The Redemption of Desmeres

by Joseph R. Lallo

  Late into the evening, just as most of the clientele were heading on their way or retiring to their rooms, Louisa appeared, looking a bit weary and tipsy.

  “Psst,” Louisa hissed, gesturing to the side room.

  Genara nodded. “Won’t be a moment.”

  Louisa slipped away. After signaling one of the servers to water down the next refill, Genara joined her.

  “That was quick,” Genara said.

  “He says he was just visiting.” She hiccupped. “Turns out booze is his thing. Brought some hard cider he says the queen special orders. Wanted to share it.”

  “Lovely…”

  “Really loosened up his lips though. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut about what he and his were up to. He says he doesn’t figure on getting to be an Elite for too long, because they are set to get their man awful quick. The last Elite, I guess, were sort of halfway after him to begin with. He didn’t really explain that part. But he said they have a lot of maps and notes and things about where they might find him. And they say the Generals have notes on him, too. The Commander is off checking up on them now. To hear him tell it, it’s all over but the finding. They’ve got some men on his trail and they’ve got a list of places he’s likely to turn up. They’re checking buried storage rooms, filled with gold and books and swords and things. The only trick is figuring out which one he’ll turn up at.”

  “Mmm… Do you suppose that was just the cider talking?”

  She shrugged. “Could be. But one thing that wasn’t the cider. Turns out Anrack does not like the queen. She wants the target alive, but Anrack seems like he’s eager to use lethal measures.”

  “More about glory than honor and revenge than justice. He seemed the type. Is that all, Lou?”

  “That’s all he said, Genny.”

  “All right. Forget he said it, and forget you told me.”

  “Already forgotten,” Louisa said.

  The look on Genara’s face must have been notable, because it made it through the haze of alcohol hanging over Louisa.

  “You know… so long as I’m forgetting things. Maybe you want to let me know what’s troubling you? So I can forget that, too?”

  “Lou, this fellow… It seems my family may have had… What you’ve said supports something I heard about him, that’s all. That he may have done some good, even if it wasn’t his aim.”

  “Shame the Elites are liable to have him before too much longer then.”

  The half-pickled young woman tottered out of the room and off to her quarters, leaving Genara with two unfortunate realizations: he may have played an important role in her life, and what she knew now might be the difference between life and death for him.

  #

  Desmeres approached the edge of an unassuming little snowy grove as the sun drifted beneath the horizon. He was atop a fresh horse, having traded his own steed to a man heading in the opposite direction to further confuse those who might be on his trail. If there was anything special about this patch of the landscape that might have inspired his visit, it certainly wasn’t apparent to the average observer. That, of course, was by design. Finding the proper place for a safe house was difficult enough when one was hoping to protect someone who could blend into a city. Desmeres’s task had been to do the same for a creature who at a single glance could earn the fear and hatred of any who saw him. That called for something in the wilderness, something that not even an errant hunter might stumble upon.

  He stepped down from his horse, which had been growing increasingly reluctant to move forward. Now it rigidly refused to continue. He guided it around the edge of the field until they came to a frigid little stream for the horse to drink. The mount still seemed anxious as he pulled some feed from the saddle bag. He then strapped a heavy pack to his back.

  “Sometimes I forget how well that scent works,” Desmeres muttered to himself. “When the time comes to re-apply, I’ll have to dilute it a bit more. I don’t relish the thought of trudging this far through a stream.”

  Desmeres nudged a small bundle of cloth that was laying across the horse’s back just ahead of the saddle. “Up. Just about time to get to work.”

  The bundle stirred and a small black nose poked out, snuffling at the air. The nose lifted up and some of the soft wool swaddling dropped away to reveal his long-eared hound pup’s shaggy head. He looked groggily about after sleeping through most of the ride. Desmeres didn’t wait for the pup to get his wits about him. Instead he scooped the cat-sized puppy up, swaddling and all, to stow inside his cloak. If the scent he used to keep horses away worked half as well on hounds, the little creature would be a chore to coax inside. The hound was far from loyal or obedient enough to be trusted. That would be sorted out later.

  He splashed his way out into the babbling stream, listening intently and keeping his eyes wide despite the glare of golden sunset on the downy white blanket of snow. It was a curious thing. Those who lived amid the hustle and bustle of a crowded city would often speak enviously of the peace and quiet of the wilderness. Those who actually lived amid the wilderness knew that there was no such thing. Most times one could expect a subtle but constant serenade of birds, insects, and foraging creatures filling the air. Not so in this field. For the first dozen steps, he heard nothing but the slosh of water beneath his boots, the soulful wail of the wind in the trees, and his own breathing.

  “A good pair of boots, Dowser. That is the first thing one needs if one hopes to last long on the run. In these parts, most creeks, rivers, and streams are bottomed with smooth stones. They don’t show a footprint, and thus make a trail fiendishly difficult to follow. But without a good pair of boots to keep the water out, you’ll sooner die from the cold than from whoever is after you. An important lesson.”

  Dowser replied with an irritable moan and tried to wriggle free from his blanket wrapping.

  “Don’t like that scent, do you? I haven’t met a creature who does. Just one of the many uses for dragon scale. Soak it in raw alcohol and distill the result, and you get a liquid that, in my observation, it is enough to convince any curious creature with more than two legs to seek their meals elsewhere. Humans, elves, and similar ilk are stubborn enough to overrule their instincts if they are particularly motivated, but for the casual explorer with no specific interest it will coax their horse into a circuitous route so subtly he or she wouldn’t even notice.”

  Desmeres looked casually around him to ensure that he was not being observed. He was far from any town, far from any road, and wading through a narrow stream amid a patch of trees that thanks to his scent marking didn’t even offer up much in the way of hunting, but still it paid to take a good hard look now and again. A visit such as this would likely have been a wiser decision under the cover of night, but there was more to be lost in waiting around for the sun to set than in risking the journey a few hours early. When he was satisfied he was thoroughly alone, he turned toward a small group of trees a few dozen paces from the bank of the stream. Judging from the increased complaints of his puppy, these trees were the epicenter of the troublesome smell. He stepped up to the northmost tree and knelt beside one of the roots to brush it free of snow. There was nothing to indicate that it was in any way different than the dozen other roots that ran atop the soil or curled over it, but when he grasped this one and pulled, little faults began to appear in a rough square around it. He heaved and tugged until a very well-disguised hatch hinged open, revealing a wood-lined shaft leading downward.

  “I’ve had to build three of these hatches, Dowser. The difficult part, if you are curious, isn’t getting them to blend in. The difficult is getting them to remain blended in after a few seasons or a few years. And finding a place where they won’t be hidden beneath a mound of snow."

  He propped the door and reached down inside the shaft. His questing fingers came to a small lip not far down, and beneath it he found a subtle wooden lever. When he gave the lever a tug, a breath of wind erupted from the mouth of the shaft. Thick blades hidden bet
ween the slats just below his fingers sliced through the air and slipped back out of sight. Had the release been triggered at the bottom of the shaft rather than the top, the person responsible for triggering it would have been missing a great deal of blood, and likely some limbs as well. Now that he’d disabled the trap, Desmeres lowered himself inside.

  Beyond the square of light that reached the bottom of the shaft, the chamber around him was black as pitch. He stepped blindly forward, hands held in front of him, until he reached a wall composed of the same hearty wooden slates that lined the shaft itself. From there he felt along until he found a recessed shelf bearing a small lantern. Sitting in the cold and remaining disused for many months rendered the device rather difficult to light, but once it did, it bathed the entryway in warm yellow light. There wasn’t much to see in this part of the underground chamber. The slats were simple timber, holding up quite well to the endless ravages of the frozen ground, though some particularly enterprising roots had broken through near the middle of the far wall. Stouter lengths of the same strong wood formed struts to support the roof. The wall beside the lantern’s shelf had a door, as did the two adjoining walls. He navigated the space with practiced familiarity, grasping a thick rope hanging down beside the opening of the shaft in the ceiling. A good hard tug pulled the door back into place and reset the trap.

  “Best not to waste time,” he muttered, pacing up to one of the doors to push it open.

  As the light of the lantern poured into the room ahead, the reason for the security precautions became abundantly clear. A small fortune of gold and silver lay within. Clearly labeled sacks of wealth, indicating count and type of coin, hung in neat rows above shelves of casks and chests along each wall. This may as well have been the strongroom of a powerful lord, or even a member of the nobility. Desmeres walked past the riches without a second look.

  “Gold… A great many people would gladly kill for this much wealth. A great many people have been killed for this much wealth. Honestly, gold has never been of much interest for me. Too soft to hold an edge, though the lack of tarnish is not without its use I suppose. Business and negotiation are both worthy ways to spend one’s time, though.” He tapped a bag. “To me, these are the pieces used to play an elaborate game. Win and you earn the pieces to play the next game.”

  Dowser had been shifting about inside his cloak with steadily increasing effort, and after a final bit of struggling, the puppy tumbled out from inside, squeaking irritably. He spent the better part of a minute untangling itself from the wool swaddling, then a bit more time organizing his ears and legs. Once he was free and on his feet, he padded up to the base of one of the shelves and sniffed eagerly one particular chest.

  “Smell something that interests you? That’s good. I bought you for tracking, and you’ve got very large boots to fill in that regard. If your breeder told the truth, somewhere in your bloodline are champion trackers kept by the queen. Which means a cousin or uncle of yours is more than likely snuffling along with his nose to the ground, hoping to follow my scent.” He tugged a chain around his neck, revealing an arcane charm. “This has proved itself quite capable of wiping out the scent. Fortunately for you, this is a D’Karon invention and thus in short supply, since we’ve eliminated the suppliers. But even with the Vulbaka’s mythic sense of smell, something tells me you won’t be able to rise to the task I’ve got in mind for you without some help. Come. Let’s get you fed, and see if we can’t finish what your breeders started.”

  Desmeres opened the chest, which was filled with books, and grabbed one. The puppy tromped along after him as he walked back to the base of the shaft. He opened one of the other doors to reveal a well-stocked workshop. A few half-finished weapons hung on the walls, polished blades etched with arcane markings. A workbench tucked in the corner displayed assorted tools of the trade, including a comprehensive collection of etching tools and sharpening jigs. Some bowls and bottles even gave the suggestion of a kitchen or pantry.

  He threw the book onto the workbench and set the lantern beside it, then knelt to rummage through a pair of small chests on the floor. Dowser joined him, standing to set his front paws on the edge of the chest and dangle his ears and nose inside.

  “No, no. Nose out. There are some nasty things in there. I don’t want you sniffing up something to hurt that sense of smell,” he said, pulling the puppy clear and snagging a few pouches and vials, along with a small roll of pages.

  Desmeres shut the chests to keep the dog out of mischief. He made a quick visit to the final room to secure a cask of water and some dried meats.

  “There,” he said, hand-feeding some of the meat to the dog and giving it a pat on the head. “Eat hearty.”

  The pup happily gnawed at the treat while Desmeres absentmindedly chewed on his share, looking over the pages he’d pulled from the chest. One by one, he portioned out strong-smelling powders and murky fluids. Three thick clay bowls hissed and sputtered with their contents.

  “Enhancement of traits…” he muttered, running his finger down one of the pages. “What remains to be added… A shaving of dragon scale. You see? Marvelously useful stuff, dragon scale. A shame I’ve had a falling out with Myranda and Myn. A steady supply would be a handy thing.” He pulled out his knife and sliced off a piece of a thin green scale. “What next… Powdered lapis… That should be enough. And now the blood of the donor creature. I hope what I’ve got is still viable.”

  He raised a vial to the light. His own handwriting labeled it Blood: Olo. A thump with the blunt end of his knife cracked the mouth open and he let a few drops fall into the bowl. This final ingredient made the thick mire within the bowl shimmer briefly with a blue-white light.

  One concoction completed, he portioned out exotic ingredients into the remaining two bowls, concluding one with a drop of his own blood, and gently pricking the puppy to provide the final ingredient for the last. When the alchemical processes were through, he poured the second two mixtures into thin vials. When they were properly stored, he took a small wooden spoon and began slowly stirring the first concoction.

  “Debt…” he murmured to himself. “This is all about debt.”

  At the foot of the table, Dowser finished his meal and sniffed curiously at everything he could find. Desmeres scooped him up and held him in his lap.

  “It has been some time since I’ve had to train a dog. Haven’t put much thought into it since Trigorah and I finally went our separate ways… That was one of her hobbies in those days, you’ll recall. Tracking dogs. I suppose it stands to reason. The woman was a born hunter. If only she’d chosen different prey, things might have gone differently. The same could be made for me…” He shook his head and gave the puppy a scratch. “Debts come in many kinds, Dowser. But that is my concern, not yours. Tracking, that is your concern. And thus you can benefit from Trigorah’s training expertise, or at least what little of it has been passed on to me. The dog must be social. Plenty of physical contact from a very young age. Make yourself part of its pack, and more importantly, make it part of your pack.” He scratched its head and wrangled it to keep it from hopping free. “The woman knew her work. She produced some of the finest hounds I’ve seen. And for what I have in mind, I’ll need a fine one. So you’ll need to heed my voice. And I suppose then that we shall need to address your name. Dowser…”

  He thought for a moment.

  “You know, Trigorah always named her hounds for great tacticians or for great hunters. Creatures of history and mythology. I suppose in her mind it gave them something aspire to. I don’t imagine it would be sensible to name you Teloran, though. And certainly not Trigorah. Dowser… Dowser. Bah. What’s in a name?” He looked to the puppy in his lap. “You are Dowser.” He picked up the puppy and placed it on the workbench, then retrieved thick book from among his things. “And this is your task.”

  He turned through page after page as he spoke.

  “There are many stories told about the Red Shadow, Dowser. People speak of his honor, h
ow he always seemed to take the lives of the wicked and never seemed to harm the weak and the poor. Of course, seldom is it observed that an assassin does not chose his own targets. The poor were safe from his blade because they were utterly beneath the notice of those with the gold and gall to consider themselves entitled to choose who lives and who dies. One thing that no one asked was why he took his contracts. They never asked what he spent his money on. And it is just as well, because I highly doubt they would believe the truth. But here is the answer to that unasked question. Slaves… every drop of blood he spilled was for gold, and every ounce of gold he kept was spent on buying back lives. Hundreds of lives. Thousands of them. And from each, he only asked for two things: a single favor, and a single drop of blood. I’m sure most of them understood the value of the favor. I wonder if any understood the purpose of the blood. You understand, don’t you.”

  Dowser sniffed at the page, his little nose hovering briefly over each dark stain.

  “With a strong enough nose, or the right kind of magic, a drop of blood is all it will ever take to find someone. I’ve only got this one book, the one Myranda had seen fit to separate from the rest. But in this and those kept elsewhere the Red Shadow stored the names of those who owed him and the means to find them. And for each drop of blood there is a soul burdened by the knowledge that at any time he or she might be tapped by an unseen benefactor and asked to make good on the life that was given back to them. He holds the debts of a thousand rescued slaves. And now that he has fallen, those thousands and their children and their children's children must live on, carrying the burden of a debt that they don’t know they will never be asked to repay. If this feeling, this weight on my chest, is truly the feeling of a debt unpaid, then I would not wish that fate on the worst of my enemies. And if the only way to relieve myself of this burden is to offset my past evils with virtue, then I can think of no greater kindness than to settle their own debts once and for all.”