by R J Hanson
“Don’t you mutter under your breath at me!” Jonas yelled. “We may need to push that wedding of yours back another year so you will have plenty of time to learn your proper place! Now fetch me some fresh water. Hot this time!”
“Yes, sir,” Dunewell said as he started along the inner balcony toward the stairs.
“Sir?” Jonas said. “You’ll address me as Steward Ruble or not at all!”
“Yes, Steward Ruble,” Dunewell said as he hurried down the stairs and toward the kitchen.
He could hear the murmurs of those gathered in the common room and at the bar. A few even laughed, apparently enjoying the sight of an aristocrat suffering a berating.
“Might I have a pitcher?” Dunewell asked a young waitress at the kitchen door.
“I can bring water up,” she said. “It’s no trouble.”
“He likes for me to draw it from the well directly,” Dunewell said. “I must draw it and heat it myself.”
She smiled a bit, despite herself, and handed him a pitcher from the counter. Dunewell found the well in the center of the small square just outside the inn. The sight of a nobleman or finely dressed merchant fetching water from the well drew the attention of many on the streets and porches of the nearby shops.
“Go and have yourself a drink at the Broken Plow,” Jonas said quietly when Dunewell had returned with the heated water. “In fact, have several drinks. Just don’t get drunk. Make your complaints about me; louder as the evening goes on. We know the contact frequents the place. Wait for the contact to approach you. Do not approach him.”
“I don’t drink ale or spirits,” Dunewell said.
Jonas began to laugh until he saw that Dunewell was serious.
“You’ll shove a dagger through a man’s throat or crush his head with a hammer, but you won’t take a drink?” Jonas asked.
“A good soldier is always…”
“Don’t you dare quote to me from the Silver Helm scrolls,” Jonas said. “You are not a good soldier anymore. You are a warrior for what is right and just. You are a Lord of Order in the service of the Sword Bearers. You don’t waste your time arguing the nature of the high moral ground. You find the servants of evil, and you strike them down. That is what you do. That is what you are.”
“My oath to Bolvii, my oath to the champion I’m bound with, forbids it,” Dunewell said.
“Your oath?” Jonas’s voice began to rise, and he bit off his next response.
Jonas took a few steps away from Dunewell toward the window. He seemed to stare out into the distance as though there was an answer written on a cloud in the night sky.
“I cannot tell a lie, either,” Dunewell said.
“Of course not,” Jonas said. “I might as well be working with the Flag Bearer of the Sheld Fleet.”
Several more moments passed while Jonas stared out the window.
“Fine,” Jonas said. “Go to the tavern. Make sure your coin purse is showing and is full. Do not carry any weapons that can be easily seen. Find a table and order a drink. You don’t have to drink it but order something strong and something expensive. Make sure to tip the waitress opulently. Then sit there and pout. If you have trouble acting like your sulking, then just think about how your precious name is being slandered on the streets of Moras. Think about that brother of yours who is likely out there murdering right now. Think about how you were too weak-willed to stop him.”
A wave of dark and dangerous anger flashed in Dunewell’s eyes.
“Good,” Jonas said. “I finally struck a nerve. Now go and do as I said. Let him do most of the talking. Find a way to hire them without lying. That task is for you to figure out. If you make a deal, then return to your room and turn your lantern all the way up. If you don’t make contact, then light no lantern or candle at all when you return.”
Dunewell rose, and Jonas could hear the grinding of his teeth even over his heavy footfalls. When Dunewell slammed the door behind him, Jonas smiled.
After getting lost, twice, in the poorly marked streets, Dunewell finally found the Broken Plow. He’d left his rapier, a ridiculously light weapon anyway, behind in his room and only wore the ornamental dagger that matched it on his belt. His coin purse bulged, obscenely, on the opposite side of his waist.
The Broken Plow was just what he’d expected it would be and much like many other places he’d been. Advertised as a tavern where a fellow could find a drink and some company, it was also a meeting house where a particular type of business was conducted. His inquisitor’s eye spotted those who were here for ale or spirits and easily separated them from the others. Others who were clearly using the bulk of the patrons to camouflage their dealings.
I smell a great danger here, Whitburn thought/said.
Of what sort?
An old blade, Whitburn said/thought. A deadly blade.
Chapter III
Life is a Test
“A’Ilys says you’ve learned much,” Dru said as she ran her finger along the edge of her wine glass. “I must admit, I had my doubts.”
Dru addressed Silas in the complex language of the drow. It was a twisted form of the first language, Chelos, which was crafted on Roarke’s great anvil, Stratvs. The drow, however, had added meaning to almost every word. It was virtually impossible to tell a lie in the drow language because each word carried so many different meanings. It was a combination of context, implication, and inference that communicated thought. Conversely, it was just as difficult to tell the truth.
For example, the phrase this cup is silver could indeed mean that the cup the speaker indicated was made of silver. However, given that the word cup could also mean vessel or person and that silver could also mean of high quality or poisonous – for silver was poisonous to some of their race – the overall meaning could be I am poisonous, or the cup is poisonous, or I am of high quality, or the cup is of high quality. Furthermore, it could be taken to mean that the cup is of high-quality poison, in which case two different meanings of the word were being applied simultaneously.
The complication of their language only deepened the intrigue in which their society bathed. Silas took to it instinctively.
“You doubted my abilities?” Silas asked. He wasn’t insulted, only surprised.
“Not your abilities,” Dru said. “No. I doubted your willingness to learn. Most in this world come to view the rest of it from their own little corner. You’ve embraced new ideas, and your own ignorance, with admirable acumen.”
Silas was, in fact, exhausted. A’Ilys had taxed him daily, physically, and mentally. Beginning on the first day, he would only give Silas direction in the drow language and no other. A’Ilys would strike Silas viciously when he failed to follow, or understand, the instruction.
At the end of each day, Dru would feed him from her seemingly unending supply of fresh meat, the flesh of surface elves, and he would heal. He rose each day, although there really was no day and night here, refreshed and revived. He returned each day beaten and worn thin.
“If you are pleased, then I am pleased,” Silas said.
He meant it too. He had grown to genuinely respect Dru. Not only for her knowledge and initiative that had led to her self-gained power but for her accomplishments. Accomplishments achieved in the face of so much opposition and bias. Of course, she was a vampire, and the people of the surface, for that matter the people below it, had good reason to fear her. Yet, it was more than that. It amused him how often people, of any race, felt the need to add the label monster to any creature they feared or did not understand.
“You will not train with A’Ilys tomorrow,” Dru said. “You and I will go hunting.”
Silas smiled broadly at that, unable, unwilling, to hide his desire to go hunting. For he knew what the term meant to Dru. It meant they would kill. Most likely, they would kill elves. Silas did not harbor any hate for elves and had, in fact, met only a few in his time in Moras, some of which he liked. No, it was not hatred. It was the chance to exercise his power, the po
wer to take life, that excited him.
“You will not use your demon,” Dru continued, as she stroked the edge of her glass. “You will use what you know, and what A’Ilys has taught you, and nothing else.”
“Given that I am thus restricted, may I plan our hunt?” Silas asked.
Dru knew he had something up his sleeve. In her eyes, that was a good sign. She would not want anyone at her side that did not keep something hidden; some means of final surprise or ambush.
“Within certain parameters, yes,” she said, taking a sip of blood from her glass. “The drow presence in these mountains has been, for the most part, unknown to the outside world. The elves of the Suthiel have begun wandering the southern face of our range in search of herbs and whatever it is those fools prod around for. We are to make it known that the area is under some mysterious curse. And, if need be, not so mysterious.”
“As you say, my Lady,” Silas said with a slight bow. “How much time have you allotted for this excursion?”
“I had thought no more than a day or two necessary,” she said. “Did you have something else in mind?”
“If you will indulge me, I think I do.”
“How many days will it require?”
“With your leave, I would like a three-day head start,” Silas said.
“I see that you are excited about some idea,” Dru said. “If it reveals the drow, or our location in any way, know that I will dismiss you.”
“Understood, my Lady,” Silas said, with the hint of devilish mischief dancing at the edges of his mouth and his eyes. The dismissal of which Dru spoke would certainly mean his doom. He had no doubts about that, but he felt very confident, just the same.
“Very well.”
“My Lady, may I ask one question?” Silas asked, enjoying the irony of that statement.
Dru took another sip from her glass and pretended to be bored with his seemingly unending questions. In truth, she enjoyed his inquisitive nature. She was drawn to him the way one curious mind is drawn to another. They understood each other on a fundamental level. They both loved to learn, and they both loved to share knowledge. They both came from starkly different backgrounds, which, in turn, meant they had much to learn from one another. They were both comfortable with entertaining ideas from different perspectives, which had led to many insightful and enjoyable conversations.
However, if need be, she would murder him without hesitation.
“Of course,” she said.
“What sorts of meals do elves eat?”
Two days later, Silas, clad in camouflaged leather armor and heavy cloak, slipped into the edge of the Suthiel forest for the third time. He had become quite skilled in the use of the shrou-sheld under the tutelage of A’Ilys, but now he carried only his prized leiness rider’s pike, a shortsword, and a large crossbow. He carried them, but his actual weapon of choice for the day was in his waist pouch.
To sneak up on an elf in his own forest was likely among the most challenging achievements any person could seek to undertake. It was almost as ridiculous to attempt as was trying to out-drink a dwarf or jump high enough to touch Merc’s furnace when it rose to its greatest height at noon.
Yet, Silas had spent years learning the art of stealth. His training began in his home. He had been frequently beaten when drawing the attention of his father, Killian, and thus began learning to move without being noticed. Later, during his studies in the wild, he had spent untold hours stalking wild game to observe them and make notes about their habits and diets. Birds, ravens in particular, had proven quite daunting to observe closely. Therefore, he’d learned to mask his odor and camouflage his clothing.
During those times in the mountains surrounding Moras, he’d not imagined ever using those skills as he had in the last few days. Approaching the elven homes hidden within the great sectot trees of the Suthiel forest during the day without being detected was almost impossible. To attempt infiltration at night would have been ludicrous. During the day, the elves used their normal vision to scan and observe their surroundings, making his skills at camouflage indispensable. At night, under the gaze of the woodland creatures’ infravision, his body heat would have made him as plain as if he’d carried a torch.
Of course, his powers taken from Shezmu could allow him to view and actually move into an adjacent plane, if only temporarily. However, he’d been forbidden the use of those powers and had no intention of directly defying Lady Dru.
Silas had spent the last two days watching what specific herbs and mushrooms the elves had collected from the mountainside. He had also collected a few flowers himself. Silas had milked the bulbs and stems of those flowers and collected the clear oil produced in a glass vial. Thus far, he had slipped into four elven homes, thankfully on the lower limbs of the sectot, and poisoned four family meals.
He had measured his dosage so as to avoid fatalities, until now. He wanted the reactions to appear mild at first, building over time, as a natural poison would. He’d overheard the elves discussing what might have caused illness to suddenly rear its head in their midst. Some had speculated about the new foraging in the mountains, but none were convinced yet. He’d been given three days, and two had passed. It was time for a fatality.
Silas crept to the edge of the small settlement and posed himself in line with a row of brambleberry bushes. Had he a choice, he would have made this approach in the spring when the colors were more vibrant, and there were no dead leaves and grass to give away the sound of his movements.
He could smell the cakes an elf female was preparing. He couldn’t blame her children for harassing their mother for a cake before their noon meal. The cakes did smell delicious.
He waited, stock-still and downwind, for his moment. As the baker was placing her cakes on a windowsill to cool, Silas selected his route to the same window. It would be a bit of a climb, but he was confident.
He timed his movements with the rustling of gentle breezes and took care to move with the direction of the breeze and not against it. The eye, human and elf alike, was trained by instinct to observe and track movement first and foremost. However, the brain had learned to take in all movement and had a habit of dismissing that which was expected.
Silas had actually written a treatise on his theory, for it was still only theory, about the eye and how much could be learned about a creature based on its eyes. For example, he’d discovered the exciting fact that predators tended to have two eyes facing forward while prey tended to have eyes on either side of the head. The fact that his eyes faced forward was not lost on Silas. He knew he was a predator.
Thus, moving with the wind, and more directly toward his target when he had cover, Silas made his way to his target. Many of the elves of this small village were foraging or hunting. However, there were still a few about and to be noticed by even one would spoil his entire effort.
Silas made it to the tree and was sorely tempted to use his powers of Chaos to blink himself to the windowsill or to grab the cakes he needed with the strength of telekinesis that he was learning from Dru. He resisted those temptations and began his slow climb up the tree.
Silas snaked his body along the tree, always securing his position by at least two holds, and always taking care not to scrape along the bark. He’d read somewhere that sectot trees actually formed a mental tie with the elves that lived near them or in them and could communicate to them when the tree was harmed or sensed danger. Silas hadn’t conducted his own experiments regarding this postulation but had coated his clothing with sectot pollen just in case.
Once the windowsill was within reach, Silas took a moment to secure his right hand on a nearby bough and wrapped his feet about another limb. As Silas’s left hand drifted to the windowsill, the sound of voices froze him.
“But I’ve been good,” a young elf girl was saying. “It’s not fair.”
“Tabitha, I’ll not have this talk with you again,” a female said, likely Tabitha’s mother Silas reasoned. “Now go out and play. Nooning
is less than two hours from now. You can wait that long.”
Silas, assuming their attention would be on each other, lifted two of the small cakes and dropped them into his hood just over his shoulder. While the conversation inside continued, Silas hurried down the tree. Once he reached the ground, he removed the cakes and poured the petal oil over the top of one of them.
“But I just want one,” the plaintiff voice said. “I’m so hungry!”
“Not so hungry that you’ll die,” the voice Silas suspected was the mother said. “Now go.”
Silas sat with his back to the base of the sectot tree Tabitha called home. He listened for her light footfalls when she dropped from the rope ladder to the ground only a few feet away.
“That wasn’t very kind,” Silas said just loud enough for Tabitha to hear.
“Who are you?” Tabitha asked, her eyes wide and without any sign of suspicion.
Silas guessed that she’d never seen a human before. Not that many elves did. There were a few that strayed from their homes and forests to engage the rest of the world, but not many. The limited interaction most elves had with any other race was at their port city of Glenntheen, about seven hundred leagues east by southeast of this small village. Given that their interaction was limited to ship’s captains and sea merchants, Silas could certainly understand why most elves chose not to associate with the other races of Stratvs.
“I’m Silas,” he said, taking a bite out of one of the cakes. “Would you like a cake?”
“My Munthea wouldn’t like it,” Tabitha said as she dropped her eyes and began to draw on the ground with the toe of her shoe.
“I won’t tell her if you don’t,” Silas said as he offered her the other cake. “Perhaps just one bite. Surely she won’t be mad about one small bite.”
Tabitha squinted and looked up to her home high in the tree as if she was thinking. Apparently, this seemed like sound logic to Tabitha, and she accepted the cake in her small, delicate hands. She took two large bites from the cake and smiled at Silas while she chewed.
