Prisoner of Fate (28 page)

‘How do you know that?’

‘From books.’

‘Fantasy stories,’ Swift scoffed. ‘Sounds like the prince and the Seers are lunatics.’

‘I might agree with you, but they don’t see themselves as lunatics. The Seers want a religious state with a strict moral code according to the most ruthless interpretations of
The Word
of Jarudha. They want to establish a patriarchal society with women reduced to second-class citizens.’

‘So what’s different?’ Swift asked. ‘We’re already treated like shit.’

‘No. This would be much worse. You wouldn’t be doing what you do now. Women would be locked up in their homes, owned either by their fathers, their brothers or their husbands. You’d only raise children, keep house for the men, be restricted as to where you could go on a daily basis, have to wear clothes that cover every part of your body, never be allowed to mix freely with other women. You would be praying to Jarudha at sunrise, midday and at sunset. You would only ever be allowed one husband and he would choose you if your father hadn’t already chosen him, and you would belong to him until either you or he died. He would be allowed to do whatever he wanted with and to you. And if he died, you would still belong to him, so you would be required to throw yourself on his funeral pyre or allow yourself to be buried alive in his grave. If you failed in any of these things, your father, brother or husband would be obliged by the law to strip you naked and flog you in a public square or have you publicly stoned to death, depending on the severity of your transgression.’

‘How do you know all this?’

‘Listening. Watching. And my books. I know a lot of things, more than is safe for an old woman like me to know. My prophecy to you is that Prince Inheritor will not reign for long.’

Swift shifted uncomfortably and handed Old Lady Time her mug. ‘I have to go.’

‘Where?’

‘If the soldiers are after me I have to warn my sister and brother,’ Swift explained as she reached the door.

‘Be careful,’ Old Lady Time warned. ‘There is a back door to the shop, behind the tall shelf of books at the rear. It leads into a very narrow alley which goes into Dark Street.’

‘I owe you for letting me hide,’ Swift said as she slipped out of the door.

She descended the narrow wooden stairs into a tiny galley kitchen that was warm from a small stove fire and full of the aroma of vegetable soup. A green curtain covered an opening into the side of the shop and she ascertained that the space was empty of people before she entered. The vegetable soup aroma was superseded by a stale, mouldy odour and she discovered a dark room cluttered by shelves and tables piled high with books. She glanced down at a pile as she headed for the biggest bookshelf towards the rear, puzzled as to why anyone found books interesting.

‘
I
want you to come with me,’ Chase pleaded. ‘It’s not safe here, Passion. It’s not safe for you or little Jon.’

‘But they’re only after you,’ Passion argued. ‘They don’t want us.’

‘It doesn’t matter. These men are professionals. If they can’t get at me easily, they’ll get at me through people I know. They probably already know that I live with you. They’ll come here, even if I’ve gone. I don’t want my sister hurt because of me.’

‘But why are they after you? What have you done?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said, shrugging.

‘It’s about the Joker, isn’t it?’ Passion said. ‘That’s what it’s about. It’s because you were with her. It’s probably even her doing. She doesn’t mix with the likes of us. I’ve heard the stories. She has some fun with a street lad and he winds up dead in the river. She’s put a contract on you, Chase. I wish you’d never got involved with her.’

‘I can’t change that now,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You and Jon have to come with me, Passion. You can’t stay here.’

‘But where? We need an income. We need to eat.’

‘We’ll find somewhere. We’ll go into the country.’

‘But what about Runner? Swift wanted us to warn him.’ A heavy knock on the door interrupted her.

Chase gestured to Passion as he faced the door, whispering, ‘Take Jon into the bedroom. Now.’

‘It’s probably just Wahim,’ Passion said.

‘Now!’ Chase hissed. He searched for a weapon and settled on the iron poker at the hearth. Passion scooped up Jon and retreated into the second room. ‘Who is it?’ Chase asked warily. Someone knocked again, heavily. His heart racing, he tightened his grip on the poker and crept to the window. Peering through the dirty glass, he saw two armed men outside preparing to heave a beam against the door. ‘Passion!’ he screamed. ‘Get out the back, now!’

The front door cracked open and the men pushed into the room, the first falling as the door collapsed. Chase lashed out with the poker and struck an intruder across the face. The victim yowled, clutched his eyes, and sank to his knees, sobbing with pain. ‘You little bastard!’ the second man growled, drawing a sword. ‘You’ll fucken pay for that!’

The injured man scrambled to his feet and pulled a dagger, grinning. ‘A bit of fighting spirit, eh, mate? I like that in someone I get to kill. Makes for more fun.’ The men he faced wore shabby, dark clothes, but their swaggering confidence bespoke their skill in their vocation—and then recognition flashed across his face at the same time as it registered on his opponent. ‘Bilby,’ Boots said with malicious delight. ‘So you really did get out alive.’ Chase leaped to defend the bedroom doorway, brandishing the poker. He knew he was in serious trouble, but he would defend the door from Boots and Boss until Passion and Jon had safely escaped.

‘May I?’ Boss politely asked of his companion.

‘Be my guest,’ Boots replied with a flourish of his dagger. They laughed.

‘Looks like you and me get to dance,’ Boss said as he came past the little table. ‘I was thinking in that other place where we met that it would come down to something between us. I’m just glad it’s like this. Oh, and don’t be getting too far ahead of yourself, Bilby. Your pretty sister is being entertained out back by Pigspit.’

Chase flushed with terror and lunged for the door, but when Boss swung the sword he barely escaped the blade by dodging to his right. He slashed the air ineffectually with the poker as he shuffled to retain his balance. When Boss lunged again, again he dodged right. Then he realised Boss’s ploy. He was driving Chase around the room towards Boots. As the sword swept towards him again, Chase stepped inside the sweep and smashed the poker down on Boss’s wrist. The blow wasn’t enough to disarm Boss, but it made him yelp and stumble, giving Chase a brief opening. Lunging low, he whacked Boss savagely across the shin, and as Boss cried and clutched at his injured leg Chase’s poker thumped down across the back of his head. Surprised by the unexpected outcome, Boots charged, but Chase tipped the table into his path, impeding Boots enough to let Chase slip through the bedroom doorway.

The back door was open and Passion was screaming. Chase burst into the daylight and saw Pigspit bent over his sister. He leaped onto Pigspit’s back and drove the poker viciously into the flesh between the man’s neck and shoulders. Pigspit screamed in agony as he reared and bucked Chase off and clutched at the impaled poker. ‘Passion!’ Chase cried, scrambling to stand, and as he pulled his sobbing sister to her feet and hugged her to his chest, he repeated, ‘I’m sorry.’ He looked for Jon, but when he saw that the boy was nowhere to be seen he asked desperately, ‘Where’s Jon?’

‘Touching scene,’ a voice observed sarcastically. Chase turned to face the two men emerging from the cottage. Boots had blood running from the cut across the bridge of his nose and below his left eye. Boss’s neck was covered with blood. He held Jon’s right arm firmly in his grasp, the boy struggling and kicking ineffectually at the man’s leg.

‘Let him go,’ Chase snarled, releasing his sister and pushing her behind him as he squared up to the men.

‘You’re a tough little nut, mate,’ Boss begrudgingly acknowledged, and he shoved Jon aside, the child sprawling in the dirt. ‘Shame, really. But that’s the way of it all, eh? The lady wants you dead and dead you will be,’ and he came forward, sword rolling menacingly in his hand, with Boots measuring him with his dagger. ‘Now you get what’s coming.’

Swift’s heart sank as she reached the cottage and saw the smashed door. She was too late. She rushed inside to find the table upturned and blood spattered across the floor and the wall. Then she heard a desperate scream, drew her knife and bolted through the bedroom and into the tiny rear lane.

In an instant, she assessed the scene. Passion was crying and punching and kicking a thin-limbed swordsman. He swore and pushed her roughly to the ground and began kicking her viciously. Another man was face down with a poker jutting from between his shoulders and neck. A third man stood over Chase who was curled in a foetal position, bloodied from head to foot. Little Jon was crouched against the back wall, sobbing.

Seizing the advantage of surprise, she ran at the swordsman, buried her knife into his abdomen as he turned, and twisted the point up and into his heart. Boss’s eyes flashed wide with shock, and he groaned in
pain as she ripped out her knife and let him drop to his knees. She wheeled and headed for Boots, who was trying to comprehend the change in matters as Boss pitched forward into the dirt. Realising his attacker was coming relentlessly on, he crouched to defend himself and then he recognised her. ‘The tavern bitch,’ he hissed. Swift walked straight at him, deflected his first dagger sweep with her free arm and slashed him across his right cheek. He staggered back in astonishment as the blood flowed freely to mix with the wound Chase had already inflicted, spat defiantly and snarled, ‘Lucky,’ and braced for her next attack. She circled left, stalking him as she measured his abilities with professional eyes. ‘Come on then, bitch,’ Boots taunted. ‘You’re not sneaking up on me.’

Swift’s face remained devoid of emotion. ‘Let the other make the first move,’ she remembered Dagger teaching her, early in her apprenticeship. ‘Let him betray his weakness while you show him your strength. You will always win.’

‘Afraid now that you’re facing a man?’ Boots taunted, and he feinted with a lunge. She adjusted her circle, moving deliberately, temptingly within his reach. ‘Come on,’ Boots coaxed. ‘Come on.’ He lunged again, attempting to grapple her knife arm and she let him almost take hold, before turning back along his groping left arm, and plunged her knife in and out of the side of his neck with cold efficiency. As she stepped away, Boots made a futile effort to grab at her, then flailed wildly with his dagger, as he realised that his neck was punctured. Swift kept back from her victim and watched him struggle to stay on his feet, while he clutched his neck in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding. He mouthed ‘bitch’ at her, his eyes rolled up and he fell, twitching. Swift strode past him without looking down as she headed for Passion.

Black hood up for privacy, Crystal Merchant peered out at the streets in the twilight air beside Hunter. The misery of the dull day matched her mood, but the encroaching night had a calm atmosphere and the air was warm like a Fuszash evening. Her world was uncertain. Stoker returned from the palace with a direct invitation from Prince Lastchild, the sixth eldest of the royal brothers, to an audience within two days after the funeral rites for his father were completed. Stoker had failed to get the letter into Prince Inheritor’s hands and she wondered what might be the implications of that failure. Shipmaster Gull’s murder unsettled her more than she was willing to admit to Lin because it was a deliberate attempt to prevent her from finding answers as to who was sabotaging her euphoria shipments. It also confirmed her fear that someone powerful was manoeuvring to dislodge her trade monopoly.

Blacker’s questions showed that the business community was very aware of the latest attempt to interfere with the Joker’s drug kingdom and her old enemies were watching with interest. But who was the player? Who was moving against her?

The streets were emptier than she expected. ‘Where is everyone?’ she asked, as they crossed the bridge out of the Northern Quarter and entered the River Quarter.

‘I was told that there are Common Prayer sessions being held tonight after the king’s burial,’ Hunter explained. ‘I also heard that there are sessions being held by the Seers and the acolytes outside the temple.’

‘Outside? Where? In the Quarter?’

‘In every Quarter.’

‘Even the Foundry Quarter?’

‘That’s what I heard.’

Crystal was puzzled. Religious ceremonial sessions, especially associated with royal deaths, were traditionally denied the poor. Why the unheralded change in practice? She glanced at three soldiers loitering on bridge guard duty, but they showed no interest in a passing man and woman. A group crossed the street and disappeared down an alley.
Are they heading for a Common Prayer session
? she wondered.

‘Mrs Merchant?’ Hunter was indicating a tiny street, hemmed between rows of two and three-storey buildings. Faded business signs adorned doorways, and uncollected washing hung from lines strung between balconies and windows above the street. A skinny brown dog skulked out of the shadows, looking sideways as if expecting them to kick it. Crystal rarely ventured down streets in the River or Farmers’ Quarters. There was never a need. Now that she stood on the threshold of entering a dingy alley, she wasn’t certain that her curiosity was leading her to an answer worth getting. ‘It’s the fifth door on the right, Mrs Merchant,’ Hunter explained as he led her toward a narrow three-storey building.

The door was, or had been, painted, but the pigment was cracked and faded severely, and there was obvious rot in the wood. Shutters covered what she presumed was a large window to the left of the door and the plaster wall facade was crumbling and cracked. The sign above the door had a simple and faded image of an open book to proclaim the wares within. ‘Shall I knock?’ Hunter asked.

Crystal looked along the little street for observers, before saying, ‘Yes.’ Hunter knocked and they waited. No one came to the door. ‘Knock again,’ she ordered. Again the door was unanswered. ‘Are you sure the old woman lives here?’ she asked, irritated to be kept waiting in a place she found desperately uncomfortable. Hunter knocked again.

‘Who you looking for?’ The scratchy voice drew their eyes up. Open shutters framed an old woman’s frizzy white locks against yellow light.

‘Are you the shop owner?’ Crystal asked.

‘Who wants to know?’ the old woman retorted.

‘I’m interested in buying old books,’ Crystal told her.

‘I’m closed,’ the old woman stated flatly.

‘I want to talk to you.’

‘And why would I want to talk to you, whoever you are?’

Crystal decided to take a risk. ‘I’m the granddaughter of Sunlight the Seer.’ The old woman retreated and closed the shutters. ‘Unfriendly old soul,’ Crystal muttered. ‘Is there any other bookshop?’

‘No, Mrs Merchant,’ Hunter said, shaking his head.

A rattling at the door turned their heads. The door creaked and a slit of darkness appeared. ‘What’s your name, girl?’ the old woman rasped from behind the door.

Crystal glanced left and right and said, ‘Crystal Merchant.’

The old woman opened her door wider and beckoned to Crystal and Hunter. ‘Hurry up in,’ she urged. ‘There’re strange people around the streets this evening.’

The shop interior was dark. ‘Do you have a lantern or a lamp?’ Crystal asked.

‘Your friend can find one on the shelf above the counter. And there’s a flint lighter beside it.’

‘I can’t see anything,’ Hunter complained.

‘Use your hands to see,’ the old woman suggested. ‘And bring the light upstairs. I don’t want anyone thinking the shop’s open for business at this hour.’

Crystal waited until the lantern’s yellow luminescence flowed across the small shop, throwing the jumbled shelves and tables of books and papers into
shadowy relief, but by then the woman was already gone up a narrow stair to the first floor.

When Crystal and Hunter reached the top of the stairs, the white-haired woman was seated on a stool in a tiny room. The shuttered window behind her lacked a decorative curtain and the room was austere. ‘Sit down, girl,’ the old woman invited. ‘I only have two stools. Your friend will have to stand or sit where he can.’ Crystal took the remaining stool, while Hunter sank to the floor and leaned against the wall. ‘I know who you are, Crystal Merchant,’ the old woman announced. ‘They call you the Joker.’

‘That’s correct,’ Crystal said.

‘You bring euphoria to everyone.’

Crystal smiled wryly, asking, ‘And you like that?’

‘I did, for a very long time,’ the old woman replied. ‘Too long, until I saw what it did to others and what it was doing to me.’

Crystal’s smile waned. ‘I just supply the product. People can choose if they want to buy it or not.’

The old woman shook her head. ‘Don’t lie to me, young lady. You know what happens,’ she said. ‘At first you can choose euphoria freely. Not so, later on. It becomes part of who you are, and then it becomes you and there is no longer any choice involved. I gave a lot of my years away to your drug. I lost a lot of my life.’