by David Benem
“What must we do?”
“You will fetch your walking staff and don your traveling cloak.”
Bale pulled his face from his hands, his heart welling with apprehension. By the dead gods, please do not cast me into the world, among people! I am a miscreant, a misanthrope! “Where would you have me go?”
“Find his resting place. The Lector seemed bound for Arranan, a nation with which we are on the very brink of war, for reasons he did not disclose. We know not the identity of his killer. Worst of all, we know not the words of his confession, nor have we detected the manifestation of Castor’s soul in another. Answers, Bale. I want you to deliver answers. Use the ways Erlorn taught you.”
“I am no horseman, and my stiff knees will not permit a long walk. Certainly there is someone else?”
“Nonsense. A strong purpose makes an easy road.”
“But—”
“I will hear no more. I’ve arranged your passage by sea, all the way to Riverweave. You leave in three days.”
Bale awoke the next morning at the sixth hour, the belfries loudly announcing the time. He studied the bricks of his ceiling for a while, lost in his thoughts. The world was different this day, as though all things had been upended.
My suspicions have been confirmed. The Sentinels live. Why then am I so plagued with doubt?
He pulled himself out of his bed and stretched his creaking frame with a groan. He eyed for a moment his reflection in his small mirror, his lanky limbs a frail support for his bone-colored nightshirt, and wondered how he could manage the task that’d been asked of him.
He moved closer to the mirror, noticing the crow’s feet lining his hazel eyes. How long it had been since he’d ventured beyond the walls of Ironmoor? Nearly half of his forty years had been spent as a member of the Sanctum, and the vast majority of that time had been spent sequestered within the halls of the Abbey. He felt safe here. Protected. Beyond the walls he would be vulnerable.
What will become of me?
Gradually he set about readying himself, washing his face and hands in the small basin of lemon-scented water. His hands were delicate. The most work they’d performed in years was turning the pages of books. He imagined his hands growing white knuckled while desperately grasping the rough ropes of a galley at sea, trying not to be pitched overboard. He became nearly seasick at the thought of it.
Damned be the day I was cast from the family farm.
It was late morning when Bale left his quarters. His anxieties nagged him, and he rushed through the Abbey’s winding halls until at last he reached Gamghast’s quarters.
He pounded hard upon the prefect’s door. “Gamghast! I have need of you!”
There came no reply for the span of several heartbeats, and Bale held his breath. At last, he heard the squeak of the knob and the door swung open. Gamghast stood in the doorway and Prefect Borel sat at the table behind him.
“Acolyte Bale,” said Gamghast, his dark-rimmed eyes and drooping features betraying profound exhaustion.
Bale peeked over Gamghast’s shoulder, eyeing Prefect Borel. The rotund man sipped at a mug of tea, his look one of utter confusion. Bale returned his gaze to Gamghast, and spoke in a whisper. “Does he know?”
“He does. It is safe to speak in his presence. Close the door and come inside.”
Bale slipped inside and pulled the folded note from his robes. The scullery maid’s note. He pressed it firmly into Gamghast’s hand, much as it had been pressed into his own. “I am sorry, Prefect Gamghast. I should have come to you with this earlier, but I was afraid and weak of will. I also had suspicions as to the veracity of the allegations, and felt the matter merited further inquisition before it could be pursued.”
Gamghast eyed him warily as he unfolded the parchment.
“Read it.”
Gamghast scanned the missive, then did so once more. “Who gave this to you? Whose words are these?”
Bale shook his head. “A scullery maid in the Bastion. I know not her name. I was summoned for an exorcism several weeks ago—strange noises in the larder or some such nonsense. It turned out to be a ruse, merely a means for the woman to contact a member of the Sanctum. She handed me the note in the very presence of Chamberlain Alamis.”
Gamghast turned and handed the note to Borel. “Prefect Borel, you were at the Bastion just a few days ago, were you not?”
“Indeed I was, although the chamberlain allowed me nowhere near the High King or the Godswell,” he said, setting his mug upon the table. He looked up and regarded Bale for a moment, his wide mouth wrenching into a frown. “He’s forbidding us any contact with the High King. I was allowed only to perform the Rites of the Dead upon a young scullery maid who’d taken an unfortunate tumble down the stairs to the larder. Snapped her neck in two. I had no reason to question the story at the time, but now…”
Bale felt his guts run cold. He thought of the woman’s pleading eyes and earnest nature. If I’d only acted sooner!
Gamghast stared at him firmly. “Now that you know who we serve, I trust you will relay any concerns or suspicions more quickly in the future. Perhaps lives will be saved next time.”
Bale nodded, ashamed. “I’ll know to trust you next time, Prefect.”
Gamghast turned and looked to Borel. “Brother, your misgivings about the Chamberlain Alamis were not unfounded, nor were your suspicions of the movements of our enemies.”
Bale felt suddenly uncomfortable standing amidst the two prefects, his hands becoming clammy and his spine aching. Just then, the clanging ring of two o’clock sounded, startling them.
Gamghast pressed a heavy hand upon Bale’s shoulder. “We will handle this. You should have brought this to us sooner, yes, but I am certain you know that now. It seems we have many foes prowling near our gates. Know we are not without weapons of our own, and we have allies loyal to our purpose. Castor was not the only Sentinel with disciples, and others loyal to our cause will assist us.” He turned back to Borel but then turned again. “And Bale,” he said. “You must find the answers we need. Much now depends upon you.”
8
SCOUNDRELS AND OUTLAWS
TREAM CLICKED HIS tongue, urging his chestnut mare up the road to the sun-bleached walls of Raven’s Roost. Instead, though, the horse whinnied and stamped, refusing to move. The mare had been skittish ever since they’d parted ways with Karnag and his company, causing Tream to wonder whether she’d guessed his unscrupulous intentions.
“Aw c’mon, Fancy,” Tream said, scratching the mare’s withers. “Our lives are about to get a good sight better than they’ve been. Trust me, girl. Things won’t be hard for long.” He slapped her flank and at last she pressed up the gravelly road toward the gates.
Raven’s Roost squatted atop a wide, rocky outcrop, the former site of a massive prison and gallows. Now, the place was home to the same sorts of scoundrels and outlaws it once hanged. It was a place of solace for the most wanted, because just about every fellow in town had a price on his head.
Tream had resided in the town for years, finding he fit quite well among the town’s unsavory denizens. He had a terrible temper and was good with a blade. That left him ill-suited for soldiering, especially after he’d gutted his commanding officer and been forced to flee the army. But, those qualities made him a fine settler of scores and a dependable bodyguard for the chiefs of underground society. Raven’s Roost had given him a place to sell his skills, and, in turn, earn a measure of respect.
“Welcome home,” said the toothless guard manning the rusted gate.
Tream smiled, suddenly feeling his own brown teeth were quite the luxury. The guard was a frequent player of deadman’s dice in the local taverns, and had lightened Tream’s pockets on a few occasions. “Don’t get any ideas of taking more money off me. I don’t mean to be here long.”
The gates opened to a mud-packed street, lined by cattle traders and smithies. The heat from the forges did not mix well with the scent of the cattle, and only a faint br
eeze stirred the air. It made for an oppressively hot stink, and Tream rode several dozen yards before the road ascended and he was able to breathe freely.
He guided Fancy down a cross street, narrower and only slightly less muddy. There were seamy taverns jammed with patrons, even though it was still a while before sunset. Rough-looking harlots called from the balconies of the inns, some shouting for Tream by name. He waved at them dismissively and kept his head down, realizing it was best to avoid attention under the circumstances.
After a few more turns he arrived at the mouth of a shaded alleyway. At its end sat his usual spot, The Dead Messenger. He tied Fancy’s reins to a post and patted her twice for luck. “Get your rest, girl,” he whispered in her ear. “We may be riding hard tonight.”
The Dead Messenger wasn’t bustling with as many folk as the other taverns, and those who frequented the place were generally a villainous sort. Tream took account of the small crowd before moving inside the heavy shadows of the common room. He recognized much of the clientele as his competitors—assassins and cutpurses awaiting their next jobs. They gave him their typical dark stares and curt nods, and returned to their tankards.
It was always those few he didn’t recognize who made him jumpy. There was a green-cloaked ruffian at the bar whose eyes lingered on him a bit overlong for his liking, so he chose a seat at a small table farthest from him. He knew there was ever the risk someone would seek revenge for another he’d killed, or perhaps a young rogue would try to make a reputation for himself by challenging his betters.
Dark work brings dark rewards, they say.
“Ale?”
The croaking voice startled Tream, and his hand shot to the hilt of his sword. He sighed in relief when he saw it was Handsome, the tavern’s droopy-eyed, harelipped barkeep, looming over him. Tream nodded politely. “Two hands of your finest, if you please.”
Handsome grunted in reply and shuffled to the casks lining the back of the bar. He soon returned with a mug nearly a foot tall. “Two hands of the good stuff, Tream. Enjoy it while it lasts. We may not see any more of it for a while, with the rumors of war, and all.” He glanced curiously to either side of Tream. “Where is the rest of your lot?”
Tream lowered his head and gave his best mockup of a sad sob and snort, but worried after he’d done it that it’d sounded much like laughter. He shook his head dramatically and pounded his fist for further effect, and snorted again.
That’s more like it.
“Tream?”
He rubbed hard at his eyes, trying to redden them before returning Handsome’s gaze. “I’m sorry, Handsome. The thought of it just pains me so. They’re dead, Handsome. All of them dead!” He faked a blubber. “Saw it happen with my very own eyes!”
Handsome stumbled back with a gasp. “All of them? Karnag and Fencress, too? How?”
“Every last one of them. Skewered like pigs. I had to finish the job alone.”
“You know I don’t like asking questions of you fellows, but who did this? What kind of job did you take?”
“Our mark was a person of some repute, and had men with him, fighting men. Serious trained soldiers. They caught us off-guard.” He picked at his fingernails and sighed heavily. “It was a black, black day. I was just finishing off our mark when they came at us, out of the wild. They killed Karnag and the rest. Only by the grace of the dead gods did I manage to take them down and make it back here alive. The last survivor.”
Handsome’s gaze narrowed. “The last survivor?”
Tream rubbed his eyes harder and faked a sniffle. “It was horrible, Handsome. What I would give to have them back among the living…” He stared out the small, thick-paned window, trying to appear forlorn. “I’d trade every last crown I have coming to me.” He looked at Handsome tentatively, and was relieved to see the barkeep’s look had drifted away from him.
“That’s a real shame.” Handsome breathed in slowly and was quiet for a moment. “Karnag dying is some bit of news. He was as wicked a man as I’ve known, and I mean that in the best of ways. And that Fencress was a tough girl—not many of them in our business—and I’ll miss hearing her witty talk around this place.” He pulled a rag from his pocket and rubbed at his eyes. His voice dropped to a quiet sigh. “I reckon you’ll be needing to meet with your patron, to get paid and all.”
I’ve fooled him! “Why yes!” Tream reflexively slapped a hand over his mouth, realizing he’d sounded too eager. “I mean, it would be a real shame if the efforts of my brave friends went unrewarded. Any coin I receive will be like a shining tribute to them.”
“I’ll send word you’ve returned. As I recall, your patron was a curious sort. Impatient, too. Stay here for a while. I suspect we’ll get his reply before nightfall.”
Tream was halfway through his fourth two-hand mug of ale when Handsome approached him, wearing a serious look on his ugly features.
“A fellow just left a note in the Blood Box.”
The Blood Box was nothing more than The Dead Messenger’s repository for contracts and coin exchanged between patrons and their hires, but the way Handsome said it seemed ominous. “He didn’t just deliver the money?”
“Afraid not.” He handed a sealed note to Tream.
“You know I can’t read, Handsome.”
Handsome opened the note and scanned it quickly. “It says to meet at Old Gallows Rock at tenth hour of night.”
“Ten o’clock? Dead gods, man.” The ninth hour had sounded a good while before, and it wouldn’t be long before the belfries were ringing again. Tream lifted his mug and swilled the remainder of his ale. He smacked two silver crowns on the table and shouldered his way past Handsome and out of the bar.
There was no moon out, and the streets were dark as death. Fancy grew nervous as they approached Old Gallows Rock, until at last she refused to go any farther. Tream thought of pulling the beast by her reins for the last hundred yards, but then decided instead to tie her to the arm of an old statue. “Don’t go anywhere, girl,” he whispered, patting her twice for luck.
He picked at his rotting teeth, as he often did when uneasy. He tried whistling as he walked, but found it sounded overloud in the dark. Eventually he settled on keeping one hand on his sword, the other hanging free, and his mouth shut. The ale had calmed him somewhat, but not nearly enough.
There were few folk on the streets at this hour, particularly in this part of the town. Old Gallows Rock was at the center of Raven’s Roost, in the middle of a vast square cornered by a soldiers’ barracks, an empty library, and the court of the town’s Magistrate Examiner. All were parts of the prison that used to dominate this town, years before. Tream cast a crooked smile when he thought of that, knowing how these days the King’s Law was scarcely enforced in the place. There were times, though, like now, when he wished there were more honest guards marching the streets.
Tream grew more nervous as he walked, realizing he knew nothing of their patron. Karnag had said little of his initial meeting other than to tell the company the terms of the bargain. One thousand silver crowns to be paid upon finishing the job. It was an enormous amount of money, a number Tream couldn’t dream of counting. Yet, the thought was anything but comforting. Tream was used to dealing in small squabbles. A brother of a dead man seeking vengeance upon the killer. A gambling debt satisfied by the breaking of bones. A home ransacked over suspicions of an affair. These were easy things, understandable things.
This job, though, had been something else entirely. It bothered Tream, as he’d thought from the outset the job was too big to be safe. It spoke of motives far fouler than simple revenge or street justice. He spied the black outline of Old Gallows Rock and his stomach grew sick with nerves.
He reached the stout expanse of rock just as tenth bell clanged from a nearby belfry. Its flat top was just taller than him, so he had to walk around its broad base to inspect its other aspects. He walked timidly about the rock several times, but there was no one to be found.
After a time Tream
reckoned it was best to just keep still. He’d look less jittery that way. He found a low protrusion on the rock and sat on it, tapping his fingers on the hilt of his sword.
Occasionally there was torchlight moving elsewhere in the square, but it seemed to be just folk scurrying down side streets or walking briskly along the square’s perimeter. None of the lights approached him.
The hour grew late, and Tream began to worry Handsome had misread the note. After all, the barkeep likely wasn’t much brighter than Tream himself, and it was certainly possible the man had mistaken the hour or the place. What was more, Tream did not care for sitting on Old Gallows Rock at this time of night or at any other. He was a superstitious sort, and didn’t reckon the souls who’d died at the place would enjoy his backside using the rock as a bench.
Tream inhaled deeply and resolved to walk about the rock once more before leaving. He knew he’d need to leave Raven’s Roost quickly, but it seemed one more night in the place would be necessary.
He bowed his head, shutting his eyes and squeezing his hands together. Beloved Illienne, let it be time enough. Please damn me not for the worst of my deeds.
When he opened his eyes he nearly soiled himself in shock. He’d heard not a thing, but standing before him was a figure robed from head to toe in black, its face concealed by a drooping hood.
“I am sorry to have kept you waiting,” the figure said, its voice a hiss.
“Ah,” Tream stammered, standing abruptly. Instinctively he tried to take a step back, but thumped against the bulk of the rock instead. “Ah, no trouble at all.” Tream squinted, trying to catch sight of the figure’s face within the shadows. He could discern nothing.
The figure pressed closer. There was a sour odor, like the smell of rot, wafting from it. “You completed the task? You slew the Lector?”
“Of course I did,” Tream blurted, his words almost stumbling over themselves as he spoke too quickly. Coin, he thought, trying to calm himself. This man owes you a lot of coin. “We met our end of the bargain, and I lost a number of friends as a result.” He wiped beading sweat from his brow and let his hand drift to his sword.
