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Authors: Tim Stead
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man said.
“Are you Tarquin?” Gilan was insistent.
“You threatened my steward. I have twenty men behind me, and if you don’t leave I’ll have you chastised.”
Arla glanced at her lawkeepers. Talis was frowning, but Gadilari was looking almost eager, his hand firmly on the hilt of that well used sword. Twenty men? She wondered for a moment how good he really might be.
“We are lawkeepers,” Gilan said. “We’ve come to speak to you…”
Tarquin, or whoever he was, stepped back and was replaced by a man with a drawn sword. Gadilari took a step forwards. Arla took a step back and an arrow appeared on her bowstring.
“Stop,” she said.
“Or?” The man was a merchant guard. He was probably capable enough with a blade, but if he didn’t go back inside he was going to die.
“I’ve got twenty arrows,” she said. “Go back inside.”
The swordsman looked at her, and the smile faded from his face. He stepped back and the door closed. There was a sound of bolts being shot.
Gilan was angry. “Blood and fire, Arla, we need to talk to him.”
“I’m not going to kill people over a boot in a door, Gilan,” she told him. “We’ll find another way to talk to him. These people have probably never seen a lawkeeper before.”
“They’ll see one again,” the big man promised.
Their first excursion to Morningside had been a failure. Arla had half expected it. These people had been their own law for so long that they could hardly be expected to step aside. Tarquin, if that had been Tarquin, had not seemed worried. Annoyed, perhaps. It was probably no more than a display of arrogance, but it could have degenerated into a street brawl with a dozen men dead. It was hardly an auspicious start for the lawkeepers.
In the end it confirmed something that Arla had always believed, something she had learned from the Faer Karan. It was all about strength. The one with the biggest stick won. Every time.
Thirteen – The Watcher
Sam decided that he wasn’t going to sit about the law house all day while men he paid worked in the streets. He took Donnal and Findaran, made sure there was a knotted rope in the wagon, and drove it round to Gulltown again.
The dock was gone. Where it had been the day before was a blackened, twisted ruin. The warehouse where the fire had started was gone, too, and the old shop, and a couple of warehouses that had stood nearby. Everything smelt of smoke.
The tide had been in a couple of times. A lot of the burnt wood that had fallen into the river had been swept away, leaving a black residue and a jumble of unrecognisable shapes on the mud. Sam stood for a while and looked down at the mess. There might be something down there. Arla had said that there was a metal cage, and metal wasn’t so subject to the whims of the tide. If it had managed to get stuck in the mud it might still be there.
He took the rope out of the cart and tied it onto the back axle, threw the rest over the wall and looked down. The last few feet coiled on the mud. Sam had always been good with ropes. It came of being a fisherman for so many years, he supposed. He nodded to the two guards and slipped over the edge, quickly shinning down to the river bed.
There was more down here than he’d thought. Broken bits of wood stuck out of the mud at odd angles, nails twisted out of them, and the mud was black with ash. It was going to be hard to find anything. Sam drew his sword and began to prod at things, looking for metal, listening for the ring of steel on steel.
After a few minutes he realised that he was going to have to be methodical, so he drew a square in the mud that contained all the areas he wanted to search, and then divided that up into sixteen smaller squares. He returned to the furthest from the shore, the one the tide would reach first, and began again.
He cleared seven of the squares without finding anything at all. It was all charcoal. In the eighth his blade clanked against something and he squatted
“Are you Tarquin?” Gilan was insistent.
“You threatened my steward. I have twenty men behind me, and if you don’t leave I’ll have you chastised.”
Arla glanced at her lawkeepers. Talis was frowning, but Gadilari was looking almost eager, his hand firmly on the hilt of that well used sword. Twenty men? She wondered for a moment how good he really might be.
“We are lawkeepers,” Gilan said. “We’ve come to speak to you…”
Tarquin, or whoever he was, stepped back and was replaced by a man with a drawn sword. Gadilari took a step forwards. Arla took a step back and an arrow appeared on her bowstring.
“Stop,” she said.
“Or?” The man was a merchant guard. He was probably capable enough with a blade, but if he didn’t go back inside he was going to die.
“I’ve got twenty arrows,” she said. “Go back inside.”
The swordsman looked at her, and the smile faded from his face. He stepped back and the door closed. There was a sound of bolts being shot.
Gilan was angry. “Blood and fire, Arla, we need to talk to him.”
“I’m not going to kill people over a boot in a door, Gilan,” she told him. “We’ll find another way to talk to him. These people have probably never seen a lawkeeper before.”
“They’ll see one again,” the big man promised.
Their first excursion to Morningside had been a failure. Arla had half expected it. These people had been their own law for so long that they could hardly be expected to step aside. Tarquin, if that had been Tarquin, had not seemed worried. Annoyed, perhaps. It was probably no more than a display of arrogance, but it could have degenerated into a street brawl with a dozen men dead. It was hardly an auspicious start for the lawkeepers.
In the end it confirmed something that Arla had always believed, something she had learned from the Faer Karan. It was all about strength. The one with the biggest stick won. Every time.
Thirteen – The Watcher
Sam decided that he wasn’t going to sit about the law house all day while men he paid worked in the streets. He took Donnal and Findaran, made sure there was a knotted rope in the wagon, and drove it round to Gulltown again.
The dock was gone. Where it had been the day before was a blackened, twisted ruin. The warehouse where the fire had started was gone, too, and the old shop, and a couple of warehouses that had stood nearby. Everything smelt of smoke.
The tide had been in a couple of times. A lot of the burnt wood that had fallen into the river had been swept away, leaving a black residue and a jumble of unrecognisable shapes on the mud. Sam stood for a while and looked down at the mess. There might be something down there. Arla had said that there was a metal cage, and metal wasn’t so subject to the whims of the tide. If it had managed to get stuck in the mud it might still be there.
He took the rope out of the cart and tied it onto the back axle, threw the rest over the wall and looked down. The last few feet coiled on the mud. Sam had always been good with ropes. It came of being a fisherman for so many years, he supposed. He nodded to the two guards and slipped over the edge, quickly shinning down to the river bed.
There was more down here than he’d thought. Broken bits of wood stuck out of the mud at odd angles, nails twisted out of them, and the mud was black with ash. It was going to be hard to find anything. Sam drew his sword and began to prod at things, looking for metal, listening for the ring of steel on steel.
After a few minutes he realised that he was going to have to be methodical, so he drew a square in the mud that contained all the areas he wanted to search, and then divided that up into sixteen smaller squares. He returned to the furthest from the shore, the one the tide would reach first, and began again.
He cleared seven of the squares without finding anything at all. It was all charcoal. In the eighth his blade clanked against something and he squatted
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