Assassin’s Fate

How often had he plunged me into mortally dangerous situations for the sake of shifting the fates? He might do it again. To me. But surely not to Spark and Lant and Per. ‘You should all go back to the ship,’ I said.

‘Unlikely to happen,’ Lant said quietly.

‘Unlikely!’ Motley confirmed.

‘We can’t,’ Per reasoned slowly. ‘We have to try this. To make it the most likely thing we would do. To keep them watching for us.’

We had followed the half-moon curve of the shore along the harbour. Now the road widened out into a cobble-stoned circle of merchant stalls and shops. The stall fronts were decked with drapery in bright colours and I suspected that, on most days, it was a bustling centre of commerce. But some of the stalls were shuttered today and this seemed to both puzzle and vex the local folk. Some buyers were patiently waiting at a closed booth. The restive crowd milled in the market, asking one another questions. We waded through the maelstrom of people. The shops that were open were offering food or drink or trinkets, broad-brimmed hats and perfumes and tiny dolls of Whites. I saw two money-changers where I hoped to sell our fire-brick. A woman had a wheeled cart that held a cabinet with many drawers. She was hawking tiny fortune-scrolls from it. Some of the folk working in the stalls were pale-skinned and blonde, but nowhere did I see any sign of a real White.

‘They just closed the stall. A guard came and told them to stop selling passes.’

‘They had better let me cross today! I can’t stay more than a day here!’

‘I paid good coin for this pass!’

Across the teeming market circle, two wooden-faced guards stood before a formidable gate across the causeway to the castle. The water was almost at full ebb. Hopeful people had already formed a thick queue and waited in the bright afternoon sun. They shifted and muttered, reminding me of cattle herded into a slaughter pen. I pitied most the gate guards in their leather armour and plumed helms. They were well-muscled youngsters, and the jagged scar down the woman’s cheek said she had seen fighting. Perspiration made shiny trickles down the sides of their impassive faces. They were not responding to any of the folk pelting them with questions.

A shout of relief went up when a skinny old woman pushed open the shutters of her booth. The queue surged forward but she held up both her hands and shouted over the mob’s noise, ‘I don’t know any more than what I already told you!’ Her voice was screechy, between anger and fear. ‘They sent me a message bird. Told me to stop selling passes. No more folk allowed in today. Maybe tomorrow, but I don’t know! Now you know all I do, and it’s not my fault, none of it!’

She started to close her shutter. A man grabbed the edge of it, shouting that he must be allowed to pass. Other people surged forward, some shaking carved wooden passage chits at her. Motley lifted her wings, cawing a warning. I feared a riot, and then I heard the rhythmic tread of soldiers coming at a steady trot. ‘Move back to the edge of the crowd,’ I urged my charges. Lant spearheaded our exit. We came behind him and shoved our way to the edge of the packed people. We found a small alcove between a booth that sold fruit and beer and one that sold meat on skewers. We crammed into it.

‘At least three dozen,’ Lant observed as the guards arrived. They carried short staffs and moved with the edgy precision of people trained to be ruthless. They formed into a double row, inserting themselves between the mob and the guards at the gate. Once in position, they lifted their short staffs and began to force people back from the causeway. People gave way, some grudgingly, others turning and trying desperately not to be facing the soldiery. The muttering of complaints and pleas reminded me of a disturbed beehive.

‘The gates! The gates are opening!’ Someone shouted. Across the causeway, the immense white gates of the castle opened slowly. Even before they had swung fully apart, a mob of folk poured forth from the opening and moved in a thick line across the causeway toward us. They moved like herded cattle, with some running along the edges of the road to pass others. Everyone seemed to be hurrying, and as they approached the gate on our end, the guards swung it open. The soldiers pushed back those who had hoped to enter, crying out that they must make room for those departing from the castle. The two crowds met like clashing waves, and there were angry shouts from both sides.

‘What does it all mean?’ Spark asked.

‘It means the Fool is over there, and has done something,’ I suggested. I thought of the missing Silver and felt ill.