Child of the Daystar (The Wings of War Book 1)

by Bryce O'Connor

  “What else could he do? We’ve offered him no other opportunity to strike. We’re too tightly guarded. If we can maintain that and hold out a few more days, I’d bet any amount of crowns you can think of that he will make a move to see what we’re doing there.”

  “It’s an old bathhouse,” Adrion said with a smirk. “What does he think he’s going to find?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Adrion shrugged.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re so sure it’s going to work. Sun knows we could use some credibility in the eyes of the others.”

  Sass turned to glare at him, and Adrion smiled disarmingly, raising his hands in a gesture of peace.

  “I only mean,” he clarified, “that we’re not exactly the most popular figures with the society at the moment.”

  “Which wouldn’t be the case if you’d kept your animal of a cousin’s filthy claws off those records!” Sass snapped, turning away from the window and taking a seat behind his desk. “Because of you it will be months before we clear up this fiasco!”

  “Well, as glad as I am that the other šef finally have some perspective on how essential my numbers are to them, it’s far from fair to blame this on me. I told you not five minutes before this ‘fiasco’ that you were underestimating him, and it takes losing our earning calculations for a whole section to figure out I was right.”

  Sass was silent, glaring at Adrion, who stared right back levelly.

  “On top of that,” he continued, “Master Evony should have posted an escort to travel with the messenger. He can be equally blamed, if you like.”

  At that, Sass laughed dryly.

  “Ha! Maybe, but just go try telling him that,” he scoffed.

  “I’d rather not.”

  Sass grunted, raising a hand in dismissal.

  “I have things to attend to. I’ll send for you if I get word from Orture. His guard have a close eye on the bathhouse.”

  Mychal nodded, setting his crutch on the ground and leveraging himself out of the chair. When he was gone, Sass leaned back with a sigh.

  “You would do well to flip him,” a voice spoke. “From what I saw, the atherian is as good as me. He would be useful to your organization.”

  A figure detached itself from the darkest corner of the room, stepping out of the shadows like she were made from them. Dressed in black silk so thin it would make a decent man blush to see her, the woman approached the desk gracefully.

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” Sass began, tilting his head as he looked into her blue eyes, examining the scars that crossed her pale face. “He’s better than you, Lazura.”

  The blonde woman smiled venomously, claiming the chair Adrion had just vacated.

  “I don’t know about that,” she said, crossing her legs, the silk falling open to reveal the smooth skin above her knee, “but you’re entitled to your opinion.”

  Sass raised an eyebrow.

  “You forget that your charms don’t work here. You’re not my type. And as for flipping him, we’ve been down that road, and it didn’t work out well the first time around. I very much doubt it would be any different now. But regardless”—he leaned forward hungrily—“tell me what you know.”

  Lazura frowned, her expression suddenly businesslike.

  “He’s holed up in an abandoned shop a short ways off the main fairway into the west slums,” she said. “I didn’t follow him in, like you said, but if you move quickly you might be able to get at him before he changes locations.”

  “Not worth the risk,” Sass muttered, eyes on his desk as he thought things over. “If he’s there, he’s holed himself up in a way that would take an army to get to him, maybe in the basement or cellar. Likely he even has another exit you wouldn’t be able to see from the surface. Worse, if he’s already moved then he’ll have eyes on the place. The minute he hears we raided an old hideout he’ll drop off the grid again, and it’ll be ten times harder to find him.”

  “Then let me go,” Lazura said, her smile popping up again. “He has to sleep, right? I can be in and out in minutes and your problem is solved without a—”

  “He sleeps less than four hours a night, probably with one eye open, and is faster and stronger than any of the fat old trims I’ve had you take care of in the past.”

  “But if I can catch him at the right time—”

  “You won’t. You can’t. I’ve been working with the lizard longer than anyone. As much as I’d like to think he’s nothing but a dumb animal, the reality is that he’s smart. Maybe as smart as you, with your northern education.”

  “You can hardly call it an education,” Lazura retorted. “A bunch of brainwashing old nags too rooted in old ways to see what their abilities could offer themselves and the world? The Laorin Broke me. Because I wasn’t about to let myself turn out like them, they Broke me.”

  “Well you’ve certainly put what talents you were left with to good use,” Sass said with a nod. “But even with your abilities, you won’t get the best of i’Syul.”

  “Can’t know that until we try.”

  “I said no,” Sass breathed with lethal finality. “And you will follow my directions, or I will find my accountant a new housekeeper. I know how much you would hate to be taken away from that precious charge of yours. Studying Adrion’s grandmother has already brought you so much closer to finding your original gifts again… It would be so sad, don’t you think, to be taken away from her?”

  Lazura stiffened.

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “I would dare to do a lot, my dear,” Sass said with a shrug, leaning back. “I didn’t get to where I am by being slow and cautious. There are other people out there with your skill sets, Lazura, believe it or not. Not many as good as you, I admit, but those that are can be found and hired and those that aren’t can be bought and trained. You seem to forget who taught you your skills.”

  “Lifegiver take you, Sass,” the woman spat, her eyes narrowed, and for a second Sass thought she might go for the throwing needle she had disguised as a decoration in her blonde hair.

  Then she seemed to think better of it.

  “Fine,” she breathed. “I’ll stay away from the atherian.”

  “Thank you.” Sass gave her a patronizing smile. “A wise decision. Now, if you would, I wasn’t lying when I told Adrion I have other things to take care of. You may go.”

  XIV

  “There is almost always another way. Take the time to look for it. You will go through life with more friends and less scars. It is not the coward who steers clear of a fight. It is the wiser man.”

  —Jarden Arro, Champion of the Arro clan

  Raz crouched low to press himself against the brick and marble wall, waiting for the guard to pass his narrow alley. They were seven in total, a standard patrol, and on any other night he wouldn’t have hesitated to take advantage of their turned backs and relinquish their spirits to the Moon.

  Tonight, though, he didn’t have the time to waste.

  They marched past steadily, torches held high, peering through the dark. In full gear Raz ducked farther back into the shadows, hoping they hadn’t caught the glint of steel. He didn’t so much as twitch, waiting for the last flickers to fade in the distance before he dared the street again.

  It wasn’t often he visited this part of the city. The middle class was a relatively small group, larger than the wealthy by far but still barely a fraction the population of the slums. They were a generally honest people, merchants and artisans who practiced their labors rather than steal or slave for their fortune. As a result Raz had only twice before accepted a contract on a local resident, though he’d done a number of private jobs for some of the shopkeepers nearby who’d wanted protection for their goods.

  It seemed odd therefore that his investigations would lead him here of all places. He did rare business in these part
s, and since the Mahsadën’s dealings ran parallel to his own in a sense, he found it strange that they would be using this particular district as a trading front.

  It had taken Raz some time to discern what was going on. He’d been watching the place in question—an old bathhouse that appeared to have been recently restored into some sort of local bazaar—for four days now. All had seemed innocent at first—people milling throughout, going in and leaving with fresh fruits or clothes or other merchandise. The bustle and murmur of the bartering had taken him back to years long gone, and for a time he’d been hard-pressed to think of the place as anything but the sort of market he and the Arros might once have set up shop in.

  Then Raz had started watching those people he knew weren’t locals, men whose countenances seemed too gruff for the decent clothes they wore. Pairs would enter the building with wrapped parcels and depart empty-handed. Three times he’d seen individuals he knew were the right hands of some šef or another enter the bathhouse, only to leave hours later. Adrion had made an appearance once, as had Vyrr Gaorys, the šef responsible for every crown the Mahsadën leached out of Miropa and its citizens. The pudgy man had been surrounded by his usual contingent of burly guards, all of whom seemed impossibly bigger and beefier than the ones Raz had slaughtered trying to get at him a month and a half ago.

  Needless to say, there was certainly something going on within those walls…

  Turning right, he made his way cautiously down the cobbled street. That last patrol had been the third he’d run across thus far. The Mahsadën seemed to have spared no measure. It was the kind of manpower usually retained for the roads in and around the wealthier estates to the north, and it had taken him by surprise. He was already behind the two-hour schedule he’d drawn up for himself to get there, get in, and figure out what the hell was going on inside. After that he’d have another hour again to make for the new safe house set up at the very edge of the city before the Sun started to rise.

  It had already been over an hour, and he was still fifteen minutes from the bathhouse.

  The city was dead as Raz moved, inconspicuous in the night. Ahna was thrown over his shoulder, her shaft resting between the crook of his neck and the handle of his gladius, her blades hidden by their leather cover so as not to catch the light of the street lanterns. At one point he thought he heard yet more footsteps in the distance, and he ducked behind a large pile of pine crates. There he waited, but after a full two minutes of listening to nothing but the cold night breeze whistle through the street he got to his feet and started running again, cursing his paranoia.

  The bathhouse loomed out of the dark not long after, a large, rectangular one-story structure with brick chimneys once used to clear the steam out of the bathing rooms. There were four doorways, one facing outward from each wall, allowing the separate genders to enter their segregated chambers from one direction and leave in another. Where there’d once likely been open archways, the Mahsadën had hired masons to erect thick double doors with lock-bars that could be dropped from the inside of three, effectively sealing the building every night.

  Raz darted across the road. Reaching the wall of the bathhouse by the south-facing entrance, he looked left and right, still keeping an eye out. Satisfied that he was alone for the moment, he knelt down in front of the door and pulled a thick roll of soft leather from the back of his belt. Leaning Ahna against the wall within easy reach, he unrolled the leather sheet over the ground at his feet. Wrapped inside were a series of odd instruments, all designed by Jerr—with the help of some lower-moraled consultants—and most of which Raz had never used. He wasn’t good at picking locks. Despite his claws, his fingers did well enough with the delicate work, but he’d always been too strong for his own good, often bending or cracking the fragile mechanisms before he could get them open. Even with the picks and shims tailored to fit him he was a better pickpocket, and getting the key always seemed easier than breaking in. Unfortunately, only one of the doors worked by key, and thieving it hadn’t been an option tonight.

  Choosing carefully, Raz selected two of the instruments and tested their weight. The first was the odder of the pair, a flattened steel rod with a long braided metal chain at the end, thin but strong. The second was little more than a long, thick needle, its tip bent into the shape of a hook. Taking this one, Raz stood up, pressing it carefully through the slit between the double doors at head height. Finding no resistance, he slid it all the way to the base of its leather handle, then moved the entire instrument down through the crack, inch by inch.

  He’d pushed it all the way to his hip before, with a quiet tink, it ran into the lock-bar.

  Raz knelt down, still holding the hooked instrument in place. He lifted the narrow chained end of the other tool and started pressing it through the doors at his knee. It took more effort, but after about a minute of wiggling and grunting he managed to force it through. With another push the trailing end of the chain disappeared into the door crack. This done he slid the handle upward until it hit the same metal bar about a hand-width below the other instrument.

  And now for the fun part, Raz thought sardonically. Grimacing, he turned the hooked tool and tilted it down, working blindly to catch the chains.

  It was painstaking work. Again and again he tried, failing with each attempt. It wasn’t long before he found himself cursing between grunts of frustration and grumbling threats at various inanimate objects. After five precious minutes wasted away, he was near ready to throw caution to the wind and take Ahna to the door, noise be damned.

  Then at long last he felt the hook get a solid catch, and Raz groaned in relief. Drawing it carefully back through the door space, he felt the chain strike against the wood on the other side. Then he pulled, hard.

  The hook came out with little resistance, completing the crude metal noose around the lock-bar.

  Thanking Her Stars, Raz dropped the first tool back onto the leather roll, grabbing the exposed chain. Using both hands to pull each end of the instrument, he jerked upwards. The bar thunked out of its hold, and he cringed as it clattered to the stone floor on the inside of the bathhouse. Even through the thick timber the sound echoed down the silent streets.

  Muttering under his breath, Raz rushed to pull the chain back through the crack, wrapping the instruments up again before tucking the kit away. Grabbing Ahna from the wall, he pushed the unlocked door open just wide enough to fit his body through, slipping into the darkness of the room inside.

  The air tasted of sweat, new fabric, and the day-old food that was always left scattered after the merchants closed shop for the day. Raz could hear his heartbeat in the silence of the building, listening to the echoing of the door shutting behind him. He stuck an armored hand out, trying to see something. In the absolute lack of light, even he was blind.

  He’d anticipated that, though, and as he found the wall to his left he reached up, sliding his fingers across the stone until they came in contact with something metal.

  He’d noticed the torches the first day he’d started stalking the property. When night fell, a man would go around to light them so customers could still peruse the wares after sunset. They were replaced when the market closed an hour before midnight, leaving fresh ones for the next day. Raz’s hand found the wood through the iron grate, and he pulled the torch free, smelling the oil waft through the air. Leaning Ahna against his cheek, he reached into the pouch hanging from his hip and pulled out the tinder and flint he’d brought for just this reason.

  A minute later the torch roared to life, and Raz held it up, squinting into the darkness of the room he stood in.

  The building was divided into four large chambers, two for where the men once bathed and two for the women. Originally these sections were separated by a solid wall that diagonally bisected the structure—mostly for the women’s sake—but when the building had been converted, parts of the wall had been knocked down and refortified in several places
with wood and iron. Now an open path for the foot traffic joined the four rooms, each of which had their own door leading back to the streets.

  It was an impressive adaptation, but for Raz it meant only frustration. Now that he was inside, he realized how little space there was to be spared for a secret meeting room, or even a segregated corner where the Mahsadën might make their private dealings. Taking a step forward, Raz raised his torch high, Ahna slung back over his shoulder.

  The chamber’s floor was rough and dirty, the day’s refuse splattered over the tiled ground, dropped by the careless or carefree. There was a wide walkway that encompassed the entirety of the room, wrapping around a flat-bottomed pit about hip deep where the bath had once been. Tables and makeshift tents were set up everywhere, left standing overnight to be claimed by the earliest risers the next day.

  None of it was any help as Raz made his way around the room.

  Maybe they’re doing their business in the open, he thought, peeking behind one of the tables set up along the wall and wrinkling his nose at the soured half slab of meat lying there on the floor.

  But no, that didn’t make sense. It would be easy for the Mahsadën to make a few underhanded deals directly under the noses of the market goers, true, but Raz had seen more than a few suspicious people come and go from this place in the last four days. No, there had to be something going on here, something more elaborate than a handful of minor exchanges. If men like Adrion Blaeth and Vyrr Gaorys were involved, then the place was bound to hold sweeter secrets than it was revealing at first glance.

  This is gonna take a while.

  Moving quickly, Raz began his search, careful not to leave any trace of his passings. An open door was one thing, easily explained by a careless closer or a poorly set lock, but if he tore the place apart the Mahsadën would know someone had come snooping around, and the night would be a waste. He was hoping whatever he’d find here would lead him further, maybe even where and when the slave shipments came and went from Miropa. If his intentions were discovered, not only would he lose his advantage, but the Mahsadën’s defenses would probably increase once again. They might even request aid from the rings in the other fringe cities. None of the other southern metropolises had as great a presence as Miropa, but they also didn’t have the Monster of Karth running around wreaking havoc. Dynec, Cyro, Karavyl, even Acrosia or Karth itself had resources to spare, and it was best not to tantalize them into offering support.