Nightlord: Sunset

by Garon Whited

  Ring three, the outermost ring of the city inside the walls, is devoted to the upper-middle-class. The skilled workers and the upscale service industries make their homes and shops here—frequently, the same thing. Coopers, smiths, wine-merchants, stables, carriage-wrights, the works. The major markets are also in this ring. The wall around ring three is only about fifteen feet high—which is huge, considering the sheer size of the city—and patrolled by the city guard. Meaning there are a pairs of watchmen walking around the city all night. Ring three doesn’t have a lot of cops per unit of area; there isn’t as much in the way of easily portable wealth, or people important enough to protect.

  Outside the city are the slums. Nobody is allowed to build against the wall, but the houses crowd up right to the hundred-pace limit—except on the south and east sides, of course. These sides have holes in the outer wall for wooden piers, and the sea and the river come right up to the foot of the wall. It looks like a magical construction job to me, or their engineering is a lot more clever than I give them credit for. The farther you get from the wall on the non-river sides, the sparser the buildings become—and the less savory. Inns and taverns outside the wall are not pleasant places. They tend to have large, ugly men with big sticks hanging around. With luck, those are the bouncers.

  Beyond the slums, there’s farmland. Lots of it, on both sides of the river. There are three wooden bridges across the river. One connects with the city itself; the other two are found farther north of the city.

  I found all this out by the simple expedient of getting mugged.

  It was easy. Bronze took a walk in the river to cool off, then we went to an inn with a stable—there weren’t many outside the walls. It was one of the better inns to the north of the city, near a river bridge. It was at least a trifle cleaner than most, but noisy. The common room downstairs doubled as a tavern; private rooms were on the second floor. I left Bronze out front and went in to buy a drink.

  Gold in such a place is rare. Usually, there are copper and silver coins. I flashed a large gold coin—a dekat, or the rough equivalent of a hundred-dollar bill—and asked for a room. The innkeeper was only too glad to accommodate me.

  “I’ve no way to change yer lordship’s coin,” he said. The accent reminded me slightly of my aged friends in captivity. “If ye’ll leave it with me, I’ll have it broken at a moneylender’s while ye sit to table in the morn.”

  I sighed, as though it were an imposition. “I suppose so,” I huffed, loudly. “I shall have a bottle of your finest brandy as well, and a lad to show me to my room. I’ve sorrows to drink away and do not wish to be disturbed.”

  He bowed and provided these things. The kid was actually a young girl, about nine, but with that world-wise air that comes with a difficult environment. She was none too clean, but her clothes were well-mended and her hair was braided neatly into a tail. She kept out of arm’s reach and was always watching me. I think other customers have tried to be over-affectionate with her.

  “Thank you,” I told her, and flicked at silver coin to her. She caught it and made it disappear. “Do you know where I might find Linnaeus the Bard?”

  “Heard of ’im. Sings for his supper about town. Try the middle city,” she suggested.

  “Thank you again. And if anyone asks about me, tell them I’m down by half a bottle already and drinking steadily.”

  She glanced at the bottle of brandy, then at me. “If y’say so, then ’tis so.”

  “Good girl.” I flicked her another silver. “Goodnight.”

  She dipped in an attempt at a curtsey; I don’t think she got much practice. “Goodeven, lord.”

  I shut the door and examined the room. It was small, dark, had one window—with both bars and shutters—and a straw-filled mattress on a cot. There was a cracked clay pitcher and a matching clay basin on the windowsill. I didn’t like the smell of the mattress; I waved a fistful of tendrils through it. That killed a godawful number of fleas, vermin, and molds. Only then did I lay down on it and wait.

  The wait wasn’t a long one—an hour or so. A pair of rough men tried to sneak into my room. If I had been passed out drunk, they would have succeeded. They crept in without light, sneaking carefully, if blindly, to the bed.

  I could see perfectly, so I kept out of their way. When they reached the bed, they both drew daggers. I knocked their heads together, fairly hard. One went down immediately, the other groaned and rolled into a ball, clutching at his skull.

  Wave around big money in a bad neighborhood and go to bed with a bottle—I rather thought it would bring out the worst in someone. Maybe I’m just cynical.

  I drew Firebrand and gave them some light. The groaning man rolled over, facing away from Firebrand’s blaze. The room had a candle, so I prodded the wick. Firebrand lit the candle and dimmed to a gleam.

  We had a long chat, my new friend and I. I tried not to hurt him any more than necessary, but I kept in mind he and his partner would have knifed me in my sleep in order to steal everything I own. He didn’t enjoy the quiz and I didn’t enjoy talking to him. At least I didn’t do any permanent damage—just enough to convince him I would, if he didn’t answer me. I think I was mighty generous just to let him live.

  I also found out about the gate-passes. Going into and out of the outer and middle cities is easy enough; just look like you’re worthwhile and the guards at the gate won’t even ask your business. But the inner city is hard to get into. You need a passport, a parchment with a noble’s seal on it that says you’re allowed in. No riff-raff allowed.

  One more complication. Ah, well. I can go over walls if I have to.

  The Church, meanwhile, has a major cathedral—one might say the major cathedral—in middle city. It’s very near the eastern gate of inner city, about as upscale a neighborhood as you can get without having to card everyone who comes by. My informant didn’t know exactly where the upper crust of the clergy lived; somewhere near the cathedral, but that was all he was sure about.

  I let him and his now-groggy companion go with an admonishment to leave my horse alone. With a little luck, they wouldn’t listen.

  Morning found me hiding, naked, in a blanket under my mattress. I may have killed all the vermin, but the smell was still unpleasant. They don’t wash a straw-filled mattress—they empty the old straw and dump in fresh. Mine was overdue.

  Once I pulled myself together and had a brief wash, I dressed again to head downstairs. True to his word, the innkeeper had change from a moneylender—at a ten percent surcharge. I ignored this, accepted my change, ate the black bread and the onion soup he served up as breakfast, and went out to check on Bronze.

  No signs of bloodshed. I guess they left her alone. Well, they had headaches.

  We headed into Carrillon. The gates opened shortly after sunrise. I dawdled enough to miss the morning rush, but there was still a lot of traffic over the bridge. People on foot made up the bulk of the traffic, but there were a few people on horseback. I suspect coaches would be used by the wealthy. Loaded wagons also rolled in and out in a steady stream. There was even some sort of prison-on-wheels, festooned with chains and surrounded by cavalry, all in the livery of the Church.

  Whoever was in there might deserve it, I reflected. Probably not, but I have to pick my fights. I can’t just go around indiscriminately beating up Church flunkies. I’m aiming at the top. If I have to, I’ll work my way down.

  The Inn of the Golden Horn was in middle city. As far as inns go, it was definitely upscale. The clientele were washed and well-dressed, the tables were polished, the chairs were padded, and the kitchen stocked a wide variety of victuals. The staff was friendly, well-spoken, deferential, helpful—and also well-scrubbed. Perfumed lightly, in the case of the women. Even the stable was clean. There was even a yard for a few carriages.

  I took an average room—it was really a small suite—and paid through the nose for it. I squashed my inner grumbling and accepted that high prices were to be expected—and found it included a bathtub
, a laundry service, and simple tailoring and mending. They even offered to polish my sword.

  It made me wonder what an inn was like in the inner city. Or even if they had them.

  I saw Bronze stabled and had words with the stablemaster. Then I went up to my room—on the third floor; it’s the first inn I’ve seen with more than two—and had not only a bath but a change of clothes and a meal. Room service is a luxury, so I luxuriated.

  While my clothes were being taken away to be cleaned, a gentleman servant (Bellhop? Valet? Lackey?) asked about my other needs.

  “I think I’m good,” I replied. The soap was scented with rose oil. Very nice.

  “Perhaps sir desires some form of companionship?” he pressed.

  “What, like a bath-girl?”

  He smiled. “Of course, sir.”

  “I can wash myself, thanks.”

  He blinked at me. I think I surprised him.

  “As sir wishes.” He bowed and breezed out. I bathed, rinsed, dried.

  I did willfully and with enjoyment aforethought thoroughly revel in getting completely clean. Go without bathing or showering for a while. Take nothing but a sponge-bath for a month and see how your appreciation for a hot bath gets enhanced.

  It still doesn’t compare to a shower, but I can live with it.

  Freshly dressed, I emerged from the bathchamber and found a young girl, about twelve, setting the small table; she had a sizable tray of covered dishes on a stand. The plates were polished metal and the flatware matched it. The cup was made of glass, not wood or ceramic. The food smelled absolutely wonderful. I sat down to eat and she did an excellent job of serving. I could have reached anything myself, but I don’t mind a waitress.

  A whole roasted duck, diced potatoes, some wonderful rolls, and a nice wine made for an excellent lunch. The girl cleared the table and whisked out before I could tip her.

  Now what? Sit here and edit my diary? I’m supposed to meet someone here, but I have no idea who or how. Meryth never promised to come himself—just that he’d arrange a meeting. I could go looking for Linnaeus, but I might miss my contact while I’m out. I suppose I can find the bard later. I’ll wait.

  I wasn’t waiting long. No one recognized me, of course. I carry a sword, have cash, and wear a nice sash—anyone can see I’m a knight. Anyone who doubts it doesn’t doubt it strongly enough to point a finger and say I’m not. Other than that, I could be anybody.

  Bronze stands out. She’s larger than a normal horse, faster, and apparently smarter. But the big giveaway is that she’s made of metal. There aren’t too many of those around. As far as I know, she’s unique.

  There was a polite knock at the door.

  “Come in!”

  The valet slipped in. “There is a gentleman here to see sir. He claims to have an appointment. Does sir wish to see him?”

  “Who is he?”

  “The name he has given is T’yl,” he replied, pronouncing it t-YIL. “I believe, sir, that he is a magician.”

  I nodded. “Very good. Show him in.” In short order, my guest arrived.

  The man himself was dark-skinned, about the color of the darkest tan I’ve ever seen; coffee-colored, if you like a little coffee with your cream. He wore the fancy robes of a professional magician—or what I took to be such. There were lots of pouches at his belt and a number of symbols embroidered into the robe itself. There was a wand tucked into a sheath at his hip and a number of magically-charged accessories on his person—rings, bracelets, and an amulet.

  I did not expect additional company. Following the magician was a suit of armor. It reminded me of a lot of bad fantasy movies. It was plate armor, decorated with arcane symbols in gold and silver inlay.

  From the way it moved, I was pretty sure that there wasn’t anyone in there.

  I rose to greet my guest. “Good afternoon. I am told that you are T’yl.”

  He pressed his hands together, as though about to pray, and bowed in my direction. The armor simply stopped when he did and was motionless.

  “I am T’yl. You are the one who is known as the Wall of Blades?”

  “I am,” I admitted.

  He regarded me with keen, dark eyes. “I was under the impression that you would be taller.”

  “Apparently, I’ve failed to grow with the stories,” I remarked, dryly.

  “Indeed. Indeed. Forgive me, please. Your exploits are rapidly becoming legend.”

  I gestured him to a seat. “Think nothing of it. Have you spoken with Meryth?”

  “At length. I have been in contact with a number of like-minded individuals and we are prepared to go to whatever lengths are necessary to prevent… certain individuals from coming to power.”

  “Right to business, I see. So where is this fellow?”

  “He is in residence here, in Carrillon.”

  “So I’m told. But where?”

  “The cathedral is not far from the palace of priests,” he said.

  “Palace of priests?”

  “A mansion of some opulence, for the use of high church officials while they are within the capitol.”

  “Good to know. What sort of help can you give me?” I asked.

  “Much,” T’yl replied. “There are some few of us who clamor for Tobias’ life, but to slay him out of hand will only prove to be more trouble. The whole of the Church would turn against all workers of magic. That is unacceptable, even to those who are more hot-blooded.” He smiled ruefully. “Thus, we wish not to act directly, but to support you however we may from the shadows.”

  I nodded. “I recall Meryth mentioning some of that. Why not turn this whole problem around? Let’s make sure everyone knows that Tobias is making deals with demons and assassinating his way to power. I’m sure you can create an illusion of such actions. Include sound. Display it three times life size. Put it in a dozen different places here in the capitol. Have a dozen magicians go to other cities to show it off. Let everybody know about him.”

  T’yl looked thoughtful, but shook his head.

  “A sound enough idea, and one that may be useful in other matters,” he allowed, “but the people would be divided on who to believe. Many have great faith and small trust for magic. Others chafe at the Church and would embrace our views. It would cause schism in the kingdom and the Church, and likely war. To kill Tobias then would be to make him a martyr. To not kill him… he may already have enough demonic power at his command to turn such a war into a slaughter.”

  “Can’t the king intervene to stop such a thing? He’s got to have an army.”

  “Surely. But the king is old and has no heirs. The dukes are already maneuvering into line for the throne. This would give those far down the list the hope of moving up; that alone assures we would have war. Worse, there are dark forces that have massed in Eastgate and sacked it—there is some new leader that has arisen and made an army out of rabble. A civil war could lose the entire kingdom. Even the viksagi might take advantage, if the war drags on. Kamshasa would certainly raid to take loot and slaves; there is no love lost between the kingdoms.”

  I rubbed my temples and thought about it.

  “Conjecture,” I suggested. “What will happen if a nightlord kills Tobias?”

  T’yl pursed his lips and steepled his fingers. “If it is not known that Tobias is a demonomancer, the Church will shudder to its roots. It would either cause a fatal crack in the faith of those who hold to it, or cause a backlash of resounding faith as they rise up to smite the evil that has been gone for so long.”

  “Which do you think would happen?”

  He hesitated. “I think—and this is only my opinion—with the present internal troubles of the Church, I think it would crumble. There is no one of whom I know who could head it, and the present leaders of the various factions would likely see it as an opportunity to gain more power. Without unity in its leadership, I think it would fall.”

  “I’m not so sure they wouldn’t close ranks and forge ahead. I’m worried about backlash,
you understand. Could you and the other magicians see to it that any competent leader had problems—or met with an accident? Say, a bolt of lightning from the sky?”

  “We could. But…” he trailed off.

  I raised eyebrows. “But?”

  “There are some,” he began, hesitant, “who do not feel… comfortable… with the idea of trusting you.”

  My eyebrows climbed higher. “No?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because I’m a nightlord?”

  He shifted in his chair. “Yes.”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “The matter of Tobias is without question,” he said, quickly. “We need him to be removed—”

  “—and you want me to be the patsy for it. I know. Go on.”

  He worried his lower lip for a moment. “We all agree about Tobias,” he said, ignoring my comment. “Some of us do not feel comfortable with any other agreement with… well…”

  “A blood-sucking fiend of the night that wants to sink fangs in your throat and devour your blood and soul.”

  He glanced nervously at the suit of armor, then met my gaze. “Yes.”

  I laughed aloud. Delightful! The big, bad, powerful magicians were playing Faust to my Mephistopheles! Now, if only I were as powerful and competent as Mephistopheles…

  “I’m sorry to disillusion you, but I’m not evil. I’m just tragically misunderstood.”

  “Whether you are evil or not is debatable,” he admitted, “but we have a preponderance of evidence that suggests you—”

  “What evidence?” I demanded, leaning forward. The armor shifted slightly, then held still. “As I understand it, you have the writings of a bunch of Church scholars from a thousand years ago or so. Hardly impartial witnesses. And, of course, the raids into my homeworld at the behest of the Church. Again, not the best of examples. Where is the evidence? You have a lot of biased hearsay about nightlords as a whole—and what do you know about me?” I demanded. “Are all magicians alike? Are all priests? Why assume—even if what you think you know about nightlords is true—I am anything like the ones you have heard about?”