Table of Contents
The Golden Mug
Flying Rock
The Nature of Heat
The Old Witch Herself
Earning the Knife
A River of Shadow
The Truth About Kitamin Jurillic
Chasing the Blood
The Crux
Unsanctioned Operatives
Into the Tunnels
Epilogue
About the Author
More from D.W. Hawkins
This ebook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Knife in the Dark
Book Two of The Seven Signs
Revised Edition
Copyright © 2016 Daniel Wesley Hawkins. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this ebook, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this ebook via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
Published by Laconic Press. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content. For all inquiries, contact [email protected], or visit our website at www.laconic.press.
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The Golden Mug
“Land! Land to the west!”
Halfhearted cheers greeted the call from the lookout, if only for the relief of sighting land after so many days of being at sea. Dormael didn't join them. He couldn't blame the crew of Seacutter for their unenthusiastic attitude—after all, many of their crewmates had died on the journey. More had perished later of wounds taken in the fight, and there had been a ten day stretch which had seen at least one body a day given over to the care of the deep. The mood aboard ship was somber.
Dormael had to admit to feeling responsible for their deaths, at least to some degree. The Galanians had been chasing them for weeks prior to their departure, but everyone had assumed they'd be safe once they made it to sea. They had underestimated the Imperials, and the dogged lengths to which their commander—Colonel Grant—had been willing to go. After a desperate naval battle, they had escaped by the skin of their teeth, leaving the Imperial ship crippled to the mercy of the storm. Dormael had no idea if the ship had been taken by the Sea of Storms, but he had seen the thing burning as it was carried away by the swells, and he wouldn't have wagered on its survival.
Shawna had killed Colonel Grant—a fact which had elicited a subtle change both in her and Bethany. The two of them were closer now that the man had been sent screaming into the Void. Shawna had told him about it during one of the days when pain had kept them both bedridden. He had known Shawna to be an expert swordswoman, but he had assumed her to be the sort of Blademaster who enjoyed having the Mark to show her noble friends.
Dormael had been wrong about her, to say the least. He and Shawna had grown closer during the trip. She tolerated him now, even laughed at his jokes on occasion, and he didn't bristle at her company the way he had on the road to Borders. She had won his respect during the fight, and his friendship in the following days.
Those days had been spent healing from their various wounds, continuing Bethany's lessons, and training with Shawna. It was at her insistence that they started holding regular sparring matches, both to help their bodies heal, and to keep their skills sharp. Dormael had objected, until the first three times Shawna had bested him with nothing but her footwork. After that, he had stopped complaining. The crew of Seacutter had started taking bets on the matches, and fortunes were made in the rare events that Dormael or D'Jenn bested Shawna—which usually happened by luck.
Bethany had watched every match with intense delight. The girl's earlier rapport with the crew had vanished after her spectacle with the armlet. It had broken Dormael's heart to see her ostracized by the crew after they had treated her as one of their own. He had spent days talking to them, feeding them a tale about how the girl was a student on her way to the Conclave, and such things were to be expected of new wizards. Some of them had bought it, after a fashion, but most of them had kept their distance from the young girl. He understood their fear, as much as he hated the situation. The sight of her wrapped in the silver tendrils of Shawna's armlet, tossing flame and death in every direction, was something that would stay with Dormael for a very long time.
The sight of land coalescing out of the misty morning was a welcome one. Mikael had meant to head for Minsdurim, in the land of Duadan, but they had been forced to the south by increasingly dangerous weather. It had lengthened the trip, and they had spent somewhere around forty days at sea. Fate had brought them back to the land of Dormael and D'Jenn's own tribe—Soirus-Gamerit, in the southeastern corner of the Sevenlands. The port for which they were making was called Mistfall, and it sat at the easternmost tip of the coastline.
Mistfall was not the Tribal Seat of Soirus-Gamerit—the city in which the tribal leadership made its home—but it was the largest, richest city in the tribeland. Like many things in the Sevenlands, the harbor of Mistfall had been constructed with the help of magic. There were two giant breakwaters erected in the sea on the northern and southern side of the bay, each with a watchtower erected at the tip of their respective peninsulas. The watchtowers served not only to light the harbor’s location to lost ships at night, but also to house the capstans for the harbor chain that could be pulled taut to block the harbor in times of war. The claw-like shape of the breakwaters was what gave Mistfall the more common name that Sevenlanders used—the Crescent City. It was the busiest port in the entirety of the Sevenlands.
“Three more hours,” came a gruff voice from behind him.
Dormael turned from his survey of the water to regard Mikael, the Captain of the Seacutter. He had the hard-bitten look of a lifetime sailor, though he wasn't old, or unkempt. His hair was plaited in a multitude of small braids, after the Orrisan fashion, and stuffed into a cravat. Most of the rest of him was covered in a thick coat that buttoned almost to the knees, and he stood holding his hands to block the wind from the pipe he was attempting to spark.
“Until we've docked, or until we pass the breakwater?” Dormael asked.
“To the wharf, I hope,” Mikael grunted. “Not much traffic this time of year, anyway. We shouldn't have much trouble.”
“Put in at the Chapterhouse docks,” Dormael said.
“The Conclave Chapterhouse?” Mikael asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Aye. As long as you're on business for us, you can put in there for free.”
“There is another matter,” Mikael said, with an expressi
on on his face like he'd swallowed a sour piece of fruit. “The price that Hadrick paid for your crossing was nice, but not enough to pay for the loss of sixteen crewmen. What am I to tell their wives, eh? The ones who had 'em, anyway. Their families are promised a stipend if they die at sea, but I can't pay out sixteen at once. These boys didn't sign on to fight damned Imperial soldiers, anyway. Those deaths are on you and yours.”
Dormael grimaced. “I understand. Listen...we didn't know they would pursue us over the sea. I'm sorry for your men.”
“I've grieved for my men,” Mikael said. “Right now I'm worried about their families, and how I'm going to keep this tub afloat without a mark to my name.”
“I see. The Conclave offers recompense for those who have worked in its interests. It's not widely known, but I can speak to the Chapterhouse Administrator here, and get you a promissory note.”
“Worked in its interests?” Mikael asked, shaking his head. “So, the Conclave hires mercenaries?”
“The Conclave does what it does. Just do your arithmetic, and I'll make sure you get paid.”
“And if I add in something extra for danger pay, and the damage to my ship?” Mikael asked.
“Whatever you want. It's not my money,” Dormael shrugged. “But the Administrator has the final say on what he will sign. Make it reasonable.”
Mikael nodded, and then moved away to harangue a pair of sailors who were botching some mundane bit of their craft. Dormael turned back to regard the land that was sliding out of the mists on the horizon, and stretched his sore muscles against the railing. His leg still ached here and there, and was stiff in the mornings.
“You should start doing the Siyane,” Shawna said, coming up behind him. “It will help with your injuries.”
Dormael turned at the sound of her voice, and suppressed the urge to stare at the Cambrellian Baroness. She had washed the black dye from her hair, and her natural red-golden color was stunning. Her clothing was worse for the wear—after all, they hadn't had much of a chance to restore their clothing during the chaos—but Shawna never looked shabby. The wind whipped her winter cloak around her shoulders, but Dormael could see the twin hilts of her blades poking out from the backside of her hips.
“I don't think I'd be as pretty as you, twisting my body around like that,” Dormael said, shooting the woman a conspiratorial smirk. Shawna slapped him on the shoulder as she came up beside him, but it was more of an unconscious motion than an actual rebuke. She had grown accustomed to him during the voyage.
“It would help you keep your muscles loose, you idiot.”
“It's just...ah, I don't know.”
“It's what, Dormael?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“It's feminine.”
Shawna barked a laugh and shook her head. “The Siyane is feminine?”
“Well, it certainly looks that way when you do it,” Dormael said, smiling.
“My Master would laugh himself silly to hear you say that. You only think so because I'm the first one you've seen doing it. You have no idea how ridiculous you sound,” she said.
“Maybe I'll let you show me, then, upon a day,” Dormael said. Shawna rolled her eyes and looked out over the waves.
“How does it feel to be home?” she asked, nodding in the direction of the landmass growing in the distance.
“Good,” Dormael said, shrugging. “It's a far cry better than the Stormy Sea. I've spent a few nights in the alehouses around Mistfall. It's an impressive place, for the most part.”
“Were you born here, then?” Shawna asked.
“No, I’ve just been through here more than a few times,” Dormael said. “I was born in the northwestern part of Soirus-Gamerit. My family has a homestead there, up in the highlands.”
“D’Jenn mentioned that your mother makes firewine,” she said.
“She does,” D’Jenn cut in, coming up behind the two of them. “His family owns a vineyard. They make a lot of things, but the firewine is what they're famous for.”
“Famous?” Shawna asked, raising an eyebrow at Dormael.
“Nevermind,” Dormael grumbled. “Where’s Bethany?”
“She’s sleeping. I didn’t want to wake her until we docked,” D'Jenn replied.
“I told Mikael to put in at the Chapterhouse,” Dormael said, eliciting a nod from D'Jenn. Shawna looked between them, and it took Dormael a moment to realize that she wanted an explanation. D'Jenn spoke up and beat him to it.
“The Conclave maintains a Chapterhouse here, as it does in every major city in the Sevenlands. It has its own section of the wharves here in Mistfall, and no one docks there, save on Conclave business. The customs people don't bother the Conclave, and Mikael can get paid for his services there,” D’Jenn said.
“Will we be staying in the Chapterhouse, then?” Shawna asked.
D’Jenn shrugged, giving Dormael an inquisitive glance, leaving the matter for him to decide. He thought it over for a moment, weighing the options. They would stay for free in the Chapterhouse, and eat for free, too. Dormael couldn't remember what the food quality was like in the Mistfall Chapterhouse, though he was sure it was somewhere between ‘hard dirt’ and ‘wet rag’. Staying there would elicit questions from the Administrator, in any case, and Dormael didn't think they should reveal Shawna's artifact to anyone but the Mekai, or the Deacon of the Warlocks.
Dormael took a deep breath, and shook his head. “I'll stop in and pen a quick report for the Conclave, requisition some marks from the treasury, and meet you all somewhere else. I'd rather not stay at the Chapterhouse.”
D'Jenn nodded, accepting his judgment without comment. Shawna shrugged and dismissed the idea with a wave. The three of them fell into silence as the Sevenlands came into view.
Mistfall's harbor was full of ships, despite the weather—or perhaps, because of it. Seacutter passed close to the northernmost lighthouse and made for the Conclave docks, bypassing the regularly traveled shipping lanes. The smell of the city—something like a melding of dead fish, roasting meat, offal, and smoke—assailed Dormael's nose as they turned into the harbor. Mistfall was even more fragrant than the run-down hole of Borders, simply by virtue of being so much larger.
Put thousands of people in one small area, and they the first thing they do is start stinking up the place, Dormael thought.
Even with the smell beating into his nostrils, a smile broke onto his face as lines were tossed to the wharves. Men began to scramble over the deck, tying Seacutter to the dock. Part of his exuberance was the simple desperation to get back on land, but a larger piece was the homecoming itself. Here in the Sevenlands, things were different than anywhere else in Eldath. There were no strange customs to uphold here, and no prejudice against magic.
Here, Dormael was respected for his gift, and could display it freely. His status as a wizard afforded him a small amount of social standing—it was even considered rude to inconvenience one of the Blessed, or the Learned. In Alderak, wizards were ostracized, hunted, and killed whenever they were found. Here at home, folks bought a wizard drinks, and toasted their good health. Dormael felt an almost physical weight evaporate from his shoulders as he stepped foot onto the wharf.
He was home.
A man wrapped in a blue Sevenlander cloak—vibrant against the gray mists of the morning—bustled down the quay to speak with them. He wore a thin white stole across his shoulders, signifying his position as the Chapterhouse Administrator. His hood was thrown back to the chill, revealing a neat head of graying hair. Dormael squinted at the man and tried to remember if he'd met him before. He was relatively sure that the last time he had been in Mistfall, the Administrator had been an old woman.
Meris, Dormael thought, her name had been Meris. This current Administrator would have been promoted, then, in the last season.
“Is that someone important?” Shawna asked.
“Chapterhouse Administrator,” Dormael sighed. “He'll be the man in charge.”
“He's...with the Conc
lave?” Shawna said, paling a little.
Dormael couldn't help but smile. “Aye, evil powers and all. I'm sure he's counting up the number of child sacrifices he'll demand from us in order to tie up at the dock.”
“That's not what I meant, Dormael Harlun, and you know it,” she sniffed. “I'm just unsure of what I should say to him. How much to reveal—does that sound so ridiculous?”
Dormael felt guilty for jabbing at her. “He's just the man who runs the Chatperhouse. He doesn't hold any real authority, Shawna.”
“He's like an innkeep who also collects information, dispenses money, that sort of thing,” D'Jenn chimed in. “No reason to worry, or stand on ceremony.”
As he was speaking, D'Jenn moved to put his back to the approaching Administrator, and his hands moved in the Hunter's Tongue.
Say nothing to anyone about what we're doing. If anyone asks, we hired you as a mercenary, and Bethany is an orphan on her way to the Conclave, his hands said.
Understood, Shawna signed back. She still had trouble forming many of the movements, but Shawna read the silent language with determined competence.
“I'll speak to him,” Dormael sighed. “If the lot of you will take Horse to wherever we're staying tonight, and see him taken care of, I'll catch up with you afterward. I could use a long walk on my own two feet.”
“Fine with me,” D'Jenn grumbled. “While you're being interrogated, we'll go get some real food, maybe some bacon. I'm sure there's bacon somewhere in this city.”
Dormael tried to ignore his grumbling stomach. “Any plans about where you're putting up?”
“The Golden Mug, east of the Western Tradefair. Best place in Mistfall, if it's still here,” D'Jenn said.
“The Golden Mug?” Dormael repeated, raising an eyebrow at his cousin. “Weren't you tossed out of there a few years back?” He had been—Dormael remembered it well. The story had been infamous amongst the Warlocks.
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