Quest of the Five Clans

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The Last King of the Oak

Mutiny. My right foot declined to enter the night. I puzzled at this rebellion. Seriously, oh foot? Here was our garden. No doubt some fool hid within clutching a dagger. What of that? Any garden could boast as much. There might be owls or wasps. A cat, even. I do not fear cats, exactly. No, I admire their genius for tripping one at the exact wrong moment.

"Tiger, Tiger, burning bright," whispered William Black from my pocket. "In the forest of the night."

I stared into the night-forest, reconstructing it as my dull garden, not the haunt of ghosts and tigers. An enclosed courtyard, more than real garden. Neighboring houses presenting unclimbable wall upon three sides. No exit unless one knew of the ivy trellises rising up from the roses, leading to the roof and away.

A single tree centered the square. A tall thick-trunked oak, wide as a cottage, its circles measuring all the years between today and Caesar's invasion. The branches whispered words from the wind. My foot distrusted the whispers. Hear that, it asked? Milksop foot, I replied. But my heart understood right well. Something waited beyond the doorway.

But the hall behind now echoed with running feet. Shouts. They'd found the downed assassins. Which told them I hid within the riot of this house. Enough nonsense. I drew sword, overruled instincts and rushed into night. My garden, the advantage mine. I ran to the ivy, stopped. Two hunters had been in wait within. The roof would have its lurkers as well. I could not fight while clambering up a wall.

I backed to the left, putting me next the fountain. A stone lion, jaws wide to bite at water that never flowed. Poor thirsty creature, the pipes clog fast as I have them fixed. The tree whispered again, though no wind blew. I hunched, insisting I feared a crossbow bolt. In truth, I was not sure what I feared.

At the door appeared several figures. There they halted. Wisely, if you chase the Seraph into the night. Too dark for proper fighting but I wouldn't fight proper. They would stumble, unsure who in the mirk was friend. I knew my garden and had no friend within it. As well, my night vision is excellent. If they entered this mirk, I'd laugh louder than their death-rattles.

But "Fetch lights," ordered one. "He has no exit but to climb the ivy trellis to the roof. If he'd gone that way, we'd hear him dying."

Damnation. Alderman Black's voice. A thinker. And informed. He'd sat in this very garden. Sipped my wine, argued Blake's verse. And all the while he spied the escapes? He must have plotted my murder long before yester-night's fiasco. I considered our ten-year association. The truth dawned. The man hated me. Probably always had.

It may seem strange, considering my life of violence, but I have seldom felt hated. Fear and admiration are my proper due. Respect by peers. And love, by some few. Not many. Who the blast is ever loved by more than a few? And lucky to have that.

Well, Black hated me. It explained who burned my first editions. The man held a grudge for his warehouse, my superior knowledge of Blake. I wondered how many waited on the roof. Perhaps that was bluff to keep me close. I hesitated between running for the ivy and fighting my way back through the house. I settled for waiting, watching.

Lights were fetched. Two candelabrum, one torch, two lanterns. My candelabrum. Silver, from Italy. My lanterns from the kitchen. Don't know where they found the torch. Cobbled from my smashed furniture, doubtless. Teak and rosewood, it would burn with a smell of Indian forests, jeweled boxes.

Five lights, six men. Three were soldiers by their stances. Two were market-place duelists by their slouches. The last stood next to Black, watching silent, guarding the door to the house. I felt uncertain of him. No, certain. Dangerous. He held crossbow in one hand, rapier in the other.