by Scott Kaelen
Maros frowned at her. “I’m sorry, lass, I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Leaf,” she said.
“Hm. Well then, Leaf. How would you like a little courier contract of your own? Show Henwyn what you’re capable of.”
Leaf’s eyes widened. “A job on my own? Sure.”
“Right, then. Meet me here at noon tomorrow. I’ll have the request form drafted up by then.”
“Where am I going?”
“Guild HQ at Brancosi Bay.”
Leaf’s jaw dropped. “I never been to the capital before.”
“Well, now’s your chance. But don’t dally, because I want those papers as quick as possible.”
“What’s the rush?” Kirran asked, keeping his tone careful.
Maros eyed the novice. “The rush, boy, is that I would tend to agree with Jerrick, that his friend didn’t just die on the road. If one freeblade gets sent on a mission”—he shook his head as he caught himself using Jerrick’s antiquated word—“then the likelihood is that he or she is a veteran – journeyman or journeywoman at least, if not a bladesmaster or bladesmistress.”
“What are you saying?” Henwyn asked.
“What I’m saying, Hen, is that I think this Lijah did find the Blighted City. More to the point, I think Jalis and the lads’ll find it, too, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let them meet the same fate.”
The last of the night’s patrons disappear through the saloon doors into the darkness, leaving Maros alone while a pair of serving girls mopped the boards and wiped the tables clean. The clattering of pots and pans drifted through from the kitchen where Luthan the chef was busy performing his own end-of-shift duties.
After a few minutes, Maros heard a swish-swish, and he glanced down the walkway behind the bar. Luthan had exited the kitchen and was heading towards Maros. His bleached apron and bandanna were as pristine as always when he entered the public area, even if the place was devoid of customers. More than just a chef, Luthan’s famous whitesand meal had given him something of a name in these parts and he had an image to maintain, something he managed with quiet, yet confident, decorum.
“How’d you like a bite to eat?” The chef said. “I'm fixing something for myself before I head home. Why don't you join me? Boss?”
“Hm?” Maros caught Luthan's gaze and puffed his cheeks. “No, not for me. It’s too late.”
The clean-shaven chef pulled up a barstool and propped himself upon it. His blue eyes studied Maros's face. “Something's troubling you.” It wasn't a question; with Luthan, it never was.
“I'm worried about Jalis and the lads. I was getting to think I’d sent them chasing dragons, but now I reckon it might be worse.”
“That's always a chance for a freeblade,” Luthan said.
“True.” Maros clenched his fist and rubbed the knuckles with his other hand. “Something's starting to feel off-kilter about this one, though.”
At the far end of the common room, the saloon doors swung open. A man entered, pausing in the doorway to smooth his overcoat and remove his plaid cap. He eyed Maros across the distance as he made his way purposefully towards the bar.
Luthan cleared his throat and hopped down from his stool to head briskly back into the kitchen.
“We’re closed for the night,” Maros told the newcomer. “Unless it's a room you're after?”
The man sighed as he reached the bar and laid his cap on the oaken counter. “I’m not here as a customer, good tavernmaster.”
Maros sized him up. The stranger’s flaccid face was clean-shaven, his attire ruffled but finely-cut, and he certainly wasn’t the sort who liked getting his hands dirty. Maros guessed him to be in his late forties. “Can’t say I’ve seen you around these parts, friend. You here to offer a contract?”
“Not quite.” The man sounded weary. “I’m here about a contract, but one that is unfortunately already agreed upon.”
“I see.” A trickle of annoyance crept in as Maros wished the man would get to the point. “Then please, state your business.”
“I left the hamlet of Balen five hours ago,” the man said, reaching into his cloak and bringing forth a tied roll of parchment which he placed upon the polished counter beside his cap. “I'm too tired for extended formalities, and I might just take you up on that offer of a room. It's been a long and decidedly rare day.”
“Eleven coppers for a room,” Maros rumbled. “Fifteen if you want a hot breakfast in the morning.”
The man pressed his lips together and held Maros's gaze. “Good tavernmaster, I rather think that after you've read and fully digested the contents of this document”—he tapped the roll of parchment before him—“you may consider extending me the use of a room as a gesture of good will.”
Maros clenched his teeth, glanced at the parchment, then fixed a scowl on the newcomer, his patience waning. To give the man his due, he didn't seem aware of Maros's reputation, nor did he seem in the least bit intimidated by his half-jotunn size; Maros could have reached over the bar and crushed the man’s face in one hairy fist if he had the mind to. Even slouched on the high-stool he still towered over the man by more than a foot.
“I’ll accept the breakfast as a courtesy, as well,” the man added.
Maros’s scowl deepened that bit further as he eased himself up from the stool, planted his large hands upon the counter and loomed over. “And why,” he rumbled, “would I extend you these generosities, friend?”
The stranger drew in a breath before answering. “It appears that in my fatigue I neglected to introduce myself. My name,” he said, seeming completely unperturbed as his eyes lifted to meet Maros’s, “is Randallen Chiddari.”
“Ah.” Maros glared at him. “Then I’m glad you’re here. Some years ago – quite some years ago – it seems that one of our ‘blades was hired to head into the same territory as three of mine are in now, fulfilling your mother’s contract. That man never returned, and it’s my strong suspicion that he was hired by your mother, or perhaps one of her parents. I need to speak with her.”
Randallen snorted. “I never knew her parents. Her mother has been dead for fifty years, buried in the family plot in Eihazwood. As to my dear mother, I’m afraid she can’t answer any of your questions.”
“Oh?” Maros pursed his lips. “And why would that be?”
“Because, good tavernmaster, in the early hours of this morning she lost all interest in your little agreement. She is, to put it bluntly, dead.”
CHAPTER SIX
TWO ENDS OF THE ROAD
Maros left his quarters above the tavern’s common room and made his way downstairs, gripping the sturdy banister as he limped down the stairs one at a time.
Why in the Pit do I still have the private wing upstairs? He made a mental note to swap the freeblades wing, which included his own rooms and those of his three absent friends, with one of the downstairs guest wings.
Half a dozen steps from the bottom, he paused and stifled a yawn behind his hand as he studied the public area. Only three patrons were in the common room at this early hour. All were overnight guests, taking solitary breakfasts at separate tables.
Maros’s boot scraped across the stone as he dragged his ruined leg down the remaining steps. His eyes fixed on one particular guest, who glanced up from his breakfast and nodded a sombre greeting. Randallen Chiddari held one of Luthan’s famous whitesands over a plate, a dribble of sauce oozing from a thick slice of meat that protruded between the crusty slabs of bread. Maros whispered a tired curse as he made his way over.
The kitchen door swished open as he passed and he was greeted with a gap-toothed smile from the emerging serving girl. “Morning, Diela,” he said, returning the smile.
“Mornin’, boss. Coffee?”
He nodded.
“I’ll bring it right out.”
Maros reached Randallen’s table and peered down at his guest. “Master Chiddari, May I sit?”
Randallen dropped his whitesand to the plate and glanced up. “
Please do,” he said flatly.
Maros could sense the man’s ill humour. Gods, he thought, how I hate the diplomacy that comes with being Guild Official. “My thanks,” he said. He lowered himself onto a stool opposite, suppressing a wince as he shifted his foot to a more comfortable position. I should put a Maros-sized seat at each table to avoid moments like this. Squirming on the low seat, he cleared his throat. “Master Chiddari—”
Randallen rolled his eyes. “I haven’t the patience for that nonsense. I’m a village man. In Balen, everyone calls me Ral, even those with whom I hold a mutual dislike. I’d ask you to do the same.”
So, he wants to be a straight-talker this morning. I can live with that. “Very well, Ral.” Maros gestured to the partially consumed food on the man’s plate. “How do you like your breakfast?”
Randallen cast him a flat look. “Have you had time to consider our problem?”
“I’ve done little else all night,” Maros said. “Including sleep.”
“That I can empathise with.”
Maros reached into his vest pocket and produced a parchment, unfolded it and placed it upon the table. “The contract between your mother and the Freeblades Guild is for the discovery and retrieval of one burial jewel belonging to the Chiddari family.”
“Yes, yes. And there are five hundred silver dari of my mother’s sitting in your coffers.”
Maros nodded. “Set aside for the freeblades who have undertaken the contract.”
“Which brings us to the problem.” Randallen stifled a sigh as Diela arrived at the table.
“Here you go, boss.” Diela set a steaming tankard of coffee before Maros. He gulped a mouthful of the hot drink and sighed in satisfaction, nodding his thanks.
As the serving girl went about her business, Randallen raised an eyebrow. “The problem?”
“As I explained to you last night, a contract doesn’t expire in the event of the client’s death.” Maros paused to take another mouthful of coffee. “I’m truly sorry to hear about your mother. She seemed like a—”
“I’ve been in this tavern for far too long already,” Randallen said sharply. “So, please, spare me the platitudes and let’s thrash this business to a conclusion. You have in your possession a sum of money which just happens to be the vast majority of my mother’s life savings. Do you understand what that means?”
“I’m beginning to.”
“It means that I, as dear Mother’s son and only heir, suddenly find myself with no inheritance. That won’t do. I have a wife and two daughters. I took care of my mother for as long as I was able. When I die, my wife and my girls will get whatever I manage to amass in my life, as I in turn deserve with my mother’s savings.”
Maros pursed his lips, considering the point. “Following the terms of guild contracts and policies,” he said carefully, “payments can only be returned if a contract is left unfulfilled. In which case, a full ninety percent would be returned to the beneficiary.”
“Oh.”
“Indeed. But I must advise you, and I’m afraid this is the part you may not like…” Maros took the contract from the table and brought it to his face, squinting at his own handwriting until he found the section he wanted. Turning the paper around, he placed it before Randallen and tapped a finger on the relevant paragraph. “See here? You’ll notice your mother named no beneficiary. Technically, that means I’m not obligated to accept you as such. However—”
“What? Didn’t you even prompt her for a name?”
Maros gave a stony smile. “If a client wishes to name a beneficiary, they may do so, but it isn’t an essential part of the agreement. If your mother had you in mind, she had every chance to mention you.”
“Why, the ungrateful…” Randallen’s cheeks glowed with anger as he stared at the parchment.
“It’s a predicament,” Maros said. “That much I agree with. We’ve talked about your problem, but you must realise the coin has two sides.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I’ve got three good people risking their lives venturing to a place that no one’s been in centuries, one of very few in the whole of Himaera to bear the Death’s Head symbol. My freeblades – my family – have travelled to the Blighted City to find your mother’s heirloom. The potential dangers, I’m sure you’ll agree, are unimaginable.” He prodded a finger against the parchment. “This contract is insurance against my freeblades losing their lives during its undertaking. You lost your mother. That’s regrettable. But if my freeblades don’t return from the Deadlands—”
“That isn’t my concern! Nobody forced them to take the contract.”
“Master Chiddari.” Maros eased himself to his feet and loomed over the table. “You have a tendency of interrupting me. If you hadn’t done so, you would already have heard me say that I’m considering accepting you as beneficiary in lieu of your mother. Please note I said considering. Whether I do or not depends on you. The way I see it, you have one option. If my people return with the heirloom – which they will if it exists, or they’ll die trying – I’d advise you to graciously accept it from them. If they don’t return—”
“That’s unacceptable!” Randallen’s face quivered with repressed rage. “I demand that you—”
Maros’s knuckles cracked as he clenched his fists and leaned them upon the table. The wood creaking beneath his weight was the only sound in the common room. “You demand nothing of the Freeblades Guild, little man. One more unsavoury nugget of attitude from you, and I’ll not only forget about adding you to the contract, I’ll also launch you through the saloon doors. Don’t test me further.”
Maros took a breath to compose himself, satisfied to see Randallen swallow the lump in his throat. The message seemed to have gone through.
“Think on this,” Maros said, lowering his voice once more. “The jewel will be yours. I can’t say if it’s worth less or more than your mother’s savings, but I’d wager it likely comes close. If you want the money so badly, do yourself a favour and sell the damned thing. I’m sure you’d find a buyer in Brancosi Bay. I could even put you in touch with a few potentials, for a small fee, of course.”
Despite Randallen’s abating anger, the defeat was in his eyes as he lowered them to the table. “I’m afraid selling the jewel will be out of the question.”
“Why so?”
“Because”—Randallen drew a shaky breath—“Mother was emphatic that it be with her when she died. That was her sole purpose in wanting the bloody thing in the first place. I had hoped that with her passing…”
“So you’re trying to get the money back because you think the contract’s nullified, is that it?”
“Perhaps.” Randallen’s face was a stony mask.
“Well”—Maros shrugged—“I’m sorry to say that’s not the case. Your mother may have missed that particular boat, but the contract stands. The jewel will be yours to do with as you wish.”
Randallen shook his head. “Not so. She didn’t merely wish for it to be in her possession before she died.”
“Are you saying she wanted it burned with her?” Maros barked a laugh. “If you’re willing to throw something of that value onto the funeral pyre, then that’s your business.”
“Oh, it’s worse than that. Much worse. You see, my dear, dead mother wants the damned jewel tossed into the ground. For what? To be dug up in a hundred years by some lucky prospector? She won’t benefit from it, and I certainly won’t!” Randallen drew a deep breath. “It’s a damned, pointless waste.”
Maros shrugged. “It’s not an unreasonable request. People get their possessions buried with their ashes all the time.”
Randallen sucked air through his teeth. “Have I said anything about cremation?”
Maros frowned. “Well, I… Oh.”
“Yes.” Randallen smiled coldly and reached into his overcoat. He withdrew the roll of parchment from the previous evening and brandished it at Maros. “It’s all in here. Mother’s last wishes. She’s not getting cremated, she’s getting b
uried.”
Renfrey swayed on his stool at his usual table along the side wall of the Lonely Peddler’s common room. It was not yet noon and he’d already lost count of how many cups of Redanchor he’d consumed. On his days off from the mill, he drank early to avoid the crowds. By the time the evening patrons poured in, he’d be home and sleeping it off until two hours before dawn. Then it was off to work, hauling and hitching grain sacks, hefting sacks onto farmers’ wagons, relieving the gears that turned the mill of clumps of flour and dirt, and clearing shit from the dam and pond. By the gods, it was wretched work, but it paid for the ale.
Renfrey enjoyed his privacy. A man could sit alone and banter from a distance if he wanted. Not that there was any bantering to be had from the dozen or so patrons in the Peddler. The pretentious merchant twat in the corner had a pair of burly bodyguards keeping him company. The two woodsmen quietly eating a meal at the far side of the common room looked no fun at all. And then there were the freeblades.
Wouldn’t piss on ‘em if they needed dousing. He frowned at his cup of Redanchor, then took a mouthful of the strong ale and set the cup back down with a thunk. Liquid arced over the rim before sloshing back inside. “Aye,” Renfrey slurred, “get where ye belong, ye rotten…”
His gaze roved around the room, over the freeblades who were deep in quiet conversation, onto the huge oaf of a barman, and finally landing on the serving girl cleaning a table in the centre of the room. Nice legs on that one. Creamy. Soft. Nice tits, too. Pert little things, they were, pushed up by her outfit, small but still managing to spill over her dress. Face ain’t much to look at, though. Renfrey leered at the softness around the girl’s waist.
The serving girl glanced up from her work and caught him eyeing her. He grinned, and she smiled back.
Oh, aye, I’d rut that one like a pig, he thought, watching her soft arse wobble as she walked away. He licked his lips and tongued a gap between his teeth.
Conversation from the freeblades’ table drifted over, and Renfrey muttered a curse. Freeblades could rot in the Pit for all he cared, every last self-important one of the women-stealing braggarts. They were a scourge on the town. If there was another tavern in Alder’s Folly, he’d be drinking there instead of at the Peddler. He took a pull of ale and listened to their words.
