Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One

by Justan Henner

  Bell crossed the room and opened the door himself. Bern and Tel were half crouched, with Kenneth’s arms sprawled over a shoulder of each of them, nursing some kind of metal arrow lodged in his left thigh. He seemed barely conscious, his teeth bared in a grimace that looked to be suppressing a scream.

  “What is that?” Bell asked, squinting at the metal shaft.

  Marl pushed him aside, kneeling to examine the man’s wound. “It’s a crossbow bolt,” she said.

  “They’ve arrived then,” the Grand stated. “The Old Guard is here, and without the queen, there is little hope of peace.”

  “What about Halls and Rich?” Bell asked.

  Tel pursed her lips while Bern shook his head at the floor, mumbling in a grieved voice. “More of the same I’m afraid.”

  Marl glanced up and tapped Bern’s leg, jerking her head toward the long table near the fireplace. “Let’s move him to the bench, we will need a stable surface if I’m going to pull this out.”

  Kenneth’s head rolled from one shoulder to the other, his eyes focusing on Marl’s scalp. “Please don’t,” he whined. “A courtesan, please. Courtesan.”

  Marl clenched her jaw and nodded. “Tel, could you please find a courtesan?”

  “Yes, let’s move him first,” she suggested.

  The three carried Kenneth to the bench then eased him down onto it. With the weight off her shoulders, Tel saluted and left. Standing by her map table, the Grand kept her distance, eying the scene with a suspicious sneer, as if she expected Kenneth to leap up and grab her the moment she got close. She didn’t seem interested in debriefing the man, so Bell decided to do it for her.

  “Kenneth?” Bell asked. “Can you tell us what happened?”

  Kenneth’s foggy gaze fixed on Bell. As he stared ahead seemingly in thought, his eyes unfocused and then drifted to the Grand. “It’s her fault,” Kenneth said. “She’s done this, just like she’s done to Perval.”

  On the floor, cutting strips from her own tabard to tend his leg, Marl glanced up at Kenneth and scowled. She looked about ready to pull the bolt out despite his protestations, and the angry way her lips mumbled, Bell suspected she was considering it.

  Bell frowned and looked to Bern. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “I found him choking on the floor,” Bern said. “With the bolt in his leg. The others were already dead, their card game overturned like they’d fallen over it. Same bolts in them as what’s there. I stopped the choking, then went in to find Tel. She was lying on her cot, just waking up, so she hadn’t heard anything. We did a quick scan of the queen’s rooms, grabbed Kenneth, and came straight here.”

  “You did not think to sound the alarm?” the Grand asked.

  Bern’s cheeks reddened. “Well… no. We thought we should report to you first.”

  “Wouldn’t have done any good,” Kenneth growled, motioning toward Cyleste with a sickly wave. “You planned this from the first. Just like you hired that fool to kill Perval.”

  Cyleste did what her daughter could not. Pacing over to Kenneth, she grabbed one of the cloths from Marl’s hand, wrapped it about the bolt, and yanked hard. Kenneth squealed as the barbed end tore its way through his flesh, and then he was silent, his head lolling to one side, his eyes closed.

  “Why would you do that?” Marl demanded.

  The Grand stared down at the unconscious Kenneth with a satisfied smirk. “Because, daughter, the old fool accuses me of things I have not done, and I will not have it. I know who this one is, just as I knew who Perval was. He’s just another of the Magistrate’s fools, one of his old subordinates, still holding a grudge from twenty years past. Still mad that I would be made Sovereign instead of Godahn.”

  “But he is injured. He’s delirious.”

  “No daughter, he is a fanatic and fanatics are best silenced.”

  “Erm… am I interrupting something?” Every conscious eye turned to the servant’s door. Acklin stood holding a serving tray filled with various objects including a sheathed knife and sword.

  “Where have you been?” the Grand demanded.

  Acklin shuffled uncomfortably. “Marl says I ain’t got no skills with the sword, that my form is all wrong, but I’m the best boxer in Lane, I am. I don’t have bad form.”

  “Where were you?” the Grand repeated, her voice dangerous.

  Acklin stared at her blankly. “The arms-master, going through the scrap piles.” He held up his tray to prove it. “Had to find me a blade with the right weight ‘cause there ain’t no way my form’s off. Got me a knife too.”

  “But there was blood in your bedroom. And your cheek is cut.”

  The man pulled back his head, startled by her words. “Well, you said I could use my draw. I just didn’t know them courtesans had such weird tastes.”

  “A courtesan cut your cheek?”

  Acklin blushed, the color rising in his cheeks and his neck. “Well, I don’t think it’s right proper to be discussing it, ma’am.”

  The Grand closed her eyes and took a deep, annoyed breath. “Always report your destination to myself or Marl before disappearing, soldier.”

  The merchant shrugged. “Of course, Grand.” With a jerk of his head and a lift of his tray, he nodded to the table. “May I?”

  The Grand nodded impatiently and Acklin beamed as he turned to the table, set down his tray, and began preparing his new weapons for their cleaning and sharpening. Bell watched the man with a nervous smile. He had brought everything he needed, and a few things he didn’t; a Dekahnian waterstone, but whetstone oil instead of water, a leather strop for polishing, and even a strange, black candle despite the bright fireplace next to him.

  As Bell turned back to regard Bern, the hornsman’s trumpet blared in the distance; two short blasts signifying an attack and the location. On the floor, Marl’s head perked up. Bern jumped. Cyleste groaned. Bell’s eyes shot to the door.

  “Was that the hornsman?” the Grand asked.

  “Yes, Grand,” Bell said. “An attack on the north gate.”

  “Shit,” she cursed. “Marl, leave that fool and go find Wilt. Scout Bern, go see what is happening. If you can find Whore Dellings, bring him to me.”

  Marl nodded, stood, and sprinted out through the servant’s door. A few moments later, Bern did the same, turning instead, for the main door, but he didn’t get as far as the Herald. As he slowed to open the door, Tel and Dellings entered. Dellings carrying a roll of bandages and wearing a shocked scowl.

  “Dellings, what’s happening out there?” the Grand asked.

  “There’s been an attack on the city walls, up in the north district,” Dellings said. “It’s a small troop, less than a thousand men, all of them wearing black and white cloaks, but they’ve taken the gate and its barracks.”

  “Did they come from inside the walls or outside?”

  “Outside, Grand, but with the fire damage to the north gate, it was easy for them to get in.”

  “Have you sent anyone to deal with it?”

  “Yes, Grand, I sent-”

  “Call them back.”

  “Back, Grand?”

  “Yes. Immediately. If they meant to hold that gate, they’d have sent more men than that.”

  Dellings frowned. “But I’ve already dispatched men to the other gates.”

  “Call them back, too. We can’t hold the outer walls with all the damage. It’s too late to try. Send a regiment to the docks, and prepare us for a defensive retreat.”

  “But… Grand-”

  Another note pealed from the hornsman’s trumpet, the same message, but this one more urgent. Again, the second blast told them the location. The Grand cocked her head to listen.

  “That’s the palace courtyard,” she said. “How could they have gotten here so fast?”

  “Perhaps it’s the peasants,” Dellings suggested. “Perhaps word of their Guard’s return has spurred them to take up arms.”

  “Go check, Dellings. Go now. Don’t let them get a footh
old, and make sure those others know to get back here now. I will be there shortly.”

  The courtesan saluted, handed the bandages to Tel, and left. Tel glanced down at them, confused for a moment, then shrugged and began unrolling the gauze as she and Bern knelt to help the unconscious Kenneth. The Grand waited silently, her gaze distant as she watched the two bind Kenneth’s leg. Several times she nodded to herself, as if satisfied with their work, but Bell did not think her focus was on them, rather for her own thoughts. Is she speaking to Just, even now? With all he had learned today, the revelation wouldn’t shock him.

  Bell shook his head and turned back to Kenneth. “How is his leg?” Bell asked.

  Tel glanced up at him. “It doesn’t look too serious, but I’m no courtesan. Marl seems to have stopped the bleeding for the most-”

  “What did you just do?” Bell turned and found the Grand staring at him, her face burgeoning into sudden hatred.

  Bell frowned at her. “What are you-” he started, but the Grand’s gaze shifted off him, darting to Acklin at the fireplace.

  The Lanishman leaned over his tray, in his hand a pair of tongs from the fire’s mantle, and between the tines, a single coal touched to the wick of the strange black candle. Acklin did not seem confused by Cyleste’s shouts, instead, he looked mortified. As the flame billowed into life, he closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and cringed, as if annoyed with himself for making some mistake.

  The Grand drew her sword and pointed it to the merchant. “You,” she said. “Just was speaking, and now he’s gone. What did you do?”

  With his back to Cyleste, the tallow merchant released a heavy, mournful sigh. Acklin’s body blocked his doings from her sight, but Bell could see it perfectly as the merchant’s free hand inched toward the bared knife on his tray.

  “The knife!” Bell warned, and Acklin whirled. Steel glinted as the knife flew across the room, aimed for Cyleste’s heart. Bell feared his warning had not come soon enough, but the Grand was quick. Her blade skimmed the knife’s hilt as she ducked under its path. The metal hummed and the knife skittered onto the floor, but Acklin didn’t wait; he charged her, two more knives, one in each hand, appearing from beneath his tabard.

  Bell’s feet skid as he raced to stop him, but Bern was there first, his sword raised up and behind his head, ready to intercept the Lanishman’s path. Bern’s arm swung and the blade arced down for the traitor’s head. Acklin ducked beneath it, then jumped, his leg slamming into Bern’s unarmored chest. The scout toppled backward, and Bern’s arm, fumbling from both the kick and the added force of its own miss, smacked into Bell’s nose, the hilt cracking as it struck his cheek just beneath his temple.

  Bell’s head rang, and only with quick footwork did he manage to avoid being pulled down alongside Bern. The contact had only cost Bell a second, but it was enough time for the traitor to regain his stride. Acklin landed easily, his knives held in front of him, ready to meet the Grand’s swing. Her massive two-handed blade hit the knife in Acklin’s left hand. If the Lanishman had been hoping for a parry, he was sadly mistaken; the sword connected at the perpendicular of the knife’s hilt and blade, and the knife’s cross hilt snapped.

  Blood spurted as the heavy sword blade tore into Acklin’s left hand, and he screamed, but it didn’t stop him. The Grand had feared an assassin, and it seemed that was exactly what she had gotten. As the Grand pulled back for another swing, Acklin’s injured hand – the knife and half the fingers now missing – drove forward into her face, spurting blood into the woman’s eyes. His body slammed into her, his right-hand knife catching her just below her lowest, left rib.

  Bell regained himself as the two toppled. The Grand lay on the floor, with Acklin atop her, a bloody stump with only two fingers holding her head to the floor and blocking her view. The Grand’s head shook madly, her teeth biting at his stunted fingers in an effort to see past Acklin’s hand. Her arms swung without eyes to guide them as Acklin raised the knife for its second plunge. Acklin managed one more stab before Bell reached them, a stab which nicked Cyleste’s forearm before planting in her left shoulder.

  Bell’s foot collided with Acklin’s cheek, knocking blood and shattered teeth onto the floor. The assassin slipped off the Grand reluctantly, his hand holding tight to the knife in her shoulder like it was the saddle horn to a saddle that had had its straps cut; he fell in the same leaden way as would the rider of such a horse. The assassin caught himself with a roll, the knife dripping blood as the momentum tore it from Cyleste’s shoulder.

  As his boot connected, a scream turned Bell’s head. Tel was jumping to her feet, holding her nose with both hands, her eyes closed and staring at the ceiling as blood dripped through her fingers. Bell had the short image of Kenneth and his bloody boot, sword drawn and standing toe to toe opposite Bern, before pain shot through Bell’s right arm.

  Bell’s gaze shot to the cut in his arm, then to its source. Acklin rolled shoulder over shoulder across the floor toward Cyleste, his knife now buried in Bell’s right bicep. Blood oozed from the wound, lightly pooling around the thrown blade’s hilt before it dripped to the floor.

  As the traitor rolled, a fourth knife appeared from Acklin’s sleeve – smaller but no less deadly. His roll ended at Cyleste’s side, his arm swinging out as he came to a stop, the momentum carrying it and the knife toward Cyleste.

  Bell tried to lift his arm, but couldn’t. Instead, he jumped, diving in an effort to knock the blade away before it landed. He slammed into Acklin’s shoulder right as the blade hit, and the two of them rolled together, the low angle of collision causing Bell to skid over the assassin and onto the floor.

  As he fell, Bell’s knee cracked into the Lanishman’s head, and this time, Bell recovered before the other man. Bell tried to regain his feet, but the same knee betrayed him, the pain overwhelming his need to stand.

  Bell watched as Acklin pulled himself into a sitting position with a snarling curse. Blinking, the assassin’s gaze flicked first to Bell, then to Cyleste. His smile bloomed. The collision had saved Cyleste’s heart, but the man’s knife had found a home regardless, buried in her gut. With her face paling beneath a mask of Acklin’s blood, the Grand breathed, but only just.

  “Why?” Bell gaped at him.

  Acklin grinned, his face a bloody mess, and his stump of a hand pulsing blood. “Assassin guide me,” the traitor chanted. His stare flicked from Bell to the candlestick and its lone black candle. Suddenly he frowned. “What are you-”

  Acklin couldn’t finish the question before Kenneth was atop him. Bern leaned against the far wall, his left leg jutting beneath him at an inhuman angle. It seemed Kenneth had won their duel, but Bell had misjudged the man’s target; he had not wanted Cyleste, he had wanted Acklin.

  The two men rolled across the floor, Kenneth’s fists slamming Acklin’s head into the floor with surprising force. Spit flew from the old veteran’s lips as he screamed down at the traitor.

  “You blooding bastard,” Kenneth screamed. “You killed Perval!”

  “What are you doing, fool?” Acklin panted between blows. “I am the Black Star. I am the Gelliner assassin! You work for me! You work for me!”

  Kenneth’s fists stopped. With shock widened eyes, he stared down at his hands as if not understanding what he’d just done. Acklin took the moment to back away – to slide out from underneath the man and shuffle back toward the map table in a crabwalk. Licking his lips nervously, Acklin’s gaze once again honed to his candle near the fireplace, almost as if it were his escape. With the table for support, he eased himself onto his feet, his eyes darting between the black candle and the kneeling Kenneth.

  With a pained groan, Bell forced himself onto his feet and readied his blade. He placed himself behind Kenneth, between the two men and Cyleste. Acklin watched him hesitantly, as if waiting for Bell to make the first move.

  Kenneth’s voice surprised them. “No,” the veteran said. His head perked up, his defiant glare falling on the Lanishman. “No.”r />
  “No what?” Acklin hissed.

  “It’s not okay,” Kenneth spat. “Perval was just doing as we were told. He had her and you ruined us. It’s not okay!”

  The Lanishman grinned. “So, what are you gonna-”

  The old veteran dove for Acklin’s legs. He grabbed them and the assassin’s legs buckled as his back collided with the map table. His belt pouch caught on the table’s edge and tore, pouring its contents onto the floor; a corkscrew, a lute wire, a stamp press, and a yellow candle. Acklin’s feet kicked as Kenneth dragged him to the ground, sending the yellow candle whirring across the room. Acklin reached for the knife at Kenneth’s belt, but the veteran got to it first. The knife hit Acklin’s chest and the assassin jolted, his legs convulsing from the blow. As Kenneth pulled it loose for another stab, Acklin’s hand found the dropped corkscrew. The metal flashed, and Kenneth fell back lifeless, the device Acklin had so proudly proclaimed an ‘eye-gouger’ lodged deep in Kenneth’s right eye.

  Bell watched, stunned. With a choice between two traitors, he’d not known who to help, so he had helped neither, but now the assassin was free. Bell glanced around the room, and found Tel on his right, easing toward the traitor with her sword held ready.

  The Lanishman didn’t hesitate. His eyes flashed a third time to the black candle near the fire, and for a moment he seemed panicked, but then his gaze found the yellow candle that had fallen from his bag. His kick had sent it spinning across the floor to rest at the foot of the hearth, but that seemed to delight the man. As his eyes found it, Acklin’s grimace eased to a grin. With one wary look at Tel, he jumped to his feet, dove past her with his arms stretched out before him, grabbed the candle, and rolled into the fireplace. There was an ear-splitting scream as the man’s jacket caught fire – and then a flash of light – and then the scream was gone and so was Acklin.

  “Go check, Dellings,” Cyleste said. “Go now. Don’t let them get a foothold, and make sure those others know to get back here now. I will be there shortly.”