by Eddie Han
Noticing his culling eyes, she mocked a turn. He passed quickly over her bust and backside, for they were of little consequence to him. “May I see your feet?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Your feet. May I see them?”
“You can see whatever you like, honey,” she replied with a wink.
Then she pulled her evening dress up to her ankle with one hand, slipped her right foot out of her gold pumps, and held it just off the ground.
“And the other one?”
With a bemused flick of the brow, she repeated with her left.
“Satisfied?” she asked.
Her feet were just the way he liked them. The toes, treated and perfectly scaled in length, each slender but none too boney. Fair and flawless.
“Quite,” he replied, excusing his bodyguards.
An hour later, the two of them had brunch in the hotel restaurant; they exchanged a kiss and a promise of another rendezvous later that evening before Hilda left. Like a child who’d just been dropped off at boarding school, Cain watched her round a corner and disappear. He sighed.
Hilda was one of several affiliated girls under Rogue oversight that had that effect on men—the ability to scale an impenetrable façade and leave a lasting impression, even after a single tussle. The Carousel Rogues often employed them to elicit sensitive information from people of interest. And that was why the new guild master had contacted Hilda just days before to take on the role.
Three blocks from the Rue Ayan, Hilda stopped to rest her feet. She sat on a park bench occupied by a man reading the daily paper, a black rose on his lapel. She removed her heel and began massaging her sole.
“He’s in room one-five-zero-two,” she said, as if speaking into the wind. “The meeting will be at midnight, pink factory, old garment district.”
The man abruptly folded his paper, stood, and walked away, leaving in his place an envelope filled with cash. She took it and disappeared.
By eleven forty-five that evening, a Shaldean convoy was traveling down Seventh Street through Trivelka Square.
“Was it all there?” asked Omar.
“Enough to arm every one of us twice,” his minion replied. “Rifles, scimitars, and kegs of powder. We are all ready, afendi. Nothing can stop us now.”
“Pride before the fall, Amsa. Our vengeance comes on the coattails of the Balean Kingdom. Be wise with your words lest the Maker foil our plans.”
The road carried them through the warrens. Beyond that was the old, abandoned garment district on the edge of the bay, now little more than a cluster of rusted steel structures—skeletons that spoke of an industry passed, remnants of investments lost. Surrounded by water to the north and northeast, and bordering Trivelka Square on the slum-side was a large, empty warehouse. It was once the factory for a line of women’s intimate apparel. On the roof, there was an old, sodden advertising board where traces of faded paint had in the past displayed a reclining woman in her undergarments. A slogan across the bottom now barely legible read: Think Pink!
There was a back entrance in the loading dock on the east end of the warehouse. A carriage was parked there, its tow-horse buried in the provided trough. Omar Basiliech and his entourage of nine men pulled up beside it. Two guards dressed in black suits, heavily armed, were waiting for them by the entrance. They introduced themselves as Cain Stoyanov’s bodyguards before one of them showed Omar and all but one of his men in.
Omar was led through the dark warehouse by Stoyanov’s guard. Concrete pillars partitioned off what were once sewing stations. At the end of the north side, there was a soft glow coming from an executive meeting room. The meeting room was bare but for a few chairs, a conference table, and a large window overlooking the bay. Even the doors had been removed from their hinges. Cropped through the doorframe, Omar could see a lantern placed on top of the conference table. And sitting in a swivel chair with his back to the entry, silhouetted by the light, was Cain.
“Peace be upon you, Mister Stoyanov. We received your…” Passing the threshold, Omar noticed another man in a black tieless business suit sitting at the head of the table on the east end of the room. He was wearing a white, ghostly mask. “You did not mention any guests.”
There was no response.
Stoyanov’s guard spun Cain around in his chair. Omar recoiled at the sight and his entourage immediately drew their pistols and daggers. The arms dealer’s eyes were open, his jaw slack, head hanging to the side from an open throat that had stained the white of his shirt with blood.
“What is this?” asked Omar.
Amsa clutched the duffle bag and backed into a previously unaccounted for apparition that had appeared in the entryway behind him—the Vengian, standing as still as a stone.
Amsa dropped the duffle bag and raised his pistol. The Vengian came alive like a flash of lightning. Movement of his black camouflage created a dissonance against the darkness behind him that revealed his otherwise camouflaged form. He grabbed the Shaldean’s wrist, twisted it back, drew his blade, and jabbed it in and out of his chest like a sewing needle, striking the heart. As if their deaths had been coordinated, five more Shaldea were dispatched in a matter of seconds, the sound of misfired pistols followed by bodies hitting the floor in rapid succession. There were no unnecessary acrobatics and no style in the way the Vengian took life. Just perfectly calculated, efficient movements with dexterity and speed that left the dwindling witnesses in awesome terror.
At last, he sheathed his blade, grabbed the two throwing knives tucked under his arms and, with a flick of the wrists, sent them flying into the heads of the remaining two Shaldea who were huddled in a corner shielding their leader.
When the smoke cleared, Omar was standing alone, surrounded by a disarrangement of bodies.
“Who…who are you?” he asked, blood pooling around his shoes.
“I wish to illustrate a point, so pay close attention,” Magog replied.
On cue, the Vengian walked up behind Stoyanov’s guard, who was in fact a Rogue in disguise, assigned to this detail by Remy. The Vengian then stabbed him in the back through the lung.
“Do you know what I have learned in all my years wandering to and fro throughout the world? The futility of it all. That the sanctity of life is a lie. We are no more precious than dust and stones.” Magog removed his mask revealing his tattooed face. He then leaned forward and looked at Omar with the fury of hell in his eyes. “Death is the only absolute.”
“Zaal’mavorte!” shouted Omar. He fell to his knees, his hands trembling, the scent of blood and feces in the air churning his stomach. “Please, afendi. I have withheld nothing. I don’t know where Yusef Naskerazim is. I swear it! All of our dealings with him are conducted strictly through a proxy.”
“Shh. I believe you, Omar.” Magog stood and walked over to where Amsa lay. He picked up his duffle bag, placed it on the table and opened it. From it, he drew a bundle of Balean crowns. “What is the name of this proxy?”
“Enlil Fairchild. He is a wealthy man. A mining mogul.”
“‘A mining mogul?’ Is there no limit to Shaldean hypocrisy?”
At the command of Magog’s glance, the Vengian pierced Omar just below the skull, severing his cervical vertebrae. And like a marionette snipped of his strings, he crumpled to the floor into a contorted pile.
The lone Shaldean standing guard outside was already dead when Magog and the Vengian exited the building. The Stoyanov-guard-disguised Rogue was waiting anxiously by their carriage.
“He tried to run when he heard the shots,” he explained. “What happened in there? Where’s Trevor?”
“He was killed,” Magog curtly replied. “Now set it ablaze.”
Despite lingering questions, the Rogue was under strict orders from Remy to minimize his interactions with their Samaeli guests and obey their every command. He quietly carried a keg of kerosene into the warehouse while Magog and the Vengian boarded the carriage.
“I will find you, Yusef,” Mag
og thought aloud.
Then came the low, unexpected voice from the hidden mouth of the Vengian. “Tsarevet, I have a favor to ask you.”
For a moment, Magog was at a loss for words. It was one of the few times he had ever heard the Vengian break his silence, let alone reveal himself as vulnerable with a personal request. Intrigued, Magog replied, “Certainly.”
CH 23
ENCOUNTER AT CHESTERLINK PASS
The afternoon Dale had run to the bakery from his meeting with Detective Graham Lei, he had been relieved to find everything as it always was—Mosaic behind the counter reading, Cora Tess and Turkish in the back making preparations for the following morning.
Aside from an occasional walk-in, the bakery had been as empty as it usually was in the afternoons. After Dale caught his breath, they gathered around the table next to the kitchen. And after some unconvincing chastisement from Cora Tess, they sampled the winter pears together.
Dale had been quiet that afternoon; he’d done his best to keep his troubles hidden. It required no less effort today. Three days had passed and Cora Tess was still raving about the delicious winter pears. Mixed with her exuberant comments were admonishments to never waste that much money on fruit again.
“Are they gone?” Dale yelled back into the kitchen.
“Those things don’t last around here. Between Mosaic and your aunt, I barely saw one,” Turkish said with a smirk.
Dale sat at the table with his uncle, some tea and a warm baguette. He kept quiet, stealing glances out the window. The late autumn sky was already darkening.
“I’ll get some more tomorrow,” he called to his aunt.
“Don’t you dare,” said Cora Tess, storming out of the kitchen. “I’ve had my fill for this season. Don’t ruin ‘em for me. Not having them is part of what makes them so good.”
“Okay, okay,” Dale relented.
“You two want anything else? Something to drink?” his aunt asked.
“Why don’t you come on out here? Sit with us,” said Dale.
“Almost done. I’ll be right out.”
Once Cora Tess returned to the kitchen, Uncle Turkish said, “Just don’t get too many. She really does feel bad about it. She counts the money as she eats them.”
“Okay, I won’t. Just a few,” Dale said with a smile.
“Hey, is everything okay with you?”
“Yeah, why?”
“This is the third day in a row you’ve visited.”
“You getting tired of me already?” asked Dale, trying to make light of his uncle’s question.
“Nonsense. But you do seem a bit anxious. I wouldn’t have said anything, but I notice you’re wearing steel.”
Dale forgot he was armed. When he was in the service, it had become second nature to him—an extension of his uniform. It didn’t take more than a day to get re-acquainted with that familiar feeling. Ever since his meeting with Detective Graham Lei, the short sword from his office bureau was sheathed at his side. Every morning, he’d wake up, brush his teeth, shave, slip into a pair of trousers and boots, button up his shirt, arm himself, and throw on a coat. By the third day, it had become so comfortable that he forgot to conceal it at the bakery.
“You in some sort of trouble? Mosaic told us you were asking strange questions about a train accident or something.”
Dale laughed. “Everything’s okay, Uncle. Don’t worry.”
“Don’t you lie to me, boy. I have a sense for these things.”
“I’m fine. Honest.”
“Then explain to me why you’re armed.”
“I’ve had this thing buried in my drawer since I got back. I took it out recently to give it a polish and I’ve been wearing it since. I’ve got all the papers for it. Nothing to worry about.”
“You’d be a man and tell me up front if there were some sort of trouble now, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course.”
Turkish examined him for any sign of withholding. Cora Tess came out and took a seat at the table. “What’s this about?” she asked.
“Nothing. Uncle thinks I’m in some sort of trouble. I’m not. And I’d tell you both if I were.”
The rusty bell on the door jingled as Mosaic entered. She was wearing theatre prop dragonfly wings on her back, her nails painted a sapphire blue.
“What in the Maker’s name are you wearing?” asked Cora Tess.
“What?”
“Those!” she said, pointing at her wings.
“Oh. It’s for the concert. I’m a sprite, see? Hi, Dale!”
“Hey.”
“Bring any more winter pears?”
“Nope.”
“Rats.”
“We have one left in the icebox,” said Cora Tess.
“Mine!” Mosaic ran over and snatched the orb from the cooler and bit into it. “So good,” she said, wiping the juices dribbling down her chin with the sleeve of her shirt. “This the last one?”
“Yes. And Dale is under strict orders not to purchase any more. At least not again this season.”
Seeing a frowning Mosaic, Dale shrugged his shoulders.
“So, you coming?” Mosaic asked.
“Where?”
“The Harvest Festival concert,” she said, showing off her wings.
“Maybe,” Dale replied. “When is it?”
“Um, on the day of the Harvest Festival.”
“That’s two days from now.”
“I told you about it last week.”
“You did?”
Mosaic rolled her eyes.
“I’ll be there,” Dale finally replied.
“Good. Because I’m singing lead this time. And don’t forget. The actual show’s going to be at the Flora Crystal, not the Concert Hall.”
“Where’s that?”
“Here.” She handed Dale a flyer. “Oh, and wear a costume.”
“A costume?”
“It’s the Harvest Festival.”
“Precisely why we’re not going,” said Turkish. “Hooligans will be out in throngs, no doubt. Never understood why we have to celebrate the Harvest like a bunch of crazed lunatics.”
“By the way, your friend stopped by today.”
“What friend?”
“Some Azuric guy. He didn’t leave a name.”
“Was he Shen?”
“I don’t know. I can’t tell.”
“Did he have a braided tail?”
“I don’t remember. He just asked how you were doing. That’s about it.”
“And he came by the Concert Hall?”
“Yep.”
Dale thought it peculiar. Why would Detective Lei visit Mosaic at the Concert Hall? He knew where Dale worked. Probably knew where he lived. Dale checked his watch.
“Thanks for the tea. I have to get going.”
“You barely touched it.”
“I know, but there are some things I need to take care of.”
“What about supper?” Cora Tess asked. “Will you be joining us?”
“No, not tonight.”
“Well, you know where we are if you change your mind.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you later.”
The chill in the air penetrated to the bone. Dale pulled his jacket tight around himself and propped his collar up. With the recent breaker contract signed, he could afford a cab ride to the City Guard Headquarters, but he didn’t mind walking. It gave him time to think. He stuck to the back alleys, a straight shot from the Waterfront District to Central, streets he’d taken countless times since he was a child. A few blocks from the bakery, alone in one of these back alleys, he got the feeling he was being followed. He quickened his pace. The feeling intensified.
As he turned the corner of Chesterlink Pass, a T-intersection that led north into Chesterlink Avenue and south toward Trivelka Square, he darted around half-expecting to catch a figure slipping behind a building wall or some conveniently placed waste crate. There was no one. The alley behind him was empty. All he heard was the soft hum of the
Steam Powered Electric Generator in the distance.
He turned back and realized his hand was still on the hilt of his sword. He thought about what he must have looked like. Spinning around, wide-eyed. The spin, the stance, declaring into the nothingness, “Aha!”
With a nervous chuckle, Dale turned back in the direction he was headed. Standing before him was Remy Guillaume in his top hat and brass-handled cane.
“Shit!” Dale blurted.
“Good evening, Mister Sunday. It is a pleasure to see you again.”
“You scared the hell out of me.”
“Please, come with me.”
“Where?”
“There is a carriage waiting for us this way.”
He began walking north toward Chesterlink Avenue.
“I’d rather not.”
Remy sighed, turned around, and faced him. “Once again, this is not a request, Mister Sunday.”
Dale drew his sword. “Like I said, I’d rather not.”
He felt a prick on the back of his neck and swatted it, half expecting a mosquito or a bee. There was a needle. He removed it and was looking at it when something moved in his periphery. A figure. He couldn’t focus on him. His eyes were failing him, not to darkness, but to dreams. The walls of the buildings along Chesterlink Pass came alive, expanding and contracting with each breath. He was hallucinating.
“Do not fight it, Mister Sunday,” said Remy.
He tried to speak, but his words came out in a low drawn-out moan. His legs turned to liquid and he folded under his own weight. Two men appeared next to Remy. They looked like black voids—holes in the shape of men cut out of canvas. They grabbed him and dragged him into a carriage.
Then it all went black.
CH 24
ALONE WITH DEATH
How many hares in a hat?
None if you are blind as a bat.
The ring of hammering steel in the distance stirred Dale into a limited form of consciousness. He could not move his extremities. He couldn’t speak. It felt to him like sleep paralysis. Interspersed with the hammering, he heard strange voices.
