care for Frey at all, and Pinn was beneath consideration, but the others didn’t deserve to be hung out to dry like that. Especially not Malvery, of whom Crake was becoming quite fond.
But if he was honest with himself, even if he’d hated them all, he’d have gone back. If only to warn them. Because it was the right thing to do, and because it made him better than Frey.
He traced his steps back to Old One-Eye’s, and paused at the threshold, listening for signs of a disturbance. He’d been seen drinking with the crew. If they’d already been caught, there was no sense getting himself picked up as well.
There was a good chance Frey hadn’t been recognised, though. The ferrotype on the handbills must have been taken a long while ago, ten years or more. It didn’t look much like Frey. He had a little less weight and a lot less care on his face. He was clean-shaven and looked happy, smiling into the camera, squinting in the sun. There were mountains and fields in the background. Crake wondered when it was taken, and by whom.
The drinkers were merry and the noise inside the tavern was customarily deafening. All seemed well. Peering through the windows, which were bleared with condensation, he detected nothing amiss.
Get in, grab them, and get out of town.
He took a breath, preparing himself to face the throng inside. That was when he spotted a pair of Knights heading up the street towards him.
He knew them from their ferrotypes. Everyone knew the Knights. Broadsheets carried news of their exploits; cheap paperbacks told fictional tales of their adventures; children dressed up and pretended to be them. Most citizens of Vardia could identify twenty or thirty of the hundred Century Knights. But nobody knew all of them, for they operated as much in secret as in public.
These two were among the most famous, and they attracted stares from passers-by as they approached. The smaller Knight was Samandra Bree, wearing a long, battered coat and loose hide trousers that flared over her boots. Perched on her head was her trademark tricorn hat. Her coat flapped back in the wind as she strode along, offering glimpses of twin lever-action shotguns and a cutlass at her belt. Young, dark-haired and beautiful, Samandra was a darling of the press. By all accounts she did little to encourage their attention, which only made the people love her more and the press chase her harder.
Her companion was Colden Grudge, who wasn’t quite so photogenic. He was a man of bruising size with a face like a cliff. Thick, shaggy brown hair and an unkempt beard gave him a spiteful, simian look. Beneath a hooded cloak, time-dulled plates of armour had been strapped over his massive limbs and chest. He bore the insignia of the Century Knights on his breastplate. Two double-bladed hand-axes hung at his waist, and an autocannon was slung across his back.
Crake’s mouth went dry and he almost fled. It took him a few moments to realise that they weren’t heading for him at all, but for the tavern he was standing in front of. They were going to Old One-Eye’s.
He didn’t have time to think. In moments they’d be inside. Before he knew what he was doing, he thrust the handbill at them and blurted: ‘Excuse me. You’re looking for this man, aren’t you?’
The Knights stopped. Grudge glared at him, tiny eyes peering out from beneath a beetling brow. Samandra tipped back her tricorn hat and smiled. Crake found himself thinking that she really was quite strikingly gorgeous in person.
‘Why, yes we are, sir,’ she said. ‘Seen him?’
‘I just . . . yes, I just did, yes,’ he stammered. ‘At least I think it was him.’
‘And where was that?’ Samandra asked, with a faintly amused expression. She took his nervousness to be the reaction of a man intimidated by a pretty woman, instead of someone strangled by the fear of discovery.
‘In a tavern . . . that way!’ Crake improvised, pointing up the road.
‘Which tavern?’ Grudge demanded
But if he was honest with himself, even if he’d hated them all, he’d have gone back. If only to warn them. Because it was the right thing to do, and because it made him better than Frey.
He traced his steps back to Old One-Eye’s, and paused at the threshold, listening for signs of a disturbance. He’d been seen drinking with the crew. If they’d already been caught, there was no sense getting himself picked up as well.
There was a good chance Frey hadn’t been recognised, though. The ferrotype on the handbills must have been taken a long while ago, ten years or more. It didn’t look much like Frey. He had a little less weight and a lot less care on his face. He was clean-shaven and looked happy, smiling into the camera, squinting in the sun. There were mountains and fields in the background. Crake wondered when it was taken, and by whom.
The drinkers were merry and the noise inside the tavern was customarily deafening. All seemed well. Peering through the windows, which were bleared with condensation, he detected nothing amiss.
Get in, grab them, and get out of town.
He took a breath, preparing himself to face the throng inside. That was when he spotted a pair of Knights heading up the street towards him.
He knew them from their ferrotypes. Everyone knew the Knights. Broadsheets carried news of their exploits; cheap paperbacks told fictional tales of their adventures; children dressed up and pretended to be them. Most citizens of Vardia could identify twenty or thirty of the hundred Century Knights. But nobody knew all of them, for they operated as much in secret as in public.
These two were among the most famous, and they attracted stares from passers-by as they approached. The smaller Knight was Samandra Bree, wearing a long, battered coat and loose hide trousers that flared over her boots. Perched on her head was her trademark tricorn hat. Her coat flapped back in the wind as she strode along, offering glimpses of twin lever-action shotguns and a cutlass at her belt. Young, dark-haired and beautiful, Samandra was a darling of the press. By all accounts she did little to encourage their attention, which only made the people love her more and the press chase her harder.
Her companion was Colden Grudge, who wasn’t quite so photogenic. He was a man of bruising size with a face like a cliff. Thick, shaggy brown hair and an unkempt beard gave him a spiteful, simian look. Beneath a hooded cloak, time-dulled plates of armour had been strapped over his massive limbs and chest. He bore the insignia of the Century Knights on his breastplate. Two double-bladed hand-axes hung at his waist, and an autocannon was slung across his back.
Crake’s mouth went dry and he almost fled. It took him a few moments to realise that they weren’t heading for him at all, but for the tavern he was standing in front of. They were going to Old One-Eye’s.
He didn’t have time to think. In moments they’d be inside. Before he knew what he was doing, he thrust the handbill at them and blurted: ‘Excuse me. You’re looking for this man, aren’t you?’
The Knights stopped. Grudge glared at him, tiny eyes peering out from beneath a beetling brow. Samandra tipped back her tricorn hat and smiled. Crake found himself thinking that she really was quite strikingly gorgeous in person.
‘Why, yes we are, sir,’ she said. ‘Seen him?’
‘I just . . . yes, I just did, yes,’ he stammered. ‘At least I think it was him.’
‘And where was that?’ Samandra asked, with a faintly amused expression. She took his nervousness to be the reaction of a man intimidated by a pretty woman, instead of someone strangled by the fear of discovery.
‘In a tavern . . . that way!’ Crake improvised, pointing up the road.
‘Which tavern?’ Grudge demanded
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