by J. C.
"Where did you learn to fight like that? What is that long box of strange tools you carry, and where did it come from? It never mattered before, because you kept it hidden away until two moons ago. It matters now."
Leesil closed his eyes. If he told her, what would she do? What could she do but walk away and never look back?
"Anmaglâhk," he whispered.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It's an elvish word my mother used. I never learned its meaning, but after a while it wasn't hard to guess with the way we lived. She used it rarely for herself. And once for me."
Magiere settled back to the bed's edge, staring at him.
"She was an assassin," Leesil said, his voice flat and emotionless. "So was my father. So was I."
Wariness—or was it revulsion?—replaced the anger on Magiere's smooth face. She looked briefly about the room, perhaps wondering where his "tools" might now be hidden, then down to his arms. His cuffs were loose and unbound, and one hilt of a stiletto in its wrist sheath protruded. Leesil slowly pulled his hands back into his lap and closed his sleeves.
"Your mother—an elf—was an assassin." Her voice was barely a whisper. "You murdered for money?"
"You know of the Warlands far up north," he continued. "Provinces, not even true countries, where rulers hold power by military force. Ever heard of a Lord Darmouth?"
"Yes," she answered hesitantly.
"My family served him. We were his slaves—his spies and assassins."
Magiere turned away toward the far wall.
Leesil was afraid now, and few things frightened him anymore. There was little else to do but finish.
"Rulers like Darmouth have enemies, not only outside their borders but within. And if they don't, they still think they do anyway. I was raised to deal with those enemies— proficiently. By the age of five, my parents were already training me. At first it was just a thin dagger I held, wielding it like a sword while pretending to be a warrior. I didn't know we were property to be owned. But in the years after, I wondered about the purpose of the strange things they taught me, until I no longer had to wonder. When to move silently, unnoticed. How to lie convincingly. Who and what to watch for in the dark. Which places on a body afford the quickest kill."
Magiere peered back over her shoulder. All Leesil saw was one eye watching him.
"The toolbox," she said. "That's what it's for?"
He nodded. "From my mother. Probably made by her people, though I don't know how or why. I learned to use everything in it, and I was a good slave, for a while. Some days I can still remember every person I've killed."
"And now you need new tools? You bartered with the smith for them."
"No, that has nothing to do with my past," Leesil added, his own voice suddenly harsh. "I can't keep trying to take vampires with stilettos. I need something else. But I've no time to learn any standard weapon, so I'm having ones made to fit the skills I have."
Magiere shook her head, holding up a hand to ward off his words.
"Even a slave can think for himself," she said. "So why didn't you run before it was too late? Why didn't all of you run?"
Such a simple choice, Leesil thought. If it had only been that simple. And he laughed.
Magiere spun about to glare at him. "What's so funny?"
"Nothing," he answered, no smile on his face. "Absolutely nothing. We were never allowed to work together. There was always at least one—mother, father, or son—who stayed behind under a watchful eye to ensure the job was done, and the one at work came home again."
He watched her eyes for any hint of understanding. When it didn't come, he simply went on.
"I was forced to betray a kind old teacher falsely accused of treason, and he was hanged. That was when I ran. I lived on the road with Chap, drinking myself to sleep to forget— until I met you, and we began a whole new round of killing."
"Killing?" Magiere shook her head. "We've never killed anything together besides undeads."
Leesil took in her puzzled expression and hated himself even more. But as long as it was all coming out, she might as well face the whole past.
"The peasants?" he asked. "You're thinking too simply again. How many peasants starved because we took their seed coin? Or died in the stocks from exposure, or were worked to death in indentured service because they couldn't pay their taxes?"
Her head hung low. "Now at least we try to make up for those years. But what we did wasn't the same as being paid to take a life."
"You can never make up for it," he argued. "It doesn't work that way."
There was no bitterness in his voice, for this was simply how things were.
"Now we save people," he continued. "We do what we can to help. It's a better life, for the most part, than the ones I've lived before."
Magiere sat there for a long time. Leesil kept quiet as well, waiting.
"It wasn't your life," she whispered. "Just the one forced on you by birth."
As Leesil watched, her gaze became empty and hollow. Her words came from somewhere other than this moment. She shook herself, clenching her eyes briefly as she did.
"Your mother married a human," she said. "Do you know how strange that sounds? Elves keep to themselves for the most part, and I've never even heard of one working for a human lord. Not as an assassin, let alone a slave."
"My parents never talked about that, though a few times I tried to ask. I don't know much beyond what I've told you."
"So they're still there and…"—she stopped and then spit out the words—"killing for Darmouth. Why didn't they leave as well? They no longer needed to protect you. Or is there something else they stayed for?"
"Magiere…" he began, and then dropped his head, frustrated.
She'd never fully understand the world he'd come from. He kept his words quiet and detached.
"Slaves, remember? And always under a watchful eye— hostages. That was the chain Darmouth used to bind my family. You don't think about what you do. You just do it, and stay alive, and keep those who depend on you alive. But I couldn't kill anymore, and I ran."
This time he was the one to turn away, sitting on the bedside with his head down and eyes closed. For all the lives he'd taken, the last two were the ones he locked away so carefully they'd not even entered his nightmares.
"You did the right thing," Magiere offered.
"The right thing?" Leesil spit without looking at her. "They're dead, Magiere! My parents… I ran. And so now they're dead."
That was the end of it. He'd never spoken this to anyone, yet he'd told the one person who should have never known.
Where would he go, now that this life with Magiere was at an end?
He sat with eyes closed, not wanting to see her leave. It was better that when he opened them again, she was simply gone.
The sound of tapping metal reached his ears, and he realized she'd picked up her sword. He listened to her footsteps around the bed as she headed for the door. There came another soft tap of metal on wood, closer.
Fingers slid lightly up his cheeks to comb through his hair until palms settled upon his temples.
Opening his eyes with his head still down, Leesil saw the tin basin resting on the floor at Magiere's feet between her crouched legs. He heard her breath close to his face as her forehead touched his.
"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for telling me."
* * * *
With his wrist bandaged tightly, Chane stepped from a coach into one of the poorer areas of the outer ring. He preferred not to be announced by the clatter of a coach rolling through a district where no one could afford such luxuries. Paying the driver, he walked down the street toward what Domin Tilswith and Wynn referred to as Hovel Row.
Only a short while ago, he'd left the house to find sustenance for the wounded Sapphire. She had related small parts of what happened to her, how a half-elf had outmaneuvered her through sheer speed and ability, and a white-skinned woman had shown more strength than was possible for a mortal. Tor
et's face had nearly glowed with anxiety.
More questions formed in Chane's mind as Toret ordered him out into the night on this errand of mercy. These two old enemies of Toret's might indeed be the key to Chane's freedom. He decided a brief detour was in order, but he must hurry. If he was gone too long, Toret would not only be infuriated over Sapphire's prolonged suffering but might become suspicious. Still, with Toret's recent erratic behavior, there was no telling when he would have another opportunity.
The hour was late, and Hovel Row had been aptly named.
Street gutters smelling of rot and decay, the shabby dwellings pushed against one another. There came an infant's cry of hunger and a man shouting obscenities. A woman's answering shout turned to defeated weeping.
Chane sped on toward his destination.
Wynn had told him of an elf living in the secluded squalor of Hovel Row. Strangely, she had interacted with elves in her homeland and spoke their language fluently. She had heard of one here in Bela, somehow, and was eager to meet the elves of this continent. But upon her visit, she'd met with quiet hostility and hadn't gotten past the front door.
Chane was not aware there were elves anywhere other than the far northeast, past the Warlands over the Venjetzf Rozpatje—the Crown Range. He'd heard through his father's friends of how the elves were reclusive to the point of paranoia. Now he had questions concerning them, or at least pertaining to one half-blood. He wanted answers, and he didn't really need to get past a front door.
He never forgot anything, and Wynn had kindly told him where to look. Six streets in, he found the correct abode. It was old, but some of the planking and roof shakes had been replaced or repaired in recent years. The place looked completely sealed up.
He'd asked Wynn why an elf would live in such a place. She grew thoughtful before answering.
"I cannot say, but I had the strange feeling he was waiting or perhaps just watching. For what, I do not know."
Chane felt oddly calm when remembering her oval face. It had been many nights since she had sat next to him, speculating upon the ancient parchment sent for translation. He glanced at his bandaged wrist, remembering the feel of Sapphire's mouth upon him. If it had been Wynn… but the thought that he had given of himself to save Sapphire swelled an angry revulsion amidst his thoughts.
He approached the oak door and knocked hard and let his senses open fully, though the smell of the district instantly assaulted him for it. No one answered, but he hadn't expected an answer right away. He knocked again and kept on knocking.
There was no sound of movement, but he heard the heartbeat approach from within even before a soft but bitter voice called from behind the closed door.
"Go away."
"I have information," Chane replied, "regarding one of your kind newly arrived in the city."
After a moment, the door cracked.
Chane stared at a loaded crossbow held by a man standing back in the doorway's shadow. He was thin with sharply peaked ears and sand-colored, tangled hair. He wore a long cloak of faded dun-colored fabric that hid the rest of his attire. His tan skin looked unhealthy, as if he ate poorly and had not seen daylight in some time. His long face was triangular, and he was taller and more slender than the man Tihko had seen.
"I am the only one of my people living in this city," he spit out. "Now stop pounding on my door and go away."
"You are mistaken. There is another."
"Nonsense," he rebuked, and was about to slam the door.
"If you won't share information, then I will, for there is a half-blood here in the city. Younger, agile, with exceptional fighting skills. Stilettos are his favored weapons, and he travels in the company of a woman warrior and a dog. I have questions. Do you have answers?"
The crossbow did not waver, but Chane saw the barest widening of his bloodshot amber eyes, and heard his pulse quicken briefly.
"You are mistaken," the elf said quietly.
The door slammed shut, and Chane heard the metal bolts slide home.
Chane was anxious now. Too much time had passed since he had left to find blood for Sapphire. Toret would be pacing in fury by now, but there was still more to be learned here, and he might not have a chance to come back. He would contrive some story of delay and deal with the consequences later. Turning back down the road and around the nearest corner, he settled into the shadow of a wattle and daub hut to wait and watch.
A short while later, a soft and faint rhythm reached his ears. Footsteps.
Chane carefully surveyed the hovel. The door and all windows were still closed. He focused on the sound until it nearly resounded in his hearing, and then he faced down the street, separating the shadows with his sight.
Something moved quietly along the buildings, and Chane slipped across the street to follow.
The cloaked figure avoided the few dim pools of light from street lanterns, heading out of the city. He was stopped by the guards at the outer gate. Under the gatehouse's bright lanterns, Chane saw the elf's face inside his gray cowl. The elf exchanged brief words with one guard, opening his cloak for inspection, and then moved on his way.
Waiting a moment more, Chane stepped out and followed.
There was actually a mix of men at the gate. In addition to four surcoated Strazhy-shlyahketne, there were two armed men in plain clothes, likely from the local constabulary.
"And where might you be going at such an early hour, sir?" asked one of the guards.
Chane remained polite, but gave the man a slow and appraising glance that made the guard shift uncomfortably.
"I was visiting the home of some workers of mine and simply stayed too late," he answered. "And with the night almost gone, I thought to walk for a while until one of the local inns opened. Too little night left to return to my bed."
The guard made a cursory appraisal of Chane, glancing back down the street, and nodded.
"Very well, sir," he said stepping to one side. "But best keep to the main streets and well-lit ways. A good night to you."
Chane moved on, staying as close to the buildings as he could, slipping into a side street now and again just long enough to let his quarry stay ahead of him. It was actually easier to trail his target outside the city, as the buildings and huts became sparser, giving way to small fields and groves of trees. The elf moved furtively, finally stepping off the road and heading into the thick woods. Chane followed from tree to tree, watching as the elf wove his way.
The forest grew dense. Chane crept forward, low to the ground, working his way wide to the right of where the elf had passed, but he could not find an alternative path through the brush. Crawling under the lowest branches of a tree, he carefully cleared the earth in front of him so as not to make more noise than necessary.
The elf stood near an old fir rising high into the night. Its lower limbs were sparse and sheared away, exposing its trunk. The elf dug within his cloak and withdrew a simple object. An oblong shape ending in narrow points, it was no longer than the man's palm, light yellow in color, and its surface shimmered, polished smooth.
Placing it against the tree's trunk, the elf flattened one hand over it to hold it in place, and appeared to whisper to himself, over and over. Then he spoke, and a stream of words in his own tongue came out in a halting pattern.
Chane grew more intent. It appeared the elf now held a kind of conversation with the tree. No, his eyes were turned aside, staring vacantly through the woods.
The elf spoke through the tree—to someone else.
Chane knew a little of the elvish tongue from scant texts he seen over the years but had rarely heard it spoken. He tried to listen carefully, wishing he possessed Wynn's gift for language.
"Bithasij fuile letheach ag'us ag meanna, gye sapdjasij Anmaglâhk colhtaseach!"
The words jumbled in Chane's mind as he tried to pick out what he could recognize. Part of one word, lethe, meant half in the masculine form, but half of what? The half-blood perhaps. Ag meanna meant "not of us." But most curious was
one emphatic word— Anmaglâhk—which seemed to be a name or title. Perhaps the person to whom the elf spoke? Several phrases slipped by before Chane focused again.
"Tridlhina Ihos ag me. Urkharasej tiiaonec."
The best Chane could guess was "not depart plan or purpose"—and an emphatic "send one more," but one more of what?
"Leanave faodeach âg a bitheana ahk bith so cuishna. Vorthasej so true! "
The stream of words stopped suddenly, and the elf slipped the polished sliver back into his cloak. He turned and headed back the way he came. The last thing that Chane could make out was about someone's parent, a mother perhaps, and taking the life of a "traitor."
It seemed there was much more to this half-elf that Toret feared.
Gray streaked the night sky as Chane crept out from under the tree to trot back to the city, slowing briefly as he passed through the gatehouse once again. Instead of traversing Hovel Row, he swung toward the waterfront, reaching the low-end merchant street where a few coaches could be found. He could not arrive home empty-handed.
Urgency was always dangerous, but there was no time for cautious selection. Walking the side streets, he watched for signs of movement in the alleys and listened carefully for heavy breathing. He found a drunken sailor behind a tavern, curled soundly asleep against the building's side. Chane walked purposefully over and struck the man hard enough across the jaw to be sure he would not awaken anytime soon.
He flagged down a coach while supporting the sailor with one arm.
"Too much ale," he said to the driver. "I must get my friend home."
He gave an address two city blocks away from the house. He would walk the rest of the way and not risk the driver seeing his destination. As the carriage wheels clattered away, he rolled one word over in his mind.
Anmaglâhk.
Chapter 10
Near dawn, Magiere and Leesil still sat on the bed next to Chap's sleeping form. Their talk strayed from past to present and to more comfortable topics like strategy or any possible way to find the nobleman in her vision. In spite of all that happened this night, Magiere wasn't dismayed by Leesil's confession. His obvious guilt and self-revulsion for his earlier life made her want to comfort him, but she didn't know how. One phrase kept ringing in her ears.