The Blood Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans Read online

I shrugged, refusing to argue. He was right, of course. It was absurd. Sword-masters do not sit with anonymous faces at shilling-a-week work, yawning at the bottle. Green continued poking at the stitches to my wounded amour propre.

  "Are you aware Black has put a price on your head?"

  Another shrug, accented with smile. "My head has worn that hat before. On me it looks… fetching." I considered those of my associates who would refuse the reward, and those who would be climbing by night up the wall of my house. The ivy in the garden made an excellent ladder. Unless I were to weaken key vines…

  Green shook his head. "No, no and no. Do not dare. Cease now to think of dueling across city rooftops, under the streets, destroying bridges and houses and taxable properties. Stop.”

  I opened my hands, displaying innocent palms. Green looked undeceived by their pretty faces. We knew each other too well. Since childhood. Black too, I admit. Never a friend, exactly. But a peer. Picture Green, Black and I sitting at table ten years back, quaffing beer, vowing to change the world.

  We did, in our different ways. Black changed it for the worse. Green for the better. I no longer felt sure what I’d achieved, besides burn down a warehouse. Killed some, let others live. The winter wind or the pox could claim the same.

  Green sniffed, continued. "We have been compromised. This failure destroys our opportunity to move against Alderman Black. Worse, it puts you as the culprit. You left witnesses. I thought you were an assassin?"

  “Spadassin,” I corrected. I gave the look I save for bar-room toughs. I practice it. Such acting is as much a part of the repertoire as the dagger in the boot. Green had the wisdom to turn eyes to his cup-bottom. He shook his head at the fortune in the dregs. When he spoke it was in the chiding tone I recalled from older days.

  "Rayne, you are the only man who could go off to war dreaming of blood, and return a tender-hearted milk-sop."

  I reached to the fresh cut across my face, tested the stitching. A new scar for the mirror. "You are mistaken,” I said. I spoke deliberately. It seemed important he understand. I suppose I felt weary. “Most returning from war have sated the thirst for blood. They flinch at the smell of the stuff. They walk away at the call for another round. Survivors don't want blood. They want to live and let live. Even those who work for creatures like Black."

  He slammed his goblet upon the table, splashing wine. A dramatic gesture, a waste of good drink staining expensive carpet. "God's sake. Pity for Black's riffraff? That isn’t charity. It’s sentiment. And you accuse me of being effete?”

  I stared at the wine spilled for theatric emphasis. Someone else would mop it, struggle to wash the stains from the rug. The very definition of effete: drama at another's expense.

  Green sighed. "This morning the warehouse guards testified before the Council that the Seraph himself attacked them, set taxable city property aflame. We had no choice but grant warrant for your arrest."

  "What?" I shouldn't have felt surprise. But I’m a trusting sort. "You backstabbing spineless effete straw-stuffed self-serving belly-crawling cowardly excuses for lordships.” A lot to say all at once. Clearly I had saved it up.

  Green yawned. "Your failure plays to accusations that the Magisterium works against the Merchantry. What choice did we have but insist that you acted on your own initiative, and that the Magisterium firmly opposed such defiance of law."

  "Did they believe you"?

  "No, but they shall. I just sent word to the Council Guard that you have broken into my private chambers seeking my aide. Their dramatic footsteps shall thunder upon the stairs any moment."

  I blinked. Then stood, stared about the room. "You have a hidden doorway?"

  Green shook his head. "A secret exit for friends, makes a secret entrance for foes. No, I prefer solid stone at my back." He considered those words, adjusted the pillows of his chair. "For which reason the chimney, that favorite path of sneaks and assassins, is spiked."

  Now I heard the tramp of soldierly feet. I rushed to the door, thrust the bar just before hands on the other side pushed. I turned to the windows; glazed and breakable; and beyond lay the gardens. They would expect that path. They would post archers below, perhaps on the roof.

  "I assume you allowed some method for me to escape?"

  Magister Green sighed. "Dear Seraph, I have nothing but my faith in your abilities. Faith unshaken. Entirely. Despite recent failures." He took a deep breath, began to scream. "Help! Secours! To me, brave guards!" That done, he poured another cup. For himself, I assume.

  Hammering at the door. Cross-grained oak, it would hold a minute; perhaps three. I studied the ceiling. Rafter beams offered hiding for a few seconds, then would become a trap. I turned to the fireplace, grabbing pillows from the chairs. I tossed them atop the fire. The silk coverings flashed in a wonder of embroidered flame. The feathered stuffing erupted in horrid black smoke. Green observed with a frown.

  "Please don't burn down the Magisterium. It would be loss of a wonder of architecture. As well, the wonder of me."

  "No more conflagrations," I promised. "I only need smoke to fill the room."

  "Ah," he said. "I believe I perceive." Watching the shaking door, I backed towards him as he reached for the arbalest hidden behind his chair. I kicked hard to the side of his head, feeling deep remorse, possibly. Or again, not.

  A minute later the door burst open, just after a chair smashed through the glazed window. Guards rushed into the smoky room, waving blade and bolt. The window provided the only light and air. The fat, velvet-robed figure of Magister Green stood to the side, struggling to load a bolt to his arbalest. His face was disfigured with smeared wine and ash.

  "After him, fools," he coughed.

  Some rushed to the broken window, others dashed out the door again. The Magister staggered along, bent over coughing, brushing away helping hands. At the doorway the guard Captain stopped in sudden suspicion. He studied a pillow slipping out from Magister Green's robes.

  "Ha!" he shouted. "Got you," and knocked poor Green to the ground. "It's the assassin. Hold him." There followed a heroic pile-on, while I slipped down the rafter beam, past the struggle and away.

  Chapter 3

  In which a gauntlet is walked, not run

  In stories characters wander unaware towards some place of significance. The thought-burdened hero broods while wise feet guide. And so he stops, surprised to find himself beneath his lost love’s window, the door of the confessional, a tree branch perfect for a noose.

  What nonsense. You stand at the crossroads considering: left, right? Forward, back? And make your choice. I’d never let feet steer. They’d wander before some drayman's cart, get me crushed. No, my head directed this thought-burdened self down the High-street, entirely aware of every turn, every alley, every cobble.

  I needed to be. Within five streets I had traded helmet for hat, then hat for cap, turned a Magisterium guard-cloak inside out to become a penny-guard’s. I changed my walk to casual stroll. And yet the blind beggar a street behind kept to the same turns. Ahead I spotted an associate spadassin, leaning against a wall, blinking sleepily from under the straw hat of a farmer. I hoped the real farmer was not lying throat-cut in an alley. A milksop thought, I suppose.

  The High-Street clattered with horse hooves and soldier boots, ladies’ heels and farmer’s clogs. Carriage wheels, cart wheels, dray-wheels, wagon wheels, rattling barrows, everywhere the rumble and tumble of wheels thumping every puddle-filled hole. Idlers commanded lamp-posts and barrels to watch the river of the working world: tradesmen, messengers, butchers and bakers, bankers, beggars and bandits. Maids with bosoms, boys with eyes, farmers with buckets, knife-grinders, fish-mongers, costermongers, preachers, prostitutes, pickpockets, topers and drovers and drunkards and dogs. The stench of horse-shit, ox-shit, cow-shit, dog-shit, man-shit rising from the street beneath shoe and wheel and paw. Earth, mud, dung, sweat, smoke, spices and breads and peppers from shops and carts made a shout of smells to deafen the nose. Colors of cloth, s
kin, fur, cloud and mud smearing a city-rainbow behind the tinted-glass air of a thousand different smokes. White smokes of bakeries, black smokes of smithies, brown smokes of houses, blue smoke of trash. Wind rippled smokes, rippled flags, rippled folds of dress, feathers and cotton awnings and canvas coattails, a harvest-field of rippling colors between the brown ground and gray sky.

  Which is all but to say, the city street swarmed with sounds and sights and smells. An excellent place to hide my person. Alas, equally excellent for hiding a dagger.

  I longed to go home. But the Council Guard would be hammering at my door. By now it lay in splinters. They’d be pawing my books, knocking over vases, tapping walls for secret cabinets. The thought angered me. My wines, my books, my cloaks. They would terrorize Elspeth my maid, Stephano my valet.

  Granted, Stephano is a former pirate. Privateer, as he would say. Face like a fist, carved with scars, etched with burns. His kindly look makes dogs whimper, his warm smile throws children into convulsions. I would have to trust Stephano to mind the house. Protect Elspeth. While I sought to redeem myself from last night's fiasco. Or at least avoid capture and sudden death.

  Redemption would be easier with sleep and money. And lunch. Clean clothes would be nice as well, if not required. At home I hid certain items for just this sudden storm. Coin, negotiable jewels, papers of identity. My best saber. I needed only a minute to reach the secret cabinet known only to myself and Stephano.

  But no doubt the paths to my house were watched from corner, from roof, even the sewers beneath the street. Tempting to see how close I could get to my own door. Before dying? Scoffed the voice of doubt. Well, yes, admitted the voice of Honesty. But I’d take plenty with me, declaimed the voice of Courage. What use is that? Shouted Wisdom and Cowardice in chorus. Any soldier knows, those two often partner.

  Soldier. Feet do not choose their path; but memory does. My thoughts turned to Green's lament. “Only you could go to war blood-thirsty, and return a kindly milksop." I, the Seraph, had failed in a mission. I should have killed. Others would pay for my failure.

  In war I cut throats as a butcher in autumn, when lambs and calves are carted to market, eyes wide with wonder at city scenes. I scythed, till the day I sickened of the harvest. I know when, I know why I ceased to reap. I keep no secrets. Not from myself, nor from any that honestly ask. Nor do I brood. I have lived violently but simply. I have a house, a valet, a garden. An account at several banks, and a sound reputation among the courtiers and clerks who run empires.

  Gardens and valets, bank accounts and wines… stage props for milksop? Still angry, I turned into an alley that reeked of dead dog and warm piss. There I waited. Alleyways and ragged disguise, daggers readied beneath cloaks. More theatre costume. Certainly I preferred clean clothes, breathable air, a decent wine. Did that declare me milksop? Of course not. I adjusted my position in the shadows, my footing in the muck, and vowed to buy a new hat. Something French, with feathers.

  I’d had a dashing uniform in the war. A hat with an eagle feather, marking me as a striker. My duty: wander field camps, mess-tents and firesides, seeking the grumblers, the would-be-deserters, the malingerers. Challenge, cut or kill, whatever frightened those tempted to fail their duty.

  Terrible work. But I was fairly terrible. I don’t mean evil. Merely callous to pain; mine or another’s. Granted, I preferred the pain be another's. I was dutiful, not insane. Generally I only marked a deserter with a ‘C’, then guided them back to their place in the lines.

  One single bloody day ended my career as striker. It was war, every day decanted its bottle of blood. Till some last red drop will overflow the cup. My cup ran over when a cadet officer disappeared in battle. Dead in a ditch, all supposed, and God keep ‘im. But his tent mate smirked that the man’s home waited a mere league away. I marched from smoke-shrouded fields of dead horses, screaming men, flies buzzing over blackening blood, through trees splintered to sponge-like spikes suitable to hell’s floor. I walked down a road scraped by the wheels of war, turned down a country lane into sudden sunlight and green fields. I stood astonished. Not a corpse in sight, not so much as a burning barn.

  The lane ended at a farm house, neatly fenced. I stopped at the gate. I watched a girl toss a ball to a dog. It leaped in joy, returned it wag-tailing. The two stopped to consider me. The dog barked. The child smiled. She threw me the ball. I flinched in a thousand directions, but caught it. I held the ball. Blue rag cloth, sewn with white stars. I could think of nothing to do but throw it back. The dog caught it. The girl laughed. I opened the gate and walked up the path. The door stood already open. I let myself in.

  At the kitchen table sat the cadet and his wife. Sunlight blazed through the window like the smile of God. He wore his uniform for war, she her country dress. Hair tied up. Pretty. They sipped tea from white, white porcelain. Welcomed me. She rose to fetch me a cup.

  I declined to sit. I reminded him of his duty. Idiot words. Leave this heaven, return to hell? The cadet only smiled, shook his head. I threatened. The wife stood behind me, clattering plates and pots. I felt what I feel at such times, turned, caught the kitchen knife meant to gut me. I broke her neck. The cadet rose, sword already drawn beneath the table. I killed him too. I walked out the house. The girl tossed the ball to the dog. It barked. She stared at me, to the house, to me. A blue ball, with white stars. I walked out the gate, down the lane and back to war.

  I resigned as striker. My commander threatened. When I declined, he sent me to the front of battle. I returned. He sent me off again. I returned again. Pattern established, I began mocking him. My fellow strikers challenged me. Their mistake. Then it was I began hearing the name Seraph. Soldiers and camp-followers would whisper it as I passed. Some would stand, even officers. They became more enthusiastic in my war than with the enemy king.

  Eventually I cut his throat. My commander's, I mean. Not the enemy king. I suppose I should have done both, but be practical. One throat was at hand, the other leagues away. We do the task set before us. They’d have hung me but fortune’s wheel spun, the government changed. I received a pardon, the friendship of the Magisterium, the patronage of the Aldermen. A house, a valet, a use for my skills. In those days Black was one of us. Sitting at table, quaffing wine, toasting the sane clean future.

  Back to work. Standing in an alley, dagger at ready, feet set in slippery filth. The blind beggar strode into shadows and on to eternity, accompanied by the associate. I have no idea why they followed the Seraph into an alley. Was the reward for my head so high? Or had everyone decided I'd gone soft? I did not ask. I exited the alley wearing the associate's cloak, the beggar's hat. A turkey feather atop, not an eagle's. I thought it reasonably dashing.

  Perhaps I was still a striker; seeking those who failed their duty. Was not that my accusation against Black? He malingered in his duty to his fellow humanity. He fed on lives like a butcher. Granted, so did I. Perhaps I should challenge myself.

  I continued down High-Street. I studied faces, found them no different than those in the camps of war. Every soul seemed fevered yet bored, carrying a background fear of death, a present preoccupation with lunch. I watched a banker eye the bottom of a girl selling violets, while a pickpocket snipped his watch chain. A dog stood on a balcony beneath an ornate window, barking down at the beggar pissing against the wall. A pamphlet-prophet stood as a rock in the stream, traffic growling and scowling around him. He jabbed tracts at man and horse and dog. Not a one accepted.

  A trio of women upon the Cathedral stairs. Hymn-singing, all but shouting above street rumble, crowd grumble. The women wore long dresses, ostentatiously plain. Grey-washed cotton in layers that hid the measure of every curve. They held hands, three gray graces proclaiming

  And though this world, with devils filled,

  should threaten to undo us,

  we will not fear, for God hath willed

  his truth to triumph through us.

  I studied the faces of the three. An old creature, a young-
woman, a girl. Three generations, no doubt. Each attractive, even the eldest. She stood a stark beauty the wind of years had polished, scouring all dross of idiot youth. The second creature burned with red hair come undone, eyes searching the sky for the flags of approaching angelic hosts. The youngest twitched, shivering in religious ecstasy or adolescent impatience. She sang high, with clear tones that shivered the spine. I stopped, astounded at the beauty of that voice. In return, she glanced at me, still singing. She gave me a wink warm as a whore astride a banker’s lap.

  The Prince of Darkness grim,

  we tremble not for him;

  his rage we can endure,

  for lo, his doom is sure;

  one little word shall fell him.

  The busy street flowed past, unimpressed. Of late all the city walked flushed with religious fever, cracked lips muttering scripture. Prophets on every corner, preachers at every step, tracts in the wind like feathers in a cock-fight.

  The oldest grace turned to me and gestured. Imperious command: approach us. I considered my response. How was I disguised? Still half-penny guard? I had to check. Cheap cloak, feathered hat. Ah, I had descended to Street ruffian. Searching for easy women, easy coin. I considered these faces. Not easy, but mad and pretty. I approached.

  The three stopped their song to consider me. The oldest turned to the second. “Who?” she asked. The red-haired woman leaned forwards and sniffed.

  “Behold one Graceless,” she declared to the street. “Of the race of Japheth. He’s come from the City of Destruction, and is on pilgrimage to the Celestial City.” A few passersby stopped to consider this declaration. They studied me, pilgrim on display. A passing grocer snorted. “Good luck to ‘im, then.”

  Truly I was no pilgrim. I caught religion around twelve, just after the measles. I survived both. At thirteen I grew hair under my arms, between my legs, and tossed scripture to pious spirits and feeble minds. Two tribes I could never distinguish by dialect or dress. Arrogant of me, but I was newly come into awareness of my abilities. When a thirteen-year old boy bests a tavern duelist with knife and boot, he will sniff at prayer, and there’s an end.