by Rachel Aaron
Scooting between the tilting wooden buildings, the rat threaded its way through the blind turns and back alleys to a ramshackle three-story nestled at the end of a row of identical ramshackle three-stories. Without missing a beat, the rat jumped on a gutter pipe and, quick as it had climbed the castle wall, scaled the pipefitting to the building’s third floor. The window had been left open for it, and the rat tumbled inside, squeaking in relief that the horrible journey was almost over. It landed on the floor with a scrambling thud, but the momentary triumph was pushed from its mind by a wave of pressure that thickened the air to syrup. The attic room it had landed in was scarcely bigger than a closet, and the slanted ceiling made it smaller still. Broken furniture and discarded rags were stacked in dusty piles, but the rat’s attention was on the figure sitting in the far corner, the source of the pressure.
The man sat slumped against the wall, rolling a black ball in a circle on his left palm. It was the size of a large marble, black and shiny like a wet river stone. He was thin and long, with matted blond hair that hung around his face in a dirty curtain. For a moment, the man didn’t move, and then, slowly, lovingly, he slid the black sphere into his pocket and beckoned the rat closer. The pressure spiked, and the rat obeyed, crawling on its belly until it was an inch from the man’s bare foot.
“Now,” the man said, his whisper humming through the room, resonating against the pressure that threatened to crush the rat’s mind. “Tell me what you saw.”
The rat had no choice. It told him everything.
Crouched on the floor in the hall with his eye pressed against a crack in the baseboard, the boy had to cover his mouth to keep from shouting. The blond man who rented the spare room had always made him nervous, which was why the boy took it upon himself to spy on him. He’d told his father over and over that their renter wasn’t right in the head. He’d seen him talking to the walls, the floor, even the junk in the room as though they could answer back. Every time, his father had told him to lay off and leave the renter be. The blond man had come with the house when they’d moved in last year, and his money kept the family in shoes and off the street when times were hard. But this time was different. This time, the boy had actually seen the blond man open the window for a rat. His father was a butcher who kept his shop on the first floor. Once he told him the renter was letting vermin into the house, his father would have to throw the crazy man out, money or no. Grinning fit to break his face, the boy got to his feet and started to tiptoe toward the stairs. Before he took two steps, a strange sound stopped him. It was coming from the rented room, and it took the boy a moment to realize that the renter was laughing.
The door to the renter’s room burst open, and the blond man was on him before he could run. Still laughing, the man grabbed the boy by his patched collar and dragged him up with surprising force.
“Young man,” he said in a smooth voice, and something cold and heavy slid into the boy’s shaking hand. “Take this. Find whatever passes for a tailor in this pit and bring him here. If you’re quick, I’ll give you another.”
He dropped the boy as suddenly as he’d grabbed him. The boy landed on his feet and immediately looked at the object in his hand. It was a gold standard. His eyes went as wide as eggs, and, for a moment, he forgot that he disliked the strange blond man. “Yes, sir!”
“Tell your mother to bring some hot water up as well,” the renter called as the boy tumbled down the stairs.
The child began to bellow for his mother, and the blond man stepped back into his rented room. The rat lay twitching in the corner where he had left it, and he kicked it aside with his foot. Such weak spirits were only useful once. He’d need something else. He turned his attention to the dusty wall beside him and grinned as the timbers creaked in fear.
“Find me another spy.”
A fine cloud of grit fell from the ceiling as the wall shuddered its response. “Yes, Master Renaud.” The room began to buzz as the order spread through the building, asking for a new rat.
Renaud slumped against the dusty piles of junk and stared out the open window at the last glow of the setting sun as it lit up the tall towers of castle Allaze, just as white and beautiful as he remembered from his childhood. Now, finally, after eight years of shame and banishment, eight years of watching for a chance, any chance, fate, it seemed, had paid out in spades.
He began to chuckle, and it was all thanks to a simple wizard thief.
His chuckle became a full-fledged cackle, and Renaud doubled over, his shoulders shaking. He laughed like that until the butcher wife’s timid knock interrupted him.
There was much coming and going at the butcher’s house that night, enough to attract the neighborhood’s attention. Contrary to his usual nature, the butcher wasn’t talking, and that just made the whole thing more interesting. Down the road in the raucous Merrymont Tavern, men with missing teeth made wagers about what was going on. Some put money on a murder; others said it had to do with the ruckus up at the castle. One man was blaming wizards, though he was a bit unclear about what exactly he was blaming them for. This led to more betting and speculation and, in their excitement, no one noticed the swordsman sitting at the corner table quietly nursing the same drink he’d been on for hours.
On a less interesting night, a swordsman would have been a fine topic of conversation. Especially this one, with the wicked scar he bore over the left side of his face, but with the mystery at the butcher’s and rumors of a wizardess riding up to the castle on a dog the size of a house, the people had no breath left to spare for a swordsman. For his part, the swordsman didn’t seem to mind the lack of attention. He simply sat in his corner, swirling his drink and listening. As the night dragged on, the talk began to go in circles. Finally, after the same theory was brought up three times in a quarter hour, the swordsman stood, laid his coins on the table, and, carefully tucking his wrapped sword into his belt, slipped out into the night.
He walked north for several blocks, ducking in and out of buildings almost at random. Only when he was sure no one was following him did he turn around and begin walking purposefully toward the butcher’s house.
Renaud was fastening the starched cuffs of his new jacket when he heard it, an icy, bloodthirsty whine that grated against his thoughts. He froze. The butcher’s wife stood in the corner, her eyes roving, looking at everything except him, just as they had for the last four hours. She gave no sign she heard anything.
“Get out,” Renaud said.
The woman jumped and hastily obeyed, closing the door behind her. Renaud resumed working on the small buttons at his wrists. Outside his tiny window, the night was drifting toward morning, and in the faint gray light he saw the man’s shadow seconds before he heard the window scrape.
“If you’re going to sneak up on someone,” Renaud said coldly, turning to face the man who was now crouched on the windowsill, “learn how to keep your sword quiet.”
The man smiled, but the scar across his cheek warped the expression into a leer as he sat down on the window ledge and laid his gloved palm against his sword’s wrapped hilt. The wailing stopped, and Renaud let out a relieved sigh.
The man’s smile widened. “So it’s true,” he said. “There is a wizard in Mellinor.”
Renaud did not move, but somehow his slouched posture shifted from bored to threatening. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“First answer”—the man leaned back against the window’s bowed frame—“my name is Coriano, and I’m a bounty hunter. Second answer, I was curious. You’ve caused quite a stir.”
“A bounty hunter?” Renaud laughed. “I’m afraid you’ve found the wrong wizard. The one you want has already struck and gone.”
Coriano’s good eye narrowed. “On the contrary, you’re exactly the wizard I wanted to find, Renaud of Allaze.”
Renaud’s hand slipped into his pocket and gripped the glassy black sphere that lay hidden at the bottom. “How do you know that name?”
“It’s my business to kn
ow,” Coriano said dryly. “But don’t worry, I’m not here to threaten you. In fact, I’d like to make you an offer.”
Renaud’s fingers eased their grip. “And what could you offer me?”
“Something that will help you reach your goals.”
Renaud arched an eyebrow. “What would you know of my goals?”
“I told you,” Coriano said. “It’s my business to know.”
“All right,” Renaud took his hand from his pocket and folded his arms over his chest. “I’m listening.”
Coriano, grinning, hopped down from the windowsill. Renaud gave the sooty, warped glass a warning look, and the window slammed itself shut with a terrified squeal, locking the men’s words away from the brightening sky.
CHAPTER
4
When King Henrith opened his eyes, he knew he was dead. A few blinks later, the certainty hadn’t changed, but he was starting to feel a little upset about it. However, what happened next put all of that out of his head, for the great nothingness he had been staring into, the endless void that lies beyond human experience, stood up and began stirring the fire. As his eyes adjusted to the sudden light, he saw it was a girl. Or, at least, that was his best guess. All he could see at this angle was a tangle of short, black hair and a bit of pale forehead. The rest of her was lost inside an enormous coal-black coat that, he now realized, had been the void covering his head.
The sudden knowledge that he was, indeed, not dead was further underscored by the extreme discomfort of his position. He was lying on his side on a dirt floor, his hands and feet tied behind him so that he was bent belly out. The fire the girl tended was far too large for the small stone hovel they were in, and the heat pressed down on him as tightly as the ropes.
Finished poking at the fire, the girl walked over to the woodpile, pushed up her sleeves, and, despite the suffocating heat, began tossing more logs on. The fire accepted them reluctantly, shrinking away from her thin, pale hands. In the flickering light, Henrith caught the dull gleam of silver at her wrists, and he leaned his head slowly to the side for a better look. They weren’t bracelets. The dull, thick metal was badly scuffed, and it was wrapped tightly around her bony wrist, like a manacle. His hopes began to rise. If she was a prisoner as well, maybe she could help him escape.
But before he could get her attention, the rickety wooden door burst open, flooding the small hut with blinding sunlight as two men stomped in. The first, medium height and gangly, was carrying a huge stack of wood. “Nico!” he shouted, craning his neck over the logs. “Are you trying to burn us to crisps?”
The girl shrugged and then turned and glared at the fire. The flames shuddered, and the fire shrank to half the size it had been only seconds before. A cold terror ran up the king’s spine, but the man carrying the wood only sighed and started adding his armload to the woodpile. The second man, a towering figure with cropped sandy hair, carried two rabbits over one broad shoulder and what looked to be a sharpened six-foot-long iron bar over the other. The rest of him, from shoulders to calves, was covered in blades. He wore two swords at his waist, another sideways across his lower back, and knives of every size poking out of his belt, boots, and sleeves. Two long braces of throwing knives were strapped across his chest, with two more around his thighs. Anywhere he could strap a sheath, he had one, until it was difficult to tell what color his clothing actually was beneath the maze of leather sheaths.
The king cringed, terrified, as the swordsman walked past, but the man didn’t even glance the king’s way. He stepped nonchalantly over the scorched dirt the bonfire had vacated moments before and sauntered over to the small table set against the far wall, where he began to skin the rabbits. He kept all of his blades belted on as he did this, paying them as little mind as another man would pay to his jacket. The sword-shaped iron bar he leaned against the table beside him, keeping it close, like a trusted friend.
Not wanting to draw the attention of anyone so fond of sharp objects, the king focused his efforts on lying as still as possible. However, the girl looked at him, watching him with her head tilted to the side as the men worked. A few moments later, she announced, “The king’s awake.”
“Is he?” the man at the woodpile said and whirled around. “Wonderful!” The next moment, he was crouching beside King Henrith, a huge grin on his face. “Hello, Your Majesty! How have you enjoyed your kidnapping so far?”
The king looked up at him, noting the shaggy dark hair, thin build, and boyish grin that, in any other circumstance, would have been infectious. He looked just like his wanted poster. “Eli Monpress.”
The grin grew wider. “You’ve heard of me! I’m flattered!”
At that, the king’s fear was overwhelmed by indignation. “Of course I’ve heard of you!” the king blustered, blowing the dirt out of his beard. “We caught you trying to steal my horses this morning!”
“Yesterday morning, actually.” Eli looked sideways across the fire at the knife-covered man. “I’m afraid Josef may have hit you a little too hard.”
“I hit him perfectly,” Josef said, not looking up from his rabbits. “He’s not in pain, is he?”
Eli looked down at the king. “Are you?”
Henrith paused, considering. His head didn’t hurt. He remembered being hit and the shooting pain on the balcony, but now he felt nothing, just uncomfortable from the ropes and the strange position. He looked up at Eli, who was still waiting for his answer, and shook his head.
“See?” Josef said. “Perfect.”
Eli sighed dramatically. “Well, after that display, I suppose I’d better introduce my associates.” He reached down and took the king’s head in his hands, turning him toward the tall man with the blades. “That man of perfection you see mutilating the bunnies for our supper is our swordsman, Josef Liechten, and this little bundle”—he turned the king’s head to the left, toward the girl, who was back to poking the fire—“is Nico.”
That was apparently enough for introductions, for Eli let the king’s head go and plopped down in the dirt beside him, leaning on his elbow so his eyes were level with the king’s.
“Why are you doing this?” the king whispered, wavering between rage and genuine bewilderment.
“I’m a thief.” Eli shrugged. “I steal valuable things. What could be more valuable than a king to his country?”
“Why me, then?” Henrith wiggled himself semiupright. “If money is what you’re after, why not go after a larger country, or a richer one?”
“Trade secret,” Eli said. “But since you’re being such a good sport about all this, I will tell you that we’re not working for anyone. There’s no great scheme, no big plot. Just pay our price and we can all go home happy.”
Henrith supposed that was a relief. “What’s your price, then?”
“Forty thousand gold standards,” Eli said calmly.
The king nearly choked. “Are you mad? We can’t pay that!”
“Then I guess you’ll just have to lie here forever.” Eli gave him a little pat on the shoulder, and then stood up and walked over to where Nico was poking the fire, leaving the king to wiggle futilely in the dirt.
“Of course,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “you wouldn’t have to pay it all at once.”
“What,” the king scoffed, “set up an installment plan? Would you leave a forwarding address, or should I just send a company of armed men every month?”
“Nothing so complicated.” Eli walked over and kneeled down again. “How about this? You write a letter to your Master of the Money, or whatever you call him, and tell him to put aside a mere five thousand gold standards. Surely even Mellinor can gather such a small sum without too much difficulty. We’ll make a switch”—he waggled his long finger at the king—“you for the money, and the rest of the debt can be pledged to my council bounty.”
Henrith’s face went blank. “Pledged to what?”
Eli gawked down at him. “The Council of Thrones’ bounty account.” He leaned down, look
ing incredulous. “Do you even know how bounties work?”
The king started to answer, but Eli rolled right over him. “Of course not, you’re a king. I doubt you’ve even been to a council meeting. You’ve probably never even left your kingdom.” He sat down again, muttering under his breath, “Council of Thrones, pah. More like Council of Junior-Adjuncts-No-One-in-Their-Own-Kingdom-Wanted-Around.
“All right,” Eli said when he was settled. “So you know the Council of Thrones takes care of things no single kingdom can handle—large-scale trade disputes, peace negotiations, and offering bounties on criminals wanted for crimes in more than one kingdom.” Eli reached into the pocket of his faded blue jacket and pulled out a folded square of paper, which he shook out proudly. It was his wanted poster, the same one the king had seen in the rose garden back when Eli had been his prisoner, and not the other way around.
Eli held the poster up. “Only the biggest criminals, those considered to be a danger to every member kingdom of the Council, are listed on the Council wanted board, and that means the bounties have to be in amounts that can get the attention of whole kingdoms, not just small-time bounty hunters.