by Randy Nargi
Apparently certain people at Bander’s age developed a greater susceptibility to the ailment. As a result, he had not stepped foot through a portal since last Spring.
No, he would travel by foot. One big push, a forced march, and then he could rest all he wanted in Rundlun. Maybe even winter there. He was certain that the new Viceroy would put him up.
Before Bander left Gilweald, he made his way to Lowmarket and stocked up on provisions for the next leg of his journey. He also found a tailor who he paid to add a hidden pocket to his shirt. That’s where Bander concealed the crescent pendant. Then, under the noon sun, he headed south towards the crossroads.
He never got there.
Chapter Five
“Your names and business, sirs?” The officious doorman was tall and gaunt and he reminded Mortam Rowe of a scarecrow. However, the doorman was not frightful in the least. He looked downright fragile, like Mortam Rowe could snap his thin neck like he might snap the neck of a bird or a rabbit.
“We’re here to inquire about a lot of merchandise that was acquired from the Dubbard family.”
“Buying or selling, sir?”
“Buying. Definitely buying. Right, Mr. Keave?” Mortam Rowe turned to his companion. It was always good to involve Keave in basic interactions like this. He didn’t want his companion to lose interest and wander away, which was always a possibility.
“Aye,” Keave said.
“Do you have an appointment?” the scarecrow asked.
“Regrettably, no. You see, we just arrived into town this morning.”
The doorman looked down his nose at Mortam Rowe, which wasn’t hard to do. Most men—and some women—were taller than him. But it didn’t bother Mortam Rowe. Long ago he had realized that stature was all in the mind.
“I’m afraid, Gaon Jeigh is occupied at the moment, and he’s the man you would need to speak with.”
“We’ll wait. Won’t we, Mr. Keave?”
They pushed past the flustered doorman and entered the drawing room. It was a square chamber, light and airy, with high ceilings, pillars set against the walls, and clerestory windows. The floor was made of large stone tiles with decorative edges. Large, old paintings—mainly landscapes—hung on the paneled walls. Judging by the number of sofas and chairs set around the room, this place was designed to slow people down as they moved through the bowels of Prichard’s. Mortam Rowe spied a curtained doorway on the far end of the room. An older man sat behind a large haldwood desk on a carpet near the doorway. It was like a little island on the stone floor. The man had been poring through some kind of ledger book, but he looked up in alarm as Mortam Rowe and Keave strode into the room with the doorman trailing them.
“I’m sorry Mr. Lardan,” the doorman said. “These men—”
Mortam Rowe cut the man off and turned to the man behind the desk. “We’re here to see Mr. Gaon Jeigh. Immediately.”
Lardan rose, a scowl on his face. “Impossible. Please depart the premises!”
“We just require a moment of Mr. Jeigh’s time.”
“Take your leave at once!”
Mortam Rowe fixed his gaze on the curtained doorway. Unless he missed his guess, they were soon going to have some company from that direction. He reached down to his waist where his long cloak concealed an array of weapons. His fingers closed around the haft of his custom-made truncheon—or mace if you wanted to get technical about it. Belle was her name. On account of the fact her head was bell-shaped and the size of a woman’s fist.
He knew from long experience that Keave was readying his own weapons beneath his own cloak: two rather heavy knives. Almost short swords, really. Originally used by his father, a rather renowned butcher out of Strathing.
Two guards pushed their way through the curtains, brandishing swords of their own.
“Time to leave, gentlemen,” the first guard said.
But Mortam Rowe was already moving. Except he was moving towards the guards, with Belle free and whistling through the air.
From their expression, the guards did not expect an attack. Nine out of ten times, they probably counted on their intimidating size to frighten would-be troublemakers. They probably became complacent, sitting on their asses all day, playing pone in a little room behind the curtain.
Too bad for them.
Mortam Rowe danced in at the lead guard, feinting right and then he spun in and Belle slapped the man’s wrist.
Crack.
The man cried out and dropped his weapon, but Mortam Rowe was on him, smashing a savage backfist into the guard’s face.
At the same time, Keave charged like a bull, blades first.
The second guard had a few extra seconds to react. He chopped his sword down at Keave in a powerful diagonal stroke that was designed to sever Keave’s collarbone. But Keave had anticipated the attack and brought his blades up in an X-block which easily arrested the guard’s attack. Then Keave kicked his opponent in the balls. It was his signature move. Crude, but effective. From that moment on, it was just clean-up, and within seconds the two guards were bleeding out on the floor.
The desk clerk’s eyes widened at the sight of the blood seeping into the expensive Potenska carpet—and he screamed like a young girl.
Mortam Rowe turned to him and flicked Belle at the clerk’s face, cracking the cheekbone under the man’s left eye.
“Are we ready to see Mr. Jeigh yet?”
It turns out they weren’t. Four more guards and six more office workers needed to be dispatched before they had an audience with Gaon Jeigh.
He was a tall man with a shock of white hair—perhaps made whiter by this invasion of Prichard’s.
“What…what do you want?” he stammered.
“Information,” Mortam Rowe said. “All this unpleasantness can come to an end right here, right now. If you furnish us the information we need. Do you understand?”
Gaon Jeigh nodded.
“Very good. Now there was a particular lot of merchandise you recently acquired. From a family named Dubbard…”
“You need to do a bit of washing up, my friend,” Mortam Rowe said as they slipped out of the back entrance of Prichard’s.
Keave’s jerkin was splashed with the blood of a dozen men and three women. An unfortunately byproduct of the locestra’s particular combat style.
“I’m due for new clothes, aren’t I?”
“Yes, of course, my friend. You earned it. Many times over. Let us find a shop.”
Keave nodded happily.
The errand took them less than an hour, but now Keave looked more presentable. Which was important if they were to gain an audience with the man who was in possession of the aona.
According to his recently departed brother, Phaler Jeigh and his wife Zarla lived in a rather prosperous part of Whill known as Ridges. It didn’t take Mortam Rowe too long to locate the neighborhood. Ridges was a well-ordered grid of cobblestone streets, estates, gardens, and parks—all situated on the bluffs high above Whill’s downtown.
Mortam Rowe and Keave made their way through the wealthy neighborhood until they finally located number 10 Welsham Lane. But they didn’t knock upon the gate. Their mission was simply surveillance. Mindful of the mess that they left at Prichard’s, Mortam Rowe had decided to delay their visit to the Jeigh’s until that later that night.
So they returned to the heart of the city and enjoyed a nice meal at a restaurant catering to well-to-do clientele, including several instructors from Delham University. After their meal, they went two doors down to The Blue Zephyr where they listened to a troubadour from Lhawster sing of long dead kings and emperors.
When the moon was high, they departed the tavern and returned to Ridges and 10 Welsham Lane.
It was surprisingly easy to gain entrance to Phaler Jeigh’s estate. He wasn’t at home, but his wife Zarla proved to be a gracious hostess—right until the time Keave ripped the clothes off her and threatened to hunt her body for buried treasure with a hot poker from the hearth.
In the end she told them what they wanted to know and only suffered a tiny bit before she died A fair bargain, Mortam Rowe thought.
They learned that Phaler Jeigh had departed Whill for Gilweald the previous morning by horse. It was quite likely that he had already arrived at the Gilweald location of Prichard’s.
If that was true, they’d have to visit that city’s Prichard’s and very well could have another mess on their hands. The thought brought no cheer to Mortam Rowe.
It was true that their employer had given them a certain amount of latitude in dealing with the locals, but even someone of his station might have his limits in that regard.
“But that is a problem for another day, is it not, Mr. Keave?”
“Whatever you say.”
“What I say is that I spied a very promising-looking wine cellar on our way in. Do you reckon the Jeigh’s have good taste in wines?”
“Prob’ly,” Keave grunted.
“Probably, indeed, Mr. Keave. But there is only one way to find out, yes? Let us avail ourselves of the continued hospitality of our good hostess, in absentia, of course.”
A nice bottle of Granis would be quite welcome right about now. And afterwards, no need to find an inn. They could stay the night right here, ensconced in the Jeigh’s no-doubt-sumptuous bed chambers. In the morning, Keave could teleport them to Gilweald well before any visitors or servants might arrive at the estate.
That was that. Marked and settled.
Chapter Six
If the hour had been later or earlier, or there had been clouds in the sky, or if Bander had gone to sleep before he did—if any of these had occurred, he would still have been on the road to Rundlun.
But he wasn’t.
Bander had turned around and was now backtracking to Gilweald.
All because a chance look up towards the sky. Where he saw a moon.
A crescent moon to be exact.
It had prompted a memory of a conversation with an old friend.
The last time he had seen his eccentric friend Valthar, the man had offhandedly mentioned an amulet shaped like a small silver crescent. Like a moon. A crescent moon.
Once Bander had caught a glimpse of the moon hanging low over the hills, it triggered the memory. He remembered the look on Valthar’s face. Deadly serious. The look of a man who had everything to lose.
And now Bander was facing a quandary.
Backtrack all the way to Gilweald and beyond? Eight days minimum. Probably nine. His destination would be the outskirts of Hamwick where Valthar lived in an old hunting lodge. At least, that’s where Bander thought Valthar might be.
To be honest, Bander wasn’t completely sure where exactly his old friend lived. Some sort of spell or geas prevented him from remembering the exact location.
But he had fixed certain details in his mind that might help him find his friend once he got close.
A green man on a red door.
The question was, should Bander drop everything and bring the pendant to Valthar.
Bander searched his mind for some fragments of memory about the crescent amulet Valthar sought. How important was it?
Valthar was certainly a peculiar man—and the oddest of Bander’s friends—by a wide margin. A very wide margin.
Thirty years ago, Bander and a group of his fellow adventurers had stumbled upon a lanky lad trapped in the lower levels of an ancient Tengan temple deep in the jungle of the Wilderlands. Once they rescued him, Valthar had claimed that he was from the year 729—which was over 1,000 years ago. He further claimed that he was the son of the legendary Klothar, an exalted hero from myth.
Since that time, Bander had visited his friend every few years—although the last time had been nearly three years ago. And nearly every time they spoke, Valthar asked if Bander had seen any crescent amulets in his travels. It had become somewhat of an ongoing jest. But beneath the quips, Bander sensed a desperation clinging to his friend. Whatever need the crescent amulet represented, it was dire.
But was it dire enough to warrant detouring for a nine days there and nine back? Factor in the time he’d spend with Valthar and it would delay his arrival in Rundlun for three weeks.
Three weeks.
Was that long enough for Bryn Eresthar to disband the Mage Guild? Who knew?
In the end, a nagging feeling convinced Bander that he should go. He just hoped that the Empire wouldn’t fall before he finally arrived at the capital.
Chapter Seven
The next morning, Mortam Rowe and Keave teleported to Gilweald and breakfasted at the Sunken Tree Inn. Afterwards they walked past Pritchard’s on Tayton Street and sat down on a bench in a park with a view of the establishment’s front door. There were only two visitors up until noon, and three from noon until closing. Much less activity than in Whill, which made sense since Gilweald was a smaller city. And Whill had the university, of course.
As the sun began to set and the air cooled and lamplighters began their rounds, Mortam Rowe watched as a clerk exited Pritchard’s.
“Now, my friend!”
The two of them moved quickly to intercept the clerk as he locked the front gate.
“Pardon, good sir,” Mortam Rowe said to the clerk.
The man turned questioningly and Mortam Rowe lunged in. Quick as a flash he had a blade pressed against the man’s side.
“Not a breath, good sir, else I carve your kidney from your body and take it home for dinner. Understand?”
The man’s eyes widened, and he nodded.
“Superb. Let us retire within.”
Mortam Rowe walked the clerk back up to the door, keeping his blade within striking distance, and watching to make sure the man didn’t do anything stupid—like try to summon help.
“How many people still inside?” Mortam Rowe asked as they pushed inside.
“I don’t know,” the clerk gasped.
“Estimate.”
The clerk looked up for a moment as if he was silently counting and then said, “Two dozen, maybe. Thirty at the outset.”
“At this hour?”
“The mistress keeps her house above. She has servants. And guards. We have a lot of valuables on the premises.”
That wasn’t good, thought Mortam Rowe. Not good at all.
“What happened to the shipment Phaler Jeigh brought in?”
“It arrived the day before yesterday, although Mr. Jeigh was severely injured on the road. It’s a miracle he’s alive. A sellsword brought him in—for the reward, no doubt.”
“What sellsword?”
“Never saw him before. A man named Grannt. Leocald Grannt, I believe.”
“Leocald Grannt? Like the playwright?”
“I don’t know, sir. I only caught a glimpse of him yesterday morning when he was speaking to the mistress. He didn’t look like a playwright.”
“What did he look like?”
“Big brute of a man, sir. Like a colossal bear. Old and grey.”
“And you’re sure the shipment came in with Phaler Jeigh?”
“I logged it myself, sir.”
“And where is it now?”
“In the vault, sir.”
“The vault that is guarded?”
“And warded, sir. Quite impregnable. The Pritchard reputation—”
“Spare me.”
Mortam Rowe knew all about the Pritchard reputation. There would be no gaining access to the vault. At least without the slaughter of everyone in the building and then the assistance of a mage or two.
Mortam Rowe questioned the man for several more minutes and then slit his throat and dumped his body behind a desk. He and Keave slipped out the front door unseen.
They purposefully strolled down Tayton Street, crossed Rowland Avenue, and weaved their way through the maze of narrow, twisting streets that surrounded Lowmarket. At one point, Keave became
distracted by a confectionary merchant who stood on the street, cajoling customers to enter his shop. Mortam Rowe knew he had to get his partner a sugar crystal stalactite to lick as they walked across town. It was slightly embarrassing to be in the company of a grown man with such a strong predilection for children’s sweets, but such was life with Keave.
At the far eastern quarter of Gilweald, right on the edge of the warehouse district, were a few cheap boarding houses that catered to the carters, bashers, dockers, wharf men, teamsters, and warehouse workers who worked in the area. Mortam Rowe sought a place to stay where they wouldn’t be disturbed so he could make contact with his employer.
He found an ancient-looking inn that stretched three stories tall, long and narrow. It had been built between two large warehouses like a kernel of corn wedged between two teeth. Likely it would have what he needed: a solitary garret on the top floor.
As they stepped into the common room, the innkeeper looked him up and down, and his gaze lingered on Mortam Rowe’s jacket trimmed with the dark blue braid and labon buttons. Then he politely suggested that Mortam Rowe might be more comfortable at a less modest accommodation—such as the Walchen Arms on Dunstable. When Mortam Rowe told the innkeeper that his fine establishment suited his needs just so—especially if they could rent the top room, the man shrugged and named a price for a night’s stay which was doubtless thrice the normal cost. It wasn’t worth fussing over, so Mortam Rowe paid the man and he and Keave followed the innkeeper up a rickety staircase to the third floor.
There they were presented with the largest room in the inn. Inside were two beds with thin, worn blankets, two dirty windows, one cracked mirror, one small rug, a foul-looking chamberpot, a small table with two chairs, and a few lamps and candles. No fireplace. No wardrobes. No washbasin.
“This will suit us just fine,” he told the innkeeper.