:As a matter of fact,: Alberich replied, :it does.:
By day, the tavern that was his goal, the Boar, was a quiet enough tavern, serving manual laborers at the nearby warehouses. At night, however, it took on a rougher clientele. Some of the laborers returned to drink away their earnings, and they were joined by others, for whom the warehouses were of less-than-legitimate interest. Aarak fit right in there; he might hire himself out as a day laborer, if he was inclined to do manual labor, or forced into it, but he would far rather serve as the lookout for thugs who planned a little late-night looting.
Alberich let himself out into the alley. It was dark back there, shadowed on both sides by tall buildings, but he knew his way around Haven even in pitchy black. He kept to the alleys for the most part, only crossing streets when he had to, and at length, found himself in the warehouse area where the Boar stood.
There was a lot of coming and going around a warehouse, and no one asked what was being stored there very often. And, of course, warehouses were full of things that were already packed for transportation; what could be more attractive and easier for a bold gang of thieves?
Alberich had been recruited by such gangs, once or twice, though never out of the Blue Boar, and never as Aarak. He had hopes, though, and he nursed his thin, sour beer at a table here several times a moon, waiting to see if his patient fishing would catch him another gang of thieves.
He opened the door quietly. It wasn't a good idea to make any kind of an entrance into the Boar. There were always people there who would take that sort of hubris amiss.
Flash of blue—a tangle of thrashing bodies on the floor—
He paused, just inside the door, and caught himself.
Damn. Come on. Don't show anything, or you're dead. He shoved on inside the door on strength of will, until his vision cleared and he could pretend that he hadn't just had a flash of Foresight.
The regular servers knew him by now, or at least, they knew Aarak's distinctive hat. He caught the eye of one, nodded at a vacant table off to one side of the room, and took his seat there. Within a reasonable length of time, the server appeared with a jack of beer.
Despite Kantor's needling, he'd had a few hopes that someone might try to recruit him tonight—a full moon now meant moon-dark in a fortnight, and moon-dark meant the possibility of work.
But the truth was, from the moment he'd crossed the threshold, he knew that Dethor had been right about a tavern brawl in the offing. Even if he hadn't gotten that brief—very brief—glimpse of a tumble of fighting bodies on the floor of the place from his Foresight, he'd have known it. There was something in the air tonight, something wild and edgy, something that made Kantor, back in his stall, prick up his ears and ask wordlessly, and in all seriousness this time, if Alberich thought he'd need any help.
Alberich never actually got a chance to reply. He was just starting on the first swallow of his beer, when the fight erupted over a card cheat, three tables down.
The cheater had friends, and the friends waded in, and Alberich saw—
Flash of blue—
The fight was only a pretext to rob the only person here with any real cash. That was the owner of the Blue Boar himself.
Three people swarming the bar, as combat seemed to thrust them toward it by accident.
He came to himself long enough to dodge out of the way of a tumbling body, and shoved his hand into a special belt pouch he always wore as Aarak. It held weighted knuckle guards, his preferred weapon for brawling. He didn't like using blades in a brawl—he was there to immobilize people, not kill them. No point in killing them, when, if they were what he really wanted, he wanted them alive, to question. Another flash of blue, freezing him for a moment. The three thieves—he assumed that was what they were—waited for the fight to reach the bar and then threw themselves over it, the surprised tavern owner trying to get out of the way as they all three landed atop him. There were short, heavy clubs in their hands.
They clubbed the tavernkeeper senseless.
Alberich shook his head to free it of the vision, as shouts and cries of pain marked the center of the brawl. A drunk, stinking of beer, blundered into him and made a wild swing at him.
And that was just enough. Alberich sprang into motion, like a mastiff held leashed and suddenly released. A savage grin with nothing of joy in it split his face. He ducked under the other's swing and gut-punched the drunk with his laden fist, stepping out of the way and shoving him to one side to topple him before he spewed the contents of his stomach all over everything in front of him.
Flash of blue, and he saw the three thieves vault over the bar and make off with the cash box while a larger fight still engaged the bouncers and everyone else they could draw in.
That was it; that was all his Foresight showed him. But it was enough. When his eyes cleared for the third time, he saw the three men beginning to make their way towards the bar.
Ha. Another drunk approached, got one look at his face, and flinched away. Alberich shoved him aside, straight-armed another, shouldered into a third.
And when the three would-be robbers reached their goal, he was already there, waiting.
They only saw one more temporary obstacle in their path, and moved to clear it.
They weren't very good with their lead-weighted clubs, which was probably why the clubs were weighted in the first place. And they hadn't practiced fighting as a team either. He managed to get the first two to tangle each other up for a moment, by grabbing the first and shoving him bodily into the arms of the second. They weren't expecting anyone to reach for them—
While the first two were shouting and tripping over each other, he stepped in toward the third, came in low, and laid out his target with a brass-laden right to the point of the chin.
His fist connected solidly, with a satisfying impact that snapped the fellow's head back and sent him sailing across the floor to land over a table. It didn't break, of course. The tavernkeeper didn't want the expense of replacing furniture every moon. The Boar's tables and chairs would stand up to a charging bull and the bull would come away second best.
Now he felt it, that heady pleasure—which would be a guilty one, later, when he came to think about it—that rush of energy and unholy glee that only came during a fight. Fighting-drunk; that was what Dethor called it, for it wasn't the berserk rage that wiped out thought and sense. On the contrary, it made him sharper, and he enjoyed it when he was fighting in a way that would make him feel a bit ashamed of himself later. But now, it widened his manic grin and filled his veins with lightning.
When the first two got clear of each other, he grabbed them both and shoved their heads together with a crack that echoed even over the noise of the brawl. One went down; the other didn't.
He was stunned, though—stunned just long enough.
Alberich grabbed his shoulder and spun him around to face forward; pulled back his fist, and delivered a gut-punch that made the fool's eyes bug out as he toppled to the floor.
He looked around for the trio's friends, the ones he'd seen in his vision, but they, seeing that the cash snatchers were down and out and there was no reason to continue the fight any further, began breaking free of their little knots of combat and scuttling away.
He thought about pursuing. His blood was up now, and he was ready to chase down half a dozen of the young thugs.
:Chosen. Enough. You've ended the problem; that will do for now.:
Kantor's demand cut across the fire in his veins, and chilled it.
He shook his head and backed up out of the way, against the wall. With the instigators gone, the bouncers were managing to quell the remaining belligerents without any help from him. He slipped his knuckle guards off his hand and back into his pouch.
Part of him regretted that the fight was over. Most of him sighed with relief. When the last of those still trying to fight had been tossed into the street, he gave the bouncers a hand with sending the unconscious after them. The three he'd done for were amo
ng them, but he saw no point in saying anything about what might have happened. After all, there was no proof.
He accepted a somewhat better tankard of beer as his reward for helping out, and stayed only long enough to drink it before returning to Kantor. His glee was gone; his guilt had started, and besides, nothing more was going to happen tonight. If anyone was thinking of hiring Aarak, they wouldn't do it tonight. The men he'd downed might have friends watching, who would take it amiss if someone "rewarded" Aarak with a job.
The moon was down by the time Alberich got to his hiding place, and he had to feel carefully for the keyhole to let himself inside. He discovered bruises he hadn't felt when he changed back into his gray leathers.
:Maybe you didn't, but I did,: Kantor sniffed as he mounted.
:They'll heal,: he replied, sending Kantor back up the street toward the Palace. He felt as he always did after a fight; weary and with emotions dulled except for a fierce and bitter satisfaction. The weariness was welcome; he'd sleep well tonight for a change.
:There was someone watching you from the corner,: Kantor went on, giving him a flash of something that the Companion had noted through Alberich's eyes. :I think you'll be offered a job next time you go there.:
The bitterness eased a little; Alberich recognized that vague glimpse. It was someone he'd been watching for some time now, a legitimate businessman who somehow seemed to have more goods in his warehouse than he'd actually purchased.... Now—now he might find out just where those goods came from.
"Good," he said aloud. :That is why we come there, isn't it?:
:Not entirely,: Kantor retorted. :At least, you don't.:
Alberich started to reply, and thought better of it. Kantor was infinitely better at warring with words than he was. He let his silence speak for him, letting Kantor come to his own conclusions.
Eventually, the ears flattened, and out of the silence came—
:I apologize.:
:And you are also right,: Alberich acknowledged. :I do seek out fighting more often than necessary. I could go about the same business without getting involved in altercations at all. But it is what I need, right here, right now.:
Kantor sighed, but his head nodded. :So be it. If you need it, then we will continue to seek it, and I will say no more about it, except to ask you to take care.:
Alberich closed his eyes for a moment. :Perhaps, someday, we will no longer need to go hunting trouble for trouble's own sake.:
It was all he could offer. But Kantor seemed to find it enough.
9
DETHOR had invited Talamir to his quarters tonight, in a way that had been less "invitation" and more "demand." Talamir was fairly certain that he wanted to discuss the current situation with his Second. Alberich, the probable subject of those discussions (now officially a full Herald, though he kept stubbornly to those peculiar gray leathers of his) was gone when Talamir arrived.
Dethor interpreted his curious look correctly; not a surprise, considering how well he and Talamir knew each other.
There was a small fire in the fireplace, although the weather was not yet so cool in the evenings that a fire was necessary. But the Weaponsmaster seemed to crave both the extra warmth and the emotional comfort of a fire more and more often of late.
Come to that, they all craved extra comfort. The Wars seemed both too far away, and too near. A feeling of dreadful tension underlaid everything, no matter how trivial, a frantic feeling as if whatever was being done had to be done, or enjoyed, or dealt with now, for there was no telling what the next day, or even the next candlemark, might bring. Small comforts took on enormous importance, yet one indulged in them in a spirit of guilt, quite as if throwing on another log was somehow going to deprive the Guard on the Border of heat and light.
Dethor had lit only two lanterns, one behind each of the two hearthside chairs; the fire provided the rest of the light in the room tonight.
The Weaponsmaster's Second was nowhere to be seen. "He's out. In town," Dethor said, as Talamir looked inquiringly at the third seat that Alberich usually used. "He won't be back for a while. I believe he's got something on the boil tonight."
"He's doing good work down there," Talamir observed as dispassionately as he could, and settled himself into the padded chair opposite Dethor's. It was difficult to be dispassionate about Dethor's bland statement. Every time Alberich had "something on the boil," there was usually a great deal of violence involved before it was over. Alberich was directly involved in that violence at least half of the time; if Talamir hadn't been aware of just how much he despised unnecessary force, he'd have suspected that the man was seeking out opportunities to thrash someone.
But—perhaps he is, and he's simply making sure that the opportunity calls for necessary violence. That wouldn't be too difficult in the neighborhoods Alberich had to prowl.
"I wondered how much you'd kept track of," Dethor said. "What with everything else you've got going on."
"All of it, I think," Talamir admitted. "And he's as good as you ever were in the covert work, and better, far better, than I. We are, perhaps, too much the gentlemen. He fits in down there better than we ever could, no matter how much we deluded ourselves about our acting abilities."
The words hung heavily in the air, and Talamir glanced out the window of the sitting room. It was moon-dark, and a Companion ghosted into and out of sight among the trees out there, a glimmer of white in the darkness.
"There's too many bloody bastards taking advantage of the situation to make trouble. Or money. Or both," Dethor muttered. "You cut one down, and two more spring up to replace him. It wasn't like that when I was doing the dirty work. It was never that vile down by Exile's Gate."
Talamir shrugged; they both knew that was true enough. Haven had been stripped of all but a skeleton staff of the Guard; constables and even private bodyguards had gone to join the army. The opportunities for the criminal and unscrupulous were legion. Alberich and a trusted handful of constables and the Palace and City Guard were accomplishing more than even the Council guessed. None of it had anything to do with being a Herald, of course—other than an occasional use of the Truth Spell and his communication with Kantor, Alberich never did anything that could not have been done by an ordinary constable.
Providing, of course, that an ordinary constable had his knack for subterfuge and covert work. Which, of course, none of them did. There was only one Alberich.
He couldn't rid the place of crime forever, but every time he removed a criminal from the streets, it look a while for someone else to fill the void left behind, a breathing space for the constables still at work on the street.
Alberich had a real flare for working clandestinely, something he'd probably never explored back in Karse. Talamir wondered how Alberich felt about this new skill; it didn't seem to match the persona of a simple military man.
As if Alberich would ever be a simple anything.
"It was never that vile because there were never that many opportunities," Talamir pointed out. "And what are we to do? Demand some sort of certification of virtue from everyone who passes the gates? Haul them away and question them under Truth Spell as to their motives? I think not. The best we can do is what Alberich's doing, and thank the gods we have him."
The fire flared, revealing Dethor's troubled expression.
"You know the man's in a real mental state," Dethor said, leveling a long and accusatory look at his old friend. Talamir shifted uncomfortably, but his conscience forced him to meet Dethor's eyes. "I have the feeling that he's overworking, just so he can sleep at night. I have the feeling that he's looking for trouble just so he can work out his frustration on a legitimate object. The problem is, when you start looking for trouble, it starts looking for you."
Talamir sighed, deliberately looking down at the plate of fruit on the table between their chairs. Slowly and methodically, he picked up an apple and began to peel it. "I know," he admitted. "I wish there was something that I could do about it. But even if we hadn
't promised we would never ask him to do anything against Karse—"
"—the Council won't allow him out of Haven." Dethor snorted, and Talamir looked up from his apple with reluctance. The creases and wrinkles of Dethor's face turned his frown into something demonic, and the firelight only amplified the effect. "Dammit, Talamir. Can't you do anything about this? I know he wants to do something about the Wars, and I see his face every time he watches another batch of youngsters going south. It's tearing him up!"
"What? Vouch for him? I have, a hundred times and more," Talamir replied, nettled that Dethor would even think he'd been doing less than he could for Alberich. "Then there's the little matter of what he calls his honor."
"Which he's damned touchy about," Dethor growled.
"Exactly so," Talamir agreed. "So what are we going to do? Truth here—I'd give both legs for a dozen Alberichs, all willing to go spying back there among his own people. Damned insular Karsites! Strangers stand out among 'em like a chirra in a herd of sheep. Accents, mannerisms, what they know without even knowing that they know it—" He threw up his hands in frustration. "—you just can't teach those sorts of things!"
Exile's Honor v(-1 Page 19