The woman’s retinue didn’t strike Jert as all that interesting until his glance fell on a slender man with thinning hair the color of rotten straw and a poorly removed brand on his cheek. An Ennian and a runaway slave—there was no doubt about it. It was almost impossible to remove the Ennian sign completely given the telltale scar it left behind. Regardless, the runaway threatened to complicate his plans.
“Sir, let me go!”
Jert was pulled away from his musings by the waitress’ cry. Down below, the girl, who was loaded down with trays, had several drunk mercenaries surrounding her. But they weren’t from the Hundred. Artanna’s troops bore a black sun with curved, snake-like rays, while the newly confident drunks, judging by their battleax patches, were from Tanor’s Brotherhood. Jert had managed to find a little something out about them, as well.
The waitress dodged another set of hands, but the lanky character with the wet beard grabbed her by her apron strings. The girl lost her balance, slipped in a puddle of spilled wine, and crashed to the floor with a scream. The trays paused in midair before following her down. Nothing but Belingtor’s cittern playing was left in the sudden silence, and Jert scowled. The pile on the floor included his ale and meat.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Litti! I’ll pay for everything!” one of the girl’s assailants slurred. “I’ll pay you, Litti. For the whole night! Just come on over with us and show us how fresh those buns of yours are.”
The rest of her group burst into drunken laughter. Jert looked over at the Hundred leader in time to see her slowly pull herself up from her table, the look on her face foreboding. A large, clean-shaven guy from her group tugged on her arm, though she waved him away in annoyance and jumped forward so quickly she just about clipped the chandelier with her head.
“The perfect time to get acquainted,” Jert mumbled to himself.
Throwing off his cloak, he tightened the sling holding his Ennian scimitar, checked the dagger in his belt, and hurried down the stairs.
“Gentlemen!” he boomed out at the drunks from the Brotherhood. He leaped down the final few stairs and landed lightly on the wooden floor. Theatrics never hurt anyone—the rabble always appreciated it. “This is a classy establishment for classy people, and your behavior is unacceptable. Don’t you think the lady might be owed an apology?”
Carefully stepping across the dirty floor, he went over to the waitress, offered her a hand, and helped her up. The girl looked around for a broom, but Jert stopped her and paused next to the table of ruffians.
“Was I unclear? The lady is waiting.”
The troublemaker fixed puffy eyes on him.
“Or what, southerner?”
“That’s all. The only question is whether you’ll be asking her forgiveness with an intact or toothless mouth.” He touched the waitress’ shoulder and smiled gently. “Find somewhere to go, sweetie, and tell your boss he’ll be compensated for whatever is about to happen.”
“Compensated immediately, otherwise their leader will hear the whole story.”
Jert turned around when he heard the Hundred leader’s gruff voice. From close up, she seemed even taller, her light gray, almost transparent eyes making for a striking combination when paired with her gray hair. An incongruous bracelet with a blue gem highlighted the unsightly scars on her arms. Artanna nar Toll grinned broadly, flashing gold teeth.
“These fine young men must be new to the city, otherwise they’d know that the Wicked Monk has some rich traditions. It’s the only damn tavern in all of Givoi where hireling groups don’t get into fights—that’s the deal. Everybody knows what a stickler Tanor is for agreements, and I’d have to imagine he’d be pretty upset if he heard how his people were ruining the Brotherhood’s reputation.” The Vagran woman pulled a bottle out of a sleeping patron’s hands and took a swig. “He has a temper, too. You all wouldn’t want to get on his bad side, would you?”
The tense Brotherhood fighters said nothing. Still, Jert didn’t see a shadow of guilt or shame on their faces.
“Lady Artanna,” he said with a bow. “Nice to meet you.”
“Shut up, southerner.” The Hundred leader threw a quick glance in his direction before immediately losing interest. “Anyway, this lunk is right. Litti is expecting an apology, so you’re welcome to begin.”
The Hundred fighters behind her stood up, faces impassive, hands on their weapons, eyes narrowed attentively. Ready for orders, their muscles were tensed, if still under control. Belingtor handed the Ennian slave his cittern and reached for his dagger so casually that he might have been looking to pick his teeth with it.
“You have until this bottle of swill is empty,” Artanna said. “After that, you have only yourselves to blame.”
The liqueur splashed around right at the bottom. Jert scratched his chin and sighed—he’d almost gotten to her. A little more, and—
Something whistled right past his ear and smashed against the wall. Judging by the sound, it was a clay saucer. Jert leaped forward, grabbed the Hundred leader by the arm, and pulled her behind the bar.
“The old ways are dying!” One of the waitress’ assailants leaped onto the table, kicked over a pot of uneaten food, and threw his arms wide. “Everything’s about to change! You’ll see for yourselves soon enough!”
“Damn it,” the Vagran spat, peeking cautiously out from behind their cover and ducking right back when a cup very nearly smacked her in the face. “Don’t touch me again.”
“Sorry, old habit. I could’ve told you they weren’t going to apologize,” Jert replied. “Want me to kill them?”
Artanna nar Toll stared at him in shock.
“You looking for a quick trip to the executioner’s block?”
“I have trouble turning a blind eye when someone’s giving a cute girl a hard time.”
“Get a grip—there are plenty of people here who can stand up for Litti’s honor, and the local laws are tough on foreigners, so just keep your head down.” The Vagran crawled backward, leaned up against the door jamb, and waved at her largest guy. “Baby, send Tanor a message!”
“Yon’s already on his way,” came the answer. “Should we roll these guys up in the meantime?”
“Yeah, just don’t overdo it.”
“If you break a single bench, I’ll have your necks!” Rickety roared from behind the bar. “All of them!”
“Oh, come on, Rinlo,” Fester said with a grin. “It’s like you don’t know us at all! We’re going to be as gentle as a summer breeze.”
Artanna exchanged signs with her fighters before turning to Jert.
“If you want to help, keep an eye on the girl and the owner.”
“Whatever you say, Commander.”
“I’m not your commander.”
“Not yet, anyway.”
The Hundred leader just snorted as she crouched and slipped into the main hall.
Jert looked around. Litti was cowering in a corner under a cabinet and whimpering in fear—apparently, there really weren’t that many fights at the tavern. With that kind of gentle and feminine disposition, she needed to find a quieter job. Rinlo was groaning next to her. The clasps on his wooden leg had come loose, and the tavern owner was trying to reattach them with shaking fingers.
Jert crawled over, rummaged around in a pocket, and pulled out a small purse.
“Here, Rickety,” he said, handing the purse to the owner. “To make up for the day’s losses.”
“Well, aren’t you the fat cat. To what do I owe your generosity?”
“Put a good word in for me with Artanna if she asks.”
Rinlo looked dubiously at Jert, weighed the purse in his hand, and grunted.
“Deal.”
“Thanks. And keep this between us.”
“Tavern owners don’t make it too long if they can’t keep a secret.” Rickety was almost hurt. “And I’ve had mine for twelve years now.”
The noise coming from the main room picked up. Jert picked out yells, dull thuds, creaking wood, breakin
g clay dishware, and clinking glass. The fight lasted for about a minute before quieting down.
“Wait here,” he said before crawling out to see what was going on.
They had indeed broken a bench. They’d even overturned a table. Dishes still piled with food strewed the floor, glasses and pitchers rolled lazily around on the boards, most not involved in the fight were crouched up against the walls, and a few people had opted to push their way out the door. The three troublemakers had been taken down by Artanna’s men. Their arms behind their back, their faces were being shoved into the dirt. Sitting and playing a fun piece on his cittern atop one of the mercenaries, the handsy one, was Belingtor. The Hundred leader was helping her troops move the table back where it had been.
“Well done,” Jert said with a whistle.
Blackened on the floor, he saw a Brotherhood emblem—it must have gotten torn off someone in the scuffle. He crouched down, pretended to adjust his boot, and surreptitiously slipped it into his pocket. It was the kind of thing it doesn’t hurt to have your hands on.
“Rinlo, Litti, you can come out now,” boomed Baby Shrain, kicking one of the Brotherhood boys lying on the floor. “Tanor’s troops are going to come pick these guys up soon, and this place could use a cleanup.”
The waitress grabbed her broom and got to work sweeping the clay shards, pieces of glass, and food into a pile. She worked with such fervor, in fact, that it almost looked like her life depended on it. Rinlo ambled over to the middle of the room, looked around, jabbed his wooden leg at one of the troublemakers, and bent over him.
“If I see you here again, you won’t make it out alive.” He turned to the rest of the crowd. “We’re closed! Pay your bills, finish your drinks, and get out of here. Get out!”
Jert opened the shutters to let in the night chill. The stuffy, smoky room had his head spinning. Artanna shook a bottle, sighed in disappointment when she saw how much of the liqueur was left on the bottom, and held it out to the southerner.
“Want some?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
“Your accent really is from the south. Where are you from?”
“Ennia.” He polished off the drink and found it was all he could do not to spit it out. “What’s in that stuff? Brutal!”
“You haven’t even tried Rundian fire water yet. That stuff will melt meat right off the bone,” the mercenary replied with a grin. Jert couldn’t help but notice, however, that her eyes stayed serious. “I’ve seen my share of Ennians, but you don’t look like any of them. An imperial face, hair like copper, and much taller than the southerners. What’s your name?”
“Jert. My parents are from Kanedan.”
“You’re a ways from home, Jert the Ennian. What are you doing in Givoi?”
He handed the bottle back to Artanna. “Looking for work. I’d like to join your Hundred.”
“I’m not hiring.”
“When you hear what I can do, you’ll send me a personal invitation and throw in some salary bonuses for good measure.”
“Nope.”
“I’ll bet anything you want that you’ll change your mind in a couple days.”
Rinlo interrupted them—he was calling the Hundred leader over. She headed over to the bar, though Jert could still hear pieces of the conversation.
“Leave Belingtor and get as far away from here as you can,” Rickety said quietly. “You and Tanor really shouldn’t be crossing paths right now.”
Artanna leaned over to him.
“Do you know something?”
“Believe my gut feeling. Pops has something going on, not something anyone is talking about, but something everyone’s hinting at. I’d like to hand these guys over to him myself to get out in front of everything. And we’ll take care of compensation—Tanor’s a man of his word.”
“Are you sure you’ll be okay?”
“Your Gatson won’t let them get up. I’ve seen him just about strangle a card shark with a string, and Tanor has a soft spot for him, as well. He likes good music.”
“All right,” Artanna said with a nod. “But if anything happens…”
“I’ll send word immediately.” Rinlo looked over at Jert. “Hey, by the way, you should take a look at the southerner. He’s a bit too interested in you. There’s something there.”
“Got it.”
Jert flashed his teeth. Whatever it was Rickety said didn’t matter, and he now knew why the tavern had been around so long. The owner made friends with the people who mattered.
The Hundred leader threw up her arms and snapped her fingers, grabbing her group’s attention.
“Guys, Rinlo has it from here, and we don’t need to get in the way of the cleanup. Cherso, you’re going to stay and make sure our unfortunate friends find their way to Tanor in one piece.”
“Me again?” the Gatson drawled.
“Don’t start that.”
“Got it, Commander.”
“Okay, let’s go.” Artanna kicked open the door and hurried her mercenaries through it. Jert left with them.
“See you, Artanna,” he said, though the Hundred leader didn’t even turn around.
When the mercenaries got far enough away, Jert smiled and slipped his hand into his pocket. The silver bracelet flashed faintly as soon as he opened his hand. It was a simple, if artfully made piece of jewelry set with a semi-transparent blue gem. The Vagran’s only valuable, Jert had been able to slip it right off her arm in the middle of the fight. The Ennian touched the gem and its uneven setting gingerly. Everything was going well enough. It was an improvised move, of course, since he hadn’t had enough information on the Hundred leader’s group, but that was okay.
He pulled a rag out of his pocket and wrapped the bracelet up carefully. Soon, Jert planned to return it to its owner, and Artanna nar Toll would be an idiot not to accept a thief as good as him into the Hundred.
He looked up, feeling someone’s heavy gaze on him, and met the eyes of the runaway Ennian slave. The slave froze, looked his fellow countryman over with horror, and then headed quickly after the Hundred leader. Jert thoughtfully watched him go. That kind of confusion doesn’t just grab you willy-nilly—you need to have experienced fear like it once in order to see it coming.
The runaway either realized or could guess who he was. Either way, that threatened to bring his whole plan crashing down.
Chapter 8. Missolen
Missolen is a Rikenaar word that means “white city”. Tallonius the Great, founder of the Tallonid dynasty, ordered the beginning of the new empire marked by the erection of a new capital. As fate would have it, however, Tallonius himself did not live to see even the first completed palace, leaving the cares of city-building to his descendants. In Demos’ opinion, they did a pretty good job. Missolen was the greatest city in the empire, at least, of all the cities he’d been to. Demos especially appreciated the perfectly designed grid of straight, wide streets, cozy alleys, and stone houses lost in their gardens. The whole thing made for a delightful evening stroll. He saw meaning everywhere he went, a great plan that was missing in the other ancient cities. And the abundance of white stone made Missolen light no matter the time of year. It was the kind of place that made you want to breathe, the kind of place you want to live in.
At least, until you find yourself in the slums. They’re the same everywhere.
The White Shrine bell tower was ringing out unbearably. The wide streets were starting to fill with busy people shouting in all the different imperial dialects, though Demos’ personal guard, as always, kept their mouth shut. Ihraz was a tall, swarthy Ennian with a scimitar and a pair of daggers in his belt. He was a step behind the duke, his black eyes scanning the passers-by as he moved smoothly and calmly. Lahel was to Demos’ left. Both bodyguards had their faces covered by colorful silk scarves.
Despite the protests of his mother, Demos preferred moving around the city on foot. It perked him up, loosened the muscles in his bad leg, and gave him time to think. There was plenty to ponder about t
hat morning, too. For example, he’d found out that Gregor Voldhard of Highligland had arrived in the capital to pay his last respects to his uncle and attend the Council. The young lord of Ellisdor was Demos’ cousin on his father’s side, though he didn’t stop by, the custom for relatives.
Managed to stir up a scandal without saying a word. What’s going to happen when you open your mouth, my dear cousin?
“Where is Lord Gregor staying?” Demos asked Ihraz. “The palace kindly offered him and his retinue quarters, but he declined.”
“At Enrige the Gatson’s residence, Master.”
“Of course. Enrige betrothed his son to Gregor’s sister. They say Lady Rhinhilda inherited her mother’s beauty and her father’s personality.”
In other words, she’s as terrifying as heavenly punishment and as direct as an Osvendian woodcutter. I wonder if Gregor asked for their hospitality or if the Gatsons insisted.
The sunlight glistened on the bright cobblestones paving the street that stretched from the enormous palace complex to Eclusum. The climb started taking its toll, while the buildings peeking out from behind the curbs and gardens got larger and more impressive—that was where the aristocrats and rich guilds lived. Pulling his glance away from the intricate stained glass, Demos turned his head toward the imperial gardens. The park was fragrant and invitingly quiet.
The treasurer jumped when a stooped beggar jumped out to block his way.
“By the grace of the Keeper, spare me a couple azu,” the tramp boomed. “I want to buy a black wax candle and pray for the soul of the emperor in Gillenai chapel, the one down the river.”
Lahel was about to shove him out of the road when Ihraz motioned for her to stop.
“He’s one of mine. Give him a duppa.”
The woman pulled a small silver coin out of her purse without taking her eyes off the beggar.
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