Hunter's Legend

by R. J. Vickers

“Speaking of making a fuss,” another man chimed in, “someone claims the cathedral has loaned out its highest tower for Midsummer’s Day. Apparently the Prophet is going to jump from it and prove he’s the death-defier himself.”

  “Curious,” Hunter said. “That will be a spectacle worth seeing!” He raised his glass. “Now, as I am in need of a new residence, could anyone recommend a vacant manor somewhere in the Gilded Quarter?”

  The men looked at one other for a minute, frowning. Then the Larkhavener said, “Hey, there was a man who left—for Valleywall, incidentally—just a quarter back. You could give his place a try. It’s not far from here.”

  “You mean the one with all the statues? He was a bit of an odd fellow.”

  Unnoticed, I shook my head.

  “Where might I enquire about that?” Hunter asked. “As long as it’s in good order, and there’s enough room to live comfortably, I can fix any decorative eccentricities.”

  “Ask the innkeeper,” said the oily-haired man. “He knows everything that goes on in these parts.” Before Hunter could reply, the man summoned a barmaid and asked her to call upon the innkeeper. “Important business,” he said.

  The innkeeper emerged from the kitchen not a minute later, two steaming plates of food in hand. “Excellent timing, I must say.” He handed one plate to Hunter and the next to me, bowing with a flourish. “What business do you have with me?”

  “I’m in the market for a new manor,” Hunter said, as though he regularly bought decadent homes. “I’ve been told you were the expert around here.”

  The innkeeper bobbed a quick bow. “Indeed I am. Were you thinking of the statue garden just up the road?”

  “I hope it’s more than just a garden,” Hunter teased.

  “Of course. But no one saw the inside, just the garden. The owner had a bit of a peculiar taste in design. Luckily the manor was built before his time; the building itself is a handsome white structure with marble columns flanking the doorway and a solid marble façade.”

  “Impressive,” Hunter said. “To whom might I make an offer?”

  “Only one reputable property salesman in the Gilded Quarter.” The innkeeper circled the table, collecting empty glasses. “If you would like, I could ask him to come in tomorrow morning and meet with you.”

  “Fantastic,” Hunter said. “My room tonight will be worth double the price, thanks to your help.”

  *

  When Hunter and I headed up to our room at last, he began sniggering to himself. “Did I sound convincing enough?” he asked. “What’s that supposed to mean—‘a solid marble façade?’ I thought every building in Baylore was built of stone. Why is marble any nicer than that lovely white granite the cathedral is built from?”

  “I’m sure it’s notable for a reason,” I said, though I shared in his amusement. He had fit in splendidly with the nobility. After months of posturing, he now slipped into that skin without a second thought.

  “I can’t believe they’d actually heard about me,” he said. “Imagine that—my story has become worthwhile of mention even in Baylore!”

  I elbowed him. “They seemed to think of it more as a joke. I mean, who would seriously rent out a cathedral tower?”

  “I haven’t done that,” he said. “You don’t need to rent out a tower to jump from it.” He gave me his most charming grin.

  The bedroom, which I had barely glanced at before, was small but richly furnished. The curtains on the canopy bed were made from imported silk dyed a rich red, and the small writing-desk and accompanying chairs were carved from expensive dark wood, with precious stones set into their frames.

  Without unpacking or changing from his fine clothes, Hunter fetched his fat leather journal from his belongings and settled at the desk to write. He was forever writing in his journal; though I never questioned him about it, I assumed he meant to leave it behind as a relic to further confirm his prophetic nature long after he had passed from this earth. It was a gesture that did not surprise me at all. The innkeeper had—improperly, given that I was masquerading as Hunter’s sister—only provided us with one vast bed, and it was here I sat, arms around my knees, until Hunter set aside his pen and tucked the journal away.

  “How’s the bed?” Hunter asked, shrugging out of his coat and trousers. “Does it rank among the top ten beds you’ve ever slept in?”

  I hadn’t thought of it that way. “Probably. Though I haven’t tried sleeping in it yet. I’ll have to give you a full report tomorrow morning.”

  He grinned. “Baylore isn’t nearly as bad as I’d remembered it. Maybe I could be happy here.”

  “Surrounded by so much luxury it’ll start coming out your ears before long?” I said. “Of course it’s nicer here now. You can afford the very best of everything. When we were here last, we were both nearly broke and living in the council housing. With no family or friends to speak of.”

  “I had a reason for that,” Hunter said. “For distancing myself from my family.” He crawled onto the mattress beside me and ran two fingers through my coarse hair. Unbidden, a delightful shiver ran all down my neck. “But why were you so lonely?”

  “I had a reason as well,” I said, though I was having trouble thinking straight. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

  Hunter’s thumb moved to my neck and then to my collarbone, slipping mischievously beneath the neckline of my dress. “You know I can’t do that.”

  “Detail for detail, then. I’ll give you one detail for each you give me.”

  His hand paused for a moment as he thought. “My family didn’t like me much,” he said.

  “I already knew that. My family didn’t care for me, either. I was different.”

  He made a face. He knew I was too clever to give away anything unwarranted. “Fine. I grew up in the slums. My father liked to take his anger out on me.”

  I tried not to show my surprise. I had known he was poor, and that his family was troubled, but not that he had lived in the slums themselves. “I grew up in the Market District. My parents were—they were Weavers.”

  Hunter’s eyes widened. “Weavers! Bloody Varse, I didn’t know that!”

  “You never asked.”

  “So you were the only one in your family without the power.”

  I nodded. There was more to the story, but I could not give away my deepest secret.

  Hunter raised his left hand to my bodice and tugged at the laces. “This is an expensive one,” he warned. “If my brother knew I was still alive, he would kill me.”

  Another surprise. “I’m running out of details!” I said. “I suppose your next one is this—I fled my family when I learned what they had done at my expense.”

  Hunter tugged the lace sharply until the bow slipped loose. “That doesn’t count. Give me something better!”

  I bit my lip. “You know everything now. Except one final secret. A small one. If you want to hold onto your secrets, let me keep mine.”

  “That’s cheating. I quit.” Leaning in close, Hunter put his lips to my ear and bit down hard. I flinched but made no sound; his face softened again, and with deft, gentle fingers, he loosened the laces all down my bodice. Again his finger dipped beneath my neckline, searching for the softness of my breast. Many times I had told myself I should stop him here, should protest that I was no whore and did not deserve to be treated thus. But the simple truth was I loved it too much. When he held me in his arms and had his way with me, I could almost convince myself he loved me.

  You see, he never took another girl to bed. Not in all his years of travel.

  Chapter 3

  M y legs were still tangled with Hunter’s when I woke, and I did not stir for a long time, wishing the moment could last forever.

  When Hunter came to, he kissed me on the forehead and extricated himself from my embrace. As he dressed and combed his hair, a wisp of a smile lingered on his lips; I suspected he had enjoyed the previous night as much as I had. As was our custom, I made my way down for breakfa
st before him, setting myself up in a corner table so I could study the other boarders. You could see so much about a person from their mannerisms and dress, whether natural or contrived, and I took secret pleasure in guessing each patron’s history from their outward characteristics. After enough time, I could usually tell Hunter who was influential and who to avoid.

  The twitchy, pallid young man near the door, for instance, was probably the youngest son of a country lord. His elder brother had inherited the estate and the fortune, while he was sent to Baylore to make a name for himself. He had just arrived in the city, and found it unbearably intimidating. His clothes were well-fitted and finely cut, but the more subdued colors suggested a pastoral upbringing.

  The rotund man occupying the communal table in the center of the room, on the other hand, was clearly a Baylore man born and bred. Most likely the cousin or brother or son of royalty. His clothes were littered with fussy little details and lace accents, and he had incorporated precious metals wherever possible, from the pocket watch hanging from his breast pocket to the gold chain draped about his neck. Even his prim little shoes had jeweled buttons. I guessed him the sort who gloried in his own importance and frequented establishments like The Queen’s Bed simply because he enjoyed the food.

  My breakfast had arrived before Hunter emerged from the room and joined me, and I was trying to eat a boiled egg in the most proper way I could manage, which wasn’t very proper at all, when the innkeeper spotted him and sidled up to our table.

  “Best of the morning to you, my good sir,” he greeted Hunter. “Our honorable property salesman has arrived, and would be glad to discuss this statue-house over breakfast, if you don’t mind.” He nodded to the heavyset, fussily dressed man at the center of the room. Perhaps my guess had been wrong, then. But I nonetheless disliked the man on sight, and did not relish the idea of negotiating with him.

  “Many thanks,” Hunter said. With visible unease, he rose and made his way toward the center table; I took my plate and napkin and followed.

  The property salesman turned when he heard Hunter pull out the chair beside him. “You’re interested in the statue garden?” he said, eyeing Hunter from head to toe. Hunter’s hair was less styled than most men’s in Baylore, and his clothes were flattering but not quite tailored in the current fashion; he was obviously not from the city. “Why did you have to bring a girl along to discuss business matters? I find women are almost never useful in serious conversations.”

  Hunter dropped into the chair. “Oh, yes, I quite agree, though her handwriting is impeccable. She’s the most useful scribe I’ve ever had the pleasure to work with. Messer, may I have the pleasure to present my sister, Cady.”

  “She doesn’t look a thing like you,” the salesman said grumpily. His frown was a permanent line creased through folds of fat draping his chin.

  “Half-sister,” Hunter amended. “My father was a bit too attractive for his own good.”

  The man snorted. “The name is Brogan. I assume you’ll want to tour the property?”

  “Well met, Messer Brogan.” He grasped the man’s pudgy hand and squeezed it genially. “I’m Hunter. You may have heard of me.”

  “Not the wandering prophet?” Brogan’s eyebrows rose until his forehead was a mess of wrinkles. “A bunch of nonsense, that’s what I call it.”

  “It’s a bit hard to believe, I know,” Hunter said. I was always amazed at how calm and light-hearted he managed to remain when people questioned him. “But you’ll see the truth of it at midsummer. My name aside, I’m also the son of a dead nobleman hoping to reclaim my place in Baylore. And for that, I need a home. I’m willing to pay whatever it takes.”

  I winced at that. True, we had been living like royalty for the past two years, amassing a small fortune in coins, gifts, and trinkets we were given in exchange for a show from Hunter, but what had seemed like an inexhaustible supply of varlins outside of the city would not go nearly as far within its walls.

  “Negotiations later,” Brogan said. “You will also need to provide a reliable source to vouch for your character. First, though, would you like to see the property?”

  “Absolutely.” Hunter grabbed two scones from the plate the innkeeper had just given him, tucked one in his pocket, and finished the other in two bites. Then he rose and followed the lumbering Brogan to the door. As we made our way up the street, I grabbed the tail of Hunter’s coat and forced him to slow for a moment.

  “How are we supposed to find a reference?” I hissed in his ear. “We don’t know a single sodding person in this city!”

  “Anyone will do anything for you if you pay them enough,” Hunter said confidently, tugging free of my grip and falling into stride beside Brogan. I sighed and shuffled along behind them, pretending I was out of range of their conversation.

  Even though the house was immediately recognizable from its cluttering of unusual statues, I could not help but be amazed. Could we truly claim something so imposing as our own? It looked like a grand estate, smooth white walls towering two stories over the street. And there were the columns, of course, four of them flanking the doorway and supporting the top of a veranda.

  “The statues can be removed, of course,” Brogan said, taking a key from his belt and unlocking the tall gates. “The manor itself, as a historic building, is still one of the most notable homes in the Gilded Quarter.”

  “And close to the University, I noticed,” Hunter said.

  “Are you interested in taking classes?” Brogan asked snidely.

  “No, but it might increase my chances of meeting a magically-inclined, wealthy young lady.”

  I wondered if Hunter had meant that comment for me. Was there something important about the University I was meant to pick up? He had a reason for everything he did, however obscure.

  The interior of the house was unpleasantly large and empty. Every detail was finely crafted, every stone smooth and well-placed, yet it felt dead, like a gaping cavern where once there might have been lush grass and a brilliant sky.

  As Brogan clambered his way up one of the twin curving staircases, Hunter whispered, “Do you like it? All the luxury of Baylore at your fingertips?”

  I shook my head vigorously.

  “Me neither,” he whispered.

  After Brogan had shown us around the master bedchamber, the two smaller bedchambers designed for children or relatives, the guest quarters, the vast kitchen, and the four rooms set aside for household staff, we parted ways, agreeing to meet him at The Queen’s Bed the following day with payment and references on hand.

  Hunter and I walked back to the inn and then, in unspoken agreement, continued past the cathedral to the council blocks where we had once lived.

  “Why do we need a wealthy home?” I fumed. “Living there will drive me mad! I can’t imagine it. So much silence! We would almost have to hire staff just to make the place sound livelier.”

  “Or have children,” Hunter said slyly.

  I glared at the cobblestones to hide my blush.

  “I don’t like it any better than you,” he said. “Believe me. But we must play the part. The house will serve two purposes. First, it will give credibility to the rumors I’ve been spreading, painting myself as a wealthy prophet who took to wandering. If I want anyone to show up for the midsummer stunt, I can’t have anyone doubt me. And in Baylore, there are spies and busybodies and news reporters willing to track my every footstep to find out the truth. I need this to work. I need everyone to show up for the festival.”

  By this, I knew he meant ‘enough people that a certain important someone would be guaranteed to appear.’ My guess was this person was a member of his family, perhaps someone still living in the slums without much access to news.

  “And the second purpose?” I asked.

  He folded his arms and gazed around at the nearby architecture for a while before answering. “There is someone I must go to for help. He is very powerful and influential, and would never look twice at me if he did no
t believe me wealthy and equally influential. I haven’t met him yet, but I have a suspicion he will be watching me closely.” Hunter sighed. “So yes, the house is a must. But we’ll make it bearable. Just watch.”

  At that moment we drew level with the council housing. After traveling through such simple and picturesque towns in the countryside, the blocks of council housing looked uglier than I had remembered. They had been built as a way to allow talented young men (and women, though I had been a rarity) who could not afford a proper home to nonetheless donate their time and skills to the city. These men ate cheap meals at a common dining hall, slept in plain, functional rooms, and walked five minutes to reach their offices each day. They were the sort of men involved in everything to do with Baylore’s infrastructure—approving building construction or repair projects; overseeing citywide sewage and plumbing maintenance; arranging periodic upkeep on the wall, the palace, and the cathedral; organizing major festivals to be held in the city; training city and palace guards; arranging bookkeeping for city records and historical documents; and so on. The treasury was just one small branch of the vast system fed by these council blocks.

  The blocks themselves were plain and unremarkable. They were comprised of two hulking brick structures placed perpendicular to one another, which combined to form the side and back walls of the cathedral complex. No windows looked out onto the cathedral grounds; the only windows were small street-side openings, one per room, lined in three stories of monotonous rectangles. The closeness of the windows indicated just how small the rooms were.

  “Brings back memories, doesn’t it?” Hunter nudged me with his hip.

  “I’d forgotten how bleak it is,” I said. “It makes me feel a bit selfish for complaining about the manor.”

  He laughed. “True. Back in those days, we would have swooned at the idea of moving into the Gilded Quarter.”

  Reaching the end of the council blocks, we turned to complete our circuit of the cathedral and, beside it, the palace.

  “Any ideas for that reference?” I asked mildly, as though I had not been worrying about it all morning.