by JD Byrne
“Who do you want to know what, young lady?” he asked.
Antrey let out a sigh of frustration, directed towards the world at large. “I want the Neldathi to know what has been done to them. How the Triumvirate has used them for more than a century to assuage their own fears. I want them to know that there is no reason for them to kill each other anymore.”
Emkar started at her. At least that was how it felt to Antrey when the old man turned his face from the fire towards hers. “You are lying,” he said.
“I beg your pardon!” Antrey said. “Who are you to say something like that, after the benefit of the doubt I’ve extended to you?”
“My intent is not to insult,” he said in a soothing tone. “I mean that you are lying to yourself, Antrey. What you say is good and right and a perfectly noble explanation for what you are doing. But it does not explain the root of your desire to do it. The passion you have, which has driven you this far, comes from something not so noble.”
“Look, old man,” Antrey said. This had gone on too long. She stood up and glowered at him, for all the good it did. “I’ve told you why I am here. I’ve told you what I am doing. And I’ve been perfectly honest with you. I want the Neldathi to know what was done to them. Nothing more.”
“Ah,” he said, a smile creeping across his face. “And this, what you are doing now. This anger that lurks inside you. Is this how you felt before you took that pikti in your hands? Before you bludgeoned a man to death who had only done kindness to you?”
Antrey was surprised he could read her so well without seeing her body language. “Maybe,” she admitted. “So what if it is?”
The old man stood up, pushing himself to his feet with the aid of his cane. “Because that is your real motivation. That is what has driven you here, to the side of a small stream in the snow in these forsaken mountains. Honesty means being honest with yourself, Antrey. Admit to yourself why you are here.”
“Fine,” Antrey said, after giving it some thought. “Maybe it’s not enough just to make sure they know what’s been done to them. Maybe I really want them to fight back. To stop fighting each other and strike back against those who have wronged them for so long.”
“And what would you call that?” he asked.
“Justice,” Antrey said without hesitation. “I would call that justice.”
“This plan you uncovered, it was secret, was it not?”
“Yes.”
“Therefore, no one in the Triumvirate, at least beyond the highest reaches of its leadership, has any idea that it exists, do they?”
“As far as I know,” Antrey said. She knew where this was going.
“And the people who put the plan into action are long dead, are they not?”
“Of course.”
He paused so that the timing of his final question was just right. “Then from whom is the justice that you seek to be extracted?”
Antrey did not answer him. She knew there was no good answer.
Emkar continued, “What you propose is to give this information you have to the Neldathi clans, use it as a justification for unifying them, point them at the Water Road, and see what happens. You want to light the match that will explode this land.”
“That’s possible,” Antrey said. “But that isn’t how it must be. There will be time enough for dealing with the details later.”
“Hmm, better start thinking about it right now,” Emkar said, sitting back down next to the fire. “There is a fine line between justice and vengeance, Antrey. No one will argue that justice should be neglected, although there will be much disagreement about what justice actually means. But vengeance is different. Vengeance feeds upon itself and spreads beyond the ability of one person to contain it.”
“Is this more of you speaking from experience, Emkar?” Antrey asked as she sat back down by the fire.
“It is, my dear,” he said, sighing. “Learn from my mistakes and do not make them your own.”
“You’ll have to do better than that,” Antrey said. She wanted something else to back this up.
“Remember what I told you earlier about all those soldiers along the Water Road? About how they would go out looking for fights? Ask yourself what would motivate them to keep fighting. Remember, I am talking about reconnaissance missions. They are not supposed to be fighting, but they do. Why would they keep marching into those mountains looking for blood?”
“How would I know?”
“Vengeance,” he said, leaning almost into the fire for emphasis. “They would go back time and time again to avenge what had happened to them or their comrades on prior expeditions. Two forces meet in battle. Perhaps one is victorious or perhaps neither is. It does not matter. In every battle, large or small, there is something that one side does to the other that offends a sense of honor. A soldier sees his best friend killed in front of him, perhaps after already being wounded. Your opponent fights using trickery and guile, rather than brute force. Whichever side is wronged, they swear vengeance. Often, each side swears revenge against the other. So there are further battles, more death, and more acts of cruelty. Vengeance feeds itself. Do you not see, Antrey? That is the nature of the beast.”
Antrey did not answer for a long time, sitting there and letting Emkar’s words sink into her. In truth, she had no answer. At least none that would satisfy her, much less her inquisitor.
After several silent minutes, the old man rose slowly to his feet, grasping his cane. He brushed off with his free hand the snow that had clung to his legs and began to walk away without a word.
Antrey jumped up, dashed around the fire, and took hold of his arm. “Where are you going? It’s the middle of the night.”
He turned his head in the general direction of her voice. “Night and day are both the same to me, my dear. One or the other, it makes no difference.”
“At least it’s warmer during the day,” Antrey said. “You can stay the night by the fire and keep warm. You can leave in the morning.”
“Your offer is very kind, but I must decline. My fate in this world is to wander, to never linger in one place too long.”
“That’s insane,” Antrey said. No point it being polite, right? “You must take some time to rest. We all do.”
“But I have rested,” he said with a slight smile. “I rested more fully tonight, while we sat here and talked, than I have in a very long time.” He reached over with his free hand and clapped her on the shoulder. “What you are doing, Antrey Ranbren, is a good thing. The Neldathi deserve to know what has been done to them. And the rest, what has been done in their name. But do not let anger and a desire for revenge drive your actions. Act with passion, but reflect and plan with reason and calm. These people deserve what you can give them.”
“What is that?” she asked, releasing her grip on his arm.
“Their future,” he said. He patted her on the shoulder one more time and turned to leave.
Antrey watched him walk away from her, back to the tree line from which he had emerged. But he was gone from sight, enveloped by the black night, before he made it that far. She stood there for a few moments, not knowing what to do. Part of her hoped he would come back. It was nice to have company, even the company of an old man of questionable sanity. When it became clear he would not return, Antrey walked back to the fire, spread out her cloak on the snowy ground next to it, and lay down. She slept better that night than any night since she left Tolenor.
Chapter 14
Strefer’s head hurt all day. At first, she thought it was just due to the hangover she had earned at the Broken Pikti that still lingered over her. Slowly, however, the dull throb gave way to less frequent, but sharper and more painful, jabs brought on by stress and aggravation. At least she had finally found a story buried in her clippings file that might have some legs. Trying to tie it all together, she spent the day in the southeast part of the city, talking to people there about a nasty gang war that might just reignite after a few fallow years.
; Just as Strefer had made valuable contacts with law enforcement, so too had she made contacts with the criminal class. Not as many, and, perhaps, not as trusting. Given their occupation, that wasn’t hard to understand. Still, it was just as important to get their take on things as it was to get the official statement from the Sentinels about the conflict. Today she had been able to connect several dots that would make the final story flow much better.
Strefer’s apartment was across town, in the northwest sector, about a dozen blocks from the Triumvirate compound. When she rented it, after she first arrived in the city, she had no idea what the various neighborhoods were like or what a reasonable rent for such an apartment should be. As a result, she wound up with an apartment that was small and cramped, tucked into the top floor of a three-story building in a bad part of town. To add insult, she learned later that her landlord was gouging her on the rent. Once she figured that out, she confronted him and let him know she worked for a newspaper. His terms became more favorable and they struck a much more equitable bargain. After a few years working, she could afford someplace bigger, or at least in a better neighborhood. The hassle of moving, combined with the misguided notion that she ought to live in the kind of area she wrote about, conspired to keep her there, however.
By the time Strefer arrived at her building, the sun had begun to set and the street was just barely lit by the last light of the day. Once she stepped inside the foyer, however, it was nearly dark, as the windows were not in the right position to benefit from the late-afternoon sun. None of the lanterns had yet been lit. That was another way her landlord tried to grind a few more coins out of the building. She thought about seeking him out and complaining, but she was too tired for a confrontation. As she waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light, Strefer decided that an anonymous letter to one of the local papers was in order. That would light the fire, so to speak. Once she could see, Strefer began to climb the stairs to her apartment.
The light was so dim by the time Strefer reached the third floor that she could barely see. She took out her key and aimed for the lock on her door, or rather where the lock should be, only to have the door swing inward at the touch. It was already open. Just a crack, but open nonetheless. Aside from Strefer herself, only the landlord had a key to this door, but there was no evidence that he was anywhere about. It would be just like him to come into Strefer’s apartment uninvited, although she thought he would be better at covering his tracks.
She was certain that the door was locked when she left in the morning. Absolutely sure of it. Locking the door was a compulsion for Strefer, to the point that she occasionally locked herself out. It was a result of covering Tolenor’s thriving street-crime industry. She put her left hand on the door and swung it open slowly and silently. The light inside her apartment was as bad as in the hallway, with just a few stray beams of the evening sun coming through the windows. Strefer slipped her key back in her pouch and stepped inside.
Only then did she notice the torchlight. The apartment only had three rooms. The front door opened into a small living room, which gave way to a smaller study. In the living room, to the right from the door, was the passage leading into the bedroom. Strefer could tell that in the dark because of a flickering dim light that shone out of the room, dancing like it was given off by a flame. It was artificial light, there was no mistake, as the bedroom was on the opposite wall from the windows. It should be pitch dark. There was someone in there. Someone who had broken into her apartment and was looking for something. Or for her.
She heard a sound coming from the bedroom, like a rattling or shaking. Desperate to see what was going on, but fearful of attracting attention, Strefer tiptoed slowly into the living room. It had been trashed and torn apart. A chair was overturned, as was the small sofa that had sat beside it. The long table at which Strefer sometimes wrote her stories, which normally sat under the windows along the wall, was lying on its side in the middle of the room.
More sounds were coming from her bedroom. Voices this time, low, muffled, and agitated. Strefer could not make out the words, but it was definitely a conversation between two people. At least two. She continued to slide slowly into the room, making sure not to lose sight of the front door and her only means of escape. Sidestepping the overturned table and chair, Strefer made her way far enough into the room that she could see around the corner and into the bedroom. Inside she saw two figures, large and crouched over something in the middle of the floor. One of them held a lantern over the other’s head, providing light for whatever they were looking at. The flame danced inside the lantern, partially obscured by the small, unkempt, opaque windows.
To Strefer it looked like they were going through her papers, the records of her writing, which she kept in boxes underneath the bed. There was nothing embarrassing or personal in them, but they did contain all anyone would want to know about her career—where she wrote, about what she had written, and who she had written about. Not to mention her personal notes, which often included observations that did not find their way into the published story.
There was so little light in the living room that Strefer did not think to worry about blocking it. It only occurred to her when the man holding the lantern turned suddenly and looked directly at her. She had not made a sound, but had walked directly in front of the windows that provided what little light was present in the apartment. The man with the lantern punched the other in the shoulder. They looked at each other briefly, then turned their attention to Strefer.
“Where is it, you bitch?” asked the one that had been pawing through the pages. He stood up and leered at her.
Strefer began to back away from the bedroom towards the front door. She could run, but in the dark she might slam into something, or tumble down the stairs, and fall into their clutches. “Where is what, jackass?” she said, although she was sure it was the red notebook. Thankfully, it was in her pouch on her hip, where it had been since the day she picked it up. “And why should I tell anything to two thugs who broke into my home?” She hoped that so long as they were talking they wouldn’t make a move towards her.
“You know damned well, you little shit,” yelled the one with the lantern. “Where’s the book?”
It was small consolation to Strefer that she was right. “I’m just a newspaper reporter, guys,” she said, taking a small step backwards with every word. They followed, equally slowly. “I don’t write books. Not yet, anyway.”
“Don’t play games with us, bitch,” the other one said. “Just give us the book. That’s all we want. We don’t want to hurt you.”
“But we will if we have to,” the lantern holder helpfully said.
“Really, I think you’ve got the wrong girl. Some bad information or something,” she said. She slipped her hand back into her pouch and found the key to her front door. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about, honest.”
“You know, maybe she’s right,” the one without the lantern said. “But something about her just rubs me the wrong way. Annoys me to no end. I don’t think we can just take her word for it, can we?”
“Don’t think we can,” said the one with the lantern, with a quick laugh.
The time for banter was over. Strefer hoped her path was clear of any obstacles as she turned and sprinted the four or five steps through the still-open front door. She made it to the landing at the top of the stairs without incident. Her pursuers weren’t so lucky, cursing as they tripped and stumbled over the debris they had strewn about earlier. Sensing her best opportunity, Strefer pulled the door shut behind her and locked it from the outside. It wouldn’t stop them, but it would slow them down.
The stairway was now pitch black. Rather than attempt to fly down the stairs and risk injury, she crept down the stairs one at a time, but as quickly as she could. At the second-floor landing she heard a loud thump from upstairs. Probably one of the goons slamming into the door. Strefer gripped the railing and tried to move more quickly, her feet slipping off the steps a
couple of times before she reached the first floor. She heard the door thrown open above her, followed by a cacophony of unintelligible shouting.
She ran out into the street, where there was now some light being cast by the gas lamps. There were a few other people on the street, but none thought a woman running out of a building warranted their attention. She looked left and then right, before running in that direction, to the east. She needed protection. There was only one place she could get it.
~~~~~
Strefer moved swiftly through the streets, her escape aided by her intimate knowledge of their layout. She was not running anymore, but walking briskly. Every few moments she cast a glance over her shoulder to see if either of the two men in her apartment was following her. Whatever daylight had lingered when she first came home was long gone, replaced by the hazy glow of the gaslight and oil lamps along the street. Identification was more difficult in that lighting. It was not worth it to pause and really examine the faces of those who might be following her. She kept up a brisk pace, slipping in among those on the street who moved with less purpose.
After she had gone about a dozen blocks in a zigzag pattern she hoped would confuse her pursuers, Strefer paused for breath in a small public square about two blocks from the Triumvirate compound. It was also on the edge of the part of the city that Rurek and his underlings patrolled. It was another ten blocks to their headquarters, if she took the direct route. She scanned the people in the square, some wandering about, others sitting on hard wrought iron benches and enjoying the chill of early evening. Strefer did not recognize any of the faces. She took a deep breath and walked out of the square, towards the Sentinel headquarters.
Within minutes she could see the headquarters, located in a building sitting on the corner of two main streets like a great beast curled and waiting to strike. One last glance over her shoulder convinced Strefer that she had escaped her pursuers, at least briefly. She slowed her steps and tried to compose herself as she walked towards the headquarters. Her heart threatened to pound through her chest, but she managed to slow her breathing and at least appear calm. Inside she was a bundle of nerves spiked by pure fright, urging her to keep running. But her mind told them she needed someone to help her run, if she was to get very far. She took one last deep breath and walked across the street.