A Rage in the Heavens (The Paladin Trilogy Book 1)

by James A. Hillebrecht

  She passed two young men speaking eagerly of the weekly sporting games, a farmer smiling broadly as he bundled leeks for a customer, a woman leading a wide-eyed child by the hand. All of this was very much in jeopardy, she realized, the danger already marching inexorably down out of the north. She shrugged uneasily, forcing the thought aside. This is a business, she told herself. Not a charity.

  Beyond the third wall was the true beginnings of the city proper, the Peddler’s Market where the trade folk made their homes and offered their wares. This was the busiest and most crowded part of the city, and the bargaining was always fastest in the morning as people haggled over new goods set out the night before. Here, the sheer variety of goods was simply overwhelming, and each product had its own lane where a dozen or more merchants offered every conceivable size, color, flavor, style, or concentration. There were shells and scents from the Southern Ocean, sugars and herbs from the Spice Islands, healing muds from Lake Moreno, swords from Warhaven, leather works from the Plains of Alencia, armor from the Dwarf Holds of the Mountains of the Winds, woven goods from the tribes of the Painted Plains, and rare stones and gems from as far away as the Earth’s Teeth. Anything that could lure coins out of people’s pockets and purses was on display in the endless bazaar of Jalan’s Drift.

  Adella soon spotted small patrols of the red-cloaked Magistrates moving through the booths, watching for pickpockets, sneak thieves, and other illegal activity, and she unobtrusively avoided them, making her way slowly but purposely through the maze of merchants. Small make-shift signs gave some reference for people lost in this labyrinth of goods, and she eventually found what she sought: a placard showing a necklace with the runes of the jeweler’s guild beneath it. She moved down the street and quickly came to a familiar booth with the name of Carac above it, a shabby, overloaded little stall with a very fat, aging man behind the counter.

  “Good Morn to you, Carac,” she said lightly.

  “Good Morn…” the man began with a smile, but then his face went ashen as he recognized his customer. He blinked, thinking quickly, and when he finally decided he had done nothing to warrant a hostile visit, the smile returned.

  “Good Morn to you, Ma’m,” he said, falling in with her disguise. “And what might I offer you this day?”

  “A little information, I think,” she said softly as she examined a strand of poorly made jewelry, already knowing the only things of value in this stall were inside Carac’s balding skull. “I only just arrived and need the news. Why the change of passes?”

  Carac shook his massive head. “They’re having yet another crack-down. This time against people smuggling in goods without paying the duty. The damned red-boys are making it hot for everyone.”

  Red-boys were the scarlet-cloaked Magistrates, financed by taxes from this, the richest trading city in the region, and they were so numerous and active that any illegal activity within the Drift was apt to draw their unwanted attention.

  “Crack-down on smugglers?” Adella repeated. “Does that include the fences?”

  “Especially the fences,” said Carac. “Stolen goods bring the highest profits.”

  Curse the luck. Had all the Fates turned against her? “What about Connors?”

  “He decided to take a holiday while they’re stoking the fire here. I heard he’s working the river south of Alston’s Fey.”

  “Durkin?”

  “They broke his shop, and he had to run,” the fat man said sadly. “I heard he’s shifting what’s left of his trade to Maganhall.”

  “Burke?”

  “Come now,” Carac said. “He died before you left.”

  “That’s right,” Adella frowned. Connors and Durkin had been her main contacts within the Drift, and there weren’t many others, thanks to the watchful gaze of the Magistrates.

  “Del Garro is still operating,” the fat man volunteered.

  “I’d rather give my goods away,” Adella responded. She frowned again, thinking. “What about young Jeremy? He was starting to put together a nice business when last I heard.”

  “True,” admitted Carac. “And a smart lad, Jeremy. The red-boys grabbed him last week, but all they found on him were forged papers. They’re holding him in the Debtor’s Gaol, but my bet is he’ll be free again in a few days.”

  “Of all the confounded luck…” she said, though her gentle expression never changed, and the other shoppers passed by without a second glance.

  “What’s a few days?” Carac asked with a shrug. “Jeremy can be counted on to beat a simple forgery charge.”

  “I fear my goods are perishable,” Adella answered, knowing that rumor of the fall of Carthix Castle would all too soon be circulating in the bazaars. She paused, glancing around the maze of booths and making some shrewd calculations. She nodded slowly, her eyes narrowing as she made her decision. If the Fates had turned away from her, then it might take an act of daring to again catch their eye. To cast more gold upon the winds. “Can you hold a package for me?”

  Carac shrugged his hefty shoulders again, this time as a prelude to bargaining. “Information, holding packages, all in the middle of a major crack-down. If the red-boys were to catch me even talking to the likes of you…”

  Adella reached up inside the sleeve of her smock and pulled out something long, soft, and silvery-white. She tickled Carac’s double chin playfully before laying the item discretely on the table before him.

  “A pegasus feather!” he exclaimed, his eyes gleaming. Then he frowned. “Is it real?”

  “From the right wing of Gil-Gal-Som himself,” Adella replied. “I took a ride with him down from the north, and that black-hearted son of a flying mule charged me triple because he knew I was in haste. I took two feathers off him when we landed to help even the score. Does that settle our debt?”

  “Paid in full,” the man assured her, slipping the feather under the counter. He moved over to a five-sided display case in the far corner of the booth, and he spun it lightly around. Each side contained three drawers, and each drawer had a handle with engraved runes and a keyhole. Several had a silver key protruding from the keyhole.

  “Perhaps you’ll find something more to your liking here, Ma’m,” he said casually, and Adella played the picky patron, opening one of the unlocked drawers and looking skeptically at the contents. She palmed a small pouch off her belt and deposited it skillfully into the drawer, and when she closed it, the silver key was no longer in the handle.

  “I’m afraid you have nothing of interest for me here, my man,” she told him. He bowed his portly form in apology, and they both turned away. As she left, Adella couldn’t help but wonder as always what other treasures lay within the keeping of that strange little box and if any of the other drawers could match the value of what she had left behind. But wonder was all she did. That five-sided box was built on an ancient pentagram of black ebony, and any attempt to force open a drawer without its silver key would release a demon from the Nether Regions who would drag the thief back into the darkness with him. Adella knew Carac’s Box was one of the few places safe enough to leave Bloodseeker, for even she was not prepared to challenge its dark guardians.

  She browsed slowly through the adjoining booths, glancing at the wares for sale, but now she was actively looking for just the right item. Jewelry was perfect, she decided, and a ring rather than a bracelet. Gaudy enough to look of value, and with a vulture of a merchant selling it. Three booths down she found exactly what she wanted, a flawed gem in a brass setting that looked like gold, and the merchant behind the stand stared at her with cold suspicion in both eyes. She looked away hurriedly, glancing back to find him still looking at her, and then she looked down at the wares, seeming to study them.

  The merchant deliberately moved to the other side of the booth, but Adella felt his wary eyes on her as surely as if he was standing right there. No need to be too subtle, she decided.

  She palmed the brass ring awkwardly and blatantly slipped her hand into the pocket of her smo
ck. Immediately, she turned away.

  “Stop, Thief!” the merchant shouted, and despite her preparation, that cry still made the hairs stand up on Adella’s neck. She looked back, her expression one of shock and fear, and then she ran wildly down the lane between the booths, pushing past the wandering patrons, leaving a trail a child could follow. An instant later, she found herself facing a group of red-cloaks, and as she turned to flee again, she tripped over a young woman, both of them sprawling in the lane.

  “And where are you off to, my pretty one?” the Sergeant of the patrol asked with heavy irony as they dragged her back to her feet.

  “Oh please, Sir,” Adella begged, near to tears. “Oh, please. It’s just that I’m so hungry. I’ll give it back. Here.” She produced the ring and pushed it into the hand of the Sergeant. “Take it. Just please let me go.”

  At that moment, the merchant came rushing up, puffing even after the short run.

  “Take her into custody!” he demanded. “You caught the little thief red-handed! Take her!”

  The Sergeant glanced down at the ring, his face showing his distaste. “For a trinket such as this? What’s its value? A shilling, two at the most?”

  “That’s not the point,” the merchant replied. “We have to make an example of these sneak thieves. They’re robbing us blind. You caught her clear, and I want her before the court.”

  The Sergeant let out a sigh. “As you say, Sir.” He turned to Adella. “Your papers.”

  She handed him the pass, and he glanced at it only briefly before tucking it into his cloak.

  “Come,” he said to his patrol. “Debtor’s Gaol is closest. That will do well enough.”

  “But…but what’s to become of me?” Adella asked fearfully as they marched her towards the next wall.

  “The judge won’t waste city funds feeding the likes of you,” he said, not unkindly. “A night in the gaol, and then he’ll likely revoke your pass and send you out of the city. If you act respectfully, he might even let you choose which side.”

  Not that it matters, she thought. I’ll still be back tomorrow to reclaim my package from Carac’s Box. She settled down, concentrating on looking sad and dejected, but her eyes missed nothing as the patrol took her through the gate in the fourth wall, their footsteps echoing in the short tunnel. She was again paying attention to the defenses of the Drift, something she had simply taken for granted in the past, and it was sobering to realize that each of the five walls surrounding the central city differed only in length. A force capable of breaking one would be able to break all five.

  Just to the right of the gate was a stout, long building which Adella knew well: the Debtor’s Gaol, a holding place for minor non-violent criminals until the crowded courts of the Drift could decide what to do with them. Her guards marched her inside and handed her and the pass over to the jailer, leaving after exchanging only a few words. Her crime and sentence were so common as to require little else.

  The jailer, a huge man whose ample belly was barely contained by his leather armor, took her to the women’s section and locked her in a large cell with seven other women, all of them clearly from the peasant and lower classes. Adella waited patiently until she heard the clang of the outer door closing, and then she walked casually over to the locked grate. She pulled a small metal tool out of the hem of her smock, reached around and inserted it into the key-hole, concentrated for a moment, and then the door was swinging open to the astonished glances of her cell-mates.

  The wooden bowls from the morning meal had not yet been collected, and she grabbed several of them. Then she stepped out into the corridor, locked the door behind her, smiled at the women, and held a finger up to her lips.

  “I’m going for a little walk,” she told them. “Silence may buy you a golden coin, but noise will certainly get you a lot of trouble.”

  With that, she slipped quietly down the corridor and peered through the far door that led to the men’s section, and she wasn’t surprised to find no guards on duty; the Debtor’s Gaol was usually guarded only by bars. The lock on this door was as simple as the first, and she was soon walking slowly down the men’s corridor, carrying the bowls which made her seem as one of the cleaning wenches. The first cell held no familiar faces, nor did the second, but as she peered into the third, she spotted the young man she was seeking, lounging against the near wall.

  “Good morn to you, Jeremy,” she said. The man looked up, and his face flashed with momentary astonishment as he recognized his visitor. He quickly got his expression under control and came casually over to the bars, ignoring the curious glances of his own cell-mates.

  “Adella,” he said softly. “What in the name of wonder are you doing here?”

  “I’ve got some information I’d like to sell,” she answered simply. “Something the blue-bloods would be interested in. You think you might be able to handle that for me?”

  Jeremy’s eyebrows rose at the reference to the aristocracy.

  “I have a few contacts that might serve,” he said carefully. “What sort of goods are you offering?”

  Adella smiled. “Details on the fall of Carthix Castle to the Northing barbarians of Alacon Regnar.”

  Jeremy flinched, his eyes widening as the significance of the information dawned on him.

  “I may have a buyer for you,” he said quietly.

  * * * * *

  Shannon hurried along the eastern road through the pre-dawn darkness, racing both the sun and her father, the bedroll and backpack already chafing her shoulders, but she had no time to pause and adjust the straps. Every few minutes, she cocked her head, listening for the sound of hoof beats from behind, coming down the road from the village, the sign that she had lost her race. She was moving as quickly as she could, a steady jog which she had held for nearly an hour now, but the pace was beginning to tell, her light backpack growing heavier with every step, her breath a feeble dragon’s fire in the cold air. So far, she seemed to be winning, the only warning sounds the first calls of the sparrows and robins as they sensed the failing of the night and prepared their songs to welcome the morn.

  He won’t leave until first light, she told herself again, having no more success convincing herself. Darius had saddled Andros, his magnificent warhorse, late last night in preparation for an early departure, and she knew the stallion’s impatience would not be checked by something as minor as darkness. Even now, they might well be eating up the distance between them, charging along this very road, closing her lead with every stride.

  Her father was going to war. His abrupt announcement and short explanation upon his return from the woods should have staggered her, shocked her, but it fit too perfectly into the tension which had been building for the last week, the daunting sense of impending change.

  The anxious feeling which seemed to have found embodiment in the form of the great sword.

  That made Shannon swallow and quicken her pace, ignoring the protests of her already-straining lungs. Ever since Darius had returned with that fell weapon in his hands, she had been unable to get it out of her mind, its meaning and significance slipping into all her thoughts, as if its appearance had altered her fate as well as her Father’s. Cold and potent it lay in its scabbard, and though others might see no more than a bright blade, her eyes were keener. A deadly being in sword shape it was, as unlike its brethren as Darius was to other men, and as she had stared at it, some tie of blood had helped her to sense rather than hear that haunting voice which until then had spoken only in her father’s ears.

  Shannon shook her head again, disturbed, puzzled; and strangely excited. Feeling the sword’s words was like discovering another sense she had never suspected, hearing them as a distance trumpet blowing just beyond the range of her ears, calling people to rally. Calling to her. A call strong enough to make her reject her Father’s orders and try to follow him to the wars. She winced a little at the memory of the exchange between them, the first argument she could ever remember having with her Father.
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br />   “Papa, let me come with you,” she had burst out after the announcement of his departure. “Please. You pay no heed to yourself, and there will be no one to care for you. Your strength will surely be worn down if the war is long, and how many of the people you help will think to see that there is food, drink, and a dry bed ready at the end of the day? I’m used to hardships and can wield a sword at need, so I’ll be no burden to you. More, I can find food for us in the forest, and I have my mother’s skill at healing.” She had nearly wrung her hands. “Can’t I come, too?”

  “A battlefield is no place for a woman, Shannon…”

  “My mother fought beside you at Salome,” she had interrupted. “You didn’t object to her aiding you then.”

  “That was different,” he had replied sternly. “Salome was a siege. If the city had been taken, every one of us in it, man, woman, and child, would have been put to the sword. Your mother fought to survive and to see that a certain small infant named Shannon survived, not to win renown or glory for herself. If she were alive now, she would be staying here in Delberaine, too.”

  “I’ve passed my sixteenth winter,” she had said defiantly. “I am a woman now and can make my own choices.”

  “I am your father, and you will honor my wishes,” he had said, settling the matter. Or so he had thought.