Solace Lost

by Michael Sliter

  Though his future was relatively unknown, Fenrir at least retained some modicum of control in his life. He still had a purse full of coin and the ability to get truly, and obliviously, drunk.

  Arriving at one of his favorite spots, Yetra’s Embrace (surprisingly, not a religious establishment, but actually the name of one of Fenrir’s favorite sexual positions), Fenrir got a table and ordered some ham, fried potatoes, and a local stout ale. And more ham. Gods, he was starving. Lisa, the bar maiden, winked at him. She was generally too old for his tastes—about his age—but nonetheless, he still gave her his patented charming grin. Any port in a storm, and, in his experience, Lisa’s port was still pretty cozy.

  He quaffed his first stout in one long pull and called for a second. By the time his food came, Fenrir was finishing up his third and starting to feel the effects. A week sober, coupled with an extremely hollow stomach, must have affected his tolerance. He started digging into his ham and potatoes, barely stopping to chew or breathe.

  The Embrace was not particularly busy this evening, so Fenrir was able to subvert Lisa from her tasks and sit with her, regaling her with his latest partially-fabricated story. It was based in truth, but Fenrir knew that the exaggerations were always more believable.

  “That’s right, sweet Lisa. The innkeeper simply attacked me for talking with his daughter! I was being a polite traveler, telling a small-town girl about the wonders of Rostane, when I was suddenly struck from behind. Luckily, I rolled forward as he struck, and it was only a glancing blow,” he said, partially mimicking a dive forward. Taking a sip from his sixth tall drink for the evening, Fenrir started thinking that Lisa was looking like a better and better option. He was supposed to be lying low, after all, and what better place to hide than another person’s bed?

  All at once, Fenrir felt his consciousness ripped from his body, hurtling toward the ceiling in spray of colors and sounds. The fucking Phantom, at a time like this. Phantom-Fenrir, in the typical dissociated way, could see himself animatedly speaking to Lisa, a woman of average height and build with raven-black hair tied in pigtails. Despite her age, she was actually rather pretty, and only had a few wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and lips. Fenrir, next looking at himself, and seeing a week’s worth of beard that was as much gray as brown, with his body showing a bit more paunch on the sides than he would like, realized that he might have to start realigning his expectations regarding women. Although, listening to himself, he appreciated that he still had a knack for weaving a story.

  Behind his corporeal body, though, Phantom Fenrir noted that there was a dark-hooded figure approaching. The evening was a bit chilly, but the skies were clear and there was no hint of rain. In Fenrir’s experience, an obscured head typically meant trouble. And that perception of trouble was reinforced by the flash of metal that he spotted at the figure’s wrist.

  He could see this person approaching him while his body continued to talk, laugh, and sip at his beer. Phantom-Fenrir willed his body to react, to move, to recognize the danger. He tried to move his legs, his arms, or even to turn his neck to notice this figure. To mobilize his body in some way, to protect himself. But there was no response. Body-Fenrir continued to carouse and flirt, and nothing Phantom-Fenrir tried could prompt his body to defend itself.

  Ultimately, it was luck that saved Fenrir’s life. His body told a story of obvious heroism, fighting off multiple inn patrons (mostly skilled swordsmen) with the discarded leg of an old barstool, and meanwhile the figure closed the distance. Just as his assailant struck, knife arching toward the right side of his target’s neck, Body-Fenrir knocked over his beer while pantomiming the battle. As the beer splashed all over Lisa and pooled on the ground, Fenrir lost his balance and flailed his arms. The small knife of the hooded figure, rather than plunging into Body-Fenrir’s neck and severing an artery, sank halfway into his bulky shoulder.

  Phantom-Fenrir could see his body pitch out of his seat and land on the ground, staring for a moment at the knife in his shoulder before roaring and jumping to his feet. Though not trained in this particular skill in the military, he was quite familiar with reacting to a sudden attack in a bar while halfway into his cups. The would-be assassin let out a curse and darted toward the door. Fenrir grabbed a bar stool with his good arm and flung it at the man, hitting him squarely in the back. As the man lost his feet, Body-Fenrir started forward toward his assailant. Phantom-Fenrir tried to call out a warning, but it was again ineffectual—his corporeal self immediately slipped in the spilled beer, going down hard. Right on the knife sticking out of his shoulder.

  The phantom and body were suddenly rejoined in a confusing blur, and Fenrir felt as if his entire arm had been dipped in tar and set alight. He tried to ignore the pain and push himself back up and toward the door anyway, but his attacker had already recovered and was nowhere to be seen. Confused patrons were milling about, deer in shock as one of their own was taken down by a predator. Rather than making a failed attempt at pursuit, Fenrir slumped back into a seat and attempted to pull out the knife, which had been lodged two or three inches deep into the meat of his shoulder.

  Luckily, he was The Bull. If he’d been a smaller man, something important might have been severed. But, by Ultner’s deviated asshole, did it hurt!

  ---

  Thankfully, Lisa was very gentle with him that night. After cleaning his puncture wound with grain alcohol, she (urged by the owner of Yetra’s Embrace, who would rather not involve the city guard) egressed him to her room, sewing him up with the deftness of someone who had mended clothes her whole life. Fenrir continued to sip on the strong alcohol he’d been given, granting him fortitude as the needle entered and exited his flesh repeatedly, catgut binding his skin together. Then, very gently, Lisa mounted him, moving slowly to avoid jarring his wound and further distracting him from his pain.

  Between the wound and the liquor, the aching fun lasted quite a long time.

  In the morning, despite the new agony from the stabbing and the more familiar throbbing of hangover, Fenrir left before Lisa began to stir, quietly dressing in his breeches and bloodstained shirt. He needed to do some reconnaissance, and try to figure out who was targeting him. This wasn’t a random attack—from his phantasmic vantage, Fenrir could see the hooded man move, unerringly, toward him.

  The list of people who would desire his death would be long, as long as the number of fingers he’d collected. But, his membership with The House should have protected him from retaliation. Had protected him from retaliation for the past two years. Which could mean that The House’s stock was falling in the city—those street toughs who attacked him evidenced that theory. Or, it could mean that The House, itself, resolved to scrub him from their roster in a very permanent way. That Tennyson decided not to stain his floorboards with Fenrir’s blood and thought a delayed, public hit would be best. If that was the case, Fenrir would have to run, leaving Rostane behind. Leaving the country behind. Even then, he might not be safe. Fenrir had no idea how widespread the organization really was.

  It wasn’t a long walk back to his boarding house, where he’d have a chance to put on some less blood-spattered clothes. At this rate, he would need a new wardrobe. Fenrir held his right arm gingerly, pinning it to his chest with his left arm to relieve the pressure on the wound. He couldn’t catch a godsdamned break. He’d probably need to have an actual physician check out his wound and perhaps get him in a sling for a couple of weeks. With luck, he could find Martis, his physician friend who lived near the Plateau.

  Lost in thought and pain, Fenrir paid no mind to a group of three men waiting at the entrance of his boarding house. As he fumbled with his key, though, one of the men roughly grabbed his good arm.

  “Fenrir de Trenton, I need you to come with me,” said the man in a measured, precise voice.

  Fenrir twisted out of the man’s grip and turned rapidly, clenching his teeth as his wound strained at the stitches. The three men were wearing well-made silk clothing, their shirts each d
yed a brilliant blue and bearing a small, three-masted ship emblazoned on the breast. The color and insignia denoted their loyalty. To his father, Darian de Trenton.

  “Siggy, I don’t have time for this shit right now. Tell my father that I’ll be by tomorrow,” said Fenrir, assuming he’d be halfway to Hunesa by then.

  “It’s Sigmund, you little shit. And I’m afraid this isn’t optional,” said Sigmund Fitra with a smug smile. Sigmund was a little older than Fenrir, and one of his childhood… acquaintances. Fenrir hated the man. Actually, hate was an understatement. Fenrir loathed him with an unmatched passion. If Sigmund were being tied to an oil-soaked stake by an unruly mob and was crying to Fenrir for help, Fenrir would provide the match. And kindling. And maybe dance about the bonfire a bit for good measure.

  Fenrir knew he could take Sigmund in a fair fight. The little slug was all skin and bones. Probably the reason that he’d brought the muscle in the form of Frye and Frayne Masterly, two other childhood acquaintances whom Fenrir hated a bit less. They were too dumb to hate. But, given their presence, Fenrir had little choice but to comply. Frye and Frayne were twins, each the size of a walrus and about as handsome. He’d once seen Frye wrestle a small horse to the ground on a dare, and Frayne was at least as capable.

  “Fine, I’ll see the old man. Let me change my shirt and I’ll be right down,” Fenrir said with his best disarming grin.

  “You think I’m simple? You are coming with me now, clothing be damned. When Principal de Trenton ‘requests’ someone’s presence, they come immediately. No matter how slovenly they look.” Sigmund theatrically examined Fenrir with a curled lip.

  Fenrir shrugged painfully. It was a shame that Sigmund wasn’t as dumb as he looked.

  “You’re the boss, Siggy. Lead on.”

  Sigmund clenched his fists and took a step forward, as did Frye and Frayne, too dense to do anything but mimic their leader. With an obvious effort then, Sigmund regained control, his pinched face twisting into a sinister smile.

  By the gods, Fenrir wanted to smash that fucking twisted face. Actually, he once had, which accounted for Sigmund’s slightly crooked nose. One of the best days of his teenage years.

  The group of four wove their way through the western district of Spring Market where merchants were just starting to set up their wares. The highest-quality meat and produce was always sold in the Spring Market, meaning that it was clogged with farmers and their carts attempting to reach their rented stalls. The butchers and fishmongers tended to have storefronts, offering a variety of local chicken, fish, beef, veal, and duck. Many of these butcher shops were clients of the de Trenton merchant empire, utilizing the specialized cooling system invented by Fenrir’s father. Everywhere, there was a reminder of his father.

  As the group walked through one of the food markets, Fenrir abruptly stopped at a stall and ordered some kabobs, a Sestrian favorite that was becoming increasingly popular in Rostane. Lamb on a stick, the perfect street food. Frye, Frayne, and Sigmund were taken off-guard and walked a few extra steps before anyone noticed the sheep who had strayed from the flock. Sigmund reversed first, storming angrily back to Fenrir just as he turned around holding four kabobs. Sigmund glowered as Fenrir handed a kabob each to Frye and Frayne. Fenrir made as if to hand one to Sigmund, as well, but instead fumbled the kabob with his injured arm, flicking Sigmund’s silk shirt with bits of juice before the stick of meat tumbled to the ground.

  “My apologies, Siggy. Injury and all,” said Fenrir, his voice oozing sincerity.

  Sigmund drew close, hissing into Fenrir’s ear. “You will pay for that, you little shit-mouthed, wannabe criminal. You’ll be getting yours soon enough. All I need to do is watch and wait. It’s almost too easy, watching you dig your own grave.”

  Frye and Frayne flanked Sigmund, with Frye tossing aside his food and trying to look menacing while Frayne tore the meat off of his own stick with his teeth, licking his fingers as the juice coated his skin.

  “Well, shall we see my father?”

  ---

  The de Trenton estate was more of a stronghold—an armed compound—than a typical wealthy merchant’s domain. In the northeast quadrant of the city, relatively isolated from the warehouse district by design, the walled compound had its own private guard: the Blue Adders, trained by masters of war from around Saiwen and Ingrem, the southern and northern continents. The Adders were certainly better trained than the city guard, Fenrir knew for a fact. These warriors—resplendent in the signature vivid blue of the de Trenton family—stood watch at the closed gates and vigilantly patrolled the walls in trios at uneven, unpredictable intervals, vicious, prowling cats of prey. Unlike the guards along the walls of Rostane, these men and women showed no sign of boredom or negligence. And for good reasons. Six times in the last four years had infiltrators been caught, all of them attempting to extract the secrets contained within the compound. Such intruders were dealt with harshly, typically killed by the Adders in “self-defense.” One body part at a time.

  There were over two-dozen separate buildings in the compound, including the surprisingly austere, but intimidatingly large, living quarters, workers’ and servants’ quarters, the extensive barracks (the Adder’s Nest), and a private stable (from which Fenrir had openly purloined a horse just a couple of weeks ago for his trip to Umberton). Set back from the storage facilities and warehouses was the crown jewel of the de Trenton estate. And it was an ugly fucking jewel. The laboratory was little more than a gigantic, reddish-gray, rectangular prism. A huge, windowless building with five-foot thick walls, a massive water barrel on the west side of the roof, and a steady flow of steam emitting from dozens thick tubes protruding from the roof, countless horns from the head of a demon. The steam—visible from any vantage in the city—gave the laboratory its sinister nickname… the Furnace.

  If the Furnace’s appearance was not auspicious enough, there were forty Blue Adders standing guard along the perimeter, changing shifts every hour to ensure attentiveness. There were a dozen more soldiers standing atop the roof; not a desirable shift, given the heat that sprayed from the steam pipes. Fenrir had always though that his father might as well have written “Secrets Inside” in big black letters on the side of the building. Not that it really mattered; that building was more impenetrable than the Plateau.

  Sigmund, Frye, and Frayne led Fenrir not toward the living quarters, nor toward the Furnace, but rather toward the shipping depot. Near the second, much wider entrance to the compound, the shipping depot was always hectic—if an extremely organized type of hectic—during daytime hours. Wagons and carts lined up for attention, with one trader, wagoner, or teamster allowed per vehicle. Each agent pulled up to one of five loading areas, handed the lead porters an order, and the order was filled quickly and efficiently by a team of talented porters. The whole area was even kept clean by an industrious group of boys (typically children of the porters or servants) who were tasked with gathering up the animal droppings and putting them all in large, mobile receptacles. Fenrir understood that the shit was sometimes used by the chemists and researchers, but had never wanted to know exactly how.

  Sigmund led the group into a back entrance of the depot, nodding to a pair of Blue Adders as they went, both of them females. Fenrir grinned and winked at the ladies. One ignored him completely, while the second—a vaguely-familiar Sestrian with a long, dark braid—narrowed her eyes and hissed at him. He must have been losing his touch.

  The inside of the depot was its own brand of organized chaos, an anthill, with porters running to and fro, shifting a variety of boxes, crates, and barrels to the loading docks to address the day’s orders. Meanwhile, the depot was constantly resupplied from the other warehouses which, in turn, were always being filled with imported goods from around Rostane and beyond. Spices, meats, and even furs—the business had grown so much that Fenrir barely recognized some of the products. For instance, there was a pile of coats that must have been made out of some sort of lizard. A giant, man-sized liza
rd. Fenrir made a mental note to figure out where those coats came from, and then make a concerted effort to never go within a hundred miles of the place.

  The fifth loading dock was the most heavily-staffed and heavily-guarded, as it was where the specialty product was concentrated. The creation upon which the de Trenton fortune had been built. In specialized chests, lined with triple-thick wool insulation, was burning ice. Blocks of a steaming, pinkish substance, created with chemistry and—for all Fenrir knew—probably magic. The substance had the ability to pull the skin right off of a man, but within those chests, meats, beers, wines, and so on would keep chilled for up to two weeks. This had revolutionized trade, and well-guarded de Trenton laboratories had been built in most major cities in Ardia, not to mention those that had appeared in major shipping ports in Sestra, Rafón, and Algania. Competitors from all over the known world had attempted to duplicate—or steal—the burning ice recipe. But, the Blue Adders prevented that.

  Fenrir reflected on the darker side of the de Trenton empire as they moved through it. Stories of a researcher in Hunesa turning up missing, his laboratory being destroyed with a small explosion. Rival merchants suddenly giving up their life’s work, moving to other countries. Even a former chemist from the de Trenton lab finding himself without a tongue (but also with a huge pile of yets that had allowed him to move to a small island off the coast of Sestra). Nothing was ever linked back to Darian, but Fenrir had more than just suspicions.

  Up a set of stairs, a pair of Blue Adders. A long hallway down, another pair of Blue Adders. And then Fenrir found himself face-to-face with his father, Darian de Trenton. Darian was a man in his early sixties, resembling a leather whip. The man, tall, tanned, and sinewy, seemed to emanate a feeling of barely-restrained force, a trebuchet inhibited by a single pin. His eyes—a deep blue, almost black—seemed to absorb everything around him. And, when that gaze locked upon an unfortunate target, it seemed to strip a man of his defenses, peeling back skin, muscle, and flesh to see the soul beneath. As Darian sat behind his modest desk, hands steepled, Fenrir found himself under this fierce scrutiny for a solid minute—which felt like an hour.