‘Everything isn’t always what it seems,’ said Roban quietly, watching her with wary eyes. ‘I didn’t know you had a knife. Or that you could use it.’
‘I’m a hunter!’ spat Clariel, too loudly, the force of her words helping rekindle the anger she had tamped back down. She took a breath, slowly releasing it, expelling the rage as her lungs emptied. This anger came upon her rarely, but she knew she had to be careful of its consequences. She had kept it suppressed since she was old enough to realise what it could lead her to. In the rage, Clariel was not herself.
‘I see,’ muttered Roban. ‘Are you all right?’
Clariel knew what he really meant was ‘Have you got yourself under control?’
‘Yes,’ she said, sheathing her knife back in its special place inside her boot. Her hand was trembling, and she felt strangely weak, as if her knees might fold and she would tumble to the ground. She took a deep breath and managed to stand fully upright, but she was very wobbly on her feet.
Only then did Roban come closer. He put his hand under her elbow to steady her and leaned close to whisper.
‘Just go along with this for the moment. All right?’
‘Only if you explain why you stopped me.’
‘Later,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Not safe here.’
‘Oh, milady,’ cried Valannie, hurrying over. She was the only one heading towards Clariel. The previously crowded street was emptying fast. People were disappearing into shops and houses, or retreating back up the street, a tide of humanity most definitely on the ebb.
Valannie looked at Roban, who gave a slight nod, filled his lungs and shouted.
‘Goldsmiths! Goldsmiths! To me! A guard! A guard!’
His cry was answered swiftly. Far more swiftly than would usually be the case, suspected Clariel. Shouts came from several directions, repeating his words, and within a few minutes the heavy tramp of many boots upon the paved street could be heard, accompanied by the clatter and jangle of arms and armour.
‘What is going on?’ asked Clariel. She could feel her strength returning, and stepped away from Roban’s supporting hand.
‘A vicious attack upon a goldsmith’s daughter,’ said Valannie. ‘Terrible it is. You were lucky not to be killed.’
‘No I wasn’t,’ protested Clariel. ‘It was –’
‘Shock,’ interrupted Roban urgently. His right eye half closed in a desperate, slow wink. ‘You’ve had a nasty shock. But you’re safe now. Look, here come the Guard.’
‘Faked,’ whispered Clariel, low and to herself. The cut had missed her by a body’s width at least. If the young man had really wanted to hit her, he would have stabbed her in the back. And if Roban had really thought he was an assassin, he would have had his sword drawn and through the man in an instant, instead of punching and throwing him, and he certainly wouldn’t have blocked Clariel’s own attack.
She was wondering what this was all about as two score or more of armed soldiery came around the corner, marching in step. Though all wore hauberks of mail or gethre plates, their surcoats varied, showing different Guild insignia. There were gold coins for the Goldsmiths, stylised ships for the Merchant Adventurers, bright blue drops for the Dyers, upright swords for the Weaponsmiths, and other blazons Clariel did not immediately recognise.
They were led by a tall and imposing man of middle age, who wore a long, very white surcoat over a hauberk of gilded mail, not gethre plates. The surcoat was embroidered with the tower and aqueduct symbol of the city of Belisaere, with a smaller badge above his heart, the coins of the Goldsmiths again. It was cinched tightly at the waist by a very shiny belt of gold, supporting a gold scabbard that held a rather impractical-looking but very decorative sword with swan-wing quillons and a jewel in the pommel. He looked to be forty or thereabouts, and no doubt had been very handsome when younger, as much of it still remained in his even features and thick, dark hair. But as he drew closer, Clariel noted his eyes were narrow, sharp and distrustful, the eyes not of a hunter, but of a vicious predator. He reminded her somewhat of a stoat. A sleek and powerful stoat.
‘Guildmaster Kilp,’ whispered Valannie in Clariel’s ear. ‘A middle bow to him usually, Guild relative to Guildmaster, but as he’s Governor of the city as well, a full bow please, milady.’
Clariel bowed low as the Governor approached. She kept her face impassive, but inside she was trying to figure all this out. The attack on her had been staged, but for what purpose? Clearly something organised by Kilp, because why would he be so close by otherwise?
‘Ah, the young lady Clariel, daughter of my most gifted colleague Jaciel,’ said Kilp, returning her bow with a slight inclination of his head. As he straightened up, she saw he had no baptismal Charter mark on his forehead, or if he did, it had been very cleverly hidden with powder and paint. He smiled as he spoke, but though his lips curled, she felt no warmth or kindness in his smile. ‘I trust you have taken no harm?’
‘No, sir,’ said Clariel shortly. She almost said something else, but Roban had edged into her vision and his eyes, at least, were alive with an emotion, one she recognised as apprehension, perhaps even fear. She shut her mouth, and saw Roban’s throat move slightly, a barely noticeable gulp of relief.
‘I am pleased to hear it,’ said Kilp. He lifted his head and raised his voice, speaking not to Clariel, but to the few people still around, and no doubt to the others listening behind shutters and doors in the shops and houses nearby. ‘If you had been injured or, Charter forbid, killed, then we would not rest to bring the assassin to justice. Indeed, should any of my Guildmembers suffer such an attack again, we would be forced to close off the location, forbid all business, search all within and take any further action that might be warranted.’
He looked at Clariel and smiled again. She smiled back, the smile she used for customers who were trying to sneak bad coins in payment, pass an alloy as pure gold, or otherwise cheat her parents’ business.
‘Perhaps I can escort you home, Lady Clariel?’ he asked. ‘To be certain of your safety.’
Clariel shook her head. She didn’t know what was going on, but she was certain she didn’t want to spend any more time in Kilp’s company than was absolutely necessary.
‘No thank you, Guildmaster. We have not yet completed our purchases. Valannie, please, let us continue.’
Valannie looked frightened now, more fearful than Roban had done a few moments before, as if declining Kilp’s invitation was akin to putting Clariel’s head on the block. Or maybe Valannie’s head, since Clariel doubted the maid was at heart concerned with anyone other than herself.
‘Oh, milady! After such a terrible ordeal, surely you should accept the Governor’s kind offer and go straight home? I can buy everything you need, I have your sizes and –’
‘I prefer to do it myself,’ said Clariel. ‘By your leave, sir?’
She bowed to Kilp again, and took a step backwards.
‘You are brave,’ said the Guildmaster. ‘If perhaps a little headstrong. We must take care nothing happens to you. Roban, take two of my guards. Whomsoever you please. Lady Clariel, till we meet again …’
He inclined his head, and strode past, a couple of his men running ahead, while most of them fell in behind. As they passed, Roban gestured to a tall man with a scarlet-dyed beard, who stepped out and waited, and then again to a woman with a scar across her chin that drew the corner of her mouth down, who also left the marchers.
‘Heyren and Linel,’ Roban said shortly. ‘Used to be Royal Guards, like me.’
‘Milady,’ said Heyren, the red-bearded guard. Scar-faced Linel simply bobbed her head.
‘What was that all …’ Clariel started to ask, but Roban shook his head again, and looked meaningfully at Valannie, who was staring after the departing Governor. Perhaps sensing Clariel’s attention, she turned, and cocked her head in the attitude of a faithful servant agog to hear the next command.
‘Such a wonderful man,’ she said, following it up with an annoying laugh.
‘He’s quite revitalised the city government, the Guild … everything! Now, where shall we … yes, Parillin’s first. There is much to do!’
She bustled away. Clariel, flanked by her three guards, followed thoughtfully. Only a few houses along, Valannie turned into an open doorway hung with curtains of a rich velvet, tied back with broad bands of a saffron-coloured cloth. Evidently this was the house and shop of Parillin the cloth merchant.
As Valannie entered, Clariel pretended to slip on the paved street. Catching Roban’s arm for support, she whispered close to his ear.
‘I want to know what is going on.’
‘Soon as I can, milady,’ replied Roban, out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Can’t talk just anywhere.’
chapter three
plots and machinations