Seventy Four: Tracked

Candlelight flickered on the walls of Arlen's room, bathing everything orange. It reminded him uncomfortably of Firebulls; he normally never lit candles in here, but the room had no window and he needed to see. Outside in the front room, Akiva and Usk played cards, and the smell of their blackweed had crept under the door.

It was all pretence, of course. To any unexpected visitors, it would look as though Arlen was out, and Usk and Akiva would act accordingly. It served a dual purpose; it almost eliminated the risk of anyone walking in on what he was doing, and gave the impression that Arlen was regaining independence. Which he was, in a sense, but a little exaggeration never hurt.

His new false leg leaned against the wall beside him. His old one was a shadow in the corner, and he hated that he had become fearful enough of losing his mobility again that he had kept it on as a spare. It was better than nothing. He refused to face any death that might come for him without options.

He cursed as he stuck his thumb with the needle. Usk had found the fabric for him, lifted from a careless tailor's back room. It was soft, and as flexible as any fabric Arlen had seen before, and he was fashioning it into a sock for his stump. The new model had been a vast improvement, but the shredded, healing nerves in the stump still caused him a great deal of discomfort despite its lightness. Besides, it gave him one more hiding place for the small vials lying on the boards by his knee. It was impossible to steal from without his noticing. The sock had been a stroke of genius – not that he had given Usk that much credit at the time. He had also taken it upon himself to modify the straps of the prosthetic to carry weapons; even if he would have paid richly to have his real leg back, this new model was fast proving itself very useful.

He tied off the last stitch and inspected his work. He was no seamster, but it was at least functional and didn't look likely to fray too quickly. He packed another folded piece of cloth into the base and pulled it over his stump. It at least no longer had the colour and appearance of a pile of moss with healing bruises, though he suspected the thick red scar from grafting and stitches would take years to fade.

He pried up the loose floorboard under his mattress. He pulled out his own vials of poisons one at a time and compared them to the vials that Jesper had returned with from the castle job. Nothing stood out. Not that he had expected to get the answer that way, as most of his poisons were designed to look harmless, and the stolen substances would either be in a similar vein or none of them would be poison at all.

He sighed, and replaced all the vials. The new ones he set down on the opposite side of the cavity and lowered the board again. Despite all he hoped to gain from it, this whole business of trying to save the life of a man who had spent years trying to eliminate the Devils was messing with his head.

He reattached his new leg and levered himself up to standing, testing the padding for comfort. It was an improvement, certainly. The chafing had been starting to get to him.

"Arl, this bastard's cheating," Akiva greeted him as he left the room and locked the door behind him. The assassin didn't look up from his hand. "And I can't work out how."

Usk chuckled, releasing a plume of smoke as he did so.

"S what you get for wagering with a Varthian," Arlen muttered. "Don't pretend you aren't also cheating."

"I am. He's just cheating better, and I want to know how."

Usk's grin was dagger-sharp as he set down a flush. "Better learn fast before I have your booze off you."

Arlen snorted and left them to it. A thin soup bubbled over the stove and he wrinkled his nose at the smell. "Usk, I told you to keep Akiva away from the food. What the fuck is that smell?"

"A mystery," Akiva said, grinning back at him, then swore as he lost another round.

"You're eating this first," Arlen said, pointing at the pot.

"Nu-uh. I've got a hot date. You sods can eat it here on your own like the pair of old men you are."

"You're the same age as me, you div."

"And I'm off on a date. When was the last time you had a roll, eh, Arl? Might explain your bad temper."

"Already been round that loop," Usk rumbled, without looking up. "Won't get you anywhere."

"I could send Silas round if you want."

Usk roared with laughter and almost upset the table as Akiva grinned again, looking immensely proud of himself even as Arlen stalked forward and grabbed a fistful of his hair. He gave it a shake, but Akiva only closed his eyes and made kissing faces at him.

"Say that again and you'll find shit in your pillow tonight." Arlen stepped back, glaring at Usk as well, though he couldn't put much heat into it. "And I mean that."

"Yeah, yeah." Akiva waved him off. "I'll say my prayers."

Arlen snorted. He looked at the soup again and found he couldn't conjure up any appetite, let alone force down whatever it was Akiva had put in it.

"You off somewhere?" Usk asked, as Arlen headed for the window. The chair scraped as the Varthian made to follow. Arlen rolled his eyes. It was going to take a long time to kick Usk's habit of helping him with everything; he just hoped it hadn't stuck too deeply.

"And if I am?" He didn't pause, climbing out of the window and making his halting way down the crates. Heavy footsteps followed. "I don't need a crowd of bodyguards."

"We didn't discuss going out," Usk muttered. His tone was accusing, in an inebriated sort of way. "Wouldn't have got so smoked up if I'd thought you were making off somewhere. Kiv, we're heading out. Don't drink that booze before I get back."

A muffled voice drifted through the open window. "Don't take too long, then, or I can't promise anything."

Arlen stopped and glared at Usk. "I have to check in with you now? I'm missing a leg, Usk, I haven't reverted to childhood." He cocked his head, noting the stubborn set of the Varthian's mouth. "You're going to follow me whatever I say, aren't you?"

"Aye." A sharp-toothed grin gleamed at him for a second. Arlen refused to admit the relief he felt. Half of him rankled at the idea that he felt better stepping out in company now, when he'd roamed the quarter like it was second nature for so many years of his life. The other half, the more practical side, admitted that it was probably a smarter idea to have Usk with him. He could handle himself in a pinch, but he couldn't afford to risk more injury when Marick might move against him at any time.

He felt a familiar sting of betrayal at the thought. Marick was not an easy man to read; he had never made any statements of loyalty that Arlen had heard, but then neither had Arlen. He just was. He had assumed Marick was the same way. But whatever plans he had with the Caelumese, they were worth far more than Arlen – or Arlen was worth far less to Marick than he had ever thought he was. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt such an utter fool. That was what came with trust, and he had known that. Why had he thought his employer would be any different?

"Well, there's a thundercloud." Usk glanced down at him, and Arlen returned a scowl. With an effort, he smoothed his expression. "Where are we going?"

"Callan's," Arlen said. "Three reasons. Making sure this leg won't collapse on me after a walk round the block. Making sure the poisoner is where I'm expecting him to be when I take the kid." He glared sidelong at the Varthian. "And I heard Haverford was there the other night. I want to know why, and I'm assuming you don't know because if you did, you would have told me, wouldn't you?"

Usk looked unfazed by the implied threat. "Aye. Honestly, Arl, I assumed it was Yddris's business. Even the boy didn't know what he was doing there."

"And you didn't ask?"

"You think I would've got an answer if I had? This is Callan we're talking about."

Arlen didn't reply. There wasn't really anything he could say to counter it. Callan didn't look much on the outside, but he had a sinister side that even Arlen was wary of. There weren't many priests who could hold their own in discussions with Marick, and keep their involvement completely below board when it came to the Lord of the Reach.

He was sure the Nict temple was further away than he remembered. There had been a time where he could walk the route along the rooftops in barely any time at all, and it irked him that Usk had to slow his pace to stay alongside. It was not an auspicious start to regaining his independence, but he told himself that he wouldn't have been able to make it at all with his old leg, that it hadn't fully healed and wouldn't ache so abominably in a few months' time. He gritted his teeth and ploughed on, determined that Usk would at least not notice his discomfort.

"Go ahead and make sure he knows I'm coming," he said after a while, as they reached a section of the quarter he recognised as within a few minutes of the temple. The Varthian looked at him askance.

"Why? You don't normally give him warning."

"Want to make sure there's no one around," Arlen lied. "I've got specific questions. Go on."

"Arl..."

"Just go, will you? I'll join you in a minute." Nict below, but the mothering was getting tiring. Arlen watched until Usk disappeared around the corner at an easy lope, stifling a flash of envy. When he couldn't hear footsteps anymore, he sank down to sit on an old barrel that had been abandoned in the street. He drew his hunting knife as he did so, and kept it in full view in his lap. "Fuck."

An angry tightness welled in his throat. This was what he had come to; sending his men off on pointless errands so they didn't see him collapsing in pain. He silently cursed every god for that errant bolt. A few seconds later, and his life wouldn't have collapsed like this. He'd be better positioned to deal with Marick. Everything would have been so much easier, his apprentice, his job, his leadership. How long before his group tired of following his instructions and set him aside, now that he couldn't even reach the Nict temple on foot without resting, a journey that only a year ago would have been nothing to him?

A noise above. He tensed, listening hard and immediately dismissing his whirling thoughts to focus. He tightened his grip on his knife. A tiny shard of roof tile bounced off the shoulder of his coat.

He got up from the barrel as if he hadn't noticed anything, and began to walk away, listening hard. A moment later, soft footfalls landed behind him. He waited until he estimated that they were right behind him and turned, leading with his knife.

Blade met blade with a clang. His assailant was masked, eyes glittering from the dim recesses of a headscarf. Arlen bared his teeth, and for a long while they stood there, staring each other out, each tense and waiting for the other to make a move. This assassin was not in the same league as the thugs who had attacked him before; he hadn't noticed them until they were almost on top of him. He cursed himself for sending Usk away, but if he could hold out for a few minutes, the Varthian would come looking for him.

"Who the fuck is sending you people?" Arlen growled. Pressure, and then they both lowered their blades at once. His assailant began to circle, but Arlen refused to allow him access to his back. He turned with the man, keeping eye contact with him at all times and his ears on their surroundings in case there were more.

Unsurprisingly, he got no response to his query. The man feinted to one side of him, and Arlen met him with his walking stick as he dodged the other way, smacking a kneecap hard and causing the man to stumble. He recovered quickly, but Arlen used that narrow chance to put his back against a wall. Strange, he thought grimly, this feels uncomfortably familiar.

The man dodged at him again, forcing Arlen to bring his stick to bear to protect his throat. The assassin, taken by surprise, drove into the wood with his blade, where it stuck for long enough that Arlen could counter with a well-aimed kick in the stomach. The assassin folded, letting out a near-silent gust of breath, which was soon drowned out by a growl. The assassin's face disappeared behind Usk's meaty forearms as he straightened up. A sharp crack, and he fell limp to the ground.

Arlen set his stick back on the ground and leaned on it with a breath of silent relief. "He could easily have shot a dart from the roof before I noticed him. I'm starting to wonder if I'm being tested."

"Or someone is gaging how hard it would be to remove you from the game." Callan's voice startled Arlen, and he turned to find the death priest walking towards them up the street, hands tucked into his sleeves. His face was grave as he surveyed the body on the ground between them. He looked up at Arlen. "In order to act quickly when the moment suits them."

It wasn't the first time, and wouldn't be the last, when Arlen suspected that Callan knew far more about the situation than he was letting on. He scowled at the body, and then at the priest. "Are you speculating, or do you know?"

"Call it educated speculation," Callan said with a thin, humourless smile.

"One would almost think you were trying to tell me something, only without actually telling me or giving me enough clues to make it easy. Haul him up, Usk, I want to see his face."

The Varthian bent down and hoisted the body up by the armpits. Its head rolled around in a grotesque fashion, and Arlen had to hold it still to get a good look at it. The man was a complete stranger to him, as the thugs had been. Unlikely to be a personal motive then; more likely that they were hired by someone who did have one. Using his knife, Arlen ripped down the front of the man's tunic and pulled it off. Usk obligingly turned the body to allow further inspection. When it was down to its undergarments and he had found no Devil tattoo, he nodded, and Usk dropped it behind the barrel Arlen had been sitting on.

"One might think that," Callan said. It was hard to tell whether there was humour in his tone or whether he was simply assenting to the point. "One might also think that I have interests of my own to protect." He cocked his head. "Are you injured?"

"Not recently," Arlen grumbled, though his stump was now aching like a bitch. He took a quick inventory of himself, to make sure he hadn't missed any scratches or cuts in his distraction, but he had come out of it unscathed. He went back over the fight in his mind's eye – was he misremembering, was he simply responding to Callan's suggestion, when he thought that perhaps his assailant hadn't tried very hard? The way he had moved, how he had crept up so close before Arlen noticed, suggested a far greater level of skill than he'd actually demonstrated once confronted.

Not observation though, apparently, otherwise the fucker would still have been breathing. None of it made a single jot of dark-damned sense.

Arlen sighed, and then a dark thought occurred to him. He looked back at the priest, reappraising. "I can't normally coax you out of your hole to meet me. Did you know this was going to happen?"

Callan met his glare calmly. There wasn't so much as a twitch in his expression. "When Usk came alone to tell me you were coming, I suspected he had left you without company. I also suspected, and I say this at great risk to myself, I'm sure, that there was a chance you had sent him ahead because you were in great pain." A pause. Arlen had to fight not to reach for a blade. He ground his teeth instead until his jaw squeaked. "While I did not know this particular incident would occur, I suspected it was a risk, and that you would be at a disadvantage."

"And you were going to...what? Swoop in and rescue me?" Arlen sneered.

"If necessary." Callan turned and began to walk away. "I said I have interests of my own to protect. One might think you were one of them."

Arlen bared his teeth in frustration and braced himself to hurry after the man, and then he caught the look on Usk's face and paused. "What? What the fuck are you looking so fucking gloomy about?"

"I shouldn't have left you."

That's it. Arlen hefted his stick and whacked the Varthian in the knees with it. Usk yelled, stumbling back a few steps, and then scowled again, this time with a threat in it. Before he could get loud and indignant about it, Arlen drew in close to Usk's face as he bent over to rub his kneecaps, and stopped an inch before their noses touched.

"Yes, you should have," he hissed. "Because I told you to. Because I am not a helpless cripple. I am not an invalid, I am not a child, I do not need looking after." He stepped back, but did not cool his glare any. "You say you have faith in me, Usk, but do you really? I know I wouldn't have faith in any kind of leader who had to be minded at all times. Especially if I had to do the minding."

Usk straightened, rubbing his jaw, his gaze assessing. Before he had a chance to respond, Arlen turned on his heel and stalked after Callan. It was partly his fault, he knew, that Usk had got so used to minding him. He'd been using the brute as a crutch, but now he had no excuses it would have to end. He couldn't take Marick on while relying on his group to do the heavy work; he'd never have credibility as a leader and he'd lose the seat before he'd set his arse on it. No, he had to do better than this, starting with finding out who was sending people after him and what in Nict's name his apprentice was up to behind his back.

The temple was deserted, as Arlen had hoped it would be. Despite his resolve, he was relieved when Callan offered him a seat in his office, and even more so when the priest silently set down a cup of whisky in front of him. Arlen had spent years risking his life with the Devils, and he wasn't green to attempts on his life, either, but this was a campaign. People had tried to kill him in self-defence, had tried to sabotage Marick's leadership pitch by targeting his followers, and once or twice he had got into a bad fight with another Devil. He hadn't ever had someone try again, and he hadn't ever been in such a vulnerable position. His reputation had kept him safe, and the strength he'd once had to back it up if necessary. No matter what he said to Usk or himself, the stinging truth was that Usk had saved his life this time, and Darin had saved it last time. He had to change tactics before he lost it all.

"You got any more?" he muttered, staring morosely at the bottom of his empty glass.

"One more," Callan said. "I still want some sense out of you."

"Takes more than that." Arlen offered the glass for Callan to fill. Usk sloped into the room last and stood with his back against the door, arms crossed and face brooding. Arlen refused to meet his eye.

"I suggest," Callan said as he tipped the bottle, and then rummaged in his piles of debris for a second glass, "strongly, that you ensure your place of habitation isn't compromised. And if it is, I suggest you move. That assassin could have been waiting for you to leave and followed you from your front door, and if he knew where to find you, others will too."

"I know how this works," Arlen snapped. "This is...was...my line of work."

"Then you know how vulnerable you are while you don't know who is sending these scouts."

"But you do," Arlen accused. "You know. And you seem certain that they're no more than scouts." He trailed off. "You know about the last time, too, don't you?"

Callan's silence was answer enough. A hundred possibilities ran through Arlen's mind, none of which would get him anywhere and most of which involved a weapon. With an effort, he forced his voice level as he said, "What would I have to pay you for the answers you have?"

"More than you would be willing," Callan said sharply. "However, if you will accept my advice for what it is, I think your best move would be to stay with Darin Blackheart." Arlen froze, blood turning to ice at the name. He had never told Callan about Darin, had never mentioned it to Marick. How did he know?

"Did Jordan tell you that name?" he said, voice barely above a whisper.

"Your apprentice has been as loyal as he ever has been," Callan replied, which wasn't as reassuring as Arlen had hoped. "No, he did not. Nor have I ever mentioned it outside our present company, and do not plan to."

But he could, Arlen thought, an unfamiliar terror coursing through him. He'll always have that over me. He didn't need to hand Marick an excuse to kill him before he was ready. There were circles in which he would lose all hope of support if that news got out. It had caused him enough problems within his own group.

"You need me for something," he stated. "You got that information on purpose."

"Well, it was well-hidden. I certainly didn't stumble across it by accident." Callan clasped his hands in front of him on the table. "And I don't need you for anything you need to know about. For the time being, staying alive is your biggest concern. Move to your brother's. Have your apprentice meet you there – do not allow him back into this quarter alone." The priest smiled then, a thin smile that knew too many things and sent a chill up Arlen's spine. "Now that's all out of the way, we can move onto your original business." He sat back. "What can I do for you, Arlen?"

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Regards,

Elinor (S E Harrison)