by Randy Nargi
“Ah, the poacher… we meet at last,” she said. “Take him!”
As her men moved in, the assassin jumped up on the stone banister to escape. He vaulted up and then caught himself on the cornice which ran between the first and second story. Without stopping, he swung his body up—
But then something wrapped around his leg like a tentacle and yanked him off the wall. It was a whip—wielded by the woman in the long coat.
The assassin landed hard, but still, he tried to scramble to his feet. Three of the armed men fell on him with truncheons, battering him unconscious.
“Take him to the well. Make him reveal the location of his hoard. Then dump the body.”
“Yes, m’lady.”
Two of the men dragged the assassin’s body away. The woman strode up the stairs until she was a few feet from Bander. Her skin was pale and smooth like marble and her ice blue eyes glittered in the lantern light. She was maybe twenty years younger than him, though her voice made her seem older.
She regarded Bander with curiosity. “You’re the one who’s been causing trouble with my boys tonight.”
Bander stood up straight. “They started it.”
She ignored his reply. “And you’re injured.”
“I’m just trying to get to Fyfe’s Gate.”
She laughed. It was deep and throaty, but it didn’t make Bander feel any better. In fact, he was starting to think he would have been better off facing the assassin.
“You don’t look like a smuggler. Who are you?” she asked. “And don’t lie. We deal with liars the same way we deal with poachers.”
“My name is Bander. I used to be in the Imperial guard. Now I’m not.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re the Imperial Investigator?”
"Not anymore."
“You knew my uncle, then.”
“Who’s your uncle?”
“Gellar.”
Now it was his turn to be surprised. “Your uncle’s the Hawk?”
That was the nickname of the leader of the Clubfoots. Bander had met with the man several times in the course of various investigations.
He asked, “How is he?”
"The Hawk doesn't fly anymore."
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“And I recall that you were also the man who helped clear Dalo Kent’s name.”
“That’s an old story. Dalo Kent was worthless scum. But he had nothing to do with Per Walding. And I wasn’t about to let the real kidnappers go free.”
“That worthless scum is my father.”
Bander was silent for a few moments. This was getting worse and worse.
Finally, he said, "That doesn't change anything. He's still—"
The woman cut him off. “Actually, it does change things. It changes your fate.”
She turned abruptly, and commanded one of her men to bind Bander’s wounds and bring him to someplace called ’The Nest.’
“Don’t let him die,” she said.
Chapter Ten
“YOU HEARD THE SPEECH?” BRYN ERESTHAR ASKED HIRBO THRANG. He had just returned to his quarters after addressing a large crowd in the Kingsway. It was the second time in less than a week that Bryn Eresthar had the occasion to speak directly to the citizens of Laketon. Tonight he tried to calm the populace in the wake of the attack on Kreed’s Keep.
“I heard every word,” Hirbo Thrang said. The mage was still dressed as an Imperial guardian knight.
“And?”
“And I think you told the people too much.”
“Too much?”
“Yes, too much. I felt the fear shudder through the crowd even from my perch up on the roof.”
Bryn Eresthar looked down at his feet. Hirbo Thrang was probably right. He was not a natural politician. He wasn’t skilled enough at keeping the truth behind closed doors. Especially when was looking his people in their eyes.
“I told them what I thought they deserved to know.”
“No matter. What’s done is done,” Hirbo Thrang said. “What now? We have less than twelve hours before your meeting in Rundlun.”
“Don’t you ever sleep?”
“Not really. We should find Bander. He will need to know about the troop movements and Asryn’s latest machinations.”
Bryn Eresthar said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he knows all that already. The man has an uncanny ability of being two steps ahead of the rest of us.”
“Yeah. Just like a bull who has broken free from his pen.”
Bryn Eresthar walked over to the window. Looked out into the night. The moon was out, but the fog and clouds made it look blurry. He turned back to Hirbo Thrang. “I need to find my sister.”
“I have been searching for her.”
Bryn Eresthar looked at his friend with surprise.
The mage continued, “While you were in prison, during your trial. I went to Felg Hollow. I went to Port Othan, Pitham’s Cross. I looked up and down the Shore Way.”
“What if she didn’t want to be found?” Bryn Eresthar asked. “Keryana is quite resourceful.”
“Yes, but wouldn’t she know you would be worried? Wouldn’t she try to contact you?”
“Yes—unless it was too dangerous.” He stepped away from the window. “I think she is still in Aberhall. I think she never left.”
“But why?”
“The same reason she was in Waterside for all those years.”
Keryana was a spy. His spy to be specific. But it had been her idea, and nothing he could say or do would dissuade her. She became obsessed with her calling. So much so, that—to his horror—she blinded herself. She believed that it would make her less suspicious. Her action caused a rift between the two of them that lasted over a year. Finally, Bryn Eresthar reconciled with his sister and accepted that she believed this to be her life’s work.
In Waterside Keryana took over a brothel, the Nightwing House, and became its madame. She initiated an affair with Rolo Caldward, Asryn’s Magister of the Axe. And over the years, she fed back a lot of valuable information.
“You think she’s still trying to spy on Asryn?” Hirbo Thrang asked.
“Let’s find out.”
They quickly gathered some supplies and changed their clothes so they would appear to be traveling merchants. Then Hirbo Thrang opened a portal. They walked through and appeared in a meadow near the Shore Way. Fifteen minutes later, they were outside of the village.
Even though there were no city gates in Aberhall, Asryn had set up a perimeter of guards on patrol. Two men on foot arriving at a few hours before midnight would certainly arouse suspicion. Bryn Eresthar motioned to Hirbo Thrang to follow him and they circled around the village to the northwest, being careful to stay well beyond the guarded perimeter. They got as close as they could to where the guards were patrolling, and then Hirbo Thrang went into action. He cast an obscure spell, which caused the air in front of them to ripple and then seemingly freeze. It was a temporary illusion which created a lifelike recreation of an environment: like an immense painting that was difficult to distinguish from reality.
The spell only lasted seconds, but it was enough to conceal Bryn Eresthar and Hirbo Thrang’s movements from the view of the patrol. Soon the two men were skulking through the back alleys of Aberhall.
“You know where you’re going?” asked Hirbo Thrang in a quiet voice.
“I do, but let us observe activity on the high street. There may be a curfew and we will have to be as vigilant within the city limits as outside.”
Bryn Eresthar and Hirbo Thrang waited for several minutes in an alley with a view of the Shore Way, which was the largest street in the village. They soon discovered that if there was a curfew, it must not be in effect yet. Either that or everyone was ignoring it. People were wandering between the two main inns and the handful of public houses that served the village. Judging from their clothes, most of the passersby were either government officials or soldiers. Supposedly nearly a thousand men and women had been brought in from
all over the province to rebuild Waterside's government—effectively doubling Aberhall's population over the past month and a half.
“So can you sense her?” Hirbo Thrang asked.
The mage was one of the few people outside of Bryn Eresthar’s family who knew about the unusual ability shared by Bryn Eresthar and his sister. It wasn’t magic; it was more like a sixth sense that gave Bryn Eresthar a bit of an edge in battle—or at gambling. It also allowed him and Keryana to detect each other’s presence and communicate without words.
Bryn Eresthar cleared his thoughts, took a deep breath, and reached out. He pushed his mind into the place where he could sometimes find Keryana’s presence. But right now there was nothing there. It was just a void.
“No,” Bryn Eresthar said. “That would be too easy. Things are never that easy for me.”
“Stop your whining and let’s go then. Someone here had to have noticed a blind woman and a young man coming through town.”
“Over a month ago…”
“You stay here then,” Hirbo Thrang said. “Let me do some quick looking around.”
“No, we both should look. We only have a few hours before we need to return to Laketon.”
“You don’t think you will be recognized?”
“Not dressed like this.” He flipped up the hood of his cloak, hiding his face in shadow.
“Very well, but let’s stay together.”
“So you can blast someone if we get in trouble?”
“Exactly.”
They ventured out on the Shore Way and headed towards the river which bisected the village. Towards the center of town were the two main inns, facing each other on either side of the road. Bryn Eresthar strode purposefully to the closer inn: The Gerlach. But as they drew closer, Hirbo Thrang stopped him.
“This isn’t an inn anymore.” The mage motioned to the front door of the inn, where a sentry stood guard. “At least it’s not like any inn I’ve ever seen.”
Bryn Eresthar nodded. “It looks like Asryn has taken it over.” That made sense. His staff and workers would need offices and living quarters. Why not commandeer an inn?
They crossed the Shore Way to the second inn, whose sign identified it as “The Delhaven Inn.” It too was guarded, though the guard looked as if he might have been asleep. They observed the front door for a time and noted who went in and out.
“Definitely not travelers,” Hirbo Thrang said.
“Let’s keep going,” Bryn Eresthar said. “Maybe we can find a tavern or a pub or some corner of this village that is not filled with Asryn’s staff.”
It turned out that there was no such place. Every second person they saw was either working for Asryn’s government or doing business with it. But in a ramshackle alehouse across the river, they discovered a promising lead.
After generously tipping the barkeep, they learned of the existence of a brothel that had sprung up just about four weeks ago in one of the drying houses at the edge of town. The garrulous barkeep explained that Lord Governor Asryn’s occupation of the village had essentially shut down its main employer: The Plach Dyeworks. Most everyone who worked at the dyeworks was hired away to support the influx of government personnel. Now, for all intents and purposes, Plach was closed and so many of the buildings housing the sorting tables, extraction presses, vats, drying racks, and all the other equipment and dyestuffs stood quiet, awaiting the day when Asryn and his people would depart. But for now, and probably for the next year or so, the town’s biggest industry lay quiet and the Empire’s wealthy would have to do without their brightly-colored clothing.
There were three drying houses set along Munnary Green on the south end of town. They were tall brick buildings with distinctive conical roofs. According to the barkeep, one of the three needed its kiln replaced and so it had been closed for repairs before the attack on Waterside. A young woman from down south with gold and connections had persuaded Paneon Grigg to lease one of the drying houses to her. And so the Red Tower brothel had come to be.
Once they had heard this story, Bryn Eresthar and Hirbo Thrang thanked their host and made their way to Munnary Green, a street which led into the Plach Dyeworks complex. Just as the barkeep had described, there were three multi-story drying houses. Two were dark and the third was illuminated by red lanterns.
“I’ll go in,” Hirbo Thrang said. “You don’t want to be recognized in there of all places.”
Bryn Eresthar nodded his assent. “Just be quick.” He slipped back into the shadows to wait. Not far away was another small pub and there were a few men who wandered between the two establishments. A pair of loud soldiers lurched out of the Red Tower, laughing and bragging, and ambled in the direction of the pub.
Bryn Eresthar rubbed his temples. A headache was coming on. Maybe it had something to do with trying to sense Keryana. Clearly, she wasn't here, but this establishment very well could be her handiwork. She had set up the Nightwing House in Waterside in just a few months, and this was much less involved. She probably just brought in some beds and hung some curtains.
Or what if she wasn’t here in Aberhall at all? What if she had traveled to Port Othan—or even Wayfield instead?
The barkeep described the woman who started the brothel as young and with a southern accent. Keryana was in her fifth decade. 41 years old to be exact. She was still beautiful, but no one would mistake her for a young woman. Keryana was born in Laketon, and if she had an accent at all, it would be thought of as northern, not southern. Finally, no one would ever describe his sister in any way without mentioning the fact that she was blind. It just wouldn’t happen.
Bryn Eresthar felt his mind spinning out of control. Normally he considered himself a very level-headed person, but he was getting overwhelmed. He loved his sister dearly and wanted to find her, but he was not suited for this at all. He needed Jaden. Or even better, someone like Jaden but who was much more responsible and trustworthy.
“Nice night, brother.”
The voice came from behind him. Suddenly.
Bryn Eresthar spun, his hand already at the knife at his belt. In front of him was a short man with a big nose and a bigger grin. The moonlight glistened off the man’s teeth, which looked almost as big as a horse’s teeth.
“Step back.”
The man lifted his hands. “I mean you no harm, good sir. I was just wondering why you were out here in the cold, instead of in there with some warm bodies.”
Bryn Eresthar saw no benefit in antagonizing the stranger. “I’m waiting for a friend,” he said.
“There are plenty of friends within.” The man smiled and motioned towards the door.
“Not that sort of friend. My traveling companion. He is within.”
“Ah, I think I understand. Your friend appreciates the company of fine woman, and you do not?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“To each his own, I say. We’re still a small village and so our menu, so to speak, is a bit limited. But in time, I hope we can accommodate the assorted desires of all good folks such as yourself.”
“You misunderstand me, friend—”
“So now we are friends? Very good. In that case, shall we not introduce ourselves? I am Rorig Vivare, born and bred right here in Aberhall. And you are…?”
“The name is Aylan of Wayfield. Here to speak to someone about when we might expect the Dyeworks to start shipping again.”
The smiling man shook his head. “You may have a long wait, Master Aylan. A long wait indeed. We’re all working for the Lord Governor now.”
“So I gathered. Still, my lord’s woolen mills require dye and Plach makes the most vibrant colors. And so we were dispatched to learn firsthand when we might expect shipments to resume.”
“You can try speaking with Paneon Grigg, but I doubt you will get the answers you seek.”
“You may be right.” Bryn Eresthar shifted his weight and motioned over at the brothel. “So, this is a new establishment here in town. It wasn’t here when I came
through last year.”
“Indeed. A whole new industry for Aberhall. Imagine that.”
“And how did that come about?” Bryn Eresthar asked.
“Supply and demand, my good man. Surely, you are familiar with the concept.”
“I am. But if you are referring to the demand for women of the night, hasn’t that always existed?”
“Yes, of course, friend Aylan. The demand isn’t what’s new. The supply is.”
“I don’t follow you, sir.”
"All the women in town, young and old, had been employed by the Dyeworks, you see? We had no available laborers free to pursue other employment if you get my meaning."
“So not only is the closure of the Dyeworks depriving our yarn of color, it is spawning an epidemic of harlotry here in Aberhall.”
“Ha! An ’epidemic of harlotry.’ I like that. Mind if I quote you?”
“By all means, Rorig Vivare. But tell me, is the Red Tower your enterprise?”
The man laughed and Bryn Eresthar could have sworn that Rorig Vivare’s mouth grew even larger.
“No, no, no. I am merely the tout.”
“The what?”
“The tout. Promoter. Barker. Surely you have touts in Wayfield.”
“I imagine we do,” Bryn Eresthar said. “I just didn’t know that the profession had a name.”
“Yes indeed. My job is to round up the lurkers and bystanders, the wobblers and the waverers, the dubious and the shilly-shalliers—”
“I get the idea.”
“Do you really, Aylan of Wayfield?”
Bryn Eresthar ran his hands through his close-cropped hair. This man was becoming tedious. “Yes, I certainly understand what you are up to.”
“Then why do you continue to make my life miserable, my friend? Just go within. Step up the stairs. Galicia will greet you, serve you a goblet of Lacredes. Then she’ll help you select one of our girls—”
