The third man in the chamber was the same red-haired officer from the docks. He balanced atop the rear legs of a chair, his booted feet resting upon a small table, a brass goblet in his hands. He glanced at Bors before taking a small sip. "Again," he said to the torturer.
The torturer yanked a lever, dropping Ilgrad onto the bloody point. Ilgrad's muffled screams were stomach-churning, and had he been a wounded horse, the worst men Bors had ever known would have gladly put him down.
After all these years, the cruelty of men still surprised Bors.
Ilgrad thrashed, only driving the point deeper. Blood ran in thick rivulets down the wooden sides of the pyramid to drip and pool on the stone floor.
The red-haired man raised his palm. "Enough."
The torturer, a moronic grin on his features, raised Ilgrad once more. Bors met Ilgrad's wild eyes. Once again, he saw the man surrounded by his children, his wife waiting for him.
"It’s called an Iscari Cradle," the red-haired man said, "one of the few contributions to civilization that those dog-lovers have ever given us."
"This is civilization?" Bors asked.
Young, in his late twenties or early thirties, the red-haired officer sported the blue-painted lips of the Hishtari noble class, his goatee impeccably trimmed. He watched Bors for long moments. Then, in a flash of recognition, Bors recognized the man. He had been much younger then, a squire to a Hishtari envoy who had accompanied the Lyrian army on one of the king's many campaigns in the western outlands.
Bors cast his glance down. If he recognizes me…
"Come, sit." The man motioned to a stool on the other side of the table.
The guards dragged Bors to his feet and shoved him onto the stool. A brass carafe of wine sat on the table beside a second goblet, into which the nobleman poured another cup and slid it to Bors. Keeping his gaze lowered, Bors picked up the goblet but then placed it down again. The nobleman turned to the guards. "Leave us."
They hesitated, and Bors could feel their unease, heavy like a burial shroud.
"Night Commander," one of the men said. "He's dangerous."
"He's in chains," the nobleman snapped. "Now get out."
Ilgrad whined, a heavy, wet sound.
"Yes, Night Commander," the guards said as they turned and filed out, closing the door behind them.
"Deaf and mute. Imbecilic as well," the Night Commander said.
"What?"
The man glanced toward the slack-jawed torturer. "We specifically seek out such men for this work. They are surprisingly uncommon. To be honest, I don't think the man even knows what he's doing, not really."
"You understand what he's doing."
The man's blue lips parted with just the promise of a smile.
Bors motioned to Ilgrad. "Whatever he's said, he's lying. I'm not involved in this. There's been a mistake."
"Said? Who cares what he says?"
"Then why do this?"
The man's eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. "Because he's a murderer. Six sailors were killed aboard that ship you attacked."
"Not me. I never set foot on any ship."
The man watched Bors, and the silence hung heavy between them for long moments before he spoke again. "You don't remember me, do you?"
"I … My lord, I'm a dockworker, just trying to make enough to eat. I don't know people like you. I'm nobody."
The man snorted. "Nobody? I was at the Grang River that day. You were a hero. I wanted to be you."
Bors felt an imaginary noose slipping over his neck. "My lord, I've never—"
"When I saw you among the crowd of gawkers last night, it was like I was thirteen again, once more watching you storm that fiery bridge and challenge Gorn the Black to personal combat. Ancestors, it was thrilling!"
Resignation took Bors. "I remember your face, but ..."
Just for a moment, Bors saw the hurt in the other man's eyes, but he quickly waved his hand. "I was a boy, a squire, not worth remembering. Tuluth Dar."
Bors nodded, the years melting away. "Yes, I do remember. You served Sir Hyrol the Elder."
Dar's smile curled his blue lips. "I'm flattered. Last night, I feared myself mistaken—I mean, it all seemed so impossible—but when this one"—he pointed at Ilgrad—"named you, and then Grottle described your tattoo, well … I knew my ancestors must be guiding my hand." Dar shook his head. "'Bors,' really? Clearly, you've no experience at hiding."
"I wasn't hiding. Who's Grottle?"
"The ugly one-eyed brute you fought. It's sad to see such a once-great man working as a common laborer, but you only have yourself to blame, don't you?"
"I was never a great man, my lord."
"Indeed," Dar said, sipping his wine. "But the past is unimportant now, isn’t it?
"Are you asking me or telling me?"
"I'm telling you how it is." Dar leaned forward, letting his chair legs thump heavily on the dungeon stones. "You're going to hang for leading a brazen, cowardly attack upon the cargo vessel, Gretta's Wing."
"I didn't lead any attack, nor did I participate in one. I did kill two of the men who did and hand you their ringleader, this Grottle. So really, you should be thanking me. You could even give me a reward."
Dar's eyes twinkled. "Please, continue."
Bors shrugged. "Ask Grottle."
"I did. He works for a rather important man in the city and tells an entirely different story. Mind you, men like that—lacking in all honor—will say or do anything. I'd much rather deal with you. You I understand. Well … mostly. How you could throw away your entire life is a mystery. What were you thinking?"
The chains on Bors's wrists clinked as he leaned forward. "What do you want from me?"
"Despite the bungled attack on the Gretta’s Wing, someone did steal the artifact from the captain’s cabin."
The figure Bors had seen slipping into the water.
"What artifact?"
Dar stared at him, his eyes thin slits. Finally, he leaned back in his chair. "You really don't know, do you?"
"I told you, I had nothing to do with last night. I was stinking drunk."
Dar looked down his thin aristocratic nose. "You're familiar with the Illthori, yes?"
He was. Most men were, even those who hadn't had the benefit of a proper education and could read and write. The Illthori, a long-dead race of magic-users, had left behind legends and a handful of priceless artifacts—magical artifacts. Sudden understanding flashed through Bors, and he gasped aloud, his skin tingling. Now, he understood why the guards had been out in such force. "An Illthori relic—which one, the rod, the crown?"
"Neither. This one is not from Conarck. This is a new one. Found within an underground temple in the Red Desert. This item is, I'm told, a mask, a white porcelain mask inlaid with gold."
"What does it do?"
"Do I look like a scholar? It's valuable. It encourages lowborn men to murder one another for it."
Bors bit his lower lip and regarded Dar. "I don't have it. Your men searched me."
"Of course you don't have it, but I know who does."
Bors's gaze flashed to Ilgrad, still hanging over the obscene point of the Iscari Cradle. "Then why all this?"
Dar stared at Bors in confusion. "I told you already. He's a criminal."
"Then hang him."
"Lessons matter. You of all people should understand that."
"What about the ringleader, Grottle?"
"He’s a foreigner like you, but from Xi'ur—and he isn't the ringleader, just another hired tough."
"Oh?" Bors asked, doing his best to sound disinterested.
"Grottle works for Kamanth Kul."
The chamber seemed to grow darker. "The sorcerer?"
Grinning like a fiend, Dar nodded.
Bors shivered. "I saw no sorcerer nor met with one last night. Even drunk, I'd have remembered that."
"Nor would you. He doesn't leave his estate."
"Then how—"
"He is the man behind G
rottle. All know this."
"If you know that Kul is involved, why don’t you arrest him?"
"Arrest Kamanth Kul?" Dar's thin eyebrows rose. "Because it would be my final act as Night Commander. Kamanth Kul's family is far older than mine. Even First Councilor Davros wouldn't dare such a thing. The scandal would reach the emperor. No, Kul could walk down the Street of Scarves at tenth bell, stabbing children at random, and no one would ever arrest him."
Bors remained silent for some moments, then, in a soft voice, he asked, "What is it you want?"
"I have an informant among Port Talos's Shadow Guild. You're aware of it?"
Bors inclined his head. "A criminal gang."
"The criminal gang in Port Talos, and protected by members of the city council through bribes. But I have an informant among them."
"And what does your spy tell you?"
"He tells me that a certain cut-thief by the name of Long Tam is behind the theft of the mask. Long Tam is the Shadow Guild Master of the Docks and has been a thorn under my fingernail for more than a year now."
"Aren't the docks protected by bribes?"
"Indeed, but it seems there are factions at play within the Shadow Guild, and the protection money didn't reach those it should have. Apparently Long Tam stole the mask to embarrass the leader of the guild, a rival of hers." He shook his head, sighing. "Women."
"So arrest her. Be your own hero."
Dar scowled and poured himself some more wine. "I can’t. I've tried. I have a description of her, but I've never actually put eyes on her, nor have any of my men. She's like a shadow. And she remains hidden most of the time, often within the Narrows. We don't go into the Narrows."
Bors had lived in Port Talos long enough to know of the collection of tightly packed alleys and huts crammed between the city's southern wall and the Crafts District. You could find all manner of perversions there, and dockhands and foreign sailors had long learned to stay out of the Narrows. "If this mask is truly an Illthori artifact, could you not just enter in force?"
"I couldn't, but my superior, Watch-General Tor, could. Of course, Long Tam would simply vanish the moment the guard marched into the Narrows. Besides, even if we did somehow find her, the credit for taking back the mask wouldn't be mine, making it a wasted effort."
"I see."
"Do you?"
And then Bors did see. "You want me to go into the Narrows and get your mask?" He asked in disbelief. "I'm a foreigner, a stranger."
"You're unknown, and you now look entirely disreputable. A man with your impressive talents could easily retrieve the mask, which makes you a useful tool."
An expendable tool, Bors thought, easily discarded. But he knew he was trapped. Even without knowing his identity, Dar had leverage over him. He was a foreigner here. Dar could do as he wished, and no one would ever challenge him. He ground his teeth, accepting the inevitability of his situation. A man endures what must be endured, his father had taught him a lifetime ago. "And how would I find this Long Tam?"
"As it turns out," Dar said as he leaned back in his chair, supreme satisfaction on his face, "I know where she will go to fence the mask this night."
Dar laid out his plan, explaining how Bors could recognize Long Tam. When he was done, Dar called for the guards again. Bors stood as they came to escort him out, a man holding each of his elbows.
"Remember," Dar called out, stopping Bors, "if you try to leave the city, you'll be the one hanging over my Iscari Cradle."
Bors stared upon Ilgrad's pitiful face. "I understand."
"I'm sure you do," Dar answered with a sneer.
Bors pivoted, sweeping out the closest guard's feet, sending him smashing to the floor. He rammed an elbow into the face of the other man, shattering his nose. Dar leaped to his feet, his scimitar flashing from its sheath, but Bors kicked the table into him, sending him to the floor. The huge dim-witted torturer stared in shock, his mouth open as Bors spun about and swung the length of chain between his wrists over Ilgrad's suspended head.
"No!" screamed Dar.
Bors dropped his weight, feeling Ilgrad's neck snap cleanly.
As the guards pulled Bors from the dead man and proceeded to kick and punch him, Bors curled into a ball, trying to protect his face and head as well as he could. Dar was screaming at the guards, who reluctantly ceased their assault before dragging him in front of the enraged Night Commander. "You Lyrian pig, what do you—"
"If you kill me, Night Commander, you'll have to find your own mask."
Dar stared at him for long moments, his face purple with rage. "By tomorrow night, I'll have the mask in my hands or your ass on my cradle—and there will be no one to save you. Give him back his belongings, and get him out of here."
6
Hours later, Tuluth Dar was organizing the night's patrols when Watch-General Hatten Tor stormed into his office. Tor's family was slightly closer to the emperor's bloodline than Dar's—the difference minor, really—but Tor, the overweening peacock, never missed an opportunity to rub Dar's nose in his lower station. Dar jumped to his feet. "Watch-General, a pleasure, as always—"
"Where is the prisoner you arrested, the Lyrian?"
Dar, no fool, felt an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. There was no good reason for the Watch-General to care about any prisoner. "Watch-General … the guards arrested the wrong man. He had nothing to do with the attack last night."
"I asked you where he was."
"Released, Watch-General."
"On whose authority?"
Dar hesitated, an undercurrent of fear running down his spine. His intuition screamed that Tor already knew Dar had released the Lyrian prisoner. So why ask—and why care? A chasm had opened beneath Dar's feet, and he teetered upon its rim. "Apologies, Watch-General. I believed the man innocent of the charges."
"You believed wrong. But you did arrest an innocent man, this Grottle. Apparently, he was trying to stop the thieves when you and your men attacked him. He's a hero, Dar, a hero. And you arrested him."
In a flash of insight, Dar understood. Kamanth Kul. The sorcerer had bribed Tor. Nothing Dar now said would make a breath of difference. "Yes, Watch-General. I'll see Grottle released immediately."
"And you'll apologize for your mistake." Tor's own blue-painted lips curled into a mocking smile, making the thin, white-haired Watch-General's face resemble a grinning skull.
"Yes, of course, Watch-General."
"It seems this foreigner called Bors was the ringleader."
"Apologies, Watch-General. I'll recapture him at once."
The elderly commander turned to leave and then paused, looking back over his shoulder. "I always thought it a mistake to give someone from your family such a position of prominence within the Red Guard."
Dar said nothing. What could he say that wouldn't make a bad situation worse?
"Your time in the Red Guard is coming to an end." Tor softly closed the door behind him.
"We'll see, old fool," Dar whispered. "When I have the mask, I’ll have your job."
Grottle paused on the landing of the tower's stairwell, catching his breath. He glared up at the final flight of winding stairs that led to his master’s workshop, almost wishing he were back in the Red Guard's dungeon.
Kul's tower was in the northernmost sector of the city, nestled among the other wealthy families' estates. While the Kul family was old and noble, able to trace their bloodline back to the time of the warlock kings, Grottle knew his master’s wealth and status was merely an illusion, of no more substance than a fart. Once, the Kul family had indeed numbered among Port Talos's wealthiest citizens, and their many ships had carried the finest cargo from the sword coast to Xi'ur, but that was before Kul had squandered his family's wealth on occult items, spending exorbitant sums for any piece of junk even rumored to possess magical properties—which meant that whatever bribe Kul had paid for Grottle's release was one the sorcerer couldn't afford. He'll be furious, but he wouldn't have paid for my release if he
didn't also need me.
Grottle climbed the stairs, arriving before the black door and Kul's foul workshop. Kul rarely left his tower these days, becoming more and more of a hermit. Grottle paused in front of the door, his stomach twisted into knots. Kul may have squandered his family's wealth, but he also possessed very real powers.
The things Grottle had seen …
He shuddered, pushing the heavy black door open. The workshop, a round chamber, filled the upper level of the tower. Overhead, a domed wooden ceiling covered most of the chamber in shadow, but several opened slats permitted beams of sunlight to cut through the dust-filled air. Dirt and filth covered the floor; those few servants who yet remained in his master’s employ never cleaned this workshop—never entered it. Roaches, rats, and spiders scurried about in the shadows. Heavy wooden tables, each piled high with an assortment of jars, clay pots, candles, and glass tubes, had been shoved out of the way, clearing a large section of the dirty wooden floor on which Kul had scrawled occult marks with black chalk, creating an intricate pattern.
Grottle's master, Kamanth Kul, awaited him, his back to him as he stood before an opened window, staring out at the city below.
Grottle, more than twice his size, could have broken Kul's spine over his knee with no more effort than passing a wet shit, but fear—such as he had never felt fighting in the pits of Xi'ur—turned his bowels cold. He needs you, else you'd still be rotting in a dungeon.
The Mask of Storms (Blood and Honor Book 1) Page 4
