Humans, in particular.
Although out of sight himself, he could still see a thin, wiry man leaning against the wall of one of the buildings, resting his hand on a barrel where a mug and lyre lay. His clothes were simple cotton, but the jewelry on his body and the golden band in his oiled hair spoke of a comfortable wealth. The human had attempted to weave his image as a harmless idler, but the watcher perceived beyond this guise.
Shifting to obtain a better view of the alley, the watcher narrowed his eyes. As the human in the alley raised his mug, his sleeve fell back to reveal a small tattoo on his wrist. It branded him as a dealer of his ship’s goods, a travelling merchant of sorts. And who he was selling to this time…
“Gaestoran, my friend!” came a Sevrigelian-accented tongue in common. Another male had appeared from around the bend in the building and stepped into the faint light of the alleyway, arms open and fair face beaming as though his presence was to be expected. A Helven, by all appearances: black hair, blue eyes, pale skin. The watcher could recognize his kind easily. The newcomer glided across the cobbled stones, his silk clothes as silent as his footsteps.
“Lord Cahsari… What brings you to me? How is your son?” the sailor’s deep voice replied in the common tongue, his eyes flicking across the alley warily. His words sounded amiable, but his tone revealed a hint of panic as he regarded the council member. What past relationship did they hold that would warrant such concern?
The watcher leaned forward with growing anticipation. There was tension here. A history between the man and elf.
Cahsari’s eyes hardened in response, his lips pursing as conflicting emotions danced across his face. He stopped before the barrel, the smile on his face oddly fixed—but a sly council member such as he had probably grown quite used to feigning such amiability.
He began his speech in an almost amused tone. “Far better than you, I’m afraid.” He picked up the lyre, turning it over in his hands. “This is a very fine instrument.” His hand opened suddenly and he let it drop to his feet. There was a faint crack as the wood split along the side.
The watcher and the human started as one in surprise. There was a terrible temper flaring here…
Immediately confirming the watcher’s thoughts, the Helven leaned forward abruptly, slamming his hands onto the barrel to further his threat of aggression. “Let me skip right to the important part, Gaestoran,” he growled. “I care not for your dealings. Nilanis may let your captain put through port whatever he wishes, but let me warn you. If you ever. Ever. Sell to my son again, I shall reveal your name. Your ship. Your captain. And I shall personally see to it that you and your companions are hanged.”
The man’s eyes had gone wide in justifiable panic and he leaned away from the council member. His hand trailed along the wall as though looking for an escape. “Lord Cahsari, I meant no harm. I sell to whoever asks. Your son paid me and I sold to him. The captain does not differentiate between beggars and lords. A profit is all he is concerned about.”
Lord Cahsari straightened incredulously at the man’s attempt to pacify him. “How much profit do you think he would make if he was hanging from a rope in Eraydon’s Square? Ten gold? One hundred? A thousand? Because I would be willing to wager… none.”
Gaestoran scowled, attempting to draw himself up in equal indignation. The watcher laughed inwardly at his feeble attempt. “Listen, My Lord. You have made yourself quite clear. You want to protect your son—I understand. I shall ensure that none of my shipmates sell to him again.” He paused, watching as the council member turned.
“Make sure of that, Gaestoran,” Cahsari spoke as he began to depart.
The watcher swiftly leaned into the shadows. ‘Close. Pay attention!’ he scolded himself sharply.
“The only reason you’re still dealing in this city is because if I had you hanged, Nilanis’ business would suffer as well.” He took several long strides back toward the open street.
“You know, Ulasum’s Tooth is not your son’s only vice,” Gaestoran called after him. “I’d prioritize, My Lord. The death penalty is far more permanent than prison.”
‘And I wonder how he gets the coin for such lust-filled endeavors,’ the watcher thought sarcastically. He could see Cahsari stiffen at the words, perhaps realizing the same, subtle implications in the human’s words. The watcher’s eyes flicked to the slender elven hand which balled into a white-knuckled fist at his side, an outward sign of his inner distress. For a moment, he expected the council member to respond, but without so much as a turn of his head, Cahsari vanished around the building.
“And can I help you?” Gaestoran suddenly spoke without turning around, pulling a pipe from his pocket and giving it a good shake. He put it to his lips and lit it, letting a long puff of smoke rise slowly before him in the casual manner of a man at ease. He exhaled heavily, no doubt alleviating his recent rise in stress.
The watcher started then, leaning back into the garden in surprise as he realized the man was speaking to him. A human… knew he was there? He scoffed at himself shamefully, running a hand through his short blond hair. ‘Amateur,’ he rebuked himself once more.
He stepped out beneath the archway with a long, strong stride. “I want to purchase Ulasum’s Tooth,” he spoke coolly, with all the airs of a male who never had had any intention of being unnoticed to begin with. It smoothed down the ruffles in his pride.
Gaestoran watched him approach, eyes narrowed in scrutiny. “Not native to Sevrigel, I hear. What brings you to Elvorium?”
The elf stopped before the barrel, reaching calmly into his pocket for the coin. He glanced distastefully at the prying human. “How much?”
Gaestoran leaned back casually and puffed a few more times on his pipe, filling his lungs with the sweet-smelling smoke.
What was that awful stench? Meadow weed?
The human exhaled a cloud and sniffed, ignoring the watcher’s question and replying with two of his own, “What’s your name? What brings you to Sevrigel?”
The elf paused, studying the curious face indignantly. “Ralaris,” he finally ceded. He straightened, irritably waving the air before him to dispense the fumes wafting his way. “And my business is my own,” he added curtly. “Do you want to sell your merchandise or question me all day?”
“Both, if I can,” the human replied dismissively with another sniff. He reached into the sack at his side and produced a very small bottle, shaking it once. “Ulasum’s Tooth. Or, if you prefer, we have it in a more personal form.” He raised his pipe. “But I’m going to peg you for the liquid.”
Ralaris’s emerald eyes narrowed, flashing dangerously in the light. Is that what that god-awful smoke was? How and why had it ever been created into such a ghastly form? He exhaled through his lips, blowing the smoke clear. What little patience he had was waning thin now. “How much?”
Gaestoran leaned forward, resting an elbow onto the barrel and shifting his weight to cross one ankle behind his leg. “A bottle like this? Two hundred fifty silver.”
“Thievery.”
“Better than murder.”
Ralaris leaned forward, pressing his long, smooth hands onto the surface of the barrel much like Cahsari had done moments before. Unlike with the council member, with Ralaris’ gesture the human’s countenance immediately morphed into fear—not for his position or wealth, but for his life. His eyes darted to the blade at Ralaris’ side. With satisfaction, Ralaris smiled inwardly. “And what do you mean by that?” the watcher asked softly.
Daringly.
Gaestoran lowered his voice and waved his bottle casually, giving the appearance of an extremely forced calm. Ralaris’ eyes narrowed further, preparing for a slew of attempted confidence. “I have been in this business for a long time, and no one who wants to take a pleasure trip buys the bottle. Perhaps you haven’t heard,” he continued in a suggestive tone, “but there is an assassin running loose in this city, murdering council members and street urchins alike. Now what would a foreigner
such as you want with a bottled form of Ulasum’s Tooth?”
Ralaris inhaled heavily, as though forcing patience. Internally, he hid surprise—he hadn’t expected a male who suspected he may be the assassin to speak so carelessly. His fingers twitched near his blade. “My business is my own,” he repeated. “And you’re pushing your luck, human. I will ask you once more.”
The human tapped the bottle on the barrel silently for a moment. “Two hundred twenty-five silver.”
“Still thievery.” He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword, watching the man’s controlled expression waver.
“Look, my friend. Even if you were purchasing this for your personal use, this would be enough for you to have a drop a day for a month. Business is business. I assure you this is nothing personal. Two hundred twenty-five buys silence, as well.”
Ralaris reached down for the small pouch at his side.
“And enough to murder half a dozen people.”
Ralaris’ hand paused over the pouch. The human had gone a step too far. In a sudden motion, he drew his blade and lunged forward, shoving the edge against the man’s throat. He watched as the man flailed back, cowering against the wall, plastering his body to the stone in an attempt to avoid the sword’s edge. “If I was the assassin,” Ralaris began softly, lowering his voice until he could practically feel the human’s hair rise on the back of his neck. “Do you think it would be wise to declare me so? And so far from other people?”
The color drained swiftly from the merchant’s face and he coughed once on the pipe. “I was just bartering, my l-lord. Nothing personal. E-everyone enjoys Ulasum’s Tooth for personal reasons. And since you are clearly a man well-versed in its pleasures, two hundred silver.”
Ralaris allowed the faintest smile to twitch the right corner of his thin lips. He dropped the pouch on the barrel regretfully, unsnapping the top and letting several precious stones roll across the lid before them. The man had managed to play the banter out and maintain some level of pride. ‘I suppose he earned it,” he thought, amused. “Give me the bottle.” He sheathed his sword.
The human widened his eyes, pushing the bottle into Ralaris’ hands. But his eyes had not left the precious gems. “Your employer is quite generous…”
Ralaris turned. “And do not speak of this to anyone. If I catch so much as a whisper of our meeting, you’ll be the first one I use this on.” He raised the bottle once before striding toward the open streets of the city. He didn’t look back to see the human’s reaction, but pocketed the bottle swiftly and glanced warily outside the alleyway. His work here was done.
Seeing only the occasional elf meandering through the street, oblivious to his presence, he stepped out toward the direction of his inn, flicking a strand of golden hair from his brow. He moved across the street slowly, taking a long, winding path off the main road and into the flowered alleyways that ran between his location and the next main street.
When Ralaris re-emerged, his caution remained high. The streets were still quite busy, even as the merchants began to close shop for the evening, but he felt every gaze that passed over his lean frame, every glance that lingered on his brown-leathered garb. The Night’s Watch was beginning and the carefree walk of the daytime soldiers became a slow, stiffened slink through the streets, eyes narrowed for the slightest hint of unusual behavior.
They were a clear sign of the degeneration of the city that had occurred since the True Bloods’ departure.
A few dozen females, a half dozen males. Ralaris made a quick note of their appearances as he travelled; and as a result, it did not take him long to identify a shadow lurking from the corner of his vision. He did not quicken his pace, but carried on in a long, casual stride.
Had he seen something…?
It was only when he turned down the street to his inn that he caught a true glimpse of the man lurking at the entrance of an alleyway. He had embedded himself into the shadows: his face was impossible to define. But no sooner had Ralaris noted that tall, lean frame than the male vanished completely into the darkness.
Ralaris’ eyes narrowed, a scowl crossing his lips. Had the merchant followed him? ‘No… he wouldn’t dare.’
He maintained an even pace to appear unaware, allowing the eyes to follow him to the creaking wooden sign of the inn. He opened the door, closing it solidly behind him, and stepped into the smoky, pine-scented air. The bustle of high-end merchants and traveling elves lit the place with song and talk and music, but Ralaris pushed swiftly past a thick group to the nearest window.
He peered out, keeping his body pressed to the wall, barely allowing his eyes a full view of what lay outside.
The alleyways were empty. The elves moving along the street seemed enveloped in their own interests. ‘Damn it…’
His eyes flicked up to the rooftops and back across the streets. ‘Where in Ramul…’ he swore. A sudden shift in the darkness caught his eye and his gaze narrowed; a figure sidled out from the bend in a building, walking slowly, forcing himself to blend into what elves remained on the streets.
‘There you are.’ Irritably, Ralaris hurriedly pushed through the crowd and to the door of the inn, his hand on his hilt. With a swift shove of the door, he stepped out into the street and after his pursuer.
This would be the last night the fool would follow him.
Chapter Sixteen
A solid knock resounded off the door of the Great Hall in Horiembrig, echoing off the stone and vanishing out through the open windows in a barely observed echo.
“Let me go south for a bit. You will hardly notice me gone.”
Saebellus leaned back, regarding Captain Vale solidly for a moment with a forbidding, emotionless gaze. He mused upon the potential absence of his captain and almost spurned his request with a mere laugh. But instead, he foolishly attempted to reason with him. “Vale, Vale, Vale… I need you here. It does not take four eyes to watch an army dying of plague. There are a dozen more uses for you at my side than his.”
“And one good use for him,” Vale muttered resentfully below his breath.
Saebellus narrowed his eyes in reprimand, causing the male to still.
Vale heaved a sigh. “You told me you would have something for me. Gods, this city grows dull. I am ready for a fight.” He stretched out his scarred arms in exasperation. “I’m not made for peace!”
“Not made for peace? What sort of Sel’ven are you?” Saebellus clicked his tongue with a shake of his head. But he smiled inwardly at the jest. The Sel’vi were as peaceful as a Darivalian avalanche… and covered up their destruction just as well.
He would be doing Sevrigel a favor if he killed every last one in the capital for a start.
There was a second knock—this one more insistent than the first and apparently necessary for him to address. Saebellus reclined fully in his chair, gesturing to the windows above them. They snapped shut in unison. He nodded to the guards before the doors. “Let him in.”
There was a soft creak of ill-cared-for hinges and then the neglected doors swung open. An elf stepped slowly into the room, eyes scanning the hall in quick, flickering sweeps. Saebellus allowed him a longer moment to cautiously wonder at the interior. It was the first time an outsider had seen the Halls of Horiembrig since Saebellus and his army has seized the eastern capital. He wondered if the elf had imagined some great city of waste, blackened by the siege. He was undoubtedly, in that case, marveling to see that the city was mostly intact.
With steady black eyes, Saebellus regarded the skinny, little male, carefully removing all visible emotion from his gaze. The male was dressed in a simple and yet costly fashion—a suggestion of his master’s wealth. But by the nervous manner in which he carried himself, he was no more than a dog.
Saebellus interlocked his slender fingers while his elbows rested on the arms of his chair. He knew the elf was unnerved—he hoped that those he told would be equally as intimidated.
“What do you want?” Vale demanded from Saebellus’ left, leaning
forward in a bored, dismissive manner, long blond hair sliding over his shoulder. His light-toned abrasiveness broke the silence that the warlord had wished to maintain for just a moment longer.
Saebellus gave another internal sigh. ‘Gods damn you, Vale.’
“Saebellus doesn’t have all day,” Vale carried on. He picked up his clean knife and flipped it in his hand. His food was mostly untouched. He had eaten very little since the weeks had dragged on without Adonis. No amount of Saebellus’ harassment before the messenger arrived had spurred him to do more than poke cantankerously at his plate’s contents.
Saebellus raised a hand to silence him. He could be quite difficult without Adonis around to rein him in.
“I have a letter here…” the elf began.
Vale swung his legs out from under the table and stood, sauntering toward the Sel’varian messenger in an elaborate fashion. He stroked his narrow chin, stepped around the elf slowly, and surveyed him in an uncomfortably intense manner.
Saebellus rubbed his temple. “Vale. Just get me the damn letter,” he barked, waiting impatiently for Vale to snatch the parchment from the elf. He gestured to the guards, “See the male out of the city.”
Vale sat back down, turning the parchment over to the back, green eyes focusing on the center. He fell still. “What seal is a ship and crown? Ruljarian?”
“No,” Saebellus replied without elaboration. He snatched the parchment from him, glancing briefly at the seal before breaking it. He could feel the muscles at his brow knot in piqued curiosity.
“No?” Vale prodded again, in an aggravated and anxious tone. “Adonis?”
Saebellus could feel Vale’s eyes searching his face as he attempted to read the letter. He lowered the parchment, glancing over it to lock eyes with Vale in a steely, annoyed glare. “Vale. Go entertain yourself.”
Vale crossed his arms, leaning to the side of his plate to rest his chin on them in temporarily obedient silence. Saebellus knew his harassment was getting to his captain, but by the gods, the male could be so useless at times. His captain tapped his fingers slowly along the side of the table.
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