by James Shade
“Rubbish!” Holger muttered. “Thieves and liars, the lot.”
He looked up at his assistant, Guardsman Cregg. He smirked at the man’s nervous shift of footing.
“Well?”
Cregg blanched. “Nothing, sir. I didn’t say anything.”
Holger stared at the boy’s pale face, the mass of cartilage of his larynx slowly moving up and down like a cork bobber. He let the younger guard stand under his scrutiny for a few moments more, until he was sure perspiration accumulated at his temples. Then he looked back to his desk and reached for his notes.
“Bring in the next witness, Cregg.”
“Yes, sir,” he answered, nearly jumping to respond.
Holger smiled observing that the man had the sense to remember to close the door quietly behind him when he left this time.
~
Avrilla crouched low on the stone garden wall. Dressed in her ‘work’ clothes, dark cottons and leathers, she was invisible to the street traffic. She got into position and stepped out onto the branches of Lord deLespan’s prize olive tree. She perched there and waited, hidden from the city’s ambient light until the back doors of the mansion opened. Candlelight spilled out onto the tile pavers of the courtyard.
Lord deLespan came out onto his terrace, maneuvered his candle lantern from hand to hand as he allowed the door to swing closed behind him. Avrilla watched him walk into his garden, stiff and proper. He was having trouble shielding the candle from the light wind and misty rain that developed after dinner. He was alone, which was a good sign. She and her brothers had not been sure that he was going to follow those instructions. The features of his face cycled from worried fear to indignant anger as he shrugged his shoulders against his neck, trying to dissipate the spring night chill. He kept looking around the garden, eyes mostly level, never thinking to look above his head.
Avrilla had been in place in the courtyard for the past hour. So far she saw no sign of guards or other spies, though that did not guarantee that they were not there. A man as wealthy as deLespan could afford very clever guards, and defenses more arcane in nature. She kept watch as he paced the stone walkway. His hand kept moving to his breast pocket, fingering the contents. Perhaps the letter I wrote this morning?
On his second pass below the tree, Avrilla decided that his twitchy, nervous behavior probably confirmed an absence of hirelings. She swung out onto a low branch of the tree and dropped to the ground behind the nobleman. deLespan spun, startled by the noise.
“Shh,” Avrilla warned him, whispering. “Don’t make any noise or sudden movements.”
“What do you want?” he asked.
The mine owner surprised her, keeping his composure. He matched his voice to the same level as hers.
“We’ll get to that. Do you have your gate key?”
He shook his head.
“No matter,” she said. “Walk with me.”
Avrilla put a little emphasis on the words, feeling the magical power she possessed flutter within her throat. DeLespan nodded and followed her to the courtyard’s gate. When they arrived, she rapped on the wood softly and waited for the response. The gate rattled lightly once and then the lock opened. Avrilla pulled on the heavy door and stepped aside as her brothers entered the yard. The nobleman stepped away from them, his hand unconsciously reaching for a weapon that was not there.
“It’s okay, Lord deLespan. These are my brothers. We aren’t here to hurt you.”
Avrilla did not use any power this time, trying to allow her sincerity to show. The man’s hands still shook, but he was angry as well as scared.
“We can be your friends if you allow us.”
“You have a hell of a way of showing it.”
“Lord deLespan,” Jaeron interjected softly. “We apologize for the inconvenience and unusual nature of this meeting, but our discretion is for your protection as much as ours.”
“Blackmail does not seem much like protection.”
“We are not blackmailing you, sir. And I am sorry if our letter made it seem that was the case. I asked my sister to keep her message short and vague.”
Jaeron walked over to stand face-to-face with the man and held out his hand. Chazd took a package out of his satchel, unwrapped it, and placed it in his brother’s palm. The candlelight reflected off the polished wood.
“I think you were looking for this,” Jaeron said, offering the box to deLespan.
The nobleman set his light on a terracotta planter and reached for the box in Jaeron’s hand. He unclasped the lid and opened it slowly. Avrilla noted that the man only glanced at the jewelry that lay on the velvet folds and then turned his attention to the letter pressed into the lid. The man pulled the parchment free, kneeling to set the box on the ground. He frowned up at Jaeron when he noticed the broken seal and then he unfolded the letter and read the contents. He stood, refolded the letter, and held the sheaf against the open flame of the candle. deLespan stood calm and silent while he waited for the fire to consumed it.
“My man, Jefford, said that this had not been recovered,” deLespan finally spoke. “I suppose that you were amongst those who stole The Bridget’s cargo?”
“No, our family was hired to retrieve it from them.”
“Only things turned ugly right after that,” Chazd spoke up.
Jaeron waved him back. “Lord deLespan, our father was killed the night we recovered this for you. Quite possibly because of its contents.
“Who would have known about this? Who would have wanted to make sure you never got this back? What is this all about?”
“The seal was broken - you’ve read the letter?”
Jaeron nodded, but he kept glancing in Avrilla’s direction. She realized she had backed out of the candlelight, feeling a rush of heat on her cheeks. The letter had embarrassed her, as well as stirred feelings she never wanted her brothers to realize she had.
“Your son has quite an imagination,” Chazd said.
“My son is a fool,” said deLespan. “Buying this jewelry and commissioning this… poetry. In Dun Lercos! Under the very nose…
“Do you know who Kadene is?”
Jaeron knew it was the woman to whom the letter was addressed, but there was no other indication of her identity. He shook his head.
“Kadene Elizabeth Witaasen. Wife of Lord Neal Witaasen,” deLespan paused. “I see you recognize the name.”
Avrilla understood now. The man’s son was having a tryst with the wife of his father’s business partner.
“Who-?” Chazd began to ask.
“Witaasen owns the other half of the silver mine, Chazd,” Avrilla answered before her brother had a chance to finish.
“I wouldn’t say ‘own’,” deLespan said. “But yes, we run the silver mine here in Islar. Were this affair to become public… Well, the law would be on Witaasen’s side.”
“I don’t understand,” Avrilla admitted.
Jaeron explained further. “The Church would side with the wronged husband. Lord deLespan’s son would be excommunicated and exiled. Kadene could suffer the same, but would at least be imprisoned for a time. Both her family and deLespan’s would have to pay reparations. The resulting scandal could affect his mining privileges.”
deLespan coughed, but rolled his hand in the air as if to say, there it is.
They were quiet for a bit and then the nobleman spoke. “Obviously a man in my position has enemies. My son would have suffered had this been made public. Lady Kadene would have suffered more, I suspect.
“Still, I don’t know who could have known about this outside of me, my son, my manservant, Jefford, and the man he hired to retrieve it.”
Avrilla frowned. That must have been their Uncle Ardo.
“What about the scribe?” she asked.
Chazd turned away, and slapped the head off the nearest night bloom.
“This is getting us nowhere,” said Chazd. “Someone else had to know!”
Avrilla instincts told her that deLespan had no more
answers for them. “It just doesn’t seem that this boy’s indiscretion has anything to do with Father’s death.”
Jaeron apparently agreed. “Thank you for answering our questions and again our apologies for keeping you so late.”
“I am sorry that I could not be of more help,” the nobleman responded after an awkward pause. DeLespan snapped the jewelry case closed and tucked it under his arm. “If you would wait a moment, I will return to the house and get the compensation that was promised.”
~
Gerlido stood at the worktable, scanning the reports from his guild interests. The winter had taken its toll on his profits, but things were beginning to turn around. Warmer weather reduced the expenses of keeping the gambling halls and gindi storage house warm and dry. The persistent ice storms were over, which meant his second story team could get back to work. Within months, the new poppies would be in bloom. Once those crops went to seed, the druggists could process the collected pod milk into fresh stores of gindi.
Until then I need to keep everyone paid.
The single aspect of the Black Fang operation that prospered during the winter was Gerlido’s arrangement with the horse breeder. As foaling commenced, select mare and foal combinations were sold to the private buyers in Dun Lercos and reported as having died during the birthing. The mares and foals were secretly loaded on merchant ships and taken only the gods knew where. The breeders would collect an insurance payment arranged by the Bormeeran army and the Fangs would get their supply of gindi and a small cut in the double profit.
Overall, it was the deal that Gerlido was most proud of. The only problem was that the demand for the prized warhorses recently spiked and neither Gerlido nor the horse breeders in his pocket could keep up with the demand.
Gerlido re-ordered the sheaf of parchment and folded it back into the leather case. He had been careful setting up his operations. The robberies and protection rackets were open guild business, and he paid his fees to the Grandmaster on schedule. He argued about his gambling dens, but gave in to pressure when he sensed that the other guild leaders were close to lodging formal complaints.
On occasion, he allowed Fang members to be caught selling gindi and went along with the punishment as demanded by the guild council. The Grandmaster believed that he had control of the entire drug trade in the city, and Gerlido wanted to make sure it stayed that way.
It was not enough, however. He wanted more. Gerlido wanted something that could topple the Grandmaster and put Islar in his control. I have a way to do it. Gerlido looked behind him to the rugged chest tucked into the corner of his office. Within that locked and trapped container was the only evidence that the Crimson Wolves existed. The name of the infamous group of assassins was taken from folklore, an ancient tale of the grey mountain wolves from Northern Bormeer.
They were nameless, fearless, and almost everyone believed that they were a myth. But Gerlido’s chest held a bone-handled dagger with a flame-shaped double blade, its handle wrapped in gray leather and its pommel marked with a tiny, red wolf face insignia. That blade killed Gerlido’s first Guildmaster in Dun Lercos almost twenty-five years ago. Before deSwan took over the Winter’s Hate guild and became Grandmaster of Islar. Before Larsetta turned Gerlido into one of her own.
Gerlido had one contact, a single name, that he believed would allow him to hire the Crimson Wolves. But he knew if he made that attempt, without the money and power to back it, deSwan would learn of it and Gerlido would be the assassins’ target instead of the Grandmaster.
The key was to control the silver. He finally had the opportunity to do that. He just needed to get that jewelry case from the deAltos. The Black Fangs had checked every known contact of Henri deAlto that they could confirm. Since his death, all but two had denied any contact with the deAlto children. Ardo Tabbil and the musician from whom the youngest was taking lessons. Both men seemed to have disappeared along with the deAltos.
Gerlido was putting pressure on as many contacts as he dared, without incurring Guild involvement. He was also tiring of the subject. He realized he might have to pass on the opportunity to pressure Lord deLespan into support of the Fangs. He supposed he could leak word of the son’s romance, but without proof, it would not accomplish anything.
He shook his head, eyes flaring a dark orange until he brought his anger back under control. The Black Fang guildmaster needed to address his obstacles. He could not do anything about the Governor’s relationship with Mennat. He was not strong enough to take on Grandmaster deSwan. The silver mine would have to wait. Which left Larsetta’s political and personal interests in the city.
As summer approached, Gerlido admitted that the Fangs had too much to do. It irked him. He was the leader of arguably the second most powerful guild in Islar and he could not find three children.
“Enough…” he said quietly. It was time to let it go.
Twenty-Four
Avrilla wound through the crowded aisle and the first sub-floor of the Islar arena. Sweat gleamed on her forehead and she felt trickles running down her lower back. The sun had not yet broken above the crest of the ocean-side seating, keeping the direct heat out of the area. Avrilla was thankful for that. The time of day probably did not matter. It must always be hot and dusty down here. The sub-street corridors were packed with bodies and many of them stank of sweat and blood. They dragged with them a fine cloud of clay dust from the arena into the fight preparation chambers which accumulated in the halls.
She did not believe Trainer Niles when he told her that she would find Danine among the arena fighters. Despite their history and their differences, Avrilla thought that the woman could have done better for herself than this. Even in this morning hour, the evidence of potential carnage was visible all around her. Sparring with wooden practice weapons during training was dangerous enough, but fighting in the arena was a sure way to get maimed or killed. Avrilla did not understand what Danine could be thinking, but she hoped she had a better offer for her than her present situation.
The directions Avrilla had obtained from the man at the gambling counter confused her at first, but once Avrilla reached the arena’s sub-level, it became clear. Other than a few areas with a clear view to the sky, it would be impossible to keep one’s sense of direction in the winding passageways. Half-tunnels of tan stone twisted around the kidney-shaped area and crossed back and forth underneath its combat floor. To counter the disorienting architecture, the arena designers had included adornments to the stone walls that made navigation easier. Danine’s preparation area, and apparently her current residence, was in the arena sector demarked by runic mountains and the star sign of the horse.
Avrilla spotted Danine amongst the other combatants, merchants, and gamblers in the shadowy tunnel. She was as tall as the men around her and her presence cleared a space around her wider than many of the other gladiators. She was pouring water from a thick clay pitcher over her head and shoulders, washing off the accumulated dirt and blood of the morning. Danine was stripped down to a chest wrap and loincloth, a tight cotton outfit that afforded her the minimum of modesty. Avrilla suspected that her demeanor alone kept any ogling at bay.
The woman appeared formidable even without weapons, armor, and most of her clothes. There was no mistaking Danine of possessing Bormeeran heritage. Her display of skin shone a pale yellow in the morning sun and not the pinkish tone of Avrilla’s nation. Danine possessed broad shoulders and long legs indicative of the Hinterland tribes. She also had the high cheekbones and longer, straight nose typical of the northern people.
Despite Avrilla’s immediate recognition of the woman, Danine had made startling changes in her appearance since Avrilla had last seen her. In Teichmar’s name, she is lean. Avrilla hoped it had more to do with an intense combat regimen than it did with eating less. Danine had also shorn off nearly all of her hair. Where once had hung a long flow of golden bronze, Danine’s head was now shaved bald except for a single braided ponytail that extended below her shoulder blades.<
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But these differences were superficial in comparison to the last major change in the Hinterwoman’s appearance. Avrilla recognized that Danine had begun practicing her people’s tradition of symbolic tattoos. Avrilla tried to identify the shapes, but it was hard keeping them in sight through the jostling crowd.
Then all thought fled her mind when Danine turned to face her fully.
“Mother Mara,” Avrilla whispered.
Blazoned in deep blue across Danine’s jaw and cheek was a stylized tattoo of a kukri. Avrilla had no doubt that the kukri was hers.
~
Years before, Henri had arranged training for Avrilla under the weapons master, Niles Yarvin, beginning with general combat and then specialization in the kukri. Yarvin recognized her natural abilities early on and within the last year moved her into the advanced sparring class. Unfortunately, he also began pairing her the strikingly tall woman from the Northern Soanic Hinterlands. The woman, Danine, was what Avrilla imagined that northern territory to be. She was hard, cold, and dangerous. Like Avrilla, Danine fought two-handed, dual-wielding hand axe and long dagger rather than paired kukri. Despite Yarvin’sinsistence on the use of wooden practice weapons and the old trainer’s cautionsabout holding back blows, Danine’s axe was sending Avrilla home with large bruises after almost every practice.
Finally, Avrilla tired of the abuse. She was not sure whether she could duplicate what had occurred with the street thugs, but she made a plan for the next sparring session. Avrilla let the mock combat take its normal course. Parry, block, sweep, feint. She had good rhythm that day, but Danine compensated for Avrilla’s improved performance. The Hinterlander put more energy into her blocks and strikes. It was her pattern. As Danine built up the ferocity of her swings, she also aimed for non-critical, but painful targets. The knuckles, the elbows, sometimes the face.