“You’ve been gone for so long, I thought you might forget.”
From Lastrahn’s intense expression Ryle half expected him to break something in response. Instead he raked his hair back from his face, and waited.
Ogrif plucked something small and yellowing from a plate atop the counter and popped it into his mouth. He considered Lastrahn’s offer while he chewed, then took a noisy drink from a tin cup. “Alright, but close the door. I have somewhere to be.”
Lastrahn nodded for Ryle to do as Ogrif asked. All of the deference for Ogrif further convinced Ryle that this small man really was their last chance to find Hartvau.
The two guards remained unconscious on the floor.
“What about them?” Ryle asked.
“Outside,” Ogrif said. “Too late for babying.”
What a lovely fellow. A true humanitarian. Ryle dragged the smaller man to the door.
“He’s powerful, Hartvau,” Ogrif began. “He has people, weapons, influence, many resources. You should use caution.”
As if they didn’t know that already. Ryle still recalled Judith’s reaction when speaking of him.
“I asked for information, not advice,” Lastrahn snapped.
Ogrif shrugged. “He showed up during the last uprising, this Hartvau. Maybe from the east. Maybe not. He came with coins when they were in short supply. Bought himself some friends. Friends turned to power when opportunities presented themselves. An old story, this one.”
“Describe his forces.”
“Trained fighters. Hard men. Dozens at least, maybe more. A bodyguard stays always at his side. A nasty piece of work called Mawren. You’d like her I think.”
Wonderful.
“If he has so many men, then he’s not sitting idle.”
“Who is idle in this city? If a way exists to make coins, Hartvau has his fingers around that throat.”
“That can’t be all.”
Ogrif licked his lips. “There are reports of strange happenings around him and his. Maybe true, maybe not. Who can say?”
“You can.”
Ogrif peered up at Lastrahn for a moment. “Dark tales. The kind that end in blood.”
Ryle dumped the guard outside, and went back for the second man. The bigger guard stirred as he tugged on his arm. Thank hex. He wouldn’t have been able to move the man a finger’s width. Once he’d staggered up on unsteady legs Ryle ushered him toward the door before he figured out where he was.
“If he’s so powerful, then he’s aligned with a House,” Lastrahn said.
Ogrif snorted. “You’ve been gone too long.” He brushed his hands together then scraped the pile of coins on the counter into a leather pouch. “The Houses don’t run everything anymore.”
Simeon’s talk of changing rulers might not have been idle banter.
“They can’t all be gone.”
“Of course not. When do Houses not sprout like weeds? Old Volvare remains. Nerengall, and Sarrut. A scattering of families less strong. Adelto came through perhaps the strongest from the unpleasantness. They now sit at the Anvil’s shoulder. But strengths wax and wane. Some spent themselves trying to rise up. Others fled down the river when peace was not found.” Ogrif shrugged. “As they always do, new forces took their places.”
“The Factions,” Lastrahn said with some disgust.
“And others. They’re called Societies now.”
Sounded like gangs. If they were anything like the bunch he met last night, this didn’t bode well.
Lastrahn had done a number on the door. Once the big guard was on the other side, Ryle had to slam his shoulder into it a couple times to wedge it closed. Only then was he able to lift the thick security plank beside the door and pound it down into its brackets.
“So Hartvau is powerful. He still must work for someone. Everyone does.”
Ogrif ate another whatever from the plate, emptied his cup, and hopped down from his stool. On his feet, he didn’t even come to Lastrahn’s shoulder, and his hunch looked more pronounced. “Hartvau is worked for. He moves alone, this one. Answers to himself only.”
As if finding Hartvau’s “guest” hadn’t sounded hard enough before.
“Then he’s a member of the Council.” Lastrahn’s tone had become grimmer, if that was possible.
“They aren’t so much in charge today. But no, not yet. His control is more . . . unofficial.”
Ogrif swept his eyes around the room, nodded, and took a half step toward the door behind the counter. His pants, dark in contrast to his shirt, swished about his short, thick legs. “You have more questions? Come. I have to go.”
The door behind the counter opened onto a larger space than Ryle expected. A strange, rank smell hit him as he stepped through the doorway. Not as potent as the Skivers’ sauce but sweeter, and nearly as unpleasant.
The light streaming in from the lamps in the shop provided the only illumination until Ogrif lit a lantern. In its bright pool of light Ryle made out rows of shelves, each taller than Lastrahn. Boxes and chests sat on some. Bolts of cloth or bulging sacks on others. Every chest looked locked, every bag chained to its shelf. A thousand, thousand coins’ worth of goods must’ve been stacked up in the dark around them.
Who the hex was this Ogrif? This was far too extensive for a lone fence.
Ogrif locked the door behind them with a key dangling from a chain around his neck and then led them deeper into the space. His feet rapped on the wooden floorboards. A faint hiss filled the silence. Ryle couldn’t identify its source.
“If he is so powerful he must have enemies,” Lastrahn prompted.
“Who does not?”
They passed a dozen rows of shelves with equally expensive contents. Ryle swept his eyes along each row but saw no motion besides their dancing shadows. The unpleasant sweet smell grew stronger with each step. His nose wrinkled.
“I want names,” Lastrahn said.
“Those you would think. Denter. Bastern. The Grephons. The Wanton Skivers.” Ogrif paused and shot Ryle a glance. “Though I heard they’ve had some difficulties lately.”
Ryle looked away, and hoped Lastrahn didn’t notice.
“You didn’t mention Palermo,” Lastrahn said.
Ogrif shook his head. “Not that I’ve heard. Perhaps they have an understanding.”
The eye watering smell grew stronger as they entered an open space amongst the shelves, the floor composed of stones rather than boards. Huge glass vessels sat atop wooden stands. Their contents remained indistinct until they moved closer.
A bundle of some fruit Ryle had never seen before hung down inside the container. It looked half eaten. Below lay a creature, a pale skinned lizard perhaps? Its skin moved.
Ryle looked closer and his stomach curdled. It wasn’t pale skinned. Thousands of yellowish worms writhed across, and through, its carcass. A mass of them emerged from an empty eye socket and crawled down along its jaw.
The small shapes Ogrif had popped into his mouth with plump fingers came back to Ryle. Blasted Del’atre. His enchantment with the bizarre city died a little more.
Ogrif continued on to a set of wooden stairs along the wall. “Up here.”
At the top of the stairs, they came to an empty doorway draped with a red and gold tapestry. Beyond, they entered a large living space. Ruddy light from the mid-day sun streamed in through windows along one wall. Ogrif extinguished the lantern he carried.
At least the smell from below had dissipated, and with it, Ryle’s urge to expel his innards.
He made out a large bed in the far corner, a dark wood dresser and mirror. Chests and shelves lined a few of the walls. Closer, a table with a polished stone top flanked by sturdy chairs. Next to where they stood, a sink, cupboards, and an iron stove.
Ogrif went to a cold cupboard and withdrew a green bottle. He lifted the offer of a drink toward Lastrahn, who shook his head. The short man filled a small glass then took a seat at the table. Lastrahn sat across from him.
It might’ve
been the light streaming in through the window, but the contents of Ogrif’s glass seemed to smoke. Ryle made sure his sword remained clear of his cloak.
Ogrif settled himself, glanced at Ryle’s sword and then his chest. He squinted. “What do you want for pendant?”
Ryle’s hand moved reflexively to his chest. Casyne’s pendant hung free again.
“Looks old. An ancient Del’atre sigil perhaps,” Ogrif added.
“A sigil of what?” Ryle asked before he could stop himself.
The short man raised one hand in a small shrug. “Hard to say, but I make you good offer.”
“It’s not for sale.” Ryle tucked it away.
Lastrahn placed a hand rather firmly atop the table, ending that line of questions.
Ogrif looked as annoyed, but shrugged. “You, I think, have one more question.”
They all knew what it was before Lastrahn spoke. “Tell me where to find him.”
“A fortified building in the heart of Purses. Many layers, many fighters. He is strong and well defended. None have snuck in. None have dared attack.”
Except maybe for a few thieves Ryle knew all too personally. But that was beside the point. Did he and Lastrahn have a chance of getting inside?
“The location,” Lastrahn demanded.
Ogrif turned his glass between his fingers. “It is no secret, but do you still want to know, champion? You would face an army. Deadly to everyone, even you, and Hartvau won’t want to be disturbed. Especially tonight.”
Lastrahn paused, then leaned over the table. “Continue.”
Ogrif froze, his face stricken. He licked his lips.
Lastrahn’s smile resembled a wolf about to devour his kill. “Now.”
Red blossomed across Ogrif’s cheeks. His eyes darted between Ryle and Lastrahn like a trapped animal. His lips pressed together. His hand twitched.
“Sir!” Ryle swept his cloak up and threw himself in front of the champion as the glass of liquid flew at Lastrahn’s face.
Cold fluid splashed across the cloth over Ryle’s arm. Glass shattered beside them.
Ryle smelled wine and nothing more. Lastrahn roared. Ryle knocked his cloak out of the way.
The window beside the table was now an empty, gaping wreck. A strip of wood fell to the floor amid shards of broken glass.
“After him!” Lastrahn snapped.
Muck sucker! Ryle knew it was a terrible idea even as he moved, but it made no difference. He had no choice. He dove through the window. The mid-day sun, piercing through a gap in the dark clouds, blinded him, then air rushed past his ears as he fell.
CHAPTER 29
Ryle hit canvas, bounced, rolled, fell again. He hit stone on his left shoulder. The already sore joint screamed, but he didn’t have time to worry about it.
Up! Up!
Kilgren laughed in the back of his mind. Stupid as always!
Ryle found his feet, stood swaying. He found himself on a rooftop patio. A broken table lay to his left, a large flower pot to his right. Uneven and tilted rooftops, cluttered with flag poles, clotheslines, and chimneys spread before him. And amidst them, one fleeing short man in a red vest. With a thirty pace lead.
Spoiled muck.
The cloak was tangled about his shoulders. He’d had more than enough of the blasted thing. He tore the clasp free with a snarl, clambered over the stone lip of the patio, and leapt to the next roof. Ogrif had already reached the next building. Blast he was fast.
Ryle hurdled a low chimney, scrambled across tiles. He barely had a second to think before he hurtled himself over the long gap to the next roof. He tried not to consider the uneven cobblestones so far below.
He made it, gaining a little on the smaller man, but the next roof gave him pause. It was higher by a good couple paces and lined by a wrought iron railing. Ogrif leapt without slowing, grabbed the railing, and hopped over in single a clean motion.
There wasn’t time to gape. Ryle built up speed and jumped. He made the roof, but slammed into the railing. Hard. That would leave a hex of a mark. His hip already throbbed. He threw himself over and continued on. He might’ve gained five paces on Ogrif, but the man showed no sign of slowing. His feet clacked out a rapid pace atop the tiles.
A roof, a low wall, a short drop. Ryle landed in a crouch. A peaked roof rose ahead like a mountain range. There was no sign of Ogrif, but he heard his sharp steps somewhere ahead. And a soft hissing sound.
Hissing?
Ryle leapt to the next roof, hit hard and scrambled up the sloped roof. Below and to his left he spotted the fleeing fence. Ogrif had changed direction taking an easier path. A series of square, flat roofs stretched before him. The only barriers were clotheslines flapping with laundry. Out in the open, his pace would only increase. Ryle cursed and hurried after him, running along the peak of the roof. The roof tiles were slick and steep drops waited to either side.
A tall man stood on the roof ahead of Ryle. The tails of his long, ragged coat flapped in the breeze. All thoughts of Ogrif vanished as he took in the man’s bald head, his red-stained scalp, his cold smile. But it was the man’s eyes that seized his attention. He knew those dark eyes well. He’d never forgotten them. His breath caught in his throat. It was impossible.
Ryle tried to skid to a stop and grab for his sword at the same time. That was a mistake.
The tiles tore loose. In a blink, his feet went sideways.
He scrambled, flailed, fell; all the while, his mind tumbled faster.
How was he here? What the hex was happening?
His pulse hammered in his throat. Tiles ripped at the back of his jacket. His fingers scraped stupidly along the tiles, searching for purchase, only the gloves kept them intact.
He slid to the edge. The drop called his name. Panic blazed through his veins.
His feet caught solid tiles, and he threw himself forward with a cry.
An alley gaped.
Another roof.
He hit hard, rolled over and over, and slid to a stop. Blast that hurt.
Ryle forced himself to ignore the pain searing across his back, throbbing in his shoulder, and get up. There was no time for any of that. A Praeter was there. The Praeter.
The rooftop behind Ryle stood empty. He spun, taking in the surrounding windows and rooftops. There was no sign of the Praeter. His hands shook. What the hex was going on?
Ryle smelled hot metal, foreign and familiar at the same time. Pounding footsteps tore his attention back to the line of flat rooftops. A flash of movement and he spotted Ogrif ducking between laundry posts as he ran. Ten paces separated Ryle from his target. Somehow he’d gained on him.
One problem at a time. Pain dug through his side as he took a deep breath and forced his legs to move.
A short run, a jump, and then he was in a maze of drying laundry. He lost sight of Ogrif, as they both ducked and swatted through loads of clothes and sheets drying in the sun. The pleasant scents of soap clashed with the bitter tang of adrenaline on his tongue.
A wet blanket caught him in the face, smothering him. He tore it away before he fell, only to find a ledge at his feet. He leapt without knowing what lay on the other side.
Scents of ash and warm steam washed over his face, and a breathless moment later, he landed on hands and knees atop slick mossy tiles. He clawed his way forward. Ogrif was just ahead, Ryle might just catch him yet. If no more nightmares intruded. It was a big if. He tore his eyes from Ogrif for a second, but he saw no one else. The Praeter was gone—for now.
Ryle’s lungs and legs burned. His side ached. Blast, he shouldn’t be so tired already, but every lost hour of sleep and missed meal over the past days dragged on him like anchors.
The jump to the next roof was a good deal longer than the others. There was no way the small man could clear it. This was his chance. Ogrif would have to stop and face him.
But Ogrif didn’t slow. He leapt, and Ryle’s breath caught as Ogrif soared over the gap.
He almost made it.
&n
bsp; Ogrif slammed chest first against the far lip with a nasty crunch. But he hung on. With some scrambling and clawing he pulled himself over the edge and ran, hunched over, slower.
Then it was Ryle’s turn. He increased his speed and launched off the edge. His height helped, and he cleared the drop, crashing to one knee. He glanced back and his stomach tensed, he’d only made it by a finger’s width. He drew a ragged breath to steady himself and looked up. Ogrif had disappeared. His eyes whipped across the rooftops.
Nothing.
Gasping and wheezing, Ryle rushed to the far edge of the rooftop. There, an iron ladder descended to the street. Four stories below, Ogrif’s red vest vanished into the crowd.
Ryle had no time to curse or think. He grabbed the sides of the ladder, once again thankful for his thick gloves as he slid down. The plummet sucked his stomach tight against his spine. His bruised shoulder screamed. Heat seared through his gloves until metal bit into his palms. Ryle hissed and hung on as long as he could, then he let go and fell the last couple paces.
He landed hard, the jolt of the impact sent a wave of pain up through the soles of his feet to his knees. He limped the first couple steps until he was sure nothing had broken, then he forced himself to run through the pain until it dropped to a dull ache. Like everything else.
Ogrif’s red vest flickered in and out of sight in the crowd. The number of people had decreased, but not so much that Ryle could easily spot the small man. He shoved past a pair of merchants in silk jackets, and slid past a cluster of women and children carrying packages wrapped in black and yellow paper. A mason in a canvas apron cursed as Ryle careened off him. Ogrif ducked around a corner leaving Ryle to follow the sharp click of his steps.
He caught sight of him, then lost him again. Ryle sucked in air, hot and stinking from the fumes of alleys rushing past. The pain in his side was a jagged, stabbing knife. He was slowly closing on Ogrif, but not fast enough. His legs weakened with each stride.
The short man stopped taking corners and ran flat out, headed for a narrow door in the building at the end of the street. He fished for something in his vest pocket.
Oh, muck, no.
If Ogrif put a door between them, neither he or Lastrahn would ever see the man again. He poured on more speed. Ogrif reached the door while Ryle was still a block away. His hands scrambled at the latch.
Gearspire: Advent Page 25