Hafgan sighed, not really feeling like dealing with a crowd but relieved that he’d earlier made the preparations necessary to blend in. He donned a black skullcap, the last portion of his disguise, waited two minutes, and headed toward the tavern.
Luckily, the men up front were so lost in drink that they paid him no mind. This was the time of night, a couple hours preceding sunrise, when most of the violent sorts had already had it out and the dreary, depressed drunks briefly ruled their domain. Some of these men would soon leave the tavern and go to work. In this part of town, many of the men were porters and dockworkers; for them, partaking of drink during work hours was completely acceptable. To everyone but the Yetranians, of course, but even the guiding religion of the country would find it easier to knock down the Tulanques than pull drink from the hands of dockworkers. Other of these men would drink until they passed out and would either be dragged to their boarding houses or charged for sleeping on the floor of the tavern.
Hafgan could never understand how men could lose themselves in drink. It was a distinctly human habit.
He entered the Oaken Barrel keeping his face down, looking for the girl from beneath lowered eyelids. He quickly identified her sitting in a corner booth, chatting with a heavyset woman dressed in skimpy clothes. A prostitute, if Hafgan were to guess. Glancing around, he saw another empty booth where he could monitor Morgyn easily without appearing suspicious. He slid into his chosen seat, appreciating the dim light in the room which seemed to be the maximum brightness preferred by taverns at this time of night. It was as if a brighter room would burn the eyes of the severely inebriated patrons, or at least illuminate how filthy the common room had become over the course of the evening.
A short, wrinkled serving woman approached his table, giving him a dark look from under her bushy brows. Not unusual, if she’d recognized him as a Wasmer. Despite the shaving, skullcap, and his other efforts, Wasmer also had longer fingers than humans, and these were very difficult to hide. He ordered some stew—which was likely whatever was left over from dinner, mashed up and cooked in some broth—and an ale. Sipping on an ale helped him blend in, though Hafgan still hadn’t developed a taste for it. It tasted bitter, no matter how light of a brew he ordered. He’d mastered concealing his disgust, though.
Morgyn continued to chat with the prostitute for a few minutes until she was brought a bowl of stew and a chunk of bread. The heavyset woman left then, heading for a staircase in the corner while the girl attacked her food with relish. Shortly afterward, Hafgan’s own meal arrived, it being a brownish mass of goo with a couple of chunks—presumably meat—floating about. At least it didn’t appear that anyone had spit in it this time. Still, despite his famishment after standing in the bushes by the river all night, the consistency of this vaguely-defined stew was such that he could only choke down a couple of bites. The ale was actually a relief, as it masked the greasy taste.
After three quarters of an hour had passed, the prostitute waddled back down the stairs and whispered something to Morgyn. Morgyn paled, hastily scraped her bowl clean, and headed upstairs, leaving the heavy woman to peddle her wares to a nearby bald man who’d been holding his head in his hands.
The change in situation posed a problem. The upper levels of this building were apartments and residences, and Hafgan could not safely follow Morgyn upstairs without suspicion. And, knowing Tennyson, he wouldn’t be satisfied with “Morgyn went upstairs above a tavern” as an explanation. Hafgan was not afraid of the man, but he’d rather avoid a tongue-lashing. It was always unnerving from behind that Ultner mask, though Wasmer generally did not worship Ultner as a god. Aversions to silver-faced demons seemed to span race, culture, and religion.
Hafgan slapped down a few small yets, rubbing his face as he left the tavern. Already, he was feeling a fine stubble growing on his cheeks. He let out a sigh.
He stepped back from the Oaken Barrel and surveyed the building. There were three stories above the tavern, each with several darkened windows. He supposed it was possible that Morgyn had, with her coin earned from The House, taken up residence here. She could likely afford it. But the informants had seen her emerging frequently from a low-income boarding house on the northeastern side of Rostane; that was her most likely home.
Hafgan began to circle the building, striding toward a narrow alley separating the Oaken Barrel from a single-story apothecary or herbalist. He examined the upper levels, watching as one of the unlit windows burst forth with orange illumination on the second story, and he could see shapes moving about, silhouetted against the light through some thin curtains.
While it was entirely possible that someone here was an exceptionally early riser, Hafgan had to hope that the light represented a possibility of him gathering some additional intelligence. These windows, in this neighborhood, did not have expensive glass. Rather, most of them were barred, with thin curtains or screens keeping out the reek of the city and the intrusion of nature. Meaning that, if Hafgan could get close enough, he would be able to overhear any conversations going on in that room. The only issue was about fifteen vertical feet.
He glanced around hurriedly. It seemed like the roof of the apothecary was attainable if he could rearrange and stack some old crates. He did so, setting aside his spear, stacking the boxes about six feet high, and then jumping, grasping the edge of the roof and easily pulling himself up without toppling the crates and making a racket. The next part was more difficult. There was the telltale sound of voices from behind the lit curtain, but Hafgan couldn’t make out the words. He’d need to get closer, but there was only one way to do that.
Wasmer were generally known as, and expected to be, excellent jumpers, able to leap across crags and canyons in the mountains, and even propel themselves across rivers if need be. Hafgan was no exception to this rule, but it was not something that he enjoyed. Heights always made him uncomfortable. Leaping ten feet through open air to a one-foot-wide window ledge—and silently, no less—gave him some real trepidation. Wasmer were not meant for flight.
But, the Dyn Doethas taught that hesitation was defeat. Hafgan chose a dark window immediately alongside the lit one, backed up several feet to give himself at least a small running start, and launched himself into the air. For a brief moment, he was certain he was plummeting to the trash-ridden ground below, and envisioned himself shattering his ankles, breaking his cover, and ruining his career as hired muscle. Instead, the ball of his foot hit the ledge and he nearly tumbled backwards before grasping the window bars and steadying himself.
Feeling relieved and firmly clamping down on the bars, Hafgan crouched in the slowly brightening morning light. The sun would likely be cresting the horizon in less than an hour. With luck, he’d hear a thing or two first.
“…unable to report?” From a somewhat nasally male voice. Hafgan didn’t recognize it.
“Errands. I’ve been on endless errands, to and from Algania. I had little choice.” It was Morgyn. Hafgan tried to restrain a burst of excitement. He was exactly where he needed to be, and Tennyson would be thrilled. Or, at least he wouldn’t be mad.
“But, now you come to me.” Hafgan heard some irritation in the voice, though not anger. “I’m assuming it is worthwhile?”
“Yes, sir. The ruins. They had me sneak into the Plateau through the servants’ lift, which was no problem. Then, I helped them smuggle out an important person.”
“Them? An important person?”
A moment passed. Hafgan wasn’t sure whether it was tension, but after a moment, he heard a jingle, metal on metal.
“They called him Fenrir Coldbreaker. I’ve seen the man before, but he was changed. In a guard uniform, bearded, bald. He was helping Lady Escamilla and her servant escape. I was to guide them through the ruins,” Morgyn said, sounding smug.
“Lady Escamilla? By Oletta, girl!” The man sounded more irritated.
“As if I had a choice.”
“Did anyone else see you?”
“They didn’t s
ee us.”
“Speak clearly, girl. You are really starting to try my patience again.” That sounded to be the truth, from Hafgan’s vantage. The nasally voice was increasingly sharp.
“The guards. They heard us on the way out. We entered the ruins through the western armory. The Coldbreaker man, he made too much noise and brought down the guards. We managed our way through, but the guards were in the ruins, as well. Among other things.”
Silence for a moment. The sound of a chair scraping the wood, and then the sharp slap of skin smacking skin. He heard Morgyn cry out sharply.
“Do you know what you’ve done? Those ruins were to be a secret. A fucking secret.” The sound of another blow. “And Lady Escamilla! Cover or not, Lady Escamilla is a lynchpin to The House! You may have undone months of work because of your stupidity, you little…” Slap. “fucking…” Slap. “Cunt!” Hafgan could hear the girl sobbing.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry! I thought my cover…”
“You need to leave the thinking to those with brains. Not stupid little street cunts.” Another strike.
“Please…” Hafgan felt, for a moment, pity for this girl. But, with confirmation of her treachery, he managed to shove the feelings down without much of an issue.
Her sobbing, and the beating, were suddenly interrupted by a firm pounding sound, a strong fist knocking on wood.
“Shit!” exclaimed the man. “Okay, you little cunt. If you value your life, and the lives of others, you need to make this right. You are to kill Lady Escamilla.”
“Yes! I will kill her, Patriarch. She trusts me, and I know where she is going. I won’t let you down. I—”
“Enough. Debrief with Ana and head out immediately. Now, get the fuck out of my sight.” The man sounded frustrated and tired, if anything. So, things weren’t as perfect as they seemed for Recherche Oletta. Tennyson would be interested in that.
Another pound from within the apartment. Hafgan heard a door open and close, some quiet speaking, and then some shuffling. Daybreak was really starting to take hold, and Hafgan knew he wouldn’t be able to stay here much longer. Hopefully, he would eavesdrop something vital in the time he had left. What he had overheard already had been beyond his wildest expectations. He could retire on this information, assuming he had any interest in doing so.
“Your grace. My lady.” This from the nasally man, the one who’d abused Morgyn. It had taken Hafgan some time to understand the complex structure of nobility within Rostane, but “your grace” was an honorific only used for one particular position. For a duke, essentially the ruling class of this country. With one dead as of a few hours ago, one being a duchess, and the third having no reason to be in Rostane, the identity of this addressee was obvious. Duke Samuel Penton III, the Little Duke of Rostane, was colluding with Recherche Oletta.
“You continue to find the most disreputable of locations for these meetings. If I wanted to walk through this much filth, I would have just descended to the sewers,” the man, presumably Duke Samuel III, said with obvious contempt.
“I find that it has a certain quaint charm.” This from the woman. The aforementioned “madam.” She had a slight accent. Perhaps not from Rostane, but he couldn’t place it. Very slight, indeed. But, her voice was like a harp. Beautiful and subtle.
“Apologies, your grace. My lady.” The nasally man, again. He didn’t sound particularly apologetic, but then, Hafgan did still struggle with human intonation.
“Now just why—”
“Patriarch. You requested our presence, and we are here.” The woman had interrupted the duke! His temper was legendary. Hafgan braced himself for an outburst. A moment of silence came, with an almost palpable tension. But then… nothing.
“Yes, and far quicker than I anticipated,” said the Patriarch.
“Is that a problem?” Now the Duke’s anger did come through.
“Absolutely not. I only wish I could offer you refreshments.” Again, was that sarcasm?
“The hour grows late, great Patriarch. Or early, as the case may be. Why do you not tell us what you have?” queried the woman. It seemed as if a battle of subtlety was being waged here. Unfortunately, the undertones were far too refined for Hafgan to catch on entirely. He would need to limit his reports to just the facts, rather than surmising the possible underlying meanings.
“What I had was contingent on happenings at the fortress. And yet, in the course of an evening, I hear that Malless is dead,” said the nasally man.
“Surely an unfortunate accident.” Again, the melodic, slightly-accented voice of the woman.
“And, even more recently, I hear that Lady Escamilla has left the visitor’s suite and is currently on a stroll through the countryside,” said the Patriarch.
“What?” exclaimed the woman, obviously surprised by the latest news. “Penton, how could you let this happen? Are you truly that incompetent?” Hafgan had to choke back a gasp at the last part.
“You had best watch yourself, woman. I am beginning to strongly doubt this partnership all around.”
A sick moment of silence. And then, a force, a power that Hafgan could sense even outside of the building. The dawning light seemed to dwindle, and the air thickened to the point that Hafgan felt a sudden panic as his heart raced. He closed his eyes and sought his center, sought the hedwicchen.
“I… I mean…” Hafgan could hear the duke stammer as he gasped for air.
“Without this partnership, little man, you would still be living in the physical shadow of your father instead of just the shadow of his memory.” The nasally-voiced man had shed his surface-level deference, and even Hafgan could hear the contempt. The force seemed to lift then, and the world righted itself.
“You… you overreach yourself,” the duke warned, quickly regaining his arrogant core.
“I know my reach exactly. And you are well within it.”
Hafgan wished he could see through walls, piercing the veil of quiet tension. There was little time left. He was undoubtedly visible from the street, should someone happen to walk by and look up. He straightened a bit to relieve the pressure on his feet.
“Gentlemen, we are all emotional and reactive. I apologize, your grace, if I reacted poorly to this news.” She did sound contrite, and her voice was so musical that one could almost believe it. “Let us agree to be civil.“
“Agreed. Civility is what sets those with noble blood apart from commoners,” said Penton. A pause. “It is true that Escamilla escaped. Evidently, she had some inside help. Several of my men were found dead, not a mark on them. Someone led her through the ruins beneath the Plateau. My guards are currently cordoning them off and changing the locks. How did you hear of this, Patriarch?”
“Though we are partners, I cannot reveal my sources. You understand, of course.” There was a smile in the Patriarch’s voice.
Another long pause.
The woman intervened. “These problems are not insurmountable. It simply means that we must advance our plans. Do you know what that means, gentlemen?”
A deep sigh. “It shall be war. A much bloodier and more expensive war than we had planned.” The nasally-voiced man did not sound pleased.
“Indeed. We already have forces marshalled near the border of Florens. And we still have collateral over Hunesa and Draston—at least enough to delay their involvement until our military superiority becomes obvious,” said the duke with some authority.
“But how shall we justify this war without making more enemies within Rostane, itself?” asked the nasally-voiced man. “Our current plans did not account for us being the aggressors.”
The woman answered, calmly. “That is simplicity itself. I have just an excellent feeling, a brilliant feeling, that a small village bordering Florens will go up in flames. I also believe that a letter will arrive from Eric Malless, the same day, declaring war upon us. I believe that both of these things will happen by, say, noon today. You will have these documents in hand, and can easily gather the support needed t
o marshal the forces provided by the nobility to supplement your standing force.” She laughed. It sounded like music.
“I suppose that my people will be ready to move,” said the nasally-voiced man with some reluctance. “We’ve enough fighting men to do some damage, assuming an opportunity presents itself.”
“And, as always, I shall have a trick or two that will make this campaign a quick success.” Another melodious laugh. “However, I want us to move quickly. Events have forced our hand, but it is perhaps a good thing. It is important to unify Ardia as soon as possible against other potential threats.“
“I will begin—”
“What th’ fuck?” shouted a woman, the surprise nearly launching Hafgan—face-first—into the alley below. A woman, a shriveled, gray-haired hag, had bumped Hafgan’s leg while emptying her chamber pot out the window. She swung the pot at him through the bars, catching his knee with a surprising amount of force that he just managed to absorb, though his leg buckled.
“You fucking pervert! Get away from ’ere!” She hit him again as he lowered his body until he was hanging from the window and then dropped to the alley below, landing with a splash in the old woman’s slop.
Having retrieved his spear, Hafgan darted away toward the headquarters of The House, his head reeling from what he’d learned.
Chapter 17
Approaching Dunmore’s chapel, the largest structure in the small town, Meri’s eyes were drawn upward to see that the great bell had not yet fully settled, though the deep, metallic ringing had ceased a few minutes before. Illuminated by the white and blue moons, amidst a strange fog that seemed to have arisen in the aftermath of the decimation, the windowless white building seemed almost to glow.
Dear Yetra, who would she find in there? The whole situation seemed entirely unreal. Impossible. Unfair. She had finally escaped, finally had hope that her life might someday approach some level of normalcy. And then this.
Solace Lost Page 23
