Gloomwalker

by Alex Lang

  Jahna set the book down in her lap. “Thank you, brother. But don’t think these gifts have distracted me. What are you going to do about Marlek?”

  “I have to go see him and explain what happened. I don’t want him to think I retrieved the prize and I’m running off with it.”

  “What was the prize?” Tasi asked.

  “A medallion.”

  Tasi seemed nonplussed. “All this for jewelry?”

  Kyris shrugged. “Perhaps it's a relic. I don’t know, nor do I care.”

  "How do you think he’ll take the news?" Tasi asked, wringing her hands.

  “If it was just about the medallion, I could make amends, but after learning of the complications…” Kyris shook his head.

  “We don't have to leave the city, but maybe you shouldn’t go back,” Jahna ventured.

  “I have to. I can’t make an enemy of him, or the syndicate.”

  “When are you due?” Jahna asked.

  “Soon. If I don't return by first bell, they'll know something is wrong. Well, they’ll most likely know, regardless.”

  “You have time yet. Rest, until then.”

  Kyris rose, dropped a kiss on Jahna’s veiled forehead and squeezed Tasi's shoulder, then made his way out of the room.

  “Oh, that reminds me. Tasi, could you attend to another small scratch I got? It’s nothing much, just a bit hard for me to reach.” While Kyris said this, he shared another look with her, then gestured to Jahna with his finger over his lips.

  “Of course,” Tasi said with a frown and a small shake of her head.

  Chapter Four

  Caldir dabbed at his lips with his napkin as he watched Marlek shove the last bite of yolk-covered flatbread into his mouth, finishing his third helping. The big man gave a contented sigh and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. A ruby, one of the many gems set within the rings on his fingers, twinkled as it caught the light from the chandelier overhead.

  Caldir suppressed a smile. Business had been very fruitful of late, and this was reflected on Marlek’s person and in the room's decor. Though not how Caldir would spend his own coin, he was, nevertheless, glad for his friend’s indulgence. It was fathoms higher than where they had started on the streets of the Downs.

  An attendant entered the room with a fresh pot of kef and poured a cup each for the men. The pair migrated from the circular dining table in the corner to Marlek's desk, a massive block of ornately carved onyx wood. They settled into armchairs on opposite sides as the attendant cleared away the plates and serving dishes from their morning meal. Marlek’s current office was a spacious room at the rear of a tavern known simply as the Chalice; a recently acquired asset. It was expensively furnished, if not tastefully, with plush chairs upholstered in gold and purple velvet, and garish-colored paintings on the walls.

  Having first-meal together was a monthly tradition between the two, one going back almost a decade, ever since Caldir’s return to the city.

  Marlek blew on his kef, took a sip, then twisted his face. “I don’t know how you drink this stuff.”

  “It’s an acquired taste.”

  “Given the cost to brew a pot, why would anyone want to acquire it?”

  A small smile pulled at Caldir's lips. “Indeed.”

  Marlek glanced at the clock cabinet for the third time in the past hour.

  “Are you expecting someone?” Caldir asked.

  “What? Oh, it’s nothing.”

  Caldir decided not to press. He leaned back in his chair and took his own sip, enjoying the tart green liquid. “I hear talk that Ashear’s gang is moving into Copper Downs.” This was not really a concern. They had already addressed all the essential business issues. This was what passed for small talk between the two.

  Marlek scoffed. “Bah, little better than beggars, that lot. They’ll get eaten alive in the Downs. Wonder who planted the idea in Ashear’s thick skull? They won't last two—”

  A quick rap at the door interrupted him.

  “What?” Marlek demanded.

  A young boy, a runner, entered and scurried straight to Marlek’s side, whispering into his ear. The look on Marlek’s face went from bewilderment to out-right shock as the messenger went on. “Gods above,” he muttered.

  The messenger, having delivered the news, quickly made his exit.

  “Trouble?” Caldir asked, setting his kef down and leaning forward.

  “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “I am certain, but… indulge me.” Caldir’s curiosity was piqued.

  Marlek hesitated before saying, “Seems there was a snag with a job. Four dead, two of them highborn. Rhistell and Alderin of House Curunir.”

  Caldir stroked his bare chin in thought. “Curunir, a Sartis merchant league trading house. Ruled by the matron, Daratrine. Rhistell was the eldest son, and Alderin was his nephew by the middle brother. Alderin was also…” Caldir held up a finger in thought, then arched his eyebrows, surprised by his own recollection. “He was a windstrider and duelist of some repute.”

  “You done showing off?”

  Caldir smiled. “I like to keep current of my potential customers, though it would appear that task has become a tad easier now. Truth be told, this particular house is rather notorious in certain circles.” The smile faded. “How is this unfortunate event relevant to us?”

  Marlek’s gaze was downcast as he twisted a ring on his finger.

  “Do not tell me you accepted a contract to—”

  Marlek raised both hands to placate. “Of course not. The job was to steal a medallion. Not have anyone killed.”

  “A medallion?”

  “A Curunir sigil medallion.”

  Caldir eased back into his chair, pensive. The only reason he could think of to steal a sigil medallion was if one wished to impersonate a member of the Curunir house. If the specific house had significance, then Marlek’s client most likely desired to gain access to some place allowed to the Curunirs only. With a little delving, it wouldn’t be difficult to narrow the possibilities, Caldir thought.

  “Why did you not consult me on this?”

  “Housebreaking and general thievery is my purview, ain’t it?”

  Caldir started to reply— he wanted to say that theft of a highborn merchant house was a wholly different undertaking than what Marlek was used to, that his hirelings generally lacked the qualities required, relying on more brawn than skill and finesse, and that it was never wise to get entangled with the intrigue of Sartis merchant houses- but he closed his mouth and held his tongue. Caldir did not wish to bruise his old friend’s pride. He hoped that Marlek would arrive at the same conclusion on his own.

  “Who is the go-between?”

  “Jaspar.” Marlek spat the name.

  “You two are not the most cordial. Why did he come to you for this job?”

  Marlek gave a small shrug and grinned, revealing a row of gold-plated teeth. “Word may have gotten around about some recent successes of mine.”

  “Oh, and this is the first I am hearing of it?”

  “Very recent successes.”

  “Marlek, I don’t expect these games from you.”

  “No games. I—”

  Caldir waved off further explanation. “Any idea on who the actual client is?”

  Marlek shook his head. “I figured it was one of the other rival houses.”

  “Every house is a rival house in that league,” Caldir said, “but some more so than others, I suppose.” He took another sip of his kef. “Despite the obvious complications, was the medallion acquired?”

  “Don’t know. But it won’t matter, either way. The job was supposed to be done quiet-like. I doubt the client will pay up even if we have the medallion.”

  Caldir nodded in understanding. If the Curunirs knew that a sigil medallion was missing, then this would be reported to the watch and additional scrutiny would be placed at all trade passages and gateways, putting an end to whatever scheme the client had in mind.

  “The
other two dead—was it well known they worked for you?”

  Marlek frowned in confusion. “What?”

  “You mentioned four dead. The other two, I assume, were part of the crew you sent.”

  “Oh, no. The other two were Curunir guardsmen.”

  It was Caldir’s turn to show bewilderment. Most of the housebreaking crews worked in teams of three, but they were thieves, not trained killers. “Your crew killed four, a Windstrider among them, taking no losses?”

  “Yes, well, about that. I didn’t send the usual crew. Or a crew at all, I suppose.” Marlek explained how only a single man was sent on the job and when asked why, he said, “It was a condition of his that he worked alone.”

  Caldir shook his head. “And why are you accepting conditions from those in your employ?”

  Marlek sighed. “It’s a bit of a tale.”

  “I have time.”

  “A little while back, this lad comes around looking for work. The same old story—they come from all over, thinking to make their fortune in the capital. Said he worked some in Yond, like that means anything here. But he approached us all proper-like. So smarter than your average mucker, I thought.”

  “Who exactly?”

  “Gave his name as Kyris of Yond. When he gave his condition, I was keen on tossing him out the door right then. It’s simply not how we do things, I said, but he boasted that he would manage any job given, no matter what. Now, I’ve heard from plenty of braggarts in my time, but there was something behind those words. I figured, what could be the harm? So I gave him a try.”

  Caldir nodded for Marlek to continue the story.

  “Despite his big words, I gave him a small thing first. Had him visit the home of a shopkeep who owed some coin, and it went off without a hitch. I gave him another job, then another, and another after that. Each one was a bit more demanding than the last. All of ’em went as smooth as Sian silk. And here’s the thing. No one ever got bloodied. In some cases, the marks didn’t even know they’d been robbed until long after the fact.”

  “I believe I see where this is heading. Did he give you a reason why he only works alone?”

  Marlek shook his head. “Just said he didn’t want to be partnered up or be part of a crew. He was real firm about it.”

  “Why haven’t you mentioned him to me? How long has he been working for you?”

  Marlek, looking embarrassed, said, “Almost a month.”

  "Almost a month?" Caldir repeated in disbelief. "Since the time of our last meal together, you met, recruited, and sent him against a highborn family? A Sartis merchant house, no less. Marlek." The last was said much as a mother would scold a misbehaving child.

  “Don’t give me that, Caldir. The lad’s got talent and I’m damn well going to use it while I can before…”

  “Before what? I came swooping in? So you suspect him of being a scion, then?”

  Marlek gave his usual nudge of burly shoulders. “There’s no telltale sign. He’s as plain as the beer I serve. You wouldn’t give him a second glance if you passed him on the street.”

  “You know better than that.”

  “Yes, well, I suppose the possibility may have come to mind… See here, I was planning on telling you. Today, in fact.”

  “After this last job?”

  Marlek flashed his golden grin again. “I was hoping to give you the good news over first-meal.”

  Caldir gave a slight shake of his head.

  Marlek stared down into his cup. “What if the lad isn’t a scion? What if he’d just had a run of Shar’s favor?”

  “Then it would appear that run has come to an end. Scion or not, he’ll have to prove himself worthy of the burden this situation will place on us. There will be repercussions, Marlek. Serious ones, and if not handled properly, it could affect the others, as well.”

  “I know,” Marlek replied, his face solemn. “And I swear, I will take care of this. No one will have to bear the consequences of my folly.”

  “Well, I can aid with one aspect of that,” Caldir said. “How do we find this Kyris of Yond?”

  Chapter Five

  The streets were already bustling by the time the first hint of light was on the horizon. Kyris threaded his way through the crowd at a brisk pace, drawing the occasional glare or curse from those he brushed past. There was a vigor to the city he found infectious. He darted across the street when two city watchmen beating a man obstructed his path, but otherwise never slowed a step. He wore an old padded coat over a long-sleeved undertunic and dark trousers tucked into his boots, having changed out of his work attire for something more commonplace. Despite what he’d said to his sisters, he was nervous, though now that he was on his way, his thoughts were not on the impending meeting with Marlek, his current employer, but on his conversation with Jahna. Things had become strained between them since arriving in Vigil. She grew more troubled the longer they stayed, but he could think of no remedy other than leaving, and that was not an option. Why did she make it so difficult for him? He needed her support, but of late, it seemed everything she said to him came laden with a disapproving tone. Why was she acting this way when she must know there was no alternative?

  Jahna was right about one thing; running would be the easier course. Vigil was massive, the capital of the empire, a metropolis unparalleled in all the realms, and though Kyris’ travels were far from extensive, once he’d laid eyes on the endless sprawls he knew it was no simple boast. There could be no grander structures or larger gathering of men. Just a few of the outer districts would make up the whole of Yond, the only other true city Kyris had lived in. Disappearing among the throngs of people certainly wouldn’t be difficult. He could resurface in a different part, join up with another organization. The Graves syndicate wouldn’t be the only one with the connections he needed. But he wasn’t willing to accept that, to wait, to abandon the progress he’d made with Marlek. Last night’s blunder aside, he was making progress.

  Kyris had said to Jahna and Tasi before he’d left them, “Last night was a setback, to be sure, but Marlek’s a reasonable man. A little temperamental, but with my past successes, he’s certain to give me another chance.” Spoken to ease their fears, but he did believe it, if not to such an assured degree.

  He arrived at his destination, a nondescript, grimy-windowed storefront, no different from all the others that lined the small square. A simple painted sign of a cup above the doorway denoted the name of the establishment.

  Upon entering, Kyris waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. There were no patrons at this hour, and only a single oil lamp lit the space, comprised of a high-ceilinged room with a bar along the back. A scattering of tables and benches occupied the main floor, while stairs on the left led to a loft with more seating. The tavern was a simple affair with bare walls and scarcely any decoration. One didn’t come here for the atmosphere. Kyris had found it odd that Marlek’s fondness for color and embellishment didn’t extend beyond his office.

  The tiniest groan of wood- of weight shifting, perhaps- from the loft caused Kyris to drop his hand to the dagger at his side.

  “Sahmi?” Kyris offered the name of the man usually watching the front.

  Sahmi poked his head out from the curtains behind the bar. “Kyris. You’re late.” The man emerged, then motioned for Kyris to go through.

  With a last apprehensive glance towards the loft, Kyris did as bidden and went behind the curtains. He walked down a dark hallway, coming to a plain room where two street toughs hovered over a table, rolling dices. They both looked up at he entered, one breaking into a grin while the other grimaced.

  “Ruma’s bloody eyes,” the frowning tough cursed. Turning to his companion, he slid two green coins over the wooden surface.

  The other tough grinned all the wider as he pocketed his winnings.

  “I was thinking you were dead,” the loser said to Kyris, “or smart enough not to come back.”

  “Sorry to disappoint, Gres. On both counts.” Kyris
flashed a sanguine smile, then gestured towards the only door in the room. “Is he in?”

  “Course he is. Been waiting on you.” Gres got up from the table and moved to the door. He knocked twice, then stuck his head in. “Kyris’ back.”

  There was a long, drawn-out pause. “Send him in!” Marlek’s voice bellowed.

  Gres motioned to the table, and Kyris, familiar with the procedure, removed the dagger at his hip and the two throwing knives he had tucked away, setting them down. He then submitted himself to be searched.

  The Chalice was far from the inner districts of the Old City and the gates where the watchmen strictly enforced the High Council’s decree concerning the possession of weapons, butKyris didn’t tow them around like some street toughs did. The decree stated that no person, outside the city watch and those of the highborn houses, was permitted a blade longer than a hand-span, and only one such weapon was allowed. This applied to all of Vigil, but the city was an enormous place and the watch seemed to only impose the edict with any consistency at the many gates of Casrinndar’s Wall, stating very clearly of their priority. Though more lax with their enforcement in the outer districts, Kyris still felt that flaunting a weapon was advertising one’s desire for trouble.

  Once satisfied that he carried nothing offensive, Gres gestured for him to go in.

  Kyris took a deep breath, then entered.

  Marlek’s office was a dazzling display. There were no windows, but the space was well lit by a candled chandelier and oil lanterns. Paintings lined the walls, depicting various grand vistas and landscapes from woodlands to high mountains, though they all shared one thing in common—women in various stages of undress. Gilded furniture of all sorts cluttered the large room, making it seem cramped. A painted green door to his left marked a second entrance into the room. There was the faint scent of roasted meat and herbs in the air.

  Marlek sat behind his desk in a bright blue kaftan embroidered with intricate designs of gold thread. He was a burly bear of a man, with a bald scalp and a wide face scarred with the many reminders of his street-tough past. He had small eyes that Kyris had seen switch from cheery to menacing in an instant, a flat nose that had clearly been broken more than a few times, and a slashing scar across his lips, which were currently down-turned in a deep frown.