The Man in Shadow

by Taylor O'Connell

  His room was comforting, newly laid rushes, and the smell of old smoke. As he stepped through the door, it felt as though he'd wrapped up in a woolen blanket on a cold day. He went directly for his bed, when the folded letter at the foot of the straw-stuffed mattress, caught his attention.

  The letter was still there, right where he'd left it that morning—Gods had it been just that morning?

  The red wax seal stamped with the signet of the dragon seemed to stare at him. It was an accusatory stare, a look of knowing, of disappointment full of disdain.

  The dragon signet, so familiar, and yet, so mysterious. How many years had he looked upon the signet and wondered as to its origin, its meaning? Whom did it belong to and why had his mother used it for that letter?

  He'd never seen the seal before that day—he day he was left that very letter—in the place of a mother.

  Sal picked it up and ran a finger over the wax seal. The horned ridges and scales of the imprinted monster were chilling to the touch. He put a finger beneath the lip of the fold, ready to break the seal with a single stroke, but he pulled back.

  His exhaustion was replaced by a flush of frustration and confusion. Stuffing the letter in his jacket pocket, Sal headed back out the door, limped down the stairs, and winced at the pain in his ribs with each step. He passed by the taproom and slipped out the front door.

  Sal crossed Beggar's Lane and headed north, cut into an alley mouth and weaved his way to Penny Row.

  It was the dingiest shop in the row. The windows were so filth-ridden that they were scarcely transparent. Cobwebs hung from the lantern beside the door and at the corners of the doorframe.

  Sal stepped into the shop and wiped his boots upon a Miniian spun rug, kicking up a cloud of dust in the process.

  “The prodigal son returns, does he?” said the fat man behind the counter. He wore long white robes undone in the front to show a chest of coarse black hair. The vest he wore was comically small on his massive rounded torso.

  “I’ve come for advice.”

  “Advice, from an old desert snake like me?” Nabu asked with a smirk.

  With one hand Nabu stroked his oiled mustache, while the other tapped on the countertop, a jewel-encrusted ring upon each of his thick fingers. “Why should I give you this advice and not simply slither away?”

  “You’ve never managed to slither free in the past,” Sal said with a smirk.

  “Ah, but this is true?” Nabu said with a smile. “Then I must ask you, why not seek advice from this uncle of yours? He comes asking of you often. As though you do not pay him his due visit.”

  “Right. Well, uncle Stefano is, shall we say, an unpleasant man, and you see, my life has enough unpleasantness as it is.”

  Nabu sighed. “He cares for you. You know this thing?”

  Sal nodded. “Look, Nabu, I mean no offense, but I didn’t come here to talk about my uncle.”

  Nabu pursed his lips but raised no objections as Sal leaned on the counter.

  “You look to have been in a fight, no?” Nabu asked.

  “Something of that nature. What gave it away?”

  Nabu reached out a sausage-like finger and poked Sal’s ear.

  Sal cried out and stepped back, clapping a hand over the wound, and wincing as pain shot to his ribs.

  Nabu smiled wide, clearly enjoying the reaction. “This is why you've come; you must be learning to defend yourself? I fear there are men better suited to such lessons, but if you insist, I am thinking I could give some worthwhile advice.”

  “Maybe another time,” Sal said, smiling at the thought of Nabu teaching him to fight. “For now there’s something else I need help with.”

  “A matter that does not require my masterful skill of the fighting arts?”

  Sal chuckled. “As entertaining as it would be to see you perform the shadow dance, it's your mind which I require.”

  “Ah, and mind, as of all things, I have in ample supply,” Nabu said, putting his hands on his prodigious gut.

  Sal reached into his pocket. “Listen, Nabu; there's this letter—”

  Nabu turned and pulled aside the beaded curtain. He shouted something in Shiikali into the backroom. When he turned back, he gestured for Sal to continue.

  “Is everything all right?” Sal asked.

  Nabu merely bobbed his head.

  “Right. Well, there’s this letter you see, and—”

  “Yes, Uncle,” said a small round-faced boy as he slipped out from behind the curtain.

  Nabu spoke in Shiikali, but the boy glanced at Sal—twice—which gave him the feeling that he was being talked about.

  “Go on, young Salvatori, there is this letter, no?”

  The round-faced boy crossed the little shop and glanced at Sal once more before he left.

  “What was that all about?” Sal asked.

  Nabu frowned. “You ask a man his private things without a hint of shame. Would you so boldly ask a man to share his home and table?”

  “Oy, Nabu, there’s no need to be that way. I only thought—well, the kid kept looking at me.”

  “My sister’s boy. A good boy, but young. The young ones do not understand the impropriety of such things, and it seems neither do some of the older ones,” Nabu said with an accusatory look. He shrugged. “Now, what of this letter?”

  Sal pulled the letter from his pocket, holding it so that the red wax seal was visible.

  “Ah, but I see the problem already,” Nabu said with a smile. “You have not opened it. You must open the letter. Then you can begin the reading.”

  Sal smiled. Nabu had always been able to make him smile; despite the gravity of the letter, he felt a touch better.

  “The letter was written to me. What I want to know about is the seal. Do you recognize it?”

  Nabu took the letter and examined the seal, running a finger over the dragon as Sal had done. “My, it has been some years,” Nabu said with a smile. “You do not know what this thing is?”

  “Looks like a dragon to me.”

  “Oh, a dragon, yes? How observant this one is.” Nabu thrust the letter up in the air as though brandishing a sword. “You are telling me you do not know this seal?”

  Sal shook his head.

  “Bah!” Nabu said in disgust. “This is the problem with those your age. No respect for history, no knowledge of what came before them. Willfully ignorant, no?”

  Sal shrugged. “It was a letter from my mother, the last one she left me.”

  Nabu’s expression flipped from playfully irritated to regretful in the blink of an eye. He lowered the letter and handed it back to Sal.

  “Your mother?”

  Sal nodded.

  “Apologies, my boy.”

  Sal smiled sadly. “No harm done. Now, about that seal.”

  “Ah, the dragon, yes, I know this mark. It was well-known in this very city not so long ago.”

  “And what does it mean?”

  Nabu shrugged. “To this thing, I could not say. I do not know how she would have gotten access to this thing. As to whom the seal belongs, I can tell you he was one of great import.”

  Sal cleared his throat. Well, out with it, old man.”

  “Do you know of this man: Valerian Zervos?”

  “The name’s familiar—I think.”

  “It had ought to be. It comes from the tongue of the First Empire. Valerian in the old tongue means ruler. Zervos, a derivative of Zevo, a word meaning none. Zervos, roughly translated, would then mean, of none—Valerian Zervos—ruler of none.”

  Sal realized he had been staring at Nabu open-mouthed, eating up every word. “Who is he?”

  “He was the High Councilor to your duke, Duke Tadej and to his father before him, Duke Gadrej.”

  “The High Councilor? I think—I think I remember something about him. He was banished by the duke, wasn’t he? Years back, I was young, but I think I remember when it happened.”

  Nabu nodded. “This thing is true. A wizard they called him,
it was said he knew the old magics. Arts thought dead for hundreds upon thousands of years, but your Duke Tadej, he cast Valerian Zervos out of his kingdom not for what he did, but for what he could not do.”

  “The man was a fraud?”

  “To this, I could not say.” Nabu shrugged. “The story goes, a demand was made that Valerian Zervos could not, or would not perform.”

  “A demand? What sort of demand?”

  “Duke Tadej, who was then called prince, demanded of Zervos that he prevent a thing, a thing long past preventing. Valerian Zervos was commanded to save the life of Duke Gadrej, a man who was by then past saving. When Zervos failed to do this thing, it was the new duke, Duke Tadej, who had Valerian Zervos removed from his position and banished from the city.”

  “That seems a touch unjust,” Sal said. “If nothing could have saved the old duke, why should Tadej blame Zervos?”

  “A good question, but one might also ask, what else could the new duke have done? There was no other path to walk.”

  “But it wasn’t the fault of Valerian Zervos that Duke Gadrej died, was it?”

  “No? You think not? Whose fault then was this thing?”

  Sal shook his head. “How should I know?”

  Nabu turned his palms upright and smiled innocently.

  “Look, none of this explains what I came here for. If you’re telling me this dragon is the sigil of some old banished wizard, what is it doing on my mother’s letter?”

  Nabu shrugged his big round shoulders. “This, I do not know. It could be your mother knew the man.”

  Sal took a moment to consider that. It would have made sense. They had been living at the High Keep when Duke Gadrej was still alive. Sal had been far too young to remember, a babe in arms, but it was certainly possible that his mother had known the man.

  “Valerian Zervos, does anyone know where he is?”

  Nabu shrugged. “Someone may, but not I.”

  Sal sighed. “Well, I suppose it’s a lost cause anyhow.”

  Nabu frowned. “You might open this letter.”

  Sal shook his head, took the folded parchment back from Nabu, and slipped it back into his jerkin pocket.

  “Your uncle, he’s been asking of you.”

  “My uncle?” Sal said with a smirk. “My uncle wouldn’t come all the way down here asking after little old me.”

  Nabu gave him a sad smile. “No, it was his serving-man; this is true. But I wager he does care for you. And his man has been asking after you. It might be that you should pay him a visit when you've done here.”

  Sal forced a laugh. “Nabu, that might be the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

  6

  Summoned

  Black storm clouds moved in from the south, pouring rain in sheets. Flashes of lightning and cracks of thunder swiftly followed. The air tasted humid, as the day was warm, despite the rain.

  As Sal stepped out onto Penny Row, he heard another noise, a loud clamorous rumble, entirely apart from the thunder, it was the clatter of hooves and wagon wheels trundling across the wet cobblestones.

  “Ho, Salvatori Lorenzo,” called a voice from behind Sal

  He turned to see a pair of horses, a carriage in tow. The driver, a little brown man with a head like a spotted egg, pulled the carriage nearer Sal. Seated beside the little manservant was a familiar round-faced boy, Nabu’s nephew.

  The boy gave Sal a guilty look as the horses and carriage came to a halt. He stood, thanked Greggings for the ride and dismounted from the bench.

  “Young sir,” Sal said, with the tilt of his chin as the boy passed him and headed for the door of the pawnshop. Sal shook his head and smirked back at the man upon the carriage. “Greggings.”

  “Gooday, Master Salvatori,” said the manservant. “Your uncle requests your presence.”

  Sal gritted his teeth, irked that his location had been ratted out to his uncle, by Nabu Akkad of all people. “Honestly, Greggings, I’d rather we did this another day, no, that’s not right. No, Greggings, tell my uncle I’d rather not do this at all. Not until I’ve had some time to sort things out.”

  The manservant shook his head. "I do understand the sentiment, but I take my orders from your uncle, and he has requested your presence."

  Sal cursed under his breath. It had already been a painfully long day—a painfully, painful day. It was hard to believe he’d heard the bells toll just that morning to announce the death of Prince Matej. He’d been bagged-up and dragged before Don Moretti, and after that beating, had only forgone sleep, in order to sate his curiosity over a question that had niggled at him for years.

  Sal shook his head. “Tell my uncle you couldn’t find me. Tell him you looked, but you’ll needs go out on the morrow.”

  “I could never betray your uncle’s trust, no matter how small the lie.”

  “Oh, Greggings, you’re a good man, and I know you mean well, but go and bugger yourself will you.”

  The manservant shook his spotted head once more. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do it. Besides, there was a witness. He could testify against my words. Will you assure me of the boy's silence? To what lengths would you go to make certain that boy never speaks of what he knows?”

  Sal sighed. “Well, bugger me then.”

  Greggings simply matched Sal's glare with the calm, collected look of an experienced professional. “Step inside so that we might be going.”

  Sal shook his head. “You ride inside and get out of this wet,” he said, climbing up onto the bench and taking the reins from the old manservant’s hands. “I’ll drive.”

  “Well, bugger me then,” Greggings said with a mocking smile, as he climbed down from the driver’s bench and stepped inside the carriage.

  Greggings knocked when he was set, and Sal flicked the reins starting the horses into motion. He drove them at a canter, squinting through the rain, eastbound on Penny Row until Cut-jack's Way and then it was on to Beggar's Lane. There was something wonderful about driving the carriage, as it was something Sal rarely experienced. Despite the cold, the rain, and the perpetual state of pain in which he found himself, there was a nostalgic feeling to sitting atop the driver’s bench, the reins in his hands.

  As a boy, he had often sat next to Greggings upon the bench, while his mother, sister, and uncle had ridden within the carriage proper. Greggings had shown him how to handle the horses, how to turn corners and signal his commands with the smallest twitch of the reins. It was one of his fondest memories of his youth, and to recall it put a smile on his face.

  Sal decided to cross the Tamber at the Bridge of the Lady, slowing the horses to a trot before they passed beneath the archway of the bridge tower façade. Foot traffic moved aside as he drove the carriage center bridge, chuckling to himself all the while. Strange how much more fun it was to be the one driving the horses, rather than the one who was dodging them.

  It was a short ride up the Kingsway before he made a hard turn, bound south and east, passed East Market and drove out of the city proper, slowing again only when he reached the estate of Stefano Lorenzo.

  Greggings got out to open the gate, and after they’d gone the length of the drive, Sal dismounted while Greggings took the horses and carriage off to the stable to be dressed down and fed.

  Sal didn’t bother with the falcon head knocker, as Greggings was more likely to answer from the stables than his uncle was to stir himself from wherever he was seated. So, instead of knock, Sal opened the door and entered.

  He had always thought the pale lavender tile a bit ostentatious. His uncle had had it shipped in from Miniia—at seven krom a tile—an arm and a leg for a room this size. The grand staircase was another matter. The hand-carved railing and elaborately patterned stair runners were pleasingly ornate, with meticulously carved reliefs depicting scenes of fat, gilded cherubim, and seductive forest nymphs.

  When Sal reached the top of the stairs, he turned toward the hall and came face to face with a pair of men. A middle-aged man with a pinched face an
d a patch of gray stubble on his chin. The other looked nearly identical to the older man, apart from his big ears that jutted out like an ape’s, his black hair color, and his sad little wisp of a mustache.

  Sal tilted his head in acknowledgment of the men. He thought he knew them, somehow.

  The middle-aged man wrinkled his nose and stared right through Sal. He looked quite familiar; Sal had met him before, some lord or another, someone on the Open Council, if Sal wasn’t mistaken. The younger man was undoubtedly his son, Sal couldn’t recall his name either, but he looked to be an insufferable prat, never lowering his nose enough to look Sal square in the eyes.

  Lord and lordling both, walked directly past Sal, as though he were nothing more than another part of the décor.

  Sal shook his head, moved down the hall and through the third door on the right. The flickering light of candles cast shadows throughout the solar, the usually brilliant light afforded by the wall of bay windows now darkened by the storm-wracked sky.

  Stefano Lorenzo was seated in his usual highbacked armchair, reading lenses resting on the bridge of his nose, his legs crossed, a book in his lap. Stefano didn’t deign to look up when Sal entered but kept his attention on his reading material.

  Beside him was a plate; on it a wedge of cheese, and a small knife, a few grapes, and a shred of pickled beef.

  Sal didn’t take the seat beside his uncle; instead he approached head-on, took the wedge of cheese from his uncle's plate, and faced his uncle.

  “What is it you want, Uncle? I haven’t all day.”

  Stefano shut his eyes, closed his book, took a deep breath through his nose, and removed his reading lenses. He laid his book on the table beside the plate, then looked up at Sal, slowly, his eyes narrowed to thin slits.

  “Am I interrupting something?” Sal asked.

  “You’re wet, and dripping in my solar.”

  “I’m bleeding as well, Uncle, or hadn’t you noticed? Should I just leave and save you the scolding?”

  “You are inordinately irritating today,” Stefano said, sitting up and placing his hands behind his head, his fingers interlocking.