She struck Bloodfang hard, goading it onwards.
To the mountains, you and I. For the reckoning.
Chapter Fifteen
The meeting broke up in the evening, just as the shadows began to lengthen. Caradryel had watched it all with interest, hanging back in the margins and taking care not to become conspicuous.
It was good to be back among the civilised; the stench of the dawi had become wearisome. The food they had given him had been all but inedible — heavy sourdough breads slathered in some form of meat dripping washed down with the bitterest, darkest, foamiest liquid he had ever imbibed. He’d struggled to keep it in his stomach, though he couldn’t deny it had given him endurance to keep marching.
Imladrik had been appreciative of his efforts in bringing Morgrim to the table, though there had been little time for the two of them to confer since his return. Caradryel had not been able to pass on properly his worries over division within the dwarf ranks, though Imladrik would surely have guessed much of it. Most of the dawi army was thirsting for blood still; it would take only the merest hint of a spark to light the fire again.
‘Worry about our own people,’ Imladrik had told him. ‘That is your task now.’
Since then Caradryel’s eyes had been firmly fixed on the asur delegation. He’d watched Gelthar try his best to hide his uneasiness, Caerwal his impotent hostility, Aelis her frustration at being sidelined. They were all of them chafing for one reason or another, though their noble-born discipline worked hard against rebellion.
As he had been from the start, Salendor remained the worry. The warrior-mage had scowled and frowned his way through the proceedings, interjecting unhelpfully and coming perilously close to overriding Imladrik twice. The dwarfs must have noticed, though of course they gave no sign of it.
Now, as the various contingents left the main tent and made their way warily back to their respective camps, the fragile air of amity withered again. Asur guards looked on stonily as the dawi trudged out of the marquee and back to their increasingly settled battle-lines.
Morgrim was the last to go.
‘Until tomorrow,’ Imladrik told him, bowing.
‘Until then,’ Morgrim replied, nodding brusquely.
After that the tent remained occupied only by asur council members. Servants milled around them, removing the linen drapes and the pitchers and salvers that had been served during the day. Caerwal talked animatedly with Aelis — something about reparations for Athel Numiel — Gelthar with Imladrik. Only Salendor was missing.
Caradryel withdrew from the tent and made his way across the rutted plain towards the city. In the failing light Tor Alessi looked even more massive and unlovely than it had when he’d left it. He reached the gates, showed his medallion of office to the guards and passed under the archway.
Inside the walls Tor Alessi hummed with activity. Its streets were crowded, just as always, swollen with soldiers hurrying to their stations or back to barracks. Caradryel pushed his way through the jostling throngs. No one paid him any attention — he was just one more official on just one more errand.
Salendor’s mansion close to the quayside was well-guarded and not easy to observe unseen. By the time Caradryel reached it — an extensive, many-towered edifice near the waterfront, encircled by high walls — torches were being lit against the gathering dark. He could see the masts of ships in the harbour, black against deep blue.
Caradryel pulled back, letting the shadows of the nearside wall envelop him. The roads were still busy, dense with movement just like every street and alleyway in the entire fortress. He watched the gates of Salendor’s mansion for a few moments. No one came in or out. A soft glow of lanterns spilled from the upper windows, but no figures were silhouetted against the glass.
He withdrew, walking back the way he had come until he reached a nondescript-looking building set back from the quayside road, three storeys tall, square and heavily built. The smell of grain emanated from it and piles of empty sacking slumped against the stone. Like so many of the harbourside buildings it had long since been commandeered for supply storage, which made it ideal for the purposes Caradryel had put it to.
He slipped a key into the lock and went inside, climbing up a steep stairwell past stacked grainsacks and wine barrels. The third floor was largely empty. As he entered, a figure at the window turned hurriedly to look at him.
‘It’s me,’ said Caradryel, joining him. ‘Anything to report?’
Geleth, one of his many agents in the city, relaxed. ‘He’s had visitors.’
‘From Athel Maraya?’
‘Hard to tell.’
Caradryel peered out of the window, keeping his head low against the sill. Salendor’s mansion was quiet, enclosed within its high walls and insulated from the bustle outside.
‘How long has he been back?’
‘He arrived just ahead of you.’
Caradryel nodded. There was nothing, nothing at all, suspicious about Salendor’s movements — every member of the Council had supplicants and counsellors calling in a steady stream, even more so since the preparations for battle had been stepped up. Unusual, though, to receive them here, rather than his formal lodgings near the Tower of Winds.
Caradryel scanned the mansion frontage. It was an old design, less functional than the buildings on either side of it, with something of the old flamboyance of Athinol. It looked like the two wings ran back a long way from the frontage, part-hidden by the walls of the mansion’s neighbours. He could just make out lantern-glows from a long way back, though the windows themselves were almost totally obscured.
‘How many guests entered by the main gates?’ Caradryel asked.
‘A dozen or so.’
‘And left?’
‘Half that.’
Caradryel nodded. ‘So they’re being put up, or there’s another way out.’ He pushed himself to his feet. ‘Keep watching the gates. Try to spy an insignia if you can.’
He walked back down to street level, wondering where best to start in the maze of alleyways and narrow streets that zigzagged around the mansion. He matched the unconcerned gait of those around him, letting his eyes wander over the buildings that loomed up into the early evening sky.
It would have been pleasant to linger, had circumstances been different. The soft light on the stone, the chatter of the crowds, the smell of cooking from a dozen different windows, it was all agreeable enough.
Following a hunch, Caradryel ambled into a very narrow alleyway that ran at an angle away from the main street. Just as he had expected, after a while it doubled back, enclosed on either side by tall stone walls with few overlooking windows. He smelled the dank, briny smell of seawater puddles and felt layers of moist dust under his boots. Soon he was in a labyrinth of capillary footways, all of them hemmed in by a close press of tenements. The hubbub of the main thorough-
fares fell away into a low, distant hum.
Then, fifty yards ahead, he saw a shadow flit from a side door, a door that might very well have led out from one of the mansion’s rear wings. Caradryel lengthened his stride. The shadow went ahead of him, neither hurrying nor tarrying. It wore a cloak with a red lining.
Caradryel began to catch up, and checked his pace — he needed to see where Salendor’s guests were coming from before he challenged them. He slipped around a sharp corner only to stare down an empty path. Too late, he realised he’d missed a narrow opening twenty paces back, and retraced his steps just in time to see his quarry reach the end of another meandering alleyway.
Caradryel broke into a jog, cursing himself for carelessness. The end of the alleyway opened out on to the main quayside thoroughfare, as busy as all the others. Caradryel emerged breathlessly from the shadows, peering back and forth.