(have you read
the prologue and parts one
and two?)
-
But we cannot support him. We’ve
always stood behind the throne, guiding the ruling hand. Artafor does not
condone His priests taking the throne. Need I remind you what happened
last time? The church hardly recovered from that lesson.
-
In this case my brother, it’s different.
Jarron Tilessin has the entire populace at his beck and call. They march
with him, lifting his banner WITH the flaming sword emblazoned upon it.
If we do not support him and Artafor does – and we know he does – the church
will fall into schism and will shatter from within.
-
Yes, but if we support him, we brand
ourselves as heretics in the eyes of the ruling class. Once a precedent
like this takes place, none of them will trust our council knowing that
we will bend principles as soon as a difficulty arises. How different is
this from the Simipian Food Riots? We stood behind the rulers then.
-
The Church in Meldora is our strongest
one in the lands. They feel that they will be able to exert a lot more…influence
in the north if Jarron succeeds. It is out of our hands now, but if we
can stabilize the situation quickly enough and successfully, Artafor would
gain many followers. They are sending a strong clerical presence to present
itself to Jarron for help with the feeding and healing, and obviously to
establish some order.
-
May his light guide us, this isn’t
right. He rules the people, and we pull his strings? It’s not our way…
-
You have been given your orders,
Lurik. We, the church, must present a united front in this difficult time.
There WILL be no breaches of protocol. Is that understood?
-
Yes, but…
-
No exceptions! Now I have a long
journey still ahead of me, seeing as I have to visit our chapter house
in New Ivrea, so I’ll need…
Extracts from a conversation
between Lurik Mien, High Priest of Artafor in Rotan and an unidentified
colleague (from the case files of Tekuna Chand - Conversation 145A#17)
“…You people
really don’t want to do this. You don’t know whom you’re messing with…”
The thug slapped the cudgel on his
meaty palm, threw his head back and laughed. He winked at his three buddies,
“What do you think boys, should we run for it, or wait for a patrol to
arrest us?”
“OK, I’m giving you this one last
cha…”
The thug smashed the club on a drainpipe,
caving it in, “Enough of this, you flower-picking elf. Give us your valuables
and your clothes. And if you’re lucky, we’ll let you keep your lily-white
undergarments, haaa, haaa.”
The laughter ended in a braying
sound. The leader, to the horror of his buddies standing nearby started
changing. The elder plump merchant in the alley was singing an eerie tune.
He had a strong, sure voice for a man of his age.
“Testia mende a laaaan velshar…”
The sound reverberated through the
walls, causing the roof tiles to tremble. The thug’s face started elongating,
and his fingers started to merge.
“Adiarew fooolses fetreaaa…”
His body started to grow, and hair
sprouted on his face. He was leaning forward at a strange angle, and his
fingernails were flowing together.
“Spiires aster normasd!”
As the last echoes died, he dropped
to all fours and his ears grew to five times their length. Moments later,
where once stood a man, now stood a very distressed donkey. The alley filled
with silence. It took several moments before the situation caught up to
his friends. Then, as one they looked up at the merchant.
The old man lifted his hands dramatically.
One of the thugs let out a high-pitched scream, and as one they ran out
of the alley, tripping over one another in the rush to the narrowed exit.
Chuckling to himself, the old man approached the braying donkey.
“Told you it wasn’t worth it. Good
lesson in humility to learn though. Stop that braying, and I’ll tell you
something. If you’re still thinking like a human in the evening, and you
apologize to me by doing a little tap-dance routine, I’ll change you back.
But don’t follow me around…understand? Nod if you do.”
The donkey swayed its head up and
down frantically.
“Oh good. Now be a good chap and
move aside, will you? I’ve work to do, and I don’t want any donkey scent
on me – even if it is an improvement on your previous stench. Now practice
those dancing steps. Your two-legged future depends on it.”
The old man stepped out onto the
main street.
“Good Morning…No, no…goot Mornink…better
Damus better,” he muttered to himself under his breath. “My name is Darryn
Moltoy…good.”
He walked slowly, taking care to
include the left heel-limp in his steps. Not too much now. He bowed to
the passing old lady, tipping his hat. She looked at him suspiciously.
Obviously Darryn wasn’t a nice guy. He mustn’t let his eyes rove too much
either. Ladies could always come later. He crossed the street and looked
at the sign above the door: ‘The Meldoran House of Commerce’. This was
the place. Time to scratch the golden dragon to see if he’s made of gilded
lead. He opened the door with confidence, and took off his hat.
A servant took his coat, placing
it on a stand.
“Good Morning Jeremiah. I need to
speak to Lucio about a financial difficulty.”
The lad bowed deeply, not daring
to look up, “Yes sir, Mister Moltoy. Right away sir. If you could only
wait a mom…”
“No lad, you run along and announce
me, and I’ll hobble behind you.”
He started towards Lucio’s office.
The lad sprinted ahead of him, disappearing inside. Lucio emerged, quickly
closing the door behind him. He looked pale – well, well, a bit of foul
play behind that door. He couldn’t resist reaching for the handle; “I need
to talk to you about a transaction I did about a month back.
Lucio moved in front of him, dabbing
his forehead with a large handkerchief, “Yes sir, and what might that be?”
If he was right, Tekuna must have
somehow managed to get her negotiator to talk with Lucio. He wondered what
the bait was that would get a staunch supporter of the Simipian Trading
Houses to talk business with RMA.
“Well Lucio, my memory must be slipping.
I have this statement here…,” he pulled out the credit note, “…that is
certified for 12475 gold nobles. The thing is, I’ve lost the receipt for
the one I certified the other day, and I would like to confirm the withdrawal.”
Lucio looked nervously behind his
shoulder, “Yes sir, I would have to complete the security check on your
signet banking symbol…”
Damus made a half-step suggestively
towards Lucio’s office, but Lucio held him back with a hand, “…but since
we know you intimately as one of our most trusted signatories…” His voice
lowered to a conspiring whisper, “…we could avoid the procedure this time.”
He pointed to the private cubicle,
“If you could be so good as to wait inside, I’ll bring the ledgers.”
Damus hobbled slowly inside, and
sat heavily in the leather chair. So far, so good. Moments later, Lucio
ran inside, holding several tomes together. He dropped them, looking at
him.
“That will be all Lucio, thank you.”
He opened the ledger, and he frowned.
He turned one page, ten pages. He opened the other book, turning pages
frantically. It was all the same – encrypted. The evil bastards encrypted
all of their calculations.
He put his hand through his hair
and then covering his mouth, he screamed. Even with magic he couldn’t decode
it quickly enough. He calmed down, smoothing his hair. Well, nothing for
it now. He grabbed the last ten pages of the ledger, and with a painfully
quick loud rip they came out. So much for leaving no traces. Thank all
gods they hadn’t placed magical protections against vandalism on the books.
All he needed was a ‘magic mouth’ enchantment calling for help.
He made short work of the other
books.
Jeremiah was waiting for him outside,
“Well go on boy. Get my hat and coat!”
He dressed, and stepped outside.
Walking down the street, he spotted a small girl leading a donkey. It was
chewing on some hay. Chuckling under his breath, he walked over to her,
his limp so natural to him now that he paid it no attention.
“Wait girl. I said wait!”
She looked as if she was about to
run. She had obviously found the donkey in the alley, and wanted to take
him home with her.
“No, no don’t worry. I don’t want
to take your donkey. I just want to speak to him.”
She looked at him quizzically, and
then shrugged her shoulders. He walked up to the donkey, whispering into
his ear, “If you can still understand me, nod your head twice…”
The donkey looked at him bored,
chewing on some hay. He laughed, slapping his knee. “His name is Cudge,
short for cudgel. Take good care of him.”
He flicked her a gold-piece, and
turned as her eyes widened in shock, “Feed him some oats. He deserves a
good meal after a very confusing day.”
Two alleys further he dumped his
clothes, his body slimming and changing as he dressed. He tied his lengthening
blond hair in a braid, pulled his rapier out of hiding and strapped it
on. He whistled a tune, and the clothes on the ground burst into bright
flames. A moment later he was gone.
Loren, the King of Tilloniti, looked nervous and
confused. He was uncharacteristically chewing on his fingernails; nonetheless
he looked in control of himself. All things considered, Grumplin admired
his composure. The elders of Feroll had all gathered to decide on the city’s
further action in the nearing crisis.
He looked up again at the man standing
by his side. He was of average human height, slim and slightly stooped,
leaning on a beautiful ebony staff. The brown tan and the wrinkle lines
on his face bespoke of someone who liked to spend a lot of time outdoors.
His hair and beard were jet-black, disguising his age. His clothes were
comfortable, but brown and practical. But it was the focus on the wizard’s
face that held Grumplin’s attention. He could spot a fellow scholar immediately.
That expression held knowledge that he craved so much. Answers to questions,
more questions to those answers…there was so much that he would know. It
was the reason he had insisted on remaining here, rather than running back
home to his warm, pleasant and yet boring life.
Euvgeni spoke up, impatience written
on his face. Grumplin was still amazed that the man dressed in a resplendent
embroidered shirt and the velvet coat was the same plainsman whom he had
met just over a week ago. Yet there could be no mistaking the thickly accented
voice, or the sword on his back that he never seemed to part with. He rubbed
his hand absently where his finger used to be. It still throbbed dully
(even though the healers assured him that it was all in his mind).
“Loren, as far as I can see, you
have no choice. We’ve already determined that you refuse to surrender the
crown – which I agree with. The church should tend to people’s spiritual
needs, and not to their political say so. They would rule no better than
a lynch mob. Maybe you should leave the city, but considering that they
come here in anger, I don’t think they’ll leave only because you’re not
here.”
He stood before the young monarch,
forcing him to look up. He folded his arms on his chest before continuing,
“The Church of Artafor refuses to denounce this Jarron, and speaks of joining
forces with him. You have to banish the priests outside of the inner gates
in order to maintain control.”
There was a general murmur of disapproval
in the hall. Euvgeni continued, challenging the audience with his stare.
“They are too dangerous to remain
here. They would hand all your heads on a platter to him in order to stop
any more bloodshed. They’ve all but declared him your new ruler.”
King Loren scowled, muttering to
himself. Euvgeni started pacing again in front of him.
“Now, Souriin has managed to transport
one hundred and twenty of my men over the period of the last week into
the hall. They are all veteran skirmishers of the Lizardman invasion. Together
with the four hundred odd guards loyal enough to have stayed with you,
we have barely enough troops to defend the bailey. Granted, the mob does
not have the discipline of a trained force, and they can hardly build siege-engines,
but with the clergy of Artafor behind them, they will tear the walls down
around your ears. And…”
He stuck out his hand, pointing
at the king, “…and I can guarantee that you can halve the number of your
troops that will fight for you if the priests join the other side and declare
you a pariah. There are nearly three thousand men, women and children marching
here right now.”
Loren put his head in his hands,
“So it’s hopeless!”
His voice sounded strained in the
near empty audience chamber.
“No Your Majesty, it’s never hopeless.”
Grumplin jumped as Souriin spoke
beside him.
“Jarron is the key to this entire
affair. The uprising lives or dies by his say so.”
Loren looked up wide-eyed, “Surely
you do not suggest that we assassinate…”
An irritated expression crossed
Souriin’s face.
“No, of course not. First of all,
I pity the man that tries to strike a cleric this powerful from behind,
and second of all – that would make him a martyr. He’s more dangerous dead
than alive.”
Souriin moved closer, the ivory
staff he held echoing his every step.
“No, what we have to do is convince
him that his actions are wrong.”
Loren let out an exasperated sigh,
and dropped his head back in his hands.
Souriin spoke louder, “Tekuna has
already found out that Pierce Runtar is financing the food wagons coming
out of Simipia. She’s a bit confused as to where he’s getting the funding
from, but she’s adamant that he’s still smarting from their last encounter.
It would also explain the assassination attempts, and why he targets Feroll
– the city is close to his base of supplies. Roleen – one of the Manticorum
– confirms spotting a woman who never leaves Jarron’s side. Her name is
Helena Thornfoe. She often represents the House of the Roaring Tiger on
auctions away from home.”
Euvgeni spoke up; “The first logical
thing to do is to remove her as his advisor. With her around, he will never
listen to reason. I believe Damalanthas is working on it. Secondly, we
need to stop Pierce from dangling the puppet strings without stopping the
food supplies from rolling in – the hunger riots would cripple us just
as surely as a coup. I know it sounds impossible, but maybe Tekuna can
do something there. And third of all, most importantly, we need Jarron
to renounce his quest, as he is the only man that can stop the advance
on the city.”
Pausing to collect his thoughts,
Souriin spoke again, “I also agree with Euvgeni’s concern for your safety,
but instead of ejecting the clergy from the city, make an announcement
that the city gates remain open to all people. Make it look like you are
planning to receive Jarron for an audience rather than a siege, and that
you want to listen to his grievances. It will give you time to ferret out
the instigators inside the city. Hopefully, we won’t get to that point.
There will be assassins trying for your life, and we need every one of
Euvgeni’s troops to patrol the inner city, as none of us trust in the local
soldiers’ present loyalty.”
Loren looked crestfallen. This was
beginning to sound like a nightmare.
“One more thing,” Souriin continued.
“Most of the refugees walking to the city are from Feroll – which doesn’t
stop them from blaming you equally for their woes. The whole Northern region
is coming to see you, I’m afraid.”
He turned to Grumplin.
“I will need your help. Let’s go
somewhere more private.”
Souriin turned to the king, bowing.
“Your majesty, there are many options still open to us in this situation.
The Ivrean Council will do everything in their power to help you. It will
be several days more before the mobs begin to arrive at the gates, giving
us some time to work things out. By your leave, your majesty.”
It was so easy to fool people if you knew how. Everyone
made a lot of assumptions about their observations rather than giving each
situation a second glance. As long as one vaguely met the observer’s requirements,
one could pass by like a ghost in plain sight.
He let the limp form in his arms
fall onto the soft sacks of flour. The spell would ensure that the man
would at least get some decent sleep. He was snoring so loud, that he had
to cover him to muffle the sound. He pulled the cloak about himself, and
put the smelly hat on. It stank of sweat and rain, and (shuddering) he
could just imagine lice in his hair. But often, a real disguise offered
less possibility of discovery, as illusions relied on one’s imagination
and often a small detail that the sorcerer missed broke the perception
thereby spoiling the spell. Plus, he had already exerted some energy teleporting
into the camp. The more power he kept in reserve, the better. He stepped
out of the cook’s tent, waving to a passing patrol. He walked with his
side to the fires, always trying to keep that between himself and the men
lounging nearby. Looking around at the fields littered with flickering
lights, on this hill only, he could see over twenty campfires. At an average
of twenty people at each campfire… four hundred. That made it about two
thousand encamped here, most starving and lonely and confused. He shook
his head in wonder. The man who led them to this had to have immense charisma
to just direct them towards a common goal.
He heard cheering and singing from
the next hill. Running with several other people, he crested the hill.
“It’s Jarron! Jarron! It’s him!”
“Come on, let’s go!”
Somebody pushed him from behind,
trying to squeeze past. He had no choice but to join the others in the
mad rush downhill. There was a fever building in the air. He had seen too
many riots and gatherings not to know what was going to happen next. He
leapt onto a rock in front of him, scampering up, and the tide of people
broke around him in a wave of frenzied flesh. From his position he could
see more clearly, and his elven sight served him well in the dark. There
was a radiant man standing amongst a circle of wagons packed with crates
and boxes. Men dressed in blue carrying long barbed spears surrounded him,
watching the crowd with caution. They crossed the barbs, barely keeping
the growing crowd at bay. The man in the center was dressed in white robes,
which outlined his muscled torso. He had short blond hair and a gentle,
understanding, boyish expression. A light broke out of his chest as he
threw his arms to the skies, arising to a height above him and taking shape
of a giant flaming sword. The crowd gasped and looked up as one.
“Jarron. Jarron…” The chant went
up in the air.
He slowly lowered his arms, and
the crowd quieted, entranced by his manner. He had a zealous, ecstatic
look on his face. That single look made Damalanthas aware how dangerous
the man was. He was a genuine article and not some two-bit con-artist.
He played the crowd with ease that Damalanthas had rarely seen before.
“People of Artafor…People of Artafor,
keep your faith. We stand within five days march of the city, and as I
promised, your food arrives. We stand tired, we stand hungry, but we stand
in defiance! They will not break us. To those that joined us today, I salute
you. Together we shall return our lands to what they once were: proud,
productive, prosperous and filled with happy people.”
The crowd surged forward cheering,
but the guards held them back. The chanting arose again. Damalanthas felt
the spell energies build around him. Jarron was a priest, and he was using
the prayers of the faithful to power his enchantments. By the gods that
was a lot of energy. Damus could feel his fingertips tingling with it.
When Jarron spoke next, his voice was like an ocean wave striking a shore.
He could hear him clearly above hubbub.
“People, remain calm…”
The crowd quieted, listening expectantly
for his next words.
“We must fight as one. A sword without
an edge is nothing but an unbalanced, useless club. We are like that sword,
and without organization in our ranks, we become a crooked, dry stick,
and we will break against our foe. Tonight, after you eat…”
The cheer arose to a crescendo.
“…Present yourselves to your elected
cell leaders. It is essential that we act as a team. See to your families.
Make sure they’re comfortable. It is for them that we do this. Never forget
the reason behind our lament. Don’t let hatred sweep you away. We do this
out of love for the ones we hold dear. My men will distribute the food
now. Keep calm, each will receive some.”
Damalanthas had heard enough. The
wall of pressing bodies started undulating, threatening to break past the
guards. Hands were grabbing for every scrap thrown in the air. Damalanthas
prepared to jump off.
Jarron continued to shine. Suddenly,
his aura dimmed, and people gasped. The packs on the wagons burst, spilling
growing numbers of fruit and bread onto the ground. Damalanthas froze.
Normally, priests were able to feed a couple of people by creating food
miraculously from the smallest quantities of produce – but nothing on this
scale. Jarron’s aura was flickering. The wagons frothed with cheese and
vegetables spilling over. One of the wagons creaked and sagged suddenly
as the weight broke the axle. Jarron stumbled, sinking to his knees. The
people nearby gasped as his light washed over them. Where the rays fell,
clothes mended absorbing color and freshness. People shrugged and straightened,
smiling in ecstasy, painful cuts and bruises mending. Jarron fell forward
to the ground coughing, but only a few people could see it in the frenzy.
The melody formed on Damalanthas’
lips and he felt the familiar rush of magical energies. He felt the spell
build and he blinked out of existence. With a pop he appeared again, 20
yards closer. This was going to take several attempts. Movement by the
spell was very unpredictable. He only had time to gasp as he was slammed
in the shoulder by a running figure. –BLINK- He appeared closer to the
wagons, and landed hard on the ground as the gravity caught up. There was
a man swinging a staff at him…-BLINK- This one was more controlled and
he appeared standing. Just one more…
He caught a flash of movement, and
with a single fluid motion he drew and parried. The weight of the axe reverberated
through his arm, driving him to his knees. If it hadn’t been for the magic
in the blade assisting his speed…-BLINK-
Jarron was in front of him…as was
a hooded figure with a bloody dagger. Jarron was lying in a growing pool
of blood. There was a deep gash on his head. The hooded figure rolled and
threw a dagger at him…-BLINK- He was standing behind the assassin. The
murderer was good – he managed a half-spin before the shining blue sword
struck him in the side. It cut through the bundles of clothes gently and
it cut deeply, meeting little resistance from the bones. The man grunted
before slumping to the ground. Damalanthas dove forward to Jarron… -BLINK-
He looked around uncertain. He was lucky: Jarron had moved with him. He
blinked twice more, heading for the large tents. Under the canvas he cancelled
the spell. Quickly, he used some of Jarron’s blood to smear himself. Grunting
under his weight, he picked Jarron up, minding his wounds. He staggered
forward out of the darkness, choosing the light of the fire to dramatically
obscure their details. Guards rushed forward unsure of the shapes, readying
their weapons. Someone yelled, recognizing Jarron and several guards dropped
their pole arms to assist him. They carefully laid him on the ground, and
a silence settled. A short thin woman pushed through the men cursing, parting
them with her elbows. She had a very astute expression, and extremely intense
eyes. Her hair was gathered in a single thick braid. She wore a chain-mail
shirt that jingled with her every step. Damalanthas misjudged her age at
first. From afar, her build and vigor showed her to be in mid-forties -
and in a good condition. Up close, her frown lines and steel colored hair
told a different truth. She was possibly in her mid-sixties. Damalanthas
recognized her instantly: Shanna Bellion, High Priestess of Artafor – possibly
the most controversial of His clerics – and definitely the most dangerous.
If she was here, then the church wanted the problem of Jarron resolved
without inciting a riot. She would often act in circumstances that would
send a lesser priest into bouts of catatonic confession. She knelt quickly
and parted Jarron’s torn clothes carefully. She placed her hands directly
on the wound and closed her eyes. A moment later, Damalanthas saw a deep
purple light break from between her fingers. She was muttering to herself.
The light intensified, and Damus could feel the heat of it spread through
his own bones where he stood. She raised her head, still muttering, and
the light became lighter in color. The blood on Jarron’s chest started
to froth and the wound was closing. As he shuddered, Damus saw the muscles
knitting themselves, the bones covering in new tissue. The light became
white and a strange green oily substance poured out of the wound as if
squeezed out, hissing as it struck the ground. The wound closed, and the
bruising retreated. Shanna slumped on Jarron’s chest.
“What’s all this commotion? Why
are you louts not on duty?”
The voice from the tents snapped
them all into activity. Damus turned – it was Helena. She cried out, running
to Jarron’s side. The bloodstains panicked her, “Jarron…”
Shanna stood up, catching Helena
in a steel grip. She was smaller and shorter by a head than Helena, but
she stood in her way like a pillar of stone.
“Get a grip on yourself child. You
are not doing him or your reputation any good.”
“Is he going…”
“He’ll be fine in a couple of days.
He’s a strapping lad. Thanks to this gentleman over there.”
They all looked in Damalanthas’
direction. It was time to see if the disguise worked. As expected, the
old woman’s gaze contained spells to identify him, but he had had time
to prepare his own magic. He could feel her spell seeking his mind, but
his own enchantments misdirected it, feeding it false auras. Seemingly
satisfied with her efforts and his appearance, she looked away to Jarron.
“Come on! Stop gawking and take
him to his tent. What are you waiting for?”
Damus half-turned, scanning the
crowd. He could feel Roleen nearby through her Manticorum blade, and he
sent a silent call for her to approach the tent. He was ready to lay his
cards on the table.
“Your Excellence…?”
He stepped closer to Shanna. He
had to test his disguise now, and distract her from Roleen. Shanna was
the only present company who knew what he looked like. If he got past her,
the rest was easy.
“Lady Bellion, my name is Jarret.”
He thrust his hand towards her.
She looked up at him with those
piercing eyes, and he was glad for all those hours he had spent practicing
expressions in front of the mirror. Every last minute was paying itself
off now. It seemed like she gazed for an eternity. Then she smiled coldly,
and returned his handshake. Her grip was strong and her hand was callused
and hard from years of gripping weapons.
“Well done, young man. Have you
eaten? No? Follow me.”
She turned and approached the pot
of food. He felt Roleen approach Helena’s tent.
“Could we have an extra plate over
here? Snap to it, young man! Honestly, where did they train you? Don’t
answer that. Do I look like I care? I ask for soldiers and they send me
infants. Do I have to teach you how to shave too?”
She handed him the plate filled
with a steaming hot stew and a slice of hot crisp bread. Damalanthas heard
his stomach grumble in anticipation. She smiled at his expression. She
glanced towards the tents impatiently. Damus spoke up, drawing her attention.
If he modulated his voice just right, it made it difficult for her not
to pay attention to him. No magic used – just a useful voice trick he had
picked up.
“I saw you cure him. I’ve seen it
before, but it still takes my breath away.”
Shanna looked at him again, eyes
searching for falsehood. She was really suspicious, and for a moment Damus
thought he had overdone it. She sighed, holding her fingers to her temples.
“Yes, even after all these years,
I feel the same. It’s like passing a breath of life into someone through
you.”
She smiled at him again, but her
expression was warmer.
“You’d better stick around. Jarron
will want to see his savior. I’ll see to your quarters, and your uniform.”
Her gaze steeled and her face lost
all emotion. She saluted him.
“Welcome to the Mirrored Soul Regiment,
soldier. Jarron needs more people like yourself.”
Damus felt a bit of anxiety from
the Manticorum blade. His ears picked up a noise from Helena’s tent. He
quickly saluted smiling.
“Could you show me the encampment
sir? I’m afraid I haven’t been this close to Jarron before.”
She glanced towards Jarron’s tent
and nodded briefly, “Sure.”
As they reached his new barracks,
he got the signal through the blade: Roleen was in place. He hoped that
she was a good actress, even if she stayed out of sight. Stage one was
set. Now for the tough part…
Things were beginning to move at a quicker pace.
Pierce sat down, rubbing his eyes. After a day like this, they would water
constantly, causing him some discomfort. The letters to his father were
on their way, and all he could do now is wait. He knew the Lords far better
than Claris. They had more resources available to them than she was aware
of. And they were not afraid to personally involve themselves – something
that kept them far better informed of the situation than Claris. There
was no report from Helena, and the lack of information from Outreach meant
that Euvgeni was alive – and highly pissed off. He shuddered at the thought
of his own neck snapping like a twig in those arms.
Now, his latest news was that there
was a madman elf – in a pirate getup, hat, eye-patch and all – that was
menacing their own caravans. Apparently he fought six guards to a standstill
and was a crack-shot with a bow – and yet somehow all of the fools survived.
The pirate was happy enough to introduce himself as Flash, the greatest
pirate that ever lived (on land?). Funny enough, none of the food caravans
were sabotaged, only the House's trade wagons passing through Meldora.
They had a leak somewhere in the chain of command…but where? So, if Flash
was raiding their most valuable caravans, they must be aware of what is
going on…and yet, if they used Flash, they must have wanted him to know
all this. Why…unless…
He felt a pinprick at his throat
and he froze instantly. The stiletto scraped slowly across his larynx,
forcing him to pick up his chin. He dropped his glass, but it never landed.
A dark, painted face came into his view.
Slowly, constantly looking in his
eyes, Tekuna lifted his glass to her lips.
“Not bad, Pierce old chap. It actually
is quite a good vintage. Not the usual expensive sewage you normally buy
from us.”
He moved his arm to his pocket,
and the knife tightened against his throat. He froze.
“I…was expecting someone from Rotan…What
a privilege to meet you in person.”
Her eyes were shining dangerously,
and her smile was anything but warm.
“The only reason why you are still
alive is that my friends think you might want to help them. Me, I advised
them against talking to you, but I can be flexible. So go ahead…prove me
right and get things over and done with.”
The dagger flashed in the candlelight,
and he knew she was playing him…or was she? He tried to swallow, but the
razor-sharp blade prevented it.
“I wish a truce,” he whispered quickly
as the flat of the blade slid slowly across his throat.
The knife stopped, and her face
(strangely arousing in odor of charcoal and smoke) moved closer. His trained
eye picked up glimmers of lock-picks tied into decorations in her hair.
“I wish…to…help you. I’m not behind
these events,” he whispered, smiling as her expression changed from amazement
to disbelief. The edge of the dagger changed that to a grimace.
“The food caravans belong to you
– as do the scum that guard them.”
The knife drew back so that he could
talk again.
“They belong to my half-sister,
I swear. I want to help you – I’m in a jam myself. I’ll prove it to you.
In fact, you’ve saved me the trouble of trying to contact you.”
Tekuna pulled her arm back.
“If you attempt to scream…”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. Here.”
He withdrew a small folded paper
from his hose pocket slowly, watching her every move. He slowly stretched
his hand out. She grabbed the paper, but he held on.
“I want you to know that what I
do is for the good of my family.”
He feigned distress.
“Oh yes, I’m sure this is tearing
you apart.”
She read the paper quickly, glancing
at him from time to time.
“The schedule for the rest of the
caravan departure times and stops in the East? I don’t believe you. Are
you playing me for a fool?”
She moved closer, drawing her dagger
back. Pierce shrank back into his chair, his eyes widening.
“No, no. It’s real. It’s genuine.”
“Why?”
He watched the dagger tip hang like
a symbol of doom in front of his face.
“She’s trying to push me out. She
gained a lot of money when her husband drowned – not an accident if you
ask me – and she’s making a bid to take over, after my last fiasco. If
she fails…she’s going back home, and I get my men back in control. We’ve
been losing a lot of money. You and I both.”
Tekuna moved back into the shadows,
leaving him talking to darkness.
“I hate you and all the Lords –
it’s true, but that pales in comparison to what I feel for my sister. The
trollop does not deserve death. It would be too kind.”
He thought he saw movement in the
shadows.
“So what do you say? Tekuna? Tekuna!”
He eased forward slowly, but the
breeze in the window told him what he already knew. She was gone. With
a satisfied smirk, he sat down and wiped his brow. This was twice that
she had stepped on his toes. The third time would not go so well for her…
(Now read part
four.)
|