‘You’re one of them tatter-cloaks, is that right?’ His accent was thicker than I had expected. It reminded me that the three weeks we had been on the road had taken us far from the caravan market, and even further from Baern, where we should have been by now.
‘We don’t use the term, but yes, that’s right.’
The guard stared at my coat and then reached out casually and pulled at a piece of it, examining it closely. A few of his mates were gathering around us. ‘Is it true then that you sleep in them coats?’ He turned to his fellow guards. ‘Sure smells like it!’
Now the fact is, the greatcoat is the single most valuable thing a travelling Magister owns. It’s made of leather, but the thin, very light plates made from some kind of bone and sewn into different panels can ward off the occasional blow – if you’re lucky, even a knife-thrust in the back from some disgruntled plaintiff. And it can keep you alive if you’re stranded on the road in the cold.
‘And is it true,’ the guard went on, ‘that you hide a hundred weapons in those coats?’
According to the stories, there were more hidden pockets in my coat than even I had ever been able to find. No one is entirely sure how they’re made, because there was only ever one Tailor of the Greatcoats and no one knows what happened to her after the King died.
‘No,’ I answered, ‘but I do keep a hundred chickens in my coat.’
Brasti spoke up. ‘I keep a hundred fish in mine. I don’t eat chicken.’
The other guards laughed at that, but we had stepped on the first one’s effort at a joke.
‘Well, maybe I should take me both of them coats, then. I like chicken and fish.’
‘Only one problem with that, friend,’ I said calmly.
He looked at his fellow guards and then at me. ‘Yeah? What’s that?’
‘Well, if you had my coat, you’d have to wear it.’
The rest of the guards broke out laughing again and the first one decided he’d had enough. ‘Damned right. But if I did want it, you’d hand it over quick enough, that’s for sure.’
It was an idle threat – not because everyone knew there were more than a few weapons hidden inside our coats, but because no one has ever stolen a Magister’s greatcoat. In the old days, when we were admired, everyone knew that a man or woman who managed to take one from a Magister would be hunted down to the ends of the earth. Nowadays, no one wanted to be seen dead with one. So fame and infamy really weren’t that different after all.
Eventually his commander let us through and we wound our way to the third gate. There are no armoured guards at the third gate, no crossbows, arrows, pikes or swords, just a small man with a quill and journal who sits at a small desk at the end of a thirty-foot-long tunnel. The ceiling is about twelve feet high, and both walls and ceiling are peppered with dozens of small holes and slots. The whole thing might look like it’s made from grey cheese, but everyone knows that if you irritate the little man at the desk, you will very quickly discover that there are a remarkable number of deadly things that can be shot, dropped or poured out of small holes in the stone.
Feltock handed over the same credentials he had shown at the second gate. The little man barely looked at them before he said, ‘Denied.’
Feltock stepped down from his seat at the front of the carriage and looked at me with raised eyebrows. Neither one of us knew what to do. We both knew for certain that arguing with the little man would be a grave mistake.
‘With respect, your Lordship,’ Feltock began.
‘Not a Lord. I’m a clerk,’ said the man behind the desk.
‘With respect, your – ah, clerkship, they … Well, they accepted our credentials at the second gate.’
The clerk looked up at us. ‘Of course they did, you idiot, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. You’d have steel bars going through your skulls. If it makes you feel better, you can go back and I’ll pass a message down for them to drop the gate on you.’
Brasti smiled at me. ‘I like him. He reminds me of you.’
The look Feltock shot us was half-threatening and half-pleading.
‘Right Honourable Clerk of the Gate,’ I began, using his formal title, ‘although there is no requirement of you to tell us, might we enquire the reason for your very reasonable decision to bar us from the city? Can I assume that we are “of person but not purpose”?’
The clerk snorted. ‘Hah! Trattari, eh? You can always count on a Greatcoat to parrot the laws back to you. Yes, you are indeed “of person but not purpose”. So you can turn yourself around or we can see what this lever does.’ He motioned to a stout piece of wood inset into the stone wall by his desk. I already had a suspicion as to what the lever did, and I had no intention of being there to see what exactly would drop on my head from the ceiling if he pulled it.
‘Feltock,’ the Lady’s voice called from the carriage, ‘what is the reason for our delay in this dank little cavern?’
Feltock looked at me. ‘You better tell her,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t know what all this business of “persons” and “purposes” is about.’
I walked back to the carriage. ‘My Lady, the clerk informs us that your credentials of person, that is, who you are, are fine for entering the city. It is the credentials of purpose, the reason why you are asking to enter, that are being disputed.’
‘Disputed? I’m coming to see the Duke! Who is this little worm who questions me?’
I prayed that the clerk couldn’t hear us.
‘I heard that,’ he shouted back. Then he hopped off his chair and half-waddled towards us. He came to a stop in front of the curtains. ‘You go home now,’ he said in a tone suggesting she was a half-witted child. ‘Crazy Lady no see Duke today. Duke important man. Has important things to do. Hump Crazy Lady some other day.’
Then the clerk smiled and looked up at me. ‘I like you, Trattari. You know the law and that makes me happy. But either you turn her around, or in about ten seconds you’re going to discover which hurts worse – burning oil on your head or a dozen crossbow bolts in your chest.
‘It’s the oil,’ Kest said.
‘Enough!’ her Ladyship shouted from the carriage. I had never heard her shout before. She sounded almost childish. ‘You will admit me to the city this instant. You will signal ahead for an escort, and you will ensure we have the smoothest of journeys to the Ducal Palace.’
The clerk looked like he was about to signal to someone I couldn’t see when the curtains of the carriage drew apart and the Lady emerged.
I confess I’d had a small fantasy that the Lady Caravaner was actually Trin in disguise. After all, we saw a lot of Trin going into and out of the carriage, but we never saw the Lady herself. Trin, though she lacked the demeanour, certainly had the looks and grace for the daughter of a noble house. More importantly, it would have been nice to think that the woman in charge of this emerging disaster was actually capable of being sweet, even if only as part of some kind of elaborate game.
The woman who exited the carriage wore several different shades of purple. Her silk blouse was fashionably low and her silk trousers were cut for travel. Her head was uncovered, but she wore a necklace and bracelets of cut gems, and rings sparkled from the middle fingers of each hand. Her hair was a rich shade of dark brown and almost as silky as her clothes, which surprised me because even inside a carriage it’s hard not to get messy travelling for weeks on end. For a brief moment I thought it might indeed have been Trin herself, emerging triumphant from her cocoon, but this woman was taller and more assured, and besides, Trin herself came out of the carriage behind her. Oh well, so much for that fantasy.