Honour Under Moonlight: A Tale of the God Fragments

by Tom Lloyd

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter 1: (Now)

  Chapter 2: (A few hours earlier)

  Chapter 3: (Now)

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Also by Tom Lloyd

  Copyright

  1

  (Now)

  Lynx opened the door and hope died at his feet.

  ‘Ah shit.’

  The gentle white glow of moonlight slipped past him into the room beyond. It was dark inside, but he could make enough out that he didn’t want to see more. A sickle-shaped pool of blood gleamed blackly just past the door. Across it was an arm, outstretched towards him, fingers slightly curled. It looked to be both an invitation inside and a plea for help.

  Lynx looked back down the steps to the cobbled courtyard, through an open archway to the street. The sky was clear and the moon sat behind the gauzy veil of the Skyriver. Tonight was the midwinter solstice, one of two nights in the year when the moon followed the Skyriver’s path all night and had its light amplified by that great ring of dust and rock. There were plenty of people passing, most costumed and walking in pairs towards wherever they planned on enjoying the night’s revelries. No one seemed to be paying him any attention so Lynx gingerly stepped across the threshold and closed the door behind him.

  Without the moonlight it was hard to see, but the strip of light sliding through a pair of window drapes was enough to guide him towards them. He flicked those open and skirted another corpse to reach a balcony door of paned glass, which he also uncovered. That done, there was more than enough light to see by. For half a minute he just stood amid a scene of bloody destruction, wondering what in the deepest black had happened.

  The surprise was distant and fleeting. While a corpse or two was hardly a welcome sight, Lynx had encountered enough death to move rapidly on to how much trouble he was in. His fingers twitched towards his hip before he remembered he was also in festival garb – it was the reason he was here in the first place – so no sword hung there.

  ‘Guess this Knight of Blood costume wasn’t such a stupid idea as it first sounded,’ he muttered, looking down at himself.

  Granted the red and white tunic was on the ridiculous side – and a white, wide-brimmed hat pinned with a long red feather skated close to daft if he was honest – but there were upsides. Traditionally the Knight had four diagonal slots for weapons on his chest – a pair of daggers on the left-hand side, a pair of pistols on the right. His hand went to his chest and thumbed open the clasp around the handle of one short-barrelled mage-pistol. Lynx flicked open the breech of the gun to be sure he’d loaded it before heading out, then closed it again and moved to inspect the room.

  He twitched open a cupboard door that was ajar to check it wasn’t actually another room, then stepped into the kitchen to confirm it was empty of assassins, living or otherwise. There was a narrow stairway that led up to a bedroom where the bed was neatly made and no one was hiding underneath, after which he returned to the scene of the crime.

  He’d not been here before, had hardly spoken to the room’s owner in over a week, but there were little touches in the room that spoke of her all the same. Her brass-bound, black-glass Duegar lantern sat on a shelf in the far corner, and a red and white costume that matched his own hung from a peg nearby.

  Lynx looked again. It had to be said that the bloodied dagger rammed into the breast of the costume wasn’t entirely part of the traditional get-up, but it still suited the room’s owner. And he would be forced to admit the two dead assassins on the floor weren’t beyond the bounds of things to expect around Toil either. Perhaps not on a daily basis, true, but death was more than just a passing acquaintance of hers. More of a close neighbour who often popped in for a glass of wine and a joke.

  The costume on the peg was that of the Princess of Blood – whether it was a joke with herself or not, Toil was a cheerfully violent woman in some sort of clandestine employ of the Archelect of Su Dregir. She might not be an enthusiast of Tashot, the game that was a favourite among Lynx’s mercenary company, but the Princess of Blood card was a widely-known and powerful image nonetheless.

  Her letter containing instructions to come dressed as the Knight of Blood had seemed as fitting as it was in poor taste, coming from a woman willing to enrage ancient monsters from the belly of the earth when it suited her. The Princess was the highest card in the suit of Blood, the Knight often called her consort.

  He holstered his pistol and took a closer look around. There was a polished dining table between the kitchen and balcony door with half a dozen sturdy chairs around it. Unlit oil lamps hung from every wall and a fainting couch, of all things, stood to one side of the fireplace. Faint embers were all that remained in the grate, just the ghost of warmth lingering as the chill of winter intruded. It was a surprisingly refined room – leaky corpses aside – with a patchwork of thick, patterned rugs covering the floor and pictures on the wall.

  The two largest of those were portraits hung together over the fireplace – the first of a middle-aged woman with a glittering smile Lynx recognised all too well. Alongside her was a great slab of a man painted warts and all, not to mention the scars, but wearing a roguish grin and a ruby at his throat.

  Lynx breathed in deeply. The faint scent of night jasmine rose from the couch and some sort of sweet pork stew called to his beer-filled stomach from the kitchen, though the dead bodies added a less welcome flavour to the air. Upon inspection those also turned out to be a man and a woman, although probably not related to Toil as he was sure the portrait subjects were.

  Curiously, both corpses were also in costume; black and white with thick black capes and hoods swept back. He would have assumed it was just to blend in on festival night, but it was strange for them to both choose the same look. As for what the costume was, Lynx didn’t recognise it so he crouched to inspect the badges on the chest of the nearest body. Simple diamond shapes; the first a black 2 on a white background, and the other a device he didn’t know. It seemed to be a black moon, the lower half of which was crumbling. Something about that rang a faint bell, but Lynx couldn’t place it.

  Both assassins – assuming they were such, but they carried long-knives and pistol-bows, which were more conducive to quiet murder than extremely loud mage-guns – had died of knife wounds. One, the woman, had a hilt protruding from just below her jaw line – driven with great force up into her head. The weapon didn’t have a guard and all he could see was a rough, rounded wooden grip that made it probably a kitchen knife. Certainly it hadn’t been worth retrieving by the killer. The other body bore long slash wounds that looked like they had come from a larger weapon, more akin to the short-swords Toil preferred.

  Lynx walked around the room, picking his feet over the wreckage of a chair and a shattered porcelain bowl. A wine bottle lay on its side, spilling white wine across the table to drip down one side, the remains of a glass-stem near the door.

  She’d hurled the first thing she’d had to hand, probably interrupted while fortifying her courage for a night in my company, Lynx decided in a moment of black humour.

  Opposite the front door was the doorway to the kitchen, one window open to admit the cold. A butcher’s block stood in the middle of the kitchen, a fat cleaver resting in the centre. Buried in the door-jamb by his head was a short, blackened steel quarrel.

  That window’s how one got in then, he decided, looking down at the bodies. The man was closer, but his money was on the woman.

  Hear her coming, stab her in the throat and use her as a shield when you
hear the front door give. Man at the door fires, misses. You throw the only thing left in your hand, the wineglass, and shove the dying woman into his way. That buys you time to grab your short-sword and get to work at close range.

  Did Toil run straight out of the door afterwards? Lynx wondered. Unlikely, she’s hardly one to panic.

  He looked at the unused costume again. And she had time enough to hammer that into the wall, or did she just miss a throw? Not a blade you’d use by choice and it’s in deep, dead-centre. A message for me? I was supposed to meet her here, after all.

  ‘Hands in the air!’ barked a voice, causing Lynx to jump.

  Slowly he did so and edged around until he could see the speaker. He gave a sigh of relief when he saw it was a watchman, a short and round man with a fat moustache and a mage-gun pointing at Lynx’s chest.

  His relief was short lived when he remembered the bodies on the floor and saw the calculating look in the watchman’s eye. Greying and fat he might be, he didn’t look a fool or remotely fazed by the sight.

  ‘Ah,’ Lynx began, keeping his hands up.

  He was suddenly acutely aware his costume included prominently-displayed weapons. Being a mercenary, he’d replaced the shiny stage knives and pistols provided by the costumier. In the bright moonlight, the watchman would be able to clearly see the scratched steel blades of the daggers and the all-too-real loaded mage-pistols.

  ‘Yeah, these. I can explain.’

  2

  (A few hours earlier)

  ‘Which one of you’s a lynx then?’

  By fits and starts the mercenaries looked at the newcomer. Most were nursing a hangover, several starting work to ensure the next was of suitably epic proportions. Lynx didn’t speak up, just glanced to one side to check his gun was within reach. A plate of roasted chicken and broth-boiled potatoes lay before him so he had no intention of talking, fighting or indeed moving until he’d given it the full attention every sweet and crunchy morsel deserved.

  ‘A lynx?’ someone said eventually. All eyes turned toward the company doctor, Himbel.

  The man’s bloodshot eyes and fixed wince showed what mood he was in, but Lynx had learned the man could never resist an argument even when in the grip of a stinking hangover. As soon as he’d crawled from his bed that morning, Himbel had become engaged in a fitful and spite-laden spat with his usual sparring partner, Deern, which would have come to blows had either of them been capable of swinging a fist.

  ‘Are you fucking simple or something?’ Himbel added eventually, gripping his table for support.

  ‘Sure you don’t mean “the Lynx”?’ suggested Sitain before the youth at the door could answer. Sitain was of a similar age to him and looked even more out of place; fresh-faced with an elegant style to her short dark hair. She wore a studded brigandine with a knife sheath stitched in to make it more plausible that she was part of a mercenary company, but lacked the hard stare or scars that most of the company possessed. One of the newest recruits, but her brigandine sported a brand-new badge bearing a noble card all the same – the Jester of Sun.

  ‘Yeah.’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘Yeah you’re sure, or yeah you did mean that?’

  ‘Um.’

  Sitain shook her head. ‘I give up.’

  The youth looked around the tavern common room. It wasn’t the finest example of Su Dregir hostelry, but it was clean, cheap and large enough to billet the whole company for the winter months. It was true that few regulars now drank here, but bored mercenaries more than made up for that income shortfall. Thus far they’d not broken much while their commander looked for another job.

  ‘She didn’t say the Lynx,’ the youth said, rallying. Clearly not a boy lacking in self-confidence – a room full of scowling mercenaries tended to put a crimp in the most expansive swagger. ‘Said I was looking for a lynx.’

  Lynx kept quiet and inspected the youth. A local boy; white skin and the ghost of dark hair on his shorn head. He was shorter than most, but with broad shoulders and thick arms, a wide nose and solid jaw. Probably a tough for one of the local gangs, despite the lack of tattoos or much of a beard.

  ‘Out of this room,’ Himbel snapped, ‘which of us looks like a bloody great cat?’

  ‘Eh?’

  In a self-conscious moment Lynx looked down at his fingers, aware they were covered in sticky chicken juices. He had been about to start the process of lovingly licking each one clean, but now thought better of it.

  ‘A cat,’ Himbel said in an exaggerated manner. ‘A lynx is a type of cat. Which of us looks like a cat here?’

  ‘None?’

  ‘None. So mebbe you heard wrong – or got dropped on the head as a baby, which would explain the shape o’ you – and it was actually “the Lynx” or just “Lynx” you were told to find?’

  The youth bit back his first reply. ‘Could be,’ he said in a careful voice.

  ‘Well, what do you want with the bugger?’

  ‘Got a letter for him.’

  ‘Hand it over then.’

  ‘You him?’

  Himbel shook his head and pointed to Sitain. ‘Nope, but she’s his maid.’

  The young woman scowled and cast around for something to throw before swiftly giving up. ‘Here,’ she said eventually, extending a hand. ‘I’ll give it to him.’

  ‘He here?’ the youth asked, a stubborn look appearing on his face.

  ‘Mebbe,’ replied a man seemingly snoozing under a battered hat off to Lynx’s right. Llaith. The officer’s jacket sported a Diviner of Tempest badge, one rank above Lynx. He eased his feet off the table and removed the hat, a mage-pistol seemingly appearing from nowhere in his other hand.

  ‘As a rule, we’re somewhat averse ta be pointed out to strangers, though. Lynx is in our company, sure. You got a letter for him, you set it down on the table and piss off.’

  ‘Who’s gonna pay me then?’

  As though waiting for their cue, four of the mercenaries in the room pulled guns. The youth went pale, mouth opening and closing like a startled fish.

  ‘Payment?’ Llaith said brightly. ‘Sure, how much was it again?’

  The youth croaked for a while before managing to whisper, ‘Ah, five coppers.’

  Llaith cupped a hand to his ear. ‘A single copper Song? That’s all? You must be a rare an’ public-spirited young man.’

  For some reason the youth continued to stare at the guns pointing at him. ‘Yeah, a copper, right.’

  Lynx smiled inwardly. He’d have probably been paid a copper to take the letter and promised more to deliver it safely, but he had some balls to ask for five in the face of hungover killers. Lynx reached into his coin purse and pulled a copper Song out, standing and flicking it across the room in one movement.

  ‘Here you go,’ he said as the youth flapped at the coin, juggled it from one hand to another then managed to fling it into Sitain’s lap.

  She raised an eyebrow as the youth reached instinctively towards her then realised what he was about to do. Sitain picked the coin up with all the delicacy of a woman removing a hair from her meal and handed it over. She pointedly ignored a muttered comment that came from somewhere in the back of the room.

  ‘Letter,’ Lynx reminded him.

  A grubby fold of paper was tugged from one pocket and proffered, whereupon the youth fled with one last lingering glance at Sitain. The woman snorted and hauled herself up to peer at the letter in Lynx’s hands.

  ‘So who’s sending you letters?’

  ‘I thought we’d already had that chat,’ he said. ‘I really don’t need you to be my maid but if you insist, start with my washing.’

  There was a momentary pause.

  ‘Aren’t you a funny kitty?’ Sitain said in a slightly forced voice, the constant mocking of mercenaries not yet coming naturally to her. ‘Does puss want some fish guts for his tea? Or mebbe in his bed?’

  ‘There’s only one thing he wants in his bed,’ Llaith laughed, ‘an’ smart money is on her be
ing who the letter’s from.’

  ‘Piss on the lot o’ you,’ Lynx replied, a little more hotly than he’d intended.

  ‘Miaow,’ Sitain said with a smirk and sat back down. ‘Well, Lynx, does your mistress call?’

  ‘It’s an invite,’ he said, reading the note with mounting trepidation. ‘Oh, shitting gods on a stick!’

  ‘What? What’s the invite for, her wedding?’

  He shook his head. ‘A ball – tonight. A godsdamned masque ball at the Palace of the Elect.’

  Sniggers broke out around him. Llaith cleared his throat. ‘Ah, the grand Skyriver Ball – an affair of refinement and social graces, attended by the cream of Su Dregir society. I hear it’s quite wonderful, was planning on attending myself.’

  Lynx paused. ‘You what?’

  ‘The ball,’ Llaith said with a smile. ‘You didn’t think I’d miss that, did you?’

  ‘You’ve been invited too?’

  He shrugged. ‘Not yet, but we’ve a good few hours yet. Plenty of time to find myself some lonely young widow in need of a rugged adventurer to look dashing on her arm.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘He means,’ supplied Himbel, ‘that Su Dregir’s a city replete with his favourite prey – courtesans with an eccentric sense of humour. Him and Safir were on the prowl for ’em last night too.’

  ‘Courtesans with the finest tastes, I think you’ll find.’

  ‘I don’t believe that, no matter what Safir claims.’

  ‘Aye well,’ Sitain broke in, ‘given Safir wears a dress most days I’m guessing he’ll be your escort after dark, right? Ain’t that the rule here?’

  Llaith smiled and looked thoughtful. ‘Fair point. The rules do somewhat suggest it needs to be an actual woman, but the spirit o’ the night would be in favour o’ Safir’s kilt. Best we powder up those cheeks of his though, mebbe a bonnet too?’

  ‘So long as you’re the one to suggest that to our Knight o’ Snow,’ Himbel said darkly. ‘I’m more interested in what Lynx is going to wear. Toil doesn’t strike me as the ballgown sort and one of you will have to be in a dress.’