A group of five musicians started playing a piece of music involving a quanuun, a rebab, two flutes, and a derbakeh. Most guests listened appreciatively to the modulated melody, but to Huska, the music sounded worse than a peacock fight. He was now doubly uncomfortable with the whole situation. He glanced at Bow, seated on the opposite balcony across from him, and the anemic mute archer gave him the impression of a floating shadow hovering over his seat. The big man was impressed with Bow for being so discreet.
Huska noticed Slippery Slued lock his gaze on a tall skinny man who had just walked in. The newcomer stood at the bar where he ordered a drink and got into an animated conversation with the bartender.
“Wait for me,” Slued said, “I need another shiraz.” He got up, strode nonchalantly to the bar, and stood next to the man. He ordered his drink and went out onto the patio. There, he glanced at Surata, who ignored him. He crossed the large stony slab and went down a flight of stairs that took him some distance away from the inn. The northwesterly wind had started to blow, and Slippery Slued felt its cold, crisp grip all around him.
“Cold night, isn’t it?” someone behind him asked.
“Yes, indeed,” Slued replied without turning. He started walking again until he had reached the farthest corner of the garden, where he knew his party was going to meet him at a bench. The bench was conveniently placed behind some lush greenery that shielded them from prying eyes and all too curious ears.
Slued sat on the bench and his interlocutor stood before him. The tall skinny man had an uncertain beard and a scar that started at the upper left corner of his forehead and ended at the lower right edge of his jaw, somehow missing his left eye, but cutting deep into his nose and into part of his upper lip. He looked at Slued intently.
“I have the bag,” Slued finally said. He threw it to the man.
The stranger kept looking at Slued while feeling the contents of the bag. “Good,” he said at last, “all twelve stones are there. When do you want to do it?”
“As soon as possible,” replied Slued.
“Perfect. Meet me at the tomb one hour after midnight. Leave your horses here and come on foot. Security around Anethtee’s mausoleum is loose, but a group of riders in the dark of night will attract attention. No one likes nocturnal travelers in this part of town.” The tall man slid the bag inside a pocket and went back into the inn. Slued understood he was taking a risk by allowing his contact, Karimalal—a name as fake as a Kerta’s priest smile—to carry the bag. But the tall man was his only hope to properly set up the diffuser.
Karimalal was a renegade priest of Baal whom he had met in Tarshish, a city of the Kingdom of Oronoque, when he, Surata, and others had attempted to break into the Glade’s Mines, which were also cursed by Baal. Why the Temple had cursed that spot, they did not understand, but Quiet Surata figured out that these so-called mines held the famed Hemilco’s map. A long held tradition asserted that Glade was the second-in-command aboard Hemilco’s ship, and he knew where the legendary seafarer had kept the map that led to the land beyond the Outer Seas.
After Hemilco’s death, Glade hid the map in a labyrinthine passage that became known as Glade’s Mines, although no one could remember mining activities ever taking place in that part of Oronoque. Surata, Slued, and their band had decided it was high time to recover the map, hire a ship, and travel to the land beyond the Outer Sea that supposedly rivaled Ophir in gold and precious stones. Surata had hired Karimalal to protect them from the curse. At the time, they did not know that Karimalal had only temporarily diffused the curse. But something or someone had alerted the High Riders, and that saved their lives. Karimalal bore the mark of a High Rider’s sword on his face ever since.
Slued rejoined the others inside the inn. Of Karimalal, there was no sign. It was close to ten o’clock and the inn had just begun serving supper, as most people waited for the heat to dissipate before enjoying a well-prepared, warm meal. Huska was hidden from view behind a large chunk of meat. “Boar meat is good,” he exclaimed when he saw Slued. “Da want a piece?” Slued shook his head and noticed that Sweet Gondolaz’ seat was empty, and that Krom was standing at the bar chatting with a tall man of Quibanxe.
One of our teammates could be a spy for Baal, thought Slued, whose sixth sense was alerting him of imminent danger, but who? I wonder. He knew it could not be Surata. They had both learned the trades of disguise, hypnotism, and thievery together in a badly run orphanage. Mango Karthal was the former bodyguard of a local chieftain of Kilian in Aquondale and an accomplished fighter, but he did not have enough finesse to parlay into a spy. Huska the Fat was a wrestler, a dangerous swordsman, and a great door whisperer. He could get any door to open no matter the lock or the curse. He was shrewd and understood far more than he let on, but Slued thought that it was highly unlikely for a son of Kim to be a spy of Baal; folks from Kartagenon were notorious for their distaste of the Temple. Yet, he could not rule him out completely. Then, there was Krom. He had met Krom the Hunter while on a mission for the King of Ophir down south. King Oskirde had sent Slippery Slued to the Ruler of Mani-Kongo, seeking a peace treaty. Once the treaty was signed, Slued took leave of King Oskirde and joined a band of adventurers seeking the lost Scepter of Mpangu deep within the province of Mbata, some six hundred miles north into the forest of Kongo. They never reached their goal, and of the seventeen crew members, only Krom and he survived—by fully trusting one another. They eventually lost track of each other, but now, five years later, he knew that the bond of friendship was still as strong.
That left him with Sweet Gondolaz and Bow. He dismissed Bow outright on account of his handicap—the priests of the Temple of Baal would never deal with one they considered stricken by the god they served; it would defile them. But could Sweet Gondolaz be working for Baal now? It was true that she was from Jericho and that she had always been sympathetic to Baal. Yet, there had never been any sign that she would betray Surata; the two women were friends. She was a trained assassin and dangerous if provoked, but a spy? I need to talk to Surata about all this, he thought.
The aroma of food brought him back to reality. Huska was now hard at work on carving a duck, having finished his chunk of boar meat, his chicken, a select slice of lamb, two or three skewers of veal, an assortment of vegetables, and an undetermined amount of bread. Slued glanced at the floor and was glad that he would not have to clean behind the Kartagenan. He ordered four skewers of lamb with some sabemla and no, no hot spices—he could no longer tolerate them. He ate quickly and noticed that the half of the eleventh candle was spent already. He got up, paid for his table, and winced when he found out how much Huska cost him. He left the inn alone, walked to the edge of the desert, crouched, and waited. Soon, the seven others joined him.
Quiet Surata came and knelt beside him. “Where to now?” she asked.
“To the tomb. Karimalal will meet us there an hour after midnight. It will take us a good hour to get there.”
“Do you trust him?”
“We have no choice.” He smiled before continuing. “A risk along the way, as someone once said.” She punched him gently on the shoulder and got up. They started walking. In the eerie silence of the desert where no birds flew and no leaves rustled, the wheezing of Huska the Fat laboring under the weight of his meal was the only reassuring sound they heard. After an uneventful walk, they saw the dark outline of Anethtee’s tomb.
“The tiara is not shining tonight,” Sweet Gondolaz observed.
Slued looked at her and took what she said for a bad omen. The tomb was unguarded, for the Temple trusted—and rightly so—that the public knowledge of the curse was a far more effective deterrent for thieves and inquisitors than any guard stationed by the tomb. Besides, Anethtee inspired terror in the hearts of men, owing to her dark deeds and unspeakable crimes.
Once in view of the tomb, Slued crouched and waited. He did not have long to wait. A dark figure detached itself from the tomb and walk toward them. He recognized Karimalal. He got up an
d walked to meet him. His companions followed.
“Everything is in place,” said Karimalal, “all we need to do is to activate the diffusers.” They followed the tall man to a small dune some ten yards away from the entrance of the tomb. There, before the upward slant of the mount, they saw that Karimalal had drawn a circle with intricate signs and symbols, and that he had placed eleven of the twelve pebbles on the circle. A small hole marked the spot of the last stone.
The tall man asked them to stay behind the dune. He set a thin piece of dark wood facing the last empty spot and slid the last pebble on its surface. It rolled on the sand, missed the hole by an inch or so, and landed inside the circle. Swiftly, Karimalal grabbed it. They could tell he was nervous. “These diffusers have a mind of their own,” muttered the tall man, “They can be dangerous to activate.” He adjusted the piece of wood and carefully set the pebble on it. The little stone rolled down and missed the hole by a hair. Karimalal repeated the operation a third time, and the pebble reached its target and fell into the hole. All twelve pebbles became incandescent, then all at once started pulsating and shifting between dark blue and bright red. After a short while, the pulsations subsided, and all the stones remained dark blue.
“Do not move,” ordered Karimalal. They held their breath and suddenly heard a sound akin to a tree branch cracking followed by another sound that reminded them of a whip being lashed. “It’s working,” Karimalal said triumphantly, “the diffuser is absorbing the curse. We have a little less than two hours.” He stood up and smiled, and that was the last thing Slued remembered. A great darkness fell over them and they all lost consciousness.
Without warning, the giants manning the gates of Cordoban forbade Balid and his companions from setting foot inside the capital.
“A thief stole a royal heirloom,” explained the guard. “Cordoban is closed until further notice.”
Balid pleaded, bartered, and cajoled. He made promises he knew he could not keep, and kept promises he did not make. But the gates were closed and that was that. Two days later, Sheheluth packed her meager belongings and told them she needed to trek to the northeastern gate. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she reassured Ahiram, “don’t worry about me. There’s something I need to check.”
“Is it related to the closing of the gate?” he asked.
She wagged her head in a non-committal sort of way. “Maybe, maybe not. I won’t know until I get there.”
“How far north do you need to go?”
“Like I said, to the northern gate.”
“You’re not venturing inside the Blight, are you? From what I’ve heard, that spot is as crazy as Metranos. How will you survive on your own?”
She smiled a surprisingly gentle smile. “Don’t you worry about me. I have my ways. While I’m gone, don’t do anything stupid and be very careful. Did you find out anything more about the thief who tried to steal your bag?”
“No. I went back to that town outside the walls, and all traces of the bald man and his crew was gone. What’s that town for, anyway?”
“It’s an illegal town built by those the Marada would not admit inside Cordoban. There’s a dark side to this city you’ll soon get to know. It also has a thriving black market. What concerns me is how did the thief know to steal your bag, and what for?”
“I’m asking myself the same thing.”
She looked at him. “What’s going on in that head of yours, I wonder? What are you thinking?”
He cocked his head and gave her that boyish look which had led so many of his opponents to underestimate him—a look that displayed the innocent charm of a lost boy needing someone to rescue him. “I know that Alfi and Derict are involved. To what end? That, I don’t know.”
“They both hate you. Do you know why?”
He shook his head. “I haven’t found out just yet. I also know that there’s a wide contraband ring involving men, dwarfs, and giants, and that the bald man I surprised is working for someone who’s hiding in the shadows somewhere in Cordoban. I found a mule that might be able to better inform me.”
“A mule?”
“A messenger, a carrier,” he explained.
She sighed a deep sigh. “As I suspected, you’ve been in Cordoban.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “The giants are slower than slugs as far as I’m concerned. They wouldn’t be able to catch me even if I stood on their rooftops and waved.”
“Hide your bag’s contents somewhere secure and replace it with regular stuff like clothing and such,” she counseled him. “If they try to steal it again, you might lose the bag and a shirt, but that would be it.”
“Good idea,” Ahiram replied. “I’ll do that.”
“Alright then,” Sheheluth said as she shouldered her sack. “I’ll be seeing you soon.” She waved at him and walked away. He watched her leave into the woods and saw Shadow appear suddenly from behind a large tree and trot next to her. She looked back, smiled, and waved again. Ahiram felt sorry to see her leave even though he did not know why.
Later that night, the Silent crouched on a flat rooftop in the northwestern part of town, the poorest district of Cordoban. The roads were made of dirt and everyone who lived there worked for a petty lord. Here, giants, dwarfs, and humans shared the same tenements, a violation of the second law of hospitality, but the royal guard seldom ventured in those parts, and even if they did, there would be advance notice so that humans and dwarfs would have ample time to flee.
The wind blew over the capital and a low, brooding sky heavy with dark clouds hovered overhead like the mouth of a mad god about to burst into a thunderous laughter, threatening to drench the city of the giants.
Ahiram waited patiently until the man he was stalking came out of the seedy tavern below. The Silent’s prey slammed the door behind him, shoved his hands in his pockets, and started kicking pebbles. He was about to kick another stone when a solid thrust slammed him against the wall. Quick as a cat, he turned around, a long dagger in hand, but something like a heavy mace slapped his wrist, and the dagger flew out of his grip. Two arms of steel pinned him to the wall.
“Hello, Manassa.”
Manassa, the petty thief, recoiled in fear. The pair of eyes looking at him from under the hood burned with a raging fire. Manassa had a sixth sense for anything supernatural, and this was as supernatural as could be.
“Whah— whah—” He struggled to say something.
“If you want to keep your arm stitched to your body, you’ll tell me who’s behind the Muted Knife Gang.”
“The muh— muh—” stuttered the short man while flailing his legs aimlessly. He felt like a fly pinned to the wall by a giant spider.
“Manassa, Manassa, don’t play the fool with me unless you want me to slap you a few times to help you remember.”
Manassa shook his head energetically. “No boss, I’ll do whatever you say, boss.”
Ahiram released the thief. “That’s the spirit, Manassa. Here’s how this is going to play out.” Ahiram handed him five gold diegans. Bewildered, the thief looked at the hooded figure, looked at the five coins in his hand, and rubbed his cheek. “You got that right,” Ahiram said. “I can break both of your arms, or I can pay you generously. So, what do you say? As long I’m paying you, you work for me?”
Carefully, Manassa slid the coins in his pocket. “What do you want done, boss?”
“Nothing dangerous and nothing illegal … well, not as illegal as the stuff you’ve been involved in. I want information, and you’re going to get it for me.”
“I’m listening, boss.”
“What do you know about the stolen heirloom?”
The short man waved his hands frantically. “That’s way over my thieving grade. I don’t go there. Oh no, boss. Too dangerous.”
“I appreciate the honesty,” Ahiram replied. “Still, what do you know about the theft?”
“Magic. Only magic could do this. They stole the crown that the queen wore when she was a young girl. Very expens
ive, very precious. The thief who did this will end up in the Wretched Race, I tell you.”
“I see,” Ahiram said. “What about the Muted Knife Gang?” Ahiram continued. “What do you know about them?”
The Wretched Race (Epic of Ahiram Book 3) Page 58