The Traitor's Reliquary

by Chris Moss

  “You were crying,” the pale figure repeated. “The tears were running down your cheeks and caught on your lip. Your mouth was open. You were holding a man in your arms.”

  Harpalus looked at Julia for some response, but the old cleric remained silent.

  “The man was bleeding, down his belly, like this.” Gyges traced the curve of his stomach. “The straps on his metal had been cut and blood was coming out. It was deep red, almost purple. You looked up at me and screamed.”

  “Do you remember why you were there?” said Julia, her voice becoming hard.

  Gyges opened his mouth but started to shiver, the trembling becoming more violent until he turned his mournful gaze on Harpalus.

  “Alright, that’s enough excitement,” said the Spymaster, his tone rising to one of command. “Sit in that chair over in the corner and wait until I call you.”

  With a resigned nod, Gyges stalked over to the far end of the office and sat down, looking out the window at the seagulls gliding over the harbor.

  Harpalus turned to Julia. “Happy now? Don’t push him. The mental strain is still too great. Let’s focus on the matter at hand—I need to get myself and Gyges into the Regal Estates to look for Maal’s agent. I have no agents there of my own I can call upon.”

  “You don’t have a secret way in?” said Julia.

  “No, and all of my disguises are for the streets, not for the Regal Estate. A Merchant Minor or low-ranking cleric would have the dogs set on them.”

  “Perhaps not. While you were collecting Gyges, Lord Rowan made some surprising moves. He’s been holding regular revels for all the major trade guilds, and has, so far, covered almost all the large shipping houses. He’s moving up and down the social ladder, so to speak.”

  “You mean he’s inviting tradesmen and merchants to dine at the Regal Estate?”

  “Not just the Estate,” said the old cleric, “but at his family’s keep.”

  Harpalus frowned, casting his mind forward and trying to predict the possible outcomes of such a move. “Then, whatever he’s planning is already underway.” He couldn’t keep the worry from his voice. “Do you have an invitation?”

  “Do you really have to ask?” Julia smiled and reached into the folds of her robe.

  The Spymaster nodded his thanks and examined the gold lettering on the scroll. “Who was it meant for?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I need to know this won’t fail.”

  The old woman’s eyes narrowed in anger. “You ask me that when he is sitting in this very room?”

  Harpalus’s mouth framed a cutting reply, but the pain in his old teacher’s eyes was too much to bear. “You’re right, that was thoughtless. I apologize.”

  Julia replied with a curt nod. He would get no more from her.

  The Spymaster motioned for Gyges to come over. “Gyges, do you know why we brought you here?”

  “To kill someone.”

  “No. At least, not until I tell you to. Gyges, the Lady Maal has sent another killer here, and he’s loose on my streets. You are going to help me find and capture him. Do you understand?”

  Gyges opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again and nodded.

  “Good,” said the Spymaster. “Now, I want you to go with Julia and get some decent clothes. Tonight, we’ll be attending the finest party in all Caelbor.”

  The rented carriage arrived at the gates of the Regal Estate late that evening. Looking at the high walls, Harpalus’s mind wandered over the strange circumstances that led to the city being cut in two. With the arrival of Exsilium refugees from the continent, the native inhabitants of Caelbor had, at first, been happy to resettle the newcomers. However, while the Citadel on the continent had been a distant power to be paid lip service, the establishment of the New Citadel on Caelbor was another matter. The rising political and economic influence of the Exsilium turned the Caelbor landowners suspicious, then paranoid about retaining their control on the island. They established the League of Nobles within an area known as the Regal Estate. Centered on Roldar’s Keep, ancestral manse of the Rowans, the settlement of nobles kept a wary watch on the New Citadel over the dividing wall erected across the entire southern edge of the city.

  Gyges’s fidgeting with his new clothes interrupted Harpalus’s thoughts.

  “Stop that,” said the Spymaster. “It’s not supposed to be comfortable. Now, what are your instructions?”

  “Stay silent. Watch for signs of Maal’s killer. Tell you.”

  “And…”

  “Don’t kill anyone.”

  “Until I say so.”

  “Until you say so.”

  Harpalus nodded and watched as their carriage pulled up to the main archway leading into Roldar’s Keep. Named after Rowan’s ancestor and the first ruler of the Old Empire, it remained the largest construction on Caelbor after the New Citadel itself.

  A red and blue clad gatekeeper came to check their invitation. The ruddy-faced gatekeeper poked his head in the carriage window and gave the pair a suspicious glance, his moustache bristling. “Are you sure you’ve come to the right manse, sir?”

  Such airs for an indentured servant. “Yes,” Harpalus said. “I think you’ll find everything in order. Don’t detain us, sir. Valet, give the man a copper for his trouble.”

  The gatekeeper frowned at such easy familiarity, but nonetheless stood aside for the carriage to pass. Gyges flicked the man a coin. When the man was out of sight, Harpalus smiled. His disguise for tonight was that of a low-ranking merchant who had received an unexpected invitation into the upper echelons of society, and was doing his best to impress. The rented carriage, the poorly-tailored manservant, the cheap tip—tonight, the Spymaster wished to be as innocuous as possible.

  Who knows, I might even hook some large contracts. Harpalus dismissed the thought. When the sharks begin to circle, it is far safer to be a minnow.

  “Gyges, drop me off at the main gate and see the carriage to the stables. Then come back and meet me inside.”

  Gyges nodded and Harpalus found himself deposited at the oaken doors of Roldar’s Keep. Other tradesmen, merchants, and minor nobles filed in through the archway ahead of him, each attended by a number of scurrying servants who presented their credentials to the red and blue guards by the door.

  Trying not to smile at the odd looks his entrance drew, the Spymaster sauntered past the gate guards. They gave him furious glances, but were unable to leave their posts, lest they snub the more important guests. One blue and red lackey managed to block his way before Harpalus could enter the main hall.

  “Are your credentials in order, sir?” said the Caelbor, with careful respect. Harpalus recognized the tone—the servant worried a commoner had been let into the Keep, but worried even more that he may have stopped a nobleman.

  “Why yes,” said Harpalus, keeping his response pleasant. “Thank you for asking, good sir.”

  “Can I see them, sir?”

  Harpalus made a big show of patting his dark cloak. “Oh dear, I seem to have misplaced them. My apologies.”

  The servant blanched and turned to call for the guard, but a lumbering figure dressed in a drab gray uniform blocked him.

  The servant paled further as he backed against a wall. “Don’t you lay hands on me, you grubby thug.”

  “I’m sure you don’t want me to raise a protest at your rude behavior, do you?” said Harpalus. “We’re late enough as it is.”

  The lackey puffed up in indignation, but engulfed in Gyges’s shadow, the heavy-set figure staring down at him, the smaller man quailed and scurried away. He knocked over a suit of armor in his escape.

  Harpalus sniffed. “You just can’t get good help these days. Come on, and stay close.”

  Entering the main hall of Roldar’s Keep, Harpalus couldn’t help but be impressed. Built in the usual Caelbor style of high, windowless walls supported by thick, wooden beams, the space spanned a distance far larger than any ordinary dining hall. Lit by o
il chandeliers, the room also had a traditional fire pit in the center. Dozens of guests walked past, chatting and making their way to the long, wooden tables. A group of minstrels played an old song of the Outer Coast, and several pale young women urged their partners to join them in dance.

  Scanning the room and seeing no one of interest, Harpalus wandered through the crowd. He watched a handful of merchants—from the larger firms, judging by the velvet robes—ascend a wide double staircase at the far end of the hall and be ushered behind a black curtain.

  “Ah, so that’s where the real party is,” the Spymaster said to himself. He made his way to the foot of the stairs, taking care to chat with other groups of people on the way. He even winked at a rival merchant’s daughter. Harpalus walked up the stairs as if he owned them, trailed by Gyges, who was still having trouble adjusting his uniform. Another armed guard stopped him at the curtain. The blue and red soldier knew his job, blocking Harpalus’s path without asking for a name or credentials. Harpalus’s mind spun, considering his options.

  “Let me pass, soldier,” said the Spymaster, mustering his best voice of command.

  The pale guardsman’s knees twitched but, to his credit, he stood firm, gripping his spear even tighter. “You do not belong in here…sir.”

  Harpalus’s eyes narrowed. “It is not for you to decide, guardsman. I have been invited to the home of Lord Rowan, and I am here to speak to him. Now stand aside.”

  The liveried guard tensed into a fighting stance, looking past Harpalus’s skinny frame to weigh up Gyges, who had already unbuttoned the tight gray uniform.

  “On whose authority do you order me, merchant?” the guard said, not taking his eyes off Gyges. “You are not a noble, or a Guildsman, or even a Merchant Major. I don’t know what part of the continent your ancestors are from, but you don’t look native-born. Now be off, or you can spend the night in my lord’s cells.”

  “How dare you.” Harpalus twisted his face into a mask of theatrical, insulted rage. “I shall go where I will. And I am a native of Caelbor, as was my father before me, back to the days of Roldar himself! Long has my family supported Lord Rowan, and tonight I intend to present my services to him. So again, stand aside.”

  Gyges moved toward the door, forcing the guard to bring his spear down into a defensive stance.

  A deep voice from behind the curtain spoke. “Hold. Let this one in.”

  The guard snapped into a neutral position, and Harpalus held up his hand to ward off Gyges. Disappointed, he slunk back behind his master. Keeping his face into an expressionless mask, the guardsman held the black curtain open and ushered the pair through.

  Harpalus knew that voice. He kept his mouth closed and walked into a small hallway adjoining the upper room, averting his gaze in respect, even as his hands searched for the daggers in his sleeves.

  Harpalus bowed. “My lord.”

  “Greetings, Merchant Minor. Welcome to my home,” said Lord Rowan.

  Looking out over the Citadel library, Julia tried to focus on the notes of a meeting between the Citadel’s Prelates, yet she kept tapping her walking stick against the floor.

  Stop that. The old woman thought, trying to get control of herself. He’ll be fine.

  Julia, once again, faced her mixed feelings, thinking of the wiry dockyard urchin who had become her successor. Pye, the man who now called himself Harpalus, and a dozen other names, had proven to be the most effective Spymaster in the Citadel’s long history. He ran all the smuggling, spying, and occasional assassination activities the New Citadel would never admit to—publicly. The complete extent of his network was unknown even to her, but he seemed to have agents in almost every part of the city.

  Except the Regal Estate. That’s always been too closed, too well controlled. Yet here he was, walking straight into Lord Rowan’s keep to steal the old man’s secrets.

  But Pye had always been like that, leading from the front with no fear at all and taking risks others would never even consider.

  And that is part of his problem. My little Pye has no fear, pity, nor love.

  Julia always relied on slow and meticulous planning, working with teams of familiar faces to orchestrate events. Harpalus, the Spymaster, performed his job with a cold and instinctive ruthlessness with no regard for anyone, outside of their use in his designs. He took his history as the head of a dockyard gang and wrote it large across the island, becoming the almost omnipresent ruler of a legion of agents.

  Julia sighed. Things were different when I was in charge.

  And that is the heart of it. She looked again at the rolled up map on her desk. Be honest.

  As much as it pained her to admit it, the old woman recognized the truth behind her thoughts. She had never really retired. She had been forced out of her lifelong role to serve the very man she had trained—whom she had come to rely upon and still thought of as her son.

  And now the safety of the Citadel requires that I help him. I—work for him!

  The old woman shook her head, trying to shake away the painful thoughts.

  Bah. Enough foolishness. It’s Gyges fault, stirring up ghosts from the past.

  No matter how hard she tried to concentrate, memories of that fateful night still haunted her. Sighing, the old woman unrolled the map and looked at her crabbed handwriting from ten years ago, marking a web of agent’s locations within the bowels of the Citadel, intended to guide and funnel Gyges toward her trap.

  Gyges had somehow gotten past her defenses, putting the Prioress in mortal danger. Worse, Julia had abandoned her post to run to the aid of another. As the old woman closed her eyes, she could still feel the hot blood under her hands and see him looking up in the unspoken acknowledgement that he would always love her, long after the grand plans of their youth had failed.

  Stop it. Right now.

  Angry at herself, Julia rolled up the map and forced herself back into the present. We’re both risking our lives at this very moment. You have no right to complain about it. Make yourself useful, old woman. Picking up the notes Harpalus left her, Julia squinted and started reading.

  “I believe you have the advantage of me, sir,” said Lord Rowan, raising a bushy eyebrow. The imposing leader of the League of Nobles stood tall. His pale crown was bald, although the gray hair around the sides of his head reached his shoulders. A long moustache covered part of the man’s weathered and scarred face, but, nonetheless, he retained a patriarchal bearing. After glancing at Gyges, Lord Rowan spun on his heel and walked up the hall.

  “My name is Harpalus Godfridsson, of the Magpie trading house and native of Caelbor, sir,” said Harpalus, following the old man down the hallway with Gyges in tow.

  “Harpalus? I believe that’s an Exsilium name.”

  “From my mother, sir.” Harpalus made a mental note to get records stating he was a Godfridsson drawn up, just in case. “An indulgence on my father’s part.”

  “Ah? You are a half-breed, after all. Too much of it about these days, but I suppose you cannot help who your parents are.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” said Harpalus. Arrogant prick.

  Looking around, he saw no one else close by. The Spymaster considered running his knife over the noble’s throat. I know you’re a traitor, and Gyges could probably fight his way out if he had to. He rested his hands on the daggers in his sleeves, but decided against it. Too many questions unanswered. Harpalus blinked back into focus, realizing Lord Rowan had just asked him something.

  “Sorry, my lord?”

  “I said, I’m wondering why a Merchant Minor would go so far as to approach me directly to offer his services. Can’t you people use messengers?”

  You people? “Well, my lord, you strike me as being a man of action. Doubtless, paperwork and messengers would bore you senseless. I prefer to leave such things to scribes.”

  To his relief, Lord Rowan laughed and opened another wide oak door at the end of the hall. Beyond, the smaller room held about twenty well-dressed men and women chatting
in small circles near a log fire, drinking from a large wine bowl.

  “You guess correctly, little merchant,” he said. “But I already have more than enough merchants in my employ. Tell me why I would want another.”

  Harpalus had already considered this line of questioning. “Because great men such as yourself tend to attract sycophants, people who will agree to anything to please you. As I have already shown, I am a man who speaks his mind.”

  “Really?” The old man showed genuine amusement. “Go and have a drink. Then return and I shall ask you a few questions.”

  Bowing, Harpalus motioned Gyges to the servant’s door and wandered over to the table. Taking a silver cup, he dipped it in the wine bowl and turned to find himself in a conversation between a bejeweled Merchant Major and two Caelbor noblewomen.

  “I think it’s just terrible, the way those clerics treat people,” the younger of two said.

  “You’re absolutely right.” The elder woman turned to the men. “What do you think, sirs?”

  “Ah, that is—” Harpalus turned to the other merchant for support, but the other man looked far too interested in the younger noblewoman’s rosy bosom, heaving with every exhortation.

  “I mean, they just shove their opinions down your throat, don’t they?”

  “Well, I—”

  “And they never listen. It’s not like those clerics live in the real world, is it?”

  “Absolutely.” The Spymaster sipped his wine, wondering how many minutes the pampered women would last down at the Old Docks.

  “I mean, listening to a dried-up old cleric talk about morals!” said the younger woman, as if working off some mental list.

  “Oh yes, dear. Where is your young Richard tonight?”

  “He couldn’t come, something about a rash. And another thing—”

  Harpalus wandered away, listening to the fragments of conversation curling around the room.

  “These Exiles, they’ve never tried to fit in—”

  “They’re on every street corner these days—”