Morticai's Luck

by Darlene Bolesny

  “Dyluth.”

  The kitchen door of the Cobblesend opened a crack.

  “Dyluth? Truly?”

  “Yes, now let me in!”

  “Dyluth!” A corryn woman opened the door. She had black hair and pale violet eyes, and she wore a peasant’s apron over her drab frock, but her beauty still took Morticai’s breath away. She hugged him, hard, even before he’d made it all the way inside.

  “Dyluth, I thought you had died! I considered going to Northgate and asking after you, but all I could remember was your street name.”

  “I’m called Morticai in the Northmarch—don’t laugh now!”

  She had already begun to snicker. “And I thought ‘Dyluth, Lord of Shadows’, was silly.”

  Morticai looked down, embarrassed.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Dyluth! I didn’t mean it that way. I remember Dyluth was a very good name at the time—but Morticai’s a human name! Why don’t they call you by your birth name, Moranekor?”

  “It’s a long story,” he mumbled.

  “All right, I understand. You can tell me some other time. Why haven’t you come by?”

  Morticai shrugged, “I … guess I’ve been busy.” Morticai sighed. “Look, Kithryl, I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized it had been this long. But, I’m doing something kinda’ important right now, and I need your help.”

  She frowned. “Are you in trouble?”

  “No, I’m not in trouble! I’m following someone, but I didn’t think he’d come this way—as you can see.” He gestured to his clothes. “May I borrow a cloak so I can sit in the Pub without being noticed?”

  “Well … I suppose so. Is this dangerous?”

  Morticai shrugged again. “I don’t know. Maybe.” He gave her his most innocent smile.

  Kithryl shook her head. “Some things never change, do they?” she said as she fetched him a cloak.

  * * *

  The pub was crowded. Morticai stayed close to the wall as he worked his way to a booth. Ellenwood was already engaged in conversation with another cloaked figure. A few patrons wore their hoods thrown back, but most, such as Ellenwood and his companion, did not. At this time of year, it would have been thought odd anywhere else in the city. Here, however, the desire for anonymity often ran deeper than the desire for comfort.

  Morticai also kept his hood up.

  As though the conversation in the kitchen had never occurred, Kithryl came and took Morticai’s order. She went to the bar and spoke with her husband, Breslen. He glanced toward Morticai and gave brief nod. Ellenwood couldn’t have led him to a better place. Where else would he have enjoyed such cooperation?

  He turned his attention back to Ellenwood and concentrated on reading the man’s lips, but that was a skill he had never fully mastered. He could make out only a few words; they seemed to echo some of what was in the messages he had stolen. He could distinguish Dynolva, Watchaven, and finally, Trade Council. At least they were discussing something other than invitations to the Grand Ball.

  Kithryl returned with his drink and nearly jumped when Morticai paid her with a royal—the drink was worth only a few ferdhyn. Morticai’s winked to let her know that he’d refuse any change. It was the least he could do for someone who had harbored him and helped him through some of his darkest times. She shook her head and pocketed the coin—it would easily pay the rent on the pub for several months.

  He turned back to watching Ellenwood, but the conversation had apparently shifted in the other direction, with Ellenwood listening. Morticai wondered who Ellenwood’s companion might be. By the breadth of the other’s shoulders, he believed it was a man, but he was too tall to be Lord Valdir. No, he must be yet another player.

  Ellenwood finished his drink and rose. Morticai had to decide which of the two he would follow, and it was the stranger who currently intrigued him. Morticai remained, sipping his drink, as Ellenwood left the pub.

  Shortly after Ellenwood left, the stranger rose to leave. He was tall, and he moved with a fluid grace. Morticai suspected he was corryn, but then, neither height nor grace was necessarily an indicator. Morticai’s own height served as a prime example that it couldn’t be trusted.

  Of course, as he followed Ellenwood’s mysterious companion, Morticai’s height, along with his borrowed cloak, made him indistinguishable from the inhabitants of the area. Despite the hour, the streets were still crowded with Watchaven’s restless poor, and they were, almost without exception, humans.

  The stranger traveled southwest, directly toward Shipwright’s Road. After he’d walked about a mile, he turned down an alley. Morticai immediately ducked into one himself. He felt certain he had not been spotted, but the route the stranger had taken led into a dead end—the perfect place for an ambush. Morticai loosened his sword in its scabbard and checked his daggers, making certain they were still positioned under the tailored slits in his only remaining Tradelenor shirt.

  Suddenly, a coach came clattering out of the dead end. Morticai froze as it wheeled past and traveled toward the main road. Morticai ran down an alley, jumped a low wall, ran down another alley and finally stopped, listening for the clippety-clop of the horses’ hooves. It had been years since he’d tried to follow a coach on foot, but the twisting streets gave him a chance. Few streets here were wide enough for a coach.

  He could hear the hoof beats, which came from a little north of his own location, and he could visualize the route the driver would need to take if he were heading for Shipwright’s Road. He set out at a run again, down another alley, then across a narrow street that led to the main road. It was the street Morticai figured the driver would take, but there was no place along it to conceal himself. He gambled that the driver would turn right, toward Northgate. He crossed the main road and started north.

  As he expected, the coach emerged and turned right onto Shipwright. He’d gambled that if Ellenwood’s companion had enough money to hire a coach, he would most likely return to the wealthy section of town. The quickest way there would be to travel northwest, then take the tight turn in front of Northgate, and travel due south on Northgate Road.

  The coach was traveling at a normal pace, and Morticai knew he would have a chance of catching it as it made the turn in front of Northgate. He hadn’t seen any coachmen when it had first wheeled past him. It had been years since he’d hopped a coach; he hoped he still could.

  He made it to the turn a few seconds before the coach. He stopped, panting, and hoped the Northmarchers guarding the gate were busy, that Kirwin was not out taking some evening air. He didn’t have long to worry about it. The coach approached the corner, slowing for the turn, and it slowed even more as it entered the three-way intersection. Morticai ran from the shadows toward the rear of the coach.

  Catching the back of the coach was easy, although Morticai worried about the jerk he caused as his weight settled onto it. He’d been much lighter when he’d last done this. As expected, the coach took the tight turn down Northgate Road. Morticai allowed himself a brief glance back. No Northmarchers chased after the coach to inform the driver of an unwanted passenger.

  He had time to catch his breath as the coach traveled toward the center of the city. Obviously, the coach’s passenger was, like Ellenwood, affluent. Why had they chosen the Cobblesend for their meeting? What was so crucial, so secret, that they had to go into Watchaven’s roughest area to meet? More to the immediate point, just how close to the palace was the damned coach going?

  The coach had almost reached Royal Way. Morticai considered whether he should hang on or jump off. He had just decided to jump when it turned right and began to slow. He disembarked and moved quickly into the shadows at the side of the road.

  He was shocked when he realized his exact location. He stood only one block north of the palace itself on the street that carried the nickname “Accent Alley”, this because the street contained the estates of the ambassad
ors who represented the other city-states and kingdoms of the Confederacy.

  The coach entered the large, circular drive that led to the Dynolvan Embassy. Morticai moved cautiously closer. It was risky, but now his curiosity was afire—he had to see who was riding inside that coach. The coach stopped; servants ran out to greet it.

  The door opened and a tall, elegantly dressed corryn stepped down from the coach. He had silky white hair, worn long in a nobleman’s braid. Morticai knew that he’d seen the man several times, from a distance knew that he’d heard his name.

  Then it came to him. Lord Danvek! That was it! Lord Danvek—the Dynolvan ambassador to Watchaven.

  Chapter Five

  Lord Aldwin sampled the appetizers his chief butler had just brought to the library. “Thank you, Hadley,” he said. “You may leave now.”

  Lord Valdir nervously brushed his long, brown curls away from his eyes and assaulted the appetizers. “You know,” he suggested, “you would have better luck with your hawks if you varied their diet.”

  As Valdir picked and plucked the appetizers from the tray, popped them into his mouth, and chewed them with obvious gusto, Aldwin noted the man’s similarity to his beloved hawks. Not only did he have sharp, birdlike features and a beaky nose, but he also matched his pets in the greedy ferocity with which he attacked his food.

  Aldwin waved a hand. “I have heard varying opinions on that subject.”

  The butler left the room, closing the door behind him.

  “Well, now that that’s out of the way,” Ellenwood said, “shall we get back to the more pressing business at hand?” Sir Ellenwood was older than either Aldwin or Valdir, and he was more conservative in dress and manner. He kept his straight black hair short for a nobleman; it barely touched his collar. His dark eyes were serious, his rare smiles humorless.

  “Yes,” Aldwin agreed. “As I was saying, Helgorn merchants are already in the city, spreading their lies. I tell you, every kingdom in the Confederacy will be ruled by the merchants if we don’t stop it now!”

  “That is why we are here,” Ellenwood replied. “Once the Droken control the northern kingdoms, the other kings will recognize that only by joining with us can they save their own kingdoms from the fate which has befallen Helgorn.”

  Valdir stopped stuffing himself and looked up. “Surely you don’t think the other kingdoms will join us, do you, Sir Ellenwood?”

  Aldwin glanced toward the ceiling as Ellenwood took a sip of his drink. Ellenwood set his drink down, stood up, and began to pace, slowly, before the fireplace.

  “My dear Lord Valdir,” Ellenwood said, “you must try to understand what we are about, and why, for your own good. We must not fall as Helgorn has fallen! You know what happened. The merchants slowly amassed great wealth, by which they gained more and more power—since money is power—until they were able to overthrow the king. They forced him to sign that damnable Accord that abolished the nobility in his kingdom, and, in its place, established the Council of Merchants. Now, if we do not keep tight control over the merchants in our own kingdom, the same will happen to us.” Ellenwood stopped pacing and stared, hard, at Valdir.

  Valdir swallowed and nodded.

  “In addition to the merchant problem, we have our own agenda. Most of our people have been forced to live outside the Confederacy, in distant Cuthaun. They lead a most pitiful existence there. Because of the weak soil—not to mention the hideous weather—they can barely grow enough food to stave off starvation. Also, of course, we most fervently desire the opportunity for all Droken to stand up, without fear, and proclaim our love for the Dark Father. But how can we do this? We certainly cannot accomplish this as long as the Faithful have control of the kingdoms—can we?”

  “Of course not,” Valdir replied.

  Aldwin sneered inwardly. While Valdir was not a complete simpleton, he seemed ignorant of the fact that Ellenwood was lecturing him as if he were a child.

  Ellenwood continued. “Thus, the first step to gaining our own freedom is to take control of the northern kingdoms—to give our people a safe place to settle and live, and to establish strongholds from which we may launch our blessed war against the other kingdoms. And this, Lord Valdir, is where the merchants come back into play.”

  Valdir looked puzzled.

  “You see, Valdir,” Ellenwood said, “the best way for us to accomplish both goals—that of saving the kingdom from the merchants and securing it as a sanctuary for our Droken brethren—is for us to use the trade issue between Watchaven and Dynolva to bring the two kingdoms into open conflict. This is the perfect solution for us. It will occupy the merchants in a disastrous competition with other merchants and prevent them from forcing the kingdoms to accept their anti-noble “reform” agenda. A trade war and the resulting economic disruption will win them nothing but disfavor. The citizens already complain about the high cost of good tea, wine, and other goods, and they blame everyone for the problem—the merchants, the nobility, and even the king. And the merchants, who think with their purses, consider the tariffs to be a threat to their profits. They will push the two kingdoms into war!”

  Ellenwood paused, raised a glass of wine to his lips, and drank. “And let us imagine that it does lead to war,” he said. “That will further anger the populace against our current leaders, this because those leaders will have proven themselves to be ineffective in controlling the situation. If, at that crucial point, we Droken move in to stop the war, and if we set up our own, more efficient structure, the citizens will be grateful to us. So grateful, in fact, that the Faithful will be discredited. The people will turn to us, and to our Dark Father—and we should therefore be able to maintain our hold over them without having to kill too many of them. In their eyes, we will be the heroes who saved them from the greed and incompetence of the merchants, the kings, and the Faith. Now do you understand?”

  “So that’s why we are stirring up the merchants!” Valdir replied, his face lighting up with a new understanding.

  Aldwin suppressed a groan. “As I was about to relate,” he said in an attempt to reclaim control over the meeting, “the High Priest is very pleased with how well things have gone so far. He even remarked that our plan appears to be on schedule.”

  “Well, I suppose that is good,” Valdir remarked, sighing. “I still wish they would let us know a little more about who is helping us. I was so afraid that we would not be able to secure the backing we needed in Dynolva. Have they told you who from Dynolva has joined us in this? My curiosity has been driving me mad.”

  “No,” Aldwin admitted, “they have not said.”

  “I am certain they will tell us as soon as it is safe to do so,” Ellenwood said.

  “Nonetheless,” Aldwin interjected, “things apparently are on schedule, and that can only be for the good. Now, we have already covered the agenda for the next Trade Council meeting. Is there any question on how we are voting? None? Good. As I mentioned before, we must be prepared for the onslaught of questions and protests this will bring from the merchants. Thus far, they have seen us as acting in their best interests. We are simply responding to the ‘unrealistic demands’ the corryn are placing upon us, as Lord Orrick so aptly stated at the last meeting.”

  “Yes,” Valdir said, rather smugly. “He has been one of our strongest allies, hasn’t he? He would absolutely die if he knew he was supporting the Droken.”

  “True,” Aldwin agreed. However, as I was saying about the merchants, we must be prepared for anything. They are near the breaking point. The Helgorn merchants will undoubtedly stir them further, to our benefit. We must make certain they continue to see the Trade Council as working in their interest. The nobility have accepted the tariffs rather well, considering the negative effect they will have on their purses.”

  “We can be thankful Dynolva is a corryn kingdom,” Valdir said. “I do not believe our nobles would be so cooperative if we were cut
ting the throat of another human kingdom.”

  “You are probably quite correct,” Ellenwood agreed. “Well, are we finished then? I must be leaving.”

  “What?” Valdir asked. “Are you not interested in hearing about Lord Aldwin’s burglar? I couldn’t wait for us to finish with business so he could tell us about it!”

  “Well, as point of fact,” Aldwin replied, “we are not quite done with business. It seems that a little information has come from—shall we say, ‘higher up’—concerning my burglar. I now know that he is a both an orphan and a member of Watchaven’s Northmarch.”

  Valdir and Ellenwood exchanged startled glances.

  “You do not know his name?” Ellenwood asked.

  “Not yet. There is one more bit of information I have been given, however, that should help us locate the fellow—he is corryn.”

  “Are you serious?” Valdir asked. “Gods, how do they find these things out? That is incredible!”

  “Yes, one wonders,” Ellenwood said.

  “Yes,” Aldwin replied, chuckling. “We all know how effective the Droken are—after all, look at us!”

  “Quite,” Valdir agreed.

  “Of course,” Aldwin said, “you must pass this information to your own cells and have it passed down the rest of the chain. By the time it has reached the bottom, surely someone will be able to give us a name.”

  “Absolutely!” Valdir replied. “My own cell shall be meeting quite soon. Shall we place a bet as to which of us can supply Aldwin with the name of his burglar first, Ellenwood?”

  Ellenwood gave Valdir one of his cold, mirthless little smiles. “I suppose I should take you up on this one, Lord Valdir—but, as you know, I do not gamble.”

  * * *

  A block away, the burglar in question waited impatiently for Ellenwood’s coach to leave Aldwin’s estate. In the distance, Grandhaven Sanctorium chimed the half hour.