Swords for a Dead Lady

By Jim Webster

Enjoy the quiet life of a middle aged cartographer. Well it was quiet until somebody finds the naked body of a young woman hastily buried in a marsh. The journey to discover her identity and hunt down her killer leads our protagonists across the Land of the Three Seas, through ambush, civil strife and even light opera.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AUK Authors
• Release date: May 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781849898041

Jim Webster

I can cope with being described as fifty-something. During the course of a reasonably quiet life I’ve done a number of things. I’ve farmed cattle all my life, and at the same time have been a consultant and a freelance writer. I also fit in being a husband and father. My life has included some intriguing incidents, at the age of twelve, my headmaster was somewhat put out to discover that not only was I selling ammonium nitrate to other boys to make bangers, it wasn’t actually forbidden by the school rules. I’ve watched Soviet troops unload coffins from a transport plane at Tashkent; been questioned by an Icelandic gunboat captain, not so much at gun point as at 40mm Bofors point, and according to the nice man at Frankfurt airport, I inadvertently invaded Germany. I was perfectly happy to believe him, I am happy to believe anyone who points a Heckler & Koch MP5 at me. Brought up on the classic masters of SF, I bought Jack Vance, ‘The Dragon Masters,’ in the early 1970s and that book taught me that the world or society the characters lived in was every bit as important as the plot. I’ve also written Supplements for Pelgrane Press to go with their ‘Dying Earth’ role-playing game, inadvertently contributed to the design of the FH70 Field Howitzer and living where I do on the outskirts of Barrow-in-Furness most of my mates have at one time or another built nuclear submarines. Me, I tend to seasickness on a particularly bracing bus trip.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Benor slipped quietly out of bed and felt around in the gloom for his clothes. In the bed, his still sleeping paramour snored gently as he dressed. Benor moved silently to the bedroom door and listened. The landing outside seemed strangely quiet, the absence of noise more disturbing than the normal sounds of an old house. He waited. Not even any sound from the servants’ rooms on the floor above? Could he perhaps hear the breathing of a coldly vengeful husband and a couple of burly servants?

He walked quietly to the window, pulled on his soft-soled boots, and softly unlatched the window and opened it. Looking down, he waited and caught a hint of movement; there was someone hiding behind the water butt of the house opposite. He grinned mirthlessly and lowered a fine, knotted rope to the ground. Then he climbed onto the window ledge and stood in the shadow of the eaves. The house had the old ‘sprawling poult’ style oriel windows with the heavily ornamented surround, and as he reached out he could feel the reassuring moulding of the decorative frieze. This he gripped firmly then swung his feet out to the architrave, pressing himself flat against the wall. He felt cautiously to his left. At this point there should be the edge of the wing, which would provide a staircase for him. He found it and started to climb, his feet supported by the wing, his hands gripping the mouldings that formed the bottom of the cornice. Finally he swung himself over the cornice and onto the roof. Now the cornice formed a narrow roadway around the building.

He smiled. Roof running was an old sport in Toelar, so old that builders knew the rules and played the game. The upper floors would often stick out above lower floors on the house fronts, ostensibly to shield pedestrians from the rain, but also making the streets easier to cross at roof level. He ran along the cornice, picking up speed. At the end he jumped, bending his knees and rolling as he landed on the flat roof garden of the house opposite. Behind him there were shouts - the watchers had finally realised he wasn’t coming down the rope. He sprang to his feet, brushed the dirt from the raised-bed off his britches, climbed quickly along the garden wall and then half climbed, half dropped down the waste pipe, swinging off it onto the balcony, then from one balcony to the next. He moved with swift precision, before dropping lightly onto a canvas tilted dray that was parked in the yard.

He slid down the tilt and slipped out of the double gates of the court yard. Staying in the shadows he worked his way around the Close of the Garland Weavers, down Fish Sauce Ginnel, into the Street of the Pumpkin Sellers and from there, with the walk of a dignified gentleman of business, he stepped out into the early morning traffic of the Tarsteps Quay and mingled with the crowd, nodding to acquaintances, real or imagined, and stopping to take a flier advertising that evening’s entertainment at Lady Kazmin’s House of Silken Indulgence.

He grimaced; his shoulders ached and he suspected he had pulled a muscle in his back. His brother Sar was right, at fifty he was probably too old for much more roof running.

***

The innkeeper leaned on the warped boards of his bar and cast a disillusioned eye over the one room where his guests ate, drank and occasionally slept. So far he had five patrons, four miscellaneous travellers playing cards and a young Urlan lordling travelling on his own. He glanced down at the column of figures on the scrap of paper in front of him and once more totted them up. The Urlan had just dropped a piece of silver on the bar without discussion. As far as he knew, they did this wherever they went, but in the case of his inn it was probably five times what the meal and ale was worth. The other four had drifted in separately and had haggled, but he was still in pocket. He glanced back into the kitchen which also served as home for him and the woman he was living with. She was cleaning up after the meal. He watched her scrub the stew pan, stopping to push her thinning hair back out of her eyes with a forearm. There were days when they had only each other for company - this place was too far from Tarsteps and not close enough to Toelar, few folk travelled by road. He looked again at the scrap of paper. The figures blurred and he could hear his father. Make them welcome lad, make it homely as they walk through the door, be pouring their favourite tipple and have it on the bar before they even order.

A raised voice attracted his attention, and he raised his eyes from his calculations. He saw the card players trying to attract the attention of the Urlan, who had just finished eating.

I say, you, fellow. Do you want in on a hand of cards?

The innkeeper winced at the tone but the young Urlan just shook his head dismissively. One of the card players stood up and walked out of the side door to the Jakes. Another commented to his companions, More used to playing ‘pat-a-cake’ with ladies’ maids.

The other two laughed and the one who made the original invitation made a soft-voiced comment that was clearly audible at the bar

Leave him alone, he’s probably inventing heroic adventures to put into his poetry.

The Urlan stood up; pushing the bench he was sitting on back with his calves. One of the card players smirked.

Ah, he’s off outside to consult his muse.

The innkeeper watched as the Urlan moved towards them and then he saw the man who had gone to the Jakes: he had gone out of the back door and come round the outside of the building. He was now at the open front door with a bow in his hands, aiming at the Urlan’s back. There was murder about to be done, and the innkeeper suspected that all honest men, and particularly innkeepers, were likely to be victims. Without hesitation he hurled a heavy earthenware tankard at the bowman, threw himself backwards into the kitchen and slammed the door shut.

Lock the doors and shutters!

The woman, asking no questions, slammed the shutters across the windows and darted across to bolt the outer door. The innkeeper reached under the bed and pulled out a heavy machete, best used for chopping root crops or clearing undergrowth. His woman, her back to the outside door, was holding a poker. From the bar came the sounds of swearing and breaking furniture.

Then it went quiet.

He unbolted the door into the bar. There, in the centre of the room, stood the Urlan, a bloodied sword in his hand. The innkeeper glanced swiftly around - there were one, two bodies; ah yes, a third under the table. He looked towards the door, where the body of the archer lay, a thrown knife in his throat.

The Urlan’s tunic was slashed, revealing an iron link shirt worn underneath. He was favouring a leg, and blood was staining his britches.

The innkeeper’s woman took charge. She made the Urlan sit down, tore the britches away from the wound and started dressing it. The innkeeper stripped the bodies of the dead, checking for gold teeth. He laid his plunder on the table. The purses contained gold; the knives were high quality - beautifully balanced and razor sharp. There were also two garrottes and a piece of paper, carrying a description and a pen-and-ink likeness of the young Urlan.

You have enemies.

The Urlan gestured around the room.

If anyone finds the bodies I will not be the only one. You’d best get them buried.

The innkeeper shook his head.

We’ll drag them down to the mouth of the stream and push them in, and the current will take them out to sea.

The Urlan stood up and tested the leg; he winced.

I’ll take two of their horses, I must travel quickly, the rest is yours.

The Innkeeper and his wife watched the young Lordling ride west. He was perhaps two days from Toelar, should that be his destination. They then used the two remaining horses to drag the corpses out into the bay, and stood and watched until they floated out of sight. Wordlessly they gathered up their few belongings, the goods of the four killers and loaded them into a small cart. To this they hitched an elderly horrocks that they kept for milk. With the two horses ambling behind them, their reins hitched to the tailboard, the couple took the trail in the direction of Tarsteps.

The innkeeper glanced back at the inn, with its sagging roof and weatherworn boarding, then turned to the woman he lived with, speaking to her for the first time since the Urlan had left.

With the money we’ve got we can afford to open somewhere nice in Tarsteps, somewhere with a proper kitchen, and we’ll be able to hire a couple of nice girls to help out.

Impulsively, she kissed him.

***

Benor left his home and closed the door behind him. He didn’t lock it - the Widow Kazmintal would be round soon to disturb the dust and move the furniture. He stepped out briskly, his goal the Scented Salamander, where he had decided to take his midday meal. He had passed the Temple of the Eightfold Alms when he noticed that a small group of men appeared to be following him. He recognised Rontswaller, an elderly merchant, whose young wife Alina Benor had been consoling four nights ago. He slightly quickened his step and crossed the road, intending to turn off down Musselfair Street to the harbour where at least he would have friends. Then he saw, coming the other way, Thestal Carnholm, husband of the beautiful but flirtatious Chianvil. With him were several burly lads from his small glass factory, still wearing their leather aprons. All were carrying cudgels. Without hesitation Benor turned left down Lead Glass lane, and as it was empty, he broke into a run. Figures blocked the far end of the lane. He went into the first house at random, smiled at the startled practitioner who was giving a client deep tissue massage and darted out of the back door into the yard. Cautiously, he opened the yard gate. There were three toughs lounging against a wall further up the street. He looked round and saw a woman’s hooded cloak hanging on a line to dry. He hastily threw it on and stepped out into the street, turned away from the loungers and walked briskly away, hoping that he would hit Musselfair Street behind Carnholm and his party. Then behind him he heard a shout:

Come back here with my bloody cloak.

He didn’t hesitate, but dropped the cloak and ran, the hue and cry starting up behind him. He hit Musselfair Street and swung down to the harbour, not risking a glance behind him. The shouting grew louder.

He heard shouting ahead of him as well, but largely ignored it, concentrating on keeping to the middle of the road and watching for anyone coming in from either side. Out in the harbour he could see his brother’s boat, the Channeler's Dog, wallowing at anchor, about a hundred yards from the quay. He began to feel that he might just make it. Some of the pursuers were gaining on him, but he intended to run clean off the wharf into the harbour and swim for the boat. They would have to slow down or end up in the water with him.

His world had contracted to the unfocused shouting and the Channeler’s Dog when suddenly some fool put a horse directly in his path. With no time to turn, he dived under its belly, rolled along the floor and came to an abrupt stop against a pair of riding boots.

He gazed upwards; the wearer of the riding boots was an Urlan, a young man, looking battered from hard riding and with one leg bandaged.

Hello, I am Rothred; I have been told that you are Benor Dorfinngil, also known as Benor the Cartographer. I have a message for you from Lord Eklin.

Chapter 2

The younger man helped Benor to his feet and glanced at the crowd that was gathering on the other side of his destrier.

Some business is too important to discuss in the street.

Benor nodded, Easters Steps is not far from here, the food is good, the ale better.

They walked together along the harbour side and turned on to East Gate road. Benor noted that whilst the crowd behind them dispersed, perhaps half a dozen men drifted casually after them.

They entered through the low door, the destrier standing quiet in the street, resting its head on the window, watching the company within with apparent quiet amusement. Benor cast around and saw a table in the corner with a good view of both doors. He pointed it out to the Urlan and walked across to the bar. There he ordered ale and discussed food. Eventually he settled on a selection of sausages, eels with reed bread and a small bowl of Devil's Pomatum. He paid and made his way back to the table. The ale arrived before he was even seated and was followed almost immediately by a succession of trays.

He raised his tankard, Good health, and my thanks for your timely arrival.

You seem to have irritated an inordinate number of your fellow citizens. There was a quizzical tone to the Urlan’s voice, I was told I was seeking a respectable scholar, a man not in the first flush of youth, or even the second or third to be honest, yet I find he has a fair turn of speed and, so it appears, an inability to keep away from the wives of the rich or powerful.

Benor shrugged and slouched into his seat, took a sausage and dipped it in the bowl. He chewed it meditatively before replying.

Boredom, I suppose. I have spent a lot of time on the road, sometimes quite literally with a pen in one hand, mapping and making notes as I go. Yet whilst on the road I think wistfully of my home here in Toelar, my snug house, well appointed library, good food and friends. But when I arrive home, give me a week and I find myself craving excitement, and the women of Toelar are universally accepted to be the most attractive throughout the three seas. He watched with interest as the young Urlan dipped his sausage in the bowl of Devils Pomatum, and then bit into it. He saw the look of rising panic on the young man’s face and pushed the tankard towards him, signalling to the bar at the same time for another. The young Urlan drained his tankard, and sat, speechless.

Benor continued, Oh, and the spices of Toelar are considered somewhat fiery, although the folk here would prefer to regard the food of the rest of the world as somewhat bland.

The second tankard arrived and Rothred reached for it gratefully.

You said you have a message for me.

Rothred put the tankard down and opened his belt pouch. He took out a document that was rolled up and thrust through a silver ring. Benor slipped the ring off the paper and unrolled it. He read it and stared at the ring before slipping it onto a finger.

Lord Eklin wants me to travel into the marshes to meet Shoredasher, one of the Sleynappers of the Marshmen?

Yes, the Sleynapper contacted him, said he needed to talk. There has been an incident, and it has to be dealt with properly or the feud might explode again.

Benor sat in silence, staring at his tankard. By any reckoning, the feud between the Marshmen and the Urlan had been going on for over three thousand years. For long enough it was nothing more than the formalising of a low level irritation. It was mainly used to justify stealing each other’s livestock from the summer grazing lands that formed their common border. Benor had once asked Shoredasher about the feud, and apparently the Marshmen had not the faintest idea how it started or why, or whom it actually involved. The problem was that there is no collective body that represents 'the Marshmen'. The Sleynappers loosely organised Marshman affairs within the area around the Reed Lake and as far north as Toelar. But have nothing to do, save socially, with those on the other side of the River Maran or those more than a couple of days south of the Reed Lake. Among the Sleynappers it is assumed that there was an argument on the east side of the Maran before the Urlan crossed the river and started to live on the west bank, and they brought the feud westwards with them.

It had occurred to Benor that the Marshmen are not entirely unhappy with the feud; if it didn't exist they would be swamped with Urlan hunting parties, and doubtless young Urlan lordlings would attempt to set up their own keeps in Marshman areas.

Currently, and for as long as the Marshmen could recall there had been no Urlan war parties, just a few Urlan hunting expeditions on the edge of the marshes. Nonetheless, these hunting parties were often shadowed by young Marshmen and occasionally arrows were fired. Perhaps some men died, but the Urlan leave women and children alone, and even men going about their daily business are not bothered too much, as the Urlan seem to think their feud is with some central authority figure. The Marshmen don’t have a central authority figure so the feud hasn’t been pursued with any great zest.

Benor wasn’t sure what would happen if the feud became live. It had dragged on for as long as it had because of the impossibility of the two supposed protagonists seeking each other out for a final confrontation. But Toelar was perhaps in danger of becoming involved. Many of the folk were of Marshman blood - Benor himself had been born in the marshes, although that was because his father had eloped with a girl whose father disapproved of him. Mainly because he had an understandable dislike of a potential son-in-law currently wanted by the authorities for selling horses that changed colour when it rained.

You coming then? Rothred asked, his head cocked slightly to one side. Benor could see that the young knight was wondering just why Lord Eklin had asked a middle aged cartographer from Toelar to take part in this journey. Benor took the silver ring off his finger and cupped it in the palm of his hand as if weighing it. When he spoke his voice was quiet.

"I gave this ring to Lord Eklin thirty years ago. I was a young man not long back from Meor and was making a decent map of the Greffbone trail. A couple of merchants had hopes that it might be a short cut into Partann and give them an edge over their rivals. Anyway, I got jumped by a party of peltmen. One of them caught my leg with a spear point and I was stood with my back to the rock trying to keep them back with my staff. At that point a young knight came up