The Blackguard (Book 2)

by Cheryl Matthynssens

  Aorun watched the girl disappear into the darkened confines of the shop. Her behind was just as good a view as the front had been; the draping dress showed her back with defined shoulders and unmarked skin. He was going to have to figure out how to get this one in his bed. Yes, he had to have her. He could think of no woman that could hold a candle to her beauty, and he’d held a lot of women.

  Sordith, in the meantime, moved back to the counter and held out his hand. “I will come to fetch you personally when such gems are available. You have my word.”

  Jespeth shook his hand warmly and, when his daughter returned, handed over a small pouch. “If your previous man had offered to explain this, I would have listened. He just came in demanding the Trench Lord’s share.”

  “About that…How did you get the man to leave?” Sordith smile with genuine interest.

  “I keep a wand for such occurrences. The man decided a bolt of lightning was not worth a few slips,” Jespeth admitted.

  “I will keep that in mind, Master Jespeth.” Sordith grinned wickedly. “It was good doing business with you.” Sordith tossed the pouch to Aorun as he passed him. Aorun caught it deftly and shoved it into his belt pouch, and they both strode from the store. Owen took the time to open the curtains back up before bowing and leaving to join the first two.

  “I don’t understand. Why did you not just grab him by the throat, put a dagger to it and demand the slips?” Aorun was considering things. He would have just taken his due.

  “I could have done that, and there would have been fewer slips for the trouble. The man’s work is good, and this way he doesn’t hide his true value, nor is he an enemy. Instead, you are left with a man’s goodwill and extra slips in your pocket.” Sordith pointed out. The two were walking side by side and Owen had dropped behind to watch Aorun’s back. The streets were busy and more than one trench lord had been assassinated in such close confines.

  Aorun walked silently, considering Sordith’s words. The man was right, though he hated to admit it. His way would have been swift and brutal, but would make an enemy.

  They had walked most of the way back to the first tier steps before he spoke again. “You and I both know he is not going to get first pick,” Aorun pointed out.

  “Yes, you and I know that. But as he will only see the cargo laid before him, he will never know what was there prior. Sometimes using what one does not know is as important as using what he does.” Sordith words were almost buried in the noise of day-to-day traffic. Silverport was busy by day in the merchant shops and day-to-day transaction. In the night, it was the more leisure pleasures that were frequented, the type of establishments that Aorun owned stakes in.

  “I concede. While I find my way to be far more satisfying, yours creates a market for better slips.” Aorun’s mind went to the dark-haired beauty. “Maybe we can convince him to bring his daughter to dinner,” he mused softly.

  Sordith rolled his eyes. “We would have more slips if you thought with the other head,” he pointed out.

  Owen piped up from the back. “But not near as much fun!”

  Aorun laughed. “Owen has the right of it. Slips are not everything.” He clapped Sordith on the back in good will. “A man has to have a little balance in his life. You might consider it.”

  “I will keep that in mind,” Sordith answered with a sigh.

  Aorun led them back down into the trenches. He had slipped as far down the first tier as he could to the far end. Slowly, he and his two men worked their way through the trenches. His presence served to remind those scraping a living in the trenches that there was a form of order. His men were spread out; it was their job to keep an eye on matters, keep the peace, and insure that certain considerations were kept.

  The largest area Aorun had to maintain control over was the warehouses. Goods from ships were brought into the warehouses and sorted by what tier they would be sent to, and each storage area was in a cave carved out below the plain, which helped keep foods protected and safe in the coolness of the caves. In the summer, they helped keep things from spoiling as fast, or from freezing in the winter.

  Each storehouse had a keeper who let Aorun know if anything new or exotic came in. It was in this way that Aorun insured that those that served him were rewarded. First pick of goods was one such favor he could offer. Another was the trade of illicit goods that were frowned upon by the council. He had a large quantity of meraweed, tambert root and bitterstalk, three highly-used herbs in smoke dens and baths. All three had a way of relaxing or altering things around the user. Too much tambert root had been known to kill.

  Aorun’s favorite storehouse was the one for unusual items. There, all things that were hard to get or had never been seen were sorted. Aorun could spend hours there. He liked to escort influential merchants through the storehouse personally when he could. Not only did it smooth the way for other trades and favors, but it also let him go through the chests and shelves with a fresh eye.

  When they’d finished working their way through storehouses and trenches, Aorun sent the two men off in different directions, Sordith to see to the accounting reports and Owen to insure that the gate guards were watching for potential product for Veaneth. Half-Daezun were welcome in the trenches more so now than ever. After all, Aorun had found a market for them.

  Aorun had that invitation up to the highest tier. He hadn’t gone to a high tier function in a long time. Most mages ignored his existence unless they needed something, and he found their self-absorbed conversations about their latest spell or greatest deed sickening. However, he was interested in seeing the High Minister’s nephew. It would be interesting to see what new blood had been found for this long family line. Traced back to the first Lerdenian stand, the Guldalian bloodline was all but erased. The two brothers were the last of their kin.

  Aorun strode to his rooms with determination. He found a clean pair of black leathers and a fine grey silk shirt, and brushed his long, gold hair back and secured it at the base of his neck. It was a simple outfit, but would stand in stark contrast to all the mage finery he could expect. He would draw the eye of this nephew better than any peacock in the room. Satisfied, Aorun made sure to slip a knife onto his belt and then one in each boot. He liked his boot knives best, they were solidly weighted and flew with deadly accuracy.

  He arrived only a couple minutes after the bell tolled at the High Minister’s grand table. As expected, the man was not present. The one thing he’d learned about Luthian Guldalian is that he liked an entrance. Aorun found a place off to the side where he would not have to interact much, which suited those at his table just fine as they gobbled on and on like a flock of fowl. He didn’t have to wait horribly long: the minister entered with his usual flair for notice. The room rose as one to acknowledge him, all eyes on the simply but elegantly robed mage as he worked his way through the room.

  Aorun, however, was eyeing the two gentlemen behind him. The first was Henrick, of whom he was already well aware. Henrick was a deadly mage to cross, but one that liked his pleasures. It had been easy to stay in the mage’s good graces, but at the same time, Aorun had made no headway in gaining the man’s trust or confidence.

  His eyes moved to the slightly shorter and younger mage beside Henrick. Aorun eyed the blue robes carefully, taking in every aspect of this youth. He stared at the boy’s face with dawning realization; this nephew of the High Minister was a blooming half-breed! Hatred for the Daezun-tainted man boiled up within him as the room was motioned to sit.

  He plopped down at his table and picked up his glass, his eyes on the brown-haired and awestruck bastard child. There he sat at the high table. He would be accorded privilege and power just for his name. Yet he, Aorun, was only a guest in this room as a necessary evil. He was full Lerdenian. He should have what he wanted and how he wanted it. It was not right that a half breed of their enemy sat at that table, and Aorun didn’t care whom his damned father claimed to be.

  Aorun’s ire only rose when he saw the young wo
man that was fawning in service over the bastard. It was the woman from the jeweler’s shop. If she was serving at Luthian’s table, that meant she was one of the chosen attendants and only a step above a brothel wench. Aorun watched the exchange of uncle and nephew as both eyed the young woman. The High Minister owed Aorun a couple favors; it was time to collect and put a little of that favor beneath him in his bed. He smiled with hunger, watching her move, before turning his attention back to the table.

  Aorun sat watching the other mages for some time when he saw the youth also assessing those about him. When their eyes met, Aorun did not smile or look away. He held that man’s gaze with all the hatred for the Daezun that seethed inside of him. This one, he would destroy. He did not care who his kin was, or what power he held. He was young, it was better to take the little cast-off out while he still had baby teeth. Aorun smiled at that thought. Yes. He knew how to pull teeth.

  Chapter Nine

  Alador felt as if the night would never end. Despite all the splendor and luxury about him and the fact his father had insured he was properly dressed, Alador felt like an oddity that traveling Mesmers brought into the village for people to pay to look at. He nodded politely to many women: ugly, old women with flat, white hair, simpering and giggling women with too much paint on their face, and cold marble visions of beauty. His uncle Luthian set up a receiving line so as to properly present Alador. He’d been told so many names that they started to blur together, and had long since forgotten the men that shook his hand. His father stood a little behind him, offering occasional comments and support.

  Alador looked up as the next man approached to greet him properly, and blinked in surprise as he met the gaze of the man who’d been coldly staring at him earlier in the evening. Unlike many of the other guests, the man was not in robes; instead he wore black leather pants and a fine grey shirt. Their eyes locked, and Alador swallowed slowly. He’d never seen someone who could move with such deadly grace, and he’d only encountered such unveiled hatred in Trelmar. This man looked far more intimidating than Alador’s old bully. When Luthian spoke, Alador paid attention, this was a name he would need to know.

  “Aorun, may I present my nephew, Alador. Alador, this is Silverport’s Trench Lord, Aorun Trevion.” Luthian glanced between the two with curiosity.

  Aorun took Alador’s arm in greeting, “It is a pleasure to meet the new man of the Guldalian line. I was unaware you would be a half-breed bastard.” Aorun’s eyes didn’t leave Alador’s, despite the minister’s close presence.

  Alador bit back the pain as the man’s fingers dug into his arm. “Indeed a pleasure, sir. I was unaware that a lord would be so lacking in manners,” Alador fired right back. He knew he shouldn’t have said the words the moment they came from his mouth, but this Trench Lord was hurting his arm, despite the fact that Alador was doing everything he could not to show it.

  In spite of himself, Henrick laughed outright. “I would be careful, Aorun. Alador shows every sign of having as much potential for power as either me or the High Minister.”

  Luthian was watching both of them with a strange, satisfied smile when Alador glanced at him. He wondered what his uncle was plotting; he could almost see the windmill turning in his eyes.

  Aorun’s mouth hardened at Alador’s quip, and he slowly released the boy’s arm. “I will have to keep that in mind in our interactions.” The man’s words had an oiliness that seemed to foul the air around them.

  Luthian chimed in at that point. “Oh, I would encourage you to do so. Not only does he show the potential for power, but he has Guldalian scruples as well.” Luthian’s voice held an edge of warning.

  Aorun bowed low. “Of course, High Minister. One could expect no less from kin of yours.”

  Alador watched for a moment as the man moved, then turned to see that there was a lull in those approaching for introduction. “Uncle, can we withdraw yet? I fear that, while this is all very exciting, it’s also tiring. I’ve heard so many names that my head’s spinning.” Alador murmured this softly, trying not to insult any that might approach as he was speaking. He could tell the dinner was winding down as some had taken their leave, but many others seemed to be waiting.

  “Of course, my boy, of course. Come along. Let us return to my study and have a few words before you find your bed.” Luthian led the way, pausing occasionally to say his goodnights. He seemed to know everyone’s name and tier.

  Alador mumbled goodnights as appropriate, but his mind was on his father’s warning. Henrick had mentioned that his uncle might see them parted this very night, and Alador wasn’t ready to be shuffled off to people he didn’t know. Despite Henrick’s faults, Alador knew his father, and there was comfort in knowing he was close by. When they finally returned to the study, Alador collapsed gratefully into a chair. “How do you do that?”

  “Do what, my dear boy?” Luthian slipped into a chair across from Alador. Fresh glasses, fruit, and wine had been laid out on the table between them.

  “Handle all these people and gatherings. You seem to know all their names and what they do,” Alador explained.

  Henrick softly chimed in as he sat down, “To not know your enemy is to know death, my son.”

  Luthian nodded, watching Alador. “It has paid me well to learn the names of everyone of influence on every tier. The higher the tier, the more I pay attention, not only for thwarting potential enemies, but also in making sure I have allies, if needed.”

  Alador couldn’t believe anyone would want to live this way. He longed for the safety of Smallbrook, for the comfort of Mesiande’s arms and Gregor’s teasing comments. And, surprisingly, Alador found he also missed the security and protection his brother Dorien had offered him. He’d never known until the last couple of days how safe Dorien had made him feel. Alador didn’t feel ready for any of this. “What of this Trench Lord? What is he?”

  Luthian raised his chin and considered that question carefully. “A necessary evil, but one I would not trust any further than the cast of his own shadow,” he admitted. “He keeps the criminal elements somewhat in check, and he is also good at handling my more subversive needs.”

  “You mean he kills for you,” Alador spat out tiredly. “Please do not couch these things in your fancy politics. I would speak bluntly.” He didn’t want to play this game. He wanted out. He wanted to go home. But he couldn’t go home, he’d ruined all that. Alador sank into his chair a bit more, defeated.

  Henrick rose to Alador’s defense at the heightened color in Luthian’s face. “I would remind you, brother, that we did not get a true night’s rest. Alador has been faced with many changes in rules, culture, and surroundings. Nothing for him is the same and it has only been one day.”

  Luthian’s eyes roved over Alador coldly. “Fine. The lad wishes bluntness, then yes, the man kills for me when a direct approach is not warranted or wise.”

  “He does not like me,” Alador pointed out. “In fact, there was hate in his eyes.” He sighed; the last thing he needed was for someone new to hate him. It was likely that this new enemy would be the one to sink a knife into him, rather than the other way around this time.

  “I am sure there was. If I recall the man correctly, his mother fought in the Daezun war and was taken out by an arrow through the heart. I am not sure he will ever quite forgive them, even though a man does what he must in war,” Luthian admitted. “I, for one, hold no ill will toward those that fought; I would expect my people to fight just as hard if we were invaded.”

  Both Henrick and Alador eyed Luthian suspiciously, but the High Minister managed to hold his face in passive blandness. Alador nodded but said no more.

  Henrick, however, broached the subject of his son’s fate. “I wanted to ask, Luthian, that Alador not report to the guard until the morning. As we both know, the guard is rigorous, and I would see him get a full night’s rest before we upend his surroundings even more.” Henrick’s request was murmured with an almost lazy indifference. He leaned forward and poured
himself a glass of wine, picking up handful of berries as he spoke.

  Luthian eyed Alador for a long moment. “The hour is indeed late and you are right. Alador looks quite exhausted. I guess there is no harm now in waiting until morning.” Luthian looked at him curiously. “Unless you wish to report now, Alador.”

  Alador looked at Luthian with alarm and hurriedly answered. “Oh no sir! I have had enough change in one day. I would honestly prefer to wait longer.”

  “Well, unfortunately, I can’t have an untrained mage wandering about on the wrong tier. You will have to report by tomorrow afternoon.” Luthian’s tone left no room for argument.

  Alador sighed but nodded. At least he would be in the same bed from which he’d sent his scroll. Perhaps in the morning there would be an answer from Mesiande. He would have to ask Henrick if the scroll case could find him if he slept elsewhere. The familiar wrench of pain cut through him as he thought about her and how she would respond to his letter, and the knife turned as he worried about whether or not she would even write back at all.

  “Well then, I had best get him home and tucked into that big bed of his.” Henrick looked relieved to have the matter settled. He downed his glass of wine and moved to stand.

  “I will have someone see him to a room here, Henrick.” Luthian’s quiet, even response held an edge of authority.

  “He is my son, Luthian. Let us have one more night together.” Henrick’s own tone took on an edge of anger. “I promised his mother I would watch over him.”

  “I am sure you did. However, he is also my nephew and you have had years to get to know him. I have had a single evening. Run along home, Henrick.” Luthian’s tone of voice clearly indicated a dismissal.