“I doubt it.”
“I take it you’re going to try two approaches,” Sefris said. “The first will be to hope Aeron’s father knows the location of the strongbox and torture the secret out of him.”
“Do your worst,” the old man rasped. “It won’t matter. I don’t know where the cursed thing is.”
Sefris ignored him to stay focused on Kesk.
“The problem,” she continued, “is that, as we can see from all those scars, somebody got to him before you and mangled him severely. He’s fragile now, and elderly to boot. If you question him in some crude fashion, his heart is likely to stop. But a child of the Dark Moon understands the human body as a healer understands it. It’s part of our secret lore. I can cause a prisoner excruciating pain without doing serious harm.”
Kesk shrugged and said, “That could come in handy, I suppose.”
“I can make myself just as useful if you need to trade the old man for the book. Because it may not go smoothly. Aeron may decide he’d rather be rich than regain his father. He may try to trick you. Or you may decide to deal falsely with him.”
“The wretch broke our deal. I’m no longer obliged to keep any promises I give him.”
“I agree, and the point is, I can help you catch him. I have my skills, and he won’t know we’re working together until it’s too late.”
The tanarukk, scowling, said, “You’re not as special as you think you are, woman. We Red Axes have managed to run Oeble for years now without any help from the likes of you.”
“But you haven’t managed to catch Aeron sar Randal. He’s still running around free with the strongbox, laughing at you.”
Kesk glared and trembled. His hands clenched on the haft of his axe. For a second, Sefris wondered if she’d pushed too hard, and would have to defend herself against him and all his henchmen, too. She called the words of a spell to mind.
Then, however, he brought himself under control.
“All right, you can stay for the time being.” He waved his hand at Aeron’s father and added, “Let me see this light touch of yours.”
Sefris smiled without having to feign satisfaction, because she’d accomplished her objective, and her new situation, dangerous though it was, afforded her several advantages. As long as she was working with the Red Axes, she wouldn’t have to worry about their somehow laying hands on the book ahead of her. A gang of cutthroats could manage a prisoner more easily than could a lone monastic, and since Oeble was their city, they ought to have less trouble making contact with Aeron. When the time came, it would be challenging to snatch the prize and vanish from their midst, but she was confident of her ability to do so.
She rounded on Nicos, who, his courage notwithstanding, saw something in her manner that made him blanch. She jumped him, found the proper pressure point, and paralyzed him as she had the beggar boy.
When Aeron slipped through the door of the cramped little shop, Daelric Heldeion was at his desk, whittling a chop from a piece of pine. The paunchy scribe was primarily in the business of writing and reading documents, but he’d made a profitable sideline of providing his illiterate clientele with a means of signing their names, or in the case of the budget-minded, their initials, to a piece of parchment.
Daelric looked up, realized who’d come to call on him, and his gray eyes opened wide. In light of recent events, that was all Aeron needed to see. He whipped out a throwing knife, cocked his arm, and Daelric froze.
“Are the Red Axes watching this place?” Aeron asked. “Are you supposed to give a signal?”
“No!” Daelric said. “But Kesk’s ruffians have been around hunting you. The Gray Blades, too, though they don’t know who they’re looking for. Why in the Binder’s name are you still in town?”
“I can dodge the folk who wish me ill. I always have before.”
“If you say so. I wish you’d put the knife down.”
Aeron returned the weapon to its sheath and said, “You’ll see it again up close if you try anything foolish.”
“What would I try? I’m a scribe, not one of you cutthroats,” Daelric replied. He produced a linen handkerchief and blotted the sweat on his round, pink face. “What’s that muck on your tunic? I can smell the stink from over here.”
“Demon gore.”
Aeron advanced to the desk, its surface littered with quills, inkwells, penknives, pine shavings, a stack of parchment, and lancets for those who insisted on contracts and promissory notes signed in blood. He cleared a space, brought the black book out from under his cloak, and set it down. Daelric goggled at it.
“This is the prize everyone wants so badly?” the scribe asked.
“Yes, and I need you to read enough of it to tell me why.”
The scribe rubbed his thumb and fingertips together.
Aeron sighed. He set the rest of his coin atop the desk. Daelric regarded the copper and silver pieces without enthusiasm.
“Is that all you have?” said the scribe. “If the Red Axes find out I helped you, it could mean my life.”
“I’ll give you more—lots more—once I sell the book. Or, if that’s not good enough, I’ll find somebody else to read it, and not only will you miss out on the coin, you’ll never know what all the fuss was about.”
Aeron knew from past dealings that the clerk possessed a healthy streak of curiosity.
“Oh, all right.” Daelric ran his finger under the embossed words on the cover. “The title is The Black Bouquet. Does that mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“Nor to me,” Daelric said.
He opened the volume, and sweet fragrances wafted up, combined with the smell of crumbling paper. He started to read. Aeron waited for a couple minutes, until impatience got the better of him.
“Well?” he asked.
“Well,” Daelric replied, “it’s old.”
“I could tell that much.”
“The point is, languages, and our way of writing them, change over time.”
Aeron frowned and said, “That sounds strange. Why would they?”
“They just do, and as a result, old books are more difficult to read than new ones. I’m having a slow time of it, but I think this one is a formulary.”
“A formulary?”
“A recipe book,” the scribe explained. “For making perfumes.”
“That would explain all the flowery scents clinging to the pages. But … magical perfumes?” “It doesn’t seem like it.”
“Then what makes it so cursed special?” Aeron asked.
“I may need to read it cover to cover to determine that.”
“How long will that take?”
“A couple days, perhaps.”
“Thanks anyway.” Maybe Daelric was more trustworthy than Burgell—it would be nice to think so—but Aeron couldn’t linger that long, nor was he such a fool as to let the book out of his possession. “I’ll figure it out some other way. By the way, you haven’t seen me.”
“I understand,” the scribe said.
“For your own sake, I hope so.”
Aeron tucked the formulary back under his cloak, opened the door, checked the street for lurking cutthroats and patrolling Gray Blades, then prowled on his way.
Concerned that someone might spot him moving through the open spaces comprising Laskalar’s Square, he swung wide around it and reached his own tower a few minutes later. As he climbed the rickety stairs, he was looking forward to telling his father about his adventures. Maybe Nicos had heard of The Black Bouquet.
One glimpse of the open door at the top of the steps turned eagerness to anxiety. The old man would never have left it that way. Aeron started to run, realized someone might be lying in wait inside the garret, and forced himself to proceed warily instead. It was as hard as anything he’d ever done in his life.
No one was waiting for him, Nicos included. Intruders had plainly ransacked the apartment and smashed it up as well, and scrawled a crimson battle-axe sign on the wall so he’d know who to blame.
Aeron realized that up until then, his rogue’s life, though perilous, had always seemed to abide by certain rules. His rivals and the law would try to interfere with him, but only up to a point. Maybe it was just luck, and his own folly, that made it feel that way, or maybe, by stealing The Black Bouquet and defying Kesk, he’d spurred his adversaries to new heights of energy and ruthlessness. But either way, he was playing a new game, one where every hand was raised against him, and no tactic was out of bounds.
Everyone was right, he thought. I should have run away when I had the chance.
Unfortunately, it was too late. He couldn’t flee and leave Nicos in danger.
He noticed the empty space where the balcony had been. It was hard to imagine that the Red Axes, maliciously destructive as they’d been, had taken the trouble to break the platform loose from its anchors. It had probably fallen on its own, and Nicos had loved to lounge out there and watch the river. What if Kesk’s outlaws hadn’t kidnapped him after all? What if—Aeron didn’t want to finish the thought. He just scrambled to the brink and peered down.
Two stories below, a Rainspan connected the tower to the roof of a small building. The balcony had smashed down on the bridge and shattered. Most of the planks had plummeted to the ground far below, but a few, along with a motionless human figure, littered the elevated pathway.
Aeron raced out of the garret and down the steps. He found the door to the Rainspan and plunged out onto the end. The bridge creaked and shifted under his weight. He couldn’t remember a time when it had truly felt secure, but the impact from above had clearly weakened it.
His eyes widened in surprise. The bloody body sprawled on the Rainspan wasn’t his father. It was the female ranger from whom he’d stolen the saddlebag. Her broadsword stuck up out of the walkway, so close to her head that it might have sheared a lock of her close-cropped hair. Maybe she’d had it in her hand when the balcony collapsed, and she lost her grip on it. At any rate, he could picture it tumbling on its own and striking the bridge point first a second after her, nearly piercing her face in the process.
He pushed the grisly image out of his head. What mattered was that it wasn’t his father lying there. Nicos must really be in Kesk’s brutal hands, and Aeron had to find a way to set him free. He started to turn away, but then he hesitated.
He told himself not to be an idiot. The scout deserved whatever misfortune came her way. She’d killed Kerridi, Gavath, and Dal.
Yet she hadn’t shot Aeron, and he hadn’t knifed her when he’d had the chance. What was the point of sparing her then, only to let her die later? Assuming she wasn’t dead already. From where he stood, he couldn’t tell.
Maybe she’d watched the Red Axes abduct Nicos. Maybe she could tell Aeron something he needed to know.
His reasons for intervening felt like mere excuses, unconvincing even to himself. Yet, witless though it was, he’d feel base and vile if he simply walked away. He set the book down, and took a cautious step toward her, and the Rainspan squealed and shuddered. He froze.
“Scout,” he said, “if you’re alive, you have to let me know. Otherwise, I’m not coming out there.”
She didn’t respond. That was it, then. Maybe she was only unconscious, not dead, but all things considered, it would be stupid to risk his own neck to find out.
Or so he told himself. Then he crept forward anyway.
He moved slowly, setting his feet down as softly as he ever had slinking toward the jewelry box on a lady’s vanity with the woman and her husband snoring in bed just a few feet away. Despite his caution, the Rainspan snarled and jerked.
It didn’t crumble away beneath him, however, and in time he reached the woman. He stooped, cupped his hand over her nose and mouth, and felt the brush of her exhalation. She was alive.
Aeron guessed that meant he wasn’t a complete fool. Maybe three quarters’ worth.
“Ranger,” he said, “wake up.”
He gave her a little shake, then pinched her cheek hard. No matter what he did, she wouldn’t stir.
“Wonderful,” he said.
He lifted the guide in his arms. The damaged bridge had protested simply at supporting him. The weight of two people concentrated in a single spot made it rasp and buck repeatedly. The jerking grew increasingly violent, and the snapping and grinding, louder.
Aeron’s heart hammered. His mouth was dry. He felt an almost ungovernable urge to scramble off the walkway as quickly as he could, but he forced himself to proceed as cautiously as before, until finally he reached the safety of the shelf to which the Rainspan was attached.
He set the archer down, wiped at the sweat on his face, and panted until he caught his breath. Then he searched her.
Her sword was stuck out on the bridge, and her bow presumably lay somewhere in the street below. She still had a dirk, a buckler, and some arrows in her quiver, however, all of which he tossed beyond her reach. She certainly seemed severely injured, but he was no healer. He wanted to make certain she didn’t suddenly rouse and stick something sharp in him or brain him with the shield.
Next he went after her coin. Like many folk in Oeble, she carried a few coins in the pigskin purse on her belt, but more in an interior pocket of her leather armor. When he relieved her of her gold and saw just what a tidy sum it was, he grinned. At least he was back in funds again.
He stuffed The Black Bouquet under his tunic. Big as it was, it rode uncomfortably there, but he needed both hands. Though someone had once told him an injured person shouldn’t be moved any more than necessary, he couldn’t leave the ranger there. He had to take her someplace where she could be helped.
He wrapped her in her cloak in what he recognized was a rather pitiable attempt to disguise the nature of the peculiar burden he proposed to carry through the streets. He tugged his hood as far forward as it would go, to shadow his features, then he picked her up, carried her down the stairs, and out of the tower.
He was fit and she was slender, but the past couple days had been strenuous, and his arms and back soon started to ache. He was pondering the advisability of draping her over his shoulder when someone whistled in the darkness up ahead. A moment later, a similar series of shrill notes warbled from behind. Aeron couldn’t understand the signals—as far as he knew, no outsider could—but he recognized the distinctive signature of Whistlers calling to one another. The first one trilled again. It sounded closer. The gang member was evidently heading down the street.
Aeron could have dashed for the mouth of an alleyway, but not quickly enough, not encumbered with the ranger. He considered dumping her, but even if no one molested her, there was no guarantee that anybody would help her, either, and he simply couldn’t bring himself to do it. He could also try relying on his cowl to conceal his identity, but he doubted it would do the job, not if the Whistler was actually hunting him and passed close by.
That meant his best option was to hide. He carried the scout into a shadowy doorway and hunkered down. He drew a throwing knife in case he did have to fight, and stayed motionless thereafter.
A pair of bravos, both human, came into view. The clean-shaven one swaggered and sneered as, Aeron assumed, bullies the world over were wont to do. The one with the long, drooping mustache looked bored.
They glanced this way and that, plainly searching for someone or something. The man with the mustache peered straight at Aeron, but then turned indifferently away. The fugitive slumped with relief, and the ranger twitched and groaned.
He frantically tried to clap his hand over her mouth. It took him a second t
o find it inside the muffling cloak. Meanwhile, he waited to see if the Whistlers had heard her.
No, evidently not, for they wandered on down the street. Once they were gone, and his nerves left off jangling, he checked on the guide. She was still unconscious. She’d moaned in her sleep, if “sleep” was the proper word for her condition.
“You’re too much trouble,” he told her. “I earned every bit of your stinking gold.” He wrapped her up again and carried her onward.
The priests of Ilmater maintained a house of healing on the thoroughfare called the Rolling Shields. Someone had painted the god’s emblem, a pair of white hands bound with red rope, on the door, where the lamplight illuminated it. A scarlet bell pull hung beside the sigil, but with his hands full, Aeron found it easier simply to kick the panel until a stocky young acolyte with bloodstained sleeves opened it. The smells of astringent soap, incense, and sickness drifted out from inside.
“I have an injured woman here,” Aeron said. “I’ll pay for a private room and the best care you can give her.”
“Everyone receives the best care we can give, no matter the size of the donation,” the novice said stiffly.
Still, he led Aeron past the public wards with their double rows of cots to a chamber with a single bed in it. Aeron set the scout down, and the acolyte disappeared. A senior priest, scrawny, pale, and grizzled, appeared a minute later. He gave Aeron a curt nod, then proceeded to examine his patient. Eventually he rested his fingertips against her head and murmured an incantation. Pale light shone around them both, as if they were celestial beings possessed of halos. Bone clicked inside the guide’s body. Aeron assumed it was knitting itself back together, but even so, the noise set his teeth on edge.
“How is she?” he asked.
“She was gravely injured,” said the priest, “but she’ll mend.”
“Quickly, I imagine, since you used a spell on her.”
“I’ll be using more, but even so, it may be tomorrow or even the next day before she regains consciousness.”
“Piss and dung,” Aeron muttered.
He couldn’t wait that long to set about the task of freeing his father, which meant he was likely going to have to proceed without the benefit of whatever information the ranger could give him. Oh, well, he doubted she actually had anything critical to say. He produced a handful of her gold.
The Black Bouquet Page 13
