Like most mornings, Tassina and Lerran ate breakfast in front of the windows in their quarters. The faint taste of cinnamon in his coffee lifted Lerran’s spirits, and the news a few minutes later lifted them higher. More ships had arrived a half hour ago, Captain Uthran reported. Lerran finished his coffee quickly.
“Go get it,” Tass said with a smile and Lerran leaned in for a kiss before following his Guard Captain into the hall.
The city was alive with business; the markets were full and the streets dense. People moved aside for Lerran and his escort. Amidst twelve guards walked Isar, Morlon and the Prince of Sheld himself.
The same ship captain stood on the wharf with his Noress warriors and three chests of gold. He scratched the woman tattoo on his forearm and then spread his arms wide. “The second and final delivery, my Prince. Five thousand two hundred and fifty Grey Sea coins in gold bars, as promised.”
Lerran smiled. “Again, my offer of hospitality in Sheld stands.”
“With respect, I have spent too much on the salt water around the Barren Point,” the captain said with a guffaw. “We’ll set sail after we resupply and go ashore for a few hours.”
“As you will,” Lerran said. “Form up!” His troop of soldiers rearranged their positions. Six carried the three chests again, while the others formed corners of a square around Lerran and his comrades.
And so the walk began again. They marched through Dry Rock Market and the crowds started to grow. A few laughed and talked as they watched the escort. ‘More gold?’ people wondered. The man with the broken wheel-spoke club was there too, watching them until they ascended the first incline and a warehouse blocked the view. People had already gathered in the next street to watch. A prostitute leaned over a balcony and showed Lerran and the rest her perky breasts, leeringly calling down, “Spend some of that gold here, won’t you?” They left her on the balcony and climbed the next incline to the third cliff of Sheld. Approaching halfway home. A man with a burly beard followed them for a while, and the guards watched him cautiously. They rounded the next corner. There were spears waiting, a line of men in chainmail and leather that blocked the way forward.
Lerran raised his hand and the escort halted with the sway of swords and creak of armour. There were six of them, waiting quietly. He stepped through the box of his soldiers to see the men ahead directly. He couldn’t see any features—they wore metal hoods and a few had short beards.
One spoke up after a moment, the man on the furthest right. “That money has been stolen from the common people, it must be returned”
“How?” Lerran blinked. He looked around at the men and women along the edge of the street, two- or three-strong. People were on the rooftops, in the open windows, the balconies. He looked back at the unknown strangers who barred his way. “How has this money been stolen?”
“Was this money obtained legally and morally?” the same man asked. “You’re all criminals, and you stole this from someone, doubtless.”
“There was no stealing of this money. It was gained from a sale of something,” Lerran said, lowering his tone ominously.
“And what nefarious sale earned you so much? This is the second delivery in your harbour.”
The onlookers mumbled after every word. There were other streets but they all had as many angles. Lerran ground his teeth together. “To be honest sir, it is none of your business where this money has come from. And to be perfectly honest, I would have no problem with seeing you disappear.” His voice echoed down the street.
The man nodded, silently. “Your threats will not be tolerated. Now!”
An arrow zipped across the street from a building behind the line of enemies and caught one of the box formation guards in the thigh. He screamed, clutching the deeply impaled arrow shaft and keeling down to the hard cobblestones.
“Charge!” roared Lerran, stripping his sword blade free of his scabbard. Isar and Morlon roared and drew their blades. His men all had specific instructions, of course. Two of the formation stayed with the six carrying-guards and the treasure. The other four—three now, for the one clutching the arrow—dashed forward with Lerran. In the crowd, Lerran’s undercover soldiers shoved toward the buildings with the archers. Another arrow grazed one of the guards.
And then the battle lines clashed. Morlon preceded their attack with a flashy thrown dagger. The man it flew toward knocked it aside with his buckler shield, but his spear jabbed wide as a result and Morlon’s sword found an unarmoured armpit. Lerran knocked aside the waiting spear with his sword and slammed bodily into his first adversary. As they sprawled across the cobblestones, the man reached for a knife, and Lerran slashed his forearm with a sword. Blood splattered the man’s face and Lerran spun to displace another spear thrust from another soldier.
Another arrow whizzed past. As Lerran ran his attacker through with a strong sword thrust, he scoured the balconies. Fighting up there too, fighting everywhere. He had men in the crowd, and surely Morlon’s City Watch would arrive soon.
The man with a slashed arm rose to his feet, but Isar slashed his throat from behind. While Isar’s arm was gripped around the man’s shoulder, an arrow pinned his arm there. Isar screeched and rolled to the ground with the body.
Lerran reached for the arrow to help his friend. Pain lanced through his back, and something hard drove him downward. A point, through his ribs, and a scream from his lips. The point went away, a spear being raised again. Another thrust?
As the Prince of Sheld writhed on the cobblestones, the stab never came. Clutching his side and rolling onto his knees, Lerran found his hands stained red. He wasn’t bleeding out, and he could still breathe, although it winded. He gasped and ground his teeth in pain. What is going on? Chaos in his gods-damned city. He used a fist to push himself up to his feet, but his back hurt to move, and there was blood leaking out of his side too. He stretched his sword arm, but couldn’t without agony snapping its jaw in the right side of his torso.
The fight was done. Isar and Lerran had been the only ones downed. Morlon and the other three guards were battered but not injured. One helped Isar to his feet. His arm was bleeding heavily but quickly bound with a cloth to absorb the blood and bandage it.
One of Lerran’s disguised guards hung over the balcony of the house down the street, but no archers moved anymore.
“Murder for the gold,” a man in the scattered crowd said. Many of the original crowd had left, but there were no fewer people watching Lerran and his men. Someone else shouted, “Give us the money! Thieves and crooks.”
“Hey!” someone else shouted and hurled a rock at the last person who had spoke. A fight broke out, people in the crowd starting to fight. More blood soon adorned the cobblestones.
“Enough!” Lerran shouted, and the fighting stopped. He flicked his hand to splatter his own blood off of it and cursed under his breath again. “Listen up! I rule Sheld. You all know it. I spend this money on your, and for you. You’ve a magistrate now—Kaz Ai Ji Alatt. I’m working for y—”
A City Watch man body shoved through the line of the crowd to reach Lerran and his men, sending a man sprawling. The Watch guard was seized by the onlookers nearby and quickly disarmed. The beating that followed echoed the chaos that interrupted Lerran’s speech. A full-fledged riot was underway as Lerran looked on. Men brawled with one another. A woman stabbed an old grandfather with a broken bottle.
Lerran turned to the treasure guards and nodded. “Go,” he said. The knew their orders. Lay low and return to the estate when it was safe to do so. Choose empty streets.
“And us?” Morlon asked. One of the guards butted a rioting man aside with the flat end of his spear.
“What’s nearby?” Lerran asked. “We have wounded and need a defensible position.”
Isar nodded, though his expression was pained. “Erril’s home is nearby.” Without another word, they started moving. Two guards went ahead of Isar and Lerran, while Morlon and another marched behind. When the ocean of divided citizens closed the tide too close, they smashed out with blunt blades or staff butts and sent them reeling away.
Twice, they encountered lone enemy combatants, in the same armour as before, grey leather and leather bodkin. They dealt with them swiftly.
Erril’s property had been trashed, partially—an overturned wagon and a trampled garden. It was a three-storey house, but it was a small estate. There were no windows on the stone first floor, but the wooden second floor had a few empty openings. They knocked on the front door, but there was no reply. And the latch was locked.
Lerran tried to stretch his arm for the fiftieth time. Pain, sharp, glancing, hot. Blood soaked through his tunic and felt cool against the skin of his side, his thigh. That spear had got him good, but he wasn’t bleeding out. The sounds of combat, both common and military, echoed the ashen clouds over the city of crime.
“Gods, a key,” Morlon said, overturning a potted plant. They were inside a moment later, in an open meeting room. There were two small tables, a scattering of chairs, and an array of shelves around the outside. Thin smoke was rising from a small brazier in the centre of the room, but aside from that the space was empty.
Isar sank into one chair and set his shield on the table and his bloody arm. Lerran tossed his sword down next to it and flexed his arm against the raw ache inside it. Morlon said, “Sir,” and he looked up.
Erril stood in the doorway of a nearby corridor, having quietly appeared in the din of the riot outside. In his hands, a crossbow, loaded. He stepped into the room, aiming the weapon at Lerran’s chest.
Lerran raised his hands, and grimaced when the muscle pulled against the hole in his back. “My friend, do not shoot. We just needed a safe place off the streets.”
“Everyone else leave or I’ll pull the trigger,” Erril said, quietly.
“What about our other wounded? Isar?” Lerran asked.
Erril ground his jaw and tilted his head. “Just he can stay.” His eyes flicked toward Isar and then back to Lerran.
Lerran shrugged. “How will my men get to safety? What is the best way back to the estate?”
“They should leave the city.”
“What?” Lerran asked. His jaw dropped. “Why?”
Erril was sweating. Is it paranoia or a scheme? He rolled his shoulders and looked at the crossbow, then at the Prince of Sheld once more. “I said Isar can stay. Get the rest out of here.”
“There must be a safe way out…”
Erril shook his head. “There’s just the one door.”
“Gods,” Lerran said. He spat to the side, and glared at Erril. “Guards. Get out. Morlon, you too. Get back to the estate safely if you can.” As soon as they left, Erril ordered the door be locked. Isar did the deed, silently.
“Now tie yourself up,” Erril said. Isar didn’t react except to look at his wounded arm. Lerran protested the strange order, and Erril shook the crossbow angrily. “Gods, then you tie him up!”
“What is the purpose for me to tie him up?” Lerran asked, regardless of the wound.
Erril inhaled aggressively. “Because you’re my hostages! Just do it!”
“Why am I your hostage? What are you up to?” Lerran asked, livid. Damned spy… is this all his plan? He should have brought the arm brace and became Traz. “You know who I am.”
“Gods!” the man hissed. “Five… four…”
With a sigh, Lerran stepped slowly to the left. He knelt, putting his back to Erril and his face near Isar’s. He tied Isar’s feet first—loosely, then stepped past the guard captain. Erril barked, “In front!” So, with a curse, Lerran tied Isar’s hands in front of his torso, gentle with the wounded arm. He tied them loosely, and gave Isar a wink as he did so. Isar gently shook his head. Don’t try anything… his friend was saying.
Lerran stood up and turned to face Erril. “Why do you need hostages?” he questioned, stepping closer.
Erril scrunched his face up as he said, “Enough talking. Sit down.”
Lerran tried to kick a chair out from the table, but it slammed backwards onto the floor. The loud noise echoed the room and Erril tensed again. I’ll kill him… Lerran decided. No matter the circumstances of this epic mistake, Erril would die personally. No public hanging. He forced himself down into the next chair, squeezing his jaw. “Can I get something to drink at least? And a bandage?”
“The wound can wait,” Erril said. But he grabbed a bottle from the shelf and tossed it into Lerran’s lap. The crossbow didn’t waver.
Lerran examined the drink he’d been given. It was an ale. Bottled ale… couldn’t even be hard liquor, let alone a rum. He took a big drink from it and shook his head. “Erril… what is going on here?”
Erril didn’t respond. He leaned back against the wall and watched Lerran quietly. Lerran shifted his back against the chair and winced. Isar waited in silence.
Five minutes of silence passed. The sudden noise of a knock on the door startled Lerran and he set down the bottle of ale. “What’s the password?” Erril called out.
The reply was muffled, but the words clear. “Setting sun.”
“Stand up,” Erril mumbled. The spy tensed, the crossbow raised. Lerran stood up quietly and rotated as Erril did. They soon traded sides of the room, and the lock was quickly undone.
Three men entered, wearing chainmail and carrying spears. Lerran breathed another curse, from the far side of the room. The soldiers chuckled when they saw him. “Is that…?” one asked.
“You got lucky, spymaster,” another said. His comrades laughed.
Neither Lerran nor Erril enjoyed the humour. Erril asked, “How goes it?”
The third guard shrugged. “The attack on the estate didn’t go as planned, but Sheld is falling quickly,” he said. He nodded in the direction of Lerran. “Boss says we’ll need him. We’ll make his Family stand right down. On your knees, Lerran.”
Lerran looked at Isar, but the man’s furious glare leant him no aid. The reduced Prince of Sheld still had a knife and they had said they needed him alive, but he decided not to do it. He sank, slowly, to his knees and bowed his head. He’d lost, somehow. Tass, forgive me, he thought. He was not the Prince anymore. He was a prisoner of war.
And his mouth tasted like damned cheap ale.