by S. C. Stokes
“With every minute that passes, Father, those who fled the city are getting further away . . .”
“To what end, son? You told me Hitomi was behind these attacks. If she is clear of the city where will she go? What are her goals?”
“She seeks the Throne. It’s what she’s always wanted. She was even willing to marry Falen to get it. By blocking Gerwold’s bid for the throne we also prevented Falen’s succession and her inevitable rise to power. If that wasn’t enough to engender hatred, as punishment for thrusting the land into civil war, we stripped her family of all lands and title. Her father remains in the dungeons beneath the Palace.”
“That is certainly motive enough to hate you, Tristan, but more importantly you know what she wants. She wants the throne and there is not even a remote chance she’ll obtain it while you and your family remain alive. She has to kill you before she can take it. Dividing your forces will make that easier for her. Keep your strength about you and continue as you have begun. Even if she makes an attempt on the Palace itself, Dariyen is there along with the garrison and a full complement of the King’s Guard—they are waiting for her.”
Tristan nodded as he considered his father’s counsel. “Very well. We’ll stay the course. We’ll secure the city and continue our search. They cannot hide forever. Sooner or later we will find their den.”
“We may not need to,” Marcus replied. “With the coin you dangled in front of the populace last night, it won’t take long for the city to turn against them. While the poor and the penniless struggle to eke out a living today, you know the thought of that reward will be passing through their minds again and again.”
“The gold,” Tristan agreed. “Someone will want it.”
“Exactly—and sooner or later that pile you offered will turn a profit. In the meantime we turn over every house, we search every nook and cranny of the city, and when we find them we crush them without hesitation or equivocation.”
“How do you do it?” Tristan asked his father.
“Do what?”
“Stay calm in the midst of the storm. You were the same the night the manor fell. You knew you were going to your death and still you seemed entirely unshaken by it. Now we are in a foreign city hunting assassins who are holding your only grandson as a prisoner and still you are cool, calm and calculating. I don’t know how you do it.”
Marcus laughed. “Your impetuous nature certainly comes from your mother. She is the storm itself. I suppose being her companion for so long has caused me to act as I do. One of us must show some restraint.”
Tristan joined the laughter and for a moment the burden of their present struggles slipped out of mind as father and son enjoyed each other’s company.
*****
All day the King’s Own searched the city. Mizumura was turned inside out as the soldiers searched the busy town street by street. They worked methodically to ensure no stone was left unturned in the search for the Crown Prince. Over the course of the day many would-be informants had approached the market square hoping they could provide information sufficient to warrant the immense gold reward that had been offered.
Unfortunately, the divulged details were little more than old wives’ tales and stories meant to frighten children—stories of the Night Stalkers’ exploits were legendary. They were men who could disappear into a shadow or deliver death with little more than a thought. Others were more absurd, talking of wraith-like warriors who could materialize through a door or wall like ghosts of death.
Tristan listened eagerly, hoping to find some kernel of truth in the reports, but they were unlikely fables at best. It was late in the day when a man approached wearing the dye-stained work clothes of the Weavers’ Guild. Tristan watched the man nervously shuffle towards him and knew there was something different about him. Tristan recognized the shuffle—it was the gait of a man who feared what was to come. Tristan had felt the same after his incarceration by Falen. It was the nervous shuffle of a man approaching his execution.
While Tristan’s fate had been averted, he remembered with an all-too-familiar sensation how it had felt to walk what might have been the last few footsteps of his life. Tristan caught his eye and beckoned him onward. “Come now, don’t be shy. What can I do for you?”
The man staggered forward and dropped to his knees. “Sire. I . . . have information that may aid you. It concerns the Night Stalkers.”
Tristan beckoned the man to rise but the man would not. “Sire, I will tell you all I know, but I must ask you to spare my life and that of my family. To share what I know will bring upon me wrath, both yours and the wrath of those you seek. It is more than I can bear.”
“What is it you know?” Tristan demanded impatiently.
“I know how the Night Stalkers receive their supplies,” the man answered nervously.
Tristan was on his feet—progress at last. “How do you know this? Who is your source?”
“No source, Your Highness. I know because my family supplies them. At least in part. My family have always been weavers and dyers. We do little trade for the city as most of our time is spent filling a private contract that has been in our family for generations. For a time I pondered on the identity of those for whom we were acting, but in time I have become more certain who our true patron might be.”
“Tell me more.”
“I will tell you all, Your Highness. But first, your word that my family will go unharmed and will receive the reward you have offered. We will need the gold to leave this place forever. Once my actions are known, our lives will be forfeit. We will need your aid to flee this place and start anew.”
Tristan nodded. “On my honor I will see you paid as promised, and the King’s Guard will see to your protection until you have resettled.”
“Thank you, Your Highness—you are most gracious.”
“Now tell me what you have come here to share. Time is of the essence and my son’s life hangs in the balance. What do you know?”
“Yes, Your Highness, of course. My family are dyers and weavers by trade. Generations ago we were approached to fill a contract, the terms of which were clear. We were to fill the order each month and deliver it to the Riverhold. All other work was to take secondary consideration, and failure to supply our shipments on time was viewed with harshness. Provided we met our obligations on time we were paid well, certainly a more generous price than our wares would have received in the marketplace—of that much I am sure.”
“What does that have to do with the Night Stalkers?” Tristan asked.
“Well, sire, you see, our contract was very specific. We were to provide ten large bolts of cloth to the Riverhold each month.”
“That means little, friend. The Palace at King’s Court would consume many times that in clothing for the royal family and the Palace staff. There is little extraordinary or unusual in what you are sharing. Tell me. How are the Night Stalkers involved?”
“The unusual part, Your Highness, is that the bolts are the same every month. Ten bolts of cloth, each dyed black as night. The Mizumuran Royal Family, their staff and all who dwell in the Riverhold all wear emerald green, sire. In all my years I’ve not seen so much as a single soul in the Palace wearing my fabric, in spite of the tremendous volume we continue to supply them with each and every month. The color itself is quite unusual, not at all popular here in Mizumura—so I think I would notice my work if it were to walk past me in the street.
“I believe, sire, that my fabric is being supplied to the Palace, but the true patrons are the assassins you seek. I’ve never seen one but the stories are clear—they are dressed dark as night as they move from shadow to shadow.”
Tristan stood and, looking past the man before him, called to his first advisor: “Halmir, the men that attacked the Riverhold this morning—do we still have any of the bodies?”
“We do, my liege. We spirited them off the streets this morning to ensure they didn’t cause a panic.”
“Have the men bring one at on
ce.”
Halmir bowed and departed to carry out the King’s wishes. Turning to the weaver still prostrate before him, Tristan asked, “If you were to see your fabric, are you certain you would recognize it?”
“I believe so, sire,” the man nodded eagerly.
Moments later two King’s Guard entered the pavilion, between them dragging a black-clad corpse. “Over here, if you would,” Tristan called, beckoning the men over. The King’s Guard dragged the body and dumped it beside the weaver. “What are you waiting for?” Tristan asked, gesturing at the body.
The weaver was hesitant to be so near a corpse, but was more afraid that he might become one. Swiftly he examined the fabric of the assassin’s robes, feeling the texture of it beneath his hand as he examined the weave closely. Satisfied, the weaver turned to the King and nodded. “That is ours, Your Highness. No doubt about it.”
“Excellent. Now tell me—where exactly did you deliver it?” Tristan demanded, his excitement rising as finally he had the information he sought.
Chapter 26
Inside the Riverhold.
Shiona went quietly about his business, for the current excitement in the city below was of little interest to the aging chancellor. The arrival of the King had caused him momentary concern, but that had soon subsided as the soldiers focused their efforts on searching the city below. The Palace had been subjected to a brief but cursory search and Shiona had largely been left in peace.
After all, little was known about the chancellor—he had served Velas for decades and was responsible for administering the temporal affairs of the Mizumura. When Velas had been stripped of his title it made sense to appoint the chancellor as steward of the Palace lands and estates. After all, someone was needed to maintain them on behalf of the Crown, and who better to run them than the man who had been doing so capably these many years.
The irony amused Shiona. He had quietly steered the Mizumuran family to greatness, increasing its prosperity through trade and careful manipulation of Valaaran politics. If it had been left undisturbed, he had little doubt that the house would still be in prominence, slowly dwarfing the other Great Families of Valaar and leaving them behind in the dust of history.
Gerwold ruined all of that, Shiona fumed. The foolish man had drawn Hitomi into his greedy bid for the throne, and a century of progress was wasted in a flurry of failure and the once-great house of the Mizumura left barren. Velas, whom he had served so tirelessly, now languished beneath King’s Court, a prisoner of the Crown, a living testimony of the reward for following impetuosity rather than intellect. Velas had been drawn in by his daughter’s scheming and ultimately had paid the price for it.
Still she will not learn. Shiona shrugged as he watched the bustling soldiers below. Rather than trying to restore her name and fortune, the heiress had declared war on the Crown, intent on gaining her desires through bloodshed rather than stratagem and cunning. Shiona couldn’t help but be disappointed in his pupil. Tristan Listar had proved himself a capable adversary. Forged in the fires of his adversity the youth had emerged both resourceful and deadly. To goad him into battle once more was a foolish proposition.
Shiona had learned what Hitomi clearly had not. Tristan’s rise was as inevitable as the sun. After the failure of Gerwold and Velas at King’s Court, Shiona had ceased all action against the crown. Withdrawing his agents Shiona was content to live out the remainder of his days in peace. Fate and misinformation had spared him from the crown’s retribution and Shiona had no intention of drawing the King’s ire now.
Shiona could see Hitomi’s gambit for what it was. The attack on the Palace and the King’s family were cool and calculated, designed to antagonize Tristan and goad him into making a mistake. Doubtless she hoped that in his emotional and desperate state, the King would be compromised. That plan might have had merit under normal circumstances, but Shiona knew better. The attack on Listarii Manor should have crushed the boy’s soul. Instead he had hidden himself, raised a resistance and brought ruin to those who had sought his destruction.
Shiona was confident that history would repeat itself and found himself saddened at the thought. He stared out the window at the battlements of the Riverhold, where once the proud flag of the Mizumura had fluttered. Now the green and gold heraldry was gone and in its place the Eastern Star of the Listarii shone silver on a black standard. Setting aside his sorrows, Shiona set about his duties. While not the grand station he had once hoped to reach, steward of the Riverhold would at least give him life in comfort the remainder of his days. The thought brought a little cheer.
A knock at the door roused Shiona from his thoughts.
“Enter!” he called. The doors swung inward and a dozen porters entered, struggling under the weight of the wooden vessels they bore. Each of the large boxes was suspended between six burly men who carried the containers into the center of the room and set them down before departing without a word. Such an occurrence would have been bizarre if Shiona had not witnessed it a thousand times.
An unfortunate yet unavoidable responsibility of his office was to ensure that all commerce that passed through the Palace continued uninterrupted. The steward had learned through his curious forays that many of the goods that passed through the Palace were never used or required in the affairs of the Riverhold. Cloth, food, steel, currency. Regardless of the contents of the containers, Shiona’s role was the same: he would inspect each shipment to ensure it met the standing contract with each merchant. If it did it would be moved to a specific room in the Palace stores. If it did not he would visit the offending merchant and ensure that future shipments would not be found lacking.
Without exception, once the shipments found their way into the Palace stores they would be found empty soon after and the cycle would begin again. As the goods themselves were never required by the Palace their disappearance was never noticed, save by Shiona. The steward’s watchful eyes missed nothing. The steward respected the degree of effort that had gone into the elaborate orchestration, enabling the Royal House of the Mizumura to be the patron of the Night Stalkers’ Guild but remain a mystery to all but the most inquisitive mind. That the supply chain continued even in the absence of the Mizumuran royal family was a tribute to the power of tradition.
With the porters excused, Shiona inserted a key into the heavy wooden doors and locked them—it wouldn’t do to be interrupted by the soldiers searching the city below. Such a course of events would be disastrous.
Shiona examined the shipment, annoyed by this aspect of his current duties. With a heave the aging steward lifted the lid off a container and found it packed with cloth dyed as black as the night sky. Shiona knew its purpose at a glance. He could see the fabrics had shifted and sought to unravel the jumble of linen.
With aged but steady hands he lifted out the topmost layers of fabric and placed them neatly beside the vessel. Shiona reached in for more and jumped as something grabbed hold of his hand. With a blinding flurry of motion a man hurtled out of the wooden trunk, sending fabric flying in all directions. Shiona had little chance to react as the hand that gripped his twisted it violently, throwing the steward onto his knees with his arm pinned behind his back. A moment later he felt the cold chill of sharp steel at his throat.
“I-I’m sorry. . .” he stammered defensively. “I was simply re-stacking the shipment as its contents had become disturbed. I didn’t mean to pry.” There was a grinding noise as the lid of the second container was displaced and struck the floor with a heavy thud. When his assailant didn’t respond, Shiona continued: “Why are you doing this? I have faithfully carried out the duties of this house all my life. Our lady knows this. Why are you even here? The city is swarming with soldiers looking for any sign of you.”
“I’m looking for my son,” his assailant responded. Without warning the figure released the steward’s arm and Shiona felt a heavy boot strike him in the back. Shiona fell heavily to the floor and rolled onto his back. He didn’t recognize the voice but the words le
ft no doubt in his mind who he was speaking to. He looked up from the cold stone floor and his eyes met his assailant’s for the first time.
“Tristan Listar—I-I mean your highness . . .” the steward stammered.
“You can skip the feigned pleasantries . . .” Tristan began, having no idea who the man before him was. Tristan had expected to emerge from his hiding place face to face with a Night Stalker. He was both surprised and frustrated, for the man’s mutterings indicated he was complicit but his role was uncertain.
“His name is Shiona,” a voice called from the side. “He serves as first advisor to Velas, or at least he did until Velas fell from grace. It seems he escaped sharing his master’s fate.”
Shiona’s eyes searched for the source of the voice. Emerging from the second vessel was a man bearing a striking resemblance to an old foe. The man before him seemed younger than he remembered, his full beard no longer streaked with gray as it had been when they had last met, the wrinkled lines about his eyes also vanished. While the strikingly youthful appearance was unsettling it was not nearly as concerning as the knowledge that his old rival was dead. Marcus Listar had been slaughtered by Gerwold and the Wolf years earlier. It was a matter of history—all of Valaar knew it and yet here stood a man who could have been mistaken for Marcus in his prime.
“N-not possible—” Shiona stammered. “You’re dead. This is a dream.” His gaze raced back and forth between the two men now standing over him.
“You aren’t dreaming, Shiona. I was dead, at least for a time. You, on the other hand, are about to be dead for all time.”
“How?” Shiona asked incredulously.
Marcus squatted beside the petrified steward and put his hand on his old foe’s shoulder. “The how would bother you far more than my presence does, let me assure you. Now enough about me—let’s talk about you. You’ve certainly been a busy man. I’d have thought murder for money to be outside of your purview. I’m sorry to see that I was wrong.”