“What are you, a pyro?” the rough man scoffed. “In any case, you should know we’ve a system down here. Information is bought and sold, and you’ve yet to pay me for the answer to your first question.”
Suddenly, he felt very guilty. He hadn’t considered that these less fortunate men might need to find less than legitimate means to gather income, means such as extortion. While he may live in the Audish slums, he certainly didn't mingle with its residents.
“I’m sorry. I… I don’t have any money on me,” he admitted with a flush.
The entourage perked up at that revelation. Two of them who’d been leaning against the tavern’s wall circled behind him.
“I see.” The rough man puffed on his pipe. “Are you sure? Nobles always carry a stash of spare chits on them as if the extra coin is nothing.”
“I’m not a noble,” he rebuffed.
The men behind him indulgently chuckled, and their leader knocked his pipe against the wall. “Then, I suppose we’ll have to take our payment out on your hide. You know, I’ve never had a mugging victim approach me before.”
Before they could attack, he flicked his switchblade into his waiting palm, raising it threateningly. His warding posture only made them laugh.
“Do you even know how to use that, boy?” asked the leader.
“Yes,” he asserted, “although I really don’t want to. Master Aryntor will give me a tongue lashing if he ever learns I was forced to use such a crude weapon because I forgot my sword.”
Where his posture had done nothing, his confidence caused the rough man’s peons to falter.
“Oh, come on!” the leader of the group huffed. “He’s a kid with a single blade. We’ve got the backing of the entire guild if we need it.”
Malicious smiles spread from one face to another, and he decided waiting for their first strike any longer would be a bad idea. He dove at the ringleader, thrusting in two, neat arcs at the face. His opponent howled, hands clawing at leaking holes where eyes had been before.
He probably should have attacked the men behind him, fleeing once they were incapacitated, but the flint and steel striker was too fascinating to forsake. A seed had taken root at the demonstration of its usage. He’d need it for further experimentation.
As it was, he’d five, no, six angry men with whom to deal. He’d hoped his work on their leader would make them stupid or at least nervous enough to only approach him one at a time, but luck didn’t favor him this night.
They rushed him together, and he managed a glancing slice along one’s ribs before they pinned him to the wall, smashing his wrist into stone until he dropped the switchblade.
“Got him, boss,” one called. “What now?”
“Kill him, you idiots!” the blinded man hissed. “But take his eyes first. Fair punishment must be given.”
A knifepoint hovered in his vision’s center, and he squirmed, yelling at the top of his lungs.
“Hold still, you brat!”
His breath whooshed from him as solid flesh impacted his stomach. Enough! It was time to break the rules! Time to return to his heritage.
His knee shot forward, crunching into the crotch of the man directly before him. While the two holding him were distracted by their companion's groan, he yanked against the hands pinning his arms in place. Only one limb broke away, but even that small freedom was enough to give one of his captor’s a black eye.
The miscreants who’d been waiting in the wings recovered from their shock, slamming him into the wall again. He hissed and spat, struggling to escape the hold fixing him against stone.
“Boss, I don’t think he’s a noble,” one spat. “He fights dirty. Might make a good recruit.”
“As if I’d ever work for the likes of you,” he wheezed.
Shuffling forward, the ringleader shoved the man before their captive aside.
“He BLINDED me, you morons!” their sightless leader bellowed, liquid weeping from the pits of his eyes. “That insult must be met with strength!”
The man drove a knife at him. Thank Alouin for the lack of vision, however, because the blade buried to the hilt in his shoulder rather than his face, but the miss was of no consequence to his body. Pain flared, and he screeched, bellowing louder as his tormentor withdrew the blade nice and slow. Alouin, he was going to die, murdered by a ruffian!
“Sorry, father, but I can’t allow this to continue.”
The voice drifted from overhead, and the gathered criminals lifted their faces toward the interruption in time for a shape to land on their ringleader. Two thunks sounded to either side of him, and his arms were freed as their captors limply dropped.
Only a second had passed, and three were down with the other four only now reaching for paltry weapons. He grinned. Maybe tonight wasn’t his day to die.
Then, his rescuer rose, moonlight revealing him for a child no older than five, and a loud whistle pierced the night air. It quickly cut off when all five men clutched at the holes which had appeared like magic through their chest.
“A moment too slow.” The child grimaced. “How quickly can you run? With the summons the tall one unleashed, their gang will arrive shortly.”
What in the-? Why was this child speaking like an adult? And how had such a small person killed all seven street thugs so efficiently? Most importantly, had he found his next puzzle?
The questions weren’t important right now. He’d angered one of Daira’s street gangs, and they were coming.
Crouching beside the eyeless corpse, he rifled through pockets while sliding a broad, steel ring from its knuckles.
“Now’s not the time for looting,” the child said, anxiously checking corners and shadowed recesses.
He ignored the comment, striding toward an alley. The riled-up gang would most likely use this one in their fervor to reach them. It provided the fastest access to the whistle’s source from the square which housed the gangs’ hideouts. Withdrawing a container he’d borrowed from the workshop, he carefully poured its enclosed black powder into a pile in the alley’s center.
“What are you doing?” the child hissed behind him. “We need to flee! Now!”
“If you’re frightened, you don’t have to stay,” he murmured, “but I need to compose an experim- distraction before fleeing.”
The child looked at him like he was crazy. “What sort of distraction will powder cause?”
“Possibly, none at all, but if I’m right, a big, bright, deafening one.” He flashed white teeth at the child. “From what I saw, you’re in possession of something which propels solid matter at high speeds. Is that correct?”
“Something like that,” the child mumbled.
“If I place this,” he raised the striker, “next to the powder, can you hit it from the alley’s end hard enough to cause a spark?”
“Possibly?” the child answered with a shrug.
“Oh, good,” he breathed. “I didn’t like my chances of lighting it without help.”
Setting the striker down, he moved to the alley’s end. They could use the buildings as cover. As they waited, he clutched the metal projectile in his pocket.
Soon enough, howling floated down the alley, and at least twenty men and women rounded the corner.
“When do I-?” the child asked.
“Wait.”
When the screaming gang members were almost on the pile, he nodded. “Now!”
The child gestured, a spark flew, and an ear-shattering boom split the night. The force of the explosion knocked them on their backs, and he squinted through teared up eyes at a glorious gout of flame. Body parts splattered in the alley when he regained his feet and helped the child up.
“Now, we run.”
When they stopped outside the workshop, winded and sore, they caught one another’s eyes, and uproarious laughter spilled from them despite their lungs’ protests.
“What did… you do?” the child asked.
“Took powder from… disassembled projectiles, and… wait, I ca
n’t… tell you this. State… secrets,” he wheezed.
The child’s laughter doubled. “Don’t think you… need to worry… about-”
“RAIMIE!”
A man in military dress towered a short distance away, fists clenched at his sides. The child flinched, but he conspiratorially winked before trotting to the stranger.
“I’m sorry, father. I know the task was to observe-”
The stranger slapped Raimie hard enough the child’s head shot sideways. A glow settled over Raimie, but before he could determine if he hallucinated, the stranger pulled the child into a hug, tightly squeezing and obscuring the strange phenomenon.
“Don’t EVER make me worry like that again!” the stranger growled.
Raimie pushed against the man’s chest, and the stranger released him.
“You had no need to worry. Oswin had the situation well in hand. Didn’t you, Oswin?”
Oh. They spoke to him now. He’d thought he’d been forgotten. And they knew his name? How?
“I did what was necessary for the cleanest possible escape,” he answered.
“So? Does he pass?” Raimie asked.
“We’ll see.”
The stranger advanced on him, and he stood up straighter.
“My name is Aramar. Do you know who I am?”
He narrowed his eyes. From the way Aramar had phrased it, the question required more than the answer any in Daira might impart, but he’d no clue what secrets the famous persona of Aramar might hide. That such secrets existed came as no surprise. He’d always thought the puzzle which was Aramar was missing pieces, but workshop duties had sheltered him, for the most part, from court politics. If he’d nothing to presently offer, however, he might as well start with what he knew and extrapolate from there. Such a strategy had never failed to serve him in the past.
“You’re the Queen’s confidant. Supposedly, you’re of the exiled Audish royal line,” he said.
Aramar silently waited, giving him nothing. Nothing except for the way he held himself, as if a threat could appear at any moment. The near silent approach where he’d remained oblivious to Aramar’s presence until the man had called for his son. And the child’s capabilities! Dropping into a seven against one fight without a thought. Not the slightest flinch when a couple dozen enemies charged him. Who did that?
“You’re of the Hand!” he breathed when realization hit.
“Excellent, Oswin,” Aramar nodded approvingly. “Much faster than the other candidates.” The spy glanced at Raimie who bounced with excitement. “And my son likes you,” Aramar murmured, “which is impressive in its own right.”
A weighty gaze fell on him, considering. He stood stock still, meeting Aramar’s eyes with a confidence he didn’t feel.
“I don't see the harm. We’ll give you a try,” Aramar acquiesced. “How would you like to join the Queen’s Hand?”
Oswin palmed the bullet, the projectile from nearly two decades before, and slowly rolled it from one side of its fleshy platform to the other. It had become his good luck charm, a memento of the night he’d met Raimie, the child who’d become his greatest friend despite the seven-year gap between them. Who, after a nine-year separation, hadn’t recognized him when they’d met on a boat moored in Daira’s harbor.
Nine years surely explained Raimie’s change in demeanor. When the kid had first returned from his long exile, a petulant, irritating childishness had smothered every trace of the friend for whom Oswin would sacrifice all, but in the last two years, the whiny brat had faded. Raimie had once more become the confident, brash boy from whom Oswin had been inseparable in Daira. The one with whom he’d enjoyed testing his skills throughout their sparring contests. Who’d loved, during Hand training, to race over rooftops with him. Who’d confessed his darkest secrets during a week when Aramar had been away and his home less than welcoming. Nine years and the injuries from the accident could surely account for Raimie’s loss of memory. Surely.
Oswin snatched Little’s report from the desk once more, determined to finish it this time.
The youngest member of the Hand spent a great deal of time describing the journey to Qena and the village itself. Oswin recognized the delaying tactic, even when employed in written form, but he couldn’t help the fascination Little’s words evoked.
A village of scientists and engineers? What a beautiful concept! Maybe he could visit it when next he found spare time. Oswin could show them the bullet and the original pistol from years before, the one he’d stashed away from prying hands and minds. Together, they could unravel the mechanisms which made the gun from Daira’s tear so reliable and accurate. Once that puzzle was solved, they could tweak the crude replica he’d devised years ago to further improve upon it. It would be a glorious trip, assuming he ever found free time within which to make it.
Little eventually meandered from his lengthy description, and when Oswin read about the party’s time in Qena, he groaned. Of course, Kheled had shown up. The Eselan always appeared at the most convenient or, depending on your point of view, the most inconvenient of times.
Oswin was well aware of the origin for his intense distaste of Kheled. Four years ago, when he and Marcuset had received a coded message from Eledis calling them to ready the troops, Oswin’s joy and excitement had known no bounds. Marcuset had warned him Raimie might not be the same, but Oswin hadn’t listened. His childhood friend was coming home!
Then Raimie had arrived, and no recognition had passed between them. Instead, his friend had insisted on adding to the danger to which his soldiers were already exposed, all to retrieve his new friend. Kheled.
Ever since then, Oswin hadn’t been able to shake his dislike of the man despite everything Kheled had done for Raimie and his cause.
The Eselan’s addition to Raimie’s party wasn’t what had triggered his dismay, though. Once again, Raimie had composed a ridiculous plan, and once again, he was expected to help with it. Not that he truly minded helping. Assisting Raimie with the reckless and daring was one of his favorite pastimes, but unfortunately, it usually came with work.
Was this what his life was to become? Work piled on work until he was so overwhelmed with it that it killed him?
Tucking the half-read report in a breast pocket, Oswin left. Time to speak with a man he despised.
He found Eledis in his office, and the old man wasn’t alone. Gistrick and Marcuset also occupied the room. Oswin had heard them shouting from the hallway’s end, but the argument cut off when he slipped inside.
He smiled at their shocked expressions. Using his status as spymaster to intrude on such compromising moments was always a pleasure, even if he sorely missed his previous anonymity as simple soldier and ship captain.
Oswin wasn’t sure why Marcuset so intently glared at him. The commander had been the one to expose his identity. He couldn’t complain if Raimie's spymaster used the privileges the revelation had bestowed.
“What are you three up to?” he asked.
Even with it lingering more so on Marcuset than the others, their guilt was almost imperceptible, but Oswin caught it regardless. Reading people’s faces was a skill in which Aramar had extensively trained him.
One of them gave some excuse of logistics for the investiture, and Oswin half-listened. His interest was piqued. What had they discussed before he’d interrupted?
Usually, he’d discount what he’d seen, attributing it to the planning of some harmless surprise. For a time, he’d increase the surveillance on them, but that would be the extent of his precautions.
These were not normal times. A new king was about to be crowned, or whatever they called the process in this strange land. The period from now until the end of Raimie’s first year on the throne would be exceptionally perilous for him. Add to that Oswin’s suspicions they’d a traitor in their midst, and one gained a very jumpy spymaster.
When Ring had first brought the possibility to his attention, he hadn’t taken it seriously. As good as Ring was at her job, she
also held an unhealthy fear of betrayal which manifested as paranoia of plots against her and those she loved. When she’d brought him evidence, however, he’d paid attention to her claims.
One of her contacts had discovered the flask during the one-year anniversary of Auden’s liberation. People, both notable and insignificant, had packed the capital for the festivals and feasts.
That day, Oswin had been ecstatic because Raimie hadn’t tried to slip his protection. Days sans the challenge of keeping his charge within sight made his turns at bodyguard much more amusing. His only challenge had been separating his friend from Ren. She’d attended with Kylorian, and keeping the two apart had taken every trick in the book. Raimie meeting Ren would have been highly inadvisable at the time. His friend had been a mess from how she’d left him, and that day, Raimie had been so very content. Oswin hadn’t wanted to ruin the evening for him with a reminder of what he’d lost.
Later that night, when most revelers had gone home to sleep off their drunken stupor, Ring had come along and ruined his good mood. She’d given him the flask, flushed with what she viewed as victory, and he’d had enough time to carefully examine the folded message inside before the flask and its contents had disappeared.
What he’d gathered from the note had been enough to convince him Ring was correct. A malicious plot against Raimie was afoot, and their unknown enemy employed Esela to gather reports, a tactic stolen straight from the Hand.
Even now, their only clue was the Esela recipient. Nothing further had surfaced in the months since, much to Oswin’s chagrin. Raimie’s Hand was supposed to be the pinnacle of spy networks on this continent, and someone else was besting them.
Some nights, the lack of results drove Oswin up a wall. He excelled at solving puzzles, but he needed more than one, single piece. He wasn’t like Thumb who could look at what little evidence they’d gathered and extrapolate a ‘pattern’ from it if he were so inclined. Oswin needed more data to move forward.
The only assumption of which he could be certain was Doldimar was involved. As he’d told Raimie, no other nation would wish to take advantage of Auden’s currently weakened state, not when the kingdom had made an ally of Ada’ir. The Southern Kingdoms might attempt to take control through economic means, but with Ada’ir providing necessary and reasonable trade agreements, such an attempt by those infighting nations would decisively fail. For a time, Oswin had toyed with the idea that the Matvai were involved, but the mountain clans had always been aggressively isolationist, a stance which hadn't changed even with Raimie's current negotiations.
A King's Caution (The Eternal War Book 2) Page 45
