The innkeeper was an obsequious little man who hovered around Shawna, wringing his hands and dipping his liver-spotted head. His eyes darted constantly about, never meeting Dormael's direct gaze. The buzz of conversation was coming from a common room that had been built as an addition onto the inn, so they were saved from any gawking as they paid for their rooms and headed upstairs. Shawna demanded bathwater for every room, and the innkeeper assured her that it would be sent up as soon as possible. Talk of the long sea voyage had apparently changed her mind about getting a bath.
Dormael took full advantage of the opportunity.
The moon was high by the time everyone made their way to the common room for dinner. Shawna had wrapped her hair—which had begun to shift back to its red-golden hue—in a dark shawl, and wore both of her blades to the table. She drew every eye in the room, and Dormael could tell that it made the girl self-conscious. He couldn't blame her. The crowd was eyeing her the way a pack of wolves might eye a deer before digging in.
He and D'Jenn drew their share of dark glances. There was a fair number of Dannons in the room, and Dannons had an irrational hatred of Sevenlanders. Given that during the Second Great War, the Dannons had invaded the Sevenlands and raided the countryside, despoiling everything in their path, Dormael didn't feel particularly cheery toward them, either. Dannons were tall, fair-skinned and lightly colored, but they were tough people. The frozen lands that they called home hardened them, and forged them into brutal warriors. Dormael returned their stares with bared teeth.
“How long until this Hadrick Lucius springs his trap?” Shawna asked. “I'm growing tired of everyone staring at us.”
“Any time now,” D'Jenn smiled. “We've been sitting here in plain sight for long enough. At least three different messengers have come and gone.”
“They're probably just getting everyone into position,” Dormael said.
“How are we supposed to do this?” Shawna asked. “How am I supposed to do this?”
“You're not going to crumble on us now, are you?” D'Jenn said.
“I'm not bloody crumbling!” Shawna hissed. “This is the first time I've ever...well, done whatever this is!”
“You were fine with Fulgaar,” D'Jenn said, giving her a searching look.
“I only watched,” Shawna replied, turning her face aside in disgust. “Besides, it wasn't like I had to face Fulgaar—not in the way we have to face this Lucius person. How am I supposed to face someone like that? Talk to them? I don't even want him to look at me.”
“I have a trick that might help,” Dormael said.
“Seriously?” Shawna asked, doubt painted across her face.
“Seriously,” Dormael nodded. “I call it the silence effect.”
“Silence effect?” Shawna repeated.
“Aye,” Dormael said. “Trust me on this one, it works. If you have no idea what to say, or just want to put someone off, just don't say anything. Look at them, look right into their eyes, and just keep silent.”
“And what will that do—make me look simple?” Shawna asked.
“Actually, it does work,” D'Jenn said. “People will assume all sorts of things about you from what you hold back. In conversation, in reputation...it works in all sorts of ways.”
“Remember this, too—you're not back on your father's farm anymore,” Dormael said. “No one knows you here, Shawna.”
“I know that,” Shawna spat. “I'm not some spoiled brat.”
“That's not what I meant,” Dormael sighed. “I mean that you can be anyone you want out here. Hadrick Lucius doesn't know you from any other woman on the street. Act as if you're a force to be reckoned with, and watch him treat you as such.”
“Roll up your sleeves, flash your Marks around, and just stare at him,” D'Jenn nodded. “I'll bet you anything he treats you like a poisonous snake.”
Shawna appeared to mull that over as another round of drinks came, and a commotion started at the far end of the room. Dormael turned to get a look, and watched as a group of men pushed their way into the common room, shooting dark glances around at the patrons. A few terse commands were spat, and the people who had only just been eating suddenly found somewhere else to be.
Bethany stiffened like a frightened cat, but Dormael calmed her with a hand on her shoulder. He summoned his Kai and let his magic eek out into the room, opening his senses to the music that his power gleaned from the world. He sensed D'Jenn's song and felt the telltale sensation of tingling along his arms and legs that told him his cousin had embraced his own magic. Dormael could almost feel the leather on Shawna's weapons compressing as she tightened her grip on the hilts.
As the crowd bustled from the room, six men pushed their way through the throng, moving to take up defensive positions and surround the companions' table. They kept their distance, making no move to subdue anyone, and watched with wary expressions. Something struck Dormael about these men, and it took him a moment to realize what it was.
Three of them were not Cambrellians, nor were they tall, fearsome Dannons. Three of the men were pale of skin, with dark hair and light-colored eyes, wearing tunics in the fashion of Neleka—a country to the east of Cambrell that had been annexed by the Galanians years ago. They wore their hair cropped short in military fashion, and each of them held their hands to the short, wicked swords for which the Nelekan Legions were famous. Dormael's eyes flicked to Shawna, and he saw her peering at the swords, too. The remaining three men weren't Nelekans, but they appeared to be trying their best to imitate them.
Once the room was cleared and the guards in place, another man strode in through the door. Dormael wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but it wasn't the unassuming man that walked into the inn's common room, and regarded the companions with a grim expression. He had a hard face, one used to violence. It wasn’t, though, an unkind face.
He had a swordsman's build, and sported another of those straight, short blades of the Nelekan Legions. He walked over to the table, and pulled out a chair that had been left empty between Dormael and D'Jenn. A moment passed where everyone looked at each other, but no one broke the silence. Electric tension hovered in the air.
“I think we can dispense with all pretenses here,” he said. “My name is Hadrick. I'm a man with interests around here. One of those interests is you.”
“And here we are,” D'Jenn smiled, gesturing around at the room. He reached out and poured himself a drink from the pitcher on the table, then offered some to Hadrick. The Nelekan surprised Dormael by taking the proffered cup and joining the table in a silent toast. His eyes peered at them over the rim of his goblet as everyone drank.
“Two days ago I paid a substantial bounty for a group of people that sound remarkably like you,” Hadrick said once the cups hit the table. “A girl, golden-haired and carrying a pair of swords, and a Sevenlander with a long, braided beard.”
“That's certainly odd,” Dormael said. “Cousin, do you know anything about this?”
“Can't say that I do,” D'Jenn shrugged.
“There you have it, friend Hadrick,” Dormael said, turning his eyes back on the Nelekan. “Sorry we couldn't be of more help with your problem.”
“Is that so?” Hadrick asked, his mouth quirking up into a smile.
“It is. In fact, it’s probably best if you turned around and pissed off.” Dormael leaned forward, showing the man his teeth. “I’m sure you’ve got something to do…somewhere.” He waved at the room in general, then went back to his drink.
The Nelekan narrowed his eyes at Dormael. “No need to insult each other, Sevenlander. I'd hate for knives to get drawn, and blood to start flying around the room. You seem to be a bit deprived of steel, currently. That sort of thing wouldn't go well for you, would it? A little courtesy might be in order.”
“I think you're forgetting something,” Dormael said. “Something that your bounty mentioned—something that your pet Dannon found out the hard way. How was Fulgaar the last time we saw him, coz?”
“Frightened,” D'Jenn grunted, taking another pull from his cup. “But that's what happens when your legs are broken and you're tossed from a cliff.”
Hadrick shot D'Jenn a cold glare. “You killed Fulgaar?”
“I didn't kill him,” D'Jenn shrugged. “It's hard to swim with shattered legs, though, and it was a long way down. I wouldn't expect him for supper.”
“Fulgaar had seven other trackers with him,” Hadrick said.
“Had,” Dormael nodded. He let the word hang in the air, and took another long pull from his goblet as Hadrick stared at him. Dormael heard the men in the room shifting around as the moment stretched on, but he did not break his silence.
“So the missive on you was true,” Hadrick said. “You're a sorcerer.”
“I thought we weren't insulting each other,” Dormael said, keeping his eyes on Hadrick over the rim of his cup. Hadrick stared right back at him, a storm brewing behind his eyes. He clearly didn't appreciate the verbal fencing, but he didn't appear to be losing control. For all the anger deep in his eyes, his expression remained stony and resolute.
“We can sit here and toss shit at each other until the moon sets,” Hadrick said, the only sign of his irritation coming through in the biting way he enunciated each syllable, “or we can dispense with this wordplay and get on to the realities of the situation.”
“Realities?” D'Jenn asked.
“Aye. For one, your long-bearded friend over there might be a sorcerer, and that's a gods-damned fearsome thing. How fast do you think he can get his curses off, though, before one of my men puts a sword into his soft parts? That mace you're wearing is wicked enough, but the wrong kind of weapon for a brawl in close quarters like this. You've no room to swing it, and there will be a Legion sword in your back before you can pull it from your belt.”
Hadrick looked to Shawna. “Those pretty swords you're wearing mean one of two things—either you're overconfident, or overcompensating. The missive also mentioned that you took an arrow wound, and all the pretty swords on Eldath won't save you from crumpling the first time someone bowls you into the floor and puts a fist into your ribs. The bounty is just for your body and your belongings, just so you know.”
Dormael let out a short, mocking laugh, and smiled when Hadrick turned his eyes on him.
“That's a pretty picture you've painted.”
“I usually enjoy insufferable types,” Hadrick said, “but I'll make an exception for you. Gut wounds are painful, you know.”
“You're missing a few key pieces of information,” D'Jenn said.
“Do tell so we can get this underway,” Hadrick grated, the muscles in his jaw working.
“The first thing is that the Lady Baroness is worth at least four of your men, even with one arm,” D'Jenn said. Hadrick's eyes shot over to Shawna, who smiled and laid her arms on the table, baring the Marks of the Isle that were tattooed over her wrists. Hadrick's expression changed from irritation to cautious surprise as he regarded the grim look on Shawna's face. Dormael almost broke the spell by snickering at Shawna's use of the silence effect.
“To continue,” D'Jenn said, “my mace is the last thing you should be worried about.”
He smiled and snapped his fingers, and Dormael felt D'Jenn's song whip out into the room. The doors—both to the stairwell and to the kitchen—slammed shut with such violence that they vibrated in their rickety frames. Hadrick's men flinched away from the doors, but recovered their discipline in short order. Dormael noted that fact as he watched them—these were not the normal type of street tough that rose through the ranks in criminal organizations. Hadrick's men were military, Dormael was sure of it.
“This does complicate things,” Hadrick said, more tense than he had been moments before.
“Considerably,” Dormael smiled. “Maybe it's time you took the advice I offered you earlier. Fuck off, friend. Find another arm to twist—this one is too much trouble.”
Hadrick took a deep breath, then reached out and took a long pull from the goblet, polishing off the alcohol before pouring himself another. Dormael and D'Jenn shot each other confused glances, but didn't let Hadrick see them. Finally, the Nelekan opened his mouth.
“You know, I'm new to the bounty hunting business. The channels that your warrant came through aren't even mine. I took them from their previous owner. As such, I'm unsure about the way these things are normally done, so let me be straight with the three of you.”
“Go on,” D'Jenn shrugged, pouring himself another drink.
“Things have been...interesting...in Borders lately,” Hadrick said.
“We noticed,” Dormael muttered, but Hadrick didn't acknowledge his comment.
“There's been a shift in the balance of power here. I had a little dispute with the former lords of the city's...ah, trade organizations,” Hadrick smirked at the euphemism. “So I chased them out of town. They took what men remained to them, and fled into the hills.”
“So that's why the palisade went up,” Dormael said.
Hadrick nodded. “They've all joined their little ragtag bands together, and started raiding the surrounding hills. I might have run of the city, but the city is a gods-damned shit stew. I've got starving people, dying people, no food for the winter, and a bloody season on the horizon. What few farms that brought food into the city have been burned by the syndicate leaders. I want you to understand the sort of position I'm in. For what it's worth, the people in this shit-hole are depending on me.
“The message that came—your bounty—promised a sum that I couldn't scrape together in three years. With that sort of money I can buy foodstuffs, supplies, maybe mercenaries to deal with this problem. Without it, people will die of the cold out there in the muddier parts of town. So you see—there's no way in all Six Hells that I'm letting you walk out of here, sorcery or no.”
Silence stretched between them in the wake of Hadrick's words. Dormael felt a strange kinship for the man all of a sudden. Hadrick seemed more like a man who was in over his head than a cunning thief, and Dormael decided to soften his attitude toward him.
“You're former Legion,” D'Jenn said, breaking the silence.
“The Bloody Eighteenth,” Hadrick smiled. “Did fourteen years, made First Order Centurion. Came here after the troubles.”
“The troubles?” Dormael asked.
Hadrick made a disgusted gesture. “The war with Galania. My service died with Neleka, when those bastards took her.”
Dormael, D'Jenn, and Shawna all shared a surprised glance.
“With Galania, you say?” Shawna asked, startling Hadrick with the sound of her voice.
“It's the last war Neleka ever fought,” Hadrick grumbled. “Some of us left after the nobility surrendered to the Empire. They offered us clemency, of course, but we weren't going to stay and fight for those bastards, like some pack of broken mutts.”
“Odd, then,” Shawna said, “that you would find yourself in their employ after all this time.”
“What?” Hadrick asked, stiffening as if he'd been insulted.
“Don't you know who the warrant came from, friend Hadrick?” D'Jenn asked.
“In this line of work you don't ask those types of questions.”
“It might interest you to know this time,” Dormael shrugged. “If I was a man who had spent years trying to escape the Empire, I would want to know when they came sniffing around.”
“I wasn't escaping,” Hadrick said, a note of anger entering his voice. “I wasn't going to take a knee and swear to be a good little traitor, that's all.”
Dormael smiled. “Well, since you need that money for the bounty, would you like if I cleared a space in the floor so you can take that knee before we get started? You might as well make it official before you do the Empire's dirty work.”
He knew the comment would sting. For the entire conversation, he and D'Jenn had been pushing and pulling at Hadrick, testing his reactions and trying to steer things where they wanted. What had surprised Dormael
was Shawna. For all her protestations about being unused to this type of business, she had been the one to deliver the heaviest blow to Hadrick's confidence. The woman was much sharper than Dormael had previously given her credit for—he'd have to remember that.
Hadrick's jaw clenched as he ground his teeth together. He looked like he wanted to punch Dormael in the teeth, or perhaps rip his short sword from his side and come for him, magic be damned. The crack in his stony facade showed for just a moment before his stalwart military bearing was firmly back in place.
“I don't see much of a choice before me,” Hadrick growled. “I don't have to like this, but I do have to do it. I'll let you finish your drinks before we get started.”
“What if you did have a choice?” D'Jenn asked.
“What if the gods piss golden nectar on my head? What's your point?” Hadrick shot back.
“Your real problem is out there in the hills, raiding the farms that support this city,” D'Jenn said. “If you find us passage across the sea—to the Sevenlands—then we'll deal with your problem. We'll go out there and kill the leaders of the rival gangs ourselves, cut the head from the snake. We can't give you money, but we might be able to save a few of your farmers.”
Hadrick peered at D'Jenn for a long time before he spoke. “Why are the Galanians after you lot? What did you do?”
“Nothing,” Shawna said before D'Jenn could reply. “The Red Swords burned my home, killed my family. I killed a few of them in return, and they didn't like that much. The only thing we've done to the Empire is defend ourselves from it.”
“And you'll kill the syndicate leaders?” Hadrick asked, looking back to D'Jenn.
“We'll even do it tonight,” D'Jenn nodded. “Find us a ship and you'll be the only trade organization in town by morning.”
The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection Page 31