Solace Lost

by Michael Sliter

  “Be still now, adjudicator, or this knife will find a home in your daughter’s chest,” he hissed. Frommis quieted abruptly with a whimper, the agony in his hand or Fenrir’s empty threat finally bringing blessed silence.

  Fenrir—enforcers in general--never killed on these jobs, per strict orders from the superiors in The House. Which was fine; he wasn’t exactly a practiced, willing killer. In his former life, he’d been a guardsman in Rostane, tasked with the protection of the Plateau, the great fortress that rose above the city like a blocky, indifferent father. Counterintuitively, guard duty at the Plateau was one of the safest jobs in Rostane. There hadn’t been a real war for decades, and blunted, half-edged swords were all that were used for drills or tourneys. No assassin would ever attempt those walls, so there’d been no need for Fenrir to be any sort of a killer.

  So, he could fight his way out, but the knife wasn’t an option lest he cause undue harm. He’d already fucked this up enough by being caught mid-mutilation. He’d rather not risk more ire from The House.

  The windows were open; he could jump to the street and lose himself in the darkness. Fenrir ruled out the option nearly as soon as it occurred to him, though; with his knee, he would almost certainly just end up broken and thrashing in the street like a crippled dog, struck by a passing cart. His better bet was rushing by Frommis’ daughter and son-in-law—Seamus sounded like the name of some scrawny farmer anyway—using the ancient art of surprise to his advantage. He could lose himself in the darkness and make his way back to The Crooked Tree where his horse was already saddled. He’d have to be careful since it was dark and the horse could easily break a leg, but better his horse’s leg than his own.

  But, he still needed the trophy for his superiors. To come back empty-handed, especially after raising this ruckus, would be dangerous or even fatal.

  Frommis renewed his struggle, reflexively pulling back as Fenrir released his broken hand. Fenrir struck him a quick but forceful backhanded blow in the face to further disorient him, and then he again grabbed his left hand—the intact hand—and laid it flat against the Arbutus desk. Frommis was barely responsive, staring a dead man’s stare and breathing wetly through his bloodied nose. Fenrir again leveled his blade against the ring finger, the bloody line from earlier as good as a sign saying “cut here.” He began to saw, this time being less careful of the other fingers.

  “Father! Father, what’s happening? Seamus, come quickly! There is a man attacking father!” shouted Frommis’ daughter, who had just topped the stairs into the upper chamber. Fenrir pushed his full weight into his knife just as Frommis jerked away from him, the enforcer’s blade cutting all the way through the ring finger and nearly severing the middle finger, as well. Frommis was lost in pain now, staring at his mangled hand as Fenrir yanked at the ring finger, which had still been attached by a string of bloody skin. He shoved the finger into an inner pocket and re-sheathed his knife. The whole thing was a mess; Fenrir’s hands were slick with blood and his fine clothes–dark though they were–were speckled with red. But, nothing to do about that now. He was much more concerned with getting out of this house and out of this gods-forsaken town.

  Frommis’ daughter—a doughy girl who had the most unfortunate features of her father—was still standing at the top of the stairs, stunned, as Fenrir began toward her. As he approached, a man, presumably Seamus, came up the last step. Seamus was a big man. By Ultner’s cock, he was a very, very big man.

  “Shit!” muttered Fenrir, noticing the telltale burns of a blacksmith’s trade lacing the man’s muscled forearms. Why couldn’t this woman have married a nice, skinny farmer? Or a delicate wood carver? Or anyone other than this cursed giant? There was no going back now, though, and Fenrir lowered his shoulder as he closed the remaining distance to the blacksmith as quickly as possible. He crashed into the huge man, feeling like he had run into a plow horse. Luckily, he had enough momentum to knock the blacksmith back a foot or two, which was all that was needed. Fenrir and the surprised Seamus both crashed down the stairs, arms and legs flailing. Fenrir tried to stay on top of the man as they hit the landing on the first floor, and he was mostly successful, slamming into the giant’s chest but then bouncing forward and clobbering his own head against the wall.

  A high-pitched wailing filled Fenrir’s ears. He first thought the noisome sound was his pounding head, but realized quickly that it was actually Frommis’ daughter, shrieking like a mountain goat. Fenrir supposed he couldn’t blame her.

  He staggered unevenly to his feet, amazed his knee was intact but knowing that he needed to get out of the house. Fast. Looking back, he saw the giant lying at an awkward angle, unmoving. Definitely hurt, potentially dead. Shit. That could mean more trouble for him back in Rostane.

  He threw caution aside and ran out the door and down the lane, back toward the main road—through the dung and the muck, praying he’d avoid any major divots or potholes. He could still hear the incessant howling of Frommis’ daughter and now he could see lights bursting to life in nearby houses. And some additional shouting voices in the not-so-distant distance. Shit. Fenrir continued his sprint through the darkness and suddenly found himself falling into open air. The sensation lasted only a split second before he hit some foul-smelling water and waste. He had overshot the main road and fallen eight feet down, right into the sewage ditch.

  It was abhorrent. The slime had splashed into his mouth, mixing with the blood from where he’d bitten his tongue in the fall. The awfulness of it filled every sense he had—could one “hear” disgustingness? It seemed so, when crud was wedged in one’s ears.

  He gagged and started vomiting, which made his head ache even more, but he also managed to get back to his feet, and was standing almost knee-deep in the vileness when he heard a gaggle of voices. He crouched low with the sound of them, trying to force down the impulse to again be violently sick.

  “Head toward the adjudicator’s house and figure out what’s going on. It sounded like a goat was dying over there! We’ll stay here and wait for Questa in case anyone is hurt,” commanded a deep, male voice.

  Listening from below, Fenrir had a sudden, perverse need to laugh hysterically–the girl really had sounded like a goat.

  The footsteps moved off, presumably toward Frommis’ house. Fenrir inched up the incline by fractions and peaked into the road. He could just make out what looked to be three men standing on the main road, looking toward the location of his terrible mishap. Now he’d never be able to get back to the inn and get his horse in time; once the townsfolk figured out what had happened, all of Umberton would be up in arms. Plus, he could see the dim light of lanterns in the distance, coming from the direction of the inn. His horse–his father’s, rather–would have to be left behind. No loss there, at least. Darian de Trenton had horses to spare, and knowing that the old bastard would never get this stolen horse back brought Fenrir some mild pleasure.

  The only escape route, then, was the one in which Fenrir was already mired, so he started to move slowly through the sewage ditch, trying to avoid slipping and splashing. Trying to ignore the unnamed substances rubbing against his legs and working their way into his boots, between his toes and under his nails.

  He had successfully traversed about thirty yards when he slipped and went down, hard, to his good knee. Remaining crouched in the slop water, he could only hope that no one had heard his grunt and splash. Luckily, no call of alarm arose. The droning of cicadas and chirps of other night crawlers seemed to have created enough of an auditory cover.

  Another twenty yards, and Fenrir could hear agitated shouting from behind him. A lot of shouting, with the words “Frommis,” “fingers,” “blood,” and “Seamus” echoing through the night like the accusations of the damned. And meanwhile, he continued to move through the ditch toward the edge of town, a bit more quickly and a bit less quietly. Between the insect symphony and the outraged townsfolk, it seemed unlikely anyone would hear him. He needed to get some distance before Frommis’
daughter was able to collect herself and explain what had happened, before they mobilized the militia or sent out a pitchfork mob.

  Frommis’ house, thankfully, was close to the fringes of the town, and the sewage ditch was becoming shallower. There were only a couple more houses on the opposite side of the main road before Fenrir would be out of town and safely cloaked by the night. From there, it would be easy to avoid capture until the morning—and by then, he should be well on his way back to Rostane. A three-or-four day walk, as long as he didn’t take any detours.

  As he finally climbed out of the ditch and snuck a glance over his shoulder, though, Fenrir could see many more lights in the distance—both lanterns and torches—some of them getting smaller, and some… getting bigger. A group was heading down the road right toward him. Apparently, it was time for him to take a detour into the long grass and subsequent Arbutus forests to the north. By Yetra’s delicious tits, it wouldn’t be a comfortable journey, but it was a necessary one.

  Fenrir ran off, tendrils of shit-soaked hair striking his face like a dozen severed fingers.

  ---

  Having been quite literally caked in shit and fleeing a torch-bearing mob, necessities like food and water didn’t seem particularly important when Fenrir left Umberton. But now, reeking to the high Harmony, Fenrir found himself still stumbling through the forest hours later, the composite toll of the day’s events having left him an exhausted, ravenous, stinking shell of humanity. To top it off, traveling cross-country through a forest at night had been exacting a price on his knee, which was aching more than his head at this point. And his head was no minor nuisance, either. In addition to the new lump on his skull, his hair was matted with a good deal of dried blood. It formed a rather macabre plaster when combined with the various bodily fluids that had also bathed his scalp.

  Worse than the aches and pains, though, was the fact that he’d lost his little silver flask somewhere during his flight. Maybe it lay on the landing, near Seamus’ body. Or, maybe it floated and bobbed about in the crevasse of filth that facilitated his escape. Either way, he’d had the thing for near five years, a gift from a lover. Sentimental value aside, it had been full of a Sestrian rum sharper than Ultner’s pointed cock. And, Fenrir could have used a little prick right about now.

  The only real upside to his situation was that it was starting to rain. The waste, blood, and excrement that had formed a pasty shell on his body were beginning to run off in rivulets. It would do little to combat the stench—that had sunk in too deep into his clothes and probably into his very pores—but it went a long way toward making Fenrir feel human again. He tried to also catch some rain in his mouth to wash away the awful, lingering taste, but he was largely unsuccessful.

  Forests had the tendency to all look similar—trees and shrubs, sticks and rocks. Luckily, Fenrir had absorbed a great many seemingly useless bits of knowledge while standing guard in the Enlightenment, the Plateau’s library. A visiting Savant had spent weeks educating wealthy merchants on the beauty of lunar navigation, how to use the twin moons to pinpoint directionality while traveling. The smaller blue Ummis and the larger white Phanos could be triangulated with the Crimson Star to pinpoint one’s location. Fenrir didn’t understand all of details, but in early spring, the positioning of the three—just visible through budding branches—put him traveling northwest.

  As it turns out, being punished with Enlightenment guard duty had some benefits, after all. Considering the captain had punished him for drinking on the job, Fenrir supposed he could thank alcohol for bestowing him with this accidental knowledge. If only he had his godsdamned flask…

  A cold, gray light was beginning to filter in from behind the clouds, heralding the coming of a miserable dawn. With it, Fenrir felt a sudden urge to sit for a while. Finding a relatively wide, straight tree, he collapsed with a deflating grunt. Then he winced as he straightened his bad knee, leaning his head tenderly against the lumpy bark behind him.

  Unfortunately, resting forced Fenrir’s tired mind to reflect on the mistakes of the last day. To say that this whole job had not gone as planned was perhaps the understatement of the year. Frommis had been documented as living alone and spending his evenings working late into the night, rarely having visitors. Fenrir was supposed to have been able to walk in, subdue the man, bind and gag him, and take the finger before casually strolling back to his horse and setting up camp a few miles down the road. Based on the plan, no one would be expected to find Frommis for a few days. Fenrir would have been back in Rostane by then.

  Instead, he’d been attacked by his target and caused more injury than was necessary, breaking one of the adjudicator’s hands and maybe even severing an extra finger from the other. The House was notorious for their calling card—removal of the ring finger for an initial offense. In that way, targets of The House were always clearly marked, and everyone knew what that mark meant. The four-fingered (as they were often called) had wronged someone important, had made some serious mistake. This person should be avoided, as they might either err again or continue to draw the wrong kind of attention. Being four-fingered could cost a man his career, a woman her social status. A low-born, four-fingered man might end up stabbed or dead, as it was notoriously bad luck to be in proximity with such a person.

  There had even been stories of working-class men—laborers, porters, losing ring fingers as part of their dangerous work, and then intentionally having a second finger removed to avoid being mistaken as four-fingered.

  Thinking of the mission’s basic goal, Fenrir checked his inner pocket, fishing out Frommis’ ring finger (luckily retained in his flight), letting the rain wash over the appendage to clean off the blood and the filth. It wasn’t a clean cut; it was jagged and diagonal, just above the knuckle. Fenrir hadn’t noticed that there was actually a ring still embracing the finger itself—a shining white gold ring adorned by a brilliant blue sapphire. Yetra’s golden nipples, he wanted to pawn this ring, but somehow, his benefactor would know. And with him having bungled this job, he needed to keep the remainder of his expedition transparent and above-board. The valuable ring might even soothe sore feelings.

  In his two years working for The House, this wasn’t the first job that that he had botched. The other time, there’d been a woman, a servant at the Plateau, who was the target. The conventional understanding that The House only targeted people who had directly wronged them was not always true. Sometimes, The House—or someone contracting with The House—sent messages, with innocent people getting caught up in the mix. This servant, Emma Dran, had already been known to Fenrir. In fact, she’d been quite intimately known to him (a bit of a sore point with his now-ex wife). They had been lovers for years—at least, they had been before his disgrace at the Plateau, before his job had been unfairly stripped from him. Before Fenrir had taken up with The House.

  Emma had been his first target of this nature, his previous work with The House having been primarily based around protection duty or an occasional shakedown for coin. Of course, when he’d been given his assignment, he hadn’t known his mark was Emma. He’d just been given a vague description, a date, and a location. It was supposed to have been easy: take a finger from a serving girl who lives in a small room in the servants’ quarters of the Plateau. The servants’ quarters were not in the fortress itself. Rather, they were in the area behind the Plateau, directly accessible by a large wooden lift as well as the lower gate, which was set aside for servants’ quarters, barracks, staging grounds, storage, and sundry other less glamorous purposes. All of the many services required to maintain the population and protection for a fortress housing at least three thousand souls, as well as a constant stream of visiting dignitaries and supplicants. Little Town, it was nicknamed.

  Fenrir had had no problem accessing Little Town or the servants’ quarters that night. There’d been almost no need for stealth, which was perfect, as Fenrir was without a clandestine nature. The yearly Yetranian Ascension celebration had been hosted at the Plat
eau that night, so only a few servants—those assigned to clean up after the great banquet—had been occupying the quarters. And even had anyone heard any noise from his target, none would have intervened. As it turned out, scandalous nobles frequented the servants’ quarters and were often none-too-gentle with the women. Or, occasionally, the men.

  The servants’ quarters were endless hallways of near-identical rooms, differentiated only by combinations of letters and numbers. Navigation was easy, and Fenrir had found his target’s room with no trouble. It may have been a trick of his memory, but the whole place was awash with the faint, familiar scent of citrus, zest of lemons and oranges. He had paused and leaned against the stone doorway, pulling back the curtain just a bit. He remembered seeing a mass of red curls on the bed—the beautiful hair of his once-lover Emma. She was nearly ten years younger than him, and beautiful beyond belief. Emma was the personal handmaiden of one Lady Escamilla Breen, a powerful woman in Ardia who owned huge tracts of land, but was formally without title. Whenever ‘Lady’ Escamilla frequented the fortress, Emma was always at her side. Outside of this, Emma served among the general staff of the Plateau. Many nobles maintained staff in this way, as it reduced cost from their own coffers.

  In all likelihood, one of Escamilla’s male counterparts—irritated by her success despite her commoner blood—had contracted with The House to teach her a lesson. But, rather than strike at Escamilla directly (unlikely anyhow unless The House held their own grudge against the powerful lady), they’d decided to attack at her omnipresent handmaiden, expecting that a four-fingered servant would bring Escamilla shame.

  Fenrir had watched Emma sleep for a long moment, recounting the nights that they had spent in each other’s arms. In a room just like this, too, as Fenrir could hardly have brought Emma home to his wife. Gods, he’d loved this woman before him. Much more than the ill-tempered shrew he’d married to appease his father.