Wren and the Ravens

by Eric Buffington

  “And so we shall,” Wren said. He could see there was something more going on here than Mortimer simply being surprised at seeing him. Could Mortimer have tipped someone off about his arrival? No, that was unlikely. To accomplish that Mortimer would have needed to be an oracle to foresee his visit. That left a few other possibilities. Perhaps Mortimer didn’t actually have the item anymore. The man could have sold it to another if he truly hadn’t expected to see Wren again since their last meeting. Wren grinned ever so slightly when he saw a faint shadow play across the floor through the gap under the hanging curtain. Everything started to make sense then. Mortimer was being squeezed.

  Someone else had closed the tavern for the day. It wasn’t uncommon for any of the various criminal elements in Kraltys to use extortion against the honest folk, and it was even more common for them to target dishonest people like Mortimer. Trouble was, it was nearly just as common for the nobles to use similar tactics. If Wren killed a criminal enforcer, he might make a better friend out of Mortimer, but if he killed a noble’s nephew… well then Mortimer would be swinging from the gallows before the festivities outside stopped.

  “Mortimer, why don’t you break out a bottle of that famous brandy you keep in the back?”

  Mortimer froze. The blood drained from his face momentarily as he glanced to the curtain. “Uh…sorry. I don’t have any in stock.”

  Wren nodded. “Well then, I suppose there is nothing else for us to do but get down to business.”

  Mortimer exhaled and almost smiled as he nodded and turned to open a cupboard and retrieve a small box. “I kept it safe,” he said.

  The shadow in the back room moved again. Wren flicked his wrist to the side and pulled the trigger. The mini-crossbow fired, the bolt tore through the curtain, pulling the feeble cloth into the back room. A moment later there was a solid thabump as the bolt slammed into something hard.

  Wren had missed, but then he hadn’t been aiming to strike the lurker down. He wanted to see who it was, and the curtain had moved just enough to show him a glimpse of a large man dressed in leather armor. By the time the curtain fanned out and filled the doorway once more, the unmistakable sound of a sword being drawn was heard from the back room. A moment later the curtain was ripped from its place and the large man came charging out.

  “No, please!” Mortimer cried out.

  The man came directly at Wren, leaping up onto the bar and swinging his sword downward. Wren slipped to the side, allowing the blade to pass by harmlessly. A fraction of a second later he yanked the thug’s legs out from under him and watched with a morbid fascination as he crashed down, striking his head on the back edge of the bar and then tumbling back down toward Mortimer.

  Mortimer squeaked and jumped to the side, his back pressed against the cupboard while he held the small box in his hands.

  Wren calmly loaded another bolt as the thug roared and snarled something about being with the house of Casimer. He jumped up to his feet, shouting obscenities and vowing a slow and painful death for Wren. Wren nodded, as if agreeing with the thug, and then fired the second crossbow bolt. This one struck the thug between the eyes, dropping him instantly.

  “House of Casimer?” Wren asked dryly as he loaded one more bolt.

  Mortimer nodded. “P-p-powerful,” he stuttered.

  Wren shrugged. “They must be new in town. Any more of them here?”

  Mortimer shook his head.

  “Don’t lie to me,” Wren said.

  Mortimer looked down at the box he was holding and then lurched forward to set it on the bar. “You’re going to get me killed!”

  Wren pointed to the box. “Open it up, let me see it.”

  Mortimer slowly moved to the box again and opened the lid. “Just as we agreed,” he said.

  Wren nodded upon seeing the item. “Very well. Now, about Casimer, is this a big house or little house?”

  Mortimer shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Then how do you know they are powerful?”

  “They came in two days ago, beat Bricker nearly to death,” Mortimer said. “He’s recovering at his home with broken ribs and a couple of gashes in his head. They have everyone on the street under their thumb. You killed one, but three more will take his place tomorrow.”

  Wren shrugged and took the small box, which fit in the palm of his left hand, and stuffed it into a pouch on his belt. “Not my problem,” Wren said.

  “What’s your price?” Mortimer asked. “Please, my wife is pregnant. I can’t have this kind of trouble here.”

  Wren smiled. “You don’t have enough money to tempt me, and I don’t have enough time even if you did. I have my own business in town.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  Wren looked around at the shabby tavern and then back to Mortimer. “Have any family in Kraltys?”

  Mortimer shook his head. “I have a brother in Dreshire,” Mortimer said.

  “Did you already pay the man?” Wren asked as he motioned to the dead thug.

  “Two hundred gold, a third of what I pulled in for the week.”

  “Give it to me,” Wren said. “I also need four bottles of whiskey.”

  “And then you’ll take care of the others?”

  “I’ll get rid of your problem,” Wren said.

  Mortimer clapped his hands together and hopped to. He ran into the back and returned a moment later with a hefty bag of gold pieces. He set them down on the bar and then went into the back once more. Wren could hear scraping wood and clanking bottles. Mortimer returned with a box of eight bottles. “If three will do the trick, then eight are better,” he said happily.

  Wren nodded. “When is your child due?”

  Mortimer frowned. “Not for another six months or so,” he said. “She’s only had the morning sickness for a few weeks now.”

  “Pack your things and go to your brother’s house in Dreshire.”

  Mortimer’s smile faded and he put his hands on his hips. “Wait… why are we going there?”

  “You’re leaving Kraltys,” Wren said.

  “I most certainly am not!” Mortimer shouted. “I built a life here. I bought this tavern twelve years ago, and I have nurtured it, and built it into what it is today.”

  “Yes, it’s a fine house of booze and raucous gambling that devolves into fights on a regular basis. It is the pillar of the community, I’m sure.”

  “I’m not leaving,” Mortimer said with an angry shake of his head.

  “So then you will fight House Casimer?” Wren asked.

  “I thought you were going to?”

  Wren shook his head. “I’m going to stop them from finding out about him,” Wren said as he pointed to the dead thug. “This tavern is going up in flames, and you and your wife are going to leave.”

  “What!?”

  “You have four hundred gold left, right?”

  Mortimer nodded. “Plus a little more I have saved away.”

  “That’s more than enough to start over in Dreshire. In fact, you can make a much nicer establishment there with that kind of money, and be back making a profit very quickly. More than that, I have a few contacts there. I’ll see that you are taken care of.”

  “So instead of House Casimer, you will extort me for protection money, is that it?”

  Wren shook his head. “No, nothing of the sort. But I need you to choose now. I do have some business to attend to, so I need an answer. Are you going to take on House Casimer, or am I torching the place and helping you escape?”

  Mortimer fidgeted with his hands as he swayed back and forth, glancing from the dead thug back to Wren. “Oh fine! But I will remember this! I would have been better off if you just left me alone!

  “Next time perhaps you’ll remember not to double-cross me,” Wren said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Frankly, you’re lucky I’m not the one after your head.”

  “I’ll be lucky to make half as much in Dreshire as I make here.”

  “Fair enough, but at lea
st in Dreshire you can keep all of your proceeds. Here they are already taking a third, and you and I both know the price will only go up as their appetite increases.”

  “You’ll get yours one day,” Mortimer hissed. “This makes us even. I don’t owe you anything now.”

  “Agreed,” Wren said with a nod. There always came a point when a contact was no longer useful. Wren had dealt with his share of people who had double-crossed him in the past. It was just too bad that Mortimer couldn’t see past losing the tavern. A new life in Dreshire would be much better, especially with a child on the way. Kraltys was home to soldiers and ruffians. It was no place to raise a family. Not that Wren cared two licks where Mortimer chose to raise his family. No, it was simple really. Wren couldn’t have any witnesses able to testify to the fact that he was in town. Burning the tavern had already been on the checklist of things to do for the day. The fact that House Casimer’s enforcer was lying dead on the floor was simply a convenient coincidence that allowed Wren to evict Mortimer and his wife without needing to physically harm the barkeep.

  Mortimer disappeared up the stairs and came down a few minutes later with his wife, who was barely showing a bump at all in her green dress. Her eyes threw darts of fire at Wren, but he just smiled and waved as the pair exited the building. Wren replaced the chair behind the front door and waited another twenty minutes, giving the unhappy couple plenty of time to make the northern gates of the city before he started his work.

  Never one to waste opportunities, he took what food he could and filled a large burlap sack. He took the food and placed it next to the back door, and then he went to work with the whiskey. Grabbing a bronze oil lamp, he took a bottle of whiskey upstairs. The living area was modest, but it was obvious that Mortimer was going to be losing a few pieces of nicer furniture that would likely take some time to replace in Dreshire, not the least of which was the bed, made extra wide and topped with a very soft looking mattress.

  Wren opened the bottle and poured the contents all over the bed and along the floor, then he set the flame of the oil lamp to the whiskey and quickly made his way back downstairs. With a fire already beginning upstairs, he moved quicker. He grabbed a bottle and threw it at the far wall. The glass shattered and the whiskey splattered all over. He opened two more bottle and tipped them onto their sides on the bar, letting the alcohol run its course as he smashed the remaining bottles on the stairs and floor around him.

  He then tossed the oil lamp and ran for the back room.

  Wu-woosh!

  Crackling flames lit up the main area of the tavern. By the time he reached the back door, the fire was in full swing, eating through the wooden chairs and tables as the flames grew under a thick layer of smoke. Wren slipped out the back, burlap sack slung over his shoulder.

  “Fire!” A man shouted from the alleyway.

  Wren deftly moved his hand to the bag of gold coins and spilled them along the ground.

  All eyes went from the fire to the coins and people began shouting and fighting to get at the money while the tavern burned.

  With all of the commotion, it was much simpler to slip into the governor’s manor undetected. He went through the open kitchen in the back of the building, then made his way up the servants’ stairs to the upper floors where the governor’s bedchamber was. He picked the lock on the door and quietly entered. The festival outside would mean a great feast down in the lower level of the manor. The governor wouldn’t come up for quite some time, so Wren made himself at home. He pushed open the window in the bedchamber and gave a short whistle.

  A few seconds later, a large raven came and lighted upon the window sill, a long, silver key held tight in its beak.

  “You truly are a remarkable creature,” Wren said as he fished with his left hand to bring out a small bit of cinnamon bread. He held his right hand out and waited for the bird to drop the key into his waiting palm. Wren offered the treat to his raven. “Go on, I’ll meet you back on the road,” Wren said. The bird turned and launched into the air. Wren looked down and turned the key over in his hand, shaking his head all the while. Stepping lightly, he walked to a small curio cabinet near the bed and opened the wooden panel in the front. An iron safe was hidden inside. Wren placed the key into the keyhole and turned it. The corners of his mouth turned upward into a smile as the door opened. “Perfect,” he said.

  There was a second door inside that also required a key of its own, but he wasn’t worried. The first key had been hanging upon a wall at the local tax commissioner’s office. It had been easy enough for the raven to retrieve. The second key would be nearly as easy to get, for it hung around the governor’s neck. He closed the first door and then replaced the wooden panel of the curio before slipping under the bed. The hardest part of the assignment was before him now; waiting.

  He was used to staying in place, but he found that his mind was the hardest part of his body to quiet as he lay in wait. While time passed, he thought of assignments yet ahead of him, or replayed the memory of jobs completed. He criticized his past failures and continued planning for his future. He was close to his goal, so very close he could taste it. Most spies and assassins did it for the money, and of course he certainly had accumulated enough wealth to retire as a noble, but his purpose was entirely different.

  The door opened and ripped him from his thoughts.

  Two voices instead of one. Wren frowned.

  “So, what was it you wanted to show me?” a young woman asked.

  “Just you wait, my dear, just you wait. Go and sit on the bed,” the governor replied.

  The mattress above Wren sagged down as the woman jumped onto it. Wren wormed his way toward the far side of the bed as he watched the governor’s feet pad softly across the floor. The governor’s wife was out of town, so was his daughter. Wren knew of the governor’s reputation, but had hoped they were the false whisperings of political enemies. It was much harder to catch and silence two people from under the bed. Had it been just the governor, he would have yanked the man’s feet out from under him and made the governor strike his head, which would have given him enough time to slide out from under the bed and place a knife to his throat. If he did that now, the young guest would surely scream.

  Wren would have to try something else. He kept a close eye on the governor’s feet. The toes turned away and the governor walked toward a large wardrobe on the far side of the room. This was Wren’s chance, but he had to be fast –and silent.

  Wren pushed out from under the bed and came up behind the young woman. Of course, the easiest and most logical strategy would be to knock the woman unconscious, but Wren had rules about that sort of thing. He might light pubs on fire and force the owners to move, he might even assassinate someone in their own bed, but he never raised his hands to a woman. Such things were ungentlemanly.

  Wren’s right hand went to his belt and he pulled a dagger. He took the well-balanced blade and aimed for half a second before launching it across the room. The handle struck the governor in the back of the head, and the man fell to the floor. Before the young lady could scream, Wren descended upon her, placing one hand over her mouth and gripping her upper arm with his other hand. She went stiff as a pole and made a squeaking sound that surely would have been a shrill scream if not for Wren’s hand.

  “Listen well: I mean neither of you any deadly harm, but if you scream, I will be forced to do something we would both regret. Do you understand?”

  The woman nodded. Wren knew that he would rather flee and abandon the assignment than hurt the woman, but she didn’t know that. “Stay calm. I will gag your mouth, and then you are to sit at the back of the bed and stay still, do you promise?”

  The young woman nodded again. Wren noted that she was wearing long gloves that went far up her arm, nearly reaching her shoulder. He used his free hand to pull one of the gloves off and then used that to gag her.

  “Terribly sorry, miss,” Wren said. “Now, just sit back and relax. I’m only here to deliver a message and ta
ke something that rightfully belongs to someone else, understand?”

  The young woman gave one more nod, staring with wide eyes back at Wren as she scooted to the back of the bed. Wren smiled and cautiously approached the unconscious governor, glancing back to the young woman staring intently at him.

  He held up one hand as he knelt beside the governor. “I mean him no harm,” he said as he reached under the governor’s robes and came up with a key hanging from a silver necklace. Wren yanked the key free and then moved to grab his dagger which was lying on the floor. He replaced the weapon and then dropped a note onto the governor’s chest.

  Wren moved back to the safe and opened the first two doors. Then he used the governor’s key and found a small wooden box. He looked back to the young woman and smiled. “Now then. I have what I came for. Do you want to hang around here and wait for him to wake up, or do you want to come with me?”

  The young woman’s eyes grew as big as dishes.

  Wren bent toward her and undid the gag. “Remember, don’t scream. Do as I say and after we have made it through the courtyard, you’ll be free to go.”

  “Through the courtyard? You’re mad. We’ll never get that far.”

  “I’m not mad,” Wren said with a sly smile. “I’m just that good. Now come off the bed and escort me through the manor like a nice young lady, and we’ll be on our way.”

  “What if I call for the guards?” she asked.

  “Well then, I’ll just tell them that it was your idea to fleece the governor, and leave you with them,” Wren replied evenly. He held out his right arm as he slipped the small wooden box into a pouch at his belt.

  “You don’t look the part,” she said.

  Wren nodded. His clothes were too plain for the festivities, it was true, but if he played his cards right, nobody would be looking at him anyway. The young lady took his offered arm and the two of them exited the room. They walked brusquely down the hall, him nearly dragging her along to make her keep pace. He locked her arm in his and held it tightly to his body as they moved, ready to turn her about, or throw her to a guard if need be. However, they never even saw a guard as they passed through the main hall where the feast had devolved into a raucous drinking party the likes of which would have put quite a hefty amount of coin into old Mortimer’s pocket had the guests all been at his establishment instead of the governor’s manor.