The Redemption of Desmeres

by Joseph R. Lallo

  As gently as he could manage in his impaired state, he shifted the blankets aside and removed himself from the embrace of his hired companionship. Sitting up was a challenge that hardly seemed worth attempting, but he did so regardless. Behind him, he heard half-coherent complaints about the cold before she wrapped herself once more in the blankets.

  It took a few long and uncomfortable moments, but he finally managed to dredge the woman’s name from the blurred memories of the night before.

  “Genara?” he uttered, the sound of his own voice conjuring a few throbbing pulses in his temples.

  “Mmm?” she murmured, still teetering on the brink of sleep.

  “I seem to still be in my underclothes. May I ask, how fully did you earn your fee last night?”

  “We didn’t do anything expensive, if that’s what you mean. I simply convinced you that a bed for two is warmer than a bed for one,” she said muzzily. “Though I say now as I said then, it seems a shame for you not to get your money’s worth.”

  He rubbed his head.

  “Fine wine goes down easier, but leaves footprints that are just as deep, eh?” she said with a lazy grin.

  “Artfully phrased, madam. Still, if you are going to do something wrong, you may as well do it right.”

  Desmeres stumbled his way through the darkness to the basin of cool water. After a moment to prepare himself, he splashed it across his face. The brisk sensation brought him sharply to his senses, though being fully aware of the depths of his suffering scarcely seemed to be an improvement.

  “Remind me, madam. I did come to a conclusion about the best course of action for the days ahead, did I not?”

  “You did, though you did not share it.”

  “It may have been a miscalculation to finish the second bottle of wine then.”

  “I’m sure a few more drinks and another night will see us clear to the answer again.”

  “Though I must admire your opportunistic spirit, I believe a moment’s thought is all it will take.”

  Beside the basin was a pitcher of water to refill it. He poured some into his wine glass and nursed it as he thought aloud.

  “You’d spoken of my need to make amends, that there was a debt to be paid. I’d ruminated a bit on the subject of debts unpaid… Ah. That’s it. The books.”

  “The books?”

  “My former associate had a task of his own that he’d worked tirelessly toward. It was really a rather charitable end, but he did not allow the beneficiaries of his generosity to escape without a promise of repayment. The details of those debts are recorded. He kept countless books filled with countless names, each a person with a profound debt hanging over his or her head.”

  “You speak quite eloquently for a man who’s just slept off more than a bottle of wine.”

  He nodded his head in deference. “One learns to speak with care where I come from.”

  “What sort of debt are we talking about?”

  “That would depend on our needs and whims at the time. It was a simple favor, but a favor which must not be refused regardless of what it would eventually be, and one that would pass from father to son and mother to daughter for as long as it would take to be repaid. You say I need to give back to the world in exchange for the wrongs that I’ve committed. I’d say freeing these people of their lingering obligation to a mysterious figure of their past is a noble end, don’t you?”

  “That depends. How do you intend to relieve them of their debt?”

  “It remains to be seen.”

  “If you’re cashing in on the debts of a dead business partner, I’d consider that more an act of greed than redemption.”

  “Mmm,” he muttered with a nod, taking another restorative sip of water. “As a lady of the night, yours might not be the final word on moral virtue.”

  “Knowing right and doing right are two different things.”

  “A fair point well stated. However, as I’m more interested in the distraction than the redemption, I think I’ll do so regardless.”

  Desmeres found his way to his clothes and carefully pulled them on while Genara watched from the warmth of the bed. When he was dressed, he permitted himself a moment seated on the edge of the bed to let the pounding in his head subside. Behind him, he could hear the soft swish of fabric against fabric for a time. Then her hand touched him on his arm as she slid to his side, fully dressed.

  “You’re a hundred years old and you still haven’t learned your limit when it comes to wine.”

  “The purpose of this little exercise was to pass my limit, madam.”

  She smirked. “You gave me the ring, I may as well give you a gift as well. Will you wait here for a moment?”

  “I think I can be persuaded to remain in the darkness for a bit longer.”

  She slipped from the room, shutting the door with the exaggerated care of someone who was no stranger to dealing with a victim of overindulgence. When she returned not long after, she carried a tray. She set it down on the table.

  “There. The cure for your ills,” she stated confidently.

  He looked over the contents of the tray. “Poached eggs, toast with honey, and…” He leaned forward to sniff the contents of the smaller of two glasses. “Pickle brine?”

  “You can turn your nose up at it if you like, but if you eat and drink this, within the hour you’ll feel worlds better.”

  “And if I’m sick between then and now?”

  “Anything that comes up is something that you were better off without.”

  He looked at her doubtfully.

  “Again, sir. You came to me seeking wisdom. I’ve met men who would kill for this secret. And, may I suggest, begin with the brine. It is the most unpleasant part of the cure, and it would be a shame to waste the rest.”

  Desmeres took a breath and eyed the tray before him again. The thought that she might be playing a trick on him, or worse, flitted across his addled mind. At the moment the suggestion that something might speed his recovery was enough to push aside most other concerns. He decided to take the risk. Desmeres braced himself and gulped down the salty, sour liquid and twisted his face aside in disgust. It took every ounce of willpower he had to keep the previous night’s meal from rising.

  “I’m not convinced that was an improvement,” he said breathlessly when the moment passed.

  “Oh, hush. The worst is over,” she said, pouring him a glass of water. “Now eat up.”

  He guzzled the glass of water and a refill, then retreated to the honeyed bread to wash the lingering flavor from his mouth. Like everything else in this place, it was clear that every attempt at luxury had been made. Honey was worth nearly its weight in gold in many parts of the Northern Alliance, and fresh bread so early in the morning meant that the brothel actually kept a full-time baker on its staff. One had to admire the commitment to quality.

  Desmeres was nearly finished with his eggs when a distant tinkling sound caught his attention. Genara fixated on the sound, twisting her head toward the door to better hear it.

  “That’ll be… Alliance officers,” Genara said.

  Desmeres stopped eating and raised his eyes. “You’re certain?”

  “As a special service to our patrons, we try to ensure that our staff is made aware of the arrival of anyone who might frown upon their presence here.” Outside the door, the thumping of panicked footsteps rushed by. “There. That’ll be a foot soldier celebrating the end of the war, or maybe a lesser officer drowning his sorrows at no longer having a regiment to command. They can slip away without their superiors ever being any the wiser about their visit.”

  He swallowed. “A very clever and very thoughtful policy.”

  “Any chance these are the ones hunting for you?”

  “I’d be very surprised if they weren’t. As I said, I’ve not been as dedicated to stealth lately as I might be. A part of me, I think, might have been looking forward to the eventual clash. If only to break the monotony.”

  “How’s that part
feeling now?”

  “It is of the considered opinion that one should not face some of the world’s finest soldiers while suffering the wrath of a night of drinking.”

  “We can slip you out the back.”

  “I thought you wouldn’t help hide the crimes of a traitor.”

  “I’ve decided you’re more of an idiot than a traitor.”

  “Lovely. Unfortunately, puerile ruses probably won’t be sufficient to slip this noose from my neck. If this visit is for me, they will have someone covering all exits.”

  “Simple enough to check. We have a view of the rear exit from this room,” she said.

  Genara stood and made her way to the window, pulling aside the drapes and easing open the shutters a crack. The sharp lance of stark white light stabbed into Desmeres’s brain like a spear, causing him to wince and look away.

  “Good heavens. There is someone there. He’s sternly talking to the young fellow we just heard run by. And that’s… That’s Elite armor.” She turned to him, carefully closing the shutter. “You didn’t tell me it was Elites who were after you!”

  “In my inebriated state, it didn’t strike me as a relevant detail,” he said, hastily shoveling the last of the eggs into his mouth.

  “Didn’t strike you as… They’re the Elite! These are the people who were hunting the Red Shadow… Oh, heavens… You weren’t working with the Red Shadow, were you?”

  “Again, I fail to see how that is relevant.” He was pulling on his coat now.

  “The Red Shadow is the most fearsome assassin to have ever lived! Gods above, you told me you betrayed him! I shared a bed with someone who betrayed the Red Shadow!”

  She was still rubbing her throat, astonished to be alive, when Desmeres finished straightening his coat.

  “Relax. He’s dead, remember?”

  “That claim has been made before.”

  “Tell me, your superiors wouldn’t tell them what room I’m staying in, would they?”

  “They don’t know you’re a traitor yet, so no, not immediately. Not even for the Elite. We wouldn’t be able to stay in business if people were frightened about being revealed. But the Elite have the authority to search room by room regardless, and the moment they utter the word traitor you are as good as turned over.”

  “Naturally.” He glanced up. “Normally I would take to the roof or the window to slip away, but an icy rooftop and an addled mind are a recipe for a nasty fall. Given the choice between the two, I’ll take the soldiers.” He reached into his pocket and threw down a gold coin. “You’ve been an enormous help, Genara. Your fee and much more has been well earned. For my sake, I hope that wretched remedy of yours is effective, because I don’t think I’ll get very far with my brains trying to beat their way out of my head. Wish me luck.”

  “I’m not sure you deserve it,” she muttered.

  “Now really, that stings,” he said, pulling the door open.

  #

  The hallway was dark, the many lamps and candles not yet lit by the morning staff. Without the thick door to muffle them, he could easily hear the raised voices of a vigorous discussion below. One voice belonged to Klye, either still awake or awake once more. The other gruff voice made it clear from the first syllable that a soldier was speaking. This second voice had a familiarity to it, but Desmeres’s reluctantly clearing mind wasn’t yet up to the task of recalling where precisely he’d last heard it.

  Desmeres weighed his options. He could certainly make a run for the rear exit. There was likely only one soldier waiting for him there, and it would bring him closer to where he’d left his horse… No. By now they’d likely already secured his steed. They’d never seen it before, but if they knew anything about him, they knew just what sort of things would likely be found among his equipment, and thus they’d have identified the creature in minutes. This was an occasion where the best solution wasn’t the most obvious one. He would take the direct approach. The voices were coming from the bar area. With any luck there would be staff and patrons present. That meant confusion, and confusion always favored the target.

  With as confident a stride as he could muster, he paced his way out of the hallway to the top of the stairs.

  “Ah. Yes, of course,” he muttered.

  Two heavily armed soldiers, both caked with snow and with weapons drawn, waited at the bottom of the stairs. Even a stranger to this land would have known at a glance that these were no simple troops. They wore armor of fine make, colored with blue enamel. Gold inlay decorated their helmets, and each one bore a white horsehair plume. As soon as he’d stepped into view, the larger of the two bellowed.

  “You there. Stay where you are! No one leaves until we find—”

  “You’ve found him,” Desmeres said, swiftly drawing his short sword.

  Desmeres had created dozens of weapons for his former partner that were dull and matte, simple and unassuming. Weapons that wouldn’t betray their position when drawn were of enormous use for an assassin, after all. For those weapons he’d kept for himself, he’d been a bit more ostentatious. In truth, while he was more than capable with a blade, he wasn’t by any stretch of the imagination a world-class master. He could outfight the average soldier, and fight rings around thugs and ruffians, but the Elite and their ilk were more than his match on his best day. This was not his best day. Thus he felt any amount of intimidation he could muster was in his favor.

  His weapon gleamed even in the dim light filtering up from below. The blade was emblazoned with a web of interlocking sigils and arcane runes. Set in the blade, flush with its surface, was a faintly glowing gem. In size, the weapon wasn’t intimidating, a one-handed sword half the length of his arm, but the narrow blade looked sharp enough to split a hair. For good measure, Desmeres pulled a smaller defensive dagger for his off hand, the stouter blade every bit the match for its larger brother in quality and beauty.

  “We have him, Commander,” called one soldier as the other began to advance up the steps.

  Desmeres brandished his weapons. “I know there’s been a great deal of turnover in the Elite of late. I wonder if either of you had the good fortune to clash swords with the Red Shadow himself in the final days.” They continued to advance. “If you did, you’re familiar with my work. If not, what comes next will be an unpleasant surprise for you.”

  He hefted the sword forward slightly in his hand, revealing a small etched ring just below the cross guard. A flick of his thumb twisted the ring, aligning a rune with a sequence of similar ones etched into the grip itself. When it completed the sequence, the lines in the blade smoldered with a deep amber glow.

  “I urge you to back away and let me pass,” he said, angling the weapon toward the nearest of the soldiers. “I had a rather rough night and you’ll find me lacking my usual precision.”

  His foes stopped, but refused to retreat.

  “So be it,” Desmeres said.

  He raised his weapon and brought it down in a sharp downward arc. A ribbon of the golden energy streamed off the cutting edge. The energy curled forward and splashed against the nearest of the Elites. It hissed like water thrown on a frying pan wherever it struck the foremost soldier, blackening his armor and searing his skin. He stumbled backward, startled and hurt, and quickly lost his footing, tumbling toward his partner.

  Desmeres rushed after him as quickly as his sluggish coordination would allow, driving his heel into the chest of the second soldier while he tried to catch his falling friend. It was enough to knock the second man back, but in his flailing he had the presence of mind to grasp Desmeres’s ankle, pulling him forward and off balance.

  The three of them fell in a heap to the bottom landing. Desmeres was fortunate enough to end up on the top of the mound, and more fortunate to have avoided being completely skewered. The heavily armored soldiers, once off their feet, were like overturned turtles. Without similar weight to encumber him, Desmeres was able to disentangle himself and stumble to his feet in just a few clumsy moments.

&n
bsp; He looked himself over. In the scuffle, one of the soldiers’ swords had sliced through two layers of cloth on one of his sleeves but seemed to have just barely missed his flesh. His head pounded viciously from the exertion. He tried to push the pain aside for the moment and staggered through the curtain to the dining room and bar.

  As should have been obvious in retrospect, the room was hardly the bustling hive of activity and confusion that would have helped him slip out without much confrontation. Early as it was, the room had exactly seven people in it: Master Klye, the doorman, and five Elites. Having responded to the alert of the two men who were still attempting to climb to their feet, all but one of the soldiers were in place to confront Desmeres when he entered the room. All four raised their swords to the ready, but one faltered slightly at the sight of his target, or more specifically the blade that he held.

  “That isn’t one of those—” he began, the flickering look of panic in his features.

  Desmeres didn’t delay, lurching toward this man in his moment of distraction. He hooked his dagger arm around the Elite’s neck and shifted his weight, drunkenly pivoting around the soldier to place the man between Desmeres and the other soldiers. He slid his arm aside until the blade of his weapon just barely touched the flesh of the man’s neck. In the blink of an eye, though it wasn’t as graceful as it might have been, Desmeres found himself with a hostage.

  “Don’t anyone move any closer,” he growled, squinting at the painfully bright light that poured in through the open doorway. Another soldier, probably the one formerly covering the back door, had entered, but at the sight of his brother in arms at the mercy of what was presumably their target, he held his ground.

  “I’ve seen weapons like that,” groaned his hostage, “It’s got magic. There’s no telling what it can do!”