A Dead God's Tear (The Netherwalker Trilogy)

by Eisenhardt, Leighmon

  Chapter 19

  Jared closed the door behind him before turning around. “I know what you did to get us our freedom.”

  Alicia kept her back to him. She looked remarkably small with her shoulders close together. “Do you?”

  “Yes. I don’t know if I should thank you or be disappointed. Perhaps both.”

  “Disappointed, huh?” she whispered, and it was something in the way she said it, a nearly indiscernible flutter in her voice that alerted Jared that perhaps he had said something wrong. The Mage turned, remarkably calm, and Jared allowed himself a brief moment of relief, that she’d let his comment slide. “Jared Garalan, privileged son of Gary Garalan, please tell me on what grounds that you have the right to think that your opinion of me matters?”

  Alright, that hurt a bit, he admitted to himself. Not that he’d show her that. “We are companions on the road. It only makes sense to care about each other.”

  She stood her ground. “Have I not shown that I care? If you knew of another way out of the problem we were in, one that allowed me to keep my pants on, I’d be more than welcome to hear it.”

  Jared had no words to counter her logic and a heavy silence fell between the two. It was a tense standoff. Her, defiant and proud, and him, unsure and yet unwilling to back down.

  He broke first. “I’m sorry,” he said candidly, “I just wish we could have found some other way.”

  “Are you sorry for me, or sorry for Marcius?” she asked quietly.

  “I do not understand.”

  “You can’t protect him for the rest of his life, you know,” Alicia said, shrugging, “I don’t like what I did, but it got the job done. We are here, and we are alive. He can continue living his fairy tale world. I won’t say anything if you don’t either. This can just be between us.”

  Jared opened his mouth, intent on denying her words, but found that he couldn’t. She was right, in a way. There was just something so blithely honest about his friend, and he found that he wanted to protect Marcius, even if it was a losing battle.

  Something akin to sadness passed over the Mage’s features then, as if she had seen how accurate her words were and regretted them. “Perhaps his innocence can last until we reach the Academy,” she said. “Though it most assuredly won’t last once he enrolls. He’ll either adapt or get crushed. The Academy will quickly force him to grow up.”

  The bluntness of her words, the utter certainty of truth, alarmed Jared. “Can any place truly be that bad?”

  Alicia’s smile was mirthless and dark. “Hell, you’ll find, has many forms. Nothing is more ruthless than a house of ambition. Cruelty is a product of power.” She turned around, going back to unpacking her sleeping roll. Jared, straining, almost missed what she said next. “After all, it made someone like me.”

  ❧　❧　❧

  Simon needed to clear his mind. This was a lot to take in, and he needed the smell of fresh air and the constant rhythm of his feet to calm his nerves. The humorous part of him didn’t fail to point out that if he really needed fresh air, what was he doing walking along the streets of Lowtown?

  He ignored it.

  A wizard? Plots by the Academy? Captured by the infamous Solokovian bandit group and walking away from the encounter?

  It was an amazing tale, like something he would tell over a roaring campfire to an enthralled group of travelers in the dead of night. And the worst part was that Simon believed Marcius. The man was drunk, but didn’t seem the type to embellish things.

  It didn’t hurt that he offered to show the bard some spell play to prove his tale, which Simon was quick to stop. Everybody wanted money here, and money followed wizards around, or so everyone believed. Marcius would have had his throat slit and pouch emptied before the sun had risen.

  Simon found himself strangely excited. Wizards! Magic! He’d spent his life looking for adventure, a trait which contrasted sharply with his strong sense of self-preservation. Still, everyone knew wherever magic was, great events followed. He believed that rumor more than the gold one and had that familiar itch, like a personal song that he felt rather than heard. Things had gotten stale here, and now there was opportunity. He’d be a fool to overlook it.

  But magic was also dangerous, and he had to think this through. He was also writing an autobiography, and wouldn’t it be more interesting if he had something exciting to put in it? But how would he convince them to let him tag along? It seemed obvious that they weren’t interested.

  Opportunities don’t fall in your lap like this every day. He always felt as if he was destined for something great. Something more than getting by day to day as he was doing now. He was a chosen of the Broken One! That had to count for something, right?

  He growled, lost in thought as the myriad of questions that seemed to only lead to more questions constantly eluded his grasp. It made his head spin! The entire time he had been walking, counting on his subconscious to lead him through streets by memory. Normally one wouldn’t dare walk the Lowtown without some situational awareness. It was tantamount to a death wish, or at least meant that one wasn’t overly concerned with his money.

  But Simon wasn’t excessively worried. He had a knack for working his way out of trouble, to the point that he sometimes wondered if it was divine intervention. At the thought, his mind flickered back to the Broken One, but the notion unsettled him and he drove forward, both literally and figuratively, away from it. But more importantly, everyone knew him and knew that it really wasn’t worth robbing him because he never had anything of value besides his music.

  The sounds of street assailed him from all sides, blended together in a comforting blanket of familiarity. Vendors haggled with buyers, the clip-clop of horses plodding slowly, pulling heavy wagons, and the low murmur of dozens of individual conversations was exactly what Simon, who had lived and dealt with such his entire life, needed to tune out all the distractions as he pondered alarming information he had gathered the night before.

  It also made him relax his guard, so that when two pairs of grubby hands reached out and grabbed him into a nearby alley, he was caught completely unawares.

  Much like a mirror being held up to Harcourt itself, the Lowtown district was split into two distinct worlds, both deadly, but in sharp distinction to each other. The face of Lowtown was what any unknowing visitor, oblivious merchant or ignorant waif might recognize. It was a place of dirt, filth, and poverty for those who, either through luck or fate, had no other place to retreat to. But, like a mask, one merely had to look beyond the obvious.

  There was power in Lowtown. Organizations that had fingers in machinations that went far beyond even the expansiveness of Harcourt. And the sanctuary of this underworld resided in the recesses, the blackened alleyways. It was here that deals were made, among the very dregs of society.

  The fingers of power were like roots of a tree. Spreading out, splitting off into smaller and smaller veins, all of which fed the main body. Currently one of the very small fingers had slammed Simon against alley wall, knocking the breath from his lungs and causing an explosion of stars to dance before his eyes.

  “Well, well, lookit what we found, Tomgin, eh? Just a’wanderin’ about the streets, eh?” A pair of grubby mitted hands, the fingers cut out either by design or wear and tear, held the wayward bard by his collar, punctuating each word with a rough shake. Simon’s nostrils flared as the acrid breath washed over him, and it was a struggle just to focus his eyes on his assailants. Two blackened orbs, glistening from what little light that managed to filter in through the high tight walls of the alley, stared at him with ill-intent. A dirty brown cap stood at a rakish angle, almost covering one eye, and Simon could see several missing teeth in the yellow feral grin the man gave him.

  That would explain the breath.

  The point of something sharp, presumably a knife, was now jabbing Simon through his brown leather jacket, in the soft flesh of his stomach. Tomgin, sans hat and only slightly better garbed than his friend, pushed a g
reasy strand of black hair out of his face as he too leaned close, “You see,” he began with a snarl, “the boss wants his money that you owe him. Told ‘ol Gerald here to gut you like a fish if you didn’t have it.”

  The sharp object accentuated the demand by digging even deeper, to the point where Simon was afraid it might draw blood. And given the state of his attackers, no doubt if the cut didn’t kill him, the following infection would. He gulped. His mind raced. Time to stall. “Please guys, I’ll have your boss’s gold in a bit. Work has been rather lax you see, and well, you know how it is.” He couldn’t stop himself from giving a nervous chuckle.

  The two men didn’t share in his mirth. “Look, do you have the boss’s money or not, eh? I’d rather just cut ya here and leave ya to the guards to find in the mornin’.”

  Heavy weight, like cold hard iron, welled up in the depths of Simon. He was a lover, a singer, a teller of tales; he was a lot of things, but certainly not a fighter! He couldn’t die here like this! It wasn’t his fault that Lady Luck just wasn’t with him that day!

  He secretly suspected the gambling pit cheated somehow, but he couldn’t prove it. He certainly didn’t deserve to die like an animal in the back of some alleyway! For a second his normally clever mind failed him, and it took every ounce of his willpower to rein it in.

  Calm down. Think!

  It came to him. An idea so simple and easy, he was almost impressed with how obvious it was. It was a dirty, but he didn’t have much of a choice. “I have information for your boss that would easily pay off my debt.”

  “That so?” Gerald licked his lips, the doubt obvious in his voice. “An’ what would that be, eh?”

  And Simon told them of the great and powerful wizards seeking shelter at the inn. Of how they were practically overflowing with gold and riches, just begging to be pilfered. Even now, with his life in danger, Simon couldn’t help but take pleasure in the art of storytelling and found himself embellishing. Their eyes grew wide with each sentence, until Simon was sure that they would fall right out and roll about like dice.

  It was too easy.

  “Do ya hear that, Gerald?”

  “Yeah, Tomgin, I did. . . wizards!” Gerald said, “But how do we know he ain’t lyin’?”

  Simon held both hands up as if to defend himself. “Do you think I’d lie to you, knowing that it’d just anger your boss with such a ridiculous story? Check for yourself, you all know where I am staying. They’re staying at the same inn as I am.”

  “He has a point,” Gerald agreed, loosening his grip on Simon enough so that Simon’s heel touched the ground. “But so help me, if we report this to the boss and it turns out to be nothin’ but a lie, they’ll need half o’ the guard to find all the pieces of you. Don’ you be skippin’ out of town ‘fore we check ou’ yer story.”

  With that final warning and one last shove for good measure, the two men melted into the winding corridors of Lowtown, no doubt eager to deliver this precious information to their boss and receive a hefty reward.

  He waited a few respectful seconds, just in case they were still nearby, before allowing the grin to hit his face. It had worked like a charm, and he was already formulating how to turn these events into a profit for himself. He was fitting all the pieces to the puzzle together. Of course it was a bit of luck on his part that they didn’t insist upon taking him to their hideout until they checked out his information. Simon found that intelligence was a lacking trait the further from the trunk one got in Lowcourt.

  Whistling, he set off back to the inn, notably happier and with a sense of purpose.

  ❧　❧　❧

  Marc, wake up. There are people here to see you.

  The first thing that Marcius noticed when he opened his eyes was the intense throbbing pain of a hefty hangover. It pounded in his temples and made him squint at the rather annoyed face of Alicia. The second thing that came to his notice, as his mind slowly caught up to everything, was that he was wet and that Alicia was holding a bucket.

  It occurred to Marcius that perhaps he should connect the two facts. “What’s the matter with you, Alicia!” He shifted angrily to a sitting position on his bed, rubbing his head.

  “Matter with me? A bucket of water is the least of your concerns. And it’s your entire fault!”

  This caught Marcius’s attention. “What do you mean?”

  “Calm down, Alicia,” the level voice of Jared intoned. Marcius finally took notice of his friend and the bard from last night.

  “What’s going on?” he asked again, and the silent glances that the mage and swordsman exchanged did little to make him feel any better.

  “Marcius, in case you didn’t notice the raging hangover, you were drunk last night. Now, let’s say, while you were drunk, that you might have blurted what we are and why we are here to an entire damn bar full of ruffians that’d like nothing more than to loot our sorry carcasses. How do you think your two companions would feel about this?” Alicia asked, sarcasm lacing every word.

  “Well, I would assume they would be very disgruntled,” Simon interrupted, coming to Marcius’s rescue. “If you want to cut into your friend for being stupid, do so later. We’re kind of on a schedule here. The Blackguard will be here to recruit you all very soon.”

  “What. Is. Going. On.” Marcius growled. The headache and this whole situation were nerve wracking.

  “Okay, allow me sum it up for you,” Simon turned, offering a hand to Marcius, pulling him off the bed and to his feet. “You got drunk. Started blabbing about the special things you and your friends can do. Someone overheard, and went and turned in the information to the Blackguards. Wizards are rare nowadays. A wizard in a criminal organization would ensure complete dominance for that group. So now they gather to give you all an offer you can’t refuse. Understand?”

  Marcius rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, I think so. Who are the Blackguards?”

  “They’re one of many criminal gangs that make a living off the underbelly of Harcourt. There’s a constant power struggle going on, though rumors say that someone has a hand in it all, for whatever purpose. Now, I think I’ve talked enough. We have to go if we are to save your lives.”

  “We?” Alicia chimed in, her eyes narrowing.

  “Yes, we. You think I warned you for my health? You all look like an honest lot and you can’t deny you owe me for saving you. This is an opportunity for me, and I’m not about to pass it up.”

  “What do you want from us? Money? Some sort of magical favor?” the Mage pursued ruthlessly.

  Simon sighed, as if disappointed. “Nothing mundane like that. I want to travel with you three and write about it. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime, and I-By Dryken’s rule!” Simon cursed, his eyes focused on something outside of the window.

  “What is it?” Jared asked. “I don’t see anything.”

  “That’s just the problem. There is nobody outside. This is Lowtown. When people disappear, something big is about to happen.” Simon turned to the trio, his eyes fierce. “Are you with me? I can guarantee that you’ll make it out alive, but only if you agree to take me with you.”

  Alicia looked like she was about to say something, but Jared beat her to it. “Yes, bard. If we make it out, you’re more than welcome to accompany us.”

  Simon smiled, then reached behind the door and dropped a large brown sack at their feet. “Put those on and get ready to fight. Wait for my signal and hightail it out of here. I’ll catch up to you all outside.”

  Jared picked up the bag, glancing inside. “How will we know what the signal is?”

  The bard’s face was stern, but his eyes danced with humor. “Oh, you’ll know. Just be ready. Try to stay alive until then. It’s hard to honor bargains when you’re dead. Remember, when I say let’s go, we go all out. I don’t care what you are doing, just run.”

  The swordsman held out his hand and the two clasped wrists, sealing their agreement. “If we were that easy to kill, we wouldn’t be here.”

  Si
mon nodded and walked out the room, closing the door behind him.

  “What’s in the bag?” Alicia asked, curiosity finally getting the one up on her indignation.

  The blonde man rubbed the back of his head nervously as he handed the Mage the bag. “You’re not going to like it.”

  Alicia’s eyes widened as she peered in.

  Jared was right.

  ❧　❧　❧

  The solid leather heels of Simon’s boots echoed through the dusty hallway, the calm stride doing little to reflect the turmoil that boiled beneath the bard’s calm façade. This was it. The entire success of his crazy plan hinged on the outcome of the next few minutes.

  He told them that they intended to recruit them. This wasn’t exactly true. Capture, scavenge what they could, torture for whatever else they could get, then kill and dispose of the bodies was probably closer to the truth. Wizards and magic in general was considered too dangerous to keep around.

  Every second passed in nerve-wracking agony, and yet, Simon found to his amazement, he had never felt as alive as he did now. It was exhilarating. An intoxicating drug more pure than any of the crazy weed one could buy off the dealers on the streets.

  He continued down the hallway, reaching the end and coming to a stop before a rickety excuse for a door. Pulling out his ever trusty set of lock picks (bards did more than just sing, one never knew what you needed when you lived a life on the road,) he went to work on the lock for a brief second before the irony of what he was doing caught up to him.

  There was little point in being subtle now. Pulling out the delicate instrument from the lock, he placed it carefully inside his pocket. Leaning back, he gave a strong kick to the door, the wood caving in for the briefest of moments before shattering in a dozen pieces. He picked his way gingerly through the self-made portal, continuing up the steep flight of stairs that continued on the other side.

  Sunlight battled through a dirty window, the beam coming out as splotches of light through the grime and crust. The attic was dank and obviously had not seen much use, if Simon could judge by the thick layer of dust that coated everything in sight. He felt like an intruder to some hidden corner of the universe, his presence defiling the eerie silence of this untouched world.