Traitors' Fate

by Andy Peloquin

  At least I don't have to worry about them recognizing me, she thought as she tucked a whipping strand of hair—freshly dyed strawberry red—back under her broad-brimmed hat. A heavy layer of cosmetics gave her cheeks and lips a fuller appearance while making her eyes appear sunken. The Bloody Hand weren't the only ones adept at using disguises.

  There was little chance Errik or any of the others would be recognized. Only Sys had ever visited Voramis, and he'd had little interaction with the Bloody Hand.

  Disguise or no, she couldn't shake her nervousness. Every heartbeat led them deeper into enemy territory. Her shoulders tightened, and the sweat trickling down her back had nothing to do with the heat of the day. Every shred of self-control went into keeping her hands away from her belt daggers. Her eyes swept the people they passed for any indication that they'd been recognized.

  Within a nerve-wracking hour, they'd passed through the Merchant's Quarter and into Lower Voramis proper. She heaved a sigh of relief as she caught sight of the sign depicting a frothing tankard of ale and weather-faded words proclaiming "The Sour Mash Inn". Errik led the coach into the stableyard at the rear of the inn, and she leapt down to shut the gate door behind her. The thunk of the iron latch sliding into place brought a sense of security.

  Goodman Haldrin, the tall, slim tavern-keeper, slipped out of the kitchen door, a worried expression on his florid face. "Rotten time you've chosen to arrive." He spoke with the rough accent that marked him as a Lower Voramian, his long fingers twitching at the towel tucked into his apron. "There's a brace of the Fifth's hired knives at dinner and drink, and them showin' no sign of wantin' to leave."

  "Back way in?" Errik asked, his voice tight.

  "Aye," Goodman Haldrin nodded, sending his wispy grey hair flinging about. "In there." He indicated a rotting wooden door at the far end of the inn. "I'm hopin' you lot don't mind the stink of the privies too much."

  Errik shrugged. "Better'n a knife in the gut."

  Ilanna marveled at how easily the Serpent had adopted the clipped, lazy inflection to match Haldrin's.

  "Leave the wagon where 'tis," Haldrin said, waving at the colorful coach. "I've got someone comin' round to take it off your hands."

  "Thank you," Ilanna said, stepping forward.

  Goodman Haldrin nodded. "I'll have some grub sent up to your rooms soon as I can. Might be a while, though, so get cozy. Same rooms as last time." With that, he turned and hurried back into the kitchen. As the door clanged shut behind him, the scent of roasting meat and baking bread wafted toward them.

  Errik banged on the coach's wall, and the four figures emerged from within. Keltor, a slim, fussy-looking Scorpion who wore spectacles perched on the tip of his nose, stretched with a groan. Sys, a grizzled Serpent with nine fingers and the scars of his trade, made no protest as he slipped out of the coach. Athar, a Serpent almost ten years her junior, adjusted the collection of weapons secreted about his person. Laken, one of the few Hounds to survive the Bloody Hand's tenure in the Night Guild, lifted the coach's floorboards to reveal a dark grey satchel, which he slung over his shoulder.

  Together with Errik, these four were her crew—a marked difference from the last band she'd gathered.

  Errik led the way through the door Goodman Haldrin had indicated. Ilanna braced herself as she entered, but the smell in the enclosed room was far worse than anything she could have anticipated, even after traipsing the sewage tunnels beneath Praamis. The privies were garderobes, flat wooden planks with holes for the user to sit on. Instead of running through pipes like in Praamis, the garderobes used wooden buckets. She didn't envy the poor bastard tasked with emptying them.

  Fighting down the urge to vomit, Ilanna hurried through the privies, past a drunk snoring in a cot beside the kitchen, and up the stairs. She took deep breaths, glad for the odor of stale beer and sawdust that drifted down the hall from the inn's common room.

  Their room was on the top floor, at the far end of the inn, beneath the eaves. The slanting roof made the room feel cramped, but it had one saving grace: a large window that opened onto a narrow ledge that ran around the rooftop. The escape route led to the rooftops, across a series of wooden planks similar to the Hawk's Highway in Praamis, and ended in a rope ladder descending to an abandoned alleyway.

  "Good to be back, eh?" Errik said, looking around.

  Ilanna nodded. During the hours she'd spent cooped up, hiding from the Bloody Hand, she'd had a chance to memorize every corner of the room. Save for the threadbare bedspread and the patina on the copper washbowl, nothing in the room had changed in eight years.

  "Right," she said, "let's get out of these clothes and into something a bit more comfortable."

  The five men nodded and shrugged out of the brightly-colored troubadour’s robes. Athar kicked his bright green tights into the corner of the room and gave a contemptuous sniff. "If I never have to wear those again, it'll be too bloody soon."

  "But they was so darn flatterin'," teased Sys. "Showed off your pretty legs, they did."

  Athar scowled, but that only encouraged the older Serpent. He continued poking fun at the younger Journeyman until Athar nearly lost his temper and Errik was forced to intervene.

  Ilanna took advantage of their distraction to slip out of her clothing. Athar was young enough to be interested enough in staring at her smallclothes that he'd fail to remember her position as Guild Master. Keltor and Laken were polite enough to keep their eyes fixed firmly on the arguing Serpents.

  She donned the plain jerkin, leather vest, and woolen trousers she'd brought. The roughspun clothing wouldn't stand out among the commoners of Lower Voramis, but the outfit concealed enough weapons to make her feel safe walking out in the open.

  Errik, Laken, and Sys wore similar clothing, but Keltor had donned scribe's robes and Athar wore the clothes of a page.

  "Sys, you know your task?" she asked.

  "Aye," the older Serpent nodded, rubbing his hands with a satisfied smile. "There's more'n a few taverns I've got a mind to visit. Perfect place to chat up the locals and find out what tidbits I can."

  She drew out a purse and tossed it to him. "Don't flash too much coin, but don't hesitate to buy drinks for anyone who looks sufficiently loose-tongued."

  "Why does Sys get that job?" Athar asked, his voice barely above a whine. "Old fart like him'll be passed out after a couple of tankards."

  "And you think you're able to hold your liquor like a real man?" Sys challenged.

  "Damned straight!" Athar straightened, puffing out his chest. "I can drink you under the table any day, Gramps."

  Errik hid a grin and held up a hand. "In this case, Athar, we follow the time-tested method of divvying up responsibility: seniority rules."

  Athar's face fell. "But—"

  "Hear that, laddie?" Sys smacked Athar's back. "Perks of age, that is."

  Errik rolled his eyes. "That doesn't give you an excuse to get too deep in your cups, Sys."

  "Aye, I know." Sys shook his head. "You younglin’s, have a bit of trust, will you?"

  Ilanna cut off Errik's retort. "Athar, you're to accompany Keltor to the Hall of Records."

  Athar's disappointment matured to full-blown dismay.

  "Why else d'you think you're dressed like a page, boy?" Sys sniggered.

  Ilanna placed a hand on the young man's shoulder. "Don't worry, Athar. Keltor will be handling the research. I just need you to guard his back. He's a scholar, not a fighter."

  "Maiden's knees!" Keltor said, his voice precise with just a hint of the superiority common among the nobility. "I'm not chopped liver, you know. Nor some helpless damsel who'll cry over a scraped knee."

  Ilanna nodded. "All the same, I'd rather not take the chance. You're the only one who can find the information we need in the shortest possible time. I'd prefer you alive and offended than dead because someone thought you were an easy mark and put a dagger in you."

  "How very considerate," Keltor said, not quite hiding his miffed tone.


  Ignoring him, Ilanna turned to Laken. "You're here because you're one of the few Hounds who knows their way around Voramis. For now, hit the streets and see what you can find out. About the Bloody Hand, Lord Torath, anything you think we need to know."

  Laken nodded. "You got it."

  He was a curious man, this Hound. He hadn't spoken much during their trip, but when he spoke, he always added something of value. He bore himself with confidence and had an easy way with people. He had been the one to teach Errik the showman's patter, a skill he'd learned from watching his father, a merchant in Praamis. With his plain features, brown hair and eyes, and friendly manner, he made the perfect person to gather information. Save for the scar on his right cheek, he looked like half the men in Voramis.

  She turned to Errik. "Which leaves you to guard my back."

  He inclined his head and gave her a sly grin. "An honor, Guild Master."

  Ilanna rolled her eyes. "You've all been given your assignments. As soon as Goodman Haldrin gives us the all-clear, you head out. Sys and Laken, meet us back here at midnight." The two named men nodded. "Keltor and Athar, once the Hall of Records closes for the night, hang around the Palace of Justice and see what you can find out about Lord Torath. Perhaps there's someone there willing to chat."

  "As you wish, Guild Master," Keltor said, adjusting his spectacles.

  "What about you, Master Gold?" Athar asked. "You never said what you'd be doing."

  A predatory grin split Ilanna's lips. "I'll be paying a visit to an old friend."

  The tinny protest of The Angry Goblin's doorbell brought back memories of the last time Ilanna had been in Voramis, in this very shop. Donneh, an old Scorpion Journeyman, had instructed them to seek out Lornys and enlist his aid in their efforts to break into the Temple of Whispers. Despite his initial protests, Lornys had offered them the help they needed—in the form of Graeme, his assistant.

  The last eight years hadn't treated Graeme kindly. Time had routed his hairline, forcing it to beat a hasty retreat to little more than a fuzzy fringe. His cheeks had thickened and sagged, and a gut strained to burst free of his ink-stained robes. Gone were the horn-rimmed reading spectacles, replaced by a pair made of silver and ivory.

  "Business has been brisk, it seems," Ilanna commented.

  Graeme frowned and squinted at her. "Er…what?"

  Ilanna grinned. "Come now, Graeme, has it truly been so long that you've forgotten me?" That much was good news: if he didn't recognize her, there was little chance the Bloody Hand would.

  He adjusted his spectacles and pursed his thick lips. "D-Do I know you, miss…?"

  Ilanna shook her head. "You have forgotten. And here was me thinking I was special after all those hours we shared in the Serenii tunnels beneath the city."

  Graeme's eyes narrowed, then went wide. "Ilanna?"

  "In the flesh." She spread her arms and swept a bow.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "In Voramis," she asked, "or here?" She glanced around, taking in the rickety shelves laden with books, the dust hanging thick in the air, and the cobwebs proudly occupying every spare corner. "I hate to think of what Lornys will say when he sees the state of his bookstore."

  "My bookstore," Graeme snapped, finding his voice and temper. "Lornys has gone to pester the Long Keeper."

  "Leaving you in charge of The Angry Goblin." Ilanna leaned closer and winked. "And his other business ventures, no doubt?"

  Graeme looked ready to argue, but seemed to reconsider. She knew of the Hidden Circle, the group of alchemists operating in Voramis in defiance of the Secret Keepers—a group to which Lornys and he belonged.

  "Something like that," he finally said in a begrudging tone. Adjusting his spectacles, he glanced at Errik, then back at her. "Now that we've had this wonderful opportunity to become reacquainted, perhaps you'll tell me what brings you on this fine day."

  "Business to be about, Graeme?" Ilanna asked in an innocent voice.

  The fat alchemist shrugged. "The usual. Customers to attend to, inventory to take."

  Ilanna raised both eyebrows. "Customers, eh?" She snorted. "By the looks of things, these are the same books that were here the last time I stopped in for a visit."

  Graeme's lip curled. "No one ever accused Voramians of being a cultured lot. But I'm sure you didn't come to insult our intellect." He spoke through gritted teeth. "What do you want?"

  "Answers." Ilanna drew out the false flesh and plopped it on the table with a wet squish. "About this."

  Graeme managed not to blanch, but the sudden tightness of his expression spoke volumes. "Where did you get this?"

  Ilanna bared her teeth. "I cut it off a man's face."

  The alchemist's face turned a shade paler. "Off…his face?" He poked the flesh with a pudgy finger.

  "That's right. And the funny thing is, this looks an awful lot like something we stole from the Temple of Whispers. You know, the stuff that 'looks and feels as real as your own skin', as I remember you saying it. Might be you found the 'right client' after all, eh?"

  Graeme's mouth hung open. "Surely you can't believe—"

  "Come now, Graeme, let's skip the part where you play dumb and pretend you've no idea what I'm talking about, and we hop right to the end." She leaned on the counter and spoke in a low voice. "Tell me who you sold it to."

  Her attempt at menace seemed lost on him. His expression held more surprise than fear.

  Irritated, she drew her dagger and set about cleaning her fingernails. "I'm in a mood to get answers, at any cost."

  Graeme actually chuckled at this. "Ah, sweet, innocent girl, you'll have to try better than that to terrify me." He removed his spectacles and wiped them with the hem of his soiled robe. "Trust me, I've been threatened by the best."

  Ilanna scowled. "I'd rather not have to threaten you, but if you're uncompliant…" She nodded to Errik, who took a step closer.

  Graeme rolled his eyes. "You've convinced me! Not out of fear, mind you, but pity." He shook his head. "I can give you what you want and spare us all this pathetic attempt at intimidation. You're far less…menacing than I remember you. It seems age plays tricks on our minds in more ways than one." Despite his flippant tone, he cast a sidelong glance at Errik, and his hand disappeared under the counter.

  Ilanna sheathed her dagger and folded her arms. "So? Tell me what I want to know so we can both get on with our lives. I'm sure you've no desire to see me again."

  "Indeed." The alchemist inclined his head, a movement that pushed out a heavy roll around his neck. "One impossible client is more than enough headache."

  With a frown, he lifted the alchemical flesh and studied it, splaying it out on the table to study its indentations and ridges. After a few moments of muttering to himself, he lifted his gaze. "No chance you'd listen to a friendly word of warning to leave well enough alone on this, is there?"

  Ilanna gave him a blank stare.

  Graeme sighed. "Once again, you seem determined to get yourself killed. So long as it takes you away from me, who am I to stand in your way?"

  He lifted the flesh and spread it over his palm, displaying the heavy, rough features. "I am not lying when I say there is no one else on Einan who makes masks like these. The artistry that goes into sculpting the face, the perfect mixture of adhesive that keeps the masks in place yet allows the wearer to remove them with ease, the way the masks cover just enough to conceal one's true features yet retains the natural movement of the face." His chest puffed out. "A masterpiece, I tell you."

  Ilanna recognized an artist's desire to impress others with his prowess. Men had a tendency to crave acknowledgement for their handiwork. She might not like the neediness, but she would play along if it meant she got answers.

  "Such a complicated work of art must have taken hours of work."

  "Not hours!" Graeme exclaimed. "Days, weeks of back-breaking labor! First the flesh must be made and coated with a special…"

  Ilanna's attention wandered as the fat alchemist
launched into the complex process of creating the masks. Darreth would find it interesting, but she was more interested in learning who he'd sold it to.

  "…before the final step of—"

  "Graeme!" she snapped, cutting him off with an impatient chop. "Who did you sell it to?"

  The alchemist's expression darkened, growing sullen. "Only three people in Voramis have come to me for these masks. The first is of no interest to you."

  "Why not?" Ilanna demanded.

  "He died four years ago." Graeme scratched his heavy chin with a pudgy hand. "Sadly, I've yet to master the formula that keeps the alchemical flesh stable for more than a few months, a year at the outside."

  "Who are the other two?"

  Graeme's gaze darted to the side. "One is a man you never want to meet, trust me on that."

  Ilanna raised an eyebrow.

  "If he was the one behind the mask, you wouldn't be standing here right now. None have seen his true face—not even me. Even your Serpents wouldn't stand against him."

  Errik stiffened beside her, his hand dropping to his belt.

  "And the third?" Ilanna asked.

  Graeme pursed his lips. "The third is Lord Estyn Damuria."

  Ilanna sucked in a breath. Lord Damuria was well-known in the south of Einan. He owned half the arable land around Voramis, and a sizeable portion of the Praamian countryside through business partnerships with minor nobles in Praamis. His fortunes didn't quite rival Lord Auslan's, but he was considered one of the wealthiest men south of the Chasm of the Lost.

  "Yes," Graeme said, nodding, "that Lord Damuria."

  Ilanna frowned. "Why did he want it?"

  The question caught Graeme off guard. "What?"

  "What reason did he give you when he ordered it made?"