“Ah, yes, my Queen. Fortune initially smiled upon us. Lumineblade’s trail was quite clear, leading from the east and ending in an unsavory place called Clennock’s Den not two days south of here.”
Caya smirked. “I know Clennock’s. A few of the boys in the Honor Guard seem to think it’s a bank, the way they so faithfully deposit their silver there. I’ve got half a mind to have the Den relocated to Verril just to save my boys the travel time.”
“Err… Yes, my Queen. Unfortunately, upon our initial clash with Lumineblade, I underestimated his capacity for dishonorable tactics. He doused me with spirits and lit them aflame, escaping in the confusion that followed.”
Caya crossed her arms.
“That man is digging his grave deeper and deeper. It’s one thing to rob me. Now he’s assaulting my officers,” she rumbled.
“I have dispatched a small contingent of the Elites to track him, but I suspect they shall have difficulty. He seemed to show considerable care in his retreat to move with greater stealth than he had in his journey to Clennock’s.”
“Stands to reason. Now the man knows who he’s dealing with,” Caya said, slapping Anrack on the shoulder. “The kind of man who doesn’t waste time on a bandage before getting back to work. Anything else to report?”
“Nothing more to report, but I have a request.”
“Let’s hear it. The Elites are not without privilege.”
“As I understand it, Desmeres was, however briefly, in the direct employ of the five Generals.”
“That he was. Just another sign of poor judgment on his part,” Caya fumed.
“I wonder if you would allow me access to their records and resources. Perhaps they have information which will permit me a glimpse into their no-doubt considerable surveillance over him during that time.”
“Of course.” She turned to the hulking, well-armored member of her honor guard who had been lurking like a silent threat beside the queen. “Tus, have your boys pull the braces from Bagu’s quarters.”
Tus nodded and motioned to the other guards.
“Your Majesty! No, please! I must remind you of the danger!” puffed the portly gentleman has he finally closed the gap between them.
“Hold it, Tus,” Caya said. She turned to Anrack. “Commander, this is Khryss. Forgive him if he’s not terribly wordy at the moment. He’s my new handler, and I’m a bit difficult to handle. Now what’s this about?”
Khryss gasped a bit. “The danger. We have determined that Bagu’s personal quarters are not to be opened until the Duke and Duchess of Kenvard are able to discover how best to strip away the potential hazards.”
Caya snapped her fingers. “That’s right, that’s right. General Bagu, I’ll tell you, you’ve got to give him credit. Dead for over a month and still causing mischief. You see, Commander, we assigned a record-keeper to sift through his things and catalog them. Figure out what they do, dig through his books, and other things of the sort. More or less what you’re looking to do. Poor guy. Triggered something, some magical booby trap or similar. Nearly killed him. Actually, I don’t quite understand the specifics, but evidently killing him would have been the least of what it did. That sent these boys and the rest of the castle into a tizzy. A working of dark magic performed so close to the throne. So they barred the door and moved all of the other D’Karon goods to…” She snapped her fingers again. “What is it, Khryss?”
“Fort Greenworth, Your Majesty,” he said.
“Right, right. Fort Greenworth. Not too far away, to the west,” Caya said.
“I am familiar with it, my Queen.”
“Good, good. Of course you would be. You’re an old hand in the Alliance Army. Well, you’ve got full access to whatever we’ve moved out there, so long as the record-keeper clears it. I understand there’s quite a bit. The record-keeper will help you sort it out. He’s recovered from his mishap in Bagu’s office… more or less… The man’s got his good days and his bad, but to his credit, he refused to be removed from the job. Anything else?”
“I wonder if I might have a word with your consort, Captain Lumineblade. As the target is his father I believe—”
“He’s about. You can certainly discuss the matter with him, but don’t expect any insight. I don’t believe Croyden has even met his father. That’s an apple that must have rolled down a hill when it fell from the tree.”
“Your Majesty, not to rush you, but—” Khryss said anxiously.
“No, no. Perish the thought you would ever rush me, Khryss,” Caya said wearily. “What my handler here is so delicately prodding me about is my more pressing appointment. It seems our friends to the south have made some rather significant shifts in their diplomatic policies since we last had a formal discussion with them. … A century and a half is liable to do that… Now I’ve got to learn how to speak the language of peace again.”
“If you were to ask for my advice, my Queen, I would suggest that the proper way to secure a lasting peace is to bolster our ranks in preparation for the inevitable. When our ‘friends to the south’ grow weary of this farce and take up arms again, our present military would be woefully ill-equipped to turn them away.”
Caya raised an eyebrow. “Elite Commander Anrack, let me begin by saying my reign has thus far known only peace, and I am not keen on bringing that remarkable achievement to an end. And let me continue by saying that I did not, nor would I, ask you for your advice on how to run my military. A substantial proportion of the staff of this palace exists precisely to fill the role of adviser for any and all matters that might weigh upon the royal mind. Your role is to fetch Desmeres and bring him to face justice and to perhaps be pressed into service of the throne. I believe we would all be best served if we were to know our roles and keep to them.”
“Of course, my Queen…”
“Fine! Keep up the good work, Anrack. Three weeks and already you’ve clashed once with the elusive devil. That’s better than the Elite ever did when it was after the Red Shadow,” she said, slapping him on the shoulder.
She strutted off, her entourage in tow.
“And go see a healer about those burns and that leg. You’re the Elite Commander, you deserve the best!” she called over her shoulder.
Anrack watched, his face even but his eyes severe, as Caya continued out of the hall and through the great doors of the palace.
“That woman is headstrong enough to lead… But I worry for her instincts…”
#
Desmeres shook off a dusting of snow as he climbed down from his horse. He’d traveled more or less constantly since his visit to Clennock’s Den, stopping only when the horse needed rest and tending. As he traveled, he felt something return to him that had been missing for weeks: clarity. The dull fog of malaise and listlessness was lifting, and with it the slipshod sense of self-preservation that had led the Elite to him.
Stealth, like most things in Desmeres’s observation, was not as complicated as many chose to make it. He knew better than anyone that tracking by scent or through magic was difficult—though not impossible—to overcome, but few used those methods. The bulk of the task of staying ahead of one’s enemies wasn’t remaining hidden, but remaining undetected. It was a subtle but crucial distinction. If Desmeres wished to remain hidden, he would have traveled as Lain had. His horse would be slogging through the deep forests and the remote fields. And since he would necessarily be the only traveler through such places, further care would need to be taken to cover tracks and clear camps. To remain undetected, he need only be unremarkable. Traveling well-trafficked roads hid his trail more thoroughly than he could have ever hoped in a field, because it buried his trail under those of a thousand others. He could stay and eat in taverns, do business, have conversations, and the trail was only as warm as the memory of a shopkeeper who’d seen a dozen faces like his that morning.
Of course, Desmeres was seldom one to blend into a crowd. When others wore a cloak, he wore a jacket. When others paid in copper, he paid in gold. H
e’d made it almost a point of diverging from the norm, and of being memorable. His reputation was larger than life, a costume in a way. But costumes have their value. Show the world your character writ large and drawn with broad strokes and when the time comes to describe you, those broad strokes are all that remains. Shrug them off like an oversize coat and suddenly the description no longer applies. As he paced from the hitching post at the edge of a small stable, Desmeres bore no resemblance to the man who had made his daring exit from a den of iniquity two days prior. A well-worn gray cloak—practically the national uniform—hung about his shoulders. He’d hidden his mane of white-blond hair beneath a yarn cap, and his immaculately shaved face now wore a two-day stubble. This last bit was less of a disguise than most. His elven ancestry made growing facial hair a slow and sparse affair, but every little bit helped. He was shabby and common to the untrained eye. Just another Northerner going about his business. It wasn’t foolproof, and eventually they would hone their descriptions and begin to catch his scent, but for now he was confident he wouldn’t be easily found.
A sturdy fence with tight slats wrapped around the property he’d been seeking. The air was a cacophony of barking and baying. Within the fence, tiny structures formed a large grid. A long cord tethered a dog to each. At his sight and scent, the hounds strained at their leashes and howled after Desmeres. Bundled up workers walked among them, shoveling chopped scraps into the dishes and dosing out fresh water for each. A building, what had probably begun life as a stable for livestock, stood at one corner of the fence. As he drew near, a frost-encrusted sign carved with rough lettering labeled the place Bremmick Hunting and Tracking Breedery.
Desmeres tromped up onto the covered porch of the place and stomped a few times, knocking the snow from his boots and bringing a fresh round of howls from the dogs. The door ahead of him opened before he could knock.
“Inside, sir. Quick, before those dogs make us all deaf,” jokingly urged a voice from within.
He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. It took a moment or two for his eyes to adjust to the dim candle light after enduring the glare of the snow. A powerful mix of past-its-prime meat, a crackling fire, and the overall atmosphere that unavoidably resulted from keeping dogs hung heavily in the air. Animal pelts served every purpose from rugs to wall hangings to upholstery. Simple stout bows hung in racks beside the door. A large stone fireplace made up almost the entire north wall. The stuffed head of an elk peered down from above it, antlers scraping the tall ceiling.
“Sit, sir. Melt some of the snow off you,” said his host.
“Much obliged, sir,” Desmeres said, easing himself onto the deer-hide cushion of the chair. “I never grow weary of visiting a hunting lodge. You good people never seem to let something go to waste.”
The man took a seat opposite him and opened his hands to the fire. “That’s the nice bit about raising dogs. Butcher down a nice bit of wild stock, and sell all but the gristle and bone, and the dogs’ll be glad to get rid of the rest.”
His host was the sort of man who one could tell from half a field away was a hunter by trade. He was built of coarse, thick stuff, rough-sewn fur clothing hinting at a slab of work-hardened muscle beneath. He had a round face, almost entirely hidden by wiry black and gray hair. The little flesh that peeked out was creased by smile-lines, baked brown by the sun, and tinted red by too much drink.
“So what brings you here?” he asked.
“I’m in the market for a dog,” he said.
“Dogs I’ve got, so you’ll need to be more specific than that. What’s your reason?”
“I’m thinking of getting into the bounty game,” Desmeres said.
“Scent hound then. Came to the right place. We’re the birthplace of bloodlines when it comes to hunting dogs and tracking dogs. We’re not the breeders to the throne, mind you, but when they come looking for quality sires, they come to us.”
Desmeres nodded. “Sounds like I’m not getting out of here without dropping quite a few coins then.”
“You want quality, you pay for it. But we’re simple hunters. You tell me what you’re after, and we’ll try not to lighten your purse too much.”
“I’m not much of an expert. Maybe you could tell me what I’m after.”
The man stretched and yawned, then fetched a large knife and a much abused stick from beneath the chair to start whittling.
“Bounty, eh? You working alone?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Is that important?”
“Could be. See, a man wants a dog for hunting, man or beast, he’s got to decide what state the quarry’s going to be in when the dog gets to it. You going on your own, you’ll want a dog that can help take your target down for you. You got a partner, maybe you just need the dog to find the target.”
“I don’t imagine my targets will be putting up much of a fight, but I wouldn’t mind a dog who could… dissuade a robber or two while I’m on the road.”
He carved a long shaving from his stick. “You’re after a Vulbaka then. Peerless scent hound, but big enough to give a brigand second thoughts. Not the cheapest dog we’ve got, mind you. Trained, I couldn’t part with one for less than…” He shrugged. “Ten silvers on the low end, fifteen on the high. We’ve got three just about ready to be sent on their way.”
Desmeres leaned back and pulled a breath through his teeth. “That is steep.”
“That’s the price. No room to come down on that one. You wanted a wolfhound, we could talk. Wide range in those. But Vulbaka? You’d have to go clear to Kenvard to find another breeder worth talking to for one of them. And we train them for two years.”
“Two years? You’re selling me a dog that’s half dead!”
The man chuckled and waved him off. “No. Vulbaka’s a hardy breed. You’ll get ten years of tracking out of one, easy. So long as you take proper care, naturally.”
“Still… that seems like an awful lot of training.”
He chuckled again. “You never dealt with a Vulbaka, or you’d be asking me how we got it done so quick. A Vulbaka isn’t what you’d call a bright dog. Following a scent is just about the only thing that brain’s got room enough to do. We’ve got to turn those lessons edgewise just to fit them in. Getting them trained is half the cost.”
Desmeres dug his gloved hand into his coin purse, skillfully pulling out six silver coins while leaving the handful of gold behind. He poked around at the stack with his finger.
“You say half of the cost is training? Have you got any puppies?”
Again the man waved him off. “You don’t want a puppy. Ungainly bundle of ears and feet. Won’t be any good to you for six months, and if you’ve never trained one, it won’t be any good to you at all.”
“If it comes to getting a puppy that might not be any good, or getting nothing, I’ll take my chances. Right now I’ve got more patience than silver.”
“I couldn’t do that to you, friend. I wasn’t lying when I said we provided sires to the royal breeder. He was here not a month ago, took the cream of the crop from the recent litters. We’ve still got some quality pups, but all of the best dogs are the trained ones.”
“I can’t be sure I’ll have the silver for it come next puppy season,” Desmeres said.
He closed his fist around the silver and stood.
“I suppose this was a waste of a trip.”
The breeder held up a hand. “Now, now, now. You just sit yourself back down and listen for a bit. How much silver you got clinking around in your hand there?”
“Six coins.”
“Six silver… That’ll get you a puppy, but you need to be aware of a few things. You aren’t buying yourself a tracker. You’re buying yourself a middle-of-the-breed ball of fur that’s about as sharp as a river stone. For eight weeks, it won’t be much good for anything but sticking its nose in everything and eating you out of house and home. After that, it’ll be a few weeks of pulling your hair out trying to get it to understand that of all the smells arou
nd it, there’s only one you’re interested in. And then, after all that, you might have yourself the beginnings of a tracker. If you think that’s worth six silver, then six silver’s the price.”
“When you put it that way, I’d say maybe five silver is closer to fair.”
“Tell you what. For six silver, you get your pick of the puppies. For five, you get my pick of the puppies.”
“That sounds like a deal to me,” Desmeres said.
“Let’s get you your puppy, then,” he said, heaving himself out of the seat.
The breeder led Desmeres to the back of the room and shoved hard at a rough-hewn door until it shoved aside the snow that had mounded in front of it. Bright light, swirling flakes, and the baying of several dozen hounds struck him hard as they moved out into the grid of doghouses. Desmeres tried to keep a smirk from his face as he watched every dog in scent range turn to him and sprint to the limits of its leash. There was something strangely nostalgic about the sight and sound of a ravening horde of dogs desperate to get at him. Spend a few years helping keep an assassin a step ahead of those who would bring him to justice and a team of dogs howling for blood becomes just another part of the job. Hearing it now felt good, in a way. It was as though he’d finally gotten back to work after a break that had gone on far too long.
He had to follow the breeder past the full gamut of his animals, eventually working his way to a row of pens against the back fence. The Vulbaka pen was in the far corner. They stepped up to the short fence and gazed upon the creatures within. Desmeres crossed his arms and finally let the smirk find its way to his face. A ‘pile of feet and ears’ was an apt description. Only a few weeks old, each of the puppies was the size of a large cat, yet it looked like it had been born with all the skin, ears, and paws of an adult and expected to grow into them. Each had a long snout perpetually snuffling about. Shaggy fur flopped over their faces, hiding their eyes. Long ears dragged the ground with enough slack for the little animals to literally trip over them as they bounded to the edge of the pen to investigate the newcomers. The body was plump and fluffy, a mop of long reddish-brown fur with black markings. They had short tails that were almost lost in the fluff and folds of the rest of their hides. Big, ungainly paws seemed to emerge directly from the bottom of their bodies, the entirety of their short legs hidden in the hair that hung down.
The Redemption of Desmeres Page 6
