Bloom of Blood and Bone

by R J Hanson

  Lexxmar could sever our tie and send me back to Bolvii, Whitburn thought/said. You should know he also palmed a dagger of lexxmar when he moved past the desk.

  Noted.

  Dunewell set a match to the kindling in the stove, and in moments a roaring fire burned within. Then he filled and placed a bucket of water on the stove. While the water heated, Dunewell pumped the bathing tub half full of water. He then located a mirror next to the shaving basin and trimmed his hair and beard. Regrettably, he left the length on his hair, which was now long enough to pull into a ponytail.

  After steam began to rise from the water, Dunewell added it to the water in the tub, stripped off his clothes, not much more than rags now, and eased himself into the bathtub. Putting the soap to use, Dunewell washed away several weeks of grim, dirt, and sweat. Now, with a full stomach and freshly bathed, he felt like a new man.

  His thoughts never left Jonas and the situation they might be walking into, and thus he believed sleep would not come when he stretched out on one of the couches in the lavish office. Sleep took him in a rush.

  Dunewell awoke to the smell of fried bacon, eggs, and coffee. The morning sun shone brightly through the ceiling windows, and the growl of his stomach betrayed his stoic nature. Dunewell swung his feet to the floor to find Jonas sitting at a table across from him at breakfast. Jonas looked up and gestured with his fork for Dunewell to join him.

  For the next several minutes, there was only the sound of fork and knife scraping dish and of coffee cup dragged across table. As Dunewell was finishing his coffee, Jonas gestured to an armor rack next to one of the desks which bore a new cotton tunic, leather pants, polished knee-high boots, and a dressing dagger. Jonas was already clad in a freshly brushed and finely crafted suit of clothing and sported a short and bejeweled rapier. He was also wearing the white rose from the bush on his over cloak. All of it was in the red and white of House De’Char.

  “I took care of Ivant’s Folly,” Jonas said. “Our meeting with Rakshas is in two hours at a tavern across town, the Flagon Foam.”

  “Rakshas is the Shadow Blade?” Dunewell asked.

  “I believe so, but I’m not certain of that,” Jonas said. “There’s something happening here that I can’t quite figure out. Either way, we can’t be seen to be more than merchants who don’t mind spending a bent penny from time to time.”

  “No real weapons, then?” Dunewell asked as he began to dress.

  Jonas smiled.

  “You are the real weapon,” Jonas said.

  “Not one easily wielded, though,” Dunewell replied, keeping his tone light.

  “I’ve made arrangements at the tavern,” Jonas said, moving on from a fruitless line of conversation. “The table leg that will be to your left will break away from the table. It is actually a war hammer. Attached to the bottom of the table is a buckler. There will be a hand crossbow under your chair, and I’ve arranged for a few friendly town watchmen to be standing by just down the street. No matter what happens, we need this Rakshas, and whoever we decide is her second in command alive.”

  “Any nets, then?” Dunewell asked as he pinned on his own white rose.

  “Behind the bar of the tavern,” Jonas said. “A friend of mine owns the place and is very accommodating.”

  “You have a friend?” Dunewell asked.

  Jonas smiled again. They were getting closer to this Slythorne, whoever he really was, and it was having an effect on Jonas’s mood. A positive effect.

  “You know better than that,” Jonas said. “An alias I operate under here, Calinshaw. The tavern is in his name and his people, my people, know to give Steward Ruble all the latitude he may require.”

  “Another merchant alias,” Dunewell said as he buckled on his new belt and then began to pull his hair back into a ponytail. “Have you ever calculated the wealth of all these names that you wear?”

  Both men walked to the door of the room when Dunewell paused at the door jam.

  “I removed the lexxmar while you were asleep,” Jonas said. Then, more seriously, “and to answer your question about wealth, yes. One six-year-old daughter.”

  Dunewell and Jonas arrived half an hour before the meeting was to begin to find this Rakshas, a beautifully tanned young woman of almost six feet with lush black hair and deep brown eyes sitting with a large red-bearded Slandik, a smaller man who wore a token of a shortsword, and a common man who looked to be a scout.

  Dunewell, his training, and experience serving him better than ethereal sight could in this situation, noted the hardened knuckles and calloused palms of the smaller man with the shortsword. He was certainly a practitioner of the dance, a particular style of fighting using the hands and feet, the Ussa were known for. Furthermore, the baggy clothes he wore did not disguise the muscling of his forearms and his shoulders.

  The Slandik had a much-used battle axe propped next to his chair, and three more in loops on his belt. He was big for a Slandik, and not fat. His red beard and hair gave away his heritage, but the skins that he wore as armor and clothing confirmed it. His face was that of a young man, probably less than twenty, Dunewell thought, but this man had killed. Dunewell was sure of that.

  The scout was most likely Jonas’s Witch Hunter/spy. He sat straight in his chair, a habit of soldiers and church-raised orphans. He was no soldier, which meant he had served a church at length in the past. He also wore a holy symbol on a leather band that he kept concealed in his shirt. The holy symbol was supposition on Dunewell’s part, but he felt he guessed accurately. He could think of no other reason to wear a necklace with an emblem of pure silver only to keep it hidden within your shirt.

  The young woman moved with confidence and a grace that Dunewell found unsettling. His enchanted sight told him there was something unusual about the aura around her, but he could discern nothing more than that. The true item that stood out was her sash. Dunewell was struck dumb for a moment when he saw that her sash was red and white and that she wore a jeweled pin of a rose on it. His eyes returned to the Slandik and the skins that he wore. Wolf skins, every single one. Wolf skins worn not for trophy or fashion but made into armor for protection.

  “You told them of House De’Char and our colors?” Dunewell whispered to Jonas. “Or about the wolf pup that we saw?”

  When no reply came, Dunewell turned to see that Jonas, too, was struck dumb. The moment was brief, likely not even noticed by those at the table, but it was there.

  “If you didn’t tell them, then it’s an omen,” Dunewell whispered.

  Jonas nodded.

  “I assume you’re familiar with Arto and his famous book, Thoughts on War?” Jonas asked.

  Dunewell nodded.

  “Academy reading,” Dunewell said.

  “The enemy of my enemy,” Jonas quoted.

  With that, both men walked on into the tavern and took their seats at the table; Jonas now much less in control of his own emotions and thoughts than he preferred. This situation had taken an unexpected turn.

  “What’s an omen?” Rakshas asked as the two sat down.

  Dunewell would have to remember how keen her ears were.

  “It’s a sign of things to come,” the Slandik said in answer to Rakshas’s question that she had clearly directed to the Steward and his Esquire.

  The young woman, likely a Shadow Blade and one of the most deadly people in all of Split Town, sighed and clenched her eyes shut for a moment.

  “I know what an omen is,” she said, anger plain in her voice. “I want to know what the omen is.”

  “Oh,” the Slandik said simply.

  First, the red-bearded son of the tundra smiled to himself, and then a look of confusion began to cloud his face. He opened his mouth, likely to inquire for clarification, and proved his wisdom when, after a single glance at Rakshas, closed his mouth again.

  “Forgive us, lady,” Jonas said. “It is rude to hold private counsel during such a meeting. My esquire here is still learning our business and our ways.”


  Rakshas quirked the edge of her mouth up in a slight smile.

  “The colors I take it,” she said. “It would appear that your merchant house marks its goods with a red and white sigil. As do those of you who manage the house.”

  “As you say, my lady,” Jonas said with a smile. “So, let us be direct. You have access to certain markets and certain products in which House De’Char would like to invest and trade.”

  In the beat of a hummingbird’s wing, Jonas deliberated his position. He was not a religious man and not given to superstition. However, the significance of the vision he and Dunewell had encountered on the road, the symbols of his family’s crest so long hidden, could not be denied. He had never seen a white rose bush in the wild. He had only ever seen red ravens on a few occasions, and those were all thousands of leagues to the northwest. None were seen outside of Lawrec. The wolf pup had also struck him. His daughter, Joan, had been born in the year of the wolf. She would turn seven next year; also, the year of the wolf and seven was a number of power.

  Jonas made up his mind. He did not like extending himself without absolute certainty but had traveled long enough to know sometimes no choice was given. Jonas removed his red leather gloves and waved to the bar for an ale.

  Rakshas saw something in that wave that struck her to her core. The Cant. Their Cant. She was indeed a member of that fabled and elite class of assassin. She had the ability to alter her face and voice, move through encampments without disturbing a single guard, and kill close or far all aided by her powers of mentalism. She was one of the Twelve, having recently killed another master and taking his place. By their standards, there were only eleven assassins in the world more dangerous than she… and she had just been surprised by this merchant.

  Dunewell noticed her quick breath in and caught the fact that she briefly, but very efficiently checked every corner of the room with her eyes.

  We must be clear, Jonas signaled in the secret language of the Shadow Blade. I want information about the vampire and the trouble with the church. I want all information, and I will pay.

  Of course, such a complex message wasn’t all within the wave for a drink. During that wave, Jonas tucked his ring finger under the base of his thumb to initiate the secret greeting. The rest of his thus far one-way conversation was conveyed as follows; with the twist of a ring, straightening of the neck, scrape of a boot on the inside of his chair and not the outside, and a skillful smile that revealed two teeth, then three, then two again.

  The language of Shadow Blade signals was difficult to learn because it had to be flexible enough to send messages to one another through a variety of methods and was usually to the point. Whoever this man was, and he wasn’t a master, she was sure, he possessed a comprehensive knowledge of it.

  “Usually such a proposal is accompanied by an offer,” Rakshas said in answer to both the spoken word and the concealed signals.

  “Just so,” Jonas said and accepted his afternoon ale from the waitress.

  “I’ll have an ale too,” the Slandik said, drawing a hard look from Rakshas.

  The waitress, not the young and attractive sort that would be around in a few hours as the evening crowds drifted in, but the older, more tired variety, glanced around the table.

  “Well,” the waitress said. “What about the rest of ya’? I’ll not be traipsing back and forth all day. What do ya’ want.”

  The Witch Hunter, Dunewell was more confident now he was indeed a Witch Hunter, and the smaller man, the martialist, both wisely declined any ale this early in the day. The Slandik, clearly a slow learner, put up two fingers.

  “I’ll have two,” the Slandik said.

  Dunewell ordered tea and made his mental notes about the group. Rakshas was clearly running things, even if she didn’t turn out to be the Shadow Blade. The Slandik wasn’t her second in charge because he didn’t even know what was going on at the table, much less anywhere else. That left the small pugilist and the Witch Hunter. If the Witch Hunter was her second man, the information would have been revealed long before now. That meant it was the acrobat with the shortsword. Dunewell decided he would be tough to catch if it came to that.

  The waitress moved off, and Jonas pulled a fat coin purse from his belt and placed it on the table. Rakshas nodded to the Slandik, who pulled the purse to him and opened it. He examined the contents for a moment and then removed a jewel from within.

  “At least twenty like this one, I’d say,” the Slandik said as he handed a white diamond over to Rakshas.

  “Thank you, Bjorn,” she said.

  Who are you? Rakshas signaled to Jonas.

  Gray Spider, Jonas replied.

  Rakshas gave nothing away in her posture or the tone of her voice, but Dunewell noticed the blood drain from her face.

  “This should do nicely,” Rakshas said as she collected the purse of gems and pushed them to the small man with the shortsword at her side. “I’d be happy to provide any services you may require.”

  You’re not here to kill me? Rakshas signed.

  Just the information, Jonas replied in the silent language of the deadly guild of assassins. The information will conclude our business. Unless you interfere or come for me, as some of your order have, the Shadow Council will not hear of our transaction, and you can continue your practice as you see fit.

  “Excellent,” Jonas said with a tone that completely masked the tension he held tight in his upper gut.

  He was waiting to see if this Shadow Blade would try to make a name for herself among her peers and kill the infamous Gray Spider. Years before, twenty or thirty years before and likely before this young assassin had ever held her first dagger, Jonas discovered he had been dubbed with just such a moniker by the Shadow Council, the ruling Twelve of the Shadow Blades. The Shadow Blades hunted him for a time, and he had made more than one narrow escape, before the secret society of killers decided he was more trouble than he was worth.

  “I have a weavers and clothiers here, in Split Town,” Jonas said. “Of course, our costs of cotton, silk, and labor are easily managed, but import and export taxes have become exorbitant.”

  We know the vampire was directing the actions of the local High Cleric of Fate, Svelliel, Rakshas signed and signaled while Jonas, here known as Steward Ruble, and now known to her as Gray Spider, spoke. It was his intent to seize the city in the name of the church. Mercenaries were hired and were coming in from Ostbier to support the church in the coup.

  “I understand that you have connections that could make the cost of such taxes more, shall we say, manageable,” Jonas continued as he read every sign and signal. “There are a number of requirements that must be satisfied when shipping quality clothing, however. We also need to know you can meet those standards.”

  “We have made arrangements with local tax collectors for certain discounts,” Rakshas said while continuing to signal information to the Gray Spider and wondering where this relationship might go. “We have captains familiar with all sorts of cargo as well, and I’m sure proper accommodations would be made for clothing.”

  Paladin Puetian paid a local madame to spy on the former mayor, and Lord Moudir, the lord of this region, Rakshas continued to sign. That is how we were first alerted to the church’s intentions.

  “What about wine and brandy?” Jonas asked, happy to see that the conversation was apparently boring everyone else in the room; everyone but Dunewell anyway.

  Dunewell was as attentive as one would expect a top-notch inquisitor to be. Which, of course, was the problem. He wasn’t supposed to appear as a Silver Helm, an inquisitor, or even a soldier. He was supposed to look like a fop and a bored merchant. Instead, his eyes drifted to the exits, the balcony above them, and the weapons around the room in a regular circuit.

  Templar Viern was sent to spy on my men and wait for Paladin Puetian to kill us all, Rakshas continued in the unusual language of signals and gestures. High Cleric Svelliel is now dead. So are Viern and Puetian. A King’s Inqui
sitor, Ranoct, seized the estate and monastery of Fate a few leagues north of town three days ago.

  “Bottles, casks, or both?” Rakshas asked.

  Jonas understood very well how difficult it was for the mind to keep track of two different conversations at the same time. This Rakshas had proven quite adept and might be harder to kill than he at first thought. He decided there was no need to jump to conclusions. The conversation was going well, and he might be able to walk out of here without spilling any of their blood… for now.

  “Both,” Jonas said. “The majority of our exports would be in casks, of course, but we do have a few vineyards to the north that bottle specific wines for discriminating customers in a few distant ports.”

  This inquisitor, he is still at the estate? Jonas asked in the language of the Shadow Blade.

  Yes, Rakshas replied in a few gestures. He awaits Lord Moudir and a High Cleric from Ostbier. I understand they are still two months out.

  “Our captains will have no trouble with either,” Rakshas said. “However, the bottles will cost a bit extra because of the additional care that must be taken with them.”

  “Very good,” Jonas said as he gestured to Dunewell. “I’ll have my man here bring you a letter of access. You may present it at the warehouse of House De’Char on the docks. Our men there will be ready to do business with you.”

  Jonas and Rakshas both smiled and raised their glasses, which seemed to bring Bjorn out of his daze. Dunewell smiled, although being referred to as ‘my man’ by Jonas still rankled him, and raised his own cup of tea. The Witch Hunter raised his glass, and the one Dunewell pegged as an acrobat smiled and tipped his hand in a polite salute.

  They drank, and Rakshas and her men rose, bowed, and left. Jonas took another drink of ale and smiled to himself.

  “What was that all about?” Dunewell asked under his breath.

  “Not until they’re all on their way,” Jonas said, even more quietly.

  Dunewell, more questions burning in his mouth like smoldering coals, struggled back from them and sat back to quaff the remainder of his tea in hopes of putting out the fire of those questions.