Three Acts of Penance [01] Attrition: The First Act of Penance

by S. G. Night

  Rachel glared daggers at them. “Shut it. There was going to be a plan. We just hadn’t gotten—”

  “Alight,” Racath interrupted. “Let’s back up.” Turning to Notak, he asked: “Give me a rundown of what we’re working with.”

  Notak answered in his flat, glassine voice, like he was reading a particularly bland grocery list. “Abandoned street near the docks. Westward Trade has an off-the-books operation down there, in one of the old warehouses. Brahn Martell runs it; his office sits next door to the warehouse. He supervises the handful of Westward Trade thugs who work in the warehouse. They move contraband for the gentry — saffron sap, king-dust…” his eyes were uncharacteristically dark for a moment. “And other stuff. They are expecting a shipment from Dírorth to arrive tomorrow: the Baron Monger’s order for his upcoming banquet. Three days from now, the 10th, Brahn will meet the Baron’s servant, who is coming to collect the goods.”

  “What is this other stuff?” Alexis put in. “What exactly does this guy do? You haven’t really explained—”

  “He and his company kidnap young women and keep them in a dungeon beneath the warehouse to be sold off as play-toys for the gentries,” said Rachel. Every word burned and sizzled with venom. “Because whores aren’t good enough for some reason.”

  The Mechanist’s eyes went wide. “That’s horrible…”

  “It’s evil,” Nelle amended coldly.

  Racath looked at her concernedly. He caught her eye, eyebrow raised. He hadn’t seen her so tense since that day by the waterfall when he’d first seen her scars. She shook her head at him. He remembered then just how much of the Occupation that she had lived through. Things like this must’ve brought up some painful memories for her…

  “Back to topic,” Toren asserted. “How are we going to grab this guy?”

  “We can’t just snatch him out of his office,” Racath said. “His workers would notice he was missing eventually.”

  “And what about the girls in the basement of the warehouse?” Nelle asked. “The prisoners? We can’t just leave them there.”

  “I second that,” Alexis said.

  “But wouldn’t that tip off the workers just the same?” Toren interjected.

  A few minutes of bickering followed. Notak drew everyone a diagram of the street, highlighting the window and ledge on the side of Brahn’s building, the skylight in the roof of the warehouse, and the locked door in the corner that opened into the room full of contraband, and the dungeon underneath. But, no matter what ideas they each put forward, none could possibly work.

  “So that’s it?” Toren demanded. “Six heads together and we can’t come up with a single workable method to take Brahn?”

  Rachel glowered at him. “Pointing it out doesn’t help.”

  Suddenly, an idea struck Racath. “Notak…” he said slowly, studying the diagram.

  “Yes?”

  “How many workers does Brahn have at the warehouse?”

  Notak’s eyebrows furrowed. “Close to a dozen, I would say.”

  “And this operation is completely off the books?” Racath clarified.

  “I heard Monger’s servant imply that it is a fairly close-kept secret,” the Elf nodded. “Only a select handful of the gentry know of it, else the Church would be obligated to shut it down.”

  “The street is abandoned,” Rachel added. “No one goes down there. Why?”

  “You’ve got that gleam in your eye, Racath,” Nelle said with a broad smile. “What are you getting at?”

  Slowly, Racath raised his eyes from the paper, a devious expression spread across his face. “We’re not going to take Brahn,” he grinned. “We’re going to take the warehouse.”

  FORTY-THREE

  Parlor Tricks

  The six of them congregated on the warehouse roof early the next morning. Reaching the roof had been easy enough — just a quick climb up one of the building’s unobserved walls. After that, they had each begun the necessary preparations for what they were about to do. Everyone had their role, and everyone would play their part.

  Angry shouting began to echo down the deserted street. Racath peered over the ledge; on the cobbles directly below, just outside the warehouse doors, a thin Human with greasy hair was shouting at several bulky men carrying wooden crates.

  “ — no, no, not that one! That crate’s from a different shipment, don’t mix them up! Make sure you get all of these into neat spot in the back room — careful, dammit! This stuff is worth more than you are! Hulking idiots. What the hell do I pay you for?”

  One of the men grumbled a reply.

  The lanky Human threw up his hands. “I don’t care! Just take care of this, damn you. Gods above and below, you’re like a bunch of fauling kids. I have better things to do than supervise.” He turned and stalked off toward across the building adjacent.

  “That is Brahn Martell,” Notak said from Racath’s side, indicating at the thin man.

  Racath nodded. “And this must be the goods from Dírorth that they’re bringing in right now. The Baron’s order.”

  “Indeed.”

  They waited another moment and the men disappeared into the old warehouse.

  Racath turned back to the others. “Everyone clear on the plan?”

  They all made sounds or gestures of acknowledgement.

  “Alright then. Let’s get to work.”

  They began. Racath, Toren, Nelle, and Rachel all went to the open skylight nearby, hoods raised over their faces.

  “Wait for the signal,” Racath whispered to the girls as he and Toren lowered themselves down onto the rafters inside. “Then go for it. Move fast, but stay quiet.”

  Nelle nodded. “Be careful.”

  Racath shot his trademark grin at her. “Always.” He slipped away into the rafters, vanishing into the dark interior of the warehouse.

  Toren followed behind him, moving stealthily through the tangle of rotted beams despite his size. They made their way silently to the far corner of the warehouse, as far as they could possibly get from the locked door that led to the storage room full of contraband, and the dark dungeon full of Human girls beneath it.

  Beneath them were heaps and mounds of crates, dimly lit by a few lonely lanterns. From this bird’s-eye vantage point, Racath could see each of Brahn’s large, brutish thugs. They moved about lazily from task to task, grunting at each other as they went. Racath counted them — ten, each armed with a simple knives.

  “What now?” Toren whispered to him.

  Racath frowned, looking around the rafters for something to suit his purposes. “Now…we cause a distraction. Something loud, something like…aha!”

  He pointed to a wide rafter beam about three feet distant. The wood was old and wet, showing signs of serious rot. Even better, it seemed to be the anchor point for two or three smaller beams as well.

  His left hand keeping a firm grip on his perch, Racath drew Daragoian from his shoulder. The divine katana moved fluidly, its aura of power flowing into Racath’s palm. Reaching out as far as he could without falling, Racath swiped at the most putrid wood. The adamantine blade cut gracefully through the beam. It was effortless, almost soundless.

  A narrow shower of splinters rained down on the warehouse floor below. The beam creaked, groaned, and gave way. A section of the rafters dropped from the ceiling, crashing thunderously to the floor, crushing a half-dozen crates beneath its weight.

  There were shouts of alarm. Racath saw Brahn’s men scrambling away from their duties, rushing to investigate the disturbance.

  He nudged at Toren with his knee. “Move. In case they look up.”

  The pair of them retreated back through the rafters into a niche of thicker shadow.

  “What the hell happened?” one of the men demanded as several of them stood around the wreckage.

  “‘Dun know,” another answered, scratching his head as he looked quizzically up at the ceiling. “One of the fastenings must’ve given up the ghost.”

  “Bloody p
iss!” a third thug swore. “Landed right on top of the Ritter Olsen’s order, too! Four crates of merchandise, ruined. Hurry, gimme a hand. We gotta get rid of this stuff before Mister Martell finds out.”

  “Screw Martell,” the first man spat. “I ain’t cleaning this up. That’s what he gets sticking us in a pisshole like this. He can’t blame us for—”

  “Ya know he can, Cameron, and he will if we don’t get this cleared up! Now c’mon, help me!”

  The men went to work moving the debris off the damaged crates. Toren tapped Racath on the shoulder, pointing to the skylight. Racath looked and saw a pair of silhouettes making their way down to the warehouse floor, heading for the door to the contraband storage room — Nelle and Rachel.

  “Good,” he whispered. “Now get ready. Here comes the fun part.”

  ——

  “Is it in yet?” Nelle joked quietly. She kept careful watch for any of Brahn’s men approaching. Gratefully, it seemed that Racath’s distraction had caught the workers’ attention — at least so far.

  Even with Rachel’s face buried in the lock of the storage room door, Nelle could tell that she was rolling her eyes. “Patience, augur. You can’t rush these things.”

  Nelle fought the urge to snort aloud. “Patience? Coming from you? That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all morning.”

  “Will you shut up, please?” Rachel hissed. “Just keep watching.”

  Nelle held up her hands innocently. “Whatever you say, master locksmith.”

  Grumbling to herself, Rachel held her pick in place with her teeth while she probed at the lock with telekinesis. “C’mon, stupid thing, open…”

  Click.

  “Got it,” Rachel grinned, pocketing her lock-pick. “Hurry, no time to dawdle.”

  They slipped quietly through the door, shutting it quickly behind them.

  “My, my,” Nelle said at a normal volume, looking around at the boxes of bottles and paper packages. “Think Brahn’s got enough head-wash in here?”

  Rachel grunted. “Come on.” She pulled Nelle after her towards the stairs at the end of the room. “It’s right down here.”

  They descended the stairs, entering the dank, dingy hallway lined with cells. All the playful jokes went out of Nelle as Rachel showed her the dungeon. It was the same as before — the cells were occupied by shivering, scrawny girls. Humans, ranging between fifteen and twenty-three years old, by Nelle’s guess. Their bodies were filthy, their ragged clothes torn. The few that were conscious lifted their heads heavily from their hands, looking through the bars at Nelle with reddened, unseeing eyes.

  “God…” Nelle whispered. Old, painful memories were welling up behind her eyes. “It’s worse than I thought…”

  Rachel said nothing, but her fists were clenched.

  “The saddest part is that this isn’t even the worst of it,” Nelle kept talking, if only to keep the tears back. “That there are people worse than this guy, Brahn. Much worse.”

  “What would you know about it?” Rachel grunted. “You spend all your time locked up in that mountain with Oron. What God-awful things have you seen recently?”

  Nelle glared at her furiously. “I saw plenty of things at Krvistata during the siege. You think that the Demons just killed everyone who got in their way? No. Killing them would have been merciful, but they didn’t. Instead, they gave them to the Goblins. Women, old and young. Little girls. Little boys.” She shook her head firmly. “I watched that happen too many times. You don’t forget things like that.”

  The hallway suddenly became very quiet. Thick tension hung in the muggy air between them as Nelle stared daggers at the other she-Majiski. Rachel grimaced to herself, looking away — the closest thing to contrition that she was capable of expressing. “Sorry…” she murmured. “I forgot about that….”

  “It’s fine…” Nelle grumbled. “Whatever.”

  There was a painful pause.

  “You should have seen Notak when he came down here,” Rachel said awkwardly, as though hoping to divert the topic.

  Nelle turned to her, suddenly interested. “Oh yeah? How’d he react?”

  “He used a contraction.”

  Nelle’s eyes went wide, suddenly interested. “Wait, really?”

  Rachel nodded.

  “You’re sure you didn’t just…mishear him?”

  “He said don’t,” Rachel answered. “With an apostrophe, and everything.”

  “Piss…” Nelle swore. “I don’t even remember the last time he did that.”

  “Neither do I. I think this place…these girls…” Rachel shrugged.

  Nelle made a concerned face. “You think it brought some of it back for him?”

  Rachel bobbed her head once. “He got that look in his eyes. That look he gets when Oron talks about Thomas Menelaus and the original Scorpions. About Mrak….” She sighed. “One of these days, that Elf is going to snap. And I don’t think I want to be there when it happens.”

  “Can you blame him?” Nelle asked. “After everything that happened to him?”

  Rachel was quiet for a moment, then shook her head. “No. I can’t. But I can worry about him.”

  They were both silent for another few seconds. It was a rare moment of kinship, shared in mutual concern for their friend. But then the moment ended, and they were brought back to the cold, damp reality of where they stood.

  Rachel went from cell to cell, breaking the locks with her hands, boots, and magic. Nelle went into the first cell; the girl within sat in a fetal ball in the corner, rocking back and forth. Nelle knelt at her side.

  “Hey…” she said soothingly.

  The girl lifted her tearstained face from her knees. Her eyes were bloodshot, distant. She tugged limply at Nelle’s shirt, a vague, questioning look on her face. The girl tried to speak but the sound was listless, faded.

  “I’m here to help you,” Nelle said. “Come on, come with me. I’m going to get you home.”

  The girl tugged a little harder. A single word escaped the confines of her chapped, bleeding lips. “J-jat?”

  “I was worried about that,” Rachel said from the hallway. “Brahn seems like the kind of guy who would get his slaves hooked on jat to keep ‘em quiet. Bastard.”

  “It’s probably two-jack,” Nelle said. “Scum like Brahn wouldn’t waste pure-cut jat on this. It would explain the lethargy.”

  “The rest of the doors are open,” Rachel told her. “Will you be alright from here?”

  Nelle nodded. “Yeah. If I can get them standing, I think I’ll be able to coax them out.”

  “Good. Then I’m going to go join the fellas and kill me some Westward Trade toadies.”

  Nelle didn’t argue. She just pressed a caring hand to the side of the withered girl’s cheek. She wondered who’s daughter she was, if her family was worried sick about her. About how happy they would be to have her home again.

  “You do that. Hopefully, I’ll have them all out of here by the time you’re done.”

  ——

  Alexis crouched by the edge of the roof. She took the small crossbow from her shoulder — a low-force weapon from the Manji Tor’s arsenal that she’d outfitted with the bolter’s telescope — and loaded a small dart into the firing position. Resting it on the edge of the roof, she sighted down the telescope.

  Next to her, Notak took a deep breath and let a field of magic emanate out through his skin. A single second later, the Shroud covered him, and he vanished. Invisibly, he made his way toward the second-story ledge of Brahn’s offices next door.

  The Mechanist waited, watching second-floor window through the telescope. For a long while, there was nothing. Nobody inside, and nobody on the ledge. She began to hum to herself.

  Then, through the oily glass, she saw Brahn enter his office. She almost jumped. Her heart burned with a surge of excitement and nerves. She brought her finger to the trigger, struggling to get the targeting reticule on Brahn as he sat at his desk, his back to the window.


  The crosshair mark on the scope’s lens just wouldn’t cooperate — it kept bobbing and jostling around, like it didn’t want to rest on her target. Why couldn’t it just sit still?

  Alexis realized she was trembling. Her heartbeat was a thunderstorm in her ears, and her breath was ragged and shaky.

  She forced herself to be calm. It’s alright…she lied to herself. This is what working in the field is like. It’s alright…just, breathe deep.

  She waited. Brahn began to work at his desk. The window did not open. Come on, Elf, where are you…?

  The window opened without prompting — just like an invisible man had just released the latch. Through the telescope, Alexis saw Brahn turn in his chair to look at the window, his eyebrows knit in puzzlement.

  Her heart leapt into her throat. Nearly choking, she squeezed the trigger, praying with all her might that Notak wasn’t standing invisible in her line of fire. The crossbow bucked. The projectile whistled across the space….

  And she saw the Human flinch, gasp in pain, his hand going to the side of his neck. She watched him pluck the tiny dart from his skin — the dart covered in a sleep toxin that Alexis herself had procured the night before from the Manji Tor. Brahn stared at the dart for a curious moment. Then his eyelids drooped. He slid sideways and collapsed onto his desk.

  Alexis sucked in a ragged gasp of air. She dropped the crossbow and slumped against the side of the roof, her lungs heaving with relief. She’d done it. Her job was done. Now it was up to Notak to collect the unconscious man and make his way back. She could relax.

  ——

  Racath dropped from the rafters, landing in the midst of ten men, katana in hand, fire on his fingers. The Humans recoiled and shouted in alarm.

  “What the—!?” one blustered, fumbling instinctively for his knife, his eyes wide as plates as he stood in the face of the Shadow-garbed intruder. “Jeremy, go for help! Get the guard—!”

  Daragoian took him in the neck. He crumpled, throat split open. The flesh around the wound was blackened and smoking from where the adamantine had touched it. Racath’s sword gleamed bright — blood boiled and frothed on its perfect edge.