The Book of Deacon: Book 04 - The Rise of the Red Shadow

by Joseph Lallo

  There was the thump of feet on the stairs, prompting a sudden silence from the women.

  “It is only me, ladies,” came the voice of the man, evidently not the target of their frustrations. “And if I were you, I would not speak ill of the master of the house. If he hadn't had so much wine, it wouldn't be nearly so easy to convince him tomorrow that he finished the bottle.”

  There was the slosh of a purloined bottle and the trio slipped away from the window to one of their quarters to split the ill-gotten gains, taking the lantern to light the way. Like a breath of wind rustling the curtains, Lain nudged open the shutters and flipped down from the roof and into the window. He moved swiftly across the cluttered servants' floor, reaching the steps without so much as creaking a floorboard. Whereas the servants' quarters were packed with cupboards and cabinets, piles of rags and work to be done on every flat surface, the living space of the owner was immaculate and lavish. Elegant furniture was carefully arranged in each room. Stuffed chairs with lustrous horsehair upholstery sat awaiting guests. Tables draped with intricate lacework and carved chairs stood at the ready for meals most could only imagine. All of it was shrouded in darkness, but compared to the cave, it might as well have been the height of day. He wove between the finery, staying low to the floor rather than risk being seen by an unexpected stray servant.

  After another such floor, he heard the heavy breathing of sleep. He moved with even more care now. The most critical tasks lay ahead. He needed to identify the target, find the proof that was required by the contract, and . . . perform the deed. The first part was easy enough, as the heavy breathing he heard was now turning to a rattling snore, and was coming from a room not far from the staircase. He found his way to it. There was a magnificent four-post bed, heaped with comforters. A man and woman were laying beneath them. The man was deeply asleep, erupting periodically with a fresh snore. The woman, presumably his wife, was sleeping fitfully.

  Lain crouched low beside the bed and conjured to mind the papers he'd taken from Maribelle. The man carried a silver coin, the first payment he'd received for his first shipment many years ago. It had an engraving of some kind, and he wore it on a chain around his neck as a good luck charm. The assassin hunched with his eyes level with the bed. All but the man's head was beneath covers. The night was barely cool, the nearby sea adding a bit of clamminess to the air, but native Tressons often seemed to have a low tolerance for the cold, hence the layers. Keeping a watchful eye on both the man and woman, and keeping his ears pointed to the door, Lain slowly folded back the comforter. The man did not wake, so he put his fingers to the blanket to do the same.

  The man released a sudden, grating outburst, a noise loud enough to stir his wife. Lain disappeared beneath the bed just in time for her to launch herself upright and elbow the man in the ribs.

  “Ugh,” he groaned, jostled from sleep. “What . . . why did . . .”

  “You were snoring. Again!” she growled.

  He muttered something unintelligible, then drifted back to sleep. She grumbled and climbed out of bed, fumbling her way out of the dark room. Soon Lain could hear glasses and pitchers rattling from a few rooms away. Lain slipped out from beneath the bed, more cautious now, and looked over his prey. His wife's abrupt departure had upset the covers, and tucked beneath the man's night shirt was a round shape. He tugged the chain until he could just see that it was indeed a silver coin. He was the man, it was certain now.

  Lain looked to the doorway. The woman was likely in the kitchen getting a drink, but she would not be long. This needed to be done quickly and silently. He looked down to the man and made his decision. With sharp, precise movements he clamped his palm across the man's mouth and pinched his nostrils shut. Crouching down, he wrapped his arm around the man's head, reaching behind and grasping the side of his face. The target's eyes were only just beginning to open from sleep again when Lain twisted his head firmly. There was a snap, a few weak shudders, and it was done.

  He removed his hand, straightened the man's head, and plucked the coin from his neck. The sound of his wife's returning footsteps prompted him to slip out through the other doorway. Just before he disappeared up the stairs and toward his exit on the upper floors, he heard the woman remark in relief that the man had finally stopped snoring.

  Chapter 31

  With his new skills, the jobs came and went quickly. In just a few months, Lain earned nearly enough gold to buy a small farm, but working so quickly and efficiently had unforeseen consequences. Maribelle, despite her best efforts, had never been anything more than a small player in the world of blades for hire. She had very few contacts, and even the most ruthless of scoundrels had only so many people who they want killed—or, at least, who they could afford to have killed. The largest of the jobs were wiped away quickly, and those that remained were a pittance compared to them. Nevertheless, until he could manage to find a new source for such work, he had little recourse.

  This particular set of tasks took him to a small east coast town called Dravis. The town was home to two of the smaller jobs that Maribelle had been able to secure for him. The first and most valuable was an assassination. One of the lesser members of Duule's growing network of thugs and killers had decided that the next step on the ladder was long overdue for a vacancy. The other job, a much lower bounty from the more legitimate side of her business, had to do with a rash of poaching from private hunting grounds. A lord with vast land holdings had discovered that his private wild stock was being targeted. Maribelle had indicated that it was initially thought that the animals were falling to predators, but evidence had since found that it was likely a man or woman, as steps had been taken to hide the remains. The wealthy lord decided that such an injustice would not stand, and so a bounty was offered.

  As it was both the most valuable and most time-sensitive of the tasks, Lain chose to pursue the assassination first. It was clear that the man he was after was well aware of his sensitive position. The information regarding his likely location and his routine was minimal. No matter. Criminals hadn't changed in the four years he'd spent in Entwell, and the things he'd learned under Weste had made finding and sifting through the clues even simpler. What's more, there were methods available to him that Weste would never have imagined. With a bit of concentration, he could hear at least a word or two from every person in every building in half a village, all without leaving his chosen vantage point. His nose could tell him things that even the finest tracking hound couldn't, such as which scent was common to two shady neighborhoods.

  In the space of a few days, Lain was confident that he had narrowed the possible hiding places from half of the east coast to Dravis alone. He was circling the town wide, making his way downwind of the place. It was for his nose what getting a bird's-eye view would have been for his eyes. As always, he chose to travel by night, to more simply shield himself from witnesses and to increase the odds that his target would be stationary. On this night, the proper vantage turned out to be an overgrown field just outside of town. There, huddled among the bushes, he drew in a sample of the night breeze and began to unravel its secrets.

  As always, the air carried a symphony of scents. A strong base of sea salt and fresh-turned earth enfolded the smoky scent of cooking fires, the potent aroma of the stables, and the unique scent of each of the town's residents. Weeding through the torrent of information could be swift if the event he sought was a familiar one, or the work of an entire night if the scent was still a puzzle. He had only just begun to sift through the first long breath when, woven in among the myriad of others, a scent asserted itself and seized his mind.

  Without thinking, he found himself slipping from the field and toward the city. Every few moments, he would sample the air again. The scent was always there, stronger, more certain, and more maddening to him. The trail led him first to the city, where it traced a long and complex path through the back alleys and side streets. From there, it headed north and east, where it came to the stubbly grass of the seas
hore. It mixed with older traces of the same scent, the remnants of prior trails from recent days. He was getting close to a place it returned to frequently. As the scent led him to a craggy section of seaside cliffs, a sharp shift in the breeze brought a perfectly fresh whiff of that which he so eagerly sought.

  He shifted from a stalk to a silent sprint toward a stretch of beach that had been turned into a veritable maze by great slabs of sloughed-off stone from the cliffs. Now he could hear footsteps, the quick, sure steps of an experienced runner well aware that they had been found. He gave chase, now following the echoing sounds among the wind-smoothed spires of stone. The pursuit circled back on itself, placing Lain between the sea and his quarry. The instant the breeze was at his back, the steps ahead of him skidded to a stop just on the other side of a natural pillar of stone. At the sound, he, too, slowed, and after a few pounding heartbeats, a figure stepped into the open.

  “Teyn?” came a voice heartbreaking in its familiarity.

  It was her. The instant he had taken his first breath he had been certain. Smelling it had conjured to mind the same sandy gray eyes that now stared with tear-soaked disbelief into his own. In his mind, he'd seen the mahogany fur, the confident grin. There was no question that it had been her, and no question that he had to see her again. And now she was in front of him. He was lost in the moment, paralyzed. All he could do was stare at her and endure the torrent of emotions.

  She crossed her arms and looked aside, sniffling and wiping her eyes. “It has been a long time, Teyn.”

  “A long time,” he repeated.

  The years had treated her well. She wasn't the scrawny, half-starved wretch who had stolen his meal seven years ago. Her build was still the lean, healthy one she'd enjoyed when they'd parted ways. In place of the light garb she'd worn in those days was a billowy tan shirt with long sleeves, matching trousers, and a thin robe. Her tail was hidden, tucked down one leg of the trousers, and hanging from her belt was a simple broad-brimmed hat of the sort worn by many of the field workers on the east side of Tressor. In short, she was in disguise, dressed as best she could to pass for human at a glance. The only thing about her wardrobe that remained unchanged was the jewelry, which dangled proudly from her ears and adorned both wrists and three fingers on each hand.

  Sorrel wiped away the tears streaming from eyes that stubbornly refused to be as aloof as the rest of her. “You still look at me too much, Teyn.”

  “You are looking well,” he said.

  “And you are looking . . .” She glanced him up and down. “Different.” Her eyes locked with his again, staring deep into them. After a few moments she narrowed her eyes slightly and gave her head a sorrowful shake. When she spoke again, her voice was hushed and distant. “What has happened to you, Teyn?”

  “A great deal . . .”

  “Too much, I think.” She sniffed. “Why do you come here now?”

  “I came because I'm tracking someone, and I caught your scent. Why are you here? Why did you leave the Great Forest?”

  “What does it matter to you?” she snapped. “You had this purpose. This thing so important to you. What does it matter what I am doing, or why I do it?”

  In her anger, she jostled something that she was wearing around her neck, causing it to swing out from behind the robe. The motion drew Lain's eyes. Hanging from a worn, knotted rope was a stone, mirror-smooth and deep purple. When she realized what he had seen, she turned her back to him and crossed her arms. “I told you not to follow me.”

  Lain felt a tightness in his chest, an anxiety he'd not felt in years. He had faced certain death countless times and clashed with some of the best-trained warriors in the world, yet a few words from Sorrel took his voice away. He tightened his fists and fought the feelings under control.

  “Sorrel, listen to me.”

  “Why should I listen to you?

  “This is important.”

  “What is important to you is not important to me.”

  “I think you may be in danger.”

  “We are always in danger. I can take care of myself.”

  “Sorrel, listen to me!”

  She turned her head to the side and glared at him over her shoulder, the sharpness of his voice catching her off-guard. He continued.

  “Someone has been hunting in a stretch of wooded land to the south west. It is a private hunting ground, and the lord who owns it has discovered poaching. That is what brought me here. Perhaps you are the one doing the poaching, perhaps you are not, but there is a reward for anyone who brings back the person responsible. It will bring others. I know that you've lived your life avoiding people like this, but you must not take it lightly. I know these hunters. I am one of them now. There are those among them who have more than enough skill to find you. I followed your scent through the city. If they were to bring hounds to the hunting grounds, then bring them here, they would find you as surely as I did.

  “You would not join me in my own quest because it was too dangerous, and I did not blame you. All I ask is that you understand that you are in the same danger now. If you are angry at me, if you hate me, that doesn't change the fact that I'm giving you a warning. We both know that such a thing is rare for a malthrope. I don't want you to die because you were too proud or stubborn heed my words. You are too important to me for that.”

  His voice was steady and firm, his words earnest. Sorrel simply turned her head away.

  “Very well.”

  Lain turned and began to walk back the way he'd come. After a few steps, there came the sound of desperate, pounding footsteps. He turned just in time for her to tackle him into an embrace that nearly knocked them both to the ground. She held him tightly, her head hooked over his shoulder and her eyes shut tight. He returned the gesture, gently, as he felt her silently weep.

  “I'm sorry,” he whispered.

  “No,” she said, reluctantly loosening the embrace to look him in the eyes. “Do not tell me you are sorry. It hurt me what you said years ago. It hurt me the way you felt, but do not be sorry for it. I could not understand then because I did not understand what it was to have a purpose of my own. I do now. I look at these creatures and I know what it means to have something that you would give your life for without thinking twice. That is why I am here.” She sniffled and wiped her eyes. “That is why I cannot go back to where it is safe.”

  “What is it?”

  She continued to look into his eyes, then slowly released him from her arms. “Before I tell you, you must tell me something.”

  “What do you need to know?”

  “When my leg was hurt, you told me that you were a killer. I looked in your eyes that day, and I was sure you were not.” She took a deep breath to steady herself. “Why, when I look in your eyes today . . . am I no longer sure? What has happened to you, Teyn?”

  Now it was Lain's turn to take a breath. In the past, he might have felt shame for the story he had to tell, but as he spoke of the lengths he had gone to and the things he had done, he found he felt nothing at all. It was as though the years of forcing away such thoughts had caused the part of his soul that burned and ached at such things to wither away. It was a simple record, spoken with such dispassion and detachment, he might as well have been speaking of a stranger rather than himself. When he was through, he looked back to Sorrel. The tears still trickled from her eyes, and her expression spoke volumes of the conflict within her. She reached out and touched him on the chest, then put her hand to his cheek.

  “Is there anything left of you, Teyn? Is there anything of who you were?”

  He considered her words, then slowly reached to his side. From within a pouch, he drew a small wad of cloth. It was beyond ragged, frayed at the ends and stained a dozen shades of brown and red.

  “What is it?” Sorrel asked.

  “The last thing you did for me before you left was tend to my wounds. You used this. It is the one thing I still carry with me from those days. It was with me in the cave, and it helped me to keep
my wits about me. The only part of me that remains from those days . . . is you.”

  She looked at the swatch of cloth, then put her hand to the stone hung about her neck.

  “Come,” she said, taking his hand. “I will show you.”

  She turned and quickened to a run, dragging him beside her. Lain had forgotten just how fast his fellow malthrope could run. It was rare for him to encounter anyone who could match his speed. Staying beside her as she led the way through the maze of fallen stone and onward into the jagged cliffs took every bit of his agility. She led him along the seashore at the base of the cliffs until they reached a narrow crevice in the cliff side. Beside it was an alcove, sheltered somewhat from the sea spray.

  “Wait there,” she said.

  Sorrel sidled through the crevice, and for a minute or two left Lain alone on the shore. The wind was blowing in a steady breeze off the sea, filling his nose with salt air. Any scent that might betray what lay within the cave was whipped up along the cliff. In time, there came the crunch of sand under foot. Then a voice.

  “Teyn.”

  He looked up to see Sorrel stepping free from the crevice. A moment later, two other forms tumbled out . . . malthrope children. They were young, barely chest-high to Sorrel. If they'd been humans, they would have looked to be perhaps ten years old. As members of his own kind, he guessed their age to be five years. One was a male, his fur orange, but a shade darker than Lain's own. The other was female, her fur deep red, but lighter than Sorrel's. They were dressed in simple clothes, tanned and sewn hides no doubt prepared by Sorrel herself. At the sight of Lain, they huddled behind her.

  Sorrel placed a hand on the boy's head, and the other on the girl's. “Wren, Reyna. This is Teyn. Say hello to him,” Sorrel said to the children. They merely huddled closer. She sighed. “Go. Play. Stay where I can see.”