The Book of Deacon

by Joseph Lallo

  "What do you do?" she asked.

  "This and that. Yourself?" he replied.

  "I seem to be limited to ‘that,'" she said.

  "It's just as well. 'This' can get boring after a while," he said.

  The stranger turned a page.

  "What is your name?" she asked.

  "Desmeres Lumineblade," he said.

  "That is a unique name," she said.

  "Not particularly. My grandfather had it, as did his. My guess is that they liked the name Desmeres and hated the name junior," he said.

  A moment passed.

  "Don't you want to know my name?" she asked.

  "No need. There is only the two of us here. After lunch we go our separate ways, probably never to meet again. Until then, you talk to me, I talk to you. No cause for confusion, no need for names. That's why people always do introductions when they meet up with a third person," he said.

  "Well, it is Myranda," she said. "Just in case we meet a third person."

  "Myranda. Lyrical," he said, his eyes still trained on the book.

  The food was set before Myranda and she eagerly partook. He was right, it was delicious. When the edge had been taken from her hunger, she decided to give the thought swirling in her head a voice.

  "What is that you've got there?" she asked, indicating the book.

  "One of the unfortunate consequences of ‘this.' Notes on dealers," he said.

  "Dealers?" she inquired.

  "Weapons dealers," he said.

  Myranda frowned.

  "You sell weapons," she said flatly.

  Desmeres tipped his head and squinted an eye. "Not sell--design . . . and collect."

  "Really?" she asked.

  "I detest people who lie to strangers," he said.

  "It was only a few days ago that I had even heard that such a thing as a weapon collector existed, and now I have met one," she explained.

  "There happens to be another one just two doors over. Waste of time though. The only thing of note in this town is the gravy," he said.

  "Why collect?" she asked.

  "Why?" he repeated, closing his book. "Why not? A good weapon is a tool. A great one is a masterpiece. Art, plain and simple. Crafted with care, every detail lovingly shaped, balanced, polished. If sculptures were crafted with such care, the sculpture and the model who posed would be indistinguishable. Have you got a knife?"

  "No . . . well, yes, right here," she said, remembering the stiletto that had been returned to her.

  "There, you see. Straight, sturdy, sharp. A tool. Here, have a look at this one," he said.

  Desmeres pulled a sleek, curving blade from his belt.

  "Now, this? This is a blade! Look at the curve. Look at the edge. Simple. Elegant. Organic. This could have come from an animal. Based on the shape of a dragon's claw. And watch this," he said.

  He closed his fingers around the handle, then opened all but the index finger. The weapon balanced on one finger.

  "The creator worked for months on this. It would be at home in a gallery or in a foe's back. I challenge you to find another work of art with that flexibility. Of course, this particular blade has more than good breeding--it has a history," he said. "They say it was used by none other than the Red Shadow."

  Myranda respected his passion for the subject, even though she didn't share it. It was rare to see such interest in anything, save the news of the most recent battle. The weapons he collected were the heart of the war, and so she despised them, but here was a man who admired the form above the purpose. It was a refreshing step aside from the prevailing obsession of her country folk. She could see his point, as well. What he held was truly a thing of beauty. As she looked at the piece, her thoughts turned to the sword. It was every bit as lovely as the dagger, and likely as well-crafted. She wondered how much this patron of the arts would have paid for such a piece.

  His mention of the Red Shadow bothered her, though. Everyone had heard of the notorious killer, but Myranda had always tried to convince herself that the tales of his assassinations were fiction. The reality that the blade brought to the subject chilled her. Stories told of a man who killed a wolf with his bare hands and wore the bloodied skull as a helmet. Whenever a man of high breeding was found dead, rumors of the Red Shadow would flow anew. A tiny, nagging thought that there might be a connection to her own life was quickly silenced in the back of her mind. That thought was too much for her to consider right now.

  "A realization dawns. You know what brought me here. I am now at a disadvantage," he said, interrupting her thoughts.

  "Pardon?" Myranda said, confused by the odd phrasing.

  "What are you up to on this fine day?" he asked.

  "Trying to decide what is next," she said.

  "Fair enough. Try not to strain yourself, though. It will happen just the same," he said, putting his book away and gathering his various bags together. "I've got to get to Fort Wick by sundown."

  "I've . . . never mind," she said, choosing against mentioning her meeting with the old man who may or may not have sent the soldiers her way.

  "Right . . . well, until next time," he said.

  The young man pulled his shallow hood up and stepped out the door. His form through the window in the unique garb was comically different from the otherwise uniform clothing of the others. A wave of sadness swept over her at the sight of a dozen or so people outside in the ever-present gray cloaks. She had always felt bothered by the fact that she could travel for days, see a hundred or more people, and not be able to tell one from the other. She suddenly felt pride in the tattered, bloodstained cloak she wore. It may not be glamorous, but it was different. She, at least, would be remembered for more than a moment.

  The sadness turned to fear, though, at a single thought. The murderer wore the very same cloak as everyone else. Any one of the people on the street could be the man who had captured her. She turned from the window. Worse! She was a fugitive. The unique cloak she had prided herself on would be more than enough of a description to seal her fate and assure her capture. Best not to think about it. She would buy a new cloak, but there was very little she could do. If the Alliance Army wanted her, she would be found.

  With great effort, she finished her meal without succumbing to the anxiety eating at her mind. No sooner had the last crumb been finished than the waitress reappeared, eager to sell more.

  "Anything else for you today?" she asked.

  "No, thank you very much," Myranda said.

  "Five coppers," she said.

  Myranda dug into the satchel she had found on the horse's reins and gave the waitress five of the coins. The waitress lingered, jingling the coins in her apron. Myranda took the less than subtle hint and fished out two more coppers and dropped them on the table. The waitress widened her smile.

  "Thank you, miss, and you have a perfectly lovely day," she said.

  "And to you," Myranda said.

  Myranda remained in her seat for a time. What was next? She was unsure who knew who she was, or what they thought she did. Did they still think that she had the sword? If it had belonged to a high-ranking military official, the penalty for its theft would be equal to that of treason. The sentence was worse than simple execution. An example would be made of her. Torture, humiliation, and shame would fill her days until she was finally put to death in as gruesome and public a manner as could be managed.

  She swallowed hard and looked to the darkening scar on her left palm. That blasted sword had marked her in more ways than one. Her life had been far from pleasant, but it had gotten worse with each passing moment since the instant she had touched the cursed blade. Perhaps the spell that had branded her hand carried with it a hex that would plague her with such misfortune for the rest of her days. Her heart sunk further. Magic had always intrigued her, but she'd seen it at work only a handful of times. Now it seemed that magic was at work, making her wretched life into a positively abysmal one. She closed her hand.

  "Pardon me?" she asked the
waitress.

  "Yes?" came her chipper reply.

  "Do you have rooms to rent?" she asked.

  "Not here. Look for Milin's Inn. Right across the way." She pointed.

  "Thank you," Myranda said.

  She left the restaurant in search of a better place to wash up and keep her horse until she had bought the supplies she would need. She found the inn quite easily, and found facilities for the horse alongside of it. She gave a few coppers to the stable hand and directed him to see to it the horse was taken care of. Inside the building, she found a well-lit, tidy lobby. A man with an eye patch stood behind the counter, with a young boy slouching in front of the door. Her entry provided the same degree of excitement that it had in the restaurant earlier.

  "Welcome to Milin's Inn. What can I do for you today?" the owner asked.

  "I need a room for the next few hours," she said.

  "I am very sorry, but we require that our customers pay for at least one night. I assure you that once you've seen our room, you will not want to leave," he said.

  "That will be fine. Any room. Cheap, if possible," she said.

  "Our rooms start at twenty coppers a night," he said.

  "That is a bit steep," she said.

  "The best price in town for the best rooms in town. You pay for quality," he said, in a well-rehearsed manner.

  Myranda reluctantly parted with one of the silvers. The keeper gave her back a half silver and five coppers. Two of the coppers found their way into the boy's pocket for showing her to the room and giving her the key. The room was cozy and clean, far more so than the one at the Lizard's Goblet.

  Myranda locked the door behind her. As the day had progressed, the afflicted shoulder had begun to throb and stiffen.

  She threw the stained cloak on the bed. Rolling back her sleeve, which proved to be a particularly painful experience, she found the bandage utterly saturated with blood. Myranda clenched her teeth and winced in pain as she pulled it away. The simple gash was swollen and red, crusted with the crimson remains of the blood. It was not improving. She knew from experience that wounds that took on this appearance seldom healed on their own and never healed completely.

  A testament to the quality of the inn, there was a pitcher of clean water provided for her, along with a basin and a stack of clean towels. She filled the basin and cleansed the wound. Each time she wrung out the cloth the red tint of the water deepened. When she was through, the water in the bowl had the look of some terrible wine. The cloth was pink, stained for good. Since she knew that the cloth would never come clean, she used it to replace the bandage. The cool, moist cloth soothed the pain slightly, but if she ever wanted full use of her right arm again, she would need a healer.

  After doing her best to clean the bloody stain from the cloak, she left the room, locking the door behind her.

  The innkeeper gave her a smile, as did the porter, as she left the inn. It was refreshing to be looked upon so graciously, though she knew that the silver in her pocket was the only thing that had earned her such treatment. In a way, she preferred the disdainful stares she received when people found she was a sympathizer. Those reactions, even though they were rooted in ignorance, were at least rooted in honesty. These people would treat her like a queen so long as she could pay her bill.

  The cold air hit the moistened shoulder and stung, stirring her to get through her errands quickly. She moved from business to business, being served by elderly men and women, children, the disabled, and anyone else unfit for the role of soldier. These were the people who had populated the towns for as long as she could remember. It wasn't long after childhood that she herself had begun to feel the questioning stares of the townsfolk, wondering why this healthy young lady was not on the front, putting her life on the line for the war effort.

  She had heard that women had not always been obliged to go to war. They were to stay behind and tend to the affairs of the home. Those years were long gone. Now the towns were growing more and more sparsely populated as the generations of people were being killed in battle before they could even spawn the next crop of warriors. The faded bloodstain on her cloak was likely the only thing keeping the people from questioning her presence in this town, earning her the assumed status of injured soldier on leave. Such were not uncommon in the larger towns until a few months ago, when they stopped showing up.

  #

  After a day of spending, Myranda headed back to the inn with a handful of essential items for the days to come. A small, one-person tent was tucked under her one good arm, and a sturdy new pack filled with provisions was slung onto her back. Only a few pieces of copper remained in her pocket, but she had all she needed. Her last errand was to seek someone to give attention to the afflicted shoulder.

  Healers had been a scarcity ever since enemy pressure required all available clerics to report to duty immediately. That was several years ago. Still, until recently here and there one could find an apprentice cleric or an alchemist deemed unfit for duty. Now even that was becoming rarer, as each year more laws were passed to prevent medical practitioners from treating anyone who had not served in the Alliance Army. It was just another way to prevent the people from avoiding service.

  Myranda had just given up looking for one when she noticed a very urgent message arriving. A horse was galloping as quickly as its legs would carry it through the half-cleared street. When it reached the center of town, the rider jumped off. He seemed to be as winded as the horse, and drew an eager crowd around him.

  "The old church is on fire!" he exclaimed.

  The eyes of the crowd turned to the north horizon. A wisp of black smoke in the distance confirmed his story. Myranda felt a pang of fear burn in the back of her mind.

  "That old place was bound to come down one of these days. It had been rundown for years," a grizzled old man said.

  "That isn't all. There were men, some of ours, dead. I went to see the fire, I saw them on the ground, four of them. It wasn't anything normal that took these men, though. There was nothing left but dust, like some black magic struck them down or something. No sign of the culprit. I've just come from Fort Wick. No one had been in or out since yesterday, except one girl. She must have done this, and she came this way!" cried out the winded man.

  Myranda walked as calmly as she could back to the inn as people flooded out of every door to hear the new tale. It would not be long before one of them put the pieces together and came after her. She dropped off the key to her room with the stable attendant and loaded her things onto the horse. She then led it slowly and calmly into the narrow backstreet behind the stable. When she was sure that she would be unseen, she climbed to the horse's back and rode out of town.

  "Please," she whispered, "just let me escape notice for a minute more. If I can make it over the hill without any eyes falling upon me, I have a chance."

  The horse stepped briskly though the knee-deep snow of the uncleared road out of town. Several nervous glances over her shoulder assured her that the chaos brought by the news had yet to subside enough to organize a search for her, but it was only a matter of time. When she had reached the foot of the hill, she knew that she was out of sight of the townsfolk. Only one idea came to mind. She pulled her things from the horse's back. Stuffing anything she didn't need into the new cloak she had just bought, she strapped it to the horse's back.

  "Well, it was nice having you around while it lasted. I hope things turn out better for you than they did for me," she said to the horse.

  With that she gave it a slap that sent the animal galloping down the road. Already she could hear the angry cries of a posse leaving the town. Myranda scraped at the heavy mound of ice and snow left by the side of the road by the blizzard. The dense drift was well-packed enough to allow a hollow to be dug. A few moments of frantic digging produced an alcove in the snow drift facing the field. She threw her pack into the hollow and followed it. The first lynch mob had just reached the top of the hill when she covered herself over as best she could. Th
e horse, running wildly, was too far away from the mob to be clearly seen. The angry people of the town followed it as though she was still on its back. The sound of their furious voices would surely keep it running, and the lack of a rider would keep it well ahead. With any luck, her decoy would keep the mob on the move for the better part of the day.

  Myranda held her breath as half of the town poured out onto the snowy road on every available horse. It was not until the thunder of hoofbeats had receded into the distance entirely that she pulled herself from her frigid hiding place. Ice clung to her cloak and chilled her to the bone, but at least the terrible throbbing in her shoulder had numbed.

  Shivering, she reached into the snowy alcove and pulled out her things. All that was left was the sturdy pack, loaded with some food and water, and the travel tent. She set her body to the daunting task of hoisting the essential apparatus to her back and her mind to the still more taxing task of escaping the area, as well as the near impossible task of clearing her name.

  In a perfect world, she would merely have to explain the truth to be freed of blame. In the here and now, though, she was a stranger and the victims were the beloved soldiers. She was as good as dead. There was a task at hand, though, so the task at mind could wait. The pack was across her back, the tent tied to the top. She was anything but a small target and could barely walk under the weight of her things. If she was to escape this place with her freedom, it would be through nothing short of a miracle.

  Myranda scanned the horizon. Rolling white fields turned quickly to rocky, impassible mountains in the east, the Rachis Mountains. Crossing them would be difficult. They formed a chain that traced a crooked line across the Northern Alliance, beginning at the hilly plains just beyond the capital in the far north, and running nearly to the Tresson border. Crossings were scattered and tended to be well regulated. Best to avoid them.