Thy Father's Shadow (Book 4.5)

by Robert J. Crane

  It took a few minutes, but he finished another. He had barely set it upon his table before Rosalla appeared, another already filled for him, green ale not even sloshing over the sides as she put it down in front of him. She didn’t bother with a tray, just brought it right to him, careful as anything, her yellow eyes looking down at him from beneath her frizzed white hair. “Is this going to be another night where I have a cart man wheel you home?”

  Terian studied the green ale as though it held the great mysteries of Lake Magnus’s depths somewhere within it while he fished into the coin purse at his belt and came back with three bronze pieces only slightly smaller than his littlest finger’s first knuckle. “It is beginning to turn that way, isn’t it?”

  She looked at him, bereft of any amusement as he laid the bronze on the table. She waited, expectantly, and after a moment he put two more down. She scooped them up then finally graced him with another look. “Shall I have him standing by, then? I know a good one, wheels a corpse cart around the slums most days, but at night he’s quite discreet about delivering drunken souls to their beds. And quite cheap, too—”

  “The last ride,” Terian said, letting his fingers play over the smooth surface of the glass, “didn’t cost me a thing.”

  She gave him a look that was all fire and attitude. It filtered past him and came to rest on his helm, which was hiding in shadow on the bench next to him. “Can’t imagine why someone would hesitate to run afoul of you by haggling over price of service when you’re drunk.”

  “Especially when I’m so sweet and pleasant of disposition, right?” Terian took another sip, long and measured. The ale was room temperature at best. Other establishments might have taken advantage of Reikonos’s snowfalls to cool their beverages. The Brutal Hole never even bothered. Terian suspected that was a management decision, though he didn’t rule out Rosalla simply not caring.

  “You’re not a mean drunk, that’s certain,” Rosalla said with a cool indifference. “Many’s here that are. So … will I be having the cart man pick you up later?”

  “Sure,” Terian said, watching the bubbles drift up to the top of the glass. “Why not?”

  “Why not?” Rosalla asked. “Are you looking for a legitimate reason?” Her voice carried a rough, guttural accent. She was plainly used to speaking dark elvish, but she spoke the human tongue here. He looked behind the bar at the jars filled with pickled meats and wondered idly if they served human tongues, real ones.

  “Can you give me a reason not to?” Terian wondered if he’d care if she could.

  “Perhaps you have work tomorrow?” She cast an impatient gaze at him. He didn’t care. She turned a nervous eye to the bar, as though she could sense a riot impending, the longer she was away from pouring drinks. “An early morning? Or plans for later tonight?” She gave him a mirthless, though wicked, smile. “A visit to the Silken Robe, mayhaps? Need to keep your sword rigid for the work that might entail?”

  “Sword rigidity is not a problem for me,” Terian said with only a little irony, “since I carry an axe.”

  “Is there some semblance of meaning to be found in that?” Rosalla asked, and he could see the genuine amusement in her face. “That you carry an axe, inflict bloody wounds with it, and spend your nights chasing—”

  “I wouldn’t delve too deep into that thought,” Terian said and drank again. The brew was foul, fouler than anything Larana would dare to put out back at Sanctuary. I only miss the beer, he told himself. And possibly the companionship.

  “Hrm.” With a last sound of amusement, Rosalla turned away from him, heading back to the bar.

  He wasn’t too shameless to watch her as she walked away, either. More genuinely interesting than anything I’d find at the Silken Robe, I’d wager. His view was suddenly blocked by a dark cloak and he felt a flash of annoyance. He looked up to see who might be approaching him and had to suppress the desire to grasp the axe hanging behind his back. He let his hand relax after a moment’s thought, and it found the familiar ale in front of him again as he tossed it back in one good drink. “My first temptation was to split your godsdamned head from your body. Then I realized that it probably wouldn’t do a bit of good.”

  “Forbearance never was one of your top qualities, dear boy,” came the slick, oily voice of the figure that stood before him. He wore a deep blue cloak with a cowl up, and in the dim light it looked almost black. His mouth was just visible, an underwhelming, bony chin peeking out from under the cowl.

  “Malpravus,” Terian said, setting his empty glass back on the small table, “what the hell do you want?”

  “I want what anyone wants,” Malpravus said, drawing a skeletal hand to his chest, letting it run over the exterior of his cloak. “Power, and all the trappings that come with it.”

  Terian let himself chortle, but it was a dry noise, free of any amusement. “Well, at least you’re honest about that much.”

  The necromancer’s eyes weren’t visible under the darkness of his cowl. “The way you say that would imply that I am dishonest about other things.”

  Terian didn’t flinch, even as the darkness under the cowl seemed to deepen as if by magic. “As you said, you want power. Might just be that power doesn’t come as easily to those who always speak the truth.”

  Malpravus’s skeletal grin widened. “You are such a rarity among your former brood. I do so enjoy my time among your brethren of Sanctuary, but their naïve honesty and virtuousness leaves me a bit tired. It is as though the realities of life have never settled hard upon their bones, and they remain comfortably cocooned in that guildhall of yours, ensconced from the harshness of outside forces.” He gestured toward the chair opposite Terian. “Do you have a few moments to parlay? To discuss possibilities?”

  Terian paused before answering, but only briefly. “Well, I’m supposed to be catching a ride with a guy who runs a corpse cart here in another hour or so.” He picked up the glass and stared forlornly at the last hints of foam at the bottom of it. “It won’t kill me to listen to you until then, though I warn you—if you begin to annoy me, I’m going to drink faster, so I can get to passing out more quickly.”

  Malpravus seemed to ponder this for a moment while Terian stared at him. “Quite a state you’ve worked yourself into. If the voices I hear are to be believed, you’ve taken work with a mercenary company, watching warehouses during the day to keep marauders, the impoverished and street urchins at bay? And at night you rotate between this … place,” Malpravus gestured to the dingy interior of the Brutal Hole with a skeletal hand, “and another establishment not far from here, rather less prestigious—if such a thing is possible.”

  Terian let his tongue run over his front teeth and felt the glaze over them from the meals of the day. The aftertaste of the ale was still strong on his palate. “I do what I have to for money so I can do what I want to in my off hours. It’s called working for a living.” He sat forward. “You’re probably not familiar with the concept.”

  “It’s … sliding by on the minimums,” Malpravus said, with an air of distaste. “Shooing orphans away in the cold because they’re in front of a warehouse you’re guarding is hardly work befitting a dark knight of your station and power, dear boy.” He stiffened and smiled slightly. “Perhaps I might offer you … a path.”

  Terian’s eyes fell to his empty glass, regarding it with a thought as Malpravus’s words echoed in his head. It doesn’t usually stay empty this long …

  As if in response to his thought, there was a grunt followed by a cry from the bar, and Terian’s head wheeled to see Rosalla trapped, a wide longshoreman gripping her tightly from behind and lifting her off the ground. Her feet dangled just beneath her.

  “The Silken Robe …” Rosalla said, struggling for breath from inside the muscled arms that had hers pinned to her sides, “… is just down the road!”

  “Don’t want no whore,” the beast of a dark elf who was gripping her said. He was bigger than any of the others i
n the establishment, Terian realized as the big longshoreman dragged Rosalla from behind the bar. Most of the faces in the place were down, focused intently on their drinks, and an air of discomfort was palpable from the regular patrons. There was suddenly a wide, open space in front of the bar as the crowd dispersed to give them wide berth.

  “Excuse me,” Terian said, cutting across the near silence, and punctuating it by smacking the bottom of his glass on his table, drawing the startled attention of everyone at the bar. “I need another ale.”

  The beast who had Rosalla in his grasp wore an expression even uglier than his actual face. “She’ll be with you in a few minutes.” His smile grew wide and malicious; Terian noticed there were teeth missing from beneath the navy lips. “Maybe. If she can walk afterward.”

  “It’d take more than you’ve got to put me bowlegged,” Rosalla said and brought her head back with a smash into the big dark elf’s nose that caused him to cry out and drop her. She dropped and spun, kicking him solidly in the groin before disappearing behind the bar.

  “I like her attitude,” Terian said, watching the big dark elf hit his knees. Terian waved his hand at him once in a leisurely fashion, as if he were simply fluttering his fingers. The big dark elf was too busy clutching at his groin and took no notice of it.

  Malpravus, on the other hand, saw it and broke into a broad grin. “Dear boy, if one didn’t know better, one might mistake your actions for a virtue of some sort.”

  “That would be unwise,” Terian said shortly, staring at the empty glass again, almost forlornly. “I just take delight in the misery of others, that’s all.”

  “Is that it?” Malpravus’s smooth voice belied his amusement, and he cast a little look over his shoulder as Rosalla popped up from behind the bar with a crossbow in hand. She froze, though, as she saw her attacker on his knees, groaning and gasping quietly for air. The subtle, sucking noise the big longshoreman was making had an almost tragic, desperate quality to Terian’s ears.

  “Hmm. The Lockjaw plague spell?” Malpravus asked, regarding the scene with a raised eyebrow. “Swells the tongue? Makes it difficult to breathe, yes?”

  “It’s one of my favorites,” Terian said, watching the longshoreman, a dark elf big enough to stand favorably against Cyrus Davidon—that giant human—clutching at his throat, unable to move from the floor. “The only downside is that it won’t kill him. He won’t realize that for a few more minutes yet, though.” A seasoned fighter would know to just keep going; but a dumb longshoreman will flop about like a gutted fish until it wears off. He clinked the glass idly against the table again, and it sat at a terrible tilt on the uneven planks. “Still, I do so love the misery, especially for this sort.” He glanced down at the flailing man once more and felt a thin, unsatisfied smile break across his lips.

  Rosalla stormed out from behind the bar, her white, frizzed hair flaring as she wheeled her head around until it settled on him. The rest of the Brutal Hole’s patrons were clearing now, standing and leaving, shuffling toward the door. It was no stampede, but close, the thudding of leather boots against the wood planks filling the entire bar. “You!” she called as she closed the distance between them. “You did that?” She gestured to the blue-skinned man on the floorboards, clutching at his knees as if he could curl up like a baby.

  “I did that,” Terian admitted lightly, as though he were confessing to swatting a fly and with all the concern one might have for doing such a thing. “I could use another ale, by the way, if you’re looking for a way to thank me.”

  “Thank you?” Rosalla was flushed, her cheeks dark blue. “You drove away every patron in the place!”

  “Nonsense,” Terian said lightly, “I’m still here. And waiting on that ale, by the way.”

  Malpravus made a gentle coughing noise. “I would not decline a refreshment either.”

  “You don’t count as a patron,” Terian said darkly. “Maybe a patronizer.”

  “Who’s going to clean this up?” Rosalla said with a darkness of her own, waving to gesture at her attacker, who was now pounding the floor as though it would clear his throat.

  Terian shrugged. “You sent for the man with the corpse cart already, didn’t you?” He held up the empty glass almost like he was saluting. “Problem solved.” He glanced at Malpravus, who nodded sagely. “Don’t you love it when all the pieces sort of intersect together in convenient ways?” Terian paused and frowned. “Never mind.”

  “I do love it when that happens,” Malpravus agreed.

  “Yeah, but the rest of us don’t, because when your plans come together it almost always involves us getting screwed in an unenjoyable way.” Terian looked up at Rosalla. “I thought you’d be happy. He was planning to—”

  “These types always plan to,” Rosalla said, leveling a finger at him. “They always plan to, at least once a week. And every time I disabuse them of the idea, every time I put the pain into them, make them suffer and they change their minds, I don’t lose all my patrons in the process! Now what am I supposed to do?”

  Terian surveyed the empty bar, the overturned chairs and tables, the still-struggling lout lying on the floor, and he lifted his glass toward her. “Get me an ale?”

  With a noise of sheerest frustration Rosalla left, and Terian watched her step over the longshoreman to return to her place behind the bar. “I’m guessing that ale isn’t going to be just ale,” Terian mused idly while he watched her go. She has a wonderful walk.

  “Indeed not,” Malpravus said, drawing Terian’s attention back to the Goliath Guildmaster. “May we come back to addressing my proposal?”

  “The one where you give me a path?” Terian eyed the empty glass forlornly and sat forward, favoring Malpravus with his full attention. “The problem is that I presume any path you’re likely to give me is going to be one that leads to the edge of a cliff, where a helpful shove will be waiting to aid me in going over.”

  “Such unkind thoughts do you no credit, dear boy,” Malpravus said, steepling his long, thin fingers.

  “They keep me alive, though,” Terian said, watching for any movement beneath the darkened cowl. The fact that the necromancer’s eyes were not visible was only a little disquieting.

  “You could be a great dark knight,” Malpravus said, leaning back as though to hide his eyes further. “I have seen the seeds of the true darkness within you, waiting to take root. You did the pact, your soul sacrifice; I have heard the tale, and it was truly a great one. But you pulled away afterward, threw away all your dark works and left, seeking a … less harried way, perhaps.” The smile became a grin, teeth bared. “Something that required less personal sacrifice?”

  Terian blinked only slightly. “I made about the biggest personal sacrifice I was willing to.”

  Malpravus took a deep breath in through his nose. “The path I would offer you is one much easier than that which you trod before. It would lead to officership in Goliath, one of the foremost guilds in the land. With your experience, you could step right into our council, help guide our armies in our ever-expanding role in the world. Help lead us to prominence.”

  “Easier?” Terian said, and let the doubt creep into his tone. “If your version of easier is anything like—”

  “It isn’t,” Malpravus said smoothly. “You’ve done your sacrifice, your bit to cement your knighthood. I can show you ways to grow your power. To bring you money, status, women if you seek them. You need not pace cobbled streets watching for burglars, or drink green ale from kegs that were sealed only yesterday.” Malpravus dismissed the empty glass with a wave. “There are finer things out there. You need not coast along on the margins any longer if you don’t desire to.”

  There was an almost smoky feeling around Terian’s eyes, the barest hint of a sting in them. “All I have to do is join Goliath, right? Follow your orders? Help recruit and guide the next generation of your brood as you take another step toward surpassing the big three?”

  Malprav
us’s grin was unfettered delight now. “Yes. You have it exactly.”

  Terian leaned back in his chair. “Why me, Malpravus? There are countless dark knights out there.”

  “Yet so few available,” Malpravus said. “And fewer still with your particular set of experiences—”

  “We come to it at last,” Terian said, not sadly, but almost. “You mean my officer experience. In Sanctuary.”

  “As I recall,” Malpravus said, almost innocently, “you were not just a mere officer, but Elder of the guild. Such a post is undoubtedly one of trust, of leadership. Someone inhabiting such a post in a guild as august as Sanctuary might know things that could be a valuable commodity—”

  You bastard. Terian didn’t say it out loud, but he knew it was writ across his face. “You want me to betray Sanctuary by telling you all about everything I might have learned in the Council Chambers.”

  If Malpravus was shocked, he hid it well. “I can’t imagine anything that would be discussed in the Sanctuary Council that I would need to be privy to.” He still wore the wide grin. “Still, I would expect your new loyalties would win out over the old, should the day ever come when it might be necessary to choose between one and the other—”

  “Malpravus,” Terian said and felt the light whistle between his front teeth as he said it, “I’m a son of a bitch. I might even be a damned son of a bitch. But I’ll kill myself before I become a damned, traitorous son of a bitch.”

  “I couldn’t imagine your mother being all that pleased about your assessment,” Malpravus said, his slitted eyes just barely visible now, a gleam of light shining off of them.

  “The ‘son of a bitch’ thing? I was actually talking about my father,” Terian said and rapped the edge of the table with his knuckles. “I’ve left Sanctuary. Parted ways with them. But that doesn’t mean I’ve abrogated all loyalty with their membership.” He let his jaw settle tightly. “My issue is with Alaric; with his sanctimoniousness, with his steadfast refusal to do what’s right when it’s necessary. I will never …” He leaned forward, letting the heat of his emotion seep out, searing the table between the two of them, “… never betray my friends. Count on that.”