The Crown of the Usurper (3 page)

  "This man, who is he?" asked Luia. As she leaned forward, her pale blue dress parted at thigh and breast, revealing white skin. Lakhyri ignored the distraction and looked into her calculating eyes. "Can we trust him?"

  "It is better that you do not know who it is," replied Lakhyri. "And no, we cannot trust him at all, but I already have that matter in hand also. One of my most dedicated Brothers is handling the situation."

  "The details of Ullsaard's death cannot be public," declared Urikh. "If you cannot trust this assassin, why use him?"

  "I use this man because there is not a man alive, including those in this chamber, who have a greater reason for wanting Ullsaard dead. Assassins can be paid, but this man will kill Ullsaard for revenge. No money brings that sort of dedication."

 

The crowds parted for the black robes of a Brother, allowing Leraates to pass easily though the marketplace. The town of Thedraan was heaving, the market one of the last opportunities for families and business to set in stores before the winter snows came down from the Altes Hills that rose from the Ersuan farmlands less than a dozen miles to duskwards.

  Animals alive and dead, cereals and vegetables, pots and pans, timber and furniture, all were on display. Thedraan had grown in the last half-year from a small summer town to a bustling market junction, benefitting hugely from the traffic that was pouring into newly conquered Salphoria. Leraates' overt reason was to talk to the headman and headwoman – a welcoming, aging couple named Rainaan and Thyrisa – about the construction of a Brotherhood precinct to attend to the rapidly growing town's administrative and judicial demands. This provided an explanation for the presence of Leraates, a senior member of the brethren, in a backwater like Thedraan.

  His real reason was to find a man. Lakhyri had been very specific, and his message-dream had brought Leraates back from Salphoria to hunt for this fellow. His face had been fixed in the Brother's thoughts since he had received the dreamcall from his master, and he spied the chubby features of his goal across the stalls of the market. He did not know the man's name – the dream-image had been too vague for such details – but he was important to Lakhyri's plans.

  The target was selling garments for women from a handcart about fifty paces away, his voice louder than all of the other traders as he yelled his seller's banter. He was wide of girth, dressed in a strange mix of Salphorian and Ersuan clothes – a bright red shirt that was clearly made in the empire, over checked woollen trousers woven on the handlooms of the Salphors. On his head he wore a black and white bandana, darkened with sweat from his curly blonde hair. The man was constantly looking around and his gaze fell upon Leraates for a brief moment. His reaction was immediate, his spiel coming to a stop and becoming apologies to disappointed customers as he swept a canvas cover over his cart and started to waddle off through the crowd.

  Leraates quickened his pace, but the throng of people meant that he lost sight of his quarry on a couple of occasions. After the second time, the man was nowhere to be seen. Leraates broke into a jog, heading up the main road from the market, following the direction he had last seen the fleeing man. Though the town had seen high fortunes of late, Thedraan was still smaller than many settlements in the empire, and there was no warren of roads or maze of back alleys that could provide shelter for a fugitive.

  Darting down the gap between two buildings, Leraates came upon an upended handcart. He pushed it out of the way and rounded the corner in time to see the fat man, or at least someone in a similar scarlet shirt, entering one of the food tents pitched up on the town's outskirts for the duration of the market.

  Leraates had spent much of his life walking from one precinct to another across the length and breadth of the empire, but he was no trained runner. He was short of breath by the time he reached the tent. The door flaps were open to let smoke and the steam of kettles and cauldrons seep out. He ducked into the fume, the sweat-sodden collar of his robe itching against his neck.

  The light was poor beneath the canvas roof, despite the window openings in the sides of the tent, and the eating area showed no sign of the red-shirted man. Leraates saw that there was another doorway opposite and headed towards it. He stopped a couple of paces later as he heard raised voices from behind the reed screen that separated the dining customers from the kitchen fires. There was an angry shout and the noise of a large pan being dropped.

  Leraates headed around the partition and almost ran into a red-faced woman picking up chopped onions from the floor.

  "Have you seen a large man in a red shirt?" he demanded.

  The woman looked up with a scowl, about to unleash abuse for this further disturbance. Her expression became one of surprise and then contrition when she saw the Brother's robes. She pointed to a door flap behind set of shelves laden with dishes.

  "He spilt my onions," said the woman, her frown returning. "I hope you cut off his balls."

  "Thank you for your help," said Leraates. He made no comment on the suggested punishment, and stepped past the woman to head for the exit.

  The opening from the cook tent led out onto a small stretch of grass surrounded by the two-storey houses of Thedraan's small but distinguished nobility. Leraates had been here earlier in the day with the headfolk and all looked as before. There was no sign of the man in the red shirt.

  Walking across the cropped grass, he searched for a sign of where his quarry had gone. The man certainly moved nimbly for someone of his size. With this came a thought that caused Leraates to stop. He looked over the closely trimmed grass of the lawn. Sinking to a crouch, he looked again. To his right was the telltale darkness of bent grass blades, a line of footprints cutting straight across the grass, heading towards the right-hand corner of the little courtyard.

  Leraates covered the lawn at a quick trot. On arriving at the pavement, he was gratified to see a few droplets on the paving slabs. It had not rained in Thedraan for several days and the stone was otherwise dry. The wetness had to be sweat from the fat man.

  Looking around the corner of the end house, the Brother saw that the path led down a short hill to a cobbled street. It took him no time at all to jog down the street, but as he reached the junction, he came to more traffic. Three wagons were rolling past, and there was a boy herding a flock of geese across the road behind them, causing a small crowd to gather as the birds ambled past.

  There was no sign of red shirt or large man. Leraates stepped back and leaned against the timbers of a merchant's store behind him, catching his breath. Lakhyri had been exceptionally insistent that the man in the red shirt had to be the one to kill Ullsaard. Leraates was not sure why this had to be the case, he himself would happily slip a knife between the usurper's ribs if given the chance, but he had not become a senior Brother by second-guessing the high priest or his motivations.

  "Excuse me, Brother?" Leraates looked over his shoulder at the sound of a man's voice. There was a wiry, middle-aged man standing with his felt hat in his hands, a slightly apologetic look on his stubbled face.

  "Yes?"

  "I saw you all running there, Brother, and I thought that perhaps you might be chasing the large fellow what came dashing across the road not more than ten heartbeats before you turned up. Had I known he was running from a Brother, I would have tried to grab him for you. Am I right?"

  "You are right, citizen," said Leraates, patting the man on the shoulder and offering him a smile of genuine gratitude. "I need to speak with him."

  "He went into the drinking den across the road," the concerned citizen said, pointing to a wooden building with bright yellow paint liberally washed across its boards. Serving maids moved about the fenced enclosure beside the tavern, bringing trays of drinks to thirsty market goers sat on benches that had been pulled out to make the most of the dying autumn sunshine.

  "Thank you, citizen," said Leraates. He reached into the breast of his robe and pulled a Brotherhood token from an inner pocket. It was made of dark wood, carved in the shape of the Crown. He dropped it into the man's palm and curled his fingers around it. "When the next Brother comes for your half-year's taxes, give him this and tell him why you have it. It will stand in lieu of your payment."

  "A half-year's taxes?" The man stared at the token as if it was made of pure iron, and then stuffed it into the fold of his cloth belt with a surreptitious glance around. "Thank you, brother. Thank you!"

  "It is you that have the gratitude, of the Brotherhood and the empire," said Leraates. Having regained both his breath and his composure, the Brother gave the man another pat on the shoulder and stepped out into the road at a more even pace.

  When he reaching the drinking establishment, he inquired of the large man's presence with one of the maids, and was informed that the red-shirted fugitive was renting rooms upstairs. She was kind enough to furnish Leraates with directions, and like the man in the street was rewarded for her dedication to Imperial service with a half-year tax token.

  Leraates had to suppress a rebellious smile as he walked into the dark interior of the tavern and turned towards the stairwell to the left of the main doors. If Lakhyri's plans came to fruition, there would be no tax collections in the spring. In fact, there would not be very much of anything at all.

  When he reached the top of the stairs, Leraates orientated himself. To his left the corridor ran for a few paces. There was room enough for one door before it ended at the outer wall, where a small window looked down over the courtyard by the road. To the right, the passageway contained three more doors and then turned to the right again. There was light from a window at the far end too, but no lamps or candles in the sconces on the walls. It was a dingy little place, and Leraates wondered how the manner of man that took such rude lodgings could be of any interest to Lakhyri.

  He took a few steps down the corridor and stopped as he heard the creak of the door by the stairs opening. He heard a heavy thump on the floorboards and had half-turned when something large slammed into him, sending him face-first into the floor. Before he had time to think, Leraates was pinned down by a massive weight.

  He smelt old sweat and heard deep breathing as the point of something sharp nicked at the side of his throat.

  "The man in the red shirt, yes?" said Leraates.

  "Ullsaard can go fuck his ailur," said a voice beside Leraates left ear. The man spoke good Askhan, but with a Salphorian accent. "Sending assassins dressed as Brothers after me now, is he? He'll have to do better than that."

  "I assure you, I am a Brother," Leraates managed to wheeze. The man on top of him really was quite heavy and the breath was being crushed from the Brother's lungs. His ribs were starting to ache. "Please could you let me up?"

  "You're a polite one, I'll give you that," said the big man. "Manners are all well and good, but I don't take kindly to folks that want to see me dead. Luckily, lovely Haanah downstairs told you exactly what I wanted her to. You see, a man in my position doesn't take chances. I've got enough money to make sure everybody in this building wants me to stay alive and well."

  "That is very good, but I do not wish you dead," said Leraates. He was beginning to feel quite faint from lack of air.

  "Everybody wants me dead, Brother." Leraates felt the man shift and the point that digging into his throat was withdrawn. "Don't try to deny it. I'm the most wanted man in all of the empire. Ullsaard would give away two of his wives to have me caught and killed."

  "Really?" Leraates was genuinely surprised. "I was not aware that the empire wanted anybody quite that much."

  There was a strangely high-pitched giggle and the weight lifted slightly from Leraates' back.

  "Well, if anyone knew who I was and that I am alive, I'd be the most wanted man in the empire," said the stranger. "Now that I see your face, I recognise you. You might not know it, with your creeping about while you conspired against me, but I marked you early on. You knew Furlthia."

  Leraates knew the name well. Furlthia had been one of the cabal led by Leraates dedicated to halting Ullsaard's expansion into Salphoria. There was only one other man still alive who could have known anything about the conspiracy: Anglhan Periusis. The former Governor of Magilnada had somehow escaped the utter destruction of his city. Here he was, as real in the flesh as anything, and Lakhyri wanted to hire him to kill Ullsaard.

  "Well, fuck me," was all Leraates could say.

 

Allenya stood looking duskwards at a window in the palace, a crumpled, tear-stained tatter of parchment in her hand. The bustling city below seemed muted, the colours faded and the noise distant. Her gaze lingered on the mountains in the distance, but she did not see them. Her mind was much farther away, in the wilds of Salphoria, where somewhere her husband's body lay.

  The letter in her hand had arrived twenty days ago, but it still seemed unreal. Ullsaard could not be dead, she had told herself again and again. He was too full of life, too stubborn and too good at fighting to be dead. She knew the words of the letter by heart, but she opened it again and read them, tears welling up in her reddened eyes once more. The script was formal, the ink strokes crisp and precise. The words were sharp too; a simple message declaring that the king and his bodyguard had been ambushed by Salphors whilst on campaign, and all had been slain.

  Allenya tried to take some comfort from the assumption that had been made. Nobody had seen the king fall, because nobody had returned to the camp. It was possible that Ullsaard had escaped or been captured.