Arm Of Galemar (Book 2)

by Damien Lake

  “It can’t have been to seal off the room. I broke through the door with muscle power. So…not a call for help either.”

  “Perhaps it was. If others were close at hand, they may have backed off once they saw us in control.”

  Marik shook his head. “That can’t be right. When she triggered the spell, she was in complete control there in the room with Hilliard. She didn’t need help then. She could have just stuck him with the knife and been gone before we ever realized.” He refilled his glass with wine. His head pounded, which happened whenever he forced his mind to think in circles. “Like that damned onion…” he muttered.

  Landon, overhearing, smiled broadly. “Yes, exactly like an onion. I’m glad you remember that.” He twisted a small, golden sword free of the bracelet. “Let’s look at it from that perspective. Many times all you need is a fresh look from a different angle. If this is an onion, then what is the topmost layer?”

  Marik shrugged, raising the wineglass to his lips.

  “The topmost layer is usually the most obvious one. In this case, it would be the dark guilds in Spirratta. We learn they might have designs on our charge’s life, and so act accordingly to protect him while near that city.”

  “So what’s the next layer?”

  “Beneath the first layer exists the next. The thing to remember is that the people creating the deeper layers never intend for them to be seen, or at least remain undiscovered until it is too late. The nobles at the court call it Rooks.”

  “The nobles are a bunch of self-righteous fools. Most of them anyway,” Marik amended. “But fine, let’s follow that logic and see what other moves are being planned under the surface. Probably the next layer would be the ambush we walked into in district Thirty-Seven. They must have been counting on us to lower our guard once we arrived safely at our goal with Hilliard intact. All we saw then was the top layer, which is what they planned for us to see.”

  “Agreed. But the smart assassin always makes contingency plans. When the first strike failed, the assassin, or assassins in all likelihood, must have made arrangements with the local dark guilds to find us. Thus the attack on the chapter house.”

  Marik nodded. “We already figured that much before.”

  “Ah, but what then? Having failed the task at hand, would the assassins return to Spirratta to report their failure? Such might mean their own deaths. No, they must have decided a different tact was needed. They were facing dangers they had not anticipated, as demonstrated by your mage powers. So they schemed to create a third layer after we became focused on the second.”

  “Right. We were being careful on the streets, so they had to outsmart us and strike when we felt safe.” A looming question suddenly struck Marik. “Hey! How did they slip her into Sestion’s party? Wouldn’t the other women have recognized she wasn’t one of them?”

  A peculiar smile played across Landon’s lips. He took off the last charm, a wicked stiletto. “How indeed?”

  “Unless they didn’t know each other in the first place. Ferdinand might have rounded them up from all over the city.”

  “Unlikely that he would spend so much time doing so, even to impress his peers. Likely instead that he went to one of the prestigious brothels to hire the lot all at once. The name of their house, if it was prestigious enough, might impress his guests as much as the ladies.”

  “Yeah, that sounds like them,” Marik mused, meaning the aristocracy as a whole. “But then how could the assassin have slipped in with the others without notice? Isn’t that a big risk?” He clenched his teeth. “Damn. I should have asked Ferdinand where he got those women from. I should have thought of that last night!”

  “He arranged with the Standing Spell to host their ladies for an evening.”

  “What?”

  “I gather it is a higher class gentleman’s establishment here in Thoenar.”

  “You mean a brothel.”

  “At heart, yes. But it is supposed to service greater needs than simply the primal.”

  Studying him suspiciously, Marik asked, “How did you find that out?”

  “About the brothel? I asked Walsh last evening while you and Kerwin carried Hilliard upstairs. About where Ferdinand Sestion gathered the courtesans? I asked his lordship in the hallway before we walked in on you and Dietrik.”

  “So why,” Marik continued, more tired than angry, “didn’t you say so in the first place?”

  “I wanted to see how far you would work it out on your own.”

  He verged on asking why, then decided he did not care why Landon acted the way he did. Instead, he posed a different question he’d wondered over frequently since they had departed Kingshome. “Why aren’t you in charge of the group, Landon? Officially in charge among the four of us?”

  “You’ll have to ask the commander about that.”

  “You aren’t going to? You’re more experienced, have better instincts and think faster than I do. You’re completely senior to me.”

  Landon’s smile persisted. “But you listen whenever I mention my thoughts, and learn from the experience. Why should I quibble if my advice is being valued? I’m not power hungry. Besides, if the worst happens in the end, it’s better not to be the leader. It keeps your head from rolling.”

  At times, Marik struggled to decide if Landon was joking or not. This was such a time. Ignorance usually imparted bliss, so he refrained from asking the man. “Mostly I feel like a horse with blinders over the front of my eyes as well as to the side. I’m blundering along without knowing if I’m walking in the right direction.” He clutched the wineglass and contemplated it.

  “I’m sure most leaders will tell you the difference between a successful leader and a failed one is how well they play at cards.” At Marik’s confused expression, he added, “A good card player can conceal any hand, good or bad, behind a mask. A good leader can do the same, projecting calm assurance despite his true feelings. It’s a tip to keep in mind for future reference. Much like that talk we once had about onions.”

  They had strayed from the subject at hand. Marik turned from his misgivings, wrenching his mind back to their problems. Sounds from upstairs told him people would soon come down and steal their privacy. “Speaking of which, the assassins failed with this third layer. We’re on our maximum guard. I can’t imagine they could be so devious as to come up with a new plan that would get around us.”

  “The point of clever planning is to find weaknesses where others never expect they have any. On the assumption that a group was sent to Thoenar by the dark Spirratta guilds, then I doubt they have given up.”

  “We captured one of them. Will the guards question her?”

  “Without doubt, but convincing the guards to pass that information to us, assuming they extract anything useful, might prove difficult. The assassins would change any plans they made before her capture in any event. They plan even now.”

  “Another layer,” Marik murmured. “Trying to make us see only what they’ve done so far, while they attack us in a new way.”

  “Whatever new plot they put into play, they hope to keep us from seeing it. Our next move will depend on whether we hope to anticipate their next move, or make a move of our own based on the information we have.” He refocused on the bracelet. “All of the charms are separated, but I don’t see any changes. Perhaps this will tell us nothing after all.”

  The small pile of thin, golden charms, eleven all told, sat atop the counter beside the bracelet. He pushed it all back toward Marik. A slight gouge in the countertop caught one charm. With the continued pressure from Landon’s palm, the golden circle bumped over the thin metal as the charm pile tumbled before it.

  It happened so fast neither man had time to jump. There was no flash of light. Instead, a peculiar glimmer shone briefly off the bracelet’s surface. A pop, as a giant cork being pulled from a bottle, accompanied a four-foot sword materializing in the air above the countertop. Marik’s spine faintly crawled with that grassy itch he recognized, thou
gh with less insistence than last night since he was no longer ignoring what his mage senses wanted to tell him.

  The sword fell to the bar with a clatter and bounced when the hilt struck first. It struck the wine bottle when it spun to the side. Marik reached out cat-quick to grasp the bottle before it could make a mess of Walsh’s tavern.

  Landon lifted the sword, studying it before reclaiming the bracelet. “Ah. I think I see it finally.” He shifted the bracelet to the blade’s tip, fitting it over the steel and moving it down toward the hilt.

  With a second strange shimmer and a pop that sounded closer to a boot being pulled from the sucking mud, the sword vanished from Landon’s hand. A faint tinkle drew their attention to the floor where a small golden sword tumbled to a stop.

  “Perhaps a better description for this would be a smuggler’s tool rather than an assassin’s.”

  Marik leaned down for the sword charm. “This must be why the servants didn’t find the knife on her when she entered the house! It was on the bracelet, looking like a charm!”

  “A clever piece of work,” Landon agreed. “And also ideal for an assassin. Or, a woman assassin, at any rate. A man might be hard pressed to explain his taste in jewelry when attempting to enter his target’s presence wearing this.”

  He handed the bracelet back to Marik, who began reattaching the piled charms. “She knew she’d have to leave as soon as she stuck Hilliard. Might even need to run, so she spent time putting the bracelet back on so it wouldn’t be left behind. Thank the gods! If she had knifed him right away, I never could have gotten there in time.” He shook his head with a grimace. “At least we know how it works. Far too simple for clever fellows like us, wasn’t it?” Annoyance gnawed at him that he had not tried so obvious a method.

  “Simple, yet effective. But with the details in hand, we might, perhaps, be able to track this to its source.”

  With dragging thumps, Hilliard shuffled down the steps, clutching his head in one hand. Dietrik followed close by. Neither yet noticed the two sitting by the bar.

  Once he reached the ground floor, Hilliard inched his way to the nearest chair like a hideous jelly creature born without a backbone. He groaned. “Gods above! This is too much!”

  “You can only expect a hangover if you drink as much as you did, lad. Just be grateful there is no competition today.”

  “Never again,” Hilliard moaned, sounding as though his upper lip was dangling down his throat. “Never again will I consume that evil concoction! This is too much to bear!” He rested his head on the table.

  “Come, lad. You wanted to be up with the dawn to get in your archery practice. It’s too late to want a lie-in.” He finally noticed the others sitting close by. “See that? Landon’s waiting on you. Be a good chap and don’t keep him waiting.”

  Dietrik continued cajoling the groaning young man as Marik faced Landon squarely. “I think our best lead is this brothel Ferdinand hired his women from.”

  “The Standing Spell.”

  Marik snorted. “With a name like that, and a thing like this,” he hoisted the bracelet, “I have to wonder. Coincidence?”

  Landon shrugged.

  “Well, Hilliard needs to be looked after…” Across the room, the future baron retched with a wet gurgle. Marik grimaced. “In more ways than one. I’m the only one who can sense magic, so I’ll go see what I can about this place. You three keep him under wraps.”

  Nodding, Landon added, “I don’t know where this place is. You’ll have to find a cityguard and ask him.”

  “Figures. I’ll see you later.” Landon crossed over to help the suffering Hilliard, and Marik walked out into the new morning with only a slightly pounding head.

  Chapter 16

  After receiving directions from the second cityguard patrol he asked, Marik fought his way through the crowds to the Standing Spell. The men had thoroughly misunderstood why he wanted to find a locally famous brothel. In the end they eventually coughed up the location…amidst a series of coughs that were not in fact coughs.

  Gray clouds covered the sky overhead. Pale sunlight penetrated through, giving the early day a surreal quality. Thicker cloud banks might move in later if the morning’s cover kept from burning off. Perhaps the dark clouds might provide some rain. The relief from the heat would be nice.

  Most windows along the second and third floors of the street stood open. Owners rapidly undid latches to open the shutters on the rest. Everyone strove to fill their homes with as much morning cool as they could. Later, when the sun crested the skyline to shine directly onto the city, they would all be closed tight to ward off the heat as long as possible.

  The streets, even this early, were crowded with people heading toward Tourney Town. Back in Tattersfield this same sized gathering would only be seen during a festival in the central square. Those had always been the largest crowds he could imagine. Now Marik was glad when he could walk without his shoulders striking anyone.

  Wind swept through his hair, stronger than the mild breezes that had done nothing to relieve the heat since the tournament’s inception. It smelled crisp and clean. Another sign of possible approaching showers.

  Within the Inner Circle, the streets were also thick with pedestrians. He wondered at that. The guards manning the tunnels leading into the original Thoenar were supposed to question anyone wishing to enter if they were not obviously a resident. Marik’s planned story, about needing to retrieve a belonging left behind at the Sestion household, went unused when the guards let him pass without challenge. They must have given up managing the traffic in the face of the constant stream passing through during the festival’s morning rush.

  Most of the early morning gloom did burn off by the time he finally reached the Standing Spell. From the outside, no distinguishing marks revealed the nature of the business conducted within. With only two floors, it was the shortest building on the street, though it stretched wider than its neighbors. The short brick wall running along the property lines lay only feet from the building. A person could walk around the building in the space between, but Marik would not want to attempt doing so while in a hurry.

  The front door rested at street level. A brass handle with a thumb-lever replaced a traditional knob. On a small plaque at eye-height was a silhouette of a robed woman. She held, in an extended hand, a stick trailing dark stars. It must be a representation of a magic spell, Marik mused. Beneath the shadow figure wound a carved ribbon, its ends curling and folding in elegant sweeps. Gold gilt had been painted on the words etched into the ribbon, spelling out the establishment’s name.

  Marik saw no windows along the ground floor. No signboard hung from a post, no displays of wares lined the street. Nothing at all marked this building for a place of business. Had Marik not sought it out, he would have merely taken it for a residential house.

  He paused. What to do next? Knocking seemed wrong. This was, after all, no house, but a shop, though the merchandise was of a unique type. Marik struggled until he finally settled on simply entering as if he belonged and seeing what developed.

  First he checked his sword. Then he reluctantly listened to his mage senses, but they were reporting nothing unusual. Once prepared to meet any danger, he stepped into the unknown.

  The room inside the door was obviously a reception area. It was only large enough that seven or eight people could stand comfortably before new arrivals would force them closer together. He had been unsure what to expect, yet nevertheless Marik found the décor surprising.

  Two chairs, side-by-side, lined the short wall from door to corner while a three-cushion couch was pushed against the longer wall. Resting in the corner between the two sat a steel tray filled with sand in an iron-rod stand, black tobacco ash staining the clean grains. In the opposite corner, a small, circular table served as a desk. The walls were painted a soft yellow. Other than the rough mat beneath his boots and tan carpets covering the floor beyond the entrance, nothing else presented itself. His mind had formed a vague prec
onception of walls in bright red velvet with erotic paintings depicting depraved scenes hanging in thirty-pound carved frames and beautiful ladies lounging around in sheer veils that did nothing to conceal their womanhood.

  Well, the one woman in the room certainly was a lovely face without question, even if her clothing was far more substantial than his imagination would have her in. She sat in a chair behind the small table and ceased poking through the clutter atop it when he entered. Her hair curved around her face in perfect arcs. Marik briefly thought she had fitted a melon over her head, the way it curved away from her cheeks before the tips curled to hover under her chin. Wasn’t hair supposed to fall straight downward?

  From the slight tightening of her lips, Marik could read quite a lot. He obviously lacked the standards displayed by their usual clientele. How would she try to make him leave?

  Instead of telling him to vanish immediately, she greeted him with disinterested politeness. “Are you positive you entered the correct abode?”

  “Uh…I believe so. This is the Standing Spell, isn’t it?”

  “It is.” Her lips, highlighted with pink gloss, pursed further. “I ask because you don’t appear to belong here.”

  Marik delivered his prepared story in, what he hoped, was an air of casual authority. Given that he had no idea what he might discover in this place, he’d decided that acting with the arrogant pompousness of the nobles would deflect any recognition. They might mistake him for a noble’s personal guard rather than a hired mercenary. “I have come to speak with the…the owner. Concerning the attack on a noble-born last night by one of your pr—employees.” He glanced around, as if no possible action lay open to her other than to leap at his command. In truth he listened hard for any large sides of beef masquerading as bouncers who might be about to descend on him. Or worse types than that.