Shadow of the Exile (The Infernal Guardian Book 1)

by Mitchell Hogan

  Ren shrugged to settle her sword on her back, and Tarrik followed her outside to the courtyard. The stench of hay and horseshit emanated from the stable’s open doors.

  “We’ll take a cab,” she said. “It’s swifter and can fit down the narrow streets.”

  Outside the building, she waved down the first empty single-horse cab they saw. The driver was a woman clad in oilskins and sporting a broad-brimmed hat in case the weather turned to rain. Judging by the clouds rolling in from the west, Tarrik considered it a likely occurrence.

  As they clattered along the cobbled streets on iron-bound wheels, the setting sun painted the sky red and violet. Tarrik watched Ren, but she didn’t react at all to the presence of the dusk-tide. He couldn’t sense it himself, but surely she needed to replenish her repository after their flight across the sea? Still, there was no sign she even noticed it was sunset. Interesting. Either she had drawn on the artifact he’d implanted under her skin to power her incantations, or she had such a vast dusk-tide repository that their flight hadn’t come close to draining it.

  Tarrik mulled over the second possibility. Ren was in constant danger and had her own agenda, so he didn’t believe she’d deliberately leave herself vulnerable. So why wasn’t she replenishing her power when she could? He was missing something, and it didn’t sit well with him. He’d only get one chance to escape. If he failed, she’d reinforce her sorcerous chains, and he’d face tighter restrictions.

  “Do we need to stop somewhere so you can partake of the dusk-tide?” he asked, keeping his voice low so their driver wouldn’t hear.

  Ren glanced at him briefly before returning to stare at the passing street. “I am sufficiently replenished. Do not ask me again.”

  Something was definitely strange here. His thoughts returned to their conversation about the dawn- and dusk-tides and Ren’s implication that they were two sides of the same coin. He remembered her assertion that the dark-tide the demons used wasn’t actually dark. Was she toying with him? If the dark-tide wasn’t dark energy, what was it?

  Their cab halted, and he found they’d entered a massive paved square dominated on one side by an immense five-story building. The edifice was squarish and ugly, with only narrow windows breaking its bleak exterior. The single wide entry was guarded by a squad of soldiers who wore thick leather leggings, long cream-colored tunics over hauberks, and wide-brimmed iron helms. They carried short spears and round shields, and short swords as sidearms.

  Ren handed the driver a few coppers and disembarked. The woman waited until Tarrik had also alighted before tugging the brim of her hat and driving off.

  The two were outside a tavern, and the sound of laughter and singing came from inside. Tarrik noted quite a few taverns and inns among the shops and eating establishments that lined the other three sides of the square. Apparently Dwemor Port had a vibrant nightlife. In other circumstances, if he’d been allowed a little leeway, he might have been drawn to such a place to find a woman.

  Ren led them farther along the row of buildings before stopping outside a nondescript tavern with oil lanterns burning on both sides of a red-lacquered door. A wooden sign painted with a spoked yellow sun hung from a wrought-iron bracket.

  “We’ll wait here for Veika,” she said.

  A burly man just inside the door gave Ren a short nod before eyeing Tarrik up and down and frowning at his spear. With a quick glance at Ren, he let Tarrik in despite his obvious discomfort.

  The interior was dingy and sparsely populated. Two walls were lined with private booths and upholstered benches. At a separate heavy table near a polished granite-topped counter sat three men nursing tankards and conversing in hushed tones. They had the scarred look of veteran fighters or bodyguards, and Tarrik noted each was positioned to keep an eye on one of the occupied booths. Their employers, presumably.

  A gray-bearded man wearing a brown apron hurried over. “Lady Zophia! Welcome back to the Sun. A pleasure to see you again.” He gestured toward an empty booth. “Please, take a seat. Your man can—”

  “He stays with me, Astrik.”

  “—can be seated with you. Of course.”

  The booth was cramped and uncomfortable for Tarrik. He tried a few positions before settling on sitting sideways with his legs sticking out into the general area. He leaned his spear on the partition separating their booth from the next. The proprietor’s smile slipped a little, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he focused on Ren, who’d hung her sword on an iron hook set into the partition.

  “We have some lovely candied horseradish served with stuffed red peppers, and an exquisite potato omelet with onions and green peppers,” he said as he placed cloth napkins on the table in front of them.

  “That will be sufficient, thank you,” said Ren. “I’ll have a glass of red wine. The good wine, mind you.”

  Astrik chuckled falsely. “We don’t serve anything else.”

  “And you, Tarrik?” Ren asked.

  “And me . . . what?”

  “What would you like to drink?”

  The proprietor waited eagerly, as if Tarrik were about to hand him a purse filled with gold.

  “Something strong,” Tarrik said. “Spirits. And some meat—whatever you have.”

  Astrik stroked his beard. “We have just received a few bottles of Widow’s Malt, but it’s quite expensive.”

  Tarrik nodded toward Ren. “She’s paying.”

  Black Widow’s Barrel rum, and now Widow’s Malt—was every distillery in this place run by widows?

  Astrik looked to Ren, who nodded. “Excellent,” he said. “Now, if you’ll excuse—”

  Tarrik held up a hand. “Make that three measures of Widow’s Malt.”

  Again, the proprietor looked to Ren, this time with raised eyebrows.

  “There are two of us,” she said.

  “And you’re having the wine.”

  She sniffed. “Bring him what he asks for.”

  With a studiously blank expression, Astrik hurried off. Tarrik surveyed the room again and the three men watching over their employers. This was obviously where the wealthy came to meet and work out ways of taking more coin from those less fortunate.

  “He had no fear of you. Why is that?” Tarrik said. He folded his arms and waited.

  “The Tainted Cabal keeps a low profile here in Niyas. And the Nine are virtually unknown, except to scholars of history and those with their hands on the reins of power. Niyas’s queen is a respectable sorcerer in her own right. She doesn’t want her subjects thinking she’s fallen under another sorcerer’s control.”

  No sorcerer was respectable in Tarrik’s opinion. “But she has, hasn’t she?” From what he’d learned of the Tainted Cabal, its members had their hooks in almost everyone.

  Ren toyed with her cloth napkin. “Less than the Cabalists would like. Her position here is almost unassailable, and she has her own sorcerers by her side.”

  She fell silent as the proprietor bustled over bearing a wooden tray. He deposited a crystal glass of red wine in front of Ren and three small crystal tumblers filled with a greenish-tinged amber liquid in front of Tarrik.

  “Your food will be out presently,” he said before hurrying away.

  In a mostly empty tavern, he certainly seemed busy, Tarrik thought. But perhaps that was part of his act as a diligent server.

  “So, we’re just waiting?” he said.

  “Yes. Relax, if you can. I have a feeling we have a long night ahead of us.”

  Which meant she was confident of finding and dealing with this Lischen the Nightwhisperer tonight. But what did Ren care if another of the Nine was abducting children? It was an awful lot of trouble to go through just to maintain a disguise of goodness for Veika and Jendra. Surely if Ren and Lischen were involved in a sorcerous confrontation, there would be consequences.

  Under Ren’s watchful gaze, he downed one of the small tumblers of Widow’s Malt and then another immediately after.

  “Why are you drinking so much
?” she said. “I’ve noticed your habit. Can you not control yourself?”

  Tarrik met her eyes. She thought he was giving in to unsavory urges. It was time to hand over another piece of information that would cause her to trust him a fraction more.

  “It’s not a matter of control. Or rather, not in the way you think. My metabolism is dissimilar to yours; alcohol affects me in a different way. Drinking helps to dampen my emotions. It won’t make me drunk or impair my effectiveness.”

  “I read you were partial to spirits, but there was no explanation of the reason.”

  Contian’s notes again. If the old man were still alive, Tarrik would have killed him for revealing so much. Or at least threatened to. Contian hadn’t been anything like his daughter.

  “It deadens us,” he said. “In a way, it makes us more human.”

  His remark brought a snort of derision from Ren, but she didn’t comment further.

  Because she was still staring at him, he drank the third tumbler more slowly. There was none of the sweetness he couldn’t abide in the rum. Instead it was nutty and spicy and winey, and thick enough to linger on his tongue and in his throat. This was one of the finest spirits he’d ever tasted, and he’d tried many varieties during his time with Contian.

  The tavern door opened, and Tarrik and the three guards at the table all turned their heads. A boy came inside, his head only reaching as high as the doorman’s stomach. He was dressed in brown woolen pants and a similar coat with wooden buttons. The Sun’s doorman waved him through. The boy peered around the room, spotted Ren, and scurried over to their booth. He placed a folded note on the table, and Ren slid a copper coin across to him. The boy snatched it and was out the door in a trice. The three bodyguards watched the exchange before going back to sipping their drinks.

  Ren read the note, and a frown appeared on her face. She sipped her wine and slipped the paper into a pocket.

  Tarrik was about to ask what the message said when Astrik appeared bearing his tray again, this time laden with dishes. One contained a thick yellow cake; another held shiny red vegetables stuffed with something brown; and a third was covered with what looked like stiff white worms coated with powdered sugar. The fourth and final plate he deposited in front of Tarrik: it held a thick steak sliced thinly, still raw in the center. Tarrik’s mouth watered. Finally. Red meat.

  “Seared venison,” Astrik said. “Would you like some sauce?”

  Tarrik shook his head. “I’d like another plate.”

  Astrik collected the three empty tumblers and hesitated. “Another drink?”

  “Bring the bottle,” said Tarrik.

  Astrik opened his mouth and turned to Ren.

  “The bottle will be fine,” she said.

  “I . . . of course, my lady. If there’s anything else . . . ?”

  “Nothing, thank you. It all looks delicious.”

  Astrik grinned broadly and scurried away.

  Tarrik looked at the disgusting vegetable dishes, winced, then picked up the silver filigreed fork and stabbed at a strip of the succulent meat. He closed his eyes as he chewed. Bliss.

  “The message was from Veika,” said Ren.

  Tarrik swallowed and placed another slice in his mouth. “And?”

  “You were right. It seems the abducted children were inked on a different finger. He’s trying to find out who tested them. He’s good at his job, so I expect he’ll have an answer soon.”

  “So we wait until he does?”

  She nodded. “After we’ve eaten, I’ll scry for where Lischen is holed up. It’ll be somewhere out of the way, and if she’s involved in this cruelty, then it’ll also be somewhere hidden. Safe from prying eyes and any chance this sorcery might be traced to her. The Queen’s Guard would not abide such an atrocity if they knew about it. The queen is very protective of her subjects.”

  Atrocity. What a joke, Tarrik thought. He wondered why she felt the need to keep up this pretense when only he was present.

  Neither spoke while they ate. Ren took delicate bites of her dishes but put away a decent portion; her appetite seemed to have improved since their arrival on the beach. Astrik brought another plate of bloody meat for Tarrik along with a bottle of the Widow’s Malt.

  When both of his plates were empty, he uncorked the bottle and took a swig. Its label showed a coat of arms featuring two red-furred lions holding up a silver shield.

  “They’re meant to be manticarrs,” said Ren. “Of course they look nothing like that. Only the color is close. The widow Rapace took over running her husband’s distillery when he was killed by a manticarr.”

  Tarrik shrugged, uninterested.

  One of the three guards left with a hooded and cloaked woman—Tarrik could smell her floral perfume across the room. Shortly after, Veika walked through the door and hurried over to their booth, slightly breathless. He stank of sweat and excitement.

  “Good news,” he said, leaning over the table. “The sorcerer who tested the missing youths is named Rikart. He’s middle-aged and lowly ranked among the Evokers. Rumor is he hasn’t lived up to his promise. Too fond of women and drink.” His eyes flicked to the bottle of spirits, then to Tarrik.

  Tarrik smirked. “There’s nothing wrong with either. And to say there’s something wrong with liking women in front of Lady Branwen!” He shook his head theatrically.

  “That’s not what I meant! You’re an idiot if you think you can get a rise out of me.”

  “Find this Rikart,” commanded Ren, ignoring their exchange. “Tonight. If we’re lucky, he’ll have some idea where the nascent sorcerers were taken. The Evokers wouldn’t view his actions too kindly; they’re the preeminent sorcerous school in the world and fiercely guard their reputation. This Rikart has taken quite a risk. He must have been paid well for it.”

  Veika nodded and made to leave.

  “Oh, and Veika,” said Ren. He turned back to her. “If this Rikart has any intelligence, he’ll have a well-planned escape route. He had to know he might be caught and would plan for any eventuality. Make sure he doesn’t get away.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  After Veika had exited, Ren shuffled along her bench to lean against the wall. “Stop trying to rile him, Tarrik. I won’t stand for it. And I’m sure you don’t want another dose of the Wracking Nerves. Now make sure I’m not disturbed while I’m scrying.”

  She put her head back and closed her eyes, to all appearances asleep. Within moments Tarrik sensed a swirling of dusk-tide power around her. He’d seen Contian perform many scryings and knew the basics, but it was beyond his own abilities to use the dawn- and dusk-tides in this way. All he knew was that Ren was sending her queries into the currents of the night and gathering the responses she received into a coherent answer. A chill brushed across his face as the dusk-tide forces solidified.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Astrik approaching with an empty tray. Tarrik stood and held a hand up. “No chatter. Remove the dishes, and make yourself scarce.”

  Astrik’s face flushed, and he frowned at Tarrik. His eyes flicked to Ren’s apparently sleeping form, and his voice came as a low hiss. “Listen here, servant! You’re in my establishment—”

  Tarrik held a finger to his lips. “Shhh.”

  Astrik went even redder. “Just you—”

  “Shhh,” Tarrik said again, and waved the man away.

  Jaw working as though chewing a particularly large piece of gristle, Astrik gently placed the tray on the table and, with exaggerated care, loaded it with dishes. He huffed away and disappeared through a doorway behind the counter.

  Ren said something too soft to hear, and Tarrik turned. She shook her head, opened her eyes, and blinked repeatedly as if to clear them. Then she sat up and took a deep swallow of her wine.

  “Lischen is beneath the Temple of Nanshey. An odd choice, considering she likes her comforts and the temple is all but deserted. Nanshey’s worshipers have almost died out; the remaining few are elderly and serve to keep the templ
e clean and squatters out. The older gods and goddesses haven’t fared well in recent centuries. There are more interesting goddesses to worship these days than one with dominion over water and fish.”

  What entities these humans worshiped couldn’t interest Tarrik less. “A suspicious location then. Do we confront the sorcerer now, or wait?”

  “Wait. Sit. You’re drawing attention.”

  Tarrik seated himself with ill-concealed grace. He wasn’t happy about being squeezed into the booth again, but at least the wait gave him time to consider their current situation and how he could use it to his advantage. If Lischen was behind these disappearances, then Ren intended to confront another of the Nine. How could he ensure Ren would fail and be slain? His action would have to be subtle, one that didn’t trigger her bindings or go against her commands.

  And there was a bigger problem. If Tarrik got in the way of a clash of sorcerers, he would be reduced to a smudge of grease.

  Chapter Nine

  Demon and sorcerer didn’t have long to wait before the same messenger boy entered the tavern and made straight for their booth. He placed another folded piece of paper in front of Ren, waited for his copper coin, and scurried away. Ren read the note and was silent.

  “What is it?” Tarrik asked.

  She wriggled out from behind the table and buckled on her sword. “Let’s go.”

  Tarrik rose too and grabbed his spear.

  Astrik came rushing over, rubbing his hands together. “Lady Zophia, I trust everything was to your satisfaction?”

  “Everything was excellent, Astrik, as usual.” She slipped him a gold coin, and he beamed at her. “Our departure is no reflection on you or your establishment. We’ve had some urgent news.”

  A cold drizzle slicked the cobblestones. Passersby had thinned considerably, and those who were still out hurried along with their heads down and shoulders hunched. Ren stood pressed to the wall under the Sun’s eaves, which provided a modicum of protection.