“There is nothing false about the Lady’s light. Does the moon not shine brighter than any star in the night’s sky?”
“In the night’s sky perhaps, for night is the domain of darkness, a place for evil to dwell. But at the rise of our Lord, there is no need of the false light, for the light of the moon pales in comparison to the light of the sun. Solus, the Lord that is Light, is the one true God of men. Be not mistaken in this. While the light of our Lord is ever constant, the light of the Lady is ever waning, shifting this way and that. The light of Solus is a blade’s edge, but the Lady’s light is a mere reflection, and those who would follow her path cannot help but to be mere reflections of men. For without measure, what is matter?”
“A simple monk?” Sal said, grinning broadly. “I dare say I would quake in my boots should a true scholar of your faith accost me.”
Jacques bowed his head. “You must forgive me. I am somewhat passionate about the subject. At times, I find it difficult to keep my opinions to myself. Though, I dare say I failed to answer your question. You asked what the holy book had to say of the mark. I fear you will be disappointed to know that there is little in the way of reference. It is mentioned only five times within the entirety of the book, so far as I am aware. Of those references, only one describes the mark.” Jacques cleared his throat. “For the possessed man will lash out. Bind him, and he will cry out. He will wail and curse God, with clawing of the eyes and gnashing of the teeth. Men will cut into the man a mark of three, to contain by blood that which pollutes the possessed. For possession is not merely a transgression of the blood, but that of the mind, body, and soul. Just as the possessed man is taken by mind, by body, and by soul, my brothers—those who have been indoctrinated have too been taken thus and must be purged whole. For just as the man marked by the three of beasts, the indoctrinated man is a danger to himself, his family, and all those who look upon him.”
Sal blinked.
“An obscure reference, I will admit,” said Jacques. “It comes from the book of Mateus, a warrior prophet of old, and a difficult man to understand out of context. Yet, this one passage contains two of the five references to the mark of three within the entire holy book. I must admit, that locket of yours has intrigued me.”
Sal was disappointed. None of this was any help, and if the passage from the holy book had anything to do with his locket, he for one, could not see how. “Jacques, are you familiar with the name Kellenvadra?”
“Kellenvadra? No, I cannot say I’ve heard the name. Should I have?”
Sal shrugged. “I can’t imagine it’s of much import, merely a curiosity.”
The abbot nodded. “We must all be allowed our curiosities from time to time. Speaking of which, do you think that I might borrow the locket? In order to examine it once more. By no means indefinitely, but I would like to take another look. To satisfy a curiosity, as it were.”
“I, well, the thing is a sort of family heirloom, and you see, and I’d rather not part—”
“Say no more,” said Jacques with the wave of a hand. “As to my proposition of remaining here as my guest?”
“I would like that,” Sal said.
Jacques nodded. “Very well, my son, I have enjoyed this reprieve, but I must be carrying on with other responsibilities. Do keep in mind what I said regarding this Lady White, a false path is no path at all.”
Sal laughed and stood to make his leave.
He made his way to the guesthouse. There was a cap of skeev waiting for him in the guesthouse, and it was calling his name. As Sal crossed the abbey yard, the cap was the only thing on his mind. He nearly reached the door when a hand clapped on his shoulder.
Sal spun.
“Lorenzo,” said Damor Nev. “You need to come with me.”
“Lady’s tits,” Sal cursed. “Nev you scared the piss out of me. How did you know I was here?”
“Never mind that,” said Damor, a serious look in his eyes. “With me, now.”
“You want me to follow you any farther, you’re going to need to tell me where we’re headed, at the least,” Sal said.
“Best open your eyes, and might be I won’t need to start with the obvious,” said Damor Nev.
“The Outers?” Sal asked. “What’s in the Outers that you could possibly be after? You have some Bauden kin you want to break the barrel with, chum?”
“Forget the barrel. Make mock of my people again, and I’ll break you.”
Sal went quiet, it seemed he had crossed a line, something he wanted to avoid with a man like Damor Nev. They walked in silence as they passed through Town Gate and outside the city proper. The Outers was not like the other districts in Dijvois. It had begun as a Bauden caravan camp along the Oliander, when the city was but a budding town. As the city grew, the camp grew as well. Permanent structures were built, and the Bauden inhabitants of the Outers were soon joined by Yahdrish and Shiikali migrants from the east, growing ever larger until, in time, the camp became yet another district of the great city.
“In all seriousness, Damor, I know a bit of your people apart from the typical stereotypes, but I—”
“You can keep them stereotypes to yourself if you’re wanting to end the day with all of your teeth.”
“I’m sorry for making mock, I only thought a bit of humor might compliment your cheery mood this morning.”
The bodyguard grunted.
“Still, it seems the Bauden like color,” Sal said as they neared the caravan wagons camped along the Oliander, their awnings a panoply of bright colors, as were the triangular flags that hung upon streamers between the wagons.
Bauden wagons themselves were not as one usually imagined a wagon, they were closer to town coaches, though some of them were as large as houses on wheels. Appropriate, as the Bauden were traditionally a nomadic people. Said to have been roaming Pargeche as long as the Pairgu themselves, the Bauden had never truly found a place they called home. These days, they could be found as far west as Nelgand and as far east as Dahuan.
Sal flinched as one of the horses hitched beside the road reared and whinnied loudly. The horses that used to pull the Bauden wagons seemed a mix between a shaggy mountain breed and the destriers of old. Long, curly manes upon thickly muscled necks and shaggy hair upon their massive shod hooves. They stood a good eighteen hands and looked almost too large to ride, but Sal imagined they could pull a wagon as well as any ox.
“Beautiful horses,” Sal said. “Though I wouldn’t fancy the task of breaking them.”
Damor Nev merely grunted once more.
“Does the tribe of Nev hail from Dijvois?” Sal asked with genuine curiosity. It struck him he knew little about the bodyguard. This Bauden man who followed Lilliana like a deadly shadow.
Damor shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I didn’t grow up among my people. I was born in the far south, the city of Krathus. I was the youngest of four. But no Bauden has a use for four sons. I was meant to be a girl, you see. My father sold me to the temple of Tiem when I was but a boy.”
“A warrior priest of Tiem?” Sal exclaimed. “You?”
Damor laughed. “No, not I. Though I was a slip of a boy, I was too old by the time my parents gave me up and too willful by half. I was never inducted into the priesthood. I was gifted the sword, not the words. In the temple of Tiem, those of us too old to be inducted into the order are trained in the way of the sword and sold when we are ready to serve.”
“Sold?”
Damor gave him a hard look. “I am no man’s property.”
They passed a pack of children at play. Sal smiled as he saw one little girl tackle a boy twice her size and push his face into the dirt. They turned south and headed into the heart of the Outers, where the buildings were taller, the roads less dusty.
“Lilliana told me you served the House of Nom in Dahuan.”
Damor nodded. “I was purchased by the house of Nom the very same day that I was gifted my stripes.” The bodyguard rolled his shirtsleeve to show puffy, pink flesh, thr
ee jagged scars. Three lines—three parallel lines.
Sal’s breath caught in his throat. “That mark—”
“The warrior’s stripes,” Damor said. “A man earns them when he has proven his worth in the art of the sword.”
“The mark of three,” Sal said breathlessly.
“I’ve not heard that term,” said Damor.
“The mark of Sacrull,” Sal said.
“Sacrull?” Damor Nev exclaimed, his brow wrinkling. “This is no symbol of darkness, boy. This is a mark of Tiem, a mark of the World Mother herself. Each line a gate that the warrior must master.” He put a big finger on the first scar. “Order,” he said, sliding his finger over to the far line. “Chaos.” He moved his finger back to the middle scar. “Balance.”
“Damor, have you ever heard the name Kellenvadra?”
“The name means nothing to me. Why do you ask?”
Sal shrugged, trying not to show his disappointment. “So, this mark, the uh—”
“The warrior’s stripes,” said Damor.
“Yeah, the stripes, they each mean something different?”
“Each stripe is a gate on the path of the warrior. When the gate is broken, the stripe is earned. The stripe of order is given to the initiate when he learns his place of obedience. An initiate must follow orders and take direction. The stripe of chaos is given to the novice when he learns to control the storm within. A novice must think for himself, must be able to see through the fog of the future and build his own order within the chaos. The final gate, the stripe of balance, is given to the master when he becomes one with the sword. Three gates on the path of the warrior, three gates that must be broken.”
Three gates, Sal thought. Imagining the mark upon the locket, three stripes, one of them blood red, the other two merely etched into the tarnished gold. He wondered at the significance of this, and if there was any connection between this mark of Damor’s and the mark upon the locket.
“So, what is it we’re after in the Outers?” Sal asked, pushing his mind back to the task at hand. “What have you discovered?”
“Ever hear of a place known as the Scarvini Palace?” The bodyguard asked.
“I’ve heard of it. It’s a whorehouse. Classiest joint in Low Town, if the rumors are true. You bring me all the way out here so you could catch a piece of snatch?”
“I’m done warning you, boy.”
“Nev, if you wanted to get your rocks off you didn’t have to drag me—”
Damor Nev grabbed him by the collar, scowling. “Not interested in the place because it’s a brothel.”
“Well I figured that much,” Sal said, placing his hands over Damor’s and gently attempting to pry them from his collar. “I’m guessing you think Don Scarvini had something to do with that shipment at Eighth Harbor?”
“I don’t know how far up the ladder it climbs,” Damor said, releasing his grip on Sal’s shirt. “I followed up on the other wagons. They were delivered to a warehouse off Penny Row. A warehouse belonging to none other than Lord Garred Peaks.”
“Lord Garred—but he’s—and what does Peaks have to do with the Scarvini Family?”
“Well, it wasn’t the ghost of Peaks that showed up to check on the shipment.”
“Who then?” Sal asked.
“Giuseppe Scarvini.”
“The Shark?”
“Ay, that’s the one, him and that gangly brother of his.”
“And so, you think Scarvini was behind what happened at Eighth Harbor?”
Damor shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind knocking a few heads around to find out.”
Sal smiled. “So, what’s the plan now? Why Scarvini Palace, why not the warehouse?”
“The warehouse is guarded, more than like, it’s heavily guarded because of what’s inside. As it stands, I wouldn’t much fancy the odds of a fight with the Scarvini Family if it came to that. Not with only my sword and that Talent of yours on our side.”
“My Talen—saw that, did you?”
Damor shrugged. “I’ve seen stranger things in my time, and I figure, the way you been cow-eyed with My Lady, you ain’t much of a threat to her cause, apart from that little prick of yours.”
Sal winked. “I promise not to hurt you with my prick, Damor, so long as you finish telling me the plan.”
“Not much of a plan,” said the bodyguard. “Thought we’d go to this Scarvini Palace and ask around.”
“Ask the whores if they’ve been bringing in the shipments of drugs?” Sal said sardonically.
“Never been with a whore, have you?” Damor asked.
It was Sal’s turn to shrug. “I’ve never considered whoring much of a conquest worth undertaking.”
“Ay, well, if you had, you’d know the sort that does. Them that go whoring all have their own reasons for it, God’s know I do. But there’s a certain type goes because he’s lonely. Not so much about the urge in his loin so much as the ache in his heart.”
“Loose tongues?” Sal said. “You’re thinking someone might have let something slip to one of the whores?”
“Way I figure it, this was a big job. I’m thinking a whole lot of someones done spilled the story to a whole lot of whores. All we needs do is go down to that Scarvini Palace and ask around a bit, maybe take one of them girls to a room and really get to talking.”
Sal laughed somewhat nervously. “Sounds like a decent plan. So long as sticking our noses into Commission business doesn’t get us killed.”
“Don’t think this one is Commission-sanctioned,” said Damor. “As far as I can tell, Scarvini is acting alone.”
“Now, you see, that’s where you’re wrong,” Sal said. “The Commission isn’t just a collective, it’s a pact. If one of the Five Families is involved, all five of the families are honor bound to get involved. Go to war with one of the Five, and you go to war with the Commission.”
“Don’t you know, boy? There’s no such thing as honor among thieves. These bastards are as like to turn on their own, quick as they are us. These Five Families are no families at all, they’re naught but street gangs, got their chests puffed up and their heads full of false notions.”
Sal smiled. “I suppose a man such as yourself has the liberty to make such claims. As for me, I do my best not to bite the hand that feeds me, and I sure as spit don’t go around kicking hornet’s nests. Not anymore, at least.”
“A bit of a provoker in your youth, were you?” said Damor.
“You’ve no idea. Hardly survived my first run-in with the Five Families, and I’m not exactly eager to go repeating the mistakes of my youth.”
“Just which hornet’s nest was it you went and kicked?”
“Moretti,” Sal said.
Damor Nev smiled a big, broad smile. “A tale you will doubtless needs tell me sometime. Though for now, save your stories for the whores. Just keep in mind, you’re there for what they know, not for what they do.”
Sal chuckled. “I’ll keep mine in my trousers if you promise to do the same, priest.”
Damor scowled and patted his shoulder where his brand was hidden beneath his sleeve.
Scarvini Palace could hardly be called a palace. A six-story structure in all. The first three floors were built with orange brick, while the top three floors were a mixture of wood and stone in a style Sal did not recognize. A red lantern hung beside the crooked oak door, casting the entryway in a warm, welcoming pink light.
Within, Scarvini Palace was dimly lit, no doubt to set the mood, but more likely to hide the filth and the ashamed looks on the faces of the patrons. Though empty, apart from Sal and Damor, the grand sitting room was filled with old, mismatched furniture: a peach-colored divan, florally patterned armchairs, and a long, squat couch. Strangest of all, a rocking chair carved with reliefs in a style that looked Dahuaneze. The tapestries depicted silhouetted forms entangled in a number of suggestive positions. The marble sculpture at the center of the room depicted the headless form of a woman, back arched suggestively to bring attent
ion to her large breasts, her nipples erect.
There was a soft, ahem, from across the room.
Sal snapped his attention away from the statue.
The woman fixed Sal with a sultry stare, though, she was rather a bit old to be playing the coquettish maid. She wore over much rouge, her blouse cut far too low, showing a disturbing amount of the cleavage between her two sagging breasts.
“That there’s the hen-mother,” whispered Damor Nev, as though Sal hadn’t already figured that much out.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said the hen-mother, licking her lips. “How might I satisfy your needs?”
Sal had no idea what to say. For an instant, he was terribly aware of the odd pair he and the Bauden bodyguard made. How suspicious they must have seemed. He thought it best to just let Damor do the talking.
“We’ve some friends,” said Damor Nev. “A couple of regulars around this part. Well, they was telling us we had to come give this place a go. They said we had to head down to the palace and ask for—” Damor turned to Sal, a puzzled look on his face. “What’d he say their names was, lad?”
Sal only stammered, his mouth opening and closing like a fish on dry land.
“Oh, that’s all right, lad, don’t go hurting yourself,” Damor said with a little chuckle. He leaned in toward the hen-mother conspiratorially. “The boy’s a bit touched, he is, can’t tell a rhubarb from a rainbow half the time. Don’t know why I bother, honestly, suppose I just feel bad for the boy. But I’ll tell you what. You find us a couple girls that are worth bragging over so we got something we can tell our friends, I’d much appreciate it.”
The hen-mother arched a thinly tweezed eyebrow. “Every princess in the palace is worth bragging about to any and all of your friends. Do you have any preferences—long hair, short hair, thin, thick, pink-skinned, brown-skinned?”
Damor shrugged. “The boy will want someone gentle, willing to share her feelings and allow him to share his.”
“We have no virgins here, but I know of some girls that will suffice. For yourself,” the hen-mother asked in a husky tone, brushing her nipple with the back of her thumb as though it were accidental. “You look like a man who can handle a more mature woman.” She puckered her lips, raised her thin eyebrows, and fluttered her eyelids. She clasped her hands over her legs and leaned forward as her arms squeezed her sagging bosom.
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