Never (Prequel to The Amber Isle) Read online

  “That occurs when?”

  “Three nights hence,” she said. “They will attack a covered wagon at midnight, before it enters the palace from the artisan’s gate – do you know it?”

  “I do. How many?”

  “A team of five – I trust that in addition to the gold I have given you, you have resources of your own you might call upon?”

  “Enough.”

  “Good. I will be watching,” she said, then removed two knives and threw them too, to the dirt, before starting back down the ladder.

  “How much are they worth?” Never asked. He had to – she’d expect it; and more, he couldn’t fight a touch of curiosity.

  “A great deal.” Her voice echoed.

  He closed the trap door with a snort and scooped up the knives – one of which was his own, the bone inlay a giveaway – and the purse. Only a single piece of gold within when he tilted it to the moonlight where it fell between the leaves. Not a king’s ransom but better than a crossbow bolt to the face.

  Never started toward the road where it cut a pale line through the gently stirring grasses, east toward the capital. At first, he passed no-one on the road, which suited him well. The hush and the steady thud of his boots on the dirt was company enough.

  His plan had failed but new opportunities were afoot in the... uncharitable motives of others, often one of the best places to look when it came to finding opportunity. For Julesa’s offer did seem rather fraught with risk.

  No doubt she herself was behind the plan to rob her father.

  During the robbery, the ‘true thief’ would be killed but the relics would not be recovered, nor would Julesa herself. It would be hinted that the thief had done away with her somehow and all eyes would turn on the corpse and not the shadows where she – and whoever was helping her – were quietly slipping away.

  And who better to be the ‘true thief’ than Never – a man who’d recently attempted to dupe the Lord himself, and who had escaped.

  It was a clever plan – just not clever enough.

  Tomorrow, once he reached Isacina, there would be time to decide just how to deal with Julesa. If at all. He frowned up at the moon. Of course, there was still a chance those relics could tell him something, especially if the map he sought was there.

  And didn’t it have to be? Quisoan relics, especially pre-Empire pieces, were indeed among the rarest.

  Never chuckled. “Opportunity indeed.”

  He walked until the moon disappeared and only a whisper of starlight remained above, at which point he left the road and sought a depression, resting with his cloak for a pillow.

  A few hours’ sleep would be enough. His limbs grew heavy now that he’d stopped, and when he closed his eyes, echoes of Julesa’s face swam before him, sometimes smiling, smug and haughty, sometimes weeping, her eyes wide.

  *

  The sun beat upon his face when he woke, throat dry and sweat already forming.

  He stood with a grunt, shaking out his cloak, sending grass seeds flying across the plain. Before him, the golden crops of Marlosa’s central lands spread in a shimmering haze, Folhan Mountains a dark shadow looming beyond. At its feet, hidden yet, lay Isacina – the white city and the seat of Empress Crisina’s power.

  Isacina, where all manner of folk from the Empire and lands beyond brought their wares or sought their fortunes... or, sought other people’s fortunes. Despite the diligence of the Imperial Guard, there was a sophisticated criminal world within the city. A world Never had brushed up against enough times to wonder whether Julesa had help from the Brotherhood.

  A wagon crunched along the road, dust clinging to its sides. A farmer taking his wares to the city? Never jogged after. If the Brotherhood was involved, he’d keep them out of the way somehow. Right now, a ride would be welcome.

  And water.

  “Greetings!” Never called, waving to the driver.

  The farmer lifted his straw hat and raised an eyebrow but didn’t slow his old grey. “Morning.”

  Never kept pace. “Are you heading to the city by chance?”

  “Near enough. Collecting another load of pears from the Walija farm.”

  “Wonderful – would you be willing to take me so far?”

  “Might do.” He wiped his brow. “So long as you don’t mind keeping quiet – I’m not much one for talk.”

  “Understood.” Never climbed up beside the man and leant back against the wooden seat. The crops rolled by with only the wagon’s wheels crunching on the road and the occasional snort from the horse.

  Eventually, the farmer took a drink from a flask. He offered it to Never, who drank. Sweet, still-cool water. “Thank you.”

  Around noon, a trio of crows burst from the fields when a horse galloped down an intersecting road, this curving around toward the imperial city. When they reached the crossroads, the farmer pulled his horse to a halt. “Here’s your stop.”

  Never hopped down. “Thanks again.”

  The wagon drove on and Never turned after the horse. The walls of the city were within sight now; pale monsters looming above. More horses and caravans passed him, dust covering their hems or wheels and many of the people with songs on their lips – mostly those young ones in small groups, dressed in their best clothes as they trekked to see the capital and its wonders. Caravan guards with their mismatched armour and unshaven faces did not smile as much, but there was always another job.

  At a crest, Never paused, leaving the road to remove his cloak and stow it in his pack. It didn’t make a huge difference, but it was enough to ease sweat as the sun grew more oppressive. The flow of people, their voices filling the blue sky, passed on, sliding down toward the huge stone gates that had been flung open to welcome all visitors.

  Those that first built the city – three brothers, hired by on old king if he remembered correctly – knew how it would dominate the view from the crest, as it likely did from the other roads flowing into Isacina.

  White and grey stone set in layers, climbed to the sky. First the forty-foot wall, and then beyond it, the circular towers of the palace and the great winged spire of Pacela’s temple, taller even than the palace and its glittering domes. Glass flashed in the tiny windows that climbed the spire and dotted the white wings. A beautiful view, if one was lucky enough to climb it.

  Finally, the ancient Twin Oaks of Ashina – the green tips of their leaves standing like spears over the walls just beyond the gate. Planted by the Goddess of Spring herself, or so the legend claimed. Maybe it was true; he hadn’t seen oaks of such majesty anywhere else.

  Never re-joined the flow of traffic, passing a pair of young men discussing the wonders of the Pink Rose. They obviously had no idea what the girls of the Rose were willing to do, but the staff would soon set them straight if the lads even worked up the nerve to approach the gilded gate.

  A merchant in a fine coat lectured an apprentice or son on the value of grain and its role in Marlosa’s economy, and the thunder of hooves announced a squad of Imperial Guard, their breastplates bright in the sun. The riders’ white cloaks snapped as they passed, the emblazoned red stallions appearing to rear up. The crowd parted for them as they returned to the city. Some folk knelt in deference and others grumbled as they were forced to tread through the ditches.

  Progress slowed. Ahead, the crowd squeezed through the gates and Never frowned as he waited. Nearby, a bald man shook his head. “Can’t they build a second entry already?”

  Never offered no response. A shout of frustration – a young voice – rose from before the walls. Laughter swelled in the crowd. The cry of annoyance changed to a yelp of pain. Never frowned as he skirted the edge of the crowd.

  Two boys – not quite men – were shoving at a shorter lad dressed in a motley of yellow, red and green, with tassels on his sleeves and huge ivory buttons on his coat. His eyes blazed with fury and a raised red mark already marred his cheek. He was reaching for a rag doll held by one of the older boys, raised high, out of reach.

/>   Whenever the younger neared, one bully would toss the doll to the other then cuff the short lad across the head when he turned to follow the doll.

  The crowd still laughed and jeered, but a few muttered darkly to themselves.

  The lad was beginning to grow desperate, fists shaking.

  Never strode forward and kicked one of the young thugs to the dirt. “Greetings,” Never said.

  The bully shot to his knees, his expression one of outrage. He spat dirt as he lifted a quivering finger, his narrow features twisted. “What do you think you’re doing, old man?”

  The motley boy and the one holding the doll had frozen, mouths agape.

  Never grinned. “I’m not that old, son. Now, how about you give up your game and go get drunk until you vomit a river in a nice, cool alley somewhere? Or would you rather I gave you a real thrashing – that includes your bovine-faced friend, too.”

  The lad pushed from knees to feet. “What did you call him?”

  “It’s a peculiar word, isn’t it? It means he looks like a cow, which I think is better than you; cows are placid and I have to admit, you look a little like a rat to me.” Never kept his voice pleasant.

  “You’re going to regret saying that.” Rat charged, Cow a moment behind.

  Never leapt to meet them.

  The move caught both off guard. Never ducked under a wild swing from Rat and drove his fist into the lad’s ribs. The young man collapsed with a whoosh of air as Never then twisted away from Cow’s knife thrust.

  Never snapped his hand over Cow’s wrist and spun the boy around, jerking his arm up behind his back until it popped from its socket. Cow screamed. Never dumped him to the dirt, kicking the knife away. Rat was still groaning.

  Never glanced to those nearest in the crowd, who had fallen largely silent, many with faces turned away. Perhaps for the best, and he was lucky. If blood had been shed and his curse broken loose, he didn’t fancy being chased down to the chanting of the words ‘freak’ or ‘monster’.

  “Obviously I won’t be able to do this sort of thing for everyone,” Never said. “So please, don’t get any ideas now.” He turned to the boy in the strange clothing, who was retrieving his doll. “Are you well?”

  A nod.

  Shouts for order broke through the crowd and half a dozen Imperial Guard shouldered their way from the gates. Swiftly, they encircled Never and the young men, spears and swords in hand. The leader, a captain by the sharp, hooved insignia on his cloak, folded his arms.

  “Surrender your weapons at once – you are each to be imprisoned for brawling.”

  Never sighed.

  The price of helping others.

  Chapter 3.

  Never stared up into the branches of one of Ashina’s giant oaks, the lawn soft beneath his feet as he waited for transfer to the nearest prison. People detoured around both he and the colourfully-dressed boy – tied together, and ringed by steel. The bullies and their own guard were stationed nearby but had little to say.

  No surprise there.

  Red-breasted robins flitted amongst the branches, their chirping adding to the hushed sounds of awe from visitors gathered around the mighty trunk, its bark gnarled with age. A peace had washed over him, the way it always did when he stood beneath the tree; and it had been a long time – not since he and Zia spoke here last.

  “Thank you, sir, for what you did back there.”

  The boy looked up at him.

  Never offered a brief smile. “Well, I can’t say it’s worked out very well for either of us but at least you’ve got your puppet back.” Now that he was close enough, the ragdoll bore more the look of something crafted. It was a hand-puppet and its face was carven bone, a grinning imp, skin tinted blue.

  “It was my father’s,” he said, round face darkening. “I cannot afford to lose it; it is my livelihood.”

  “You’re a jester?” Jesters were rare – not something the Empress seemed to care for, but the old kings were said to have used them.

  The lad shook his head. “No. And nor will I be, it seems. My father was jester to King Yecapla but now that he has died and the Imperial Minister has taken over, there is no call for someone like me.”

  “Sorry to hear it, lad,” Never said. Yecapla’s dominion was one of several smaller kingdoms once covering Marlosa and the surrounding islands. After being unified, many kings held their titles but became no more than governors bowing to the line of the Empress – Ramakki differed in that when the line of its king died, an Imperial Minister took control.

  “My name is Temilo,” he said. “I thought maybe I could find work as a performer in an inn here but I hadn’t even entered the city when those two started.”

  New guards marched up to their group and Never found himself passed into their hands, and then the new men were dragging them up a street, Temilo stumbling after. Two and three storey buildings – mostly inns or shops, their white stone striped in yellow or red – blocked both the sun and palace, but Never caught glimpses of Pacela’s Spire as they crossed the cobblestones of an intersection.

  Wisely, the guard took them along quieter streets and eventually into one of the smaller jails. Cool within, the building was little more than a squat box with barred windows. There were perhaps a dozen cells in all, most occupied by drunks and youth with the ragged look of pickpockets.

  Two jailors sat at a desk spread with playing stones, the small piles roughly even. They stood when Never was pushed forward.

  “Hold them until morning,” one of the Imperial Guardsmen said.

  “Will do.” The first jailor herded Never and Temilo into one of the empty cells while the second continued to speak with the guard. Never rubbed his neck as the cell clanged shut – how unpleasant that such a sound was familiar.

  Never sat on one of the cots, leaning his head back against the stone.

  His stomach rumbled.

  Temilo, who’d been examining his puppet for damage, glanced over at him from his own cot. Never grinned. He rose and approached the bars. “I don’t suppose you feed us, do you?” he called to the men, who’d resumed their game.

  “No,” one snapped without turning his head.

  Laughter from the other cells.

  Never returned to his cot. Nothing to do except wait for morning. He lay across the bed and stared up at the ceiling; a piece of stone had been repaired in the distant past, the mortar set in the rough shape of a hammer.

  Temilo leant forward on his cot. “Sir, might I ask your name?”

  “It’s Never.”

  “Never? Forgive me for saying, but that’s a strange name.”

  “I agree.”

  “And are you a travelling warrior?”

  Never gave a soft chuckle. “I’m travelling, but I usually try to stay away from fighting.”

  “I’m not sure I understand, but I’m glad you were travelling today.”

  Never sat up again. “Tell me about your puppet. I don’t recognise the design. It doesn’t appear Ramakki.”

  Temilo smiled as he held up the hand puppet. “See the eyebrows, how thin they are? Father said that it is from the old line of Ramakki Kings but the peaked hair comes from the islands north. The blue skin is for the Ramakki God of Truth.”

  “And does he bear a name?”

  “Sorga. It means ‘truth-speaker’ in the Ramakki language.”

  “A risk-laden business, the truth.”

  “It is,” Temilo said softly. He placed the puppet within one of his pouches and took out a piece of string, which he wove into a pattern around his fingers. Temilo fell silent as he worked on the patterns and Never lay back again; no need to bother the lad.

  He dozed until evening, when he woke to a dark cell. Temilo was asleep and when he moved to the bars, new guards sat beneath the lamp. Never called softly. Tomorrow would soon be upon him and it wouldn’t hurt to learn a few things to prepare – one of which was decent accommodation – and now that the empire had generously donated a bed, four walls and a ro
of, he might be able to afford one of the nicer inns long enough to interrupt Julesa’s heist.

  One of the jailors groaned then hauled himself out of his seat.

  “What is it?” he asked when he came to a halt outside the cell. His eyes held a look of weariness, but he seemed more fit than some of the jailors Never had encountered.

  “What does a room at the Water Petal cost a man nowadays?” Never asked.

  “Think you could afford it?” The jailor said with a raised eyebrow.

  Never palmed a gold coin, then spun it across his knuckles. “Once I’m out of this delightful place I intend to find out. You might be able to save me some time.”

  A grunt. “That’ll only last you two nights.”

  “And that’s all I need, thank you,” Never said, repressing a sigh. Prices had jumped somewhat since he’d last stayed there.

  “You don’t look like the usual sort we get in here,” the guard said, his curiosity apparently stirred. “You don’t even stink of wine.”

  “Not much of a compliment but I’ll take it,” Never said with a grin.

  “So, what’s your story?”

  “I’m trying to set up my nephew with work and I thought the Petal might be looking for entertainment.”

  “The Ramakki boy?” the guard’s expression was sceptical.

  “He’s a jester. And he’s older than he seems.”

  “Then do right by him when we let you out of here,” the man said before turning back for his game.

  Never sought his bed once more and lay back, closing his eyes to the darkness. Getting a decent rest wouldn’t hurt... yet he couldn’t help shifting on the cot. Some uncertainty lay ahead. Would Vento still work at the Petal? It had been years now. The man would remember him – saving someone’s life made that rather a given – but that didn’t mean the innkeeper would necessarily be willing to share the information Never would need.

  After all, his livelihood depended on the thieves patronising his business; he couldn’t simply give up whatever information Never asked. Still, meetings might be arranged.