The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

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The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection Page 80

by D. W. Hawkins


  “Your cat,” she breathed, “is going to die, Jev. Maybe a dog will get hold of its neck and shake it like a little doll. Snap it right in half, you know? You’ve seen what happens with dogs, I’m sure.”

  “You’re such a bitch, Lilliane,” Jev snapped.

  “Maybe a street urchin will cave its little skull in with a sling, and it will end up in a stew. They’ll leave its guts out in the streets, but maybe they’ll make a little hat out of its skin.”

  “You don’t have to be so mean to him,” said Torins, the third of Lacelle’s team. Torins, in contrast to both Jev and Lilliane, was built like a bull. He was four full hands taller than D’Jenn, and had shoulders wide enough for a plow. Torins, though, jumped at every shadow, and constantly talked about the gods.

  “Torins, I hope they find a cure for the fungus that ate your mind away,” Lilliane huffed. “There’s another thing—maybe your cat got snatched up by an apothecary. I heard that they experiment on cats sometimes. Just think of little mister tickles—”

  “That’s not her name,” Jev snapped.

  “—just think of him, little legs twitching, tongue lolling out its mouth around all that bloody foam—”

  “If you were a man, Lilliane, I’d smack your face right off!”

  “If you were a man, Jev, you’d shut your gods-damned mouth about your cat,” Lilliane huffed. “You’ve been muttering about your cat the whole damned way, and everyone’s damned tired of hearing about it.”

  “Don’t you think everyone’s also tired of listening to your fat arse slither down the hallway?”

  “Slither?!”

  Bethany let out a tittering laugh, uncaring in the way that children her age always were. D’Jenn was tired of listening to the three of them bicker back and forth, but he stifled his own chuckle at the comment. Shawna shushed Bethany’s laughter, and the walk continued in silence.

  Only for a few moments, of course.

  “Jev,” Lilliane huffed, eyes still trained straight ahead, “does your father write you every season to tell you how disappointed he is, or is it more often? If I had a son like you, I think I’d marry him off to a real man.”

  “You and I both know that when you finally pass a calf, Lilliane, it will go straight to the gods-damned milking stable,” Jev spat. “When is the farmer planning on putting you down, anyway? Aren’t you seasoned enough yet?”

  “That was mean, Jev,” Torins sighed, shaking his bull head. “Just mean.”

  “Says the eunuch,” Lilliane clipped.

  Torins grew red in the face, but said nothing in return.

  “All three of you need to keep your mouths shut,” Lacelle snapped, stopping and turning on them. The little trio almost ran the woman down, but Lilliane was able to skid to a halt, and Torins pulled Jev up short by the scruff of his neck. Lacelle gave them all a frosty eye. “Need I remind you of the possibility that we’re being watched? Do you think this is a friendly jaunt, just a little trip through the tunnels to the outskirts for an early morning picnic?”

  “Deacon, we—” Lilliane started.

  “Quiet!” Lacelle hissed. “I know you’re all frightened, but this is no way to deal with your fear. You’re endangering everyone!”

  “We’re sorry,” Torins said.

  “Take your cues from the Warlocks,” Lacelle said, gesturing at D’Jenn with an angry sweep of her fingers. “If they’re silent, then you keep silent!”

  With that, the deacon turned and stalked away, her back as stiff as a board.

  That’s a tough woman, D’Jenn thought. Victus underestimates her.

  At the thought of his former mentor, D’Jenn again felt warm anger twisting around in his chest. Every moment they tread through these darkened tunnels, D’Jenn could feel his revenge getting farther away. More than anything, he needed to know the man’s reasons. What was so important that it had warranted the death of Vera, the deaths of so many of his friends?

  Dormael strode up, scowling at the three Philosophers. Jev, Lilliane, and Torins scurried away in Lacelle’s wake, avoiding Dormael’s frown. D’Jenn had seen that look on Dormael’s face a hundred times, and it usually meant that he was thinking. Dormael’s ‘pensive’ looked a great deal more like ‘angry’. D’Jenn wondered if Lacelle’s researchers had been cowed by the look.

  Jev and Torins, maybe—not Lilliane, though. That woman is as nasty as a snake.

  Dormael was carrying his spear over one shoulder, and staring at everything around them like the very shadows were going to jump out and grab him. It hadn’t been a day since his last trip under the city had seen him tortured, though. Perhaps his memories were what stalked the shadows around him.

  Shawna hovered nearby, and the two of them each rested a hand on one of Bethany’s shoulders. D’Jenn wondered if either of them could see what was happening. His cousin could talk a country girl right out of her dress—and brag about it later—but he couldn’t see it when a woman was stalking him in turn.

  “Do you think we’re being watched?” Dormael asked. “I think we’re being watched.”

  “He hasn’t stopped talking about it since we came down the ramp,” Shawna sighed. Dormael gave Shawna an irritated look. Bethany looked at D’Jenn and rolled her eyes, the expression invisible to the two adults flanking her.

  “I haven’t felt anything,” D’Jenn shrugged, “but I wouldn’t take our guard down.”

  “I thought those three were never going to shut up,” Dormael said, scowling in the direction of Lacelle’s bubble of light. “I thought about saying something to them, but they’re Lacelle’s people. I didn’t want to step on the deacon’s toes.”

  “Why not?” D’Jenn said. “You heard the Mekai—we’re unsanctioned operatives now. Disavowed. Set free, like a pair of pigeons.”

  He smiled and made himself laugh, but something inside of his chest writhed at the comment. From the sour look that Dormael gave him in return, his cousin felt the same way.

  “I don’t like it,” Dormael said.

  “What an eloquent way to put it,” D’Jenn replied.

  “I don’t bloody like it.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  Dormael took a long breath, then let it out in a slow exhalation.

  “I don’t know. I still don’t like running away.”

  “Do you think the Mekai was right?” D’Jenn asked. “Do you think we’d be killed if we went after him?”

  “I don’t know,” Dormael shrugged. “All I know is that I’m not leaving Bethany’s side until I’m sure that she’s safe. If we go after him, and he comes in behind us and steals her away—”

  “Do you really think that would happen?” D’Jenn asked.

  “It’s possible,” Dormael said. “It happened once already, don’t forget.”

  “Maybe,” D’Jenn sighed.

  “Besides, you know that if we want to take him out—and we do—that we’ll have to make a plan,” Dormael said. “As much as I want to see him dead, it’s just not feasible. The Mekai was right.”

  D’Jenn let out a chestful of air, and nodded his head.

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “We’ll have our chance, coz,” Dormael said. “Once the rest of this is over, we’ll have our chance.”

  “I suppose,” D’Jenn said. Still, the anger didn’t go away. It sat in his chest like a warm stone.

  The tunnels under the Crux were wide and tall—large enough to ride a pair of horses through. D’Jenn tried to occupy his mind with wondering why the things had been made so large. What needed to be moved underground that required a tunnel big enough for a marching column of men? There were no decorations, glyphs, or candles. Everything smelled like centuries-old dust.

  The Mekai had given them all the directions through his secret passageway. When Dormael had called it a ‘secret passage,’ though, the Mekai had pointed out that it was only a secret route through the tunnels, and nothing quite so dramatic as a passageway. D’Jenn thought of it as a secre
t passage, anyway.

  All one had to do to follow it, however, is keep a certain location marker on one’s left side. At every intersection they had to search for the marker. If it was there, they took the branch that put the marker over their left shoulder. If there was no marker, they continued forward. D’Jenn began to grow impatient with the pace, as they had to stop at each branch and look for the mark—an engraved Eye of Eindor no larger than D’Jenn’s palm.

  This was the one thing, however, that Lacelle’s team was good at. The three scholars took to the task with gusto, talking in excited, hushed tones while they worked. Once they were focused on something, the bickering took a back seat to their task. They searched out markers in record time, and Jev was apparently keeping track of all the turns they made in his head. Things crept along slowly, but creep along they did.

  D’Jenn’s mind, however, kept returning to Victus.

  The man would not get weaker if left to his own devices. D’Jenn knew without any shred of doubt that this would be the best time to strike, before the deacon could put his plans into motion. The Mekai was a wise man, but he was no prophet, no muse. He was just a man.

  A man who was soundly outmaneuvered, D’Jenn reminded himself.

  He clenched his jaw together as everyone continued deeper into the tunnels. Dormael and Shawna strode ahead of him, speaking in low tones and keeping watchful eyes on Bethany. Allen walked behind them, weapons clinking all over him. D’Jenn wondered for the hundredth time why the man wouldn’t just pick one or two that he liked. The bubble of light—with Lacelle and the scholars—shone ahead of them, pushing back the darkness in the ancient corridor. No one was paying attention to him.

  D’Jenn couldn’t stand it any longer.

  He reached into his cloak, and ripped Vera’s letter from inside. The paper was thin, but still in good condition. D’Jenn closed his eyes for a bare moment, steeling himself for what might lay within. After the moment had passed, he ran his eyes over the letter. His hands shook as he read Vera’s last words to him.

  D’Jenn—

  I don’t know if this will ever reach you, though I hope it will. You might hear a lot of things about me—about all of us. How we’re traitors, or maybe that we had gone rogue, I don’t know. None of it is true. I don’t have long, and I don’t know if someone is going to find this and destroy it. To the Hells with them. Victus is not who you think. He killed some of us already, I’m sure of it, though I can’t prove it. I’m going to try, though. I hope it’s me that tells you this, and not this letter. If not, know that I always loved you. I always will. If I’m dead and you’re reading this, then get out of Ishamael, D’Jenn. Run, and never come back.

  There was no signature, but he recognized Vera’s flowing script. There was a smudge on one of the words that made it barely legible, as if from a drop of water, or a tear. D’Jenn folded the letter carefully, placing it back in his cloak. It was more difficult than he thought it would be, with his hands shaking so much.

  “Dormael!” he said. His cousin turned, a knowing look on his face.

  “Somehow I knew that you were going to do this,” Dormael said. “You know what the Mekai said.”

  “I know what he bloody well said,” D’Jenn growled. “I don’t agree. Since I’m now an outlaw, I think I’m going to start acting like one. He killed them, Dormael—all our friends. He killed Vera.”

  “I understand, coz, but what if the Mekai was right? What if you’re killed?”

  D’Jenn shrugged. “That’s the risk we take. You know that. Give me a pebble, and make sure everybody gets out of here alive.”

  Dormael gave him an opaque look, but finally nodded his head. He reached into his purse and drew out a pair of copper marks, opening his Kai to weave a bit of magic into the coins. D’Jenn and his cousin often performed this spell using pebbles, which would allow them to find one another. Once Dormael was done, he flipped one of the marks to D’Jenn.

  “That should do the trick,” Dormael said. “If you live, and the mark doesn’t work for some reason, just look north along the river. We’ll keep an eye out for you.”

  “Don’t die up there, Warlock,” Shawna said. “You’re not as bad as you pretend to be.” She surprised him by wrapping him in a quick hug. Dormael gave him a silent nod, which D’Jenn returned. Allen walked up and held out one of his hand-axes, proffering the hilt to D’Jenn.

  “Take it,” he said. “It will be better for the sort of killing you’re looking to do than that big, clunky thing.” Allen gestured down at D’Jenn’s mace, then held out his hand to receive it.

  “Thank you,” D’Jenn said. He switched weapons with Allen, and hefted the axe. It was light, and the head was bearded. He slipped it through the loop on his belt, and clasped arms with the gladiator.

  “Don’t die,” Allen said, giving his hand a firm shake.

  “It’s certainly not in the plan,” D’Jenn said.

  “How do you mean to avoid the Mekai’s sleeping spell?” Dormael asked.

  D’Jenn smiled.

  “With a little something we picked up along the way.”

  ***

  Abdiel’s feet were killing him, his heels flattened under all the weight he had carried during the day. Unloading crates at the river docks was back-breaking work, and nothing fit for a skilled man like Abdiel. Him, a talented smith, forced to move bloody crates for a pittance of bronze per week. Even the dockman—Rulan, the fat fucker—made three silver marks a week. Abdiel’s pay was robbery, plain and simple.

  Let’s move to Ishamael, Jalien had said, there is opportunity there, and we’ll live in the grandest city in the Sevenlands! The only opportunity Abdiel had found was six bronze marks per week for listening to Rulan’s voice screaming, his mouth chewing, and his chest heaving with overworked breaths if he actually had to get up from his seat at any point during the day. Three silver marks per week, and all the bastard did was yell at everyone else, and shove mounds of food down his gullet.

  Oh yes, he thought, the grandest city in all the Sevenlands.

  Every day he came closer to kicking that fat bastard into the river.

  It was all for Jalien, though. Abdiel loved her like nothing in the world—and she knew it, too. All it had taken was a batting of the eyes, a turn of smile, and a night of pleasure the likes of which he may never see again. The next week they had been off to Ishamael, leaving Gernholdt forever behind them.

  Though part of him resented the work he had found, Abdiel was a lucky bastard, and he knew it. The object of his desire actually returned his love. He could spend his days suffering under Rulan’s horseshit, that was fine.

  His nights would be spent curled around Jalien, and those were worth a million days with Rulan.

  Jalien had been the innkeep’s daughter, and the prettiest girl in the village, too. Abdiel had always prided himself on that. The prettiest girl in all the village, and she loved him. They’d been betrothed for an entire season, but hadn’t been able to keep their hands from each other. When Abdiel got Jalien pregnant, they were wed early amidst the scandal. Jalien hadn’t been able to take the talk, and didn’t want their daughter Selah to be an outcast when she grew old enough to play with the other children. The thought of the town ostracizing their daughter had been more than she could take, even though she had taken the whispers of her former friends for almost a year by the time she wanted to leave.

  The truth was, Abdiel hadn’t needed much convincing. He had been a smithy’s apprentice back in Gernholdt. He’d been sure that he would be able to find work as a journeyman here in Ishamael, especially if anyone got a look at his work. His hands could work steel like they’d been made to do it. In Gernholdt, Abdiel would have been condemned for the rest of his life to building wagon wheels and shoeing horses. He might have been able to mend one or two weapons in his life, but he’d never learn how to make them. He grimaced down at his hands, as if they were to blame for the rotten luck.

  Grandest city in all the fucking Sevenla
nds.

  The reality in Ishamael was that the Smithing Guild controlled every smithy in the capital—setting prices, making rules, and deciding whom to endorse. They’d told him that there just wasn’t a high demand for smiths in the city, and their positions for journeymen were all filled. They had told him with condescending smiles that since his endorsement couldn’t be verified by Guild documents, he was out of luck, at any rate. Unless he wanted to make a contribution to the Guild, and receive the test from a Guild member—then, of course, his skills could be verified.

  He didn’t really mind the fact that they doubted his ability—he’d expected as much. But he’d hoped that his work would speak for itself, and he’d be able to get a job on his merits, instead of the weight of his purse. Abdiel hadn’t had any money to give them—not after the move, or the first month’s rent at a decrepit apartment building just north of the Conclave of Wizards. The Smithing Guild had given him empty smiles, pats on the shoulder, and told him to come back when he’d saved the money.

  He’d heard them laughing as they slammed the door in his wake.

  None of the smiths in the city would hire him under the Guild’s nose, and there wasn’t much work for anything but tradesmen and whores in Ishamael, unless one was a skilled worker endorsed by their Guild. The best Abdiel had been able to find was six marks a week and Rulan’s displeasure. With that bloody fortune, he could just keep everybody fed if he went without food two days a week. It wasn’t the best thing in Eldath, but it was what they had.

  Jalien had dreams of setting up an apothecary, as her passion was for plants and such. Abdiel gave her what little money he could save so that she could buy seeds and pots, and maybe sell a few herbs and such at the East Market someday. He wanted her to be happy, and he’d save the money for the test eventually. If he worked hard enough, maybe he could even talk Rulan into giving him more coin per week.

 

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