by Scott Taylor
And he did.
There are those who come to Taux to steal and prey on the weak. There are those who seek a hiding place or new victims for their play. And there are those who sense a hidden power and would claim it for their own.
But there are those who live within Taux’s walls, who stand in her great Tower who will deny evil with their last breath.
Given a chance.
Illustration by Jeff Laubenstein
CHARLATAN
Scott Taylor
The stones were slick with sea mist as Savino crept down another stair. Behind, the silver light of the Ghost Moon bled away into amber as the Blood Moon replaced it in their nightly dance.
“This is just another example of how you are a fool,” he whispered to himself.
His torch guttered, a foul breeze blowing up from the depths at the words. Below, the slithering sound of scales being pulled over stone was followed by a splash, and his stomach churned.
Crouching low, he slipped the torch into a fracture of the stair, took a long breath, and then removed his pack.
“Three days ago I was a man without a care, and now I face a serpent like some damnable knight of Gariny…”
He reached into his pack, brought forth his ice-shoes and unbuckled the leather straps. His boots were wet, the leather dark with sea water, but he placed the whale-bone runners beneath his soles and wrenched the tethers tight before clasping the buckles. With a hard slam, he tested each blade, both staying in place as a deep hiss rose up the stair.
“You’ve no fire, serpent, and are far too big to fit in this old priest’s entry, so keep your threats to yourself,” he said.
Withdrawing a vial from his pack, he undid the stopper and applied another touch of liquid to his palms, the smell of undiluted jasmine filling the stair.
Finally, he leaned his head back against the cool stone, closed his eyes, and sighed.
“Three days ago… Saints, it seems like a year…”
“How many men have you killed?” Esmeralda Serata asked.
Savino’s voice was bored, “I’m not into record keeping…”
The sanguine young woman rose naked from the bed, swooned, and then grabbed the windowsill. Her left hand, bandaged at the knuckles, rose to push aside golden curls and rub her head just above the right temple.
“You’ve not recovered, Esmer, come back to bed before you fall over.”
A curse slipped her lips, a harbor breeze swishing the palm fronds outside the window and tightening her nipples. She turned on him, the lines of her body drawing his eyes away from her face. Leaning back into the sill, she crossed her long legs.
“I’ve got to know, Savino, you have to teach me your secrets,” she said.
“Your tutors are already fine blades, you wear the silver badge, and even a master duelist has taken you under his wing, so why do you need me?” he asked.
She smiled, all things innocent pouring into her lovely face. “You mistake me, Savino, I’ve had practice, certainly, but not with a master.”
“Thrice a week you come to me with jasmine on your skin, love, and only one man in the city could have put it on you,” he replied.
Her eyes narrowed, the angelic countenance sliding away into the veneer of a viper.
“Teach me, I’ve earned it,” she whispered.
A smile crossed his lips but she didn’t return it. They stared at each other, doves taking wing outside as a city bell sounded the changing of the watch from the Gold Jaguar’s beacon hill at a quarter of noon.
Finally, he shook his head, “What you seek is folly, and I don’t share secrets for revenge, even for one who shares my bed.”
Light faded from her face, eyes darkening before she pushed away from the window and walked from the room. He could smell the heat of her fury, the chatter of the beaded door hangings mocking her retreat.
Sighing, he got to his feet and stretched, a breeze forming around him as he took a deep breath. Outside the window, a Jai-Ruk was arguing with his wife across the alley, and he laughed at a particularly fine retort from the female.
Below, a knock sounded.
“Are you expecting someone?” he called into the far room.
Esmer didn’t reply, but a dog had begun barking, and the arguing neighbor slammed his shutter closed.
Throwing on his breeches, boots, and shirt, Savino heard the knocks sound again, this time more forcefully. At the stair he grabbed his rapier, slid if from its sheath, and made his way down to the door.
“We know you’re in there, Savino,” a deep voice echoed through the door.
He turned, made it up two steps, when the voice continued, “And we have a crossbow on the window.”
Stopping, he closed his eyes and shook his head. Above, Esmer’s voice trailed down the stairs, “If you’d have taught me, I could have warned you, but you know better than most that nothing in Taux is free.”
“May Saint Amanda bless you!” he yelled up to her.
A laugh followed, but he turned back to the door and threw the heavy bolt. The wood frame slowly swung inward, Savino sheathing his blade as the morning sun forced him to raise his elbow to shield his eyes.
Outside, three dark figures stood. One was Tohil, his Sturgeon blue standing out. The other two wore dueling leathers, and gilded rapiers at their hips.
“What can I do for you gentlemen?” he asked.
One of the two reached inside his half-laced doublet and produced a folded piece of parchment set with a wax seal.
Savino dropped his arm, took the letter, and asked, “Razor couriers… is the dueling business so downtrodden these past weeks you’ve taken extra work?”
The younger of the two Razors reached for his rapier, but a wary eye from Tohil – the man stood a head taller than the rakish duelist – backed him down.
Sliding his thumb into a flap, Savino broke the wax, marked with the standard of House Vash, and unfolded the letter.
For acts perpetrated against House Vash, you are formerly challenged for a midnight council upon the Baymourn Bridge three days hence.
Savino looked up, a smile crossing his lips. “Who is the sender?” he asked.
“Yoatl Vash”, the Razor replied.
Inside, Savino felt his stomach fall, bile rising in his nostrils, but his face was implacable and the smile remained.
“Tell Master Vash he shall see me at the appointed hour,” he replied.
Tohil was absently watching a litter on the street, the tattoos on his face playing like dark snakes in the light. Sturgeons were under strict orders to disallow death duels, but upper class Razors needed an escort when entering the Black Gate, and the large Sturgeon was known for his discretion.
The two duelists nodded, turned, and Tohil snapped back to attention.
“Keep out of trouble,” Tohil said.
The Sturgeon raised a hand and waved down the street, and Savino saw a shadowed form lower a crossbow and retreat into an alley.
“You too Tohil,” Savino replied.
Laughing, his white teeth gleaming, Tohil marched after the Razors, his blue raiment cutting a swath through the crowds now swelling the street as the city rose from its slumber.
Savino leaned against the frame of the door, closed his eyes and let his head fall back. Above, he heard Esmer moving about the bedroom before the remainder of his clothes and a hat came tumbling down the stair.
“You are a kind woman!” he called.
There was no answer, and he collected his things before turning into the light of the street.
The stink of sweat was heavy in Savino’s nose as he slammed the ball home, two smaller men cursing and falling away beneath him before his feet returned to the dirt of the Ullamalitzli court. A dozen scattered claps and a single curse were all that marked the valor of his effort.
Dethocrates came forward and drew him into a hearty embrace, the Jai-Ruk’s arms twice the size of his own.
“Well done, my friend, the air is with you today!”
Savino disengaged from the large man, Borowl and Talb coming up from the far side of the court to shake his hand before they went to brag to some off-shift ladies of the Purse watching from the stands.
“I’d better enjoy the wins while I can,” Savino said.
Dethocrates laughed, “That sounds ominous, is it worth talking about?”
“Sure, if you enjoy hearing a requiem.”
The two walked toward a ladder dropped into the field pit by youths, the other team having already used it to escape the field in dejection.
“I’ve heard my fair share of mournful tales, so let me have it.”
“You know Ayleen Vash?” Savino asked, climbing.
“The Silver Charm of the Jagaur, how could I not?”
“Evidently I’ve tarnished her luster…”
“Impossible, the girl never leaves the cloister of her father’s keepers,” Deth replied.
Savino, stepping away from the top of the ladder after his climb, put his hands in a water barrel and splashed his body with the cool liquid. He rinsed his face, neck, and armpits before a boy offered him his shirt.
“You won me a coin today, Master Emantra,” the boy said.
Savino looked down, smiled, and tousled the boy’s hair.
“Gambling is the quickest way to the grave,” he said, and the boy frowned, before adding, “And to untold riches if you are wise.”
The boy brightened, and Savino turned back to Deth as he rinsed his hulking, grey-skinned body.
“You are right, of course,” Savino began, “Yoatl Vash would never let his niece wander without a well-seasoned bodyguard at her side.”
Deth turned, frowning, “You didn’t?”
Savino threw his hand up in mock defense, “She was no conquest, the girl had already found experience before I laid any claim, but something must have happened to put her virtue in question and I’m the one to take the fall. Or so it seems.”
“You may as well have stolen gold from the fabled Emerald Serpent of the Sun Isle; you’d live no longer and there would surely be less pain involved in your death,” Dethocrates observed.
“The Emerald Serpent is no fable, and those that know say it’s not stealing the gold, it’s keeping it that is the trouble,” Savino replied.
Dethocrates lifted a dark bushy eyebrow, “You know too much on this subject for my tastes, old friend, but it does give weight to Torrent’s words to watch out for you and your schemes.”
Savino sighed, pulled on his shirt, and watched children descend the ladder with giggling glee as they prepared for a less intense game.
“Ah Torrent, now there is a name I’ve not heard in several a moon. If only she hadn’t left the city I might still have a chance in all this mess.”
Deth harrumphed, “Then I guess you hadn’t heard that she’s back and staying at the Serpent.”
Air swirled around the two of them, a breeze so fresh it must have come from a hundred miles of the city.
“What did you say?” Savino asked.
Frowning, Deth walked away from the field, calling over his shoulder, “I said Torrent was back.”
“I’m going to need you!” Savino shouted.
Deth waived, held a thumb up in the air, and then disappeared into the Silver Circle. Savino smiled, grabbed his hat and blade, and then ran in the opposite direction toward the front doors of the Emerald Serpent.
The eastern side of the Silver Circle, the street that ringed the inner grounds of the Black Gate, was no less crowded than the west, and Savino slipped into the throng of workers shuffling out of the tenement houses to their daily labors outside the Gate. The mass of them took the grand canal ferry to the Smoke Dragon District and then back again at dusk, their days spent in the sweat shops of the Red Pillars.
Intermingled with them were the outsiders, those not of the Gate. Tonight the local Snakes went against the wealthy district’s Jaguars in a grand tournament game, and the Black Gate was open for business, the population of the old stadium swelling to twice its normal size.
The journey to the Serpent’s door was no more than fifty feet, but it took him a full minute to touch the steps through the traffic. Doors of iron-wrapped oak stood open, smoke and the smell of a morning’s fixings spilling out the stained keystone at the top of the entry arch.
He moved inside, light shining down in great colored pillars from the windowed terraces above, their heavy curtains drawn back in the morning to bring some cheer to the hard interior. To the left of the entry were curtained booths, three of the six drawn closed and green-flamed candles burning to signal business being dealt. On the right, running into the belly of the hall, were three dozen tables, half stacked with chairs near the door and those closer in occupied by those seeking to break their fast.
Above, a gallery wrapped around the main floor, a single twisting stair leading up to a shadowed alcove where it was said Saint Shera once counted coin when she’d owned the tavern in the troubled times of the Five Year War. Further back, beyond the crescent bar were private rooms. In one of those, marked with a heavy bolt, the entrance to the catacombs was known to those foolhardy treasure seekers who sometimes paid the tavernkeep, Quilan, precious Coatls for access as they sought riches better left undisturbed in the bowels of the ancient city.
Savino noted all this in passing, his gait moving him through the maze of tables, past the morning diners, and toward a smaller section of booths tucked to the right of the bar. There, seated on two cushions in the furthest booth, sat Lareo.
The Eldaryn was small, half the size of a full-grown human, with spiked hair like burnished platinum tipped with faded tendrils of blue. He had a mustache resembling curled copper wire, and his red eyes were surrounded by tortoise-shell glasses. A trinket of silver caught the morning light in his small fingers as he inspected it, a box with many drawers and expanding shelves next to him on the top of the table.
“Lareo,” Savino called in greeting.
Looking away from his prize, the trader smiled and a wave of heat blew past Savino as he stepped to the far side of the booth.
“May I?” Savino asked.
Lareo nodded, saying, “It’s early for a scheme this morning, even for you.”
“What makes you think I’ve a scheme in mind?” Savino asked.
Lareo raised a coppery eyebrow, laughed, and then put his silver away. With a deft flick of fingers too quick to follow, he closed the box and pushed it aside.
“I’d heard Yoatl had challenged you, but I figured you would skip town instead of seek my service, unless of course it’s my service you need in getting out,” Lareo said.
Savino smiled, “Actually, I need a pair of ice blades.”
Lareo’s eyes grew large behind his lenses before he squinted until his crimson irises burned like embers.
“What game are you playing?” the trader asked.
“It’s best you don’t know,” Savino replied.
“That may set well with your girls, wind-born, but to me it sounds hollow as an abandoned cave,” Lareo answered.
“If you must know, I want to go skating,” Savino said.
The air bloomed with heat, sweat beading on Savino’s forehead and he brushed it away with the back of his hand.
“Skating? In Taux?” Lareo asked.
“Yes, it’s the perfect time of year, don’t you think?” Savino asked.
Lareo laughed, “You’ve lost what little sense I’ve credited you with. Even in the Lupin Hills there can’t be ice this time of year, and yet you want to skate in a city that’s never seen a single snowflake?”
“Does it really matter what I want to waste my coin on? I was raised in Mistfin, and could skate before I could walk, so perhaps I simply want to remember my youth before I pass from this world.” Savino said.
Sitting back, Lareo crossed his arms over the silk shirt at his breast, one corner of his mouth coming up in a curl.
“I may be able to acquire what you’re after,” he said.
<
br /> “May?” Savino asked.
“Well, that sort of cargo can sometimes be found on the craft barges coming out of Findalynn in the winter season. There are a few ships from Dragmarsh in the harbor, but it won’t be easy.”
“Nothing worthwhile ever is,” Savino said.
“Is that what you told young Ayleen Vash?”
Savino laughed, his face a mask of well-practiced charm. “Whatever happens, Lareo, I want you to understand one thing, and make sure all that ask know what I proclaim as well.”
Lareo waited, the heat from his little body swelling with each second of anticipation.
“She was worth it,” Savino said.
A smile that nearly burst into flame spread beneath the Eldaryn’s copper mustache, and he then spit in his hand with a hiss as the liquid turned to vapor before he offered it up. Savino looked at the trader’s hand, bit the inside of his cheek, and shook. The pain was intense, like grabbing the handle of an iron pan from the fire, but he held firm.
“With a statement like that, Savino, you know I’m bound by love of a life well-lived to get you those ice shoes, but I’ll have a heavy purse of 5 Gold Jaguars for my trouble,” Lareo stated.
Savino nodded, shook hard, and then pulled his hand back with a hiss escaping his lips. The skin was intact, but it pulsed with crimson and stung like a lash had been laid to it.
“I’ll need them yesterday,” Savino said.
Lareo nodded, “With your duel in less than two days, I’m sure you do. Be here at sun setting and I’ll have what you seek.”
Rising, Savino tipped his hat and then headed for the bar, the Eldaryn’s laughter following him like the baying of a Sturgeon’s hound.
The Serpent was packed, almost overwhelmed, the throng of patrons drowning their sorrows at yet another defeat of their beloved Snakes. Outside, the reverie of the Vash carnival had died away, the coming of the tome mage and his three-headed serpent, and the death of Vash’s talismonger, Pelantus, still lingering on the fringes of almost all conversation.