by Terry Brooks
She was looking away again, her face unreadable. He was losing her. He decided to take a chance. “Listen to me. We have to stop talking about this, at least for now. I need you to help me with Orsis Guild. I need you if I’m to do what I came here for. Can you put this other business aside until that’s done? I have a plan for tonight, but it needs you to make it work.”
Her eyes found his and he saw her sudden interest. “What sort of plan? Tell me.”
So with patience and encouragement, he did.
—
It was twilight and rapidly turning full dark when the boy appeared at the front door of the inn. Drisker and Tarsha were in their room when word was brought. The boy was asking for the Druid, waiting downstairs for him.
Drisker was on his feet at once. “Are you ready?” he asked her.
Tarsha wasn’t sure. She was still upset over their earlier conversation, still troubled by her concerns over what was going to happen. It was all well and good for the Druid to reassure her she would not be sent home after revealing her fears about controlling her magic. But after she had served her purpose and helped him find the men who had attacked him, what reassurance did she have that he wouldn’t change his mind? Warring with that particular problem was her displeasure with the plan he had concocted to get them inside Revelations. The only thing that kept her from refusing to participate was her belief that it would probably work.
She rose with him. “Yes, I’m ready.”
The boy was standing just outside the front door, a lean and ragged scrap of humanity, another bit of flotsam and jetsam washed up on the shores of the city. Immediately she disliked him. Maybe it was the way he looked, and maybe it was something she sensed about him, but it was there.
“You didn’t say you were bringing your daughter,” the boy announced, making a face.
“He didn’t say he was bringing his daughter because that’s not who I am!” she snapped at once.
The boy backed off a step, holding his hands up defensively. “All right, Miss Sharp Tongue. I didn’t mean anything by it. I didn’t realize it was like that.” He paused, giving her a sly smile. “Kind of young to be his bedmate, though, aren’t you?”
She almost flew at him, but Drisker stepped between them quickly. “She is my student. That’s all you need to know. Can we get going?”
She was still fuming as the boy led them through the city, choosing a route that had so many twists and turns she was lost almost instantly. If she had to find her way back alone, she was certain she couldn’t do it. Not that she wouldn’t be willing to try, if only to be rid of this obnoxious boy.
They continued on for what seemed an endless amount of time, following a series of winding streets that ran one into the next and never suggesting at any point what direction they were taking. The fall of darkness did nothing to stem the flow of foot traffic; the city of Varfleet was as vibrant and alive at nighttime as during the day. It had been difficult enough for her to follow them when it was light. It was much worse by lamplight, and she had to work very hard to stay close enough that she would not lose them entirely.
She managed it but barely. She grew steadily more convinced the boy was deliberately trying to lose her.
And then they were there, the bulky silhouette of Revelations looming ahead, cracks of interior light seeping through closed shutters, a pervasive sense of gloom and desolation hanging over everything. The boy took them to within fifty feet, keeping to the shadows, being careful not to do anything to expose them to whoever might be watching.
Beneath the awning of a shop across the way from the entrance, he brought them to a stop. “Close enough?” he asked.
Drisker bent to him, his voice soft. “I want you to stay right here. Keep out of sight. Don’t do anything to call attention to yourself. Wait for our return. It might be several hours. Can you do that?”
“I’m yours for the night, grandfather.” The boy glanced at Tarsha. “I don’t know about taking her in there. It isn’t a fit place for a young girl.”
“I can take care of myself,” she hissed at him, unable to keep the irritation from her voice.
He shrugged. “You probably have experiences I don’t know about.” His eyes shifted back to Drisker. “But be careful in there, grandfather. Bad things live in the shadows.”
Tarsha caught a glimpse of the Druid’s smile. “Then I’ll stay clear of them.”
He walked out from beneath the awning with Tarsha at his heels and started across the street. They wove their way through a steady flow of traffic and were almost run over by a cart that barreled through at a reckless rate before arriving on the far side unharmed, if much subdued.
Drisker turned to her. “Are you clear on what’s to happen? Any questions about anything we’re going to do?”
She shook her head. “Who is that boy? What’s his name?”
The Druid shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
“So if he abandons us, we have no way of ever finding him again?”
“I guess that’s so. But he won’t abandon us.”
“Your faith in street urchins is much greater than mine. I suppose you know them better than a country girl from the Westland, though.”
“You don’t much like him, do you?”
The question took her aback. “He’s all right. He’s just kind of cocky for someone who doesn’t have much.”
Drisker put a hand on her shoulder. “In the world of street urchins, Tarsha, you make use of what you can. Come.”
TWENTY-ONE
Drisker led her along the walkway fronting the Orsis building, taking advantage of the open space that everyone else studiously avoided. When they reached the front steps, they climbed to an entry within a sheltering alcove, and the Druid rapped sharply on the heavy wood of the closed doors. Minutes passed. Tarsha glanced back at the people in the streets, many of who were glancing at them with undisguised curiosity. In the pale glow of the streetlamps, she thought she could discern expressions of wariness and fear. She stared back boldly until they looked away, and then looked away herself.
The door opened. An old man with scars crisscrossing his face and eyes the color of mud was standing in front of them. He looked as if a strong wind might blow him away. “State your business.”
“We seek a meeting with Orsis Guild,” Drisker said quietly, sounding as if he were a man seeking discretion.
“Do you have need of their services?” The old man’s eyes were sharp with suspicion. “Or is this regarding favors from the pleasure house ladies?”
“We require the guild’s services. My daughter was…”
A gnarled hand lifted quickly. “The nature of your business is not my concern. Come in. Follow me. Have you weapons?”
Drisker shook his head. Tarsha indicated her long knife, belted beneath her cloak.
“Put it there,” the old man ordered, pointing at a table to one side. Tarsha did so. “If you hide others, it will go badly for you,” he added.
When neither responded, he beckoned. “This way.”
Hunching in the manner of one who has long been lame and learned to make the best of it, the old man led them down a series of hallways and past intersecting corridors and closed doors until they reached a set of stairs. From there they descended until they had arrived at a faintly lit corridor burrowing into the interior of the building. With a perfunctory gesture, their guide beckoned them forward. Tarsha looked around with a growing apprehension. Here the shadows were much more ominous and pervasive, as if the light from the scattering of lamps that dotted the corridor walls was an intrusion barely tolerated. Perhaps the boy had been right. It did feel as if bad things lived in the shadows—though, if so, they were hiding themselves well. She wondered what their purpose was. And how the boy knew they were there.
Wrapped in oppressive silence, they followed the old man through a warren of dank corridors and extended patches of deep gloom. The air was chilly and smelled of mold. At places, the floor and walls sh
owed damp stains and cracks. Tarsha tried hard to memorize their route, preparing herself for the possibility that they might need to find their way back alone. She was certain their present location was several levels beneath the streets of the city, but she was unsure of how many.
At the corridor’s end, a widening of the walls indicated something out of the ordinary waited ahead. Sure enough, huge double metal doors barred further passage, heavy and impenetrable. The old man moved to one side and rapped on a wooden panel set out from the stone of the wall. The sound echoed all around them.
A panel in the wall slid back and eyes appeared. “Clients,” the old man said, indicating his companions.
The eyes studied them for a moment, and then heavy locks were released and one of the two great doors swung open. A solitary guard, armed and armored, stood waiting. Heads bent close, voices kept low, the old man and the guard exchanged words Tarsha could not make out. Then the old man beckoned, and the Druid and the girl followed him inside.
It felt to Tarsha as if they had stepped into the jaws of a great metal beast. The walls, ceiling, and floor of the room were sheathed in iron plates. There were no windows or doors save the ones through which they had entered—although it was difficult to be sure, because the only light was from a pair of lamps bracketing the entry through which they had passed. Halfway across the room, a forest of iron bars warded a space so impenetrably dark it was impossible to see what lay beyond it. There appeared to be no one else in the room, yet Tarsha sensed immediately that others were present.
The old man retreated through the door and closed it behind him as he departed. “Stand where you are,” the guard ordered.
The pair waited. There was the softest rustle of movement in the gloom behind the bars, a whisper of fabric, a scraping against stone. Tarsha was tempted to summon magic that would ward her against whatever was about to happen, but Drisker had forbidden any conjuring except as a last resort. Using magic would reveal more about them than he wished known.
A bank of smokeless lights abruptly appeared in the gloom behind the bars. Three men sat at a table, cloaked and hooded. They wore masks of molded black leather, and they faced the Druid as if they had been carved from stone.
“Explain why you are here,” a voice ordered.
Tarsha took a moment to glance over at the guard next to her. He was a huge forbidding figure, cloaked and hooded like the men behind the bars but infinitely larger, with massive arms and a broad chest. She didn’t doubt for one minute that he could snap her neck without much effort. This wasn’t someone you wanted to cross when all your weapons had been taken away. Which is exactly what the assassins’ guild must have concluded when they hired him as their protector.
“We seek redress for a great wrong perpetrated against my daughter,” Drisker announced, indicating Tarsha. “A man—a Federation government official—to whom she was pledged in marriage took advantage of her and then canceled the wedding without cause. He left her with child and refuses to acknowledge his responsibility. He has kept her dowry. He is without honor. I seek to secure a contract on his life.”
For a moment, no one said anything. Then, from behind the barrier, the voice spoke again. “The cost will be high.”
Drisker made a dismissive motion. “No cost is too high. This man is an abomination and must be made to answer for what he has done. My daughter is defiled! I want him dead!”
He certainly sounded as if he did, Tarsha thought. The outraged father determined to avenge his wronged child. It generated an odd feeling in her. It almost made her wish it were true. That he really was her father and she his child. That he cared about her enough to actually feel as he pretended to these men. It caught her by surprise, unexpected and alarming. It was an eye-opening moment.
Then she shook it off, remembering her part. She tried hard to look pitiful in an effort to help convince the men, but false feeling didn’t come easily to her, and after a few moments she gave up trying. Instead, she settled for keeping her head down and her eyes demurely lowered.
“Let’s be sure we understand each other,” the voice behind the barrier said. He named an outrageous figure for payment, but Drisker only shrugged his indifference.
“Credits must be paid in advance,” the voice continued. “All of them.”
Drisker shrugged a second time. “That will require some assurances from you. Assurances that you will do what you claim you can do and that proof of your success will be provided. And I want those assurances to come personally from Tigueron.”
A long pause. “You will do as we tell you.” The voice was hard and uncompromising. “There will be no conditions. You do not require assurances.”
“Ah, but I do. I have it on rather good authority that you took a contract recently that you failed to carry out. That would suggest you might not be able to fulfill mine.”
The pause that followed was much longer. “We have never failed to carry out a contract! Orsis does not fail.”
“No?” the Druid said quietly. “Two words. Drisker Arc.”
Tarsha forced herself not to look at him. What was he doing? If he gave them away, they would never leave the room alive. He had explained to her the backstory he intended to use to persuade them of the legitimacy of his business, but he’d said nothing of this.
“Who are you?” the voice asked, and there was a dark, unpleasant undertone to it.
“I am a father who is concerned for his daughter. I am a man who is used to getting his way, and I intend to get it here. I will not allow you to bully me or lie to me. I will not pay you without assurances that you can actually do what you promise. You have a fine reputation, and a great record. You should be willing to stand behind it. Will you do so or not? If not, I can easily go elsewhere, although that would pain me. And do not think to harm me because of what I have said. The Prime Minister of the Federation is a personal friend, and he knows I am here.”
The men behind the barrier did not respond. Instead, they leaned close to one another and spoke in whispers. But Tarsha noticed something telling in their body language. The men to either side seemed to defer to the one in the middle. She glanced at Drisker and caught his barely perceptible nod of recognition. He saw it, too.
He bent close to her. “Can you disable the guard?”
She stared at him in disbelief. Now what was he planning? She took a moment to look over at the monster standing not six feet away, huge and imposing, his armor gleaming in the dim light and his weapons almost as big as she was. Was there any way of doing what Drisker asked? Could she render him unconscious fast enough to prevent him from getting to her?
“Yes,” she whispered in reply.
He nodded. “Do so when I give the word.”
Fresh movement from behind the barrier drew their attention.
“Drisker Arc is dead,” said the familiar voice. “Who said he wasn’t?”
The three men were looking out at them again. It was still impossible to tell who was speaking, but Tarsha had already decided the one in the middle was in charge. It would stand to reason that this was Tigueron.
Drisker, however, did not seem satisfied. “It doesn’t matter who told me. It matters that you may have failed to carry out a contract. I think we have played enough games, Tigueron. That is you, is it not? The old man who greeted us at the front door said you were here. Pretense and ceremony are fine for those who don’t know the workings of the guilds, but I am not one of those men. Give me the assurance I have asked for, and we can get on with this.”
The silence was deafening. Tarsha readied herself for whatever was going to happen next. The tension was so cold she shivered in spite of herself. The look and feel of this claustrophobic, prison-like room were deliberate. The materials from which it had been built suggested as much, whispering of unspeakable uses. It was much more than just a place for an interview with prospective clients. Some who entered never left.
She glanced around carefully and for the first time noticed the drain
s in the floor. Placed there to make cleaning up easier.
It took everything she had to keep from grabbing Drisker and pulling him away.
“Very well,” said the voice, a hint of anger and resignation in its tone. “I give you my word that what you pay for will be carried out.”
At once Drisker glanced at Tarsha and whispered, “Now.”
Without waiting for her response, he extended his hands, summoned his Druid magic, and blew out the barrier separating them from the three men. The iron bars tore from their brackets and slammed into the table and the men sitting behind it, and everything went flying backward into the wall behind.
Tarsha wheeled on the guard, her wishsong sounding a deep, mournful note. She was almost too slow; the giant was much quicker than she would have expected. His massive hands were inches from her face when the magic lifted him from his feet and hurled him away. He struck the wall to the right with stunning force and slumped down, unconscious.
Drisker was still attacking. A hand gesture sealed the door through which they had entered. Another sealed the door on the back wall that served the three unfortunates of Orsis Guild. He strode swiftly through smoke and debris and was on top of them in seconds. One was trying to rise, but the heavy barrier held him pinned in place. The Druid silenced him with a single blow. Another was not moving at all. Tigueron had worked himself free and was trying to reach the sealed door, his frantic movements betraying the terror his masked face could not.
Drisker reached out and yanked the fleeing man backward, holding him up as if he were a toy.
“Tigueron?” he hissed. “Are you in there?”
He yanked off the assassin leader’s mask, and as he did so Tigueron’s blades appeared as if by magic in his hands. Tarsha used the wishsong in two quick bursts—pinpoint strikes that sent the weapons flying, the hands that held them numbed. Drisker glanced at her and gave an approving nod. “A little careless of me.”
Then he shook Tigueron like a rag doll and threw him down. “Stay there,” he warned, pointing threateningly.
