The Blighted City (The Fractured Tapestry)

by Scott Kaelen

  “Eight!” Maros shook his head. “This Elijah feller went down there for a paltry eighty silvers?”

  “Aye,” Jerrick drawled from his table along the wall. “That he did. Ain’t nothin’ paltry ‘bout that, mind you; not now and certainly not then.” The old man loosed a rattling sigh, culminating in a throaty cough. “Well then, you young’uns back there discover what happened to Lijah? Hm?”

  Jalis’s brow furrowed as she glanced at Oriken and whispered, “Sabrian was the only one. There was no mention of an Elijah.”

  Oriken looked long at her, and silence filled the common room but for Jerrick’s phlegmy breathing. Maros studied Oriken’s face, watching as his expression slowly changed, his mouth opening and his eyes growing wider. “Elijah,” he said slowly, then glanced to Jerrick. “Lijah. Oh, gods.”

  Maros scowled. “You know something?”

  Oriken looked stunned as he leaned back against the wall. “Oh, that’s… And I….” Hissing a curse, he looked again to Jalis. “Lie,” he said, his voice thick. “Liar.”

  Jalis’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, no.”

  “What’s that you young’uns are muttering over there?” Jerrick called. “Did you find a trace of me old friend or not?”

  “Yes.” Jalis placed her hand over Oriken’s. “We did.”

  “You’ll have to speak up, girl. I can’t hear you.”

  She rose and walked around to pull up a chair beside the old fellow. “Your friend Elijah fulfilled his mission,” she said gently as his rheumy eyes watched her lips. “He found what he went for, but he fell on the way home.” She brushed a tear away as it slipped down her cheek.

  Jerrick nodded and patted her hand. “Thank ye.” From his expression, he looked like he was about to say more, but instead his eyes grew distant and he frowned down at his cup.

  “Lijah,” Oriken muttered. “He recognised us as being like him. He only wanted to tell us his name, and I—”

  “Who?” Maros’s exasperation overflowed. “Are you saying you met this fellow? What, is he another who’s been wandering around the heath for years? What in the tenth level of the Pit are you talking about? Who wanted to tell you what?”

  “No one,” Jalis said as she returned to her seat.

  Maros grunted. “Why am I not rutting surprised?”

  Behind them, Jerrick’s chair scraped as he rose to his feet. “Reckon I’ll be getting myself away,” he mumbled. “Aye, reckon that’s for the best.” He lifted his cup. “To Lijah. May ye’ve found peace in Kambesh.” Draining the last of his ale, he added, “I’ll let your girlie know. Been visitin’ her grave each year since she passed. Aye, mayhap the two o’ you found each other on’t other side.”

  Maros watched Jerrick shuffle away, and thought to himself, Gods, the poor bastard. He ain’t long for this world. May’ve been kinder to tell him nothing. With a sigh, he added, Then again, he’ll likely have forgotten by the morning. Drawing a breath, he turned to find Leaf waiting patiently at his side. “I got one more job for you, lass, if you’ll accept it? Nothing that’ll take up too much of your time.”

  She gave an abrupt nod.

  “I need you to run over to Balen and bring back a feller named Randallen. I don’t know which is his house, but ask around. There are only a dozen or so.”

  “Will do.”

  “Fast as you can, lass. And don’t forget the send-off tonight.” As the girl strode to the doors, Maros called after her, “Why’d they call you Leaf, anyway?”

  She paused and glanced back with a smile.

  “Is it the colour of your eyes? Your tunic?”

  “Nope.”

  “What, then?”

  “If I told you, boss, you’d be the only man alive who knew.”

  He nodded slowly, the warning not lost on him.

  “I like her,” Jalis said as Leaf rushed from the tavern.

  “Me too,” Demelza said.

  “Who’s this Rand-whatever you’re sending the merchant for?” Oriken asked.

  “The client of the whole sorry affair. Well, the beneficiary, at any rate.”

  Jalis frowned. “What do you mean, beneficiary?”

  “Sorry.” Maros shrugged. “I forgot to mention. Cela Chiddari died shortly after you left.”

  A shadow crossed Oriken’s face. “Did she now? Reckon she could’ve done it a week earlier, then there might’ve been an extra person sitting here right now.”

  “Maybe so,” Jalis said with a glance to Demelza. “And then again, maybe not.”

  The common room was devoid of patrons save for the first few freeblades to arrive for Dagra’s send-off, sat with Oriken and engaged in quiet conversation. Sat upon his stool behind the bar, Maros paid them no mind as he stared across at the saloon doors and brooded – not for the loss of Dagra or how Jalis and Oriken had urged him to keep what he’d witnessed a secret, but over Jalis’s imminent departure. The long years he’d been partnered with her had come crashing to a halt a year ago, but he and Jalis were still together even though he’d hung up his blades. Now she was doing the same, but, unlike him, she was leaving the guild completely.

  Out with the old and in with the new, he mused, thinking of young Leaf. The cycle of change is an unstoppable force, and there ain’t no such thing as an immovable object in this guild; even the Mountain won’t be sticking around forever.

  His ears pricked at the crunch of footfalls beyond the saloon doors. Peering across, he spotted a pair of lower legs striding towards the tavern, and a moment later Randallen Chiddari stepped into the common room, his plaid cap squashed upon his head like a flat mushroom.

  “Tavernmaster—”

  Maros raised a hand. “One moment.” As he hobbled around to the front of the counter, he called for Oriken to join them. “The contract is fulfilled,” he told Randallen. Nodding to Oriken, he said, “This is one of the three who retrieved your mother’s heirloom.”

  Randallen looked Oriken up and down. “And the others? I should extend my appreciation to all,” he said, his flat tone exuding no gratitude whatsoever, “and it would be easier to thank them all at once.”

  “One is upstairs,” Maros said, “resting after her arduous journey.”

  “And the other?”

  Oriken shot him a cool gaze. “Dead.”

  Randallen swallowed a cough.

  “Ah, shall we take this into the office?” Maros suggested. “It is, after all, a sensitive matter.” He led them behind the stairs at the end of the bar and along a short corridor into his private office. Oriken filed in last and closed the door.

  Perching against the corner of his desk, Maros cleared his throat. “As I said, your mother’s jewel has been retrieved.”

  “Mm.” Randallen flicked a glance at Oriken, but kept from looking him in the eye. “It’s… a relief to hear, I suppose.”

  “I’ll bet it is,” Oriken said.

  Maros fished a keychain from his pocket and limped around the desk, unlocked the office safe and took out a package from within. He hobbled back to Randallen with it wrapped in his fist.

  As Randallen reached for the package, Maros withdrew his hand. “Firstly,” he said, grabbing a large quill from the desk, “I need your signature here”—he tapped the quill against one of several papers laid out on the desktop—“here”—he tapped a second sheet of paper—“and I’ll need your statement of satisfaction and acceptance of completion, with a third signature”—he stabbed at the last parchment—“here.”

  Randallen drew an impatient breath, took the quill from Maros and dipped it in the inkwell. He leaned over the first piece of paper to scrutinise each word.

  “I can assure you that these are the exact papers your mother agreed upon. You can see her signature already on the first two.”

  “Yes, yes.” Randallen scrawled his name beneath his recently deceased mother’s, then moved on to the second paper.

  Oriken sighed. With a shake of his head, he paced across to the corner of the office and stood
with his arms folded, his hard eyes fixed on Randallen.

  “It all seems to be in order,” Randallen said slowly. He scratched his name onto the second paper and placed the quill on the table. “But I can’t very well sign my satisfaction without seeing the goods, can I?”

  Maros unwrapped the cloth, and the material draped down his hand to reveal the Chiddari jewel in all its glistening glory.

  Randallen’s jaw dropped. His eyes widened, then narrowed to a frown as his mouth snapped shut. “It’s…”

  “Yes,” Oriken said. “It really is, isn’t it?”

  Randallen glanced at him, then at Maros, then back to the jewel. “What’s the black thing in the middle?”

  “An imperfection, perhaps?” Oriken suggested, his tone a mixture of coldness and indifference. “Then again, maybe just grit. Or, and this is the most probable answer”—he uncrossed his arms and paced around the desk to stand over Randallen—“it could be a seed of the corruption that killed my friend.”

  Randallen stepped hastily backwards, both from Oriken and from the jewel. His fingers rose to cover his mouth and nose. “Corruption, you say?”

  Oriken’s smile did not touch his eyes. “That’s right. A black little deadly piece of shit, full of fucking spores. And now it’s yours. Congratulations.”

  As Maros covered the jewel over, Randallen puffed his cheeks. “Hm. Well. No matter. First thing tomorrow it’ll be four feet under, right alongside my mother.”

  Oriken cast him a sharp look, then snorted. “should'a figured that was her plan all along.”

  Randallen glared at him. “What plan?”

  “Forget it,” Oriken muttered.

  “Such practices might be irregular,” Maros said in an attempt to diffuse the tension, “but they’re not unlawful.”

  “Hmph.” Randallen removed his cap and gripped it to his chest. “Don’t start me on how distasteful I find the whole burial thing. It was mother’s wish to be buried and to have that thing laid next to her, and it was me who had to dig the hole and heave her casket inside. And what do I get out of it?” He shook his head. “Nothing, of course. If you hadn’t brought it back, at least I’d be getting ninety percent of her savings returned.”

  Oriken shook his head, narrowing his eyes contemptuously at the man. “The Chiddari line really did drop in quality, didn’t it?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Tell me, did your mother say why she wanted to be buried with the deadst— er, the jewel?”

  Randallen barked a laugh. “Did she tell me why she preferred to rot rather than go to the Underland? Of course she didn’t! I’d invite you to try getting a word out of the old hag, except for the fact that she’s quite ripe at the moment.”

  Oriken tilted his eyes to the ceiling, drew a deep breath, then fixed a hard look on Randallen. “Now listen here, fellow. You don’t seem too upset that you lost your mother. I lost mine when I was a boy, to a lyakyn, of all the bastards that roam this world. Not long before that, my father was murdered. Mother scarcely had chance to mourn. But, more than that”—he slapped a hand onto Maros’s arm—“we lost a damned good friend out there while retrieving this rock for you.”

  “For my mother.”

  “To be honest, I’ve only been in your company for five minutes and I’m already sick of the sight of you. Carry on pushing me, and I’ll personally throw you into your mother’s fucking grave and bury you with her.” Oriken glared at the plaid cap as Randallen clutched it nervously to his chest. “And your hat is stupid.”

  Randallen’s jaw dropped.

  “Please.” Oriken took a step closer. “Say one word.”

  Maros held out the quill.

  Jalis nodded as she listened to Maros finish reciting the altercation with Cela Chiddari’s son. “Well,” she sighed, folding a pair of leggings and glancing through the mirror at Oriken slouched against her wardrobe, “let’s just hope he doesn’t file a grievance against us. We don’t want Headquarters’ attention on this, no more than it needs to be.” There’s no ‘we’ any more, she told herself. Not after tonight.

  Maros crossed his arms. “Oriken had the right of it though, lass. That Randallen is an unsightly stain, and, from what I’ve heard from some o’ the lads around town, he’s also a suspected degenerate. If he draws attention to us, he draws it to himself.”

  Jalis placed the leggings on the dresser and looked across at her bed, where Demelza lay with her knees tucked to her chest, quietly watching the exchange.

  “I’m just glad we’re rid of that deadstone,” Jalis said.

  Demelza nodded in agreement.

  A thought came to Jalis. “Damn,” she said. “I never did find out about the Drilos runes. And now Cela’s dead…”

  Maros looked at Oriken. “What’s she talking about?”

  Oriken shrugged. “Something about some god or other. Don’t pay it any mind. You know how she gets.” He looked at Jalis. “It’s over. Let’s just leave it behind us.”

  Jalis gave a dismissive grunt as she watched Maros regarding her stack of clothes upon the dresser. She’d lain the stiff corselette and puffy blouse – both of which once belonged to Gorven’s long-dead wife – in a separate pile beside the others. Maros turned a shrewd eye on her, but said nothing.

  I’m sorry, old friend, she thought. I hate not being able to tell you. In an attempt to make light of the moment, she quirked an eyebrow at him and said, “Didn’t you notice the quality clothiers down by Dulèth? I could swear Orik pointed it out to you on the way home.”

  Maros snorted. “I never said nothing.” Stabbing a finger at her, he added, “But I expect to hear it one day.” He clasped his hands together. “Time to drink. Let’s head down and join the others.”

  “One moment.” Jalis crouched beside Demelza. “We’ll be gone a while,” she told her. “It could get noisy downstairs, but don’t be scared. I’ll come back later to see how you are. If you need anything, you might find one of the maids in the spare room at the end of the corridor. Alright?” Demelza nodded. Jalis touched the girl’s shoulder as the men filed from the room, then she rose to join them.

  As she clicked the door shut behind her, Maros said to Oriken, “What do you propose to do with Dagra’s cut of the earnings?”

  “They should go to his grandparents. Ilhdra and Gafrid watched over me during my last couple of years in Eyndal. They’re almost family to me. I’ll deliver the money to them personally.”

  “It’ll take you the better part of a month to get up to the Kadelia Downs,” Jalis said as they made their way to the stairs.

  “I know.”

  “I told Demelza I’d take her to the port, organise an escort with the Ashcloaks.”

  “Then that’s what you should do.” Oriken paused at the top of the stairs and fixed her with a sombre look. “It’s okay, Jalis. You go your way and I’ll go mine. Besides, it’s only right that I do this one alone.”

  “When will you leave?”

  He shrugged.

  The promises we make, she thought as she headed down to the common room. The trials we go through. And yet, somehow, it all still falls apart…

  Maros perched upon the service counter and planted the boot of his good leg firmly upon a stool, letting his ruined leg dangle to the floor. For a disconcerting moment he felt like a cheap, ugly imitation of the enigmatic Taleweaver that had at the exact same place several years earlier, and he knew that while the Taleweaver had everyone enthralled with his wondrous stories, the speech Maros was about to make would not be met with the same spellbound expressions.

  He roved his eyes across the freeblades that were gathered around the four largest tables set close together at the back of the room. All ranks were present, from novice to bladesmaster. And bladesmistress he thought as his gaze landed on Jalis. Thirty five had gathered to pay their respects – every freeblade who wasn’t out on a contract, plus Luthan.

  “Another of our number has taken the swan’s path,” Maros announced, his vo
ice rumbling softly through the room. The chatter ceased and he glanced from one to the next until he’d made eye contact with everyone. “Losing a friend and a colleague is never easy, no matter your rank, no matter how many notches of losses you have on your blade or bow.

  “I’ve been in this game for twenty years, the last four in Alder’s Folly. I came here with three colleagues – one old friend and two fresh faces to the guild. Me and Jalis took Oriken and Dagra under our wings and watched them climb from novices to journeymen.”

  He paused to draw a breath and slowly release it. “The one truth we must all face as freeblades is that death is always somewhere around the corner, no matter how hard we train or how high we climb. For Dagra, as for many of those we knew and loved, it came too early. The how of it don’t matter, and there’s never a sense in asking why; it just is. Dagra’s time came, as the gods willed it. Or as the stars willed it. Or as fuck all willed it. He’s gone now. Maybe he’ll be reborn in the Underland. Maybe he’ll be taken into the Void to dwell with the Unbound. Maybe nothing. None of that’s important to me; what is important is how our friend lived, and what he stood for.

  “Not a day went by when I didn’t admire that lad. He lived by his own code, as do we all, and he embraced the code of the guild, as have we all. Some of us hang our blades up.” Maros raised a hand and flashed a congenial smile. “Aye, I’m one of ‘em. But those who die never hang their blades on the wall, and Dagra’s continues within the guild at Oriken’s side. In that way, Dagra is still a freeblade.” His gaze encompassed all four tables. “Once a freeblade…”

  “Always a freeblade,” came the combined response of all seated, spoken in reverent tones.

  Maros caught Jalis’s eye. She’d only muttered the words, but he understood. He gave her the briefest of nods, hoisted himself down from the bar and raised his tankard. “To Dagra!”

  “To Dagra!” The staccato response hung in the air, like a wisp of fae-fire fading away.