why the village founders decided to settle in this spot, for they found it here waiting for them. It seemed a shame to let such a fine place go to waste, so they built their homes around it and the mayor claimed it for his own.”

“Mayor?” Cole frowned. “But he doesn’t live here still? Did you arrive after the village was settled?”

“Oh, I’ve been here for a very long time.” The Baron’s smile broadened as he spoke, but there was a wariness in his eyes that had not been there before. “That mayor is no longer with us, sadly. As for myself, it was eventually necessary for me to... press my claim.”

The servant reappeared, and proffered a clear crystal goblet. Hesitantly Cole took it, and sipped the deep red liquid within. It was delicious; full-bodied and rich. The Baron watched him with interest for a moment, and then stepped towards the door. “If you would excuse me, I must check on the preparations for supper. If you desire of anything, the guards outside the door will attend your needs.” With that, he strode from the room, the door swinging shut behind him.

Raven was staring at him when Cole turned back towards the hearth. “An interesting man, our Baron,” he said. “Where’s Harri?”

“I don’t know. When they came for us at the healer’s house, he had still not awoken. When we arrived in this place, our host summoned me here while his servants whisked Harri away. Somewhere comfortable, they said, to recover.” She chewed her lip pensively. “I don’t like this, it feels wrong.”

“Really? What could be wrong about an ancient fairytale castle in the middle of the most dangerous forest in the Empire?”

Raven smiled, though her air of concern did not abate. “Put like that, nothing I suppose. Even so, we should remain on our guard here. At least he confirmed Harri’s suspicions about where we are.”

“Yes, Faerloren.” Cole grimaced, recalling his embarrassment at the tavern earlier that evening. “Are you going to tell me about it now?”

Raven hushed him to silence. “No, not yet. We are almost certainly being observed, and I would rather not alert them to our suspicions. It’s better that they believe us ignorant.”

“But I
am
ignorant,” Cole protested.

She smiled again. “I’m sorry Cole, I don’t mean to be obtuse. Just know that the danger is very real, and we must be careful. Beyond that, even I don’t know what we may encounter here. Here,” she added, reaching down to a leather pouch around her waist. “I grabbed it when they came for us, but feel free to take it back.”

Cole caught it as she tossed it towards him. Something stirred restlessly inside, and he heard a muffled curse. “How are you doing?” he asked, as a small hairy head poked through the opening.

“Oh, just peachy perfect, I is,” replied Grume sarcastically. “Snatched up, banged around and then ‘urled frew the air, it’s a wonder it even woke me up.” The little boggit’s nose began to twitch. “Did I ‘ear some biggun say somefin’ ‘bout supper?”

Cole sniffed, and indeed the smells of cooking had wafted into the salon. “Yes, half the village has been invited by the sound of it.”

Grume licked his lips. “Just make sure you drop some of worrever lands on your plate my way,” he said, jabbing Cole in the stomach to emphasise his point. “Bladdy starved, I is.”

“Make sure he stays hidden,” Raven told him. “If they catch sight of him he’s more likely to end up on a platter rather than dining from one.”

Moments later, the guards returned and escorted them to the dining hall. Raven had evidently not noticed the gallery of paintings when she had first entered the Baron’s manse, as her eyes widened as they passed them.

Cole had been joking when he’d told Grume that half the village would be in attendance that evening. But as they entered the grand dining hall, he wondered if perhaps he hadn’t after all touched upon the truth. Two long benches ran parallel along the length of the room, at which more than two-score people were sat, murmuring amongst themselves. At the fair end of the room was a raised dais, upon which a smaller table rested.

It was towards this that they were led by the guardsmen. As they walked past the rows of villagers, many of them glanced up at the newcomers. In each of them, Cole noticed the same peculiar mix of fear and good-humour that he had noted in the tavern that evening. It was as if the two contrasting emotions were vying with one another within them. Just like Emmett and his friends, the villagers here were stick-thin too, their ragged clothes hanging loosely from their frames.

“Welcome once more, esteemed guests.” The Baron’s voice boomed out across the hall. He was standing upon the dais, arms spread wide to greet them. As they reached him, he gestured towards two chairs, before which cutlery and glasses had been laid. When they were seated, he lowered himself into a larger hardwood chair at the head of the table, with Cole on his right and Raven his left.

“Our thanks for your invitation, again, Baron,” said Raven, smiling at their host. “It’s a nice gesture to invite people from the village to feast with us also.”

“It looks like they could do with the extra food,” Cole added. He was a little surprised at Raven’s cordial tone, but as the Baron’s attention transferred to him, he saw her quickly slide one of the knives set before her up a sleeve. The movement was so fast he would not have seen it had he not been looking in the right place at that moment.

The Baron laughed. “It is true, food is a little more... scarce of late than we might wish. But never let it be said that visitors came to our door and found our hospitality lacking. As for inviting in my people, it was a tradition begun by my predecessor, one I was keen to maintain. It is a good tradition, no?”

“Very kind,” Raven replied. “But it is a shame for our friend to miss out on such an occasion. Where did you say he was, again?”

“I checked on him only moments before you arrived,
hatabi
,” the Baron assured her. “He is nearby, and comfortable. Alas, he has not yet awakened, otherwise I would have had Robard set the place for another.”

Cole frowned. “Your predecessor? Was that the mayor you mentioned, or was there another baron here before?”

The Baron’s eyes twinkled with amusement as he turned to Cole. “The mayor. A kind man, when it came to those he governed. Yet, at the same time, curiously... bitter.” He grinned widely, flashing his white teeth again. They seemed different, however. Sharper. “Ah!” the Baron suddenly exclaimed. “Supper has arrived, and not a moment too soon.”

A handful of servants were making their way along the rows of benches, laying large platters between the villagers, who watched their progress with ravenous eyes. There were some limp, boiled greens that Cole could see, and some hard, dark breads that didn’t look particularly appetising. But the centrepiece of the meal was the meat. Pink, glistening joints were placed along the benches, the steam that rose from them reaching almost to the ceiling. The mouth-watering aroma of roasted meat seemed to fill the entire hall.