Koll picked his holds as carefully as a ship-builder his keel, knowing one mistake would see him smashed to fish-food on the rocks below, squinting in the moonlight and the storm-flashes, scraping mossy dirt from between the stones, crumbly here as old cheese. He tried not to think about the yawning drop below, or the angry men who might be waiting above, or the-
A stone burst apart in his numb fingers and he lost his grip, whimpering as he swung away, every stretched-out sinew in his arm on fire, clawing and scrabbling at old ivy until finally he found a firm purchase.
He pressed himself to the wall, watched the gravel tumble away, bouncing down around his rope, down to the jagged elf-boulders and the boat tossed on the angry brine.
He felt his mother’s weights pressing into his breastbone, thought of her frowning up at him on the mast, finger wagging. Get down from there before you break your head.
‘Can’t stay wrapped in a blanket all my life, can I?’ he whispered over the pounding of his heart.
It was with legendary relief he peered over the battlements and saw the rain-lashed walkway, wider than a road, deserted. He groaned as he dragged himself over, hauling the rope after him, rolled on to his back and lay, panting, trying to work the blood back into throbbing fingers.
‘That was an adventure,’ he whispered, slithering up onto hands and knees and staring out over Bail’s Point. ‘Gods …’
From up here it wasn’t hard to believe that it was the strongest fortress in the world, the very key to the Shattered Sea.
There were seven vast towers with vast walls between, six elf-built, the perfect stone gleaming wet, one squat and ugly, built by men to plug a breach left by the Breaking of God. Five towers rose from Father Earth on Koll’s left, but on his right two were thrust out beyond the cliffs into Mother Sea, chains strung between them feathering the waves, enclosing the harbour.
‘Gods,’ he whispered again.
It was crammed with ships, just as Princess Skara had said it would be. Fifty at least, some small, some very great. Bright Yilling’s fleet, safe as babes within the mighty elf-stone arms of the fortress, bare masts scarcely shifting despite Mother Sea’s fury beyond.
A long ramp led from the wharves, up the cliffside to the great yard. Buildings of a dozen different ages and designs were piled up about it, their roofs a mismatched maze of mossy thatch, cracked tile, rain-slick slate, broken gutters spurting water to spatter on the flagstones below. A city, almost, clinging to the inside of the great elf-walls, firelight spilling from around the edges of a hundred windows shuttered against the storm.
Koll squirmed free of his rope, cursing his clumsy cold fingers as he looped it about the battlements, dragged hard at the wet knots to make sure they were fast, and finally allowed himself a weary smile. ‘That’ll do it.’
But the gods love to laugh at a happy man, and his smile vanished the moment he turned.
A warrior was trudging down the walkway towards him, spear in one hand, flickering lantern in the other, rain-heavy cloak flapping about his hunched shoulders.
Koll’s every instinct was to run, but he forced himself to turn his back on the guard, wedged one boot carelessly on the battlements, stared out to sea as though this was the place he felt most at home in all the world, and offered a silent prayer to She Who Spins Lies. One way or another, she got a lot of prayers from Koll.
When he heard boots scraping up he turned with a grin. ‘Hey, hey! Nice evening to be on the walls.’
‘Hardly.’ The man squinted at him as he raised his lantern. ‘Do I know you?’
He sounded like a Yutmarker, so Koll took a guess and trusted to his luck. ‘No, no, I’m one of the Inglings.’
Serve a man one good lie, he might offer you the truth himself. ‘One of Lufta’s boys?’
‘That’s right. Lufta sent me to check the walls.’
‘He did?’
If you can’t fashion a good lie, the truth will have to serve. ‘Aye, there’s these two buttresses, see, and Lufta’s got this worry someone might climb up between them.’
‘On a night like this?’
Koll gave a little chuckle. ‘I know, I know, it’s mad as a hatful of frogs, but you know how Lufta gets …’
‘What’s that?’ asked the man, frowning towards the rope.
‘What’s what what?’ asked Koll, stepping in front of it, run out of lies and now of truths as well. ‘What?’
‘That, you-’ His eyes bulged as a black hand clamped over his mouth and a black blade took him through the neck. Thorn’s face appeared beside his, hardly more than a shadow in the rain, only her eyes standing out white from the tar-smeared skin.
She lowered the warrior’s limp body gently onto the parapet.
‘What do we do with the corpse?’ muttered Koll, catching his lantern before it dropped. ‘We can’t just-’
Thorn took him by the boots and flipped him into space. Koll peered over, open-mouthed, watching the body plummet down, hit the walls near the base and flop off broken into the surging waves.
‘That’s what we do,’ she said as Fror slipped over the wall behind her, dragged the axe from his back and tore away the rag he’d used to muffle the tar-smeared blade. ‘Let’s go.’
Koll swallowed as he followed them. He loved Thorn, but it scared him how easily she could kill a man.
The steps down to the yard were just where Skara had told them, puddled with rainwater in their worn centres. Koll was just letting himself dream again of the harvest of glory he’d reap if this mad plan worked when he heard a voice echo from below, and pressed himself into the shadows.
‘Let’s go inside, Lufta. It’s windy as hell out here!’
A deeper voice answered. ‘Dunverk said guard the little gate. Now stop your bloody whining.’
Koll peered over the edge of the steps. A canvas awning flapped in the wind below them, firelight spilling from underneath.
‘This little gate isn’t so secret as we hoped,’ Thorn whispered in his ear.
‘Like maggots from apples,’ he whispered back, ‘secrets do have a habit of wriggling free.’
‘Fight?’ muttered Thorn. Always her first thought.
Koll smoothed the path for Father Peace, as a good minister should. ‘We might rouse everyone in the fortress.’
‘I’m not climbing back down that chimney,’ said Fror, ‘I can promise you that.’
‘Lend me your cloak,’ whispered Koll. ‘I’ve an idea.’
‘Are you sure now is the best time for ideas?’ Thorn hissed back.
Koll shrugged as he drew the hood up and tried to shake loose muscles still trembling from the climb. ‘They come when they come.’
He left them on the steps and trotted carelessly down, past a half-ruined stable, water dripping from its rotten thatch.
He saw the men, now, seven warriors squatting around their fire, flames torn flickering by the wind that slipped in under their flapping awning. He noted how the firelight fell over the heavy door in the corner behind them, a thick bar lowered across it, the name of She Who Guards the Locks scored deep into the wood. He blew out a misty breath, gathered his courage, and gave a jaunty wave as he walked up.
‘Ach, but damn this weather!’ Koll ducked under the dripping canvas, thrust his hood back and scrubbed his hands through his wet hair. ‘I couldn’t be wetter if I’d gone swimming!’
The men all frowned at him, and he grinned back. ‘Still, I suppose it’s no worse than summer in Inglefold, eh?’ He slapped one on the shoulder as he worked his way towards the door and a couple of the others chuckled.
‘Do I know you?’ asked the big man near the fire. By his silver armrings and surly manner, Koll reckoned him the leader.
‘No, no, I’m one of the Yutmarkers. Dunverk sent me. I’ve a message for you, Lufta.’