by Jeff Wheeler
Annon reached the stairs first and started up. Paedrin let Hettie go next and studied Dwyer for a moment longer. The lifestyle was not the ostentatious manner of one with wealth. He lived on the edge of town, in a ramshackle house. The brass lamp was soot-stained and had no frills. The stove was ordinary. The array of untidy books was a distraction to the eyes.
Paedrin followed Hettie up the stairs, watching Dwyer as long as he could, seeing no mark of nervousness or concern. They reached the top level, and Annon found the man pacing in the upper story.
There were books on the floor, stacks of them. Some were opened, others placed haphazardly. But what struck Annon immediately were Erasmus’s eyes. Or more precisely, the fact that they did not appear to look the same direction at the same time. His dark hair was shortly cropped; he was wide about the shoulders and skinny about the ankles. He did not look like a man of great wealth. First, he was too young. Second, his shirt was homespun, and he wore no shoes, only tattered slippers. He glanced at them, rubbing his mouth nervously, pacing back and forth by the window.
“Are you Erasmus?” Annon asked formally.
There was a twitch in the muscles of the man’s face, and he held up his hand, as if warning them to be quiet. “At so many paces per league, and then the walk from the Millpond to here. Yes, that must be it.” His strange eyes stared at them, but not directly at them. One of his eyes was crooked.
“What is it?” Annon asked, his voice lined with doubt.
Erasmus went to the large window facing the street. He tapped his bottom lip with a long finger and then pointed out the window. “It is too dark now to see it, but there was a smudge on the horizon. From a fire. A large fire. Same direction as the road, so the fire must have started on the road. By the size of the smoke plume, it likely shut down the road. Which means goods will stop flowing and a lot of money will be lost and won tonight at the Millpond. It will delay the caravans ready to depart. It may ruin cargo.” He clucked his tongue, muttering dazedly to himself. He glanced at them, his brow wrinkling. “I’m assuming it was you folk who caused the fires and did so deliberately. Very foolish.” He clucked his tongue again, muttering to himself. “They will want you dead for sure. They murder for much less in this town. I imagine we do not have long before they track your path here.”
“The Preachán are a scheming race. They love those things which are precious, and they have an amazing gift for memory. I have once heard of a Preachán named Hollibust who could recite the name of every person living he had ever met. There are others, in Havenrook mind you, who have taken the power of the mind and exploited it to the point where they can read the minds of others.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Paedrin looked at the cross-eyed Preachán with distrust. He did not bother to hide his expression. “What are you saying, Erasmus? That we were followed here?”
Erasmus fluttered his hands in annoyance. “No, no—don’t be a fool, Bhikhu. I doubt anyone at the Millpond has noticed the closure of the road yet. Yet. But there was smoke, and smoke comes from fire; it is in the exact direction of the only road leading to Havenrook. And by the looks of you, you just arrived today. Which means you were on the road, which means you were attacked by the thieves on the road and defended yourselves, and if this brother and sister have the fireblood as Tyrus Paracelsus has, then it is likely and probable that you set fire to the road and will cause losses of profit and an interruption in the flow of trade.” His hands stopped flapping. “Was I being clear enough for you, Bhikhu, or should I repeat several parts until you catch up? Wasted moments, wasted time. They will track you here, for undoubtedly you asked for me by name, and hence will bring whatever danger with you to my abode. Why have you come?”
Annon stepped forward, his expression taut. “We seek Drosta’s lair.”
“Impossible,” Erasmus muttered, shaking his head.
“What is impossible?” Paedrin asked, unnerved by the man’s flood of information and how he had assembled so much on such a casual greeting. It was as if he had thought about the situation for hours instead of just moments.
“Impossible. No, it is impossible. It cannot be done.”
Annon looked back at Paedrin, confusion on his face.
Hettie stepped forward. “What do you mean, Erasmus?”
The man whirled and walked to the window, muttering beneath his breath. His broad shoulders hunched, as if he were suddenly under a tremendous burden. His breath came out in quick gasps. He counted on his fingers. “Even if Kiranrao doesn’t know, he will. Forced march through the woods. Cruithne territory. Three-day walk. Two with horses, but risk losing shoes or laming half of them. Speed does not make up for the risk. Three days then.”
Hettie shook her head. “You are not making sense.”
He gave an abrupt hand gesture to forestall more questions. “Impossible. Kiranrao is the element I cannot account for or predict. Down too many branches this can go. I cannot provide a probable guess yet. Does Kiranrao know you are here?” He looked at them, but it was hard to tell which of them he was gazing at.
“You could say that,” Paedrin answered.
“Impossible,” he muttered. “We would make it to Drosta’s, but not back again alive. I will not go. Be gone. I do not have a price. It is not worth my time. Be gone!”
Annon held out his hands. “I did not understand what you were referring to. Why should Kiranrao matter in this?”
Erasmus coughed as he chuckled. “He has sought the treasure at Drosta’s lair for many years. There is a bounty for anyone who can lead him to it. He does not know that I know where it is.”
Hettie looked confused. “What purpose would he have in gaining more wealth? Why would it even interest him?”
Erasmus looked up, as if suddenly confused. “Who says that Drosta’s treasure has anything to do with wealth? There are a great many things in the world that no amount of coin will purchase. Drosta’s treasure is not in coin.”
Annon looked at Hettie and she looked back at him. “We were led to believe that it was,” he said.
Erasmus chortled. “Led to believe. By Tyrus Paracelsus. Imagine that. I cannot believe that your uncle would want Drosta’s treasure in that villain’s hands. It was put there to safeguard it.”
“What?” Paedrin asked, stepping forward warily. “The treasure was put there?”
“Of course, you silly sheep-brained Bhikhu. If you are going to hide something of enormous value from a Romani or the Preachán, you do not leave it in Havenrook. You put it in a fortress among the Cruithne. I know of it because Tyrus wanted to be sure that the safeguards could not be breached. He had me test the defenses. I could not break them. He was satisfied that it was safe.”
“Do you know what Drosta’s treasure is?” Annon asked. Paedrin could tell by the look on his face that he was genuinely worried now. Hettie looked flummoxed.
“No. Only where it is.”
“You must take us there,” Annon said. “My uncle knew we could trust you. That we could rely on you to…”
Erasmus quickly rushed to the window. “Torches in the street. They are already on the way here. You must go. Now!” He waved his arms and advanced on them, trying to shush them away. “Dwyer! Get up here! Our guests must leave.”
“Please!” Hettie implored.
“What you ask is impossible. Even with a day’s head start, we would be found out, and they would follow us to Drosta’s lair. Even with horses, we would…”
“I know, I know,” Annon said impatiently. “But we need your help, Erasmus. This is important.”
“It is of no concern to me,” Erasmus said, grabbing Annon by the fringe of his cloak and tugging him toward the stairs. “Dwyer! They must go! Out with them. Out!”
“But if you would…” Hettie said.
“They will be here in moments!” Erasmus said. “You do not have much time to escape out the back. We will delay your pursuers as much as we can. Return to Kenatos. Tell your u
ncle he was a fool for sending you here. Tell yourselves that you were fools for trusting him.”
The sound of boots on the stairwell announced the arrival of Dwyer, who held a knobbed stick in his hand. “Out with ye, lads. Out with ye. Come on. Let’s have no trouble.”
Erasmus brushed his hands and turned back to Paedrin, who had not budged from his spot. “You too, Bhikhu. You have all caused enough trouble already.” He reached for Paedrin’s sleeve.
Paedrin was waiting for that. He intercepted the Preachán’s hand and put his finger on one side of his hand and his thumb on his palm. With a quick twist, he had the Preachán in an armlock that completely halted him.
“I do not mean to harm you,” Paedrin said. “If you do not move, it will not hurt. But you will listen and figure this out quickly. We do not have much time. Grab what you need and come with us, because if you do not, I will go back to the Millpond this evening and explain to Kiranrao that you know of Drosta’s lair. What do you think he will do with you if he finds out you have known all along?”
The others froze in the stairwell. Dwyer’s face hardened with rage.
Erasmus muttered softly. He said several things under his breath that they could not hear. Then he spoke up. “You are correct. That changes the situation entirely. Very black-hearted of you, Bhikhu, but wise considering the circumstances. Dwyer, fetch my cloak. I do hope one of you knows how to speak the Cruithne tongue. That will help us immensely.” He gazed at their faces and saw the dumb shock there. “I see you do not.” He let out a deep, exasperated sigh.
Dwyer stood by the rear door, cudgel still in hand. “I will give you as much time as I can. Make for the woods. The dark will help shield ye a bit, but not for long if they hire a Finder.”
Paedrin glanced at Hettie and saw her face stiffen with disgust. Her eyes flicked once his way, but did not linger.
Erasmus pulled on some stiff wool socks and then stuffed his feet into a well-worn set of boots. “Dry feet. Never underestimate the value of dry feet,” he muttered.
There was a loud hammering at the front door. Erasmus shrugged into his cloak and then motioned toward the woods visible beyond the next row of buildings. Annon and Hettie followed, but Paedrin stayed put.
Annon paused and looked at him meaningfully, his eyebrows lifted.
“I will join you shortly,” Paedrin said, clenching his staff.
Annon and Hettie glanced at each other.
“Go on ahead. This won’t take very long.”
He did not wait for them to acknowledge his words and walked around the side of Erasmus’s dwelling, watching the spatter of torchlight brighten from the front. The angry voices of a mob grew steadily louder.
Paedrin breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, short, quick breaths to steady himself. He listened to the raucous voices and the shouts of anger and demand. He could barely make out Dwyer’s voice, trying to turn the tide of anger. A stone or brick smashed into the front window. The shrill wail of voices grew louder. There was the sound of a door slamming and being bolted. But against such a mob, it was a flimsy defense. In a moment, the home would go up in a blaze, along with all the books of poetry and translations, a man’s work for many years. It was unfair.
Paedrin inhaled, and as he started to float, he ran up the side of the structure so that he reached the apex before running out of breath. He flipped up onto the roof, still holding the staff in one hand, and crouched at the edge, looking down at the mob. There were easily thirty or more down there, some with torches, others with lanterns. They were all Preachán, and they were a ferocious mob, shouting threats and insults at the lone man inside. One man stuffed a rag into his bottle of spirits and set fire to the edge.
Paedrin stood up straight, adjusted his neck muscles, and then hurtled off the edge of the roof. Someone saw him jump, for fingers were suddenly in the air stabbing at him. He plummeted to the street like a stone, but just before landing, he hissed in his breath to soften the impact and managed to land on the man with the flaming bottle and crush him into the street.
Paedrin looked up, taking in the momentary shock on their faces. Then he spun the staff in a wide circle and set to work.
That they were drunk made it almost too easy, but it was still forty or so against one, and he saw the gleam of knife blades, swords, and chains with hooks. He struck hard and fast, smashing a man in the eye with one jab of the staff pole before reversing the stroke and hammering another on the top of his skull, likely shattering it—using just enough force so as to not make it lethal. He cracked ribs, maimed feet, and, for certain, dislocated shoulders and hips. The anger and fury of the crowd—or perhaps the promise of coin—made them exceptionally brave. It was a hive of bodies, all trying to get a snatch at his clothes, grip his staff, or trip him with a boot. But Paedrin dodged every attempt, striking with feet, hands, or staff in all directions at once, sending bodies backward.
They rallied, those that could, and tried to crush him with sheer numbers. Chain whips whistled in the air at him. He ducked and darted to keep them from striking him, but he recognized that there were still more coming, and others were drawn to the screaming. Sucking in a gulp of breath, he jumped up and rose above the mass of bodies, letting them crash into each other before exhaling sharply and landing down amidst the pile.
He was wickedly good with his staff, and he knew it. It was an extension of him, and he whirled it against daggers and rapiers alike, returning each stroke with a whack to the chin or cheek; he dropped men to the street as his weapon impacted between their legs. He did not stay in the same place but moved with the flow of bodies, sometimes going over them. Sometimes he met the charge head-on. Sweat slicked down his ribs and arms, but he knew his own body and knew he had the strength to continue the fight.
From the crowd emerged a new man, and he recognized him from Kiranrao’s table. There was a subtle shift in the mood then others fell back, making way before the bearded fellow, his eyes molten with hate.
Paedrin studied his footing, his confident walk. No stumble with wine or drink. There was something in his hand that glowed like a firefly. As if he were holding on to a burning ember and it made his palm glow orange. It was a stone in the hilt of a dagger, and the blade was back near his wrist, underhanded.
The man moved impossibly fast. Suddenly he was right next to Paedrin, and the knife was slashing toward his ribs. Paedrin twisted hard to the right and clamped his elbow against the man’s arm, pinning it against his body. He felt a razor line of heat flash across his skin.
Eyes widening with anger, Paedrin dropped the staff and sent his hooked fingers into the man’s grimacing face. For a moment they wrestled against each other, each one trying to throw the other off balance. A boot went behind Paedrin’s ankle, and he knew in another moment he would fall. Rather than fight it, he released his hold on the knife hand and rolled backward, over the man’s shoulders, and grabbed his chin. He connected with the man’s elbow and hurled the man off his feet, slamming him on the cobbled street with a bone-jarring crash.
A flash of pain went across Paedrin’s side. Lights began to shimmer. He looked down at the man, his face contorted in agony, and he stomped hard on his forearm, enough to break the bones. He heard them snap. He twisted the dagger from his fingers and immediately the light from the gem winked out. It felt heavy suddenly, as if it weighed as much as a bag of gold.
The broken man did not scream. His face was contorted with rage. He reached in his belt for another blade and began hefting it. Paedrin stomped on his stomach next, watching the man’s eyes bulge out. He had damaged him severely. It would take him months to recover.
The pain in Paedrin’s side was getting unbearable, but he did not let it show on his face.
The two stared at each other, fixing the moment in their minds. It was the first time in his life Paedrin was tempted to kill. The look of hate on the man’s face meant revenge. It meant he would stop at nothing to hunt Paedrin down for another chance. He kn
ew if their positions were reversed, there would be no qualm on the other’s part, and he would have buried the dagger to the hilt in Paedrin’s chest.
But that is why I am a Bhikhu, he reminded himself. Even a life as miserable and wretched as this man’s was too sacred to steal. It meant that Paedrin had to be better than him. Always. There could be no room for doubting that. Paedrin stared into the hateful eyes, unflinching, and gave him a subtle nod as he lay on the dirty street, unable to even stand up. Two broken arms. Some grave internal damage. It would stop him from following them.
No one faced him in the man’s place. The wave had crashed with all its fury and might and was now slinking back to the place where it came from. Gripping the heavy iron weapon in one hand, Paedrin knelt and retrieved his nicked staff, and he walked away from Havenrook, knowing that he if he ever ventured there again, he would die.
“I am always fascinated by the baubles and trinkets which are invented by the Paracelsus order. They know how to enchant weapons with special powers. They created the magic that gives light to the city. Their genius knows no boundaries. Even the Rikes use their magic to heal the sick or Plague-ridden. They say that each item must be carefully crafted. I do not understand the principles involved, but I have grown to appreciate the genius behind it.”
– Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
The fire was small and sheltered within a hollowed-out stump to help conceal the light. Annon winced as Hettie pulled back Paedrin’s blood-stained shirt and exposed the gash. It was an awful wound, yet Paedrin sat like a stone, his face impassive. Several layers of skin and tissue that was white and purplish lay exposed. It made Annon ill to look at it.
Hettie shook her head slowly. “It’s too deep for just a compress. We’ll need to stitch it.”
Paedrin shrugged one shoulder.
“It will hurt,” Hettie said. “Do you want some ale for the pain?”
