by Watson Davis
A man stood at the door, a heavy leather apron over his stocky body, sweat dripping down from his hairy arms, dribbling down his face into his dense, curly beard tinged with gray. He studied me with flinty eyes, looking me up and down with a sour expression on his face, tilted his head to look past me. He shrugged. “Not expecting any deliveries.”
I bowed and smiled, saying, “I’m sorry to bother you but—”
The door slammed shut, the planks rattling from the force.
I stood, blinking, gawking at the weather-stained wood. My hand jerked up to swat something brushing up against my cheek, one of those damned tentacles hovering just off my skin.
“Let’s go,” Aissal said, her voice low, suffused with anxiety, possibly even fear. “This is a good thing.”
I knocked once more, louder, more insistent.
The door opened, the same man standing there, his face contorting into rage, a tendril of blackness extending up through the floor, twining around his leg and peeking out from below the heavy leather apron to wind around his neck. “I said—”
“This boy here is looking for his family.” I bent, resting my hands on Rucker’s shoulders, my eyes wandering to the black cord, trying not to stare.
The man peered down at Rucker, forehead furrowing. A shade coalesced around him, a cloud of black points. He blinked. An indifferent glaze formed over his eyes. He returned his gaze to me, saying, “I sure hope you find his family, but I don’t know him. Never seen him before.”
The man moved back, shutting the door. I lunged forward, blocking the door with my leg. “He says he grew up here, in this building.”
“He’s a damned liar.” Anger flared in the man’s eyes. “My wife and her kin have owned this place for centuries. He ain’t hers. He don’t belong here.”
“Are you sure about that?” I asked, not meaning any insult, not meaning to start a fight.
The man reached out, grabbing my shirt in his burly fist, his other fist cocking back. “What do you mean by that, boy?”
Off-balance, I hopped back on my right leg, my left hand hooking his extended arm, my left leg lifting, preparing for a snap kick, my right hand lifting, aiming for his shaggy throat.
“No need for fighting,” Aissal said, moving forward, putting one hand over my right hand, her other on the man’s shoulder.
“I’m just asking if your wife was previously married, if she has sisters, if there’s someone else here he could belong to?” I waited for him to make a move, my foot ready to strike him in the testicles and drive those damned things up through the top of his fool head.
“I was married before,” the voice of Rucker’s mother drifted in from my left. She sidled up, studying me over the man’s shoulder. “The sheriff arrested him, executed him, I think.” Her brow wrinkled. She shook her head, a dark halo forming around her head. She bowed her head, her hands picking at her belt. Her voice wistful, she said, “I don’t even remember how many years ago that was. Seems like forever.”
The man’s grip lightened with each word she spoke, letting me go.
“Did you have a son?” I asked.
“Yes. No. I. He died.” She squinted, confused. Squeezing her eyes shut, she rubbed her forehead. Her husband put his arm around her shoulders. She said, “I can’t talk about this now. I’ve got another headache coming on.”
“My friend here.” I gestured to Aissal. “She’s a healer. If you want, she could see if there’s something she can treat.”
“Caldane,” Aissal snapped at me.
Rucker’s mother brought her hands to her face, spinning away from us. Wrapping around her legs, winding up her torso, attached to the base of her skull, the tendril pulsed, throbbed, growing larger, sending vein-like strands spreading around her head.
The man snarled at us from beneath his bushy brows, and opened his mouth to speak.
Another voice interrupted him, a woman’s voice, thin and crackling with age. “Someone disturbs the empress’ peace.”
I turned to face the street.
A bent, hobbled woman in the garb of an abbess, a hooded tunic with puffy, flowing sleeves, the hood drawn down, her eyes invisible, the severe line of her wrinkled lips visible outside the shadows.
“Abbess?” Rucker said, ducking his head in a coarse bow.
The old woman tilted her head, bending forward, smiling. She reached a withered, claw-like hand forward to touch his cheek. “Rucker? Is that you, boy?”
# # #
The stars twinkled down on the town of Hegner in the new imperial province of Kilcoyn, an easy day’s ride from the border of the Kingdom of Morrin. The lights from the inn shone bright even at the late hour, the raucous sounds of some vulgar harvest celebration, the hoots and hollers of simple people taking their simple pleasures. The air sluggish with the pungent tang of uprooted earth, of crops collected, of pigs slaughtered, bile bubbled to the back of Fi Cheen’s throat at the barbarity of the place, a barbarity not so different from his birthplace in Nayen.
Magelights twinkled in the air like fireflies, dancing up and down, side to side in the light breeze, showing Fi Cheen and his company the path, down the central street, to the door of a constable’s office and a jail.
Sliding from his horse’s back, Fi Cheen tossed the reins to one of the acolytes in his escort, and strode up the rough-hewn steps to a porch complete with a pair of rocking chairs and a table. He motioned for Lyu-ra to follow.
The door’s handle refused to move, locked from the inside. Fi Cheen spoke a spell, motioning with his hand, feeling the pressure, the resistance of the lock giving way with an audible snap, the door creaking open, and he entered. A few more words, reaching out to the realm of fire, drawing its energy, and the oil lamps and candles sprang to life, exposing an office with two desks stacked high in parchments and papers, weapons arranged in a menacing display of potential violence in racks on the walls, and a bulletin board with descriptions and charcoal drawings of wanted criminals and the bounties on their heads.
And a metallic door at the far end of the room glimmering with spellwork, intricate spellwork, more advanced than Fi Cheen expected.
Fi Cheen stepped forward, clenching his left hand into a fist held against his lower back, his right index finger tapping against his lower lip, head tilting, studying the flows of the spells, working out their triggers, their effects, and how to bypass them, how to render them useless, looking for those weak points all spells must possess. To find such an intricately spelled door in a place such as this surprised him, a door whose spellcraft caused his eyes to cross and his brain to grow fuzzy and ache.
“Master?”
“Hmmm?” He abandoned his concentration, turning his attention to Lyu-ra, glad for the distraction.
She bowed, her silk tunic glistening, her right foot forward, back rounding showing him the appropriate measure of respect, her blue-black hair tumbling from her shoulders, her arms extending, offering a ring of keys to him.
Fi Cheen accepted them from her, bowing to her in turn, holding the keys up, examining the three with the gleam of magic, searching for the one with the best signature matching the spell on the door, not finding an obvious fit.
Heavy boots stomped up the stairs behind Fi Cheen, and a man’s voice said, “You broke my Maegrith-be-damned lock? Do you know how expensive those things are?”
Fi Cheen turned, head high, peering down his nose, smacking his lips, his foolish expectations for a civilized welcome dashed.
The northerner—brown-haired, green-eyed, pale-skinned—shoved Fi Cheen’s acolytes out of his brutish path, forcing his way into the room. A rusty mail shirt protected his torso, and baggy leather pants covered his legs, at odds with the magical sword hanging at his belt, the more powerful dagger hidden in the black leather guards around his forearms, some smaller charms in his pockets Fi Cheen could not identify without a more thorough investigation. The intruder raised his hands in frustration, looking around at his office in an elaborate show before glowering
at Fi Cheen. “What the hell are you doing in my jail?”
Fi Cheen glanced at Lyu-ra, and nodded.
She bowed, a slight move of her shoulders, a fractional inclination of her head. “You would be the constable of this county?”
“I ask the questions here, little sister.” The constable moved to the side, pointing at the open door. Spit flying from his mouth, he said, “Now get your mangy Nayen asses out of my office.”
Lyu-ra’s eyebrows rose in surprise, her head jerking back, her back straightening, the blood rushing from her face. She gawked at Fi Cheen, her lips parted.
Fi Cheen raised his right hand, lifting his right index finger.
“Listen, testicle-breath.” The constable turned his ire toward Fi Cheen, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword, the gem in the pommel glowing green, the glow growing in intensity. “I don’t know who you are and I don’t care. You get your—”
Fi Cheen spoke a word, touching the black gem in the ring on his finger, focusing his thoughts, his power, in the right way, and the empress’ web, the spells she used to control the filthy populace of the empire—a filthier lot of barbarian swine such as this could only exist in the orc-pits in the deepest of the Hells—those spells responded to Fi Cheen.
The constable gasped for breath and fell to his knees, his back straight, shoulders back, his eyes bulging, hand no longer near the hilt of his sword, the greenish glow of the gemstone fading.
Lyu-ra pressed her lips together in a prim, smug smile, clasping her hands before her. Fi Cheen bent over the man, tossing the keys to land on the floor between his knees, the keys clattering, the floor dipping with the weight of them. Fi Cheen gazed into the constable’s eyes, and whispered, “I am a representative of the empress and I will be treated with respect, as will my retinue. Do you understand?”
The constable quivered, his lips trembling, sweat beading on his brow, tears welling up in his eyes.
Fi Cheen murmured a word, moving his hand, thinking a thought.
Chest heaving, the constable crumpled to the floor, groaning, trying to uncoil his body to remove the strain from his knees twisted back behind him.
“Do you understand?” Fi Cheen asked.
“Yes, sir,” the constable said, squirming on the floor, rolling over on his stomach, nodding his head, his thick hair falling down over his face.
Fi Cheen returned to inspecting the jail door. “Have you captured some slaves?”
“Well, one slave, sir.” The constable regained his feet, brushing his knees, adjusting his clothes, the keys jingling as he picked them up from the floor.
Fi Cheen smiled, holding up his hand to examine his nails.
The constable bowed, scurrying to stand beside the jail door. “The sheriff from Fizer caught him stealing a couple of horses and some food from a local farmer. Boy put up a fight.”
“The sheriff from Fizer?” Fi Cheen asked, turning his head to glower at the constable, forgetting about the length of his nails, letting his hand drop.
“Yes, sir. The youngling probably would have got away free as rain if the sheriff hadn’t come riding in with his posse.”
“And a posse?”
“Yepper.” He inclined his head to an inappropriate degree of camaraderie, pursing his lips. “Couple of bowmen.”
Fi Cheen sighed, glancing at Lyu-ra. “Could I meet this sheriff and his posse? At your inn, imbibing copious amounts of alcoholic beverages I suppose?”
“Uh.” The constable blinked, his eyes glazing trying to decipher even the simplest sentences and thoughts of his silly excuse for a language. “The sheriff and his boys are in there, in the jail keeping an eye on the felon.”
“Oh, well, please.” Fi Cheen indicated the door. “I would like to reclaim my property.”
The constable edged in between Fi Cheen and the door, extracting a key from beneath his armguard, inserting it into the lock, knocking with his knuckle in a complicated rhythmic pattern. “Renaud? You dressed in there?” The constable chuckled at his own primitive attempt at humor until he looked back at Fi Cheen and gulped. “Renaud? Open up.”
The spell pattern changed to Fi Cheen’s relieved satisfaction, and he realized why the spell seemed too complex for him to comprehend before, a separate key, a secondary set of spells and wards on the inside.
Of course.
The door opened revealing an oafish-looking northerner with a dark expression. He nodded toward Fi Cheen, looking at the constable. “Who’s that?”
Fi Cheen opened his mouth, prepared to speak to the fellow, but the constable gestured to Fi Cheen, saying, “This is the slave’s owner, a representative of the empire, very important.”
The fellow backed away, opening the door the rest of the way. A black-clad sheriff in loose leather armor, a sword on his hip, meat cleavers on the baldric across his chest, stood in the shadows at the end of the room, his face obscured but his hands smoldering with incipient magic, an amateur’s spells of attack and defense balanced in his fists.
Fi Cheen entered the room, past the sheriff’s two mouth-breathing lackeys, past the iron-barred cells to his right and left with wooden cots and straw covering the floors, the prince of Morrin in one of them, his face a mass of bruises, his arm in a sling, his chest a jagged net of bleeding gashes and ragged wounds.
But Fi Cheen was not worried about the prince of Morrin.
The sheriff, a northerner himself with more magic than training, drew himself up as Fi Cheen approached, his chin tucking down toward his chest, his head lowering, his back spreading like the hood of a cobra, reminding Fi Cheen of a black house cat puffing its fur to appear more like a sand tiger with paws the size of a man’s skull prowling the Ohkrulon sands.
Fi Cheen stopped and spread his hands, an offering of peace, showing his lack of evil intent. “You are a long way from Fizer, sheriff.”
“Do you have any identification papers?” he said.
A glance over his shoulder and Lyu-ra danced forward, weaving her way through the constable and the two simpletons of the posse, moving with a sensual poise and casual elegance, unrolling Fi Cheen’s scroll of “Ma’at yalde Teholkul”, his list of achievements and accreditations, draping it over her arm, curtsying with the perfect precision of the court.
The sheriff read. The shadows wrapped around him retreating, the magic he had held at the ready ebbing, eyebrows raising, he relaxed, and bowed with a surprising ease to the appropriate level for their respective stations. “Your grace. How may I serve?”
Fi Cheen returned his bow in good measure. In his heart, Fi Cheen whispered a thankful prayer to the cadre of gods of etiquette and order. He indicated the prince of Morrin. “I hoped to find more than this one. In many ways, he is almost the least of those who escaped from the monastery.”
“Least?” The prince of Morrin leapt to his feet, stumbling from his injuries, but maintaining his indignation.
“I know of three others: a coulven girl and a boy.” The sheriff rested his left hand on the bars of an empty cell, shaking his head, pursing his lips.
“That’s two, unless I miss my count,” Fi Cheen said, his left fist pressing into his lower back, his right index finger balancing on his chin.
“The boy mentioned an Onei, but the girl laughed it off, implying he talked about a friend from the monastery who hadn’t escaped. From the message I received from the deputy I left there, the Onei fought his way in, tricked him, and escaped with the other two.” The sheriff shook his head. “I’m going to go back now, and pick up their tracks. I’ll return them to you as soon as I can.”
Fi Cheen nodded. “Those are the ones I seek. They would be easily found, but they have shed their collars. So I can no longer trace them. Would you happen to comprehend how they shed their collars?”
“Frontin didn’t mention anything about their collars.” The sheriff gulped, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “I must take responsibility for that, sir. Probably using a key I’d gotten from Overseer Lo Yogui a
few years ago. I kept it in one of the drawers in my desk, never imagining someone would dare violate my desk. I present myself to your mercy for my negligence.”
“My beloved predecessor,” Fi Cheen said, rolling his eyes, waving his hand, dismissing the sheriff’s obeisance.
The prince of Morrin leaned forward, his nose wrinkling, arms drawing up against his sides, bloody teeth clenching, saying, “I’m going to see the both of you drawn and quartered.”
Renaud winced, saying, “In my pride, I’d said I always wanted to test myself by tracking an Onei.” He kicked at the bars. “I guess I’m going to get my chance because I’m going to have to go back to Fizer and try to pick up his trail.”
“I would be glad for your assistance in finding the fugitives, but I’m doubtful of the need to go all the way back to Fizer to comb the forest for days-old spoor of an Onei, spoor of doubtful existence.” Fi Cheen smiled toward the prince of Morrin. “Perhaps we can discern an alternative.”
The prince retreated to the back of the cell. “I don’t have any idea where they were headed.”
“Don’t you?” Fi Cheen pressed his palms together, leering at the prince. “Do you have any idea how much pain I can inflict by triggering the simplest facet of your collar?”
“No need for torture.” The prince licked his lips, holding his hands up, surrendering, caving in too easily. “Aissal wanted to take Rucker back to his parents.”
“You do not command me, prince.” Fi Cheen placed his fingertips on the black gemstone in the ring on his finger.
The collar around the prince of Morrin’s neck exploded into an eruption of blue lightning, lifting him into the air, the roar louder than his shrieks, his flesh burning, his hair spreading out from his body, face contorting, the lightning destroying the cot, blasting it to splinters. Lyu-ra giggled, her hands over her lips.
“I will tell you when there is or is not a need for torture.” Fi Cheen released the spell, the lightning ceasing, the prince dropping to the ground, collapsing in a smoking heap. Fi Cheen bent, moving his face closer to the bars, closer to Cole, saying, “Now. Does anything else important come to your mind?”
