“This is...or rather was the mark of the Guild of the Cauldron King, ancient and revered and older by centuries than any of those blasted Schools! The oldest guild of alchemists and artificers on this continent of Tyberia...until the Schools in their arrogance declared our Art to be nothing of the sort and ordered our Guild suppressed. One hundred masters and a thousand apprentices banned from practicing our craft, to say nothing of the countless merchants, laborers and suppliers who gained their livelihood through our business. All thrown out into the street to starve. I was an apprentice to one of the last Masters - when told of the Council’s decree, that in their eyes he was no more than some mountebank selling fake love potions to farmwives, so great was his wrath that his dropped dead on the spot! All so a pack of snobs up the towers could look down on us and feel superior.”
Longhand Luuk slipped the medallion back under his shirt. “Lord Mora taking the city worries me not. If he mounts the heads of the Grand Masters on pikes before the gates, I’ll be there in the crowd to point and laugh. So why tell me this? I must admit, that has pricked my curiosity...particularly since you serve the General.”
“For the moment, in pursuit of another goal. For now his path and mine run along the same path...but there is no harm in making new friends, particularly a fellow artful skag walking the shady. And however you may feel about Mora taking the city or not, a man like yourself, of vision and sharp mind would see there are any number of ways he might profit from it...if he knew the details of the plot.”
“And you can provide these?” Longhand Luuk asked mockingly. “And what does Fenn Aquila want in return?”
“Two things,” Fenn answered. “First, someone in this city put a price on my head. I know who this person is and will deal with the matter in my own way, but in the meantime, I need a man with your influence to put the word out that no skag in Kirondaal should try to collect.”
“Easily done. I’ll keep the knives out of your back. What’s the other thing?”
Fenn placed a hand on the long knife and tugged out from under belt still in his scabbard. “Have a look at this,” he said, handing it over to Luuk. “Note the makers mark.”
Longhand Luuk drew the blade out halfway and looked closely at the sigil etched into the weapon. A flicker of recognition crossed his face. “Fine weapon,” he said. “The mark is that of Master Smith Tronac. Fine craftsmans...bit on the expensive side.”
“Some months back, a crew from Kirondaal were sent into Galadorn, where they used blades like that for murder and mayhem in the shady side of the city, including a run at the Biock himself. Said fellows were sent out from Kirondaal on the sly and came in the same, and since you are a face in this city…”
Longhand Luuk raised a hand. He glanced at his men, and after a moment they stepped back. He then came forward and spoke in a quiet voice. “I know what you’re asking about. Hired blades, brought in from the countryside. I’m the one who got them across the lake and into Galadorn.” He paused a moment. “You’re asking after the Shadowy Sun.”
Fenn shrugged. “What of it? What do you know?”
“That last winter some men sworn to Miro Tamelan approached, asking if I wanted to even the score with Ogeron and his Crescents. One thing led to another, and before long I was in a room with that woman who shares a bed with Lord Mora. She’s the one who paid me. Twenty men, experienced with blades, recruited from the appenages of the nobles in the Seren countryside. Said it was done at the behest of the General, who had a grudge against Galadorn. I smuggled them into Galadorn and that should have been the end of it...except I got curious. She paid a king’s ransom to get those men into Galaforn, and it didn't make sense Lord Mora wouldn’t pay that much just to cause a disturbance in Galadorn’s back alleys. And then I hear that Lord Mora keeps a portion of his fortune in one of the larger counting houses in Galadorn, and since he took the Council’s contract he’s sent more money across the lake. Not the actions of a man with a grudge...so I start asking questions on the sly. Turns out that the woman the General is bedding ain’t who he thinks she is…”
“I know her real name. She’s even worse than you;ve heard.”
Luuk raised an eyebrow. “Ah,” he replied, but do you know that she has a steady stream of couriers headed north with messages written in code? Or that every two weeks someone comes back with a bill of exchange that she cashes at various banks and counting houses around the lake using different aliases?”
“I did not. Though it explains where she gets her money from.”
“Follow the money, you find the man. I send men to inquire. A month ago, one of them comes back. Says the others are dead and he was lucky to get away breathing. But he found that the money comes from a man, who get it from another man, who works for another fellow in turn that may be connected to the Shadowy Sun. Soon as I heard that, I backed off. When those words come up, you close your eyes, cover your ears and hum loudly.”
“So,” Fenn said after a moment’s pause. “She’s connected to them.”
“Her and Tamelan, they’re tight with each other. She has the general dancing on her strings - that’s how they work. This...plan of the General’s, in the end it’s their plan. And once he’s no longer useful, they; toss him aside on the rubbish heap.”
Fenn looked Luuk in the eye. “Still want to know the details?”
Longhand Luuk looked reluctant, but after a moment he nodded. “Sure. Better to know than not know.”
“Well then, in three days the General is going to summon the Council to a meeting. All the Grand Master’s and their underlings, for the purpose of clearing the air. They’ll all be there, because they all think he’d on their side and will massacre their rivals. Only Mora’s men will have order to murder them all…”
Fenn quickly laid out what he knew of the plan, Luuk taking it in without comment.
Then, Fenn explained to Longhand Luuk exactly how he could benefit from the coming disorder, and what needed to be done in order for this to happen. And Longhand Luuk listened closely.
At the end, there was a smile on Luuk’s face. He thanked Fenn, shook his hs hand, and turned to leave.
“One last thing,” Fenn asked him as he left, “What is the name of the man in the north?”
Luuk looked back. “The name I heard was Desarvic,” he said. “Though whether that be his real name is another matter. But if you go looking for him, be careful. With the Shadowy Sun, things are never as they seem.”
With that, Longhand Luuk and his men left the pier, headed back into the city.
Kalin kept his silence until Luuk and his men were well out of earshot. “You’re bloody mad,” he finally said.
“How do you figure?”
“What do you mean? Were you listening to the words that were coming out of your mouth? There is no way this side of Heaven or Hell that you can pull this off.”
Kalin,” Fenn responded, looking his comrade in the eye, “I never propose a plan that I don't have some expectation of carrying out. And compared to some of the capers I've been involved with…” He stopped, sensing his words weren’t having the intended effect.
“Do you trust me,” he finally asked.
“I’m tryin’ to.”
“Well, try harder. Now, take the rest of the Shadows and scatter. Wait for the signal and come get me.”
“You really think the bitch will take you alive?”
“Of course. Otherwise she won't get the one thing she wants above all else - the chance to gloat.”
Kalin rolled his eyes. “Fenn, you may not know as much about women as you may think. But I’ll do as you ask. May you live long enough to be proven right,” He turned to the others and made a gesture. Immediately they scattered, melting back into the city, leaving Fenn along, as requested.
Fenn slipped the long knife back into his belt. He waited a moment, looking around the crowd to see if anyone was watching, then with a sigh went about his business. No sign of a tail, though to be fair if Serrana had some
one on him, he wouldn't see him coming until the knife was headed into his back. He left the docks and made his way through the city, headed towards the barracks. The tension in the air was thicker than before. Citizens stared angrily at the mercenaries, who looked back nervously, and no hand was far from a weapon.
“Not good,” he muttered, watching a group of men escorting several women to the market, The men all had knives or swords thrust through their belts, several of the women openly displaying pistols tucked into their dresses. They stared at him as he went by, openly hostile.
He reached the barracks with a sense of relief...which quickly disappeared as he noticed the greater number of guards on the gates and the extra men on the battlements. A few questions led him inside, where as expected he found Captain Oleyvac sitting at his usual table, methodically working his way through a jug of wine.
“Fenndar,” he said, pouring a cup. This time he did not bother to share it.
“Captain. isn't it a bit early to be sousing yourself?”
“On the contrary, it’s exactly the time to do it! When you’re about to be party to mass murder, only the gods of the grape can ease the weight of it!” He raised the cup to his lips.
Fenn stepped in and took it away. “If you hate it that much, why not leave?” he asked. “Save your honor and turn your back on Mora?”
Oleyvac scowled back at him. “Where would I go?” he retorted. “I have no lands, no fortune beyond my sword and whatever crumbs our lord throws to me. My family does not know me after all these years, and would not smile if I returned. No, young Fenndar, I have nowhere else to go...except to the bottom of this cup.” He took the cup back and put it to his lips.
Fenn took the cup away again. “What if there was another way?”
“Hey, give that back?”
“Captain, hear these words.” He poured the wine back into the jug and set the cup down on the table. A moment later he moved the jug out of Oleyvac’s reach. “There is another way,” he repeated. “For you to escape the situation you are in, to save your honor and win wealth beyond measure in the bargain.”
“Sounds too good to be true.”
“How will you know, unless you’re willing to try? And what do you have to lose?” Fenn placed the cup on the table. “Or keep drinking yourself into an early grave.”
Oleyvac picked the cup and placed it to his lips. Then after a moment’s thought he put it back on the table. “What do you have in mind?” he asked.”
“Not here. Stand up and walk the wine out of your head. There’s a man you need to meet, and it’s best if you talk while sober.”
The guards at the gate saluted as the Captain went past, and did not ask questions as they left the fortress. Oleyvac raised an eyebrow as they went through the city, down narrow streets thick with tension and pent-up menace. “Half an hour before the storm begins,” he said to Fenn as they went past a market square, where mercenaries went about their business in squads while the rest of the citizenry watched them and each other with suspicion. “Should have told the General to confiscate all weapons…”
“You do that,” Fenn responded shortly, “and you will have a riot.”
“Probably right. Still, this is not a good place to be.”
“Every crisis has its opportunities, for a man with the eyes to see them.”
The reached the dockside, and stood before the sign of the crossed pikes and the anchor. The place was as full as the last time Fenn visited, ex-militiamen crowded around the tables and bar, the rattle of dice in the background telling another game was going on.
“You tell me not to drink,” Olyevac said with a laugh as they walked in, “and take me to a tavern?” He looked around the place. “I must say, your choice of a watering hole is cause for concern, Fenndar.”
“We’re not here to drink.” Fenn pushed his way to the bar, where Jassoc du’Ryliac was carefully working out the cork from a bottle of wine. The layer of dust coating the glass spoke os something that had lain a long time in a cellar, and promised a fine aged vintage...or a mouthful of vinegar.
“You again,” he said, as Fenn approached. “Didn't think you’d return.”
“You have a fine establishment, filled with fine company and fine drink. Why wouldn't a man of taste and discernment take another pass?”
Jassoc pulled the cork free, and for a moment a heady perfume replaced the usual reek of pipesmoke, sweat and old ale. “A gift from a friend in the countryside,” he said, pouring himself a cup. Then, after a moment he filled two more and slid them over. “A memory of better times. Who’s your friend?”
Fenn picked up the cup. The vintage inside was strong and danced across his tongue and down his gullet, leaving behind a sense of pleasure and a desire for me. “This is Jassoc duRyliac,” Fenn said, to Oleyvac, setting his cup down. “Formerly an officer in the old city militia. A man of taste and breeding, now serving cups behind a bar to the men he once led. Keeping an eye on them, isn’t that what you told me?”
“Aye.” Jassoc nodded slowly. “Someone had to keep them out of trouble. Again, who is your friend?”
“Ah right.” Fenn lowered his voice slightly. “This is Captain Oleyvac…”
“Oleyvac?” Jassoc frowned. Several men neary heard the name and looked over as well. “Mora’s lap dog?”
“I am no one’s lap dog!” Oleyvac bristled.
“Hold off the isults, both of you! I brought you here,” Fenn turned to Oleyvac, “because you want a way out…” and then to Jassoc, “and because you want the militia to return to glory and honor. In other words, you two have a common interest, so put aside your paranoia and hear each other’s words.”
Jassoc put the bottle down. He looked Oleyvac in the eye, who returned his gaze calmly More men were paying attention now, closing in to listen...and do worse, if things didn't go according to their liking.
“Back off, boys.” Jassoc looked at the former militiamen, a slight nod giving them the all-clear. Then to Oleyvac. “So,” he said, “what do you want?”
Oleyvac look at Fenn.
“Mora is planning to seize power in the city,” Fenn said. “He would rule Kirondaal openly, as its Prince. The good captain here is a man of honor, who sees the General’s plan as shameful. And you, as a loyal son of Kirondaal, would surely oppose your city being under the thumb of an Avexiner warlord who can't think past the tip of his sword.”
Oleyvac looked at Fenn, then at Jassoc. “What he said.”
Jassoc leaned closer. “I’m listening.”
They spoke for a while. Many things were touched on, what had to be done, and more importantly what had to be avoided. Two hours later, Fenn left the tavern, with Jassoc and Oleyvac still deep in their plotting. Former mercenaries were leaving as well bearing messages to other houses, other taverns, to their former comrades in arms And Fenn could watch this with a sense of a job well done.
The wine hds long since made its way to the extremities of his body. Fenn walked away from the tavern, nothing the darkening sky. He glanced over his shoulder for a moment, went down the street a ways, then down another street and into an alleyway. He took position before a pile of rubbish, undid the buttons at the front of his trousers and made his contribution to the filth encrusting the ground.
The men following him were a considerate lot. They waited until Fenn had finished his business and buttoned himself back up before they dropped a sack over his head.
Chapter Fourteen
At some point in the past the bag was used to store a large number of ripe cheeses. The scent filled Fenn’s nostrils for the last few hours, an experience that was somewhat unpleasant at first, leaving him lightheaded and nauseous. Time and familiarity numbed all edges though, and by the time it was finally ripped off his head his imagination overflowed with images of ripe wheels of hard yellow and slices of fresh baked bread.
He was indoors, and his captors had half-carried, halfragegd him up a set of stairs. The walls were painted a pale pastel red, with a
pair of pictures on the opposite walls displaying women sitting with small dogs in their laps. A mirror lay in between them, Fenn saw his reflection in it, and a moment later a heavy-set man that had the look of a thug, cracking the knuckles of his beefy hands.
Then his view of the mirror was blocked by Serrana’s beautiful face. She stood before him now, in a slender riding dress of dark red, her golden hair wrapped into a braid at the nape of her neck. A smile was on her face as she looked down on him. One hand reached to the sash wrapped about her waist and pulled a small jeweled dagger.
“You must have seen this coming,” she said, holding the blade in one hand and feeling the edge with the thumb of the other.
Fenn shrugged, or at least tried. His arms were bound to the back of the chair on which he sat. “I had a suspicion it would end this way. You’re not the sort to let a grudge lie.”
“It wasn’t my intention for you to live this long. I put a great deal of money on the streets of this wretched city for your head.”
“I noticed. Yet here I am.”
“A rushed plan on my part. Still, here you are.” She walked around Fenn, trailing the tip of the dagger along his cheek. “The last time I had you in this position,’ she said, “you caused me no end of trouble. That won’t happen now. You’ve failed, Fenn Aquila!”
“How do you figure?” Fenn asked. His hands were bunched into fists, as they had been from the moment Serrana’s minions sat him down and wrapped the ropes around his wrist. Now, he let them open, biting back a groan as an ache ran through his relaxing muscles. An old trick...tighten the muscles of your arms when they tie you down, and when you relax there will a little slack. Just enough, perhaps, too…
“You came to this city to foil my plans, as you did in Galadorn! A year’s worth of work, sharing a bed with that fool Mora, winning over those fools who called themselves Grand Masters. And then, only days before victory, you show up. Well, history won't repeat itself! Kirondaal is mine, and nothing you do will change that…”
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