“Was told you’d be here well before the bell,” the captain said sourly as he turned toward Randall, when a confused look came over his face. “Sorry, Citizen,” he apologized, “I thought you were someone else.”
Randall shook his head. “No, Rhekim—it’s me,” he assured him as he approached the gangplank.
The captain cocked his head suspiciously. “You…who?” he asked.
Randall lowered his voice as he approached the gangplank and made his way to the base of the plank. “Me…Lorie’s friend,” he said, knowing that he must have looked nothing like himself with the different clothes and dye all over his face.
Rhekim looked down the docks to his left, then to the right. Apparently seeing nothing of concern, he met Randall at the bottom of the plank. “What’s your game, boy?” he demanded in a low voice. “I hope to High Henna you’re not somehow involved in the day’s latest mess down in the Rickety—the Senatorial Guard’s been tearin’ through here all day, and the damage their ‘inspections’ have caused will cost me more than I’d hoped to make this entire run!”
Randall felt his heart sink. He had come all this way, and now it seemed he would be turned away at the literal precipice of freedom. He felt his shoulders slump slightly as he turned to leave the ship, having literally no idea where he would go from there.
“But,” the captain muttered in a resigned voice, “a deal’s a deal; I’ll not be known as a liar, even among your people. Get on board,” he growled, “and River’s Tears, be quick about it.”
Randall felt himself brighten immediately as he turned and saw Rhekim ascend the ramp, gesturing for him to do likewise once he had reached the top.
Randall’s feet carried him there in long, bounding strides as he felt a grin play out across his face. He clambered up the creaky ramp, mindless of the various aches and pains he felt throughout his body from the day’s list of abuses. When his feet finally touched the rough, wooden deck of the ship he set his bundle and rucksack down on the deck beside the rail and watched the crew push the riverboat off from the docks with long, wooden poles. When they were far enough from the old section of dock, Randall saw a dozen oars emerge from their slots a foot above the waterline, and the timing drum began to beat rhythmically below decks.
He watched with a mixture of regret and hope over the next hour as the lights of the city slowly shrank until they were little more than a hazy, monochrome blur, which eventually disappeared into the foggy night as The Jiggling Maid plied the waters of the Snake as she had done so many times before.
Randall knew he had no real choice but to leave the city, but he was unable to dismiss the fact that he had brought his dearest friends dangerously close to a horrific end. Even though he knew that leaving was the best way to protect them, he still felt as though he had abandoned them to deal with the mess he had unwittingly created. He only hoped that he might one day be able to make it up to them.
With that in mind he made his way down to the cargo hold, taking his belongings with him. Once there he nestled against a section of hull near the bow and, clutching all his worldly possessions tightly to his chest, closed his eyes for some much-needed rest.
Chapter VII: Picking Up The Scent
Mid-morning, 1-12-5-659
Glaring around in open disdain for the incompetence he had encountered within Three Rivers’ City Watch, it was all Hale could do to keep from gutting the so-called lieutenant standing before him.
“Perhaps I’ve been unclear, Citizen Spogen,” he said in a glacial, growling voice, “I need the entire record of activity for the past two days. There’s a fugitive on the loose and you’re tempting me to speak directly with your commander—after I’ve dealt with you as a co-conspirator.”
The Watch lieutenant gulped but held his ground, albeit shakily. “I already told you that the records are still being compiled; it will take at least an hour to collect them and bring them here.”
Hale leaned forward and his white steel armor glistened in the flickering candlelight of the tiny office. He could have easily used one of the many enchantments which he knew to rip what he needed from the man’s mind, but such a use was inefficient and wasteful.
Besides, Hale was through dealing with these provincials as though they were worthy of anything but scorn. Their repeated failures had already cost him his quarry once—which was to say nothing of Nathaniel, the junior member of his band, who had been killed by the half-breed’s surprisingly powerful magic in the street earlier. Senator Uhana would be upset with the loss of her top agent, but that was of no concern to Hale. He still had a mission to accomplish, and he was determined to carry it out to the best of his ability.
“You and your men already failed the Federation, and that failure won’t go unnoticed,” Hale said in his raspy, grating voice. “Allow me to explain in slow, simple words what that means.” He drew his blade emphatically and laid it on the table with the razor-sharp tip clearly pointed at the useless guardsman. Only after the man’s lip had begun to tremble at the implication did Hale continue, “As the assigned liaison to my unit, the failures of these past days rest on you. I would have already cut your throat and left you to rot in the street, which is a cleaner death than a traitor like you deserves, but your replacement might be even more inept than you.”
“I never betrayed—“ the watchman began, but before he could get any further Hale took the blade up from the table and ran its razor edge across the man’s fingers, severing two of them cleanly off and evoking a scream of pain from the man’s lips.
“Don’t compound your treason with lies,” Hale warned in his cold, gravelly voice, “or Governor Traku might give you the maximum penalty afforded by the law. Do I have to explain to you what that means?”
The lieutenant ceased his screaming immediately and looked up at Hale with eyes that were not unlike a goat’s in the moment before it was slaughtered. Blood slowly seeped from between the fingers of his good hand as he tried to staunch the flow. After a moment’s silence—and after the color had drained completely from his face—the lieutenant lowered his gaze to the table in clear shock. “I am a father of three,” the man said in a pleading tone, “I would do anything to protect my chidren from my…crimes.”
“Good,” Hale said, his voice a grating whisper, “that will save me some time. Now,” he said as he placed the knife in its sheath at his belt, “give me the entire watch’s reports for the past two days. My patience has already worn thin, and Governor Traku is not known for his benevolence. Every second you delay me brings your three children closer to the flames at your side.”
The lieutenant stood quickly and rushed toward the door, having seemingly forgotten his still-bleeding hand as he bolted past Hale and made his way down the hall toward the scribes and record-keepers that were doubtlessly still processing the very documents he would now procure.
Hale shook his head just before he felt a familiar, prickly sensation to his neck. Almost without thought, he placed his hand to the collar of his white steel breastplate and spoke, “This is the Second.”
“Report, Second,” came the voice of Sten, the First of their former trio. From the distant, metallic sound to his voice, Hale guessed the First was nearly outside the effective range of their armor’s magical communication ability.
“The provincials are incompetent, but compliant,” Hale replied with a short, harsh chuckle. “I’ll have the records within the hour and can pick up the trail from there.”
“That is disappointing,” the First said in his usual, unyielding voice. Hale was glad to finally be rid of the overbearing Sten, whose ‘leadership’ had seen their quarry slip through their fingers time and time again. Had Hale been in command—as was proper, given his perfect record in conducting manhunts of this nature—the courier would have been dead weeks earlier. The article would have already been returned to the capitol city for examination, and he could be back at the Senator’s side where he belonged.
But Sten had always been too soft
on the provincials, likely owing to spending his youth as one. It amazed Hale that one whose lineage could only be traced for three generations was allowed into the elite order of the Senatorial Guards. The tasks set before their order were of the utmost import to Federation stability, and to Hale’s mind placing a provincial in their ranks was tantamount to treason—regardless of his natural affinity for the new magics, which proved essential in the pursuit of their duty as Senatorial Guardsmen.
But each Senator was allowed to select his or her personal agent from wherever they wished, and Senator Kell was a well-known radical in matters of ensuring the Federation’s purity now and forever.
“I’ve never failed in a hunt,” Hale said in his raspy voice, “you may report as much to Senator Kell when she receives your apology, former First.”
“You’re an animal, Hale,” Sten spat, and his obvious irritation brought a satisfied smirk to Hale’s lips. “For your sake, I hope you live up to your reputation—Senator Vendo is even more demanding than Senator Kell, and I am told your master will be receiving my report as well. I wonder what I should say to her on your behalf?”
Hale snickered loud enough for it to be transmitted to the First of their band, which was now composed of only two members after the death of Linus earlier that day. “Senator Vendo knows my loyalty, and not to trust the words of a snake,” he rasped, “so whisper whatever lies you wish. She knows I won’t return in disgrace.”
Just then a scribe came into the small room and set a stack of papers on the lieutenant’s desk. Hale began to absently flick through the reports before the scribe had even left the room.
His eyes scanned the blotters and reports from the day’s events and at first found nothing untoward. Even as a child Hale had possessed a knack for identifying important information when presented with such a mess of data. But after his instruction at the Federation Purity Center he had learned to control his gifts and, with the power of his armor to bolster his innate abilities, he could now process a stack of papers in a matter of minutes—or a crime scene in mere seconds, using the proper spells and techniques.
“As First of our party I must relinquish that post, now that I am no longer able to fulfill my duties in pursuit of the contraband,” Sten said, his voice growing fainter with each word. “Are you prepared to accept the charge, Second?”
“Get on with it,” Hale growled as he came to the last paper—the detailed account of a bloody crime scene involving a handful of soldiers somewhere in the Native District a night earlier. His magically-enhanced intuition told him that this scene would provide him the first clues needed to undergo a successful hunt and the longer he waited, the colder the trail became. But he still lacked certain details which were known only to the First of their band—details he was about to receive, along with essentially unchecked authority to pursue the mission, when his former commander turned over command of the mission.
“As the First of our former trio and commander of a now-fallen Guardsman, I must report to the council that we have failed to secure the article in question and submit myself for judgment,” Sten said officiously. “As Second you are charged with carrying out our mission until recalled. Do you accept?”
“I said ‘get on with it’ and I meant it,” Hale spat, feeling his stomach begin to twist at the man’s incessant need to observe ceremony. Every second wasted here was a second his prey could work his escape.
“Mind yourself, dog,” Sten growled, but Hale knew that the other had little time to finish the transfer of authority, and sure enough the other man continued almost immediately, “the details of our mission will now be revealed to you, so you might carry out the council’s will. The article in question is a sword, likely composed at least partially of star metal, which is why we have been unable to track its whereabouts magically. Other relevant details have been forwarded to your mission brief. It is imperative that this weapon be recovered with all haste, as its very existence is a threat to the stability of the realm. Do you understand?”
“Yes, yes,” Hale rolled his eyes as he grasped the crime scene report in his hand before marching out of the room irritably, “it’s a bloody sword. If that’s the best you’ve got then it’s no wonder you’re returning to report on your failure.”
“Our failure, dog,” Sten snapped, his voice barely audible over Hale’s clomping steps down the stairway and out onto the open street. “Do you accept this charge, and swear to carry out the mission even till death?”
“I do,” Hale replied, feeling a surge of excitement as he drew a deep breath of warm, sea air in through his nostrils, “but it will be your failure. Carry a message to my master, snake; I’ll keep it short so you won’t forget.”
“I’ll cut your throat next time—“ Sten began, but Hale cut him off.
“Tell Vendo that her dog found the scent moments after receiving his orders,” Hale rasped, “and that he’ll be expecting a treat when he returns—preferably alive and unharmed. I’ve never had snake…but everything’s better when it’s warm and bleeding.”
Hale cut the connection before Sten could reply, and thoroughly examined the watch report as he clomped his way to the location indicated therein.
Hale knelt beside the wall as he surveyed what little remained of the physical evidence at the scene. He had not expected to find much, but it seemed the bodies had been picked over well before the watch had arrived on the scene. All of their personal effects, as well as whatever peripheral evidence he may have collected, had been taken.
With an uncontaminated scene it would have been a small thing for Hale to use his enhanced abilities to identify those involved. But with no fewer than thirty people having set foot in the alleyway—judging by the obvious tracks in the filthy, stinking place—most of his supernatural abilities would be useless.
Even if he had nothing but relatively undisturbed bodies to work with, he likely could have discerned the nature of the scene with only a few minutes’ worth of effort.
But it would seem he was left with only mundane investigative techniques. Thankfully he was better versed in them than any of the fools who wore a City Watch cloak in this retched city.
It took him nearly two hours to comb through the alleyway, but when he was finished he had some interesting evidence to work with.
The first bit was the obvious remains of a Federation-issue sword. Judging by the relatively simple construction and material of the blade fragments, it belonged to little better than a grunt. But that was not the intriguing part.
Hale found several bits of the jagged, splintered material which had odd fractures along their edges. He had examined literally hundreds—if not thousands—of broken weapons during his training, and he had never seen these particular markings before. It was almost as if something had ripped the metal apart rather than cleaved it cleanly. A clean cut would be expected when a magical weapon met with a mundane one—at least, as long as the enchanted blade still held a charge.
All forms of magic—both the new magic used by the Federation, and the old used by its enemies—consumed vast quantities of energy, and storing that energy was the most difficult aspect of crafting and maintaining enchanted devices of any kind.
Even Hale’s own armor was only suffused with a limited amount of power with which to enhance his abilities in pursuit of his quarry. Once that energy had been expelled the armor would be rendered useless until it was recharged by the artificers of the Purity Forge in the far north.
Without its magical charge, such a device was little better than its mundane counterparts. The only difference would then be in the generally higher quality materials and workmanship which went into the device, which is still quite the advantage over most mundane equipment.
But while Hale had examined every kind of metal after it had come in contact with an enchanted blade—usually his own—he had never seen markings like these.
“Found you,” he rasped under his breath as he closed his eyes and concentrated on the only spell he kn
ew that might shed further light on the scene.
After just a moment he felt his armor warm as its energies fed his silent incantation, and he repeated the words over and over in his mind until the spell was ready. When it was prepared, he spoke the command word necessary for his armor to unleash the spell, “Sarhta’Vendo.”
As soon as he opened his eyes, he knew the spell had worked. The sunlight had disappeared from overhead and was instead replaced with moonlight, and he gripped the metal shards in his hand tightly enough that they ground against each other audibly. He needed to maintain a strong grip on them, both physically and mentally, if he was to glean what he needed from the scene. He knew he had only one chance to cast this spell; should he fail to derive useful information from the casting, it will have been a waste of precious resources. Hale was many things, most of them widely considered undesirable, but wasteful was not among them.
He watched as glimpses ran backward before him, and time seemed to reverse its flow before his very eyes. He saw the scavengers picking over the bodies of the fallen Federation soldiers, but he had little interest in them. He watched in reverse as a dog seemed to walk backward into the alley and drop a severed, human hand onto the ground before leaving much as it had come. Hale briefly considered following that particular lead since it might yield a piece of evidence—the hand—which had been untouched by humans or half-elves, but he allowed time to continue its reversed flow instead, hoping for a better lead to appear.
Then he saw it, and much like an unthinking reaction made during battle, he spoke the command word again, “Sarhta’Vendo!”
Time halted suddenly, and ever so slowly began to run in the proper direction around him and he heard voices which were indistinguishable from each other. He had never mastered the ability to hear words during a casting such as this but his sight had always been keen—which was why he found himself equally surprised and annoyed that the entire alleyway was filled with a bright, strobing light unlike anything he had ever seen.
Joined at the Hilt: Union (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 1) Page 10
