Rob Scott - Lessek_s Key

She watched him cross the great bridge before she did the same and descended onto the lively northern wharf. He walked away from the waterfront and into a street Brexan recognised as running to the barracks in the old imperial palace. The city was well-lit here, much more brightly than on the industrial southern wharf: if people came to Orindale to enjoy the food, the wine and the Ravenian Sea, they came to the northern pier, where the aromas of different cuisines perfumed the air, lively bellamir music lifted the spirits and young people flocked, looking for love but willing to settle for lust: here there was a nightly celebration of life in the occupied city. If they came to do business, maybe to seek their fortunes in the shipping industry, they came to the southern pier.

Walking carefully to avoid her boots clattering on the cobblestone street – this was an affluent part of the city – she marked the house Carpello let himself into: a tall, well-built and obviously expensive townhouse. The intricate stone masonry and stained-glass windows made it an easy place to find again in the daylight. She took in as much of the street as possible as she muttered, ‘Now, I’ve got you, Carpello, you horsecock, and I am going to carve Versen’s name in your chest.’

She grinned to herself and retraced her steps back to the southern wharf, where she spent the night huddled by the same window Carpello had visited earlier that evening. She dozed from time to time, but heard nothing; by the time the sun rose over the docks she had about decided it was abandoned. Just as she was about to leave to find some food and tecan, she heard the brace on the dock-side door slide back. Someone was coming out.

She dived behind the shelter of the building and hustled down the alley, ducking behind the same boxes she had used to hide from Carpello, but no one passed her, so she ventured out from behind her makeshift blind and moved cautiously onto the waterfront. Even from a distance, she could recognise the gait of the man walking away from her: Jacrys or Lafrent, Prince Malagon’s spy and Lieutenant Bronfio’s murderer always carried himself as though he knew something no one else knew. So Sallax hadn’t killed him.

Brexan was cold and hungry herself, but she dared not move in that direction; Jacrys was sure to spot her; he had proven his skills in that arena. Instead, she decided to break into the warehouse: maybe she could discover what the spy was up to. As she stepped through the door, the black cloud that had been hovering in place over the harbour for the past Moon drifted back over the city, where it appeared to join forces with another, slightly smaller but the same threatening colour. The pair blew east, side-by-side, against the wind, as if they had been summoned.

Brexan moved quickly, scared that Jacrys would return soon. Peering through the window she could see the cavernous structure was empty, but at one end there were some rough doors; offices, maybe. Jacrys had left the main door unlocked. Brexan thought carelessness was not his style; now she was convinced he didn’t intend being away for long. She hurried towards the rooms at the back.

Sallax was in the second room she visited, immediately behind what looked like Carpello’s private office and, temporarily, at least, Jacrys’ living quarters. The big Ronan was sleeping, and even in the dim light thrown by a bedside candle, she could see that he looked much healthier than the last time they met. He had obviously been well fed, his hair had been cut and he had been given a shave. Most importantly, he no longer stank like a midden. Brexan smiled in relief and moved closer.

His body was bound across the chest and one shoulder with clean strips of heavy fabric – Jacrys had obviously treated the partisan’s injuries. She had thought him in disguise, bent over as if he were a wounded beggar, but seeing him bound up like this, she wondered if he had broken something coming over the Blackstones. Brexan marvelled at the strength of will that kept some people going. She wondered if she would have given up, but remembering her broken cheek and cracked ribs, decided to give herself more credit… perhaps she and Sallax were not so different after all. Suddenly she wanted very badly to take him away from Jacrys and this cold, damp warehouse. The tapestries on the walls and woven carpets on the floor did little to take the edge off the bitter cold; the Redstone would be far better for Sallax’s convalescence – not to mention getting him out of Jacrys’ grip. She had enough silver to stay on there at least another Twinmoon and in that time, she would nurse the big man back to health.

Her own transformation was complete: she had become a freedom fighter, just like Sallax, and Versen.

Sallax woke as she was severing the cords holding him down.

‘The girl,’ he started in a murmur, ‘the girl knew Sallax.’

‘Yes, Sallax,’ she replied softly. His injuries were obviously more than just physical. ‘I know you.’

‘The girl,’ he said again, watching her work.

Brexan sat on the edge of the bed, sheathed the knife and asked, ‘Do you want to come with me, Sallax? I have a warm room, with good food and soft blankets. You’ll be comfortable there.’

Sallax appeared anxious, uncertain how to respond.

Brexan glanced towards the chamber doorway. Nervous now, she tried not to show it in her voice. That might upset him. ‘We need to decide pretty quickly, though. All right? Will you come with me?’

‘The girl knew Sallax.’ He grimaced, as if sitting up would be a great struggle and then smiled when he realised nothing was holding him down.

‘I do know you, Sallax. I heard all about you from Versen. He spoke about you, all the time.’ He was too thin, but she would see to that. The venison stew at the Redstone would fatten him up. She would help him regain a sense of who he was, and how he had come to be in Orindale. Brexan didn’t know what could have turned Sallax’s mind to such paste – maybe he had encountered one of the wraiths Gabriel O’Reilly had described and instead of killing him, they had addled his mind.

‘Versen?’ Sallax reached for her. Brexan started to back away, thought better of it and leaned forward to take his hands.

‘Yes, Versen. I knew- I know Versen. He and I are close friends.’ She swallowed the lump in her throat. This was no time to start crying; she had to get him up and out of this warehouse before Jacrys returned.

‘You know where Versen is?’

Her shoulders heaved, and she smeared away tears. ‘Yes, I know where Versen is.’

Sallax groaned as he lifted himself from the bed and swung his legs over the side. As he placed his bare feet on the carpet he began looking around the room for clothes. ‘It’s cold,’ he muttered.

‘You’re right. It’s too cold to take you all the way up there like that. You’ll make it without boots, though – I can get you new boots when you are up and about. Wait here. I’ll see what I can find in the other rooms.’

Brexan hustled into the spy’s room; there was no point in going about on tiptoes; Jacrys was still out buying breakfast. She spotted a bag left open beside the fireplace. Inside, she found a tunic, a finely woven shirt of quality wool with a delicate pattern stitched around the collar and across each wrist. ‘Fop,’ she said, her lip curling, and put it back. She found a wool blanket on the cot Jacrys had moved in front of the fireplace. ‘Sleeping in here with a blanket and fire blazing while Sallax freezes in the other room, motherless rutter,’ she scolded. The more she discovered about the spy, the less she liked him.

‘I wish you would leave my mother out of it,’ a soft voice said. ‘As for being a fop, what can I say? One has one’s vices. Some, like our good friend in the other room, enjoy fighting for a cause. Our benefactor, the good Carpello, well, he gets his pleasure from a young girl from time to time. Me? I like fine clothing.’ Jacrys stood in the doorway that separated Carpello’s office from the vast emptiness of the warehouse. He held two loaves of warm bread, a block of strong cheese, two sausages and a flagon of what smelled like tecan.