Scrivener's Tale Page 11

  ‘And being cautious now he simply watched?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Fynch said. ‘Ready?’ Cassien nodded. ‘Then it’s time to call on the tailor,’ Fynch said, looking up as they departed Wife Wiggins’s barn.

  ‘How do you know all of this information about Cyricus?’

  ‘I told you I’m old. I’ve mentioned I’ve travelled — and not just in this plane. On this you must trust me. I’ve had a talent since childhood for gathering, memorising and being able to collate vast amounts of what might appear to be unrelated pieces of information. And the beasts of the world are far more attuned to the natural order of things, especially if they are disrupted in any way. They know he is coming.’

  Fynch guided Cassien to a small lane that dipped down and led to the centre of the town. ‘We don’t have to go all the way in. Just a few doors down is Master Zeek.’

  ‘You said he needs a host,’ Cassien wondered aloud.

  ‘He will inhabit a mortal to gain power before he begins to lay waste to the forests and the Wild as well as its creatures.’

  Fynch had his hand on the door-knob of a shop doorway.

  ‘This is the tailor. We must stop our discussion now. I know you have more questions but there are only two points that matter in all that I’ve said.’ He raised a finger. ‘Your role to protect the new queen with your life.’ He raised a second finger. ‘And to find a way to slay Cyricus when he presents himself … and he will.’

  The door was opened and Cassien had to bite back the flood of new thoughts because a smiling, rotund man emerged from behind a small curtain.

  ‘Master Fynch, welcome back. And this must be your nephew.’

  The small shop smelled of endless rows of fabric, slightly oily and earthy and pleasing to Cassien. It was quiet too, which he appreciated after the bustle of the small lanes they’d walked to get here. Bolts of linens were piled high behind the smiling tailor in towers of colours of all hue; others lay on the ground in smaller heaps and others still, the finest cloths, were in glass cabinets.

  Cassien watched Fynch smile warmly at the man. ‘Tailor Zeek, this is him, yes. Do you think we made a good fit between us?’

  Zeek’s waxed moustache twitched as he appraised Cassien with a knowledgeable look, his head cocked to one side. ‘Indeed, Master Fynch. I doubt few, if any, adjustments may be required to what I made up on your instructions. Shall we try?’

  Fynch turned to Cassien. ‘Would you care to try on some new clothes?’

  ‘They’ll scratch at first,’ Zeek warned, ‘but this particular yarn from the senleng plant softens like no other. You’ll barely know you’re wearing the garments in a moon or two.’

  Cassien looked between the pair of them, realising that Fynch had had these clothes made for this moment, had obviously decided some time ago to steal Cassien away from beneath Loup’s nose and Josse’s rules and the Brotherhood’s care, and had planned their escape. ‘I’ll be glad to try them on,’ he replied, and stepped into the back of the shop.

  ‘I shall hang them here,’ Zeek said, placing a shirt, vest, trews and cloak on a hook nearby. ‘Take your time, young man.’ He disappeared to the front of the shop and Cassien could hear the men talking in low voices.

  He regarded the clothes. The trousers were dark … the colour of scorched wood. The shirt was a lighter hue, but not by much, while the cloak was soft wool, black as the forest night and whisper-light. Each item was cut and sewn together beautifully. He’d never handled such fine garments before and could barely believe they were for him. Guiltily he climbed into them, amazed by their nearly perfect fit.

  He came out from the back area and Zeek cast an appraising eye up and down, getting Cassien to turn this way and that.

  ‘Those trousers are not snug enough around the waist.’

  ‘Yes, I think you might have worked a little harder in the last few moons, Cassien, than I calculated,’ Fynch admitted, regarding him.

  ‘They fit like a dream,’ Cassien replied, unsure of what they were both unhappy with. He turned to stare at himself in the tall mirror on one side of the shop and blinked. He’d not seen himself from the chin down in a long time.

  Fynch sidled up. ‘Recognise yourself?’

  Cassien looked with surprise at the man staring back at him from the mirror. He was familiar with the face but the frame that these new dark clothes hung from was surely too tall, too hardened beneath the linens. He could see muscles outlined on a chest he’d never realised was that broad. He’d arrived in the forest as a youngster and he’d left it as a man. His hair was darker than he ever remembered it, even despite its dampness.

  ‘Now,’ Zeek continued, ‘as per your instructions, Master Fynch, I had these made in a town in the far north. Only recently delivered — I was worried, I’ll admit,’ he said, reaching behind his counter and straightening, holding an odd contraption of leather straps.

  ‘This is for you, Cassien,’ Fynch said. ‘I’m sure you’ll work out its use.’

  Cassien studied what now lay in his hands, knowing instantly what it was. Fynch had obviously commissioned a special holster, not just a belt for a sword, but with straps that wrapped diagonally across his body and over his back so that he could also carry two concealed daggers on his back. Except he’d not brought any weapons. Loup had taken them.

  Even so, he was thrilled to tie on the holster and marvelled at how its colour matched the shirt so as to blend in and almost disappear.

  Zeek came up behind him and placed the hooded cloak around his shoulders, tying it at his throat. ‘This covers everything, but you should find it light enough that if you need to draw your weapons it can be flicked aside.’

  ‘I can see you are happy,’ Fynch said to him.

  ‘I am privileged,’ he remarked, unsure of what to say. ‘Thanks to you both.’

  ‘Well, there’s more, Cassien,’ Fynch continued. ‘All of that leatherwork is useless without its weapons. I presume you have my parcel, Master Zeek?’

  ‘Oh yes, indeed. I have kept these hidden and am very glad to finally pass them to their owner. They are fearsome. I hope you never have to use them, sir,’ he said to Cassien. He disappeared once again behind the shop.

  Zeek returned, this time carrying a box. ‘Impossibly beautiful craftsmanship, Master Fynch, as only Orkyld knows.’

  Fynch nodded. ‘Master Wevyr is a magician with weapons,’ he admitted.

  Zeek placed the box with great care on the counter and Cassien, holding his breath, peered in. He could barely believe he was looking at the most beautiful set of sword and daggers he’d ever laid eyes on.

  ‘Aren’t you going to hold them?’ Fynch asked.

  He tore his gaze away and turned it on Fynch. ‘These are truly for me?’

  ‘I can’t handle them, and I know Master Zeek is a wizard with a needle and thread, but a sword?’ Fynch shook his head in mock despair. ‘We are old men.’

  ‘I couldn’t even swing that more than once, Master Fynch,’ his co-conspirator, Zeek, agreed. ‘My shoulders aren’t what they used to be.’

  Cassien reached in, holding his breath, and reverently lifted the two daggers first. ‘Caronas,’ he whispered.

  ‘Wevyr said you’d know them.’

  ‘Matching. Ancient styling. Perfect balance. To be drawn as a pair over each shoulder.’

  ‘Hence the special holster,’ Zeek remarked rather unnecessarily, but it seemed all three men were under the spell of the beautiful blades.

  Fynch gave some explanation as Cassien ran his fingers over the metalwork of the throwing daggers. ‘The metal on all of these has been forged personally by Master Wevyr of Orkyld. Wevyr said he’ll discuss them if you pay a visit. For now I’m to tell you that they contain three metals each, and one additional ingredient that is a secret only Wevyr and I know is in the sword. They have been heated and cooled, hammered and re-heated many times. Their strength is unrivalled but within that strength is a flexibility you will appreciate. That pattern on the blade
you see …’

  Cassien touched the exquisitely expressed symbol of the Brotherhood — a twisted knot — that ran the length of the blades in a lighter metal. ‘Beautiful,’ he murmured.

  ‘No other sword or dagger will ever bear that marking again. He said he has done this for you alone.’ Fynch smiled. ‘He called this the Cassien Collection.’

  ‘Master Fynch, they must be worth a fortune,’ Cassien said, shaking his head.

  ‘Indeed, and if Master Zeek wasn’t such a reliable man I would have to ask you to use that blade on his throat right now to ensure secrecy.’

  Zeek gave a soft squeal of horror. The weapons possessed a presence of their own — frightening in a quiet, elegant way. Fynch chuckled to reassure Zeek that it was a jest, but Cassien frowned. It was the first time that he’d heard a note of insincerity in Fynch’s laugh; he wasn’t so sure that Fynch had been jesting. In that moment, he saw the toughness, the spine that Fynch possessed; beneath the kindly façade was a man on a mission.

  Zeek laughed nervously. ‘Oh, Master Fynch, you know I would never discuss private business matters,’ he assured him.

  Cassien noticed what would be invisible to most people … tiny beads of perspiration on the man’s forehead.

  ‘Did you get the boots as I asked, Zeek?’ Fynch continued.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said with forced merriment. ‘Let me fetch those too. I hope they will fit.’ He disappeared once again.

  ‘He’s lying.’

  Fynch regarded Cassien. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Small signs betray him.’

  Fynch had no time to ask more, for Zeek was back, his forehead patted dry of its telltale beads, although Cassien’s keen sense of smell picked up the tangy dampness of fresh sweat. He was sure now.

  ‘Here we are,’ the merchant said brightly. ‘Boots, as you asked, Master Fynch.’

  Fynch forced a smile at Cassien. ‘Hope they fit.’ He could smell the leather that creaked beneath his touch; it was soft yet held the shape of the boot perfectly. He knew they would be comfortable and this was proved as soon as he slipped them easily on to each foot.

  ‘Once again, perfect. Thank you, Master Zeek.’

  ‘Expensive, but worth it. I’m afraid I have no money to return to you, Master Fynch. But then we did —’

  ‘Yes, we did,’ Fynch agreed. ‘Have you kept any record of the transactions, Zeek?’

  ‘None at all,’ the tailor replied, scratching his head. Then he busied himself with clearing away the string that held the boots together. He began talking about the onset of bad weather. ‘I hope you don’t have far to travel, Master Fynch. There could be a storm in the region.’

  Fynch ignored the small talk. ‘And you spoke to no-one else about the weapons or the belts, the boots or the garments … or of my presence?’ he pressed.

  ‘No, no,’ Zeek protested, his tone defensive. ‘I am as good as my word,’ he said, irritation beginning to crease his face but Cassien saw that his gaze never lighted on Fynch.

  Fynch glanced at his travelling companion, but Cassien’s attention was drawn abruptly to the mirror … which held the image of Romaine. It was as if time stood still, just for a heartbeat.

  He can describe you. He must be dealt with.

  Her image shimmered away. He blinked, confused. Fynch was still looking at him.

  ‘Must be time to go,’ he said.

  Cassien nodded. ‘Thank you, Master Zeek.’

  ‘Oh, any time, any time,’ he prattled, coming around the counter to show them out. ‘Watch that storm now. Farewell to you both,’ he said, hurriedly closing the door behind them.

  Once outside and out of the shop’s line of sight, Cassien pulled Fynch into a small alley. ‘He can point me out, lead the enemy to either of us.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ Fynch pleaded.

  Cassien nodded. He chose not to mention Romaine. ‘You impressed on me that surprise is our real weapon.’ He nodded toward Zeek. ‘No matter how innocent, he could have already ruined that.’

  ‘Who could Zeek have told that would trouble us?’

  ‘Does it matter? He’s talked, that much is obvious. I have to find out who to and then kill him.’

  Fynch’s gaze dropped and he seemed to sag like a sack of flour. ‘I saw Romaine. I was not privy to what she shared, but I know she was present. She agrees, doesn’t she?’

  ‘That he must be dealt with, yes.’

  ‘I’ve known him a long time.’

  ‘Master Fynch, I’ve had to take you at your word, trust your instincts, believe all that you claim. I am even having to ignore orders from the Brotherhood.’

  ‘I have no reason to lie to you. Even letting Brother Josse in on this plan was dangerous, and by that I mean it endangered his life. Right now Josse doesn’t even know what you look like. He can’t describe you. No-one can.’

  ‘Zeek can.’

  Fynch nodded. ‘Make it silent and clean.’

  Cassien heard the familiar soft buzz behind his ears that arrived just before one of Loup’s tests. It spurred him on. He spun on his heel and walked back into the shop. It was deserted as before, but this time he didn’t wait, easily jumping the counter and pulling back the curtain where he found Zeek clearly packing up.

  The tailor turned and gave a soft, terrified shriek. ‘Please, I didn’t mean to bring any trouble,’ he begged.

  Cassien took a deep breath. The man was confessing before he’d even exchanged a word. ‘Who have you told?’

  ‘No-one important, I promise.’

  ‘Who?’ Cassien’s arms were relaxed at his side although Zeek’s gaze kept flicking to them in case he suddenly moved to draw the weapons that the tailor had just seen him strap on.

  ‘You were sworn to secrecy.’

  ‘Yes,’ the man whispered, trembling.

  ‘You were paid handsomely for that secrecy, as I understand it.’

  ‘I was. More than I dared dream of.’

  ‘So why, Master Zeek?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen so much money at once. I drank too much. I went to the brothel and probably said more than I should. But she was just a whore. What can she do?’

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  Zeek began to moan. ‘I can’t remember. But it wasn’t the local brothel. It was the one at Orkyld, when I picked up your weapons. She probably can’t even remember the fat, blathering drunk who fell asleep on top of her,’ he wept.

  Cassien moved closer to the tailor and felt sympathy for him as he shied away. ‘She may not mean to but she could pass on information to any number of others. There are men who would want these weapons.’

  ‘You look like you can defend yourself,’ Zeek bleated.

  ‘Yes, I can. It’s not that. It’s the knowledge being out there that I have them. You have marked me by your loose mouth. What is her name?’

  ‘Name?’ He shook his head. ‘How should I know? I was drunk.’

  ‘Think. It will help your case.’

  Encouraged by the titbit of pity, Zeek strained to remember, closing his eyes. He shook his head, his cheeks wobbling. ‘I can’t remember. Oh, please, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Try harder. Any clue?’

  Zeek reached hard. ‘Pila? … No. Petal?’ He held his head. ‘I can’t recall. Something like that. I’m nervous, forgive me.’

  ‘Describe her,’ Cassien suggested.

  ‘Flame-haired, arresting eyes. Very popular.’ He sighed. ‘I was her tenth that day, she said. I know she won’t remember me or my ramblings.’

  Cassien nodded.

  ‘I will give you the money, whatever remains,’ the tailor tried.

  He knew it was hopeless. Not only was this man unreliable and untrustworthy, he was also a coward and he would beg on his knees to anyone who came around asking questions about Fynch or his so-called nephew, or the weapons.

  ‘You see that out there, Master Zeek,’ he said gently, pointing to the window.

  Zeek frowne
d in spite of his fear and obediently looked … and it was in that moment of distraction that Cassien acted. In a heartbeat he had wrapped the man up into a hold favoured by the Brotherhood known simply as ‘the Tomb’. It was an effective death-hold that depressed a pressure point in the man’s neck rendering him unconscious. As soon as Zeek went limp in his arms Cassien laid him gently on the ground.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tailor Zeek,’ he murmured and then silently recited the Prayer of Sending that all the Brothers accorded their victims. It was short, committing Zeek to Shar’s safekeeping and acknowledging himself as the killer but on Shar’s authority to protect the Crown.

  ‘Search your heart until you see it as pure, Brother Cassien,’ Josse had said in parting on the day Cassien had been taken to the forest. ‘You cannot undertake the work of the Brotherhood until you have no conscience about it.’

  ‘How can we take a life coldly and absolve ourselves of any crime, any responsibility, any remorse?’ he’d queried, feeling angry. He recalled his mood well because Brother Josse had snapped at him.

  ‘You don’t absolve yourself. Shar does! But that’s not the point. You take responsibility for the killing because you are safekeeping the Crown and for no other reason. It is the law that guides us.’

  ‘Outside of the priory we’d be put on trial as murderers. Why are we any different?’ he’d argued.

  Josse had regained his patience. His voice had been gentle when he spoke again. ‘Cassien, our work is on behalf of the royals alone. The ancient royal house of Morgravia that absorbed Briavel and the Razor Kingdom to form its new imperial throne decades ago was the seat of the dragon. You understand this, don’t you?’ Cassien had nodded. Of course he knew it. The sovereigns of Morgravia — and only those of royal blood — were linked with the dragon as their motif, the spiritual power that guided their reign. ‘The imperial throne answers only to Shar. Do you understand that too?’