The half-giant smirked and shook his head again.
Melech sighed. “Here,” he handed over a smattering of copper coins.
The half-giant straightened but swung his prodigious club toward Melech’s face with a warning. “No stealing or I’ll crack your skull. Got it?”
Melech raised his hands in protest. “I would never!”
“Heh. Right. You lift even a bone from a plate, and we’ll see what’s in that head of yours besides lies and clever talk.”
Melech rubbed his neck. When Jaryx settled down on the stone, Melech went inside. He heard the half-giant chuckling behind him.
Melech hit the bar first. Mila leaned on the counter, talking to a Raamite merchant. The place wasn’t much to look at. A few tables and chairs occupied the main room, and a staircase rose to the upper floor, where Risani had rooms for rent. The patrons were guarded. Grizzled veterans, prim merchants, and the usual adventuring sorts all engaged in muted conversation. A few peered as Melech passed, but no gaze lingered.
Melech took a stool next to a wiry fellow with a mess of blond hair and sunburned skin. He was in a uniform, but Melech didn’t recognize the white slashes on his arms. The man gave Melech a sidelong look. He had a blue eye and a green one. He nodded. Melech returned the gesture.
Melech dropped a few bits on the counter. They were clippings from the ceramic water tokens most used as currency in Tyr.
Mila turned away from the man she was chatting up at the sound. On seeing Melech, she frowned. “You have a lot of nerve coming back here.”
Melech shrugged. “Just drinking tonight, milady. And I’ll keep my hands to myself the whole time.”
The man seated next to him inched his stool a little farther away.
She kept frowning. “What’ll it be, then?” she asked.
“Ah, hmm. Broy?”
She never stopped watching him as she poured a stone cup full of the thick liquid.
She had been pretty once. Time had done its best to erase whatever virtues youth might have given her. A few silvery threads had crept into her black tresses. A gaunt face, wrinkles around the eyes and lips. She had elf blood, though. Slightly pointed ears, upward-slanting eyes, and a slender frame gave her an exotic appearance.
Melech always felt a bit bad for the half-elves. Few ever found a place in the world, with most winding up in the worst and solitary professions. Running a place such as the Golden Inix, however, was a testimony to her determination and strength.
She placed the cup on the bar and scooped up the bits. “Anything else?”
“Maybe later,” he answered. He needed to think a bit, to figure out how to approach her about the information he sought. He also needed to soften her up a bit, help her forget their first meeting all those months before.
Mila checked on the trader, refilled his ale, and resumed her conversation with the Raamite.
Melech listened for a while, picking up what scraps he could. From the way the swarthy merchant spoke, Raam was in trouble. It was an old city, once among the mightiest of the Seven Cities, but disaster after disaster had chewed up the city’s resources until the people were rioting in the streets. The Raamite blamed Tyr’s liberation for his home city’s troubles and was certain it wouldn’t be long before Raam’s people rose up and threw down their decadent queen. Politics bored Melech. He turned to the man at his side.
“Where you from?” he ventured.
The man looked up from the bones on his plate. “Mira’s Halo, not that it’s any of your business.”
“Relax, friend, just being sociable,” said Melech. He took another swallow to choke down the broy. The stuff was foul.
The trader did the same.
Melech soaked in the conversation around him for a few minutes before trying again. “Long way off?”
The trader, suspicious, looked away from the spot on the wall he had been staring at. “A bit,” he said.
“Never been outside of Tyr, myself,” said Melech.
The trader shrugged.
“I’m guessing, by your smart uniform, you’re some sort of trader.”
Nothing.
Undeterred, Melech continued, “I don’t recognize the colors, though. Not Vordon, are you?”
A less keen eye would have missed the flinch. Melech caught it.
The trader dropped a shiny copper coin on the table and stood up.
“Hey, I didn’t mean to pry. You don’t have to go,” said Melech in a rush.
The trader left without another word.
“Driving off my customers? You are stealing from me,” said Mila, frowning again.
“Madam, I did nothing of the sort. A few questions. Promise.”
“A thief’s promise isn’t worth a pile of kank shit.”
Melech offered his best smile. He noticed the Raamite had gone too.
She refilled Melech’s cup when he laid out a few more bits. She leaned one arm on the counter and looked at him square in the face.
“I don’t often get Torston’s cronies in my place,” she said.
No point in hiding it, he thought. “I’m not here in any official capacity.”
“Melech, right?”
He nodded.
“So what are you doing here?”
“Can’t have a couple cups of your finest broy?”
“As long as you’re paying, I don’t care what you drink. I’m still curious why you chose my place after the beating Jaryx gave you last time.”
Melech propped both arms on the counter. Between them rested a silver coin.
Mila’s eyes widened. She reached for it but stopped herself. “You’re after something.”
“Correct.” He unfolded his arms, and as he did so, he slid the coin over to her.
She put her hand on it but left it there. “Before I take your … donation, ask.”
Melech thought for a second then said, “House Vordon.” She nodded.
“What do you know about them?”
“Some. Be more specific.”
He pursed his lips. “Anything strange?”
It was her turn to think. Melech noticed her slender fingers closed around the coin. “No. Not really. I heard they’re sending their soldiers away with the gladiator Rikus, the one who skewered the old king. Vordon’s soldiers marching with Tyr’s army. Strange, I suppose,” she said.
“Why so?”
“Well, Vordon used to be pretty powerful. Then they weren’t. They seem to be rebuilding now. I’ve heard they’ve been abandoning their outposts and shutting down their remote operations. I’ve also heard they aren’t hiring new guards. They’ve been cutting back on their caravans, sending out a few at a time.”
“I don’t know much about merchants,” said Melech.
“King Tithian promised to reopen the iron mines. He gave Vordon the contracts to haul the ore out of here. You’d think old Thaxos would be building up for new business and not scaling back,” she explained.
“I don’t follow.”
She gave him a flat look. “Vordon made their fortunes in iron. The reason most folk think Vordon has been so cozy with the king was to get the mines reopened and resume trade. Vordon has this now.”
“Right. So Vordon needs the soldiers he’s sending out with Tyr’s army to guard the caravans, to secure his holdings in the city and elsewhere …”
“Also,” she said, inching forward, “if he’s sending out all those soldiers, then why isn’t he hiring new ones to guard the caravans he’s still using? You know, now you’ve brought this up, it doesn’t add up, does it?”
Melech shook his head, thoughtful. “Have you come across anything else? Maybe involving their operations?”
“There’s not much. The whole city is bracing for war. Everyone is distracted. There have been a lot of new merchant houses coming into the city. Though small ones, none worth even mentioning except they’ve been bringing soldiers in with them. The fellow you drove off? He’s one of them. Part of a new house, Qual, I think.”
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“He said he was from Mira’s Halo.”
“Really?” she asked, surprised.
“Yeah. Is that important?”
“Might be. I thought the Halo was a Vordon outpost.”
A new house in a Vordon fortress, a new house with an abundance of soldiers. Melech tucked the thought away for Korvak. “Say, Mila, did the Qual fellow have any company tonight? Aside from me?”
Mila grinned. “He might have but you’ll have to pay extra to find out.”
Melech groaned. He was running through his purse like a Draji meal through his stomach. He fished out another coin. Mila stopped him.
“No. Not another coin. I want something else.”
So I’ve charmed her after all, he thought. He gave her a wink.
She noticed and colored. “No, not that either.” She leaned in close and put her mouth to his ear. “I want Torston to stay away from my place. I don’t want his protection. I don’t want his attention either.”
“Have you been approached?” he asked.
“Not yet. It’s bound to happen. Soon.”
Melech nodded. She was right. Torston had eyes on any place that turned a profit. It was just a matter of time before he put the squeeze on the Golden Inix.
“I’ll do what I can,” he said.
“Not good enough,” she said.
Melech frowned and ran his hand through his damp hair. He sighed. “I’ll keep Torston out of your hair,” he said. It was a promise he didn’t know if he could keep. He would try, though.
She studied him. Melech hid his doubts well enough. She nodded after a moment and said, “Yeah. There was someone else. He sat in your seat.”
“What did he look like?”
Mila described a halfling, short hair, very clean, but with one large eye and one squinty one. The information didn’t stir up any recollections.
“Did you hear anything they said?”
She almost looked ashamed, but she said, “I heard a little. There’s some meeting going down in two nights at a place called Gebbler’s Well.”
“I know the place,” said Melech without thinking. It was an abandoned well not far from the Noble Quarters on the north side of the city. Templars shut down the well when things started crawling out of it. “Odd place for a meeting.”
Mila didn’t comment. She turned away when an attractive man dressed in dark leathers took a seat where the Raamite had been.
Melech took the hint and pushed himself off the stool. When Mila came back, he said, “Thanks, Mila. And here.” He slid another silver coin to her. “This is to forget our chat.”
“You just keep him off my back, and it’ll be like we never talked.” Nevertheless, she tucked the coin in her pocket.
The caravan stopped at a muddy oasis miles from the attack. The journey since that hellish night had been a long brutal stretch punctuated by few stops. With Talara injured, Rek had taken charge and pushed the caravan hard. He had set a grueling pace, stopping only to feed and water the mounts and keep the beasts alive long enough to reach the city. Still, many beasts and guards had died along the way. The dead littered the road behind them, a trail of rotting corpses leading all the way to the site where everything went awry.
During one brief speech, Rek explained the urgency. The attackers had been hejkins, and one defeat would not stop them from trying again. The hejkins followed them, Rek believed, tracking their movements from under the sands, waiting for the chance to attack again. Facing those horrors once was enough for Pakka, and calling forth the primal spirit to defend herself and her mistress had cost her much. As exhausted as she was, her first responsibility was to her mistress, and it was not one she was about to set aside no matter what discomforts she herself had to endure.
Pakka had stolen a few moments of sleep in the palanquin while Talara rested. She glanced over at the woman. Talara lay on cushions in the shade, where the sun couldn’t reach her through the curtains keeping out the light and sand. Pakka always marveled at Talara’s beauty. She was striking by human standards, with a rounded, womanly figure; regal features; and fiery red hair. Pakka had made her as comfortable as she could, and Talara rested in a loose shirt and soft linen breeches. Rest was not easy. Every time the mekillot bearing them took a step, the boxy shelter rocked and Talara stirred.
The hejkin had left deep cuts in Talara’s shoulder, and though Pakka had cleaned them, packed them with a poultice, and covered the injuries, the flesh around the cuts remained red and hot to the touch.
The heat didn’t help. Humans might have inherited the world, yet they were ill suited for the harsh desert. Where Pakka’s own people, dwarves, could endure hunger, thirst, and hardship, humans could never quite keep up. They were fragile and short lived, and their recklessness had made their lives harder. Blame for the world’s slow death rested on their shoulders. After all, the sorcerer-kings were human, or so most believed, and humanity made the worst defilers. Such responsibility might color how many dwarves saw humanity, and Pakka had few reasons to love humans. Talara and Rek were exceptions. Pakka had vowed to serve her, to protect her, and nothing would move her from those responsibilities, even if those vows came after Talara purchased her from a slaver’s stable.
Pakka might have been a slave, but Talara never treated her as such. The human was kind, virtuous, and fair. Never had she raised a hand to Pakka, and she never shouted, bullied, or committed any of the other crimes common to most slave owners. Compared to Pakka’s last master, Lady Vordon was a dream.
Talara stirred again. Her eyes fluttered. Pakka froze.
“Pakka,” said Talara, scratchy and faint.
Pakka poured tepid water into a clay cup and pressed it to Talara’s lips. “Drink. Slow now.”
Talara did as instructed, but after a few swallows, she pushed the cup away. “Where are we?” she asked.
Pakka frowned.
Talara sat up from the cushions, wincing. Pakka took her elbow and helped her so she could sit up. Talara took the cup again and drained it.
“Stopping worrying over me. Where are we?” she said.
Pakka bobbed her head. “I believe we are not far from the crossroads.”
“That far?” Talara asked. “I don’t remember much. Tell me what happened.”
“There will be time for tales soon enough. You should rest now.”
“I am not a babe to be coddled. Tell me,” she said. The steel in Talara’s voice was new.
“What do you remember?”
“Not much, to tell you the truth,” Talara said. She combed her fingers through her hair. “It was night when they attacked. They came up from the ground, so fast. Our guards fought. Something came for me.” She paused, remembering. “Thank you, Pakka.”
She blushed. “It was my duty. I am shamed I could not have spared you that.” She gestured to the bandages. “I would take your place if I could.”
Talara snorted, though Pakka could see gratitude and admiration in the human’s eyes. “Well, I remember nothing after the attack.”
Pakka explained what happened, downplaying her role in the conflict. With no little reluctance, she revealed Alaeda’s own efforts. “Perhaps I was wrong about her,” Pakka said.
Talara shrugged. “Why have we stopped?” she asked as she struggled to her knees to peer through the howdah’s curtains.
“Rek,” said Pakka.
Talara sat back down.
“He decided we would go on ahead rather than return to Silver Spring,” she added.
“He was right to push on. I do not trust those elves at all, even if they weren’t behind the murders.”
Pakka felt a sudden urge to speak for Alaeda. The mercenary went beyond her duty in the battle. She knew she shouldn’t trust her, not after the mess in the elf camp, but she did put herself at great risk to save Talara. Pakka would honor her.
“After what Alaeda did in the battle, I can’t believe she was the killer,” she said.
“Just because she saved my life does
n’t mean she didn’t kill those guards. She wants something from us, something that requires I, or maybe you, stay alive. Nevertheless, friend or foe, she did us, she did me, a great service. She should be rewarded. Bring her to me.”
Pakka stepped off the rope ladder, dropping from the howdah down the mekillot’s side and onto the dusty ground. She gave the massive beast a pat. It was old, like Pakka, and had served the Vordons for decades. Like her, it was perhaps making its final journey. The reptile had mottled rust-red and black plates armoring its spine, with a flanged plate extending out from the back of its skull to protect its neck. Pakka walked away and the beast turned its head toward her. It lowed in recognition. She waved and smiled at the creature in farewell.
Two guards, Rorak and Pung, sheltered under a lean- to set up against the beast’s side. They watched as her momentary happiness drained away. Their armor lay in a heap in front of them. They kept their hands on their spear hafts. Since the attack at Silver Spring, there wasn’t much trust among the Vordon retainers. Anyone could be a traitor since the traitors had not been caught. She understood their suspicion. It still rankled her.
She left the guards and their stares and marched toward the tents clustered near the oasis, not much more than a muddy puddle, where she hoped to find Rek. She crossed sun-scorched grass and the gritty sands. Rocks replaced sand, and gray mud replaced the rocks as she neared the pool. She navigated the crowded tents, not looking up. Though she wouldn’t see them, she felt eyes on her and heard whispers, gossip about Pakka’s magic.
A twinge of guilt struck Pakka when she thought about what she was about to do. Talara had sent her out to find Alaeda, yet Pakka was headed for Rek instead. Pakka felt she needed to talk to the guard captain. Unlike Talara, Pakka knew he had a head clear of fever. Pakka could not disobey Talara. The vow she spoke was more than words. It defined her. Pakka had made such promises before, and each time they consumed her, defined her existence until everything she did was to fulfill the obligations of the oath. Her people were just that way. It was how they made sense of the world and their place in it. Humans didn’t understand and never would. She tempered her unease about not finding Alaeda right away by resolving herself to the fact that talking to Rek was a necessary first step toward completing her task.
Death Mark Page 12
