Shattered Hopes

by Ulff Lehmann

  It was late afternoon when Jesgar headed back to the Palace. Traghnalach’s Library was located close to Old Wall Street and Cherkont Street, and he had walked this way so many times in the past decade he hardly looked where to turn. Left onto Beggar’s Alley, a right onto Trade Road and he stood before the lowered drawbridge. Where wood met paved road a quartet of Swords and Pikes was guarding the entrance. One of the warriors recognized him and returned his friendly nod with a greeting herself. At the woman’s assurance he was able to pass without much delay. Patiently he waited at the inner portcullis as the gatehouse-crew raised the steeloak barricade.

  Inside the outer bailey, things weren’t as hectic as they had been five days ago. The Chanastardhians were on the southern side of the Dunth, but so far, their attempts to cross the river had met with little success. He was about to enter the inner gatehouse when someone hailed him from across the bailey. “Garinad! Wait up!”

  Glancing over his shoulder he saw the Sword-Captain who had given him his first real lesson with a blade. What was the man’s name again? Right, Fanell. “Greetings, captain,” he said, with a slight bow.

  Sword-Captain Fanell dipped his head briefly, saying, “How’ve you been?”

  What was that all about? Fanell hadn’t bothered to speak with him in weeks. His trip to Dragoncrest had cut his practice short, and the man was little more than a stranger. “Fine as can be,” he replied, and then added, “Why?”

  “Oh, I’m to train you.”

  “Train me in what?” Instantly he was suspicious. Sword-Captain Golys was his weapons’ instructor, and he already had enough bumps and bruises to prove she was a capable teacher. Fanell certainly couldn’t replace her, could he?

  “Well,” the soldier replied, “it isn’t specifically me training you; rather I am to keep a leash on your teacher.”

  A watchdog for a teacher? What was Fanell talking about? “Um,” Jesgar said for lack of anything better to say. He was confused. Dancing lessons would begin soon and come tomorrow he was to begin knife fighting.

  “Follow me,” Fanell said, and headed for a shed. As the soldier halted he pulled the door open and said, “He’s here.”

  Out of the black interior, a voice replied, “Send him in.” Jesgar couldn’t tell whether the speaker was male or female, but when the warrior stepped aside, all he could do was to obey. The lock fell into place behind him and he stood in utter darkness.

  There was a chink of metal grating on metal, but otherwise the room was as quiet as a tomb. What the Scales had they done to the shed and what sort of training was he supposed to receive here?

  His initial panic subsided, his breathing calmed. The shed was large, he knew that much, but he had no clue about his position. Carefully he took a step forward. In heavy winter boots, making out any obstacle was nigh impossible, but he thought his foot was encountering resistance of some sort. He hesitated and pulled back. At least the area right behind him was unobstructed.

  Defying all his expectations, the door had been replaced by a row of nails that now poked through his cloak. Again, Jesgar halted his movement.

  “Quite a mess, eh?” the voice asked. It still sounded muffled but was more distinct than it had been a moment ago. “You need to be fleet o’ foot, mind, an’ body. And I’ll fix them errors in your education.”

  “What?”

  “I know you ain’t guild-trained, boyo.” The speaker waited for a moment, but he refused to admit anything. “No need to spill it, boyo, Baron’s told me aright.”

  “You’re with the guild?” he asked tentatively.

  “I were with ‘em, boyo. Nothing but a fucked-up rogue I am now. But me can get free, by teaching you.”

  The person was with the thieves’ guild or had been rather. From what Jesgar had gathered those thieves allied with Baron Duasonh’s cousin, Jathain, had been executed, others had changed allegiance to the Palace, and still others had decided to stay away from it all. This speaker had to be one of them. Well, if he had to learn anything new regarding thieving it might as well be now. Though he doubted he needed much tutoring. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Easy, find me without using a light or tripping any alarms.”

  An alarm! That was what had hindered his boot. “Very well,” he said.

  “You need to be trained, boyo.”

  His pride got the better of him. He would show the stuff he was made of. First, he slipped out of his boots; the shed floor, unlike the cobblestone in the bailey, was packed earth, beaten solid in years of use. His stockings held back some of the chill from the ground, but he knew that before long he would lose all feeling in his feet.

  Next, the heavy winter-cloak went to the ground. If the wire he had almost tripped over was any indicator, the entire shed might well be wrapped in the stuff, making any approach difficult enough without the cumbersome coat.

  Already the frosty ground had its effect on his feet, and Jesgar hopped from one leg to the other just to keep warm. Thankfully his eyes had adjusted a little. From the bailey, bright with the afternoon sun, into this place, his sight had almost completely shut down. Now he saw the place was not as entirely clad in darkness as he initially had thought. Here and there he discerned pinpricks of illumination, to anyone just entering the shed they would have been unnoticeable.

  Jesgar made out shapes and saw that the once single hall had been compartmentalized by dark cloth. Surely another part of the exercise; his unseen adversary could be hidden behind any of those blankets. He knelt, probing the space above the floor with his fingers. Trying to keep them away from the freezing dirt, he sought out a possible route across, to the next shadowy curtain. There! The wire—or was it string? –surrounded the entrance area.

  Slowly the Hand inched forward until his knees were almost touching the obstacle. He tried to go in as straight a line as possible but in the murk it was hard to tell. Again, he poked his hands forward, testing the chosen path. His slight touch encountered a whole netting of wires with no spot even remotely big enough for his feet.

  Left then, he decided. The shed door stood in the corner with a wall right next to it, so left was the only possibility. He slid back a few inches, his knees scraping across the floor. In the silence of this place—how had they muffled all the sounds?—the slight friction was unbearably loud. His fingers caught the wire again and felt along the way, his torso slowly swiveling to the left. He leaned forward, found sufficient space to move.

  “What will happen if I trip a wire?” he asked his unseen teacher as he carefully crawled ahead. Maybe he could now determine where the voice was coming from.

  “There’ll be some noise, and a simulation of what would happen if you really got caught.” It was hopeless; the voice was too muffled and came from every direction and none.

  Logic dictated that the next step should be along the path he had come; in any decent labyrinth one was supposed to first go many steps in one direction and then turn. Jesgar doubted the entire course had been constructed with logic in mind. There was some other purpose to this game.

  Just to be certain, he probed the path ahead, leaning over the string he encountered and finding that, as he expected, a net barred his approach. He pivoted right, tried to get as precise an angle as possible. For reassurance, he groped further and discovered the spot he had just vacated, its ground still radiating some residue of heat. Ahead was another tangle of strings.

  If this place was arranged in covered and free squares, the only possible way had to be diagonally to the left, since right and ahead did only result in the web he had discovered before. He guessed correctly and followed his probing hands.

  Would this entire place be rigged like this? He hoped not, but there was no way to tell. Fortunately, his eyes had adjusted even more to the dark and he saw details he had missed earlier. The cloth wasn’t only suspended from lines attached to nails in the walls, but also to freestanding poles, driven into the ground. If this was truly the case he might make use of the contrapti
ons holding the curtains aloft. He decided to give it a try, if his guess was right the cloth ahead was one of those suspended by a piece of wood.

  “Ah,” the hidden observer called, “no cheatin’. This ain’t wall-work, but ground-work, boyo!”

  How could the bastard see what he was up to? Jesgar groaned, disappointed. If the rules of this game demanded he stay on the ground, he would do so. The curtain ahead posed his next problem. To the right was a tangle of strings, to his left the wall, and now his feet were really getting cold. Then he had an idea. He might not be allowed to cross the walls by climbing them, but if he used the pole as a handhold, he might be able to discern the next free position. If that was forbidden as well, this teacher would surely tell him the moment he put his hands on the pole.

  Apparently, the maneuver was allowed.

  Jesgar now hung on the pole, hands above his head, legs angled with his feet hopefully high enough above the wires. His trips into the houses of the wealthy and noble had never required this much strength. However, the exercise felt good after his lessons with Librarian Megan. It was challenging, and finally he felt like the Hand once more.

  Calmly, he stretched his right leg, toes searching the ground below. His arms already protested from the strain. On his nightly strolls he had stretched beforehand, honing his muscles. Here in the shed, he had done no such thing. It mattered little. He wanted to prove to himself more than anyone that he was worthy of being in the Baron’s employ.

  A spot free of wire; he touched his right foot down. Now came the hardest part. First, he probed with his left foot. The additional stability granted by the sole already firm on the ground helped, but when he set the second foot down there was still the problem of getting the rest of his body into the vertical. His arms really began to ache now, and the only thing he could do was to push back until his feet were firmly planted and his arms stretched long. Jesgar felt like an acrobat in a street theater, or a statue in a temple seemingly pushing against a pillar to keep it standing. Only that the pole kept him aloft.

  Were his hands strong enough to thrust him back the rest of the way? Back in the smithy he had carried sacks of coal to the forge; he was built like his brother, strong and powerful, but the strain… Had he already reached his body’s limits? No. He let his arms go slack for a fraction and then heaved.

  The Hand staggered upright, but for the moment he was unable to do more, arms trembling uncontrollably. Rest, for just a moment, he thought.

  “Not bad, boyo,” the unseen watcher said.

  “Thanks,” he wheezed, going to his knees again.

  “You best finish this or we’ll spend a lot more time together, sonny.” Where the Scales did the voice come from?

  Jesgar balled his hands into fists again and again to lose the tremor running through his fingers. Next, he stretched his arms, and after a short while the trembling ceased. Now he was able to grope about the floor once again. The entrance had to be in his back. A quick but careful swipe confirmed the tangle of wires.

  To his front and right there were no wires at all. Confident he crawled diagonally, intent on the next curtain. So focused was he on reaching the cloth quickly that his leading hand almost snapped the line crossing his path. He recovered quickly enough, pulling back.

  “Not all that easy, eh, boyo?” the question was accompanied by the creaking of a winch.

  Was the fellow above him? Jesgar pondered the possibility for a moment, came to the conclusion that in the deep gloom with the cloth curtaining off parts of the room, being above it all was the only way to follow his advance.

  The first part with its lines was only the prelude, now came the real challenge: finding the tripwires and his new teacher. “Am I under a time limit?” he asked.

  “Now you are, aye.”

  “How will I know when the time’s up?”

  “You’ll know.”

  Again, he began to grope around. The wire he had almost triggered was ahead, going diagonally across his path. Behind it, nothing. He hopped across the obstacle and moved on. The spot behind the curtain was empty. Now he heard a clamor going through the shed.

  This had to be the time limit his teacher had mentioned. When the noise reached its crescendo he had to be finished. He hurried on, dodging another line, and another; the spaces behind two more covers were bare.

  The chill on feet and hands and knees was forgotten, and the sounds grew louder. He had to find the rogue. So far, his attention had been focused on the right side, now he turned toward the left. He had almost reached the next curtain when he discerned a cloth wall in the room’s center. It had been invisible until now, mainly because it was so cleverly concealed, its edges overlapping with the dim outlines of the other false walls.

  The noise grew louder.

  There weren’t many options left for him. Judging by the sounds, his time was almost up. If the thief wasn’t behind this wall, he would lose. With a certain amount of caution, the Hand hurried toward the curtain. It was a cubicle he saw, the only one so far, confirming his suspicions. His foot touched a wire, he couldn’t stop in time, so great was his haste, and all Jesgar could do was fling himself forward, praying that there was no line immediately behind this one.

  His luck held.

  The noise grew to yet another level. Blinding light also began to show at the far end of the shed, and with a last desperate effort Jesgar plunged through the curtained wall into the tent. Frantically he rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his vision. Though inside the cubicle, he was half blind.

  “Good job,” said the dark blur in front of him.

  He was about to reply, when a fist connected with his face, leaving his jaw and head ringing. “But not good enough, yet.” Then water splashed onto him. “I told you, you’d be punished. Be quicker about it next time!”

  Blinking away the drops, Jesgar looked up at his attacker. Slowly the blur came into focus and what he saw surprised him. Fists on hips, it was no man standing above him. If it wasn’t for her ample breasts he might have mistaken her for a man, her short-cropped hair, a vicious scar running from brow to chin, a cut that must have almost cost her one eye. She was clad in lose fitting clothes, baggy in places, but her chest could not be hidden.

  “Get you up,” she said, extending her right hand. “No worries, boyo, I won’t punch you this time.”

  Reluctantly he took the offered hand and pulled himself up. Gods, she was strong! “I’m…” he began.

  “I know who you are,” she said, cutting the introduction short. “And I’m your teacher it seems.”

  He nodded, dumbfounded. “Aye.”

  The cloth behind him was pushed aside. Jesgar turned and saw a Sword-Warden. “Time’s up, back to the dungeons with you,” the man said.

  “I see you tomorrow, boyo,” the thief said and held her hands out to the soldier. “Tie me up but be gentle about it.” She winked at Jesgar and pouted lasciviously. Had her face not been adorned with that remarkable scar, it might have looked alluring, but even with her brown eyes glittering her pout looked rather frightening.

  “Come on, you hag,” the warrior said, giving her a playful smack on the back of her head.

  “Demands must be met.” His new teacher shrugged theatrically and followed the warden out. “Oh, I almost forgot,” she said, turning to look back at him. “The Baron wants to see you, handsome. Now at that!”

  The inner bailey wasn’t as busy as it had been in the past week, either. There were warriors sharpening blades, or practicing archery, while others drilled with pikes. Of the man he had been unknowingly tailing there was no sign, and Jesgar was in no mood to ask around. Sooner or later he would have to apologize to quite a few people, and Ralgon wasn’t the most influential of them.

  Despite the cold, the keep’s door stood open, a steady stream of armored men and women going in and out. He knew the way and hurried up the stairs and down the corridor to the Baron’s office. He halted, steadied his breath and the guard was about to knock, when the do
or opened and a woman dressed in the colors of a Sword-Captain left the room.

  “Congratulations, again, Kaltairr. Now you and yours should get some rest,” he heard the Baron say.

  The woman turned and saluted. “Thank you, milord.”

  “Garinad, get in here!”

  Jesgar nodded to the warrior, glanced at the guard for reassurance—the man moved no muscle—and entered.

  CHAPTER 18

  “What?” Kildanor didn’t believe his ears and stared at Braigh with new respect. Things were changing quickly, now that Danaissan had been removed from the Hearthwarden’s church. He had enough trouble accepting the idea of actually befriending a wizard. Now this.

  “I was elected High Priest,” the Eanaighist repeated.

  “I’ll be damned.” Had anyone told him he would share a friendly meal with the High Priest of Eanaigh’s church right after the Dawnslaughter, he would have laughed. Now, with the change that the church was going through, and the kind of man Braigh was, he couldn’t help but be happy for him.

  “If Danaissan was still in power I might have agreed,” Braigh said, his face not hinting at any emotion. “But you were right and I was wrong, let’s leave it at that.”

  They were sitting in the Jester’s Hat, one of the city’s more reputable inns, which, since it was in the proximity of Miller’s Strip and the noble villas, was hardly surprising. Common folk did not come here. The prices were high, the food more foreign than local; there even was a pair of armed men keeping order.

  Braigh had just returned. Before the High Priest’s—Kildanor had to get used to the title—sudden departure, he had begun to voice his concerns about Ralgon’s second miraculous recovery. Now the Eanaighist seemed more preoccupied with this latest turn of events.