Death Mark

by Robert J. Schwalb

  Melech knew what happened to other members of the organization who fell out of favor. They disappeared. His peers whispered about torture, broken limbs, being dragged off to the desert, and worse. Melech had to come up with something to tell Torston, some explanation, or he’d join the others who up and vanished after displeasing the master. The trouble was Melech couldn’t come up with anything. He had covered his tracks as best he could, but he had let his other duties slide, enough that even had Kep not stuck his nose in Melech’s side job, people would be talking.

  Melech came to an intersection, and for a moment he wasn’t sure which way he should go. He turned left and hurried on.

  He did not like letting Torston down, and not just for the punishment he was bound to face. Once, he saw his master as his rescuer, which he was. Torston saved him from the Ziggurat, saved him from the abbreviated life toil and want would create. Torston swept in and snatched Melech from the auction block at Elven Bridge. Melech, along with his previous master’s household, was being liquidated to pay off his master’s debts. The old noble was a wastrel and frittered away his fortunes on drink and women. When he could not pay his creditors because the farm failed, they killed him. Melech and the rest of the household became commodities to be sold so the debtors could recoup some of their investments. Toughs rounded up all the slaves, Melech included, and marched them to Elven Bridge, where most slaves were sold. The guards stripped them naked and paraded them one by one across the bridge where nobles and their agents could inspect them and place their bids.

  Melech remembered their long faces, their bright costumes, but most of all, he remembered the looks they gave. Some were leering, others dismissive, but not a one showed compassion. Melech had waited for his turn at the back of the line, staying out of sight as he had his whole life. He knew he could apply his talents wherever he went, yet there was a girl, a young woman whom Melech might have loved. She was next. The guards tore away her simple shift and shoved her up onto the bridge. Melech could no longer remember her name. He did remember her tears. She had wept when an elf slaver fondled her breasts and smacked her rump to show off her assets. Some lecherous noble bought her right away, and she was led off, never to be seen again. Melech vowed then and there he would kill the elf who had sold his love, a promise he still meant to keep.

  The line had inched on as more slaves were sold off. The elf guards had prodded them all forward toward the bridge. Melech was six slaves away from his moment. He remembered feeling shame and hatred boiling in his guts. He had been so distracted, he didn’t even notice when a bearded man with black skin had come to his side. Melech noticed when a guard approached. All color drained from the man’s face, terror evident in his widening eyes. The dark man had then placed a hand on Melech and said, “This one will do.” The slaver nodded and untied Melech from the rope binding him to the line. The dark-skinned man was Torston, and the one thing he said to Melech was, “I have bought your freedom, boy. If you’d like to stay free, follow me.” Melech hurried after the strange black man in his swishing orange robes, and together they disappeared into Tyr’s criminal underworld.

  When Melech reached Shadow Square, he realized Torston never once explained why he had singled Melech out. It would not have made a difference. Melech was a good student. He learned everything he could to rise in his master’s esteem. Each conquest, each purse stolen, each mission undertaken lifted Melech from the rank-and-file criminals working for the crime lord until Melech joined the rare few who received the master’s special favor. Melech had since enjoyed a comfortable life. Fine clothing, money to spare, and the fear and respect his status in Torston’s crime syndicate deserved; they were grand rewards all.

  Yet for the pleasures and successes he had experienced, he knew the freedom was a sham. It was a lie Torston told to keep him indebted and obedient. Melech’s fate was still decided by another, and if he failed, he would be punished. Melech did and went as instructed. He had to. He had to pay freedom’s debt. Torston may have cut the bone collar from his neck, but he put one just as weighty in its place.

  Melech rounded the corner and entered Shadow Square. He knew the place well, and the traders knew him too. They met him with everything from frowns and rude gestures (to which Melech responded in kind) to the occasional wave or embarrassed smile—Fenewen the Maid was a pretty young man who walked the streets preying on undiscerning, drunken soldiers looking for a tousle in the alley. Fenewen had an eye on Melech and offered him a free tumble just about every day. Melech laughed off the invitation as he always did.

  The Rat’s Nest stood just off Shadow Square. Melech could spot the usual assortment of hangers-on who loitered out front in the street. He should have headed straight there. Fear made him wait. He scrambled for something to say, some explanation, yet found nothing. Finally Melech resigned himself to what waited for him and continued toward the tavern.

  Melech slipped between two tents. A tall, slim elf with shaggy blond hair eyed him through narrow slits. His hand fell to a slender blade tied to his leg. Melech nodded and kept his hands visible. He made a point of inspecting the crude jewelry arranged on a black cloth at the stall’s front as he moved past.

  He slid through the market’s crowds until the tents thinned. Ahead, he saw square buildings, taverns and inns, fronting the square, each offering retreat from the sun and accommodations and custom for those with coin to spend. The Red Kank loomed to one side, a fine establishment to be sure. Melech did not go there often. He didn’t want anything to do with the mercenaries and self-styled adventurers who made a habit of warming its seats.

  Melech made for the Rat’s Nest. It stood between a brothel and a dreaming house. The adjoining buildings were tall enough to keep the dingy tavern drenched in shadow all day long. Unlike the other places on Shadow Square, the Nest was for the Light Touch Boys, the thieves Torston employed.

  One day at the House of Fingers was enough for Alaeda. She sat in the dark room and tried to stay comfortable despite the oppressive heat. She listened to the unsettling noises oozing up through the floorboards. Galadan had told her to stay put, to wait for orders. After a drunken man pushed through the door to her room and assaulted her, a struggle ending with her blade in his neck, she had had enough. The man had fought too well to be some drunken reveler. Alaeda suspected the broy stink was just cover for what she believed was an attempt against her life. She had left the body in her bed and slipped out into the night.

  She needed to find Phytos. She suspected he might already be dead, attacked as she was. She had to be sure, though, so she crossed the city to reach the inn where she had left him. She almost entered, she almost went inside to search him out, but she realized if someone had sent a killer after her, there must be another assassin watching that inn as well. Few people in the city knew her, and none of them wanted her dead.

  Maybe Vordon had recognized her. Maybe he had her followed. Even if the merchant knew who she was, she had done nothing to earn a death mark.

  If not Vordon, then whom? Galadan? The elf was the only one who knew where she was for certain. He had rented the room. It had to be him, but why? Galadan had nothing to gain. He made it plain the operation was his, and she had given him no indication she would not follow his orders. She was loyal to House Stel and would do nothing to betray them. Galadan had mentioned Torston in their meeting, another troubling part of their business.

  Alaeda had no idea who the man was, so she had asked some questions. He was a major player in Tyr’s underworld, and he had a finger in every district. Even the merchant houses paid him off to keep the Light Touch Boys from ransacking their storehouses. The last time she was in Tyr, she had heard even the templars wouldn’t touch him after one ambitious templar had tried to arrest him. Rumors said Torston sent pieces of the templar’s body to the Golden City every day for three months. Torston was a bad man. Alaeda was not thrilled to have him involved.

  Alaeda took a gloomy and cramped room at the Golden Inix, where she waited
until daybreak.

  She decided she would pay Galadan a visit. She’d find out if he tried to kill her, and if he did, she would repay the gesture. If he didn’t order the attack, he would at least be able to help her find out who did. She also wanted to find out why Torston was getting in bed with House Stel. What had Galadan offered? And what guarantee did Galadan have that Torston wouldn’t just double-cross them? The whole situation stank like a rotting kank. The secrets weren’t just going to out themselves. If she wanted to learn them, she’d have to look for herself.

  There were safer and better places in Tyr to get a drink than the Rat’s Nest, so passersby didn’t often drift into the tavern. The atmosphere encouraged outsiders who were not Light Touch Boys to finish their drinks and be on their way. The food was as one would expect from a place called the Rat’s Nest, and it was also a powerful motivator for outsiders to avoid the place. That was as Torston intended. The Rat’s Nest did not want for coin. The crime boss owned the place and used it as his personal office.

  The Rat’s Nest was one big open room with a bar running along the back wall. Empty stools stood in a row in front of the bar, while small tables and chairs were set around the room. Booths lined one wall, each with curtains for privacy. Dartboards and targets for throwing axes hung on the opposite wall.

  The place was almost empty. Two retired thieves nudged stones across a checkered board. A man slumped on the bar with dried vomit on his face. Poxy, a half-elf and a looker if not for the fever blister on her upper lip, waved at Melech from behind the bar, where she was wiping out wooden cups. She offered a nervous smile. Her eyes looked sadder than usual.

  Torston held court in the third booth back, which was hidden by curtains. Even if Melech hadn’t known where to find the boss, the mul standing beside it would have given him a hint. Rude Kala, as she was known, had a habit of taking trophies from her victims. Like many toughs Torston employed, she had fought in Tyr’s arena, where she gained a reputation for making eunuchs of her victims when she felt moved to spare them. She had not given up her signature habit. There were plenty of shrill, neutered men running around the Warrens who could offer proof if one dared to look.

  Kep was there too. He sat at a table not far off from Torston. The halfling eyed Melech. Poxy brought Kep a mug of something and a platter of raw meat, putting them on the table in front of the halfling.

  Rude Kala drew a curved wooden knife when Melech reached the booth. It was dull. She winked at him and drew back the curtain.

  Torston was there. He appeared calm. His lids were heavy, as if he had spent the night in the dreaming house next door. Torston wore his usual frown.

  Melech slid onto the opposite seat.

  Although Torston was no noble, he lived like one. He softened his curly black hair with oil. He had manicured nails. His clothes were of the current fashion, soft robes of pale blue pinstriped with silver. Gold rings sat on his thick fingers. A medallion boasting a grinning face hung from a chain around his neck.

  “Melech. Thank the ancestors. You had me worried, boy.” Torston reached out and squeezed Melech’s forearm. “Are you well? You look terrible.”

  Melech stammered.

  Torston patted Melech’s cheek. “What is it, son? What delayed you?”

  Although surprised, Melech knew enough to sense it was all some ruse.

  Melech didn’t say anything. Torston nodded and dropped his hand to the table.

  Then he punched Melech in the face, snapping his head back into the wooden backboard. Black spots swam in his vision. Blood gushed from his nostrils and spattered on the table.

  “Just who do you think you are? I asked you a bloody question!” He grabbed Melech’s broken nose and twisted.

  Melech wailed.

  Torston shoved Melech’s face back so hard, his head knocked the board again.

  Melech managed to say, “I … I was delayed.”

  “I’d say you were delayed. But that’s not what I asked, now was it? Where. Have. You. Been?”

  Melech’s mind raced. He searched for something, anything he could say that wouldn’t end with the mul cutting off his stones. “I … I … was taken.”

  “Taken?”

  A bit of truth makes the best lies. “A templar took me.”

  “Who?”

  Melech stammered, “Korvak.”

  “Korvak,” said Torston. “I wanted the truth.” His aspect changed. He smiled again. He folded a cloth and dipped a corner in a mug of water. He used the damp cloth to wipe the blood from his hand. “So what did Korvak want?” asked Torston, mild and calm once more.

  “Information,” he said. “Information about House Vordon.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “Ah, not much. I didn’t know much,” said Melech.

  “Specifics, Melech,” said Torston. His voice had an edge to it.

  Melech took a deep breath to get some control over his pounding heart. He shook his head and looked at the man opposite him. There was nothing kind there, no affection. Melech wasn’t special to him at all. He was just another tool to be used and discarded. Melech wondered what he owed the man. Freedom? A warm bed, shelter, food? Could not Melech find those somewhere else? Bitterness rose inside him, yet he did his duty and told it all, starting with how Korvak recruited him, his mixed results in tracking down clues about Vordon’s plotting, and wrapped up with a discussion about the meeting in the square. He left nothing out but Kep’s killing of the old man. When he was done, the pain in his nose was a dull throb. Melech leaned back to wait for whatever punishment his master felt he deserved.

  Torston covered his mouth with his left hand and rubbed his cheek with his fingers. With his right, he drummed on the table. He stared. Melech shifted in his seat. Torston dropped his hand to the table and said, “You did well, Melech. Very well. I just wish you had come to me straight away. I don’t like secrets. The templars should know to stay away from my people. A lesson Tithian’s lackeys seem to have forgotten.”

  Torston paused and looked into Melech’s eyes. “No secrets from me, Melech. Never. You understand?”

  Melech nodded. Relief chased away his bitterness. Maybe he did owe Torston something. The man had protected him. To throw everything away would be to go back to being nothing. Serving Torston meant a comfortable life. He was Torston’s man. “Of course, master. You’re right. I was mistaken. I … Thank you.”

  “Good. I’m glad we can put this behind us.” Torston threw open the curtain. Melech saw everyone inside turn back to what they were doing. Poxy was terrified. She wiped another cup. Melech was almost too ashamed to look around. He noticed someone new seated at a table, alone. A pretty brown-haired human woman with tanned skin and nondescript clothing. She must have come in while Melech was having his nose broken. She stared into her cup.

  Torston called, “Kep! Join us.”

  Kep slid off his seat and padded over to the booth.

  Melech moved to give the halfling some room.

  Torston pulled the curtain closed again and leaned forward. His voice low, he said, “Now listen. I have a special job for you two.”

  Alaeda knew something important was happening the moment she walked into the Rat’s Nest. Tension hung heavy in the air, and the few patrons and the employee all appeared nervous, attention focused on a closed curtain concealing a booth on the other side of the tavern. She heard a loud thump come from within, a wail, and another thump. Low voices. A whimper.

  During the exchange, the half-elf bartender brought her a cup of wine, for which Alaeda paid without even looking at the girl.

  She sat at her table. She waited. She listened.

  The curtain opened. Torston leaned out and called to the halfling who had just finished a platter of raw meat. Alaeda risked a look inside the booth and saw a black-haired young man, spare frame, and blood splattered all over his face and staining his shirt. The curtain closed.

  She had to hear what was going on inside the booth. The half-elf had
left the bar, and the two old men at their game weren’t paying attention. The mul guard turned away from the booth and was arguing with someone in the hall behind her. Alaeda slipped away from her table and moved across the room to take the booth behind Torston’s.

  She heard Torston speak in a low, whispery voice. “We have friends coming to the city,” he began, “friends who want to avoid attracting attention. I’ve instructed them to come in through the secret ways. I need you to let them in. Go down to the Tembo’s Teeth and take the passage marked with this.”

  Torston paused long enough to show them something.

  He continued, “At the end of the passage, you will find a locked gate. Use this,” he said, and something heavy slid across the table, “to open it. If there’s no one there, leave the doors open. I’m sure our friends will be waiting for you, though. Don’t talk to them. They’re … dangerous. When you’ve done this, come straight back here. Understood?”

  Alaeda was pressing her luck. She peered out through her own curtain to see the mul had gone. The tavern was empty. Alaeda eased out from her booth and made for the front door. No one stopped her.

  Outside, she walked until she came to the first corner and ducked around it. Torston was bringing someone into the city. Was that part of Galadan’s plan? Would more Stel agents be coming to help? Without knowing what the elf was planning, she wasn’t sure what her next move should be. She considered heading to the Red Kank to confront Galadan. But she saw Galadan walking toward then entering the Rat’s Nest when she risked a glance around the corner.