"You'll burn for this!" the man hissed.
"You first," Batsen promised.
In the folds of the man's tunic tongues of flame started to take hold.
The man twisted, still pinned by the statue, trying to beat out the fire. The flames spread rapidly, consuming flesh and bone. More screams could be heard from up and down the staircases, as people saw the flames and heard the tortured screaming of the burning man.
Batsen had already crossed to the central shaft in three long steps, and stepped off into thin air. Rather than cloak himself from view, he concentrated on the threads of elemental magic, drawing up the air itself to thicken beneath him and slow his descent. The uprush of air also had the effect of blasting aside the corpse and the people surrounding it. While they struggled to stay upright, as if trying to walk into a hurricane, Batsen touched down and set off, running as easily as if he had simply jumped down from the back of a cart.
In seconds he was out into the wide open streets of Miramas and slowed his pace, walking briskly out from under the shelter of the theatre and into the sun a few hundred yards away.
He didn't run, knowing that would attract the Miramas guard but simply passed calmly into a market square.
As he passed through an archway, he removed the brown wig from his shaved head, and dropped it into the gutter, igniting it with little more than a passing thought. A moment later, he recovered the black tabard and grey cloak he had secreted behind a water-butt and pulled them on. The average, brown-haired, pastel-clad theatre-goer was gone, as if no such person had ever set foot in Miramas.
Satisfied that all had gone well, Batsen made his way to a tavern, where many people were taking shelter from the blazing summer sun. He went to a corner table and sat beside a tall man, who hid his warrior's build under shabby clothes. His golden hair was braided, his features hard and angular.
"It's done," Batsen said simply.
"The documents they were carrying?" Batsen passed him the scrolls under the table, and the blonde man gave them a cursory glance. "Have you read them?"
"You know me better than that, Kell. I've no interest in them, beyond ensuring they are indeed the documents you engaged me to recover, and I've no desire to suddenly be counted as one who knows too much."
Kell smiled. "I knew I could count on your discretion. The payment will be made in the usual manner."
Batsen hadn't expected anything else, though he had, of course, been prepared. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"Probably. But not today."
Batsen rose, no longer interested in spending any more time in Miramas. "Then you know how to contact me." He slipped out of the tavern, and was out of the city within the hour.
When the assassin had gone, Goran Kell took a few minutes to finish his ale, just in case anyone was watching; he didn't want to be seen leaving at the same time as Batsen. When he did rise, he gave a barely-perceptible nod to a swarthy man propping up the bar. This man, who wore loose green and blue clothing, and had his black hair tied up in a topknot held with a gold ring, followed Kell out.
They walked a short distance in silence, then entered a coaching inn and went upstairs to the small room that Kell had rented for a Tenday. It was directly over the kitchen, and the smells of cooking vied for attention with the less savoury smells from the stables next door.
Safely inside, Kell changed his tunic and shirt, just in case anyone had spotted them in the inn and was looking out for them as a way to recognise him. There was a tattoo over his heart, showing two linked circles.
Once changed, Kell began unrolling the scrolls with delight. The ones tied up in an oilcloth were the ones he was most curious to see, but he glanced through the others very quickly beforehand. Most of them were uninteresting reports on the appointment of Faith officials to various positions in three Pontaine cities. The Faith didn't have anything like as large a presence in Pontaine as it did in the Empire of Vos but the cathedral and adjacent abbey in Andon formed the religion's main centre of operations in the nation. There were only two other Faith cathedrals in the whole of Pontaine; one in Gargas, and one in Volonne.
Once he started reading the scrolls, he found that he couldn't stop. It was as if he was spellbound. The swarthy man, sitting by the window, coughed to get Kell's attention.
"Are you all right, sir?" he asked.
"More than all right, Chaga," Kell said, a grin sweeping over his features. "Far more than all right. This isn't just the usual Faith paperwork, old friend. This is…" He fell silent.
"Something more interesting?"
Kell thought for a moment, seeking the right term. "This is such an important thing for our Brothers, but that means it's also going to lead to a lot of hard work. It's time to move on. The Faith may not be as endemic here as they are in the Empire, but when they realise a courier has gone missing they'll find someone to come and look for him."
"I'll get the horses seen to." Chaga said. Kell gave an approving nod, and began to roll the scrolls back up. "What about Scarra?"
"Scarra?"
"Are you going to bring him in on this?"
Kell barked a mirthless laugh. "Scarra has his uses, but he also has his problems. That big mouth doesn't just let too much food and wine in; it talks too much as well. The less he knows about this, the happier I'll be, and the more I can trust him. Still…"
"Yes?"
"There are arrangements that must be made, old friend. Things must be set into motion. I'll tell you what this is, Chaga," he said gesturing to the scrolls. "It's freedom.
"Freedom, for all our Brothers."
CHAPTER 1
Half a year after Kell had met Batsen in Miramas, ashen flakes fell from clouds the colour of old bathwater, and gathered at the feet of walls throughout the grey Vos city of Kalten. In summer, the greens of leaves and bushes had clashed brightly with the rocky coastline, but now the winter storms came in and drenched the cold granite on which the castle stood.
Castle Kalten overlooked the river mouth and the sea beyond. It was almost crescent shaped, as much carved out of the rocky promontory as built upon it. From the esplanade, which doubled as a market square, the castle's curtain wall looked wide and squat, seeming much less high than it really was. Narrow wooden tenements encrusted with sea salt huddled together on South Cliff's rocky terraced steps down to the river mouth. Rickety jetties meandered out across sandbanks from their lower levels. On the North Cliff, taverns and merchants' holdings clustered around the esplanade in front of the castle.
Five travellers in thick winter cloaks strode briskly along a narrow street leading to the esplanade, almost running down anyone who didn't get out of their way in time. Few others were in the street as the bells tolled the changeover from the Hour of Walkers to the Hour of Smoke. Four of the hooded heads turned back and forth, scanning the men and women around them, but the centre man's unseen eyes kept to the front.
The citizens in the street gave the group a wide berth, trying not to look at them when the weapons and armour under their cloaks clanked and rattled. The group made directly for the castle gatehouse, where two soldiers in mail, wearing the Ducal crest of Kalten in addition to the stylised Vos eagles on their red surplices, emerged to meet them. The leading cloaked figure handed one of the guards a scroll bearing a wax seal. The guard immediately saluted, and allowed the five men inside.
Once within the castle, the travellers lowered their hoods. Four of them wore highly polished helmets, with a T-shaped opening for their eyes, nose and mouth. The fifth man had only neatly-combed jet-black hair on his head. His pale blue eyes and thin-lipped mouth remained as expressionless as any steel helmet. Several pages met them at a further interior door, and took their travelling cloaks. While the four escorts wore mail over thick gambesons, and sleeveless white surplices with a crossed circle on the chest, the black-haired man wore expensive robes of deep blue. Golden thread was woven around the hem and sleeves, and the same crossed circle hung in silver from a chain around his neck.