The Raike Box Set

by Jackson Lear

  He didn’t know what to do. He dropped his attention away, foolishly I’d add. He tried to regain his bearings as though that would help him remember what he was supposed to do. Still, he turned away, walking swiftly back to his handlers.

  I took the empty wooden bowl in front of me and lifted it to my face, obscuring myself.

  The kid mumbled something to the pair of so-called merchants. They all left, silently.

  The guy opposite me asked: “What was that about?”

  I looked him over. Sixty years old. Bushy beard. Not a fighter. “I’m not exactly sure yet.”

  He nodded, not remotely convinced that I was telling him the truth.

  “The innkeeper is about to come over. When he does, can you tell him I’ve vacated my room?”

  Sure enough, the innkeeper strolled over, convinced that he had just seen me but at a loss as to where I had gone. And with a second dose of ‘sure enough’, one of the bounty hunters was peering in through the window, at the table that had startled the kid, checking to see who the innkeeper talked to first.

  There was no way their arrival that morning was just a coincidence.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I avoided the street outside as best I could and climbed over a couple of rooftops towards relative safety. Whoever those bounty hunters were, they had me pinned in pretty good. They knew where I was staying, which table I had sat at, and they might be able to trace my previous locations across town to see if I had established a pattern.

  Given how tired the three of them looked, I was willing to bet that they had been up for a few hours already, perhaps moving from one cheap inn to any other within walking distance of Lavarta’s. If I had to guess, Gustali’s resident assassin learned of my existence early the previous evening. He would’ve heard either first, second, or third-hand from Muro that Zara and I had been asking questions. Both from Erast. Both trouble makers. The resident assassin probably had a good few hours last night to go around to all of the inns looking for any bounty hunter who had arrived in town recently. I guess he found three of them who were actually looking for me. That didn’t exactly fill me with a cuddly warm feeling.

  Considering that I now had to move with one eye locked behind me, I figured it was only right to finally hand over Artavian’s letter to his father, just in case someone got to me before I had a chance to pass it on.

  Thanks to Alysia’s map I was able to get close to where Artavian’s parents lived but it took another hour to actually find the right building … only to be told that neither of them were home. I flashed the letter Artavian had written at the caretaker. “Where can I find Artavian’s father?”

  The caretaker seemed to be in a hesitating mood. “I can take it, if you like.”

  “I was asked specifically to give this to Artavian’s parents and only his parents. It’s his son’s last words. Where can I find him?”

  The caretaker sighed, mumbled something or other, and shook his head at me. “Franco said too many people were bothering him and he was going stir crazy, so he went to work. I told him I would keep people away if he wanted but he insisted on going out anyway.”

  “What does he do?”

  “Legal scribe. He usually records court proceedings, I think.”

  “Where is he now?”

  The caretaker sighed again and started giving me directions. “Down there, to the right, maybe five or ten minute walk. Across the way from the Hall of Courts.”

  I checked Alysia’s map. It was accurate enough. Ten minutes later a young woman led me to a man at a table staring out of the window, miles away, wrestling with one of life’s greatest miseries.

  “Franco?”

  The gentleman turned, slowly returning to the world around him. Mid-forties. Dejected eyes. Puffy and red with heavy bags underneath. The guy was all shades of beaten and worn out, no question there. He glanced over me, barely taking me in, before settling on the woman by my side.

  I extended my hand. “Sir, I’m sorry to bother you at this time. I come from the commander’s office. He would like to express his most heartfelt condolences to you.”

  Franco smiled weakly, shook my hand, and croaked. “That’s very kind of you. And him. Again.”

  I fished out the letter Artavian had given to Martius for safe keeping. “I have something for you.”

  Puzzled, he took the letter. The young woman recognized that this was not going to be a quick visit and excused herself. I didn’t wait for an offer to join Franco at the table, I simply sat down opposite him.

  He read over the letter in fine detail, pausing every now and then as he deciphered his son’s handwriting. He read at nearly the same speed as Alysia, though perhaps that was because he needed to wipe away a tear from his watering eyes. He reached the end, folded the letter back over, and placed it firmly on the table in front of him. “Thank you. I did hope for one last word from my boy.”

  “He was a good man. Well liked and well respected. It’s a shame he died so close to home.”

  Franco nodded, retreating inside once again.

  “I’m sorry to do this, but I’ve been asked to look into Artavian’s last few days to see if there was any foul play.”

  Franco wheezed, relieved in part that someone was taking his son’s death so seriously, but also at pains to realize that he might’ve been murdered. “His commander came to see me. Said something like this might happen.”

  “When was this?”

  “Two days ago. The day Artavian was supposed to return home.”

  I bowed my head in respect. “Commander Lavarta hurried to Torne as soon as he discovered what had happened to Artavian. He wanted an investigation to start as soon as possible.”

  “He did say something of that kind. Are you any closer to telling me if it was natural or not?”

  “Not yet, I’m afraid. The governor has asked me to look into anyone who might want to have caused Artavian harm. Do you have any ideas?”

  Franco lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “It’s like you said. He was well liked and well respected. He enjoyed his life in the army. He certainly enjoyed it more than following in my footsteps.”

  “Has anyone else come to see you about Artavian?”

  “Friends and acquaintances, mostly. Everyone expressing their condolences. Coming to work was all I could do to get away from it. People bring me food and promise to light some incense in his memory. The food’s nice, I guess, but it’s spoiling fast.”

  “Anyone memorable?”

  “Just the commander and his wife. They brought food as well. Nice food. It’s not every day I get to dine on high-born sweets and cakes.”

  “What about beforehand? Was anyone looking into Artavian before he got back to Torne?”

  He was about to say ‘no’, then that distant spark of a memory came to him. His face twisted, contorted, going from one link to another as though he allllllmost had it, yet it seemed perplexingly elusive. Then it landed upon him with a crash. “There was, actually. Maybe two months ago? Wait … Miera just had her birthday. We still had some of the good wine left. We almost offered it to him but Miera gave him something else instead.” He gave me a sharp nod. “Two months ago, yes. Someone came around and asked us some questions about my boy.”

  “What sort of questions?”

  “Just military things. He was from the army. He said he was looking into promotions and transfers and wanted to do some checks on my boy first. It was a little odd at the beginning, him being so cryptic and all, but then he admitted that it was to see if Artavian could be blackmailed, what kind of demons he had, that sort of thing. Since he handled a lot of sensitive letters and had to break codes, a mind like his could be invaluable to the enemy, even if he didn’t recognize them to be the enemy at the time.”

  “This man asked about Artavian’s friends and family?”

  “He did, yes. If Artavian had plans on getting married, who his last interest was, did he ever gamble, drink, or the like. Mostly he wanted to know if
Artavian ever revealed anything he shouldn’t have from his time in the army.”

  “Did he?”

  “Of course, but nothing of great importance. He’d talk about the day to day life, who he worked with. It seemed to be dawn to dusk at a desk making sure everyone got paid. No real details, you know? I don’t even know were his fort was, aside from it being in Anglaterra and near the border, but the border is hundreds of miles long.”

  “Did he write home?”

  “He used to. Once a month, just to keep us updated. He always looked forward to coming home and having some of Miera’s dumplings and gravy.”

  “Did his letters stop?”

  There came a heavy nod. “They did. Four months ago.”

  “Did he explain why?”

  “No. It does happen, from time to time. Letters get delayed, or he’ll be out on a patrol and miss the post deadline. Sometimes there will be three or four coming all at once. Army efficiency, and all that.”

  “Did you tell him about the army man who came to talk to you?”

  “I did, yeah. It seemed quite exciting, that Artavian might be up for a promotion or something.”

  “Did Artavian mention the same? That he might be up for a new job?”

  Franco shook his head. “If he did, I haven’t gotten the letter about it.”

  “What’s your take on the guy who came along?”

  “Nice and friendly. Very polite. He seemed to be good at his job.”

  “Did Miera say anything about him afterwards?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary, just that he was welcome back at any time.”

  “Did he have a name?”

  Franco lifted his head towards the ceiling, peering through the infinite threads of memory in his mind. “Commander Kariss ... or something like that.”

  “Tall guy?”

  “No, actually. Miera was probably the same height as him, and she’s not exactly tall.”

  “I think I know him. Mid-thirties, yes?”

  “About that, yes. Slim, even for a commander.”

  “You recognized his uniform?”

  “Artavian has gone through the ranks and designations time and time again.”

  “I bet. Did anything unusual happen in the last few months? Between one commander and another coming to see you?”

  Franco nodded again, this time with a weighty burden pulling him down. “Someone broke in, we think.”

  “You think?”

  “I can’t be more specific than that, I’m afraid. Something just seemed off, you know? Like how you come home and you can’t remember if you left the place exactly like that or if something has moved. The problem is nothing seemed to be missing.”

  “When did this happen?”

  Another glance up at the ceiling, though this time he snapped back as two unrelated events suddenly created a devastating link. “A few days after the first commander came by.”

  “I take it you hadn’t seen him before or since?”

  “No, but then he wouldn’t exactly move in my circle.”

  “When would you usually receive a letter from Artavian?”

  His jaw and eyes fell, once again coming to another crippling link. “It was due to arrive the day we were broken into.”

  I watched Franco fall into a storm of anguish and doubt, wrestling with the fear that he had invited a thief into his home, a thief with connections, then the storm shifted. Not just a thief, but a killer. His son’s killer. And that someone in the military command had authorized it.

  At last he looked back at me with newer, fresher eyes. “I didn’t get your name.” There was a power in there, now. A lasting memory as well, in case our paths ever crossed again.

  “Raike. I’m here to find out what happened to Artavian.”

  Franco narrowed his attention, suspicious.

  “I know Alysia Kasera, Commander Lavarta’s wife. A little shorter than average. Brown hair. Easy to look at. Heart of gold.”

  “Okay, so you know her. How do you know the other guy?”

  “By reputation only. Now that you’ve looked back at it, what’s your feeling on the guy who came to see you and Miera? Was he actually who he said he was?”

  Franco sunk in his seat. “I don’t know. He was nice. Relaxed.”

  “Torne accent?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any noticeable features? Scars? Acne pits?”

  “Those, yes. Some acne scaring across his cheeks. Not much, though. It looked like they were covered in make up.”

  “Big nose? Little nose? Large jaw?”

  “Normal all around.”

  “Black hair? Brown?”

  “Fair.”

  “You said he was short. Was he still proportional?”

  “Proportional, mostly. Like he stopped growing when he was in his early-teens.” He stared back at me, more uncertain than ever. “Who is he?”

  I drew in a deep breath, struggling to hold back my suspicions that the guy we were talking about was the same one who had killed Franco’s son. “I’m still looking into it, but I’m getting close. If you learn of anything new, please tell Miss Kasera or Commander Lavarta.”

  He blew out a defeated breath of air. “Will they really do anything about my boy?”

  “I don’t know, but I will.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Aside from pre-pubescent kids, beggars are one of the best resources in any city. They’ll have had a hundred jobs in the past, in a hundred locations, know who worked where and how it was all connected, where the best place to go to get the cheapest drink, and where you might find an illegal fighting pit frequented by assassins and assholes.

  I found such a place. The Rock And The Goat. Apparently they are actual people, too. One with gray birthmarks covering his face, the other with an insane beard that made me wonder what his nickname must’ve been when he was ten years old.

  A surly looking grandma was rolling a cask of beer from one of the back rooms.

  “Excuse me.”

  She stood up. Head rush. Clapped one hand on my arm to stop herself from falling over. “Sorry.”

  I helped her to a bench before she snapped her hand away. “You okay?”

  She stared back at me, curiously. “You’re not from the Academy, are you?”

  I presumed that was the local company who collected protection money from this place. “Just a traveler, ma’am. I’m looking for someone. A patron. Short guy. Straw hair. Likes to get rowdy and watch the fights but probably never engages in the fights himself. The guy you never want to mess with.”

  She blew out a quick breath. “Right. It’s you.”

  “Were you expecting me?”

  She climbed back to her feet and got back to work. “Someone came in this morning with a curious story. Let me guess, you’re from Erast?”

  “What did this person look like?”

  “Like a scared-shitless twelve year old. She was a messenger, probably going from building to building with the same story. Sounds like you pissed off the wrong person.”

  “What was her message?”

  She pulled back, her face souring. “It was distasteful and I don’t exactly want to repeat it.”

  “Threats of violence?”

  She caught herself before groaning, and gave in. “She said if you were to come by then I should tell you: ‘Your death will live on for decades.’”

  “I don’t suppose she offered a rendezvous? ‘Meet me at the tower at midnight’? Something like that?”

  “No. She did say that if I met you that I should send a messenger to the Octagon, the Rocks, and the Spire and have them shout out: ‘Message delivered from the Rock Pit’ a few times, then I could expect another messenger to come along with five marks in the next few days as a thank you. I don’t like your chances of being able to figure out who the intended listener is in a crowd that size.”

  Neither did I. “Well, thank you for the message. I’m sure you will have someone come along and they might have
a few questions for you about me, so if you could, tell them this: I have a copy.”

  “A copy of what?”

  “He’ll know.”

  I headed outside. Stopped dead in my tracks.

  Two guys in front of me. The same two guys from the inn that morning. One of them, a weathered forty year old came to a stop, eyes locked onto me. Freshly shaved, freshly bathed, but still wearing a colorful tunic and shorts that most merchants would’ve taken great care to wash before venturing out again. Several yards behind him was his buddy, grumbling to the ten year old boy they had with them earlier.

  “Hey,” called the weathered one, half to me, half to his friend. His friend snapped his head around, found me, rose in surprise. He tapped the kid on the back. The kid turned, looked to me, squinted. Mumbled indecisively. They approached.

  “Where are you from?” asked the weathered one, in a thick Erast accent.

  “Kirswell,” I said.

  The guy in the back tapped the kid again. The kid squinted, murmured a: “Yeah.”

  “Ever been to Erast?” asked the weathered one.

  I shook my head. “This is my first time in Syuss.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Mostly I stand around looking pretty and getting compliments for my charm.”

  He pursed his lips forward, giving him the look of a cow chewing slowly on some cud. His friend was less impressed. Drew in a deep, controlled breath. Preparing himself for a fight, it seemed.

  “I asked you a question,” said the weathered one, taking a momentary reprieve from his cow duties.

  “Bravo.”

  The speaker called to the kid. “Marcus. Is it him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The guy next to the kid spoke. “Let’s hear you say, ‘What the fuck are you doing, sleeping on the job?’’”

  In that split second, I placed the kid. Sitting on the steps of my old orphanage, head down, fast asleep, and would’ve remained that way if I hadn’t woken him up and scared him off.

  “Fuck off.”

  The two guys stepped in closer, their hands moving to their weapons. “Say it or we’ll assume it’s you and take your head back with us.”