The Redemption of Desmeres

by Joseph R. Lallo

  The Redemption of Desmeres

  By Joseph R. Lallo

  Copyright © Joseph R. Lallo

  Cover by Georgi Slavov

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  From The Author

  Introduction

  The story you’re about to read began life as an attempt to write a serial. For those unfamiliar, a serial is the literary equivalent of a television show; a story told in short, manageable chunks and released gradually over a period of a few months. After releasing the first chapter as a part of the story collection Experiments & Enchantments, I set it aside in favor of other projects to see if there would be any interest in finishing it. Rather quickly I received a fair amount of praise for the story and its potential, so I added it to my schedule and got to work.

  After a few weeks the story was coming along well, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized I just couldn’t justify splitting it up into separately sold chapters. It felt terribly like I was nickel and diming my fans. Thus a serial simply became another novel. While the difference is mainly a matter of release schedule, there are a few lingering artifacts of its serial roots. Mainly this can be seen in the opening paragraphs of each chapter. Frequently a greater than average amount of reestablishing context takes place, since initially at least a few weeks would have passed since the last time the reader read the last chapter.

  In terms of the story itself, and where it belongs in the Book of Deacon timeline, this is a tale that takes place over the course of a few weeks in the period just after the conclusion of The Battle of Verril. That places it after the trilogy but before The D’Karon Apprentice. While it doesn’t touch much at all on The D’Karon Apprentice, this whole story can be considered spoiler material for The Book of Deacon Trilogy. If you haven’t read The Book of Deacon, The Great Convergence, and The Battle of Verril, read those first! If you’ve finished those stories, then enjoy!

  Chapter 1

  In even the darkest times and the most unfortunate of places, there are always endeavors that flourish. Life in the land called the Northern Alliance had never been simple. Frigid temperatures made life difficult for the locals in the best of times, and these were anything but the best of times. The kingdom was just beginning to claw its way out of a war that had spanned the better part of two centuries. Decades of battle had left the land weak and weary, and now its people had to learn to cope with a changing world. In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, Clennock’s Den existed as a lush and luxurious oasis in a sea of misery. Even at the peak of the war, it was warm as toast and well-lit with flickering oil lamps and tallow candles. The air perpetually hung with the scent of roasting meats and burning tobacco, and glasses brimmed with fine wine and expensive spirits. The floors were clean, the bar was stocked, and a dozen ornate oak tables surrounded with plush upholstered chairs awaited any with coin enough in their pocket to afford a seat. It was a place immune to the troubles of the world beyond its walls, and it achieved this status primarily due to the unique level of service that its waitstaff provided.

  Ostensibly, Clennock’s was an inn and tavern, though strangely none of the locals seemed to frequent it. Instead, the icy courtyard—which was tucked discreetly behind the building and away from prying eyes—was host to carriages and sleighs belonging to some of the wealthiest land owners and nobles in the region. Each of them was treated like a king, their every appetite catered to and their every whim fulfilled. Most importantly, they could enjoy this treatment and much more while safe in the knowledge that the instant they stepped out the door, the whole of the staff would mysteriously forget they had ever visited. An oddly abundant staff of waitresses and servant girls poured wine and served food. Often the servers outnumbered the patrons, and each was as flawlessly beautiful as the local towns could provide. Their table service was not particularly notable, but for the right price their hospitality could be truly unforgettable.

  Wind wailed outside and the first flakes of a snowstorm began to fall as a stranger pushed open the door. Considering the nature of the business conducted at Clennock’s, a strange face was greeted with a bit more caution than at a more traditional tavern. For reasons no one could fully articulate, something about this particular stranger made the clientele just a bit more uncomfortable than most.

  It wasn’t that he was menacing. Anything but. He stood tall and lean. When he pulled back his hood, he revealed an almost boyish face. Otherwise white hair hinted at its past blondness in whispers here and there. He wore a calm and collected expression, oozing with the sort of ease and confidence that the owner of the Den would have had difficulty displaying. The looks of distrust and concern slid off him as effortlessly as he shrugged off his coat.

  A hostess collected the finely tailored hide and fur overcoat as he approached the bar. The remainder of his outfit set him apart from the rest of the patrons in many ways. While most of the men were impeccably dressed, they all seemed to have made their selections to impress the others with the sheer expense of their wardrobe. The newcomer’s outfit looked no less exquisite, but in his case the ostentatiousness balanced with function. He wore a warm, sturdy vest with plenty of pockets. His trousers were thick enough to ward off the chill of the northern winds. And then, of course, there was the weaponry.

  In a nation at war—particularly a place like the Northern Alliance, where war had lasted so long it was effectively an honored tradition—weapons were a common sight. Even members of the gentry, who would never see a battlefield, made a point of carrying a blade, if only to show solidarity with the soldiers marching to the front lines. These blades tended to be elegant and sparing, often hidden within a cane or tucked beneath a coat. Not so for the man who tapped the snow from his boots. He wore blades the way the servant girls wore makeup: proudly, artistically, and with a shameless overabundance. No fewer than five knives and daggers hung in exquisite sheaths from his belt. Subtle bulges from beneath his vest suggested at least two more tucked out of sight, and a short sword hung at his side. It would have seemed almost barbaric if not for the stunning quality of each weapon. They seemed more like purposeful fashion accessories than something intended to spill blood.

  The newcomer took a seat at the bar and attempted to wring some feeling back into his hands, blowing into them periodically.

  “May I help you, sir?” asked the bartender.

  The fellow behind the bar was a fat, bearded man who represented one of only two male staff members present. The other was a hulking mountain of muscle clearly hired to intimidate any would-be troublemakers into proper behavior. The brute hadn’t let the stranger leave his sight since he arrived.

  “I believe you are holding a few bottles of wine for me,” said the new patron.

  He reached into the breast pocket of his vest to reveal a small leather folio and plucked from it an ancient slip of vellum. The bartender accepted it and looked it over. Careful writing covered the slip, and it concluded with a pair of signatures. The first named the employee who oversaw the storage, a man called Lemark Drass
on. The second evidently listed the newcomer himself, Desmeres Lumineblade.

  “This… ah… this is rather old, Mister… Lumineblade, is it?” said the bartender.

  “Indeed. I’ll do you the kindness of not making you guess at my first name. It is pronounced Dez-mer-ess. Emphasis on the first syllable and do be sure to pronounce the final S. It is strangely often left silent.”

  “And you’re certain this is yours? It is quite old.”

  “Indeed. It has been a number of years since my last visit.”

  “But this is the signature of the previous owner. That means this slip is over twenty years old,” the bartender continued.

  “Indeed. It has been a number of years since my last visit,” he repeated, now somewhat less patiently. “Would you fetch two bottles for me, please?”

  The bartender looked from the slip to the newcomer and back again a few times, then gave the doorman a pointed glance before disappearing into the backroom behind the bar. When he emerged again, he cradled a pair of bottles in his arms. He walked with the sort of exaggerated care one might expect of a father carrying his newborns for the first time.

  “These are… sir, these are pre-war… I’m not even precisely certain how to read the date. They’re nearly two hundred years old.”

  “I imagine they would be,” he said. “They were quite old when I purchased them, and as I believe I’ve said, it has been a number of years since my last visit.”

  The bartender carefully set down the bottles. They were made from thick, dark glass. A layer of deep blue wax coated their ends and bore the proud seal of a vineyard that had ceased to exist more than a hundred years prior. A single glance at the bottle spoke of a craftsmanship lost from the Northern Alliance long ago, a casualty of the war and the toll it had taken on its people.

  “The storage fee is six and one-half silvers, sir. Will you require a room for the evening?” the bartender asked.

  “I shall. I believe a pair of glasses and some companionship would not be out of order as well,” he said, dropping a gold coin on the bar with his gloved hand. “Keep the remainder.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. If you’ll just step through to the antechamber, our host will see to it personally.”

  Desmeres skillfully picked up both of his priceless wine bottles with a single hand, and with the other hand took the fine crystal stemware offered by the bartender. Thus equipped, he followed the portly gentleman through a doorway in the rear of the room.

  On the other side of the thick curtain that separated the antechamber from the main floor of the bar and dining room, a positively opulent waiting room awaited him. A small velvet couch with more stuffing than the typical bed sat in the center of the room. Fine landscape and still life paintings hung on the wall in gilded frames, and to each side of the seat stood an end table set with silver trays. Desmeres had only just taken a seat and placed his wine and glasses on one of the trays when a sharply dressed older man stepped into the antechamber. He wore a neat and proper outfit, designed not to show off his wealth but rather to illustrate his professionalism, as one would expect from the chief steward at a luxurious manor.

  “Greetings, Mr. Lumineblade. My name is Master Klye. I am so pleased to have the opportunity to provide you with the very best hospitality that Clennock’s Den has to offer. I am given to understand that you were seeking company this evening. If you would be so kind as to share any particular tastes and preferences you might have, we shall do our very best to cater to your every whim.”

  “Tell me, Master Klye. Have you got any elven women in your employ?”

  “Ah, regrettably no. Not an uncommon request, but it has proved quite difficult to entice women of that particular race into this line of work. If your taste is for something exotic, with the recent reopening of the border we are pleased to have secured the services of no fewer than three women of Tresson origin. I’m told by our more frequent guests that the dark-skinned maidens from the south are refreshingly distinct from their northern counterparts.”

  “No, thank you. Do you have anyone worldly? Experienced?”

  “Experienced, sir?”

  “Yes. Someone intelligent, and more than that, someone wise.”

  “If you’ll pardon the observation, those are not qualities that are typically sought.”

  “I fancy myself somewhat atypical.”

  “Most of our guests are more interested in qualities associated with youth. Experience and wisdom are qualities that come with age, sir.”

  “Yes, I’m quite familiar with the means through which experience is traditionally attained. Will my request be a problem?”

  “No, sir. Not at all. But surely someone with your resources could easily afford the companionship of someone more fully in bloom.”

  “And surely someone in your line of work ought to have learned that your task is to satisfy my tastes, not critique them.”

  “Of course, sir. A thousand apologies. If you’ll just wait a moment, I’m certain we can find someone to suit your needs.”

  “Excellent,” Desmeres said, reclining into the chair.

  Klye stepped briskly through a doorway, and in very short order returned with an assortment of women, seven in total. They were all dressed similarly, just barely on the decent side of scandalous. What wasn’t snug enough to reveal their curves or short enough to reveal their skin was layered with lace and satin ruffles. Each outfit likely cost more silver than the people in neighboring towns would see in a year.

  Desmeres looked over the women. All of them were lovely, though judging from the amount youth on display, Klye was hoping to entice Desmeres into paying for one of his most expensive courtesans. Of the two who were notably more mature, one had painted her face with enough makeup to attempt to make up for the fifteen years that separated her from the younger girls. The last woman had made no such effort.

  She was forty years of age, perhaps more. Of the group, she dressed the most practically, if not the most conservatively. Her shoes were simple, comfortable slippers rather than the more fashionable ones worn by the rest. She wore a full length skirt and petticoat, as well as a long-sleeved blouse. Each garment was finely crafted and enticing in its own way, but combined they made for an outfit that was far more suitable for the frequent icy breezes that swept across the room with each new visitor than the usual uniform. The years had left her face with a few more lines than the other women, but she’d not seen fit to hide them beneath caked-on makeup. Instead she’d made sparing use of rouge on her cheeks and lips, enhancing the natural beauty rather than attempting to invent it from whole cloth. Perhaps most telling of all, while the other women displayed expressions ranging from nervous to seductive, this final woman appeared impatient, as though she was being kept from more important tasks.

  “I believe this young lady will suit my purposes well enough,” he said, standing and taking the hand of the final woman.

  His selection produced a combination of confusion and disappointment in all of the women, as well as Master Klye, but it passed quickly.

  “Very well, sir. If you’ll just follow me, I shall show you and your companion for the evening to our finest room,” remarked the host.

  Desmeres’s chosen companion took the tray from the end table and obediently fell into step behind him as Klye took him through a curtain to a narrow staircase. It led to a moodily lit hallway lined with paintings on one side and doors on the other. Klye opened the third door, plucked the dim lantern from the wall beside it, and led the others inside. One by one, he lit the oil lamps within, revealing a room much in keeping with the rest of the establishment. A large, neatly kept four post bed dominated the floor. A small table with two chairs sat against the wall opposite, and a larger armchair had its back to the tightly shuttered and heavily draped windows. Beside the door a basin of water had been placed with a polished copper mirror above it, and through a door to one side of the bed was a private bath.

  “I hope you enjoy your evening. If the
re is anything you require to make your stay more pleasant, pull this sash,” Klye said, indicating a braided rope beside the door, “and someone will be along to help you. Fresh linens and fresh basin water is available upon request, as is heated water for the bath. Thank you again.”

  “Send someone up with my coat. Much as you and your staff seem the trustworthy types, I’d prefer to have it with me,” Desmeres said. “I’ll be sure to share any other needs or concerns as they arise.”

  “As you wish, sir,” Klye said.

  With a respectful bow, he slipped out the door. Desmeres took a seat beside the table. His companion set down the tray of wine before him.

  “Shall I pour you a glass, sir?” she asked.

  She spoke with a distinctive tone of voice, the sort of clipped efficiency that bespoke years of weary service and more than a dash of resentment.

  “That’s quite all right. Please, take a seat,” he said, indicating the chair opposite while he uncorked the bottle. “It needs a moment to breathe. When the time comes, I’ll do the pouring.”

  She sat demurely and folded her hands on her lap. Desmeres unlaced his boots and pulled them from his feet. He eased himself a bit lower in his chair and for a few moments seemed content to bask in the warmth and comfort of the posh room. Before long, the silence prompted a short, uncomfortable cough from his guest.

  Desmeres looked to her. “You didn’t seem overly pleased with the prospect of spending the evening with me, I notice.”

  “I assure you, I was just surprised at being picked. I thought my years of being a man’s first choice were behind me.” Again, her voice said more than her words. She sounded as though being passed over had been a welcome change, rather than a disappointment.

  “Before this night is through, I think you’ll find that I’m not one inclined toward dishonesty, and I do hope that you’ll adopt a similar policy. The last thing I wanted when I selected a woman for the evening was someone who would kowtow and stroke my ego.”