The Agent

by Brock E. Deskins

John compared the images drawn on the paper with the faces of those around him but none bore more than a passing similarity. Neither was he able to find anyone who had seen them or were able to point him to where they were staying. Frustrated, he shoved the drawing into his pocket. It was almost noon, and he needed to find Victor and the others and report what little he had discovered.

  “Hey, handsome, looking for a good time?” a woman standing in front of a brothel asked as he walked past.

  She was a homely woman of questionable hygiene; certainly not the best choice to post out front in hopes of enticing men to come inside. At least he hoped she was not the best they had to offer. John was about to walk past, not having the time nor inclination for a dalliance, when a thought struck him. Garran Holt was as renowned for his drinking and whoremongering as he was for being a transcended. There was a better than fair chance that if anyone saw him it would be a prostitute or a barkeep.

  He pulled the portrait back out of his pocket and held it up for the woman to see. “Have you seen either of these men around in the last day or two?”

  She leaned forward and squinted. “Yeah, I seen that roguish one.”

  “Where, when?”

  “He’s in a room upstairs right now.”

  “Show me.”

  The whore held out her hand. “If you take me upstairs, you have to pay whether or not you keep your trousers on.”

  John fished five dinarins from his pocket and dropped them in her outstretched hand. She bounced them in her cupped palm and looked at them skeptically.

  “It will only take a minute of your time,” John assured her.

  She pocketed the coins inside her dress. “Most of them do.”

  She led the hunter into the brothel and up the stairs before stopping before a door. John grabbed her elbow and stopped her from going in.

  “Listen, all we’re going to do is open the door and take a quick look. You say, ‘sorry, I didn’t know this room was taken’ and we leave as soon as I see his face. Then I need you to keep him here for as long as you can. I will make sure you are well rewarded for your time. Do you understand?”

  The woman shrugged. “Sure.”

  He nodded, and the whore opened the door. John took two steps inside and squinted into the gloomy interior lit by a single oil lamp. “Where is he?”

  “Right behind you.”

  John spun, his hand reaching for his blade. Garran Holt now stood with a bed sheet wrapped around him and pinned on like a dress where the prostitute had been just a moment ago. Garran flicked his wrist, and a throwing knife fell into his palm. He grabbed John’s forearm with his free hand before he could clear the weapon from its sheath and buried his knife just below the ribs.

  John’s fear-filled, questioning eyes glazed over, and he fell lifelessly to the floor. Garran shed his hastily constructed garment, dragged John’s corpse to the open window, and tossed him out of it and into the alley next to the brothel like so much trash.

  “I have to say,” Garran said when Adam appeared in the doorway, “your little tricks could be quite useful in my line of work.”

  “Doing so would break international law and brand me a criminal in every kingdom.”

  “Your rather strict adherence to the law is one of your less endearing qualities.”

  “Only to someone like you. Do you think this will work on Victor?”

  Garran shook his head. “Doubtful. Transcended are too closely related to god-touched. We got lucky in Brolla that he wasn’t looking for it and didn’t notice it until it was too late. He won’t make the same mistake twice.”

  “How are we going to beat him then?”

  “Battles between transcended are won and lost in the space between fractions of a second. If one of your little illusions, or whatever they are, can take that sliver of reaction time from him and give it to me, then I have a chance.”

  “Wow, you almost sound humble.”

  “And you almost look like a girl, so we best get out of this room before I decide to take a minute and put it to proper use.”

  “A minute’s all it takes, huh?”

  “Shut up.”

  ***

  Victor stood in town square, his eyes shifting between the faces of those strolling down the streets. He hoped to spot Garran or the Prince, but he also sought out his men. They should have been here waiting for him already. He hoped they had better luck in their search than he had, but their absence made the prospect unlikely.

  “Where in the bloody hells are they?” Victor muttered under his breath.

  He was about to leave his post and go in search of his hunters when he spotted a familiar face standing in the doorway of small general store. The face was not that of one of his cohorts, but the man he was sent to kill. Victor pulled the hood of his coat over his head and melded into the noonday crowd.

  Garran furtively ran his eyes through Cimmaron’s ambling denizens. Victor followed him when he left the doorway and stalked down the street. Garran’s movements were wary, his posture on guard. Victor sank back farther into the crowd and wondered if Garran knew he and his men were in town or if it was just the knowledge that he was being hunted that made him so paranoid.

  Victor followed him to the eastern edge of town where, after stopping and looking for any sign that someone might be following him, he disappeared into a massive grain warehouse. If this was where he and Adam were holed up, it was no wonder he did not find them sooner.

  Victor cautiously advanced on the warehouse, approaching the massive sliding door from an angle almost parallel to the opening. Reaching the yawning doorway, Victor peered around the edge into the cavernous, gloomy interior. It was a sprawling complex. The only source of light came from numerous openings set high in the wall. Rays of light stabbed through the darkness to illuminate thousands of sacks of grain stacked into cubes the height of a tall man.

  From somewhere near the back of the warehouse, a horse nickered and stomped its hoof against the wooden floor. Victor edged inside, pressing his body against the sides of the filled and stacked grain sacks. Darting from stack to stack, he navigated his way deeper into maze.

  Victor peered around a stack of grain and saw Garran saddling a horse. His traveling bag rested on the floor near his feet as he tightened the cinch strap.

  “Where’s the Prince, Holt?” Victor asked as he stepped around the sacks of grain.

  Garran spun, his hands flashing to his reaping blades and drawing them. “I sent him ahead.”

  Victor looked around the warehouse. “No, I don’t think so. Why would you still be here?”

  “I saw your goon squad and decided to deal with them.”

  “You killed them?”

  “Yup, just like I’m going to do to you and every suicidal idiot Gordon and his puppet masters send after us.”

  Victor smiled and hefted his sword. “Pretty big talk for a guy who has never won a fair fight.”

  Garran stepped away from his horse, his eyes locked onto Victor. “I have no intention of fighting fair.”

  Victor turned with Garran’s movements. “Good, maybe you can make it interesting for once.”

  Garran, teetering dangerously close to the edge of sobriety, transcended and lunged forward. It took him perhaps the span of a single heartbeat to devour the twenty feet separating them, but it was more than enough time for Victor to react.

  Victor took a step back and slashed, his sword intercepting Garran’s swing with a clash of steel. Garran leapt back to avoid the riposte. He executed an empty fade, lunging forward immediately after his swift retreat. Garran’s left reaping blade snaked down, seeking Victor’s right ankle. Victor lifted his foot above the strike, denying his foe a potentially swift victory.

  Garran swung his right reaping blade at the crown of Victor’s head, but his opponent’s sword was already in place to intercept the fatal blow. Victor looped his sword to the outside, forcing Garran’s weapon out wide, before bringing it back across in a powerful slash. Garran dro
pped and rolled beneath the swing, coming back to his feet in an instant.

  Victor’s sword slashed open a bag of grain, casting the seed out in a spray across the floor. The agent glided forward, never lifting his feet, and advanced. Garran carefully retreated, pushing through the scattered grain just as Victor was doing.

  Victor feinted left then right, his sword thrusting forward quicker than a snake’s tongue. Garran leaned away and swiped at the jabs.

  “You tire yourself out slapping at attacks never meant to hit you. That’s the difference between a proper swordsman and a man-child playing at being a true fighter,” Victor taunted.

  “All these years, and you still want to lecture me. This is a duel, not a sparring match. I’m not your student any longer, and I haven’t been for years.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. This is your final lesson, and maybe your death will actually teach you something.”

  Garran circled around a stack of seed, putting it between him and Victor. “There’s one flaw in your syllabus.”

  Victor grinned. “What’s that?”

  “I can’t die.”

  “You fancy yourself immortal now?”

  Garran shook his head. “Heaven won’t have me, and hell is afraid to take me. You mortals are stuck with me forever.”

  “You are definitely the herpes of humanity.”

  Victor lunged forward, his sword flying in a dizzying array. Garran backpedaled, swinging his twin weapons with all his skill, barely able to dodge or intercept the myriad attacks that seemed to be everywhere at once.

  Garran leapt away, desperate to put some distance between him and Victor’s onslaught. He hacked a sack of grain, sending the seeds spraying into Victor’s face. Victor shielded his eyes with his free hand and barged ahead, Garran’s obvious panic fueling his confidence.

  Finally breaking free of Victor’s attack, Garran went on the offensive, his blades a whirling tornado of death. He brought both weapons held parallel across Victor’s midriff, sent one high and one low, then one flashing down while swiping back across with the other. Despite the confusing mash of attacks, Victor was able to block or avoid nearly all of them.

  Garran leapt and pushed off the top of a stack of bagged grain, twisted in midair, and slashed at Victor’s exposed neck. Victor raised his shoulder and accepted the stroke. Fire erupted as Garran’s reaping blade cut through leather, skin, and muscle. Blood soaked his shirt to his elbow, but Garran’s seemingly successful attack left him vulnerable to a skilled fighter who was not afraid to trade a relatively minor wound for victory.

  Victor’s sword flashed as Garran flew past his head. Garran yelped when he felt the sharp blade part the flesh over his abdomen. He struck the floor shoulder first and rolled to a sitting position. Garran dropped his left reaping blade and slapped a hand over his bleeding stomach. The wound was long and deep, but it was not instantly fatal. Victor meant to correct that.

  Garran scooted away as Victor stalked forward with his sword held for a killing stroke, his eyes glinting at the prospect. Garran’s feet slipped on the scattered seed covering the floor as he shoved himself away, scooting on his rump across the floor until his back fetched up against one of the stout timbers supporting the roof.

  “Save me the trouble of looking for Adam, and I’ll make your death swift,” Victor said as he advanced.

  Garran held up a bloody hand to forestall Victor’s blade. “Wait, I’ll tell you…when I get to hell!”

  Garran’s reaping blade slashed at a rope running down the beam just over his head. The rope parted, releasing the pallet of grain hoisted high overhead. Victor, sensing more than seeing the trap veiled by Adam’s god-touched magic, smirked as he stepped back out of the way.

  The stack of seed crashed to the floor, but instead of the sacks bursting apart when they struck, they plunged straight through. The floorboards, sawn through the night before by Garran, pivoted on the floor joist beneath them. The distant end of the boards whipped up and forward like the arm of a catapult, burying the steel spikes Garran had hammered through them into Victor’s back.

  Victor let out a strangled grunt as he staggered forward, partially propelled by the striking floorboards. He teetered near the edge where the heavy bags had fallen through, clumsily stepping onto the burst bags mostly filling the hole. Knowing that the fight was unwinnable, Victor reached into a pocket and hurled a pair of flash bombs at Garran’s feet.

  The ceramic orbs shattered. Garran raised a hand to shield his eyes and took several staggered steps back. The fiery bursts ignited the seed and dust, increasing the effect of the small explosions. In the few seconds it took Garran to regain his sight, Victor was gone.

  Garran leaned against the wood pillar and sank back down, coughing out the smoke filling the room and his lungs. Several small fires illuminated the area and spread quickly.

  Adam emerged from behind a stack of grain and rushed forward. “Garran, we need to get out of here! Where’s Victor?”

  Garran pulled a flask from his vest pocket and tipped it to his lips. “Ran off.”

  Adam grabbed for the flask. “What are you doing? The alcohol will just make your bleeding worse!”

  “Yeah, but I won’t care nearly as much.”

  “Stop it! Give me that!”

  Garran slapped at Adam’s reaching hands as he chugged the contents.

  “You are goddam idiot, you know that?” Adam snapped.

  “I think it’s pronounced awesome.”

  Adam slipped the pack from his shoulder, found a shirt to tear into bandages, and did his best to bind Garran’s horrible wound. “Can you walk?”

  “To the bar? Hell yes.”

  “No, you dumbass, to a physic!”

  “Good idea. Bars don’t usually carry laudanum, especially ones in this prudish damned country.”

  “Goddam idiot,” Adam muttered as he helped Garran to his feet.

  “Awesome,” Garran slurred.

  CHAPTER 23

  Garran and Adam pushed their mounts to reach Glidden before nightfall. Glidden was a middling-sized town sharing a border with Opatia. While smaller than Cimmaron, it was still bustling with activity as they rode in just as the sun kissed the horizon. Garran led them to an inn near the border side of town. Raucous noise drifted out of the doors and into the streets.

  Adam sidestepped to avoid two men staggering out of the door and into the street. “Is this the best place to stay in town? It seems a bit rowdy.”

  “Glidden is an oasis, almost an embassy for the people of Opatia and Arnao, but we are still in Arnao. Victor might be out of commission for a while, but he will be back, and The Guild still wants you. It’s best if we stick to places where we are less likely to be noticed.”

  The sounds and odors of too many men and too much free-flowing alcohol assaulted Adam’s senses as they entered.

  “Find us a table, and I’ll get a room for the night,” Garran instructed.

  Adam nodded, peered over the heads of the crowd, and made for one of the few unoccupied tables. Garran pushed his way up to the bar, and after several attempts, gained the barman’s attention. He beckoned the barkeep closer and spoke into the man’s ear. The bartender returned a moment later with two glasses of whiskey, reached beneath the counter, and slid two paper packets onto the bar.

  Garran paid the man a sizable sum and poured the contents of one of the packets into one of the glasses. He sized up the man standing next to him and gave him a nod.

  “You look like the kind of guy who likes to have fun. How would like to earn a little coin?”

  The man glared at Garran and his face darkened. “I ain’t a fancy boy no matter how much you want to pay.”

  Garran rolled his eyes. “No, it’s nothing like that. You see that kid sitting over there at the table—the one who looks like he’s one ovary shy of being a woman?”

  “What of him? I still ain’t banging a man no matter how fetching he looks.”

  “I want you to pick a f
ight with him in about ten minutes.”

  The man leaned back and eyed Garran. “Why?”

  Garran lifted his shirt and exposed the scabbed-over slash held together with sutures. “Him and I have been in some real scrapes, and we are certain to see a few more. He is a virgin in every way imaginable, and I need some help manning him up. The kid isn’t a coward, but he needs to learn how to ‘put them on the table’, and I have yet to be able to do that on my own.”

  The man nodded. “All right. Ten argats if I win, fifteen if I lose.”

  “Fair enough, just try not to do any real harm.”

  “He does look like a bit of a pansy. What if he won’t fight me?”

  “Just say something disparaging about his mother or sister. That ought to do it.”

  Garran weaved his way through the tables and patrons and sat in the chair opposite Adam. He set the drinks down and slid one across the table.

  “What is it?” Adam asked.

  “It’s good. Try it.”

  “I told you, I don’t drink alcohol. It is against my vows.”

  “Come on, we just defeated the third best agent in the world.”

  “I know the first is Gregor, but who is the second? Are we going to have to fight him too?”

  “Again with the jokes. For once in your life, pull the stick out of your ass and bend the rules just a little. It will be good for you.”

  Adam stared at the glass. “Why is this so important to you?”

  “Because it is. This is something worth celebrating, and you were a big part of it. I want you to share it with me.”

  Adam picked up the glass. “I didn’t do much.”

  “You did plenty. You were the difference between victory and me being dead. Drink up!”

  Garran downed his drink and stared expectantly at Adam. Adam sighed and took a sip. The drink tasted strongly of cinnamon and honey, but the alcohol in it still held a powerful kick.

  “Come on, it isn’t tea! Drink it like a man!”

  With a resigned sigh, Adam tilted the glass up and emptied it into his mouth. He shuddered then gasped as the brew warmed his innards.

  “Gah, it feels like my insides are burning!”