Duty. Duty ensured Thaxos wed the horrible woman. He stayed married to her for a decade until he rid himself of her with a strangling cord in their bedroom. Man or woman, sexuality was a tool, a weapon useful for bending people to his will, as useful as iron, favor, or status. He had taken many lovers over the years, but as he grew older, he found himself taking ever more desperate measures to extend his life, and those measures cost him the physical talents required for seduction. It made no difference, though. He had other arrows in his quiver.
For many years, he had been content running the most powerful and influential merchant house in all the Seven Cities. Such power meant he could bend even the sorcerer-kings to his ear. Anything he wanted was his. At his word, people lived and died. Diverting a caravan could destroy an entire village, disrupting a region for a generation.
He had been content until Kalak’s madness grew unbearable. Kalak’s Folly, as the Ziggurat had become known, honored the mad king’s thousand-year reign. However, Thaxos knew better. It served some other purpose. Why else would the king have set every concern aside?
For fifteen centuries, the Vordons had dominated trade throughout the Seven Cities, and all had come to an end, or close enough. Thaxos refused to let it happen, which was why he threw in with the rebels, why he lent them his soldiers to crush the templars, and why his soldiers worked to restore order to the city. Tithian, who himself had betrayed King Kalak in the end, had promised him the mines would be reopened if Vordon would throw his support behind his bid to claim the crown. Tithian had sworn Vordon would be strong again. They were empty promises in the end. The mines were still closed, and the last of the ore Thaxos had set aside was on caravans bound for Nibenay and elsewhere. And after the last profits came in, Vordon would be ruined.
The time for talk was over. The solution, as Thaxos saw it, was to take the throne for himself.
A soft knock brought him back.
“Come,” he said.
Derlan Watari entered. Of all the servants Thaxos employed, Watari was his favorite. He could play the part of the fool well enough, delighting his guests with his antics, but behind the jester’s facade was a mind as sharp as his own. He wore a rust-red uniform with a black diamond on his collar. His face was comical, his larger eye swiveling around in his head while the smaller, squinty eye seemed to wander.
The halfling bowed.
“Report,” he said.
“All went as planned. Each house has their orders, and they now move to the prepared locations.”
“Very good. It won’t be long now.” Thaxos rose from his seat and folded his arms behind him as he paced.
“Witnesses?”
“One,” said the halfling.
“Have you dealt with it?”
“I intend to, master. In the morning,” said the halfling.
“Who was it?”
“A thief, sir. He goes by Melech. He has been asking the questions,” he answered.
“He’s working for someone. Who?” said Thaxos.
“It is not Torston, as I had thought. Someone else is pulling Melech’s strings.”
“Find out quick. We cannot delay. Plans are already in motion. We must deal with this thief.”
“Shall I kill him?” asked the halfling, hopeful.
Thaxos had used him for such work several times, and he considered doing so again. “No. There are too many trails back to my door. Tip off Khyben Torston. Suggest this Melech has been working for the Poison Sting. That should take care of our curious friend.” The Poison Sting was a nasty group operating in Under-Tyr, the extensive cave system running from one side of the city to the other. They were Torston’s fiercest competitors for control over the city’s criminal underworld.
The halfling nodded.
“My cousin is at the Caravan Gate as we speak. I want you there when I greet her.”
Watari bowed and left.
When the door closed, Thaxos returned to the window and thought about what he would wear for his coronation.
The caravan limped into Tyr just before dawn, passing through the Caravan Gate and moving down the wide thoroughfare toward Iron Square. The gate sentries stalled their progress. They denied entry to all until dawn. Bribes changed their mind.
The last time Alaeda had come to Tyr, the sorcerer-king still sat on the throne and House Vordon had a stranglehold on the iron trade. Alaeda had come with her house leader, Hargan Stel, to negotiate with Thaxos Vordon for a better price on the iron. Thaxos proved disturbing. He had an ageless face and impeccable manners. Alaeda could sense something evil about him, something unnatural about his eyes. The negotiations hadn’t gone well, and House Stel came out the poorer. The failed effort put House Stel’s plans into motion.
As they traveled down Caravan Way, Alaeda walked alongside Phytos at the procession’s end. She had chosen the spot so they could slip away once the caravan reached road’s end. She looked down to her belt, where she saw the steel dagger Talara had given her. She felt guilty but quashed the unpleasant feeling with irritation. Each night since she gained the knife, Alaeda had spent time with Talara. She was generous and pleasant company. She had a strong sense of justice. Had Talara Vordon been across the table from Hargan Stel, Alaeda was certain there would have been a different outcome and the two houses would not be facing open war.
Vordon would not survive the coming storm. Stel was a rising power, and Vordon’s declining fortunes were no secret. Once King Hamanu conquered Tyr, Stel would gain the mines, and not even their hated rivals House Tsalaxa would be able to stand against them. As much as Alaeda looked forward to the new order, she had begun to consider what Stel’s ascent would mean for people such as Talara Vordon. They had become friends of a sort since the battle against the hejkin, and she felt a bit guilty for her duplicity. She chased off those feelings with a promise that she would make sure Talara had a place in House Stel once all the nasty business had been settled.
And then there was her slave, Pakka. The dwarf possessed incredible power, so it made no sense to Alaeda why she would consent to being a slave. Alaeda had sensed a connection between the women and knew nothing would break it.
Ahead, the mekillot roared as the handlers brought it to a halt. The caravan followed suit, and guards, servants, and workers set to work unloading the beasts and wagons. They did not delay, not even to stretch their legs. They were excited to be in Tyr. And who wouldn’t be? War might loom on the horizon, but until Urik’s armies knocked on the front gates, Tyr remained a thriving, exciting city with opportunities not found anywhere else in the Seven Cities.
Alaeda felt the new guilt rise again, but she didn’t shove it down. Urik would crush Tyr. Hamanu would make slaves of most, save those who caught his fancy. He had done it before. He wiped out entire villages when they offended him and threw the survivors into the mines, never to be seen again.
“Soon,” she whispered to Phytos, who had not left her side except when Talara invited Alaeda to talk at night.
Phytos nodded. He checked his bags and the backpack hanging from Alaeda’s shoulders so he looked busy.
Servants and workers boiled out from the Vordon emporium. New handlers led beasts to stables deeper in the Merchant District. Porters hauled off supplies. As she ran her eyes across the crowds, she spotted a familiar face, and a cold chill settled over her heart. Thaxos Vordon. At his side stood a halfling attendant, stylus and tablet in hand. Thaxos moved through the crowds, touching shoulders and lending an encouraging word wherever he went. His mere presence livened up the workers, and though they worked just as hard, the exhaustion from the difficult journey seemed to melt away.
He saw her. He nodded his head. Alaeda could not be certain if he knew her, but her face must have been familiar given his reaction. Alaeda turned away from him. She looked for a side street down which she and Phytos could flee. “Now,” she said. “Follow me.”
Instead of heading for the alley, Alaeda and Phytos moved in among the workers. They used a wagon
for cover then made a sharp turn once a few porters could hide their movements. A few moments later, they were running down a street to put as much distance between themselves and the merchant prince as they could.
Pakka stood by Talara Vordon as she hugged her cousin Thaxos. There was real warmth in their embrace. There was no warmth from Thaxos Vordon’s manservant, an ugly little fellow whose large eye rolled and whose squinty eye remained fixed on Pakka. She felt uncomfortable under his stare and shifted from foot to foot.
“Cousin, it is good to be in Tyr,” said Talara.
“It is good to have you back. It has been far too long,” he replied. “You have fewer people than I expected. Was the journey difficult?”
“One attack was enough. Hejkin. The disgusting things claimed half my force.”
Thaxos nodded. “Reports from the caravans who make it back paint a grim picture about the roads these days.”
“I have much to tell you and many questions as well,” said Talara. “For one, why did you call us back?”
Thaxos raised his hands. His smile made him appear to be an indulgent grandfather. “In time, in time. Let me take you to the chambers I have had prepared for you. A real bed waits for you, as does a meal, something I hope will be better than trail rations.”
Talara sighed but nodded. She said, “I would like to extend an invitation to one of my guards. She saved my life.”
“Of course, of course,” he said. “Who?” He looked around.
Talara and Pakka did as well. Pakka guessed she was talking about Alaeda. They had grown close the past few days.
Talara smiled at Thaxos then turned to her workers. The hope on her face became disappointment when she couldn’t find her. Alaeda must have slipped away.
Thaxos placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s no matter. Your dwarf will find her and bring her at once.” He didn’t even look at her when he spoke.
“I will, mistress,” said Pakka. She curtsied and raced off to find the woman or the mul she traveled with.
She found Rek instead. He was overseeing the laborers who unloaded the beasts and wagons.
He grinned at her and left the workers to their business. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he said, “How does freedom taste, mother?”
“The same as it did the day before,” she replied. “Have you seen Alaeda?”
“No, not since we came through the gate. Why?” He scanned the workers and guards.
“Talara would like her to attend her.”
“Your mistress places far more trust in that desert rat than I would,” he said. “Honestly—”
“If you see her?” she interrupted.
“I’ll send her to you.”
Pakka walked all the way around Iron Square and did not find Alaeda or Phytos. When she rejoined Talara Vordon as she was being escorted back to her quarters, Pakka saw that the halfling who had been at Thaxos’s side was gone.
Alaeda sent Phytos to secure rooms at an inn they had passed on the way to Shadow Square and left him with a promise they’d meet by midday. Away from the caravan and Phytos’s constant presence, Alaeda felt liberated. It was as if she had left all the expectations and responsibilities somewhere back at the gate. She turned a corner, moving past a mul bargaining with a shifty elf in the shadows cast by a red tent, and stepped into Tyr’s infamous marketplace. The square hadn’t changed since her last visit to the city. The vendors had altered the colors of the tents, but the same vibrancy, the same excitement remained. She knew there was no place better than the open-air market for securing work, picking up rumors, and finding trouble. It wasn’t large, but it was crowded enough that Alaeda couldn’t see the other side. Tents and stalls created a maze of twisting pathways, each choked by peoples from all across the Seven Cities. The humans were common, but the place also boasted representatives of every race Alaeda knew and several with which she was unfamiliar.
Dwarves hawked fine stone weaponry, while elves bandied insults alongside invitations, daring potential customers to examine their wares. Everything was for sale in Shadow Square, from weapons and armor, to common materials, to uncommon and even illegal things. Folk traded with impunity, for not even the king would dare interfere with the place or its people.
The merchants’ wares caught Alaeda’s eye. She spotted an iron sword with a jewel set in the pommel, a fine cloth cloak with colors shifting to match whatever it was against, powders and potions, poisons and toxins, all tools she could use. Of course, it was not the time for shopping. She had business.
Alaeda picked her way through the press, her hand never far from the sword she carried, both for protection and to keep thieves away. Her iron blade could feed a family for life. She avoided the market’s center, where it was most crowded, and kept to the fringes, where more permanent shops stood, doors open to invite passersby into their cooler interiors. It was early still, but it was already hot.
She was supposed to find her contact at the Red Kank. She would rather have just gone home to Urik and put all the intrigue behind her. Duty came first, though, as it always did.
As she walked, she couldn’t help but notice the looming Ziggurat. A gaudy thing, it was painted a rainbow of colors moving from deep indigo near the base up through the spectrum to a pinkish color at its top. Shadow Square and the Red Kank took up one corner of the busy market, and all stood in the Ziggurat’s shadow.
Thugs, sots, addicts, and thieves milled around. Alaeda passed the last few wine shops, brothels, and gambling dens then came to the Red Kank, a two-story building with an enclosed ground floor but with an open-air and terraced upper level affording a good view of the square that gave some relief from the stuffy interior. She spotted a hard man in sweat-stained white robes leaning against the rail above. His eyes followed her as she stepped inside.
A few drunkards and prostitutes leaned around in the common room. They watched her and turned back to their muted conversations. Alaeda took a seat near the door. As she sat, she noticed the man who had watched her from outside appear at the top of a rickety staircase leading up to the balconies reaching out over the common room. He stared at her. He had a shaved head. Black stubble darkened his round face. He might have been Nibenese or maybe Draji. Alaeda fingered the sword strapped to her hip.
“Don’t mind him; he’s with me. Insurance, you see,” said a voice in her ear.
Alaeda flinched. She breathed then turned to see who had sat next to her. “Hear the lion’s roar,” she said. She was surprised to see the speaker was an elf.
“All tremble before its fury,” he replied. “Alaeda?”
She nodded. “And you? I wasn’t told your name.”
“Galadan.”
Tension reigned between House Stel and the elven tribes. Stel had oppressed the elf tribes, taking slaves from them, raiding their own caravans, and worse. It was unusual for an elf to associate with any human merchant house, but it was unheard of for an elf to be in House Stel’s employ.
Galadan was lanky, and she guessed he was near seven feet tall standing up. He brushed long blond hair from his face.
“You’re careful, aren’t you?” she said, eyes searching the elf’s face.
“And you’re pretty. You move like an elf. But you’re not one. Not even a half-blood, are you?”
“And perceptive.”
“You’re late.”
“I’d love to try to keep up the banter. But let’s get to it, yes?”
“Certainly.”
“What’s the situation? I want a full rundown on what’s going on and orders from our friends about the next step.”
The elf smiled. “You don’t know, do you?”
“Know?”
“This is my operation now.”
She blanched. “I’m sure I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true. I don’t have time to waste explaining how things work to a tardy little girl.”
Alaeda fumed. She held her tongue.
“This is going to go right on schedule from here
on out. I stand to gain much when this mission is done, and if you prove yourself capable, you can come along for the ride. I might even forget about how late you are.”
She said nothing, so he continued. “I want you to lie low. Stay out of sight and wait for my call. Stay out of trouble. I’ve secured a room for you at the House of Fingers in the Bard’s Quarter. Here’s the key. Stay there and do not move until I send for you.”
“What about my man, Phytos?”
“Forget about him. I have something else in mind for him.”
She nodded. “You seem to have this all sorted out, don’t you?”
He smiled. “Indeed. Do you know anything about Khyben Torston?”
“No,” she said.
“Too bad. He’s a local crime boss, and he’s with us. If I have time, I’ll arrange a meeting. You look offended. Sorry about dashing your hopes. First come, first served. I’ll let you in on something, though. Torston sold out the city. He wants to be legitimate—lands, slaves, and a title. Seems a good price for access to his network. He has eyes and ears all over this damned city. So behave. I hear about you snooping around, and your last name ain’t gonna save you from me. Got it?”
She nodded and stood up. He didn’t stand. “Stay out of trouble and wait for me to send for you.”
Korvak sighed at Melech’s discomfort. Sweat beaded the young man’s face, plastering his hair to his forehead. The cockiness and self-confidence were absent in his worried expression. The thief had stammered and stuttered, stumbling over his words and jumbling the tale so Korvak had no idea what he was talking about.
He interrupted. “Calm down, Melech, and tell me what happened. From the beginning.”
“Calm down? Oh, sure. I’m a dead man, and you want me to relax. I’m finding it a little difficult, what with the noose you put around my neck.”
“What happened?” repeated Korvak, a bit more steel in his voice.
Melech threw himself in the empty chair. His leg bounced and he chewed on his thumbnail. “Torston knows. He has to know. I’m so dead, damn it!”
Death Mark Page 16