Ian Esslemont - Return of the Crimson Guard

His gaze caught the one called Topper staring directly at them. Lurin's breath caught and he froze. The eyes burned in the night as he'd heard some jewels do. Then the man bowed, an arm across his stomach, the other held out. Stepping back he disappeared into darkness.

Eventually, Lurin found he could breathe again. He peered up at Shurll, whispered: ‘What happened?’

And she, looking off into the night, her gaze so distant, stroking his head, murmured repeatedly, ‘Nothing. It's all right. Nothing happened. It was nothing.’

In the morning Talia demanded he recite it all again — from the mad ride through the Abyss, to the battle, and Laseen's funeral cortege to Cawn — even the dull journey by coastal merchantman to Unta.

‘And the Imperial Funeral?’ she asked.

Rillish laughed, sitting up. ‘Gods no. We aren't invited to that.’

‘But you're a member of the official Wickan delegation to the Throne!’

Rillish leaned back, tucked a rolled blanket behind his back. ‘Believe me — I am no more welcome in Unta than the Wickans themselves. We are there on sufferance only.’

‘And this Mallick creature is to really succeed Laseen?’

‘By unanimous acclaim of the Assembly and all regional governors, Fists and all.’

She shook her head, her brows crimping. ‘And I've never even heard of the man.’

‘You should get out more, sergeant.’

She made a face. He pushed the sheets off her belly, eased his head on to her stomach. ‘Huh. Funny… You don't look pregnant.’

‘Not yet, you fool! Gods, you men.’

‘Humph… If you say so.’ He gently pressed a hand there on her belly. Son or daughter — you might grow up in a world where all this is hut an ugly memory. And perhaps those decades from now if I am still around I will be able to show you all that might be yours by right of your name. And perhaps I will be able to give you more than my love. Though I know that even that is precious enough. And more than some.

Proprietor, merchant, innkeeper and ex-Imperial sailor, Aron Hul knew a dangerous man when he saw one and this newcomer sent all his nerves jangling the moment he dismounted from his well-fed and well-shod horse that bore new, well-oiled tack. Aron noted the man's soft leather boots, the studded leather wrappings at his legs, his fitted armour of boiled cuirass, vambraces, the twin ivory-handled sabres worn high under his arms, and his rich travelling cloak. But what fixed his attention was the extraordinary scar running across the man's face from left temple, notching the bridge of his flattened nose, to mar his right cheek. The man stood for a time in front of his trading establishment, stared south to the Idryn flowing so brown and wide on its way to the Bay of Cawn, and the Nap Sea. Then he turned and entered the trading post.

Aron quickly set out his most expensive wine and spirits. The man sat at one of his two tables. ‘Yes, sir?’ Aron asked from behind his counter.

‘A drink.’

‘I have Talian winter wine, spirits of juniper berry from Bloor.’

‘The Talian.’

‘Excellent, sir.’ He brought out a glass and the bottle. The man pressed a gold Imperial to the gouged slats of the table. Aron almost tipped the bottle. An Imperial Sun — didn't see too many of those these days. ‘You don't have anything smaller, do you, sir? We're just a small river station, you know.’

The man leaned back, smiled in a way that Aron knew was meant to reassure him. ‘I know. It's yours for the bottle and a little information.’

Aron allowed his brows to rise as if in dubious surprise. ‘Really, sir? Information, you say? Out here? What could we possibly know out here?’

He gestured vaguely to the river. ‘Oh, travel. Shipments and cargo. People coming and going. That sort of thing.’

Aron's nerves now reached a screaming pitch; he kept his good-natured smile. ‘Really, sir? Such as?’

‘I'm looking for someone who may have come through here about a month ago. During the troubles. A young woman. She would have been travelling alone. You'd remember her if you saw her, if you know what I mean,’ and he winked.

Aron walked back to his counter. ‘A woman, you say…’ He shook his head. ‘What did she look like?’

‘Slim, dark hair. A pretty face. As I said, a woman men notice. Hear anything like that? She may have hired a boat to take her upriver.’

That hired hand who came through on his run south to Cawn — what was his name? Jestan? Jeth? Damn it to Hood!

Aron rubbed his stubbled cheeks; his gaze flicked to the gold Sun shining, winking, on the table. ‘I may have heard something about a female passenger on one of the riverboats…’

The man's hand covered the coin. He lost his smile. Sighing, he pushed himself up from the table.

Jhal! It was Jhal! What had he said? He'd been up at the Falls transferring cargo and he joked about a boatman fawning over some passenger of his -

The man had come to the counter. He pushed the gold Sun across. ‘Think harder. Because you can stare all you like but this coin won't multiply itself.’

Aron licked his lips, swallowed. He smiled nervously. ‘I'm trying to remember, sir.’

‘Good. Take your time.’ He returned to his table, came back with the glass and bottle, poured another drink and slid it across.

Nodding his thanks Aron took it and tossed the entire glass back. He had to open his D'rek blasted mouth! Now there was no going back. This one doesn't care about the money. This is about more than coin. No one sends a man like this out when only money is in question. And the man was watching him carefully, his eyes lazy, calm… patient.

Aron cleared his throat. He pressed a rag to his face. Who would have been going upriver then? Oddfoot? No, he's south. Cat? No, idiot! It was a man. Old Pick? He won't go past Heng. Tullen! Must've been Tullen. Been gone for ages now.

‘I heard something about a boatman who'd picked up a woman at about that time…’

‘Yes?’

‘That he'd taken up past Heng.’

The man nodded, frowning his appreciation. ‘And do you have a name for this boatman?’

Ask, man. Those that don't ask don't get! ‘Well, sir. You wouldn't have another of those gold Suns on you somewhere, would you?’ and he tried his easiest smile.

Sighing loudly, the man hung his head. Raising it, he peered about the shop for a time then his gaze returned to Aron's. ‘Tell me, Factor. When was the last time the Imperial assessors came through here?’

Bastard! Aw, no. Not the assessors…

The man gave a slow solemn nod.

‘Tullen. Old Tullen. Boats with his boys. A fine, quiet sort, never made any trouble for anyone.’

‘Thank you…?’

‘Aron Hul. And you… sir?’

Pausing at the door the man shrugged. ‘Moss. Eustan Moss. Good day to you, Factor.’

Aron went to the oiled hide that served as his one window. The man, Moss — as if that was his real name — mounted, gently heeled his mount and rode off upriver. Oh, Tullen, what have I sent your way? I'm sorry, old fellow. Then he remembered the coin. He went back to the counter, snatched it up and examined it. Looked authentic. He bit at it, as he'd heard you could tell the purity of the gold by its softness. Problem was he'd only ever bitten one other. He quickly thrust it away in the pouch around his neck. Briefly, his thoughts touched on this woman. Who might she be? A runaway wife or daughter of some noble? Imagine that! Some noblewoman on Tullen's leaky old boat! How unlikely. No, probably just someone who knew something or had heard something she shouldn't have, and so she ran. Some serving girl probably, or governor's mistress. Best he keep his nose out of business like that.