David Gemmell - Dark Moon

'Cellis, sir.'

'Thank you for your hospitality, Cellis.'

Pooris wandered along Warehouse Street, cutting through the narrow alleyways to the central avenue and thence to the palace. Ensconced in his own small office, he called in Niro, a spider-thin cleric with close-cropped, spiky black hair. 'What do you know of the man, Cellis, who works at the warehouse guard gate?' he asked.

'Nothing, sir. But I shall find out,' Niro answered.

'Do it now, as a matter of urgency,' said Pooris, removing his coat and hanging it on a hook set in the wall.

For just over an hour Pooris worked through the tasks he had set himself for the day, compiling a list of armourers, and the various orders for swords, spears, crossbow bolts and armour placed with them, along with the delivery dates promised. He was almost finished when Niro returned.

'I have some of the information you require, sir,' he said. 'Cellis has been working for us for two years. His father was a cobbler in the Southern Quarter, his mother a seamstress. He was educated by the Aver monks and passed his examinations with honours. He is not married, and lives in a hill house in Quarter Street.

Was there more you wished to know, sir?'

'A cobbler, you say?'

'His father . . . yes.'

'Does he own the house?'

'I ... I don't know, sir.'

'Find out.'

Once again Pooris returned to his work. He called in a cleric and dictated several letters, including one to Lunder asking why the number of flour wagons had been fewer than expected.

When Niro returned just before noon, he looked cold and his lips were blue. 'Sit you down, man,' said Pooris. Niro rubbed his thin hands together. Moving to the small stove, Pooris flicked open the door, allowing a rush of heat into the room.

'Thank you, sir,' said Niro. 'Yes, he does own the house. He bought it four months ago for two hundred gold. It is a fine house, with stables in the rear and an apple orchard.'

'How did a cobbler's son raise the capital necessary?'

'I thought you'd ask that, sir; that's why it took me so long. He borrowed the money from . . .'

'.. . the merchant Lunder,' finished Pooris.

'Yes, sir,' said Niro, surprised. 'How did you know?'

'Cellis wears a gold ring, set with an emerald the size of my thumbnail. No cleric could afford such a bauble. Go to the Hall of Records and find out how many warehouses Lunder owns or rents. Do it slyly, Niro. I want no-one to know.'

'Yes, sir.'

Pooris shut the stove door, put on coat and gloves and left the building, trudging through the snow towards the southern gate. A quarter-mile from the gate, he stopped at a row of terraced houses. They housed retired soldiers and their wives, and were a gift from the Duke - a reward for loyal service. Moving to the first he rapped on the door. There was no answer, and he walked to the second. When he knocked, an elderly woman called out from within, 'Who is it? What do you want?'

'I am the councillor, Pooris,' he told her. 'I would appreciate a moment of your time, lady.'

He heard the bolts being drawn back, then the door groaned inward. Stepping inside he bowed to the frail, white-haired old woman. 'They said I could stay here till I was dead,' said the woman. 'Said it was my right.

I won't live in no poorhouse. I'll kill myself first.'

'Be at ease,' he said softly. 'I have not come as a bailiff. Do you sleep well, my lady?'

'Ay,' she said cautiously. 'Though not as deep as I used to.'

'I was just wondering if the noise of the wagons disturbs you late at night.'

'No,' she said. 'I sit at my window sometimes and watch them go by. I don't get out much now. Too cold for me. It's nice to watch life below my window.'

'How often do they come through?' he asked.

'Maybe three times a week. Great convoys of them.'

'Did they come last night?'

'Ay, they did. Three hours before dawn.'

'How many?'

'Maybe fifty. Maybe a little less.'

'I thank you for your time.' He turned to leave. 'It is very cold in here. Do you have no fuel?'

'The Duke's pension don't extend to luxuries,' she said.

'My man fought for him for thirty years. He's dead now, and his pension is halved. I get food, though. As for the cold - well, I'm used to it.'

'I shall see that coal is delivered to you before the day is out, my lady.'

Pooris bowed once more, then stepped out into the cold, fresh air.

The cleric Cellis was arrested at his home and taken to the palace dungeons, where he was offered the choice between confession and torture. An intelligent man, and not without bravery, Cellis knew that following confession they would torture him anyway, and he chose to remain silent.

Pooris, Niro, the Duke and Karis observed the beginning of Cellis's ordeal, then retired to the Duke's apartments. Niro was sent to man the small office at Warehouse Street.

Just after dawn, with the stove recently lit and the room still cold, Niro was studying Cellis' neat ledger when the door opened and a tall, burly man entered. Bald at the crown, his receding black hair cropped short, he removed a cloak lined with expensive fur and stood before the stove. 'Where is Cellis?' he asked.

'He has been taken ill, sir. I am Niro, and - temporarily one hopes - in charge here.'

'Ill? He seemed in good spirits yesterday.'

'Frightening, is it not, how swiftly the onset of illness can render a man incapable?' said Niro. 'How may I be of service, sir?'

'I have a convoy due today. But I fear it may be delayed until after dark.'

'I see, sir, and so you would like me to request written authorization for the guards to open the gates?'

'We could proceed that way,' agreed the man, pulling up a chair and sitting down opposite Niro. He was wearing a heavy silk shirt of blue, embroidered with gold thread, and a fur-lined waistcoat of soft grey leather. If Niro saved his meagre wages for half a year he could not afford to buy either garment. 'But it would be simpler,' the man continued, 'to find another solution.'

'Another solution, sir? How can that be? The Duke's orders are specific. The gates are closed at dusk and there can be no traffic thereafter, save with written authorization.'

'Indeed that is the case,' said the man. 'But, in my experience, such authorization takes time, and effort, and - ' he grinned ' - a man's weight in paperwork. I am sure there is a good reason for the Duke to create such a rule, but poor merchants like myself need to earn an honest crust. Often that means conducting one's business swiftly - especially with perishable food.'

'I am sure that is true, sir,' said Niro, rising and adding two logs to the stove. 'However, my understanding is that there is no private trade in food at present. The Duke, through merchants like yourself, buys all available supplies to keep the city fed. Therefore, whatever food is contained in your convoy is already under the ownership of the Duke. Not so?'

'In theory, that is the case . . . Niro, did you say?' The cleric nodded. 'Well, Niro, I can see that you are an honest man. Do you know how I can make such a judgement?'

'Indeed I do not, sir.'

'Your tunic cost around eight copper pennies. The cloak hanging from the peg was no more than three.' He glanced down. 'Your boots are worn thin, the leather poor quality. Only an honest man would wear them.'

'I take your point, sir. But surely to take that point a

step further, I would have to say that you are a dishonest man, since your silk shirt must have cost . . . ten in silver . . . ?'

'Thirty.' The man gave a broad smile as he opened the pouch at his side. Removing two gold coins he laid them on the desk. 'Unless I am mistaken,' he said, 'your wage for the year is less than the amount you see here.'