Sir Hereward, taking the more conventional steps, arrived at the landing below where the two guards were stationed. He almost collided with one of them, who had either been listening or perhaps merely looking up, curious as to the source of the commotion. She stepped lightly out of the way, and Sir Hereward slowed down to stand between the two guards, his fists clenched, nostrils agape, breath snorting, all too like a fractious bull.
“Is there some trouble, Sir Hereward?” asked the woman. Her name was Aryadny and she was the senior of the two guards, and far more dangerous in Hereward’s reckoning than Zanthus, despite the other guard being younger, at least a foot taller, and considerably heavier, in muscle not fat. Both wore the close-faced bronze helms, gilded scale mail, and plated leggings of the Archon’s Chosen, and both carried short-staved demi-halberds, but Aryadny also had a punch misericorde at her belt, and she moved with the sinuous grace that suggested frequent use of the narrow-bladed weapon. She was more of an assassin than a soldier, unless Sir Hereward missed his guess.
“Your pardon,” said Sir Hereward. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “That clerkly puppet irks me! I swear his blood is ink, and of course his head is made of paper!”
Aryadny laughed.
“A dry stick, sure enough,” she said. “Very different to the musical puppets I’ve seen. They are full of japes and jokes, and sing and play most beautifully.”
“I’d like to see one of them,” said Zanthus wistfully. “Do you think old . . . whatshisname . . . Futz . . . would give us a song?”
“No,” said Sir Hereward. “A crow could sing better. A stone would! Whatever ancient sorcerer put him together made him solely to burrow in books and scrolls, and write damn fool lists of no consequence.”
“You make an odd pairing, Sir Hereward,” said Aryadny. “I mean, a mercenary officer, skilled with cannon and the like. Why do you truckle under an inky old puppet?”
“I don’t truckle,” protested Sir Hereward, but with good humor. “As you said, I am a mercenary. In high standing in the western kingdoms, I’ll have you know. Ask anyone.”
“The western kingdoms lie a thousand leagues distant,” said Aryadny.
“What’s that to do? In any case, I work with Fitz because he pays very well, and has a nose for . . . let’s say a nose for even better pay. I aim to raise my own company of great guns by next spring, and that will not come cheap.”
“It’s true we offer the best prices on bronze or iron guns in the known world,” said Aryadny, with a look that suggested she now understood Hereward’s motivation for being in Nikandros far better than she had a moment ago. “My cousin’s a cannon-founder, a master of the Guild, should you wish an introduction. Doubtless he would offer attractive prices for a man known to be in the Archon’s good graces.”
Hereward nodded thoughtfully.
“I may well ask that of you, once our work is done,” he said. “I thank you. But right now I need a drink to wash the dust from my throat. Can you suggest a tavern with good wine for a discerning soldier such as myself?”
“Sign of the Black Sun,” offered Zanthus.
“I think Sir Hereward would prefer the Windflower,” said Aryadny. “It has the superior cellar. Perhaps even wines from the western kingdoms.”
“Whichever is the closer will serve,” said Sir Hereward.
“Or you could simply visit the buttery within the citadel, close by the gatehouse,” said Aryadny. “We serve our noble visitors a pleasant zinthen, a wine you may know.”
“Oh, aye, a white grape, somewhat sour for my taste,” said Hereward. “But it would quench my thirst, which I confess is mighty. Yet if there is a finer vintage to be had . . .”
“Then the Windflower should serve you well,” said Aryadny. “It lies on the wall between the Upper Third and the Middle. From the main gate of the citadel, you should cross the great court and take the varden marked with the bronze statue of a bull—”
“The varden?”
“Our name for what you might call an alley, or perhaps a lane of steps,” said Aryadny. She continued with a long list of directions that Hereward kept asking her to repeat, though he had them memorized on the first recitation.
He had also closely studied the map of the city Mister Fitz had purchased before they took ship at Sarg Sargaros, so Hereward already knew what a varden was, and had a good idea of the layout of the city.
Nikandros was built atop a wedge-shaped stone mountain that formed an island off the coast of Er-Nikandros. The narrow point extended several leagues out into the sea, and atop this was the Archon’s citadel, fourteen hundred feet above the water. As the arrowhead broadened and descended toward the mainland, it was filled in with the houses and shops of the rich or at least well-to-do. This was the Upper Third, though in fact it occupied less than a quarter of the city’s rambling acreage. A high wall separated the Upper Third from the Middle, which was terraced into five main sections, the lowest terrace some five hundred feet below the wall.
A great crevasse—bridged at over a dozen points—separated the Middle from the Levels, the generally flat outer area dominated by forges, foundries, and the metalworking industry that was the source of Nikandros’s wealth. The Levels extended to the base of the arrowhead, where the peninsula joined the mainland, and was enclosed at its extent by an ancient wall and beyond that by more extensive and modern defenses of ditch, bastion, and ravelin, all suitably equipped with fine cannon of the city’s own making.
Because it was built into and upon a mountain, the streets of Nikandros were generally narrow and involved a lot of steps. But only the broadest thoroughfares, and there were few of these, were known as streets. Most of the ways were very narrow, never went in a straight line, zigzagging back and forth as the slope required, and these were known as vardens.
The other thing Hereward already knew was that a dark, steep, constantly turning varden was the ideal spot for ambush and murder. Though there were plenty of places like that within the citadel as well, Hereward thought, and he hoped Mister Fitz was right about certain aspects of the plan they had set in motion.
“So I turn right at a barber’s with the tree in the tub by its door?” he asked.
“No, left at the barber’s, which has the sign of a copper comb,” said Aryadny. “After that, right at Pharem’s fruiterer—she has the tree in the tub as a sign.”
“Ah, yes,” said Hereward. “I fear all the scribing in that little room has mazed my mind. Left at the barber’s, with the copper comb, right at the tree in the tub, go straight on and down the steps with the rotten railing—I’ll be careful of that—and then when I get to the courtyard with the old cannon, there are various vardens, and I take the second from the left.”
“No, it’s the third varden from the place of various vardens!” exclaimed Aryadny.
“I can just ask directions,” said Hereward. “And if I see some tavern on the way, perhaps—”
“No, no, the Windflower’s wine is far superior to anywhere else,” said Aryadny. “You know, I think I should accompany you.”
“What! You can’t—” Zanthus started to say, but Aryadny held up her hand.