Merna was doing her best to cover up Beatta with her body, but the child poked her head out. ‘Why do you call him that? What’s a Trattari?’
‘A Trattari is a tatter-cloak,’ Merna said, spitting the words. ‘One of bloody King Paelis’ so-called “magistrates”.’
‘Assassins, more like,’ the taller man said. ‘We should hold him and send Ty to fetch the constables.’
‘Look,’ I said, ‘I came here because the girl was hurt and scared – she believed herself in danger. She’s safe with you now, so just let me be on my way.’
The sight of my rapier made that suggestion sound sensible enough to the workmen, who began moving aside to let me pass.
‘Wait,’ the girl said.
‘What is it, Beatta?’ the woman asked.
‘I said I’d give him some of my supper. He dropped his apple when he came to help me and I said he could share my dinner.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said, ‘I’m not—’
To my surprise, the girl’s mother rose from the settee. ‘Wait here,’ she said.
The two men and the boy did a remarkable job of looking like they were keeping me at bay despite the fact that nothing was actually happening.
‘Why do you call him “Trattari”?’ Beatta repeated, this time addressing the two men.
It was the boy who replied. ‘It means tatter-cloak,’ he said. ‘They called themselves the Greatcoats, and their coats were supposed to never show wear so long as their honour held.’
‘But of course, they had no honour,’ the shorter of the two men said.
‘Because they served the tyrant, Paelis?’ Beatta asked.
‘Oh, aye, they were bastards for interfering with the lawful rule of the Dukes. But no, child, the reason they’re called tatter-cloaks is because when the Dukes came with their armies to put a stop to the tyrant’s ways, these so-called Greatcoats stood aside and abandoned their King just to save their own skins.’
‘But if the King was bad, then wasn’t it good that they stepped aside?’ the girl asked.
Her mother returned from the kitchen carrying an apple and a piece of cheese, which she hastily stuffed into a small sack. ‘No, dear. You see, the Knights teach us that any man has honour, so long as he serves his Lord faithfully. But these traitors failed to do even that much. So we call them Trattari now – tatter-cloaks – because their coats are as torn as their honour.’
‘Keep the food,’ I said. ‘I’ve lost my appetite.’
‘No.’ The woman stood her ground between me and the entryway, holding the sack out to me. ‘I want my daughter to learn right from wrong. She promised you food, and food you shall have. I’ll have no presumed debts to a traitor.’
I looked at her, and at the men. ‘What about the man?’
‘What man?’
‘The Knight. The one she said was chasing her. What if he seeks her out again?’
Merna laughed. It was a remarkably unpleasant sound. ‘As if one of the Ducal Knights would ever harm a child! If there was a Knight there, more than likely he saw you eyeing her and thought he needed to protect her.’ The mother looked at her child. ‘Beatta’s a silly girl. She was probably just confused.’
The situation bothered me. I didn’t think it likely that a child would confuse whether or not a Knight was chasing her. I couldn’t for the life of me think of a reason why Beatta might be pursued, but I didn’t want to take a chance. I turned to her. ‘Beatta, are you still afraid of this Knight? Do you want me to stand guard outside tonight in case the man comes here?’
One of the men started to speak, but Merna held up her hand. ‘Beatta, dear, tell the Trattari we don’t want his help.’
Beatta looked at her mother, then at me. With the innocent cruelty of a child she said, ‘Go away, dirty tatter-cloak. We don’t want you here. Evil King Paelis was a stupid pig and he’s dead and I hope you die too.’
The child had probably never seen King Paelis when he was alive. The Dukes had won, and history was already bearing the marks of their victory. Even if someone was after the girl, what could I do about it? The Greatcoats were disgraced and disbanded and it felt as if most people would rather see their child dead at the hand of a Knight than saved by that of a Trattari.
I reached out and took the small sack of food from the girl’s mother, if only because it was the fastest way to make her step out of the way. I walked out the door and away from their home.
A few days later, on my way out of the city, in the quiet of night I walked past Beatta’s house again. I knew there’d be Gods to pay if I was seen, but I felt a strange compulsion. The lights were out and there was red paint on one of the windows in the form of a bird, the sign used in Cheveran when a child has been lost.
THE CITY OF SOLAT
The fall from the second-floor window of the inn played against my strengths. Kest was inhumanly coordinated; he could probably fall from the top of a tower without hurting himself. Brasti was unbelievably lucky and managed to hit a wide awning above the rear entrance. He slid down to the cobblestoned courtyard. I was neither agile nor lucky, so I just kind of fell. Hard.
As I rose to my feet I saw eight men arrayed in front of us, all armed with pikes. I hate pikes almost as much as I hate magic. Twelve feet long with a sturdy wooden shaft and a wicked iron spearhead, properly grounded, a pike had enough stopping power to take down a Knight charging in on an armoured warhorse. At the same time, it was a simple enough weapon that even an amateur could wield it effectively in battle. And the more men you had with pikes, the easier it was to take out a group of swordsmen, regardless of their skill.
But that wasn’t what was bothering me. What was bothering me was that I hadn’t heard any bells. When the city constables of Solat patrol the streets, they go in pairs, and that way, if they discover a crime and it looks like trouble, one of them can go and ring one of the huge bells placed throughout the city to call for more men. There’s a code, with each district allocated a specific number of chimes, so that reinforcements know where to go. But I hadn’t heard any bells ringing, so I was beginning to suspect these men were specifically looking for us.
‘Eight men here with pikes and two above with crossbows, Falcio,’ Kest said, slipping his sword from its sheath. ‘I believe this might just be a trap.’
‘Do try to keep the enthusiasm out of your voice, Kest,’ Brasti said as he looked longingly towards the edge of the courtyard where his bows were strapped to the saddle of his horse.
‘You’ll never make it,’ the constable opposite him said, smiling so wide it made his helmet tilt.
Brasti grumbled and reluctantly drew his sword.
A voice above us shouted, ‘The pike or the crossbow, Trattari: which would you prefer?’
I looked up at the man leaning out of the window of Tremondi’s bedroom. The collar of his leather armour displayed a single gold circle, marking him as a senior constable. ‘If you put down your swords, I can promise you a relatively painless death,’ he said. ‘That’s more consideration than you gave Lord Tremondi.’
‘You can’t seriously believe we killed Tremondi, can you?’ I shouted back.
‘Of course I can. It says “Greatcoats” right here, and in the Lord Caravaner’s own blood.’
‘Saint Felsan-who-weighs-the-world,’ I swore. ‘Why in all the hells would we kill our own employer?’
The senior constable shrugged. ‘Who knows with your kind? Aren’t you Trattari fond of seeking revenge for the death of King Paelis? Perhaps Tremondi supported the Dukes when they removed your King? Or maybe it’s simpler than that: he caught you stealing his money and you killed him to keep him from revealing how the so-called “Greatcoats” have become nothing better than brigands and thieves.’