“Let me explain,” said Mister Benedict—Ortin Benedict, a minor member of the powerful family, but still a man of influence and position in Lacanja. Despite his calm voice and demeanor, there was something almost wild about his eyes. Like a man who hadn’t slept in days. “How long have you two been here?”
“Nearly two years,” Master Denbar said.
“Have you heard of the Sholiar Murders?”
“A bit,” Dayne said. “Some sort of thing with traps or machines or something?”
“Some sort of thing like that,” Benedict said ruefully.
Lieutenant Stenson continued. “For the past few years, we’ve had waves where people are grabbed off the street—some rich and prominent, some common folk—and then found a few days later, dead in some unholy, elaborate torture device. Sometimes there are demands issued, sometimes not. There are never any witnesses, we have nothing resembling a suspect, but we do have a name. Sholiar. He—whoever he is—always signs his work and sends us taunts.”
“And you think this is all the same person.”
“The taunts typically include details only the true Sholiar would know. If it is a person. Some of the boys here think it’s something else, like actually an immortal Sinner returned to make us suffer.”
“So how does this apply now?” Master Denbar asked, giving Dayne a look that told him he should just listen.
“He’s taken my son,” Benedict said. “Lenick, he’s fifteen years old. And this time, he’s issued demands. Demands that name the two of you.” He held out a letter that Master Denbar grabbed.
“Sixty thousand crowns in goldsmith notes? Seems like a rather mortal request to me.”
“Delivered by you two, to this address on the docks,” Lieutenant Stenson said. “I will point out this was the second request he sent, and this is the second address.”
“You handled the first one on your own, and found it . . . wanting?”
“Empty, save for the traps that killed three of my men,” Stenson said. “Now, whatever this place is on the docks? It’s surely a trap as well. But it’s a trap that Sholiar wants to put the two of you—the Elite Heroes of the Tarian Order—through. So we need you to do this.”
Master Denbar nodded. He had been well aware of the high praise the two of them had received in the local newssheets, all for performing what Dayne thought were the basic acts of decency and defense that the Tarian Order was built on. Master Denbar had welcomed that praise. It reminded people that the Tarians were still around, a vital part of Druth life and history. Dayne agreed—that was exactly why he had joined, and hoped to finish his Candidacy to move up to Adept at the end of this cycle in a month. After being so highly lauded in his Initiacy, receiving the honor after only two years as a Candidate was not uncommon. Master Denbar himself had written to Grandmaster Orren advocating it.
“Then give us the crowns,” Master Denbar said, “and we’ll be about it.”
“Sweet saints, man, read the instructions!” Stenson said. “You need to go unarmed. Leave your swords and shields here.”
Master Denbar shrugged, and removed his sword and shield, handing them over to the lieutenant. Dayne took his cue from the master, and did the same.
“This is madness,” Benedict said. “They’ll be defenseless!”
“We’re Tarians, Mister Benedict,” Master Denbar said. “We may be unarmed, but we are never defenseless.”
Chapter 3
DAYNE AND MASTER DENBAR approached the docks in question, a nearly abandoned part of the harbor where every warehouse and boathouse was dilapidated and decrepit.
“Perfect place for this Sholiar to set up his traps,” Master Denbar said.
As instructed, they were carrying a satchel with sixty thousand crowns in goldsmith exchange notes from reputable houses in northern cities, and they were unarmed.
The only light was from the moons, and those were obscured by the clouds of the evening rains.
A woman holding a tarp over her head approached them. “Are you the Tarians?”
“Are you Sholiar?” Master Denbar asked.
“No!” She looked to be in a panic just from Master Denbar saying the name. “I’m just supposed to give you a message.”
“From . . . him?” Dayne asked.
She nodded. “You’re to go to that boathouse. The old man is to bring the money through the east entrance, and the young man go in through the west.”
“Why would we do that?”
“He said you would ask. He said if both doors aren’t opened at the same time, the boy will be killed.”
Dayne nodded. “Did you see him? Or the boy he has?”
“I never saw a face. He wears a mask. A grotesque mask!” She broke into tears. “I’m just telling you what he said, I swear!”
“Ma’am,” Master Denbar said gently, “what sway does he hold over you?”
“My husband,” she said. “He’s holding him somewhere. Said he would die if I didn’t do this!”
“It’s all right,” Master Denbar said. “We will try to help him as well. I swear.”
They left her and made their way over to the boathouse.
“Surely it’s a trap, sir.”
“Of course it’s a trap. Not that knowing that will really help us at all.”
“Maybe it will,” Dayne said. “Let’s not quite play his game.”
“Dayne, that could be very dangerous. From what we’ve seen, this Sholiar is quite capable of designing a trap that will fire if both doors are not opened at once.”
“Yes,” Dayne said, taking the sack of bills. “But what if we switch doors?”
The Master nodded. “I see your thinking. If we presume he’s studied us, than each door is a trap he’s concocted specifically for us. By subverting that—”
“We might overcome his traps.”
“I think it’s a capital idea. To your door and call out a count.”
Dayne took his position, sack in hand. Despite the master’s confidence earlier, he would have preferred some sort of weapon. While waiting for the master to get into position, he noticed a handful of barrels by the door. He grabbed the lid of one. It wasn’t much, but it could serve as a rudimentary shield.
“Ready, Dayne?” the master called. “One, two, three!”
The boathouse door opened easily enough. As soon as he pushed it open, a series of clicks and pops fired around the frame. Instinctively, Dayne pulled back, but the only things that appeared to have been triggered were a dozen oil lamps, lighting all at once.
If this Sholiar could be counted on for anything, it was showmanship.
There was a short hallway, newly constructed, with a door on the other end. The wood of the walls was completely different from the outside of the boathouse. Dayne took two steps and something clicked in the floor. The outer door swung shut, and then the hallway walls started to move. They slowly started to narrow, squeezing Dayne in.
Dayne immediately braced his back against one wall and pushed at the other. It continued to close in on him for a moment, but soon he could hear the gear work grinding as it fought against his strength. Then there was a hideous snap and the closing stopped.
“That’s all you have?” Dayne asked himself. Of course, this meant his idea worked—Master Denbar wasn’t anywhere near as strong as he was. He would have been stuck, if not killed, by the trap. Dayne pushed his way through the narrow passage to the door. It was latched, but he kicked his way through it. In a few moments, it was open, and he entered the rest of the boathouse.
The boathouse was sizable, large enough for the great yacht moored inside. It was a handsome craft, though there were far more ropes tied to it than should be necessary to keep it in the boathouse. Dayne glanced about. Ropes and pulleys and gears all around. The whole place was one big trap.
Standing on the dock was a man
dressed in what looked like an old-style Kieran theatrical robe. He also wore a grand ceramic mask with a great frowning face on it. At the end of the dock was the yacht, rigged up to sail. The ropes tied to the dock were the only thing keeping it from shooting out into the bay. On the deck of the yacht, a small figure sat, struggling against his bonds, with a sack over his head.
That must be Lenick Benedict.
There were also ropes tied around his feet, which appeared to be fastened to gear-work devices on the dock.
“No step farther, Tarian-to-be,” a voice echoed from the masked figure. Northern accent, highly educated, dripping with oil. “Or not-to-be, I would think.”
“Are you Sholiar?” Dayne asked.
“Sholiar is speaking to you,” he said. He raised a hand, holding two ropes. “You know what happens when I pull these?”
“Something hideous, I’m sure.” Dayne held the satchel up high. “You want this, you let him go.”
“You want him to go free, you’ll do this how I tell you, Tarian-to-be.” Every time Sholiar spoke it echoed about. Dayne was wondering why Master Denbar hadn’t emerged yet. Was he stuck in a trap? If he was, Dayne knew he would want him to continue on, save the boy.
“What do you want me to do, Sholiar?”
From behind the mast something flew out, running on a pulley line. It came to a stop a few feet in front of Dayne—a simple cloth sack.
“Put the bills in the sack.”
Dayne held the satchel open. “Bills are here. Come take a look if you need to. But they don’t go anywhere until Lenick is out the door.”
“Is that how it is?”
“If you want the money.”
“I’d like the money, to be sure. But I don’t need it. Not like you need the boy to go free.”
“The boy goes free, Sholiar. I’m afraid I must insist.” He moved toward the dock.
Two steps forward, Dayne knew he had made a mistake. The floor clicked underneath him, and he felt a spring release, gears spinning beneath him. The ropes tied to Lenick’s arms and legs tightened. The walls near the other entrance, where Master Denbar had come in, fell open to reveal a cage, with the Master trapped inside.
“It’s started now,” Sholiar said. “You put it into motion. This boat is about to launch into the bay. And the ropes will pull him apart unless you do what I say. And the pendulums up there will smash into your Master.”
Dayne looked up, now noticing a series of giant curved blades hanging on ropes up on the ceiling. As if on cue, one dropped down, the blade going right between the bars of the Master’s cage, barely missing his side.
“Save the boy, Dayne!”
“Bills in the sack, Candidate!” Sholiar shouted.
Dayne surged forward. He grabbed the sack and shoved the bag of bills inside it. “There! I did it!”
“Shame, though. You broke the rules. It was supposed to be you in the cage, and your Master facing the choice.” Another blade dropped from the ceiling. Master Denbar had nowhere to go in the cage, and the blade went through his arm, pinning him.
“You have the money, let them go!” Dayne shouted. The sack was now riding along the pulley system over to the boat, and dropped down onto the deck next to the boy.
“Why, when this is more fun?” Sholiar yanked the ropes, and then all the things holding the boat in place released. It surged out into the bay, then stopped briefly when the ropes of the boy’s legs went taut. In the same moment, the next blade dropped from the ceiling.
“Save him, Dayne!” the Master shouted.
Dayne wasted no time. Taking hold of the barrel lid, he hurled it with all of his might at Sholiar. It smashed into pieces and sent the man flying. Dayne paid him no mind as he charged down the dock to the end. The boat was straining against the ropes tied to the boy’s legs. The child must be in agony, as he continued to strain at his bonds.
Then, just as Dayne was about to dive into the water, the legs suddenly flew off the boy. Dayne stopped in shock. Then, a moment later, the boy stood up, revealing perfectly good legs that were hidden beneath his body. Then his bonds came flying off, as if the ropes that held him were nothing but an elaborate jacket. That came fluttering over to the dock as the figure took it off.
Dayne saw it was still connected to the dock by a series of wires.
Then the man on the boat took off the sack on his head, revealing himself to be a balding man, with wild eyes and mad teeth.
“That was incredible, old top!” he shouted from the boat. “That was more beautiful than I could have hoped!”
Dayne glanced back to the boathouse. The figure in the Kieran robes lay flat on the dock, his mask having fallen off. This was the boy, Lenick Benedict, gagged beneath the mask. Dayne rushed to him, tearing open the robes. His body had been rigged up with an elaborate series of cords and pulleys, making him into a marionette, with a copper pipe of some sort connected to the mask.
The boy was unconscious, his chest covered in massive bruising from where Dayne had hit him with the barrel lid. The puppetry-work had also dug into his flesh, but none of it had done the sort of damage that Dayne had caused.
But still, the boy breathed. That was something. Dayne hadn’t completely failed. He needed to get Yellowshields, and quickly, for both the boy and Master Denbar.
Dayne looked up to the cage. All the curved blades had fallen, and Master Denbar had been unable to get clear of them. His body had been pierced by five of the blades.
There was no sign of life in him at all.
* * *
Dayne’s recounting was interrupted by a strangled cry by the entrance. Both he and the Grandmaster looked to see Amaya—still perfect and crisp in her Adept uniform, despite the tears streaming down her face.
“Master Denbar?” she choked out.
“Amaya, I—” Dayne started. He wasn’t sure what else to say. Master Denbar had been a mentor and a friend to both of them in their Initiacy, and it had devastated her when he had chosen Dayne to go with him to Lacanja. The last time they had spoken, she hadn’t forgiven Dayne for it. Of course, at that point they were both just starting their first year of Candidacy. Now she was an Adept . . .
“Amaya, this is not a moment for you,” Grandmaster Orren said. “I will seek you out to discuss this in short order.”
She nodded. “Yes, sir.” Before she left, she gave Dayne one last look, a hundred emotions playing out over her face.
Orren waited for a moment, and then turned back to Dayne. “I’m going to insist you leave that to me. I should have told her weeks ago when we first received the news.”
“She deserved to know. Master Denbar—”
“We are not here to address my failings, Dayne, as abundant as they might be.”
“Yes, sir,” Dayne said.
“Now, I know from the Constabulary reports that they never saw this Sholiar character, and they doubted you did, either. And that the only reason you were not charged with a crime was the fact that they had invited you to participate in the rescue of Lenick.”
“Ortin Benedict wanted me charged,” Dayne said. “Screamed up and down that I had to pay for what happened to his son.”
“Which was?”
Dayne knew Master Orren knew the answer to this question, and he wanted Dayne to say it out loud.
“His spine was broken. He’ll never walk, father children. He’ll need constant care by nurses for the rest of his life. Because of me.”
“You were tricked.”
“I still did it,” Dayne said. “I can’t deny that. I may have been tricked, but I should have been more aware. I should have paid closer attention. Thinking back, it was so obvious.”
“You made a grave error, but you did so in the sincere belief you were saving lives. I cannot fault that.”
Dayne nodded. “I appreciate that, sir.”
; “However, while I cannot, Ortin Benedict and the rest of his family are a different situation. With his uncle Wesley on the committee, it is out of my hands.”
“And the authority falls to them? How?”
“Because it does, Dayne. That is the reality of our Order in the present. We are beholden to the Parliament, and to this committee. Therefore, your name will not get past this committee as it stands. Not this year. Not next year.”
“Not next year? Sir, you—you can’t be serious. If I don’t receive—” He stopped himself from saying what the Grandmaster was perfectly aware of: if he didn’t receive Advancement after his third year of Candidacy, he was out. He would no longer be one of the Tarian Order. He paced the floor, forcing the nervous energy in his body to work through his legs so he wouldn’t do anything foolish with his hands.
“I am aware of what I’m saying.” The Grandmaster rose to his feet as well. “It gives me great pain to say it.”
“So I will never be a Tarian Adept?” Dayne couldn’t hide the bitterness in his voice. His heart was raw, torn by this news. It was not befitting a Tarian, he knew, but this was too much injustice to bear.
It’s not an injustice at all, he thought. Deep in his heart, he knew: he had failed Lenick Benedict, failed his calling. That boy would bear the burden of his failure in his broken body until the end of his days. Losing his station, his right to the Tarian Order, that was only a sliver of the fair price for him to pay.
He hadn’t even noticed that he had sunk to his knees, hot tears pouring down his cheeks, until the Grandmaster had handed him a handkerchief. He wiped his face and composed himself as the Grandmaster meandered over to the window. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. That was unbecoming.”
The Way of the Shield Page 3