Morticai's Luck

by Darlene Bolesny

  “Yes, I was,” Rylan replied. He shook his head and continued. “So, why should the Faith work with the Northmarch? As you yourself have noted, the Faith sometimes has difficulty gathering information—particularly when someone as obvious as, dare I say, Dualas, is involved. It would seem reasonable for the Faith to work with the Northmarch and someone like yourself, who could gather information more efficiently.”

  “I suppose,” Morticai said.

  “You should also understand,” Rylan said, “that Luthekar would not be here unless something extremely important to the Droken were involved. Your exposing his presence would be seen as a grave threat to the Droken operation. Luthekar would decide that you were the most versatile, unorthodox, effective member of our ‘team’—as well as the most dangerous element.”

  Morticai frowned, not liking where Rylan’s logic was heading.

  Rylan continued. “Therefore, he would decide that he must remove you, and do so as quickly as possible—even if it meant risking Udall, who was a valuable Droken agent embedded in the Northmarch.”

  Rylan paced back to the bed.

  “Unfortunately, there is an additional problem which has resulted from this. If you had fought anyone but Luthekar, you would have been at risk only until the plot was complete. But, because you survived the wound dealt by Luthekar’s sword, you have won an honor that is usually reserved only for men of the Faith. Luthekar and his agents shall hunt you for the rest of your life—and, I am very sorry to say, you shall never again be truly safe.”

  “You mean they’re going to keep sending assassins?” Morticai asked slowly.

  “Yes, that is exactly what I mean. The miracle, of which you were the object, will be seen as a direct insult to Luthekar and Droka.”

  “Miracle?” Morticai asked. This was the first he’d heard anything about miracles.

  “Yes,” Rylan said. “Surviving the wound from Luthekar’s sword was a miracle, Morticai. That will be seen as an insult, a challenge against which he must retaliate.”

  “Wait a minute! You mean because he couldn’t kill me the first time, I’ve insulted him?”

  “I see that you don’t understand, Morticai,” Rylan said. “No one has ever survived a wound from Luthekar’s sword because the sword was given to Luthekar by Droka himself. Only by your patron’s intervention could you have survived. Otherwise, no one would have been able to stop the bleeding. Your patron, Glawres, specifically chose to preserve your life. And since Glawres has done this, it will be seen as a direct challenge to Droka and to Luthekar, his champion.”

  Morticai’s head spun with the implications. “Why did Glawres do something like that for me?”

  Rylan laid a hand on his arm. “Who can say? But are you unhappy because he did?”

  “No, of course not,” he said. “But, what does it mean? That you won’t let me leave here?”

  “No, that is not what it means. The Inquisition has always faced the wrath of the Droken—wrath leveled against those who help us and against our members of our own ranks. I, myself, have a price on my head.”

  Morticai looked at him in surprise.

  “My choice has been to continue on,” Rylan explained, “although I must admit I am more cautious than before. I often travel under a different name, and I have a bodyguard, as well.”

  “Bodyguard, hah!” Morticai said. “I’ve always taken care o’ myself.”

  “Well,” Rylan said, “you fall into the category of an informer, although I know that is not how you view yourself. The Inquisition helps informers change their identity. It involves a name change, perhaps hair dye.” Rylan eyed Morticai’s distinctive, silver-streaked tresses. “I would think that would be particularly important in your case. You would need to move to a smaller town, someplace far from here. Some of our informers become a part of the Faith. They join the clergy and move to a distant monastery.”

  Morticai looked at him, aghast.

  “You’re asking me to leave Watchaven and the Northmarch?”

  Rylan shook his head. “I am afraid there aren’t many options, Morticai.”

  “What about you? You have ‘continued on’, so why can’t I?”

  Rylan furrowed his brow for a moment, then let out a heavy sigh. “Morticai—the Droken will be waiting for you if you return to Northgate …”

  “But I have friends that have disappeared before, right here in the city,” Morticai complained. “Watchaven is big. I don’t have to go back to the Northmarch right away.” His mind raced. He had to make certain he wasn’t moved from this room—tomorrow might well be the day he sent back Nelerek’s bird with a note calling for help. “Besides,” he added, realizing that Rylan was staring at him, shocked by his outburst, “we still have to find Luthekar!”

  Rylan blinked. “You want to continue with this?”

  Morticai’s anger erupted. “You’re damned right I do! This is the second time the Droken have destroyed my life! I ran the first time, all the way from, from Lorredre. I’m not running again!”

  Rylan’s brow furrowed again. “I don’t know, Morticai. Such an offer of service against the Droken involves far more risk than you can possibly comprehend at this point.” He held up his hand to stall another angry outburst. “We shall talk more about it—later. For now, however, I have something to show you.”

  Morticai hesitated, fearful that if he went with Rylan now, he might not be returned to this room.

  “Coming?” Rylan asked.

  Sighing, Morticai rose from the bed—he could see no way around it. He followed Rylan down the hall and turned down another, where the Inquisitor finally stopped before a closed door. Rylan smiled as he gestured, rather theatrically, for Morticai to open it. Morticai hesitated a moment before complying.

  “Well! I was beginning to wonder if my four hours would run out and I’d have to get back to Northgate without seeing you!” Coryden’s familiar voice came from the middle of the large room, where he stood with his hands on his hips. Berret and Dualas were also in the room, sitting at a small table not far from the door.

  “Coryden!” Morticai cried out.

  He entered the room and then stopped abruptly. His targets were hung at various heights against the room’s right-hand wall, and his throwing knives lay piled on a nearby table.

  “I told you it’d surprise him!” Berret said, laughing.

  Morticai spun around to Rylan, who stood leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed, a warm smile playing across his face.

  “You approved this?” Morticai asked in astonishment.

  “Of course,” Rylan replied. “I would not deprive you of one of your favorite hobbies.” His tone became serious, “Besides, if I agree to what you have proposed today, you will need your skills more than ever.”

  Morticai smiled. Maybe he wouldn’t need to see that bird again, after all.

  * * *

  Morticai stood with his eyes closed, his arms stretched upwards, and his wrists crossed. In each hand, he held three knives.

  He’d been working for months on this one throwing maneuver. He consciously relaxed and counted carefully as he lowered his hands. He took an easy breath and slowly opened his eyes.

  With a snap, he flicked both arms outward. A knife leapt from each hand and streaked toward targets on opposite sides of the room. As the knives embedded solidly in the soft wooden targets, he threw two more knives, which struck the target in front of him. He spun and threw his last two knives into the target behind him. The entire maneuver had taken less than two seconds. Each knife had struck dead center into the ‘X’ painted in the centers of the targets.

  Soft applause rose from the doorway. “You should have joined the carnival,” Rylan observed.

  Morticai shrugged. “Why? I make more money with it this way.”

  “Yes,” Rylan agreed, “but from what I’ve heard, your m
ethods have the unwelcome side effect of often angering those with whom you wager.”

  Morticai smiled wickedly. “Rylan, that’s half the fun.”

  Rylan shook his head. “Maybe you can survive the wrath of the Droken, Morticai. Come,” he said, gesturing at the table and pulling back a chair. “Sit with me. I have good news for you.”

  Morticai certainly hoped so. He had only been here a week and a half, and had already tired of it. He had unsuccessfully tried flirting with a few of the Maidens, but they had merely smiled and then gone quietly about their business.

  “You expressed a desire to continue your investigation of Watchaven’s Droken,” Rylan said. “Are you willing to do so under my command?”

  Morticai thought for a moment before replying. “I suppose so. It would be better than moving to some monastery.”

  “Excellent. Geradon is packing my things now. He has rented us a larger room at the Hilltop Tavern. As soon as you are packed, we can move into it. I will allow you to move about the city as long as I have some idea what you are about.” Rylan hesitated for a moment. “You understand the risk?”

  “Oh yeah,” Morticai hastened to reassure him.

  “Good. I am going now to Northgate to tell Commander McFerrin that the Inquisition will be keeping you for a while. I expect you will want to explain the situation to Captain Coryden, but I strongly suggest we let the rest of the Northmarch wonder.”

  Morticai was beginning to understand where those stories he’d heard about the Inquisition had originated.

  “Will you take Coryden a note from me?” Morticai asked.

  “Certainly.” Rylan’s eyes narrowed, “That reminds me … do not forget to tell whoever has been sending you the bird that it is no longer necessary.”

  Morticai started to ask, “What bird?” but thought better of it. He nodded, once.

  Rylan rose. “I shall leave for Northgate shortly. Will it take you long to compose your note?”

  “No, not at all,” Morticai replied, glad that Rylan had dropped the question of the dove.

  “Good,” Rylan said.

  * * *

  Coryden paused in the middle of the street. He reread Morticai’s note and wished he’d spent more time teaching him to write neatly. He couldn’t quite decipher the name of the tavern they were to meet at.

  “Let me look at it,” Berret suggested.

  Coryden handed it to him. “Please do.”

  Berret moved the paper closer and then further away, as though that would improve the script. Evadrel looked over his shoulder.

  “It’s the Dapple Stallion,” Evadrel remarked.

  Coryden and Berret both stared at him. Evadrel shrugged; Coryden sighed. “Well,” Coryden said, “let’s go.”

  Morticai’s entire squad had insisted on escorting Coryden to his ‘secret’ meeting with Morticai. Even Richard, the squad’s new man, had come along. Coryden really couldn’t complain—after all, they were as concerned for their captain’s safety as they were eager to see Morticai. Incidents of violence in the city had become sporadic, but moving in groups was still the safest form of travel. There were days when nothing seemed to happen, and then there were days when a corryn was beaten or killed. Coryden could not remember a time when Watchaven had felt so foreign.

  The group turned a corner to see a squad of the City Watch standing in a cluster at the next intersection. Coryden heard a voice saying that “he had his orders,” and surprisingly, the Northmarch captain recognized the voice. It belonged to Captain Trahern, a long-time friend.

  Another voice rose from the center of the watchmen.

  “You can’t do this, Trahern! I haven’t done anything!”

  As if they were one, Coryden’s group came to a stunned halt.

  “Morticai!” Coryden yelled and then ran up to the squad of watchmen.

  Morticai was, indeed, standing in the center of the group.

  “Thank Glawres!” Morticai exclaimed in corryn. “Coryden, they say they’re gonna’ take me in. I haven’t done anything!”

  The City Watchmen stepped aside enough to let the Northmarcher Captain approach Captain Trahern. The watchmen threw more than a few startled glances at Richard, who stood taller than most of the corryn in Berret’s squad.

  Berret replied, also in corryn, “Morticai, I don’t know how you do it, but I swear you get into more trouble than the rest of the patrol put together!”

  “Stop that!” Trahern ordered. “Quit speaking in corryn! What did you say?” He glared suspiciously at Berret, whose corryn was surprisingly fluent for a human.

  “Wait a minute,” Coryden interrupted in the human tongue. “Just what is going on here, Trahern?”

  Trahern straightened authoritatively. “I have a signed warrant from the palace to detain Morticai and bring him in.”

  “What!” half the patrol exclaimed at once.

  “What I need,” Morticai said in corryn, “is a diversion.”

  Trahern spun and soundly backhanded Morticai, who was knocked into a shocked Evadrel.

  “I said to stop speaking in corryn!” Trahern yelled, but he had already unwittingly begun the diversion Morticai had requested.

  Everyone began speaking at once. Coryden was aware that his men were stirring up a confrontation, but at the moment, he couldn’t have cared less.

  Coryden stepped up close to Trahern. “Nobody strikes one of my men without good cause! Since when has speaking corryn become unlawful in Watchaven? Huh?”

  “He’s getting away!” someone yelled. “Stop him!”

  Coryden looked up to see that Morticai was half a block away and running. He watched in horror as a watchman, who beyond his reach, raised a crossbow and sighted on Morticai.

  “No!” Coryden yelled.

  Richard moved fast and shoved the watchmen aside. He blocked the crossbow upward as the bolt left the stock. The bolt flew wild and embedded itself in a nearby wall. Coryden couldn’t help but wince as Richard followed with a full strength punch to the middle of the watchman’s stomach. The watchman went to his knees, groaning.

  Swords were drawn and the street echoed with the sound of steel on scabbards as both groups did so simultaneously. Coryden quickly sized up the situation—there were about twenty watchmen to Coryden’s patrol of twelve. The Northmarchers had more combat experience, and they could take them—but it would be messy.

  Coryden turned to the Watch commander. “Do you really want to do this, Trahern?” he said softly.

  Trahern glared at him without answering, but both sides held off as they waited for their commanders to sort it out. Coryden counted the seconds. The longer Trahern hesitated, the better the chance that blood would not be shed.

  Trahern and Coryden locked stares. The Watch commander blinked first. “Resheathe your blades,” he ordered.

  “Do it,” Coryden said. Slowly, both sides backed away from each other, the watchmen resheathing their weapons, the Northmarchers lowering theirs.

  * * *

  It was several hours later before Coryden and his men straggled into the Dapple Stallion. The proprietor was expecting them and quickly ushered them into a back room. Morticai sat with his chair tilted back, his feet on the table, and a tankard in his hand. He sported a dark bruise on his left cheekbone.

  “Hi!” he greeted them cheerfully. “What took you so long? You guys didn’t fight back there, did you?”

  Coryden glared at him. “No, we didn’t fight! But we might well have. Morticai, he really did have orders from the palace to pick you up. What’s going on?”

  Morticai sat up and lowered his feet to the floor. A serving girl came in with a large tray full of tankards. Everyone settled in around the table.

  “You’re serious?” Morticai asked. “He really did have a warrant?”

  “Yes! Now, what the Levani is going on?�
� Coryden demanded again.

  “Hmm … I don’t know, Coryden. I haven’t had time to cause any trouble—honest. I just got out of the Sanctorium this morning.”

  Berret remarked, “Well, you certainly got your diversion, all right. You must have done something to cause this.”

  Morticai shook his head emphatically. “No. It might have something to do with what Rylan has been telling me, but I didn’t expect something like this from the palace.”

  “Morticai,” Coryden said, “you’re not making sense. What in the Benek’s name are you talking about?”

  Morticai sighed. “Well … it’s a long story.”

  It was late that night, and well past their four-hour time limit, when Coryden and his men left for Northgate. Coryden had sent messages to the gate guard, explaining that his patrol had been detained by the Inquisition.

  It wasn’t actually a lie. After all, Morticai was working for the Inquisition now.

  * * *

  The elaborately decorated coach pulled slowly to a halt. It was still very close to Watchaven, just north of the city on a narrow wagon path that led to Dunder, a tiny village that lay ten miles north of the huge city. To the east lay a magnificent view of the ocean. The cliffs here were high, which caused the roar and crash of the waves to sound hollow as they echoed up the jagged rocks. The coachman hopped down and opened the door of the coach with a well-practiced flourish.

  He held out his hand. The white-gloved hand that accepted his help was slender, elegant, and feminine. The lady landed lightly, her ornate gown rustling softly. She was corryn, but petite for her race, with pure silver hair and deep green eyes. Her hair wound elaborately around her head, ending in cascading curls.

  “Thank you, Nevin,” the lady said graciously.

  “M’lady,” the coachman said, “we are miles from any civilized place. Will you not allow me to accompany you?”

  “Thank you, Nevin, but absolutely not,” the lady replied firmly. “Please, I will be quite safe. All I need for you to do is wait here—and be patient! I might be gone for some time. In fact, I expect I shall be, but you must not worry.”