Heirs of Destiny Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

  A nearby sound set his heart hammering and his hands dropping to the hilts of his jambiyas. Mouth suddenly dry, Evren watched the figure that shambled out of the shadows. He froze, but the tension melted as he saw the man’s swaying, reeling shuffle. Drunk as the proverbial possum, he lurched down the alleyway, singing a jaunty tune in a key no human throat should ever produce. He passed the watcher without spotting him hiding in the shadows.

  Evren smiled. Thank you, you drunk bastard.

  With the lurker’s attention fixed on the drunk man, Evren seized the opportunity to slip closer. His steps led toward an open doorway that entered a house less than ten paces behind the man. He slithered toward it, his footsteps masked by the drunkard’s caterwauling.

  Up close, he got a better look at the man’s back. A small man, with a slim build and narrow shoulders beneath his simple clothing. Definitely not an Ybrazhe thug—he lacked the hulking breadth and sloped shoulders. He had the sort of physique common to a pickpocket or street thief, with the extraordinary patience and stillness to match.

  When it came to fight or flight, most thieves Evren had met preferred to flee. Fighters could get bogged down in a brawl long enough for the city guards to arrive and arrest them on the spot. Clever thieves always had multiple escape routes mapped out in case they needed a quick getaway.

  Evren studied the distance between him and his target and decided he was close enough to make a run for it. He reached for the hilt of a jambiya but didn’t draw it. He wouldn’t pull the weapon free until the last instant—the sound of steel on leather or the glint of starlight on the blade could alert the lurker to his presence.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Evren prepared to charge, yet froze as the lurker abandoned his position. The man moved slowly, clinging to the shadows, but after more than an hour of near-immobility, it felt sudden.

  Evren forced himself to remain absolutely motionless as the watcher approached his hiding place. His grip tightened on the dagger’s hilt—he wanted to take the man alive, but if either of them had to die…

  The lurker passed without so much as glancing his way. Evren counted to ten before turning his head to track the man’s movement. His target was hurrying east through the alleys and back streets, casting infrequent glances over his shoulder.

  Perfect. Evren recognized the confidence of an experienced thief. The man would be so accustomed to following others that he knew all the tricks of spotting a tail. Evren had fallen prey to that same overconfidence before—it was how the Hunter had snatched him after Evren stole his purse in Vothmot.

  He followed the thief through the narrow lanes, keeping well out of the man’s line of sight. The cloak of darkness provided ample cover for his stealthy pursuit of the watcher. Eventually, the thief seemed to deem himself safe enough that he could abandon his precautions and hurry on his way. Just as Evren had hoped.

  Where are you running to? A fierce grin split his face. Time to find out!

  He followed the man eastward, navigating the twists and turns of the alleys at a steady pace, never losing sight of his target. Tension tightened his shoulders as the man crossed Trader’s Row and ducked into a narrow side street. When he was certain the man had gone, he raced across the open space—checking first for any signs of Indomitable patrols—and hurried to close the distance. Thankfully, the watcher was more focused on arriving at his destination than keeping an eye out for a tail.

  The lurker led him to a two-story mill on the northern end of Miller’s Alley, the broad avenue that intersected with the Artificer’s Courseway just east of Industry Square—and one street west of Smith’s Alley, where Killian’s forge stood. Evren’s gut clenched as he recognized the squat stone building. He’d passed right by it after leaving Killian’s blacksmith the night Annat and the Ybrazhe thugs assaulted him.

  Sure enough, as the thief opened the door to enter the miller’s shop, Evren caught sight of a familiar figure within. Annat, surrounded by a handful of Ybrazhe thugs.

  The front of the mill had only a door and a window, but Evren knew mills also tended to have chutes built into the sides—the perfect opening for millers and their apprentices to load sacks directly onto the carts that would haul the freshly-ground flour and grain away. He found the chute along the south side of the building, and he grinned as he spotted the flicker of light shining through the aperture. The miller had left it open and Annat hadn’t bothered to shut it.

  He crouched by the chute and pricked up his ears to hear the conversation within.

  “…is still there,” the lurker was saying. “A couple of them—the light-skinned foreigner and his dark-skinned companion—left just after dusk, but I couldn’t follow them to find out where they went.”

  From his crouched position at the open chute, Evren had a clear view of the interior of the miller’s shop. It was exactly like every other mill: a stone millwheel on a wooden frame with a hitching post for the donkey or ox that turned the wheel, an assortment of piled canvas sacks, and simple wooden furniture. A thick layer of flour dust coated everything—everything except for the eight thugs within.

  “But you’re certain the girl is actually in residence?” Annat’s voice drifted from the near side of the millwheel.

  “Yes, sir,” the thief replied.

  “Good.” Annat nodded. “Send word to those idiots in the tombs. They’ll want to know the location.”

  “Aye.” The man ducked his head and hurried back out into the streets.

  Evren pressed himself deeper into the shadows as the man passed, his gut clenching at Annat’s words. The idiots in the tombs? His mind raced. Is he talking about the Gatherers?

  “And now,” Annat’s voice echoed from within the mill, “let’s get back to our little conversation.”

  The thug stepped aside, and Evren’s heart stopped as he caught sight of the small figure bound by thick ropes to the millwheel. He recognized the youth immediately: Serias, one of Killian’s Mumblers, a scrawny, underfed boy no older than eight or nine. Blood trickled from a split lip and his right eye had swollen into one huge purple bruise. To Evren’s horror, Annat had trussed the boy up in such a way that his hands were trapped directly beneath the millwheel. One turn of the stone wheel would crush the boy’s fingers and palms.

  “Now, I realize you think you’re doing the right thing by being loyal to your blacksmith.” Annat spoke to Serias. “But that’s just going to get you killed here. Or, at the very least, take away those hands you pickpockets find so useful. Such a shame, too, because we can use loyal, clever lads like you when we take over the Artisan’s Tier. Which we’ll be doing any day now, thanks to those fools that call themselves Hallar’s Warriors.” He snorted and turned an incredulous, derisive look on the other thugs around him. “Hallar’s Warriors! What sort of idiotic name is that?”

  A chorus of laughter rose from the heavyset men clustered around Annat, Serias, and the wooden wheel frame.

  Evren frowned. He didn’t recognize the name. Another enemy? If they aren’t the Gatherers, who the bloody hell are they and what do they want with Briana?

  “Either way, because of them, we’ve got free rein to do whatever the hell we want and it’ll all be blamed on them.” Annat sneered. “That makes this a lot easier for me, and a whole lot more painful for you.” He crouched over Serias. “So now’s the time you tell me where I can find what I’m looking for.”

  Serias spat a reply through bloodstained teeth, too weak for Evren to hear. The droplets of crimson that splashed across Annat’s face proclaimed his defiance loud enough.

  “Big mistake, boy.” Growling, Annat wiped the blood from his face with one hand while gesturing to his thug with the other. “Do it.”

  Two thugs bent to the wooden tie beam, straining their huge muscles. Slowly, the ponderous stone wheel began to turn, slowly lowering toward Serias’ fingers. The boy’s screams of agony echoed loud in the darkness as the stone first scraped the skin from his knuckles, then the rest of his fingers, then applied cru
shing force as the wheel lowered.

  The sound pierced Evren to the core. An image flashed through his mind: Hailen strapped to the millstone, bloody and in pain. Not Hailen as he was now, but the young child he’d met in Vothmot—wide-eyed, innocent, naïve to a dangerous extreme, vulnerable. A year or two younger than Serias.

  Evren felt himself torn in two directions. He had to warn Briana, Hailen, and the others that someone was coming for them—but who and when, he couldn’t know. Yet a part of him knew he couldn’t leave Serias to be tortured at the hands of the Ybrazhe. Annat wouldn’t stop until he got whatever it was he wanted from the boy. Even if Serias gave him what he wanted, he’d likely kill him anyway. Evren had known enough cruel men in his life to recognize Annat for the vicious bastard he was.

  It was no choice at all. There was time before the lurker reached the “idiots in the tombs”, whoever they were, and delivered Annat’s message. Kodyn, Aisha, and even Hailen could protect themselves, and they had Hykos and Rothin to fight for them.

  Serias had no one. He was trapped, helpless, surrounded by merciless men. If Evren did nothing, the boy would die.

  Evren was a thief but, unlike the lurker, his first instinct was always to fight. Especially when it meant saving the life of a young boy.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The Indomitables standing guard outside the Coin Counter’s Temple straightened as Hykos strode toward them.

  “I must speak to the Grand Reckoner at once.” Hykos spoke in a voice at once quiet and ringing with command.

  “Your pardon, honored Blade, but Grand Reckoner Quodaro is abed.” The Indomitable—a Neophyte, judging by the single vertical stripe of silver in the blue band of his helmet—sounded apologetic. “He will not wish to be disturbed—”

  “Unless it was a matter of some urgency,” Hykos cut him off with a slash of his hand. He loomed over the guard. “When he hears my message, he will make the time to see me.”

  “Er…” The two Indomitables exchanged glances—clearly a late night visit from a Keeper’s Blade was not the sort of thing they’d trained to deal with.

  “What’s the message?” the second guard asked.

  “Tell him, ‘blistering beetle’.” Hykos’ face never twitched as he said the words.

  Two pairs of eyebrows rose so high they disappeared beneath their flat-topped, spike-rimmed helmet. One of the guards looked like he was going to snort, yet one look at Hykos’ somber expression stopped him. Again, the two shot questioning glances at each other. If it was anyone else, they might have laughed him away as a madman. But someone as looming and authoritative as an Archateros of the Keeper’s Blades could not be so easily ignored.

  “Er…wait here,” said the first guard. With a shrug to his companion, he hurried into the fortress-like Coin Counter’s Temple.

  Kodyn stifled a grin; it would ruin his disguise as the Blade’s humble servant, complete with a servant’s shendyt and green-and-gold headband.

  Tension lined Hykos’ face with every minute they spent waiting. It had taken Briana a great deal of effort to convince—and finally directly order—the Blade to accompany Kodyn.

  “Lady Briana,” Hykos had insisted. “I have been ordered by my commander and my Pharus to remain by your side and offer you the protection of my sword and skills.”

  “A job which you’ve done admirably.” Briana had countered with her usual adroitness. “Yet right now, you are in a position to be of service not only to me as you have been instructed, but to the entire city of Shalandra.”

  That had gotten Hykos’ attention. Briana had had to give all the details, and even then Hykos had been reluctant. However, when Briana had finally explained how his actions would help to protect the city and root out a traitor, he’d relented.

  Still, Kodyn could sense the nervous tension within the Blade. The man could only be a year or two older than him, but he had the wary eyes of a trained soldier. A soldier that knew that danger could lurk around any corner.

  Kodyn shot a glance east, back the way they’d come. Though he couldn’t see Aisha, he knew she hid in the shadows between the Swordsman’s obelisk and the Temple of Whispers, both to keep watch for anyone following them and to be closer to Briana’s house just in case anything happened while they were away.

  Hykos had relayed to them Evren’s message that someone was watching the house, though the young thief hadn’t known who. Evren would have warned us if there was any real danger, Kodyn thought. If he’s not back by now, it means he’s either dealt with the watcher or is following him back to wherever he came from.

  Either way, the chances of anything going wrong for their journey to the Coin Counter’s Temple—which shouldn’t take more than an hour, given the leverage Briana had given them—were slim.

  Sure enough, Briana’s message to the Grand Reckoner worked. Less than five minutes after the guard disappeared into the squat stone temple, he emerged with a puzzled expression.

  “The Grand Reckoner will see you in his office.” He beckoned for them to follow. “This way, honored Blade.”

  Again, Kodyn struggled to mask a grin. The message “blistering beetle” referred to a very unusual favor Arch-Guardian Suroth had done for the Grand Reckoner. Quodaro had used a particular preparation—made from a fatty secretion obtained from the beetles—to enhance certain abilities no longer effortless to men of a certain age and rotundity. Unfortunately for the Apprentice’s priest, he’d applied a little too much in the wrong places, resulting in a painful, severe burn that could have left certain appendages even less useful.

  Suroth had made a soothing, numbing, and restorative agent and delivered it—in the utmost of secrecy, of course—to Grand Reckoner Quodaro. The note had gone into his journal for safekeeping until he found it necessary to call on the Apprentice’s priest for help.

  Now, it was necessary. According to Briana, Suroth would never have stooped to blackmail. Kodyn wasn’t quite as noble as the Arch-Guardian. His mother had used this sort of leverage to save the Night Guild from execution. And he was nothing if not a dutiful son who learned from the examples of his parent.

  The exterior of the Coin Counter’s Temple was plain sandstone unadorned by any decorations, with only a single entrance to ensure the security of the valuables stored within. The interior, however, offered an elegance and opulence that belied its simple appearance. Pristine white marble tiled the floor, walls, and ceiling, and broad pillars supported the high-vaulted roof, which rose two full stories above Kodyn’s head. The main chamber could have held two hundred people with space to spare. A similar white marble counter spanned the far length of the room, and four solid metal doors lined the wall behind the counter.

  Kodyn remembered his mother’s stories of stealing into the Coin Counter’s Temple in Praamis and finding Grand Reckoner Edmynd’s hidden underground room. The Hawk part of him couldn’t help wondering if this temple held similar secrets. Given the nature of the Reckoners’ business, which they believed was their best way to worship the god of enterprise, it almost certainly did. It’s a shame I won’t have time to find out.

  The Indomitable led them toward a staircase set into a corner of the grand chamber. “This way.” He motioned for them to ascend but made no move to follow them.

  Kodyn and Hykos’ boots echoed off the marble-tiled stairs, echoing loud in the now-silent temple. Save for a few oil lanterns shining on the wall, the Coin Counter’s Temple was dark and quiet—a far cry from the unceasing bustle of activity that filled its halls during the day.

  Two grey-robed Reckoners stood guard at the top of the stairs. After a moment of scrutiny, one stepped aside and opened the door.

  Kodyn had to remind himself not to stare at the wealth strewn almost carelessly around Grand Reckoner Quodaro’s office. A bloodwood desk worth a king’s ransom dominated the room, with shelves of costly oak lining the walls. Upon those shelves rested trinkets and decorations that ranged from simple ceramic vases to gold and platinum statuettes to o
ne jewel-encrusted silver key far too large to open any practical lock. Plush Al Hani carpets and bright Drashi tapestries filled the room with color, though to Kodyn’s eyes it appeared a tad garish—more emphasis on cost than good taste.

  Though, that seemed fitting, given the man seated behind the desk. Through Grand Reckoner Quodaro lacked the sheer corpulence of a Keeper’s Priest, he was fat by Zadii standards. Round of belly and face, with two chins that seemed far too large for facial features that appeared squished too tightly together. His thick nose had a slight upturn that accented his porcine shape.

  “Thank you, that will be all.” Quodaro waved a pudgy hand in a dismissive gesture at the attendant.

  “Of course, Grand Reckoner.” Curiosity etched into every line of the Reckoner’s face as he bowed and closed the door behind him.

  The high priest turned to Hykos. “Honored Blade, far be it from me to question the presence of such an esteemed warrior and servant of the Long Keeper in my temple, but perhaps you might enlighten me as the nature of your visit? Both the late hour and your…specific message make it clear that this is not a social call. Let’s dispense with any formalities and get to the point.” His expression went flat. “What do you want?”

  “I can answer that.” Kodyn stepped forward with a bold smile. “We’ve come from Briana, daughter of Arch-Guardian Suroth, to ask you for a favor.” He arched an eyebrow. “A favor I am certain you will be happy to grant, given your relationship with the good Arch-Guardian.”

  “May he rest in the Long Keeper’s arms.” Quodaro’s polite tone didn’t quite match the scowl that darkened his face. “I don’t know who you are or why you speak for either the Keeper’s Blades or Briana, but I can assure you that there is nothing you can say, no threat you can level, that will force me to act in anything but the best interest of my god and the priests that serve me.”

  “Oh good.” Kodyn beamed. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He drew the bill of lading from a pocket and slapped it onto the table. “We’d like your help with this.”