by RW Krpoun
Tonya nodded and hefted the hamper up under her arm, twirling the parasol as Philip’s hands casually slid up each other’s sleeve.
When the three toughs at the cart were ten feet away and the trailing pair had closed to within five feet behind, the two Badgers moved: Tonya spun to face the two thugs coming up from behind while Philip darted forward. As the two men drew sand-filled leather coshes from their belts the tall Badger leveled the hamper and twisted the handle, causing the larger of the two ‘loiterers’ to scream and grab the bloody hole in his stomach; as he collapsed, the bloody head and shaft of a half-sized crossbow quarrel standing out from his back was visible.
Philip, a slender dagger in each hand, leapt across the distance that separated him from the nearest cart-man, deflecting a wild cudgel-swing with his left forearm as he drove his right-hand dagger into the man’s belly and then twisted the blade upwards before jerking it free. Hopping back, he faced the other two ‘cart-men’, who had been caught off-guard by his sudden rush.
Discarding her hamper, Tonya slapped the second tough across the face with her parasol as she drew the handle free of the umbrella’s shaft, exposing a long stiletto blade. Cursing, the man smashed the parasol from her grasp with a powerful sweep of his cosh, only to catch the narrow blade of the handle-dagger in his throat, opening his windpipe.
The former thief-taker grinned at the pair, his teeth flashing beneath his inky mustaches. “I’ve seen better acting from a three-penny whore, lads. You ought to rethink your professions.” The two looked at the wiry man standing relaxed, his blades held with an expert’s ease, and then beyond him to where Tonya was lifting her skirt to get to the dirks strapped to her thighs, the two toughs thrashing and dying on the cobblestones behind her. Their comrade was crawling off, clutching his bleeding gut in one hand, sobbing at the pain, leaving them at even odds, which did not seem attractive at all.
“You should stay out of things what don’t concern you,” the leader of the much-diminished band muttered somewhat unconvincingly.
“Good advice,” Philip conceded. “Which I will consider at length after you’ve either left or died. Which is it going to be?”
“You haven't....bugger this,” the leader snarled, and backed away, his comrade staying close. Once the two were a dozen paces away they spun and darted down the street with undignified haste.
“Are you all right?” Philip asked, watching the pair scurry off.
“Yes, but I’ll need another parasol, the shade bit, I mean.” Tonya had sheathed her dirks and recovered the two sections of her umbrella. “The blade and shaft are fine, though,” she said as she wiped the blade clean on a dead thug’s shirt and slid it back into the wooden shaft of the parasol.
“A handy device,” Philip observed as he sheathed his daggers and picked up the hamper. “As was this.” Inside the hamper a hand crossbow was fastened in such a manner as to fire squarely through the narrow front end of the container, a complex wire assembly (which had taken Kroh the best part of a day to devise) rigged between the front handle and the weapon’s trigger.
The weapon, one of a matched pair captured the previous year, was a custom-made crossbow of master-level quality, exceptional design, and the very best of materials. The weapon’s bow was made from strips of a wyvern’s talons, each strip exactingly cut and positioned with the others before being fastened together with a glue made from the creature’s marrow and other substances, and encased in an expertly-formed sheath of the toughest wyvern wing-hide. The body of the weapon was carved from rata wood, better known as ironwood for its hardness and durability, the toughest wood to be found outside of Threll forests. The bow was just over a foot across, and the weapon itself was only nineteen inches long, but still capable of propelling a half-sized steel-shafted bolt with a light crossbow’s force and very nearly the same range. For more accurate fire, a matching ironwood stock could be attached to the weapon with steel pins.
Philip eyed the crowd, which had watched the fight with interest, and jerked his head in the direction they had come. “I think it’s time we headed back,” he said quietly. “Hopefully this has done the trick.”
Arthol looked up from a report as Tolver stepped in. “What is it now?”
The operations officer held up a written page. “The final report on the operation conducted against the Badgers’ intelligence-gathering yesterday.”
“I noticed that we do not have any Badgers to torture,” Mane observed darkly.
“A shame; the woman is quite something. However, the artisans were about as subtle as a cow-pat in a punch bowl, and the Badgers opened the engagement before the hirelings were ready. They killed two and maimed a third without injury to themselves thanks to the ham-handed ambush that was mounted. Naturally, there were uninvolved watchers of the attempt, so we obtained objective descriptions.”
“The Badgers weren’t expecting the ambush?”
“No more than a careful sort engaged in their type of operation would have. Interestingly, Simer, whom you appointed as deputy commander of that section, had suggested a simple missile-weapon assassination of the pair and the seizure of their corpses, which the section leader over-ruled. With hindsight, Simer’s plan would seem to have been the sounder one.”
“Simer seems to have risen above himself lately, war has that effect,” Arthol agreed. “How did the elimination of the Badgers’ contacts go?”
“Perfectly, all were killed and their bodies publically displayed. We’ll keep an eye on them, of course, but from their reaction I believe the mercenaries will give up on their intelligence-gathering.”
“Good, the mission was a success overall. Assign Simer to a responsible position on another project, nothing vital, but we should see what he is capable of. Void knows we haven't enough reliable people these days. Now, the rat farms program is going to be phased out; the hundred-ducat reward for reporting one and the garrison’s awareness has resulted in four out of five being eliminated before their first harvest of infected vermin. We’ll continue to use those we’ve established until all have been detected, but we will not establish any new farms. Instead, we shall begin a program of contaminating kegs of water which will be lost or left unattended near refugee shanty-towns, preferably where children are known to gather. I’ve written down a general concept, draw the personnel from the rat-farm project and wherever else you can scrape them up.”
“Yes sir.” Tolver took the paper and departed.
Mane studied the piles of reports before him and sighed. Grabbing the report on the operation against the Badgers, he signed and sealed it without bothering to read it; there were more reports coming in each day from the various sections than he could read and still have time to direct the Hand operations. He had delegated as much, or perhaps more, of the responsibility as he could or should, and still the burden was incredible. A dozen artisans had been promoted to associate status since the siege had begun, and more than fifty assets had moved up to artisan, but there were still more jobs than there were hands to do them.
Sighing, he picked up another report.
Elonia tossed her pen onto the table. “That accounts for every contact Philip had established,” she announced to Arian. “They made a clean sweep. Each was killed and his or her body was prominently displayed. Even if we tried to rebuild the criminal subculture won’t have anything to do with us.”
“We won’t try,” the monk nodded tiredly. “This is a perfect excuse for us to get out of the intelligence- gathering game. Let the Hand worry about someone else for a while. How are our two pet birds doing?”
“Very well; with our help Simer distinguished himself in his identification of our contacts, and is now a section-leader in the agitation program. Blackthorn is back to hiring arson teams, but she’s fully identified her section-leader, and two days ago I tailed him to a meeting with his leader, so given time we may be able to trace the chain of command all the way up to ‘A’. As it is we’ve identified more than twenty assets, five associa
tes besides our two, and three people who are either high-ranking associates or low-ranking agents.”
“What do you think of our friend Jothan?”
“He’s no follower of the Void, nor untrustworthy, in my opinion and as best I can determine with my Arts. He’s being kept a virtual prisoner to hide Blackthorn’s association with us, but so long as he’s fed he’s as happy as he can be, and very willing to help; he helps Rolf with the cooking, cleans, and does just about any indoors chore you can think of. We ought to seriously consider recruiting him; besides Navian and Pradian, he speaks the Hobrec language, Ganjon in the Swamp-Goblin dialect, Muqa with an Encienian accent, and even some Figann, which could be useful we if take Eyade prisoners. He wasn’t joking when he said he had an ear for languages.”
“I’ll suggest it to Durek. Anything else?’
“Not now; this ‘A’ is very good; despite his organization running full-tilt and in a dozen directions at once his set-up is very careful, extremely professional. We’ll be lucky to pin his location down.”
“Luck is another way of saying hard work,” Arian observed. “And that’s how we’re going to find the bastard.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Things grow worse each day,” Regent Chaton observed to the men gathered in the audience hall. “Because of carelessness in certain quarters the build-up of refugees was allowed to reach disgraceful proportions, and despite our best efforts there is no real hope of clearing the city before the siege is resolved. All we can do is attempt to make the refugees as comfortable as possible and maintain peace in the streets.”
“All this is very interesting, Lord Regent,” Lord Protector Staifon drawled. “But you are now the ruler of the city until Lady Eithne reaches her majority, so the Emergency Council has no power. What do you need from us?”
“Your three Houses still have many ancient privileges and powers which date back to the days when the Duchy was under the shared autocratic rule of the Duke and his Lord Protectors,” Chaton pointed out grimly.
“This is known to all,” Lord Ademeit observed. “Do come to the point, Lord Regent Chaton.”
“The city is balanced on a fine edge of disaster,” Chaton plowed on. “Things are very tense between various factions within our city, while Hand agitators fan the flames of violence. The government’s efforts to keep order and tend to the needs of the siege have been somewhat less than well-served by some of our Lord Protectors.”
“Really, sir, I must protest,” Lord Kornig grinned at the flushed Regent. “Those are strong charges.”
“Cut away the drivel, Lord Ademeit,” Chaton snapped. “I tire of your games. Your two companions are half-wits who wouldn’t use a chamber-pot without a nod from you, so state your terms. You know good and well that the government is desperate and that we need your aid.”
“Really...” Lord Kornig stood, flushing, only to subside at a cautioning hand placed on his arm by Lord Ademeit.
The nobleman studied the Regent calmly. “All I want is what is best for the land, and our young Duchess-to-be, specifically, her future marriage.”
“Lord Staifon, I take it?”
“We believe that he represents the best choice,” Lord Ademeit purred.
“You do realize that we are in desperate straits, that the future of the Duchy and the Realms as a whole is in the balance, and yet your own enrichment is your sole concern?” Chaton’s voice was thick with disgust. “Very well, sir, if that is your measure, than so shall go the course. Today is the ninth; at noon on the tenth I shall announce the future union between House Sorgen and House Staifon, with the actual betrothal taking place in accordance with the edict published earlier.”
“And the wedding one month after,” Lord Staifon pointed out. “Nothing fancy, Bernian, just a simple coronation. For I’ll be Duke, you pathetic little toad, not Consort.”
“Your title shall thusly be noted in the proclamation, as shall the date of the wedding.” Chaton’s eyes were cold and hard. “Naturally, you shall require a new Lord Chancellor.”
“Lord Ademeit, I believe, has graciously volunteered to shoulder the duty,” Lord Staifon smiled smugly.
“And hereafter I can count on your full support of the Emergency Act?”
“Of course,” Lord Ademeit nodded.
“Excellent.” Chaton nodded, mopped the sweat from his broad expanse of forehead. “Then we shall meet again tomorrow to make a public announcement and show the unity of our realm.”
“We shall indeed,” Lord Ademeit stood. “I believe this meeting is complete.”
“What madness has set you to such liberties, Chaton?” Lord Ademeit roared at the Lord Regent, who stood in the courtyard of the West Fort on Dragon Isle. “You miserable little toad, I’ll have you flogged for this! Who do you think yourself to be, having me dragged from my home in the middle of the night and delivered here in a sealed carriage?”
“As I told you yesterday, a man who finds himself in desperate times,” Chaton observed mildly. The Regent stood next to a pair of large hand carts in the center of the fort’s courtyard, two oil lanterns on stands illuminating the area. A few Lifeguards stood just out of sight beyond the reach of the light. “And it is not the middle of the night, it is just before dawn, a time I normally begin my efforts to hold city and state together for yet another day. Ah, here is Lord Kornig, we can begin.” Lord Kornig was marched up out of the darkness by Lord Commander Fassburg who was in half-armor. Kornig was spluttering angrily, but he calmed when he saw Lord Ademeit.
“I doubt any explanation you could make would justify your actions, but go ahead, Chaton, say what you will,” Lord Ademeit straightened his doublet as he glared at the Regent.
“I’m afraid things have come to an ugly pass,” the Regent murmured, adjusting the canvas that covered the nearest handcart.
“There you have my agreement,” Lord Protector Kornig snapped.
“It seems that Lord Protector Staifon is dead,” Regent Chaton flipped back a corner of the canvas, exposing the late noble’s face.
“By the Eight,” Lord Ademeit breathed, stepping forward to get a better look. “How?”
“Apparently either as a lark or as a deliberate act of treason the Lord Protector set fire to a food storage warehouse, and was caught in the act by a patrol of Lifeguards; in the encounter the Lord Protector and his companions were killed before the Guards were made aware of the identity of their foes.”
“Killed by Lifeguards?” Lord Ademeit suddenly looked about him; other than a handful of shadowy figures just outside the light, there were only himself and the three other men in the courtyard.
“Yes, Lifeguards,” Fassburg nodded. “Men who fought in every battle in the east, trusted men.”
With a visible effort Lord Ademeit pulled himself together, ignoring Lord Kornig, who was vomiting into an empty water trough. “And who else is in these carts?”
“The rest of Staifon’s accomplices,” Fassburg grinned.
“The entire male half of the House Staifon, those in a position to inherit, that is,” Regent Chaton shook his head. “Under these circumstances I believe that it will be necessary to eliminate the Lord Protector’s position and title. Of course neither you nor Lord Protector Kornig were implicated in this incident.”
“I see,” Lord Ademeit stared at the pale, dead face in the hand cart. “So that is how it shall be, then?”
“Yes, it shall,” the Regent nodded. “With the cooperation of both of its Lord Protectors, the Duchy shall persevere.”
Slowly the nobleman nodded. “The Duchy has House Ademeit’s support.”
“That is as it should be: men of good faith and loyalty working together to guide the ship of state through these dark days,” Lord Chaton sighed. “I thank both of you for coming on such short notice, gentlemen, but this is news which I felt you must be appraised. Naturally, we shall meet again at noon to demonstrate our solidarity and to show that Lord Staifon’s demise in no way affects the government’
s resolve. In light of his House’s long service to the Duchy I believe we shall list the event as a drunken prank which turned tragic. On another note, we have uncovered evidence of Hand plots to assassinate the Lord Protectors and their heirs; I am prepared to assign detachments of Lifeguards to each of you for your safety.”
“That will not be necessary,” Lord Ademeit shook his head. “As a loyal member of the Duchy and a staunch supporter of the future Duchess, I must shoulder this risk without creating a further drain on the army of the realm.”
“Well said, sir,” the Regent nodded. “The Lord Captain will provide you with transport home; if you will excuse me, I must arrange for a funeral for our friend Lord Staifon and the quiet dissolution of his title and House. Good day, gentlemen.”
Duna had the night of the thirteenth off under Starr’s program of leaving one scout behind each night. She sat in with the section as the little Corporal went over the short briefing that preceded each ambush, and then watched her fellows march off into the deepening night. The first night she had been off-duty she had felt guilty, being both young and enthusiastic, but by now she was just grateful for the chance for extra sleep. The rigorous schedule of operations Durek had set for the Company was being felt even by the most fit of the Badgers: every mercenary was thinner and sunken-eyed, the effects of too much strain and too little sleep was beginning to leave its mark on every warrior in the Company. The Captain was keenly aware of this, and had announced that the Company would completely stand down on the fifteenth and sixteenth to give everyone a chance to rest.
The value of his plan to date was obvious: the Company, with only one hundred fourteen warriors, had accomplished as much since the start of the siege as any cohort in the garrison, an important comparison since each cohort had over seven hundred troops. Twice since the siege had begun the Regent had seen fit to mention the Company’s success in the daily reports which were announced across the city by heralds; the Company’s reputation was being made here in Sagenhoft, and every Badger in the Company was keenly aware of that fact.
