The Third Soul Omnibus One

by Jonathan Moeller

  “A Brother? Clever,” said Luthair.

  Nazim grunted. “The Conclave and the Temple are traditional enemies. Who would think a Magister of the Conclave would disguise himself as a Brother of the Temple?”

  “Who indeed?” said Corthain. “How far can you transport yourself with an astraljump?”

  Nazim shrugged. “Thirty miles, perhaps. Though I would need to rest afterwards. The amount of power required increases exponentially with the distance. Which is why we Adepts cannot astraljump across the continent with a flick of our fingers, alas.”

  “If you, Thalia, and Rachaelis worked together,” said Corthain, “would you be able to astraljump the five of us to a location within the city?”

  “Easily, if we knew the location,” said Nazim.

  “Good,” said Corthain. “It would be best if no one saw us leave the Ring.”

  The door to the bedroom opened, and Thalia and Rachaelis came out.

  Thalia wore clothes similar to Corthain’s; boots, trousers, a mail coat, and a leather jerkin. She did not look in the least uncomfortable. No doubt she wore similar grab during her hawking trips out of the city. Her black hair had been pulled into a tight ponytail, and a sword and a dagger hung from her belt.

  Rachaelis stood besides Thalia, and did not look at all comfortable in boots, trousers, a studded leather jerkin, and a ragged brown cloak. Her sicarr rested on her hip, but she carried no other weapons. She took a hesitant step, then another.

  “Is something amiss?” said Corthain.

  “You mean other than a blood shaman wanting to put a demon in my head?” said Rachaelis. “No, nothing’s amiss. Whatever would give you that impression, my lord?”

  Thalia grinned. “She’s never worn trousers before.”

  “And may I say, Lady Morulan,” said Luthair, getting to his feet with a florid bow. “They certainly flatter you.”

  Rachaelis ignored him. “It’s just…I’ve always worn robes. I cannot decide if trousers are liberating or confining.”

  “Very few mercenaries wear robes,” said Corthain, “and you refused to disguise yourself as a Sister. So, this is it.”

  He expected her to complain some more. Instead she took a deep breath and nodded.

  “I know,” she said. “What do we do now?”

  “We leave,” said Corthain. “Do any of you know a location in the docks well enough to astraljump to it?”

  Nazim and Thalia shook their heads.

  “I do,” said Rachaelis, voice quiet.

  “Really?” said Thalia. “Where?”

  “It’s a…warehouse,” said Rachaelis. “If Thalia and Magister Nazim add their power to mine, I can get all five of us there.”

  “Do it,” said Corthain.

  Rachaelis nodded, and Nazim and Thalia moved to stand behind her, putting their hands on her shoulders.

  “Your hands on top of theirs,” said Rachaelis, and Corthain and Luthair obliged. Rachaelis took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and lifted one hand. Her eyes twitched back and forth behind closed lids.

  Then a silver flash swallowed up Corthain, and he felt a wrenching moment of disorientation, his head spinning. When the light cleared, he found himself standing in a narrow dockside street, a few yards from the door to a dilapidated-looking warehouse.

  “Mercy of the Divine,” muttered Luthair, jerking away from Rachaelis. “That was…that was…unpleasant.”

  “The first time through an astraljump is always disorienting,” said Corthain. He looked around, frowning, and got his bearings. “This is close enough. This way. And keep your hoods up.”

  Rachaelis and Thalia put up the hoods to their cloaks, and they started walking. Corthain saw Rachaelis cast one look back at the warehouse. He wondered why she knew an abandoned dockside warehouse so well that she could astraljump to it.

  Later. He could question her about it later. The sooner they got off the streets, the better.

  And the streets were crowded. Endless lines of carts rolled up from the docks, carrying the goods unloaded from the ships. Orange-clad slaves hurried back and forth, eyes downcast. Lords rode in carriages or upon slave-born palanquins, haughty and proud, cortanas displayed upon their hips.

  At last Corthain came to a ramshackle three-story building that sat right upon the harbor wall. In places, it jutted over the wall, with some of the rooms and balconies hanging over the hundred foot-drop to the water. From within came the sound of loud voices, raised in both anger and laughter.

  “What is this place?” said Nazim.

  “The Red Water Inn,” said Corthain.

  “I’ve heard of it,” said Thalia. “It has an evil reputation.”

  “Oh, deservedly,” said Corthain. “Outlander merchants frequent the Silver Coin, and nobles prefer the Gilded Cortana, but sailors and troublemakers come to the Red Water Inn. See how those rooms jut over the harbor wall? They have trapdoors. Someone happens to get knifed, the innkeeper simply dumps the body through the trapdoor, and the corpse washes up with the tide the next morning. Hence the name.”

  “And if the corpse isn't found, it rises as a ghoul,” said Nazim. He shook his head. “Little wonder we have trouble with ghouls hiding in the countryside and in the city’s sewers.”

  “And we’re staying here?” said Rachaelis.

  “Yes,” said Corthain, “since it’s the last place anyone would look for an Adept of the Conclave.” He headed towards the Inn’s door. “Let me do the talking. Oh, Luthair. Make sure no one tries to rob us.”

  Luthair chuckled “I’ll bleed them dry."

  “Try not to kill anyone, please,” said Corthain, and pushed open the door.

  The Red Water Inn had a cavernous common room that ran the length of the building. Long tables seated men who ate and drank and played dice and cards. A musician plucked out a song from the corner, and a few men sang drunkenly along to it. Two bouncers stood near the door, keeping an eye out for trouble. They looked over Corthain, eyes narrowed, and then looked away again.

  Corthain had spent a lot of time in places like this, and knew what to do. He shouldered his way through the crowd until he came to the bar. The innkeeper kept watch from behind it, a thin man with a perpetual scowl.

  “Aye?” said the innkeeper, squinting at them. “Name’s Bolton. What do you want?”

  “A room,” said Corthain. “Large enough for five.”

  Bolton looked over them. “I don’t want trouble now, you hear? I’ve got no trouble dumping the lot of you in the harbor.”

  “I just want a place to sleep,” said Corthain. “We spent the last three weeks serving as guards aboard a galley out from Khauldun. Nothing but pirates and seasickness the whole way! I’d be glad to sleep upon a bed that doesn’t roll with every damned wave.”

  Bolton snorted. “I understand When I was a lad I went to sea. Well, the first time the boson beat me, I had enough of that. Came here and bought out the Inn. Never looked back.” He grinned. “Better to fleece sailors out of their coin than to be one, aye?”

  “Aye,” agreed Corthain. “Though the sooner I’m back to the mainland, the better. Can't say I care for Araspan. There were these soldiers in black armor at the docks, questioning everyone who came off the ships.”

  “The Swords,” said Bolton. “The Conclave’s pet bully boys. Those damned sorcerers will burn your face off if you look at them funny, but they don’t like to get their fingers dirty. So they send the Swords to do the dirty work.”

  Corthain saw Nazim flinch and Thalia frown out of the corner of his eye. As much as they might criticize the Conclave, he doubted they were used to hearing such criticism from the dregs of the city.

  “Those Swords kept asking questions about the Jurgurs,” said Corthain.

  “Aye,” said Bolton. “A lot of Jurgur slaves wound up here after the war, along with some free Jurgurs. Lately the Jurgurs have gotten it into their heads to kill the Adepts; heard they killed a dozen of those bloody sorcerers at the basilica the other day.
”

  Corthain hid a smile. “Why’d they do that?”

  Bolton shrugged. “Why not? Course, the Jurgurs have been restless for months, even if those fool sorcerers can’t see it. They say the end of the world is coming, that some mighty demon will arise to slay their enemies.” He laughed. “But those mighty demons of theirs didn’t do so much good at Dark River, did they?”

  “They surely didn’t,” Corthain agreed. He slapped some coins on the bar. “How about some beer?”

  Bolton obliged and produced five clay mugs of beer. “Your room’s up on the third floor, first door around the corner. Break my mugs and I’ll charge you extra, you hear?”

  “I hear,” said Corthain, lifting his mug and taking a drink. It tasted better than he had expected. “Oh, one other thing. You know a man named Harrow?”

  “Harrow?” said Bolton. He sneered. “You didn’t say you were a friend of Harrow’s. I ought to throw you out right now.”

  “I’m no friend of his,” said Corthain, patting his cloak. “Some fellow in Khauldun paid me a gold coin to deliver a letter, and I’m a man of my word.”

  Bolton grunted. “Well, that’s your business. Harrow has an office and a warehouse by the slave market. Watch yourself around him. The man’s a double-dealing scoundrel. You’re not careful, you’ll wake up chained to an oar in a Khauldish galley.”

  Corthain thanked him, and beckoned the others to follow him.

  “He doesn’t seem to like the Conclave very much,” said Thalia.

  “We can hardly blame him,” said Nazim. “The people of the city rarely see the favorable side of the Conclave, only its iron fist.”

  “This is not the place to discuss it,” said Corthain, starting up the stairs.

  “He was planning to rob us,” said Rachaelis.

  Corthain glanced back at her, surprised. “You saw that, did you?”

  Luthair grinned at her. “The lady has eyes as keen as her beauty, I see.”

  “He kept looking at your belt and licking his lips,” said Rachaelis. “I’m surprised that he didn’t try to drug the beer.”

  “Not at first,” said Corthain. “He’ll spike the drinks tonight, try to rob us while we sleep it off.”

  “Charming place,” said Nazim.

  “But no one will look for an Adept here,” said Corthain.

  Thalia laughed. “Or decent beer, apparently.”

  Corthain found the door to their room and pushed it open. The room within was larger than he expected, with windows opening to the harbor, though that meant the smell of tar and rotting fish. Bunks lined the walls, and a pair of wooden chairs sat before a rough table, but there was no other furniture.

  “Lovely,” said Thalia.

  “Perfect,” said Corthain. He closed the door behind them.

  “What now?” said Rachaelis.

  “Now I’m going to ask some questions,” said Corthain.

  “This Harrow?” said Rachaelis.

  Corthain nodded.

  “I’m surprised the wretch is even still alive,” said Luthair.

  “Rats always find a way to eat well,” said Corthain. He looked at the others. “Luthair and I are going into the city. The rest of you stay here. We should be back by nightfall.”

  Nazim nodded. “We can use this time to establish wards around the room and the Inn, to alert us to the presence of any blood spells or demons.”

  “I’ll go with you,” said Rachaelis.

  Corthain shook his head. “Unwise. It would be better if you stayed here.”

  “The entire purpose of this is to protect you,” said Nazim.

  “And you are all at risk because of me,” said Rachaelis. She lifted her chin and stared at Corthain. “I will not hide in a hole, behind others, when my life is in danger. My father would not have done so, and neither will I.”

  Her gray eyes, Corthain realized, were the exact same color as his sword blade.

  “And if you encounter a blood shaman,” said Rachaelis, “you’ll need the aid of an Adept.”

  “She has a point, my lord,” said Luthair.

  “Are you sure about this?” said Thalia.

  Rachaelis shrugged. “I can’t spend the rest of my life running and hiding.”

  “Very well,” said Corthain. “You can come. Thalia, can you assist Magister Nazim in raising wards?”

  “I will,” said Thalia. She smiled. “Be careful.”

  Corthain nodded, squeezed her hand, and left the room, Luthair and Rachaelis following after.

  Chapter 2 - The Slaver's Court

  Rachaelis thought about the warehouse that served as Araspan’s Temple. She wanted to pray with Sister Maria, wanted it badly. It would have made more sense, she knew, to disguise herself as a Sister of the Temple instead of a diminutive mercenary. But she could not have done it, could not have worn a robe she had no right to claim.

  So she ignored the ache in her shoulders from the steel-studded leather armor, and trudged after Corthain and Luthair.

  Corthain seemed calm, but his hand rested on his sword hilt, and his eyes never stopped moving. Luthair looked just as relaxed, but his fingers never strayed far from the sheathed knives in his belt.

  “Are the streets of Araspan really so dangerous?” said Rachaelis.

  “Here, they are,” said Corthain, voice low. “Not so much by the towers of the nobles. But here? Folly to wander the streets alone. A man is liable to be robbed. Or snatched by the slavers.”

  “The slavers aren’t terribly particular about where they get their inventory,” said Luthair. “Fine fellows that they are.”

  Rachaelis flinched. A group of Jurgur men stood near the end of the street, speaking in low voices. Beneath their red hair and beards, she saw the inverted triangular scars of the thrall caste. The largest man’s scars, however, looked like a cross, or perhaps an inverted sword.

  “Those scars…” she said.

  “Warrior caste,” muttered Corthain. “Don’t look at them, and don’t say anything. If there’s talking to be done, let me do it.”

  They kept walking. The Jurgurs looked up as they passed, and Rachaelis felt the unfriendly weight of their eyes. The Jurgur warrior’s lips peeled back in a sneer. But he made no move to attack, and neither did the thralls.

  Rachaelis glanced over her shoulder once, but the Jurgurs did not follow.

  “Do you think,” said Rachaelis, “that they were working for the blood shaman?”

  “Possibly,” said Corthain. “I think they were just robbers, though. If any one of us had been alone, they would have attacked.”

  Rachaelis snorted. “They would have gotten an unpleasant surprise if they tried to rob me.”

  Luthair laughed. “Yes, a man is usually surprised when someone burns his face off.”

  The air began to smell worse. Usually the docks smelled of tar and salt and rotting fish. Now the air stank of human waste, of blood and rotting meat.

  Rachaelis blinked. “We’re going to…”

  “The slavers’ market, yes,” said Corthain.

  “Harrow,” said Rachaelis. “Who is he?”

  “A villain,” said Luthair. “And coming from me, that’s saying something.”

  “He was from Callia, originally,” said Corthain. “A domn. Started selling his freeholders to Khauldish slavers. The King found out, and Harrow barely got out with his life. He set up as a freelance slave trader after that. He specialized in hitting backwater villages, carting off all the able-bodied adults before anyone could stop him.”

  “And he’s a friend of yours?” said Rachaelis, disgusted. Perhaps Thalia had been wrong in her opinion of Corthain.

  “Hardly,” said Corthain. “I met him after Dark River. He was attacking the remnants of the Jurgur horde, seizing every able-bodied Jurgur he could find. I wanted to hang him, but our hands were full with the ghouls, and the nobles simply wanted the Jurgurs gone. So they let him take as many Jurgurs as he wanted.”

  “Luthair’s right,” said R
achaelis. “He sounds like a villain. Why are we talking to him?”

  “Because,” said Corthain. “After Dark River, he came to Araspan. He is, I believe, the biggest importer of Jurgur slaves into the city. If anyone will know details about a conspiracy among the Jurgurs, it is Harrow.”

  “You wanted to hang him,” said Rachaelis. “Why will he talk to us?”

  “Harrow loves only two things,” said Corthain. “One of them is money. I’m going to pay him with his own freedom.”

  “How are you going to do that?” said Rachaelis.

  “Because the second thing Harrow loves is own skin,” said Corthain. “Talvin did not seem at all pleased that someone dared to attack an Adept. If Harrow knows something, and didn’t warn the Conclave…he’ll find himself up on charges before my father. And my father is not a merciful man.”

  Rachaelis nodded, and they came to the slavers’ market.

  It was a large open square, ringed on all sides by warehouses and cattle pens. Albeit cattle pens that didn’t actually hold cattle. A number of raised stages stood throughout the square. Various auctions took place upon the stages, as men sold naked slaves to watching crowds of merchants, seneschals, and nobles. Armed mercenaries watched over the proceedings, ready to pounce upon any slave foolish enough to flee.

  “A fine lad!” said one auctioneer, gesturing to a well-muscled young man. “Strong back and legs, and good for many years of labor in either the fields of the mines! The bidding will open at seven hundred crowns! Do I hear seven hundred crowns?”

  “A pretty young thing!” said another auctioneer, pointing at a girl of no more than fifteen or sixteen, who stood with her head bowed, making no effort to cover herself. “And virgin as well, as certified by the Slavers’ House of Khauldun. Very pretty, yet healthy enough for work in the kitchen once her looks fade. The bidding to pluck this lovely rose will begin at five thousand crowns!”

  Rachaelis watched in disgust. An accident of birth, she realized. That was all that separated her from the shivering girl upon the stage. Had she been born to someone other than Aramane and Caecilia Morulan, her fate could have been just as grim.

  “I hate this place,” she spat.