Dream III: Wind of Souls (Dream Trilogy Book 3)

by RW Krpoun

  “Lemme take a look at that compartment,” Jeff said as he unstrung and cased his bow.

  Shad finished gathering the remains into a drawstring bag which he transferred into the urn provided by their employer. “You think it isn’t a coincidence, Fred?”

  “Dunno. But if it is we are really lucky.”

  “Extremely lucky,” Jeff announced from where he was examining the beam. “Whoever made this hiding place wasn’t just guessing about what was needed. The interior was lined with hardwood panels backed with a couple inches of cork; you could tap all day and never get a change in tone. The cover was actually cut from the beam itself, and the joints are dove-tailed so that no seam showed. This is master craftsmanship; I would be very hard-pressed to make this with the tools the school has in my classroom.”

  “And the lid popped open from low-velocity concussion?” Shad rubbed his jaw, leaving smudges of chalk. “Very lucky.”

  “Too lucky,” Fred grunted. “How does it open, Jeff?”

  “Counterweight catch. If it was hit just right it could pop open, and Derek does have an eye for loot.”

  “Goats, too,” Shad said absently. “Could it be rigged to ‘accidently’ open?”

  The Shop teacher scowled at the lid. “Maybe. If you knew which way the concussion would come from. But you said that thing wasn’t supposed to explode.”

  “It isn’t if you do it right, just a sort of ‘whoof’ like when you toss gas on a fire. I had the mix wrong, but not so wrong it didn’t work.”

  “Derek, did you get a look at the beam before the fight?” Fred asked.

  “Huh?” the Ronin looked up from where he was seated cross-legged on the floor counting coins. “Oh. No, not really.”

  The big man grunted and walked heavily around the beam, head cocked.

  “Rigged floorboard?” Shad asked.

  The Healer thumped the butt of his club against the base of the beam where it came through the floor. “They leave the lid off-track just a bit, they loosen the beam supports, and shift the flooring away from the beam a touch.”

  Jeff grinned. “I bet they did the same for the other beams, while tightening up the rafters. The shock and rattle of a fight on a floor stripped of all furnishings would cause the beams to flex slightly at the sudden shifts in weight and air pressure, plus bodies hitting the floor. It wouldn’t take much, a tenth of an inch of flex and this lid would slide.”

  “And we say, ‘aren’t we lucky fellows’,” Shad sighed and picked up a tightly rolled scroll. “We have until dawn, so start reading. Someone went to a lot of trouble to get our attention.”

  “Sick bastards,” Derek shook his head as he re-wound the scroll.

  “Are they, I wonder?” Shad handed back the scroll he had read. “We have scrolls detailing the obscene rites, lists of victims, inventory of cultist goods for the purpose of unspeakable rites, and murderous plans of a local cell of the Red Dragon, stored with a sum of money.”

  “A little over twenty-five ku,” Derek murmured.

  “A good sum of money. Which we just happen to find while getting paid very well to deal with an Undead threat. This rings like a tin bell: why store cash with the horrible rite stuff? Where are the cell roster, account books, blackmail information, intelligence sources, and the accumulated intelligence already gathered?’

  “Looks like they just wanted to give us a bonus and convince us that the Red Dragon are an unimaginable evil,” Jeff shrugged.

  “It’s an approach,” Fred muttered.

  “A what?” Jeff cocked an eyebrow.

  “The Iron Fan doesn’t meet with the help,” the healer said quietly. “But a Ronin who found valuable intelligence on the Red Dragon? He would warrant a reward and an audience.”

  “So she wants to meet us?” Derek frowned. “That would mean she knows we are outlanders-otherwise we’re just nobodies.”

  “We didn’t come through near the city, so how could she pick us out?” Jeff objected. “The Ultimate Master’s boys had trouble finding outlanders, and they were experienced and expecting us.”

  “Good points, but I think we ought to operate upon the assumption that the Iron Fan knows or believes that we are outlanders,” Shad said grimly. “First Cecil came through, then his goods, our goods, and finally us…detecting that sort of disturbance probably isn’t all that unusual. This is the nearest city of any size, and we would have to be Ronin or similar independent types. The pool of strangers fitting that guise wouldn’t be huge, and we came in with an Orc-built cart just to draw a little more attention.”

  “In the Prison we had plenty of bravos coming and going to hide amongst,” Derek agreed. “There probably aren’t a dozen Ronin who are complete strangers in town.”

  “The good news is that there weren’t twenty Samurai in armor waiting for us when we arrived here,” Fred muttered. “She wants us for something, and she wants us to think that we just caught a lucky break.”

  “Once again the opposition isn’t impressed with our intellect,” Jeff sighed.

  “I’m not impressed with our intellect,” Shad shook his head. “Our current situation being a prime point in support of my attitude. That aside, the Iron Fan wants us to have plenty of money, and a reason to meet her. That doesn’t mean she is our friend, but I can’t say I hate her yet.”

  “What about the Red Dragon?” Derek asked.

  “She clearly hates the Dragon,” Jeff shrugged. “And she wants us to think badly of them, too, although I don’t believe these scrolls are factual.”

  “We’ll worry about the Red Dragon when we learn more,” Shad announced. “Dave, buy a pretty dress so you can look respectable when you get the invitation. Don’t go overboard: respectable but still fashionably hungry should do.”

  “And some boots and pants for field duty,” the Ronin nodded.

  Derek turned over the scrolls to Abnam when that worthy showed up at dawn to exchange the rest of their pay for the urn containing the Undead remains. The Ronin blandly advised that the scrolls had been found when the fight had disturbed a hidden compartment; he did not mention the money, nor expressed much surprise about the scroll contents.

  Their business concluded, the Black Talons trudged back to their inn. “I wish they had developed the concept of pork chops here,” Shad sighed. “What a dump.”

  “They are backward,” Fred agreed. “Now what?’

  “We have a surplus of money, so we stay our course: prepare and research. I want to kill Cecil and stop the Wind with as few battles as possible; to do that we need intel upon which to base a plan.”

  “If Fred is right the Iron Fan will want a meet,” Derek pointed out.

  “If Fred is right then we’ll meet with her. Or rather, you will. What she wants with us I cannot imagine.”

  “As outlanders we could be hugely valuable,” Derek said thoughtfully. “We are literally nobody: zero background, zero local ties, and a clear agenda.”

  “How could she know our agenda?” Jeff objected.

  “You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to recognize that we are tied to Cecil but not Undead-friendly,” Derek pointed out. “I bet they keep a close eye upon the Death Lords, especially this close to the border.”

  “Oh, crap,” Fred said suddenly.

  “What?” Shad looked around.

  “She knew we were coming. Cecil, too.”

  “You cannot communicate between Spheres,” Shad rolled his eyes.

  “Not per se, but the Tek pyramids draw power from here, right? So what would happen when the Death Lords in the Realms took control of a pyramid and interrupted the power flow before wrecking them? Interrupted the flow in a pattern?”

  “Oh, crap,” Derek sighed.

  “What?” Jeff and Shad said together.

  “Morse code,” Derek shrugged. “Dots and dashes created by interrupting the flow. Not the actual Morse Code, but something along those lines. Every time they took a pyramid they could have updated home base. Short notes and onl
y one way, but still communication. The Death Lords came to the Realm from here already understanding what was being done to the Rift, they just couldn’t stop it from this side. That was another reason they needed Cecil or someone like him: to figure out how to find the unused points, and how to seal up the holes from the Isle side.”

  “The Death Lords have been operating in the Realm for generations,” Shad said grimly. “No doubt some of their knowledge here has been captured. Enough so that the Iron Fan or her advisors could understand what outlanders are, and what their appearance would mean.”

  “When one group shows up in her city laying low and asking a lot of basic questions, I bet the Iron Fan figured we were in pursuit of Cecil,” Derek nodded. “With a warder in our ranks our allegiances are pretty clear.”

  “So the Iron Fan is a player in this drama,” Shad rubbed his scar. “But she doesn’t want us to know that.”

  “If she wanted Cecil to succeed we would be dead or on the run by now,” Fred pointed out. “Although she might be unsure of what our exact role in this fiasco entails.”

  “I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough,” Shad sighed.

  Chapter Five

  The summons came the next day. Derek donned his new silk kimono and with Jeff in tow (that worthy likewise in court dress) went with the unspeaking Abnam.

  The walled palace of the City Magistrate was a lovely place even in winter, its delicate gardens and ponds showing the loving attention of a platoon of groundskeepers. Jeff was guided to a suitable waiting place while Derek was escorted through a discrete entrance into the main building.

  He placed his sheathed katana in a rack inside the door, discarded his sandals, and was escorted to a room with a polished cedar floor and exquisite silk dividers decorated with hunting scenes picked out in exacting needlepoint.

  He knelt on a plush cushion and placed his scabbarded wakizashi on the floor at his side. A serving girl bearing a hand-carved wooden tray entered the room and served him tea, making a ceremony of it.

  He had just taken his first sip when a burly Bushi opened a divider and stepped into the room, sweeping it and its occupants with a practiced glance; the Samurai was a tough looking man whose face suggested he had only smiled as an infant, and then only because he had gas. A moment later Lady Kada Akemi swept through the opening and the bodyguard withdrew, closing the divider behind him.

  Sweeping was easy for her to do, as the forest green sleeves of her kimono were long and broad; jade hairpins impaled her hair into what Derek guessed was the latest style, although given her position it was likely that the Iron Fan set style, at least inside these walls.

  He rose to his feet and nervously executed the suitable greeting and bow required given their broad differences in station. She acknowledged him with casual flip of her folded fan and seated herself on a cushion that lifted her several inches off the floor as the serving girl began the tea ceremony for her mistress.

  Resuming his seat, Derek sipped his tea and covertly assessed the city ruler. She reminded him a bit of the actress Lucy Liu in the strong cheekbones and the age-defying beauty, although he would guess that the Iron Fan was close to sixty, slender and surprisingly short, although her presence made that last fact much less apparent.

  He reminded himself that in this culture silence meant consideration, thought, and respectful review, and that a slow pace to a conversation was proof of serious intent. Formality and the saving of face was the key to interaction.

  Finally accepting her cup and taking a tiny sip, the Iron Fan regarded the kneeling Ronin with eyes like gun barrels.

  “I tell you, her eyes weren’t even Human,” Derek tossed off the shot of hot potato wine and poured himself another.

  “Go easy on the spud juice,” Jeff warned. “It’s a first cousin to vodka. Why didn’t we get rice wine?”

  “Too expensive,” Fred grunted. “You can kill brain cells on the cheap.”

  “Enough about her dress and the tea,” Shad snapped. “Cut to the chase. And quit with the explanations of the highly contextual, implied-meaning method of speaking they have here. I don’t care about culture, and neither will Cecil.”

  The Radio Shack manager tossed off the second shot. “This tastes the way paint thinner smells,” he observed. “OK, down to brass tacks.” He poured himself another shot, but only sipped it. “I did OK on the etiquette front, given her expectations of a Ronin. She thanked us for turning over the scrolls and the good it will do in solving open cases, that sort of thing, and then she got down to the meat: the Death Lords tagged her pet warder a couple weeks ago. And by ‘pet’ I mean her official appointee. That is a big loss of face for her, and if they clip his replacement it will be a disaster. Therefore she needs a reliable, discrete warder with no agenda to do the usual counter-Undead work while letting her new appointee take all the credit.”

  “You spent three hours with her, and all she wanted was to out-source ghost-busting?” Fred shook his head.

  “Don’t remind me,” Derek shook his head. “I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, but that was it.”

  “That isn’t that great of a deal,” Shad objected. “I need to prep, not hold down a full-time job.”

  “It is a great deal,” Derek objected. “The appointee takes care of all the paperwork and stuff; hunting death traps and other minor routine business is done by paying bounties, so all you have to do is investigations into oddities, which is how the last official guy got whacked. You might not even have to do anything at all, because basically you are on call. But what I got in return is access to the City’s archive of material on the Death Lords. That ought to speed up our search for a way to gank Cecil.”

  “That is a sweet deal,” Jeff conceded. “Why did she believe that a Ronin would be interested in that stuff?”

  “Money,” Shad answered for Derek. “All Samurai are educated, and everything the Death Lords make, hire, or do carries a bounty. For a sell-sword studying the Death Lords is nothing more than improving your target list. Not bad work, Derek.”

  “Thanks.”

  The warder drummed his fingers on the table top. “OK, Derek and Jeff hit the archives. Fred, you and I do prep work.” He scowled into the distance. “Derek, get me everything you can on the dead warder’s unplanned departure from this mortal coil. It won’t hurt to have an idea why the Death Lords wanted him dead.”

  “Don’t they want all warders dead?” Jeff asked.

  “Yeah, but pissing off the Iron Fan should have weighed into their consideration if this was a planned hit. If it turns out they have something afoot that is important enough to assassinate a senior official to keep quiet, we need to factor that into our planning. If they did it just to piss off the Iron Fan or because they had a grudge against the warder himself, then it isn’t a big deal in our field of interest.”

  “Poking around like that could mean you getting your throat cut,” Fred pointed out.

  “Our throats: you’re coming with me.”

  The day after Derek’s meeting Fred and Shad spent the morning crafting charms and coins, and after a hearty lunch set off to examine the scene where the Iron’s Fan’s warder had met his fate.

  “He had an apprentice and two Bushi guards,” Shad frowned at the dilapidated warehouse. “They died as well. He was supposed to be investigating possible necromantic activity.”

  “You think the Death Lords baited him in?” Fred grunted.

  “I wouldn’t say never; he was very sloppy in terms of operational security. However, if I were the head Death Lord for this burg I would prohibit anyone going for him because an enemy you can keep tabs upon is valuable.”

  “Makes sense. But if they could keep tabs on him, then that means he didn’t walk into something by surprise.”

  “True.” Shad fingered the pierced brass coins in their pouches. “Might as well get it over with.” He moved forward to inspect the side door carefully before popping the simple latch with a short pry bar. Flipping a coin to pr
oduce a ball of glowing light, he led the way into the warehouse, sword in hand.

  Inside the building stank of old blood and moldering cloth, the latter coming from a couple rat-infested bales of rags in a corner.

  “They were found over there,” Shad pointed and the ball of light drifted in that direction. “They went down fighting, but it was fairly quick.”

  “What got them?”

  “Hard to say-the report said they were chopped up pretty bad, but otherwise had few physical details and nothing resembling a crime scene sketch or autopsy. It is amazing how little work investigations are when you don’t have to worry about civil rights.”

  “You would think they would at least want to know what happened to one of their own.”

  “I know I would.”

  “Might be they already knew who did it.”

  “Might be.”

  Blood was rotting in the dirt floor and the cracks of the timber wall where the warder and his men had made their stand. Shad created two more balls of light and the two Talons began their examination.

  Running his fingers carefully over the wall, Shad combed the timbers inch by inch, occasionally probing with a short length of stiff wire. Finished, he took a chisel from his knapsack and dug at the spongy, dry-rotted wood. After some careful work he turned to Fred, finding the Healer carefully digging up the floor.

  Shad watched for several minutes as Fred dug with a trowel he had purchased on the way over, occasionally directing a ball of light to a better position.

  Finally the big man stood and tossed the trowel aside. “That really doubled the odor factor,” Shad observed, pouring water into Fred’s cupped hands so the Healer could wash. “What were you looking for?”

  “Gravity,” Fred mumbled, drying his hands on a kerchief. “When you die, your heart stops, circulation stops, and the blood sinks to the lowest part of your body.”