by James Shade
Since then, the realities of surviving in a world of thieves, and taking care of her brothers and father, had overwhelmed those pubescent fantasies. Avrilla thought she had given up the prospect of children of her own. She had even left the sadness of it behind. Jaeron's awkward words rocked her.
Uncertainty. It was not a feeling she dealt with well. She was comfortable with the expectations for her future being set. Even Father's death has not really changed that. The loss had shocked her, of course. She tried to sort out the anger, the fear, and the frustration. But she was not ready to believe that it changed the basic precepts of their existence. They would continue to steal, barter, fight, do whatever it took to survive in Islar. And perhaps they could find justice for their father.
She felt the tension creep up her neck and the cold tears once again on her cheeks. Who would want her? She was an orphan with no prospects and no dowry. She could imagine no one less desirable except perhaps one of the city’s whores.
She wiped her face angrily into her elbow, sensing the salty remnants of sweat and tears in the cloth. She looked down at herself. She was thin and flat-chested, sprinkled with sun-sparked freckles over her chest and arms. She bore obvious scars on her hands, arms, legs. Even her hips were not pleasingly wide, and once brought the remark from Lady deChel that she was not built for childbearing. Ink stained her fingers and dirt crusted under her nails.
No! She shook her head in disgust. Her fantasies were best left in the past. She had no need to be pretty.
“Who’s there?” a voice quavered from the front of the barn.
Avrilla put her hands on her kukris and stepped back into the shadows. She needed to be capable, observant, and if necessary, deadly. There was nothing else.
Seventeen
Jaeron heard fear in the timbre of the strange voice, and a protective righteous anger layered underneath. It was the farmer or one of his hands. They had not left in time.
He looked at Chazd. His brother had already cocked his crossbow and was loading a bolt in the weapon. He reached over and touched his brother’s arm, mouthing a silent ‘no’ when Chazd looked at him. Jaeron did not want to hurt the man.
“I will call the Guard! Who’s there?”
“Excuse me,” Avrilla’s voice responded from somewhere below.
Jaeron came to his feet, hand reaching for his sword. What was she thinking?
“You there! Come on out here!”
“I’m sorry to have startled you, good sir. I’m afraid my brothers and I lost track of time last night and were not able to make it into the city before the gates were closed.”
Yes, that’s right. Jaeron nodded and saw Chazd doing the same. The thought had come unbidden, with no disagreement until Jaeron consciously registered his sister’s lie. By Teichmar! She was doing it again!
“Even so, we are having trouble locating our cousins. We are without work and without a place to stay. It should be okay for us to shelter here for a couple of days?”
His sister’s voice had phrased it as a question, but Jaeron felt the power of magical suggestion in the words. Her voice seemed to carry a hidden vibration that entered his mind and settled at the base of his neck. Now that he had the sense of it, he was able to ignore the effect despite it reaching right into his brain. It felt eerie, unnatural.
Jaeron had a unique insight into the supernatural. Most children of Bormeer were brought up hearing stories of magic and of fantastical creatures. The legends of Kolmar and Sophir, the Goblet of Altrumak, and the frightful tales of the Tainted of Malfekke were well known. Priests, especially of the outlawed religions, were rumored to have been able to heal the sick or cure the insane through special rituals and prayer. And the chief advisors to the once-beloved matriarchy were said to have been powerful wizards or sorcerers. But at some age everyone realized they were just stories.
Jaeron, however, knew the truth. Through his study and training amongst the acolytes of Teichmar, Jaeron had learned that some magic was real. Every once in a while, and generally along particular genealogical lines, an individual would be blessed, or cursed, with a magical talent. Some, like Avrilla, could unnaturally influence people’s minds or hearts. Others had more physical manifestations, like the ability to manipulate fire or mend bones or purge infections.
A few, very rare, cases had multiple abilities and these were very strong. The Church viewed these individuals as very dangerous and did everything it could to identify them and send them to the Cathedral at the Bormeer capital for seclusion. Records within the Teichmar library also confirmed other truths, too. The Tainted were real. Some people chose to exchange a portion of their essence, their soul, to Malfekke in return for a transformation of their own flesh and blood. These creatures were actively hunted and exterminated by both the Church and the Bormeeran government.
Jaeron had read accounts confirming that some priests had access to powers that seemed magical, as well. Within Teichmar, certain blessings and ceremonies had effects that could only be explained by divine intervention. Most worrisome amongst those entries were records confirming that the priests and priestesses of the Forbidden religions had similar capabilities. To Jaeron’s mind, that could mean that even though worship of those deities was no longer legal, the deities themselves might very well be real.
“You are welcome to stay. I’m sorry that the barn isn’t more comfortable, but please let me know if there is anything else you need.”
The farmer’s statement back to Avrilla broke Jaeron’s musing. He stepped to the edge of the loft and looked down. From this vantage, Jaeron could see the back of his sister’s head and shoulders. Leaning casually on his pitchfork, a man stood facing her. He appeared sturdy, but worn, like clothes that had been left in the sunlight too long. He had a ruddy face, etched with concern, but he was smiling at his sister.
Avrilla reached out to grasp the man’s hand. “Thank you, sir.”
The farmer graced her with a bigger smile and a nod, then turned and left the barn to begin his workday.
Eighteen
DwindeKale felt the trickle of sweat begin on his neck and slide down his back. He would blame the weather, or the woolen tabard he wore as part of the uniform of the Cerulean Couriers. But the fact was that Larsetta in’Shil made him nervous.
As a message courier, Dwin was used to a variety of assignments and environments. He was tasked with long horse rides from Dun Lercos to any location within Bormeer and had seen the best and worst of his country’s geography. He had faced or escaped from some of its most dangerous animals. He had visited the warfront and come home unscathed. His duties were performed for the government, sometimes for military reasons, but mostly to enable urgent communication at the behest of the Prime Minister, the High Court, or the Office of Revenue.
Dwin did not like the idea of the Cerulean Couriers being used for personal gain and there was no doubt in his mind about in’Shil’s purposes. Despite the direction of his superiors, and notwithstanding the affluent lifestyle evident in the apartments that surrounded him, Dwin felt that the woman before him had less than noble intent in the use of his services.
Plus he did not like the way she watched him. Like he was a roast fowl set out on a platter.
Larsetta in’Shil sank back in the luxury of the divan. The down-filled cushions absorbed her shape as she stretched back against the yathri fabric. The morning sunlight filtered through the light color of the sea-folk’s material, clashing with the woman’s black and scarlet body suit. Despite the close fit of the leather clothing contouring her shape, the messenger from Bormeer did not believe it was as comfortable as it looked.
“Has Witaasen accepted my offer?” Larsetta asked.
“Not directly, m’lady,” the man said. He forced himself not to stammer, nor stare too long at any one part of the woman stretching in recline before him.
Larsetta closed her eyes and asked, “He made a counter offer then?”
Dwin swallowed and nodded. He slowly pulled the sea
led letter from his coat and offered it to the woman.
“Yes, m’lady. He would not tell me the details.”
Larsetta’s eyes flicked open and she lifted her arm. The document seemed to pull from his grasp of its own volition and was suddenly in Larsetta’s hand – seal broken and unfolded. deKale continued to stand in place, waiting to be dismissed. He was a second from stepping back, thinking that she had forgotten him, when she spoke again.
“No, no, Lord Neal. That simply will not suffice. I want a city of my own to play with and you will help me make Islar that city.”
By the time Dwin realized that she was not speaking to him, the letter was in tiny shreds falling toward the floor. It was some trick of the light in the room, perhaps the flickering candles. He never saw her tear the paper. Larsetta’s arm seemed to drift slowly over the edge of the divan and then the letter was gone. Before each piece landed on the coral marble, it smoldered into a fine, white-gray ash.
“I would have you bring a message back to Lord Witaasen,” Larsetta said to him. “But you have other plans.”
“Other plans, m’lady?” he asked. “I don’t think I’m–”
Suddenly Larsetta was no longer on the divan, but behind him. Her small, delicate hands were on his wrists, locking them in an iron grip. Her body against his back did not feel soft and curvaceous. Rather she was like jagged metal, catching at his traveling clothes and skin. Dwin felt her face against his right ear, chin pushing painfully into his shoulder, and her hot breath on the side of his face.
DeKale would have spoken, called out for help. His brain struggled to make it happen. Neurons began firing to put contextual thought into the right words. Synapses were just beginning to send the right commands to the mouth, jaw, vocal chords, and chest. But the process was interrupted. Dwin deKale never even got to realize he was going to die.
~
Larsetta slowly withdrew her purple-black tongue back into her mouth. She truly disliked the taste of the human ear. With her enhanced senses, the bitterness of the wax and salty stale sweat nearly made her pause. However, once her tongue had plunged through the eardrum and shattered away the three ossicles, the glorious taste of the human brain made it so worthwhile.
She sighed. She had been impatient. Her tongue had scrambled the courier’s brain into a thick warm soup. Then she had sucked it down too quickly. She frowned, examining the now empty head lolled over on its neck. The letter must have upset her more than she thought. The courier was not even that handsome.
~
Holger paced in the tiny entry office of Tonas Valche. A full bell had passed and the man still had not received him. His guts were roiling. He had a heavy breakfast at the Mean Goat, using his position to pressure the tavern keeper into a free meal. Fried salted herring, scrambled gull eggs, and thick whey bread covered in clotted cream. He washed the double serving down with a pitcher of dark honeyed ale. Now he silently lied to himself, blaming his discomfort on the extra portion of gull eggs rather than placing it more truthfully on his anger.
Valche's office was stifling. The man still had a fire burning in the full-wall fireplace despite the weather’s transition into spring over a week ago. Twice Holger considered pulling off his heavy cloak and tabard, but realized there was no place to hang it other than the landowner's chair. The bastard earned his reputation. He did not want his visitors to feel comfortable.
The second door to the office opened, providing a gentle hint of fresh, cooler air and then Tonas Valche entered the doorway blocking the flow. The man smelled of fish and onions overlaid with a musky perfume that Holger guessed was supposed to hide the acrid tang of body odor. Valche turned nearly sideways to fit through the door and deLocke suddenly realized why the man's desk was in the center of the room.
“Have you arrested them?” Valche asked, not bothering with so much as a formal greeting to the city guardsman.
Holger decided he could be as informal. “No one's been arrested yet,” he replied.
“Why not?”
“I'm still questioning witnesses. No charges have been pressed.”
“You've at least interviewed the surviving deAltos?”
“We cannot find them.”
“Which should give you plenty of reason to arrest them! Would they go into hiding if they haven't done anything wrong?”
This was, in fact, Holger's opinion on the matter, but he was not going to give Valche the satisfaction of agreeing with him.
“It’s been three days, deLocke. I’m beginning to believe that my tax dozecs are being wasted. Do I need to get you some help?”
“No, sir,” Holger choked out a reply.
deLocke’s face could not help but betray his emotions toward the man. He resisted the impulse to lunge forward and squeeze the life out of Valche’s fat neck. It was probably fortunate that the slumlord never looked up from his paperwork to acknowledge his guest.
Holger waited for a dismissal. However, as he watched Valche work, he realized that one was not coming. He snapped the briefest possible bow and flew from the office.
Nineteen
The new hay bales were tightly bound and clean, fresh and light brown. Avrilla did not particularly like the smell of hay, but she had become accustomed to it over the past few days. She looked around the barn loft. She and her brothers had been comfortable enough here for a couple of nights, but they needed to figure out what to do next. Avrilla was not sure, being so unfamiliar with her special abilities, but she felt like her hold over the farmer was not going to last forever.
Her hands moved reflexively to her kukri when she heard the wood ladder creaking, but she relaxed when she recognized Chazd’s tousled mane of hair. Her brother finished his climb and sauntered over to their makeshift camp with a small sack slung over his shoulder. He put the sack on the hay bale and began handing out the food he had stolen or bartered for. A loaf of dark wheat bread, a half dozen sweet quince, a small ring of cheese. He also had a half-pitcher of milk provided by the cow downstairs. It was as much of a breakfast as they had been able to pull together since the morning after the fire.
“We need a plan, Jaeron,” Chazd said as he cut the wax off the ring of bright orange cheddar.
“We can’t stay here forever, hiding from farmer Baldy and his wife.”
Chazd had given the patriarch of the farming family that name the first morning they were there. Her brother observed from the hayloft as the man did his chores. The man’s bald pate was slightly burned and reflected the morning sun. Avrilla made the mistake of remarking on it first, but Chazd had insisted that the farmer must buff and wax it each morning. Natural skin could not shine like that, he laughed. Jaeron had glared at him, but not for long. It was good. They had all needed a laugh, even a half-hearted one.
“Eventually, Avrilla’s… explanations aren’t going to make sense. Plus, we are out of money. I used the last mizec this morning, though my haggling might have gone better if I had been there in the evening with my mandolin. And stealing meals three days in a row isn’t smart – Father taught us that.”
Jaeron finished chewing his bite of quince and wiped a dribble of its juice from his chin.
“I agree, Chazd,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about it and perhaps it is time to lay it all out.
“To your point, we need to find a real place to stay. Somewhere that we can start collecting our gear and we don’t have to hide every time we hear a little noise. Without knowing what we are really up against in the city, I think we should look into staying in Peakinaw.”
“Peakinaw?” Chazd asked. “We can’t run a guild from outside the city!”
“It wouldn’t be permanent. But it does have a couple of advantages. No one knows us there. That would allow us to avoid questions. There is a lot of traffic through Peakinaw due to both the mine and supply shipments to the warfront. We could easily keep up on current news from Islar.”
“It’s still an hour’s walk away, and we need to spend more time in Islar tryin
g to figure out who killed Father,” Chazd said around a mouthful of bread.
“Chazd, we'll be safer in Peakinaw,” Jaeron began to explain.
“Safe from who, Jaeron? We don't know that anyone is after us!”
“Chazd-” Jaeron looked closely at his brother. Then he gave up. “We can make this decision later. It’s not important, anyway. I also want to find out what happened to Father. I think we all agree on that?”
Both of her brothers were looking to her. Pain reflected in their eyes, but with resolve behind. She nodded.
“So we need to understand why Father was killed in order to figure out who did it. It's not what he wanted, or he would have told me. It didn't look like anything was stolen, though I didn't really have time to look around. We have to assume that it was either the jewelry job,” Jaeron continued.
He pulled the elegant wooden box out of the bag he collected.
“Or it's because of these,” Jaeron pointed to the cloth bundle around the wooden toys.
“You're joking!”
Avrilla tensed in preparation for another argument, trying to figure out ahead of time a way for her to intervene and diffuse the situation. She could see Jaeron’s posture stiffen. He was getting tired of the constant dispute.
“Father wasn’t killed because of a bunch of toys,” her brother did not back down.
“Chazd, listen to me,” Jaeron said.
He lifted the latch on the jewelry box and threw open the lid. Then he unwrapped the cloth bundle.
“Assuming we’d have to fence that necklace, which do you think we’d get more money for?”
He gave his brother time to consider, but spoke again before Chazd answered.