by A Van Wyck
The empire was wary of the Renali anyway. And with good reason. Why else spend generation after generation conquering far off lands and continents but never your closest neighbor? Because they couldn’t, that’s why! The last war had proved it. Renali bravery beat Heli magic every time.
He found himself eyeing the locked door again. He could probably take them two or even three at a time. Give them their swords back first. Make it a fair fight.
“…so me and Morlin– we’re just starin’ right? And the merchant is screamin’, the people is screamin’ – damn, Morlin is screamin’ – and past goes the cart: whoosh!”
He could probably make short work of the lot of them. That would solve the problem of posting guards for them. But then he’d most likely get in trouble. And he really didn’t need any more trouble. They’d already got him doing guard duty alongside the-thing-that-wouldn’t-shut-up. He dreaded to think what the next rung down the ladder might be. He scratched absently at his ass. His damn bunghole had been itchy for weeks and the last couple of days it’d developed a sickly yellow crust that was driving him to distraction. If it got any worse, he’d have to go looking for a poultice pusher.
“…Morlin says I’m crazy but I know what I saw. I only saw it for a moment? But I gots a really good look. It was a hat! Big as you or me, with arms and legs, pushing that cart so fast it went by in a blur! And then it was out the gate and vanishing down the track, spilling fruit and–”
The door jumped in its frame.
He straightened in surprise but it was only a loud knock, not the empire swine battering the thing down. Who knocked from the inside of a locked room? He met Bentrun’s politely puzzled smile, seeing in the fool’s earnest eyes the introduction to another epic tale already being written.
The knock repeated. This time accompanied by some question in the outlandish lingo the Imperials spoke.
“Whut?” was the only response that came to mind.
The phrase, whatever it was, was repeated. It was no less intelligible the second time, muffled by the thick wood.
“Speak Common, man!” he cursed at the door.
A moment of silence.
Then a longer phrase. This one sounding like a statement.
“Are you deaf and dumb?” he directed at it. “I don’t speak your tongue, you Imperial bastard!”
The return was immediate, a challenge clear in the tone.
“Oh, yeah?” he felt this was an argument he could win. “Well don’t come to my country if you can’t speak the language, then!”
This was met by a stream of invective from the other side of the door.
“Well your mother was a whore!” he returned in the King’s tongue.
Bentrun clapped a hand to the finally motionless mouth. The door jumped angrily and a whirlwind of raucous babble shivered it in its frame.
“Sorry,” he sang over it, “I can’t hear you.”
The babbling stilled. There was a deep indrawn breath. Then another query, a sense of urgency to it.
“Whut you want? Water? Chamberpot?” Bentrun snickered. “Speak up!”
Another moment of silence, as if the speaker were considering. Then a single word, pronounced carefully and enunciated clearly – but not in any language he understood.
“Whut?”
Same word again, its urgency apparent.
“Whut?!”
And again.
“Oh, for the love of…” he fished at his belt for the door key. “Bentrun, you cover me – and hold that cudgel at the ready man, for pity’s sake!” He put the key in the lock, banging a fist on the door. “You in there,” he directed at the unseen speaker, “back away from the door.”
An unintelligible question.
“I said back up!”
He listened carefully for the two deliberate steps sounding from the other side.
“Honestly,” he muttered to himself as he turned the key. “How did you lot ever get to be the biggest empire in the world?” The door swung open to reveal the foreign soldiers’ leader, standing at a safe distance with hands in the air. A quick count revealed all of their number seated on bunks and benches at the man’s back.
“Whut?!?” he demanded of the man.
“I said,” the leader spoke in perfect Renali, “I believe you are in danger…”
Christian watched as the door guard tried to assimilate this. Over the man’s shoulder he could see the air roil behind the second guard.
“So you do speak–”
The second guard crumpled as though struck over the head. The clatter of the truncheon slipping from nerveless fingers alerted the first guard. That one spun around and was launched off his feet, folding around an invisible blow.
He caught the boneless figure under the arms.
“I tried to warn you,” he told the Guard’s snoring face.
The uncanny cowled woman, who’d introduced herself as ‘an acquaintance of Marco’s’ materialized, one hand holding the arrested guard by the collar.
“Tell me again why I can’t just kill them?”
“Politics,” he said, gently laying his burden down.
She tsked disgustedly but let the other guard fold the rest of the way to the ground.
Watching her, he wondered again who he’d thrown in with. Her every motion screamed ‘killer’. How did Marco know this woman?
“You’re her, aren’t you?” he guessed. “The one who tried to assassinate the princess.”
Cold eyes regarded him from above the leather mask.
“Twice,” she confirmed. “Does that mean you’d rather I lock you in again?” she twirled the door key from one gloved finger.
“No.” Helia help me. “Drag these guards inside,” he directed his masha’na.
“This way,” the assassin said and disappeared – literally disappeared – up the passage.
He stared after her – at nothing.
“We sure about this?” Bear rumbled from behind him.
“The only thing I’m certain of is that the keeper isn’t getting any nearer a rescue with us locked in here.”
He took point, the rest falling in at his heels. It felt horribly exposed, padding unarmed down the deserted passage. The cowled woman awaited them up ahead, though he almost trod on her before he saw her.
“We can’t leave without our weapons,” he hissed at her.
Eyes flashed at him over the rim of her mask. “He said you wouldn’t,” she drawled, sounding annoyed. “Pick one other man and follow me. The rest of you head down this hallway and keep left. Wait by the east postern gate. And keep out of sight! If you raise the alarm, I’ll leave you all here.”
He nodded agreement.
“Bear, you’re with me. Finch, get the troupe out of here. We’ll meet you at the east postern. Stay low.” The balding woodsman nodded, padding off with the rest.
“Alright,” he turned to the unsettling assassin. “Let’s go.”
She led them cautiously from blind corner to shadowed stair. Twice she stopped suddenly, gesturing urgently for them to seek cover. Once she disappeared entirely, gone between one breath and the next, leaving them stranded. Cursing beneath his breath, he and Bear waited in anxious silence. If felt like bells were sleeting by while they stood idle. Finally she reappeared, motioning that the coast was clear.
She led them on a looping path through the underbelly of the compound. He didn’t know how she did it but she deftly steered them around every patrol, guard post and straggler. He found himself dogging her heels.
Finally, with her back pressed to the wall, she leaned cautiously around a corner to glance down the corridor. “There’s a heavy iron-bound door up ahead,” she informed them, “leading to the armory, where your weapons are kept. The guards are inside and there’s a peephole. They’ll see us coming a league off.” She turned, speculatively eyeing Bear. With a flick of her head, she indicated he should take a peek.
The hulking masha’na crept past her to peer down the passage.
<
br /> “Think you can knock that down, big man?”
Bear’s eyes narrowed. But a nod was given.
“Alright,” she directed, “you charge it. When you’re in, get down and stay down. You don’t want to get in my way.”
“How many guards in there?” he queried, worried.
“I don’t know. Lots, probably. Ready?”
Bear nodded.
“I’ll be right on your heels, so remember to hit the floor the moment you’re through. On the count of three, then. One…”
Bear squared up to the blind turn.
“Two.”
The big masha’na dug his heels in, flexing his knees.
“Three!”
Bear threw himself around the corner, heavy feet pounding the stone and muscled neck straining forward. The assassin sped after and Christian followed to see her loping in Bear’s wake. A glance ahead engendered a moment’s doubt. The iron banded oak looked no less impregnable than the stone beside it. The inset grill slid open and a pair of eyes peered out to investigating the noise. Seeing the rapidly approaching Bear, they shot wide as they would go. Bear arrived an instant later. The massive masha’na made up in momentum what he lacked in speed. The door tore off its hinges with a resounding crack. Rivets pinged off the walls and then Bear was through, taking the door with him.
The assassin flitted through after. The moment she crossed the threshold the lamps inside went dark.
Christian skidded, managing to catch himself just before pitching headlong through the ruined doorway. Beyond it, a grainy ash had filled the room from rushes to rafters. He stared in horror as the sea of dark motes roiled in tattered patches, pieces bobbing and banking like schools of fish. As suddenly as it had sprung up, the ash drained through the floor. Light returned. The assassin stuck her head out the door. “Well?” she demanded. “Hurry!”
He followed her inside on unsteady legs. He had seen streaming before. And it was nothing like this. Whatever this was, he was certain the Temple would not approve.
The room beyond was littered with bodies. She knelt beside one, rummaging in its pockets.
“We agreed no killing,” he accused.
“They’ll wish they were dead when they wake up,” she assured him, coming up with a key.
It was true. Even the one she was manhandling was breathing shallowly, though blood trickled from an ear.
“Four?” he asked, doing a headcount.
“Five,” she corrected, pointing to where Bear was just coming to. He moved to help. The masha’na’s eyes were unfocussed.
“That,” Bear slurred slightly, touching hand to head, “was thicker than I expected.”
“Luckily, so are you,” he laughed, relieved. “Can you stand?” He was almost pulled off his feet as Bear levered himself upright, swaying drunkenly.
The assassin approached, cradling a double armful of orins, weirins, and longbows.
“Looks like you may have killed one after all,” she opined.
Christian heaved the fallen door over, unearthing the guard who’d gotten an eyeful of Bear. Bloody bubbles dribbled down the man’s cheeks from a nose not so much broken as... pulverized.
“He’ll live,” he declared, feeling the unfortunate’s pulse. “Why didn’t they give the alarm?” he wondered aloud, thinking of the heavy ash curtain. “They should have been screaming their heads off.”
“What makes you think they weren’t?”
Her cold eyes sent a chill down his spine.
“We need to hurry. Someone will have heard that.”
“Should we put the door back?” Bear queried blearily, still slightly glazed.
A hundred heartbeats later found them sneaking under the open night sky. They sprinted from cover to cover, Bear clanging along beneath the burden of their weapons.
“Tsssss!”
The dark figure of Finch beckoned them urgently into the shadowed lee of a building. The troupe gathered around Bear, silently arming themselves.
Finch drew up beside him, sprouting sword and bow. “Locked,” the slight man hissed, glancing at the pitted iron of the gate. It was set deeply into the stone arch.
Bear gave the thick bars an appraising look.
“I’m not knocking that down,” the masha’na warned.
“You’ve gotten us this far,” Christian directed at the assassin. “Do you have some magic trick that’s going to get that open?”
Grave eyes in a masked face seemed to contemplate the gate for the first time.
“No.”
Unease pricked across his skin.
“Then how–”
The gate gave a muffled, metallic screech as its lock disengaged. Tortured hinges swung the portal outward to reveal a figure in Royal Guard uniform.
Christian’s sword leapt like a salmon, its silvery belly settling along the petrified man’s neck.
The assassin snickered as she made her unconcerned way past them and out into the night.
“Oh,” Christian realized, relaxing, “and you are?”
“Anxious to get back before I’m missed,” Dennik moaned.
Old Farool had squinty eyes for a big man. Well, one squinty eye. Nothing wrong with the other one. And he’d found that the strange lopsidedness was an invaluable asset to his enterprise. People were put off by it, distracted by it, sometimes even disgusted by it. And he used that to his advantage when bartering horseflesh. He owned a stable, buying, selling and renting out horses. He had a keen eye for horseflesh. Something he’d been pleased to discover when he’d won the business from a friend in a game of cards (his squinty eye at work again).
Well, former friend now. He often wondered whether the end of the friendship had been brought about by the loss of the business, or the loss of the wife, who’d decided to go where the business went – straight into Old Farool’s bed. Well, he hadn’t been old Farool back then, that was for sure. And lately he’d caught the wife eyeing that fat baker doing a brisk trade across the street. It sometimes made him jittery when he thought how the wife hadn’t shed a tear, years ago, for her former husband. The fool had weighted himself down with a bag of horseshoes and a belly of rum and gone for a swim in Lake Kestrel.
He thought again of the baker and his thoughts turned to the baker’s wife. A young little thing. Too young and too pretty for the fat baker. And could she bake! Oh, dear! Custard filled crumpets, sweet pastry pies with raisins and those little cream puffs with the–
His stomach rumbled loudly, reminding him of a meal waiting at home. He turned again to regard the reason why he wasn’t at home, with his feet under his own table. And his scowling wife across from him.
“Listen, boy,” he said to the young man fidgeting nervously by the door. The boy had spent the better part of the last two turns with his worried head out the door. He was pleased to see the young man jump. He continued in his hard voice, the one he used for cinching deals. “I don’t think your friends are coming and I’m for bed.” Who’d ever heard of a moonlight horse ride anyway? Scholars, the boy had said. As– Astro– Astro-whatsits.
Gophers.
Astrogophers.
Grown men who made a living watching the stars. He snorted. What was the world coming to? And fifteen horses?! That was nearly half the fresh horses in his stable. Of course, he mused, the young man had already paid the deposit. And he’d padded it sufficiently to make the whole venture worth his while. He wasn’t a young man anymore and shouting at his grooms really took it out of him. And he’d have to go tell those grooms to unsaddle all those horses now. It was only fair. He’d keep the deposit as compensation for the trouble he’d been put to. That’s what deposits were for, after all. He nodded to himself. No wonder he was such a successful businessman. His wife should be more appreciative, really she should. He’d tell her so tonight. He got up from his creaking chair, shrugging into his overcoat.
“I’m sorry,” he told the young man, trying to keep his secret satisfaction to a minimum, “but I can’t wait around
all night. And my employees have to get home as well,” which wasn’t exactly true. All three grooms slept right here in the stables. That way, he could deduct rent from their salaries and get around the clock security for his stables besides.
“But–” the boy began in an obvious panic, probably envisioning a bruise for his other cheek. They must be hard masters, these astrobadgers. But Old Farool had long since learned that the best way to deal with objections was to ride roughshod over them.
“No, no, no,” he chanted loudly, drowning out the young man, “I’m sorry, I truly am,” he said, feeling anything but, “but there’s nothing I can do. My wife is sickly,” he invented with sudden inspiration.
If only.
“As are my two children.” (Of course he didn’t have any.) “I can’t sit around here all night. Sorry,” he said again, speaking fast so as to prevent the boy, who was flapping determined jaws, from getting a word in, “but there’s truly nothing I can do. My hands are tied. I–”
The boy whirled from him, sticking his head out the door again. “They’re here!” the youth announced excitedly, bolting outside.
Farool stood opening and closing his mouth, staring at the open door. “Well, shit,” he finally sighed, shrugging out of his over coat.
So close.
He moved out the open side door of his office and into the wide open space of the stable, yelling for his useless grooms to bring the horses out. Feet crunched on gravel and he turned towards the open stable doors to greet the astrobeavers. His greeting died in his throat.
From the darkness beyond the stable lights stepped first the young man, beaming a huge smile. Next to him, gripping his shoulder, walked a tall man with a shock of yellow hair, wearing a sword. Next came a hulking giant of a man, also armed. Other figures moved from the gloom and suddenly the stable aisle was packed with armed men, wearing some sort of outlandish uniform, all oranges and browns with red cloths wrapped about their middles.
“Er…” he managed but rallied magnificently. “Gentlemen! Good evening! And welcome. Welcome! You’ll be pleased to know you’ll be having my very best horses, the very best in the city, if I do say so myself. I–”