by CS Sealey
“Certainly, sir.”
“On your way out, head down to the kitchens and ask my housekeeper for some firewater or ale, if you prefer.”
“That is very generous of you, sir, but not while I’m working,” he said, bowing low.
Mayor Challan chuckled. “If I kept that rule, I’d never get a drink at all!” He reached out and shook the man’s hand heartily, glad that the day’s political exchange was finally over. It was starting to darken outside and he could not remember whether he had had his midday meal or not.
When the messenger had gone, he collapsed into the comfortable armchair before the fire, closed his eyes and listened to the movements of his servants through the house. He heard the light patter of the maid passing his door and then the heavier step of his housekeeper as she walked across the foyer on the floor below. The sounds of the city beyond his windows had quietened considerably but he knew it would liven up again when the regulars made their way to the taverns.
There was a shockingly loud crack behind him. He flung open his eyes and leaped out of his chair, his weariness gone in an instant. His sight was impeded by what appeared to be smoke and two shadowed men stood in the thickest part of it behind his chair. As it began to dissipate, the men approached him and he felt his fear grow steadily more acute.
“Who – who are you people?” he asked, his voice shaking. “I demand to know why you are in my private quarters without announcement!”
“So sorry to have caused you any distress, sir,” the taller man said, moving into a shaft of late-afternoon light.
Mayor Challan looked up at the trespasser, not recognizing him. His face was pale and slightly gaunt about the cheeks but there was a fierceness in his eyes that Challan did not wish to provoke. He was lean and dressed in dark, decorative robes, not at all like a common thug. The stranger’s companion was older; his hair and attire suggested that he was an aristocrat of some kind. His coat was intricately designed with yellow and red embroidery and his gray hair was neat.
The robed man approached Challan, staring down his thin nose, his face etched with malice. Challan opened his mouth to shout at the top of his lungs, hoping beyond hope that the sounds of the streets below would not drown out his cries. But no sooner had his lips parted, he felt his throat constrict and block, reducing his voice to the quietest of moans and then silence.
“Don’t try that again,” the tall man said, his fingers pointing at Challan’s neck.
The mayor clawed at the invisible bonds frantically as his lungs burned with pain. The stranger drew closer still.
“You have only a few seconds left. Will you keep that tongue of yours silent?”
Challan nodded. The cold eyes of his attacker fixed on him for a moment and then air burst into his lungs. Challan dropped to his knees, drawing in deep, gasping breaths. For a few moments, he only thought of breathing, of feeling his life running freely through his veins, but when he raised his eyes a little, he saw the heavy boots of the mage who had choked him, and fear quickly returned.
“Get up,” the stranger said, grasping a handful of Challan’s shirt. Challan felt himself dragged to his feet and roughly released. “I assume you realize now why we are here.”
“I-I’m afraid I’m still ignorant,” the mayor said, his voice emerging in little more than a whimper. He glanced involuntarily toward the door, hoping his servants had heard something and were now hastening to his aid.
“They won’t be coming,” the tall man said.
“H-have you killed them?”
“Would you care if we had?”
Challan swallowed. “Who are you?” he asked. “Are you members of some gang? I can give you money, if that’s what you want! Lots of it!”
“We do not want pfenns,” the stranger said dismissively. “We want you and you will come with us – now.”
“Where?”
“That, you do not need to know,” the tall man said, grabbing Challan’s upper arm and drawing him close. Then he turned to his companion. “Ah, you have not had the pleasure of visiting my home either. I hope this first time will be as enjoyable for you as it will be for me.”
The older man took hold of Challan’s other arm, then grasped his companion tightly on the shoulder.
“Ready?” the tall man asked. The other nodded.
The room disappeared in a sudden burst of dark smoke and a loud crack. Challan screamed as he felt his feet leave the rug. For a frightening few seconds, he was falling, engulfed in a whirlwind. His robes billowed wildly about him and he felt the grips on his arms tighten. The smoke veiled his sight and so it came as a shock when his feet crashed onto the hard surface of a stone floor a moment later. His arms were suddenly released and he stumbled forward. Looking up, he discovered he was in a crumbling, overgrown courtyard and the sun was not as low in the sky. His stomach lurched uncontrollably and he vomited. Sprawled on the floor, he realized that he must have had a midday meal after all.
CHAPTER 28
The once elven city of Caervyn was much the same as Zoran Sable remembered it. He could not believe that forty years had passed since he had first walked down its busy streets and embraced the culture of its people – the grand architecture of the kind found only in the most beautiful elven cities made him feel as though he had never left. Memories of his many prosperous years in this city came flooding back and he found his feet taking him along his favorite avenues.
Caervyn stood on the border between the ancient elven nations of Gorran and Esgarth. Once, elves had lived right from the Boundary Ranges to the southernmost reaches of Gorran. They had been very powerful, courageous and prosperous, but centuries of pressure from an ever-growing human world had diminished their numbers and spirit. Elven civilization had receded to two main sanctums: Eoryil, a mountain fortress tucked away in the Argyl Ranges; and the Great Southern Forest, a thick, tangled maze of ancient tree dwellings and cottages, stretching for leagues beyond any road men ever walked. Elves no longer showed their faces freely to humans, and those who claimed to have seen them were often laughed away. The humans were coming to forget the age of the elves, and some doubted there were any elves left at all. In another one hundred years, most would doubt they had ever existed.
Zoran had seen his fair share of elves – too many – but never spoke about them. He had come to Caervyn to try to forget the events of the last year – the contempt he felt for the now deceased duke of El Smials and the attempt made by Mayor Challan to hire him to kill King Samian. Subsequent reports had assured him that the king was still alive, but the anger with which Challan had responded to Zoran’s refusal convinced him that he had not heard the last of the scheming politician.
He sat himself down at the bar of one of his former regular taverns and ordered a large firewater. The barman’s brow furrowed and he looked suspiciously at Zoran’s face. His hood was up but his mask was gathered around his neck, revealing his smooth chin and thin mouth. His kohled eyes looked up wryly and he managed a small smile. “I gather you still sell the stuff,” he added.
“Aye, but only to those who can pay,” the bartender said, still not moving to fetch a tankard and bottle.
“How much are you charging?” Zoran asked. “Three, four, five pfenns?” He chuckled and reached into his cloak pocket. “I can pay you whatever you charge. I’m also after a room, if you’ve got one to spare.” He held up his pouch of coins and shook it slightly, letting the man hear the chink of coins. The barman’s eyes glimmered and Zoran withdrew the pouch quickly.
“Fifteen for starters?” He withdrew three silver coins and stacked them on the bar before sliding them forward. “And I’m hungry. What’s your cook serving?”
An hour later, Zoran was finishing off a large piece of steak pie and draining his second mug of firewater. He stretched his long legs out in front of him and dropped his cutlery onto his plate with a clatter. He had already seen to his bags and was quite content to spend the rest of the evening watching and listening to the locals.
Perhaps the reason for his ease was the fact that, this time, he had not arrived in Caervyn a fugitive. In the past, circumstances had occasionally forced him to move on to another city, the local authorities hot on his heels. He had left El Smials of his own accord, with no price on his head, as town criers had shouted from every street corner that one man from each family was required to sign up for the Imperial Army. Zoran had known then that work would quickly grow scarce and had departed.
“Yeah, by a whore apparently,” a man on one of the nearby tables said, chuckling. “Not a nice way to go!”
“Serves him right for never taking a second wife. You can argue all you like that having different women every night is a thrill, but when one sticks you with a knife, you’ll wish you’d had an old crone in your bed instead!”
Zoran half turned his head in the direction of the conversation a couple of tables away. Reports of crime always piqued his interest.
“I heard she got caught and all,” the first said. “Tried to fight her way free!”
“Well, Carter always liked the wild ones, so I’ve heard,” the second man said and laughed. “The rumors say he even sent across the sea for his women. Liked them dark.”
“Won’t be doing it now, that’s for certain!”
“Eh? When did this happen?” a third asked.
“Ain’t you been listening? It’s been news for weeks, but you know how long it takes for updates to get here from the trading offices.”
“So a whore killed General Carter, huh? That’s got to hurt.”
Zoran felt every one of his muscles beginning to tighten in anger.
Challan. The bastard. The scheming little bastard!
Having failed to find someone prepared to assassinate King Samian, he had hired a whore to bump off the Ayon General instead. The fool. He’d just given the Ayons the perfect excuse to begin their assault. Challan must have returned with haste to Te’Roek and immediately made preparations to ship his assassin north after Zoran had turned him down. There was nothing he could do – the Ayon general was long dead and the investigators would surely be doing their job.
I ought to turn the fool in. There should be a reward for any information. After all, my gold won’t last forever.
However, Zoran had no way of contacting the Ayon officials to give them the information they desired without traveling for weeks across Ronnesian territory. A letter would be intercepted and destroyed. And what would be the point, really? The two empires were already at war. Sooner or later, one would bow under the other’s power. It did not matter to him which one would stand above the other.
He walked to the door and strode out onto the street, pulling his mask up to his eyes. Forty years earlier, he had made a name for himself as the most gifted shadowman in the area. He wondered, as he slipped into the darkness of the familiar alleys and passageways, whether any still remembered him. Leaping up and grasping the windowsill of a dirty terrace house, he began to climb. Being above the streets, especially at night, gave him a heightened sense of the way society worked. Looking down on those who hid in the shadows, waiting for any unsuspecting wanderer of the night, he felt almost like a god. He could stop the criminals who lay in wait, but he chose not to. The assassin still remembered the old hideouts for the men he had once called colleagues and, as he spotted the high, slanting roof of the warehouse on the silhouetted skyline, he smiled. He crouched and prepared himself for the leap that would propel him through the air onto the neighboring rooftop.
His memory of the roofs proved almost perfect and he only slipped once, sending loose tiles clattering to the street below. His strong muscles kept his momentum going so that he was flying from rooftop to rooftop. His smile widened to a grin as he ran along the tiles of one building, using the slope to power his next jump. He grasped ledges with his hands and flipped his body over time and time again.
Finally, his feet landed on the weather-stained panels of the warehouse roof and he scrambled up to the hidden trapdoor. His fingers found the sides and slipped beneath them, lifting up a one-yard-square section of roof. Below was nothing but darkness and silence. If the warehouse was still used as a hideout, there should have been men in the room below playing cards and drinking.
He sniffed and caught the unmistakable scent of smoke from a freshly extinguished candle. There were men in the room below, waiting for him in the shadows, hoping to catch him off-guard. He dropped into the warehouse room and landed lightly as a cat. He could see nothing but his keen ears alerted him to the attackers as they surrounded him. Within seconds, he felt hands grasping at him and he lashed out with his fists, knocking two arms away with one swipe and catching a face with the next. Spinning around, he extended one powerful leg and knocked another man off his feet.
“Stop, all of you! Let our guest catch his breath!” a familiar voice bellowed from the shadows.
“I thought you’d have a little more control over your cubs than this, Master Hjorta,” Zoran said, rising to his feet and brushing himself down. “And light a candle so our old eyes can see one another.”
“S-Sable?” the voice asked, shocked. “Zoran Sable, is that you?”
There was a spark to his left as a piece of flint was struck and, within moments, a lantern was burning dimly. An aging man stepped into the sphere of dull light and examined Zoran with a look of disbelief. Zoran raised his hands to push back his hood and then lowered his face mask.
“Bless my soul, it is you! Damn it, Sable, you haven’t aged a day since I last saw you!”
“Yet I’ve felt each long and dreary hour, same as you,” Zoran said, and held out his hand for Hjorta to shake. Hjorta laughed and knocked the hand away. Grasping Zoran’s shoulders, the old man drew him into a brief but hearty embrace.
“Forty bloody years and not a word! You’d better have a damn fine explanation for leaving the way you did. We had to find seven men capable of your talents in a single night just to meet our requirements! I tell you, Sable, I sprouted my first grays that evening and have been going white ever since!”
Zoran chuckled. “I had a fair few reasons for leaving.”
“Your own lot?”
“Yes, Captain Lenn’s lackeys. I had attracted too much attention to myself. I had to move on after that encounter.”
Hjorta grunted in understanding, then motioned for the two of them to walk. “You left a great selection of weapons behind when you scarpered. I had them all cleaned and sharpened, awaiting your return, though I suppose, after all these years, they might be a little dusty.”
“I’m surprised you never sold them.”
“Many of my current associates were just boys when you left, but none of them have forgotten their champion. Not a month has passed without hearing someone speak of you. They would never let me sell any of your possessions, even if I wanted to, Sable. They’re yours whenever you ask for them.”
“Indeed? Fortunately, I’m getting sick of traveling from place to place, finding new snitches and discovering trustworthy suppliers. Just give me a city full of scheming rich bastards, Hjorta, and I’ll be set.”
“Funny you should say that,” the aging man said, patting him on the back. “See, I’ve got this whistleblower in the City Watch dungeons. None of my men want to risk their hides trying to get in to talk to the man, but you…”
“My bags are in a room at the Stallion Inn.”
“Bit of training for one of my little rustlers. He’ll fetch them for you.”
“Have you got firewater close at hand?” Zoran asked. “I can’t talk business without it.”
“Right this way, my old friend.”
CHAPTER 29
“He’s ugly,” Tarik said, folding his arms, “and fat. Couldn’t you have just dealt with him there, Father?”
Archis Varren looked down at the boy and could not help but smile. His son was beginning to resemble himself at the same age, growing up in Silvernesse country in Turgyl. Tarik’s mind was quick and suspicious, and though he would never wield
any gift from the Spirits, merely pass the gene to another generation, his knowledge of the world was already so substantial that he would be a formidable man at the end of the next ten years of his life.
The three Ayons were resting in the main room of the remaining wing of the castle of Ammentide. Against one of the shorter walls was an extensive set of shelves, stacked high with documents, books, small boxes, chests, artefacts and ornaments. In the center of the room was a large table with four chairs and a decorated rug beneath it to cover the cold stone floor. The half-a-dozen arched windows in the west wall offered a view through the tangled canopy of the wild Manthis forest to the distant sea. A handsome fireplace was set in the opposite wall, a pair of comfortable armchairs standing in front of the grate. A large banner with a stalking gray wolf emblazoned across the intricate crimson background – the emblem of the Ayon Empire – adorned the final wall. Varren’s own noble crest was set in each of the banner’s corners: the large wildcat, Whisper. The banner had been given to him during his lording ceremony and he had no greater treasure.
Varren and Lhunannon were seated in the two armchairs before the fire while Tarik was fidgeting near the shelves. He had been complaining about their guest for the whole five days and, during that time, Varren had not so much as looked at Mayor Challan. His servants saw to the man’s requirements and reminded him, at every opportunity, why he was there.
“This man holds information I desire, my boy,” Varren said, when Tarik approached the fire. “We must first break his resolve before we loosen his tongue.”
“But you don’t need his tongue to make him spill his secrets, Father,” the boy said defiantly. “I don’t like him. He’s a pampered Ronnesian dog.”
“That he is. Yes, perhaps it is about time to pay him a visit.”
“Can I come, Father?” Tarik asked eagerly.
For a moment, Varren considered it, but only briefly. For an eleven-year-old, he was extremely mature in many aspects but his mind was still very fragile. His son was learning fast but Varren could not be certain, yet, what he would be able to handle.