by Eli Steele
“One can’t be too cautious,” Otger replied nervously. “There’re eyes everywhere these days.” Motioning to the stools, he said, “But, let that not stop us from being cordial. Please, have a seat.” Joining them opposite of the counter, he asked, “Cup of tea?”
“That won’t be necessary, but thank you,” Eldrick replied.
Leaning in, Otger whispered, “Alright then, to business it is. This will be our last deal. And you should not return.”
“What? Otger, why?”
“By decree, trade with Beyorn is being restricted.”
“Well, we can work with that. It’s restricted, not forbidden.”
Shaking his head, Otger replied, “Eldrick, you’ve been a lucrative partner. And in a sense, I consider you a friend. But you’re no merchant.”
“Otger, what-“
“I’ve done the math. Your costs in labor alone… And our terms, they’re very one sided against you. Not that I’ve ever complained. I’ve suspected it for a long time. But you’ve never pushed the issue, so I’ve played along. You’re a spy, Eldrick, and it’s not safe for you here anymore… Nor I.” The little man wiped the sweat from his brow and straightened his glasses. Anxiously, he waited for a response.
Spinning, Eldrick pulled his dagger and scanned the room, searching for the ambush.
“No-no! Easy,” Otger urged, “That’s not what this is.”
Shit. If there was a chance to play this off, it’s gone now.
Reclaiming his seat, Eldrick studied the man. Confused and fearful, Lann sat paralyzed.
“So, what do you want?”
Snorting, Otger shook his head. “I want us to have this one last exchange, and then for you to safely leave Meronia, and never come back.”
Placing his hands on the counter, he simply replied, “Ok...”
“So, what’s in the hold?”
Sighing, Eldrick said, “Grains, wool, leather. There’s several dozen longswords, too; the finest Beyorn can muster.”
Clicking his tongue, the little man replied, “Not the swords, not this time. They’re watching everything now.”
“Understood.”
They sat in silence for a time. Finally, Otger spoke. “Now, it’s your turn. But skip the small talk. Ask me what you really want to know. This time, I may even tell you.”
Without blinking, Eldrick asked, “Why are you helping me?”
“Because I like you, my friend. You’ve always been kind to me. Not everyone is…”
Leaning back, the spy exhaled. Eldrick gazed at the ceiling and gathered his thoughts. Finally, he asked, “What’s changed here?”
“A war’s coming. That’s what’s changed. Looking back, it probably started about a year or so ago. It was slow at first, but isn’t that how these things always start? Now, everything’s Beyorn’s fault. Poverty, isolation, you name it, they blame it on you.”
“After all these years, why now? Where’s this coming from?”
Otger shrugged. “I don’t know. And as far as I can tell, it’s coming from the top.”
“Meronia would be foolish to attack. There’s no way they could win.”
Glancing around, Otger lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’ve heard it said there’s a mage...”
“A mage indeed!” the spy scoffed.
“Quiet yourself!” Otger shouted. His face flushed red.
“Sorry…” After a moment, Eldrick added, “And you believe that?”
Otger shrugged. “I don’t know what to believe anymore… But I think we’ve spoken long enough. Your manifest?”
Retrieving it from within his cloak, Eldrick handed the papers over.
“Same price?”
The spy nodded.
The little man studied the document, occasionally scribbling in a small book. Reaching under the counter, he retrieved a bag. Pushing it forward, he said, “It’s all there, count it.”
Eldrick shook his head, before standing. “Keep it,” he said. “You’ve earned it. Take care of yourself, old friend.”
Otger nodded.
Excusing themselves, they made their way to the door. As they stepped out, Otger spoke. “Eldrick?”
He turned. “Yes, sir?”
“If-if I…” he stammered.
Nodding, Eldrick replied, “There’s a place for you in Beyorn, you have my word.”
Otger smiled and said, “Be safe.”
* * * * *
Back on the twilit street, nightfall stalked dusk.
Shit.
Tucking his head low, the pair hurried back to the docks.
“Eldrick.”
“Not right now, Lann. Let’s get the ship unloaded, then we can talk.”
“No, it’s that group from earlier. They’re following us.”
Shit. “Don’t look at them.”
“Hey! You there,” one of the men shouted. “We’d like a word with you!”
“Ignore them,” Eldrick whispered, “Just keep going. Let’s pick up the pace.”
“I said, stop, you Beyornian bastards!”
“Run!”
The crowd had thinned out, but the district was still busy. Shoving the patrons aside, Eldrick cleared a path. Lann followed closely behind.
“Halt!” shouted a guard, somewhere to the side.
Reaching the rickety dock, Eldrick shouted, “Get that ship aloose and moving!”
“Aye, sir!” Lann leapt aboard and sounded the alarm. Startled, the men scrambled into their positions. Deck hands toiled at readying the ship.
Stopping just short of the boarding ramp, Eldrick turned to face the mob. Five men closed in. Behind them, a guard hastened toward the confrontation.
“You’re not welcome here, you bastard!”
“No worries,” Eldrick replied, “I was just leaving.
The largest of the five stepped forward. “Not yet you ‘int.”
Casting off his cloak, Eldrick pulled his dagger. “You the one’s here to stop me?”
The man took another step. Eldrick planted his feet. “Lann!”
“Almost!”
Winded, the guard arrived. “You there… with the ship… what’s the meaning of all this?”
“Me? I haven’t done a damn thing!”
“You lie!” The man shouted, lunging at Eldrick.
Sidestepping him, Eldrick grabbed the man by the collar and held him at dagger point.
“If any of you assholes move, I’ll bury this blade to the hilt in his neck.”
Raising his hands, the man remained silent.
“Lann!”
“We’re ready, sir!”
The groans of the oarsman sounded in unison.
“Can you swim?” Eldrick asked the man in a whisper.
“Not really.”
“Good.”
Eldrick planted a boot on the man’s ass, sending him careening off the dock. Turning, he jumped aboard the ship. Safely aboard, Eldrick chuckled as the scene unfolded.
Lann stepped up beside him. “That was close.”
“Easy enough for you to say.”
“Does this mean I’m out of a job?”
“I guess it does, kid.”
* * * * *
In his quarters below deck, Eldrick sat at his table. Closing his eyes, he allowed the adrenaline to subside. The rhythmic chants of the men, happy to be headed downstream, boomed through the ship.
He opened the top drawer and retrieved a pair of small parchments. With a fine quill, he inked the following on the first:
My Liege,
War drums in the east. Whispers of a mage. Seek me at Braewood.
Forever Loyal,
Eldrick D’Eldar
Setting it aside, he allowed the ink to dry. On the second parchment, he scribed:
My Friend,
Your suspicions are true. I shall see you in the coming days.
Your Brother in Arms,
E.D.
Leaning back, he contemplated what the future might hold. Lann bounded down the stairs, his footsteps echoing through the confined space. “War,” he said, “do you think they’d really…”
Eldrick shrugged. “Otger’s not one for rumors. And we’ve both seen it smoldering under the surface. Someone is stoking Meronia’s contempt.”
Lann looked down. “What now?”
“We go to Braewood Keep, you and I.”
“Braewood? The marches?”
Eldrick nodded. “If war’s coming, it’ll be at Braewood’s doorstep. Besides, you said it yourself, you’re out of a job these days.”
Chapter 2
Rowan Vos
City of Ashmor
Kingdom of Beyorn
Atop the manor, Rowan surveyed the Government District. In a sea of darkness, the area was beaming with light, although it was home to the fewest residents. He watched as the last of the guards rounded a corner, disappearing from view.
A gust of wind tussled his shadow-black hair. He pushed it back behind his ears, brushing across the old scar on his temple, a stark reminder of a job gone awry. His pale cheeks glowed by the dull light of the waning moon.
With dark eyes, he gave one last glance about, before climbing over the roof’s edge. Transforming the spalls and pockets of missing mortar into hand and footholds, Rowan descended the manor’s exterior wall with leather-gloved hands. At a second floor window, he peered into the room.
Empty...
He worked a slender blade into the narrow gap between the window panels. The thief knocked the latch loose with a quick flick of his wrist. Glancing over his shoulder, he checked for guards. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
And not a soul was to be seen…
Smiling, he climbed through the window.
Once inside, Rowan melted into the shadows. For a time he took in the building’s ambience. Creaking floors, and groaning timbers, and the sounds of wind swirling about the exterior of the manor were noted. Through them, he could then discern the errant sounds of an approaching house guard, or perhaps a roaming hound.
Alright, now focus...
He imagined the dark spaces in the house, thick and palpable, like heavy curtains that he could step behind as he willed it.
You are a shadow, a shadow among shadows…
Like a cat stalking its prey, he stepped forward. His muscles tightened; his senses heightened. Peering into the hallway, he saw no signs of trouble. He faded right.
Reserved, yet elegant, the manor embodied the look and feel of olde Ashmor money. Ornate tapestries adorned the walls. Thick carpets, as soft as a lamb’s wool, stretched down the extended corridor. Chandeliers lustered overhead, creating islands of radiance underneath.
There always seems to be a chandelier, or six…
Rowan drifted through the shadows like a specter. Somewhere in the distance, he heard footsteps, but they weren’t yet a concern.
Halfway down the hall, he flattened himself against the wall. The position wasn’t as dark as he would’ve preferred, but it would work. Closing his eyes, he imagined the darkest winter night. Rowan thought of the chill winds biting his exposed skin. His teeth chattered.
Too much, pull it back…
After several moments, two guards appeared. Disinterested, they made their final check of the second floor for the night.
“…So’s I says, ‘That ‘int a pint. Hell, it’s hardly even two cups!’”
“Two cups, who’d they think they was tryin’ to stiff?’”
“Next time, I says…” The guard paused. “Wait, do you feel that?”
“What?”
Shivering, the first guard replied, “A damn fierce draft. Must be a front moving in…”
Continuing on, their voices eventually faded once again.
Shit that was close. And it would’ve been your own damn fault, too…
Peeling himself off the wall, the thief crept onward.
The stairway leading to the windowless third floor was around the corner at the end of the hall. A yawning house guard stood watch at his post.
A challenge, but not impossible.
Inching forward, he studied his surroundings. Halfway between the guard and he were opposing doors. Finding the shadows again, Rowan drifted forward. In a particularly dark spot, he stretched out his arm and knocked on the door.
Startled, the guard froze. Without moving, he scrutinized the long hall.
“M’lord, is that you?”
Your lord’s ten towns away on the opposite end of the kingdom, and has been for a week. You and I both know that.
Unsheathing his sword, the guard approached the doors.
A blade like that’s too long for these quarters... Rowan curled his fingers around the hilt of his dagger.
Stopping at the door, the guard listened intently. The thief was scarcely an arm’s length away. Turning the knob, the man pushed into the room.
With a measured swiftness, Rowan covered the short distance to the stairway. Silently, he ascended to the third floor.
Thoroughly unnerved, the man returned to his post for a time, before eventually deserting it to find his fellow guardsman.
The top floor was simple in its layout. Doors accented a short corridor, leading to private studies, and bedrooms, and baths the size of a typical flat. An ornately carved door stared back at him from the opposite end of the hall.
At the end of the hall, he dropped to one knee and examined the entryway. With the pad of his finger, he traced the bottom gap, then up the casing, and back down again.
Nothing but dust. And quite a bit at that. I should have a word with the handmaid.
Rowan brushed across the door with both hands, searching for irregularities.
Again, nothing. Where are you hiding it? We both know it’s here somewhere…
His eyes settling on the knob, he studied the area. Above it was two identical locks.
Surprising, but not completely unreasonable for the discriminating manor lord.
Leaning in closer, he noticed faint scratches on the brass of the lower lock.
Typical of countless other doors in countless other homes in countless other cities. Yet your friend up above, she doesn’t have a single flaw…
Retrieving his kit, he laid it at his feet. With a tiny cruet, he poured oil into the lock until it dribbled out. The thief wiped away the excess with his thumb, before selecting a small tension wrench and rake.
Inserting the wrench, he pressed down. With the rake, he applied upward pressure and searched out the pins. Closing his eyes, he imagined the lock’s interior. Rowan felt the gentle give of the pins as the rake scrubbed them into position. Satisfied, he bit his lip and gave the lock a turn.
Click!
Without so much as a creak, the door pushed inward. Examining the frame, Rowan noted a single knockout for the bottom lock.
I wonder what sort of dreadful surprise that top lock held…
The room was more like a vault. Sculptures, canvases, tapestries, and tomes were arranged throughout. Several large chests were stacked in a far corner. A solid oak desk sat in the other. On it was a small box.
Sitting behind the desk, Rowan lit a nearby candle. He ran his hands over the box, searching for traps. Satisfied, he retrieved his tools once again and disengaged the tiny lock. When he opened it, he smiled. “Why, there you are…”
A handful of ancient Cyrenian coins lay in the bottom of the box. Several rings, set with various precious stones, were among them. A few diamonds, flawless but uncut, managed a sparkle by the light of the flame.
A small fortune… Hell, probably even a large one…
But in the center, coiled in a heap, was his mark.
It was a locket of no regard, strung on a simple silver chain. Inside was a family crest, one he was unfamiliar with, molded into the locket’s interior. In Hadan’s Quarter, it wouldn’t fetch a price worthy of a da
y’s labor at the docks.
And yet, here I am. What makes you so precious to someone?
Slipping the locket over his head, he tucked it under his shirt. When Rowan looked back in the box, his eyes fell over the gold coins. Remembering the strict instructions he’d been given, he clicked his tongue and shut the lid.
Maybe another day…
* * * * *
Outside of the manor, Rowan bounded from roof to roof, making his way to the docks. From his vantage point, and if he craned his neck just so, Ashmor could still be considered a beautiful city. Centuries-old buildings stood on his left and right. Black mold stained the facades, and a new roof was in order, but their grandeur was still apparent. Up ahead, the wall separating the Government and Market Districts materialized out of the darkness.
Lightning flashed overhead. A rumbling of thunder immediately followed. The winds shifted, and with them, a slow drizzle pattered the rooftops.
Stepping onto the cable he had set earlier in the night, Rowan stretched out his arms. With measured breaths, he walked the gap between the buildings. Just below was the stone wall. Reaching the other side, he let out a sigh of relief.
The wire’s always a gamble…
Half way across the district, he heard the sounds of a struggle somewhere in the distance. One man, not so confident in himself it seemed, hurled threats. Moments later, a second man shrieked.
His pulse quickened. Just what I need at this hour.
Up ahead, Hadan’s Quarter came into view. It was named for the renowned merchant Hadan Kale, whose heirs still dominated the tobacco trade in the city and surrounding countryside. In just a few short hours, crowds would fill the open-air market.
In the middle of the square, Rowan watched a hooded figure stagger into an island of pale light afforded by one of several torches.
And what are you up to at this hour of the witch?
Rain-soaked and weary, he crept to the edge of the roof, knelt, and watched the man.
Two men appeared in the distance. Both carried daggers.
Assassins, no doubt.
The hooded figure twitched his staff. The first assassin collapsed on the pavement. With another quick movement, the second man was flung across the Quarter. Slamming into a brick wall, he hit the ground with a wail.
