by A. C. Cobble
“Don’t let him leave,” she hissed.
The cloaked man reached back under his cloak but, instead of another scepter, drew a steel khopesh. Light from the hearth and the flickering fires from the grenado gleamed along the weapon’s razor-sharp, sickle-shaped edge.
Around the figure, several thugs were entering the tavern through the shattered door. On the other side of the bar, Standish Taft’s screams abruptly stopped, but the noise did not. Disgustingly, Oliver could hear a sound which was frighteningly close to two starving dogs fighting over scraps thrown from the table.
Six men, dressed like commoners and holding short-swords, spread out around their leader.
“No witnesses,” hissed the masked man.
“Keep them off me,” instructed Sam, and she charged directly at the masked leader.
Cursing, Oliver ran after her.
The leader of the band rushed to meet Sam, his khopesh whistling through the dust-filled air as he swung it at her head.
She ducked, trying to dart forward with her sinuous daggers, but the figure kicked, connecting a boot with her shoulder and sending her spinning to the floor. She rolled, narrowly avoiding the sickle-shaped blade of the man’s weapon as he spun it and lashed down at her.
Oliver offered a silent hope she was all right then lost sight of her as two of the short sword-wielding men closed on him. They split, hoping to come at him from two angles, which he knew he couldn’t defend against. So, eschewing the rules of civilized combat that had been drilled into him since he had been a boy, he used his longer weapon and lunged forward on one leg, thrusting with his broadsword.
The silver steel blade plunged into one of the men before he could react, and two hands’ worth of sharp metal skewered the poor bastard.
His accomplice took advantage of Oliver’s blade being stuck in the first man’s body and struck with his short sword, hacking at Oliver like he was chopping his way through a thick jungle.
Oliver dodged, twisted, and stumbled out of the way of the man’s blade until, finally, he had no choice but to throw up his forearm and absorb a strike with meat and bone. The weapon sliced into his flesh, cutting skin and muscle and smashing against bone. Oliver yelped in agony as the blade bit, but he held his arm up, refusing to let the short sword come closer for a fatal strike.
Murder in his eyes, the man came after him, keeping within the guard of Oliver’s broadsword.
Oliver did what he had to do to stay alive, the only thing he could do. He kicked the man in the square between the legs.
His attacker’s eyes rolled up into his head and the man dropped his short sword and doubled over.
Oliver stepped back and spun his own blade, raising it above his head and then bringing it down in a powerful strike. He severed his assailant’s head from his neck and watched in disgust as the head flew one direction and the body toppled in the other.
The room was chaos around them as the few patrons who’d survived Taft’s grenado were locked in combat with their attackers. No witnesses meant no one was going to stay out of the fight. The fishermen and craftsmen who frequented the tavern had thrown themselves into the battle, but it appeared none of them had been armed. They were attempting to hold their own with broken chairs, fists, and, in one grim case, teeth.
“Duke!” shouted Sam.
He spun to see her go tumbling across the floor again. The man with the khopesh jumped after her, and Oliver charged, holding his injured arm close to his body, recklessly sweeping his broadsword at the man’s neck.
The khopesh rose to parry his strike, and the cloaked figure caught the broadsword with the interior curve of his blade. He twisted the khopesh, and a small hook at the end of the weapon snagged against the edge of Oliver’s broadsword. With a jerk, the man pulled it from Oliver’s hand.
“Damn,” muttered the duke, watching his sword clatter amongst the debris on the tavern floor.
The cloaked figure drew back his khopesh, preparing for a devastating slash.
He’d already started fighting dirty, though, and now didn’t seem like a good time to stop. Oliver lunged forward, flinging a headbutt at the masked man’s face, hoping there was nothing more than cloth covering his nose. The cloaked figure ducked his head, and the crown of Oliver’s skull cracked against the crown of the other man’s.
Blinking stars, Oliver looked up just in time to see the man’s free hand chop down on his lacerated and bloody arm. A hot jolt of pain flashed down the arm, freezing the left side of his body with agony as the edge of the man’s hand impacted the torn skin and muscle.
“Son of a whore,” hissed Oliver, holding his arm against his chest, barely able to move it through the pain. Then, without thought, he lunged and slammed his good thumb into the cloaked man’s eye.
The man squealed in pain, stumbling back but whipping up his khopesh as he did, a wild strike slashing toward Oliver’s face.
Clutching his bloody arm against his chest, Oliver scrambled away, the tip of the curved blade clipping his chin, leaving a shallow, bloody groove.
Blinking his injured eye beneath his mask, trying to hold it open, the cloaked figure stalked toward Oliver. Oliver backed up, weaponless and with only one usable arm.
Sam streaked into view, crashing against the side of the man and stabbing one of her sinuous kris daggers into his gut, twisting it and yanking it back out, along with a shower of blood and gore. The second dagger plunged into the side of the man’s neck, and she left that one in, sawing a ragged gap along the entire front of his throat. She held him tight, pressing with her knives, and then let go. The figure collapsed face-first onto the wreckage-strewn tavern floor.
Around the room, the fight was ending, and a dozen more bar patrons lay dead. Only four remained standing, and three of those didn’t look like they would be for long. The six thugs who had accompanied the masked man were dead as well, and Sam cursed.
Oliver spat, his injured arm still gripped tightly to his body and his head ringing from where he’d headbutted their attacker. “Good riddance. I’d kill them all over again if we could.”
“We came here for answers,” reminded Sam. “Now, there’s no one left to give them. He certainly isn’t going to.”
She nodded behind Oliver toward the bar. Remembering the shadow-monster, Oliver spun and gaped in horror. Standish Taft was out of sight, but there was little question about what had happened to him. The glasses and bottles behind the bar, a dingy mirror, even the dusty planks of the ceiling, were covered in arcs of sprayed blood and grisly bits of torn flesh.
Oliver swallowed the bile welling in his throat as a hunk of crimson gore fell from the ceiling. Evidently, blood and impact had stuck it there for a time. It was trailed by a long string of tissue that splatted wetly on the floor behind the bar.
“I think that was an eyeball,” remarked Sam.
Oliver bent over and the frothy ale they’d been drinking all day burst out of his throat and splashed messily on the floor between his boots.
The Initiate IV
The man struggled against the thick cables of the rough rope. He grunted and wheezed behind a twist of cloth that had been wrapped around his head and forced into his mouth. His eyes bored into her, not pleading as she’d expected, but angry.
He was thin, not a man of personal action or violence, and his body looked as though he rarely engaged in any strenuous physical activity. A white powdered wig perched atop his head had been knocked askew from the struggle of capturing him or his attempts to break loose once he was captured. Under the wig, she saw an unremarkable crop of thinning chestnut-brown hair. Beneath his fine embroidered jacket and wig, the man was entirely plain. Plain unless you saw his banker’s ledger or knew the depths of his soul, she suspected.
“I want to talk to him,” she requested.
“Say whatever you want,” murmured the man beside her.
He was wearing the same red, silk mask and black cloak as when she’d last seen him. Redmask, a man of myth and sur
prisingly literal attire. It displayed a lack of creativity, she thought, but on the other hand, he had identified and captured her parents’ killer within a day of confirmation she’d done what he had requested.
He was standing, unlike the time before, and he rose slightly above average height but not remarkably so. He looked reasonably fit as if he’d been active once but in recent years had engaged in only gentlemanly sport. An older man, most likely, at least her father’s age. He spoke in an efficient, urbane manner but with no discernible accent and with no accidental references that may provide some clue as to who he was. His apparent lack of concern about their prisoner spoke volumes about who this man was, though, and what he was capable of doing.
“I’d like to hear his confession,” she declared.
Redmask warned, “He may not give it.”
She shrugged.
Redmask nodded curtly, and two of his companions stepped out of the shadow from behind the bound man. Ungently, one of them slipped a wood-handled steel dagger between the cloth and the man’s cheek and sliced the gag free. It fell around their captive’s neck, and Isisandra could see a trickle of blood leaking from where the blade had scored him.
“Who are you?” she asked.
The man’s eyes darted between her, Redmask, and the half dozen silent minions who stood on the edge of the light from the single lamp. Her companions, a single prisoner, a single lamp, a single chair — otherwise the cavernous warehouse was empty.
“Who are you?” she repeated.
“You know damn well who I am, girl,” snarled the bound man. “What do you want? Ransom, blackmail? Untie me. Get me a drink, and let us discuss this in civilized fashion. There is no need for—”
“Who are you!” thundered Isisandra.
The man glanced to Redmask then back to Isisandra, blinking uncertainly. Finally, he answered, “Baron Nathaniel Child.”
“Why did you kill my parents?” demanded Isisandra.
“Your parents? Who…”
“Sebastian and Hathia Dalyrimple.”
The man shifted as much as the ropes allowed and responded, “Isisandra? I haven’t seen you in… in years, girl. I am sorry for the death of your parents, but I had nothing to do with it. I don’t even… I haven’t even been to Archtan Atoll. I heard what transpired there, but how would I have done such a thing from Enhover? What have these men told you?”
“Do you know a Captain Haines?” asked Redmask, his quiet voice like stone dragging over wet earth.
Baron Child frowned, obviously sensing a trap. He did not respond.
“Did you pay Captain Haines to give you information on the Company’s activities in the tropics?” pressed Redmask, taking a step closer, causing Baron Child to shrink back within his bonds. “You were Captain John Haines’ secret employer, were you not? He gave you information he gathered from the Company’s factors. You paid to get it in advance of the market and even the Company’s own directors, did you not? I was told you’ve made quite a fortune working with Captain Haines. You asked to be civilized, so do not make me threaten you to learn what I already know.”
“I… That has nothing to do with Dalyrimple,” mumbled Baron Child.
“Captain Haines was working for you,” murmured Isisandra, glancing at Redmask then back to Baron Child. For a moment, the man’s stringent denial had almost convinced her he was not involved.
“I did not kill or ask Captain Haines to kill your parents,” claimed Baron Child, his eyes downcast. “I’ve only met the governor a few times at social functions. I had no quarrel with him, no reason to want him dead.”
“How many times did you meet Hathia Dalyrimple?” questioned Redmask.
Baron Child jerked again in surprise. He strained ineffectively against his ropes.
“I’ll remind you that if you want to keep this civil, do not lie to me, Nathaniel.”
Isisandra studied the bound man, watching as he struggled to slow his breathing. He was near hyperventilating and had developed a twitch in his left cheek. His fists were clenched together tightly. One must expect a captive to show signs of stress, she assumed, but it did not take a skilled interrogator to see that the man knew what Redmask was referring to. Baron Child had some secret about her mother and knew what it would cost him to reveal it. She turned to Redmask.
“If you prefer to hear it from his lips, I can make that happen,” offered the cloaked man, “or to save time, I can simply tell you myself.”
“Tell me,” she replied.
His eyes were like cold blue stones, but his lips curled as he told her, “Nathaniel Child courted your mother for several months before Dalyrimple won her hand.”
“Everyone courted Hathia!” barked the baron, his eyes snapping up. “I was just one of a long string of men who… who courted her. It was nothing, just a fling when we were younger.”
Isisandra glared at the man, silencing him with the cold rage in her eyes.
“Baron Child never married,” added Redmask. “He was never involved in any serious relationships after your father took Hathia away from him. I’m told he challenged your father to a duel over Hathia’s hand.”
“That was a long time ago,” complained the baron, his voice barely audible in the cavernous warehouse.
“He was a jilted lover, giving him the motive to commit the crime. He was Captain Haines’ secret employer, giving him the opportunity,” continued Redmask. “I have not been able to obtain something so clear as a written confession yet, but the coincidences are beyond belief. I think it likely when she returned to Enhover, Baron Child met your mother, and she spurned him. A jealous rage inspired him to kill her and then your father. If you like, we can apply certain techniques to learn the details and confirm my suspicions. I warn you, Isisandra. It will be difficult to watch. You have started on the path, though, so if you want the man to suffer… he will.”
“That is not necessary,” she responded. “I’ve seen enough. I-I must thank you. When the duke failed to find the ultimate perpetrator, I was worried it would not happen.”
Redmask inclined his head. “I am a believer in great rewards for services well done and great punishments for betrayals. Shall I give this man what he deserves?”
Isisandra looked back to Baron Child. The man was sitting there quietly, eyeing her defiantly. She suspected he thought she had declined the offer of torture because she was a woman, too soft to do what was necessary. He was wrong about that. She simply didn’t want to spend a moment longer than necessary on the man. She had the skills to cause him pain now, while he lived, or later, when he did not.
From her belt, she pulled a small dagger. Its hilt was wrapped in hair-thin wire. Its cross guard was a pitted, black rock found in Archtan Atoll. The blade was bone, stained from use. Old blood. Blood that would never wash off. It had been her mother’s knife. It wasn’t as sharp as steel, but it was sharp enough.
Redmask nodded approvingly, and she approached Baron Child.
“Girl, no!” he shouted, understanding flashing across his face.
Had he really thought they would demand a ransom after he saw her face?
Without hesitation, she slapped her left palm against the struggling baron’s forehead, shoving his head back, exposing his neck. With her right hand, she plunged the bone knife into the man’s throat and left it there. Hot blood pumped down the weapon’s deep fuller, staining the bone blade a dark shade of crimson, the sanguine liquid pouring from the dying man’s neck, spilling over her hand.
She held Baron Child’s head back, her knife in his throat, and she watched his eyes as he struggled to speak, but only garbled gasps and blood escaped his lips. She held him there until the life in his eyes flickered out and his struggles ceased. Then, she removed the blade, a torrent of blood splashing out after it, splattering her clothes, dripping onto her slippered feet. Only a trickle followed after the initial gush, though. The baron’s heart no longer beat. Nathaniel Child was dead. Dead like her parents.
“W
ell done,” remarked Redmask.
“I appreciate your help,” she said, turning to face the man, the bloody knife still clutched in her fist. “Without your assistance, I never would have discovered it was him. I owe you—”
“You do,” interjected Redmask.
“—my thanks,” she finished.
“You owe me more,” he replied. He nodded to the side where one of his minions approached with a towel and a jug of water. “Get cleaned up, and we will talk.”
“Talk about what?” she questioned, her brows furrowing. “I did what you asked with the duke. We are—”
“It is not so simple, Isisandra. When you work with me, there is only one way it ends, and I do not think you are ready for that,” said Redmask. “The world is nothing more than a game board. At the moment, the duke is one of the most powerful pieces. I will control him, and you will help me do it.”
“I—”
“You got in over your head, Isisandra,” interrupted Redmask, his deep voice sounding incongruously apologetic. “Unfortunately, this is only the beginning.”
The Cartographer XIV
“Was she good?” questioned Sam.
Oliver shrugged uncomfortably. “I shouldn’t have told you.”
“You should not have,” agreed Sam, “but I’m happy you did. One, it gives me something to needle you with, and two, it was something to ponder on the long ride back from Swinpool, and three, it shows we’re developing a high level of trust. Now that we’ve established you trust me, and I’ve done my pondering, I want to know more details. How was she?”
“A high level of trust?” asked Oliver, looking at her strangely.
Sam nodded.
“Trust,” said Oliver. “I’m glad you trust me, but when we were leaving Archtan Atoll, you thought…”
“That she would capture your fluids and use them to gain some sort of sorcerous power over you?” asked Sam. “I wouldn’t say I thought that, but I was concerned about the possibility. I warned you, and it seems you slept with her anyway. While this is not the way I envisioned us keeping a close watch on her, I suppose it will work, and if she wants to do something with your fluids, she will. That airship has flown overhead, Duke, so now I’m just curious. How was she?”
