He cleared his throat, and Kul turned to regard him.
Thin and unkempt, well past his prime—if ever he had one—the sorcerer was an ugly man. The top of his head was balding, leaving only tufts of white fuzz through which could be seen brown spots on his egg-like skull. His long, scraggly gray hair hung past his shoulders and, judging by Kul's incessant scratching, housed lice. Kul's once extravagant robes were now filthy from neglect and near-constant wear, leaving bare patches through which Grottle could see skin. His fingernails, inches long, broken in places and coated with grime, curled like claws. The stench from his unwashed body struck Grottle like a fist, and his dark eyes danced with madness. Grottle, unwilling to look into those eyes, stared at Kul's feet. "Master, thank you for my freedom."
Kul glared at him. "Where is my mask?"
"I'm … I'm sorry, master. It wasn't my fault. I was betrayed by—"
Kul raised his palm. "Always the excuses. All you had to do was kill some sailors and bring it to me. Isn't killing what you do?"
"I'm sorry, master. I almost had it."
Kul rolled his eyes and turned away, approaching one of his worktables. He picked up a small dark glass jar the size of his hand and held it to his eye. The glass was smoke-blackened, but Grottle saw movement within—a particularly large beetle of some kind with pincers and a hornlike protrusion on its bulbous head. Grottle shivered. He hated bugs and always had.
"Have you ever noticed," said Kul, staring almost reverently at the beetle, "that insects wear their bones outside their bodies, like armor that never has to be removed? What an advantage, don't you think?"
"Yes, master." In fact, he hadn’t noticed, nor did he care now.
"The leader of the Shadow Guild, a most disagreeable man by the name of ... get this ... Sly Tor, has sent me a message."
"Master?"
Heaped beneath the table that Kul stood before was a pile of iron plate-mail armor. The armor, dented and rusted, had clearly seen better years. Kul nudged one of the iron pieces now with a sandaled foot. "Sly Tor has the mask and is willing to sell it to me."
"That's ... good news, master."
"No, it’s not good news, idiot. Sly Tor knows First Councilor Davros paid me to remove the curse on the mask, and—because you failed so spectacularly—Sly Tor now also knows I tried to steal it from Davros’s ship, which means Davros himself must know I tried to betray him."
"Is ... Is he angry?"
Kul laughed. "I expect he’d like to kill me. I know I would. Needless to say, the First Councilor no longer desires my services." Kul snorted. "As if he'd find anyone else that could remove an Illthori curse."
"Then why has Sly Tor sent you a message? He works for Davros, no?"
"He's a thief. His kind would sell the mask to whomever can pay the most for it, and this is the message Sly Tor has sent me. If I can pay more than Davros, I can have the relic."
"How much does—"
"Too much." Kul sighed, shaking his head. "Far too much, a hundred times what I paid for your release—and that was a price I could only barely afford."
"Shit them both, then. The relic is probably not even real."
Kul regarded Grottle for long moments, looking down his thin nose at him as if he were a very stupid child. Grottle's face burned, and he looked away. Kul placed the jar onto the table and removed its lid before inserting a set of prongs and dragging out the quivering beetle, the size of Grottle's thumb. Grottle shuddered once more, forcing himself to remain in place. Kul stood back, still holding the beetle with the prongs and pointing with the angry insect at the armor beneath the table. "It occurred to me I may have erred earlier, sending you forth to do battle without the necessary equipment. Perhaps … some of your failure is my responsibility."
"Master, my pit-fighting days were long ago."
"Put the armor on, Grottle."
"Master, I—"
"Don't worry. It should fit over even your fat gut. It was the largest the servants could find."
Grottle dropped onto one knee and began to sort through the armor. There was little point in delaying. Besides, whatever foolishness Kul had planned, it no longer mattered; Grottle had just decided his service to Kamanth Kul was at an end. He'd put on the armor and agree to whatever Kul demanded, but the moment he was out of the sorcerer's sight, he was going to flee the city. He had some silver hidden away for just such a need. Perhaps he'd try his hand at running whores in Daenipor.
As Grottle began to strap on the pieces of armor, Kul stood behind him, watching, still holding the beetle. He slipped the thick thigh plates over his legs and then jumped up and down, making sure they held. Next, he attached the thick chest plate over his gut, strapping it tightly in place. This was old tournament armor, Grottle realized, too heavy for practical use. He slipped the shoulder harness in place. "Master, what is it you want me to—"
"Don't worry. I'd never ask more than you are capable of—not again."
Grottle managed to work the straps on the shoulder harness, but it hung poorly. He needed help, but Kul just stood watching. The old fool probably thinks I'll challenge the Shadow Guild on my own, like a hero from the ballads. Grottle shook his head at the thought. If he—
A sharp pain coursed through the back of his neck. Grottle spun about, staring at Kul, who was now stepping back again, still holding the beetle by the prongs in one hand but a small dart in the other. Grottle rubbed the back of his neck. "Master—"
His legs collapsed beneath him, and he fell to the filthy wooden floor with a crash. He could still see, still hear, and his heart pounded painfully beneath the metal plate over his chest, but he was unable to even twitch a finger.
"Don't worry. The paralysis will pass," Kul said softly, kneeling down beside him.
No, please. Grottle tried to speak but couldn't make a sound.
Kul pried open Grottle's mouth with one hand, forcing his teeth apart. Still holding the beetle with the prongs, he brought it toward Grottle's opened mouth.
Grottle shit himself.
Kul closed Grottle's jaws again, this time over the angry beetle, holding it in place. The beetle's legs scratched at his tongue, ripping furrows in it. Coppery blood filled his mouth, further enraging the insect.
"Wealth is such a paltry thing, Grottle, so temporal. Once, my family was one of the wealthiest in the city. Now, I can barely afford the bribe to release you. Yet if you had succeeded in bringing me the Mask of Storms when I asked you to, I'd never need for silver again. Even now, I’m amazed the Shadow Guild wishes to sell it. They must not understand what they possess."
"Gggrrsh," Grottle managed.
"Or perhaps Sly Tor does understand, but perhaps he knows about the curse. After all, what good is Illthori magic if using it ages you prematurely?"
"Gggll … gll."
"You will retrieve the Mask of Storms and punish those who have taken it, and when you return, you will also bring me a sacrifice. I care not whom. Any human life will serve to counter the curse."
And then Kul began to chant in a language Grottle had never heard before. The air became heavy, his own heartbeat impossibly loud. The beetle in Grottle's mouth grew larger, began to expand, forcing Grottle's jaw impossibly wide. A moment later, his jaws snapped, but by then the pain had spread throughout his entire body. Kul's chanting increased in volume, and Grottle arched his back as his spine began to pull apart.
Part II
Blood on the Streets
7
At sunset, Bors stood before the Lucky Whisper, the tavern that Night Commander Tuluth Dar claimed Long Tam would visit to fence the Illthori relic. No one had accosted him since entering the Narrows—he was large and carried a fighting axe—but many had watched him, sizing him up. In that way, the Narrows seemed no different from any other slum he had visited. The Narrows had been crammed into every available space, with homes and businesses built haphazardly atop one another. If a strong enough storm ever blew through the Narrows, many of these huts would come c
rashing down.
Unlike its more flimsy neighbors, the Lucky Whisper was built several stories high, with crenellated stone walls and narrow window slits. It reminded Bors of a fort, which perhaps was what it was, he mused, glancing about the nearby alleys and tightly packed streets. A flight of stone steps led up to a platform on the second level, where the tavern's faded red door stood. Two toughs leaned against the wall on either side of the door, cudgels resting against their wide shoulders. Bors mounted the steps and reached for the door, pointedly ignoring the two bouncers. Neither moved, and Bors slipped inside.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim, he noted the presence of about a dozen other men scattered about the bar. Those who noted his arrival quickly lost interest and returned to their conversations. Dar had been right about one thing: these days he blended well among such men.
He picked a table near the wall where he could watch his surroundings. A tired-looking woman with streaks of dirt across her forehead stopped by long enough to take his order, returning with a mug of ale he could have chewed, a bowl of warm stew with stringy meat, and a chunk of black bread. Dar's guards had returned his knife, axe, and purse, but most of his coins had disappeared, leaving only scraps of currency.
He nursed his drink, aware of an uneasy feeling. It wasn't just being in the Narrows. Something was putting him off. Once again, he covertly scanned the other patrons. There were few women in the tavern, let alone any matching Long Tam's description: a tall, striking woman with pale skin the color of sea foam, long dark hair, and purple eyes, which was odd considering Dar claimed she was from the tanned, brown-eyed desert people. The tavern's owner, Long Tam's fence, Fat Alicia, appeared from a door at the back of the tavern. There was no mistaking the mountainous woman, taller than Bors and twice as wide. She spoke briefly to the bartender and then disappeared into the back once again.
What if Dar's wrong? What if Long Tam doesn't come this night? He couldn’t keep coming back to this tavern. And even if Long Tam did flounce through the door, flashing the Illthori relic, what could he do, just steal it and run? No one stole from the Shadow Guild, not in the Narrows, not anywhere. He'd never get the mask back to Dar. And even if he did, would that red-haired monster keep his word? Probably not, but what choice did he have?
When the tavern's door opened again and a large bearded tanner stumbled in, Bors noted the reaction of two men sitting at a table across from him. One of the men had reached for a large knife on his belt but forced his hand away again. Now Bors understood what had been bothering him: I'm not the only one waiting for someone. Now, he began to pay more attention to the other patrons. The longer he watched them, the more certain he became that at least four of the men were more interested in watching the door than their drinks. Bors had spent enough time waiting for battle to begin to recognize its signs in others. Fear had a smell, sharp and strong, and Bors recognized that smell now on these men. There's going to be a fight.
He downed the last of his ale, rose, and walked out of the tavern. With every step, he felt eyes on his back, but no one challenged him.
Why should they? He was nobody.
Outside, the night was dark and cool. Bors paused, standing beside the two bouncers, letting his eyesight adjust. A prickling sensation ran down his spine, and his fingers itched to take his fighting axe from his belt, but he forced himself to keep his arms at his sides and slowly descend the steps. He swayed just a bit.
Now, he noted the three beggars in the shadows, also watching the tavern. They had been there when he had arrived, but he hadn't paid any attention to them then. Now, he felt their eyes on him. He knew they were armed, having years ago learned the telltale signs. He walked past the beggars—sentries—and then headed for the corner of the street, all the time fearing a knife between his shoulder blades. Nothing happened. Whatever's going down tonight, it isn't about me.
He made his way back, coming around the tavern through a series of interconnected alleys, taking his time and stopping often to listen, to watch the shadows for any sign of movement. Bors was no thief, but he was a fair hunter, and more than once, his life had depended on his stealth. He slipped down the alley that sat across from the entrance to the tavern, stepping around broken boxes and garbage, until he had an unobstructed view of the tavern's entrance and the beggars watching it. He heard a scuffling on the rooftop tiles above him. There's someone up there, he realized, most likely armed with a crossbow. At least, that's where I'd put an archer.
He remained in place, watching the tavern's entrance. Every now and then, someone would arrive, and the door would open, only to close again soon after. But each time, the visitor had been another man, sometimes two or three, never a woman. His knees began to grow stiff, but he remained motionless. He wasn't a young man anymore, but he wasn't so old he couldn't maintain watch discipline.
Then he heard the sounds of a group of people moving softly down the cobblestoned street. Moments later, a group of at least six people came into view. When one of the bouncers opened the door, spilling light upon the group, Bors saw one of them was a tall woman with pale skin and long dark hair. While he was too far to see her eyes, he had no doubt they'd be the color of dark wine.
Dar had been right. It was Long Tam.
And she was walking into a trap.
8
Long Tam, once Farina Moon-Eye of the Sandstone Mountain clan, nodded in greeting to the two men standing outside Fat Alicia's tavern. One of them, Trallin, a former guild bone-breaker, held the door for her. They were Alicia's men, not hers, but she knew them both well enough. In a fight, they'd side with her over anyone other than Alicia, and Alicia was solidly on Long Tam's side these days. Years ago, they had been rivals in the guild, but Alicia's stealing days were over. Now she only moved the merchandise. Long Tam prided herself on knowing who was and wasn't a potential threat. And soon enough, she'd have enough influence among the other masters to challenge Sly Tor's authority and force a new vote on First Master. The possibilities were breathtaking. Never before had a woman—let alone one from the desert clans—risen so far in the guild.
Long Tam and her bodyguards swept into the tavern. As she did, a silence settled among its occupants. Unless she wore a disguise, which she did when necessary, men always noted her presence. She smiled, swaying her hips, her hand on the hilt of her scimitar. Let them look. Soon, they'll be staring at the new First Master of the Shadow Guild.
The bartender motioned her over, and she veered toward him, wanting to get the relic fenced so she could return to one of her many safe houses. Her spy among Sly Tor's men had reported something was up, but not what. Sly Tor was scum, but he was no fool. He'd know by now who had been behind the theft on the ship and would love to arrange an accident for her. Games of power came with risks, but Long Tam was a much better player than Sly Tor.
Outside, from the rooftop above Bors, the crack of crossbow arms releasing broke the silence of the night. A moment later, both bouncers near the door flew back against the wall and then slid down it, their limbs splayed haphazardly.
There are two archers on the roof, Bors realized. How did I miss the second one? They had both let loose their bolts at the same time—an impressive feat.
The three beggars bolted forward, pausing only long enough to make certain the guards were dead before positioning themselves on either side of the tavern's door. The clouds drifted away from the half moon, painting the street silver as four more men joined the beggars. Moonlight glinted from steel in their hands. Bors was impressed with the execution of the ambush: killing guards silently was far more challenging than most realized, and attacks often failed because of a single mistake.
When the screaming began inside the tavern, the men opened the door and charged inside.
Before Long Tam could reach the bar, Fat Alicia appeared from the back office, waving a huge arm. Long Tam smiled and swerved to meet her—just as one of the men from a nearby table leaped to his feet and swung a wooden cudgel, striking one of her bodyguar
ds instead of her. Long Tam dove forward in a somersault, rolling to her feet. Someone began screaming, and men attacked her bodyguards, some with two or three men apiece on them. Other men, all brandishing weapons, rushed through the tavern's entrance. An attack, she realized, not an accident.
I hadn't expected that from Sly Tor.
A man charged her, one she recognized from Sly Tor's gang. He held a wide-bladed Xi'urian fighting knife but hesitated to stab her, trying to punch her with the weapon's cross guard, an act that sent a shiver down her spine.
They want me alive.
She dodged under the clumsy blow, shoving the man's elbow into his own neck and then ramming a knee into his balls, sending him falling into two of his comrades, tangling them up as well. Another man charged at her from her left, but she whipped a throwing dart from her sleeve into his face, not sure if she hit or not, because she was already looking for a way out. To stay was to die.
Two more men rushed her, both with wooden cudgels. With a shattering shriek, Fat Alicia's considerable bulk flew over a table, smashing it and the two men opposite it down. She then sat atop one of the men, holding his head with both hands and pounding it against the floor, cracking it like an eggshell.
Bless you, Alicia.
With the space Alicia had just given her, Long Tam whipped her scimitar free. Another man came at her with his own scimitar—Fast Bran, Sly Tor's weasel of an enforcer. Their blades clashed in a series of lightning-fast feints and cuts. Fast Bran was skilled but overeager and put himself off balance with a thrust-cut aimed at her face. She caught his blade on her own, pushing it up and aside before riposting, cutting his ugly cheek open with the tip of her blade. Fast Bran fell back, grasping at his face. "Desert witch!"
Long Tam flashed her teeth at him before bolting for the still-open door.
Men died inside the tavern, but no one in the Narrows came to help. Nor did anyone even raise an alarm. According to Dar, the Red Guard wouldn't have come if they did. Bors remained hiding behind the boxes in the alley, watching. He needed Long Tam, needed that mask, but knew he couldn't just run out and join the fight … although he briefly considered exactly that. Bors had always been a simple man and preferred simple solutions. A friend had once called him a "hammer," a clumsy tool for quick, unimaginative solutions. In truth, he was probably the least suited man in the city to steal from the Shadow Guild.
The Mask of Storms Page 5
