by Terry Brooks
His escape route assured, Arcannen set out for the Federation barracks at the west end of the city.
He took a carriage to a place less than a quarter mile away—a shop that specialized in opiates and other mind-altering potions and plants—and stood outside until the shop had emptied of customers, checking a final time through the small glass windows to either side of the door to make certain before going in. The shop was small and cramped with shelves and bins backed up against all the available wall space and then stacked so high that a ladder was needed to reach the two top levels. A counter no more than four feet long sat well back in the shadows, its top clear of everything but a single cup and saucer and a smoking pipe resting in a bowl.
An old man sat behind the counter, eyes fixed on Arcannen. He might have been a hundred years old or a thousand. He was bent and withered, and until you looked closely you might have assumed that he had died and no one had noticed. He wore tattered gray clothes and a skullcap. Arcannen had never seen him wear anything else. His beard and hair were so wispy and thinned out, you could count the strands.
“Eld Loy,” the sorcerer greeted him, giving the old man a small bow. “All is well? Nothing has changed?”
The old man nodded.
“My friend still occupies the same quarters?”
Another nod.
“He sleeps alone?”
A shrug. A nod.
“The Red Slash do not ward him, I mean? I don’t care about the women.”
Still another nod.
Arcannen reached into his robes and withdrew a pouch filled with credits. “Yours, for your services—unless they prove inaccurate. In which case, they will pay for your burial.”
The old man didn’t blink. Arcannen bowed again and went back out the door.
He waited until close to midnight before making his way to his destination. It was a tavern set close to the barracks and frequented by the soldiers and their companions. It was the property of a retired squad leader and a few of his mates, and it catered almost exclusively to those who shared their worldview—which is to say, other soldiers. Even with midnight approaching, the tavern’s interior was well lit and filled with boisterous men and women, shouting and laughing and singing songs of army life. A few of those with too much drink and a vague notion that it was time to get home had made it as far as the front stoop before falling by the wayside.
Arcannen stepped around the bodies carefully. Because Eld Loy had given him a diagram of the tavern’s layout, he knew to go to the back door, step quickly inside, take three steps left to the rear stairwell, and climb to the small bedroom on the third floor. No one saw him enter the building; no one heard him ascend the stairs. This was not surprising, given the amount of noise and drunkenness in the tavern below. Arcannen had counted heavily on the distraction to keep from being noticed.
He paused at the door to listen. There were no sounds coming from inside. He tried the knob; it turned easily. He opened the door and peered in. Pale light from a streetlamp seeped through curtains hung over a solitary window to reveal that the room was unoccupied. Arcannen stepped in. The room was dismal—a squalid box with a bed, an old dresser, a table with a basin, and a wicker chair. There were some clothes on the floor and a few odds and ends of personal effects.
He glanced up. A heavy lamp was suspended from a hook screwed into one of the ceiling beams, but it was unlit.
Arcannen took another look around, moved the chair into the shadows to one side, and sat down to wait.
—
Miles away, in the village of Portlow, Gammon was confronting Reyn Frosch. It was after midnight, and the tavern patrons were finally beginning to make their way home, the great room quieting down. Even in the absence of the boy’s music, the people of the village had come to spend the evening, perhaps in the hope that he would resume playing. But Reyn had not found a way to replace his elleryn, and in spite of the assurances of the stranger that the Fortrens would leave him alone, he was not convinced.
This was being reinforced by Gammon as they spoke in the privacy of the boy’s room.
“You can’t trust a man like that,” Gammon was insisting. “Did you see his eyes? Of course you did. How could you not? Wicked. Dangerous! He may well be the man to convince the Fortrens to let you be, but what do you want with a man like that?”
“He knows something about my singing.” Reyn rubbed his temples. His head ached. “Maybe he can explain what happened.”
“Maybe. But maybe he wants something more from you. Why would he help you otherwise? I think you should go. Get away from here. Find a new town and a new tavern that needs a singer with your talent.”
“I told him I would wait.”
“You owe him nothing! Think about what you are doing!”
Reyn sighed. This discussion was going nowhere. He could not make Gammon understand. The tavern owner was fixated on the stranger’s darkness, as if it were a portent of impending doom. The boy didn’t sense that at all. He was less concerned with the way people dressed and looked. What determined a man’s character was how he behaved. The stranger had done nothing to him but show interest.
“I have to sleep now,” he said finally.
“Fine,” Gammon declared, rising. “But before you do, I have something for you. Wait here for me.”
He went out and was gone for perhaps five minutes. When he returned, he was carrying a package wrapped in cloth and bound with string. The size and shape caused the boy’s heart to quicken. He took the package from the tavern owner and swiftly unwrapped it.
A new elleryn, its burnished wood gleaming brightly, lay in his hands.
“She’s beautiful,” the boy whispered. He looked up at Gammon. “But I can’t afford her.”
“You don’t have to pay anything. It’s a gift.”
“But I’m not playing for you anymore. I can’t take this.”
Gammon laughed. “You made me enough money over the last two years to pay for this ten times over. I owe you this. You take it. Keep it.” He shrugged. “If you would agree to leave here tonight, I would pay you something extra to help you on your way. But I can see your mind is made up.”
Reyn smiled. “I won’t ever forget this.”
“I should hope not.” Gammon stuck out his hand. “Luck to you, Reyn. Whatever you decide to do. Luck always.”
The handshake was warm and firm. Reyn wished once more that things could have worked out differently. Then Gammon released his grip and was out the door.
—
It was several hours later when Arcannen heard footsteps on the back stairs leading up to the bedroom in which he waited. The footsteps were clumsy and uncertain. There were frequent stumbles. He could tell that the man coming up was drunk and unsteady, anxious to reach his room and tumble into bed. It would make his task just that much easier, if not quite so satisfying. He would have preferred the other sober and fully aware of what was about to happen. He would rather the fear reflected in his eyes and voice not be dulled by drink.
But you couldn’t always have things the way you wanted them. If you could, the events that created the reason for his being here would never have come to pass.
The footsteps reached the top of the stairway. Soundlessly, Arcannen rose and moved to stand just behind the door. The man without fumbled with the handle, and the door swung inward. When the man was inside the room, Arcannen quietly closed the door behind him. The man turned back unsteadily, peering at the dark shape behind him, unable to focus.
“Who is it?” He slurred his words, swayed unsteadily. “What do you want?”
“I want you, Desset,” Arcannen answered.
Desset tried to scream, but Arcannen grabbed him, muffling his cries with one hand, bearing him backward onto his rumpled bed, pushing him down until he was pinned, his eyes wide with fear, his body quaking in the sorcerer’s strong grip.
“Shhh, shhhh,” Arcannen whispered. “There’s no point in trying to scream. I took your voice so we wouldn’t
be disturbed. Do you know what’s going to happen to you, Desset? Of course you do. It’s what happens to all traitors sooner or later. I hope the last few weeks of your life were worth what you did.”
Climbing atop the other man, he pinned his arms and took his head gently in both hands, lifting it so that they could see into each other’s eyes clearly. Desset was thrashing feebly beneath him, and tiny whimpers were coming from his throat as he fought to scream for help.
Arcannen smiled down at him as he cradled his head. “You knew the price you would pay for betraying me, didn’t you? Or was it just bad luck that it worked out this way? Were you only interested in destroying Arbrox? No, they wouldn’t pay you well enough for that. Something, for certain, but much more for me. You couldn’t pass up the chance to get your hands on that kind of money. All you had to do was make certain I died along with all of the others. Those people were my friends, Desset. They sheltered and protected me. They helped me when no one else would. And now, because of you, they are all dead.”
Arcannen paused. “And now you can join them.”
Tightening his hands on Desset’s head, he wrenched it sharply to one side and then quickly the other way. He could feel the neck bones giving way; he could hear them cracking and snapping. Desset shuddered and clenched and finally went still.
Arcannen released the dead man’s head and stood up. That wasn’t nearly as satisfying as he would have liked, but killing seldom was. It was a task performed out of necessity, and while the act itself could be fulfilling, the aftermath seldom induced any sort of euphoria. It was so here. The sorcerer was already thinking beyond what he had just done to what still needed doing.
He pulled a length of cord from a pouch at his waist, tied one end tightly around Desset’s neck, and formed a loop at the other end. Then he shouldered the dead man, climbed atop the chair to gain the necessary height, and, after removing the lamp, slung the open loop over the ceiling hook and left Desset hanging.
Then he seated himself, printed a few words on a piece of paper, and attached them to Desset’s body. He studied his handiwork for a few moments more, watching the dead man swing gently from the ceiling hook as a breeze through the window caught his body in a twisting motion.
Now we will see, he thought.
Then he went out the door, down the stairs, and into the night.
—
It was shortly after dawn the following morning when Dallen Usurient, Commander of the Red Slash division of the Federation army, climbed those same stairs behind the officer who had summoned him and entered Desset’s quarters. Desset’s body still hung from the ceiling hook, lifeless and beginning to smell as the day’s heat reached it. Usurient saw the note pinned to the body right away and walked over for a look.
He read the note carefully and stepped back again, his face dark with anger.
“Do you know what it means, sir?” the officer who had summoned him asked quietly.
Usurient nodded. He knew exactly what it meant.
WE ARE COMING FOR YOU.
ARBROX.
He looked at the officer. “It means Arcannen is still alive.”
NINE
Arcannen, in the meanwhile, stood outside a large residential building that was colorful and ornate, its wooden siding and trim painted in soft pinks and greens. It sat on the outskirts of the village of Hennish, which was not far from the much larger city of Wayford, where Arcannen had made his home until the Druids had driven him out. It was several hours after sunrise, and he had flown all night to get here. He’d had no sleep and he was tired, but his visit couldn’t wait.
He could see the girls moving about inside the pink-and-green building and hear their chatter and laughter. Some of them, at least, were up early. Perhaps they had chores. Perhaps suitors. Business would commence whenever a customer came calling, and assigned chores must be completed before then.
Yet this was not a pleasure house and these girls were not here to be used. This was the House of Rare Flowers. The sign over the veranda boldly declared it, and everyone who knew of its existence knew its purpose.
He watched awhile longer, readying himself for his encounter with Corussin, who was the proprietor of this establishment. They had done business before, and they knew each other well. They were friends, after a fashion. But both possessed strong personalities and harbored grand ambitions, and each wanted to feel in these business transactions that he had gotten the better of the other.
Arcannen could not see the guards, but he knew they were everywhere. Corussin was not the sort of man who took chances. It was easy enough to walk into the House of Rare Flowers, but if you broke the rules or did anything inappropriate while you were there, it wasn’t always so easy to walk out again.
Finally, Corussin stepped through the doorway onto the veranda and stood looking at him for a moment, hands on hips. The proprietor was a small, slender man, well groomed and finely dressed. His long black hair was an affectation he had embraced years ago, his tresses falling in waves to his waist. For a time, he had worn a beard, as well, but he appeared to have abandoned that.
After a moment, he beckoned Arcannen forward. Arcannen nodded and approached.
“Were you going to stand out here all day waiting for an invitation?” Corussin growled. “How long would you have lasted if I hadn’t seen you?”
The deepness of his voice always surprised the sorcerer. “I don’t like to arrive unannounced and give the impression that I simply assume you have time for me,” he answered.
“Oh, I always have time for you, Arcannen. Though of late, you’ve been mostly absent. About five years now?”
“My fortunes took a downturn, as you’ve undoubtedly heard. But I have reason to think they might be on the upswing. Can we talk?”
Corussin took him through the front door of Rare Flowers and down a hallway to a quiet reception room at the back of the house. On the way, they passed several of the girls who lived there in the process of preparing for the day. Some were doing their assigned chores; some were dressing for suitors. Their purpose in coming to Rare Flowers and Corussin was simple. Each of them was looking to improve her situation through a display of beauty, intelligence, and marketable skills. Each gave herself over to the proprietor for the time it took to refine all three attributes, and then an employer/mate/sponsor was found who would take her to live with him under whatever arrangements the two of them had arrived at. The man lucky enough to win over one of these girls—and win her over he must, just as surely as she must work hard to present herself favorably—paid Corussin richly for the privilege of meeting the right girl. The money was paid up front, and it was nonrefundable. If things didn’t work out, that was just too bad. This was a business transaction, first and foremost. Let the buyer beware.
But the buyer was given ample opportunity to decide if this was the right match, and the girl was given an equal amount of time to determine the same. It worked out more often than not.
Arcannen always thought it odd that all this couldn’t be achieved in a less complex and formalized fashion. But it was clear that, for many men, an arrangement of this sort was more attractive and reliable than simple courting. And for most of these girls, who came from dubious circumstances and less-fortunate backgrounds, it offered a better-than-decent chance for living in a safe and sheltering environment.
The sorcerer and the proprietor sat in facing chairs by floor-to-ceiling windows that opened onto an extensive garden. Several of the girls were walking the pathways with the groundskeeper, who was imparting his knowledge of his craft. Beyond, the high walls surrounding the garden kept curious sightseers at bay.
Anonymity was a large part of the advantage of placement and resettling at Rare Flowers. No one besides Corussin knew the identities of all the girls or the men. There were no open houses or visiting hours. No one who didn’t live here or come on business was allowed in. It was a tightly run operation, and it was this reputation that largely contributed to its success.
A stunning young woman with olive skin and ink-black hair hanging straight and long below her shoulders entered the room and bowed to Corussin.
“Evelin Emiko,” he greeted her, bowing back. “Something cold for my guest and myself. You remember Arcannen?”
Emiko bowed to him, and he returned the gesture of respect. Emiko had come to Rare Flowers almost ten years ago, and had decided she should stay on as the proprietor’s business partner and consort. Efficient and capable, she was the perfect companion for a man whose reputation and livelihood relied on discretion and satisfaction for all clients.
It didn’t hurt that the proprietor and Emiko were in love. And they were, desperately.
She left the room, her footfalls silent. “What is it you’re looking for, Arcannen?” Corussin asked, watching his life partner go.
The sorcerer smiled. He liked it that the other man never wasted time when business was involved. He always got right to the heart of the matter and didn’t pretend he didn’t know what the client had come for.
“I am looking for a girl,” he answered. “Not a young woman, but a girl. I need her to be no more than twenty years of age. She must be…” He paused, thinking. “Different looking. Unusual. She must be strong-minded and intelligent. More so than average. It would help if she had an innate sense of the appropriate and reasonable. She will be dealing with a very strong, very determined young man.”
Corussin smiled. “I don’t see this young man sitting next to you. You are not referring to yourself, are you?”
Arcannen laughed. “No. The young man in question doesn’t know anything about this.”
“Well, then. You know the policy, Arcannen. Your young man must undergo an interview to allow the girl to determine his suitability.”
“Perhaps that won’t be necessary here. Their relationship will be short-term, and it will not involve any sort of permanent commitment. The temporary appearance of the possibility will be sufficient. I will pay you double your usual price, and I will pay her the same amount for her trouble.”