by Paul Barrett
“Queen harassing Procurers. Boy steal Geleit’s ring. Geleit is friend of Alekita.”
“What is a Geleit?” Andras asked.
“A Finance Master,” Fathen said. “He controls the treasury and taxes.” Fathen asked the boy, “Is he the Prime?”
The boy shook his head. “Nah, is only Geleit for Serberc.”
“He’s only in charge of the southern region of the kingdom, not all of it,” Fathen told Andras.
“Still a powerful man,” Andras observed. “What is this Geleit’s name?”
The young thief held out his hand. When no offering seemed forthcoming from either man, he dropped his hand and shrugged. “Boy has to eat.”
Fathen reached out and grabbed him by his shoulder. “Look here, you lit–”
The thief whipped out a black blade and laid it against the priest’s fingers. Fathen turned pale as the iron rested against his knuckles.
“Good way to lose finger, heh?” Jyme said with a wicked grin. “You lucky you Inconnu.” The boy lifted the knife and replaced it on his belt. “Take hand away now.”
His face red and shaking, Fathen pulled his hand away and rubbed at the small indention that ran across his knuckles.
Andras reached into his pouch and removed a teres. “You are a brave lad,” he told the small thief as he handed over the copper coin, which disappeared into Jyme’s shirt. “The name?”
“Count Valadon D’Arascant. He steal untrained boys.” The thief spat on the ground.
“We must remember that name,” Andras whispered to Fathen. “A finance minister would be most useful.”
“I will remember this boy’s impudence,” Fathen whispered back.
“Let it pass. It is the nature of the thief; he means nothing personal.”
Fathen kept his thoughts to himself.
“Inside here,” Jyme said, slipping into The Pig’s Knuckle.
The boy made for the dim back of the building, and Andras followed. He ignored the sailors and dockworkers gathered in the dark corners and drinking from spotted mugs. Smoke floated through the room, carrying the pungent scent of gilko leaf.
“Are all dockside taverns filthy?” Fathen asked.
“Almost without exception,” Andras answered. “Your fastidiousness grows tiresome.”
“I did not grow up in squalor.”
“Nor did I,” Andras said, an edge in his voice. “But you will learn to accept your circumstances without complaint, or you may seek another master.”
“My apologies. As always, I will try to do better.”
“See to it.”
Jyme opened a door and walked down a set of creaky wooden steps that ended at another closed door. He stopped and faced the men as he grabbed two black strips of cloth from a stack laying in a niche. “Now blindfolds.”
“Blindfolds?” Fathen asked. “Why?”
“Procurer home secret. Needs to stay secret.”
“I don’t want to wear a blindfold,” Fathen protested.
The boy shrugged. “Then stay here.”
“Put on the blindfold,” Andras said. “I don’t care for it either, but it’s standard practice and arguing is useless.”
“Let’s knock this snipe out of the way and go in without him,” Fathen said.
The child seemed unconcerned by the threat. “Good luck finding path.”
“Did you learn nothing outside?” Andras asked. “We are on the Procurer’s land now. Hurting this child would get us both killed. I am not yet powerful enough to fight an entire legion of thieves. Are you?”
Fathen shook his head.
“Then wear the blindfold.”
Fathen glared at the boy but took the proffered cloth. “How do we know you won’t get us inside and have your friends ambush us?”
The thief gave him a gap-toothed grin. “Give my word you safe.”
Fathen stared at the boy’s smirk and wanted nothing so much as to slap the insolence off the child’s face. But he considered Andras’ words and knew he would have to wait. The boy could afford to be disrespectful, but Fathen would remember. He put the cloth over his eyes and tied it at the back. He could only assume Andras did the same when the boy said, “Take hands.”
Fathen reached out until he found Andras’s sizeable calloused hand and gripped it. The door before them opened and they began moving.
They walked for at least five minutes, and Fathen quickly lost any sense of direction. If the boy were to let them go now and disappear, they would wander for hours before finding a way to the surface; the thought made for an anxious journey.
After roughly another five minutes, the little voice said, “Stop and take off.” Fathen gladly halted his movement, released Andras’ hand and removed the blindfold.
For a moment he thought he still wore the black cloth. Darkness engulfed him, leaving him unable to see the others in front of him, even though he could hear breathing. He wondered how their small guide had managed to lead them here.
“About to get bright,” the boy said. A crack appeared in the wall before them as he pushed open a door Fathen hadn’t even seen. The dim torchlight gave adequate illumination for their momentarily light sensitive eyes. Their guide walked in, and they followed him down the hallway about fifty feet before he stopped at another door and pushed it open. He stepped aside and indicated the two men should proceed.
They walked into the main chamber to find the Guild Master--one of the largest and ugliest men Fathen could ever remember seeing--sitting on his throne in the center. He had a sling on his arm and a cut on his forehead. Four other thieves stood at the base of the throne, two of them also with evidence of minor injuries. Their youth astounded Fathen, the oldest no more than seventeen and the youngest ten at most.
The big man spoke in a jovial voice. “Welcome to the home of the Procurers. I am Guildmaster Torin. Come in and share a glass of wine.”
“We need no wine,” Andras said as he strode across the room toward the dais, ignoring the others in the room. Fathen followed close behind.
“Very well,” Torin answered, pouring himself a dark red liquid from a silver pitcher. “You’ll forgive me for indulging. It’s been an interesting morning. I take it you’re Azinor’s master.”
“I am. Where is my priest?”
“Coming along momentarily. There have been complications and your man was injured.”
“What about the Necromancer?”
Torin took a slow drink of his wine, and Fathen suspected the man stalled. As Torin lowered the cup, a side door opened. A man, almost Fathen’s height, with ghostly pale skin, thin facial hair, and a ponytail gathered with a ruby collar, walked up to Andras, knelt, and bowed his head.
“My lord, I have failed you. The Necromancer is dead.”
Andras’s eyes widened in shock but soon turned to amusement, not the reaction Fathen expected. “Rise and explain.”
The man stood, glanced at Fathen, and then turned to Andras. “We had the Necromancer captured, but the guild master's incompetence allowed him to be freed.”
Torin shifted his bulk in the seat. “You’d best watch your tongue in my warren.”
Andras stared at Torin. “I am paying for your services, so my man will speak as freely as he desires. Especially where it concerns the Necromancer. Continue,” he told Azinor.
“This man’s son was spearheading a rebellion against him. He freed the Necromancer and his companions and fled. Those still loyal tracked them to a warehouse, and we confronted them. The rebellion was broken, but the Necromancer was killed in the first shot.”
Again an amused expression on Andras’s plain face that Azinor either didn’t notice or refused to acknowledge. It confused Fathen. His master should be furious at losing Erick.
Andras turned to Torin. “And where is this brave hero who brought down the Necromancer. I would meet this person.”
Torin’s thick eyelids drew tight, rife with suspicion. “I thought you wanted the boy alive.”
“I pr
eferred him alive, but dead is acceptable. Now, let me meet the man or woman responsible.”
Torin didn’t relax immediately, but eventually, his eyes opened, and he said, “Calligan, step forward.”
The smallest and youngest of the four thieves in front of Torin stepped forward. Fathen almost laughed. The boy appeared harmless as a two-week-old puppy. Then he remembered a knife blade against his fingers and the laughter froze.
Andras walked toward the child. The other thieves tensed, but Andras ignored them. He put a hand under the small lad’s chin. “And how did you take down the Necromancer? A knife in the back?”
“Crossbow.” Calligan lifted his head in pride. “Right in the eye.”
Andras smiled and patted the boy’s cheek with his free hand. “Were you aware that he was supposed to be taken alive?”
“Yes.”
“But you killed him anyway. Why?”
Calligan’s brows bunched in confusion. He tried to pull away, but Andras took a firm grip on the boy’s chin.
“Why?” he asked in a harsher voice.
“Unhand him,” Torin said.
“When he answers the question,” Andras said. “Why did you kill him?”
Calligan shook his head. Andras pulled a knife from his belt and pressed it against the boy’s throat. The boy cried out. The other three thieves drew blades and advanced toward Andras. He glared at them.
“Take another step, and I’ll slit his throat, then resurrect him and have him kill every one of you.” Red light flickered in his pupils, and his voice took on the whispery quality that raised the hairs on Fathen’s neck. It worked on the thieves as well. They stepped back. One dropped his knife, his hands shaking. Torin had not moved. Calligan wailed and shook.
“Answer the truth, or I’ll kill you,” Andras told the terrified thief. “Why did you shoot the Necromancer?”
“Marcus told me too,” the boy said, his words so caught up in his crying that Fathen barely understood them.
“Marcus?” Torin said, leaning forward in his chair.
“Who’s Marcus?” Fathen asked.
“The man’s son,” Azinor said. “The leader of the rebellion.”
“It seems there are still snakes in your nest,” Andras said. He shoved Calligan to the floor where the boy lay in a heap and sobbed.
“Get him out of here,” Torin said. “Take care of him.”
“Wait,” Andras said. He turned to Fathen and held out the dagger. “Kill him.”
“What?”
“This child is a traitor to his people, and he has displeased the Fist. As Eloa Ecrin it will often fall to you to mete out punishment. Kill him.”
“No,” Calligan screamed, his wet eyes wide. He tried to stand, but two of the others grabbed him and held him tight.
“I’d rather not have the blood on my floor,” Torin said.
“You’ll be compensated for the clean-up,” Andras snapped. He walked toward Fathen, dagger still extended. “Kill him.”
Fathen took the knife and moved toward Calligan.
“Please, no, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I was forced. They made me do it.” Tears ran down Calligan’s face, and he fell into inarticulate babbling.
The child seemed so small and pitiful, not at all like the swaggering imp that had led them to this hole. This boy had done nothing to him. He had killed Erick, but Andras, for all his talk, didn’t seem as upset as he should be.
You are already damned, a voice said. Why hesitate?
Why indeed? Fathen put the knife against the boy’s throat.
“Great Caros,” Calligan blubbered through his tears, “please accept me into your heaven, though I have done wrong. Absolve my transgressions and bathe me in your light, as you bathe your child Krinnik. Remove the…remove…”
Fathen leaned in and whispered into Calligan’s ear. “Remove the darkness on my soul as you remove the darkness of night’s embrace.” Pain spiked him as he recited the words; he rocked back, momentarily blinded.
When he could see again, he found Calligan staring at him, his face wet but calm. “Remove the darkness on my soul as you remove the darkness of night’s embrace,” he repeated, voice firm.
Eyes looked with Fathen, he continued. “Make my soul pure again, as I was when first parted from the bosom of your wife, Calea. Take me, broken as I am, and make me whole.”
Fathen’s hand shook, the dagger suddenly hot as a spike fresh from the forge. He dropped the blade and turned to Andras. “I’m sorry, master. He is a child of Caros. Forgive me, but I was too long in the Sun God’s embrace to readily murder one of his disciples.”
Fathen bowed his head. He sensed his end. Eligos would reject him as unworthy, and he would share the traitor’s fate.
“Look at me,” Andras said. Fathen did as commanded. His master’s face was grim, but not as angered as Fathen expected. “We will discuss this later.” He picked up the blade and walked toward the boy.
“Thank you,” Calligan said. Fathen turned to see the boy’s bright eyes and sad smile.
Andras ran the knife across the child’s throat.
Fathen closed his eyes, unable to look at the boy’s beatific face, but he could hear the gurgling, the gasps of interrupted air, the dull kick of feet against stone. After far too long, the noises stopped, but Fathen didn’t open his eyes until he heard them dragging the dead child away. Blood pooled on the floor and trailed in two small lines toward the room’s entrance. Fathen caught a glimpse as the two thieves carried the limp body through a door. It had to be his imagination, but Fathen thought Calligan still smiled.
Fathen knew he would see the boy’s face and hear his death long after today. But the thief’s actions had brought about his fate. He deserved his punishment.
Fathen hoped he could eventually make himself believe that.
“This has not been my best day,” Torin said. The large man rested his jowls on his meaty fist. “I’ve lost my son, several highly-trained thieves, and a promising healer has disappeared, probably run off with the rebels who escaped.” He paused and started as if just realizing Andras and Fathen were still present. “It appears I owe you a debt for revealing I still have work to do.”
Torin laughed, an odd but pleasant sound. “I’ll hand it to the boy; he had his hooks deeper than I suspected. Shame he wasn’t on my side.” His smile turned to a pained grimace. “I will return your deposit.”
“Keep it, to clean your floor,” Andras said. “And I may still need your services. I suggest you have your house in order when I return, or I won’t be so lenient.”
The large man appeared ready to take insult, then reconsidered. He nodded. “I will. Things may get ugly for a while, but Darius here is a solid man. He’ll help me rout out the rats.”
“Azinor,” Andras said. “You did well, considering the circumstances. Stay and help the Guildmaster with his task.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“I insist.” Andras’s eyes flashed. “I want to make sure my investment is protected.”
“As you say,” Torin said, but he clearly wasn’t happy.
“You can return us to the surface now.”
“Jyme,” Torin yelled, and their escort stuck his head into the door. “Take these two back to the top.”
“The same place where you took us in,” Andras added.
Jyme, his subdued manner evidence he had witnessed his comrade’s fate, returned them to the stairway leading to the dingy tavern. At the boy’s request, they removed the blindfolds and returned them. With nothing more than a dark glance at both of them, he disappeared back through the doorway to his lair.
They trudged up the stairs, Fathen’s footsteps heavy as he followed Andras. They reached the top and pushed the doorway open. A few patrons looked their way but returned to their affairs with only a cursory glance.
“Why so morose?” Andras asked.
“I have displeased you. I am worthless.”
“You have displeased me, but
it was not entirely unexpected. You are worthless, but so is a lump of iron until it is forged into a useful tool. I will forge you, or break you in the process.”
“Thank you, master. I will prove myself worthy.”
“Yes, you will,” Andras said, and Fathen shivered at the malice in the words. The phantom touch of a knife whispered across his throat, and he flinched.
They left the tavern and returned to the bright day. Down in the dimness of the thieves’ warren, Fathen had forgotten it was still morning. “What do we do now?”
“What we were doing when we came here. Searching for Erick.”
“But he’s dead.”
“Follow me.” Andras moved toward a crowded market across the street; the stale, smoky air of the tavern gave way to the smell of salt water and fish. Vendors hawked seafood and vegetables, while peddlers walked among the crowd holding boxes filled with trinkets and sweets.
Andras found a corner in the midst of the thriving, cacophonous bazaar. “We can speak here without the chance of being overheard. The Necromancer is not dead.”
Unsure how much he should hope, Fathen said, “How do you know?”
Andras frowned, and his eyes narrowed, giving his plain face a much more sinister countenance. “Am I not Eligos? Do you not think I would know when a Necromancer has died? You would also know. Remember what happened aboard ship?”
“Yes,” Fathen said with a shudder as he recalled the nauseating cloud of churning crimson and ebony that had surrounded Andras. “Nothing like that has happened since.”
“And therefore, no other Deathmage has been killed, least of all this boy.”
“So why did you let Torin believe he had failed?”
“He has failed. Erick is not dead, but he has escaped, making our task more difficult and wasting time. Such incompetence is not acceptable, but for now, I must let it go. I am too weak to punish him properly, by destroying his whole organization. They may yet prove useful.” Andras smiled. “It’s almost always better to keep the snake close and use its venom against others than it is to cut off the head.”
“So Erick is free and heading for Broken Mountain,” Fathen said. “He will be taking the Routh Krinnik, so he should be easy to track down and kill.”
