“I can’t get you in there if that’s what you think,” Aryll declared.
Maylene smiled at the girl and withdrew a pouch from her doublet. She unfolded chamois leather and lifted one key tucked between a torsion wrench and half-diamond pick. Inserting it within a brass keyhole, she cranked the implement until iron locks disengaged and then turned a burnished knob with relish.
Aryll’s green eyes stared in disbelief. “You…you have a key?”
“Endured a whole host of unpleasantness to acquire this beauty,” she replied. Maylene twirled the key and slipped it within her satchel once more.
Thorkell hitched his belt and placed hands on reliefs decorating the door. “I think we’ve all waited long enough to see what’s yonder.”
Groans reverberated deep within Maylene’s sternum as the entry swung ajar to reveal almost utter blackness beyond a ring cast by their lanterns. Moonlight squeaked through narrow windows, offering little more than vague definition to shelves and stairs.
“Ah, a beautiful sight,” Thorkell said in a sardonic tone.
“No untended fires inside, remember?” As he strolled forward Maylene lifted a hand and placed it on his chest. “Where do you think you’re going, bud?”
“Nowhere. I only wanted a peek inside.”
“Consider the wish fulfilled. It’s dark in there. No more dawdling against what comes next. We’re on a deadline.”
“Fine.” Setting a lantern on the floor, Thorkell clenched bare hands, closed his eyes and stood still. “Remember, you need to draw blood.”
“This will be no great burden for me,” she affirmed. Maylene walloped one fist against his face and followed through with another, whacking Thorkell back a stride. He righted himself and grunted from her successive clouts until one hand bashed into his stomach.
“Damn it,” Thorkell groaned, sagging forward and panting. “Only the face where it’ll be visible.”
“Oh, right. I forgot.”
Crimson dribbled between his teeth. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Am not. This is no different from a business transaction.” Maylene grinned and cuffed her fist across a bruised cheek, feeling lacerations ripping into her own skin.
“Okay, I think that should suffice—”
Maylene smashed knuckles into his gut once again, knocking Thorkell into a stumble. He keeled over and glared with venomous eyes chilly as ice.
“Satisfied a long held craving. I should be good now.”
“Happy…to oblige,” he croaked through a split lip. “Hope your knuckles hurt like a bitch.”
“They do.” She directed a finger speckled in blood at his chest. “Spit on your shirt.”
“Huh?”
“Look down and spatter some saliva, chump.”
Though hesitant and confused, Thorkell snorted and released a ball laced with blood downward. Scarlet splashed his chest in a messy pattern. The pummeled false-facer mumbled in understanding.
“Now you look pathetic,” Maylene asserted. “Time to go find your eager apprentices.”
“If I can make it down the frigging stairs.”
She eyed the heightened soles on his shoes, hopefully housing undamaged cosmetics. “Still have your supplies?”
“Naturally.”
“See you on the ground then.”
While Thorkell limped toward a stairwell, Maylene retrieved his lantern and forced Aryll within the library. Zalla settled her light on a table and together they pushed the dense door closed. Maylene withdrew her copper replica key and wedged it into the lock. Fabricated by that irritating locksmith with intentionally shoddy craftsmanship, she hoped the ploy might work.
“Bust,” Maylene uttered, holding out one hand.
Zalla collected a marble head from the nearest table and placed it in her palm. “Marcellus. I’m surprised Starwatch even wanted to collect that despot’s head. Here’s hoping his statuary is thick-headed to the same degree he was.”
Grasping the bust in clenched fingers, Maylene pounded the long dead emperor’s forehead into the key until copper bent. She raised statuary above her head and crunched marble against warped metal, snapping it apart. “And that’s a blocked keyhole,” she murmured, throwing Marcellus to smack face first on the floor.
Hurried footfalls echoed amid the stacks and a robed galen scampered into view. An oil lamp was held in one frail hand, uncombed gray tufts lifting askew atop his wrinkled scalp.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
“Just the man I expected to find here.” Maylene offered a charming smile and stepped closer to the befuddled man, hammering one fist across his jaw. She winced and felt blood weeping from cracked knuckles. With any luck this would be the final person she struck tonight. The galen collapsed in a shaking fit and Maylene crouched astride him, one moccasin kicking a smothered lamp away.
“Stop it!” shrieked Aryll. “Don’t hurt him!”
Maylene flicked a knife from one sleeve into an awaiting hand and grasped the galen by his collar, thrusting her blade against a bare throat. “Hello, Vanrir. A little birdie told me you refuse to attend the Fete year after year and choose to nest up here instead. You’ve become predictable in your old age.”
“Who…who are you? W-w-what do you…?”
“We’ve come to collect an ancient relic. The Bharali who authored the scroll had no name for it that we know, but My’shi scholars conjured the term Codex Sceleratis Caedes.”
“You can’t…”
Maylene clamped one palm over a mouth encrusted with spittle. “No more words from you. Say goodbye to every last trace of authority you once had. I’m in command now. And in my omnipotence, I decree that you’ll take me straight to the scroll without tarrying.”
Resolve returned to defiant eyes as the shock faded and his trembling subsided. “You cannot expect to intimidate me into compliance. I would not betray my order even under duress.”
She released Vanrir and stared down at his wretched figure. “Fine. Be difficult if you insist. It’ll barely slow me down.” Maylene seized Aryll’s forearm and wrested her closer, lifting the girl’s jaw with one hand. A knife tip touched quivering flesh and released a single red trickle. “Do you recognize this sweet young thing? She’s a learner in your academy. Maybe you’ve even taught one of her classes. I understand Chaereas has considerable respect for her. Do you want to be the one who tells him she died from your defiance?”
“You would threaten her life without remorse?”
“The thing you have to ask yourself, old man, is whether I think her life is a fair price to pay for a couple hundred gold suns. Believe me, it is. So don’t test my patience.”
“P-professor…?” Aryll stammered.
Vanrir upraised a placating hand. “There’s no need to harm her.”
“No more delaying,” Maylene barked. “Spout another platitude and I swear I’ll slit her throat to see what fun stuff tumbles out.” Aryll uttered a soft mewl and squirmed until Maylene wrenched her back into place. “Her death will be on your head, book man. All to safeguard a roll of paper. Is parchment worth more to you than a human life?”
Vanrir sagged where he lay, his brown eyes downcast and defeated. “No. I’ll give you what you want. Please, don’t hurt her.”
“Excellent. I knew we could reach a consensus.” Maylene withdrew her dagger and stabbed iron into its sheath. “Fair warning, we’ll know if you’re lying. Retrieve the wrong artifact, jerk us around in any manner, and she dies a gruesome death. Then I’ll begin crippling you in minor ways until I have what we came for. And you might think yourself able to resist, but I wouldn’t harbor that belief. Everyone caves in the end.”
*
Cyriana leaned close to Baskaran, her eyes staring toward nobles gathered in a cluster. “Remember, you only need to wound him. I won’t have us snuffing out nobles willy-nilly to achieve our goals.”
“Concerned for your conscience?”
“Not particularly. Unnecessary
killing is sloppy. Amateurs take lives and think it part of the game. We’re better than that.”
“This will sound demeaning, but are you certain Lord Torne is there?”
Cyriana cast a displeased glance at the duelist. “Yes, I’m certain. I schmoozed with three different blokes. Jaxon’s the one in the gaudy green brocade and striped pantaloons. Gods only know how he can be respected with that criminal fashion sense.” She offered a friendly whack to Baskaran’s backside. “Go be an arsehole.”
“On my way.”
She gave Baskaran a head start lasting several heartbeats before sidling in his wake, hoping to hear the exchange. Baskaran halted three strides from the other man and cleared his throat.
“Lord Jaxon Torne?”
The quarrelsome noble cast a sneering expression over one shoulder. “I haven’t the appetite for business arrangements or grievances. Address me tomorrow when I’m willing to see visitors.”
“My complaint cannot wait for daybreak, but instead demands satisfaction on this night.”
“What are you babbling about?”
“Injustice done to me, my family and perhaps many others owing to your shameful business tactics. I invested nearly all I owned in your company. I’d been advised it was a wise decision worth the risks.”
“If you have a quibble regarding finances, then I suggest you broach the matter with bookkeeping.”
“I was ruined,” Baskaran claimed, “and my investments forgotten. Your employees told me no evidence existed to prove my claims that I invested. Despite repeated inquiries, nothing was ever done. I was brushed aside and mistreated. Your company refused to help in my time of need, presuming the mistake was mine. Is that how you do business? By absconding with money belonging to others?”
“I haven’t the remotest idea where you acquired these notions of fantasy. If my employees told you no such transaction occurred, then that is what happened.”
“Do you deny my accusation before witnesses?”
“I must, for it doesn’t bear truth,” responded Jaxon. “I’ll permit no slander to be spoken against my company.”
“And I refuse to relent in seeking compensation for my losses at your hand. If you won’t admit to your disgraces, then I’m left with no alternatives but to challenge you to a duel.”
“Your claims are so unfounded as to not even warrant my attention, much less a contest.”
“Consent to a duel or I call you coward. Decline and all those present tonight will know you did so from fear of revealing the truth.”
“How unsurprising you are a Eurote,” Jaxon sneered. “For centuries your home was an oft maligned backwater of no redeeming qualities. My ancestors spun silk and composed poetry while yours ate insects and wallowed in mudbrick houses.”
“And where are they today? Watching inept descendants squander their country away. Were your forebears alive, they would be disgusted that foreigners rule lands entrusted to you. That their grandchildren sip chilled wine in an occupied nation as though nothing has changed. Unlike my countrymen, I can see you’ve forgotten what it means to live as a free citizen in your own home.”
Murderous grumbles echoed from the crowd and Cyriana feared Baskaran would need to fend off challenges from others before the night finished. Having occurred within living memory, annexation into the swelling Draugan Empire was a sensitive topic in Asdor. Cyriana admired Baskaran’s willingness to touch a nerve and incite the entire festival’s populace against him. Her companion’s objective was to antagonize and be hated enough that all revelers would wish to see him defeated. It would hardly be a distraction if folks were indifferent to his fate.
Rage crept over Jaxon’s face until redness veiled his expression. “You’ll have your duel.” Jaxon unclenched gloved fists and turned to a fellow dandy. “Lord Tarlowe, will you serve as herald for this contest?”
“I’d be honored.” Snapping fingers prompted a servant to scurry closer and bow. “Fetch two rapiers and be swift about it.”
Melodies drifting from harps squealed to a halt as conversation elsewhere likewise subsided. Evidently someone encouraged the musicians to take the opportunity for an interlude.
“Name your champion, you insufferable cur,” Jaxon said.
Baskaran’s dark features twisted in disdain. “I thought you once dueled at a time before cowards sullied the practice. Before nobles delegated champions to avoid resolving their own disputes. Unlike your countrymen, I don’t permit another person to fight my battles for me.”
Gasps accompanied a collective intake of breath and Cyriana wanted to smile. Such a blatant and abusive challenge could not go unanswered without Lord Torne risking social disgrace. He could either refuse and suffer humiliation among his peers, or accept and be one of the few patricians to duel without a champion. Whatever his choice, this was certain to be the diversion Cyriana needed it to be.
Lord Tarlowe wended closer to Baskaran, his face displaying unmasked disapproval. “Are you certain you don’t wish to withdraw your unnecessary taunt? There is no shame in allowing a champion to fight in your name. The thought of you insinuating Lord Torne’s cowardice because he adheres to Asdori tradition is a shameful tactic.”
Jaxon placed a palm on his shoulder and gently directed Tarlowe backward. “I accept this lowbred foreigner’s challenge. I will duel him personally and put an end to his continual affronts.”
“So be it,” Tarlowe uttered. “Challenger, what is your name?”
“Engard Sirava of Barrow Hall,” answered Baskaran.
The herald nodded and swept his arms to encompass the crowd. “Friends and countrymen. I am pleased to announce an impending duel on this most hallowed night. They have chosen to trust in the gods’ unerring judgment to settle their dispute. On his holiest day, we beseech Adonas, god of the sun and giver of life, to champion the man whose cause is just.”
A servant reappeared with matching rapiers cradled in his arms. Lord Tarlowe remained silent while a blade was passed to each combatant and inspected. Once sufficient time had passed, he raised one hand and continued.
“Engard Sirava of Barrow Hall has challenged Lord Jaxon Torne to a personal duel without the use of authorized champions.”
The crowd swelled with exhilaration at witnessing a personal duel. While strategizing their portion of the scheme, Baskaran swore to Cyriana this was almost unheard of in the previous decade. He and Jaxon held the spectators’ absolute attention. For a distraction, this was without parallels.
“It is alleged Engard Sirava suffered financial ruin at the hands of Lord Torne, who steadfastly repudiates those claims. No one here among us can disprove such assertions, and thus the dissenting parties have turned to the gods for a resolution. Gentlemen, are your weapons deemed sufficient and without flaws?”
“Mine is tolerable,” declared Jaxon.
Baskaran lowered his rapier to rest alongside one leg. “As is mine.”
“Standing before witnesses, you each agree to forfeit all additional weapons and declare no others hidden on your person.”
“Damn it,” snarled Jaxon. “You know we don’t bloody well have other blades. How the hell could we with Graycloak’s lapdogs searching us as we entered? Hurry through your rites and get on with it.”
Lord Tarlowe glanced sideward. “It is customary for the one who initiates the duel to choose its outcome. First blood, or to the death?”
“First blood shall suffice for my purposes,” Baskaran answered, eyeing Jaxon with contempt. “I’d rather leave you broken and humiliated in the eyes of our peers than stand over your lifeless form.”
“They are not your peers, child,” he retorted. “Aspire to number among them one day if you must, though it is naught but a sorry dream.”
“So be it,” Tarlowe uttered. “This duel is to be fought only until one participant draws blood against the other. No other rules beyond those stated are to be considered. In the sight of gods and mortals you agree to these terms.”
“I do
so swear,” responded each combatant.
“Would the challenger or your lordship care to speak final words prior to this contest?”
Jaxon snapped his sword upward to point at Baskaran’s chest. “I played no role in causing your misfortune. Yet after your insults I’ll take great pleasure in shaming you.”
“My triumph will expose your lies to all those here.”
“Let no further words delay our progress,” Tarlowe bellowed. “Gentlemen, take your ready positions and wait for my signal.” He accepted a small handkerchief from an onlooker and raised it within one hand. A chill wind howled through the gardens as he released the cloth. “Commence!”
Chapter 18
If you choose to trust in people’s intelligence, prepare to be disappointed.
Themikles of Thasos, Musings Without Care
302 Black Ruin, Year of the Unbowed Monarch
Almar Graycloak stood alone beneath a portico, vambraced arms crossed over his chest. He watched revelers interact with appetizers and wine in hand, hating the necessity of all this. Starwatch was an institution for higher learning, for unlocking secrets buried beyond the human mind. Catering a shindig and giving both the well-bred and lowborn an excuse for drunken debauchery seemed a foolhardy distraction.
The Governing Circle in its infinite wisdom deemed the festival a means for maintaining cordial relations with Arroyo’s citizenry. Almar acquiesced to the mind-numbing chore of policing the Fete for that sole reason. Though brilliant, most galens were otherwise incapable of interacting with the general populace in a constructive manner. Lavishing free food upon them often seemed the only effective way to earn appreciation. Delivering medicine and mending wounds were evidently easy elements to forget when compared to a full stomach.
He straightened and unfolded his arms when one veteran guard approached. “A fine evening, Elvia.”
“It is, sir,” she remarked. “I’m glad we didn’t have a repeat of 326 BR.”
“I enjoyed myself soundly that year, watching the city’s elite cowering from a gentle rainfall. It’s the unexpected entertainment that makes this festival worth attending.”
Starwatch Page 30