by Chris Moss
“What do you mean?” said Julia.
“I have to give the hydra’s mistress credit. Maal hasn’t sent an assassin—she has sent a whore. And where do the nobles keep their whores, Auntie?”
With the night sky overhead, Gyges drove the carriage round the back of the Red Fig. Looking over the killer’s shoulder, Harpalus smiled at the grand old building. From the outside, it looked no different from the other fashionable hotels lining the streets of the Regal Estate. Nonetheless, almost every noble knew the building by reputation or experience. For years, the Red Fig acted as the most exclusive brothel on Caelbor, providing exotic beauties from the continent and beyond, for a hefty fee.
If these walls could talk, I would have no need for agents at all. The Spymaster whistled to Gyges and motioned for the large man to pull up. The carriage, made from silky ebony and padded with leather, sported a canopy against the drizzling rain.
The Magpie Shipping Company had done well in the last few weeks, taking over several of Lord Rowans’s normal trade activities, while the nobleman’s fleet engaged in smuggling men and weapons. The Spymaster loathed drawing attention through any kind of extravagance, but the Red Fig catered only to those with deep pockets.
Drawing an ermine-lined cloak about him, he alighted and let Gyges knock on the back door.
I wonder which entrance the servants use? Harpalus dismissed the errant thought.
As obedient as Gyges appeared to be, the scarred figure still had trouble passing himself off as a manservant. However, the heavy bag of gold needed for the entrance fee guaranteed an instant social promotion. Sending the bulky figure away with a flick of his wrist, Harpalus drew back his hood and looked around the large parlor into which he had been ushered.
Both male and female nobles lounged around the well-furnished room, drinking, smoking pipes, or laughing with some delicate beauty. Scanning the collection of bodies for sale, it surprised Harpalus to find almost every cultural group and class represented. A strapping Caelbor lad chuckled at an old noblewoman’s joke. An amber-skinned Baavghirla sat on a man’s lap. A curly-haired Exsilium female served drinks. Some faces he did not recognize, fine boned with skin like ebony or pale as ice, with pitch-black hair.
“Do you see anything you like, young master?” said a richly-dressed woman behind him. “The Exile girl? Or perhaps a healthy, young Caelbor lass? We have also recently received several men and women from beyond the southern lands.”
“No, my good woman,” said Harpalus, putting on his most genial smile. “I have heard such wonderful tales of this establishment, but tonight I am seeking something more…exotic. From the continent, perhaps?”
The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “Really?”
“Yes. I have heard excellent reports from Lord Rowan’s liegemen.”
The mention of the nobleman’s name worked like magic. The Madam smiled and nodded. “Ah, of course. Please, come this way.”
Following the Madam up the stairs, Harpalus passed through several layers of sound that echoed from small rooms—groaning, laughing, others unintelligible. The Spymaster locked eyes with a buxom Caelbor woman, her ostentatious dress intended to make her look like a common harbor-side whore. But with such unblemished skin and silky hair, she had probably never spent a night on the streets in her life. The woman winked, but it wasn’t enticing to him—the whole image far too unrealistic for Harpalus.
Both our professions rely on illusion, appearing to share intimacies, while keeping your real identity separate and safe. He turned his attention to the coming encounter.
The Madam stopped at a larger door and opened it. She left without a word. A nobleman rich enough to make it this far would not need to be warned about penalties for damaging the house’s property.
The large, well-furnished room held no objects which put a personal stamp on the space. A fancy, silver wine jug sat on the low table. The Spymaster poured a glass and took a careful sip. He detected the faint, sickly sweet taste that signified he had found his prey.
“A fine vintage—shipped all the way from the continent,” said a low voice from behind him. “Take as much as pleases you.”
Harpalus turned casually, though the hair on his neck prickled. “My thanks, dear lady.”
Pretending to take another sip, Harpalus watched Maal’s agent saunter into the room. She looked just as he remembered—tall, slim, and muscular, with long, silvery hair tied back into a thick plait. He traced the contours of her body and recognized the golden torc around her neck. Harpalus had to hold back a chuckle. It seemed the Red Fig could now boast a Vutai concubine from the courts of Maal herself.
A Vutai concubine, pretending to be a prostitute, pretending to be a Vutai concubine. Hiding in plain sight. No wonder I couldn’t find her.
The Spymaster knew more than most of the increasingly militant functions of the specialist Sacred Realm caste, but to most Exsilium and Caelbor, they appeared to be the stuff of exotic, sexual fantasy.
Smiling, the Spymaster made a show of admiring the skimpy combination of gold chain and red silk draping the tall woman’s curves. She stopped just beyond arm’s reach.
It’s not a difficult expression to forge. Everything about this woman is designed to accentuate her sexual appeal. “What is your name?”
“Typhena,” said the woman, cocking her head. She reached back to undo the braid, shaking it loose, platinum hair falling seductively over one side of her face.
“The housemistress has exquisite taste, my lady.” The Spymaster raised his glass in toast.
“It’s a fine vintage,” Maal’s agent said, with a smile. “The fruit was ripe for the picking. Please, drink deeply.”
The threat in her pleasant invitation brought a rush of fear. Harpalus made another show of taking a small sip. Typhena swooped in close and held his hand steady, ensuring he drank the entire cup. The red and gold figure smiled and placed the empty vessel back. Harpalus hoped she didn’t see the fear in his eyes.
This is too much. The warm, sweet glow continued to overwhelm his senses. Even at the peak of my strength.
The Spymaster’s mind spun with feverish energy, weighing his options. Capture her and unmask the traitorous Prelate? No—not the best course of action. Kill her and eliminate the threat.
The thought of his old mentor seeing him empty-handed for a second time sparked a tiny, dark anger in him. The drug coursing through his veins fanned it into stubborn resolve.
“Are you alright?” said Typhena. “You seem worried.”
Harpalus laughed and undid his dark cloak. “Tell me, Typhena, how does a Vutai of the Immortals come all the way to Caelbor? Are our men so deprived that Lady Maal has taken pity on us?”
The woman did not reply, but refilled the silver cup and drank. “Who says I’m here to service you?” She turned and walked into the next room.
Following, Harpalus watched the Vutai spread herself out on the bed. He leaned against the doorpost and raised an eyebrow. “You’re not here to service me?”
“No, merchant, I’m here to enslave you all.”
“Oh?”
“Oh, yes. Tell me, are you married?”
“No.”
“Pity, the married ones are so much fun. Come here.”
The Spymaster leaned down by the bed, pasting a foolish grin on his face, though his heart did thump. An unsuspecting nobleman would take the situation as an elaborate game played out for his pleasure, but Maal’s agent was being honest.
So, this is why Maal is working with Rowan. Does the old man even suspect she’s been turning his own men? Or does he think he can use her to better control them?
Letting his hand trail over her cheek, Harpalus realized that, despite himself, the woman’s beauty impressed him.
This situation is too dangerous, far too dangerous. This is no doxy, but a professional in the art of seduction and inquiry. You need to escape. No, you need to kill her. No, get away first.
“What are you thinking?” Laughing,
Typhena kissed him. “Leave your problems outside. In here, there is only me, and will only ever be me.”
Harpalus tried to retrace his thoughts, but somehow lost the thread. Despite all his training, she drew him into her arms. Dulled by her passionate kisses, he allowed her methodical hands to remove his shirt.
You’re reacting. He chided himself as if lecturing a minor peon. Take control, take control. Change the situation to your favor.
Harpalus caressed the platinum-haired woman’s back, his fingers finding and unlocking the small clasp that freed her pale breasts. Typhena reacted to his slow kisses on her neck and chest, her breasts rising and falling with her quickening pulse. Raising his lips once more, he laid his body against hers, touching, promising, but not letting himself get drawn too far into her grasp.
The concubine’s breathing turned to moans, but some of Harpalus’s equilibrium had returned. The Spymaster turned his thoughts toward the immediate situation.
Capture her, then. Or could I seduce her? The woman searched for his lips, her breath panting on his cheek. She could provide intelligence on every noble who’s entered this building.
The Spymaster wrapped his arms around the agent’s shoulders, noting how perfect her curved body was, from the nape of her neck to the slim hips that fit right into his hands.
No. She’s too much of a danger. Harpalus struggled to stay focused against the woman’s warmth on his skin. You can’t risk the failure. Kill her and be done with it.
Harpalus shifted his body, looking out of the corner of his eye for any object he could bring to bear as a weapon. Maal’s agent worked her way down his chest, stripping off his clothes with practiced ease.
Too close, too close. He tried to rise, but Typhena straddled his lean frame. Reaching down, she pulled free the clasp holding the red silk that covered her hips. Caught, Harpalus hesitated, his mind and body vying for control.
It’s alright—I can still seduce her. The warmth of Typhena’s body began to cloud his mind. She’s more useful alive, anyway.
The lie hung in his thoughts only for a moment, swept away by the woman’s lips touching his.
22
Of all the crimes of Maal’s regime, the destruction of the Libraries in the Old Capital is considered especially heinous. More than a millennium of knowledge was piled up and burnt for the good cheer of Maal’s new subjects. I pray this madness does not spread, lest such knowledge be lost to us.
~from ‘Travels in the Sacred Realm,’ by Scriptor Hyrophus,
dated 23rd year of the Exile~
Floating and formless, Kestel watched the vision of Maal’s torturers pull a tattooed young man up by the chains and prepare him for another beating. The painful scene slipped closer, bringing the disturbing black and blue welts covering his chest and arms into vague focus.
That’s odd. If that’s me over there, why am I hurting?
Watching the leather-faced torturers go about their work, Kestel gasped at the sudden pain lancing through his body—the man’s hammer-like fists slamming into his ribs. Unable to fight back, the Kestel who watched tried to scream, but the heaviness in his lungs left him breathless. The Kestel being tortured stopped screaming and twisted around in his shackles to face his dream-self.
“You have the authority to stop this,” he said with a sneer.
I don’t know how!
“Free me.” The welts across the shackled figure’s frame bled gold rather than crimson.
I can’t.
“Free me,” said the other Kestel, his skin turning black—golden blood gushing from the open wounds. The blackened Kestel lurched forward, his features twisting and stretching. Kestel drew back, the dungeon fading around him. He tried to run, but found himself caught in cloying mist. He spun around to face a colossal, black hydra, its wings stretching out into the haze, scales dripping blood.
“No!” screamed Kestel. Thrashing backward, someone caught him from behind, a bone-white hand gripping his shoulder.
This is why you must find me, said a soft whisper in his ear.
“What’s the matter?” Eriwasteg’s voice penetrated the vision.
Kestel yelled and attempted to move, but his blanket was tangled around his arms and legs. Blinking in the dawn light, he looked up at Eriwasteg, standing over him.
“You make enough noise to wake the dead,” she said, offering him a water skin. “Night terrors?”
Not trusting himself to speak, Kestel nodded and took the proffered bag. What’s happening to me, Creven?
Your destiny is catching up with you, Herald.
I am not your damn Herald. What can I do about the dreams?
A stiff drink, a warm bed, and a kind-hearted woman.
“Are you even listening to me?” said Eriwasteg.
Well, two out of three isn’t bad.
“Arbalis says we’re moving in a quarter-hour.” Eriwasteg’s terse tone wasn’t helping his troubled thoughts. “Better get your gear together.”
Sunlight streamed through the branches above, crowning her hair in a halo of green leaves. Around the pair, insects buzzed through the greenery, broken branches cracked underfoot, and birds made high-pitched calls, marking territory in the trees above.
Kestel stretched his aching muscles and pulled himself up.
“Get a move on, scabie,” said Eriwasteg. “I don’t have time for—” She froze, staring into the surrounding woods.
Kestel pursed his lips, but before he could speak, Eri grabbed his wrist and pulled him down. A knife pierced the space his head had been a moment before.
“Attack!” Kestel rolled to his feet. “They’re in the woods!”
The Baavghirla looked at Kestel, baring her teeth but, to her credit, drew her father’s sword and stood back to back with him.
“Get ready,” he said, her shoulders pressed against his.
A dozen leather-clad warriors burst into the clearing, splitting into two groups to separate Kestel and Eriwasteg from their companions. Kestel waited for the first soldier to get close, deflecting his blow and slashing through the leather armor covering the man’s chest. The scabie fell back screaming, but the other three held, none willing to risk their lives to Kestel’s speed. He relaxed into the defensive stance drilled into him by Arbalis. Eriwasteg brushed aside a weak blow, her back bracing against him and then stepped away to press her advantage.
“Stay close!” Kestel dodged a clumsy strike and responded with a blinding combination of blows that left his attacker grasping a bleeding throat. He spun and saw one Sacred Realm warrior bleeding at Eriwasteg’s feet. The other batted away Eri’s too-heavy sword and grabbed the young woman from behind.
“You move, she dies.” The Sacred Warrior’s rusty, long knife shook. The voice left little doubt he faced a woman, her identity hidden under layers of leather and grime. She backed away from Kestel, keeping her hostage close. From the corner of his eye, Kestel spied Arbalis, Mollis, and Calla stepping over the bleeding and broken bodies of the scabies that attacked them.
“Drop your sword—drop it!” The dirty woman twisted Eriwasteg this way and that at their approach. “Stay back or I will kill her!”
“Mollis!” Eriwasteg tried to pull away from the tarnished blade, the muscles in her neck straining.
Holding out his sword, Kestel drew the small knife at his side. Glancing over, he spotted Arbalis drawing his crossbow. The old soldier met Kestel’s gaze and gave an imperceptible nod, then made a sharp whistle at the leather-clad woman.
“Over here, lupa.” The veteran raised the crossbow to his eyes.
Distracted, the scabie’s eyes turned to meet the new threat, but the moment she did so, Kestel’s knife sank into her arm. Screaming, the scabie dropped her rusty blade. Her head snapped to one side with a sickening crack, Arbalis’s bolt erupting from her skull.
The dead body slumped onto Eri’s shoulder and fell. She froze, her wide eyes staring down at the body by her feet. At Kestel’s approach, her bloodstained lip curled and
she kicked out at the corpse. She spit on the ruined face and turned to pick up her sword. “Tvoga kroh nye cheistreg nas vrazhda.”
“Are you alright, child?” said Mollis.
“I’m fine,” said Eriwasteg, her face melting back into an expressionless mask, betrayed only by the tears in her eyes.
“You did well, Baavghirla,” said Arbalis. “I’ve seen recruits panic and run in such situations. Your father would be proud.”
“Thank you, Galeria.” Eriwasteg’s even tone didn’t help her graying face. Before she said another word, the young woman doubled over and vomited out her stomach’s contents across the fallen leaves.
At the old man’s nod, Mollis put a hand on Eriwasteg’s shoulder, but Calla wandered back to the tree line.
“What are you doing?” said Kestel.
“Admiring the view,” said Calla.
The rest of the small group stepped out onto a low hill overlooking a blotchy-brown and yellow plain. In the distance lay a city, or the remains of one, with lines of crowds pouring in and out of the tumbled-down gates.
“It’s Palentanum,” said Arbalis. “No wonder there’re so many scabies wandering around. Do you know where to go, Mollis?”
“Not really.” The olive giant squinted through the trees but stayed by Eri’s side. “I’m guessing the library is right in the center.”
“We can’t wait for nightfall to sneak in.” Calla kept turning, keeping an eye on the trees behind them.
Arbalis’s face turned grave. “We lost too many men the last time we tried a daylight raid.”
“Commander, I have an idea,” said Kestel, looking at the bodies in the leaves. “You’re not going to like it.”
“Really, why?”
“This is ridiculous,” whispered Calla. “We’re going to get screwed.”
The small group picked their way through the crowds.
“No complaints,” said Arbalis. “Just keep moving.”
