by J. S. Morin
Anzik had unrestricted access to the house, especially since he could see his way through most of his father’s wards. Since Jinzan had returned, he had been watching for an opportunity to slip away for an extended time. He looked up at the Staff of Gehlen, warded away in a glass case, and smiled.
It looks so wonderful.
Chapter 5 - Sizing Up Foes
Dogger’s Shack was among the worst ale-halls in Scar Harbor, and the owner, Dogger, liked it that way. The age-greyed wood of the walls and floors only got washed enough to get the occasional splatter of blood off, but the tables and chairs were always near to new, though of the cheapest make that could be found. Fights were regular to the point of almost being expected on a busy night, and the furnishings took a beating or were used in dealing one out. It was a place where a man with one eye and a few rotten teeth could go to drink with his social inferiors. The regulars ran the name of the place together as Doggershack, and could tell anyone who did not belong when they used two words to name it.
Foreigners were not unheard of in Doggershack, being right near the water where newcomers first set foot in Acardia after getting off the boat that brought them. Some stumbled in by mischance, often to their dismay. Others sought it out with purpose for the same two reasons the locals did: it was a place where ruffians might still find welcome and piss-poor ale still got a man drunk.
The door was jammed open with a bit of driftwood to keep the stink of the place manageable and let out the heat from hot, sweating patrons on a warm late afternoon. Folk came and went all day, so it took something more than passingly unusual to draw attention. The lot that entered that day qualified.
They were preceded by a woman, Kheshi by her look, with a short mop of yellow hair and a few tiny braids hanging to one side. Her eyes were so deep a blue that they looked nearly black; they flitted back and forth as she swept the room appraisingly before passing the threshold. She was tall, comely despite her stern look, with youthful, pale skin—probably even had all her teeth—and thin limbs. Her most womanly features were obscured by her leather armor, close fitted, but still vague enough to leave hungry eyes guessing at the shape beneath, and the loose black tunic thrown over it only made things harder on the lecherous eyes sizing her up like the day’s catch. The armor was Kheshi styled, with a steel neck guard running from collarbone to collarbone with the front left open. Her arms were left bare. They bore no scars despite being left exposed by her armor, which might be taken as a sign of being untested in battle, if not for the tattoos.
Kheshi warriors of a certain mind-set had tiny circles along their upper arms. Each circle represented a coin left on the body of a slain enemy, ostensibly to pay whoever found the body for the trouble of disposing of it. It was not a tradition among soldiers, who might leave a wounded foe and never know his fate, or who might range about the field of battle for half a day, killing and avoiding death’s pursuit. Of old, it was the sign of an assassin, so that none might mistake the crime for an accident or a fit of anger or passion. In more modern times, mercenaries wore the marks as a sign of prowess, some in the old way of the assassins who might even leave coins as tradition would dictate, while others would brazenly take on far more than they had ever killed. To wear Kheshi armor open-sleeved with dozens of the markings showing was a braggart’s boast without even having to speak a word.
Gazes followed gazes, and men looked to see what had captured their drinking companions’ attention. Nudges and low, ribald comments alerted the rest until nearly the whole of Doggershack was watching her. Having deemed the place suitable by whatever low standard she must have had, she turned her head to look back at her companions, and gave a sideways nod inside to beckon them.
First in behind the Kheshi girl was a tall, wiry Acardian with a sword at his hip. He had a face that looked permanently punched, with a large brow, flat nose, and a large chin like a small child’s knee jutting below his mouth. He had a mean glint in his eyes and a languid ease to his movements—the sort that blustering youths try to imitate when they want to look tougher than they are.
Right behind him was a black-skinned Takalish warrior. He wore a patch over one eye, and had a scar running down the jaw on the other side, partly obscured by his beard. There was light aplenty in the taproom, otherwise his features would have been difficult to discern, with the black-on-black contrast of his skin, eye patch, and beard. The white of his one good eye shone starkly against the brownish green of the rest. If the men in Doggershack that night did not know that his long twin braids dangling down over his grey-trimmed burgundy tunic marked him as a warrior, the Takalish half-spear sheathed on his back made it obvious. The Takalish had decided that the bits of swords nearest the cross-guard were not worth the trouble of sharpening. Instead they decided to shorten the blade and lengthen the grip. The weapon was lighter than a greatsword, but with just as much reach, and their warriors had learned to use the lengthened handle to grasp the half-spear at different points to change the weapon’s reach, striking force, and blocking ability. It was no weapon for a novice.
The last to enter was a hulking bear of a man. Not much taller than the Kheshi girl, he might have outweighed her thrice over. His greasy black hair and beard were wild and unkempt, obscuring much of his ruddy red face and making his wide blue eyes seem a bit unnerving; he had the look of a madman, and it was a convincing enough act to cause wariness, even if it turned out he was feigning. He wore a voluminous tarp of a sweat-soaked blue woolen tunic over a shirt of chain that looked to be custom-sized to his massive gut. He kept two swords at his hip: one looked expensive, with a jeweled pommel and cross-guard, while the other was shorter and more utilitarian.
The quartet was obviously well off by their gear and the jingle in purses as they walked in. Doggershack was a rough establishment, where a lot of bad things could happen to folk who walked about with too much coin on their person. However, being a rough establishment, it contained a lot of men who knew the difference between snagging an easy mark and getting run through trying to rob a coinblade.
The Kheshi girl headed straight for the bar, while the others bullied free a spot from a couple of dockhands who were not making full use of a table that sat four. The crowd parted for her, at least enough so that she might try to shoulder her way past those in her path, rather than confront them. There was no shortage of foul-smelling drunkards that would not mind even so little attention from her.
“I am looking for a man,” she told the barkeep after sizing up none other than Dogger himself, working at the taps. She spoke Acardian well, but there was enough of a Kheshi accent that it made her sound exotic, with the drawn-out vowels and lyrical intonation.
A small chorus of volunteers spoke up immediately, vouching for their own manhood and offering credentials. One was even so bold as to take her by the arm and run a thumb along her kill-marking tattoos. “Pretty thing like you ought—”
The rest of the man’s insights and advice were lost to the world as the Kheshi girl reached across, and grabbed his wrist. At the same time, she lifted her foot and gave a sharp heel kick into the offender’s knee. As the knee buckled with a sickening crunch, the wretch screamed. The girl twisted his wrist until she was free of his grasp, and then used her newly freed arm to push him solidly to the ground, flipping him over the leg that had just kicked him. The lecher hit headfirst and lay there moaning until she twisted again, breaking his arm and setting him off screaming again. She let his arm fall limp and stomped down on his head, silencing him. Whether he was unconscious or dead, none could tell.
“Sorry … reflex,” the girl—Soria—said to Dogger.
“Some o’ you lot, drag this feller outta here! If’n he’s breathin’, leave ’im out back. If’n he ain’t, pitch him inna tha harbor. I’ll gut any of ya’s with a ladle if I get any truncheon sniffin’ round here after ’im,” Dogger ordered. Anyone who hung around Doggershack got used to it after a while. Dogger could not go two breaths without making some sort of threat.
Soria herself had never been to Scar Harbor before—possibly as a babe when she was too young to remember—but she puzzled out that “truncheon” must have been the local slang for the city guards.
“You look like you gots some coin. You better after that little stunt. Oughtta push those two pretty little ears o’ yours t’gether fer that,” Dogger said.
“As I was saying, I am looking for a man. His name is Kyrus. I heard he lived here in Scar Harbor,” Soria said, ignoring the colorful image Dogger had just sketched out for her of her head squeezed flat until her ears touched.
“Ne’er met ’im. Set o’ cannonballs danglin’ from his yardarm fer sure, tho’. Nickin’ off with the Harbinger like ’e did. Filleted his-self two truncheons was watchin’ o’er him in the pokey, burnt down a ship and half the docks. Folks says ’e’s a witch,” Dogger spat. “I ain’t fer knowin’ spit about that. What I know’s that fella you floor-stomped owed me fer thirty eckles in drinks and ain’t paid up. I’m fer thinkin’ you owe fer that.”
“If you can’t rein in your patrons, that hardly seems my problem. If he hadn’t paid, you should have had someone search his pockets before dumping him in the Katamic,” Soria shot back.
“Din’t think of it at the time. I’s more feared o’ bringing truncheons inna the place about it than I was o’ pickin’ the pockets of some rough salt with his lamp blown out by a Kheshi bint with a leakin’ spigot. I oughtta knock yer skull in and pass yous round like a hat at a jugglin’ show to take up a collection,” Dogger said.
Soria could not help herself, and laughed at the absurd thought.
“You’re thinkin’ this is a lark, eh Miss Mercenary Arm-twister? This lot’s like fam’ly: they’d gut and clean ya if’n I says some Kheshi quick-hand was stiffin’ me on a tab,” Dogger said.
“I do. And I doubt it.”
Dogger offered a rueful smile. “Heh, you might be right at that,” he said and chuckled, taking a liking to a lass who could weather his worst storm and laugh about it.
* * * * * * * *
“The barkeep’s a useless blowhard, but he knew where the witch worked. Apparently it turned into a bit of a gawk-spot, and everyone in town knows about it,” Soria explained to her companions as she joined them at the table. She took the ale they had procured for her, and took a deep swig; arguing was thirsty work.
“It’s somethin’, at least,” Zell said, then shrugged. “I was hoping for something more to go on than a building. Someone to talk to and question, that sort o’ thing.”
“Scar Harbor is big enough. There will be plenty of people to talk to. Someone will know him better than the barkeep at the first place we tried,” said Rakashi, nursing his own ale. The Takalish was used to much stronger (and more flavorful) liquors, and he only pestered his ale to keep up appearances.
“Gotta say, Soria, the Kheshi look suits you better than Acardian,” Tanner said as he looked her over playfully.
“Keep mentioning that every time and I’ll need to start putting another little circle tattoo on,” Soria said. She had been fending off halfhearted advances from Tanner since she had known him. It had disgusted her when she was a girl of fifteen and he was eight years her senior. Now it was just annoying. The jest had teeth, though; magical disguise or not, the count of circles on her arm was correct as best she remembered it.
“Ha! Get an eyeful,” Zell said, then gave Soria a gentle backhand slap in the shoulder to get her attention. She broke her glare at Tanner and looked where Zell’s attention had fallen.
Nailed on one wall of Doggershack were a number of sketches. There was writing below each, but across the taproom, it was too small to read, and the sketches too indistinct to identify anyone by them. Without saying a word, Soria stood and crossed the taproom. After the incident at the bar, no one got in her way.
They were bounty postings. She scanned through the pictures until she found the one she knew had to be there. Her heart quickened in her chest when she looked at it. The text below read: Kyrus Hinterdale—Wanted for witchcraft, murder, and piracy. 300,000 eckles for his return.
The words may have said it was Kyrus Hinterdale, but when she saw the crude picture, Soria muttered under her breath, “I found you, Brannis.”
* * * * * * * *
Soria had appropriated the sketch of Brannis (or Kyrus, as she would now have to struggle to remember), and shown it to the others. She had told none of the others of her suspicions that the reported sorcerer found in Scar Harbor had been Brannis Solaran back in Kadrin. She wanted to surprise everyone—and to make sure she was right. The picture had set her mind at ease on the last count, at least. Though the artwork was unimpressive, and it had been reproduced on a printing press, it was clearly him.
The four of them—Soria, Zellisan, Rakashi, and Tanner—had taken up rooms at a much nicer inn far from the dock district. Noblemen’s estates might overlook the sea, but the closer you got to a working port, the seedier and more dangerous the accommodations became. For all their dangerous looks, Soria and her companions had the coin to spend on comfort and enjoyed using it.
Safely in her own room, she allowed her appearance to shift back to normal. Gone were the blonde hair and too-blue eyes. The skin on her arms returned to its smooth, unmarred state, with no tattoos and a shade darker than she had made it—a subtlety no doubt lost on the ruffians at the dock and the rubes in the city. Soria prided herself on thoroughness in her disguises, though, and took care in case one among the unwashed pack was worldly enough to tell northern Kheshi from southern.
The little braids in her hair she had woven that morning on the ride to town, and rather taken a liking to. The brown beads woven into them stood out less against her natural auburn color, so she doubted anyone would mistake her for the same girl who had stormed through Doggershack. The armor was her own, Kheshi made and well molded to her form in the years she had owned it. It left her arms free to fight, and acted as more of a safeguard in case her magical shields were ever lacking, or she was caught unawares. That would certainly be noticed should she go about clad in it in Scar Harbor as Soria Coinblade, rather than her Kheshi alter ego. She stowed the armor away until they were ready to leave the city.
The accent she had used had taken no magic, nor any special acting on her part. She had spent much of her youth in Khesh, and spoke Kheshi better than her birth language of Acardian. She could drop the accent when she had to, but it took effort, and she slipped up when flustered. Usually she did not bother to try to hide it, since many foreigners found it charming.
Weary and sweat caked from traveling and wearing armor about, Soria took advantage of the amenities available at a nice inn like The Little Manor, and had one of the maids draw her a bath. She tipped the lass a twenty-eckle coin and made the girl’s day. The water was hot, and Soria was intent that it remain so. It might not draw suspicion in Kadrin to have a cold bath drawn and heat it to taste by means of aether, but in Acardia, she waited the extra time for the girl to bring the water hot. Should it begin to cool, Soria planned to use enough aether to keep herself warm a long time.
She soaked in the little tub for hours, until her legs cramped and her bottom began to lose feeling from sitting on hard metal for too long. It was well past midnight, but Soria was accustomed to late nights, and not yet sleepy.
As she relaxed, she unfocused her eyes, drifting into aether-vision, and seeing the world in swirling blue-white aether, with little Sources all about, slumbering. The aether being less than compelling enough to hold her interest, Soria let her mind drift a little more loosely, and slipped past the aether-vision to watch through Juliana Archon’s eyes.
* * * * * * * *
Rakashi drew curious glances as he walked the streets of Scar Harbor the next morning, after splitting off from the rest of the group. They had gone their separate ways after scouting the neighborhood around the witch’s shop, and talking to his neighbors for leads. Takalish were not unheard of in Acardia, but visibly armed folk always
drew more attention, even that of the constables that roamed the city like watchdogs on an over-large estate. Many Takalish merchants brought their goods to Acardia through Scar Harbor, and some had even settled in the city. The merchants wore flashy clothing, bright jewelry, and funny little hats (to Acardian thinking at least) that told the enlightened shopper what guild they were affiliated with. The conservatively dressed Takalish with the eye patch and war braids bore watching.
He walked about the city, passively taking in the sights he had never seen before, as it was his first time in Scar Harbor. He had a task to accomplish, but there was almost no chance that the sorcerer they were looking for was still in the city, so the urgency to find him was scant. It felt good to be away from the others for a while. He loved them as brothers and sister, but they were often loud and rash. Rakashi preferred time to think before speaking and to speak before acting. Soria was the worst in that regard. She thought quickly and felt that it gave her leave to act on any whim, counting on her wits—or at worst, her magic—to save her.
Rakashi made his way generally in the direction of the Society of Learned Men, but wended his way via side streets and thoroughfares that bore only the slightest hint at his destination. Tanner or Soria might have done the same out of some paranoid sense of diversion, and Zell would almost certainly not have taken such an oblique route at all, but Rakashi liked to see the world he lived in, not just survive it and profit from it. He looked into shops to see what sort of things the Acardians liked to buy and how they dealt in business. He met the gaze of passersby with a slight nod and a hand to his chest, the standard Takalish greeting between strangers who have nothing to discuss. He even stopped on two occasions to give five-eckle coins to beggars and inquire after their health.
By the time he had arrived at the Society of Learned Men, it was a proper time to take lunch. After introducing himself to the society’s manservant as a traveling scholar, he was invited to luncheon with Professor Honothan Whitegull, whom Kyrus Hinterdale’s cobbler neighbor had claimed was a patron of the scrivener’s shop from time to time.
