Book 2 Dead Man's Hand: The Knights of the Golden Dragon

by Troy Reaves

  “I will, master. Thank you.”

  George could not help but watch him as Boremac turned to go into the library. He would miss him. The young pickpocket that had come to him just a couple years ago had grown in so many ways. Proper care and feeding did that, he supposed. As Boremac turned out of view, George could not help thinking that the man he would become would be a force beyond either of their ability to imagine. He prayed to the God of Light that the rogue would be a force of good. “Keep him safe, God. Keep him safe.” Rat chittered as if to agree with the whispered prayer, sitting on the Archivist’s shoulder.

  Boremac awoke with a sense of amorphous dread. He had been with the Archivist long enough to know that you never knew what to expect from the man. Boremac anticipated George attempting to persuade him into remaining and studying longer but his mind was made up. It was time. His teacher had never been shy about his desire to lead Boremac away from his past life and unfortunate parentage. The young man steeled himself inside, protecting his heart with thick steel that any knight would have been honored to carry as a shield. Boremac once more underestimated the magic of the Archivist’s tender spirit. The smells of a fine breakfast were not enough to break the rogue but the haphazardly wrapped parcels on the table sundered his protection immediately.

  “Oh, good you are here! I feared you might leave in the night. Sit, sit! Breakfast will be just a moment and the table is set. Sorry about the cake. I am good with the skillet but baking is beyond my skills it appears.” It was then that Boremac noted the blackened mass where Rat usually ate. It was moving, shifting from some unseen force within, until Rat poked up out of the center of it appearing quite happy with the Archivist’s failed experiment.

  Boremac took his usual seat as instructed. He could not take his eyes off of the gifts George managed to procure some time since he had announced his departure. Boremac was certain there was much more to the man than he let on. “Book bound scholar, hhmmp. I will be damned.” He whispered under his breath.

  “Just because I am old does not mean I am deaf. We all choose our paths in the end, Boremac, but more often than not our path choses us at the beginning. That is what everyone thinks, anyway… You would do well to remember that, my young friend. Let us eat for now. I am excited to see how you like your presents.”

  Boremac smiled unselfconsciously, as much in admiration of the prizes to be taken as in appreciation of the feast, and wasted no time in devouring his last meal with George.

  The Archivist insisted upon choosing the order in which Boremac opened the boxes before him. By the way he took forever to pick each one he seemed to enjoy teasing Boremac more than giving the gifts themselves. Boremac had begun to think that George had really forgotten what each package contained, but the chuckling that accompanied of each one as he handed them over gave the lie to that assumption. The rewards were worth the wait and well beyond Boremac’s imagination.

  A fine suit of leather complete with hand-wraps and a black facemask that appeared to be made of silk was neatly folded in the first container. “Best to not wear the mask out. It may give the lasses pause but it would just as likely draw unwanted attention from the guard.” The Archivist laughed at his little joke. “These next items should prove a bit more functional.”

  Boremac’s grasping fingers almost drew splinters exposing the hidden box in the paper. The box was carved with curious rune symbols beyond Boremac’s understanding, but what troubled him was the lock formed of brass firmly holding the lid shut.

  “It appears I forgot something. Try these for size.” The Archivist handed over a small package roughly as long and wide as Boremac’s palm. The leather pouch within held a set of fine lock-picking tools well suited to the task at hand. Boremac set to exploring the lock’s interior immediately, sitting back as the lock made a satisfying click and the shackle fell open.

  Boremac leaned forward once more, pocketing the lock as an afterthought, and opened the treasure chest. Six well-crafted throwing knives were nestled in the box in a circle around a pair of short fighting daggers in the style that Boremac preferred. All the blades were finely honed and meant to cut without resistance. “You will not find need of these too often I hope, young one. Please ward off danger when you can. There is no blood on these weapons and I pray it will remain so.”

  The last package was handed over with no teasing or flourishes as the Archivist’s face grew pensive. “Go on then. This is the last I have for you.” The last package was relatively small and, when the paper was removed, there was little adornment in the carvings in the lid. There were some markings, two hash marks commonly used for counting and a name Boremac immediately recognized. It was his own. He drew a sharp breath, slowly opening the box, lowering his head in reverence when he saw what the box held. It was his father’s knife belt. For the first time since the Archivist had begun giving him gifts that morning Boremac spoke. “Are these all his? Did he put my name here?”

  “Yes, Boremac. He was a fine man. He was a great thief. He loved you more than anything. Your mothers kept these things for you hoping you would never want them, hoping you would never need them. Be careful, Boremac. No matter what you do, make the memory of your father proud.”

  “I suppose that will not be too difficult. He was a master of his trade that hung for his efforts. What could possibly go wrong?” Boremac laughed. “I mean, all I have to do is not get killed, right?”

  “Oh, that reminds me! Damn my foggy head! Boremac, how do you feel?”

  “What do you mean,’how do I feel’?”

  “Um, do you know how you feel… right now… ever? You are a mass of young man with little direction and no real idea what you are doing, with one guiding force, that dangly bit forcing its will on you just below your belt. Boremac, I am old, not dead.”

  “How do I feel? Hhmm, um, no one has ever really asked me that.”

  “I know Bore, and few will ever care, but you need to figure that out first. So, how do you feel right now.”

  “Um, scared, excited, worried, scared, nervous, a little angry, hopeful… a little. Mostly scared.”

  “Okay, do you know why?”

  “Yes, um, I am going out really on my own and…”

  George’s hand shot up so fast it scared Boremac, a little. “Stop there, please. How you feel does not matter to me because I cannot help you feel anything but what you feel. Understand?”

  “Um… no.”

  “You will… later. It took me 100 years to understand. Let me give you a shorter path.” George scratched his head, either it itched or he was thinking, Boremac could not be certain but, Rat chittered at him and George laced his fingers before himself, presumably to keep from scratching his head.

  “Boremac, do this. Be excited, feel excited. See what happens to the fear.”

  Boremac closed his eyes and thought of the twins, and new places and new adventures and, the twins… again. He smiled and shook his head. “Well, excitement is high, fear is low, and I have an image of the twins stuck in my head that, um, I would rather not discuss.”

  “No, those are definitely not details that I need you to share. Like I said, not dead, just old.” George quirked an eyebrow at Boremac before continuing. “Now you are mostly excited and the path is open. What do you want at this moment?”

  Boremac paused, holding onto the twins as tightly as he thought was safe, and spoke thoughtfully. “I want to live longer than my father.” He nodded curtly to make sure he was sure.

  “A start. Why not just live forever? I know it seems like a big goal but not really that hard, trust me.” George smiled as Boremac started to ask the obvious question. “I can’t tell you how to live forever, I just live one day to the next and enjoy my life so much I refuse to stop it, just yet.”

  George laughed at himself before continuing. “If you ever need anything so long as I live, seek me out. I will be in the library if you want to say good-bye. I leave you with farewell for now. It is so less permanent.” Both of them kne
w that would probably never see each other again.

  7

  Woman Trouble

  Boremac felt his first real loss when he left the Archivist. The pain of knowing his father was dead had been an old and distant one whereas, by comparison, this hurt was too immediate. He had taken lengths to disguise his true station before moving out into the streets of the learned and wealthy, wearing an apprentice student’s robe that George had recently given him. The tools of his father’s trade, including the close fitting leathers and sheathed blades, were covered completely by the loose fitting robe, making him appear more rotund than was accurate, which only served to complete the disguise. Unfortunately Boremac did not relish the flood of memories that darkened his features as he moved toward the markets. He took some solace in being rescued from the bright morning sun by his hood. Boremac thought bitterly that the cowl should serve as a reminder of where he really belonged.

  Boremac’s spirits lifted as he made his way into the thieves’ quarter and was able to shed the robe. The heat of the day, increasing with the rising sun, was cloying due to the layers of cloth and leather he had worn. The thief brightened some as he shimmied into the window of the room across from his own in the Shadowy Pint. Luck had favored him once more with a quiet hallway as the only obstacle between himself and his target. “It is good to be home.” Boremac stated with just a hint of a smile. Mama Bear’s insistence on not letting him lock the door to his room had actually paid off. He grinned, thinking of the Archivist once again, and was all too eager to unfold the letter he that had inspired him to learn to read.

  Unbidden thoughts of the ring he had stolen from George came to him. George had never spoken of it again, but Boremac had witnessed him occasionally speaking to thin air in the library. He always spoke softly and reassuringly to the imaginary friend, sometimes even joking with them, but more often than not questioning them about how they felt. Boremac, even when he was young, had never been one for imagining companions. He had just figured at the time that the master of the library was just what he appeared to be, an imaginative old man. George had often said there was no such thing as too much knowledge, but if the Archivist was any example then Boremac had to disagree, especially where that ring was concerned. He could only hope George took care with that bit of jewelry.

  Boremac shook his head in an effort to bring his thoughts to the present. He extracted the letter with the seal of Alchendia’s Path, eager to review it. The signature at the bottom drew Boremac’s eyes first with its delicate curves and flourishes. It seemed unlikely to have been written by the mercenary who had given Boremac the weapons and who had obviously sent the message. The signature was the man’s nickname, earned for his efficiency in battle and mercenary trade, and no one could have worn the title better. It read simply,’Quick Silver’.

  Boremac eagerly read the words of the mercenary, overcome with the thought he had even taken the trouble. His words, scribed in a neat and practiced print, were as follow:

  “Young Rogue,

  Many well beyond your years attempt to gain my attention with their prowess at arms, or stealthy nature, to little effect. So few are able, as you were, to rise to a challenge and survive, never mind succeed with flair. You are both talented and entertaining but you are something else as well. You have a sense of honor that is rare in these troubled times. Even more rare in our dealings as mercenaries, spies and thieves.

  I wish you to join Alchendia’s Path when you are ready. Such talent should not be wasted in the streets of Travelflor. You will be hunted, by all manner of thug, simply for the blades I have given you. Consider it a test. You would do well to choose your allies carefully because I can assure you that as long as you possess the blades, you will be sought for the honor others will think they can bring themselves by taking them from you. It is the way of our world. There is no honor among thieves, only the blood bond seals us to our word, and even then only for a time. I do not know when you will find someone who can read this, or if you can read it yourself, but I am certain there are two you should seek who will soon come of the age to be approached by the guild master and have been observed for quite some time. You should puzzle out who they are and seek them. I will give you clues. You have encountered them before and they are rarely separate.

  Use the stone I have sent to care for the blades and they will serve you well. The luck of Alchendia be with you, young rogue, as it has in the past. Hone your skills and taste life’s pleasures before you come to Alchendia’s Path. You will find the Guild halls within much less comfortable than you might think.”

  Beneath the mercenary’s signature was another seal of Alchendia’s Path. The seal on the letter held a gold coin possessing the mark of Alchendia on one side and two crossed daggers on the other side. Boremac now knew how he would enter the guild, he just did not know when. Boremac removed the blades he prized more than any others from his own box and set to tending the blades. He replaced his father’s own daggers with the steel he had won.

  Boremac knew one thing for certain. It was time to go and see his mothers. He figured they would all be working in the Shadowy Pint’s main tavern soon, preparing for the evening’s regular patrons. They were always kind, overprotective, and giving to a fault where he was concerned, but he still wondered why they had never told him the truth about his father. He thought about what a dead end way of life they must have on the way for them, not unlike his own prospects, so much like his father. The time spent with the Archivist had given him much time for thought, too much on occasion, and a vocabulary to give more depth to those reflections. Boremac furrowed his brow and made his way out the way he had come, ready and wanting to enter through the front door of the Shadowy Pint.

  Boremac entered the Shadowy Pint trying his best to blend in as most of the patrons did. It was a useless effort. “Bore, you have returned!” “Look! Bore!”, and more high pitched shouts rang out from various areas in the tavern. Drinks were dropped, some on alarmed patrons, as the women who had cared for him so long ago moved to surround him as one. Mama Bear upended a table to make a straight path for him and, as the others moved out of her way, wrapped him in a bear hug that threatened to break his spine. “Bore! Look at you! Fit and strong and dressed just like your Father. By the God, Bore, we were so worried until that crazy old man came around.” She shook him while turning in a tight circle that he would have not thought possible. “Look at Bore, girls! Is he even more handsome even than his scoundrel of a father? Oh, Boremac, you cannot go on worrying us like that. Promises were made, and by the God, if we have to lock you in a room to keep you safe, we will! My buttocks will block the door personally, I tell you! Let me have a look at you. I better not find a mark on you.” She released her hug and dangled him from the floor, gripping him at the shoulders with powerful arms. He wasn’t comfortable during her inspection but at least he could breathe again. Finally she set him on his feet and, after a brief but thorough assault on his forehead and cheeks by kisses from the other tavern ladies, things began to calm a bit. The barkeeper saw the patrons of the bar were growing restless from lack of drink and saw fit to shout out there would be a forthcoming round on the house. All but Mama Bear went back to work quickly as the large woman Boremac had called Mama all his life dragged him to an open corner table away from the already crowded bar. “You have much to tell me, so tell me everything, Boremac.” She whispered with her ears perked as if he had secrets that could change worlds, thirsty to hear. Boremac did not miss a beat replying, “You first.”

  “Ah, well I knew you would probably come asking where to find your father when you got older. Not much to tell that you probably have not figured out on your own. He was a burglar, Boremac, and a damn good one. Kept good care of you when he was not prowling at night and never took more than he needed. Gentle sort to me and the ladies of the tavern, though he never went with no one after your mother died. She was one of us, prized for her way of stopping brawls and bringing smiles.” Mama Bear could not keep the sa
dness she felt from her eyes. “She just had that way. Your father tried to keep you as much as he could but he had a wildness in him. I see you do as well. It tells in your eyes. He craved the thrill of maybe getting caught and in the end it did him in. He went after too big a mark staying in one of the inns at the Central Quarter. Got in and out with quite a prize, enough to retire and raise you up, but he picked a bad mark. The man he robbed was a visiting nephew of one of the local nobles. This man was not much liked for his carousing and drinking, so his own family put him up in the inn rather than have him bothering their help, or worse, but even so he was still blood. When he got robbed a hefty bounty went out for the burglar, your father. When he went to fence his take, the fence gave him up and the guards came calling soon after that.”

  Boremac raised a hand to stop her. His mama’s face was shrouded in dark veils of pain and sorrow as the memories of when the man and woman she had cared for were taken from her went through her mind. Boremac said, “I know the rest. All too well.” His memory of the last time he had seen his father surged through him as well. Boremac was not one to go hunting for vengeance and holding on to the dead would only get him killed anyway, so he made peace.