X’on nodded. “Of course. There’s a little girl about two tables over that is practically begging her parents to let her go to the mall with friends tomorrow. But she sounds too young to be going without supervision, I can understand her father’s consternation.”
“Not that,” Ven grumbled. “I swear I…someone said something about a big score.”
“Oh, that.” X’on was nonchalant. “And do you sincerely believe it is something worth your time? Comparatively speaking, I mean.”
“Well, no,” Ven sighed. “But I do like to keep abreast of the competition.”
X’on seemed to relax a little. “In that case, yes, there are two shady-looking gentlemen who are discussing some sort of attack. A rather large creature of unknown origin had absolutely devastated an area called…Gevaudan. From the sound of it, there’s a pretty substantial bounty for its head.”
“Gevaudan.” Ven’s heart sank. “That’s…that’s what the locals call Lotoranath Providence. On the outskirts of Lathshia’s Blessing.” He paused. “There’s something monstrous loose in my motherland.”
“Ven,” X’on said, his voice deliberate, “I understand that such a quest would have some appeal for you, but you must agree that we are somewhat behind schedule, all things considered.”
“Yeah.” His voice was toneless. “We’ve already stalled out too many times because of me. This place is Hunter Central. There will be plenty in the profession who catch wind of this job and can hack it. We need to keep going. I’d like to drop by the guild office, tonight or tomorrow, but other than that, I’m done here.”
“Are you sure? Ven, we’re talking about your homeland. I didn't realize it was so close, we can make an exception in this case.”
Ven snorted. Homeland. “Do you know how long it’s been since I last set foot in the Blessing? Twenty-five years. At least. Besides, all it takes is one look of recognition and I’m done. Or for someone to decide to ask why I’m hiding my wings. No. I’m not risking it. Besides,” he said, his eyes narrowing, “I’m sure they can fend for themselves.”
*
After his meal, X’on had insisted on sightseeing for the rest of the night. Luckily, all the landmarks and attractions were well lit, the sky cloudless, and the moon waxing and round. Ven decided to take his leave as politely as he could manage after he spent the first hour bored near to tears. The pair agreed to meet back up at the hotel X’on had secured half an hour before daybreak. Then he left for the only place in his life that had ever felt like home.
When he did finally make it to the Guild Headquarters, Ven was shocked to see so many hunters had already learned of the new bounty and swarmed the offices for contracts and travel visas, even this late at night. It seemed every Hunter and wannabe in the Known Lands was trying to secure a bond. The goblins sat behind their desks, scribbling furiously, while all manner of creatures pursued contracts: short, hairy Agogwe from the far south, their arms so long they used them as legs and signed their contracts with their feet; a Dzee-dzee-bon-da so horrific that Ven couldn’t stand to look in its direction; even a satyr, its beard and mane wild, its rump sporting a thick, black scar. The folk not yet lucky enough to secure a representative were milling around, either slouched against the office walls in what could laughably be called a line or hanging aimless just outside the door, swapping outlandish stories from the field.
Ven did his best to navigate the minefield of bodies in motion, holding his breath to stem the tide of olfactory overload and trying not to catch anyone’s eye as he maneuvered to the back wall, to where a large, glossy red counter stood. Behind it, a bedraggled goblin sat on a tall stool, a tired look on his careworn face. Behind him, through a small passage, was the Guild Records Room.
“Evening,” Ven said as he approached the counter. He had to call out over the din of the other patrons.
“This is the Records Department,” the goblin replied in Gloobeec, his tone rote. “New contract assignments must be completed with the Guild representatives in the front office. Please take a number, I’m sure one of them will be with you shortly. For quality assurance purposes, please be sure to have your Guild License and Policy Number with you. If you do not have a license, please visit the Licensing Department in Room 23-E.”
“Actually,” Ven said, his Gloobeec rough and unpracticed, “I here Records Room for. Please.” Well that was awful. I am rusty as hell. I wasn't this off when I was in Grok’s Hollow, was I? His smile was a cheerful mix of desperation and hope.
“Ah!” the goblin said, suddenly animated. It switched to Elvish Common. “So rare to have someone actually curious about the records! Are you a Guild Historian, or…Ven? Do my old eyes deceive me, or is that Master Ven?”
“Hey, Groouptic,” Ven said. He heaved an internal sigh of relief. This was going to be easier than he thought. The old goblin remembered him, and after a moment and a couple of mental finger-clicks, Ven had been able to recall his name as well. Groouptic had been recordkeeper for as long as Ven had been in the Guild, which was ironic since he had a memory like a sieve. But he was a sweet old bastard, and he'd never had a bad word to say about Ven. Provided he recognized him.
Groouptic cackled, his scent rising from a dull bored orange to a boisterous green. “What can I do for you, lad? Want to see if anyone's put out a hit on you lately?” He waggled his wrinkly eyebrows. “From what I hear, you're a pretty hot commodity in the field right now.”
Ven laughed. Groouptic had been saying that for years, ever since he'd found out why Ven had left the Blessing. “Nah, I just wanted to check the books, see if a couple old contracts are still open.” He felt guilty switching to Elvish Common, but the old Goblin didn't seem to mind.
“Oh, so our prize pupil's turned Fisherman, then!” the goblin winked at him. “Trying to snipe an old payday that no one’s bothered to cancel, eh? I do not blame you, son, do not blame you. It can be an easy way to make a quick buck, if you play your cards right. Come on back, you’ll have the space to yourself.”
The goblin hopped from his stool, opened the gate in the side of the counter, and led Ven into the department. Once he was sure Ven was situated, he gave the gargoyle a quick hug, smiled, and showed himself out.
The Records books were stacked, row upon row, on library shelves that stretched almost endlessly in each direction. They were bound in oiled leather, with locations and dates inscribed with care and attention along the spines. Ven drug a talon lightly along the columns until he found the dates he was looking for, then tugged the book with meticulous poise from its spot. Groouptic was certainly more jovial than a number of his brethren, but Ven was pretty sure that courtesy wouldn’t extend to one who damaged or, even worse, misfiled a Records collection. Not even the “prize pupil” of the Guild, he thought with an eye roll. He cracked open the dusty tome, flicked through several pages of columns with names, sums, and grievances, each recorded in the same precise hand, until he found the familiar sheet. His eyes scanned down until....
His beak broke into a gentle smile. Huh. Still here. He wasn’t really astonished by the fact that the account hadn’t been claimed, or even that it was still open in the first place. He doubted that anyone even knew the contract existed, much less cared enough to pay the cancellation fee.
But it was a relic of another life, and it filled Ven with a placid, tingling nostalgia. With kindness and compassion, he replaced the book in its correct spot on the shelf, and left the room.
“Find what you were looking for, my boy?” Groouptic the Records Keeper asked as he passed by. “Some long forgotten contract juicy enough to retire on?” He chortled at his own jest.
“I did!” Ven replied. “Tell you what, when I collect, I’ll split the earnings with you. The lap of luxury is big enough for both of us, right?”
The goblin laughed harder. “Oh it is indeed, Master Ven, it is indeed. You take care now, young man.”
“I will. Thank you,” Ven said, with respect, in Gloobeec.
*
<
br /> Ven stood outside the Guild Headquarters. He was appreciating the clean night air and the fading warmth of wistfulness in his belly, trying to decide if there was enough night left to grab a snack before he met X'on, when he caught the scent of earth and indigo on the air. Before he could place why that felt familiar, the acute honed edge of a serrated dagger jutted into the small of his back and a voice sang in a low whisper, “Word of advice, wingless: next time you try to get a girl glazed, make sure she’s not drinking well water.”
“Less?!?” he muttered. “What the cold hell are you doing here?” He tried to turn around, but she caught his arm with her other talon and pushed the point of the blade hard enough and far enough to break his skin. He sucked in a breath of shocked pain.
“Well, I was here to get in on the Gevaudan action, since I’d lost the trail on the wingless runaway with a record I’d spotted hanging around Siplait. But hey, with you here now, I can swing both. My luck, huh?” She braced his arm behind him, never taking the knife from his dorsal region. “Now why don’t we go get in my carriage, nice and quiet, so I don’t have to kill you and collect on your corpse?”
“You’re wasting your time, Less,” Ven sang, but he started walking anyway.
“Oh yeah?” the blade slipped a little further, past flesh and into muscle. Ven fought down an urge to scream. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of how I use my time, lover?”
But he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “I’m telling you, Less, there’s nothing to collect on me. That, and my friends will make sure you regret this.”
“My name, Tanith-at-most,” she hissed, “is Al’lessae.” The blade dug in again. Ven could feel blood oozing out, running onto his tail. A carriage--Less’s, presumably--was just ahead of them. “And your lies betray you. No one would befriend a wingless freak like you. You’re all alone in a big, scary world. Let Lanthess Al’lessae take you home.”
Oh. Lanthess, not Torolathe. I got so busy running a con, I didn’t stop to think I might be getting conned myself. Then he started laughing, deep and low in his throat.
“What’s so funny?” she hissed.
“Finance,” Ven chuckled. “I get it. That’s very good, very clever.”
“It makes a cold hell of a lot more sense than ‘travel agent’, Wingless,” she said. Then with harsh abandon, she pulled the dagger from his back, smashed the hilt across the back of his head, and everything went dark.
Chapter 22
Ven spent the next few nights being ignored. He was bound, gagged, tied up, and restrained at all times. He was not allowed to eat or drink, and slept only because his physiology made it involuntary. He spent his time cooped up in the back of Less’ carriage like a piece of luggage. Any muffled attempt at conversation, any pleas for mercy, any threats, any laugh, any roar, was met with calculated silence. He neither saw nor heard nor smelled any trace of X’on.
As best as he could tell, they were heading south. “South” was not good. “South” meant he was being taken back. “South” was, at best, a quick and painful death. At worst, it was a life in captivity. He tried not to dwell on that, but considering he couldn't find any conversation to distract him, his mind kept casting back upon his worries.
The trip didn’t last forever, but it certainly felt like it would.
*
The sixth night of his confinement, Ven was thrown roughly from the carriage, onto a gravel path. He looked up through bleary eyes and saw a manor house, carved from a single block of seamed white stone. In the distance, he could see similar buildings, and beyond those, the twin peaks of Lath’shial. There was no grass beneath him, and only a few trees; short, squat little things with only sparse leaves on stunted branches. Everything smelled gray, a foul mix of goatshit and quartz. He never had learned to live with that stench.
Home, he thought, his mind clouded, weary. I’m home.
Shit.
“Nice place,” he coughed, glad to finally have the wet, ragged gag removed from his beak. “Yours?”
Al’lessae stared down at him. “My Rahvin’s,” she said. “He has agreed to let me keep you in the basement until your own Rahvin can be contacted.”
Ven groaned, rolling his eyes. “I told you, Lanthess,” He didn’t call her Less. He didn't dare forget her title; being neglected was better than being beaten, and he wanted to keep it that way. “I’ve lost count of how often I’ve told you. I don’t belong to anyone. I don’t belong here.”
“Not true!” a voice bellowed from the house’s ivory-colored front door. Ven turned his head as best he could and saw a large gargoyle, slate-skinned, his curling horns long and sharp and finely styled, like those of a ram. He had hair, which was uncommon in males; it was long, wispy, and pulled back in a ponytail between the ringed points. He was wearing a loose off-white cloak and tunic, and his wings unfurled and stretched out behind him as he walked forward. He smelled lilac purple over angry meat red, which was at least a reprieve from the overwhelming indigo of Less his senses had been forced to gorge on over the last week. He was an imposing figure, to be sure. Ven coughed a little, and spat dry brownish spittle onto the cobblestones in appreciation.
The old gargoyle pretended not to notice. “I am Rahvin Lojare,” he boomed. His tone, his bearing, everything implied an imperious regality. His wings gave a slow flap as he spoke, as if they were impressed by his words. He was quite clearly full of himself. Most true Rahvins were. “You have already met my dear Lanthess, Al’lessae.”
“Charmed,” Ven grunted, spitting again. This time for the show of it.
“When my dear Al’lessae sent word ahead that she had found a runaway, I thought it in my best interest to aid her in her search for your Rahvin. After all, if she returns you, she may earn her way into the Rahvin caste herself.”
“Such kindness,” Ven said, his voice sticky. The way he said that just now… all of a sudden, this whole situation made sense. “So what, you,” he nodded his beak at the male, “fell for a lesser casteling,” he jerked his beak over at Less, “then… what? Started putting some funds together, let her join the Guild to get the rest? And a notch on the resume to buy her some legitimacy, probably. I mean, you can't have a raised Rahvin without a Deed of Honor. I bet you pulled a few strings, greased a few palms to get her upgrade approved. Now all you need is a little more cash and an approval on that Deed to get her raised. And hey, what better approval than the return of a lost Tanith to a fellow Rahvin, right?
“Am I close?”
Lojare’s face crumpled, lost its composure; but only for a moment. He snapped his fingers, and Less--Lanthess-soon-to-be-Rahvin Al’lessae--kicked him in his stomach. He let out a soft whine. It was all he would give them. He'd let too many people hear him scream in the last few months. Great. They didn't even want me. They didn't need Tanith Ven. They just needed a patsy for their stupid romance.
I'd feel used if I didn't feel like dying.
“He’s a quick one, isn’t he?” Less said, still looking down at him.
“Indeed, my dear,” Lojare replied. “Pity he doesn’t keep such insight to himself. As I was saying,” he directed at Ven, “I put out some inquiries about you. It helps that you have such a… specific… deformity. I believe we have a found your Rahvin. Lothshor Providence, unless I miss my guess?”
Ven’s stomach tightened, but he said nothing. Lojare smiled.
“Which means that not only are you a little worthless runaway… you're also the Elves' Shadow, yes? The mythical Gargoyle Assassin? I do wonder how much your Rahvin would get for your head, should he decide not to keep you for himself?”
“Not much,” Ven groaned. “My former employers don't take kindly to poachers.”
“Regardless,” Lojare said, “that would be a question for your Rahvin. My only concern is that you be returned to him.” Before Ven could snark off again, Lojare snapped his fingers a second time, and two Taniths in coarse brown robes hustled from their posts beside the house's entrance and pulled Ven to his feet
. “Take him below,” Lojare said. “Chain him. We don’t want him trying to flee again.”
*
The next night came too quickly. Ven’s body had managed to heal the pangs of hunger and thirst while he slept. That had been the irony of the trip down, he remembered; every night his body would be recovered just enough that the lack of sustenance would feel just as fresh and painful as the night before.
What a terrific superpower. I’m a sentient punching bag.
He sighed and tried to take stock of his current situation. He was sitting in a room, lit only by a small, rectangular barred hole near the ceiling that let in natural moonlight. It was more than enough light for Ven to see by, with his night-trained eyes. His was naked, except for a strip of loincloth over his genitals and the manacles on his talons and feet. His foot was chained to a post; it was most likely structural, and pretty much impossible for him to break. And his talons were cuffed together, with about half an ax handle’s width between them.
Chains. Before he'd met X'on, he'd been clapped in irons three times in his entire life. He'd been bound up and tied down almost double that number since this quest had begun. He felt like he should be angry about that. Instead, he just missed his friend.
I hope the big nerd finds what he's looking for, he thought. I hope he can survive without me.
His back was to the wall, and he had enough give in the chain to stand up if he desired. A few steps confirmed that he could only go about ten paces in any direction before he snagged. At least I’m not hanging this time. That didn’t feel like much of a check in the win column, though. The room--basement, Al’lessae had said he was headed for the basement--was mostly empty, with only a few bits of old furniture, some stone cases, and a busted coal heater to keep him company. There was also a gravel pit within reach to his right, though most of the stones looked like they needed to be busted down further before they would be either useful or edible. He stretched over with an effort and grabbed one anyway. He probably would never have the privacy he needed to try to break the fetters holding him, but he had to try. He sat it beside him, his stomach growling, his gaze creeping towards the part of the room he’d been trying to avoid.
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