“I am a brother of the Sixth Order,” he replied. “Come in search of Princess Lyrna.”
“You wear no cloak,” she said, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“Brother Frentis?” the lanky youth came forward, staring at him. “Could you be Brother Frentis?”
“I am,” he said. “Is the princess here?”
The Lonak woman lowered her spear, though her suspicion still lingered. “This place falls to deceit,” she told the boy. “Don’t give your trust so easy.”
“This is Brother Frentis,” he replied. “And you saw what he just did. If we cannot trust him, there is no-one to trust.”
“The princess,” Frentis repeated.
“She’s not here,” the boy said. “We haven’t seen her since she went to meet with the King. I’m Arendil, this is Davoka.”
“You are far from the mountains,” Frentis observed to the Lonak woman.
“I am ambassador,” she replied. “What has happened here?”
“The King has been assassinated, also his queen and the children. Princess Lyrna has fled, badly wounded. We must find her.”
The Lonak woman’s eyes lit with rage and concern. “Wounded! How?”
“She burned. The assassin . . . had a Dark ability with fire.”
Davoka hefted her spear. “Where is this assassin?”
“Dead by my hand. We have no time for this. A Volarian army comes ashore as we speak and this city will be in their hands within hours.” He cast around at the empty palace halls. She will not be found here. “We have to leave,” he said. “Get to the Order House.”
“Not without my queen,” Davoka stated.
“If you linger here, you’ll die and she’ll still be unfound.” He gestured at the long sword in the boy’s hands. “Can you use that?”
The boy took a firmer grip on the hilt and nodded.
“Then next time do so, don’t just stand there.” He started for the courtyard, Arendil trotting after.
“Davoka,” he paused to hiss at the Lonak woman. “Please!”
Frentis ran on, making for the western wall. The gates would be in Volarian hands by now, they would have to find another way. He glanced back on reaching the wall, seeing Davoka’s tall form following. He moved right for another forty feet or so until he found it, a shallow drain leaking foul-smelling water into the city sewers through a channel in the base of the wall.
“We won’t fit,” Arendil said, nose wrinkling at the smell.
The channel was barely one foot high, though fortunately without bars. “Strip,” Frentis told him, pulling off his shirt. “Smear yourself with shit. It’ll ease your passage.”
He went first, scooping up muck from the drain water to cover his chest and arms. He cast the sword ahead of him then lay down and crawled through, straining to squirm into the sewer beyond, skin scraped and chafed by the rock, his knife wound stinging from the foulness that would surely infect it. With a final grunt he hauled himself free of the channel, bending down and extending a hand to the boy. He pushed his long sword through then followed, coughing and retching from the stench. Davoka was next, her spear clattering past them before her head appeared, teeth bared as she tried to pull herself free. Frentis and Arendil took hold of her arms and hauled her out, Arendil gaping at her bare though shit-covered breasts. She cuffed him on the side of the head and retrieved her spear.
“How do we find our way down here?” Arendil asked, rubbing his stinging head.
Frentis found he had a laugh in him. “How does anyone find their way around their home?”
He tried for the northern river outlet first, it was closest and offered the prospect of the north road, the quickest route to the Order House. He had Davoka and Arendil wait whilst he crawled through the pipe to the river, peering out at the half-obscured north gate on the far bank. Varitai were already manning the gatehouse with more on the walls, including several archers. He had hoped to crawl along the bank and through the channel under the city wall but they would be seen almost instantly and swimming upriver against the current was impossible.
“No good,” he reported after crawling back. “The walls are lost.”
“No other way?” Davoka asked.
“Just one.” He didn’t like it, the route was tortuous and would add miles to their journey to the Order House, but all other avenues would be well guarded by now. For all his detestation of the Volarians, their efficiency demanded considerable respect.
“You were there,” Davoka said as he led them on an easterly course through the maze of tunnels, splashing through the foul waters that still made Arendil retch with every other step. “You saw this assassin?”
The King’s eyes . . . the sound his neck made as it broke, like a dry piece of driftwood . . . “I was.”
“There was no warning? No chance to stop it?”
“If there had been, I would have taken it.”
A pause as she fumbled for the right words. “The gorin . . . character of the assassin? Their name?”
“A Volarian woman. I never knew her name.” He held up a hand as a sound echoed through the tunnels, a brief shout, quickly cut off. He crouched, waiting, listening. Faint whispers came to him, rough voices in argument, the words indistinct.
Frentis crept forward, sliding his feet along under the water, pausing at a corner as the voices became clearer. Two of them, both male. “I ain’t staying down ’ere all fuckin’ night,” a guttural whisper, the words pitched high in desperation.
“Then go for a nice walk outside,” a calmer response, but still edged with fear. “Make some new friends.”
A pause, then a sullen mutter, “Must be somewhere better’n this shit pipe.”
“There isn’t,” Frentis said, stepping round the corner.
The two men crouched in the tunnel ahead gaped at him then surged to their feet. The smaller of the two, shaven-headed with a gold earring, carried a long-bladed dagger. His companion, a large man with a mass of shaggy black hair, brandished a cudgel as Frentis came closer.
“Who the fuck are you?” the large man demanded.
“I am a brother of the Sixth Order.”
“Balls, where’s your cloak?” He advanced raising the cudgel with a snarl, stopping short as Frentis’s sword point appeared under his chin.
“Proof enough?” Frentis asked.
The smaller man seemed about to intervene then caught sight of Davoka advancing along the tunnel, spear levelled. “No offence, brother,” he said, pushing the dagger into his belt and raising his hands. “I’m Ulven and this fine fellow is known as Bear, account of his hair, see? Just two honest folk seeking refuge.”
“Really?” Frentis angled his gaze, studying the large man’s fearful visage. “When this one used to collect for One Eye he was called Draker and you were called Ratter, on account of your trustworthy nature.”
The smaller man drew back, eyes narrowed. “I know you, brother?”
“You used to call me shit-bag when you gave me a kicking. The night I gave One Eye his name you were right behind him as I recall.”
“Frentis,” the man breathed, partly in amazement, but more in fear.
“Brother Frentis,” he corrected.
Ratter swallowed, glancing behind him in preparation for flight. “That . . . was a lotta years gone, brother.”
He had often dreamed of a chance for vengeance, recompense for all those beatings, all his stolen loot. Killing them would be so easy, he was so well practised after all.
“One Eye blamed us, y’see,” Ratter went on, backing away. “For not spotting you that night. We had to leave the city for years, lived like beggars we did.”
“How terrible for you.” Frentis looked into Draker’s eyes, seeing only fear, like the bandit in the desert, or the smuggler’s first mate . . .
“We’re making for the harbour-pipe,” he said, withdrawing the sword point and moving on, Ratter shrinking away as he passed. “You can come, but I hear one ounce of shit from either of you, you’re done. Understand?”