Don’t get carried away, he thought. Shemi’s fine. You’ll see.
He replaced the plank and started back to the living room. He would first put away his things, then search the town. No need to panic. He’s probably at the library.
The hulking figure in the doorway caught his attention just as it rushed toward him. Lem tried to twist away, but a thick forearm slammed into his neck, pushing his body back against the wall. The force robbed him of breath and left him gasping. He reached for his belt, but his attacker noticed and lifted a knee to his gut, which was followed by a devastating blow to the back of his head. He could taste the blood in his mouth, and his arms and legs were unable to move. His dagger was still in his belt, but a boot to the rib that rolled him over enabled his foe to strip it away and toss it across the room before Lem could recover sufficiently to unsheathe it.
“Where’s Shemi?” a deep baritone roared.
Lem was unable to speak. Looming above him was a giant of a man with shaggy red hair. One hand held a short blade, and the other was balled into a hamlike fist, poised to rain down punishment.
The man lowered the tip of his blade to hover above Lem’s neck. “You’d better start talking.”
Pain ripped through Lem’s ribs, and his eyesight flickered and danced from the blow to his head. “I don’t know,” he managed to cough out.
“Wrong answer.” He placed the blade on Lem’s cheek. “You’re too pretty, I think. Let’s see how you look with half a face.”
“Shemi’s my uncle,” he gasped. “I’m Lem.”
The man looked at him skeptically, but the proclamation caused him to raise the blade an inch. “If you’re Lem, then what is Shemi’s favorite book?”
He couldn’t remember Shemi having a favorite. “I don’t know. He reads everything.”
The man cocked his head. “Very well. If you’re Lem, what instrument do you play?”
“The balisari,” he blurted out. “It’s by the door, inside the black case.”
“Don’t move.” With two long strides he reached the door and picked up the case the Bard Master had given him as a parting gift, then placed it beside Lem’s head. “Open it.”
A fresh surge of agony rushed through him as he pushed himself up on his elbows. Opening the case, he turned it so that the man could see he was telling the truth.
The man’s eyes grew wide, and the sword slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floorboards. “Kylor’s grace. You are Lem. I’m so very sorry.” Tears fell as he staggered back into a nearby chair.
“Where is my uncle?” Lem said through gritted teeth.
“I don’t know. He’s been missing for five days. I thought you…” He began weeping in earnest.
Fear gripped Lem. “Missing? What do you mean missing? Who the hell are you? And why did you attack me?” He touched his sore ribs. Bruised, for sure, but they didn’t feel broken. Blood trickled down his face from the cut on his cheek, and his head hadn’t hurt so badly since the beating he’d taken from Durst. He retrieved his dagger and tucked it back in his belt, leaving his hand on the hilt. But the despondent sobs coming from this brute of a man were enough to convince him that this had been a mistake.
“I thought you might be the people who took him,” he explained, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.
Lem took a long breath. “Start at the beginning. What happened?”
“My name is Travil. I’m a friend of Shemi’s. He was supposed to meet me to see a play. When he didn’t show up the next day, I came looking for him. It’s not like him to not show without sending word. So I was worried. When I got here, the door was open, and this was on the kitchen table.” He reached inside his shirt and retrieved a folded paper. “That was four days ago.”
Holding his ribs, Lem took the paper and eased himself into the chair opposite.
To the Blade of Kylor,
Yes. We know who you are. We have been watching you for some time now. It is time you settled your debt. Present yourself at the Keep of the Spirit Master alone and unarmed. Ignore this summons and your companion shall suffer the consequences in your stead. We will be watching to know your reply.
Gylax the Shade Summoner ORS
Lem crushed the paper in his hand, jaw clenched.
“Do you know where he is?” Travil asked.
Gylax the Shade Summoner. Head of the Order of the Red Star. He’d hoped they had decided to forget about him. Farley was dead; as far as anyone knew, executed by lawful writ for conspiring to murder the High Cleric. As a safeguard, Lem’s name was not mentioned in the public records. But they must have learned the truth, and now they were after retribution.
“Yes.”
“If you’re the Blade of Kylor, you can make them give Shemi back, right?”
“Has anyone else been about?” he asked, disregarding Travil’s question.
“No. I thought you were one of them.”
Lem’s anger flared. “Why would they ride up in a wagon with their belongings in hand? Are you an idiot? What if you’d killed me?”
Travil was unable to look Lem in the eye. “I only saw you come in. I was on the roof across the street watching for the bastards who took him. I … I dozed off. I’m sorry. You have to save him.” His tears returned.
Travil had said he and Shemi were friends, but it was clear his feelings ran deeper. Good. He could possibly put him to use. “You’re from Throm, yes?”
Travil nodded.
“And you want to help Shemi?”
He looked up, pleadingly. “I’ll do anything.”
Lem looked at the sword still lying where Travil had dropped it. “That’s the weapon of a soldier.”
“I … I was in the Lytonian army when I was young. I never told Shemi. He said he hated swords and fighting. I didn’t want him to think I was still like that. I was going to tell him eventually. I swear.”
Lem held up a hand to silence the blubbering man’s rambling. “It’s all right. I won’t tell him. But I need you to go home and gather your armor, if you have it, and whatever weapons you own. And we’ll need two horses.”
Travil blinked hard, choking back his tears. “I have two mounts. But I sold my armor years ago. I only have my sword and a bow.”
Lem forced a smile. “That will do fine. Gather some blankets and food, then meet me ten miles north of town. I’ll be there around midnight.”
Travil stood, pausing at the door. “So you really know where they’ve taken him?”
Lem nodded. “Hurry. Every minute we delay puts him in greater danger.”
This was all the prompting Travil needed. Throwing open the door, he hurried away, the weight of his steps shaking the floor as he descended the stairs.
Lem returned to the bedroom and retrieved the gold from its hiding place, then exited the apartment. Judd was just returning from taking the wagon to Billabon’s.
Lem passed him six gold pieces. “I may not be back for some time. If anything happens to my things, I’ll be very unhappy.”
Judd narrowed his eyes. “Are you calling me a thief, boy?”
Old soldiers were hard to intimidate, but easy to bribe. So he chose a different tack. “No. But if you keep a good eye on the apartment, I’ll pay you twice what I just gave you.”
This was more than sufficient to tamp down his anger. “Twice? What do you have in there? The queen’s crown?”
“Nothing like that. Personal items mostly. But they can’t be replaced. Are we agreed?”
Judd sniffed. “If you want to waste your coin, it’s fine by me. No one breaks into my place. But a deal’s a deal. So if you try to back out, everything’s mine.”
Without another word, Lem started out for the north end of town. The Keep of the Spirit Master would only be known to high-ranking members of the church. It was a place of penance and reflection, a last chance for redemption for fallen clergy before finding themselves in prison … or worse. Typically it lay vacant, unless the High Cleric had ordered someone to be taken there.
Furthermore, it was impossible to find unless you knew where to look, hidden from sight by a powerful illusion that made it blend in perfectly with the surrounding hillside. That the Order of the Red Star knew of it was troubling in itself.
One thing at a time. Concentrate on saving Shemi. Though to do so could mean that he would be forced to somehow kill the head of the Order: Gylax the Shade Summoner, deadliest assassin in all of Lamoria, rumored to be in league with dark spirits that he could call upon to reveal the secrets of the dead. Lem didn’t believe that was true. If the spirits were real, of which he was uncertain, they had never spoken to him or anyone he’d heard of. What was true was that Gylax was one of the most dangerous people alive, having risen to his position by assassinating the former leader along with twenty of his most loyal comrades—all in a single night. And with naught but a dagger. How many people he’d killed throughout his life was unknown. Hundreds. Maybe thousands.
Well, you’re the Blade of Kylor. But then Gylax knew this and was unafraid.
The tavern at the edge of town, Up the Drain, was a stark contrast to the rest of Throm. Dark, filthy, and smelling of urine and mold, it was frequented by the few troublesome types in town. Crime might be rare in Throm, but nowhere, regardless how peaceful, could rid themselves of it totally.
The bar was empty aside from Killia, the owner, a copper-skinned woman from Gath, who was sitting at a table near a small stage, staring forlornly at a lute, the strings curled in a small pile beside it.
She glanced up, then returned her attention to her work. “Slumming?”
“You could say that.” Even in his worn travel leathers, he would be out of place there. That he’d bathed in a week alone set him apart. “I need information.”
“Does this look like a library?”
Lem approached the table and gestured to the lute. “I can fix that, if you’d like.”
She gave him an irritated look. “What information are you looking for?”
Lem took a seat and smiled. “Nothing much. I just need to know about any strangers in town. Anyone who looks out of place.”
She returned to her repairs. “Can’t help. Sorry.”
Lem placed a silver coin on the table. “Is that right?”
The woman eyed the coin for a moment. “Maybe. But I’m not sure.”
Lem produced a second silver. “How about now?”
She handed Lem the instrument and took the coins. “You say you can fix this?”
Lem nodded. “Of course.”
It only took a few minutes to restring and tune the instrument. Afterward he plucked out a short tune to be sure he’d done it correctly. Lem could play a lute. In fact, there wasn’t a stringed instrument he couldn’t. The balisari was far and away the most difficult. Once you knew how to play it, the others were simply a matter of understanding the tuning.
“Now,” he said, placing the lute back on the table. “What can you tell me?”
The bar owner picked up the lute and strummed a few chords. Satisfied, she set it back down. “Two men and a woman came in town about a week back. Two of them left, I’m pretty sure. The other might still be around somewhere. They were talking to Kirko the night they got here. You should ask him about it.”
Lem knew Kirko—a thief and scoundrel. Shemi had struck up a relationship with him to gather information. There was a “Kirko” in every town and city in Lamoria; usually scores of them. People who knew the ins and outs of the dark corners; who was smuggling what and when and for whom; all the dirty little secrets people wanted to be kept hidden.
“You know where I can find him?”
Killia shrugged. “That one could be anywhere. Check back after dark.”
“I’ll wait.”
She twisted her mouth into a frown. “He might not show up.”
“Then perhaps you could go find him for me.” He produced another silver. “Don’t worry. I’ll mind the bar while you’re gone.”
She stared at the coin for a long moment before picking it up. “No blood in my place. You hear me?”
“I only want to talk to him,” he replied with a reassuring smile.
Killia shot him a sour look, then exited the tavern at a quick pace. Lem knew that she didn’t really care if he killed Kirko, only that he not do it in her tavern. What was worse, they had been together at one time—or that’s what he’d heard. If true, that she would lure him to the tavern to speak to someone whose intentions were unclear, spoke little of her character. He would not murder the man. But she had no reason to trust his word on that. Still, it was a minor flaw when set against the depravity and betrayals he’d witnessed.
As he waited, one in particular came to mind; back in the days when he worked for Farley. He’d been contracted to kill an old textiles merchant. It was one of the times he’d been forced to use a binding charm—the client determined and desperate enough to pay the extra gold for the guarantee.
Lem had infiltrated the merchant’s home and found a dark corner in which to hide and await his opportunity. He then watched as a young girl, barely out of her teens, sit and have a quiet meal with his target. It was immediately apparent that this was his daughter, as the merchant told her repeatedly how proud he was that she had completed her studies at the Kylorian School for Art and Design. Expensive gifts were given and promises of a new studio to be built were made. The scene was one of a loving daughter and her adoring father. This was Lem’s sixth contract, so he had yet to shed the agony of guilt that had come with his new life as an assassin. In fact, if not for the binding charm, he’d have refused to go on.
The instructions were for a special type of poison to be employed—one that killed slowly, paralyzing the victim for a time before death. It was also the first time he’d used the darts he now carried constantly. He had practiced with them enough to be proficient, and at the twenty-foot distance between himself and the merchant, he could likely strike the mark. But he chose to wait. Let them have their final meal; this last moment of joy. So long as he did not refuse to go through with the contract, time was not an issue.
The two laughed and dined until late into the evening, each minute increasing Lem’s crushing guilt. When finally a servant cleared the table and the daughter bid her father goodnight, Lem’s cheeks were wet with tears.
The merchant watched his daughter exit the dining room, then leaned back in his chair and let slip a contented sigh. Lem wanted to use his vysix dagger; to make it quick and painless. But the charm would not allow him to deviate from the instructions. It had to be the poison.
Lem stepped from the corner, dart in hand, shadow walk tingling in his belly, and eased around the backside of the table. The merchant drained his glass and stretched, leaving the flesh of his neck exposed. With a flick of the wrist, it was over. Lem had not yet learned to use anesthetic on the dart’s tip, prompting the man to slap at the sting of impact. He picked out the dart and held it up, leaping from his chair as realization struck him.
Shadow walk ceased, and the merchant’s eyes fixed on his killer, his expression one of sheer terror.
“But why?”
These were his final words. The poison seized hold of his muscles, and the merchant toppled against the table, then slid to the floor. His breathing was shallow and rapid, and his face twitched as he attempted to call for help. Lem wasn’t sure how long it would be before the man would die, and had no intention of waiting around to find out.
“Thank you,” came a voice from a door just off from the far end of the table.
Lem stepped back, his hand flying to his dagger. The daughter was standing just outside the dining room, tears pouring down flushed cheeks, her hands balled into trembling fists.
He knew he should run. But something held him in place; a morbid curiosity he had never experienced. “You wanted your own father murdered?”
She entered the room and crossed over to where he lay, her eyes burning with hatred as she stood over him. “Can he hear me?”
“I … I don
’t know.”
She knelt and met his eyes. “You can hear me, can’t you? Yes. I can tell.” She reached out and allowed her hand to hover an inch above his face. “Mother would have had me close your eyes. Spare you the sight of your betrayer. But then I would have to touch you. And I swore your flesh would never touch mine again. My body is no longer yours to do with as you please.” Her voice was growing louder, and tears dripped from her lashes onto her father’s chest. “I could have had you killed quickly. But then you would die not knowing that it was I who dealt the justice you avoided for so long. It was I who will take from you all that you possess. Just like you took from me…” Her words faltered. “I wanted you to know.”
The girl reached into her sleeve and produced a short dagger. Lem could only watch as she pressed the blade to his throat and drew it across. Arterial blood spurted out in time with his heartbeat, staining the daughter’s face and hands.
Then without another word, she stood and turned toward the exit. Lem was at last able to regain his faculties, and at a dead run, left the manor. He remembered the self-loathing of that night as keenly as if it had just occurred. The misplaced pity. How could a father …
It was another hour before Killia returned, holding Kirko’s hand. It took him a few seconds to adjust to the dim light of the tavern, and he was nearly to the table before seeing Lem smiling over at him.
He shot Killia an accusing look. “Was this what all the flirting was about?”
“I only want to talk,” Lem said, before the man could attempt to leave.
“I had nothing to do with what happened to Shemi,” he stated, emphatically. His eyes darted over to the door.
Lem held up his hand. “I never said you did. But I need to know what happened.”
He was now sure Kirko had something to do with it, though it was unlikely the man would have participated directly. Not to say he was beyond killing. But he was a street thief, preying on the unaware and careless; newcomers and travelers mostly. He was tolerated by the authorities, so long as his victims did not end up dead in an alley, because he could be useful at times, providing information when serious crimes occurred.
A Chorus of Fire Page 18
