by D. H. Aire
Clawd read the hand sign from the running Andre as two “Daggers,” the special “hires” the Thieves Guild offered throughout the city, appeared blocking Andre’s way.
The apprentice lad suddenly started a heatedly argument with the Dwarven guards, silver metal short swords slung across their backs. Spiro shouted, “Now, none of that back talk, boy!” As the other dwarf, Tett, glanced inside at Stievan, who was frowning at the arrogance the human child exhibited.
Once Andre and his pursuers were out of sight, Clawd abruptly bowed to the dwarves, begged their indulgence, then ran off. The dwarves stared after the lad in astonishment.
There was a disturbance just ahead of him, which Ruke could not quite judge the reason for. It was likely of no particular moment to him; however, the purse he was reaching for hanging just inside the Guildsman’s livery most certainly was. The coin inside could well help them “Pay the Prince” this month— and after the debacle with the jewel he very much needed to he the one to help make matters right.
The disturbance caught him unexpectedly and violently. The purse was jostled out of his fingers as three “Daggers” shoved through the crowd to him. He tried to flee, but it was already too late.
They grabbed him from behind, quickly bound his wrist and grinned, “The Prince would like to see you...”
Terhun had been coming to meet with Jeo, when he saw Ruke being hustled off. He cursed long and loud. His senior guard just looked at him and shrugged, “Not really our problem, sir.”
“One can never be too sure these days.”
“Then I’d best fetch the woman, then.”
Terhun sighed, “Tell her we’ll be able to find them at Melane’s or I seriously misread last night’s little visit.
Colvin held out the knife and said to his squad, “You gots to get used ta its balance. It don’t cut like a shard or any of our poor hand-me-down knives do.”
Twelve eager faces listened, mesmerized by his simple lesson. “You gots to first learn how to use your arm and wrist. Blocking is the first thing we’re going to work at—‘cause if you gets to use a knife its because the other guy’s gets ‘is own out!”
“That’s the Rule of the Pack! No blade unless you’s facing a blade or better!”
“Wha’s better?” one lad asked.
“Sword, staff, or magic!” he replied as they gaped.
“We mi’ be learnin’ ta face swords or magicks!” exclaimed Ebb, a gawky older urchin.
Colvin grinned, “As I’ve been a learnin’. Yes. But don’ think this trainin’ is goin’ ta make you a great warrior overnight!”
“COLE!” came the shout from the warren’s entrance as Clawd, dressed in what was now a dirty apprentice outfit. Gasping for breath, the lad rushed into the high ceilinged chamber, “BIG TROUBLE, COLE!”
GO TO GROUND, was the signal being passed urchin to urchin.
Juels had gone into hiding only after signaling the warning to two other members of the Pack. Now, he found himself kneeling behind the pews of the local Temple of Unity— and quietly sobbing. It seemed that the Prince’s “Daggers” were after them for no reason that he knew.
The Pack paid the Prince. That was what Gallen did, never paying him a penny less than demanded. But something was wrong and now the only family he had left was on the run.
You don’t run back to the warren, said the Rules. Safer to hide anywhere but where they will follow you to. Juels had made enough mistakes in the past not to make that particular one. So here he was, hiding amid the pews and praying for all he was worth.
“The Unity,” Juels mumbled, “Elvinkind and Mankind, one together, forever hence. Thus was the Darkness pushed back from the Heavens above us so the new kingdom born—”
“And the land upon which we live was raised that day above all other lands surrounding it. The Barrier Range made to rise far to the East, behind the Waste where once Mankind lived,” added the white haired human priest of this place, gently smiling at frightened urchin. “What is wrong, lad? How may I help?”
Juels wiped tears from his cheeks, shrugging. “Can the Prayer of Unity really push back the Dark?”
The priest blinked, “So I have always believed.”
“Would you say it with me?”
Staring a moment at the courtly speech from the waif, the priest abruptly smiled, “You’re one of Gallen’s. I’ve said the Prayer along with him many a time, too... I will gladly say.”
Prices
4
Master of Apprentices Donnialt was saying, “Everything is set, but are you sure you want us to do this?”
Master Stenh gasped as the Summoning struck mercilessly. “Are you all right?” Donnialt asked distantly.
He could practically taste Highmage Alrex’s presence. “Fine... Go, do what you’ve been told.”
Donnialt hesitated, looking concerned. In the grip of the Summoning, Stenh steeled himself against the agony, “I’m fine. Now go.” Donnialt anxiously went.
“Alrex,” Stenh rasped to the ether, “just because your human has taken official residence within the city and will soon seek recognition by the Guild does not mean he can become your heir. And it does not mean that I must stand as his Petitioner!”
The force of the Summoning changed. The pull remained.
Hastily straightening, Fri’il reached for her tunic, chastened and chagrinned. “You don’t understand, Cle. Je’orj is not like Balfour in the least.”
The scarred-faced woman shook her head, “Would you change places with me? Balfour is not my lover, though, perhaps, one day soon I can allow that to happen... I am a Champion, to a Cathartan House that led by a Lord Sire who recognizes his marriage to you and Se’and not at all.”
Touching her stomach, “It’s enough that—” Cle’or shook her head, “That was a moment of weakness on his part.”
Fri’il looked suddenly crestfallen, “He loves me.”
The naked girl, Raven, took Fri’il’s hand and gently squeezed it, “Against his better judgment— foster father loves us all.”
“His is the dilemma, my Sister. Lord Je’orj is to be a father in a world not his own. He does not lie when he tells you he intends to return to his own land— nor that it is a journey he will make alone.”
Fri’il nodded bitterly, yet the babe within her gave her hope that another truth would emerge. There was a knock at the front door, which Cle’or left to answer. Fri’il tossed down her tunic, “Raven, I’ve had just about enough of these games. We’re here now, there is no longer such a need to hide who and what we are.”
Then Cle’or was shouting for Raven to go and fetch Je’orj in the Sixth. Fri’il threw her livery over her bare shoulders, grabbed her sword, and rushed to the top of the stairs outside.
Terhun’s senior gaped as the naked girl raced down the steps. “The Pack’s in big trouble, Raven. We’ll need Je’orj to meet us in the Seventh, a place called Melane’s House of Aqwinian Delights.”
The girl nodded, shimmered then took wing to streak out the open door.
The man swayed weak-kneed. Cle’or instantly steadied him as Fri’il quickly re-entered her room. She paused to consider, touched her stomach briefly, then rushed to her bags and took out her Cathartan livery. She changed clothes as quickly as she could.
Gallen paused before approaching the entry to the building that contained the Pack’s Warren. Something was wrong. The alleyway signaled danger. The fallen brick face lay in a pattern of warning, the piece always kept on the second story ledge; the three on the third were gone. None appeared to have fallen to the ground. Gallen quickly concealed the sack of food behind a refuse crate, while carefully maintaining his thoughts, I am no one important; I am not here. The urchin then headed for what the Rules determined would be the Reserve Headquarters in time of emergency.
Ruke’s bounds were removed. The “Daggers” left him in a dimly lit storeroom. Andre smiled warily at him, “Surprise meeting you here.”
“What’s going on?”
>
“No one’s deigned to tell me, but I think we’re waiting for the Prince.”
“The Price isn’t due until next week.”
“Depends on the Price, doesn’t it?” Andre replied.
Jeo, the merchant, and his partner, Sean, arrived by coach. Stievan and the other dwarves under his charge were diligent at their duties, which Stievan was proud to show the human merchant.
Dwarves were sweeping up behind them as Jeo asked, “I take it you’ve found a couple that would consider taking service?”
“Distant cousins of mine, recently come from Tane... They could well use the work and would be grateful to live so close to the Quarter.”
“I take it life in your home Province is still difficult?”
Sighing, Stievan replied, “Very. For more than four hundred years it has been so. Tane, the Gate to the Empire, has become a place of drudgery. We send what money we can back to our families there. When they have enough they can leave the mines and travel the canals to the Capital.”
“How long have your cousins been living here?”
“Oh, a short time, six years.”
The merchant stared. “That seems a long time to me.”
“They saved money for three score years to bring their family here. Six years is truly unremarkable. Dwarves respect perseverance, which is why I think the family will do well for you. They have ambition, and are very loyal.”
A divan couch was carried into the shop past them. “I take it they’re ready to move in?”
Stievan heartily laughed, “No, not yet... But soon, if you agree. Have you selected anyone suitable to serve as factor here, good merchant?”
“No, but believe me, many offers.”
“Though, none you trust yet, which is wise... Human ambition must be judged quite carefully, my people have learned.”
The merchant abruptly closed his eyes and swayed, clutching his staff grimly for support. His partner rushed to his aid, eyes wide with worry. Stievan and passing dwarves gaped as the merchant’s staff burst into brilliant white light.
“The Summoning,” he moaned, fighting against its pull.
Through the staff’s fierce light, he could see images superimposed upon one another. A confusion of people and places, all jumbled. There were gasps of astonishment all around him as Se’and and a handful of dwarves watched the unfolding images.
Frantic urchins, those that had not gone into hiding, seemed intent upon reaching a specific goal. Terhun and his men were in the Seventh Tier, looking grim and purposeful.
In fact, a good number of the urchins, the lad he had seen that morning among them, seemed to have joined Terhun.
There was a place. It was dimly lit, but he could see two bound urchins there being questioned by a well-dressed man and a handsome adolescent dressed in a gauze hassock, his lips oddly pigmented in garish red.
Something else was happening, something relating to Alrex’s Summoning. A fog of some sort was descending over that area of the Seventh. Clouds began to suddenly mass over the entire city. The Gate’s power adjusting nature to fit a Highmage’s will, creating a static that was beginning to blank events in the Seventh completely.
Yet, there was an unaffected image from an image outside the Seventh that in some way must be involved.
He heard Se’and gasp even before he could recognize what he was seeing. :Triangulating based on the locations identified,: flashed Staff’s analysis through his enrapt mind.
In the final set of images, there rode Cle’or, a-horse and speeding through the city gates trailing behind a black liveried rider, who raced past scrambling out of their way were Imperial Guardsmen.
“Fri’il! By the First Daughter!” Se’and shouted.
George found his thoughts indelibly focused upon the young blonde woman rider, who, heedless of the fact that she was pregnant, was waving her sword. She looked like something called up from legends. Her Cathartan livery fluttered in the wind as she rushed toward danger. He swallowed hard; she was beautiful— and incredibly stupid. :Triangulation complete.: The images instantly faded and the staff’s unnatural light winked out as if it had never been. An overlay map of the Seventh Tier filled George’s mind as the Summoning faded.
Fri’il’s involvement was enough to make him rush into the street. There was a sudden squawking as Je’orj shouted for a coach. Stievan and the dwarves followed in his wake and stared as a pale falc with a black crest circled at rooftop level overhead, screaming for attention.
The man looked up at the bird and mentally sent, ‘Try to head off Fri’il— and keep that foolish girl from harm no matter what!’
“It is the prophecy,” muttered the eldest dwarf to Stievan, who could but gape as the coach drew close and the merchant’s partner opened the door for the man.
“The Seventh Tier! Hurry!” he shouted to the coachman.
“Me? You can well find another!” the coachman shouted.
Stievan tossed the man his purse as he pushed past the woman— two of his fellows, the guards Tett and Spiro, rushed in right after, while as Se’and stared.
George’s eyes were unseeing as the staff he bore glowed ever so slightly. Se’and forced herself into the crowded coach as the coachman whipped his team to a trot.
“The Seventh you want, Sirs! The Seventh it is!” the driver shouted grimly. The purse was suitably heavy for any amount of daring do!
People in the street ogled at the strange sight of the jostled dwarven and human occupants struggling to sit in the speeding coach. The dwarven elder looked at the other dwarves and said, “One of you lads go fetch the Faeryn!”
The Imperial troop was marching their way to the redoubt in the Fourth Tier, when the crowd ahead of them through the Gate began to scurry. People afoot cried out as the city guard, often paid to be incurious hurried off the street and into the Tier Wall’s hollowed out environs.
Imperial Aqwinian Captains’ pay precluded such arrangements. His once in formation marching troop hurried out of the path of the horse ridden by what Captain Yates thought insanely to be a black liveried Cathartan. Yates shouted for the woman to halt as he fought back to his feet, even as he heard the sound of racing hooves behind him. He was forced to dive out of the way as a black robed rider bolted past.
Picking himself up off the ground, the Captain called for a squad to follow him as he grabbed up one of the Guards’ horses.
“Hey! You can’t do that!” their sergeant cried.
Swords were drawn from scabbards. Imperial swords, enchanted to fight against the Dark and its minions. They glowed as no true steel ought. There was no further question as to right. “Get the troop to the redoubt!” Yates shouted to his leftenant, then the seven-man squad and their captain rode after the Vanished pair down through the Sixth Tier.
Gallen had a half a dozen Pack members with him as he approached the Red District of the Seventh. In this place, any fleshly desire could be purchased or sold.
This place provided the Prince of Thieves his warren. This place took what protection he offered and afforded him in turn with their various services. Bribes could be purchased or debts made here easily enough that an unlocked door to a Guild warehouse or merchant’s den was a paltry price to pay. The Prince was not one to miss such profitable opportunities.
Colvin’s squad appeared in the distance as did a few urchins around Terhun and his half dozen private guards, which gave Gallen real pause to wonder. The agent signaled him and Gallen acknowledged. Melane’s was Terhun’s guess. It was a place of Pack horror tales.
Cloud cover above them was becoming thick as if a storm were suddenly due.
Gallen frowned, noting the presence of too many beggars bearing daggers that were much too fine for them. He watched the supposed “Daggers” warily. The well dressed thief appeared in the quickly emptied street. “Ah, Terhun, so nice that you’ve chosen to visit us.”
The black robed rider sighed, “Follow me, but as rear guard, or not at all!”
“
Cle’or, no!” But the other woman simply glared. “You’re stepping on my foot!” the dwarf, Tett, exclaimed.
“Oh, sorry,” Se’and murmured halfheartedly, more concerned about Je’orj at the moment and the way his staff was poking her in the confined space.
The coachman cried out, “Make way! Make way!”
Abruptly through the coach windows could be seen a mounted squad of Imperials brandishing their swords, “Out of our way, dolt!”
George could feel the coachman’s thought to pull back on the reins; could hear the anger and purpose of the squad’s rush into the heart of the Seventh. He looked clear eyed at his companions and said, “Hold on.”
Staff flared.
The reins snapped in the astonished coachman’s hands. His team neighed in surprise and bolted forward. Time seemed to slow about the coach. The Imperial Captain paused to gape as the coach vanished into the distance of too tight and confining streets. Their horses bucked and forced them to a halt. The captain turned and saw a robed man bearing a staff nearby.
He shouted, “Did you do this, Mage?”
“No, not I— if magic it even rightly was,” the cowled figure said. He chanted a spell and let the Summoning lead him forth, having difficulty not being impressed by the human mage’s exercise of his gift.
The Imperials waved drawn swords as the fog swept down upon them, completely obscuring the mage who had been standing there a moment before. Whatever was going on here?
Yates wondered as he rallied his men again.
A Prophecy Remembered
5
Melane’s House of Aqwinian Delights was a place that served only those of baser tastes.
“Oh, may I keep them, my Prince?”