Jem smiled as he opened the parchment. It was unlike any of the assassin’s previous correspondence. The words were written in the same, tight hand, but instead of a short snippet of information, the letter was a hulking mass of folded pages:
Taehrn,
Something has gone wrong. Dekahn has burnt to the ground, and only the palace stands. There are great stretches of ruin. Entire districts flattened to a checkerboard. The city walls are weak, and the Legion has been turned from a war machine to babysitters for a populace of homeless heathens. Your man Perval is dead, but I am secure. He tried to kill her too early, in front of everyone. The good news is that she watches Bell now instead of me.
The New Guard in the city are few. Too few. The Legion has captured perhaps two hundred, but it is not nearly enough, even with the fire’s death toll. It is as if they fled before we arrived, so I went looking for the Old Guard. They’ve vanished as well. Their entire army. Only two days from the city, and they have vanished. At first, I thought of the forest to the city’s north, but it is too sparse to hide an army so well. It is empty except for a handful of Vandu savages. I sense treachery. They are certainly preparing a counterattack, likely they are already waiting in ambush.
The night of the fire, I felt them. More mages. Godkind like me. They were dying. Hunted. I think I might be next, and so I have to take precautions. I can feel them beneath the city. A whole village worth of them, but I cannot find the tunnels.
A woman has come to me. She followed me for two days, at the edge of my sensing. Her aura is dark. I don’t know how to explain it. If the Butcher lives, she is his disciple. Today she approached me. Her name is Putrescence. She dresses like a Vandu savage, but she speaks of blood cults and power. Last night she caught me in my sleep. She cut my cheek and dragged me out of bed, then she stole one of my candles. I fear she might be the huntress who murdered all my fellows. My candles flicker at her approach, they go dark when she leaves the room. Somehow, I know that she will kill me. It is like the mage who foretold my killing of the Vandu consul. Somehow, he knew what I would do.
I must act now, Taehrn. Tonight, I shall kill the Grand. I do not ask for permission, you have already granted it, I but write to warn you.
Dekahn is not safe. The walls are weakened by fire, and somehow, I feel the Old Guard has already subverted them. I fear they are already within the city… or perhaps underneath, conspiring with the mages.
I advise you to STAY IN DERLIN. I can feel it. The Legion is going to fall. The rot will not protect you. You must stay in Derlin.
- A.
For fear he might smear the ink, Jem wiped the sweat from his hand onto his shirt before folding the letter and stuffing it in his pocket. This was his chance. But before he took it, there was one final step he had to take. He had to speak with Trin.
“I don’t think you’re quite understanding me, Miss Cavahl,” the courtesan said. “There are things that I can offer you that most women might not.” The eyes behind the mask seemed to be staring at her, as if that stare could make the point any more obvious, but it was so damned hard to tell with the mask covering her face muscles. Her implication was clear by the tone of her words, a lulling – and downright suggestive – deepening of her voice.
“Oh, that?” Trin said. “I don’t need that, I can get that for free. Just ask your colleagues.”
“Besides,” Gin interrupted, holding up three of the white ringed stones with a massive grin. “We’ve already accepted ten or fifteen of those between the two of us.”
“Exactly,” Trin agreed. “We’re only taking offers of substance now. Furs, hides, catgut, sinews, and silks.” Trin would accept anything that could help them defeat the rot. She was happy at the moment, but there was no guarantee that it would last. While she was, she intended to do whatever good she could. That meant beating the rot.
“If you ain’t got none of those,” Trin continued, “then we’ll take gems of comparable value or any jewelry with thin metal threading. Or, if you really must, we’ll take a draw stone with your marking, but there’s no guarantee on who will end up with it. Could be me or Gin, or it could be the stable hand who mucks up all the horse shit each morning.”
The woman’s shoulders sagged. “How much will a bearskin blanket get me?” Her self-assured manner had been deflated, leaving only the resigned acceptance of a merchant who’d realized she wouldn’t get the price she’d wanted. There was something beautiful about stealing a whore’s confidence.
“What kinda bear?”
“A Hornish Great.”
Trin glanced to Gin for confirmation.
“Well…” he mused, “the fur’s a little thick, so it’d be better used as it is than for patching, but if it’s all in one piece, we might be able to fashion something from it. The leather intact?”
“Yes,” the courtesan said. “One solid piece, no chafes or tears.”
“It’ll work.”
“All right,” Trin said. “I’d estimate two and a half then, three if you provide your own containers, but we want to see the hide for ourselves before anything is final. Now, would you like to work out a payment plan or do you want it all at once?”
“I just like a little drink with dinner is all. An ounce and a half each evening will do.”
“That should be doable.” Trin offered a polite nod in lieu of one of those damned salutes. “We’ll let you know when you enter the rotation. Should be pretty soon.”
The courtesan bowed, the motion lifting her hood enough that Trin could see her amber colored hair, before thanking them and stepping aside for the next person in line. The next courtesan, a man she suspected by the flat chest and broad shoulders – though the robes sometimes made it difficult to tell – bounced on his heels, ready to step forward. Trin held up a hand to forestall him as Gin’s head swept closer.
“You think that was wise?” Gin asked. A light sheen of sweat beaded his brow, the result of The Field’s unusual heat. “Three liters for a bear hide?”
“Ever seen a Hornish Great?” Trin asked. “Big enough we can fashion a footman’s two from it, with some room to spare. And it won’t wear through like all the canvas ones.”
“But that’s only one tent for three liters. How we gonna brew that much, that quick?”
“There’s one upside to the rot wearing things the way it does. Our fermentation is going to drop from days to hours, Gin. Assuming we keep finding the grain we need, we’ll be swimming in it.”
“You’re certain?”
“Once spent three days in a Vandu camp. Aside from goats, leather, and a whole lotta self-satisfied pricks, good alcohol’s the only thing they got.”
The right corner of Gin’s top lip jerked into a smug grin. She couldn’t believe she’d first thought the man a bore. He seemed to have a taste for both mischief and money, two qualities she loved when mixed with the proper level of restraint. She’d yet to figure out if Gin had that restraint and she couldn’t decide if she wanted to or not. A little mayhem was fun every now and then, and her quota was past due. But she had a job to do and she planned to do it right, if only to prove that the rot could be beaten. And she had to beat it. If it could be beaten, then so could Fate.
“Miss Cavahl,” the courtesan interrupted. “If you would, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
Trin raised her head to the speaker and beamed as she waved him forward eagerly. “Whore Vahn. You’ve changed your mask.”
“Nope.” She could hear the amusement in his soft voice.
“Just the robes then?” She had noticed the robes, they were now red and black instead of the whore’s white, but the mask was another matter. Vahn’s was too intricate to tell if it had changed, of white porcelain with lines of blue, green, and red crosshatching the face.
“Well, I had to after our business the other night.” She didn’t need to see his face to know that he smiled. He made it sound as if they had been intimate, but they had not. She had simply overturned a bottle of drink on him t
wo days before.
“So, what brings you?” Trin asked. “More alcohol for the infirmary?”
“Unfortunately not.” His tone deepened. “I’ve had orders from my future mother-in-law. I’m being sent back to my fiancée.”
“Mother-in-law? Fiancée?” She couldn’t hide her suspicion; her jowls tightened.
The head, the mask, and the hooded robes bent forward into an elaborate silhouette of shame. “Aye. I am engaged to the Second Legionnaire.”
“So, the Grand is to be your…”
“Yes,” he nodded. “My mother-in-law, which means it’s back to the executioner for me.”
She was certain he’d meant the statement to be a joke – if his fiancée was the Second Legionnaire, then he really was engaged to the current Executioner – but the way his voice faltered made it sound as though he had received a death sentence.
“Should you not be excited to see your future wife?”
His laugh sounded forced. “I’m no fool. The Second serves both the Grand and the Magistrate. To be at her side now, is to step between two warring elk.”
“You ever seen two elk duel? It’s a rather slow process.”
“Precisely what I mean. My future wife and I will be caught between the two till the day one of us four dies, and more likely than not, it’ll be at the hands of one of the other three.” The courtesan in line behind him squeaked, but Vahn didn’t seem to care that anyone might hear.
“Oh, don’t tell me that shit,” Trin moaned, pulling her head away. “I’m trying to stay out of the priesthood’s scheming.”
“Which is exactly why I figured you could relate. I mean, stuck between the Grand and Taehrn, it’s as much the same thing as what I’ve got.”
“I’m not stuck in the middle of anything.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard. Way it’s been going around camp, you’re the Grand’s spy. You and that boy of yours.”
“I’m no such thing and neither is Jem. Now what do you want and what’ve you got to offer?”
Vahn shrugged. “No need to get snippy, Miss Cavahl. I’m just telling you what I’ve heard.”
“And it’s like to get me killed. What if some idiot actually believes that shit?”
“They already believe it,” Vahn stated.
“Well, what would give them that idea?”
The courtesan paused. “Marl told me you had a gift from the Grand, marked with the Green Eye, and you know what that means.”
“No. I don’t. What gift?”
“Oh. It means you have been recognized by Just’s Sovereign as a friend, and as the Grand is the Sovereign…” Vahn let the words trail away suggestively. “As for the gift, I am told it was a small chest with a bottle of liquor.”
Trin grimaced. He referred to the gift the Grand had sent the night she took Bell away. Trin had hoped the gift would have gone unnoticed, but it was little surprise it hadn’t. She knew the type of people these were; she’d grown up among them and nearly married the worst of them. “Marl told you this?” Trin demanded.
“Of course,” Vahn shrugged. “I am family.”
“So, if she wants to keep it in the family, then why you telling the whole world?”
“So they think I am too stupid to play their game.”
“And you want them to think that because you don’t want to play or because you’re very good at it?”
Vahn said nothing, but once again she had the impression that he was smiling.
“Fine then,” Trin continued. “Better question then. Why tell me?”
“Because I think that you are genuine. And the night we spent together was quite satisfying.”
The woman behind him sniffed. Vahn turned his head to face her. “Oh, hello there, Fin. I did not see you.”
The woman, shorter than Vahn but taller than Trin, leaned toward him. Despite her effort to whisper, the fury in her voice carried the words far enough for Trin to make them out. “You are being inappropriate.”
“Am I? I thought perhaps you would be happy.” Vahn did not bother to match her pitch; he spoke as plainly as he had done before. “If you’d like to ride to Dekahn and tell Dellings of all I’ve said, I can hold your place in line. I am sure he would be quite happy to hear it, as he always is. After all, if he wants my title I suspect he’ll need the help of either the Grand or the Magistrate, but the trouble is… it is just so very hard to know which has my ear.”
“Enough,” Trin sighed. “I don’t want any part of this, so give me your damned offer or get your butchering ass out of line.”
Vahn turned back to Trin and bowed. On the way up, he stuffed a lumpy purse into her hands. “Two for the road, please. I’m sure that shall suffice.”
“Gin. Get him what he wants.” Trin didn’t bother to look in the bag. At this point, she just wanted him gone. Gin hopped into the wagon and began digging beneath the piles of canvas.
“Oh, by the way, Miss Cavahl,” Vahn continued. “Mind if I ask a few questions about the boy?”
She thought the vicious stare she gave him would have been enough, but the man seemed not to get the hint as he drew a deep breath and barreled on.
“Ah perfect,” he said.
Or perhaps he had purposefully ignored her hint.
“I was simply wondering if you knew Jem’s last name.”
The wagon rocked behind her as Gin leapt from the bed, but she didn’t notice his return until she felt the bottles being thrust into her hands.
She glared at Vahn for a few too many seconds before she answered. “I don’t. Why?”
“Oh, just curious, Miss Cavahl. Just’s curious.” He snickered at the repetition, as if he had made some grand jest. “He seems to have that look about him. And First Legionnaire Taehrn has taken quite the liking to him.”
“What look?”
“The look of wealth, of course. I had wondered perhaps, that he might be of the Priest’s Caste, in which case, I wanted to know which family.”
Trin nodded. Jem spoke better than most, and with his educated manner, it did not surprise her that some might mistake him for a priest’s son. “No family. He is the son of a scribe.”
“Ah! That would explain it then. Of course… it does not explain why he looks so very familiar.” He looked about to bow again, but instead, he leaned forward and gently pulled the two bottles from her grip. “Thank you again, Miss Cavahl. For everything. I truly hope that we shall meet again.” Vahn released a light clicking sound, the sound of a tongue being yanked from the top corner of one’s mouth. “And speak of the bitch. Here is your young friend now.”
Vahn stepped away from the table, heading directly for Jem. He did not stop to speak with the boy, he simply offered a cocky, two fingered wave that was little more than a jerk of his wrist. Jem frowned at the man, his eyes widening for only a moment before his gaze fell back to the footpath. Trin couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled forth. Jem looked to be in one of those moments of deep reverie so common to the brooding little bastard, and the look of distrust he had given Vahn was near priceless.
It was that same contemplative look which convinced her this wouldn’t be a short chat. Something was troubling the boy, and it would be her responsibility to help him work through it. She wasn’t back to her old self, she hadn’t been her old self since reading the page from Teachings of a Whore, but he had eased her burdens a few nights before and she was eager to repay the kindness.
“Hey, Gin,” Trin said, her gaze watching Jem. “Take over for-”
“Miss,” Gin interrupted. The urgency of his tone drew Trin’s eyes. “You know him?”
“Know who?”
“Whore Vahn.”
“Well sure. He offered me his draw stone for half a liter a few days ago. That’s what gave me the courtesan idea in the first place.”
Gin’s eyes widened so far the pupils had a sea of white between them and his lids. “And you cashed it?”
“Not yet,” Trin said. “Wanted to see how far I coul
d get for free first. Don’t think I will now though, man gives me the creeps.”
Trin smiled to Jem as he stepped in beside Gin. His gaze met hers and he returned her smile with two polite nods, one for her and one for Gin. His mouth opened to speak then stopped and hovered as Gin continued.
“But miss,” Gin said, “that is the consort.”
Trin turned her head to follow Vahn’s departure. “That’s the head of the Whore’s Cult? No wonder he speaks like such an ass, but what’s he doing here? Shouldn’t he be in Trel? Or with the Grand?”
Gin shrugged.
“To keep an eye on Taehrn maybe,” Jem suggested. His gaze wandered over the cart beside Gin. The corner of his eyes twitched when they fell on Nance and the line of courtesans beside her. “Seems they’re always watching someone else. Staying close to those they hate and those they like.” His eyes dilated as they refocused on Trin. “Taehrn’s with Deacon Lissahn now.”
Trin’s gaze caught that of the woman Vahn had accosted. The woman leaned forward, not seeming to mind the explicit nature of her eavesdropping. Trin sighed, letting all her regret and frustration flow out with the air. “Well,” she said, “if we talk like we’re interested, it ain’t a surprise if people start thinking we are.”
“Ain’t we?” Gin asked.
“Not enough to get involved.”
Jem rubbed the back of his neck. “Trin, do you have a moment?”
“Sure,” Trin waved her hand to the remaining courtesans. “Mind taking care of these, Gin?”
“Of course, miss.” Holding out his palm, Gin nodded to her hand. Following his gesture, she realized that she was still holding the purse Vahn had given her. Drawing open the strings, she laughed then handed the bag to Gin. The bag was filled with a dozen ring-sized emeralds; green, like those which had adorned the Grand’s gift box. The man was clearly screwing with her, but at least he paid well in the process.
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 91