5
Old Friends and Enemies
They arrived mid-afternoon at the busy port of Caradoon, which they had found by following the inlet from the main harbour of Kyrakavia.
This is it, Cloot said, landing in a tree on the fringe of the town.
Are you tired?
The bird answered too fast. Not overly. Then, more abruptly. What do you propose?
Tor paused. He had been thinking hard during the flight on just this subject: what to do once they reached Caradoon? He still had no definite plan but could sense Cloot’s impatience.
What about these stracca houses you mentioned?
There would be several.
How could we find them?
Oh, I could just circle about aimlessly and see if we can spot one. Or we could fly down and ask someone. A magnificent peregrine falcon who also talks should not be a novelty here.
All right, all right. Let me think, Tor said, recognising that Cloot was tired and falling into one of his sarcastic moods. Perhaps he was hungry again, he thought unkindly.
Well, I’ll just sit here, Tor, whilst you think. Take your time. It’s your dying body.
Tor ignored him and they fell silent. He sensed Cloot’s anxiety and knew better than to think the falcon was worried about himself. Cloot had never really liked this idea and now that he realised Tor had no genuine plan in mind he probably liked it even less. Tor suddenly felt stupid for getting them both into this dangerous situation. How foolish to think they could just turn up at a town and find the man they were searching for; aside from the problem that they were both in the form of a bird while Tor’s own body lay cooling many leagues south.
Could it have been luck? Or fate? Or was it Lys manipulating events? Tor would never know but he suddenly spotted a familiar figure making its way along the main street of Caradoon. There was no mistaking him. Even from this high up and without seeing his face, Tor had no doubt that it was Saxon the Kloek striding below him.
Well, well, well, muttered Cloot, who had also spotted Saxon.
Why would he be here of all places?
Cloot’s interest was piqued; all sarcasm had disappeared. I saw some of the King’s Guard in Kyrakavia. He may well be with them. Saxon would know of this place through his travels with Cirq Zorros.
Of course. Tor’s mind raced. Let’s follow him.
The falcon sighed. At least it’s a plan, he said and took off, being careful to keep the trees as cover. He had already decided that this was not a place for a distinctive bird to be seen too readily.
They watched Saxon drift into an inn and back out again not long after. He called into several market stalls and looked to be asking questions.
He looks grim, Tor said.
He is searching.
For the same thing as us?
Possibly. But why? And why now?
Let’s just assume he is. How can we help him?
Before Cloot could answer, they saw a man giving the Kloek directions. Saxon nodded and thanked him. He set off and they followed him once more, heartily glad for the trees which encircled the town. They lost him momentarily and then saw him enter into one of the side streets towards the northern end of town.
Over there, Cloot.
I see him. Let’s get as close as we can.
As they flew over a very quiet part of the town where few people were walking the streets, a strange smell hit Tor’s senses. Before he could ask the obvious, Cloot answered.
It’s the stracca. Smells sweet when freshly burned but after a while it gets that sour aroma. It’s worse up this high than I remember.
They watched Saxon get new directions from a youth, who pointed to a whitewashed building not far from the tree where they were perched, well hidden. The structure stood alone. The smell seemed to be coming from it.
Looks as though Saxon is on the same trail then, Cloot.
I’m astonished but I think you’re right.
From their vantage point, they could see all sides of the building. There were a few people milling around behind it, where a path led down to the water. Serving women were cleaning and washing linen; cooks’ helpers were scrubbing vegetables; other youngsters were fetching and carrying. It was a hive of activity. Tor and Cloot watched as a woman appeared at the back door. She called out something to a lad at the water’s edge. He turned, looking scared. The woman stepped out into the open. She wore a silk scarf over her head. The boy hurried towards her. When he arrived, she slapped him hard across his ear; they could hear its sound very clearly. As she did so, her scarf slipped and her dark and luxurious hair whipped around in the breeze. Both of them instantly recognised Xantia.
Together they said her name and looked immediately to Saxon, who was now approaching the stracca house.
We have to warn him, Cloot.
Take the risk. Fly into the open. We can’t let him walk into this place. If Xantia is here, then Goth probably is too.
Cloot did not hesitate further. Saxon was just moments from entering the front door and they could see Xantia, her fury spent, also going back into the building. Cloot leapt off the branch and used the drop to gain some speed, flying straight at Saxon’s face. At the last second, he veered off, clawing at the Kloek’s hair and screeching.
‘What the hell…!’ Saxon spun around, one hand poised in mid air to bang on the door, the other grabbing at his face.
Cloot shrieked again, this time from cover. Saxon peered into the trees. He could not see anything but they had succeeded in grabbing his attention away from the stracca house.
Hurry, Cloot. She could step out any second.
I don’t know what else to do, Cloot replied.
Flap!
He flapped. Saxon approached. He could see the falcon now and shock was written plainly across his face. His ear was bleeding from where Cloot’s talons had scratched him. The Kloek did not care about that though.
He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Is it you?’ he asked softly, almost with reverence.
In answer, Cloot dropped from the branch and landed on Saxon’s outstretched arm. Then he jumped off and headed deeper into the cover of the trees. They needed to get Saxon well away from the building. Tor was relieved to see the Kloek follow.
When Cloot landed once again on his arm, they were both choked to see the Kloek begin to weep.
‘You’re safe,’ he said over and again, stroking Cloot’s head. ‘We miss you, old friend.’
I wish we could speak to him, Tor said.
No link. Cloot felt powerless. He allowed Saxon to stroke him until the Kloek chose to stop and lifted him high so he could stare at him.
‘You are magnificent, Cloot.’
Thank you, Cloot replied. He bobbed his head slightly so Saxon knew he could hear him.
It made Saxon grin through his tears. ‘And what are you doing here, bird? What is your business at a stracca house in sleazy Caradoon, eh?’
Cloot hopped about on Saxon’s arm.
‘All right, we can’t link, I take it,’ Saxon said, ‘but you can hear me and you can find a way to respond.’ Cloot flapped his wings in answer.
‘Why are you here?’ Saxon asked.
Oh Light! Cloot said to Tor. This is going to be painful.
‘Apologies. I must say that a different way,’ Saxon corrected. He frowned then said, ‘Are you looking for something?’
Cloot flapped.
‘For someone?’
Cloot flapped again.
‘For Goth?’
Cloot could have kissed him. Instead he flapped a third time.
Bravo, Saxon, Tor said.
The Kloek frowned again. ‘So you know he lives. Let me tell you what I know, Cloot.’ Saxon sat down on the grass beneath the trees and began his story.
Tor felt great guilt, for obviously the Kloek thought he spoke only to Cloot, yet he also felt great joy just to see Saxon again.
Saxon talked intently to the falcon. ‘I accompany Herek from time to time on various missions. I get bored of palace life and prefer the open road. We were headed for Kyrakavia, which was not in our plan when we left Tal. I questioned the Prime—oh, Herek is Prime now, by the way—and he admitted something which had been kept a great secret for several years. Goth never did burn. The bitch, Xantia, aided him to escape on the eve before Tor’s execution. Herek confessed that he was so shocked to lose a prisoner that he kept the information from the King and Queen until after the stoning.
‘And then, I am told, Lorys decided that the news should be kept from the people until Goth had been recaptured. Like Herek, he expected the Shield to swiftly track down the former Chief Inquisitor and bring him to justice. When that did not happen, word was given out that Goth had died in prison, inexplicably poisoned by his own hand. The plan was to execute him in private once he was captured; to deny him the final recognition of a public execution. The whole of Tal was in such despair after Tor’s execution that everyone believed the poisoning story; no one seemed to care what had happened to the man who brought it about…’
Saxon blinked and paused, seeming to gather himself. ‘Why did he have to die like that, Cloot? Is that why you left us? Alyssa was inconsolable for months after your disappearance at the same time as his body. You were all she had of him.’
It was Tor’s turn to feel the tumult of emotions now. Cloot soothed him quietly. Just listen.
Saxon continued. ‘Anyway, after the shame of losing his prisoner, Herek vowed to do everything he could to find Goth. And he has never given up the search. Even now, he has detoured from a routine mission at Martintown to head north into Kyrakavia to take a brief look around. I left in the early hours of this morning to come further on to Caradoon. It seems a fitting place for the likes of Goth.’
Cloot flapped excitedly. Tor could see Saxon was thinking hard.
‘He’s here?’ he asked.
Cloot flapped joyously then hopped to a higher perch and stared towards the white building. Saxon followed the direction of the bird’s gaze and his broad jaw set itself firmly.
‘Then we keep a vigil until my eyes confirm it.’
The trio remained in their secret spot and watched carefully.
As night closed in on dusk, Saxon stretched. So did Cloot.
‘I have to take a look,’ was all Saxon said before moving soundlessly through the trees and emerging to walk stealthily across the street.
What’s he going to do?
Tor, time is our enemy. I must get us back to the Heartwood.
Tor ignored the caution, shooshing Cloot so they could watch.
Goth lay back amongst the silk cushions. He was dressed in the voluminous silk robes he now preferred; they hid the gauntness which the stracca had imposed on his once stocky frame. The room had a salubrious air, but closer inspection revealed it to be tired and jaded, like its clients. Once the stracca worked its magic, though, nothing else mattered and Goth could pretend he was Chief Inquisitor once again, living at the palace, powerful, rich, respected and feared. He liked the last most of all.
During the long, painfully bright days spent in recovery from the effects of the previous night’s stracca, reality bit like a snake. Fast and unrelenting, the truth of his life always struck as he emerged from the haze of intoxication. Sometimes the pain of it could make him weep. Xantia would come and soothe him.
Why she stayed with him Goth was never quite sure. She told him they were kindred souls; reassured him they shared the same enemies, the same dreams and desires. And yet he saw how her lips pursed each time he drifted into his pleasant oblivion. She did not like her life. He was not altogether sure she liked him. But she had saved him from death, brazenly ordering those cringing guards to allow her into his cell. Her plan had been simple and cruel. The old hag, Heggie, was expendable. Bribed with a purse, she had agreed to accompany Xantia into the jail and remain there in Goth’s stead. After all, what could the Guard do to her; and, in truth, neither Goth nor Xantia cared if the old woman was punished for her part in their skullduggery. Yes, Goth loved Xantia for that cruelty; her passion for power and her unquenchable thirst for revenge was almost as addictive as the stracca.
Goth remembered how it had been her idea to remain in Tal to watch Gynt’s crucifixion. How they had sniggered together beneath their disguises at all those stupid people keening and weeping in distress. It had been more fun than a bridling.
Seeing Alyssa had made the risk worthwhile. She had looked so regal standing up there, proud and defiant. If he was still a whole man he would have been hard with lust at that moment watching her. Curse the Kloek who had taken his manhood. It did not seem to bother Xantia that he was not whole. In fact, if he really thought about it, Xantia was not at all interested in him as a man. But she admired his cunning mind, enjoyed his games.
Watching Gynt’s head split open had been the highlight. He had died bravely, Goth would give his enemy that. His forgiveness of the King had been a master stroke, but oh, the delight of witnessing his death. Goth had been forced to bite his teeth together to keep himself from laughing aloud.
Xantia’s eyes had been sparkling at the hour of Gynt’s death. Goth remembered the high colour on her cheeks. And whilst the rest of the mob stared in horrified silence at Gynt’s limp body and the surprising amount of blood gushing from the huge wound in his head, Xantia had turned to watch Alyssa. She had bitten her lip in pleasure until it bled at the sight of the girl’s agony and chuckled quietly to see Alyssa holding out her arms, reaching for Tor, then her face, twisted with hatred, as she turned on the King.
Goth wished they could have stayed to witness more of that fine theatre. He had wanted to see Gynt’s corpse cut down from the cross, perhaps even to touch it to be sure Gynt had died. Xantia had laughed at him then and mocked him. ‘Who could live after that, you fool?’ she had snarled.
Fool. Goth turned the word over now in his numbed brain. He did not like to be laughed at. And no one had ever called him a fool before. But Xantia was not scared of him. He could hate her for that. She saw through him, knew his weaknesses. Once she had even brought him an eleven-summers-old girl for his sport. But the girl had cried too much and, anyway, what was the point in his condition? If only he could be within spitting distance of that golden-haired Kloek once more…Even with his own hands tied and his ankles manacled, Goth knew he would find a way to rip the man’s throat open with his teeth…and he would wallow in the blood.
He was fantasising again, but simultaneously he could feel the welcome numbness of the stracca wearing thin. So thin that his greatest fear was re-emerging: someone was watching him, spying on him. He would run back to the King and ask for a reward for revealing the whereabouts of the fugitive Goth.
Goth inhaled on the long glass tube again and relaxed into the drug’s reassuring embrace. Too much use took away the sense of taste; removed all feeling, in fact. It was said a man could drink bubbling hot water straight from the pot and not feel it, such was the numbing ability of the stracca. Goth was not ready to test that theory yet, even though it appeared his life was over.
Xantia did not think so though; kept talking about some mad god, hell bent on revenge. He did not understand any of it but he humoured her. She made sure he got high-quality stracca. He had to stay on the right side of Xantia. Sometimes he thought she was actually running the den. ‘Patience, patience,’ she would coo in his ear. ‘I have the good stuff for you tonight.’ And he would do as he was told.
What did she want from him? Why did they remain in this flea-infested pirate town when they could climb aboard the first available ship to the Exotic Isles? He thought harder and through the stracca haze managed to recall that it had been Xantia’s idea to use the stracca den as a hideout. ‘We can lie low for a full moon or two,’ she had persuaded him. But how long had it been now? He could not remember.
Goth knew he was hallucinating now. He had to be, for through the window he could see the hated Kloek staring at him.
He rolled over and closed his eyes tightly. If only it were true. If only Saxon the Kloek were this close. He could take his vengeance. He inhaled once more and passed out.
Saxon wanted to crash through the window and end the miserable sod’s life. It was Cloot who prevented him making a rash move. Goth looked as if he was unconscious.
The contraption next to the bed of faded cushions gurgled away; a thin stream of purple smoke drifted up and clouded at the ceiling. The Chief Inquisitor was a shadow of his former strutting self; his face was so gaunt it was almost unrecognisable. But he could not hide the twisted flesh and the incessant twitch which marked him as the person they sought.
Saxon considered his options. Goth was useless for the time being. Instead of risking an error, he could make his way back to Tal and inform Herek, who by now would already be heading back south to the capital, of his find. At the same time, he could warn Alyssa of this new discovery. She must be told, even though he dreaded confirming for her that Goth lived. Then he could return with a full complement of soldiers, re-capture this lowlife and deal with him once and for all, not to mention his nasty accomplice. Saxon nodded. It was a wise decision.
He heard Cloot’s warning shriek but it was already too late. Whatever it was hit him hard and he collapsed outside the window.
Saxon came to, groggy and disoriented. He could hear a familiar voice yelling through the darkness. It was a voice he despised. Xantia.
The man holding him hissed near his ear. ‘Stay still, stranger, or I’ll slit your throat from arsehole to appetite.’
Saxon had a mad urge to laugh at the nonsensical statement, but he also had the sense to remain silent as commanded. He peered through blurred vision and realised he had been dragged around to the side of the stracca den where it was virtually pitch black. Xantia looked like a demented ghoul, lit up in the open doorway as she shouted in their direction.
He realised they were just silhouettes to her and thanked whichever lucky stars were protecting him. She thought they were drunken revellers. She had her say, issued a nasty threat if they were still there in two minutes, then slammed the door.
‘You don’t plan on making any trouble for me, do you, tall man?’
Saxon spat. He tasted blood as he shook his head. His attacker struck a flint and held it up between them.
‘Now we’ll remember each other’s faces. It pays to know who might want me dead.’
Saxon took note of the livid scar which crossed the man’s face where an eye used to be; now there was only a blackened socket. He shrugged, momentarily thinking about taking on ‘One Eye’, but remembered the blade poised near his throat and figured this was a fight better lost and fought again on another day.
‘Where is my falcon?’
It was the first time One Eye had heard his distinctive voice. ‘A Kloek? My, my, you’re far from home, Goldie.’
Saxon hated the nickname but he did not bite. ‘My falcon?’
‘Ours now,’ the man said, pointing to the bushes where Saxon could make out another fellow. Cloot was held firmly in his grip.
Saxon swung back to stare at One Eye. ‘You can have all my money—’
‘Already got it,’ One Eye said, shaking a purse and grinning.
The light inside the building went out. All was quiet.
Saxon spoke softly this time. ‘You must give me that bird or I will kill you.’
‘I hold the knife, and my friend over there will break your bird’s neck if you so much as raise an arm against me, Kloek. Now, do as I suggest and leave Caradoon.’
Saxon tried a different approach. ‘What would you want with a falcon?’
‘Birds of prey are rare where we’re headed. This one’s a beauty. He’ll fetch me gold for sure in the Exotic Isles. Her majesty has a passion for falcons. She loves to watch them kill.’
‘I meant what I said, pirate.’
‘About killing me, you mean?’
Saxon nodded slowly, watching for the next move. He was surprised to hear the one-eyed man laugh.
‘Shaking in my boots, Kloek. Until the next time we meet then.’
He laughed again, pushed Saxon hard in the direction of the town and wagged his finger at him. ‘Go now, Goldie. I’ve spared your life because I can see I have taken something from you which matters to you greatly. But don’t push your luck. My name is Janus Quist. Remember it.’
Saxon did not hear it coming but he saw Quist’s eyes flick to whatever was behind him. Something hard and unforgiving hit his head and the Kloek dropped to the ground like a stone.
‘Get him as far south from here as possible. Dump him as close to the capital as you dare. I don’t want him returning,’ Quist ordered.