“My thanks.” Fenn went to the trapdoor, pulling it open, his nostrils catching a whiff of the sewers below. He turned to Red Eye, and for a moment felt set to weep. “I owe you more than I can ever repay.”
“Oh, I'm sure you’ll find a way to make it right,” Red Eye said with a laugh. For a moment it looked like there was a hint of a tear in the corner of his red eye, which he quickly wiped away.
Fenn began to climb down the ladder in the trapdoor. Then he halted. “One question,” he said, looking over at his friend. “What is your real name?”
A smile flitted across Red Eye’s face. “Truth be told,” he said, “I’ve forgotten. Be off now, Fenn. May Heaven light your way.”
And with that he closed the trapdoor, vanishing from sight.
Fenn pounded his fist on the door. “Open up in there!”
No answer came. He looked around, eyes on the streets, wary of any sign of movement. He was in Steenshal, perhaps half a mile from the shed where he’d emerged from the sewers. On any other day it would have been a brisk walk of perhaps a quarter of an hour. Under the present circumstances it took him the better part of the night, moving one street at a time. Every skag in Galadorn was out and about, eager for the bounty on his head.
“Open up in there!” He pounded his fist again. He heard footsteps inside, accompanied by a faint grumbling voice.
“What bloody hour is it…” A slot opened in the top of the door. “No beggars at this hour! Piss off and die!”
“Would you like to...like to buy Marcot wine?” Fenn asked, pausing a moment to remember the pass phrase. It changed every week.
The eyes narrowed, and for a heartstopping moment Fenn feared he’d gotten it wrong. “I’ve heard this years vintage is poor,” the voice replied.
“Then I’ll sell at half price,” Fenn answered, completing the sequence.
The slot slammed shut. A moment later the door opened, and an elderly fellow waved him in.
“Second floor,” he said, closing the door and barring it. “Second room on the right, use the stairs in the back. You’ll find a bed and all the rest. What is your name, and who needs to know you’re here?”
“The name is Fenn Aquila. Tell Holdenor I'm here and we need to talk.”
The old man nodded, unfazed at the mention of the Spymaster. “I’ll send word. Breakfast is an hour after dawn.” He turned away and went a hallway, yawning.
“Don’t you want to know what this is about?” Fenn asked.
“Hell no,” came the man’s reply as he went into his room and closed the door.
Fenn went up the stairs and found the room. Inside was a small cot, a chamber pot and a basin filled with water along with a rag, and a candle burning in a pewter holder. He splashed some water on his face, made use of the pot, then sat down on the bed.After a moment he stood and began to remove the various weapons secreted about his person. The pistol (unloaded) tucked in the back of his belt, the smaller holdout gun in one of his boots, the knife hidden in the other, the other knife hidden in the small of his back, the knife strapped to the inside of his left forearm.
Then he pulled out the longknife taken from that assassin in the Gardelaar. He’d take it only a few days earlier, yet it seemed like a lifetime. How quickly things had changed...from a respected skag, a master cracksman, feared and respected among his peers, to an outcast among the outcasts, with a price on his head that would draw every bounty hunter for a hundred miles.
“How did it come to this?” he muttered.
To distract himself from his worries, he held up the blade, admiring the work...high-quality steel, well balanced. A fine weapon…
Wait. He went over to the candle and held the pommel of the knife up to the light. A mark was stamped into the metal, small but distinct...a snake curled around a dagger blade, with a pair of crossed staves below it.
Fenn sat down on the bed. he'd seen that symbol before…
“Bear these arms with pride, and do not dishonor them!”
He held out his hands, clamping his fingers around the hlt of the blade. A short sword, but to his fourteen-year old eyes it might as well have been a two-hander wielded by the elite troops in the regiment. He admired the way the fine steel caught the noon light.
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing at a mark stamped into the blde, an inch above the hilt.
The sergeant looked at the sword. “Makers mark,” he said. “Our lord bought these in bulk from a workshop in Kirondaal.”
“Where is that?” Fenn asked curiously.
At that the sergeant laughed. “Hardly matters, son! I’ll never see it and neither will you…”
He lay the long knife on the bed. “Kirondaal.”
He woke the next morning to a knock on the door.
“So,” said Kord Holdenor, letting himself in “You’re alive. We were taking bets on your survival.”
“You’re concern for my welfare warms my heart.” Fenn sat up, rubbing his eyes and pulling his mind into something approaching alertness. “I hope you lost a fortune.”
“A few coppers. Still, I am glad to see you among the breathing. I can’t interrogate a corpse.” Kord dragged over a stool, then sat down. “So,” he said, “the streets are alive with the tale. Fenn Aquila shot Ogeron the Brick on the back. Or he stabbed him six times in the back and once in the cods. One story I heard is you taking the Bricks head and doing unseemly things with his mouth and eye sockets...though that last was from some fellow in a tavern who had a few too many and reason to hate the Crescents. Either way, it’s quite a story.”
“They’re all false.”
Kord nodded. “I'm sure. So you tell, what really happened?”
Fenn did as asked, detailing the events that occured in Hog Lane that night. “Last I saw,” he said at the end, “Brin and his boys were headed back into Saint Barelin. Since then I’ve been running through these streets with a bounty on my head, courtesy of the bastard who actually shot the Brick in the back. Is he dead or alive, by the bye?”
“He’s still among the living, but the doctor looking at him has forced enough syrup of the poppy down his throat to put a bear to sleep for three months in the summer...he's being well paid to keep Ogeron out of play for as long as possible. Long enough so that when the bloodbath among the Crescent crews ends, he’ll wake up to find someone has taken his place. As a scheme, it’s not without a certain degree of elegance. But I’m more interested in who set up the attack.”
“The Shadowy Sun,” Fenn said.
“You’re certain?”
“Who else could it be?”
Kord crossed his arms. “Well,” he said grimly, “we won’t know now, with you being dead on sight in Galadorn.”
Fenn sighed. “As I said, this wasn’t my idea.”
“Nevertheless, it happened. So now we decide what happens next. You need to leave the city. Long enough for the anger of this to fade and enough bodies to drop. It will be a long time before you can return. Years, I'm thinking. A lot of trouble for a man whose only serves us a handful of months.”
“I swore the oath,” Fenn said. “I held up my end!”
“Starting a war in the underworld isn't what we had in mind. And it doesn't help the Pince maintain his power in this city...more the opposite, in fact. It took weeks of effort on my part, and a great deal of money, to get the Docksiders and Crescents to put down their knives and agree to a truce. Things were getting out of hand, many honest citizens were demanding that the regiments be sent in to restore order. The last time that happened, three hundred deaths resulted, and it cost the city a fortune in lost revenue. Now the Crescents are tearing themselves apart, the Docksiders are ready to pick up the pieces, and Brin’s Boys are readying themselves for a fight to prevent that. You’ve cost us a great deal. What do you have to offer that justifies this?”
Fenn kpt control of his emotions. He knew that Kord saw him as a tool...and what would happen if he ceased to be useful. “I have a lead on the Shadow Sun.”
Kord frowned. “Go on.”
Fenn helt up the long knife. “I took this from a man thy sent to kill me, one of the same men who dd the killing at the Docksiders safehouse. I recognize the makers mark on the pommel. This was made in Kirondaal.”
“That’s it?” Kord asked. “Nothing else?”
“Those men they sent, they weren’t locals. Foreigners new to the city. Their accent sounded like they came from the northern end of the lake.” In truth Fenn had no idea what kind of accent they had, but at the moment that didn't seem useful to mention.
Kord took the long knife and looked at it closely. His eyes stared at the pommel, then at the Fenn. “Well,” he said finally, “you did kneel before the Prince. And you are still alive despite it all, so maybe that’s a sign from some power or saint. Either way…”
He handed the long knife back. “I’ll make arrangements to get you out of the city. But your service is not ended, Fenn Aquila. I'm sending you to Kirondaal. Learn what you can about that knife and who paid for it. Follow the money and you will find the crime. You will continue to learn what you can of the Shadowy Sun. What they want with my city, and what must be done to stop them.”
Fenn nearly fainted from relief. He was not going to die. “As you command,” he said. “It will be done.”
Chapter Seven
“Ugh…”
Fenn wiped his mouth with a rag, and after a moment spat over the side of the lake boat. “That is just vile.”
“Can’t beat the price,” said the boats captain, picking up the clay bottle and sniffing at the top. “Smells fine to me. Wine of Avexin, as you requested. Fine vintage.”
“Fine vinegar, by the taste of it!”
“You don’t want it, then give it back.” The captain picked up the bottle, looking miffed at the ingratitude.
“No! Leave the swill. It’ll do.” Fenn took the bottle, cradling it closely to himself as if it was an infant in its mother’s arms.
“Please yourself!” The captain turned away, shaking his head and muttering under his breath about city bastards and their lack of good manners. LIke most of the people who plied the lake, his home and loyalty was to the boat under his feet and the crew working it (most of whom were brothers, sons or cousins) with little regard to the banner flapping lazily off the stern.
Kords men smuggled Fenn on the ship at night, hiding him in a cargo of fine woven cloth bound for markets to the north. The captain asked no questions, and was likely being paid well to keep his mouth shut. In truth he was an amiable sort, once they were under way.
Open water surrounded them on all sides. Instead of hugging the coast, the captain struck out into open water, deep into the heart of the great freshwater sea known as Balendaas. Fenn had heard all kinds of stories about the origins of the name, which came from no language known to him. Some claimed it was a word derived from the tongue of the offworld settlers who founded many of the towns and cities of the East over a thousand years ago, and it meant Waters of Life or Lake of Heaven. Others said it derived from the languages of the tribes who were there before the settlers arrived, who worshipped as a god and called it Blood of the Sacred, or variations thereof. And still others claimed all of this was fanciful, and it was really an Old Ruaadian word that translated as ‘ really big lake.’
Whatever the origins of the name Balendaas, in this present age it was the beating heart of the continent. Across the great freshwater sea went hundreds, if not thousands of ships, boats and barges, driven by the wind, pulled by oars, bearing good and travelers of every stripe and color. The cities and regions that surrounded the lake were known collectively as Tuscelan, and were now the wealthiest area the world had ever known, wealthier than the declining Empire of Ruaad in the far west, greater in power and influence than the warrior states of Oscana and Lellander. Galadorn was merely the brightest jewel in a brilliant constellation.
The southwestern shores of the lake belonged to Adelaan, once a quarrelling confederacy of city-states, now firmly under the control of the Prince of Galadorn. North of this was mighty Avexin, which extended from the edge of Balendaas far into the west, a collection of duchies, baronies and principalities nominally under the control of a High King, though this personage only occasionally had the power to enforce his will.
On the northern shore were the merchant princes of Ubriam, a land where a man’s worth was reckoned solely by the gold in his vaults, who viewed rising Galadorn as an upstart that one day might be crushed. East of this were the fens and marshes of Tascelar, a misty place said to be the haunt of witch queens and wizard lords who consorted with demons.
South of this, wedged up next to Adelaan was little Seren, a hilly place off small fortified towns and deep valleys where the peasants few olives and grapevines, and the power was long held by the great port city of Kirondaal.
Kirondaal! Famed for the skill of its smiths, once ruled by squabbling aristocrats, until something completely unexpected happened a generation ago, something unheard of on Tyberia, or indeed any other continent. Something whose ramifications were still being felt all these years later.
A city that held Fenn’s fate in an uncertain grasp.
He stood on the bow, sour wine of duous vintage in hand, occasionally taking a swig. A blur appeared on the horizon, soon forming itself in a long stretch of brown and green coastline. He saw rocky hills rising up, on which perched fortified villages and towns, and the occasional castle. Flocks of sheep ranged along the slopes, and groves of olives and vineyards standing out dark green.
Kirondaal appeared quite suddenly. The lake boat rounded a spit of land that thrust out into the lake, and there it was, bright in the sun. Fenn shielded his eyes at the sight, whistling softly in appreciattion. Set along the edge of a half-moon harbor, the city went backwards towards the hills of beyond. Seven great semi-circular avenues cut through it, one after the other, like the layers of a quarter-cut onion, and beyond that a great city wall. Seven great districts were enclosed within those roads, each marked by the different colored tiles on the roof of the building within. Whether hovel or mansion, it made no difference in the eyes of the law. Close to the harbor, the tiles were blue, then beyond that they turned green, then red, then white, orange, brown, and finally gray.
It seemed less a city than a work of art writ large. Tall, graceful towers rose over the rooftops, some reaching a hundred feet in height, their walls lines with large crystal windows that reflected the light of the sun, causing them to shimmer and glow at all hours. Faint plumes of smoke rose up from the peaks of several, in fantastical colors of blue and red and purple that left a rainbow -like haze over the city as a whole.
A pilot boat came out and offloaded a city official, who guide the lakeboat into a berth long the harborside. They were spoiled for choice - Fenn noticed the many empty spaces scattered about the quays, and the many longshoremen lounging about, bored and wanting for work.
“Times be hard here,” said the captain, watching the harbor pilot disembark. “Know that old saying, ‘the fish rots from the head?’ Might have been crafted with this place in mind.”
Fenn looked about. “Seems fine enough,” he said. “Prettier than the waterfront in Galadorn.”
The captain laughed. “don't be fooled, youngster! Appearances are deceiving in Kironall...just like my third wife! Watch your back, and keep your head down. Madness stalks them streets.”
Fenn nodded. He bade his farewell to the captain and went down the plank. All his blades were in their usual places, and he’d even found a replacement for the missing knife hidden up his left sleeve (gained after a dice game with one of the sailors.) The longknife was hidden in the small satchel slung over his shoulder, which also held a change of clothes and half a hard cheese. Hidden beneath his shirt was a leather money bag holding four aurins and a handful of silver galmarks, a final gift from Kord, who made it clear that once Fenn set foot in Kirondall he was on their own.
“You’ll have to find your own way there.
What contacts we had in that wretched place have fallen silent over the last few months.”
“Dead?”
“No bodies were found. I sent a couple lads across the lake to look into it, and they never came back.”
“So now you;re sending me. Well, die in Galadorn or die in Kirondaal, solves your problem either way, doesn’t it?”
Kord only laughed at that. Fenn found himself wondering, not for the first time, if being sent here was nothing more than a joke to the inscrutable bastard.
The harbor quays may have been half-empty, but the many taverns lining the harborside were bustling. It was early in the afternoon, and Fenn ent about trying, and failing to find lodging. A few steps from the pier where he disembarked was an establishment whose door was marked by an elaborate wooden sign of a leaping fish painted a brilliant scarlet. THE RED FISH was painted in bold letters of the same color over the lintel, and a blast of laughter and shouting greeted him as he opened the door.
The common room was filled with men, and he saw immediately that they weren’t the denizens one would expect along the docks. Leather vests dyed bright blue or green were worn over puffy-sleeved dark shirts slashed lengthwise to display the brightly colored fabric beneath. Legs encased in tight trousers or hose with the legs dyed different colors - black and white, blue and red, and so on. Heads were covered by a sea of wide-brimmed hats sporting tall feathers, while at the sides of all were strapped swords and daggers.
“Bugger all,” Fenn muttered. He knew this type, even before he heard the lilting accents and liquid words. Lancorail, the famed mercenaries of Avexin, notorious for their fighting skills, their outlandish modes of dress and their utter ruthlessness and shameless greed. Fenn felt his hackles raise as he heard the men jabber with one another in their native tongue, or speak the Balendon which was the common tongue in the eastern part of the continent from Adelaan all the way to Oscana (aside from those utter savages living in the Tascelar swamps…) A memory appeared on his head...some forgotten battlefield in Ubriam, where Lord Aquila’s Men stood alongside a regiment of lancorails in the service of the burghers of some town...he couldn’t remember the bloody name. The peasants in the surrounding villages were revolting against high taxes, and rather than risk their own expensive hides the merchant lords hired mercenaries.
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