"Then, you open it.” Sal turned to face his sister. “Read it, and throw the Sacrull damned thing in the fire when you’ve done with it.”
Nicola made a sound in her throat, then swept out of the room, slamming the door on her way out.
Sal looked at the parchment, folded in thirds, sealed with a blot of red wax and stamped by the signet of the dragon. Sal had always wondered about that seal, and whom it belonged to.
He looked away from the letter as the fire stole his attention. Hissing and crackling, the flames danced orange and red. Sal looked at the letter, and back to the flames dancing in the hearth, and he considered feeding the parchment to the fire. He reached for the letter, but something stopped him. Instead, he grabbed his cloak and headed for the door.
Dong, dong, dong, dong, dong,
The bells tolled, but now, all Sal heard was: Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead.
Sal had rented a room in the Hog Snout, a quaint inn not far off Beggar's Lane. There had been a time when he thought he'd never be able to set foot within the place, a time when his chest tightened, and his legs grew stiff just at the sight of the hanging sign of the boar.
Yet time had proved, confrontation with his fears was the most effective solution. He had met his fear head-on, first entering the inn on occasion, then taking a seat in the taproom for a drink or two. Eventually, he'd found he could make the climb up the stairs and pass Bartley’s old room without his anxiety taking over.
After he had stayed with Vinny for a short time, Sal had found he needed a place of his own and had taken rooms at the Hog Snout.
The room where Sal had last seen Bessy and Bartley was just across the hall, but Sal had found that with time, his hatred toward the room had faded to a dull sadness.
He closed and locked the door, and made for the stairs. He passed by the mostly empty taproom and exited the inn.
Dong, dong, dong, dong, dong.
The sky was a veritable amalgam of grey hued storm-clouds, and though there was no rain of yet, Sal felt it was only a matter of time. As spring approached, the rains were never far off.
He hoped the storm would hold off until he'd reached High Hill at least, but he didn't dare bet on it.
Sal followed Beggar's Lane to the Bridge of the Lady and passed beneath the archway spanning the bridge towers. When he passed the limestone statue of the Lady White, Sal brushed the hem of the Lady’s stone dress for luck.
He filed into the bridge traffic so caught up in his thoughts that it seemed no time at all before he was off the bridge and moving up the Kingsway.
The bells tolled, sharp and clear in the morning air, announcing the death of Prince Matej to all of Dijvois.
Sal trekked up High Hill, slipping through a few alleyways and side streets until he reached the Bastian Estate.
Three men stood outside the black iron gates, and Sal was relieved to see one of them was Damor Nev. Damor stood a head and a half taller than the other two; his distinctive bastard sword slung on his back.
Dong, dong, dong, dong, dong.
Damor turned and Sal nearly froze before the bodyguard's steady gaze, but he swallowed down his fear and continued walking.
“If it ain’t the Lorenzo,” said Damor reaching a hand over his shoulder to grasp the hilt of his sword, pretending to stretch in a hollow show of swagger.
“Nev,” Sal said, with more than a hint of bravado. “His lordship has you guarding the gate now does he?”
Damor scoffed. “What brings your like lingering about? So far as I recall you’re not a member of the household guard.”
“Right. Well, it so happens I’ve come to appeal to Lord Hugo about an open post.”
Damor hesitated and looked Sal up and down. "Undersized, no particular skill with blade nor bow, short of sense, unreliable and a known thief."
"Why, Damor, dearest, it seems you've done your scouting, listed off all my best attributes. Might be you’d prefer to inquire about the post for me,” Sal said with a smirk. “In the meantime, I’ll speak with the lady Lilliana, and you can relay his lordship’s sentiments at a time which you find convenient.”
Dong, dong, dong, dong, dong.
Damor’s frown deepened. “Bloody bells,” said the Bauden. "Damnedest thing that. Prince of the royal blood and all.”
“I heard it was Matej," Sal said.
“That seems to be the rumor," Damor said.
Sal shrugged. “I have to wonder if it’s true.”
“I should think the fops up in the High Keep ought to recognize one of the royal blood.”
“Aye, but you know how rumors are.”
One of the gate guards behind Damor Nev cleared his throat, while the other shifted from foot to foot, but Damor continued to address Sal, his back to the gate guards.
“The word is they toll for Prince Matej,” Damor said with a shrug. “Not much else has come down from High Hill since dawn’s break.”
"Matej," Sal said, shaking his head, "something about it just doesn't feel right."
Damor cocked an eyebrow, his head tilting as he locked Sal's gaze.
“You know something of this you’ve not said?”
The bells tolled.
“No,” Sal admitted. “I’ve only a feeling, a premonition if you will.”
Damor shook his head. “I won’t.”
Sal smiled. Damor could be prickly, but he didn't seem to mind the occasional quip.
“I only wonder why it should be Matej. Who would stand to gain something from his death? And what would his death accomplish?”
Damor Nev chuckled. “You suggesting someone killed the prince?”
The pair of gate guards behind Damor exchanged a look.
Sal shrugged. “Right. Well, I’ve got no evidence of anything. I only find it strange that Matej should be the one. Lady’s sake, the last I saw him, the prince looked as healthy as the destrier he rode in on.”
“Aye, and he was loved both sides of the river. Don’t forget Matej was born in the High Keep. He’d ride that roan mare of his on the streets where common men could see his face, from High Hill to Low Town men would see him in the markets and praying in the cathedral. Why should anyone want Prince Matej dead?”
“Strange is all," Sal said, trying to drop the subject.
“Might be there’s more to this,” Damor said with a sigh. “Who could know. I reckon if anyone finds out, it will be those fops in the High Keep, mind you. No doubt, there have been strange goings-on within the city. Matej is not the only death I heard of this morning."
“No?” Sal asked, genuinely interested.
"A prince of another sort, you could say. A whole slew of Scarvini bodies was left at the Pit last night if the rumors are true. Don Scarvini seems to be losing sons faster than he ever made them.”
“Strange that,” Sal said.
"Aye," Damor said with a nod. "Strange indeed. Stranger still, it was Scarvini men that laid ambush for myself and her ladyship. What was it you told her? You'd take care of things?"
Sal shrugged, unable to contain the smile forming at the corner of his mouth.
Damor nodded. “I suspected as much.”
Dong, dong, dong, dong, dong.
“So, what really brings a pampered servant such as yourself out beyond the gates of the estate?” Sal said, eager to change the subject.
“Suspicious sightings in the area. Came to check on things.”
“Scarvini?” Sal asked.
Lilliana was still marked. And despite surviving the first attempt on her life, her meddling in Commission business had rendered her far from safe.
Damor shrugged. “Uncertain, but that is a concern. Seems we stepped on a few of Scarvini's toes when we interfered with his trade."
Sal stopped smiling. “And Lilliana?”
"Safe under my watch, she will remain."
“I’d like to see her,” Sal said, doing away with all pretense.
Damor gritted his teeth and scratched his chin, then looked over his sh
oulder at the gate guards. He put an arm around Sal's shoulder and led him a few steps away from the black iron gate and the listening guards. When they were a good five paces off, Damor began to speak in a low gentle tone.
"You know, boy, I like you. Despite everything, I wouldn't mind seeing you around from time to time, but I'd much rather you were alive when I next saw you. If his lordship were to catch wind of your intentions with her ladyship, I fear you'll be a tarred head on a spike before long. Worse yet, I'll be the man sent out to collect your head.”
Sal cleared his throat, uncertain of how he should respond.
Damor ruffled his hair. “You can see how that would put me in a difficult position.”
Sal nodded.
“I’m glad we were able to reach an understanding,” Damor said. “It would be wise if you moved along.”
“All due respect, Nev, but you can bugger yourself with your difficult position,” Sal said squaring up the bodyguard. “If you ever came for my head, know this, I wouldn’t hesitate to end you.”
Damor smiled. “As I said, I like you, boy.”
The bells tolled, and Damor Nev turned back to the gate.
Sal nearly froze. A third person had joined the pair of gate guards—Lilliana Bastian.
She wore a blue gown slashed with pearl, her raven-black hair cut just above her shoulders. She fixed him with eyes of lapis lazuli, like depthless wellsprings of life-giving water.
“Damor,” Lilliana said. “Are you nearly finished?”
“Aye, My Lady. No sign of them for some time now.”
Lilliana nodded. "Well, it seems Daddy would like a word, and incidentally I seem to have been employed into the household messaging staff.
“Aye, My Lady, right away,” Damor said. “Do come along with me.”
As the bodyguard approached the gate, the pair of guards scrambled to get it open and allow the big Bauden through, his bastard sword swaying ever so slightly in the scabbard as he walked.
Yet as Damor passed her, Lilliana didn't join him. She was looking at Sal expectantly.
Damor Nev acknowledged Lilliana with a nod. "Do stay within the gates, My Lady." The bodyguard said and resumed his trek up the paved stone drive of the Bastian estate.
"Salvatori," Lilliana said rather stiffly. To Sal's surprise, she did not invite him within but stepped through the gate. "What brings you? Have you news from my professed killers?"
“I’ve come to see you,” Sal said.
She drew in a breath. “And you have seen me. Is that all you came to do?”
Dong, dong, dong, dong, dong.
“Sorry, have I done something?” he asked.
“That’s what I was asking you, but it seems you’ve nothing in the way of news. You have not heard something about Prince Matej by chance?”
“I came to see you about my invitation.”
“I see,” Lilliana said. “I have not yet decided.”
“Not yet—sorry,” Sal said, fumbling for words as he grew flustered. Unsure what he’d done wrong. “Right, then, have out with it. I'd like to know what it is I've done to irritate you so."
The mask shattered, and Lilliana’s cold stare became a look of broken sadness. “I am sorry, it is—it isn’t you,” she said. “I have had news from a friend. She has been promised.”
“I see,” Sal said. “And this man she was promised to, is he cruel or something?”
"If only," Lilliana scoffed. "That would be precisely what the cow deserves." Lilliana looked down, blushing fiercely, as though embarrassed by what she’d said. “She’s been promised to Prince Andrej.”
“Andrej?”
“Yes, it was announced last night at a party on her father’s estate. And as of this morning, Prince Andrej sits in line to the throne. Not only is she going to be a princess, but the sow is next in line as Duchess of Nelgand.”
Sal laughed, understanding taking hold. “You’re jealous,” Sal blurted.
Lilliana looked like to run out of embarrassment. “I am not jealous,” she snapped. “Irritated, my faith in justice somewhat shaken. I simply do not understand how good things can happen to such vile people.”
"You're jealous," Sal said.
Lilliana glared, her jaw set.
Sal smiled. “Now then, about that outing?”
“We will see.”
Sal felt an uncomfortable pang in his stomach. “A jape,” he said, doing his best to keep his tone light despite what he felt inside.
Lilliana didn't smile. "I must be going. Goodbye, Salvatori."
She turned and motioned for the guards to step aside as she passed through the gate.
The guards obliged, while Sal stood still, dumbfounded, as he watched the black iron gate close behind her.
3
The Underway
Sal felt a dull pain in his chest and an uncomfortable swirling in his stomach. He grew dizzy, sick, and angry all at once, not because of what Lilliana had said, but because of what Lilliana had not said. Was he truly so pathetic a creature that a mere implication could send him spiraling into despair?
He stood frozen on the spot as Lilliana continued up the driveway, nary bothering to send a glance over the shoulder and back to him. Indifference or apathy, it mattered little which, but was it worse to be despised or ignored? When one is despised, their existence is at the least acknowledged. Lilliana had not given him even that.
A chuckle came from one of the gate guards, and Sal was suddenly and terribly aware of what he was doing. He snapped back into the moment and ran a hand through his hair.
One of the gate guards said something in a low murmur, and the other barely contained his mirth.
Sal turned away in shame, his blood boiling, heart threatening to tear in two. He wanted to scream—to put a hand on the locket and give the gate guards a taste of lightning. Instead, he slipped into the nearest alley mouth and made for the Kingsway.
The alley was dark, the tall buildings on either side allowing little room for the light. A damp, musty stench filled the stagnant air. Something about the smell put Sal’s hackles on rise. He knelt and reached for his pigsticker.
A sound like the scuff of a boot behind him formed a lump in his throat, but before he could turn, something was shoved over his head and drawn down over his face.
Sal shot both hands up to his neck, his fingers scrabbling for purchase as a drawstring drew tight about his throat.
He was thrown off his feet, and he landed flat on his back. The air was driven from his lungs, his head cracked hard against the cobblestones, as his jaw snapped shut, and the taste of blood filled his mouth.
Sal gasped for breath, fingers tearing at the cloth sack, he thrashed, kicked, and punched, but felt hands pinning him down.
He was rolled, and his limbs were bound. His legs were tied together about the ankles before his arms were wrenched behind his back and bound at the wrists. It was done quickly and efficiently.
Sal wanted to shout but was hardly able to breathe. He was scooped up; hands all about his person effortlessly hoisted him into the air.
“Not so tight,” said one of Sal’s assailants. “You'll choke him.”
“No matter, this one doesn't have long anyhow.”
“Loosen the garrote,” said another man in a commanding tone.
Sal kicked out with his bound legs and connected with something.
“Fuck,” a man said.
Something struck Sal in the stomach, taking the air right back out of him.
The carry was rougher from there on; the hands gripped him tighter, his head bumping and scraping against objects as they moved in virtual silence—the shuffling of boots and strained breaths of his captors his only company in the dark.
A latch clicked, hinges squealed, and Sal was roughly hoisted into a tight space.
“No!” Sal managed to gasp. “No, please.”
Another blow to the gut and Sal was cut short, wheezing and coughing as he tried to breathe. Hinges squealed once more, and
a clap like a shutting door muffled the sound without, followed by clicking latches.
Sal squirmed, feeling around as best he could with bound limbs.
A muffled voice, the whinny of a horse and suddenly the floor was moving.
He was in a carriage, that much was evinced by the jostling jerking movement and the sound of wooden wheels rolling across cobbled streets.
He knew he was moving, but where they headed was a mystery; why was another matter entirely.
No doubt, plenty men wished Sal dead. Only, when he scanned the shortlist of those who wanted him dead—at least––bad enough to have him scooped up in broad daylight, there was one name that came to mind, Don Giotto Scarvini.
It would seem his hope of remaining anonymous until he had come face to face with Don Scarvini had been vain.
Had he been betrayed, or was it one of his own mistakes that had caught up to him? He imagined he would never find out, as he would likely be lying at the bottom of the Tamber within a few short moments.
How many of the others were dead already? Vinny, Aurie, Odie, Valla, Dominik, had any of them made it? If only he'd had time to warn them.
“Lady’s tits,” Sal cursed, biting his tongue as he was jarred, likely due to a bump in the road.
“Now there’s an obscenity one doesn’t hear every day. Follower of the Lady White are we?”
Sal looked in the direction of the voice but could see nothing through the cloth sack. He thought he recognized the voice, but he was hardly certain.
“Who’s there?”
“I don’t want to be pedantic about the issue,” said the familiar voice. “But I’m rather egalitarian by nature, and you see, I did ask my question first.”
“Egalitarian, you say?”
“By nature,” the disembodied voice agreed.
“So why is it I’m trussed up like a stuffed hog, and you, I would assume, are seated comfortably upon a cushioned bench?” Sal said, giving the man a bit of cheek in kind.
“Ah, but how my delicate underside would appreciate the comfort of a feathered cushion. Your question is fairly posed, but it would seem to me you’ve now asked two of your own, and yet you have still not answered mine.”
The Man in Shadow Page 4