Heirs of Destiny Box Set

by Andy Peloquin

With a gasp, Daver collapsed onto the staircase of a crumbling stone house and lay panting. Evren remained standing, controlling his breathing, and forced himself not to snap at Daver. They’d been running for less than ten minutes, so they couldn’t have put more than a few streets between them and the Master’s Temple. He’d have to get much farther from the Court of Judgement before he would begin to feel safe.

  Problem was, the few scraps of food he’d filched from the kitchens hadn’t given him much energy. Between the day’s labors, the fight with Verald, and the exertion from climbing the ladder, he was reaching the end of his limited supply of strength. He needed more food, water, and rest.

  But not yet.

  “Just a few minutes,” he told Daver. “We need to get as far as we can before they come looking for us.” Neither of them needed a reminder of what would happen if the Lecterns caught up with them.

  He racked his mind for a plan. They could always go back to the house where he’d lived with his mother in the Crafter’s District far to the west of Vothmot. No, the Lecterns would look there first. To be safe, they ought to head in the opposite direction. That meant east toward the Ward of Bliss. Though he’d never seen the kaffehouses of Vothmot with their bright-colored wooden signs depicting steaming wooden mugs and nude bodies, he’d heard the eighth- and ninth-years boasting about their many visits. The maze-like alleyways behind the kaffehouses ought to provide plenty of places for them to hide.

  “Let’s go.” He reached out a hand to help Daver up. “We’ve got to keep moving.”

  Daver groaned as he stood. “Where are we going?”

  “To the Ward of Bliss.”

  Daver’s eyebrows shot up. “Why?”

  “Lots of twisty alleys where we can get lost,” Evren told him. “Or lose anyone chasing us.”

  “Okay,” Daver said. Despite the worry in his large eyes, the boy’s voice held a quiet trust. Evren felt the burden of caring for the smaller apprentice weighing heavy on his shoulders, but he bore it as he had for the last three years. Everyone needed someone to watch their back—he’d watch Daver’s, just as he wished he had someone to watch his.

  Nearly a quarter-league and dozens of patrols separated them from the Ward of Bliss. Three times in the space of half an hour, Evren had to drag a tired Daver into a muddy side alley to wait until the mirror-armored Wardens passed. Every delay added to the tightness in his gut. At any moment, Lectern Uman would discover their absence and raise the alarm. Before daybreak, the Wardens would be searching for them. They had to get off the streets as soon as possible.

  But it wasn’t long before Evren began to feel his own strength flagging. The rush of adrenaline brought on by their escape had faded long ago, and only determination drove him onward. Grim resolve couldn’t soothe the aches in his pummeled body, fill his growling stomach, or shield him from the night’s chill. He knew he had to get somewhere warm, quiet, and safe before he collapsed.

  To his relief, he found the Prime Bazaar silent and still. During the day, Vothmot’s main marketplace was a bustle of activity. Camels, horses, mules, and oxen hauled goods and passengers in and out of the city. Merchants hawked their wares of trinkets, clothing, fabrics, and food. Treasure-hunters and fortune-seekers flocked to Vothmot in the hopes of finding the fabled lost city of Enarium, said to be hidden in the Empty Mountains north of the city.

  Yet now, the wood-and-canvas stalls were closed, the livestock stabled, and the merchants abed. As he and Daver scurried around the fringes of the marketplace, he saw only two people: a bald, bearded man and a pale-skinned southerner, both wearing the garb of mountaineers. With their attention focused on their train of mountain mules, they didn’t seem to see Evren or Daver.

  The tension in Evren’s shoulders faded as he caught sight of a dark alleyway just beyond the Prime Bazaar. He ducked into the cramped lane without hesitation. The squelching mud under his slippered feet and the thick reek of offal came as a welcome relief; anything to get him out of sight and away from the inevitable pursuit.

  He gripped Daver’s hand and worked his way deeper into the alleys, the dim moonlight guiding his footsteps. He didn’t slow until he had left the Prime Bazaar far behind and all but lost his way in the twisting, turning, narrow lanes of the Ward of Bliss.

  Finally, he allowed himself to slow. An open doorway to his right beckoned, and Evren ducked inside warily. Loud snoring came from the far end of the room, so Evren slipped into the empty shadows against the wall behind the door. No one could see him and Daver from the alley, and he’d hear any searchers coming before they spotted him. Right now, given his exhaustion, that was the best sort of shelter he could hope for.

  The door shielded most of the stiff breeze that drifted through the alley but failed to keep out the chill in the air. Evren unrolled their little bundle and handed Daver a blanket and spare robe. He took one for himself and used it to wrap as much of his body as the threadbare cloth could cover. Huddled against Daver, he could almost stop shivering…almost.

  He clutched the knife in his right hand. The feel of solid wood and steel reassured him. He might be cold, hungry, and afraid, but that was far preferable to anything that awaited him back in the Master’s Temple.

  * * *

  The sound of heavy booted feet reached Evren’s ears, and he awoke in an instant, his grip on his knife tightening. Life in the temple had turned him into a light sleeper—he never knew when one of the Lecterns would visit for late-night or early-morning “prayers”.

  The tension faded from his shoulders as he spotted the source of the noise. A drunk staggered into the crumbling building, carrying a clay bottle that sloshed blue liquid onto his already soiled shirt and splattered his boots. It would have stained his pants had he been wearing any, but he seemed to have lost them somewhere along his teetering way. He didn’t notice the two of them huddled in their blankets behind the door. Instead, he took two unsteady steps then collapsed to the stone floor with a loud whomph.

  Evren winced as the drunk’s face hit the stone—hard. The pain of the man’s crushed nose and split lip would give the inevitable hangover a run for its imperials. The movement reminded Evren of his own injuries. His lip had swollen to three times its size and sent a twinge through his face anytime he moved.

  He glanced around at their temporary refuge. The building was one of the older constructions in Vothmot, as evidenced by the rotting wood and crumbling clay bricks. Modern builders used the grey and red stone hauled from the Empty Mountains or bricks pressure-molded rather than oven-fired. The wooden floor beams had sagged, cracked, or simply rotted away, leaving gaping holes at various intervals around the building’s interior. Only the Mistress’ luck had kept Evren from falling into one a few paces away from the door through which he’d entered the previous night.

  It might be a withered husk of a building, but it still felt better than their cold cell in the Master’s Temple.

  “Daver,” he whispered and shook the boy asleep on his shoulder. “Get up.”

  “Wha--?” Daver jerked upright with a loud snort. He blinked a few times and rubbed the sleep from his eyes and seemed confused by their surroundings. “Where are we?”

  “By its looks, I’d say an abandoned house somewhere in the Ward of Bliss, not too far from the Prime Bazaar.”

  “Oh.” Daver’s face fell, as if his mind had just registered the reason for his being here.

  “Come on. Let’s get up and head to the Bazaar.”

  “Why?” Daver asked, his face wrinkling.

  “We might be able to beg a few coins,” Evren said. On his few visits with his mother to the Prime Bazaar, he’d seen his fair share of beggars—boys, girls, old men and women, and everything in between. Wealthy southerners on pilgrimage to the Master’s Temple would often put coins into their begging bowls; doubtless it made them feel more devout, or at least appear that way. If he and Daver could reach the Bazaar before the crowd of beggars, he might be able to get enough coins to buy breakfast. He’d ha
ve a clearer head after he got something in his stomach.

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Daver asked. “If the Lecterns are already looking for us—"

  “One of us can keep watch while the other one asks for coins.” Evren studied Daver up and down. “You’ll probably be better doing the begging.” The smaller boy looked a pathetic sight, with his bloodied forehead, gaunt features, scrawny frame, and threadbare apprentice robes.

  “Just keep this out of sight.” He tucked Daver’s crescent moon pendant beneath his collar and out of sight. “We look ragged enough already, but a bit of mud should help.” To emphasize his point, he scooped up a handful of the muck the drunk had tracked in on his boots and rubbed it onto his face and clothing. His senses recoiled from the reek, but he did his best to ignore it as he applied a coat of dirt to Daver’s face. It would be all the camouflage they’d have for now.

  Daver followed him through the alleys into the Prime Bazaar. At this early hour, few merchants had opened their stalls and only a trickle of people wandered through the marketplace. A single caravan rode past, treasure-hunters doubtless intending to get an early start on their trek through the Empty Mountains.

  Evren planted Daver on a corner where the main avenue through Vothmot connected with the road to the North Gate.

  “Hold out your hand, and do your best to sound as pitiful as you look, eh?” He gave Daver a smile, which sent throbbing pain through his healing lip. “I’ll be nearby watching for Lecterns. We leave the moment you get enough coin for breakfast.”

  The sun peeked its golden face over the eastern horizon, bathing Evren with welcome warmth as he took up position on the corner opposite Daver. His vantage offered a clear view of the avenue that led through the Prime Bazaar toward the Court of Judgement. If any Lecterns or Wardens came from that way, he’d see them first.

  The flow of traffic began to increase as more merchants, wagoneers, and fortune-seekers crowded into the Prime Bazaar. The Mistress’ luck smiled on them, and within ten minutes, a grey-haired man in the rough-spun tunic and cloak of a pilgrim deposited a coin in Daver’s outstretched hand. He’d barely shuffled up the street before Daver leapt to his feet and ran toward Evren.

  “Look!” he said, excitement sparkling in his eyes. “A whole silver half-drake.”

  Evren’s heart leapt. “That’s enough for a good meal, a change of clothes, and some shoes!”

  “No it ain’t,” came a quiet voice from behind Evren. “That’s enough to earn you a beating instead of a knifing.”

  Evren’s gut clenched at the menace in the words. He spun to meet the threat and found himself face-to-face with a tall, dark-haired boy.

  The youth wore clothes far filthier and more ragged than Evren’s own, and his black hair stuck out at wild angles from his head, forming an erratic halo around his angular face. He stared down his hawkish nose at Evren. “Big mistake, angling on our turf.” He stuck out a muddy hand. “Hand it over, and I’ll tell my lads to take it easy on you.”

  Evren spotted three smaller, equally mud-stained and disheveled boys hovering behind. They looked at least a year or two younger than the speaker, who had to be around Evren’s own age.

  “No,” Evren said. He took the coin from Daver and held it in a clenched fist. “This is ours, but you can have your turf back. We’re just—"

  “Just trespassing is what you’re doing.” The boy took a threatening step closer, towering a full hand’s breadth taller than Evren. “Either hand it over, or my boys and I will cut off your hand, then pry it from your severed fingers.”

  The words were doubtless meant as a threat, but Evren felt no fear. He’d been threatened by youths far larger and tougher.

  “You’re welcome to try,” he snarled in a low voice. “But it might not turn out like you expect.”

  A knife suddenly appeared in the boy’s hand, and he pressed the tip under Evren’s chin. “You sure about that?”

  Evren raised an eyebrow. “What, you’re going to kill me here? In the middle of the Prime Bazaar?”

  “No.” The boy smiled, revealing two missing incisors. “I’m going to drag you into the alleyway and kill you there.”

  Two of the smaller boys grabbed Evren’s arms, and he allowed them to push him past the street tough, around a corner, and down the alley. His teeth clenched as he heard Daver cry out, but he knew he was the target for their punishment. They’d only beat on Daver once they finished with him—they had to break the stronger of the two in order to send a message. These street toughs were a lot like the eighth and ninth-year apprentices.

  Well, there was one real difference. They were Evren’s size or smaller, and they had no idea what he could do.

  The moment he was out of sight of the Prime Bazaar, he moved. He jerked his right arm up, tearing it free of his captor’s grip, and drove the tip of his elbow into the boy’s nose. A loud crunch echoed as the boy cried out and clapped a hand to his nose. Evren brought his right fist whipping across his body and drove it into his other captor’s stomach, right beneath the ribs. The boy gave a loud “ugghh” and doubled over.

  The oldest street tough’s eyes went wide as he saw his two comrades fall. Evren drew back his fist and lashed out with a powerful punch that caught the bigger boy in the jaw. The dark-haired youth sagged, his head reeling. Evren cleared the distance to Daver’s captor in two quick shuffling steps and brought him down with a quick jab and an uppercut to the chin.

  “You hurt?” he asked Daver.

  “No, but—" Daver’s eyes flew wide and locked onto something behind Evren.

  Evren ducked and spun in one smooth motion, and the dark-haired boy’s balled fist sailed over his head. Before the street tough could recover, Evren drove a quick punch into his kidney, then another into his liver. The boy fell back against the wall with a groan.

  Evren whipped out his knife and pressed it to the boy’s throat. “You sure you want to keep trying to take my coin?”

  The dark-haired boy blinked to clear his eyes then froze as he felt the steel against his neck. “No!” he said, careful not to move. “Coin’s yours.”

  “Thank you.” Evren removed the knife but didn’t sheath it. He backed toward Daver, never taking his eyes off the street tough. “Now, if there’s nothing else, my friend and I will be on our way.”

  “How about you join us?” the boy asked.

  The question caught Evren by surprise, and he nearly stumbled. “What?”

  “Join us.” The boy gave Evren another gap-toothed grin. “Fists like yours’ll come in right handy when facing the other crews. And that knife of yours is mighty nice.”

  Evren glanced down at the wooden-handled knife Daver had stolen from the temple kitchens, then at the rusted blade the dark-haired boy had dropped. His knife seemed a weapon of legend by comparison.

  “Join your crew?” he asked. “A crew of thieves?”

  “Thieves, beggars, pickpockets, whatever we need to be.” Again, with the beaming smile that showed too-few teeth. “How we make our coin’s less important than the fact that we make it. We’ve got warm beds, food in our bellies—or at least, some food, provided Porky here don’t eat it all.”

  One of the smaller boys, a rotund lad who barely reached Evren’s shoulders, blushed.

  “And you want the two of us?” Evren asked.

  “Well, the invite’s for you,” the street tough said, “but if you two are joined at the hip—"

  “We are.” Evren’s voice left no doubt. “He comes with me, or no dice.”

  “Fair enough, I suppose.” The dark-haired youth stroked his scruffy, fuzz-covered chin. “So long as he makes enough coin to pay his way, he’ll fit in well enough.”

  Evren hesitated. Until a few hours ago, he’d been an apprentice, training to be a priest at the most respected temple for a thousand leagues. Now, he was going to be a thief? Anything was better than the horrors that awaited him in the Master’s Temple.

  “Deal,” he said, thrusting out a ha
nd.

  The dark-haired youth eyed it, then shook his head. “Nuh-uh. The offer’s mine to make, but the final decision ain’t. You want in, we’ve got to take you to the Warren to see the Red Grinner.”

  Chapter Four

  “And who might you be?” asked the Red Grinner, a boy who couldn’t be more than a year older than Evren.

  “Says his name’s Evren,” Tomaz replied.

  “That so?” He studied Evren from head to toe, then his eyes went to the dark-haired street tough. “Another stray to join our fold, Tomaz?”

  Tomaz nodded. “Stray he might be, Swain, but he’s got teeth and a nasty bite.”

  The Red Grinner grinned. “Is that why the three of you look like you’ve pounded your face on every paving stone between here and the Court of Judgement?”

  Here, turned out to be an abandoned three-story, stone building in the Ward of Bliss, a stone’s throw from the back entrance into Divinity House. The upper levels had begun to crumble from neglect, but the walls and ground floor had been built to last. Some of the wooden doors had even survived scavengers, and a few of the cheaper items of furniture remained intact.

  The Red Grinner lounged on a stuffed armchair with frayed upholstery and sagging cushions, yet he treated it like a royal throne. The other boys around him, none older than fifteen or sixteen, gave Swain the sort of deference the boys of Grey Tower had treated Rhyris. Swain was the leader of this little crew—no more than ten or fifteen youths, from what Evren could see.

  Not a very imposing leader, either, at least not compared to some of the opponents Evren had faced in the Master’s Temple. Swain was the same height and build as Evren, with matted black hair that hung in thick dreadlocks down his back. Not even his mother would have called him handsome, with his flattened nose, wide jaw, close-set eyes, and thick forehead. His threadbare clothes bore the same mud, food, and drink stains as the others. On his belt hung a double-bladed hunting knife, the handle made with silver-inlaid wood—the mark of his status.