Swords for a Dead Lady

Jim Webster

Description

Enjoy the quiet life of a middle aged cartographer. Well it was quiet until somebody finds the naked body of a young woman hastily buried in a marsh. The journey to discover her identity and hunt down her killer leads our protagonists across the Land of the Three Seas, through ambush, civil strife and even light opera.

Sujets

• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 11 mai 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781849898041
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page
SWORDS FOR A DEAD LADY
By
Jim Webster



Publisher Information
Swords For A Dead Lady
First published in 2012
This edition published in 2015
by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright © 2012, 2015 Jim Webster
The right of Jim Webster to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.



Continent Map





Chapter 1
Benor slipped quietly out of bed and felt around in the gloom for his clothes. In the bed, his still sleeping paramour snored gently as he dressed. Benor moved silently to the bedroom door and listened. The landing outside seemed strangely quiet, the absence of noise more disturbing than the normal sounds of an old house. He waited. Not even any sound from the servants’ rooms on the floor above? Could he perhaps hear the breathing of a coldly vengeful husband and a couple of burly servants?
He walked quietly to the window, pulled on his soft-soled boots, and softly unlatched the window and opened it. Looking down, he waited and caught a hint of movement; there was someone hiding behind the water butt of the house opposite. He grinned mirthlessly and lowered a fine, knotted rope to the ground. Then he climbed onto the window ledge and stood in the shadow of the eaves. The house had the old ‘sprawling poult’ style oriel windows with the heavily ornamented surround, and as he reached out he could feel the reassuring moulding of the decorative frieze. This he gripped firmly then swung his feet out to the architrave, pressing himself flat against the wall. He felt cautiously to his left. At this point there should be the edge of the wing, which would provide a staircase for him. He found it and started to climb, his feet supported by the wing, his hands gripping the mouldings that formed the bottom of the cornice. Finally he swung himself over the cornice and onto the roof. Now the cornice formed a narrow roadway around the building.
He smiled. Roof running was an old sport in Toelar, so old that builders knew the rules and played the game. The upper floors would often stick out above lower floors on the house fronts, ostensibly to shield pedestrians from the rain, but also making the streets easier to cross at roof level. He ran along the cornice, picking up speed. At the end he jumped, bending his knees and rolling as he landed on the flat roof garden of the house opposite. Behind him there were shouts - the watchers had finally realised he wasn’t coming down the rope. He sprang to his feet, brushed the dirt from the raised-bed off his britches, climbed quickly along the garden wall and then half climbed, half dropped down the waste pipe, swinging off it onto the balcony, then from one balcony to the next. He moved with swift precision, before dropping lightly onto a canvas tilted dray that was parked in the yard.
He slid down the tilt and slipped out of the double gates of the court yard. Staying in the shadows he worked his way around the Close of the Garland Weavers, down Fish Sauce Ginnel, into the Street of the Pumpkin Sellers and from there, with the walk of a dignified gentleman of business, he stepped out into the early morning traffic of the Tarsteps Quay and mingled with the crowd, nodding to acquaintances, real or imagined, and stopping to take a flier advertising that evening’s entertainment at Lady Kazmin’s House of Silken Indulgence.
He grimaced; his shoulders ached and he suspected he had pulled a muscle in his back. His brother Sar was right, at fifty he was probably too old for much more roof running.
***
The innkeeper leaned on the warped boards of his bar and cast a disillusioned eye over the one room where his guests ate, drank and occasionally slept. So far he had five patrons, four miscellaneous travellers playing cards and a young Urlan lordling travelling on his own. He glanced down at the column of figures on the scrap of paper in front of him and once more totted them up. The Urlan had just dropped a piece of silver on the bar without discussion. As far as he knew, they did this wherever they went, but in the case of his inn it was probably five times what the meal and ale was worth. The other four had drifted in separately and had haggled, but he was still in pocket. He glanced back into the kitchen which also served as home for him and the woman he was living with. She was cleaning up after the meal. He watched her scrub the stew pan, stopping to push her thinning hair back out of her eyes with a forearm. There were days when they had only each other for company - this place was too far from Tarsteps and not close enough to Toelar, few folk travelled by road. He looked again at the scrap of paper. The figures blurred and he could hear his father. “Make them welcome lad, make it homely as they walk through the door, be pouring their favourite tipple and have it on the bar before they even order.”
A raised voice attracted his attention, and he raised his eyes from his calculations. He saw the card players trying to attract the attention of the Urlan, who had just finished eating.
“I say, you, fellow. Do you want in on a hand of cards?”
The innkeeper winced at the tone but the young Urlan just shook his head dismissively. One of the card players stood up and walked out of the side door to the Jakes. Another commented to his companions, “More used to playing ‘pat-a-cake’ with ladies’ maids.”
The other two laughed and the one who made the original invitation made a soft-voiced comment that was clearly audible at the bar
“Leave him alone, he’s probably inventing heroic adventures to put into his poetry.”
The Urlan stood up; pushing the bench he was sitting on back with his calves. One of the card players smirked.
“Ah, he’s off outside to consult his muse.”
The innkeeper watched as the Urlan moved towards them and then he saw the man who had gone to the Jakes: he had gone out of the back door and come round the outside of the building. He was now at the open front door with a bow in his hands, aiming at the Urlan’s back. There was murder about to be done, and the innkeeper suspected that all honest men, and particularly innkeepers, were likely to be victims. Without hesitation he hurled a heavy earthenware tankard at the bowman, threw himself backwards into the kitchen and slammed the door shut.
“Lock the doors and shutters!”
The woman, asking no questions, slammed the shutters across the windows and darted across to bolt the outer door. The innkeeper reached under the bed and pulled out a heavy machete, best used for chopping root crops or clearing undergrowth. His woman, her back to the outside door, was holding a poker. From the bar came the sounds of swearing and breaking furniture.
Then it went quiet.
He unbolted the door into the bar. There, in the centre of the room, stood the Urlan, a bloodied sword in his hand. The innkeeper glanced swiftly around - there were one, two bodies; ah yes, a third under the table. He looked towards the door, where the body of the archer lay, a thrown knife in his throat.
The Urlan’s tunic was slashed, revealing an iron link shirt worn underneath. He was favouring a leg, and blood was staining his britches.
The innkeeper’s woman took charge. She made the Urlan sit down, tore the britches away from the wound and started dressing it. The innkeeper stripped the bodies of the dead, checking for gold teeth. He laid his plunder on the table. The purses contained gold; the knives were high quality - beautifully balanced and razor sharp. There were also two garrottes and a piece of paper, carrying a description and a pen-and-ink likeness of the young Urlan.
“You have enemies.”
The Urlan gestured around the room.
“If anyone finds the bodies I will not be the only one. You’d best get them buried.”
The innkeeper shook his head.
“We’ll drag them down to the mouth of the stream and push them in, and the current will take them out to sea.”
The Urlan stood up and tested the leg; he winced.
“I’ll take two of their horses, I must travel quickly, the rest is yours.”
The Innkeeper and his wife watched the young Lordling ride west. He was perhaps two days from Toelar, should that be his destination. They then used the two remaining horses to drag the corpses out into the bay, and stood and watched until they floated out of sight. Wordlessly they gathered up their few belongings, the goods of the four killers and loaded them into a small cart. To this they hitched an elderly horrocks that they kept for milk. With the two horses ambling behind them, their reins hitched to the tailboard, the couple took the trail in the direction of Tarsteps.
The innkeeper glanced back at the inn, with its sagging roof and weatherworn boarding, then turned to the woman he lived with, speaking to her for the first time since the Urlan had left.
“With the money we’ve got we can afford to open somewhere nice in Tarsteps, somewhere with a proper kitchen, and we’ll be able to hire a couple of nice girls to help out.”
Impulsively, she kissed him.
***
Benor left his home and closed the door behind him. He didn’t lock it - the Widow Kazmintal would be round soon to disturb the dust and move the furniture. He stepped out briskly