Richard Ford - Herald of the Storm

With a nod, the man signalled to the knights behind, and Massoum heard them draw their broadswords.

‘Wait,’ he said, panic rising within him. ‘I have information. You should interrogate me at least.’

‘Oh, we will. And we will find out everything the Elharim prince has planned, even if we have to flay the flesh from your bones.’

‘I can assure you that won’t be necessary,’ said Massoum, his voice growing shriller. ‘You’ll find I can be most compliant.’

‘But where would be the fun in that?’ replied the handsome soldier, the corner of his mouth rising in a sadistic sneer.

Massoum spun around to stare at the two knights, his eyes wide and fearful. The first of them stepped forward, reaching out with one massive gauntleted hand, his well-oiled armour barely making a sound as he did so.

It was then the shadows moved.

Something shone for the briefest instant despite the dimness of the alley and the knight’s arm, even encased as it was in sturdy plate, suddenly fell to the ground. He grunted, staggering back and gripping at the stump, which spurted dark blood in an arterial spray. A figure, black as shadow and fast as the sea wind, shot forward. Another flash, and Massoum could see a sword, thin as a sabre but straight as an arrow. It sliced forth with precision, above the knight’s gorget but beneath the lip of his full helm, cutting a red line across his throat. As he fell back gurgling, the second knight raced forward, growling in rage, the sound amplified from behind his helm; but the shadow moved faster. Massoum heard that flashing blade cut the air twice in quick succession and the knight fell silently, his head still in the full helm rolling to the left, his arm lopped off at the shoulder sliding to the right.

All this happened in a blink, and still the shadow moved in a fluid motion, spinning and flinging something past Massoum’s head. He felt the air whistle close to his ear, then heard a sickening thud as the missile embedded itself in the uniformed man behind him.

Massoum saw him drop, his face slack, a sliver of silver skewering his eye. He collapsed in a heap, his hand still on the hilt of his duelling blade, still only halfway out of its scabbard.

There was silence in the alley. Massoum dared not turn back towards the deadly shadow, even though it had saved him from certain death. He trembled as the figure slid silently past him, its tread not making a sound in the soft earth. It knelt, pulling the metal sliver from the eye of the corpse.

‘Amon Tugha sends his greetings,’ came a silken voice as the shadow turned to regard Massoum. The face was half hidden behind a cloth mask but the eyes were two golden pools, unmistakably Elharim. ‘I was sent here to watch over you, Massoum Am Kalhed Las Fahir Am Jadar Abbasi. To make sure you complete your task in one piece.’

‘Thank you,’ Massoum replied. ‘And my thanks to Amon Tugha.’

‘My lord and master does not require your thanks, but for the reward he has agreed he does demand your loyalty. An offer to betray him so quickly at the first sign of adversity might be seen as treacherous — might be rewarded with certain death. But luckily for you, my master is merciful.’

Massoum was about to speak, to protest his innocence, to try to say he would have revealed nothing, even if tortured by the most merciless of King Cael’s inquisitors, but he knew the words would be worthless. This Elharim could see right through him and into his heart, that much was clear, so he merely bowed low, touching his finger to brow then lips.

When he stood upright once more the Elharim assassin was gone, but Massoum knew he would not be very far away. Without a further glance at the corpses, Massoum made his way down the alley, eager to carry out his task.

Standing on top of the stool, she could see out of her open window, out across the city almost as far as Northgate. The sky was darkening outside, but the coming of night didn’t bring any relief from the unseasonable heat. The air was still and muggy, and enclosed as she was in so heavy and uncomfortable a gown her flesh was getting clammier with every laboured breath.

‘You’re fidgeting again,’ said Dore in his heavy Stelmornian accent.

Janessa breathed in deeply, sucking in her waist just as he had ordered when this current bout of torture began, and went back to standing like a statue. Dore Tegue might well have been the best dressmaker in the Free States but surely she was the one suffering for his art.

‘How much longer?’ Janessa asked through gritted teeth.

Dore stopped ministering to the silk brocade that adorned the front of the gown and took a step back, looking at her with an arrogantly raised eyebrow. ‘These things cannot be rushed. It takes as long as it takes. Would you like to be announced at the Feast in a threadbare gown or would you prefer to be the talk of the evening?’

‘Right now I’d settle for something that didn’t cut me in two,’ she muttered under her breath, but it was clear Dore heard. It was with a sharp exhalation through his wide nostrils that he went back to attacking the dress with needle and thread.

Janessa glanced over to Graye, who was sitting on the sill next to the enormous window that looked out onto the city — a city of wonders, secrets and adventure that she had been forbidden to ever enter. Her lady-in-waiting had a sly smile on her face, maybe deriving some sadistic pleasure from Janessa’s discomfort, but that wouldn’t last long. Janessa was determined that her friend would suffer similar torment in her turn.

A sudden sharp prick of pain in her thigh made Janessa flinch, squeal and almost fall from the stool.

‘Dore, what are you trying to do, fix the dress or cover me in pinholes?’

‘I’m sorry, my lady,’ Dore replied, holding up the offending needle innocently. ‘But you keep moving. How am I expected to work under these conditions?’

He looked as forlorn as an artist forced to paint without easel or brush.

‘Oh, I’ve had enough of this for now.’ Janessa gathered up the heavy dress as she stepped from the stool, then wrenched out the band holding her long, red hair in a knot on her head, allowing it to fall about her shoulders in curling rivulets.

‘But my lady, I still have to fix the hem, gather in the bodice and finish the shirring on the sleeves.’

‘It can wait, Dore. If I have to spend one more second on that stool I’ll explode.’

Petulantly Dore began to throw his scissors, bobbins, thimbles, yarn and needles into the various compartments of his small wooden tailor’s box. ‘I was treated like a lord in Stelmorn,’ he mumbled. ‘Ladies of refinement used to beat at my door, begging for the benefit of my skills, and here I am, reduced to little more than manservant. Prey to the whims of the ungrateful aristocracy. Whatever was I thinking?’

With that he slammed his box shut, lifted his nose in the air and stormed towards the door.

‘You were most likely thinking about the money in my father’s coffers,’ said Janessa, before he could slam the door behind him.

Graye began to laugh.

‘How many dressmakers does that make now?’ she said, smiling at Janessa who was still struggling within the confines of the huge, maroon-coloured gown.

‘Three … this month. Now will you stop grinning and help me out of this thing.’

Graye giggled as she walked across the chamber and began to unlace the bodice.

‘You’re going to have to suffer through a fitting sooner or later,’ she said as she struggled with the lace bows. ‘The Feast is in less than a week.’

‘I know. But it’s just so tiresome, and see what I have to wear.’ She wriggled out of the dress and let it fall to the floor. ‘I look like a cake. I should at least be able to choose the colour.’