He nodded, grimacing. "Do it." He closed his eyes.
She slowly applied pressure, feeling the joint scrape against bone. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but he made no sound until the socket suddenly slid back in place. Then he swore worse than the dockhand he pretended to be.
"All done," she said, wrapping his arm in a sling.
She left him to soak while she changed, putting on a cotton robe, coming back with a small razor and trimming scissors she kept on hand for when she had to alter her appearance. His gaze narrowed when he saw the instruments.
"The guards are already looking for a foreigner with long dark hair and a beard. It's time for you to look a little less … wild."
He shrugged, put his head back, and closed his eyes. "Is there more brandy?"
Kneeling beside the tub, she went to work, trimming away his unruly tangled mass of hair, letting the tufts fall onto the floor around the tub. She then took the razor and scraped away much of his facial hair, leaving only a short-trimmed beard. Chewing her lip, she placed her hand atop his wet hair and turned his head, making sure the cut was even over the ears and neck. A soldier's haircut suited this man.
"What will you do?" he asked her.
She rose, came around behind him, and joined him in the tub—robe and all—placing her legs on either side of his powerful back. He stiffened but said nothing.
"With Sly Tor dead, the city's underworld will be in turmoil for a few days, but I'll make do." She reached past him, taking the brandy from his hand and sipping it. "You, on the other hand, grey-eyed foreigner, must leave the city."
She leaned forward, pressing against his back, wrapping her arms around his neck, being careful of his shoulder. "I don’t love you," she whispered. "I’m not entirely sure if I even like you. Nor am I some foolish girl to fall for a hero. But after what I've been through, I need to feel alive again, to feel anything. Do you understand?"
"What is it I should say?"
"Say nothing." She leaned in, kissing the back of his neck.
Days later, Bors once more followed Long Tam through the city's back alleys and side streets. His shoulder still pained him, but it was much better, and now he could even use the fine new scimitar Long Tam had given him. She had also gifted him with an expensive ring-mail coat, leather half helm, and other clothing and accessories suitable for a mercenary. Apparently, she did very well for herself in the Shadow Guild.
She led him down old sandstone steps into a garbage-strewn corridor that led down to the city's mazelike aqueducts and into barely lit tunnels. Easily finding her way through the aqueducts, she brought him to a narrow gap through which they had to crawl to reach a two-foot-high portcullis that she cranked open by use of a nearby winch.
Outside, the sun had set, but its last crimson rays painted the desert in shades of brilliant red. Long Tam crawled out first, brushing the filth from her clothing. Bors followed, his shoulder still tender. They stood in a narrow gulley, surrounded by wild brush and boulders. He glanced up at the city walls behind him, but they were empty.
"How is it no one watches such a location?"
She smiled at him, an eyebrow arched. "Someone always watches, Bors."
Taking his hand, she led him down the gully and out onto the sandy hills. After months inside the city, the clean desert air was a blessing. They were east of the city, he saw, near where the caravan routes began.
She paused, pointing to a large sand dune before them. "On the other side, you'll find a caravan. Its master is a large smelly brute named Gress. A most remarkable man in that he possesses no redeeming qualities at all—other than a need to pay me back for a favor. He's waiting for you. I'm assuming you can ride a camel?"
Bors shrugged. "If it has legs, I can ride it."
She flashed her teeth at him and then patted his cheek. "Indeed. Gress needs reliable men who know their way around weapons."
"What of you? You can't stay in the city now, not after killing Sly Tor. Come with me."
She approached him and gave him a long kiss then buried her face in his neck. "I've had enough of sand for a dozen lifetimes. I'll be fine. But I do owe you my life. Thank you."
He held her tight. "Live well, Long Tam."
"Live well, Bors of Lyr. Now, be off, warrior," she said, pushing him away.
His boots slipped in the sand as he climbed the dune, sending waves rolling back down the hill. On the other side of the dune, a dozen brightly colored tents waited amidst braying camels and barking dogs. He paused briefly at the top, looking back, but Long Tam was already gone.
He sighed, nodding to himself. "A man endures what must be endured." He dug his heels in as he made his way down the slope.
Epilogue
Later that night, hours after the new guild masters had voted Long Tam in as First Master, she returned to the docks where her fortune had changed so drastically. The night was overcast, a rare occurrence in this part of the world, but the darkness was welcome. Wrapped in its embrace, she was merely one more shadow. She slipped silently onto the seventh pier from the easternmost edge of the harbor wall, pausing once again to make sure no one had followed her.
She'd be a far better First Master than Sly Tor had ever been, especially now that Port Talos was about to enter a golden boon. The Shadow Guild's fortunes would rise with those of the city.
As would Long Tam's.
She counted the pillars on the pier, stopping before the thirteenth, where she silently shed her cloak, weapons, and clothing. Standing nude in the darkness, she once again made sure no one had followed her—just as she had the night she stole the mask, the night she visited one of her contacts, an artisan skilled at creating forgeries. She dropped onto her belly and slid over the edge of the pier, slipping into the warm waters. Holding her breath, she dived under, feeling her way down the barnacle-encrusted pillar. At its base, she pushed aside the stones, her fingers brushing against the cloth-wrapped item she had buried days ago. She pushed for the surface, holding the object against her chest, breaking free of the waves.
She held aloft the Mask of Storms.
The End
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A former intelligence officer and soldier who served in the Canadian army for more than thirty years, William Stacey is a combat nerd who lives to tell stories. He is a black belt in karate and possesses a somewhat disturbing and unhealthy fascination for all things medieval and violent—especially Vikings. With operational tours in Bosnia and Afghanistan, he combines his military experience with his love for martial arts and sharp objects. He is a husband, father, and fitness nut, whose best friend is
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The Mask of Storms Page 10
