The only exception was Lord Damuria's travels to the north. He visited the city of Malandria four times each year, but he'd just returned from his last journey a few weeks ago. His next departure wouldn't take place for another month or more.
Unless something draws him out of the city, that is. The Hunter simply had to find something that would convince Lord Damuria to make another trip. Or, he could create something.
He climbed the steps of the abandoned mansion and stepped out onto the third-floor balcony of the master bedroom. The view of the Maiden's Fields was breathtaking, with the city of Voramis spread out far below. He drew in a deep breath and he closed his eyes, savoring the sweet scent of the Snowblossoms drifting on the late afternoon breeze.
Feed me! The thumping of Soulhunger's demanding voice set his head aching.
Grinding his teeth, he clambered onto the stone railing and leapt up to the roof. The clay tiles were still warm through the soft soles of his boots. Just beneath the pinnacle of the rooftop, he lowered himself to his belly and settled in for a few hours of watching Lord Damuria's mansion.
His mind wandered as he studied the patrolling mercenaries. Lord Damuria's fortunes came from his ownership of fertile land, not only around Voramis, but also near Praamis. At least, the fortunes people knew about.
Every wealthy nobleman in Voramis made money through illicit means. He'd discovered that within months of beginning his career as an assassin. No matter how honest, virtuous, or respectable the noble family, there was always dirt concealed beneath the shining façade.
So how does Lord Damuria truly make his money? The coin earned from farmland could sustain a wealthy man, but never afford the extravagant rates charged by the Steel Company. All that remains is to find out what he's doing.
The easiest way to instill fear in a nobleman wasn't to threaten him with bodily harm—though that worked often enough to make it effective. No, if he wanted to truly terrify Lord Damuria, he would simply have to threaten his income.
And I know just the man to help me figure out how to do that.
He'd risen to leave, but movement below caught his eye. Two men emerged from Lord Damuria's mansion and strode off down the street. Even without their armor, the Hunter recognized Captain Dradel and Sergeant Rakhan. The fact that they wore simple, plain clothes raised the Hunter's curiosity.
He shrugged it off. Even mercenaries had to have a life outside their work. No doubt they're off for a few drinks after a long shift. Fighting men all learned to drink, sleep, and fornicate whenever possible—one never knew how long they'd survive in their martial profession.
Still, his eyes followed them down the street until a nearby rooftop hid them from view. He remained on the rooftop for another hour, waiting for them to return. Lord Damuria had provided the Steel Company quarters in his mansion. Shadows crept across the city, drenching Upper Voramis in darkness. Night fell, and still the two mercenaries hadn't returned. By the time the Lady's Bell rang out the ninth hour of the afternoon, his curiosity had been fully piqued.
Soldiers knew not to drink on duty, and their commanding officers would rain down the Keeper's own wrath if they did anything to impair their abilities on watch, parade, or in combat. The Steel Company had a reputation for being as professional as the Legion of Heroes. It seemed odd that the captain and a non-commissioned officer would spend so much time in a tavern.
Perhaps they hadn't sought the pleasure of liquor, but instead the arms of a companion. That could prove useful. Humans were always the weak spot in any defensive system. The man who lost all focus when confronted with a beautiful woman. The soldier who fell asleep on watch. The patrol that huddled near the fire for warmth instead of doing their rounds. The guard who abandoned his post to empty his bladder or bowels. The Hunter had blackmailed his share of cheating husbands and wives, killed more than a few of his marks in bed—their own, or that of the wrong person.
He remained in position for another hour, but no one else exited the front gates of the Damuria mansion. By the time the Lady's Bell rang out midnight and the two mercenaries hadn't returned, he knew he had something he could use.
Tomorrow, he would follow the two men, find out where they went. Whether they frequented a tavern, brothel, or opium den, he'd find their weakness. It would be a simple matter to incapacitate them, steal their armor, and gain access to the Damuria mansion. If he used something sufficiently potent, he could craft his alchemical masks into a disguise convincing enough to fool the guards. He could be in and out in minutes, and no one would be the wiser until they discovered Lord Damuria's corpse.
A thrill of anticipation coursed through him. He always enjoyed the hunt, and his disguises served as one more tool of his trade. There was something exhilarating about hiding in plain sight.
But that would have to wait until tomorrow. Tonight, he needed information on Lord Damuria, and he'd get it from a little bookstore in Lower Voramis.
Chapter Thirteen
With its rickety walls, dust-covered windows, and a door barely hanging on its hinges, The Angry Goblin bookstore appeared as dull and boring as any of the rundown shops in Lower Voramis. The exterior provided the perfect façade for its true commerce: the buying and selling of alchemical potions, elixirs, remedies, and more exotic liquids. And, of course, the purveyance of information.
An unimaginable wealth of secrets flowed through the little shop. Graeme, the alchemist who owned and operated it, made a lucrative trade either selling those secrets or extracting coin from people who would prefer they remain hidden. Atop that, he had earned a reputation for brewing some truly marvelous alchemical draughts. Whenever the Hunter needed something he could not obtain legitimately, he went to Graeme.
Graeme was one of the few people in Voramis who knew his identity, though he always wore a disguise when visiting the alchemist. The little fat man seemed less terrified of him than one would expect when face to face with the legendary assassin known as the Hunter. It was one of the things the Hunter liked about him.
It also made him harder to intimidate than the rest of the city. At that moment, Graeme was proving particularly stubborn—one of his less charming traits.
"Not a Watcher-damned chance," Graeme snapped, folding his arms over his portly belly. "If you think I'm parting with the information before I see your coin, you're a bigger fool than the man who dipped himself in honey and leapt into the bear's den."
The Hunter rolled his eyes. "You know, even after all these years, you're still an awfully suspicious bastard."
The alchemist snorted. "You say suspicious, I say 'wise business practices'. Besides," he waved, a gesture that encompassed the Hunter's imposing figure, "look at you. You don't like what I have to say, how hard will it be for you to take back your coin? Once the information has left my mouth, there's nothing to guarantee payment." He held out a pudgy hand. "Which is why I always expect payment up front. Have I ever let you down?"
"Well, there was the matter of those little blue bottles."
Graeme colored. "That was not my fault and you know it." His face darkened. "That idiot Tiall was the one who couldn't tell a poxy love potion apart from a healing draught."
"You're just lucky I heal quickly," the Hunter growled. "Somehow I suspect the good nobles of Voramis would be far less likely to hire my services if my face was covered in heart-shaped scars."
Graeme threw up his hands. "Fine! Have I ever let you down when it comes to information?"
The Hunter inclined his head and drew a heavy purse from his cloak. Graeme hefted it, feeling the weight of the coins, and nodded. "Lord Damuria, eh?" He tapped his lip with one hand, while the other made the purse disappear into a hidden drawer beneath the desk in his back room. "Anything specific you want to know about him?"
"Where his money comes from, to start." He held up a hand to forestall Graeme's words. "And if you say from his farmland, I'll be taking my gold back this very moment. You know as well as I that there's no such thing as an honest Voramia
n nobleman."
Graeme's lips twisted in a wry grin. "That's truer than you could possibly imagine." Turning away from the Hunter, he rummaged through a sheaf of parchments sitting on one of the many cluttered shelves lining the walls. "If my sources are correct—" He turned and gave the Hunter a knowing smirk. "—he's invested heavily in a number of sailing vessels in the last few months."
"Sailing vessels?" The Hunter raised an eyebrow. The noblemen of Voramis enjoyed their yachts and pleasure barges, but to his knowledge Lord Damuria had no interest in nautical pastimes.
"Merchant ships, cargo vessels, even a few river barges." Graeme selected a parchment and studied it. "Almost as if he's amassing a merchant fleet. But interestingly enough, none of them are under his own name." A frown twisted the fat alchemist's face. "Odd. The investments are all made under the name Stonecroft. Unusual name, that. Never heard it. Can't be any nobleman in Voramis, that much I'm certain."
The Hunter grinned. Lord Damuria could have myriad reasons for making such investments under an alias, none of them indicating legitimate enterprise.
"Any idea what he's transporting?" he asked.
Graeme's frown deepened to a scowl, and he shook his head. "On that, my sources have been somewhat…tight-lipped."
"Which means he's definitely not transporting cargo he wants anyone to know about."
Graeme inclined his head. "Either that, or someone's helping him conceal his movements."
Though he didn't say the name aloud, the Hunter had no doubt the fat alchemist was referring to the Bloody Hand. The criminal organization had a hand in everything. If Lord Damuria was smuggling cargo, they were taking a cut of it.
Damn, he thought. That complicates things. Interfering with Lord Damuria's illicit operations could lead to a confrontation with the Bloody Hand—something he would rather avoid.
"That's not the face of a satisfied customer," Graeme said. "You look like someone pissed in your porridge."
The Hunter scowled. "Someday, I'm going to run out of patience with you, you know."
A self-satisfied grin widened Graeme's broad face further. "Always a charmer, you are." He turned his attention back to the parchment in his hands. "Aside from his recent nautical interests, I fear there's nothing more of relevance that I can tell you about Lord Damuria. Lady Damuria, on the other hand…" His smile grew wicked, the way it did when he was reading one of the racier passages of Taivoro the mad playwright.
The Hunter gave a dismissive wave. "Not necessary." He knew more than enough about Lady Kerina Damuria's pastimes.
"Then, consider this well of information dry." Graeme replaced the parchment in its drawer.
"That's all?" the Hunter asked. "There was a time when that many golden imperials bought something of real value. Perhaps you're outliving your usefulness to me."
Graeme's pudgy face revealed no hint of fear. "If you were expecting a song and dance, you'd spend your coin at The Arms of Heaven. You come to me for information, and what I've given you more than earns the pitiful purse you handed me."
The Hunter couldn't argue with the fat alchemist. If Graeme couldn't uncover more information on Lord Damuria, there would be no more to uncover. Still, it rankled that he'd gotten so little—he needed a good deal more if he was to find another way to get at his target.
"However," Graeme said, "I do have something I believe you'll find of great interest." He reached beneath his desk and produced a wooden box roughly the length of his stubby forearm. His sausage fingers fumbled at the clasp until it opened, and he lifted the lid. Within lay six glass phials filled with black liquid. "A fresh batch of argam, if you're interested."
The Hunter drew out one of the phials. The liquid within was thick, the consistency of hot tar. A few drops of the potent poison could kill a man in under a minute.
He nodded. "I'll take them all."
Graeme snapped the lid shut and handed him the box. "Consider us even, then."
The Hunter's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Graeme the alchemist, giving something away for free?" He reached toward the man's broad forehead. "Are you ill? Surely your fever is making you—"
Graeme batted the Hunter's hand away with a scowl. "Not free, Hunter. You paid good coin for information, and I would never have it said that I come up short on my bargains."
"How virtuous you are!" the Hunter said, chuckling.
The alchemist rolled his eyes. "In my profession, reputation is everything. Even the worst clients must walk away satisfied."
The Hunter tsked. "Careful, Graeme. You might actually hurt my feelings."
Graeme muttered something under his breath, which the Hunter chose not to hear.
"Now," said Graeme, "if that's all, I've a meal gone cold and wine gone sour. You always know how to come at the most inopportune time."
The Hunter grinned. "Always a pleasure, Graeme."
"I wish I could say the same," the alchemist replied with a shake of his head, "but I fear that would encourage you to return. And the Keeper knows I've enough grief in my life without you adding to my misery."
The Hunter swept a mocking bow and turned to leave.
"One question."
Graeme's voice stopped him in his tracks. He turned and gave the man a quizzical look.
"Not that I'm one to judge, mind you," Graeme said, a note of hesitance in his voice, "but you wouldn't know anything about the bodies turning up around the Beggar's Quarter?"
The Hunter cocked his head. "Bodies?"
Graeme nodded. "More so than the usual corpses that show up from time to time." He tugged at his ink-stained sleeve, something he only did when nervous. "I thought it might be you, given…"
The Hunter's eyes narrowed. "Given what?"
Graeme's gaze slid to one side. "The state of the bodies. Sliced up, drained of blood."
Ah, of course. He'd encouraged many legends about himself, including one that claimed he consumed the blood of his victims.
He shook his head. "Not my doing. If I'm going to leave a message, I'll make sure it's clear what I'm saying. Like with Lord Eddarus."
Graeme nodded, relief evident on his pudgy face. "Good, I didn't think so. Carving up vagrants didn't seem your style."
Vagrants? This piqued the Hunter's interest.
Jak's words from the previous day rang in his mind. "Seems a lot of us has gone elsewhere. Pete, Rozyn, Tarth, a few others. They ain't come 'round these parts in weeks."
"Might just be the Bloody Hand's doing," Graeme said, his voice tinged with anger. "Keeper alone knows if the poor sods did something to piss them off."
Life in Lower Voramis was hard, but death came cheap. The Bloody Hand would kill a man for looking the wrong way. Their hired daggers and thugs weren't choosy when it came to paying clients; men, women, even children had fallen to their knives, swords, and poisons.
"Either way," Graeme continued, "it's a nasty business. A body here and there, it's to be expected in the Beggar’s Quarter. But at last count, we've had nearly twenty in the last month."
Twenty? That is a lot higher than average.
Such a high number of senseless deaths was bad enough, but if word spread that he was the one doing the killing, it could seriously interfere with his business. His clients would think twice about hiring someone who murdered beggars for the sheer pleasure of it.
Might be something I'll have to look into. Once I finish the Damuria job, of course.
The fat alchemist shook his balding head. "Worse, the Heresiarchs haven't a clue what to do to stop it. Not that they're doing much, mind you. Strolling around in their fancy red robes, pretending to be all official. Useless, the lot of them."
The Hunter grinned. "Just don't say that too loud, or someplace they'll overhear you." He chuckled; Graeme had a tendency to rant. "They don't take kindly to that sort of talk."
Graeme muttered a string of insults that would have rolled off a dockhand's tongue. "Stuck-up pricks, walking around pretending their shite don't stink. The way they pl
ay soldier, it's a…"
The Hunter stopped listening. Graeme's words had sparked an idea. He played the thought over in his head, examining it from every angle. It would be damned unpleasant, but it should work.
"Graeme." He cut off the alchemist's rambling with a chopping motion. "Tell me, how much do you know about gongfermors?"
The few people on the streets of Upper Voramis gave the rattling cart a wide berth. A thick cloud of reek emanated from the rear of the wagon—essentially a brass tank sitting atop the axles--and stains of nauseating colors covered the tank, wagon, and drivers.
The Hunter shifted to find a more comfortable position on the hard wooden bench. The man beside him shot a nervous glance at him and wiped sweat from his forehead with a filthy hand. He was terrified, to be expected given that he knew his companion was the legendary Hunter of Voramis.
"Remember, Serach," the Hunter said in a low, gravelly voice, "there's two ways this will go. You keep your mouth shut and go about your routine as we discussed, and you walk away with enough gold to buy a second cart." He held up Soulhunger beneath the man's nose. "I don't need to remind you where the second option leads, do I?"
"N-No, sir, er, Hunter, sir." Serach's lips pressed in a tight line, white against his dusky, excrement-stained skin.
"Good." The Hunter nodded and tucked the blade in its hidden sheath. "As long as you stick with the plan, you've nothing to fear from me."
The acrid tang of terror mingled with the man's unique scent of manure, human excrement, and the cloves he chewed.
The cart rattled around the corner, and the high walls of Lord Damuria's mansion came into view. Immediately, the Hunter hunched over, letting his arms hang limply by his side, his face contorting into a mask of witless innocence.
A Steel Company mercenary appeared at the small door set into the huge wooden gate. "Halt!" he shouted and held up a hand.
Serach tugged on the reins, and the two draft horses pulling the cart slowed to a stop.
The mercenary lifted his lantern and shone the beam over Serach's face. "Not you again!" He stepped back, pinching his nose. "Haven't you stunk up the place enough for one month?"
Traitors' Fate Page 18