by Randy Nargi
“It was Meomannan Quill’s behavior that damned the Guild. He never refuted any allegations, never spoke a single word in defense. This morning I visited him in prison, implored the man to work with the Council—”
“I cannot presume to speak for my Grand Guildmaster, but he must have his reasons.”
Bryn Eresthar took another tack. “The Guild has its own team of investigators, does it not?”
“Yes.”
“They must have been charged with uncovering the truth about this attack.”
"Of course. But I'm afraid that I don't know much about them—or their progress if any. It is Grand Guild Master Ramipoor who directs that team."
“I have heard that both Ramipoor and Tarist have cooperated with the Imperial investigation, but their testimony has not yielded any valuable information. They seem to be as much in the dark as the rest of us, but—”
A knock at the door interrupted the conversation. It was Magister of the Murmurs Samerin Feke.
“A thousand pardons, Your Grace, but we have just received some information that you should know before your meeting with the Viceroy.”
Bryn Eresthar motioned for the man to enter. The spymaster did so, but then looked awkwardly at Oron Barr.
“Come on, man. You may speak in front of the mage,” Bryn Eresthar said.
“With all due respect to the good Magister, I believe you may want to hear this news yourself before discussing it with the Council.”
“I must depart,” Oron Barr said, rising from the divan. “I have duties to attend to before the vigil. By your leave…”
“Thank you, Oron Barr. I appreciate your insight and advice.”
When the door shut behind the mage, Bryn Eresthar turned to his Magister of the Murmurs. “I trust your news is indeed for my ears only.”
“Your Grace, our agents have reported Imperial forces being deployed in Prentel, Swain, and Port Othan. Possibly in Nordowns as well.”
“Are you certain? What kind of Imperial forces?”
“Shielders. At least a squadron in each location. Two in Swain.”
“Have any troops been sighted within our borders?”
“Not as yet, Your Grace.”
“And no explanation from Rundlun? Does Umfrey know about this?” Bryn Eresthar asked.
“You are the first to know. Perhaps the Viceroy intends to discuss this at the assembly of Lord Governors tomorrow.”
Bryn Eresthar paced the room. This was disturbing news. Deploying Imperial forces in the provinces meant that Yrian Gast was worried about an all-out revolt.
“This is indeed troubling.”
“Yes, Your Grace. But there is more news of concern. My sources tell of meetings between Lord Governor Asryn and certain powerful families in Balby and Wayfield. He’s also been sighted at the palace in Vale.”
“Do we know the nature of these meetings?”
“Not as yet. But since your acquittal, Asryn has been increasingly vocal in his criticism of Rundlun. He has charged that the Viceroy can no longer keep us safe. This attack on Kreed’s Keep has only added fuel to the fire.”
Bryn Eresthar asked a few more questions, but Samerin Feke had no more information. Before dismissing his Magister of the Murmurs, Bryn Eresthar instructed him to convene the Council at once—before the vigil.
Once he was alone, Bryn Eresthar slumped down on the divan. This was not good. Yes, Asryn was showing his true colors, but the chaos that would result from turning even a few of the provinces against Rundlun would sunder the Empire. But this is likely what Asryn wanted. Civil war.
Chapter Nine
THE SUN WOULD SET IN LESS THAN A HALF HOUR, BUT THE TALL BUILDINGS OF LEDGAR HAD ALREADY BLOCKED THE LAST RAYS OF LIGHT, CLOAKING THE CITY IN A SHROUD OF DARKNESS. Bander made his way through the gloom of the roughest section of the roughest neighborhood within Rundlun.
Bander had considered and discarded several options to escape the city. He could have tried a subterranean passage, either a dry tunnel or an underground river. However, he strongly suspected that an army of informants would be well-paid to watch all the usual unsanctioned and illicit routes.
Silbra Dal had offered to cast stoneflow to create a temporary tunnel through a city wall. That would work, but the mages in Skydagger were most certainly monitoring the city for magic use, and they could pinpoint the source of the magic and teleport guards to that location before he’d be able to get away.
Probably the smartest idea—and the one that first occurred to him—would be to make his way to the Lerrin Docks on the north side of the Tycone River. The massive industrial and shipping district spanned over ten square miles and cargo was moved in and out by land and sea nearly around the clock. It would be relatively easy to stow away on a caravan or river barge and clear the city limits. But the were two problems with this option.
The first problem was the fact that there were only two bridges that led to Lerrin Docks. Both of those bridges would be heavily guarded. The river itself was wide and divided up into channels with underwater fencing to thwart smugglers. It wasn’t impossible to cross the river, but it wouldn’t be easy.
The second problem was that Chiran Hemmig would be coordinating with the Imperial Magister of the Axe—and Bander’s old boss—Tad Stircas. They would have discussed options and come to the conclusion that Bander would most likely try to escape through the Docks. So now there would be plenty of extra forces lying in wait, including some mages ready with divination spells in case someone managed to collect a scrap of his clothing.
So Bander had decided to do something unexpected. He made his way to the City of Ledgar and crossed the Nyden Canal into the most dangerous part of the city: the Old Mill.
The name itself was about a thousand years out of date. According to ancient history, Ledgar was once a mill town that was fed by a great forest to the north. This forest spanned from the river to the foothills of the Eras Taor Mountains. But as the centuries passed, all the trees were cut down and it became necessary to ship lumber in from Three Rivers and even Laketon. The mill town of Ledgar grew into a city, and that city eventually merged with four other nearby cities to become the metropolis of Rundlun.
Today all the mill buildings, forges, and drying warehouses were long gone, and in their place grew a maze of towering spires and tall narrow buildings with steep gabled roofs and ornamental trusses. Crooked, narrow alleys filled with refuse ran at various odd angles. Many of the streets led to nowhere at all. The entire Old Mill neighborhood stank of decay.
As Bander moved through the dark alleys, he knew he was being watched. But he made no effort to hide.
Those watching him were not the guard, not the Shrike; they were the Clubfoots, a vicious gang who had controlled and held this part of the city for decades. The Ministry of the Axe not only tolerated the Clubfoots but actively encouraged them to maintain their criminal fiefdom. It wasn't a position that Bander had agreed with, back when he was a Red Shoulder Captain and Imperial Investigator, but the Ministry of the Measure had various theories about how to maintain the economic health of Rundlun and somehow the criminal element played into those theories. Either that, or there was large-scale bribery going on.
Normal citizens didn’t just wander into the heart of Clubfoot territory. At least, they didn’t unless they happened to have a death wish. Before you got more than few hundred yards into the Old Mill, you could expect some contact from a Clubfoot gang member. Tonight was no different.
As Bander turned a corner past an old dry fountain choked with vines, two shadowy figures stepped out in front of him.
“You lost, old man?” one of them asked. The timbre of his voice was that of a young man’s, but he stood nearly as tall as Bander. The other man was half a head shorter, but heavyset.
“Not at all,” Bander said. “Just heading over to the Eel & Dagger.”
“The Eel’s a private establishment, grandfather. They don’t allow just anyone to sit down for a drink.”
> “I’m not just anyone.”
The heavyset man snickered. It was a light laugh. As Bander moved closer, he saw that both of gang members were no older than twenty. Each wore the single red ribbon on the buckle of their left boot which signified that they were marked members of the Clubfoots. It made sense. The junior gang members would be assigned foot patrol on the outer edge of the territory. There might even be younger children acting as lookouts.
The tall gang member grinned crookedly. “This can be a dangerous part of town. Why don’t we escort you safely back to Milip Street? Plenty of taverns there. Of course, we would expect a little remuneration, like, for our services.”
“What kind of remuneration?”
“Let’s start with all of your gold and we can go up from there.”
“A generous offer, lads. But I have my mind set on the Eel & Dagger.”
“Well, don’t say we didn’t warn you.”
"That is if you can say anything at all—with all those broken teeth," the heavyset gangster added.
He shuffled in close and threw a punch at Bander’s mouth. Which never connected.
Bander caught the gangster’s fist in his hand and gave it a quick squeeze. It was like squeezing an egg. The gangster’s fist imploded in a crackle of bones. His knees buckled and he screamed—first in shock, then in agony.
The other gangster reacted quickly, muttering a curse and snapping a wicked knife from a concealed scabbard. He tried to slash at Bander, but Bander was already moving, stepping into the attack, and striking the gangster’s wrist with a solid back-fist that sent the blade clattering to the cobblestones. Bander followed up with a sharp left which shattered the tall gangster’s nose in a spray of blood and sent the man sprawling. A well-placed kick made sure that he wouldn’t be getting up.
The heavyset gangster whimpered. “Don’t…hurt me… you can go…”
“Oh really? I can go?” Bander grabbed the man’s tunic with one hand and hauled him to his feet. “How about we go together to Fyfe’s Gate?” Bander pushed the man forward and snatched up the knife from the ground. “Get moving. If you try to alert anyone or cry out, that will be the last sound you make.”
“I…I thought you wanted to go to the Eel?”
“I changed my mind.”
Bander pulled the cloak from the unconscious gangster and wrapped it around himself. He also liberated the ribbon from the gangster’s boot and tied it to his own. From a distance, and especially in the dark, he might be able to pass for the tall gangster.
Then he began to march the heavyset man through the twisting lanes of the Old Mill.
“You must be addled to go up against us. Do you even know whose territory you’re in?” the gangster asked.
“Shut your mouth and keep going. And remember, I can punch this blade from your back through to your belly before you can blink.”
Bander’s destination was an ancient city gate that had long been bricked up. But he happened to know that years ago the Clubfoots had excavated an old guard house which held a passage through the city walls. There were hundreds of these hidden passages all across the city—if you knew where to look. This one was fairly close: less than a mile away. And it was not likely to be under Imperial surveillance.
For the next ten minutes, Bander’s ruse worked well. Other patrolling gang members saw what looked like two of their own and didn’t bother to approach.
But then Bander ran into some bad luck.
“Hail!”
A young boy, maybe ten or twelve years old ran over. “Have you seen Kenton?” He wore a ribbon around his left wrist instead of on his boot. That meant that he was an apprentice gang member.
He looked at Bander with a curious look in his eye. “Who are you?”
“Leocald,” Bander said, using one of his common aliases. “I’m here from Wayfield.”
“Wayfield?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened to you?” the kid asked the heavyset gangster, who was cradling his mangled fist.
“Nothing. Step lightly.”
The kid paused for a moment, then nodded and dashed away.
Bander threw the gangster up against a stone wall. “What did you tell him?”
“Nothing!”
“Step lightly was code, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about!”
“I bet you don’t,” Bander growled. Then he bounced the man’s head against the wall—just enough to knock him unconscious. At least that was the idea.
Then Bander strode off—as quickly as he could without running. He couldn’t afford to attract any more attention. Likely the kid was bringing reinforcements. He had to get to his destination before they arrived.
It had been three or four years since Bander had been to this part of Ledgar and he strained to remember the exact way to Fyfe’s Gate. But he had a good sense of direction and he knew that if he kept going west, he’d get close.
Darkness had fallen completely. Since the city lamplighters refused to cross into the Old Mill, the only light was from the few lamps the Clubfoot patrolmen lit on their rounds or from lanterns placed in the windows of taverns, brothels, or the odd tenement that was actually inhabited.
Three times Bander accidentally wandered into a dead end and had to retrace his steps. But eventually, he made his way to the outer wall, which towered a good twenty feet over his head. Now he just had to find the gate and the guardhouse. His gut told him to head south, but there was a sprawling block of structures in the way, built up against the wall. Judging by the lack of ornamentation, the block was relatively new—probably built within the last decade or so. And it appeared to be some sort of boarding house or inn complex. But it was huge and it caused him to backtrack around it. He walked past what seemed to be some old boarded-up stables and a coach house. Then the lane opened up to a courtyard which revealed the front of the inn.
“Pity…” A voice croaked from the gutter. “Have some pity for the poor…”
Bander moved closer and looked down. He could barely make out the form of a man draped in rags, but he certainly smelled the wretch.
“It is cold, and I have not eaten in two days. Can you spare some coin, good sir?”
“Who are you?” Bander asked.
“Me? I am no one. Just an unfortunate soul.”
“Do you know this street?”
The beggar hesitated for a moment. Then he said, “Yes. Yes. Of course, I do.”
“Do you know where Fyfe’s Gate is?”
“Yes. We used to call it Soldier’s Gate. It’s not far. Help me up and I’ll point the way.” The man reached out and Bander took his arm and began to hoist the man to his feet. But the moment the beggar was upright, he whipped a stiletto out from beneath his rags and plunged it into Bander’s side.
The pain burned him like a hot poker, but Bander reacted immediately—flinging the man away from him.
But the beggar rolled like an acrobat and landed on his feet. He spun to face Bander and produced another stiletto from a spring loaded sheath on his wrist.
Bander didn’t have time to berate himself for falling for the ploy. He was up against a trained killer—and he didn’t have much time before his wound would incapacitate him. He staggered back and took a deep breath.
The assassin was patient. He probably knew that every minute that passed meant that Bander would lose more blood and weaken.
Bander looked around. It was hard to make anything out in the gloom, but the inn was directly behind him. A curved stone fore-stair led up to an arched doorway on the second floor which was likely the main entrance. There were a few small windows at ground level, but nothing he could jump through.
So far Bander had made several critical errors. He should have never trusted the beggar in the first place—and he especially should have never allowed the man to grab his hand.
Secondly, he should have kept attacking after he was stabbed. When an opponent hits you, you step in, not away.
“Ready to give up, old man?” the beggar taunted. “You’re going to bleed out right where I was laying. Won’t be long now.”
Bander ignored him and started backing up the stairs. Better to position yourself on the high ground.
“There’s no place to run. Those doors are bolted tight. I saw to that myself.”
“You want me. Come and get me,” Bander said in a low voice.
“I don’t think so. At least not quite yet. You still have some bleeding to do.”
Bander’s mind raced through the possibilities. He could try to break into the old inn. Maybe put some distance between himself and the assassin. Maybe find something he could use as a weapon. Something that would keep him out of range of the stiletto. Or he could wait for his attacker to start up the stairs. The problem was that Bander didn’t know how bad his wound was. He wasn’t getting drowsy from blood loss, but that could come in five minutes. Or ten.
He kept his eyes on the bottom of the staircase where the assassin waited but moved his hand to check his side. His tunic was wet with blood. Not good.
The assassin noticed what Bander was doing and nodded. “Yes, I got a solid stab in. Not quite up to the hilt. Might’ve missed the kidneys, but I most certainly got your intestines.”
Bander used his teeth to start a rip on the sleeve of his tunic and then tore off a strip of cloth. Unfortunately, it wasn't long enough to tie around his waist to bind the wound, so he just ended up balling the cloth up and pressing it against the oozing puncture.
“You getting sleepy yet, old man?”
Maybe it was his imagination, but his mind started fogging every so slightly. He bit down on the inside of his cheek to wake himself up. But that didn’t really work.
Then a new voice cut through the darkness.
“What do we have here?”
It was a female voice, low and husky.
The assassin spun around. All of a sudden a pair of bullseye lanterns shone their beams onto him. Bander could see a half dozen figures, armed, and fanning out around the assassin. In the center of the group stood the woman who had spoken. Her hair was dark and she wore a long fitted leather coat with leather leggings and tall boots—one of which was marked with a red ribbon. There was a rope or something coiled at her waist, but other than that she was unarmed. From her body language, she looked to be the person in charge.