Solace Lost

by Michael Sliter

  So, here he was, leaning on his spear, concealed from sight while wedged between two bushes, waiting. If things had gone well, he would have been in bed by now, which led him to think that things must have gone poorly. He rubbed his eyes and slapped his fuzzy cheeks to keep himself awake. He needed to shave again. The curse of the Wasmer. If he wanted to blend in, he had to shave at least twice a day, including his forehead and under his eyes. And, even then…

  There was a noise, nearby. Someone big was pushing through the brush, whispering angrily at his companions. Hafgan knew it must be the Bull, judging from the breaking of a thousand twigs. He’d met the man a single time before this, when the Bull had been wanting to see Tennyson after a botched job. Hafgan had only exchanged a couple of words with the big man, but the Bull had seemed to be on the verge of violence, as if he were touched by Traisen, the Wasmer god of war and vengeance. He’d had that look in his eye, it being one that Hafgan had seen many times back when he’d been living with his own people in the Tulanques. The look of a man who was lost, but had little desire to be found.

  “Are we almost there? It will be light out soon,” observed a rich, feminine voice, carrying clearly through the evening.

  “Will you stop, Emma? We’ll be there when we get there.” This from a gruff, hushed voice that Hafgan definitely recognized as the Bull’s. Hafgan decided to make himself known.

  “You be… are there,” Hafgan said, correcting himself mid-sentence. He stepped out of the bushes, into the light of the moon, and then immediately hopped back as the Bull’s dented sword lashed out toward him. Hafgan spun his spear rapidly, staff and blade a near-invisible blur. He leapt to the side, halted the spin with his grip just below the blade, and bluntly cracked the Bull’s sword hand with immense force. As the sword fell from the big man’s grip, Hafgan next hit the weapon with his spear, knocking it into the brush. The big man grasped his hand for a moment and then assumed an unarmed fighting stance. He had spirit, this one. He’d certainly have been successful in the warrior caste, were he Wasmer and born to it.

  “Bull! Stop, now, or you be having a full belly of spear,” Hafgan barked, knowing that his Ardian was slipping with the adrenaline of the moment. He leveled his spear at the Bull as three figures emerged behind him. Three women, one middling in years, one young, and one in between the two in age. The entire group evinced fatigue in every motion and gesture—even the man leading them. The Bull straightened, squinting his eyes at Hafgan.

  “Wait, you’re that Wasmer? The one I saw outside Tennyson’s?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Why didn’t you say so? I think you broke my godsdamned hand,” said the Bull, shoving his injured hand into his opposite armpit.

  “Apologies.”

  “It’s been a long night, here. We’ve got some injured…” he gestured to the older woman. Must be the Lady Escamilla, the prize of this gambit. “…and some left behind. I’d like to finish the night in safety.”

  “You be… are safe now,” said Hafgan, flinching at his obvious grammatical mistake; the second time he’d made the same one, too. He worked on pronunciation, and his grammar suffered. And vice versa. “We are having two of the Lady Escamilla’s men ahead, in a boat. I will guide you.”

  Hafgan began walking along the waterfront, assuming that the bedraggled group was following him. The moons’ shine reflected against the water, providing more than adequate light for even the humans to see as they walked. The boat was only a couple hundred yards ahead, and it was as clear as day to Hafgan’s eyes, anchored a few feet from the bank in the vastly-wide Fullane River. Wasmer in this region of the world, who spent a good deal of time underground in the cave towns and cities of the Tulanques, had developed excellent vision in low light. Since living among the humans, Hafgan had been working to adapt his eyes to bright light and was beginning to be able to see a goodly distance during the day, but he would start to develop a headache over time, so he preferred to stay indoors or work at night as much as was possible.

  Hafgan would not be accompanying this group on the next leg of their journey, whether they knew it or not. Rather, he had a very specific role to play. He glanced back to see whether the young girl was still following. She was trailing the group, smiling and asking Escamilla some inane question. Good, she hadn’t darted off quite yet. That one wouldn’t. She would want her payment, first.

  Reaching the boat—which was anchored near the land, but nowhere near the actual docks of Rostane—Hafgan called out, “How are the tides this evening?”

  “Low and cold,” a voice replied.

  “Then we’d had best be off,” Hafgan finished the pass phrase, again flinching at his mistake with the contraction. Luckily, Escamilla’s men weren’t sticklers for grammar, and he heard heavy scraping as the men shifted the wooden plank into place, letting it fall loudly to the ground.

  One of Escamilla’s men, an older man with a very long brindle mustache, disembarked and headed straight to Escamilla, taking a knee and bowing his head when he reached her.

  “My Lady Escamilla,” he said, his voice quavering.

  “Get up, Tilner Pick,” she said. Hafgan could make out a slight smile on her face, likely one that would be hidden from human vision in the dark night.

  He stood up, took a hesitant step toward her, and then they joined in an embrace for just a moment. Escamilla flinched at his touch, much as she’d gone toward it.

  “My lady, you are hurt!”

  “It’s nothing. We need to be moving along, Tilner. Someone is certainly aware of our departure, and I do not know whether we will be pursued.”

  Hafgan was impressed with her diction. He hoped that, one day, he would have the language acuity of a noble. Escamilla had not been born noble, he knew, which gave Hafgan hope. However, she’d also not been born Wasmer. The Bull started boarding the boat, giving Hafgan a brief nod. Hafgan grabbed his arm before he was out of reach.

  “Tennyson is having a message for you, Bull. You are to continue with Lady Escamilla and not leave her side. There are many that cannot be trusted, even those close to us. Await a message at your destination.”

  Fenrir groaned. “I guess it was too much to hope that I’d be off the hook once we were out of the Plateau. You wouldn’t believe the night I’ve had. Yetra’s magical clit, I don’t believe the night I’ve had.”

  The big man did, indeed, appear drained, standing slightly slumped and obviously favoring his right leg. But still had a fighter’s gleam in his eyes. Fenrir leaned toward Hafgan, briefly resting a hand on his shoulder. Hafgan wasn’t used to being touched; he fought the urge to pull away.

  “Take care of yourself, Wasmer. I’d recommend a change in occupation.” He smiled wearily and limped slowly up the boarding plank.

  Truth was, this was Hafgan’s change in career. He’d been an apprentice to the Dyn Doethas of the Carreg Da, learning to lead the Wasmer people in both faith and battle. After what he’d lived through, of course, battle seemed to be the much more lucrative career choice. Besides, he had plenty of battle prowess, whereas his faith was lacking.

  Lady Escamilla and Tilner boarded next, seemingly deep in conversation. Hafgan heard something about Brockmore, one of Escamilla’s eastern holdings in Hunesa. Another woman followed, this one a red-haired woman that he hadn’t expected to see. Escamilla was the only target for this particular mission. Regardless, as she walked by, she gave Hafgan a small smile, highlighting the dimples that humans found so charming. Unusual behavior from a human, smiling at a Wasmer. He smiled in return, his shaved-down fangs helping his mouth’s shape resemble the softer smile of a human instead of the fiercer, more intimidating grin of a Wasmer. She raised her eyebrows and hastened aboard the boat. Apparently, Hafgan had not yet entirely mastered the human smile.

  The guttersnipe, Morgyn, did not board, but instead fell into place next to Hafgan, surveying the boat. Specifically, her gaze was fixed on Lady Escamilla, her face inscrutable. Tennyson had put a lot in the hands of thi
s little one, particularly given her dubious history. But, as always, Hafgan simply followed orders.

  “Goodbye, young one. You were a fantastic guide!” Escamilla called, leaning over the rail as her men loaded the boarding plank back onto the small boat. Morgyn said nothing, but smiled and waved.

  When the boat was out of sight—at least, when it was for the girl—she turned to him.

  “Well, you’ve got my payment? I’ll be expecting a bonus. You have no idea what we encountered.” Her eyes were cold, her voice hard. It was as if the innocent, smiling girl that he’d seen was a shell, one that had broken as soon as her party left and birthed a tough little street-savvy ruffian.

  Hafgan stared down at the girl, crossing his arms. Stared way down at her. She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, while Hafgan was a few inches over six feet. “I not be… am not authorized to provide a bonus. You will having to take that up with Tennyson.” He’d caught at least one of his own verb conjugation issues as he spoke, but wasn’t worried about impressing this one.

  “Alright, give me what you owe me, and I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

  There was no give in this girl. Hafgan fished in one of his pockets and handed the girl a payment chit, to be cashed at one of the banks run by The House.

  “I was supposed to be paid yets directly!” she’d raised her voice and narrowed her eyes.

  Hafgan had half a mind to toss her into the river. “I cannot help you. Talk to Tennyson.” Likely, Tennyson had provided the chit as some insurance that she would return, either to him or at least to the moneychanger, where he could have her abducted if need be. Hafgan would have done the same, were he a leader.

  The girl exhaled a dramatic sigh and started off, pushing quietly back through the brush, retracing her steps. Making far less noise than the Bull. But, the Bull was made for destruction, while this little one was made for shadows.

  Hafgan let her get a nice head start, waiting until she nearly reached the edge of his vision, and then set off after her. The nice thing about being a Wasmer was that it was exceedingly easy to trail humans at night. Whereas the girl might be able to see twenty or thirty feet ahead, Hafgan could see more than a hundred, with movement being exaggerated by his brain, drawing his eyes. This was another adaptation to living in the mountains. When one hunted underground or above ground at night, being able to see motion was a competitive advantage. And, given their low birth rate compared to humans, the Wasmer needed all of the advantages they could get.

  He followed the girl along the waterfront, a cool breeze helping attenuate the heat that was stifling Hafgan beneath his tight-fitting brown robe and leggings. Wasmer were not made for summer. As he walked, keeping the girl in sight, he reached into his pack and pulled out a razor and some sweet-smelling jasmine lubricant, beginning to shave as he walked. He’d mastered this skill during his time in Rostane, finding it to be essential in masking his appearance—particularly in public places. Given that he was unsure of his destination, he wanted to remain as inconspicuous as possible. When he finished, wiping the cream and excess hair clean away with a cloth, he also pulled off his dark robe and swapped it for a light green one. Morgyn would be unlikely to recognize him. At a glance, he appeared nearly human. That was, until he opened his mouth.

  The girl stopped suddenly at a warehouse front, and seemed to peer at the stone facade for a moment, hands around her eyes as if she were straining to read something. She stepped back then, shook her head, and ducked down an alley leading away from the waterfront and into a transitional neighborhood, a combination of fortress-like storehouses and low-priced housing. Slums, really, brimming with the cast-offs of Rostane. The poorer laborers, the servant caste, the dock workers, and so on. A rougher population than the city would lay claim to. Hafgan would typically have hesitated before spending time in the area, but now was not the time for hesitation.

  He jogged to the warehouse and took a quick look at the facade that the girl had eyed for a moment. Nothing there—no sign, no words. Curious. Hafgan shrugged as he continued his pursuit, catching sight of the girl as she walked easily down the dirty road.

  This girl, Morgyn. She’d been trouble ever since Tennyson had brought her into the fold a couple of years before. The man often focused on recruiting agents from among the less affluent population in Rostane, though, and Morgyn fit that mold exactly. She was a dirty little ragamuffin that most people wouldn’t give a second glance. In fact, that was how she’d been conscripted into The House. The girl had tried to pickpocket a high-ranking member of the covert organization in the marketplace, and she would have escaped with a pouch of yets in-hand if a second member hadn’t been following close behind. The pair had easily and quietly restrained the girl and brought her to Tennyson, knowing his fondness for such bold oddities. Their efforts had been appreciated and rewarded, and Tennyson had begun dispatching the girl on small missions. Steal this, discover that. Once she had proven herself to be relatively capable, he’d apprenticed her—in a way—to another young vagrant named Roal. Hafgan didn’t envy Morgyn, as Roal had been known to be very harsh. His violence and unpredictability had made him an asset to The House in some situations. However, the traits had also led to his inevitable death in a back alley scuffle.

  Since Roal’s death, Morgyn had often disappeared for long stretches of time and not been in contact with The House. Associates had been sent to tail her on several occasions, but the girl always managed to elude them—seemingly without even being aware that she was being tailed. Then, Tennyson had asked Hafgan to follow the girl, and he’d shadowed her to the ruins beneath the Plateau. She had found an entrance that someone else had created but apparently abandoned. Hafgan had confronted the girl on her way out, easily restraining her when she’d tried to bolt, and brought her to Tennyson.

  Morgyn had been contrite. She had said that she just had a passion for exploring, learning about the old times and the old ways. Tennyson, seeing advantage in having an associate who knew ruins, had given the girl free reign to explore as long as she shared her findings periodically with The House, as well as any trinkets she might find. So, she would leave for long periods of time, exploring and reporting back, occasionally doing small tasks for her superiors, gathering information, pick pocketing, or breaking and entering.

  It had only been when the Bull had reported to Tennyson about his assault in Vagabond Way that they’d begun to suspect Morgyn’s intentions in disappearing, and that she might be playing a relatively complicated game for one so young. There were some missing links, but with the recent, aggressive rise of Recherche Oletta, Tennyson was more than concerned about the possibility of Morgyn’s involvement in that organization. There was no one else who was bold—or dumb—enough to blatantly assault a member of The House in Rostane. But, rather than confront Morgyn and remove her from the roster for assaulting a full member of The House, Tennyson had decided to continue using her.

  Even at that time, Tennyson had been planning an infiltration of the Plateau through the ruins, though events in Ardia and Escamilla’s entreaty had forced his hand. With other plans in the works, Tennyson had sent Morgyn on several tedious reconnaissance tasks in the company of other full members of The House, just to keep an eye on the girl while he dealt with the rise of Recherche Oletta, among other things. The girl had been in Algania for almost a month, being babysat by a protector and an enforcer, both of whom had been receiving punishment via the assignment.

  By the time Morgyn had returned, things had gotten out of hand for Tennyson. Recherche Oletta must have found some powerful allies before making themselves known to The House. They seemed to have unlimited resources for bribes and threats. Their manpower seemed to be greater than that of The House, even. Hafgan did not know how many members there were within his own organization, but there were certainly fewer now. Many had gone missing, starting with some associates and moving on to protectors, enforcers, and even an eliminator. Nobles and landowners, who’d once employed The House f
or protection and for social mobility through damaging the reputation or physical well-being of others, had instead suddenly broken their ties. Others, who The House kept in line with threats and fear of dismemberment, were suddenly well-protected, agents of The House unable to find entry to enforce their will.

  In Hafgan’s perspective, Tennyson had mismanaged too many of these relationships and had accumulated too few true and mutually-beneficial relationships with powerful people in Rostane. The House helped maintain a balance among the nobles and wealthy classes, certainly, but it just wasn’t an effective organization on its own.

  Regardless, here he was, trailing a girl through the gritty, stinking streets of Rostane, getting hungry looks from some of the less fortunate residents of the city. His size, and his spear, kept the rabble at bay for now, but for how long? The girl seemed to be immune to the threats lurking in these streets, trotting forward at a decent pace, not giving any of the roughs or desolates a glance.

  Eventually, the pair—one up ahead and oblivious, the other dogging her from a hundred feet away—came to a more populous area. More populous, but certainly not much safer. Hafgan had heard that a pair of bodies had been found in the trash around here just in the past week, jammed behind the Oaken Barrel. Which happened to be the girl’s destination.

  The Oaken Barrel was one of the least creatively-named taverns in Rostane, which belied the usually raucous crowd that frequented the establishment. The brick-faced building was lit by gas lamps, these now illuminating several disheveled men lounging on the large outdoor barrel tables for which the tavern had been named. The ground nearby was mucky and damp, what one would expect in the back of a stable. Likely enough that the owners had doused a good deal of vomit with sawdust, and then someone had either spilled beer or water atop it to create a muddy mess. Morgyn avoided a messy pile, leaping easily to the dry stone steps leading into the place.