The Redemption of Desmeres

by Joseph R. Lallo

  He fanned through the pages.

  “Perhaps it is folly. Perhaps it is all an empty gesture. But at the very least it will occupy my mind and my time for a great many years, and that is reason enough to do it. But to do it, I’ll need to find them. And to find them, I’ll need a nose like yours… or more accurately,” he thumped the book, “a nose like his. To manage that, you’ll need some help.”

  Desmeres grasped the handle of the spoon and scooped up a dollop of the dark brown concoction.

  “I apologize for this. It isn’t likely to be pleasant. I’m not the most skilled alchemist, and that usually makes for a harsh reaction.”

  Dowser recoiled as Desmeres smeared the muck into place. The dog shook vigorously and tried to paw the stuff away, but it had already sunk into the creature’s skin, staining the brown fur black where it touched. Whatever unpleasant sensation the little creature felt must have been short-lived, because within a few seconds he was through shaking and had begun sniffing at the various items on the table with renewed interest. He seemed particularly intrigued by Desmeres’s hands, the alchemy chest, and the book.

  “There. Not so terrible. If I did things properly, your own prodigious nose should have its sensitivity compounded with that of an olo, and I do believe there isn’t another creature in the world with a sense of smell so acute as an olo. Hopefully that will be enough. As we work our way further back, we’ll be coping with people separated by as many as three generations from the ancient little sample we have of their liberated ancestor. I still don’t know how, but the Red Shadow was able follow the trail along bloodlines. Outside of stories of dragons that could do the same, he is the only creature I’ve known who could do such a thing. With this enhancement, we can only hope you will have the same talent.” He closed the book. “But for now we have the luxury of fresher trails to follow. Our first stop, once I’ve cleared my things from my temporary lodging, will be Grossmer’s Mine. Unless the workers have scattered in the last few months, I may not need your nose at all.”

  He found a bowl to pour out some water into, then set it on the ground and plopped Dowser down beside it. The puppy drank gratefully.

  “That means I’ve got some time to train you well enough to use that nose properly,” he took the two other potions he’d prepared and held them to the light. “You may or may not require a bit more help, but we’ll give Trigorah’s methods a try first. She’d always had good luck with them.” He patted the puppy. “So training begins tomorrow.”

  #

  The night had rolled on without mishap, and now Genara was making a final round of Clennock’s Den before retiring for the evening. The dining room was clear. All rooms were either vacant or silent. Her final check was the Den’s small but well-stocked private library.

  She stepped inside with her lantern held high. Genara had always liked the library. It was large enough for two comfortable chairs, a small side table for each, and shelves along each wall. The finest tomes Clennock and his successors had been able to find filled every last space on a shelf. In the early days, this room had been largely for show, and thus the books had been little more than props. As the years rolled on and they discovered that refinement had a way of justifying higher fees, more care was made in the selections. They traded duplicates and replaced ragged copies, made special requests for glaring gaps in their collection, and even commissioned books to be written. Despite this, many of the girls avoided the room like the plague, as though learning to read was some terrible punishment that could be avoided by keeping clear of the written word.

  Genara smirked at that thought. Reading had come to her late in life as well, but she’d still made it a point to linger in the library as often as possible. The simple fact was, with all of the books on the walls, this room kept the cold out better than most of the bedrooms. The chairs were more comfortable too. Her smile faded as that line of thinking led her to another one. It wasn’t an unhappy thought on its own, but it forced her back to the subject she’d been trying to avoid.

  She’d first ‘graduated’ to Clennock’s Den from less palatable establishments shortly after her twentieth birthday. In those days, they were still under the direction of Klye’s predecessor, a man named Ventur. He was a voracious reader and had made curating the library one of his pet projects once its value had become clear. The man was no fool. He figured out quite quickly that Genara’s interest in the reading room was primarily motivated by the desire for a few moments of warmth and privacy. Rather than scold her, he instead taught her to read, reasoning that at least then she would have a reason to linger in the library. Genara was slow to pick up the skill, but once she’d acquired it she’d made great use of it, primarily in the pursuit of fiction and poetry and similar escapes. Ventur even let her take some of the less valuable books in their collection home with her when her rare time off sent her north to Verril. That was when her father discovered she could read. He demanded she teach him, and her brother as well… and thus her mind came to settle upon her family again.

  It was a vicious, burning circle in her mind. Maddening in that she felt deep conflict but for the life of her she couldn’t explain to herself just what was the source of her conflict. Her stomach was a knot of anxiety, and every last scrap of her mind seemed to cling to thoughts of her father, her life so far, and the blasted half-elf who had turned things on their head. It was as though a part of her had chosen to take stock of every passing moment of her life so far, and the lives of her family, and weigh them for quality against the life of the lunatic who had earned the ire of the queen and her elite.

  Genara chewed her lip and looked out into the darkened hallway, then shut the door and set down the lantern.

  “This won’t do, Genara,” she muttered to herself, pacing along one of the shelves. “You can’t afford to have sleepless nights for no reason. Straighten out that mind of yours before you start to slip…”

  She pulled a thin volume from one of the shelves and took a seat to read for a bit. The book was a collection of short stories, meant to be read to children. They were primarily focused on explaining in simple terms why the Tresson people were monsters and must be defeated. A wry smile came to her face as she skimmed line after line that even her short association with the girls they’d hired after the fighting had ceased disproved. How many things that she took for granted were fictions concocted by someone ignorant of the truth. Or worse, someone willfully concealing the truth. What sort of heroes of her youth were scoundrels? And what sort of monsters of her nightmares were heroes? Perhaps the Red Shadow…

  Genara snapped the book shut and put her fingers to her forehead. “Just stop it, Genara. Just keep your foolish mind off that man and his stories. None of it makes any difference anyway. Either the Elite will have him and that’s how his story ends, or he’ll keep running for the rest of his days and that’s how his story ends. Either way, there’s no place in it for you. You’ve got a good life here. More money than you ever thought you’d earn. A warm place to live. Respect, responsibilities. You’ve done very well for yourself! His role in it doesn’t have any bearing on that, if it is even true.”

  She tugged the ring from her finger.

  “I shouldn’t even be wearing this. What do I tell the girls? It’s fine to take gifts, but you make sure not to wear them unless you’re expecting to see him again. The last thing a patron wants to see is a gift of someone else dangling from your neck or twinkling on your finger.”

  Genara raised her hand to slam the ring down, but stopped herself. Even in her present state of tizzy she couldn’t bring herself to risk breaking the exquisite piece. Instead, she placed it gently on the desk.

  “Get your mind straight and don’t risk all of this by even thinking of the fool and the men who are after him.”

  She crossed her arms and turned her back on the ring.

  “It isn’t as though you…” Her eyes drifted up and her posture drooped. “…owe him… You owe him. Damn it. That’s what this was a
ll about. Debt. That man and his partner gave your father his freedom. You were born because of that. And your brother, too. The happiest days of your father’s life and every last moment of yours are due to that idiot and the games he plays.”

  She clenched her teeth and turned, snatching the ring up again and addressing it directly.

  “So what? So what if I owe you? Or rather, so what if I did? Right? Because you’ve decided to relieve the debts, haven’t you? I convinced you to do it. I watched my father’s letter of debt burn. It’s over. Debt repaid! Or… or erased at least.” She tightened her grip. “It isn’t the same thing, but it’s the same in the end. My father can sleep easy knowing no voice would ever whisper in his ear, and his debt never passes on to me. Simple. End of story.”

  Genara glared at the ring.

  “But it isn’t that easy, is it? Because if you die, a thousand men and women across the Northern Alliance don’t get to have that moment of relief I saw in my father’s eyes. … And no one pays Genara Copperwright’s debts but Genara Copperwright.”

  She let the ring drop to her palm and clutched it tight. Her eyes gleamed with purpose now. She returned the thin book to its place, then picked up the lantern and stalked along the shelves.

  “I’ll find you, I’ll warn you. And that will be that. Scales balanced and debt repaid. Doesn’t matter what happens next. You’ll finish your games or you’ll be finished. But my conscience will be clear. But first, I have to find you. And this—” She held up the ring. “—is how I’ll do it.”

  Her eyes darted across the spines of the books.

  “I know I’ve seen this design you carved. I know it. And since I’m not what you would call well-traveled, if I saw it, I saw it in one of these books…”

  One by one, she plucked the books she knew had illustrations and pored through the pages. Hours passed, but driven by the promise of something that might finally quiet the stirring in her mind, she searched on. Twice she had to refill the lamp to continue her search. The first rays of morning were falling upon the Den by the time she finally flipped to the right page.

  “Yes…” she breathed, holding the ring up and turning it in the light.

  It was a sweeping, complex pattern, like an attempt by a sculptor to capture a single moment in the burning of a row of candles. The design was unmistakable, and rendered with stunning detail in the glass of the ring.

  “Krestok Banquet Hall… It isn’t much to go on, but I can’t imagine, soused as you were, that you would have been able to carve the design so perfectly if you hadn’t spent an awful lot of time staring at it. With a good, fast carriage, I can be there in three days. And then one way or another, I’m putting this all behind me.”

  Chapter 3

  The city of Krestok was as charming a place as one was likely to find in the icy Northern Alliance. It stood at the meeting point of two major roads on the northern edge of the Lowlands, a massive stretch of frozen fields flanked by Ravenwood to the West and Melorn Forest to the East. As far north as it was, and situated firmly within the heart of what had once been the Kingdom of Vulcrest, it remained untouched by battle despite the century of war. Even Verril, the well-defended capital and very farthest city from the front, couldn’t say the same thanks to the damage sustained in its liberation battle.

  Some cities grow large enough to earn a road of their own. Krestok was the opposite, a place that existed because of the roads. Even its name was drawn from an old Crich word that meant Crossroad. In its earliest days, it became quite wealthy through trade, with great caravans of carriages and sledges bringing goods from all around the kingdom. The war shifted that, stifling trade as it stifled virtually all other things in the Alliance, but instead it became something of a refuge for the forgotten things in the wake of the war: art and history. It was one of the few places in north that had continued to build with an eye for beauty as well as sturdiness. With the end of the war, traffic began to return, and the long-fallow shelves of the markets swelled with fresh goods from all over the continent. It was nearly as bustling and active as the capital, and twice as crowded.

  A rather large carriage rolled to a stop in front of largest inn in Krestok. Genara, dressed smartly and warmly, stepped from within and lingered long enough to tip the driver. He set her bags inside the inn and found her a seat. Once she was safely tucked into a corner booth with her bags between herself and the wall to dissuade sticky fingers, she set her mind to the ill-conceived task that had brought her this far.

  “Krestok… Three days out of my way, too many favors called in for extra time off…” Genara slumped into her seat. “I swear, a tattered mind and a confused conscience are worse than booze when it comes down to the decisions they can churn up…”

  The elderly keeper of the inn stepped up to her table and gave her a measuring look.

  “You’re new in town,” he said.

  “Yes, sir. This being an inn, and that being a carriage outside, I imagine that’s not out of the ordinary,” Genara said.

  “You alone?”

  “At the moment.”

  “Expecting someone?”

  “I am, though I’m not confident he will turn up.”

  “A man who would leave a woman such as you waiting is hardly a man at all, if you ask me.”

  She smiled. “Thank you kindly. Though, in his defense, he doesn’t know he is meeting me.”

  “So what will you have?”

  “For now, tea. Considering my judgment lately, I’m not keen on having anything harder than that.”

  “Anything to eat?”

  “Fresh bread and butter.”

  “Right away,” he said.

  He wove into the crowd and left Genara to her thoughts. She tugged at her bag and flipped open a small bundle of pages. Genara had sketched the banquet hall and its unique design, as well as a basic layout of the town. Or, at least, it was a layout as depicted in the library’s book. Krestok had doubled in size since then, but unless the town had been particularly ambitious, the landmarks would be in the same place.

  “I don’t fancy myself a better tracker or hunter than those already on his trail,” she muttered quietly to herself. “And I don’t imagine he’ll answer a knock at the door. But maybe, just maybe, I can work out where he lives. Maybe I can leave a note…”

  The innkeeper arrived with her food and drink. Once again, a pretty face and the clear means to offer a few extra coins made for some exceptional service.

  “And to whom is the young lady speaking?” he asked.

  “Just myself. I’m bargaining with my sense of obligation.”

  “Oh. That sort of thing can call for a dear price.”

  She fished the payment out of a small coin purse.

  “It already has, sir. It already has. Have you any rooms?”

  “For yourself, or for two?”

  “Just me.”

  “I believe we have a space available. How long will you be staying?”

  “I think I can afford to stay for… perhaps four days.”

  “Our rates are quite reasonable, ma’am. If you need to stay longer, I think we could come to an arrangement.”

  “I make it a point not to come to arrangements, sir. And it isn’t money that is dear. It is time. I can’t linger here at the expense of my obligations elsewhere forever.”

  “Ah, a woman much in demand. If you’ve got a silver for a deposit, I’ll fetch you your key.”

  She nodded and tossed him the coin.

  “I assume you’re familiar with the locals, since you so easily spotted I wasn’t one.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, if people spend any time here, we’re liable to cross paths, and I’m great with faces.”

  “Good. Before I retire, and you have a moment, I would like to have a word with you. The sooner I find the man I’m after and settle my business, the sooner I can be on my way.”

  He leaned in. “Then I may have trouble with my memory.” The innkeeper laughed slyly at his joke and moved along t
o tend to other tables.

  Genara stirred her tea and looked over the people in the inn.

  “I prefer the Den. At least there the men don’t feel obliged to be clever or coy…”

  #

  Several days of searching through copious records had illustrated a handful of things to Commander Anrack of the Elite. First among them was the truth of the record-keeper’s claim. If any of the Generals would have the information he was after, it was Epidime. Already he’d turned up six locations labeled as “storehouses” and “workshops” known to belong to Desmeres. Several aligned with former Commander Trigorah’s own notes on the subject, strongly indicating they were accurate. Anrack would dispatch men to those sites to confirm them, of course, but not until he was confident he’d reached the bottom of the wealth of information Epidime had recorded.

  He’d also learned that, much to his disappointment, the five Generals were every bit as alien and powerful as the queen would have people believe. It simply wasn’t possible that one man, even a General, could amass so much information and work such astounding feats unless armed with supernatural knowledge and equipment he couldn’t begin to comprehend.

  Despite constant study of the seemingly endless mounds of writing since his arrival, Anrack had only finished reading the last few weeks of Epidime’s research. And while he was quite explicit in his raw information, he was very secretive about his methods. The vast majority of the information was claimed to have been acquired "directly," with no further explanation.

  “Would you, err… Would you like some tobacco? I have a spare pipe if you like,” Ruprecht said.

  Anrack didn’t acknowledge the question, his eyes focused intently on the pages before him. Ruprecht shrugged and stuffed his pipe.