by James Shade
Avrilla threw him a stern ‘shut up’ look but could not keep up her façade of anger. All three deAltos fell against the building in laughter.
When she recovered her breath, Avrilla resumed her story. “It took some time to find her, and then some time to convince her. She said yes. But she asked the same thing I’ve been wondering.
“What’s next?”
~
Rocks and ruts jumbled the carriage that wound down the road out of the Targumures Mountains into the foothills southeast of Islar. Larsetta grimaced as the rear wheel struck a deep pothole hard enough that it popped her out of her seat. She resisted the urge to lash out at her manservant and coachman, Bujnot. She was loathe to admit it, but the man was probably doing the very best he could.
Bujnot had given her a fair assessment of the travel conditions through Bear Mark Pass. The roads had only recently been cleared by the Bormeeran army and that they would not have done as thorough a maintenance job as the Griffonriders did in years past. Another jolt shook the carriage and Larsetta swore. If he were driving into the ruts on purpose to prove his point, she would have to kill him. Even if he was adept at personal service and asked few questions, even for tasks of dubious legality.
The easier, faster way to travel between Dun Lercos and Islar was by water. A short ferry down the Lercos Faza River and then a three to four day voyage by ship to Islar Harbor. Except that Larsetta hated the ocean. For reasons both personal, and related to her anointing, she avoided stepping on board a ship at all costs.
She realized her avoidance of the sea would only help propagate the folklore about the Tainted. The common story was that saltwater was anathema to them. But that assumed the facts of her condition were ever known. No one other than Bujnot, Mennat, and Gerlido knew that secret. And none of them knew to the extent which she had been converted.
Tainted. The very word was an insult.
Truthfully, Larsetta did not often think about the fact that she was once human. By all appearances, she was still human. But she felt her form was a convenient mask, a deception that enabled her kind to stay close to their source of life.
My kind. There had not been another of her kind in scores of years. If deTollo spoke the truth as her creator, there may not have been another anointed such as her in over a century. The others that she knew of, even the ones she had made, were nothing in comparison. Little more than human themselves and they call themselves Tainted.
She gritted her teeth and snaked her tongue across the suddenly sharp surfaces. Larsetta played out her anger, letting the emotion roll through her body. With her awakened senses already active, it felt like an acidic tingling through her veins. It rushed and pulsed, hot and bubbly.
Larsetta shook her head, tossing her black hair from side to side and then threw herself back into the cushioned seat of the carriage. She laughed quietly at the display and let the anger go, reveling in the sweet parting.
She recognized the truth of her existence. There were all too human traits remaining in her nature. Emotions such as anger, lust, and anticipation were particularly fulfilling. Whatever other gifts Malfekke had bestowed on her, he left those pleasantries intact. And he had left within her a hunger.
Larsetta drew open the carriage curtains and closed her eyes, letting the sunlight flashing through the spring leaves play over her face. She extended her senses so she could feel the cold of the leaves’ shadows and the heat of the sun, discrete and contradictory. She had been careful on this trip. Nearly a week without using her demon-given powers. No string of missing persons or unexplained deaths tracking her movement from the Bormeeran capital.
But she used them freely now. She amused herself with them. Larsetta was a few short hours from a rural mountain village and a fresh meal. She squirmed in her seat, twisting her legs together and rubbing her calves in turn over the opposite shin. Warmth flooded her loins. She was anxious to get to Islar. In the city, she could satiate two of her human drives and replenish her strength.
~
“Hello?”
Jaeron saw his brother and sister jolt into a readiness, reacting the same way he had to the voice in the barn below. He motioned for them to remain quiet and reached across the hay bale for his long sword, nodding to his siblings as they also reached for their weapons. They all knew the farmer’s voice and those of his family. This was someone else.
“Jaeron deAlto?”
The voice was low, loud enough to sound through the barn but not loud enough to be heard outside. Even if he had recognized the voice, Jaeron would not have answered. He still did not have a good feeling of whom they could trust. It was not Matteo, the only one Jaeron had given the location of their hiding place.
“Look, I may be wrong, but I believe you are Jaeron, Avrilla, and Chazd deAlto. On the run from an act of arson that killed your adoptive father. I’m not with the Islar guard and I am here alone.
“I have been sent to talk with you.”
Jaeron started to get up, despite the warning look from Chazd. Avrilla joined in with a cautionary shake of her head.
Jaeron moved with slow and careful placement, knowing how much movement would change the pressure distribution on the old loft floor. He was not going to have creaking wood give them away.
If their location had been discovered after only a few days, Jaeron needed to know how. And why.
“Who are you?” he called down from the loft.
“My name is Coatie Shaels. I work for Victor Ortelli and I’ve been sent to arrange a meeting with him.”
His siblings’ eyes widened at the name. Victor Ortelli. As one of the more powerful second rung Guildmasters, Ortelli was the rumored candidate for the first rung position when Grandmaster deSwan retired. Jaeron’s grip clenched tighter on the hilt of his sword. He heard that there had been some rivalry between Ortelli and Henri many years before. Perhaps they had to look no further for his father’s killer. Had the man really waited so long to extract some sort of revenge?
“Listen,” Coatie continued. “I don’t see that you have any reason to trust me or my Guildmaster. But the Spoiled Vassals were not involved in your father’s death. Ortelli wants to help.
“If you want to talk about it, come meet Guildmaster Ortelli at the Crooked Window tomorrow. He will be expecting you for a noon meal.”
Jaeron waited, pondering over Shaels’ words. Could they trust him? He was not ready to act rashly on that mistrust either. He stayed in the loft, listening for the barn door. He heard nothing. Finally, after a full two minutes, he gave the signal to Chazd and Avrilla to climb down with him and make sure that Shaels was gone.
~
Coatie made his way back across the pasture to the road that led to Islar’s North Gate. He was both impressed with and worried about the deAltos’ hiding place. He may have had the advantage of a good description of the deAltos and a list of their father’s known associates. But if he could find them, eventually so could anyone else. Still, a barn in the farmlands was clever. They are just not being careful enough during their trips into the city.
As Coatie approached the gate, he considered how difficult it had been to shadow them from that point. They were being careful to pass through the gate during high traffic to avoid the scrutiny of the guards. It was a good plan. Otherwise, they would have been in deLocke’s custody by now.
His thoughts returned to those responsible for Henri deAlto’s death. Coatie’s investigation thus far had uncovered an overall negative response amongst the thieves’ community. No one would make an open accusation, but many were commenting that unless a third rung guild was directly interfering in the affairs of a first or second rung guild, there was no excuse for such reprisals. Unfortunately, his inquiries had revealed little else. If another guild was involved in Henri’s death, no one was admitting it.
Coatie’s own guildmaster was being particularly vocal about Henri’s death. By the night after the fire, he had spread the word mandating that no one in the Spoiled Vassals t
ake any action to help anyone, thief or guard, find the deAlto children.
He could not help but wonder why Ortelli was so interested. Ortelli found independents useful for tasks that required skills outside of those held within the guild. They also allowed a guild to get things done that might otherwise call question from the upper rung guilds. But Victor seemed to be taking deAlto’s death more personally. Coatie did not know, nor did he try to discover, all of the reasons behind it, but he suspected it had something to do with the deAltos’ mother.
Adoptive mother. Henri’s deceased wife, now gone nearly twelve years. He wondered about that too, as he had heard that Henri had not really wanted children. But he took in three orphans when his wife asked, just like that?
Twenty-Eight
Ardo ducked under the low wooden sill and leaned his back against the damp, plaster wall. The rain continued to fall. It was one of those light Islaran rains that seemed to sponge out of the air and appear suddenly on your clothes and skin as if summoned. Combined with the cold front coming out of the northwest, it was making for a miserable night for the old fence.
“Mauren take you and the pickle you’re in, Ardo,” he whispered to himself. He damned the three deAlto brats and threw a few silent curses at Henri, too. Then he immediately regretted the thought. The deAltos were not to blame for their predicament. Though he was acting against his better judgment, Tabbil suspected he could determine who had killed his old friend, and more importantly, why.
He felt it. Not as a certainty, but more as a stack of persistent hunches. Ardo had a feeling that the theft of the necklace was not directly the reason why Henri deAlto had been killed. It was possible that Lord deLespan’s son had not been as discrete in his affair as he thought he had been. Though Ardo had a keen ear for rumors and had not heard of it until his quiet conversation with Jefford. Which made Ardo think he had been the target of purposeful eavesdropping.
It was that last hunch that caused the fence some guilt. It was very possible that his own voice precipitated Henri’s death. Now he needed to do what he could to make sure it did not also cause the deaths of Henri’s adopted children. He ignored the nagging inner voice that recommended that he just go to the deAltos and tell them his suspicions.
You don’t know if you owe them an explanation. Just find out if your fears have some meat.
Not a table within the Ivanava’s Rose was empty. The evening servers had been hard pressed to keep pace with the food and drink orders. Named after the last Queen’s great-grandmother, the Rose was the finest place to dine in Islar. Even with the end of the matriarchy and a passage of a hundred years, the Queen who died in childbirth was still honored on her birthday and the anniversary of her death. The Islar tavern lived up to her name, ensuring every meal and drink served was a testament to the beloved monarch.
Ardo Tabbil went in for a drink and observed the chaos for a full bell and then wandered outside to watch the tavern from the relative quiet across Gaoler Avenue. His position allowed him to observe not the main door and comings and goings of the inn's patrons, but the rear entrance. That was where deliveries came and went and where the kitchen staff stepped out to take a cool break away from the wood fire ovens. More importantly, it was how the wait staff left their shifts to go home for the night.
Ardo squinted as the first two waiters appeared in silhouette. The young men closed the door and made their way down the stairs. Ardo increased the pressure on his squint, changing his focus enough to compensate for his steadily failing vision. The men stood too close to each other. Then they looked around to see if anyone was watching, leaned in close, and kissed goodnight before walking away in different directions.
Ardo shook his head. He understood both the precaution and the emotion behind the exchange. If the City Guard or members of the Church had seen the kiss, the boys would be facing imprisonment and worse. It was one of his own secrets that Henri had kept and which Tabbil had always known his friend would never betray. He had given up those dalliances decades ago and lived quietly alone. The heartbreak of continual solitude had diminished and now, only on rare occasion, did Ardo feel the sorrow of knowing he would never be truly happy.
This night was not going to be one of those occasions. He pushed the welling feelings roughly aside and re-evaluated his hiding place. Then he refocused on the Rose.
Another quarter hour passed, marked by the distant chime of the bells atop the Teichmar Cathedral. Ardo sighed. An hour of waiting with nothing to show for it. The dinner crowd was thinning. Perhaps his suspicions were unfounded.
Then a triangle of light shone at the tavern's rear door and another waiter appeared. This one closed the door slowly, quietly. He was leaving his duties and trying not to draw attention to himself. Rather than making his way to the alley or street, the server moved into the shadows toward the other side of the restaurant.
Tabbil squinted again, barely able to follow the boy’s movements. He lost him in the darkness. Carefully pulling himself to his feet, Ardo stood and worked the kinks out of his muscles. He silently cursed his age and his sedentary lifestyle and then crept across the street. It was possible that the boy was just relieving himself. Perhaps preferring the open air than the stifling smell that suffused most of Islar's outhouses. But then why be sneaky about it? Ardo moved from shadow to shadow, avoiding even the dim, reddish patches of light coming from the tavern’s curtained windows.
Ardo froze at the sound of scraping wood and the dull thump that followed. He ducked into a low squat and shifted forward toward the noise. Close as he was now, Tabbil's eyesight was not as much of a hindrance. Ardo smiled when he saw the wooden panel leaning against the stone foundation.
The hole next to the panel led to the crawlspace underneath the tavern. Most of the buildings in Islar had similar construction. When an owner or builder could not afford a basement, they built on a raised foundation that saved their floors from potential damage caused by seasonal flooding.
In his younger days, Ardo may have followed the boy into the hole, but he was not sure he could fit into the crawlspace. Being honest with himself, Ardo also thought that it might be dangerous. Mentally he pictured the entryway and compared its position with his recollection of the Rose’s floor plan. Theoretically it was possible that the tunnel could lead anywhere in the building, but the closest rooms were the private dining areas on the tavern's north side.
Right where I dined with Jefford. Ardo waited patiently and prepared for his ambush. When he heard the muffled scrape of cloth and dirt, he pulled out his long knife and stooped into the shadow on the other side of the crawlspace cover. It was not a great hiding spot, but he need not have bothered. The waiter shuffled backward out of the hole, feet emerging, then buttocks, followed by torso and shoulders.
Before the lad's head emerged, Ardo grabbed him by the back of his collar and showed the knife under his throat.
“Not a sound, boy.” he whispered.
The waiter stifled a scream and then froze, shaking.
“Who is buying your information?”
“What? No one…” the boy's voice cracked, building into a higher-pitched shriek.
“Do you want to die?”
The boy's head shook violently and Ardo moved the knife away. The fool nearly cut his own throat.
“Quietly, then. Who are you selling these overheard conversations to?”
“deGrame. 'Buster' deGrame.”
Tabbil nodded. 'Buster' was known amongst fences and thieves as a gossip monger. He bought, sold, and traded city secrets, trying to vie for favor amongst the top rung Guilds. Word was he currently favored the two guilds that were competing for the top of the second rung, the Spoiled Vassals and the Black Fangs.
“Crawl back to your listening hole. Count to twenty, and then crawl back out. You can count, can't you?”
“Yes,” the boy blubbered.
“Good. You show up early and I'll gut you.”
Ardo released his grip and used the knife to jab t
he waiter in the buttock. Enough to draw blood, but not seriously hurt the boy. The youth wailed as he scrambled forward, knocking his head on the underside of the building’s floor.
Ardo laughed as he moved away from the Ivanava’s Rose, breaking into a slow jog. The commotion would attract attention. Perhaps, as a result, the tavern’s owner would learn to take the precautions necessary to keep his private rooms truly private.
Twenty-Nine
Jaeron cinched the knot on his cloth belt tight around his waist and adjusted his scabbard into its proper position on his left hip. He paused in the doorway to the training room, closed his eyes, and began regulating his breathing. It was hard to rein in his emotions and tie down all the distractions. The past week had been difficult and he regretted all of the trips he and his siblings had taken back into the city. Yesterday’s visit by one of Ortelli’s guild members had cemented that. This morning he thought about restricting all of them from coming back, but he could not ask Avrilla and Chazd to do something he was unwilling to do. He needed to attend his training class.
He managed to purge his thoughts. It took longer than he had expected. Finally, Jaeron pushed open the canvas curtain and stepped into the room.
Swordmaster Eranka sat cross-legged on the floor on the left side of the room, waiting in serene patience. The room was as it always was. The hardwood floor covered with a layer of fine gray sand. Sunlight streamed in from eight slanted windows cut artfully in the gently sloped roof. Like the rest of the sword master’s home, they were simple, functionally angled to catch the best of the morning light.
Jaeron took his place at the center of the room. He bowed formally to his teacher and assumed the Peasant stance, subservient and ready. With his head bowed, Jaeron could not see his teacher rise, but he heard the soft rustle of the man’s clothes. The sword master stepped forward, barely within Jaeron’s field of view.
“First cycle,” the old man’s voice was commanding and comforting in its familiarity. At least there was one remnant of Jaeron’s life from before his father’s death that brought him a sense of happiness.