A deluge of violent, jagged images poured into Ryder’s mind through the Drahk’s painful grip. Pictures of barbarous cruelty tainted with fear and harsh treatment bombarded his system so fast that he nearly fell against the wall. His stomach clenched and his hand flew to cover his mouth to keep himself from heaving.
The Drahk laughed and pushed him roughly forward. “We’ve got a queasy one!” he called out loudly. The servants in the hall glanced up and moved aside to give them a wide berth as the guard hustled the goldsmith toward the door. A second guard ran to Ryder’s side and caught him under his other arm. “Let’s get him out of here before he pukes.”
Ryder floundered against a new onslaught of violent images, barely managing to stay on his feet as he was unceremoniously half-carried through the vestibule where a servant stood holding the heavy wooden door open. Laughing derisively, the Drahks shoved him through and let go. He stumbled past the sentry and managed to make it down the steps before he fell to his knees next to the wall and emptied what little was left in his stomach.
Trembling, Ryder rose and worked his way along the side of the building, leaning heavily on the rough stone with his left hand to keep himself steady and upright until he made it around the corner out of sight of the sneering guard. Propping himself against the wall and gasping for breath, he labored to clear his head and body of the turbulent, sickening energy, closing his eyes as a surge of sorrow bled into his battered emotions. The pitiful sounds of the murdered Algolian’s agony replayed themselves in his mind and wouldn’t let go—another soul lost to the never-ending nightmare on Mindaris.
Picking up his feet, Ryder hobbled his way down the avenue, past the Guild Hall, and back through the gate to his neighborhood as fast as he could manage. Nausea gripped him in swells and he felt an urgent need to wash as soon as he got home. He hurried past the lively business district and pushed on into the blocks of stately residential dwellings, desperate for the safety of his tiny apartment. As he flew down his street and entered the narrow passageway between two townhouses leading to the servant’s quarters at the back, he was brought up short by the disconcerting sight of a woman out on the stoop who had turned to lock up the apartment.
By the stars, a new housekeeper must have started today. The last one disappeared over a week ago, an all-too-common occurrence among Algolians.
Ryder cringed. He had always been uneasy about strangers entering his private space, but the servants were sent by the guild as a privilege of his rank which he dared not refuse, unwelcome intrusions made tolerable only by the fact that he rarely, if ever, saw them. He came to a stop several paces away as the woman dug for the key in her pocket.
“You can leave it open,” he rasped, clearly startling her with his presence. She jumped slightly and cocked her head to peer up at him. She was small, youngish, with plain clothing and an unremarkable face. Her left eye was not quite centered, but the right one seemed to bore straight into him for a split second before retreating behind a bland veneer.
“I had a delivery to make this afternoon, so I’m home early,” the goldsmith muttered as he stepped to the side of the path and motioned for her to pass, eager for her to leave so he could get inside to wash.
The woman nodded in acknowledgment and dropped her eyes, pulled the hood of her threadbare sweater up over her head, and walked swiftly past him toward the street.
Ryder dashed through the door and pushed it closed. The stench of the encounter with the reptiles seemed to cling to every inch of his clothing and skin, and he hastily kicked off his boots and peeled out of his clothes as he ran through the darkened flat to the bathroom. Flipping on the light and hot water tap, he closed his eyes and started to shift, allowing the time-worn facade he wore as a shield to fall away. Tousled white hair, slightly wrinkled skin, and stooped posture dissolved into the momentary fog of transformation, resolidifying once more into a tall, well-toned figure with muscular shoulders and smooth, translucent skin. Rheumy gray eyes became suddenly clear, sparkling with a sheen of iridescence.
Letting his head fall forward, Ryder shook out his long, silver-gray hair and splashed water over his face, running wet fingers through the silky strands again and again to clear away the cloying smell. With agitated abhorrence, he attacked his skin and hair with soap, scrubbing and rinsing, until he finally began to feel like himself once more. Panting from his frantic efforts, he leaned heavily on the sides of the sink and looked up at his dripping reflection in the mirror.
If the reptiles found out what he was, he’d be arrested on sight or killed outright—shapeshifting was forbidden unless it served a Drahkian master. It was a risk he lived with since the alternatives were just too hideous to bear. The youthful and strong were the Drahks’ prime targets, exploited as tools in their vicious games or else used for sex or fodder like the man he had just seen, brutalized and thrown away for the gratification of the gentry. But in his mind, even worse was the risk of being transformed into one of Tiro’s vile assassins, forced to kill and become cruel—like them. It was beyond unthinkable. He’d made his decision years ago to wear the mask of age to keep his true form hidden and there was no turning back.
Ryder closed his eyes and made himself take several long, steady breaths to calm himself down. He was back in his haven, the only place where he could safely relax without the worry or fear of being discovered. The strain of the day slowly seeped away and he refocused his attention on rebuilding his comfort zone for the remainder of the night.
Grabbing a towel, he rubbed his skin and hair dry as he walked into the bedroom and threw on a long robe. Returning to the dimly lit living room, he reached down, switched on the lamp next to his chair, and froze. In his upset and haste, he’d completely failed to notice that everything in the apartment was polished and tidy, and that the pungent aroma of roasted potatoes filled the entire space.
“I’ll be damned,” he murmured, stooping to pick up his jacket and strewn clothing from the kitchen floor before casting them onto the small table. The oven was off, but still hot to the touch, so he snatched up a couple of pads and cracked open the door. “How in the world did I make it past this?” he wondered aloud as he pulled out a brimming pot filled with herbed potatoes, onions, and carrots. All the other housekeepers who had been sent over the years had never done more than the bare minimum—laundry, sweeping, restocking the tiny kitchen on occasion, if he was lucky—but no one had ever made him a meal.
Suddenly ravenous, he spooned the vegetables onto a plate, grabbed a fork, and carried them over to his arm chair in the living room, settling in to enjoy his unexpected feast. After the first bite, he paused, sighing with pleasure, and finished the plate slowly until every last bit was gone. He could easily have eaten twice, three times as much, he reflected with surprise.
Reaching over to set the empty plate onto the side table, he stopped short when he found his father’s old book lying beside him. He could have sworn he’d left if over on his drawing table across the room after he’d finished his latest sketch of the story’s heroine.
Tossing the plate to the floor, Ryder lifted the thick volume and sank back into the soft chair, running his fingers reverently over the beautiful design tooled into the leather cover. Such things weren’t made on Mindaris any longer; the reptiles had no patience or money for anything that didn’t serve them directly. This aging text was the last tangible thing he had left of his father and was his only treasured possession. He’d probably read it several hundred times while he was growing up and could most likely recite the entire tale from memory, word for word.
Flipping the book open, he gingerly turned the first few pages and let his eyes glide over the remembered words. It was a fantasy story, full of color and lively characters, love, and an adventure that sucked him in with the very first words. Before he knew it, he was lost in its pages, chasing goblins, hunting for clues to find a hidden city, running alongside a beautiful companion, and swept into a country where he found new friends.
The last of Algol’s light faded away unnoticed. Somewhere far into the night after nodding off to sleep, the old book slipped from his fingers and fell with a thud to the floor, jarring him out of a restless dream. In his groggy confusion, he was sure he heard the claws of a goblin scratching at the door behind him and wondered distantly if his father would come to scare it away.
Ryder’s internal clock woke him from slumber. He rubbed his neck, irritated that he had fallen asleep in his chair again, and hauled himself up to get ready for work. Images of the disturbing visit to Tiro’s mansion crept back into his thoughts as he washed and dressed, making his stomach flip over with remembered stress.
Today would bring more stress with the city in an uproar over Bálok’s arrival. Since the off-world ruler had not visited Mindaris for at least a century, Ryder was sure the day would bring profound horror for many Algolians as the resident gentry went to great lengths to impress their overlord.
Shifting into his aging form, Ryder slipped into in his finest finest trousers and dress coat as ordered by the guild and double-checked, triple-checked every inch of his outward appearance. On his way out the door, he grabbed an apple from a basket that had been left on the counter and hurried to lock up.
The sidewalk was already humming as residents from the townhouses on the street made their way toward the business district. As usual, no one spoke, keeping their eyes lowered to avoid making any kind of contact. Ryder munched on the juicy apple, caught up in his apprehensive thoughts about the afternoon’s events, and had just rounded the corner onto the main avenue when he was suddenly struck by the uncanny feeling that he was being followed. At first he couldn’t decide whether it was just the lingering aftereffects from yesterday’s scare or was actually real, but as he continued on along the avenue, the sensation wouldn’t shake loose.
The feeling of eyes boring into his back from behind was palpable. Ryder sent his glance to his left and right, making furtive scans of the nearby pedestrians and doorways which revealed nothing amiss. When he reached the passageway to the inner courtyard behind the long row of storefronts housing his studio, he paused a few paces in and leaned back against the wall, covertly watching the stream of people walking by. Several minutes passed and the peculiar sensations dropped away.
With a shake of his head, the goldsmith chalked the odd experience up to frayed nerves and continued on the rest of the way to the studio’s rear entrance. He unlocked the heavy door and flipped on the lights before walking through the well-swept studio to his cluttered workbench. Hanging up his coat and rolling up the sleeves of his fine linen shirt, he picked up the wax medallion he had started the day before prior to Haz’s unexpected visit and climbed onto his high stool, immediately absorbed by the design of his newest piece.
Tevan was early to arrive. “Master Dundalk!” he called when he saw Ryder slouched on his stool over his work. The journeyman hurried across the studio and came to a halt a respectful distance from Ryder’s right elbow. “All went well with your delivery to Lord Tiro’s palace?” he asked solicitously.
“Well enough,” Ryder responded as he carefully examined the chunk of wax in his hand, reaching for a pointed detailing tool from a stand at the back of his bench. “I’ll be leaving again this afternoon to go up to the Guild Hall.”
“For Overlord Bálok’s tour of Tessin?”
“Um-hmm,” Ryder replied distractedly. “The masters of all guilds have been summoned to the square by mid-afternoon.”
“I see,” Tevan murmured, his voice tinged with concern. The kind-hearted man fretted every time his aging master was called away from the studio in spite of the fact that Ryder did little to foster such loyalty in any of his subordinates.
“I’ll be back before first sunset to close up,” he said placidly as he focused on carving an intricate pattern across the wax casting. With a muted sigh, Tevan moved off to his own station as the back door opened to admit the first pair of apprentices arriving for work.
By mid-afternoon, the medallion was nearly complete. Satisfied that he’d be able to do the casting in the morning, Ryder laid the heavy piece of carved wax carefully aside and straightened up the loose tools he had used during the day. Donning his coat, he nodded once to Tevan and headed out the front.
Masters from shops all along the wide pedestrian zone stepped out onto the cobblestones. Goldsmiths, lapidaries, weaponsmiths, knifemakers, watchmakers, glass masters, ceramists, and sculptors alike, all wearing the badge of Tiro’s house, moved in a silent river on their way to the gate.
Ryder diligently held his pace to that of an older man. He kept his head lowered as he walked, careful to avoid brushing against anyone else, and it crossed his mind that the sensations of being followed were blissfully absent.
As soon as he passed through the open iron doors into the reptilian quarter of Tessin, the noise and tension in the streets escalated dramatically. Drahkian nobility, escorted by retinues of liveried servants, poured out of the townhouses and into awaiting vehicles, lavishly dressed in velvets and silks, and adorned with layers of gem-encrusted gold jewelry. Ryder recognized several pieces that had come from his studio as he and the other Algolian craftsmen on the sidewalks darted and danced to stay out of the way of the agitated gentry.
The wide square in front of the Guild Hall buzzed like a hornets nest. The far side of the plaza was filling rapidly with the reptilian upper crust of lesser houses and a good number of servants who packed in behind them at the back and out into the neighboring streets. On the front steps of the Hall, two hooded truthsayers stood in silent watch over the area just below reserved for the elite of Tiro’s Algolian guild property, put on display for the visiting dignitary like a collection of valuable china, leaving his crowning jewel of the Assassins Guild to be showcased within the confines of the walled Assassins Hall.
Hulking Drahkian soldiers in the navy blue of Tiro’s house barked out orders to the stream of incoming Algolian artisans and merchants coming down from the trade quarter. Ryder was herded toward the section of goldsmiths near the center of the front steps where the heavyset figure of Donal Kirkner, Grand Master of the Goldsmiths Guild, could be seen perched at the top, overseeing his flock of master smiths with his usual air of officious self-importance. Ryder kept his head lowered as he took up a spot at the bottom of the steps, hoping to escape the calculating eye of the duplicitous sycophant.
As he turned around to face the square, the goldsmith next to him looked up and nodded. Gavin Clarendon owned one of the shops across from his and had been the unfortunate master who had lost the journeyman to the reptiles the week before.
“Gavin,” Ryder acknowledged with a reticent nod. “Any word about young Micah?”
The goldsmith’s chiseled features hardened with anger. “No,” he bit out in a low voice, his eyes darkening with pain and grief. “I’m sure we’ll never see him again.”
“We heard—”
“That story was totally fabricated,” Gavin cut in bitterly. “The last person to step out of line in my shop was Micah.”
Ryder’s wrinkled brows furrowed in puzzlement. “Then why?”
“I don’t know,” Gavin hissed, “unless it was a jab at me. I’ve been keeping my head down and my mouth shut, but I am sure that fat ass behind us had something to do with it. I’ve spoken up against him too many times in the past and now Micah’s paid the price.”
The scraping crunch of a heavy man’s shoes against stone sounded on the steps above them.
“Speak of the devil—” Gavin muttered under his breath.
“Master Dundalk,” the oily voice drawled as the grand master appeared disconcertingly close to Ryder’s right shoulder. A sour smell faintly reminiscent of Drahkian odor wafted to Ryder’s nostrils and he clenched his teeth in a supreme effort to keep his revulsion from showing.
Glancing up briefly into Donal’s dull eyes, he dutifully tipped his head. “Master Kirkner.”
“I heard you paid a visit to Lord Tiro’s mansion ye
sterday,” the portly man declared with a menacing edge to his voice. “Is there a problem I need to know about with one of our most talented jewelers?”
Ryder squelched a wave of trepidation and forced his features into a placid, ingratiating smile. “No, Grand Master. I made some minor adjustments to a tiara ordered by Lady Anja. She seemed to be quite excited about the piece when I delivered it into her hands,” he said pleasantly, carefully enunciating his words in an effort to divert the reputed lecher.
When Donal’s brows rose at the mention of Tiro’s youngest daughter, Ryder added with wistful innocence, “She really is a beautiful young thing.”
The grand master’s eyes glazed over for a moment before he chuckled deep in his throat. “I’m glad to hear the lady was well pleased,” he sniggered. “Too bad we won’t have the opportunity to see her wear it at the Governor’s Mansion tonight.”
Abruptly, the color dropped out of the Donal’s already pasty complexion as his beady eyes shifted to a point somewhere off in the square, his face contorting into a grimace. “Make sure you keep your customers happy, Dundalk,” he groused as he wheeled his bulk around and hurriedly made his way back up toward the top of the stairs.
Ryder pulled in a breath and let out a quiet sigh.
“Well played, Ryder,” Gavin murmured. “Just watch your back. That bastard has eyes and ears everywhere.”
An outpouring of nervous noise ran through the gathered masses all across the square and the source of Donal’s sudden panic came into view from the avenue on the north side. Ramád’s tall charcoal gray figure stalked through the press of bodies, his dark crest rigidly splayed as he shouted orders to the soldiers in navy.
“Down on your knees! Lower your heads!” the Drahk cried out repeatedly in Mothertongue over the sea of silvery Algolian heads.
Ryder gingerly lowered himself to one knee and leaned on the other, bowing his head while surreptitiously keeping his eyes on the spectacle taking place in the square.
Flare Shifter Page 2