Game of Souls

by Terry C. Simpson

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Good.” Father ruffled his hair like he used to do when Keedar was younger.

  It brought a smile to Keedar’s face. That simple gesture alone eased his worry. If he hadn’t witnessed what transpired earlier, he might have felt life might work itself out. When Keedar stopped to consider it all, his father’s words sparked the memory of his conversation with Count Cardiff. A lump formed in his chest.

  “Father, there’s something else.”

  In the process of strapping on a sword, Delisar paused, and faced Keedar.

  After a deep breath, Keedar let it out. “Have the counts ever taken other children and claimed them as their own?”

  Delisar was silent. “Yes,” he finally said. “There isn’t time to give you all the details, but some of the Blades and a few noble children were orphans. Worse yet was how they lost their parents. The king had them killed. He’s collected a nice stable from which he siphons his own power. There’s a reason they call it the Soul Throne. You were to be one of them. Your mother refused to send you.”

  Flames and scales. Scales and flames.

  Images of Mother’s face raced through Keedar’s mind.

  A Message in Shadow

  “Delivered less than an hour ago,” Shaz said as he handed Ainslen the note.

  Count Cardiff rested his walking stick against the table, and unrolled the piece of paper. It held instructions for the meeting he’d been anticipating. On the bottom was a wax seal in the likeness of a derin. He read the message, blinked, and then read it again. The location was a bold move, one meant to garner his attention. And so it did.

  “What of the other matter?” The count folded his lips, his mind still preoccupied by the note.

  “Done. And it was a pleasure.”

  Ainslen removed two gold bits from his purse. The price had been worth the result. He smiled inwardly. After watching High Priest Jarod display his work on several occasions, he knew this latest endeavor would be successful. Once someone revealed the secret, House Hazline would be tied to him. He hefted the coins, letting the lamplight play off their surface.

  Across from him, Shaz licked his lips, eyes glinting greedily. The man stank of sex. So much so that the chamber’s mosquitoes buzzed around his grey-cloaked form. If the assassin wished, he could set himself up for many years of modest living with this payment. But Shaz was a womanizer. Even after expending himself earlier, Walker’s Row or the seedier River Quarter would see him before the night ended.

  “Are you certain she couldn’t tell the difference?” Count Cardiff closed his fingers over the coins.

  “I watched them rut enough times to know what she likes.” A wicked grin split Shaz’s face, making the scars stand out. If evil existed, some of it resided in the assassin. “Trust me, when I was inside her, she kept calling out his name.”

  “What of the innkeeper?”

  Shaz’s face lit up. “Follow me if you will.” He headed toward the rear windows that looked out onto the hound kennels.

  Curious, Ainslen limped after him, leaning heavily on his walking stick from time to time. He winced whenever he had to raise his left foot.

  Shaz pointed down toward where a dozen hounds snarled and fought over several chunks of meat. “I gave the dogs a treat. They needed it after what happened in the Parmien.”

  “Master Conor was good man, a bit too talkative for my liking, but a good man nonetheless. He had a lot of friends. Hmm. Spread the rumor that he got caught with some merchant’s boy, and that Heleganese assassins were hired.”

  “Yes, your lordship.”

  “No one else saw you, correct?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good.” Ainslen flicked the coins to the man. “When Shenen gives you the job, make it convincing.”

  Shaz caught them, and they disappeared into his cloak. “Much appreciated, your lordship.”

  “Any word concerning Keedar?” From what he’d seen, the boy was strong in soul, possibly more so than Winslow. Seeing him run had been impressive.

  “Yes, my sources say he survived.”

  Ainslen expected nothing less but still ground his teeth. “He’s a nuisance. Already he’s begun to affect Winslow. I cannot have that. Make certain he learns to stay far away from my son.” He did not want Keedar dead just yet. If he could discover a way to hold onto the boy without questions or without Jemare’s examiners becoming involved, Keedar’s power would be a welcome asset.

  “As you wish, your lordship.” Shaz pulled his hood up over his head, bowed once, and left the room.

  Events were moving in full swing now. Thieves remained true to themselves. Put a shiny bauble in front of one, and he was sure to make an attempt to steal it. And I will be there to slice his hand off. Ainslen smiled. His allies were in place. The other kingdoms would either align themselves or fall. Those were their only choices. Decades of maneuvers and planning were bearing fruit. Sweet, succulent fruit.

  Vengeance for Marjorie was his to reap. King Ainslen Cardiff. The title had a musical ring to it. Hopefully, he would be the first of a long line with his reign lasting for numerous years.

  He left the mansion and headed out toward the riding grounds and the stables by coach. When he arrived, he instructed the driver to wait. Such a visit was not unusual for him. Many a night he’d spent time here talking to his horses.

  The man was standing in the shadows, not masked by them in imitation of Shaz’s ability. He simply stood where it was darkest. Grey within black and stiff as a frozen corpse.

  Ainslen sniffed, hoping to get a whiff of his guest, but the smell of manure, horseflesh, and oats was overpowering. The man still did not budge. Left with no other choice, he reached into his coat and tossed the stranger the honor badge.

  A gloved hand with long, slender fingers snaked out to snatch it. A tiny spark lit in that palm, casting uneven waves across thin lips, a dainty nose, and what appeared to be the beginnings of a tattoo. The light snuffed out.

  “I will send exactly what your master requires,” Ainslen said, “making it easy for him to lay blame at our feet. Providing that he can confirm what he claims is in the palace.”

  “A bird will be sent to you. When you touch it, you will know.” The voice was raspy, but a slight inflection told Ainslen his guest was a female. It made sense. A male of their kind would not have made it past the gates. A flick of her wrist sent the badge back to him.

  Ainslen caught it and slipped it over his neck. “Are you certain those I send will be enough for your master to achieve his goal?”

  “It is of no concern to you. The fulfillment of your portion is all that is required.”

  “On the contrary, it is. If you should fail, you will have the combined might of four kingdoms under Kasinian banners descending on your people.” This was the problem with dealing with subordinates. They never truly knew or understood the motivations and plans of their betters.

  “We have ever been a patient people,” the woman said in a low, lifeless voice. “The Red Swamps must be repaid in kind. We have waited this long, we can wait longer if the need arises. Be warned though, cross our borders without approval, and this time it shall be your own who lie gutted in the Treskelin Woods.”

  Ainslen recalled the battle she spoke of. That day, Jemare had become like one of Hell’s Angels, ripping through the Kheridisian ranks near the Cliffs of a Thousand Sorrows. The enemy had fled into the Treskelin Woods where they should have had the advantage. But not against Jemare the Unbridled Blade. He’d left the ground soaked in their blood. The swamps had run red.

  For a moment he considered if he should even trust this woman and her master. What if they failed in their part? However, the chance they would succeed with his help was too big an advantage to relinquish. It would give him what he needed to bind certain houses to his cause. And the Order of the Dominion would back him even further. This was the right course of action, maybe the only course of action.

  “I will pro
vide the warriors you require. Use them well.” Without awaiting an answer, he turned and strode away. It was time to use the honor granted to him by saving King Jemare’s life.

  Just Life and Death

  Winslow felt as if he was floating on air. In an immaculate golden coat, whorls of red thread running down the sleeves, and emblazoned with the House Mandrigal insignia—the sun inside a circle on a scarlet field—on the left chest, he rode through the Grey Fist’s gates. He’d dressed in his best today to impress his mentor. Carved from feldspar and limestone, a massive castle spread before him with five towers that gave the place its name. Metal ground on metal as the portcullis lowered before slamming shut with a resounding clang.

  Soldiers gave a slight dip of their heads but nothing more. On the faces of some he thought he saw grins. Head forward and back straight, he ignored them.

  “Captain,” Winslow called to one guard with four stripes on his uniform, “where can I find the apprentice’s registry.”

  “You must be young Lord Cardiff,” the captain said. He pointed. “The last tower on your left. You’re expected.” The man smiled warmly.

  Winslow nodded and set off at a trot, a cool wind at his back. He expected to see more soldiers in the old king’s castle, but decided they must be away practicing formations or some such, especially with the reports of an enemy invasion in Marissinia. The castle itself was in a state of disrepair, a far cry from the Golden Spires’ pristine grounds.

  A smile eased its way onto his face as he crossed the area before the westernmost tower. Two men supervised several young boys who were dressed in ragged attire. They were going through a litany of exercises and some form of bare-handed combat. As he passed, the men called for a halt. The boys climbed to their feet. He expected to see determination and some semblance of pleasure on their faces. Instead, their expressions were blank. Frowning, he continued toward the building. When no one came to assist him or take his horse, he dismounted, tied the reins around a post, and strode into the training hall’s registry.

  It was conspicuously empty.

  He had never been inside the building, but Winslow had spent many nights dreaming of its contents, the bustle of everyday activities, the camaraderie of his peers, the ring of steel on steel, trainers shouting instructions, the sweating, straining, apprentices. There was none of that. He was greeted by grey bricks, old carpets, bare walls, and a yawning space like a giant’s toothless maw, smelling of old age. At the far end of the room was a table with a bored-looking man sitting behind it. Winslow stopped and stared in consternation.

  “No need to stop,” the man called, voice carrying a Marishman’s drawl. “You’re in the right place, sweets.”

  “I—”

  “Before you go gettin’ all big-headed on me, sweets, your father must have told you that bein’ a count’s son means nothin’ here.” The man stood. He was a foot shorter than Winslow, slim even with his leather armor, his slanted eyes and yellowish skin tone confirming what his accent suggested. “I’m the authority. That’s the thing to remember, sweets. Now, I can go on to say, that if you feel your position means I should respect you and come grovelin’, singin’ praises, scrapin’ and bowin’ then you’d be mistaken. You can try, though, demand somethin’ of me, put me in my place …” the man grinned, yellowed teeth showing, “I’d like that. It’s not every day I get to beat a noble bloody and get away with it.”

  “What madness is this? My father—”

  Winslow never saw the man move. One moment the Marishman was standing at the table, and the next he was beside Winslow, reeking of sweat. A backhand, a knee to the stomach, and Winslow found himself on the cold, rough floor. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, its taste as bitter as his embarrassment.

  “My name is Drillmaster Lestin, but you’ll call me boss.” The drillmaster’s boots came into focus. They had the metallic glint of iron sabatons. “I’m one of the Blades’ trainers.” A piece of vellum fell next to Winslow’s face. “This here is your contract, signed over by Count Cardiff. If you want out, all you have to do is scribble on that last page. Go ahead, you’d be doin’ me a favor.” A pause followed. Winslow made no attempt to touch the scroll. “If you wish to continue then listen.”

  Winslow opened his mouth to speak. Iron sabatons sent pain lancing up his ribs.

  “Uh, uh, I said listen.” Another pause, and then Lestin continued. “See, that wasn’t so bad. Been a while since I got an apprentice of your age. The wee ones listen from the start. It’s why they pick ‘em young, you know, like takin’ fruit still green from the tree and makin’ it ripen how you want. You older ones are always trouble, especially when they got a swollen head like you.” One boot tilted to a side so Winslow could see the sole. “These here are good for that sort of thing. Can pop a skull like a ripe melon. The last one your age I trained was Sorinya, and look how he turned out. Damn shame. Stand.”

  Ribs throbbing, Winslow crawled to his feet. With his thumb, he wiped the wetness at the corner of his mouth, his finger coming away bloody. He wanted so much to strike at the Marishman, but his ribs, Lestin’s grin, and the man’s hard eyes, warned him it would be a mistake. A bad one.

  Lestin reached out, knuckles covered in ridges under the skin, and straightened Winslow’s coat. “There, all pretty again, sweets.” The Marishman sniffed. “You smell like food.” He shook his head and smacked his lips. “You’re goin’ to grow out of that real soon.”

  The drillmaster walked around him. “There once were hundreds of thousands of Blades and trainees here, but being a Blade kills you as surely as a deep gut wound without a wiseman to tend to it. Now, the king has moved the trainin’ mostly to the Golden Spires.” When he returned, he met Winslow’s gaze. “All that’s left are a select few apprentices. I doubt they’ll speak to you, though, you bein’ new and all noble-like. You see, they’re all dregs, like I used to be, or so they say. But enough talk, I tend to get carried away. Any questions?”

  “Wh-Why are you doing this?” Winslow muttered.

  “Why?” Lestin’s brow wrinkled. “Because it’s the way of the Blades. You nobles always come here with this dream of honor. There isn’t any honor in bein’ a Blade, sweets. It’s just life and death. Mostly death. If you’re too soft, you can’t do what needs doin’.”

  “The Blades are about honor, fighting, wielding soul, all in the name of the king, for Kasinia,” Winslow retorted.

  Lestin threw his head back and cackled. “You’ve been readin’ too many bleeding books. They do make a Blade’s life sound like a dream, don’t they? Them and those guiser’s plays. What is it you think Blades do?”

  “Keep the king’s peace, conquer in the name of Kasinia, and defend the throne.”

  “You’re right there. Now, how do you think they accomplish all that?”

  “Soul—”

  “Heh. Soul magic. You think that’s what you came to learn? No, sweets, you came to learn how to be hard. You came to learn how to suffer, how to make men suffer, see them bleed. You came here to learn to accept that you’re goin’ to die young. Most of all, you came to learn how to kill.”

  “No.” Winslow refused to believe all he heard. Some of it had to be lies, but deep inside his soul told him differently.

  Lestin arched an eyebrow. Winslow dipped his head, wincing in preparation for a blow that never came.

  “Have you ever been in a battle, sweets?” Lestin grabbed Winslow’s hand and turned his palm up. “No, you haven’t, you’re soft like a bleeding girl.” Lestin’s palms were like rough steel. “Well, war isn’t what you think it is, all songs, and honor, and camaraderie. It’s blood, guts, sweat, and brains. The hardest, most ruthless, and smartest survive. The one that can make his opponent cower, wins. The Blades do what they do because people fear them. And there’s no fear greater than death. Except if you’re a Blade, then death means nothin’ more than a release. Still sound glorious to you?”

  “No.”

  “Good. You seem to
have some sense for a noble. And some fire by the look in your eyes.” Lestin nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Whatever you thought this would be, forget about it. I guarantee it will be the hardest thing you ever did in your life.”

  Winslow deflated, all enthusiasm drained. This was a far cry from what he expected. In one meeting, this man had shattered all his dreams of a Blade’s life.

  “So, I say again, sweets,” Lestin bent to retrieve the vellum, “you can sign and go back to your nice life.”

  As much as he wished to do as the drillmaster suggested, something in Winslow refused. Perhaps it was too many of those sleepless nights spent imagining what it would be like to earn his apprenticeship. Perhaps it was the chase in the Smear or the events in the Parmien Forest. He met Lestin’s leer and hard eyes once more. In that moment, Winslow decided he would prove his worth and his perseverance to this Marishman.

  “Very well.” Lestin crumpled the parchment. “Welcome to hell. May Desitrin watch over you.”

  A Girl and a Sword

  Keedar had no love for the name of the inn, but something about its atmosphere called to him. The Hangman stood next to another tavern called the Glittering Lady in the middle of the River Quarter’s maze of cobbled streets and lanes. Of all the establishments in the area, it appeared to be one of the less favored, which was perfect. Despite his concern for his father and what might be happening in the Smear, Keedar felt a sense of relief at being away. It might have been the chance to breathe the cleaner if briny air this close to the River Ost’s sluggish waters or simply being able to walk down a street where he did not have to step in garbage or worse. Not that the Quarter was spotless by any means, but comparing the two was like putting a Red Beggar next to a nobleman.

  He sat near a window looking out onto the roads that were always wet, as if they perennially carried the river’s moisture. Seafarers and rivermen strode along, the difference between the two often a case of swarthier skin and lighter clothes for those who kept to the oceans. Quite a few of them were Darshanese, hook-nosed and dark-haired, having braved the Raging Sea along their coasts to lead those less adept at navigating its tumultuous currents. A few Farish Islanders, bodies covered in tattoos, stood out among the crowds. With the king’s recent pardon, the men of their race had appeared in droves. One in particular, so much bigger and more tanned than others of his people that it was obvious he was a half-breed, walked with a dancer’s grace as he headed toward the Hangman’s entrance.