The Blood Debt: Wolf of the North Book 3

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  The proprietor was friendly and attentive, and after months of repeat custom he usually gave Adalhaid a good discount. She was greeted by the smell of paper and the many chemical compounds used in Dieterson’s inks when she went in, but there was no one attending the front desk. She thought of calling out when she heard voices from the back office.

  ‘I am under no obligation to share private client information with you,’ Dieterson said.

  Adalhaid instinctively stepped behind a row of shelving where she would be hidden from the view of anyone coming out of the office.

  ‘I’m the Watch. You’ll do what I tell you.’

  ‘You know as well as I do,’ Dieterson said, ‘that you need a warrant for that type of thing.’

  ‘How do you know that “as well as I do”?’

  ‘Half the lawyers in the city buy pen, ink, and paper from me. We talk.’

  There was a long silence before the other man sighed. ‘This order comes right from the Lord Lieutenant himself.’

  Adalhaid’s blood ran cold. Rodulf. She pressed herself into a corner, wishing she had walked straight back out when she heard the voices.

  ‘I’m sure you’ve heard what he’s like,’ the other man said. ‘It won’t go easy on me if I don’t find out what he wants to know, and I’ll be sure to pass on that displeasure to you. It’ll be better for both of us if you just tell me what I want to know.’

  There was another long pause. ‘Are you looking for anyone in particular?’ Dieterson said.

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Then I’m afraid you’re likely wasting your time. I sell a great deal of paper.’

  ‘Just give me some names. That’s all I ask.’

  ‘In the last month?’

  ‘For now,’ the other man said.

  ‘Fine.’

  Adalhaid could hear a heavy book being opened.

  ‘Mahler and Sons, attorneys at law; one hundred sheets, twelve nibs, eight bottles of registrar’s ink. Willifred Henler, barrister at law; one bottle of registrar’s ink, one hundred sheets of personally embossed paper. Petyr Venning, notary public; two nibs, one bottle of registrar’s ink. Helga Stenning and Sons, bookkeepers; fifty sheets of paper. The University of Elzburg; twenty thousand sheets of paper—my biggest client. Ingling and Associates, attorneys at l—’

  ‘How many more?’

  ‘In this volume? There’s another dozen pages in the register. Of course there’s a separate one for the students. I give them a discount, so I keep their records separately.’

  ‘How many there?’

  ‘Several hundred so far this month. Here, I’ll show you.’

  ‘No. No need,’ the other voice said, full of defeat. ‘I appreciate your assistance, Mister Dieterson.’

  ‘It’s Burgess Dieterson. As I said, I sell a great deal of paper.’

  ‘My apologies, Burgess.’

  ‘I hope you’ll be sure to convey to the Lord Lieutenant how helpful I have been?’

  ‘You need not fear there, Burgess. I’m sorry to have taken up your time. Good day.’

  Adalhaid remained pressed into the corner behind the shelf as heavy footsteps left the office, the door opened and closed, and silence reigned once more. Out of the panes of thick glass in the windows, Adalhaid could see the distorted shape of a man in a City Watch uniform pace away into the crowd. She stepped out of her hiding place, opened and closed the door, then cleared her throat.

  Dieterson came out of the office. ‘Ah, Miss Steinnsdottir, good afternoon. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Good afternoon. A bottle of royal blue ink, two medium nibs, and half a ream of paper, please.’

  Dieterson went about putting together her order, and a smile spread across Adalhaid’s face as realisation hit her. The letters to Rodulf—a childish, but amusing diversion which she was considering quitting due to time pressure—were clearly having an effect. Why else would he have sent a watchman to the stationers? It worried her a little that he had come there at all, and she determined to work out how he might have made the connection, but if going through the record ledgers of the busiest paper maker in the city was the best Rodulf had to go on, then she didn’t need to worry about being caught. The experience gave her the perfect idea for her next letter.

  BANNERET-INTELLIGENCIER HEIN RENMAR blinked the sweat from his eyes, opening them again barely in time to catch his opponent’s thrust. He parried and stepped back quickly, making sure that he remained on the strip of black painted on the floorboards. He could hear the audience react, but he was focussed on the man in front of him and the sound seemed distant.

  The man’s eyes flicked to the crowd. It was only for the briefest of moments, but it was all Renmar needed. He lunged low, and stabbed the man through the thigh—his third and winning cut of the bout.

  The man had screamed on impact, and did so again even louder when Renmar pulled the blade free. The man clutched the wound, but gave Renmar a nod before he hobbled away. They both knew Renmar had outclassed him, and could have killed him if he had chosen to do so. Renmar didn’t feel the need to kill, however, and knew he would never be a favourite of the Black Carpet as a result. That didn’t matter to him either though. Neither did the prize purses.

  For him the rush of facing a man with sharpened steel and not knowing if you would leave the Black Carpet alive was all that mattered. It was reckless, but it allowed him to momentarily forget about his crippled son, Tobias, and all the dreams he’d had for the boy the first time he had cradled him in his arms. Tobias would never go the Academy to become a banneret, would never match his father’s status in society, would never get the chance to better it. It was a bitter pill to swallow. The hard work of so many years to achieve his Banner and lift his family from the squalor of poverty would count for naught as Tobias, through no fault of his own, slid back down the ladder Renmar had fought so hard to climb. It was a wound that would never cease to pain him. How could Divine Fortune be so cruel? What had his boy done to deserve his fate?

  Renmar felt the anger build within him, and the desire to fight again that night grow, but he was tired and knew another bout might mean him being dragged from the black strip of paint on the floor by his ankles. He knew his behaviour was irresponsible, but it was his only release and he would not allow his recklessness to push him too far. He still had Tobias to think of, for all the good it would do him.

  Renmar had discovered the illegal duelling club several years earlier. He had known about the Black Carpet almost as soon as he was first able to hold a rapier—every swordsman did—but it had always been a dirty word. It was where the sport of duelling—blunt blades and good sportsmanship—became something far more dangerous and thrilling. There were many types drawn to the Black Carpet. Some had fallen so low that fighting for their lives each evening on one of the black strips of paint to be found in the handful of illegal clubs in the city was the only way to put food in their bellies. They were the ones who gave the practise its seedy reputation as a charnel house for swordsmen with no farther to fall. There were those who needed the quick money a winning bout could provide, and were willing to take the risk to get it. And then there was the category Renmar supposed he was in. He was there for the thrill of it.

  Instead of shutting the place down and handing all those present over to the City Watch, he had found himself participating, and ever since it had been his secret. Regular duelling in the arenas and sporting clubs with blunted blades seemed a worthless pursuit next to the excitement of knowing that you might die if you were not good enough. While his old Academy classmates spent their free time lounging around plush fencing salons playing at being swordsmen, Renmar sought out a more visceral experience.

  He walked from the black strip on the floor, wiping the blood from his blade as he did. The promoter walked forward from the crowd and slapped Renmar on the back.

  Renmar stiffened with tension, but took a deep breath and let the contact pass.

  ‘You could make more i
f you pursued your wins a little more… aggressively,’ the promoter said.

  Renmar gave him a look, the type of look he reserved for those for whom a trip to the dungeon was the next option if they did not give him what he needed. The promoter forced a smile and handed Renmar a small purse.

  ‘Your winnings,’ he said, before disappearing back into the crowd.

  CHAPTER 18

  Wulfric surveyed the large table piled with papers, scrolls, manuscripts, and books in the palace’s bookshelf-lined reading room. Dozens of aged manuscripts and as many tattered old maps were the contributions of the court historian and geographer. In addition, there were a number of less scholarly works—diaries, travel journals, and the like. It was a daunting prospect for one not as familiar with the written word as he would have liked. He considered asking for Jagovere’s help, but decided against it. It would be going against the spirit of the heroic quest to do so. Even using old maps, books, and stories felt like cheating, but he reconciled himself to the notion that if he did the research by himself it was no different than venturing out into the world in search of rumours and directions.

  Wulfric decided to start with the scholarly works. After going through the first few, his heart sank. Even to his inexperienced eye, the old stories were clearly more fiction than fact and the maps were incomplete. What little detail they did give was often unclear. Going through them felt like a waste of time, but he didn’t have any enthusiasm for venturing into the mountains with no idea of where he was going.

  There were many modern maps of the Telastrian Mountains, due to the mineral wealth there and the number of expeditions that had ventured into them seeking it out. Each map, no matter how detailed, always had large areas that were blank, or had only rudimentary markings of peaks and valleys that the maker must have seen from a distance. Wulfric sighed in frustration and leaned back in the chair, stretching his shoulders, which had become stiff from sitting hunched over the table. A great quest should never give itself up easily, he thought, so it was foolish to have expected he would find a map showing the exact location. He started to think of a way to put all the shreds of information together in an effort to distil some use from it all.

  He studied the new maps to see if he could spot any similarities with the older ones and the features described in the manuscripts. The handwriting in the manuscripts was infuriating. Jagovere’s script—the one with which Wulfric was most familiar—was flowing, showing the same flair as his swordsmanship. It spoke to his personality. At first Wulfric had found it hard to follow, and had cursed it for its affectation, but as he read and practised it had become as natural to him as though he had written it himself. There was no such flair in the writings of any of the scribes. Wulfric conjured up a vision of dull little men sitting in dark rooms working by the light of candles or magelamps, writing about things of which they had no first-hand knowledge. They had little to contribute, other than one repeating fact: few who had set off in search of the forge were ever seen again. Those who had managed to make it back to civilisation had not reached the forge, nor seen any sign of it.

  It occurred to him that he could go up into the mountains, camp for a few days, then return saying he had been unable to find any trace of the forge, and declare that it was nothing more than a legend. He had no desire to die on what he considered a fool’s errand, and leave Adalhaid’s Blood Debt unpaid because of pride. Nonetheless, there was something drawing him to the idea and he couldn’t bring himself to fake the journey. If he was going to do it, then he was going to do it properly. Despite his belief that the forge was nothing more than a thing of legend, the thought of possessing a blade made in the same place as Jorundyr’s set his heart racing.

  He allowed himself a moment to daydream of actually finding the place, of standing in the spot where Jorundyr had stood. The opportunity to follow in the path of a man whose courage and heroism had earned him a place among the gods was difficult to comprehend. How had he come to such a place in life, that this opportunity was before him? How could he ever respect himself again if he turned his back on it? He knew that, at best, he was unlikely to find anything more than a ruin, but there was the distant chance that he would find a completed blade among the rubble, forgotten for centuries and lying there waiting for a hero to come and claim it. Him.

  He returned his focus to the maps spread across the table with renewed enthusiasm. There was everything from pencil and charcoal sketches, to those outlined in ink and coloured. Although the sketches were rougher and less detailed, they had the look of being drawn in the wilds, rather than in a library, and Wulfric felt he could place the greatest reliance on them.

  The one thing that concerned Wulfric was their lack of similarity. They all showed peaks, and a valley where the entrance to the forge, which appeared to be located in a cave, would be found. However, none of the peaks seemed to match. As with the tales of the forge, he began to wonder if the maps were all products of overactive imaginations.

  Perhaps going through the papers was even more of a fool’s errand. He wondered if it was best to go out into the world and search. However, he would feel foolish if he wasn’t thorough in his preparation—it would be embarrassing if he were to return unsuccessfully only for someone else to find the forge using information hidden in the pile of papers on that table.

  He pushed the maps to one side and started on the pile of what claimed to be first-hand accounts. Some were travel diaries but, as with Jagovere’s penchant for elaboration, these writers clearly wanted to make their travels seem as exciting as possible. One that caught his attention was of an attempt to find a way through the mountain passes to create a direct trade route to a great nation far to the east. That the world could be so large always came as a surprise to Wulfric, even after his travels.

  Wulfric struggled his way through the different scripts, and found himself thinking back to the time when he had needed to study each shape to determine its sound. It would still take him days to go through everything on the table. He had been set a hero’s challenge, and as foolish as it sounded he was not going to take it lightly or have others ease the burden. The true heroes of old never asked for help, and even Jorundyr had only accepted Ulfyr’s help when he was on the verge of death. It was supposed to be difficult. It was supposed to challenge the hero’s greatest weaknesses.

  The magelamps started to light up around the room, and it was only then that he realised how long he had been at it. He rubbed his eyes, and renewed his focus, sounding out unfamiliar words or those with unusual spellings that he assumed were either mistakes or an old-fashioned way of doing it. The next piece he read was the account of a prospector searching the mountains for sources of silver or Telastrian ore. His spelling was even worse than Wulfric’s, and his handwriting was not much better. By the time he had reached the end, Wulfric’s eyes ached and his head throbbed.

  Evening became night, and with no light coming in through the windows, it felt like he was isolated in his own little world of books and papers and dust. He had no idea what time it was when he finally came to a folio of pages in a leather cover.

  Despite the disappointment he had encountered so far, he felt a rush of excitement with each new document, which might be the one that contained what he was looking for. It allowed him to understand why someone might spend their life in a library, seeking out long-forgotten knowledge as others sought fortune and adventure.

  He flipped open the folio, and was relieved to see a neat, tight hand that he could read easily. His relief turned to fascination when he saw that it was dedicated to a Prince of Ruripathia. A royal expedition would have had better resources and probably better personnel. He started to read, but as old as the document was, his enthusiasm for the task had long since been exhausted. His eyes scanned over the work until something caught his attention, and his heart quickened before his mind had registered what was said. He backtracked, and applied himself to the passage.

  In the lee of the forked mountain to the n
orth of my route, it was said that there was located a forge. Its smith was famed in antiquity, having created many named blades for the heroes and gods of the old traditions. The forge, if it ever truly existed, was likely long since gone, and as curious a prospect as investigating those rumours and myths was, my task at that time was to locate and open a new seam of Telastrian ore to provide weapons for the prince’s bodyguard. The pass through to that plateau had avalanched and was impassable at the time of my survey, and I had to content myself with the fact that if there had indeed been a famed forge in that region, then the chances of finding ore were good.

  My suspicions were proved correct, in that I discovered the vein that to this day still provides the raw ore from which all the blades for the prince’s bodyguard are made. It remains the crowning achievement of my career, but my interest in the possible existence of that ancient forge remained. What secrets might it hold, if the reputation of the blades created there are to be believed?

  Some years later, in the second year of the rule of Prince Gottfrit the Second, a party of bannerets returned to the region in order to investigate the legend and, if possible, obtain a blade for Prince Gottfrit. I am given to understand they disappeared without trace.

  WULFRIC RAISED AN EYEBROW. It was the first mention of the forge in connection with any landmark that might be identifiable. A simple description—the forked mountain—but something about it suggested that not only did the statement refer to its appearance, but also what it was called by those who knew the region. Perhaps that was still the case.

  He moved to a pile of maps that he had hitherto ignored. If he could identify the forked mountain on a map, he might have what he needed. He excitedly scanned map after map, but once again his initial enthusiasm waned as he realised he had not made the great discovery he had thought. There was nothing that caught his eye, nothing that could indicate the location of a forked mountain. He leaned back in the leather-padded chair and stared out the window. He could make out the twinkling of the magelamps in the city, on the other side of the water separating the palace from the mainland, and wondered what time it was. He was hungry, and knew he had likely missed dinner, but reckoned he would be forgiven his absence. His thoughts turned again to the man who had started all of this, and what his real motivations might be. Uncovering that would have to wait, however.