“You have an impressive collection.” Rogan nodded as his head continued to swivel around the room. “I presume this is all contraband?”
Cyril shrugged. “They are items of interest to me. But enough of that, what is it you came to see me for?”
“I was hoping you could get us the use of a ship.”
“That is easy enough,” Cyril said, tucking his upper lip beneath his lower. “Where is it you wish to go?”
“Not far at all, just down the River Chelhos.” Rogan decided to play coy as long as he could.
“Well, then I do not think you need me, my friend. There are a number of downstream ships taking on passengers every day.”
Rogan leaned closer himself, mimicking Cyril. “Ah, but we need a ship for a hundred men,” he whispered, then sank back in his chair. “And their horses,” he added. “And the whole process needs to be handled beyond sight of the authorities.”
Cyril sank back as well. “I see. Yes, that is more of a problem.”
Rogan shrugged. “That is why I came to you.” He gestured to the contents of the room. “I know you have a way of… getting around problems.”
“Mmmm,” Cyril hummed as he thought. “That would take a galleon – too big. I would have to split you into two ships. When would you need them?”
“We would depart at midnight, a full day before Mating Day,” Rogan answered.
“That would at least give me a few weeks…” the viscount seemed to be speaking to himself. His attention suddenly snapped back to his guests. “Where are you going with an army, Rogan?” He looked at Saffron, “Who are you really, Lady?”
“This has naught to do with her,” Rogan cut in. “She has other motives, which we will get to shortly. Let us talk price.” He drew a small sack from his belt and dropped it on the table. The sound of the gold coins clanking within drew Cyril’s focus back to the negotiations.
“Assuming I can return the ships to their owners in good order, I could do it for a thousand.”
“A thousand gold crowns! You have lost your wits, my friend.”
“How badly do you need these ships?” Cyril crossed his arms over his chest.
“Whether I need them badly or not, I cannot afford a thousand crowns. Are you looking to retire? Five hundred is all I can manage, and for that pretty sum, I will also need you to find housing for the men and horses as they arrive in Talon Barge.”
Cyril roared with laughter. “Oh, I see perfectly. Taking advantage of an old friend, is it?”
“You know very well it could have just as easily been you in that prison, Cladius.” Rogan’s tongue was suddenly sharp. “I, who lost everything, never said a word.”
Cyril clenched his jaw as he considered Baron Rogan’s plight. “You are going to Blackthorn, aren’t you? That is what this army is for – your revenge.”
Rogan kept his mouth shut and Saffron looked from one man’s face to the other, perhaps waiting to see who would burst open from the tension first. Finally, Cyril relieved the pressure with a long, heartful sigh.
“I wish taking a hundred men to battle would bring them back to you, I really do. All right, I will take your five hundred, but I also want whatever uril-chent is available, should you succeed in taking Blackthorn. Are we agreed?” Cyril stood and held out his hand.
After a second’s pause, Rogan clasped it and they shook. “Agreed.”
Not another second passed before Saffron spoke up. “There is a favor I would ask of you as well, Viscount Cyril.” Both men turned their heads and looked down, having forgotten for a moment Saffron was still present.
“What would that be, my Lady?” Cyril sat back down and took the opportunity to place his hand on Saffron’s knee.
She looked down at the unwelcome intruder, but restrained from forcibly removing it, forcing a smile instead. “I was hoping you could assist me by locating my sister. She and I were both taken as slaves when our caravan was attacked by the King-priest’s men several months ago. We were separated, and while I was later liberated, I have not seen her since.”
“An all-too-common tragedy under the current regime, I am afraid.” Cyril’s hand tightened on her knee. “How would one pick her out among all the other slaves, if they were to go looking?”
Saffron straightened her posture. “Her name is Dhania min-Furasi. Our features are similar, though she is three years younger. Her hair was a hand-length shorter than mine, and I have not cut it since we were separated. She is a shade shorter than I, unless she’s grown.”
Rogan took over, “She is a young, Begnari woman. Beautiful, from an educated family. I am sure she stood out to more than one lecherous eye. She would have commanded a heavy price, so you can start with wealthy slave-owners. She would have been taken in winter, during the slow season, so the records should be lighter.”
Cyril removed his hand and stood. “I would be honored to look into the matter for you.” He winked at Saffron. “Now, it is after curfew, so you shall stay here for the night. There are living quarters downstairs, beneath the shop, and I keep several spare rooms. Please, accept my hospitality.”
Rogan stood as well, putting his hand on Saffron’s back to guide her toward the stairs. “That is very kind of you, and we are more than happy to take advantage.”
“I will get started right away trying to find your sister, Lady Saffron min-Furasi.” Cyril gave what Rogan interpreted as a reassuring smile.
“What about the curfew?” Saffron asked as she reached the door.
Rogan answered for him. “Our friend Cyril is the sort of man for whom the curfew does not present a problem.”
Cyril laughed as he closed and locked the door behind them. “Well put, Baron, well put.”
Chapter 16
Only as Good
as the Armor
R ogan stayed in bed for a solid hour after waking, luxuriating in the feel of a proper bed. He could not remember the last night he had slept on anything so soft. Moments like this, he dearly missed his life as the Baron of Thispany. He was waiting to hear back from Cyril, and would likely spend the next few days bored, until the Order of the Rising Moon began arriving at the Silver Trumpet.
Staring at the ceiling, brushing his hands over the cool sheets, he could envision the other alternative quite clearly – the King-priest’s soldiers bursting in to arrest him. It would only take one question asked to the wrong individual, one secret action witnessed, or one unaccounted-for motive for the entire mission to go horribly wrong. Between managing his old acquaintances, Saffron’s zealotry toward rescuing her sister, and the Order’s penchant for honesty, enough variables existed beyond his control to keep him nervous. Rogan felt the pressure bearing down on him like the walls of his old cell in Blackthorn.
Yet for the moment he had a soft bed, a roof over his head, and access to good food. He would try to enjoy the illusion of peace while he could. Eventually, he heard footsteps pass his room and start up the stairs, and decided it was time to rise. It would be unwise to let Saffron stumble into trouble on her own.
After dressing, he found her perusing the shop on the main floor. Other customers browsed as well, but Cyril was nowhere to be seen. A woman he did not recognize was minding the store, so Rogan lured Saffron back downstairs to join him for a late breakfast in the kitchen. He was hungry, but his primary concern was reiterating the importance of limiting their exposure to the untrustworthy inhabitants of Talon Barge.
“I was not going to leave the Trumpet,” Saffron reassured him. “Not until you woke up, at least.”
Rogan shut his eyes and sighed, before gazing directly at her. “I know we walked about freely yesterday, but now others are acting on our behalf, possibly stirring up unwanted interest. We simply cannot risk drawing attention and having someone follow us back here. Not until we know more from Cyril, at least. There is too much at stake now.”
“Fine! But you do not have to explain it like I am a child.” Saffron snapped off a bite of her toast, staring Rogan down.
She chewed thoroughly before swallowing. “Cyril had better show up soon.”
Rogan endured uneasy silence for the better part of an hour before their host finally materialized, and was mildly surprised to find him vibrant and wearing different clothes than the previous evening. He had assumed his contact spent the entire night out, gathering information and making arrangements. “Welcome home,” Rogan said, stifling his incredulity. “You certainly have some skip in your step.”
“I always possess verve on such spectacular mornings. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and I stand to make an absolute fortune once I get a hold of that uril-chent ore.” Cyril embraced Rogan. “The King-priest has held a monopoly on the stuff since it was discovered. You cannot imagine what one crate would sell for at auction.”
He kissed Saffron’s cheek, drawing a flinch, and handed her a wildflower with yellow petals. “I have good news for you as well, Lady.” Cyril cocked his head sideways and corrected himself. “That is, of course, depending on how you weigh the first part against the second.”
Saffron grabbed ahold of his vest with both hands, appearing ready to shake the information out of him, “What is it?”
“The first part is – it seems terribly likely your sister is nearby. My man remembers a Begnari girl being brought in to the slave markets around the time you described. Ebon Khorel apparently thought highly of her appearance, and decided to keep her in his own harem. Perusal of the records indeed fails to show a sale was ever made.” Cyril swallowed hard and Saffron released his vest.
“What does that mean?” She looked from Cyril to Rogan, waiting for an answer. “Where is she?”
The viscount took a step backward before explaining further. “It means your sister is probably still a part of the King-priest’s personal stable of slaves. It is doubtful she was sent all the way to Lucnere, so she most likely resides at his palace of Hope’s End. It is on an island, merely half a mile south of Talon Barge, in the middle of the River Chelhos.”
Rogan’s chin sank to his chest. He knew Saffron’s mind.
“I am going after her. Rogan, we have to go after her.”
He could not look her in the eye, though he felt hers on him. He shook his head, still not meeting her gaze, knowing how tenuously balanced their efforts toward the liberation of Blackthorn were – and how hard it would be to tell her “no.” Breaking into the King-priest’s palace was an invitation to disaster. “Saffron, I know how much she means to you.”
“Do you?”
His head snapped up.
Saffron’s voice quivered as she spoke. “I am the reason Dhania was even on that caravan. I told our parents I would look after her. Can you imagine what she has been going through, every day, since she was taken?”
Rogan’s mind flashed back to the night he was arrested. Once again he was in his manor house, being forced to watch as his wife was bent over the table. He shook away the memory, and could barely find his voice. “I know.”
Tears streaked down Saffron’s face as the guilt surfaced. Rogan also knew what that felt like. She wiped her cheek and took a moment to compose herself. Rogan could see her deciding what to say next, and realized that even if it meant burning the world down, he could not stand in her way. He had mused in prior weeks that Sir Golddrake’s code was his weakness – now he realized Saffron was his.
“Rogan, I am rescuing my sister, no matter what. I know it would be easier if you were with me, but I will not ask that of you. I do not wish to jeopardize your mission to help the Aasimar, but Dhania needs me, so I am going.”
He could not stop her, so how could he refuse to help her, since abandoning Saffron would certainly lead to her capture? The three of them stood silently in the kitchen for what seemed like a hundred heartbeats. Saffron was waiting for Rogan to say something, and Cyril apparently dared not move a muscle until he did.
“Viscount, I am going to need to borrow those fifty crowns I gave you last night.”
“Of course, Baron. I know you are good for it.” Cyril forced a smile.
“Lady Saffron, there will undoubtedly be fighting to do, so we are going to need armor, and I know just the man for the job. My friend,” he turned to Cyril, “I will need to know as much as possible about the palace’s protection before we leave.”
“Of course, I will have my man do some reconnaissance.”
Rogan and Saffron borrowed a pair of chestnut-brown cloaks from Cyril, donning them before departing. With hoods up, they took to the streets of Talon Barge once again, heading to the Arms Quarter. Rogan knew the area would be swarming with Chelpian forces, and more than one agent of the Blood Tear Brotherhood.
Control was the King-priest’s obsession. Nowhere was this more evident than the industries that fed his war efforts. Smithies, craftsmen, and engineers had been forced to work for Ebon Khorel; those who resisted were either shut down or arrested for treason. Of course this coercion bred resentment, and Rogan had found that wherever strong wills toiled, submission was never complete.
Early in his days as a resistance fighter, he had forged an alliance with a particular armorsmith. The only thing Natrone loved more than his work was the chance to see it used against the King-priest. He filled his orders as necessary to avoid the wrath of the Dread Tyrant’s mouthpiece, but he kept his best work for the rebellion. Natrone had a particular affinity for working with leather, and he had designed the armor Rogan normally wore. Unfortunately, he had not brought the suit on this trip, unable to justify the extra weight in his pack, or the chance of being recognized.
The Arms Quarter of the merchant district was heavily populated by soldiers, and more rigorously guarded than the rest of the district and the docks combined. Rogan knew they risked being stopped simply because they were not soldiers. He made sure, before they left, to put a few coins in a smaller pouch in case they were searched, or he needed to negotiate a quick bribe. He would have left Saffron behind, had the task not required her presence for measurement.
“It is absolutely imperative, Lady Saffron,” Rogan mentioned on the walk there, “for you to remain silent and take my lead during this outing, no matter how much discomfort it brings you. Are we agreed?” He received no response beyond a searing stare. “Excellent.”
A short iron gate marked the entrance to the Arms Quarter, and a guard stood at attention beside it. His spear looked sharp and his shield polished, but Rogan approached with confident strides.
“State your business, civilians.” The guard’s dour expression carried over to his intonation.
Rogan tried to match it. “We are inspectors for the Crown. His Majesty has demanded we look over a recently arrived batch of uril-chent to make sure of its quality.” Cyril had told him the King-priest sometimes used non-military alchemists for such things.
“I have not been made aware of any such business today.”
“That does not surprise me,” Rogan said. “We were only just told ourselves.”
“Why is she along?” The guard pointed at Saffron with his spear.
“Because she is the damned expert. Now, can we get to work?” Rogan hoped appearing to lose patience would assert his legitimacy, but his hand migrated toward the hilt of his dagger, just in case.
The guard snorted, “You can get to work when I say so,” but did not seem interested in raising further trouble. He returned his spear to its resting position. “Do not dally.”
Rogan nodded, but did not thank the man. He knew of guards who disappeared from one shift to the next at Blackthorn, the rumors suggesting they asked too many questions about the wrong person. One of the problems of being a tyrant, of course, is that fear cuts as a double-edged sword.
He held open the gate and waited for Saffron to pass through before slipping behind her. They took cobbled paths straight to Natrone’s workshop, keeping heads bowed to avoid inadvertent eye contact. The other soldiers left them alone, no doubt assuming they had been vetted. Rogan let out a grateful sigh once they stepped into Natrone’s
place and shut the door.
“The pieces will be ready when I said so, and not a day earlier,” a voice called from the other side of the room. The stone floor and walls gave the proper impression that this was a venue for warriors, owned by a hard man.
Shields made in a variety of shapes, sizes, and materials were mounted along the walls in display. Wooden stands on thumb-sized wheels littered the space, each bearing a frame-mounted suit of armor. The inventory created a maze of sorts, blocking the view from one end of the shop to the other. Rogan took Saffron’s hand and wove through the impressive collection of protective wear, much of which he could identify as masterpieces. When they had nearly reached the back, Rogan spotted Natrone – he sat before a piece in progress, patiently stitching a stretch of boiled leather onto a more supple backing. He looked sideways at them, but could not recognize a face behind the hoods, and returned his eyes to his work.
“I am not sure what you are here for, but I am working as fast as I reasonably can.”
Rogan pulled back his hood. “Might I convince you to work on two things at once, then?”
Natrone looked up at the sound of his voice. “Well, I’ll be a thrice-skinned cat.” He glanced about his shop as if expecting mischievious rauggin to be eavesdropping from the shadows. “What in the Nine Hells are you doing here, Baron?”
“It’s probably better if you don’t know, but I am in a bind and we need some armor.”
“We? You mean this wispy lad needs some, too?”
Saffron drew back her hood and crossed her arms over her chest.
“I loved the last set you made for me.” Rogan wanted to butter his bread without overdoing it. “Might you have more of that design? I have gold.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so first?” Natrone stood, causing Saffron to take a step back. He was a giant of a man, barrel-chested and a full head taller than Rogan. “There is a line of suits I have been working on off the ledger. Unique stuff, like what I made you – only better. I’ve made some modifications to increase their strength and flexibility, but would never see it on the Brotherhood. Come, take a look for yourself.”
Shiver the Moon Page 23