Death Mark

by Robert J. Schwalb

The courtyard surrounding the well was modest. It might have been a plaza at one time, where locals traded rumors and goods. The square was still a crossroads. Four twisting alleys came together in a square, rubble-choked space. Other pathways spilled into the square, little more than holes in walls and gaps created by fallen buildings.

  Melech withdrew from the roof’s edge and stretched out flat, facing the sky. As he watched the glittering stars, he remembered another night under the sky, many years earlier. He was a boy. His fellow slaves claimed he had a mother, but if he did, he never knew her. His parents were the whip and the whisper; his siblings were pain and betrayal. He was too small to work his master’s plantation, too weak to fight in the arena, so he wasn’t good for much. The useless slaves did not receive food, clothing, or other comforts.

  He had survived because his masters assigned him to the women. He helped pick and sort the vegetables grown in the water-starved fields. He walked between the rows, searching for the vermin and squishing them with his thumb. He even patched clothing. He did anything he could to get his ration of water and his portion of the nightly meals.

  He lacked talent in most things, but the one thing he was good at was avoiding attention. He knew the paths the guards walked; the overseers’ habits; where the hostile, grabby slaves slept; and the best dark corners to hunker down in for the night. He made himself visible when he had to, but he stayed out of the way, avoiding trouble and attention when he could. Melech lived on the fringes. He had no friends, but he had no enemies.

  As isolated as Melech felt, he learned to make the most of his situation. He heard things. People opened up when they thought no one was around. Secrets, Melech learned, had value. Sharing or hiding a bit of information could win him a bit more porridge, an extra blanket, or a tumble with Pretty Sala. Melech was careful never to get his hands dirty, to keep his confidences, and to never betray without masking his part in it. The slaves loved him for the information he learned. The guards rewarded him for the rumors he shared from the slaves’ quarters. In time, the old overseer stopped whipping him. Food and water were abundant. Life improved.

  Melech rolled over once more and gave the square another look. As he did so, he displaced some small stones. He froze when they clattered. He held his breath for a full minute then risked another look. He had been heard. A guard had been looking up at Melech’s roof. But just as Melech had raised his head, the guard turned toward a newcomer to the square.

  Light slid across the courtyard from torches carried by soldiers ringing a diminutive figure approaching from one of the twisting alleys. The figure could have been a child. Melech guessed he or she was a halfling. It would not make sense otherwise. The merchants’ guards raised their torches higher. A few nervous ones drew weapons and adopted threatening postures, though their masters waved them back.

  As the halfling neared, Melech could see he was as Mila described—one large eye, one small. Melech could see him smirking. He and his retinue marched into the plaza’s center. There, the halfling scrambled on top of the stone capping the well. His guards spread out to keep watch. Each dressed in a rust-red and black uniform, Vordon’s colors. Melech thought it rather brazen. But then he considered. If Vordon was willing to move in the open, it meant he was ready to put whatever wheels he had into motion. Or it meant he was up to nothing and the whole expedition was nothing more than an incredible waste of his time.

  The halfling spoke. Melech strained to hear, and he watched the halfling’s lips. He couldn’t make out everything he said, but he could make out something about the time being at hand and all things approaching readiness. Several masked men nodded. The halfling then pulled out a wax tablet and stylus. He turned to each mask-wearing merchant. Melech picked out enough to suspect the halfling was directing them to different places around the city. An abandoned estate in the Noble Quarters, someplace in the Brickyards, and so on. It seemed he was putting each merchant in a different quarter of the city.

  Melech suspected the locations would house something or someone, though what or who wasn’t clear until the halfling started talking about numbers. Each masked merchant said something, and the halfling recorded the answers.

  Something moved in the corner of Melech’s eye. Melech looked across his roof and over at the next building. There was nothing. He turned back to the scene below him.

  The halfling said, “Nine days. Look for the signal in the sky. Then you will all act as you have been instructed.”

  Melech had missed something important. Maybe Korvak would be able to piece it all together. He hoped what he had witnessed would be enough.

  He sensed movement again. He was certain a shadow had moved. Melech drew a long-bladed bone knife and reversed his grip. He held it close to his chest so he could lash out if anyone came too close. He knew he should leave. He wanted to be sure, though, so he waited and watched.

  The square began to clear as the various groups moved away down the alleys and out of sight. One man, wearing a rat mask, stayed behind. He approached the halfling and started speaking.

  Something had kicked a pebble. Melech dropped behind the covering wall and flipped over, bone knife in hand. A shadow detached itself from the far side of the roof and crept forward. Melech raised his blade. The moonlight revealed a grimy child’s face and wide, dark eyes. It was Kep.

  Melech glanced over the wall, tucking his blade into its sheath, and was relieved to see the activity below covered the sound. He turned back. The halfling was at his side. “What you doing?” he said.

  “What are you doing, Kep?”

  “Followed you,” he said. He expected an answer.

  Melech lied, “Torston sent me on an errand.”

  The halfling scrunched his face and looked over the roof’s edge. He pulled back right away and spit a name like a curse, “Watari!”

  “What’s that?”

  “Him,” said Kep.

  “Who?” said Melech, confused.

  “The halfling. Down there,” said Kep.

  “You know him?”

  Kep nodded then said, “What does Torston want with Watari?”

  Melech shrugged.

  The halfling growled, “We should kill him.”

  Melech’s eyes widened. “No. No, we shouldn’t. Torston … Torston wants him alive.”

  He felt guilty for lying to his friend. Torston had paired them up years earlier, not long after Torston snatched Melech from the auction block after his master sold off his slaves when the farm failed. Kep taught Melech a lot about thieving, and they were as close to being friends as two rogues could ever be. In spite of their camaraderie, Melech did not trust the halfling. Kep had declared his loyalty to Torston on more than one occasion, and Melech suspected the halfling would put the crime lord’s interests first in all things. There was something in Kep’s past that bound him to Torston, something to ensure Kep would serve for as long as Torston required. Until Melech could identify the connection, he would never let the halfling get closer than arm’s length.

  Melech whispered, “How do you know him?”

  Kep said, “Same tribe. He’s a sh’taka.”

  “Shitaka?”

  “Betrayer of custom,” said Kep. “We should kill him now.”

  “No. No. We’re just watching.” Melech was unsettled how it had become “we.”

  Kep looked over the wall. He turned back. “We need to leave. Now.”

  “Us leave? Yes, a fine idea. Too damned cold to be out anyway.”

  “No, Watari is leaving. I’m following. Maybe the spirits will give me a chance to stick a knife in him.” Kep crept along the wall.

  “Damn it.” Melech scrambled to his feet, staying as low as he could. He did not want Kep involved. Melech had no doubts Kep would share their outing with Torston, and that meant trouble. Kep might be small enough to stay out of view, but Melech wasn’t. Kep seemed determined to kill the halfling. Melech could not imagine they stood a chance fighting Watari’s guards. Melech could fight when h
e had to. He just made it a point to avoid fights whenever possible. The two of them against almost ten guards was not the way Melech planned to make his exit from the world.

  “Stay down, Kep,” he hissed. If Kep heard, he showed no sign. He was off near the edge of the wall. Melech followed him. A few paces later, they stood together at the building’s edge. Watari and his escort walked down the cramped street below them.

  The building across was lower and followed the road for thirty feet. The gap wasn’t far. Kep backed up and ran, leaping at the last moment to land on the far rooftop without making a sound. Melech knew there was no way he could be as quiet, so he crouched and waited until the last guard moved out of sight. Kep didn’t wait for him. He sped off. He leaped another gap and continued after the halfling.

  Melech cursed. He swung his legs over the side of the wall and climbed down to the street. He dropped the last six feet and chased after the halfling, following the light coming up from below on the street.

  Watari seemed to be in no hurry. The procession took their time leaving the Warrens. They took a circuitous route toward what Melech guessed was the Merchant District. Their sluggish pace allowed Melech to keep pace with little effort. It seemed his quarry would explore the whole Warrens, turning down side streets and doubling back again. They moved through a few more open squares, maneuvered around a corpse lying in the street, and picked up speed when they reached the dry gulch known as the Elven River. Through it all, Melech could see Kep on the rooftops, leaping and climbing, all the while never making any sound, almost as if he were a ghost. If Melech hadn’t worked with him before, he’d have been as oblivious about the halfling as were the guards they both followed.

  Darkness blanketed everything except for the flickering lights fed by burning dung in braziers every few yards or so. The dry Elven River twisted and turned until it spilled into the Merchant District at the open area marking the border between the upscale commercial center and the slums’ rundown squalor. The buildings crowded close there, row houses and tenements, open windows dark, leather flaps stirring in the rare breeze. Laundry lines stretched between the gaps. No clothing hung from them.

  Kep dropped down from the rooftops to join Melech. The pair ran. Their bare feet made little noise on the streets. They slowed when they heard voices. Kep took the lead; Melech followed, a larger shadow. They rounded a corner just as Watari and his guards entered Iron Square.

  The Merchant District was Tyr’s commercial heart, where the great merchant houses kept their emporiums and their private estates. Iron Square boasted several warehouses and shop fronts and was where most houses did their business. Dune traders and caravans from all over the region congregated in that wealthy corner, storing goods brought at great expense from places as strange and distant as Raam and Nibenay or from out farther. Working its streets was risky since the merchant guards tended to deal with thieves in their own way, with a knife across the throat.

  Kep half ran, half walked down the street to the corner around which Watari and his guards vanished. When Kep reached the edge, he peered around the clay brick wall. He yanked his head back and waved for Melech.

  Melech crossed the street. He looked for himself and saw the guards had stopped about thirty yards away. They mingled out front of Vordon’s building. The thief wasn’t worried. The lit street spoiled the guards’ sight, and the halfling was gone.

  Aside from towering double doors, there were no other entrances into the place, not even windows. Two banners hung from rods. Each was busy with a diamond pattern Melech recognized.

  Just as Melech pulled back, he heard loud singing coming from down the street. Melech scrambled back as he saw a guard move to investigate.

  Melech looked around for Kep and found the halfling disappearing through a dark doorway into a nearby building. Melech followed the halfling, ducking into the darkness. He didn’t wait for his eyes to adjust. He closed the door not enough for the latch to fall, but enough to fool any passersby. He waited.

  The singing grew louder.

  A whimper sounded behind him. Melech turned. Through the murk, he saw Kep sitting on an old man. The halfling rested his bone knife just below his prisoner’s eye. The old man was smart. He didn’t move. Melech looked at Kep. The halfling ignored him. He licked his lips.

  The singing stopped. Loud voices. An argument. A shout. A thump. Quiet. Fading footfalls.

  The old man moaned. Melech glared at him. He noted the tears cutting tracks down wrinkled cheeks.

  A boot scuffed just outside the door. Melech looked at Kep. The halfling looked at the old man, who in turn cast wide eyes at the door, hopes for rescue clear in his features.

  Melech pulled his foot away from the door as he moved into a fighting stance.

  Silence.

  The footfalls faded. Melech breathed and fell back against the wall. He was in a stairwell. An unlit lamp sat in a niche nearby. A rail followed the steps up to the second floor. Three doors led to what Melech guessed were apartments. The old man and Kep were still on the floor. Melech pushed off from the wall to crack the door for a look outside. A short, sharp cry turned him around. Kep pulled his knife from the man’s eye socket. He licked the blade clean.

  “Kalak’s stones! You didn’t have to kill him,” hissed Melech.

  “He saw us,” said Kep.

  “We could have bribed him.”

  “Too risky. Plus, I’m hungry.”

  Kep was not reckless. Just seeing Watari had awakened something sinister in the often light hearted halfling. Melech trembled. The man didn’t need to die. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Melech had done plenty of terrible things, but he wasn’t a murderer. It was too much.

  The old man had voided his bowels. The stench filled the cramped space.

  “Get rid of him, Kep. Now.”

  Kep didn’t move. They locked eyes. Melech saw nothing in the halfling’s gaze—no grief, no remorse, not even hate, just emptiness. When Melech looked away, Kep stood up and dragged the body behind the stairs. The killing wound hadn’t bled much. A little blood, a little shit, just a few small signs someone had died there.

  Melech left the building. He did not care whether Kep followed or not. The street outside had grown quiet. Nothing stirred, not even the wind. Kep was behind him. The halfling was chewing on something. Melech moved away to resume his place at the building’s corner, and Kep followed.

  A ramp led up to the open warehouse doors. Most of the guards moved inside. Two stayed outside and argued while a third dragged a body up the ramp. The guards must have killed one of the revelers. After a minute, another guard kicked dirt over a bloody spot on a street then walked up the ramp. The doors closed a moment later.

  Melech sagged. “I’m a dead man.”

  Thaxos Vordon considered his reflection in the polished steel mirror—a smooth, high brow and an aquiline nose, straight and proud. He had a strong jaw, hidden behind gray stubble matching the cropped hair on his head. No wrinkles. No spots. He had confronted time, and he had proved the stronger. He looked no older than his midforties, though he knew he faced a century with the forthcoming Sun Declining.

  He rested his fingertips on the polished metal’s mirrored surface. There was no heat in his touch, and he left no smudge. There were prices for longevity, yet he found himself willing to meet them if it meant keeping death at bay.

  He lowered the mirror to his desk. Metal was too precious to be used for such foolish vanity, but he was Thaxos Vordon, patriarch of House Vordon. Why should he deny himself the little vanities? He would be king soon. The time to put his plans into action was upon him. Tithian would abdicate. If he didn’t, he would die, just as old King Kalak did.

  Thaxos wanted vengeance.

  Kalak had ruined everything. His mad intent to complete the Ziggurat, an edifice to his staggering ego, proved a grotesque waste of lives and coin. To complete the Ziggurat, Kalak had seized the slaves from the nobles’ estates, had sealed the mines, and had put
every able body in and around Tyr on the project. The focus brought Tyr to such a fragile state. Kalak deserved the death he received. Had not the gladiator thrown the spear, Thaxos himself might have done the deed.

  In his seventy-five years ruling House Vordon, Thaxos had always placed his house’s interests first. Everything he did was to expand the family’s influence throughout the Seven Cities, to dominate trade, and to secure their place in history as the greatest merchant house the world had ever known. And King Kalak, in one mad act, managed to unravel everything.

  Thaxos knew he was strong, cunning, and capable, all traits his father lacked. Thaxos never regretted having his father murdered. His death allowed Vordon to achieve its meteoric rise to power. He used a bard to do the deed. Bards were performers but were also well known for using poison. Thaxos had seduced the young minstrel with gifts and the occasional tryst in a shadowed alcove. It did not take long to convince him to do the deed. The bard, whose name Thaxos had long forgotten, had slipped into the elder Vordon’s chambers and dribbled the poison into the old man’s mouth. Thaxos inherited his family’s fortunes, their outposts and fortresses, and the riches exporting Tyr’s iron brought.

  Thaxos had the bard killed, of course. He named him his father’s killer, claiming to have witnessed the young man slipping into his father’s chambers. Who would believe the word of a bard over the house’s heir? And when the bard cried out he had done the deed out of love, Thaxos had just laughed. He was already betrothed a pretty young woman, a match designed to grow Vordon’s fortunes. At Thaxos’s command, the guards hacked the young man to pieces. Not long after, evidence Thaxos had planted linked the bard to Vordon’s enemy, House Shom.

  Everything Thaxos Vordon had ever done was out of duty to his house, and his singular dedication had rewarded him well, a fact reflected in his sumptuous offices. He ran his finger along the agafari wood desk commanding the room. The warlock who oversaw its manufacture claimed a fey spirit still resided in the wood, and Thaxos could sometimes see its features in the grain.