The Iron Ring

by Auston Habershaw

  “I can make it worth your while.”

  “No, you can’t. Even that little tidbit regarding the location of Sahand in the city isn’t worth my directly entangling myself with those vipers.”

  “Carlo, if you do this for me, I will split the result with you, fifty-­fifty.”

  Carlo sat very still for a moment. “Seventy-­thirty.”

  “Not on your life.”

  The Verisi’s eyes narrowed. “What does this have to do with Hendrieux?”

  “Do you really think I am so one-­dimensional, Carlo?”

  “Answer the question. I want to see you lie.”

  Tyvian grinned. “It has nothing directly to do with Hendrieux. Can you do it?”

  “How much are we talking, here?”

  “You remember my house guest? The one my gnoll was babysitting yesterday?”

  Carlo sat up straighter and grinned. “Yes. Yes I do.”

  “How much do you suppose the Kalsaaris would pay for her?”

  Carlo folded his hands on his paunch and added figures in his head while Tyvian watched closely. “At least five thousand marks. Probably in gems and other goods that could be bartered for more. Gods, Tyvian, that’s not bad!”

  Tyvian nodded. He already knew the price. It was a terrible tragedy that neither he nor Carlo would ever see a copper of it. Even the ring burned with disappointment on Tyvian’s finger. He knew it was disappointed by his misleading Carlo, not with the loss of money, but Tyvian decided to believe otherwise. For once, he and the ring were upset in concert. What the ring didn’t quite seem to appreciate, though, was that Carlo should undoubtedly be aware of the deception. Tyvian was counting on it, actually.

  Carlo was still plotting and arranging in his head. “The Hanim is throwing a party tomorrow night. I think I know a few favors I can call up, perhaps get us an invitation.”

  “And a personal audience.”

  Carlo chuckled. “Impossible.”

  “Possible if you rise before noon.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Your share of five thousand marks.”

  Carlo sighed. “Make it sixty-­forty and you have a deal.”

  “Fifty-­five, forty-­five.”

  “An insult.”

  “You are a greedy, Verisi pig,” Tyvian said, and added, “That is an insult.”

  “Fifty-­five, forty-­five,” Carlo countered, “and you give me that tidbit about Sahand, or you stand at the back of the crowd just like everybody else, no matter what names you call me.”

  Tyvian delayed his response just long enough to make Carlo think he was mulling it over, and then answered. “Very well.”

  Carlo let a gold-­plated grin escape him. “Excellent. Now, let’s hear it.”

  Tyvian leaned forward, careful to cover his mouth to prevent lip-­reading. “Sahand isn’t in the city. He’s camped up in the mountains, among the old ruins of Daer Trondor, with a fairly sizable armed party.”

  Carlo’s real eye went wide, but he only nodded. “Interesting. Didn’t think there was anything left of much use up there.”

  “What do you know about what he’s up to?”

  Carlo frowned. “You haven’t the assets to purchase that information from me even if I knew, Tyvian, and it’s for the best, believe me. Whatever it is, it’s important enough for him to kill anybody who gets in his way, understood?”

  “Why Carlo, you almost sound concerned for my well-­being. How touching.”

  Carlo rolled his good eye. “Spare me, you grinning jackanapes.”

  They waited in silence for a few minutes. Tyvian had nothing to say and Carlo was likely too busy plotting away to notice the lack of conversation. The monolithic spirit clock of gilded brass that stood against the opposite wall of the dining room told Tyvian it was nearly half-­past twelve. He was exhausted and wanted very much to take a nap, but knew doing any such thing was unwise until he had a safer place in which to do it. After last night, he had set Hendrieux back on his heels, that was certain, but that Akrallian skunk would regroup soon enough. As soon as he could, he would send more assassins, and this time they wouldn’t be as subtle. Tyvian conjured up images of hired invokers pitching balled lightning and firestorms through his window, or perhaps a pack of heavily armored thugs, sorcerously abjured with enough guards and wards that they were basically invulnerable to attack, kicking through his door and bludgeoning him to death. Neither were pleasant thoughts and, with the ring restricting his behavior, his recourses to avoid such tactics were limited.

  Tyvian was keenly aware that the metaphorical waters he now sailed were getting ever more treacherous. To achieve his aims—­revenge on Hendrieux and the removal of the ring—­he would have to navigate his way between several powers much larger than himself. On the one hand was Sahand, whom Tyvian knew enough about to have a healthy respect for his capacity for destruction and vengeance, and on the other were the Kalsaaris, who could not be trusted—­Carlo was very much right about that. The problem was, to kill Hendrieux would require him to anger Sahand, and to remove the ring would require him to trust Kalsaaris. It wouldn’t work, obviously. Sahand would make a target of him; the Kalsaaris would betray him. Of course, if he did nothing, the ring would remain on his finger and Hendrieux would eventually find a way to destroy him out of self-­preservation. His points of leverage, though, Tyvian thought, might just work all of this out in his favor. A good offense, as old Mudboots Varner was wont to say, was the best defense.

  His musings were interrupted by the food arriving and a man screaming somewhere near the entrance of Imar’s. The scream was of a timbre Tyvian quickly identified, so while patrons and waitstaff fled from the door in barely constrained panic and Carlo quickly activated a variety of defensive guards placed upon his many rings, Tyvian smeared some mint jelly on his lamb chop and cut off a delicate bite. He had it on his fork and was about to eat it when Hool stomped up to his table.

  Her fur was covered in black soot and grime, and she smelled very much like an open sewer. “Hendrieux used magic again,” the gnoll announced.

  Tyvian ate the bit of lamb. It melted in his mouth, perfectly spiced and tender. “He and his entire entourage vanished?”

  “Yes. It was another magic door,” Hool confirmed, and then looked at Carlo, who had his back pressed to the wall, his face a mask of terrified concentration. “Who are you?”

  “Forgive me—­where are my manners?” Tyvian said. “Carlo diCarlo, allow me to present to you Hool, the gnoll I’ve talked about. Hool, this is Carlo diCarlo.”

  “You have a stupid name,” Hool announced, and then crouched on the floor.

  Tyvian snapped his fingers at one of the cowering serving staff. “We need another chair over here.”

  A quiet argument erupted among the servants until, at last, Tyvian’s own waiter was thrust forward. He slowly made his way to Tyvian’s elbow, his face pale and his hands trembling. “Sir . . . your guest is not . . . dressed appropriately.”

  Tyvian took another bite of lamb, chewing and swallowing completely before answering. “I see. Now, what is it that you consider ‘appropriate’ dress?”

  Disinterested in the exchange between Tyvian and the servant, Hool picked up one of Carlo’s lobsters and sniffed it. “Is this a fish?”

  Carlo shook his head. “No . . . lobster.”

  Hool tore the head off of the lobster in one massive bite. After giving it a few savage chews, she swallowed and nodded slowly. “Lobster is good.”

  “Appropriate dress—­” the waiter began.

  “Is it anything like you are dressed, sir?” Tyvian interjected.

  “Well . . . yes sir, I suppose so.”

  “So you would have my friend wear an ill-­tailored jacket, breeches that are too tight around the thighs, a lace collar that clearly needs laundering, and a shirt that was obviously p
urchased off a bargain cart in Tailor Town? No sir, I think not.” Tyvian pulled out two gold marks and slapped them on the table. “Get a basin, as well as some soap, and allow her the opportunity to wash up, and I think you’ll find that she is more ‘appropriately’ dressed for her station than anyone else here.”

  The servant’s ears turned red, but no other expression registered. “The owner will call the Watch, sir.”

  Tyvian nodded. “I suppose Imar would, but if you would be so good as to inform him that I have already paid the Watch two hundred marks not to show up, he may change his tune. Furthermore, allow me to demonstrate something for you. Hool?”

  Hool’s mouth was stuffed with lobster, so her only answer was her ears swiveling in Tyvian’s direction.

  “Could you please lift Mr. diCarlo over your head?”

  Hool blinked at him, shrugged, and then grabbed Carlo by the belt and swung him over her shoulder like a bag of dirty laundry while the Verisi pirate howled incoherently. The server, upon seeing this, bobbed his head and vanished with a “Yessir.”

  Hool put Carlo down and swallowed her lobster. Carlo was panting. “Reldamar, this indignity is . . . is—­”

  Tyvian put up his hand. “Please, Carlo—­you were the one who taught me just what too much dignity could get you. You are a back-­alley fixer, not the Prince of Illin, and Hool didn’t mean you any harm.”

  Hool pointed at Carlo’s glass of white wine. “Is that wine?”

  Carlo sighed and waved his hand at it. “Go ahead, it’s yours.”

  Hool snorted. “I hate wine. I want water.”

  Carlo scowled and looked at Tyvian, who was eating with gusto. “You are attracting a lot of attention, you know. This will only cause trouble for me.”

  “Nonsense, Carlo!” Tyvian smiled. “This will only tell everyone that I’m one of your clients and that the gnoll who killed two of Sahand’s men last night is as well. The only way that would actually cause any trouble would be if you were working with Sahand. Now, you aren’t doing that, are you?”

  Carlo shook his head. “Of course not! Why would a prince need me?”

  Tyvian smirked and shrugged. “I don’t know, Carlo. Why would he need Hendrieux?”

  Carlo diCarlo scowled. “You are an incredible nuisance, Tyvian Reldamar, and I will cherish the day you no longer pester me.”

  Tyvian pointed at him. “Now that last one—­that was a lie.”

  Carlo stood up, throwing his napkin down on the table. “Good day to you . . . to you both.”

  As he stormed out, Tyvian called after him, “Tomorrow night, Carlo! Private audience!”

  Hool transferred herself to Carlo’s seat and set about eating the rest of his lunch. “He doesn’t like you.”

  “Nonsense—­he loves me. He just can’t stand that I’m better at his game than he is.”

  Hool stuffed a roll in her mouth and swallowed it with only two bites. “What about Hendrieux?”

  Tyvian leaned back in his chair. “Just remember the plan and everything will work out. He’ll be in trouble soon enough, I promise.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  TROUBLE IN DARK PLACES

  Along the eastern edge of Freegate ran the narrow, swift waters of Arble Brook. It began as a waterfall flowing over the brim of Dain’s Lake, the artificial reservoir that gave the rich folks of Angler Street their waterfront views and everybody else access to drinking water. After it fell from the steepest section of the Cliff District, past iron cargo elevators and winding covered walkways, it landed in a misty explosion of water vapor and poured in a torrent past the densely packed waterwheels of a great many industrial facilities—­ore refineries, artifactories, mills of every size and description—­until, finally, it reached a bend in its path and flowed under a series of covered stone bridges decorated with the decaying corpses of hanged ­people dangling through numerous trapdoors built into those bridges for exclusively this purpose.

  In other nations of the world this would be where the local ruling authority displayed the fate of those who disturbed the social order. In Freegate, a city cheerily devoid of conventional notions of social order, the hangings were exclusively private affairs. Usually undertaken by the guilds against members who stepped out of line or, more often, against members of their assembly who refused to pay their dues, all one needed to do in order to hang someone legally and officially was to pay two bribes. One was to the city watch, of course, who would helpfully apprehend the offending party and hold them until their time of execution was due, and the other was to the Phantom Guild—­the thieving guild of Freegate that administered the bridges, all of which fell entirely within their jurisdiction.

  This area of town, immediately adjacent to the Blocks, was known as Corpse Alley. Nearby, within the highest room of the highest tower of a moss-­encrusted, half-­crumbling keep built along a thin stone jetty thrusting into the Arble, Zazlar Hendrieux was lying on a straw sleeping pallet and dipping ink.

  Ink was a catchall term for a series of alchemical concoctions designed to stimulate the emotions and senses. The precise emotion or sense stimulated depended greatly upon the kind of ink taken. Some were soothing, like Cool Blue or Bright, while others were invigorating, like the Crimson. In any case, the effects of any vial of ink far outstripped those of mundane drugs like tooka, karfan, or alcohol. Vials of ink were also, all of them, highly addictive.

  Hendrieux, at that moment, was dabbing his fingers into an open pot of Cool Blue, letting the sensation of supernatural calm trickle up his arm and spread through his body like rivulets of ice water through his veins. The Dweomer-­based concoction was of a deep, navy blue color and had the consistency of thick oily paste. It stained the fingertips purple for days afterward, but the minor inconvenience was worth every moment of the calm it could give.

  Hendrieux stared up at the flickering flame of the oil lamp above his head, his eyes unfocused, and let the terrors of the day slowly flake and chip off him like so much dead skin. The sight of the gnoll’s blazing copper eyes and white fangs in the dark of the alley seemed like a distant, abstract image—­something he saw in a picture book somewhere, or an old story told and retold by a close friend. Even the two men the gnoll had killed were gone from his mind.

  Then there was Tyvian Reldamar. The famous smuggler wasn’t dead, and he knew that Hendrieux had betrayed him. The thought alone would ordinarily be enough to keep the Akrallian awake and quivering all night. He would already have moved apartments, even though there was no way Reldamar could know he was here. He’d have a pair of his men watching his back at all times.

  But so far as he was concerned, there was no reason to worry. So what if the two men he had sent failed? He had more men—­he’d send four next time. Knowing Reldamar, he’d probably be too busy taking some expensive bath or having his toenails filed by some serving girl to realize he was in danger. That was always Tyvian’s weakness—­arrogance. He thought he was smarter than everybody.

  He is smarter than everybody, a little voice whispered from deep inside Hendrieux’s sedated mind. Hendrieux reflexively jabbed his middle finger deeper into the ink pot and let the magical concoction kill his concerns. The next time would succeed. Tyvian would die and he would be safe. It would all work out, and Sahand would never have to know.

  Then there was the Phantom Guild. Taking Tupa Fat-­Hands that morning had been an act of desperation. There would be consequences for it, that much was certain. The guild already disliked how Hendrieux had placed himself as head of their kidnapping operations. They wouldn’t take kindly to his kidnapping useful black market alchemists. At other times the thought of Phantom assassins lurking in every alley, poisoned knives at the ready, would have driven him to paranoia, but the ink made it all better. There were no assassins. Even if there were, he could handle it. He was Zazlar Hendrieux, King of Thieves. They would all learn their place.

 
Sahand is getting impatient, the voice said again, and Hendrieux put three fingers in the pot and closed his eyes. Prince Sahand expected progress. He expected returns on his investment from him. That was the reason he nabbed Tupa in the first place.

  “He’ll get them,” Hendrieux whispered to no one. “He’ll see.”

  His increased intake of the Cool Blue ink put Hendrieux in a deep trance. He wasn’t asleep. He could see the lantern flickering above him, he could hear the creaks of the rickety tower and the moans of the other ink-­thralls on the couches and beds strewn across the floors in other rooms—­many of them forced into addiction as a way of controlling them before being sent to serve Sahand. Hendrieux couldn’t move—­he was paralyzed with cold, numbing indifference and apathy. He was neither happy nor sad, but frozen perfectly between the two. Vaguely, in the distant recesses of his mind, were the stories about ­people who had dipped too far into Cool Blue and lost their capacity to feel anything. They were like the living dead, it was said, and soon starved, as they no longer saw the need to eat. Slowly, and with a monumental effort, Hendrieux withdrew his fingers from the ink pot, but then lay still and limp as a rag.

  He didn’t even move as Banric Sahand strode into the room and looked down at him.

  Sahand’s voice, even when echoing through the thick sheet of indifference provided by the ink, made Hendrieux’s stomach quiver. “Take this wretch downstairs. I’ll not discuss this in an attic like some squatting indigent.”

  Rough hands seized Hendrieux by the ankles and dragged his limp body down the stairs. He scarcely felt his head bounce off each step; he opened his mouth to protest but no sound came out. All he could do was fumble weakly for his pot of ink, knowing on some level that it was his only means of protection for what was to come.

  The Great Hall of the Arble Keep, once the strongpoint of an ancient Galaspiner settlement, was now little more than a dusty, drafty room full of half-­broken furniture and moldering tapestries. A good number of Delloran soldiers rose as Sahand entered at the head of his entourage.