The Eye of Charon

by Richard A. Knaak

  His eyes darted around the sitting room favored by Antonus for personal chats. While the outside was pure Corinthian, the interior was very much that of Aquilonia, especially the capital. Antonus had installed all the latest fashions that Nermesa recalled from home, including wide silken curtains colored royal blue, something just becoming popular in Tarantia.

  “You live well here, my lord baron,” he finally commented.

  Antonus smiled, the only indication that he noted how Nermesa had sidestepped his question. “I refuse to live like a man on the run when I come to do business, even if my trip was a last-minute decision.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Precautions,” returned the baron. “With matters heating up not only in Corinthia, but Nemedia and elsewhere, I felt it important to come here. As a matter of fact, the request to send your Black Dragons along to escort the caravan heading to Nemedia came just as I was myself mounting up.”

  Nermesa had not known that. “I apologize for failing in my duty to protect your property, my lord baron.”

  “We are both nobles, Klandes. I will call you Nermesa and you will call me Antonus. There is no enmity between us . . . not even with the history you have with my bride.”

  It was the opening for which the captain had hoped. “I wish that I could mend ways with the Lady Orena, Antonus.”

  “And thereby keep me from constantly attacking House Klandes?” The lupine mouth curled into a wider grin as Nermesa opened his mouth to protest. “Merely my jest! It would be my pleasure to put an end to our competition. Trying to counter House Klandes at every turn is putting more of a strain on me than you might think. I do cover my troubles well, Nermesa—”

  At that moment, there was a knock on the door. At Baron Sibelio’s call, his man Betavio entered. The muscular Gunderman’s presence had come as no surprise to Nermesa. Betavio’s first and foremost duty was protecting his baron.

  “What is it, Betavio?”

  “You asked me to see about the return caravan to Tarantia. It will be fully laden in three days and can leave the fourth.”

  Antonus nodded approval. “Splendid. You may go.”

  Betavio bowed his head to his master, then, almost as an afterthought, Nermesa. After the Gunderman had departed, the baron turned back to his guest. “I didn’t wish to say anything until I could be certain matters could be arranged. I arrived here just to find out that our ambassador had passed away unexpectedly. My good friend, the Magistrate Carolinus, contacted me about sending his remains back to Tarantia, which I came this evening to tell him I would do.” Antonus shook his head. “The dear ambassador’s death seems to have been serendipity for you! I can now tell you that I’ve had Betavio fixing it so that you will be able to return to Tarantia with us at the same time.”

  “I—I’m grateful, Antonus, but my mission—”

  Baron Sibelio waved off his protest. “While I’m certainly not privy to everything involved in your mission, I think that it would be best if you returned home and conferred with General Pallantides. I’ve already sent a messenger bird to Nemedia, to see about the caravan. It may be that it yet made it to its destination. Whatever the case, the news will then be dispatched to Tarantia in time for me to obtain it and turn it over to you and the general.”

  “I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know if I can accept your offer. I should continue on. This may be the only chance I have of still discovering something.”

  “You’ve three more days to think it over, Nermesa. In the meantime, as you haven’t been in Tebes before—or even Corinthia as a whole, if I recall—I insist you be my guest and charge any expenses you have to my account. You’ll find House Sibelio’s name opens many doors here. The baron hesitated, then added, “And when we return home, I’ll also see to it that peace can come between our families. If Aquilonians cannot live together, what does that say about the chances for the king’s trade agreement and the Corinthians’ squabbling?” He leaned forward. “Well? Will you at least take my hospitality? You can consider it a partial apology for what I’ve done to your family business.”

  The captain realized that his host would not accept any other answer and, in truth, Nermesa was not certain where to continue. He should have perhaps ridden for Nemedia, but if Zoran was involved in the caravan attacks, then the ambassador likely had men watching for a lone Black Dragon. Besides, if Paulo and the others were dead, as Nermesa feared, then there would be no one to back up his story once he did arrive. Again, if Zoran was indeed a villain, then he might use the Aquilonian as a scapegoat, claiming that somehow Nermesa was a traitor and one of the murderous brigands.

  His head felt as if it were spinning. He tried to straighten, but could not.

  Antonus saw his predicament. “I’ve been remiss! You’ve been through too much these past few days!” The noble leapt to his feet. “Betavio! Betavio!”

  The Gunderman burst into the chamber. He stared at Nermesa. The knight also tried to rise, but his legs proved unsteady.

  “I’m . . . I’m all right,” he nonetheless insisted.

  Coming around to the front of Nermesa, the Baron Sibelio took hold of his guest’s shoulder with one hand. With the other, he rubbed his own chin in thought. The glitter of his emerald ring caught a dazed Nermesa’s eyes.

  “You’ve not eaten right,” began Antonus quietly. “and you certainly haven’t slept properly. The best thing for you would be a good night’s rest! I think that you’re likely to fall asleep even before you hit the pillow . . .”

  Nermesa nodded, seeing his point. He had been through a lot. Would it shame him before his king if he finally allowed himself to recuperate a little?

  He never had the opportunity to answer his own question, for, a moment later, Nermesa collapsed into the baron’s arms.

  WHEN THE CAPTAIN woke again, it was to find himself in a plush feather bed in a room Antonus had set aside for guests. He also soon discovered that he had slept through an entire day.

  The baron was away from the villa on business, but the gruff Betavio had remained behind. Nermesa thought this odd since the man was a bodyguard.

  “My lord baron’s confident of his safety in Tebes,” the Gunderman responded much too sharply to the captain’s question. “He ordered me to stay with you, though . . .” His expression indicated he would have preferred any other duty.

  If the Gunderman was supposed to act as his nursemaid, then both he and the Baron Sibelio had matters all wrong. Against the bodyguard’s strong objections, Nermesa dressed in his full uniform. “It would be better if you wore some garb borrowed from my lord baron,” insisted Betavio, what little politeness he attempted quickly dwindling away. “A Black Dragon in the streets of Tebes makes a good target, my lord . . .”

  “I will not shame my comrades and my king by hiding what I am. Besides, the Magistrate Carolinus did welcome me to the city.” In the end, though, Nermesa did agree to wear a travel cloak. However, the knight did not bind it closed, as the Gunderman suggested.

  It was well past midday when Nermesa at last stepped out into the street. A slim woman in a long, flowing tunic and accompanied by two stern guards eyed him as he stood at the gates of the villa trying to decide which direction to go. The woman’s expression did not show the distrust that Betavio had suggested. Rather, it held an invitation Nermesa could not miss. He smiled politely and immediately chose the opposite direction she was going in order not to give any mistaken impression as to his interest.

  He had left Betavio with the notion that he planned to see the sights of Tebes. Antonus had given him the idea. However, Nermesa’s true intentions were to seek out any clue—no matter how minute—that might lead to finding out about the hooded bandits and their intentions.

  Already, he had a few notions. The Corinthians were all but up in arms against one another, mostly because of Sarta’s taking of the pass. Perhaps Tebes or one of the other city-states—Athun was a likely candidate, its rivalry with Sarta going far back—had arranged the at
tacks to make Sarta regret its actions. Maintaining the pass militarily had to be straining Sarta; if enough caravans did not come through it, then the profit the city-state sought would never materialize. That might send Sarta into ruin, making it easy pickings for its enemies.

  It was also possible that Nemedia had plotted all this. Certainly, Zoran’s actions hinted so, but right now the king of Nemedia actually needed trade between his realm and those of his neighbors—even Aquilonia—to flow well. Tarascus sat precariously on his throne, his treachery against King Conan years before having lost him much support among his most influential followers. If Tarascus could not keep Nemedia stable, he risked a coup.

  The Tebans actually seemed quite willing to converse with the officer from Aquilonia, and it soon became clear that they saw King Conan as someone who would side with them against Sarta. Nermesa doubted that the veteran warrior-turned-monarch would risk his nation so unless there was absolute proof that Sarta was responsible for the deaths of Conan’s subjects. Then, the miscreants involved would pay with much blood. Conan was caring toward his people, relentless against his enemies.

  Unfortunately, although he soon enough ascertained that the inhabitants believed a war between city-states was brewing and that it was all Sarta’s fault, about matters concerning his own mission the Black Dragon learned nothing. If he mentioned the caravans, they were the work of the Sartans or, from a few merchants who had just come from the southwestern areas of Corinthia, the foul deeds of envious Ophirians. Nermesa marked Ophir as a point to further investigate, but otherwise felt that he had more or less wasted his day.

  There was one other clue, but he was not certain what to make of it or even if it would lead anywhere. Two of the last people with whom he had spoken had mentioned something called the Waste. Nermesa believed it to be a location in the city, but neither had been willing to talk more about it, as if doing so brought bad luck.

  He came back to the villa to find the Baron Sibelio already dining. Antonus gestured with a knife for Nermesa to join him, then insisted on hearing about the officer’s day.

  “You can spare me wide-eyed details of how interesting the city is. You went in search of information, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You found none, did you? Dressed like that, I’m not surprised. You should have borrowed some of my clothes, as Betavio tells me he tried to insist.”

  “I did not want to appear a spy,” Nermesa returned rather defiantly. “The Teban soldiers seem quite eager in their duties. I didn’t wish to make their acquaintance again dressed as something I’m not.”

  Antonus took a sip of wine. “Noble. Well, did you discover anything of value?”

  Taking a bit of his own food, the knight hesitated, then asked, “Have you ever heard of a place in Tebes called the Waste? I believe it to be an inn or—”

  The baron cut him off. “It’s not an inn. It’s an area. I’m surprised that you heard about it. The Tebans like to pretend that it doesn’t exist.

  “Why is that? And why call any place by such a name?”

  “Because if there’s someone somebody else no longer wants, if there’s something that needs to be hidden from the eyes of others, it’s done so there. Just as there are places where the refuse of the wealthy is taken so as to no longer abuse their sensibilities, so, too, is this area used to dispose of the dirt and secrets that could ruin the greatest reputations. Not to mention unwanted relatives, spouses, rivals, and such . . .”

  Nermesa shook his head in disbelief. “Disgusting!”

  “You think Tarantia has no such place now that Conan is ruler? Trust me, it merely moved to a less noticeable location. No matter who rules, there will always be a need of some for a place like the Waste.”

  If such a dire place did exist in Tebes, it certainly was the kind of area where, for a price, someone might be able to tell Nermesa what he needed to know. At the very least, it gave him some hope.

  “I need to go there, then. Is it far?”

  The other Aquilonian’s eyes widened momentarily. “Not far enough, unfortunately. You can reach it in reasonable time, not that reason has anything to do with the Waste.” He put down his knife and looked serious. “I’d advise against it, but I doubt you’d listen. If you must go, then I ask you to take someone with you for added protection. Betavio, if you like. He knows the city well.”

  Aware that, unlike with Morannus, he and Betavio were not on the best of terms, Nermesa politely refused the offer. He did not, of course, tell his host why.

  Antonus frowned, but returned to his meal. Shaking his head, he remarked, “Be careful, then. I know you mean much to one member of my family, if not another.”

  Nermesa did not pursue his host’s last statement, unwilling to focus on anything but his quest. Only if he succeeded—and survived—could he even think about an auburn-haired lady-in-waiting to the queen.

  First, Nermesa had to concern himself with the Waste.

  THE AQUILONIAN’S DESTINATION lived up to its name in its appearance, too. Nermesa quickly recognized the moment that he crossed from the more safe areas to the Waste. A grayness suddenly covered the buildings which he passed, a grayness that might have been soot, but that seemed something almost alive. The buildings that followed also needed more and more repairs. Cracks ran like veins across walls and roofs of some buildings that looked near to caving in. The change was so dramatic that Nermesa even halted the horse Baron Sibelio had lent him in order to peer back. Sure enough, only a block past, things appeared cleaner, more wholesome even.

  But despite the unsettling shift in his surroundings, Nermesa pushed on. He soon saw that the Waste did have a life of its own, one with a veneer of cheerfulness that he quickly noticed seemed to have a harsh edge to it. There were taverns and inns, something that the Aquilonian had not initially expected, and from them emanated music and raucous laughter.

  But there were signs that this merriment came with a heavy price. No establishment had less than two burly guards at the doorways. As Nermesa watched, from one tavern came the hurtling body of a patron. His airborne exit was followed by the emergence of two more giant guards, men with faces so disturbing that they made Captain Agamendion seem more like the dashing hero in one of the plays shown in the amphitheaters of Tarantia.

  There were bodies, too, although whether alive or not was not always clear. Most were propped up in sitting positions against walls or curbs, but a few lay sprawled among the heaps of rotting refuse in the corners and alley entrances. They might have merely been sleeping off a drunk, but the Black Dragon nonetheless kept one hand close to the hilt of his weapon.

  He chose two taverns to start his hunt, but quickly abandoned both as useless. In a third, Nermesa nearly got into a fight with a mountain of a man who thought that the officer was trying to steal away with his woman, a prostitute whom the Aquilonian judged to be twice his own age and looking far older. Fortunately, the offer to buy an ale for both quickly ended the matter, but left Nermesa wondering whether or not he had just been played for a fool by the pair.

  At the next tavern, a servingwoman with a passable face—but yellowed teeth—finally gave him his first hope.

  “Ye’ll want to talk to Arno over there,” she said with a shake of her hips in the direction in question. “He hears everything.”

  Nermesa gave her an extra coin for her information but declined the woman’s offer of a room for a reasonable price after his business with Arno was through. Carrying an extra ale with him—a suggestion by the server as a way to gain the informant’s goodwill—the cloaked Aquilonian walked over to the potbellied, beady-eyed figure nursing a nearly empty mug in a corner table.

  “You be the sword of the Cimmerian who rules the north realm,” Arno said in way of grumbled greeting. “A little lost, you be, to come here.”

  The squat figure’s recognition of him did not impress Nermesa. The Black Dragon’s armor was evident underneath the cloak.

  “I am Captain Nermesa of A
quilonia, yes.”

  Arno’s eyes looked not at him, but at the mugs in his hand. “A thirsty, thirsty man, or is one of those for this honest soul?”

  Nermesa set the extra mug in front of the informant. Arno immediately swallowed the rest of his own drink, then cast aside the empty cup for the fresh one. He took a careful sip, smiled slightly, then gestured for the Aquilonian to sit with him.

  “Smart lad. You bring the good stuff . . . as goes in this swamp of a place, anyway.”

  As the knight studied the man across from him, he noted a few telltale things. Although now soiled and discolored, Arno’s garments had once been of the finest quality . . . and looked as if they were not hand-me-downs, but made for him in particular. He also saw that, behind the ragged beard lurked a face more like his own than that of a Corinthian.

  “You’re Aquilonian . . .” the officer muttered.

  “As much as its king is,” growled Arno. “I belong nowhere and everywhere! You want idle talk or you want word of those who plunder their own?”

  For the first time, Nermesa had some hope that he might at last be on the right trail. He leaned forward, whispering, “What will it cost me?”

  Arno took a deep swallow. “Another ale’s good for a start. More of this stuff, in fact.” He signaled the servingwoman over. “Marya, my generous friend’s inclined to purchase me a brother to this one. Bring it will you?” As she started to turn, he took hold of her wrist. “And he’s also offered to pay for time in the back, so don’t go making plans with another, eh?”

  Marya gave the fat man what Nermesa supposed was for her a winning smile and went off to get the new drink. Arno watched her vanish into the crowd, then gave his client a penetrating stare.

  “Much better than her I used to have, boy,” he snarled. “But for my state here, she’s gold compared to the rest.”