Savants of Humanity (The Scholar's Legacy Book 2)

by Joshua Buller

  Hawke's smile faded. “No. Uraj and I have an accord with those who run Hafwei. We don't allow anything along those lines. If we find out those lines are crossed, we would wipe the town off the map.”

  His essence flared for a moment, and the crowd around him backed off like he'd just grown horns. Restless snorted in fear, and the people stared at him uneasily for a second. He was dead serious about what he said.

  “And how do you know if these rules are broken?” I asked slowly as I rode Sir Brown Horse past him and further into the city. He fell in behind me, and the people on the street moved aside as business picked back up.

  “My contacts in the family keep an eye out for me,” Hawke said. He pointed to an inn down the road that looked like a small fortress, fitted together from hefty blocks of quarried stone. “That's the family's safehouse in Hafwei. We can hole up there while we pursue Fasketel.” A porter stepped out of the door as we pulled up, and took Restless and Sir Brown Horse to be stabled while we entered the establishment.

  The inside was sparsely furnished but comfortable, with a pair of sofas situated by a quaint fireplace that had already been lit to fight off the oncoming night's chill. A man stood behind the help desk, eyeing us with a look of well-practiced suspicion. He looked suspicious enough in his own right, with arms like tree trunks and a barrel chest straining against his homespun robe. He certainly didn't look the part of a kindly innkeeper.

  “Good evening to you, friend,” said Hawke. He scratched his left cheek, and the burly man narrowed his eyes for a second.

  “And to you,” the innkeep said in a gruff tone. “How're the roads?” He shot a glance at me, and I realized he was expecting me to say something.

  “No worse than usual,” I said, scratching my own cheek. It was a common call-and-response between family members who had never met before. He nodded, and some of the hostility faded; not all of it, but some. He reached to his own cheek and scratched, his fingers brushing over the faint black line tattooed there. I vaguely wondered what the Goodmother was up to.

  “You're Hawke, right?” said the innkeep. “I'm Talas. Just came into the family a couple months ago.”

  “Thought I hadn't seen you here before,” said Hawke. “Kal still here?”

  “Nah, he scurried off the moment I got the job here. Couldn't take the pressure, the little mouse.” Talas cleared his throat and spat a phlegmy glob into a nearby spittoon. For someone of his size, I suspected a lot of people seemed like mice to him.

  “Takes a certain kind, I suppose,” Hawke said slowly.

  “Yep. Me, I like a little danger. Nothing spices the dish of life better than not knowing who on the street's liable to bury a dagger in your back.”

  “Charming,” said Hawke. “You got a room for two?”

  “Sure, take your pick.” Talas nodded jerked his head toward the ceiling. “Few visitors this time of year. Most of the marks in the spring prefer the more posh places.”

  “Wonderful. Hopefully, we'll only need it for a day or two.” The porter came back in, and Hawke and I handed our bags to him. “Put them in one of the two beds, please,” he said. As the porter scurried off, Hawke called after him. “And not room twelve!”

  Talas raised a brow, but didn't ask further. “Got some work for us, then?”

  “Actually, just a personal matter,” said Hawke. “You know how to get to the Last Call from here?”

  The innkeep's expression tightened ever so slightly. “You must have some serious problems, if you're heading there.”

  “Rough place?” said Hawke.

  “They don't call it 'Last Call' for nothing,” said Talas. “Some smartass usually gets offed there once a night. Only those with a serious pair frequent that place.” He shrugged, and pointed towards the road. “Keep heading down the way you were going, make a right at the next cross street, and keep on for a few minutes. It'll be the three-story shack that looks ready to fall in.”

  “Thanks,” Hawke said. He started up the stairs, with me on his heels, but Talas hollered and got our attention.

  “One more thing,” he said, and he looked at me. “Probably shouldn't take the lass. The boss of Last Call is a real horndog, so I heard. Might not be safe for her.”

  For all his rough exterior, Talas was more of a gentleman than I thought. I smiled at him gratefully. “Thanks, but I'll be fine.”

  The innkeep shook his head. “Don't say I didn't warn you.”

  We found the porter just leaving one of the rooms, and he held the door open, beckoning us in with a sweep of his hand and a bow. I checked the number on the door as we entered and saw he'd taken Hawke's request seriously. We didn't have room twelve.

  He'd given us room thirteen. Lovely.

  The rooms were simple: just the two beds, a nightstand between them, and a brazier full of fresh potpourri for after dark. Just like the foyer, though, the accommodations were comfortable in their simplicity, and the beds were top quality. I hoped we'd have time to actually spend the night, though considering we were about to accost an assassin, it looked doubtful.

  Hawke had dug up, of all things, his guitar case. It sat open on one of the beds, and he pulled the instrument out and started tuning it.

  “You plan on serenading the guy?” I said. Hawke looked up and flashed a wicked grin, strumming a soft chord.

  “Something like that,” he said. “Talas' warning gave me an idea. You ready to go tonight? I'll explain on the way.”

  I shrugged and made a mock bow toward the door like our porter had given us. “You're the maestro. Lead on.”

  Chapter 16: The Giant's Shadow

  We waited until just before the sun completely disappeared and the night swallowed town to start our trip to the Last Call. At Hawke's insistence, I'd swapped my tunic and breeches for one of my dress robes. It wasn't my nicest one; that had been the one that got nabbed earlier in the day. The one I donned was a soft lilac with trace silver filigree along the cuffs and folds - fairly plain compared to some more elaborate dress robes, but excessively extravagant for the dive bar we were heading to, if the rumors were to be believed.

  Hawke had swapped his usual long shirt and kilt for a plain woolspun tunic and rough leather trousers, capping his head with a wide-brimmed hat. He had also removed his glasses, but that mattered little; they were purely cosmetic. His guitar hung from a strap over his shoulder, and he walked with the casual amble of a wandering musician, his back slightly hunched. It helped hide the fact he was hiding Symphony under his shirt, just in case.

  I followed close behind, holding my chin up slightly and my shoulders straighter than usual. I tried my best to give off the air of aloof superiority only nobility could muster as we turned down the street Talas had mentioned and made our way.

  Hafwei was the first town I'd ever seen that seemed more alive with the coming night. If anything, the streets were more crowded than when we'd arrived, with groups of merrymakers (and doubtlessly thieves) standing in clumps under the freshly lit streetlamps. No longer on our mounts, Hawke more than once had to shoulder his way through the throng as I did my best to keep pace.

  Just as we were told, we caught sight of the Last Call long before we arrived at it. The rickety wooden building stood a full story above the other residences and businesses on the street, sticking out like a splintered thumb. In place of shutters, planks of wood had been nailed across the windows, and feeble yellow light could be seen filtering through the uncovered spaces.

  The sounds of shouting and cursing wafted to our ears as we approached. A pair of drunken patrons wrestled on the ground outside the entrance, the door torn completely off its hinges and laying forgotten a few feet off. The sickly yellow light spilled out from the doorway, like a pungent spotlight that put the brawlers on full display.

  A pair of massive figures clad from head to toe in hooded black cloaks glided out of the building and peeled the two apart, even as they continued to try and rain kicks and insults on each other. Hawke grabbed me by the arm
, and with his guidance we slipped around the altercation and into the building.

  The place reeked of poverty, in every sense. The tables, chairs, and bar were all as shoddily built as the rest of the building, looking ready to fall apart at the slightest mistake. The only thing that wasn't made of wood was the brick chimney. I thought it was made of some strange black stone, until I realized it was just caked with untold years of soot. A small fire fought for life in its heart, though it pumped more smoke than heat into the room.

  Even so, almost every table was filled with people smoking, drinking, gambling, and bawdy suggestions aimed at anything even faintly resembling a female. That made me a little uneasy. Most of the women sitting around were built and armed like mercenaries, trading back insults with twice the vitriol. Standing there in my lilac robe, I felt like an overstuffed lamb in a den of wolves.

  “Ha! What do we 'ave 'ere?” drawled a brusque voice. A group of roughnecks playing cards at the table nearest the door stopped their game, eyeing us, or maybe sizing us up. The outburst caught the attention of most of the rest of the room, and I felt the weight of dozens of pairs of eyes settle on Hawke and me.

  This was a huge mistake, I thought, and started summoning my essence for the inevitable fight. Without missing a beat, though, Hawke swept the hat from his head and gave the humblest bow I'd ever seen.

  “Ladies, gentlemen, and everythin' in between,” he started rambling in some thick dialect, “a pleasure ta meet y'all. May I have th' honor of introducin' the most honorable and generous Lady Mica, straight frum th' kingdom o' Ravoso!”

  Hawke had already discussed the plan with me, but his sudden change in tone still caught me off guard for a second. Quickly seeing that everyone was still watching me, I pulled together all the quiet dignity I could salvage and nodded sagely. A few eyebrows went up, but everyone seemed curious where Hawke was going with this.

  “I'm but a lowly servant an' musician. Name's Falk.” Hawke doffed his hat once more. “The Lady has come to speak with the owner o' this fine place about some possible business that goes way over my empty head.” A few people chuckled at that. “As a show of her generosity, Lady Mica has demanded I make sure y'all are soused to the nines, or even the tens, if ya choose.”

  In a few swift paces, Hawke crossed the room and slammed his hand on the bar. When he removed it, a bag spilling over with ruples was left behind. A buzz of excitement started to rise in the room, and some patrons outright cheered, raising their glasses. Judging from their ruddy faces, they probably didn't need any more help getting sloshed.

  As the bartender scooped up the money and started sending the servers out to get orders, Hawke made a seat for himself by the fire and made a show of removing his guitar from its case.

  “While yer all gettin' comfortable,” said Hawke, “milady also told me to make sure y'all are well entertained. Assumin', course, I'm not stealin' someone else's job?”

  That made the room roar with laughter. I got the feeling that they rarely, if ever, got live entertainment. With no further motivation needed, Hawke struck a few notes and launched into a raunchy drinking song. Before long, most of the room was singing along and banging on the table in time to the tune.

  A serving girl approached me and beckoned towards a table near the back. “The owner thanks you for your generosity and said they'd be glad to speak with you at your leisure.”

  I thanked her quietly and let her lead me to the table. I ordered a watered glass of wine, not wanting to risk losing my wits during the meeting, and watched the room as she scampered off. I hadn't expected things to go so smoothly so far, but Hawke had them eating out of the palm of his hand. Funny how far a purse of cash and an ear for music could take you.

  I got my drink, and tipped the server more than necessary. Even watered, the pink wine felt bitter on my tongue. I couldn't understand how other people stomached drinking it regularly.

  My seat placed my back to the wall, so I saw the man approaching me long before he helped himself to the chair opposite me. He was a squat little toad, only about as tall as my own modest height and nearly as wide. The dress robes he had squeezed into would have been nicer than mine, if they weren't blotched with food and alcohol stains. He looked at me with wet, rubbery eyes and ran a hand over his bald head.

  “Lady Mica, is it?” he asked in a surprisingly smooth tenor. I nodded, not wanting to break the illusion of a disinterested minor noble. “I'm honored to have your presence in my business. I am Liebert, and the Last Call is my own little slice of heaven.”

  “I'm sorry,” I said, refusing to meet his eye. That was more from the disgust he instilled in me than any act on my part. “Perhaps the help here misheard me. I wanted to speak to the owner of this…charming establishment.”

  I glanced at him, just in time to see the confusion blossom on his face. “But, milady, I assure you—”

  I held up a hand to silence him, and he clamped his mouth shut immediately. It was sort of intoxicating, having someone act on my whims just because of my supposed stature. Or maybe that feeling was just the wine in me.

  “I've heard many tales of the Last Call,” I said, my voice stiff in my best approximation of royalty. “More importantly, I've heard of the services of its inscrutable owner, one with a gift for…making people disappear.” I last part as slow as possible, as if my meaning wasn't clear enough.

  Liebert swallowed hard, making his jowls quiver. I resisted the urge to retch and decided to sweeten the deal for the little man.

  “All I ask is for you to see if such a man might be spending this fine evening in your establishment, and send him my regards.” In a smooth motion, I ran my hand across the table, leaving a trail of coins in its wake.

  Liebert seemed to become livelier all at once. “I will, ah, inquire with the staff and see if anyone has seen such an individual.”

  “That's more like it,” I cooed, giving him my most patronizing smile. I danced a ruple across my knuckles, in the same way Hawke had shown me. “Believe me when I say, those who serve me well do not go without reward.” I flicked my wrist, sending the coin tumbling through the air. His pudgy fingers snapped out and caught it mid-flight.

  “Of course, milady. I live to serve.” Liebert jiggled to his feet, sweeping the ruples off the table and into a purse at his waist. I watched with amusement as he waddled off towards the back, stopping just long enough to hiss something at a nearby serving girl.

  Hawke had finished his song, and the cheers and jeers rained down on him from the audience. Not a single patron was without a glass or mug now, and the servers were running double time to keep them filled. Hawke started in on a new song, an old ditty about Bronco Ballard, a legendary gambler and hero to shysters everywhere. It was a jaunty tune, and I found myself tapping my foot in time as I sipped at my drink.

  That's why I found myself jumping in surprise as a monstrous frame slipped into the seat across from me, shrouded in a pure black robe with the hood pulled over their head. Only years of practice keeping my head level in tight situations saved me, but it was a near thing. I hadn't even seen them approach.

  The shadowed depths of the cowl were fixed on me, and I could feel eyes deep within it boring into me. I realized then that my new guest was one of the bouncers I'd seen breaking up the fight outside. The room was filled with ruffians that would start a fight at the drop of a pin, but there was no doubt that this one was of a different magnitude. This was someone who would kill without hesitation, and sleep like a baby that night.

  “Hm, young.” He sounded like he was chewing gravel as he spoke. I'd heard such a tone before. Just thinking about it sent a shiver across the surface of my skin.

  “Nobody told me you'd be a grinel,” I said, crossing my arms. I wanted to look intimidating, but the stranger towered over a foot more than me, while sitting at that. His shoulders were broad enough that I doubted I could put my arms all the way around them. I must have looked like a sapling next to him.

  “Half-gr
inel, to be precise,” he said. He reached to his hood and pulled it back just a bit, just enough to catch a glimpse inside.

  The only other half-grinel I'd ever met was Hawke's old friend Char, and if there was one thing both of them shared, it was their lacking of resemblance to anything human. My guest's face was a rough, pebbled mess of leathery skin somewhere between tan and forest green. His lower jaw jutted out from his face, held there by two canine teeth large enough to deserve being called tusks. Any regular person would consider him a grinel, a demon.

  But I'd seen enough full grinel to see the differences. The stranger clearly had ropy black hair, where a grinel would only have horns. Grinel also usually had either blank eyes or slitted pupils like a cat's, but his had irises and pupils. It was little comfort, though, when those pupils were an unnatural shade of grey bordering on white, and they were constantly dilated to the point that his irises nearly dominated the eyes. I was left, quite literally, staring into pits of darkness.

  “I hope you won't consider my lineage a deal breaker,” he said, and his smile sent another chill through me. “I assure you, I'm quite good at what I do.”

  This was no time for me to be quailing. I straightened up and worked up all the insufferability I could muster. “I have no problems with someone who can get the job done. Assuming, of course, you have no problem being hired by someone you consider, what was it, 'young'?”

  He blinked a couple of times. Then, chuckling, he leaned back in his chair and draped an arm over the backrest. “I'd take a job from a toddler if the pay was good,” he assured me.

  “Then, what was that you were talking about before?” I asked.

  “I don't usually take girls your age to bed,” he said with a shrug.

  Some women would have slapped a man for saying that. I like to think I'm more civilized than that. I punched him in the face, instead.

  His head snapped back, and I suddenly felt my chill from before set into my blood. If he truly was the Giant's Shadow, I'd just assaulted a master assassin, and on his own ground, no less. I almost felt like cringing away and letting him get it over with.