by Duncan Pile
A small, grey boat bobbed against the quayside, tied to a wooden post with a short length of rope. “Get in,” the bearded man said. Antoine climbed over the side of the boat, which rocked alarmingly as he made his way to the bow and sat down on a short, splintery bench. The bearded man untied the painter and climbed into the stern. He used an oar to shove off before taking hold of the other oar and starting to row.
They slid away from the dock and passed out from under the overhang. Antoine hunched his shoulders, knowing that he was visible from above, should anyone happen to glance down.
“Relax!” the bearded man hissed. “You’ll draw attention to yourself.”
Antoine straightened his shoulders and tried to act like he had nothing to hide.
“No-one’s looking for you yet,” the bearded man said. “They think you’re in a cell.”
Antoine nodded, hoping all the while that Guillaume was in a similar rowboat, being ferried away from the island. He sat in silence as the small boat sliced through the waves, taking him out into the deeper waters of the channel. The waters around Seaholme were dotted with anchored vessels, but his rescuer made sure to give them a wide berth until they neared a hulking black trireme called Dart; one of Seaholme’s largest ships, captained by Antoine’s aunt.
The bearded man shipped the oars. “Ho, the deck!” he called. A rope ladder spilled over the gunwale and unfurled with a soft burr. The last rung splashed noisily into the water, sending a burst of stinging spray into Antoine’s face.
“Go,” the bearded man said. Antoine grabbed the ladder and began to climb, the rope twisting wildly in his hands as he scaled the side of the ship. Strong hands reached down when he neared the top, grasping his wrists and pulling him over the rail. He slid onto the deck with a grunt and rushed to his feet, his gaze raking the sailors until it came to rest on his aunt. Francine was a powerful figure among the Ghannai, second in command after his father.
“Guillaume?” he said.
Francine shook her head, her eyes full of pity. “I could only spare so many men. You are my nephew.”
Antoine groaned, devastated. Dizziness assailed him and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He stumbled and began to fall, only to be caught by rough hands and lowered to the deck. Someone touched his face and lifted his head, but nothing could stop him from sinking into blackness…
Antoine had known he could never return to Seaholme, but it was years before he’d found a home in Namert. He’d travelled the length and breadth of the continent, living the life of an itinerant mercenary and honing his weapons skills until they were second to none. As his reputation grew he’d started to recruit, and over time built the Black Guard – the most deadly crew in the known lands. It was inevitable perhaps that one of his contracts led him to Namert, and it didn’t take him long to decide he had found a home. Namert was the perfect place for someone like him. It was a brutal, cruel city, but it was also a place where he didn’t have to hide that he was gay. In a city where some sought out dalliances with donkeys, no-one batted an eyelid if he went home with another man. Since settling in the city Antoine had taken many lovers; some for a day, some for a week, and one for several months, but he had never again found love. Nothing compared to the sweetness he’d known in Guillaume’s arms. For all its faults, Namert allowed Antoine to be himself, and within its towering grey walls he was as close to content as he was able to imagine.
If there was a single rat in his cider barrel, it was the slave trade. Antoine was a hard man. He had dealt death many times, at someone else’s behest or for a bag of silver, but he couldn’t stand seeing a woman in chains. It was Nabiya, come back to haunt him. No matter how hardened he became, memories of the weeping slave-girl cut him to the quick. He could kill a man without a thought, but he didn’t think he could lay so much as a finger on a woman. He had wondered from time to time if his feelings had been shaped by more than guilt. Having no desire for women, he had never seen them as objects of desire, unlike the rest of his crew who spoke of them with naked lust. He admired them, even felt protective of them, and when he looked at a woman in chains he saw a caged bird. On a deep, instinctive level he felt it was a profound wrong.
His solution was to stay away from the slave markets; something he would have done anyway to avoid the Ghannai who plied their trade there. He wasn’t afraid they would recognise him. When he’d left Seaholme, he’d been a slender, clean-shaven young man, but the Antoine of today was another creature altogether – his body was thick with muscle, he wore a dark beard, and his face was disfigured by scars that had altered his appearance. Still, any reminder of his past was unwelcome, and he did all he could to keep well away.
…
Antoine moved quickly along the dank, underground corridor. Empty torch brackets hung from the walls, but up ahead there was a light, shining dimly from around a bend. The shuttered lantern in his hand, open only at the front, cast a faint, flickering glow across the damp flagstones at his feet.
He had been summoned to the deepest, most remote section of the dungeons by Elijah’s new ally – the magician, Ferast. Antoine had agreed to meet, in part out of curiosity, but he couldn’t figure out what he was doing in the depths, among the empty cells. If it was privacy Ferast was after, Elijah’s tower would have sufficed, or even the back room of a brothel. No, there was something else going on.
He rounded the corner and saw that the light was spilling from an open cell. Within were a duo of figures, one standing in the doorway and the other kneeling, tied hand and foot with a hessian sack over his head.
“You’re here,” Ferast drawled, looking Antoine up and down. He stepped aside and let him into the cell.
“I am,” Antoine said, his eyes on the prisoner. Muffled cries issued from within the hood. The captive was writhing madly. “Who is this?”
“We’ll get to that in due time,” Ferast said. “First things first. I have a proposal for you.”
Antoine wasn’t used to being toyed with, but he knew better than to take exception. His well-honed instincts warned him he was talking to a madman. “What do you have in mind?”
“I want you to lead my army.”
…
Antoine listened as Ferast spoke of his plans to join forces with a renegade archmage and invade Helioport. It sounded like a mad fantasy, but one look at the magician’s fervent gaze told him that at the very least, Ferast believed what he was saying. There was also the fact that he had managed to persuade Elijah to join forces with him. The councillor was a clever man, and unlikely to be duped by a fanatic. He was also highly ambitious, unwilling to cede power, but he seemed to be following Ferast’s lead in this.
Antoine considered that Ferast might be forcing Elijah’s hand. If the magician was that powerful, his own position was precarious indeed. The next words out of his mouth would most likely determine whether he left the cell on his own two feet or was carried out by the corpse handlers. Antoine knew he could overpower the magician by brute force – Ferast didn’t have an ounce of muscle on his sparrow-like frame – but he was unlikely to get that chance.
“So how about it?” Ferast said. “Will you lead my army?”
Antoine didn’t hesitate. “I’ll do it.” Best to acquiesce now and backtrack later.
Ferast smiled, a tight curve of the lips that was all satisfaction and no mirth. “Let’s not be hasty, Antoine. Elijah has vouched for you, but I would like proof that you are up to the job. Call it a test of character.”
“A test?”
Ferast glanced in the direction of the hooded man, who lay whimpering on the floor of the cell. “Parker has earned my displeasure,” he said, pulling off the hood. Every inch of the man’s face had been lacerated; the painful, shallow cuts of a torturer, inflicting maximum pain.
Hardened though he was, the sight of the man’s face shocked Antoine. This was the act of a madman, consumed by sadistic lust. He schooled his face to stillness, trying to hide his revulsion.
“Your
test is to deal death to this man,” Ferast continued, his tongue clicking moistly over the words. “In doing so, you prove your allegiance.”
Antoine was thinking fast. Ferast didn’t want him to give Parker a quick, clean death; he wanted him tortured until his heart gave out. Ferast hadn’t said as much yet, but as soon as he did there would be no going back. Knowing he was only moments from disaster, Antoine strode over to the prisoner and hauled him to his feet. “What? Kill this man?” Ferast opened his mouth to speak but Antoine was faster, drawing his dagger in a single, fluid motion and ripping it across the man’s throat.
Blood fountained from the prisoner’s neck, spraying across the walls of the cell as life fled his body.
Ferast’s face, frozen in surprise, was spattered with crimson droplets.
“Not much of a test,” Antoine grunted, holding the magician’s gaze. His insides were churning, knowing he had gambled with his life, but he kept the fear from his face.
Ferast’s expression tightened. “That wasn’t what I wanted.”
“You told me to kill him.”
“I had something more lingering in mind.”
Antoine dipped his head. “My apologies. I was merely eager to obey.”
Ferast scrutinised him in ominous silence before giving a reluctant nod. “Obedience is good, but next time, wait for my instruction before acting.”
Antoine nodded. “It won’t happen again.”
Eleven
Drillmaster Trask sat alone in the snug, feeling irritated and curious in equal measure. Hephistole had sent him a cryptic message the previous evening, urging him to go to the Traveller’s Rest first thing in the morning and wait for someone to join him. He didn’t like surprises, but he trusted Hephistole implicitly and had left the guards in Erik’s hands. Any hint of disgruntlement fled him when the door opened.
“Jonn!” Trask said, rushing to his feet and grasping Jonn by the shoulders. He could hardly believe his eyes. “You’re alive!”
“It’s good to see you too, Trask,” Jonn said with a grin.
“Does this mean you were successful?”
“Adela is free,” Jonn said, his grin broadening.
“Incredible!” Trask said, engulfing Jonn in a rare hug. Trask let out a lungful of air in amazement and retook his seat. “How did you pull it off? It looked like a suicide mission to me.”
“Explanations will have to wait,” Jonn said, suddenly serious. “I’m sorry to come straight out with it, but I need your help.”
“What sort of help?” Trask asked.
“I want you to rally the guards and crush Belash. I want his organisation torn apart and destroyed.”
Trask stared at Jonn in surprise. “What is this Jonn? Revenge? Adela is free!”
“It’s more than that…” Jonn started, but Trask cut him off.
“The guards are spread too thin as it is. It would take everything we have to defeat Belash in his own back yard.”
Jonn tried to speak again but Trask didn’t let him. “Belash is only one scumbag among many. If he’s removed, it would spark off a war in the Thieves’ Quarter, and then someone just as bad or worse would rise up and take his place. Look, I know this is personal for you, but…”
“You don’t understand!” Jonn snapped.
Trask took a steadying breath. He’d never seen Jonn so upset. “What don’t I understand?”
“I’ll tell you. Just hear me out okay?”
“Go ahead,” Trask said, and Jonn began to tell him his story. Trask listened in growing astonishment as Jonn spoke of Belash’s operations. His reach extended far beyond Helioport, smuggling opiates in via ship and forcing immigrants into lives of desperate servitude on the docks. What bothered him the most, however, was Belash’s involvement in the slave trade. According to Jonn, Belash kept dozens of women enslaved for his own gratification, and if any of them displeased him he consigned them to cages, where they were treated like animals.
“What if it was your daughter, Trask?”
Trask shuddered, trying not to imagine his sweet, innocent Lillian in such a place. “I’d tear it down with my bare hands.”
“So you’ll help?” Jonn asked, hope and fear warring in his expression.
Trask growled. “I should know better, but yeah, if I can talk the council into it I’ll help.”
“You think they’ll object?”
Trask shook his head. “I don’t think so. Belash has been a fly in their ointment for years. Besides, they tend to rely on my judgement when it comes to enforcing the law. Truth be told, they’re a cowardly lot, more interested in the cushions beneath their backsides than making hard decisions. I should be able to talk them round.”
Jonn clasped his arm tightly. “Thank you.”
“Some things can’t be allowed to continue,” Trask said.
Jonn grunted, and they fell silent for a moment.
“You want to wait a while before doing this?” Trask asked. “Go see Gaspi first, let him know yer alright?”
Jonn shook his head. “Better to leave the reunions till this is done.”
Trask nodded in agreement. Gaspi wouldn’t be comforted by a single day with his guardian, not when Jonn was rushing straight back into danger. “Alright, so when do we do it?”
“Belash won’t be sitting on his hands and neither should we. We go tonight.”
Trask performed a quick mental calculation and worked out the logistics. “Tomorrow,” he said. “I can get to the council members today, but I need time to thin the day patrols to a skeleton crew – raw recruits only. If we get the go ahead, I’ll bring as many of the garrison as I can to the arena at midnight.
“Tomorrow at midnight it is,” Jonn said, rubbing his hands together. “This is how we do it…”
…
Jonn received a message the following morning, saying the council had given them the all clear, and that night he went to the barracks, where he met with Trask. The drillmaster pressed a finger to his lips and led him to the arena, where dozens of mail-clad guards had gathered, each of them bearing weapons. They wore dark, obscuring cloaks to hide the gleam of their armour, and their boots were swaddled in cloth to muffle the sound of their footsteps.
“You don’t do things by halves, do you?” Jonn said. “What is this, the full garrison?”
Trask shook his head. “Two thirds of it. I didn’t include anyone I’m unsure of, which rules out the new recruits, along with a few malcontents like Brill. I’d swear by every man here though.”
“This will be enough,” Jonn said, looking around at the men Trask had gathered. “They need dividing into three groups.”
“It’s your mission Jonn,” Trask said. “Take command.”
Jonn stepped forward and lifted his hands. The quiet murmuring of the assembled guardsmen fell away. “For the last few months I have been working in secret, deep inside Belash’s criminal organisation, the Rats.” He had their undivided attention now. “The crime-lord Belash is neck-deep in the slave trade. He keeps a harem of women, and when they fail to please him he treats them worse than beasts.”
An angry rumbling broke out among the guards.
“I see you share my feelings,” Jonn said. “We will not stand by idly and allow this to continue. Tonight, we are going into the Thieves’ Quarter to crush Belash once and for all.”
“Too right!” someone called, echoed by others among the guards.
“This is do or die,” Jonn continued. “When this night is through, Belash and his men will be no more, or we will have died in the attempt. If anyone wants out, now is the time to say so.”
He looked carefully around the group, but every man met his gaze.
“As I thought,” he said with an approving nod. “Split into three groups of equal size, making sure there’s an even distribution of archers.” The guards moved quickly, efficiently forming three smaller groups. Jonn indicated the gathering of men on his left. “Group one, your job is to guard each exit from the Rats’
headquarters – I’ll show you where they are before we invade the building. Anyone coming out of those doors is a dead man. No questions, no mercy. Kalden, you’re in command.”
“Yes Sir,” a tall man at the front of the group said.
Jonn moved onto the next knot of men. “Group two, you’re with Trask. You’ll be invading headquarters, entering through the Lotus Flower.” Trask walked over and took his place at the front of the group.
“Group three, you’re with me. We’re going in as well, using the sewers. Groups two and three have the same objective – kill everyone you come across, quickly and quietly. We’ll merge at the entrance to Belash’s suite and take it from there. Everyone clear? Then let’s go,” he said, turning on his heel and leaving the arena.
The guards followed, moving quietly on cloth-wrapped feet, the concussive tramp of their boots dampened to a smattering of soft thuds. They passed quickly along the main thoroughfares until they reached the Thieves’ Quarter. Jonn called a halt and waited until everyone had gathered. “Quietly now,” he whispered, and led them onward through the narrowing alleyways.
He brought them to another halt a short while later. This was where he and Trask would have to part ways, but not until he’d deployed Kalden and his men. “Groups two and three, stay here,” he whispered. “Group one, come with me.” Jonn led the first group around the periphery of the warehouse, leaving five men at each of the exits. They were bottlenecks, a defensive design that allowed only a single man through at once, but in this case it would work against them. With five men waiting outside, it would be easy enough to stop any man from escaping. Jonn snuck back to the waiting men.
“Everyone in place?” Trask asked.
Jonn nodded. “Run through your part once more.”
“I’ve got it, Jonn.”
“Humour me.” He’d covered this with Trask twice already, but he knew how disciplined Belash was and how ruthless his men were. There was no room for error.