The Knife in the Dark

by D. W. Hawkins

  “Now I know why the two of you have no idea how to talk to proper ladies,” Shawna said as Seylia started to play again. “You don't know any grown women.”

  “You'll have to ignore Seylia,” D'Jenn said, taking another pull from his cup. “She likes to stir things up. It's like a reflex for her.”

  “I've reflexes of my own,” Shawna said, rolling her eyes in Seylia's direction.

  “She's not so bad, once you get to know her,” Dormael said.

  “How do you know her?” Shawna asked, giving Dormael a look he couldn't quite discern.

  “Seylia is famous in certain circles,” Dormael said. “She's got her ears to the ground about a lot things. We met a few years ago while I was on a mission.”

  “She's highly sought after for her talents,” D'Jenn added. “She gets invited to perform at a lot of parties, and makes a lot of friends. Seylia's unmarried, independently wealthy...she's something of a personality.”

  “I'm sure it's her talents and personality that get her through life, alright,” Shawna said. “And I'm sure that's the only reason the two of you are so friendly, too.” She gave Dormael a meaningful look and shook her head, gesturing in Seylia's direction.

  “What's that supposed to mean?” Dormael said.

  “I'm not an idiot, Dormael. I saw her trying to eat your face earlier,” Shawna said, shaking her head. “Just when I was beginning to think you weren't all that bad, you prove me wrong.”

  Dormael laughed. “Do you think I'm the only man that she treats that way?”

  “Do you think that makes it any better?” she shot back.

  “Better? Better than what?”

  “Just better, Dormael. You know what I mean.”

  “I surely don't.”

  “Then you're an idiot,” she sighed.

  “Idiot? All I've done all day is take a long walk, and tried to be pleasant. I didn't know I was being judged by some obscure, womanly standard.”

  “Womanly?” she laughed.

  “Yes, womanly,” he said. “You can change that out with 'irrational' if you like.”

  “You're on dangerous ground, Dormael Harlun.”

  “I apparently have been all day, through no fault of my own. I don't see why I should stop now,” he said.

  What in the Six Hells was she so damned angry about?

  Shawna laughed to herself, though the smile on her face was forced. She downed the rest of her drink, and started to gather up her things. She roused Bethany from beside her, and rose to leave. Dormael looked at her as if she was crazy.

  “It's been a long voyage,” she said. “We've been stuffed in a boat together for too long. I'm going to go soak in a bath somewhere more quiet than this.”

  Dormael looked pointedly at the windows, where afternoon light still shone in through the glass.

  “Might be a good idea,” he said.

  She gave him another dangerous look. “I'll see the two of you at first light. Come along, Bethany.”

  With that, Shawna stalked toward the stairs in the back of the common room, dragging a silent Bethany behind her. Dormael watched her go, feeling an odd bit of guilt squirming around in his chest. Why was the woman taking her anger at Seylia out on him?

  “So,” D'Jenn said as Shawna disappeared, “all that time the two of you were laid up because of your injuries, this is what was going on.”

  “There was nothing going on,” Dormael grumbled.

  “Of course, because you've always done such a good job of controlling yourself around women before. What was I thinking?” D'Jenn laughed.

  “It's nothing like that, D'Jenn,” Dormael said. “We've talked a lot, sure, but there's never been any flirtation. She's always scolding me about the way I am with women—that's all this was. She just went overboard this time.”

  D'Jenn narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. “Dormael—she's an eastern girl. You know what that means—she's been kept chaste, so that her father could marry her off to some noble lordling one day. You can't treat her the same way you treat barmaids and Sevenlander women. She's not as...worldly.”

  Dormael sighed. “I haven't been trying to treat her any sort of way but friendly, D'Jenn. Soothword. I don't know where this is coming from.”

  D'Jenn just shook his head and went back to his drink.

  Seylia began to pluck something somber on her guitar, and the ambiance in the room calmed to a low murmur. Dormael ordered another round of drinks from the serving girl, and settled against the back of his chair, letting the alcohol warm his limbs. Lanterns were struck as the twilight came on, and patrons began to pack the empty spaces available.

  “Did the Administrator have anything to say?” D'Jenn asked. The serving girl brought them a tray of trenchers, meat, and various cooked vegetables, which interrupted Dormael's reply. Once the food was settled, Dormael asked the girl to make sure that Shawna got something to eat. He was feeling a bit more guilty about their argument now that he'd had time to brood over it.

  I’m probably just drunk.

  “He mentioned something, actually,” Dormael said as the girl dodged back into the crowd. “He said that there's been some talk about Galanians imprisoning Sevenlanders, maybe searching out Conclave agents within its borders. Wizards have been heading for Ishamael in droves. He said that by the time we make it back to the Conclave, it will be packed with wizards.”

  “Imprisoning our agents?” D'Jenn asked, his brow furrowing in thought. “Maybe he means local informants, or something. The only agents we'd have in Galania would either be Philosophers, or Warlocks, and I couldn't imagine either just letting themselves be taken like that.”

  “To be fair, he said rounding up Sevenlanders, and possibly looking for our agents,” Dormael said. “Then the bastard tried to pump me for information. When I told him I didn't know anything, I'm fairly sure he thought I was lying.”

  “Every wizard thinks the Warlocks keep grand secrets from them, like we're an all-knowing secret society,” D'Jenn laughed, shaking his head. “How disappointed they would be to know the truth.”

  “Something about it doesn't make sense,” Dormael said.

  “One would think that the Galanian Empire would have enemies closer to home to worry about, rather than rounding up Sevenlanders in the first place,” D'Jenn said.

  “The Administrator said that there's a lot of grumbling about the Mekai, and his lack of response,” Dormael added, taking a drink from his mug. “Sounds ominous.”

  “There's always grumbling about one thing or another,” D'Jenn said, waving a dismissive hand. “What do people expect him to do, marshal the Conclave for war? Since the use of magic in warfare has been forbidden for hundreds of years, grumbling is useless. It will blow over.”

  “You're probably right,” Dormael sighed, leaning back in his seat. “It could be a good thing, having everyone back at the Conclave. We might run into some old friends. It's been awhile since I've seen a lot of the people we went through the Crucible with.”

  The Crucible was a Warlock's final test, the culmination of their training. It always involved being pitted against a pair of more experienced wizards in some extreme situation, like an escape, or a chase. Violence, intrigue, stealth, and cunning were all needed to pass the Crucible. A Warlock's peer group was always small, even amongst wizards. Classes ended up growing close to one another.

  “It would be good to see a few of them,” D'Jenn nodded. “Though some can keep their distance, as far as I'm concerned.”

  “Hopefully they're all still alive,” Dormael smiled.

  “Indeed,” D'Jenn replied, the ale having blushed his pale cheeks. He raised his mug and clanked it hard into Dormael's, spilling a bit of his ale. “Here's to the hope that they're all still breathing.”

  “To the slim hope,” Dormael answered, taking a long pull. He hadn't seen most of them since the day they had earned their status as full wizards, and Warlocks. Warlocks were dispatched in pairs when they worked with company at all, and organ
ized into a very loose hierarchy. D'Jenn and Dormael worked so well together, having grown up practically brothers, that the deacon of their order had paired them up without a second thought.

  “What are you brooding on now, magus?” Seylia asked, plopping down in the seat between the two of them. She winked at Dormael, and gave him a challenging smile.

  Dormael banished the thoughts of his comrades back at the Conclave, and returned the expression with one of his own.

  “The state of my drink.”

  “And what's the state of it, then?” she said.

  Dormael drained his cup in a single, long gulp.

  “Empty,” he said, slamming it on the table.

  “Well, then, we should remedy that with something that packs a real punch,” she smiled. “No more of this foamy stuff for you. Time for something that will burn a hole in your stomach.”

  Dormael laughed, but felt his stomach protest at the thought. “Seylia, we've been at sea for nearly half a season.”

  “Have you, now?” she replied, cupping his face in her hand. “Did you lose your manhood somewhere along the way?” D'Jenn laughed at her comments, but she turned an evil eye on him, too. “Don't think you're getting off without one, either, O Angry One.”

  “I'm the angry one?” D'Jenn asked.

  Seylia gestured the serving girl over to the table. “Are you denying it?”

  D'Jenn snorted and looked away, trying not to smile. “This is not going to end well.”

  “It's not supposed to, dear,” Seylia said, before ordering three cups of the strongest firewine the Golden Mug had on hand. “Strong drink and regret go hand-in-hand. The gods need something to laugh at, after all.”

  It had been awhile since Dormael had let himself get drunk—at least since they had left Alton’s. The firewine pulled a pleasant curtain over his vision, blurring the harder edges of the world into softness. He ate another plate of food, and lit a pipe to commemorate its passing. Some of the stress of the road bled from his shoulders as he immersed himself in the ambiance of his homeland. He was always guarded in the east, ever wary of someone discovering the secret of his power. Being home again felt like dipping into a warm bath after a long, cold day.

  Seylia leaned ever closer to him as the night went on, and Dormael made no move to dissuade her. Her presence was exciting, and the two of them had been close for years. Dormael had never given thought to settling with any one woman—his line of work, in fact, made the very idea seem ridiculous—and Seylia was notorious for spurning the advances of those who would tie her down. No matter what Shawna thought, Dormael did care for her, but the both of them knew that whatever time they shared together would never amount to anything more than it was. It was never going to happen.

  “D'Jenn looks to be enjoying himself,” Seylia said, indicating where the normally dour wizard was close in conversation with a woman at another table.

  “It's good to see,” Dormael nodded, pulling on his pipe. “He's usually got two moods—intense, and more intense.”

  “And your friend—the pretty one with the swords—what are her moods like?”

  “They change like the seasons,” Dormael smiled. “She was...difficult when we first met her. Since then, though, she's become a friend. It's odd.”

  “What's odd about it?” Seylia asked, giving him a sidelong glance.

  “Nothing,” Dormael shrugged.

  “No, I want to know,” Seylia laughed. “Tell me.”

  “She's hard to anticipate,” he said, trying to form words around the feeling he was trying to convey. “She'll go from dressing me down to starting snowball fights. She'll tell me what a bastard I am in one breath, then tell me something in confidence the next. It's hard to figure her out.”

  “I see,” Seylia said, peering at him even closer. “What is it you like about her, then? That sounds maddening to me.”

  “She's genuine,” Dormael said, surprising himself when the words came out without hesitation. “Whatever you're getting with her, you can be sure it's actually what she's feeling. She's smart, too—that's always a welcome thing.”

  “I think that's more thought than you've ever put toward a woman in your life,” Seylia said, slapping him on the arm.

  “You, too? Why is every woman so keen to shit on me today?” he asked, softening his words with a smile.

  “I'm not shitting on you, Dormael, just making an observation,” she said, returning his smile. “I like your simplicity.”

  “Simplicity?” he asked.

  “I like our simplicity,” she clarified. “Now, why don't you forget about your red-headed friend, and come do something simple with me?”

  Dormael felt a smile crack his features before he could stop it. “I like our simplicity, too. Why are you so concerned with Shawna, anyway? Is the notorious Seylia Six Strings actually jealous of another woman?”

  Seylia smiled. “Jealous isn't even close to the right word, magus. Forget her. D'Jenn is dragging that poor girl up the stairs as we speak, anyway. Are you two sharing a room?”

  “We are,” Dormael said, unable to keep from smiling as he watched D'Jenn being led away by a beaming brunette. She looked wholesome and sweet. Dormael spent a bare moment wondering how in all of Eldath his cousin had convinced the poor girl to give him the time of day, but then turned back to Seylia.

  “Looks like you're bed-less for a while,” she smiled. “Good thing I'm willing to share.”

  “Far be it from me to turn down such a kindness,” he said.

  “Finish your drink, then,” she purred, leaning forward to give him a kiss. When their lips parted, she grabbed her cup from the table and drained it in one gulp. Dormael followed her example. Seylia stood, grabbed him by the arm, and allowed him to walk her up the stairs that led to the upper rooms.

  Gods, he thought, it really is good to be home.

  Flying Rock

  Dormael woke the next morning in his own bed, having crept back into it sometime during the night. His mouth tasted like sour firewine, and his stomach rumbled in protest, as if it had been waiting for him to stir. He grimaced and climbed from the bed, stumbling to the shutters. The sun was just a haze of orange below the horizon, and the twilight looked chilly. Mist choked the streets, creating an odd vista of disembodied buildings and hazy outlines. The mist was what gave Mistfall its name, caused by some natural phenomenon about which Dormael didn't much care. He took a deep breath and turned away from the window as he heard D’Jenn sit up in his own bed.

  “Does your head feel like it's packed with stuffing?” Dormael asked.

  “More like warm, soupy shit,” D'Jenn grimaced. “Why did I let that woman talk me into drinking that much?”

  “She didn't do much talking, really. Your resistance was token at best,” Dormael smiled.

  “Women like that have you going their way before you know what's good for you,” D'Jenn grumbled. “I'm convinced it's another form of magic.”

  “Not magic,” Dormael said. “Just beauty and wit. It's compelling.”

  “That smile on your face is sickening,” D'Jenn laughed. “Beauty and wit, indeed. My guess is that she took you to bed last night and drained all your fire out. Now you're getting all misty-eyed whenever your mind turns to her, because all you can think about is what she looked like naked and covered in sweat.”

  Dormael smiled. “It's not all I can think about...but it is a nice thought.”

  “Let's get out of this place before she wakes up,” D'Jenn sighed. “Seylia is wonderful and all, but I'd rather avoid her tendency to stir up trouble. The last thing I want to listen to this morning is her and Shawna nattering at each other and showing their claws.”

  Dormael felt a little guilty, but he completely agreed. “Right. I'd like to hurry along, in any case. If we make good time, perhaps we can stop by my family's homestead.”

  “You plan on visiting?” D'Jenn asked, pausing in his efforts to rub the sleep from his eyes.

  “I'd like to. I've probabl
y got a stack of letters from my mother waiting at the Conclave anyway, and if anyone finds out that we traveled through the area and didn't visit, you know what an uproar there will be,” Dormael said. “They'll come after both of us.”

  “Aye, they probably will,” D'Jenn sighed. “It's not a bad idea, anyway. Your mother will stack food on top of us, fill our saddlebags with a ton of stuff, and let us take whatever we want from the homestead, too. It's better than sleeping on the side of the road in the highlands.”

  “Indeed,” Dormael nodded. “Allen might be there, too, and I was thinking—”

  “That you’d like to bring him along?” D’Jenn said.

  “He could be a great help, especially if we run into any trouble,” Dormael nodded. “Plus, another sword wouldn't hurt. I've got a strange feeling about all of this political trouble.”

  “Another sword?” D'Jenn smiled. “Knowing your brother, it will be about three swords, plus a shortbow, maybe a few axes. The man is a walking armory.”

  “True enough,” Dormael snickered. “In any case, I wouldn't mind having him along. He might want to get away from the vineyard, too, if he's home.”

  “So you’ve come around to my way of thinking—that caution was the best approach?”

  “I might be overreacting,” Dormael sighed, nodding, “but something about this is putting my hackles up. I can't tell you why, exactly. It's just a feeling.”

  D'Jenn shrugged. “If you think we should be more careful, there isn't any harm in it. I guess we should get started, then. I’ll wake the girls.”

  With that, D'Jenn left the room, and Dormael turned to start getting ready.

  Despite the amount of time it took everyone to bathe and make ready to leave, the sun was only just starting to paint the mist in morning light by the time they met in front of the stables. Mistfall was quiet, since only a fraction of its citizens rose so early in the morning. The rampant buzz of the afternoon was oddly absent. The sounds of straps being tightened on saddlebags, and gear being secured to pack horses seemed obnoxious in the misty quiet of the dawn.