by J. C.
The cabin was so small that all she saw in the low lantern light was faded and bleached wood. She'd meant to turn out the lantern but thought better of it, in case Leesil should return. Shifting about on the old, flattened bunk pad, she tried to get comfortable and half closed her eyes.
Why exactly did he want wine? She hadn't seen him touch a drop while he was healing, not even on the tavern's opening night.
Magiere scrunched her eyelids closed and tried to push her petulant partner from her thoughts. Sleep would make everything fade, and things always looked better in the morning. That was what her Aunt Bieja always said, and from time to time, it was true. The bunk felt hard beneath her back, so she rolled to her side again, willing slumber to take her.
Chap growled softly from the floor.
"Shut up," she muttered. "It's hard enough to sleep without your noises."
She considered getting up and going after Leesil and then heard the door creak open. He was back, and unexpected relief washed over Magiere. Hopefully he'd crawl into the upper bunk and rest, so she sat up, prepared to suggest just that.
Magiere tensed and froze.
One of the tattered dockworkers who'd boarded the schooner with them in Miiska stared in at her with equal surprise. There was a knife in his hand.
He'd probably expected to find her asleep or out of the room so he could rob the traveling chest. So many people in town were struggling, and sometimes failing, in the months since Rashed's warehouse burned.
But in that breath of moment, he never once looked toward the chest or anything else in the room except her.
Chap growled, already on his feet, with soft jowls curled back over sharp canine fangs. Magiere grabbed the falchion from the floor.
Any would-be thief with half a set of wits would have turned and run at the sight of a wide-awake, armed occupant and a large, angry hound. Even the desperate wouldn't risk serious injury for unknown profit. Instead, this one rushed her.
Caught off guard, Magiere had no time to unsheathe her weapon. The other two dockworkers from the boarding party were right behind him, pushing their way through the narrow door. Her eyes widened as the leader raised his dagger up, ready to strike, and he kicked out at her sword.
Magiere pulled the falchion out of the way. Bungling dockworkers they might be, but this was no robbery. She raised the sheathed blade with both hands as a bar to block his strike and kicked out into the man's gut.
The dockworker fell back against the pair behind him. There was a moment's jostling as the other two struggled to push him aside, but he tripped over the chest and toppled into the room's corner.
Chap launched at the men in the doorway, colliding with the second one, who was quite portly. Forepaws striking the dockworker's chest, he toppled against the third, who backpedaled into the hall. Both dog and man collapsed in a tangle at the foot of the bunks.
Chap began barking full-throated. Not the eerie wail for hunting or the vicious utterance used to keep someone cornered, but deep, long woofing sounds as if calling for attention.
Magiere assessed the leader toppled in the corner. Medium height, medium build, with plain brown hair and eyes, and clothes that were faded and worn. There was nothing distinctive about him. He was the type whom everyone forgot immediately. For some reason, this disturbed her.
It had been, a long while since she'd fought a living opponent, and chasing down would-be thieves in the streets wasn't the same. When she fought the undead, strength, speed, and rage poured into her. That was her advantage even if it unbalanced her self-awareness. She was at a loss without the rise of her dhampir side, and uncertainty made her hesitate too long.
The leader drew himself up, eyes narrowed, and rushed her again. She jerked the sheathed falchion up to guard herself, and he half spun in the small space, kicking the blade from her hand.
When he charged for real, Magiere rolled from the bunk, hoping he'd land in her place and she could come up behind him. He did land on the bunk, but she hit the floor hard and, before she could spring back up, he rolled off the bunk on top of her.
Chap's snarl came from somewhere near the door, followed by the frightened outcry of the man he'd pinned.
Magiere's attacker struck down with his knife. She snatched his wrist and pulled it to the side in midswing, adding her own strength to its downward momentum. He looked shocked when his blade stuck into the floor next to her left shoulder. She slammed her forehead into his face.
Blood spurted from his nose across Magiere's chest as his head snapped back. She followed with her right fist against his mouth, and he tumbled backward, shoulders striking the edge of the lower bunk.
Magiere twisted left on the swing's momentum and jerked the knife free from the floor. By the time the man rebounded, she had the blade in motion as she swung back. It slid fast and deep through his throat.
His hand instinctively flew to his neck. Blood running from his nose across his jaw mingled with dark red seeping between his clenched fingers, and then it began leaking from between his lips.
Magiere shoved him aside and scrambled to her feet, holding the knife out. The dockworker crumpled to the floor, gagging, and she turned quickly toward the cabin doorway.
Chap clenched the portly man's upper arm between his teeth, and raked at him with front paws. The man screamed hysterically for help, but no one came to his aid. His shirt was already shredded and stained with his own blood. Magiere kicked the hound's opponent in the head, and the man fell silent and limp. Chap instantly shifted on top of the dazed attacker, snarling and watching intently.
Magiere breathed hard for a moment. Where was the third attacker?
Had he panicked and run, seeing how quickly his partners went down? She stepped around Chap and his prisoner, and looked out the door toward the steep stairs to the right. Dim yellow light seeped down from the hatch leading to the deck. There was a flicker of shadow from her left.
Something heavy and hard collided with the back of Magiere's skull. Everything flashed white and then snapped to darkness, as if the lantern had flared and snuffed out. Her legs folded uncontrollably as she fell against the hallway's far wall. She knew she'd hit the floor only when the sensation of motion ceased, and her whole body went limp.
She tried hard to lift her face but managed only to roll over onto her back. Her right hand closed but was empty— the knife had fallen from her grip. Above her was a soft, dim oval materializing from shadow. The blurred shape slowly sharpened. An illuminated face appeared above her.
A young and slightly built man with dirty-blond hair and angry, determined eyes stood over her with an iron cudgel gripped in both hands. He'd let Chap maul his companion while he waited outside the door for her to emerge.
Magiere tried to gather strength, to think, to act, as he raised the cudgel again. The most she could manage was to lift one arm that wavered.
A shadow passed across the young man's face. Something had blocked the light filtering down through the hatch. He paused and looked up.
Slender legs in faded canvas breeches shot through the air above Magiere, and their feet covered in low leather boots struck her attacker in the face. His cudgel flipped out of his hands as he tumbled backward down the dark hallway out of Magiere's sight.
The booted feet swung up to the planked ceiling, followed by the legs, and behind them came a torso clad in a loose, worn-out shirt slightly too big for the wearer.
Leesil let go of the hatch's top edge and quickly tucked in midair above Magiere. She caught only a glimpse of his face surrounded by whirling white hair broken loose from his falling scarf as he flipped past her out of sight. She felt the impact through the floor as he landed in the hallway at her feet.
Magiere clawed at the passage-side wall to pull herself up on one elbow. Her head felt thick and too heavy to hold up.
Leesil half crouched, his back to her, with a stiletto in each hand. Magiere heard Chap's muffled snarls and barks from behind the cabin's closed door, likely pulled shu
t by her attacker to keep the dog out of his way.
Around Leesil's legs, Magiere made out the young dock-worker's shadowed figure getting up. The man slipped a hand behind his back, and when it came into view again, he held something long and dark. He rushed forward. Before the slender man closed, Leesil spun on his right foot in the narrow hallway.
His left leg folded up next to his body as he pivoted. As it cleared the close walls, his leg shot out and connected with the dockworker's jaw and cheekbone. Before the man's head had fully recoiled, Leesil followed instantly with the pommel of the left stiletto, striking precisely the same spot. The man spun and tumbled down the hallway wall. Leesil settled to both feet again, and staggered forward.
Staggered? Magiere pushed herself further up. Was Leesil injured?
"Be careful!" she managed to shout. "They're not thieves."
Leesil righted himself as the dockworker threw whatever he wielded, and the object clattered along the floor. The man turned and ran the other way down the hall into the dark. Leesil started after the fleeing figure but didn't get far, and Magiere's breath caught in her throat.
His feet tangled in the skittering object, and instead of stumbling, he toppled straight over and slammed into the floor.
"Leesil!" Magiere got out.
From somewhere up on deck she heard running feet, shouting, and a splash.
She climbed up the wall to her feet. The back of her skull ached, and her ears rang ceaselessly, but she was more concerned for Leesil. As she took two unsteady steps, he came toward her. His stilettos already tucked away, he carried the object that had undone him—another iron cudgel. He dropped it, grabbed a rung of the steps up to the deck, and stood swaying slightly.
Magiere reached out to him and stumbled closer, leaning against the ladder's steps. She ran her hands over his arms, shoulders, and chest, pushing the folds of the loose shirt around to check for rips or signs of blood.
"Hurt?" she managed to ask. "Did he hit you?"
Leesil's narrow, tanned face lifted, and he looked at her in some confusion.
"I'm all right… I'm… fine… that skinny toad ain't never gonna get near you… promise." He put his hand on her cheek a little too roughly, making her vision spin, and then leaned his face close to hers. "All right… you're all right now."
Magiere jerked her head away, which made the whole world jump before her eyes. His breath reeked, and she stared at Leesil's face in the dim light.
His eyes were bloodshot.
Assassins had attacked her, and he was drunk.
Chapter 4
Two nights after Chane escorted Sapphire around town to show off her new gown, he walked the dark streets outside of Bela's middle ring wall in a rare mood of contentment. Once per week, Toret gave him leave to do whatever he liked. He always chose the same destination: the new Belaskian branch of the Guild of Sagecraft. On such nights, he wore a casual white shirt, brown breeches, and a simple brown wool cloak—without his sword. This was his usual attire for such visits, as he preferred to be viewed as nothing more than an avid pastime scholar of minor noble birth. His only accoutrement, tucked beneath his shirt, was the small brass vial on a chain around his neck.
He strolled along the cobbled street toward the southern side of the city. A coach for hire would have expedited his journey, but he preferred to walk. His body did not tire, and he liked the older districts with their motley architecture marking the history and growth of the city. They held an aging charm that as yet had not slipped into decay.
It had taken half a decade for the city council to negotiate arrangements for these foreign scholars, these sages, to come to Bela from a great distance. As rumor had it, the council was pleased, for it meant a partial library of historical scrolls and documents would exist within the city, along with highly learned men and women who gathered and preserved such archives. Eventually, a full library would grow from this small start. This was the first such branch of the guild on this entire continent. In his regular visits with the sages, Chane had learned much about their origins.
Started nearly two centuries ago, the sages' founding branch was in a country called Malourne, west across the ocean and to the far coast of that distant continent. Their homeland guild grounds were actually that kingdom's old keep and castle, given to the guild in bygone days when newer structures were built for their monarchs. Malourne was the oldest of kingdoms in what they called the Numan lands.
There was also a guild branch on the continent's southern half in the imperial city of Samau'a Gaulb—"Heart of the Heavens"—capital of both the country of il'Dha'ab Najuum and the Suman Empire as a whole. A third established branch was said to be in elven lands somewhere in the middle of the continent.
After the Great War, thought to have occurred half a millennium ago, civilization on the far continent had been thrown into ruin and nearly obliterated. So much was lost that the Guild of Sagecraft was founded in the early days of Malourne's monarchs as a safeguard against another such holocaust.
Chane had read the few histories that reached back before the kingdoms of Belaski, Stravina, and Droevinka were established here. It was likely that this same war that the sages spoke of had touched this continent as well, though the thought of such a wide-reaching conflict seemed too fabricated at times. There were tales of monstrosities and unnatural hordes, and of years' worth of battles and skirmishes with invaders from across the ocean. Those speculative histories suggested that the first peoples of this continent faded as well, to be later replaced by migrating tribes and clans from elsewhere.
And now the auspices of the guild had come to Chane's own homeland.
Those distant libraries and archives the size of castles overwhelmed his imagination. Someday he would see them with his own eyes, feel their parchments beneath his fingertips, read strange tongues that spoke of forgotten days and lost mysteries, and quench his mind on centuries of knowledge gathered by the learned. How many new insights into his conjury might he find in such vast repositories? And what might be known of the Noble Dead, with some detail of knowledge that might finally free him from Toret's domination? There was now a guild here, and perhaps that would be enough to uncover a key to his freedom.
The piecemeal vision still lingered as he absently rounded a street corner onto an intersecting cobble road. A short distance ahead was an open archway in the city's middle wall. Two ring-mailed Strazhy-shlyahketne, the city's official guards, stood relaxed but attentive to either side of the massive granite portal. They gave him little more than a passing glance.
Chane's destination was only a short distance inside the ring wall. When he reached it, he paused to take in the sight illuminated by the street lanterns' dim yellow light. His vision of grand, scholarly enclaves faded like smoke in the night breeze.
City space was scarce and, from all whispered suspicions, the city council had decided it best not to house these highly valued but "foreign" emissaries too close to the royal grounds. What stood in front of Chane as the new Belaskian branch of the Guild of Sagecraft was an old, decommissioned barracks.
In years past, the guard outgrew these accommodations, and two new barracks were constructed—one near the outer ring wall and one near the inner. The old building stood empty for over a year, until the sages arrived. Weathered and aged, it was reasonably well kept and rose to two stories of sound timbers attached directly to the city wall's inner side. But as much as it had been adequate for a barracks, it was not what the sages had hoped for. There simply wasn't enough space inside to house their necessary wares, let alone build a library.
Chane lifted the front door's latch and entered, his welcome established months ago. He turned left down the narrow central passage toward where the Strazhy sergeant's quarters were once located. Apprentices and hired scribes trundled up and down the stairs with careful armfuls of scrolls, sheaves, tablets, books, and the occasional oddity he could not immediately identify. A few nodded a greeting as they passed.
The old serge
ant's front chamber, once used as an impromptu courtroom for petty crimes and civil disputes, was transformed into a study area with tables, chairs, scribe desks, and shelves. Around the room were a few curious glass lamps filled with glowing light that never flickered.
Two sages in clean gray robes—one of medium size, the other slight and small—sat together at the rear table carefully considering a leather-bound box. But they were also waiting for him, and both looked up when he entered. The taller of the two was the old domin, or grandmaster sage, Tilswith.
"Right… right time," he said in broken speech with a warm smile.
Though he was well into his sixties, Tilswith's vivid green eyes were keen of sight, though occasionally he used a reading glass to magnify small script. His gray hair possessed a hint of its once coal-colored shade, and he wore it cropped short with a close-trimmed beard to match. Though lined, his narrow face and long hands were not harshly wrinkled.
"Come… sit," Tilswith said with a welcoming wave of his hand. "We may have… new clue to…"
The domin faltered and, with great frustration, hastily motioned to his colleague, who leaned close to whisper in his ear. Though he was engaging and wise, the elder man's command of local languages was not all it should be for the head of such an establishment. Tilswith tapped fingertips to forehead, letting out a grunt of frustration as if the term that escaped him were now obvious.
"Yes, yes—Great War… the Forgotten." He sighed deeply. "Pardon… days I think I never learn speak your language."
Tilswith's smaller companion shifted out of her stool to offer it up. Slightly built and barely reaching Chane's collarbone, Wynn Hygeorht was twenty years old at best, yet already Tilswith's primary apprentice. Light brown hair hung in a neat braid down her back. Her olive-toned face was round and unpainted, adorned only by small features and a pair of rich brown eyes. As assistant to Tilswith, and an initiate in the Order of Cathologers, Wynn specialized in the knowledge of knowledge itself: the preservation, organization, and coordination of libraries great and small, and always knowing where to find the last forgotten corner note that only one person in a decade might care to retrieve. She could read, write, and speak a half dozen languages, including Belaskian. Though she seldom spoke without something specific to say, it was always engaging to converse with her. After nights of Sapphire's inane chatter, the fewest words spoken by Wynn were soothing to Chane's ears.