by A Van Wyck
Sure fingers drew the blindfold from his head. For all the good that did.
He was seated at a long table in what looked like a meeting room, drenched in darkness. Like a moth, his vision could not wing past the faint penumbra of the single lantern. Strategically placed, it robbed the speaker across from him of features. The flat eyed soldier appeared beside the lantern to turn up its wick. The room resolved into sharper lines.
Across the length of the long table from him sat an old man in priest’s robes. The man was bowed with more than age. Bags hung under tired eyes and loose skin dangled from a thin neck. Tufts of grey hair sprouted from large ears to join the wild tangle ringing a liver-spotted pate. A gilded walking stick, of all things, leant against the table at the old man’s elbow.
But those old eyes were alive, hard and sharp as flint. Long years had carved bitter furrows in the sallow face. It was obvious that the crooked smile that hung there was the only one that ever visited. The old man spread steady hands in welcome.
“They call me Father.”
He grinned.
“I’m sure they do,” he fed the speaker his own words, with relish.
The crooked smile flashed at him again.
“My name,” the old man declared, “is Cyrus. And I want you,” the crooked grin deepened, “to break into the Seven Deep repository of the Lily Tower.”
* * *
Flass sat especially straight in his saddle today, enjoying the extra height being mounted afforded. Enjoying, even more, the way people stepped deferentially aside wherever he pointed his horse’s head. He breathed deeply the cleaner air. It was good to be back in uniform. The uniform commanded respect and if there was one thing he craved above all else, it was respect. These last few days, enduring the suspicious glances of riff-raff and gate guards, had been torture. He’d had to show his imperial writ and commission twice to prove he really owned the beast. Even worse had been the condescending looks of the nobility at that silly inn, looking down their noses at him – when they deigned to notice him at all. It was enough to make him grind his teeth. He held a deep, abiding hatred in his soul for all of them.
He knew he wasn’t much too look at. No matter how far he managed to climb from his humble beginnings – and he’d climbed far indeed – he could not escape his peasant’s features. The ruddy skin and the potato nose. He did what he could, shaving twice a day and ensuring his hair was always perfectly oiled and coifed. Anyone of insight could look at him and recognize that, here, was a man who’d overcome his base birth. Someone whose climb to success had been twice as hard, making him worth twice as much as any other man.
Stupid nobles…
Other men (noblemen) craved riches and power. But what were they except longer, roundabout routes to respect? He had no time for them, preferring the most direct road. As a low-brow, riches and power were beyond his reach anyway but their flavors – jealousy and fear – were not. Getting respect from commoners, with a well placed fist or boot, was easy and therefore worthless. The real currency was the respect of your betters. That realization had been what had prompted him to enter into Lord Wramlinn’s service all those years ago.
The streets of the Outer City were even more crowded than those he’d just left behind. He kept his horse at a steady walk, though, paying no attention to the tiny people he forced out from underfoot.
When he thought of all the wasted years of unnoticed toil in the service of the elder lord, he wanted to scream. He’d jumped at the chance to ingratiate himself with Wramlinn the younger. He’d done whatever was necessary to worm his way into the man’s entourage. It hadn’t been easy. There’d been obstacles and he’d left one or two corpses in his wake but he’d finally gained the man’s ear. From there, it had been a short step to making himself invaluable.
Of course, he’d had to play servant to all of his lord’s friends as well – sons of minor lords and landowners. He still stoked a burning hatred for all. Many nights he lulled himself to sleep with sweet thoughts of what he’d do to each and every one of them. One day. None of them had understood why the lord had kept someone like Flass around. But then, none of them had been privy to the young lord’s… darker tastes.
When the lord had wanted pretty peasant girls smuggled into the manor, it had been Flass who’d made it happen. He’d been the one to convince the irate fathers, brothers and husbands to ignore the bruises. Mostly he’d done so with gold. Sometimes – when they turned stubborn – with steel. Sometimes the girls did not make it home and it had been Flass who’d shoveled the shallow graves, made up the stories, laid the false trails. His lord was a man who got what he wanted, without exception. He’d gone to great lengths to ensure that what the man wanted was Flass, close by.
It had been no surprise at all when the lord had chosen Flass to accompany the enlistment into the Green Dragoons.
That’s where he’d discovered the magic of the uniform. A lieutenancy had been his lord’s way of keeping him close. It also meant he was higher ranked than just about everyone in the dragoons who lacked noble blood and – deliciously – some that didn’t. Before, he’d had to go out of his way to bully people. Now they lined up in orderly rows to be bullied.
Helia’s tortured teats, how he loved it!
When he came to the outer gate of the city, now, the guards practically flew to get him signed out and on his way. Their usual laxity evaporated in his presence. He heeled his horse down the lane, feigning indifference at all the heads turning to track his progress.
Oh, yes, the uniform was magic. Larger, meaner men nodded at him respectfully. Women and children pointed him out to each other. Sometimes mobs of excited boys would trail his horse for a ways. If the uniform was magic, the horse was gold. He smiled fondly, leaning to pat the magnificent mare’s neck. Riches and power. Horse and uniform. Yes, Flass Degatt had come up a long way in the world and he was going to climb higher still.
Even now, he winged his way back to his lord, his mission accomplished. ‘You were right, my lord,’ he practiced in his head. ‘Something suspicious indeed about the lady Lassleider and her lovely niece.’ He’d taken his lord’s instruction to trail them without question. He’d gloried in the fact that it hadn’t been Wolt (who was the better horseman) or Drove (who was a born skulker) but him. What was that if not respect?
Follow them, his lord had instructed, discreetly.
What am I looking for, my lord? he’d wanted to know.
Perhaps nothing. But methinks the lady is deceiving me – her and her bashful niece both. I want to know why...
Long years spent anticipating his lord’s tastes had given him an eye for feminine flesh the way other men had an eye for horseflesh. He’d gotten a good look at the lady’s niece, back at that inn. Enough to know it hadn’t been her that came out the Temple on the lady’s arm last night. He’d watched the building long after they’d left. When, a bell later, an unmarked carriage had pulled up to collect three hooded priests, he’d thought nothing of it. Not until he’d seen their escort.
What possible reason could the masha’na have for wearing unmarked armor? It hadn’t taken a genius to know something underhanded was going on. He’d followed them all the way to the Mother Temple’s gates, where he could go no further. He hadn’t been able to make sense of it but he had no doubt his lord would be able to. The man was good at putting puzzles together. He smiled in anticipation.
Flass Degatt, successful again, my lord.
He rode until just shy of nightfall and stabled his horse at a likely looking tavern. Not so decent as to lack whores. Not so upscale as to host anyone more important than him. He welcomed the slight dip in noise that said his entrance to the common room had been noticed. Finding himself a table, he slung his saddlebags over the chair back. A serving girl was with him almost before he sat down, the uniform at work again.
“What can I get you, soldier?”
He looked her up and down. Pretty, amply proportioned. Not at all to his lord’s tastes. B
ut his lord wasn’t here.
“A plate,” he said, “a pitcher and a room for the night.”
“We don’t have any rooms left,” she apologized.
“I’ll sleep in yours,” he offered. She laughed jovially and went to get his meal and drink. She could laugh if she liked. They all learned better in the end. He watched the room for a while, noting the commoners and their loud conversations, grateful he wasn’t one of them anymore. He tucked right in when his food arrived and his beer was finished before he’d gotten halfway through the generous portion. Another pitcher clunked onto the table.
“From the man at the end of the bar,” the serving girl said.
Frowning, Flass looked over. The man at the end of the bar was obviously not a commoner. Dark clothes bore shiny patches where they’d been frayed by armor straps. A fighting man, then. Possibly a veteran or an estate guard, though the man bore no colors. Noting his attention, the dark man turned to lock eyes with him.
He tensed.
If the man tried to flirt, there was going to be trouble. But the man simply raised a mug in acknowledgement, free hand scribing a casual salute. A veteran then, one with the proper respect. And better, one who didn’t insist on regaling you with tales of their dubious former glory. He raised his pitcher in the man’s direction in thanks. This evening was turning out alright after all.
He finished his meal and the new pitcher as well. It was fine stuff. Probably the finest the house served. The serving girl came to collect his empty plate and he grabbed at her, trying for a handful. But she was too quick for him and he laughed as she bustled back into the crowd. She was back before long with another foaming pitcher.
“From your friend again,” she said and disappeared before he could think of something clever to say. He glanced over at the bar. The generous veteran’s seat was empty. Probably gone home for the night. That suited him fine. It saved him the trouble of having to thank the man in person. He gulped from the fresh drink, dribbling some down his chin and squirmed as his overfull bladder protested. Stumbling to his feet, he was forced to grab at the table to save his balance. He wasn’t drunk… yet. Just pleasantly mellowed. He ambled over to the bar.
“Where’s the pisser?” he shouted at the bucktoothed barman over the noise of the common room.
“Out the back,” the man pointed.
“You save my table, eh!” he cautioned, making his careful way out into the cool night air.
He stumbled up to the walled trough, fumbling with the ties of his breeches. “Ahhh…” He arched a streak across the wall. Two full pitchers made for a lot of piss. He’d have a few more. Then maybe he’d see about that serving girl. His lord wasn’t the only one who knew how to handle women. He was just about to shake off when the bag dropped over his head. Drawstrings jerked tight about his neck, choking off his bellowed surprise. A fist slammed into his gut and he folded around the pain. Someone kicked in the backs of his knees and his legs crumpled from beneath him. The blow to the back of his head, added to his already impaired faculties, came close to knocking him out. He lay stunned, only distantly aware of someone tying his wrists and ankles. The dusty interior of the burlap sack smothered him. Rough hands hooked beneath his arms and then he was being dragged. He felt his toes scrape furrows in the gravel of the road as they crossed it.
They didn’t take him very far. Even through the thick weave of the bag he smelled crushed grass and then his boots were thumping on wooden boards. He swayed in their grasp as they manhandled him down some stairs. A basement.
He was shoved roughly into a chair. Still groggy, he struggled as they parted his bindings. Hands restrained his forearms and he kicked feebly in their grasp, threatening to upset the chair. Someone cuffed him savagely. His head lolled back on his neck as they finished lashing his limbs to the wood. The sack was ripped away.
Nose gushing blood, he blinked the dust from his eyes. He was indeed in a basement. A single lantern swung from a ceiling chain, making the shadows seesaw sickeningly. There were four of them. Big men with hard faces, wearing dyed leathers under metal scales. Even without any insignia or indication of rank, he knew them for soldiers. He knew how to handle soldiers…
“Do you know,” he spat at them, “what a monumental mistake you’ve made? I’m a lieutenant of the Green Dragoons!” he blustered. “Friend and close companion to Lord-captain Wramlinn of Everlinn! You are all going to stretch for this!”
His impressive speech seemed to have no effect.
“Release me at once!” he commanded, to no reaction at all. A door squealed open somewhere above and footsteps came down the stairs. Seizing his chance, he threw back his head and shouted at the top of his lungs. “Help! Somebody help! I’m in the basement! I’m in the basement!”
None of the men moved to silence him. The nearest one grimaced at the noise, plugging an ear with a little finger and wriggling it about.
“Scream all you like,” said the voice coming down the stairs. He looked up as the veteran from the bar stepped into view. “Like you, your voice cannot leave this room.” The man pointed at Flass’s feet in explanation. He glanced down.
His chair was the epicenter of a charcoal circle, drawn straight on the wooden boards. His eyes bulged at the scrawled symbols crowding the design.
Dark magic! He jerked his head back up to the veteran, ignoring the pain of two blows not yet faded. “Who are you?” he gasped, fear riding his words.
“We,” the man answered, strange accent hardly noticeable, “are the ones asking the questions.”
“What kind of questions?” he forced out past the choking terror.
“For starters, describe to me what you’ve been doing these last couple of days. In particular, where you’ve been and who you’ve seen.”
He frowned. “Why?”
He didn’t see the blow coming. His head rocked to the impact of a full armed slap. The nearest man sauntered back to the wall, massaging a stiff hand. He tasted blood in his mouth.
“We,” the veteran reiterated, “will ask the questions.”
Flass appraised the man fearfully. “I tell you,” he blustered, “and you let me go? Just like that?” The denial was clear in the man’s eyes. “Then why should I tell you anything?” he gushed. The knowledge of imminent death sparked enough bravery to break briefly through the surface of the terror.
The nearest man straightened purposefully but subsided again at a gesture from the veteran. The man seemed to consider, coming to crouch by the chair so their eyes were level. “You’re a soldier,” the man said levelly. “I am a soldier. So I’m doing you this favor, one soldier to another. Tell me, now, and I’ll kill you quick, without you ever having to find out what I’m sparing you from.”
The mercy in the man’s eyes was genuine. It scared him more than anything that had come before.
The soldier closest to the stairs’ head tilted, listening. “Too late,” the man informed the room.
The door at the top of the steps creaked open. Light footsteps padded downward.
Regret flashed across the veteran face. “Sorry,” the man whispered. Standing, those eyes became flat and expressionless.
Flass’s wide eyes turned to the stairwell and held there. The bottom of a long black robe washed into view. It was followed, stair by stair, by the rest of a hunched figure. He stiffened in his chair as the cowled face dropped into view. His muscles clenched tight at the leashed menace pouring from the apparition.
“Well then,” the newcomer rasped, pushing up the sleeves of the dark robe like a man with a job of work to do. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
Flass jerked away uncontrollably, the chair rocking on its hind legs. Fear, deep and primal, pressed him into his seat. The figure’s hands and arms were grey and rotten like a cadaver’s. Long black nails topped each finger like claws.
He rolled his eyes in desperation at the veteran who’d offered him mercy. But the man’s face was wooden now.
“I looks to me,” the
corpse rasped, flexing taloned fingers, “like you have something you would like to get off your chest.” The thing drew nearer.
He started screaming long before it even touched him.
CHAPTER 15 – UNMASKED
“Need to find the rabbit… need to find the rabbit… need to find the rabbit…”
The muttered chant went on and on. It circled the dank walls of the dark little cell, trailing its lone occupant’s progress. “Need to find the rabbit… need to find the rabbit… need to find the rabbit…”
If he could just remember about the rabbit, everything would be alright. He did another circuit in the cramped space. His shuffling steps stretching the four by five paces worth of space considerably. The stone floor was rutted and swept clean by years of circular pacing, the soles of his bare feet long since permanently blackened by ingrained filth. Funny that.
He’d noticed one night while taking a piss. It was amazing – the spectacularly contorted positions you could find yourself in after taking a tumble. Especially if you’d been attempting many things at once. Example, taking a piss; aiming by sheer willpower; whilst hanging from the window bars by your teeth. All this while ferverntly wishing your arms were available to manage at least one of these tasks. Also, urinating in your own ear, as had happened whilst he lay prone. He’d lost hearing in that ear for most of a week... A month? Maybe a year. It was so hard to tell in here.
He shrugged inside the constricting harness, which held his arms tight about his midriff. The buckles on the back had long since been reduced to near-shapeless hunks of metal. They clung to the frayed leather straps by dint of long familiarity only. The wall beneath the window had fared worse. The hatch-work of score marks spoke eloquently of either brilliant metallurgy or abysmal masonry. He didn’t know which. He didn’t dare show favoritism to one side or the other, since he had to live and work with both. He did his best to stay out of it, though the incessant squabbling made it hard to sleep sometimes.