9
FIGHT, FLIGHT, AND NEW BOOKS
Ignoring love is like ignoring hunger—you never know if there will be a next meal.
Old Gathian Proverb
Shemi dipped his fingers in the cup of water he had been staring at for the past half hour and flicked the droplets at his face. He was tired. Bone tired. Every muscle ached; every joint was stiff.
“You’re getting too old to be running around like this,” he muttered.
The tavern called the Edge of the World had become a favorite, mainly due to the fact that it was unpopular, with rarely more than a handful of patrons about. A good place to sit and think. And the ale wasn’t too bad.
“There you are.”
Shemi hadn’t noticed the door open. Travil was holding a bundle under his arm, the lines on his sunbeaten face made pronounced by a broad smile.
They had met a few weeks prior at a bookseller’s and immediately formed a friendship. Shemi knew that Travil wanted them to become something more than friends. He wanted the same. And under normal circumstances, he would have allowed it. But he could not ignore his situation. Lem was the Blade of Kylor—their lives were surrounded by peril and death. Though Travil was a large man, made strong from years of labor, and could certainly handle himself, to involve him in such affairs was more than Shemi could ask of anyone. Should friendship become romance, how long could he keep things hidden?
Still, noting his shaggy red curls, the twinkle in his green eyes, and the way his face lit up at their every encounter, it was difficult to resist at least wishing it were possible.
“I thought we were meeting tomorrow,” Shemi said, pointing to the chair opposite.
Travil plopped heavily down, his large frame causing the chair to creak under his weight, and placed his bundle on the table. “We are. But I saw this in the window of Grutoni’s and I just had to give it to you.”
“You really need to stop this.” From that first day, the steady stream of gifts had not ceased. “You’re spending too much gold.”
“You let me worry about that,” Travil said, eyeing the bundle with excitement, eager for Shemi to open it.
Shemi heaved a long breath and unwrapped the gift. It was a leather-bound volume of the Songs of the Heavens. Shemi had expressed interest in it only two days prior and had considered buying it. But the merchant wanted two gold; far more than it was worth, even as a rare edition.
Shemi ran his hand over the binding. “Thank you. But it’s too much. I mean it. You have to stop this.”
“I’ll spend my gold how I like,” Travil protested. The man was nearly sixty years old, but at that moment looked like a defiant child. “I have no spouse, no children, and all my siblings are dead. Who else should I spend my gold on?”
“You’ll end up a pauper if you keep this up.”
His smile returned fully. “Not a chance. One good thing about living alone for so long is that you can save your coin.”
Shemi placed the book carefully on the table, then reached over and took Travil’s hands. They were enormous compared to Shemi’s, calloused and strong. “I like you very much, Travil. But you need to find someone else. I just can’t be what you want me to be.”
Travil leveled his gaze. “You’re my friend, Shemi. Nothing more. Yes, I admit I have feelings for you, but that has nothing to do with it. I buy you gifts because it makes me happy. If you don’t want my friendship, say so. But don’t think for a moment I’m being anything but.” He gave Shemi’s hands a light squeeze. “Are we clear about that?”
Shemi could not prevent a smile from forming. Spirits, he was handsome! Not in the way a man like Lem was. But he had a certain boyish charm, yet with a rough, manly bearing that took no small effort for Shemi to resist. “Absolutely. I’m sorry if you were offended.” He released Travil’s hands and opened the book to the first page. The paper was of the finest quality and the lettering and illustrations masterful. “I still don’t understand why you’d want to be around an old man like me.”
Travil coughed out a hearty laugh. “Old? You couldn’t be that much older than me.”
It was remarks like that which were constant reminders that he needed to keep things as they were. Friends. He had not told Travil his age, though the man probably wouldn’t believe him if he did. Shemi thought too much of him to start a relationship built on lies.
“Well, I can’t run around like I used to. You, on the other hand, are as strong as men half your age.”
The compliment was well received, and Travil flexed his massive arms. “Damn right I am. Strong enough to carry you around if you get too tired. You see? A good match.”
Shemi’s heartbeat quickened. He hadn’t felt this way in years. Long before leaving Vylari, he’d resigned himself to the fact that his wandering nature would ensure that he lived the rest of his life alone. But it was here, in the brutal world of Lamoria, he’d at last found a man with whom he was a perfect fit. Should Shemi feel the urge to wander, he was sure Travil would be willing to come with him. Between them they had plenty of gold to get by just fine. Neither was driven by wealth and could live happily with naught but the bare basics … and each other. He was sure of it.
Fate can be cruel, Shemi thought, as he gazed into Travil’s eyes, looking away when he realized the conversation had ceased. He cleared his throat and picked up the book again. Travil could tell that the attraction was mutual, but to his credit, he was willing to accept that friendship was all Shemi had to offer … for now.
They talked for a time, Travil’s conversation having to do mostly with books he’d read and art he’d seen. In contrast to his burly stature and uncultured appearance, he was exceedingly knowledgeable on many subjects—a fact he credited to his father, who’d insisted he receive a proper education. That was what had initially drawn Shemi to him. Rare was a person who held the same love of learning as he did.
The day was cool and sunny, so they decided to take a walk through the public gardens at the west end of the city. He didn’t resist when Travil took his hand. Yet another reason to despise Ralmarstad and the Archbishop, he thought idly, where homosexuality was strictly forbidden. In Vylari, who you loved was your own business. So such prohibitions here had come as an appalling shock. Thankfully, outside of Ralmarstad, attitudes were the same as back home.
After their walk, they agreed to meet later in the northern square, where a theater troupe was performing. Travil was not overly fond of the theater, but since Shemi had agreed that they would go to the nearby Yardline tavern afterward to listen to a young singer he very much enjoyed, he would suffer through it.
They parted ways a few blocks from the apartment, Shemi refusing to be accompanied all the way home. Travil was overly protective, he thought. The streets were dangerous at night without a doubt. But the sun was still hours from the horizon. And he had other business to attend to before nightfall.
Lem would be returning soon, and Shemi needed to find a way to penetrate Lady Camdon’s estate before then. The information he was hoping to purchase this evening just might be the key. As for Mariyah, should she be under the influence of magic, he’d found a Thaumas who claimed to be able to relieve a person of any charm or ailment able to control the mind. Shemi did have his doubts as to the veracity of the claim. According to his research, most Thaumas were not very powerful; capable of only minor illusions and charms. Typically, they sought employment with wealthy merchants or noble families as entertainment or to enhance the décor with what they referred to as glamor. Some would set themselves up as fortune-tellers and mystics. But these were not well thought of by their peers, and were widely known to be charlatans preying on the gullible, or heartbroken victims of tragic loss.
What was truly concerning was that the more he considered the situation, the more his doubts grew that Mariyah was under magical influence. Yet his heart told him that it must be. She would never want to hurt Lem. Or if she did, there would be a damn good reason, and she had offered none, only vague
notions that the stranger had come to Vylari looking for her and not Lem, which made the least sense of all. She had no ties to Lamoria. It was Lem’s mother who had crossed over.
What was difficult to imagine was someone convincing Mariyah to abandon everything she loved. It was easier to believe it was magic controlling her, rather than the will of another. It was well known that Loria Camdon was a formidable person: cunning, wealthy, and fearless. But Mariyah was surely her match.
These thoughts had him distracted to the point that he passed the livery by an entire block. The two large doors were shut, so he made his way to the side entrance, the musky smell of horses assaulting his nostrils. Travil loved to ride and would take him out to a small pond a few miles north of the city. Shemi had never cared for mounting the beasts, but the fishing was good, and Travil would bring along his flute, playing while they rode, to help Shemi endure the ordeal.
Focus, Shemi, he scolded silently.
The interior was lit by a single lantern hanging from a support beam. The stomping and sputtering of the horses, made anxious by his presence, was the only thing breaking the silence.
“Are you alone?” A silhouetted figure peeked out from behind a bale of hay near the front entrance.
“Of course,” Shemi replied, spreading his hands to show he was unarmed.
This bloke was a nervous type. A pickpocket and street juggler. But more importantly, a man who knew just about every shady character in the city. Shemi had become an expert at finding people like this—people who knew things. Things discovered while slipping in and out of the dark recesses of society. More than once their information had helped Lem complete an assignment.
“You have the gold?”
Shemi reached into his pocket and produced a small pouch, jingling the coins in his hand for effect. “Right here. I assume you have what I need?”
The man took another step from the shadows. He was a scraggly, thin fellow, with mouse-brown hair and a pallid complexion. Kirko was his name—or at least the name he told people. A small dagger could be seen bulging beneath his shirt. Shemi doubted Kirko would use it, but better to be safe.
“Stay there,” Shemi said. “How do I get inside?”
“Gold first.”
After a lengthy pause, Shemi tossed the pouch to the floor at Kirko’s feet. With a surprisingly quick movement, he dipped down and snatched it up, shoving his fingers inside to count the coins.
“Well?” Shemi demanded.
Kirko placed a folded piece of paper atop the hay. “You’re insane going there. You know that?”
He did. And were it not for shadow walk, it would be suicide. Lady Camdon’s estate was crawling with patrols, day and night.
As Shemi approached the paper, Kirko backed warily away. “This had better be accurate.”
“Oh, it is. You can bet on it.”
Shemi opened the paper, but in the faint light, could not make out what it said. When he looked up again, Kirko was gone. He then moved near the lantern, eyes straining. The writing was barely legible, as if written in haste. But gradually he deciphered what it said, and a thin smile crept up from the corner of his mouth. This was perfect. Providing, of course, that it was accurate.
“I guess you’re not as careful as you thought,” he muttered. “Are you, my lady?”
A gap in the wards, barely wide enough to pass through. It would be dangerous; one misstep would spell disaster. He could still remember the pain of being caught in a ward. And unless you possessed powerful magic or knew the phrase that disabled them, going around was the only option.
Movement off to the rear, near the row of stables, startled him to attention and at a quick pace he strode to the side door. It was probably nothing. A trick of the shadows. He’d arranged this meeting place with the owner to ensure privacy. No one but Kirko would know where he’d be going. And now that he’d given over the gold, there was nothing more to steal.
Pushing open the door, he spotted a pair of figures standing in profile at the mouth of the alley. The rear was blocked off by a tall fence, so Shemi backed inside and slammed the door shut. No lock. Maybe he was just being paranoid. The men hadn’t moved. It could be a coincidence. Probably nothing more sinister than two friends stopping to talk.
Kirko had exited somewhere other than the front or side, likely through a hole in the wall or something of that sort. Shemi glanced back to where the shadows had moved. Nothing was there. You’re acting like a scared child. He was about to return to the door when the creak of a bowstring being drawn from behind froze him in place
“Don’t move,” came a cold, hard female voice. “I’d rather deliver you uninjured.”
“I have no more gold,” Shemi said. He searched for a way out. But given the size of the barn, whoever this was wouldn’t need to be a very good shot.
“On your knees.”
“What do you want with me?” There was something oddly familiar about her voice.
“I won’t ask you again.”
He eased himself down, and he heard the side door open. “You know me?” The question was met with silence. “Whatever it is you’re being paid, I can see you get more.”
The woman laughed. “I’m sure you can.”
A sharp blow to the back of his head ended the conversation.
10
RANSOM AND PRAYER
Heed the call from a friend in peril, for salvation is earned through deeds of fidelity and courage.
Book of Kylor, Chapter Six, Verse Eight
As Lem’s wagon rumbled over the town border, he felt a strong sense of relief. He was finally back in Throm. It wasn’t a very large town, with roughly five thousand residents. But the town council had done well by ensuring they didn’t lack for amenities, and the hamlet boasted a decent theater, a library, and high-quality inns and taverns. This attracted many wealthy travelers coming and going from the Trudonian city-states. The port city of Sansiona was two days’ ride south; its proximity provided the best goods from the southern nations while being far enough away to avoid overpopulation and the poverty and crime that seemed its constant companion. The tan brick buildings were of similar design, and yet each unique in subtle ways. This gave Throm a distinctive appearance while not being strictly uniform. The citizens would tell you that the moment you arrived, you knew exactly where you were. It also attracted a substantial number of those elderly who had the means to retire.
He passed a leather worker polishing and arranging his wares in the window, and he considered stopping and buying Shemi a new belt. He missed him terribly. More than usual. He found that spending too much time alone sent his mind to dark places. Shemi kept him tethered to reality; kept him from falling into a state of utter despair.
The excitement he would elicit from his uncle once he told him what he’d learned drew a smile, and he quickened his horse’s pace. Moreover, by now Shemi would know if there was a way into Lady Camdon’s estate.
He rounded the corner, peeking into the Edge of the World as he passed. Shemi had started frequenting the place a few weeks before the High Cleric sent word for him to go to the Bard’s College. But it was not yet midmorning—too early for lunch, too late for breakfast.
Their apartment was on the next block, and upon seeing the empty balcony, he felt the pang of disappointment. This meant it was unlikely Shemi was home. He didn’t like being cooped up in the daytime.
Pulling his wagon to a halt, Lem slid from the seat and took a moment to stretch the stiffness from his muscles.
“About time you came back.”
From across the street, Judd Linatel was shuffling toward him, a bundle over one arm and a pipe gripped in his teeth. The landlord was a grim fellow, a former officer in the Lytonian army, who wore a perpetual scowl, even when he laughed.
“Is there a problem?” Lem asked.
“I’ll say.” Judd walked straight by and dumped his bundle at the downstairs front door. “Rent’s five days past due. And that uncle of yours has been avoidin
g me.”
Lem creased his brow. “Past due?”
“You heard me, boy. And if you don’t come up with the coin, I’ll have your things thrown out in the street.”
The concern that Shemi was avoiding him overcame his irritation at Judd’s rudeness. He fished out a gold coin along with two coppers. “Here.”
Judd took the coins and, after a brief examination, shoved them into his pocket. “I’m not running a boarding house for the homeless. Don’t be late again.”
“You said you haven’t seen Shemi?”
“Not since early last week. You’d think at his age he’d know better than to try to get out of paying rent.” He eyed the wagon. “I hope you’re not planning on leaving that there.”
Lem fished out another copper and tossed it over, now thoroughly annoyed by Judd’s attitude. “Take it to Billabon’s for me. Tell him I’ll be by later to settle up.”
“I’m not your servant,” he protested.
Lem shrugged, hand extended. “Fine. Then give me back the coin.”
Though it seemed impossible, Judd’s scowl deepened, and he blew several angry puffs of smoke. “Don’t be late again,” he grumbled, shoving the copper in with the others.
Lem unloaded the wagon and brought his belongings up the side stairs. Unlocking the door, he then pushed it open, dropping his things just inside.
“Shemi!”
There was no answer. The apartment was small—two bedrooms, living room, a kitchen, and a washroom—but it showed no sign of anything out of place. Shemi was fastidious when it came to housekeeping, making it impossible to tell if he’d been there recently.
He looked under the loose board in Shemi’s bedroom floor and found that most of the gold he’d left was untouched. This could be a good thing or bad. It meant that Shemi had the coin with which to pay rent. But then why hadn’t he? He hoped it was something simple. Back home, Shemi was involved in frequent disputes with neighbors. Perhaps he’d had one with Judd, and the grisly old landlord hadn’t mentioned it. Then again, perhaps it was something else.…
A Chorus of Fire Page 17
