The conversation turned to rumors about the Poison Sting, a criminal outfit known to work in Under-Tyr. Torston obsessed over the rival gang and would listen to any rumor, no matter how unreliable. After Kep offered a few scraps, Torston dismissed them both. Kep and Melech left the booth. Melech kept his head very still.
“Come straight back, got it?” said Torston.
Melech nodded, wincing at the pain in his face.
The halfling headed toward the door. Melech followed. They almost collided with a blond-haired elf, tall, lanky, very familiar to Melech.
The elf shouldered through them without apology. Kep walked outside. Melech lingered a moment. He turned back to get another look. The elf walked to Torston’s booth.
“Galadan, it is good to see you, my friend,” said the crime boss.
“Yes, Torston, it is,” said the elf. He took the seat Melech had just occupied a moment before. The voice. Melech knew at once who he was. He was the slaver who had sold his girl.
Tyr’s army, the Crimson Legion, marched at dawn. Led by the former gladiator and hero of the city, Rikus, Tyr’s soldiers flowed up Caravan Way, ex-gladiators at the fore followed by templars, nobles’ soldiers, Tyr’s guard, and with Vordon’s two thousand bringing up the rear. From a balcony overlooking the street, Pakka watched them march. Talara stood at her side. Grim-faced warriors organized in ragged ranks followed the commander to what most citizens thought would be a disaster. Pakka leaned over the rail. She scanned the host for any sign of Rek or even another soldier in the Vordon retinue who had survived the journey from Silver Spring Oasis. She scanned the warriors for Alaeda Stel. She saw no one she knew. There was little to distinguish one from the other in the flowing river of fear and eagerness, regret and hopefulness.
Pakka turned at a noise from Talara Vordon, thinking she had said something. She was mistaken. Talara’s face was a controlled mask, anger showing in the tightness of her eyes. Pakka understood Talara’s frustration. She shared it. They hadn’t been in Tyr a day before Talara learned what would become of the soldiers who had escorted her to the city. Vordon conscripted them all to march against Urik, along with every man and woman in the house’s service able to carry a weapon, and sent along the rest to attend the supplies, field hospitals, and the like. Vordon had emptied his barracks of all but his personal guard and had left Talara unprotected. He had taken even Rek from her.
Talara discovered the orders at the same time she learned Thaxos had committed their soldiers to a war that had nothing to do with them. The merchant houses did not involve themselves in disputes among the city-states. Trading houses did fight from time to time, but they fought each other. No house ever involved itself in the city-states’ troubles. Doing so invited repercussions. Urik would be in its rights to name them outlaws and strip them of their trading rights. The other houses would crush them. One house violating the ancient agreements between the merchants and the tyrants could unravel the delicate peace that allowed the merchant clans to trade without interference for more than a thousand years.
It shouldn’t matter who ruled Tyr, so long as the iron flowed and the houses’ businesses were left to operate as they always had. Thaxos Vordon compromised their standing among the other houses by violating those compacts. More, he had single-handedly destroyed their presence in the region. Tithian already promised to reopen the mines. In the coming days, the iron trade would resume, and Vordon would be powerful once more. With no soldiers to guard the caravans, there would be nothing to stop other houses, to say nothing of the desert predators, slave tribes, and other horrors, from destroying them. Worse, Talara had learned Thaxos had recalled operatives from almost every trade outpost they occupied in the region. Vordon stood at the abyss’s edge. One nudge would destroy them all forever.
Vordon had said nothing about the commitments and nothing about his plans. Talara inspected the warehouses herself to find out what was going on. She discovered them stocked with all manner of goods. She had walked alongside the racks holding cloth and linen rolls, silk bolts from Raam, pottery from Urik and Draj, statuary, and more. There were commodities aplenty, but they were worthless while sitting there, gathering dust. Talara had suspected Thaxos had plundered his agents and drovers to meet his troop commitment. Finding the crodlu stables manned by just a few and the barracks empty of all but a handful of porters and workers confirmed her suspicions.
She kept silent about her findings. She said nothing about her misgivings until she dined with Pakka and Rek the night before Rek was to leave to fight against Urik. Talara had called it a farewell dinner for Rek. To them both, Talara confided her fears. She confessed Vordon was crumbling away and Thaxos must be either mad or plotting some villainy to let their house’s fortunes fall so low. Rek had agreed with her. He had spoken with other agents and soldiers and found them all mystified by their new orders. He had also revealed Thaxos had been using his soldiers to police Tyr’s streets since King Kalak’s fall, another violation of the Merchant’s Code.
Talara discussed confronting her cousin to get the truth about his plotting and, if finding him incompetent, telling him to step down. Rek argued against such a rash action. He had said, “I fear we’re seeing the tip of the silt horror’s tentacle. There is more to this than an unhinged mind. I have known Thaxos for many years, and I have yet to find a craftier man. But neither have I found a person more committed to this house. Trust him, lady. We may not know his reasons, but I believe he has our best interests at heart.”
The conversation then turned to matters of war, the role Vordon’s forces would play in the coming conflict, and other dull subjects of no interest to Pakka at all. She didn’t object to Rek’s counters, but she didn’t support them either. After all, it was Thaxos who had stripped Talara of her protectors. Thaxos seemed a man capable of anything, willing to bend or break any rule to advance his station, and Pakka feared he would soon add her mistress to his list of victims.
Pakka’s thoughts turned back to the soldiers marching below her. The last had moved out from their view and were followed by war wagons drawn by armored inix and mekillot, with kank-mounted warriors flanking their sides. Pakka touched Talara’s arm. “Come, mistress, you must eat.”
Talara jumped. She turned on Pakka, eyes flashing, but calmed almost at once. “You’re right. As always.”
They left the balcony and the soldiers to their fate. They left for the third-floor apartments’ cool interior. Thaxos owned the building and used the rooms for his honored guests, or so he had said. The main room was comfortable. A stuffed leather couch stood to one side, flanked by chairs all facing a small table. Near the balcony, a smaller wooden table stood with two wooden chairs on either side. Tapestries hung on the walls. One depicted a caravan scene. Another showed the city skyline. Other minor decorations cluttered the chamber. A small obsidian statue stood on an ornamental table by the door, and a hideous stone bust of Thaxos rested atop a short column in the corner.
There were a couple of doors in the walls. One led to a boudoir. A bowl of sand for cleaning the skin and tooth powders were among the many amenities Vordon’s generosity offered. The other door led to Talara’s bedroom and the side chamber where Pakka slept on a cot. In all, they were fine accommodations. Talara was not, however, comfortable in them. She spent her time out in the streets or, when forced to return, she leaned against the balcony railing to look out over the city.
Pakka guided Talara to the seat by the small table. Cut fruit lay in a bowl next to a platter filled with eggs, erdlu meat, and sweet cakes. A glass pitcher held clean, clear water. Condensation beaded and slithered down the sides to darken the soft red cloth covering the table.
When Talara sat, Pakka placed a napkin in her lap and stepped back to be of use should Talara need anything.
“What are you doing?”
Pakka stammered, “Ah … attending you, lady?”
“Sit, Pakka. I’ll have no more of this nonsense from you.”
Stung, Pakka to
ok the other seat. Talara scooped food onto her own plate then reached across the table to place it in front of Pakka in a generous act that took her by surprise. Her wonder must have shown since Talara said, “Eat.”
Talara herself picked at the offering. She bit into a melon cube and sampled one of the cakes.
Pakka ate, measuring her bites so if her mistress were still hungry, there would be food left for her. She would not take food from her mistress’s mouth.
Neither spoke through the meal. Pakka counted each bite and stared outside at a fluttering insect. Talara, too, seemed distracted, lost in her thoughts.
“I can’t believe he left me,” said Talara.
“Who? Rek?” asked Pakka.
“Of course. Before you say anything, I know he was doing as my cousin commanded. I just can’t believe he didn’t argue. He didn’t protest. He even defended my cousin’s actions.”
“We do not know if he argued or not. Not for certain,” said Pakka.
“And that woman. She quit us before we could brush the sand from our clothing.”
Pakka nodded. Alaeda’s disappearance unsettled her as well. “I am sure she left for good reason.”
“Perhaps because she was the killer after all,” Talara said, arching an eyebrow.
Pakka dropped her eyes so Talara wouldn’t see her suspicions reflected there.
“Thaxos Vordon is generous,” said Pakka.
“Indeed he is, Pakka. He is,” said Talara.
Pakka noted the flatness of her speech. She searched her mistress’s face but saw nothing there. “What is it, lady? Are you unwell?” asked Pakka.
“Of course not. I’m just tired,” Talara said. Her movements told a different story. She stood up from the table and stepped out onto the balcony. She gestured for Pakka to follow. She placed a finger to her lips, warning her to silence. Talara trembled. Her eyes ran over the outer wall.
Pakka took Talara’s hand in concern.
Talara pushed her hand away. “There are ears in these walls. It’s not safe to be too free with our words inside. I discovered our eavesdroppers this morning.”
Spies? Talara had spoken bitter words the previous night, words damning and dangerous if they reached Thaxos.
Talara knelt so she could whisper in Pakka’s ear. “Someone is watching us. I know, I spoke in anger last night. The damage is done, and there’s nothing to do about it now. We must look forward.”
Pakka turned to peer inside. Her hand fell to the knife she kept at her belt. Talara stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.
“There are holes in the walls, one by the awful tapestry of the Ziggurat and another by the bust.”
Pakka shook her head, confused.
“They are there, trust me,” Talara said. “Guard your words.”
Nodding, Pakka whispered, “Why? I don’t understand. Are these people not our friends?”
“Once. Maybe. I don’t know. This trouble with the soldiers. The coming war. My cousin’s ambitions, whatever they may be, all paint a grim picture. I’ve heard stories about my cousin. He has secrets aplenty. I thought he called me back to Tyr to find a new assignment. I can’t believe how naive I was, thinking our kinship proof against treachery,” said Talara.
“But you are heir,” said Pakka.
“Just so. All the more reason for my cousin to think of me as a threat.”
“Then why bring you home?”
“I do not know.”
“You have me, lady,” said Pakka.
“Of course, Pakka, of course. You are always at my side.” Talara smiled. She touched her shoulder.
Pakka peered into the room, searching the walls for the holes Talara said were there. She saw nothing unusual. “What made you suspect?”
“I noticed a hole as I walked Rek to the door. Had I seen it earlier …”
Pakka nodded. If there were spies, it meant Rek might be in danger. “Spirits of my ancestors, we’re in danger!” she whispered. “So what do we do? Should I be worried? I mean, more worried than I am now?”
“I am still to attend dinner tomorrow night with Thaxos. He’ll have to answer some difficult questions. I will find out what he’s up to,” said Talara, thoughtful, worried.
“Be careful. Maybe we should run? We can be away from Tyr and start new lives somewhere else. Balic? It’s not so far,” she offered. Her mind raced about how they would get out, what they would need.
“And do what? No house would take me. And I will not send you to some quarry or field to work. No. I won’t run away from my responsibilities. House Vordon has withstood famine, plague, war, and worse for a thousand years. We are a people tested by fire and quick to take action. Vordon could drive us into oblivion. Perhaps it is time for me to take the reins.”
“What can I do?” said Pakka. The worry she felt was turning to nausea.
“I just can’t believe Vordon would empty our barracks. This is dangerous, Pakka, but I do need your help.”
“Of course.”
“I want you to go to the emporium and have a look. It was the one place we didn’t search. Come back to me at nightfall and tell me all you have learned.”
Pakka nodded.
“Be careful, though. If Thaxos is hiding something, you can bet it’s guarded.”
Pakka nodded again. Fear danced in her belly.
Talara took Pakka’s face in her hands and looked in her eyes. “What have I done to deserve such loyalty? You could have gone. It is your right. You are free now.”
Pakka, uncomfortable, pulled away. She said, “I live to serve. I can do nothing less than protect you.”
“You will have to explain what I did to earn such loyalty some day. Not now. I must get ready. I have business of my own. Good luck and I will see you tonight.”
Pakka hurried down Caravan Way. The street was still clear after the Crimson Legion left. People seemed reluctant to walk in their steps. Perhaps it was to honor them and their sacrifice. Then again, it might have been fear that kept them clear. Perhaps they thought by wandering on the street, they, too, would face what many believed was certain death against Urik’s armies.
It wasn’t far to the Vordon Emporium on Iron Square. Scant moments passed before Pakka reach a shadowed doorway with a good view of the Vordon trade hall. She drew back into the shadows. She was nothing but a servant, and neither Thaxos nor his wicked halfling would even notice her, she was sure. But there was no point taking unnecessary risks.
Other merchants conducted their business, carts coming and going, workers loading beds with whatever goods the house peddled. Vordon, though, was silent. Pakka hadn’t expected to find much activity there. The quiet just reinforced her mistress’s misgivings. Thaxos seemed to have set aside everything to help throw back the Urikite hordes. It would have been a grand and noble gesture by anyone else. Thaxos, however, had an ulterior motive.
Pakka had almost given up on the emporium and was plotting her course to the Vordon estate, which she had guessed would be somewhere close by, when Watari, Vordon’s henchman, exited the front door a human guard held open. The halfling licked his fingers. Blood? she thought. Watari said something to the guard. He bobbed his head in answer and pulled the door closed. The halfling signaled a passing rickshaw. The mul pulling it stopped. The halfling hopped inside, and a moment later, the mul hauled him away.
Indecision held Pakka in place. Each second she waited let Watari slip further away. The blood she spotted worried her. She could follow the rickshaw. But then, Talara wanted her to look around the emporium. With the halfling gone, maybe no one would be inside after all.
Getting inside proved easy. The guard hadn’t bothered to lock the door, so she slipped into a dim chamber lit by a few melting candles burning atop chipped crockery turned upside down. Heavy curtains blocked the light from shining through the windows. In the muted light, Pakka saw the place was a showroom of sorts. Empty weapon racks stood against one wall, suits of carapace, shell, and leather armor hung on dummies. Bins
filled with spices and herbs overflowed onto the floor. Dried foodstuffs sat on shelves, while statues, artwork, and textiles were arranged throughout so customers could inspect the merchandise.
The guard was still in the room. He had settled in for a nap and leaned back in a wooden chair with his feet propped up on a crate. His dull human features were already slack with sleep. Pakka noticed spittle ran in a thin line from his bottom lip, darkening his red and black uniform.
Not wanting to wake the guard, she gave quick thanks to the spirits who had kept her hidden thus far and crept between the boxes. She peered up over them every now and then to make sure the guard still slept but moved toward the door leading into what Pakka guessed were more storerooms. The guard was revolting. His face looked as if it had been kicked. His nose laid flat against his cheek and one eye drooped below the other.
A counter blocked the way to the door. There was an opening a few feet away from the sleeping sentry. Thoughts of turning back vanished when she saw red droplets on the floor, spatters tracking all the way around the counter.
She took a deep breath and tiptoed around the counter. She avoided the blood so she wouldn’t smear it and give herself away. She stopped just before rounding the last turn and froze. The guard smacked his lips. He wiped the drool from his face and opened one bleary eye. Pakka felt the words to evoke the spirits crawling up her throat, demanding to be free, to kill the guard where he sat. Before she could release the evocation, the man nodded off again, letting Pakka breathe out the words unuttered.
Pakka was lost. She had no idea how it happened. Somehow she had gotten turned around. She followed her steps as best she could remember them. She left the main chamber, slipped through a dark storeroom, and descended a staircase into a tangle of tunnels. In her estimation, the tunnels should not have been there in the first place.
What was so infuriating was she had reached that dark place with little trouble. The guard hadn’t stirred, and she hadn’t found any others along the way. It was too dark for even her keen eyesight. A candle she had found in a box somewhere behind her had thus far held the gloom at bay, enough so she could make her way, but it wouldn’t last, and already the hot wax burned her fingers. She raised it up when she reached an intersection. The walls were not much more than piled stone blocks with rotting mortar between them. The tunnels were dry and musty with a bitter smell in the air. It was the fourth or maybe fifth intersection she had found.
Death Mark Page 20