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All these bounties delivered by the Earth King represented but a token of the Earth King’s wealth – the vast hoards of the ‘fruits of the forest and of the field’ which legend said he bestowed on those who loved the land.
So the homes and shops around the castle were well adorned that night, on the nineteenth day of the Month of Harvest, four days before Hostenfest. All the shops were clean and well stocked for the autumn fair that would shortly come.
The streets lay barren, for dawn was approaching. Aside from the city guards and a few nursing mothers, the only ones who had reason to be up so late of the night were the King’s bakers, who at that very moment were drawing the foam off the King’s ale and mixing it with their dough so that the loaves would rise by dawn. True, the eels were running on their annual migration in the River Wye, so one might imagine a few fishermen to be out by night, but the fishermen had emptied their wicker eel traps an hour past midnight and had delivered kegs of live eels to the butcher for skinning and salting well before the second watch.
Outside the city walls, the greens south of Castle Sylvarresta were dotted with dark pavilions, for caravans from Indhopal had come north to sell the harvest of summer spices. The camps outside the castle were quiet but for the occasional braying of a donkey.
The walls of the city were shut, and all foreigners had been escorted from the merchants’ quarter hours ago. No men moved on the streets at that time of night – only a few ferrin.
Thus there was no one to see what transpired in a dark alley. Even the King’s far-seer, who had endowments of sight from seven people and stood guard on the old graak’s aerie above the Dedicates’ Keep, could not have spotted movement down in the narrow streets of the merchants’ quarter.
But in Cat’s Alley, just off the Butterwalk, two men struggled in the shadows for control of a knife.
Could you have seen them, you might have been reminded of tarantulas in battle: arms and legs twisting in frenzy as the knife flashed upward, scuffling as feet groped for purchase on the worn cobblestones, both men grunting and straining with deadly intent.
Both men were dressed in black. Sergeant Dreys of the King’s Guard wore black livery embroidered with the silver boar of House Sylvarresta. Dreys’ assailant wore a baggy black cotton burnoose in a style favored by assassins out of Muyyatin.
Though Sergeant Dreys outweighed the assassin by fifty pounds, and though Dreys had endowments of brawn from three men and could easily lift six hundred pounds over his head, he feared he could not win this battle.
Only starlight lit the street, and precious little of that made its way here into Cat’s Alley. The alley was barely seven feet wide, and homes here stood three stories tall, leaning on sagging foundations till the awnings of their roofs nearly met a few yards above Dreys’ head.
Dreys could hardly see a damned thing back here. All he could make out of his assailant was the gleam of the man’s eyes and teeth, a pearl ring in his left nostril, the flash of the knife. The smell of woodlands clung to his cotton tunic as fiercely as the scents of anise and curry held to his breath.
No, Dreys was not prepared to fight here in Cat’s Alley. He had no weapons and wore only the linen surcoat that normally fit over his ring mail, along with pants and boots. One does not go armed and armored to meet his lover.
He’d only stepped into the alley a moment ago, to make certain the road ahead was clear of city guards, when he heard a small scuffling behind a stack of yellow gourds by one of the market stalls. Dreys had thought he’d disturbed a ferrin as it hunted for mice or for some bit of cloth to wear. He’d turned, expecting to see a pudgy rat-shaped creature run for cover, when the assassin sprang from the shadows.
Now the assassin moved swiftly, grasping the knife tight, shifting his weight, twisting the blade. It flashed dangerously close to Dreys’ ear, but the sergeant fought it off – till the man’s arm snaked around, stabbing at Dreys’ throat. Dreys managed to hold the smaller man’s wrist back for a moment. ‘Murder. Bloody murder!’ Dreys shouted.
A spy! he thought. I’ve caught a spy! He could only imagine that he’d disturbed the fellow in mapping out the castle grounds.
He thrust a knee into the assassin’s groin, lifting the man in the air. Pulled the man’s knife arm full length and tried to twist it.
The assassin let go of the knife with one hand and rabbit punched Dreys in the chest.
Dreys’ ribs snapped. Obviously the little man had also been branded with runes of power. Dreys guessed that the assassin had the brawn of five men, maybe more. Though both men were incredibly strong, endowments of brawn increased strength only to the muscles and tendons. They did not invest one’s bones with any superior hardness. So this match was quickly degenerating into what Dreys would call ‘a bonebash.’
He struggled to hold the assassin’s wrists. For a long moment they wrestled.
Dreys heard deep-voiced shouts: ‘That way, I think! Over there!’ They came from the left. A street over was Cheap Street – where the bunched houses did not press so close, and where Sir Guilliam had built his new four-story manor. The voices had to be from the City Guard – the same guards Dreys had been avoiding – whom Sir Guilliam bribed to rest beneath the lantern post at the manor gate.
‘Cat’s Alley!’ Dreys screamed. He only had to hold the assassin a moment more – make sure the fellow didn’t stab him, or escape.
The Southerner broke free in desperation, punched him again, high in the chest. More ribs snapped. Dreys felt little pain. One tends to ignore such distractions when struggling to stay alive.
In desperation the assassin ripped the knife free. Dreys felt a tremendous rush of fear and kicked the assassin’s right ankle. He felt more than heard a leg shatter.
The assassin lunged, knife flashing. Dreys twisted away, shoved the fellow. The blade struck wide of its mark, slashed Dreys’ ribs, a grazing blow.
Now Dreys grabbed the fellow’s elbow, had the man halfturned around. The assassin stumbled, unable to support himself on his broken leg. Dreys kicked the leg again for good measure, and pushed the fellow back.
Dreys glanced frantically into the shadows for sign of some cobblestone that might have come loose from its mortar. He wanted a weapon. Behind Dreys was an inn called the Churn. Beside the flowering vines and the effigy of the Earth King at its front window sat a small butter churn. Dreys tried to rush to the churn, thinking to grab its iron plunger and use it to bludgeon the assassin.
He pushed the assassin, thinking the smaller man would go flying. Instead the fellow spun, one hand clutching Dreys’ surcoat. Dreys saw the knife blade plunge.
He raised an arm to block.
The blade veered low and struck deep, slid up through his belly, past shattered ribs. Tremendous pain blossomed in Dreys’ gut, shot through his shoulders and arms, a pain so wide Dreys thought the whole world would feel it with him.
For an eternity, Dreys stood, looking down. Sweat dribbled into his wide eyes. The damned assassin had slit him open like a fish. Yet the assassin still held him – had thrust his knife arm up to the wrist into Dreys’ chest, working the blade toward Dreys’ heart, while his left hand reached for Dreys’ pocket, groping for something.
His hand clutched at the book in Dreys’ pocket, feeling it through the material of the surcoat. The assassin smiled.
Dreys wondered, Is that what you want? A book?
Last night, as the City Guard had been escorting foreigners from the merchants’ quarter, Dreys had been approached by a man from Tuulistan, a trader whose tent was pitched near the woods. The fellow spoke little Rofehavanish, had seemed apprehensive. He had only said, ‘A gift – for king. You give? Give to king?’
With much ceremonial nodding, Dreys had agreed, had looked at the book absently. The Chronicles of Owatt, Emir of Tuulistan. A thin volume bound in lambskin. Dreys had pocketed it, thinking to pass it along at dawn.
Dreys hurt so terribly now that he could not shout, could not move. The world spun; he pulled free of the assassin, tried to turn and run. His legs felt as weak as a kitten’s. He stumbled. The assassin grabbed Dreys’ hair from behind, yanking his chin up to expose his throat.
Damn you, Dreys thought, haven’t you killed me enough? In one final desperate act, he yanked the book from his pocket, hurled it across the Butterwalk.
There on the far side of the street a rosebush struggled up an arbor near a pile of barrels. Dreys knew this place well, could barely see the yellow roses on dark vines. The book skidded toward them.
The assassin cursed in his own tongue, tossing Dreys aside, and limped after the book.
Dreys could hear nothing but a dull buzz as he struggled to his knees. He glimpsed movement at the edge of the street – the assassin groping among the roses. Three larger shadows came rushing down the road from the left. The flash of drawn swords, starlight glinting off iron caps. The City Guard.
Dreys pitched forward onto the cobblestones.
In the predawn, a flock of geese honked as it made its way south through the silvery starlight, the voices sounding to him for all the world like the barking of a distant pack of dogs.
David Farland’s The Sum of All Men is available in all good bookshops from February 2007, priced £7.99. To return to the beginning of the extract, click here.