opposite the gate.
Declan said, ‘If I finish first, I’ll park the wagon there.’
‘I’m off,’ said Hatu with a wave and started walking towards the old keep.
Declan waved after him, then drove his wagon to the gate. The soldiers on duty recognized him from previous deliveries and motioned him through and he moved his cargo around to the stabling yard where he had first come to visit.
It only took a few minutes to get the unloading started and he walked towards the central keep of the sprawling castle. As he had anticipated, the baron’s body servant, Balven, exited before Declan got there. ‘Declan!’
‘Sir,’ said Declan, still unsure exactly how to address the baron’s illegitimate brother.
‘Full order?’ asked Balven, stopping before the smith.
‘Yes, sir. Twenty-four new swords, and that shield you asked me to make.’
‘Ah,’ said Balven. ‘What did you think of it?’
‘It’s a bit heavy to lug around the battlefield, I think.’ The shield was one of the baron’s notions, for men to stand against a cavalry charge. Baron Dumarch had called it a ‘leaf shield’, though the resemblance to a leaf on any tree Declan had ever seen was vague. It stood to shoulder height, with long sides, a slightly curved top and a pointed end that could be planted firmly in the soil. Trained men in line formed a virtual wall and Declan imagined that men standing just behind with long spears or pikes would stop all but the most determined charge. But the shield was three or four times heavier than the smaller round or heater shields he had been taught to fashion.
‘I’m sure it is, but it may prove useful in defending a position.’
‘Might I suggest a wooden frame instead of this metal one? It would lower costs and be quicker to fashion. Good hardwood would be as effective, even with the reduction in weight. Only your strongest men could lug one of these around all day and not be exhausted.’
Balven considered this. ‘Make one and we’ll test it against lances, side by side with this one.’
Declan nodded. ‘If I might ask, sir, where did the baron come up with this idea?’
‘From a book,’ said Balven with a laugh. ‘The baron is the best-read man I’ve ever known. He got that from his father.’
Declan nodded. The one time he had visited the inside of the castle he’d seen it had shelves full of books, more than he had ever imagined existed in the world.
Balven quickly inspected the swords and nodded his approval. He handed a purse to Declan. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘There is one thing, sir,’ said the young smith. He recounted Molly Bowman’s description of the men who had arrived in Beran’s Hill a few days earlier.
When he had finished, Balven looked slightly concerned. ‘You did well to bring us that news, Declan. Armed men, and … and castellans from what you said, disguised as mercenaries …’ He took a deep breath. ‘This is very troubling. Wait here while I bring this to the baron’s attention.’
‘Very well, sir,’ said Declan as Balven turned back towards the doorway into the keep. He hoped this didn’t take too long as he wanted to start back as soon as Hatu returned. If they pushed on with a lightened wagon they could arrive home a few hours after sunset and he’d much rather spend his night in bed with Gwen than under a wagon with Hatu.
After an hour had passed, without Balven’s return or Hatushaly’s, Declan felt a rising sense of resignation that he would be forced to stay the night and depart the following morning, but eventually, the baron’s man appeared and said, ‘You’re free to go, smith. My lord will investigate this matter.’
Balven turned his back before Declan could ask even a single question and left the annoyed young man alone. Declan took a breath and decided it best to ask the closest soldier where he could stable his wagon and find lodgings.
WHEN HATU GOT CLOSE TO the river that cut through the eastern third of the city he found the Inn of the Gulls. He entered and looked around for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom and doing a quick inventory of faces.
His first thought upon taking in these surroundings was that his inn was a palace compared to this one – a waterfront inn with dockworkers, rivermen, whores and no doubt an abundant supply of criminals.
He took another moment and saw a man standing in the corner behind the bar. He waved away an approaching whore, a girl who looked younger than Hava had been before she was sent to the Powdered Women, and she quickly retreated. Hatu made his way to the barman and said, ‘I bring a message for Grandfather.’
‘I’ll give it to him,’ answered the barman. He was a lanky, blond-haired man of middle years, broad-shouldered and with enough marks on his face and neck to label him a brawler.
‘I bring a message for Grandfather,’ repeated Hatu.
The man pulled a large cudgel out from under the bar and said, ‘He’s not here. As I said, give me the message and I’ll see he gets it.’
‘I bring a message for Grandfather,’ Hatu repeated a third time.
Immediately the barman put the cudgel back under the bar and said, ‘Come with me.’
He led Hatu through a door behind the bar, through a filthy kitchen, and down a flight of stairs. The cellar was below the level of the river, Hatu reckoned, seeing how the stones in the wall seeped. A miasma of mould, stale beer, and deceased rodents left unburied almost made him gag, but he fought back the reflex.
They worked their way through a chaos of empty pallets, stacks of barrels, abandoned crates, and half-filled sacks to reach an unblocked section of wall. It was a maze with a purpose, Hatu decided; you would have to know exactly where you were going down here in order to find this space.
They had reached the other side of the storage room, as far from the stairs leading down from the inn above as possible, Hatu judged. The barman pushed on a stone, and a door revealed itself, swinging away easily, wood painted to look like the bricks that surrounded it.
They walked down a sloping, stone-walled tunnel with a ceiling reinforced with supports and beams like those one would find in a mine. Water dripped from the ceiling so it must run under the edge of the river, Hatu calculated. At last they came to a well-lit room.
A man sat at a table looking at what appeared to be a ledger, which he covered with a cloth as soon as he saw the barman with Hatu.
No words were exchanged as the barman turned and began to make his way back. Then ‘Yes?’ said the man at the table. He was well dressed, looking more like a merchant of some importance than a master criminal, which Hatu knew he must be to hold the position of this city’s crew boss.
‘Who is the message for?’ asked the man behind the table.
Hatu said, ‘Master Bodai.’
‘Alone?’
‘No other,’ said Hatu, ‘save Zusara.’
The man stood and removed the covered book and cloth.
