The Black Bouquet

by Richard Lee Byers

  She crept down the stairs and onward through the darkness, in the opposite direction from Kesk’s henchmen. She encountered other ruffians, some of whom eyed her speculatively. But when she returned their stares, making it clear she registered their interest without the slightest flicker of alarm, they allowed her to continue on her way unmolested.

  It was difficult to keep track of time underground. Eventually, though, she became convinced she’d been searching for quite a while. Certainly she was retracing her steps through sections of tunnel she’d traversed before. Maybe, she thought, she should return to her sanctuary and consult the arcanaloth after all. Then, some distance ahead, a lanky figure stepped from a doorway. He froze for a moment as if startled to see her, which gave her a decent look at his face. Though the gloom dulled the bright copper of his hair to a nondescript gray, Sefris recognized the man she’d come to find.

  She sprinted toward him. She’d tended the wounds she’d received the night before, and though her thigh ached, she was able to run as fast as ever. She snatched a chakram from her pocket and broke stride for the split second required to fling it spinning ahead of her, skimming low to maim Aeron’s leg.

  The ring flew as true as any cast she’d ever made. Unfortunately, however, it was a long throw, which gave Aeron time to dodge. He scrambled onto the first riser of a staircase and on up out of sight.

  When she followed him onto the steps, she realized from the wan trace of sunlight leaking down from overhead that they connected the tunnel with the outdoors. If Aeron reached the top, it might give him the chance to flee in more than one direction, or lose himself in a crowd. Resolved to catch him while he was still inside the stairwell, she ran even harder.

  From above her came a sudden clatter. She was still peering, trying to figure out what the sound meant, when her sandal landed on something small, hard, and round. The objects rolled, and despite all her training, threw her off balance. She fell, caught herself, and at the same time realized that Aeron had tossed a quantity of marbles bouncing down the steps.

  A good trick, but the fall hadn’t injured her, nor delayed her for more than an instant. She could still catch him. She raced on.

  As she neared the top of the steps, the daylight dazzled her. She squinted against it, but still missed seeing the cord her quarry had stretched at ankle level. She tripped and fell a second time.

  Her wounded leg throbbed, and she suspected she’d torn open the cut. He still hadn’t stopped her, though, nor saved himself. He’d simply annoyed her, which meant it was going to be even more satisfying to hurt him.

  She scrambled up into a little unpaved cul-de-sac. Towers rose around her, with Rainspans linking the upper stories. To her right, a door slammed. She dashed to it and grabbed the black wrought iron handle. It turned, the latch disengaged, but the panel wouldn’t push open. She had to kick it twice to dislodge the wooden wedge her quarry had used to jam it shut.

  Judging by the look and stink of the interior, the spire was another of Oeble’s squalid tenements, with hordes of paupers living, breeding, and dying in its tiny rooms. Aeron’s footsteps thudded on the stairs zigzagging away into shadow overhead. Sefris raced after him.

  She thought he’d bolt out onto one of the elevated bridges, but he surprised her. He ran all the way to the top floor, then scrambled up a ladder and through a trapdoor.

  She expected him to lie in wait by the hatch, poised to knife her, and when she swarmed up the ladder, she was ready to defend herself. It wasn’t necessary. What he’d actually done was retreat to the very edge of the square, flat roof, then hop up on the low parapet that ran along it.

  It had to be another trick, didn’t it? She looked at him and all around, but couldn’t spot the hidden threat.

  “You’re fine,” he panted. “I’m the one who’s in danger. If I lose my balance, if anything jostles me, I’ll fall to my death.”

  “What does this mean?” she asked.

  “You don’t think I just happened to be carrying a bag of marbles, a trip cord, and a wedge around with me, do you?” he replied with a grin. “I wanted to talk to you, so I let people see me in the Door. I figured you’d hear about it and come sniffing around. I spotted you, let you do the same to me, then used my tricks to slow you down while you chased me. I couldn’t let you catch up until I led you here. You won’t throw a spell or one of those rings at me now, will you?”

  “What I will do is take hold of you and pull you down,” she said, then started forward.

  “Don’t try!” Aeron called. “I’ll jump, and you’ll never find out where I hid The Black Bouquet.”

  She didn’t believe him, but she wasn’t absolutely sure she was right, and thus she hesitated. Maybe it would be safer to hear him out first, and call his bluff later if need be. It wasn’t as if he could evade her. He’d backed himself into a corner.

  “I don’t think you want to die and leave your father in the tanarukk’s hands,” said Sefris.

  “You’re right, but I know I can’t save him by myself—or working with Miri, for that matter. That’s why I sold her to Melder.”

  Sefris frowned, trying to follow his train of thought.

  “What do you mean?” she asked. “What did betraying Miri accomplish?”

  “Well, I told people it was to raise the coin to bribe one of the Red Axes, but that’s not practical, considering that none of them is any more trustworthy than Kesk himself. I just wanted folk to think it was the reason, so they wouldn’t figure out I was getting rid of her to clear the way for you.”

  “Clear the way for me?”

  “Yes. I can’t very well work with you and Miri both, considering that you’d both demand the black book in payment, and you’re the one I need. You fight better than anyone I’ve ever seen, and you’re a sorceress on top of it. Her talents are nothing compared to yours.”

  “So you’re offering me the Bouquet in exchange for my help in rescuing your father.”

  “And peace between you and me afterward.”

  “I agree.”

  Aeron smiled and said, “Good, except that I don’t believe you yet. Maybe it’s because I’m such a faithless liar myself, but it strikes me that you might promise anything to lure me into your clutches, with no intention of keeping your word.”

  “I swear by Shar that I will.”

  Some deities might object to their worshipers making false vows in their names, but the Lady of Loss wasn’t one of them. She wanted her work done by any means necessary. Indeed, she relished treachery and oath-breaking to the extent that she could be said to savor anything in the vile stew that was creation.

  “That’s wonderful,” Aeron said, an ironic edge in his voice, “but even so, I want to ask you something. How did my father hold up under torture?”

  “Fairly well,” she admitted.

  In truth, Nicos had borne up remarkably well. After what he’d suffered, he should have been too cowed to utter a word unbidden, yet instead he’d exposed her identity to the mage with the blackwood cane.

  “Remember,” Aeron said, “he’s old and sick. I’m young, healthy, and my father’s son. I could hold out even longer. I could sit on the location of the book until it’s too late. Until the cursed thing’s destroyed.”

  She felt a thrill of dismay, and asked, “Destroyed … how?”

  “If I told you, it might help you figure out where it is. Just take my word for it. If I don’t fetch it from its current hiding place by sunrise tomorrow, that will be the end of it. Your only hope of getting it is for me to hand it over voluntarily.”

  “I understand,” she said, and it was so.

  Evidently she did have to play along for the time being, and that was all right. Eventually a moment would come when he no longer held the formulary hostage, and at that moment, she’d repay him in full for all the trouble he’d caused her.

  “Good.”

  Aeron stepped down off the parapet. He was trying to appear confident, and it would have fooled most peo
ple, but she could read the tension in his lean frame, the fear that she was going to lunge at him. It made her wish she could.

  He said, “Here’s what I think we should do …”

  Aeron noticed a patch of fresh blood staining the skirt of his new ally’s robe.

  “You’re bleeding,” he said.

  “It’s nothing.”

  Leaning against the weather-beaten railing with its flaking paint, Sefris peered down from the Rainspan at the street fifteen feet below. Aeron hoped that to a casual observer they looked like two innocent loiterers idly chatting and watching the traffic pass under the bridge. He knew, however, that no one who took a close look at Sefris would dismiss her so lightly. In her eyes he discerned a terrifying contradiction, calmness and calculation overlying a deeper madness. Or maybe he only thought he saw it because she made him nervous.

  Which in turn made him want to engage her in conversation, perhaps in hopes of uncovering human feeling in someone who superficially seemed as cold as the brass mantis, and he supposed he might as well indulge the impulse. Maybe he’d find out something useful.

  “I’m surprised your cult even cares about The Black Bouquet. I mean, if it was a grimoire full of evil magic, I could see it, but it’s just a tool for making perfume.”

  She glanced over at him and replied, “It’s not my place to question the tasks my Dark Father sets me.”

  “But you must at least think about them. I can tell you’re not stupid.”

  It took her a moment to decide if she wanted to answer.

  “It takes wealth to wage war,” she said finally, “and we’re the Dark Goddess’s army in the struggle against everyone and everything.”

  “So you need a lot of wealth.”

  “Also, when Quwen sacked our temple in Ormath, it was a defeat and an affront to our Lady. We couldn’t let it stand. In time, we’ll erase it fully. Wash it away with his lordship’s blood.”

  Aeron was sure Sefris wouldn’t have divulged such a thing if she thought he might live to repeat it. That simply confirmed what he’d already concluded, but he felt a chill nonetheless.

  “In that case,” he said, “I’m glad I’m not him.”

  “It has occurred to me,” Sefris said, her unblinking stare becoming a shade less piercing, her tone a bit more introspective, “that it’s fitting for my order to lay claim to this particular treasure. Because of the title.”

  Aeron cocked his head and replied, “I don’t follow.”

  “The Lady of Loss teaches that the whole world is like a black bouquet. Parts of it are pretty, to lure the foolish, but all the flowers are poison.”

  Though her statement was unsettling, he forced a grin.

  He said, “That’s a cheery point of view.”

  “You of all people should see the truth of it. You live in Oeble, where the folk prey on one another like starving rats, and friend betrays friend for a copper bit.”

  He snorted and said, “I guess we must be pretty bad at that, if our habits make a Shar worshiper squeamish.”

  “My point is, the rest of the world is no different. It’s just that in Oeble, no one tries to cover up the essential foulness.”

  “Does that mean that in the big bouquet, we’re stems as opposed to blossoms?”

  “Mock Shar’s wisdom if you want,” she said. “Your opinion means nothing.”

  “I wasn’t mocking, exactly …”

  She pointed and said, “Look.”

  A few steps below street level, the door to the mordayn den opened, and three Red Axes, a pair of humans and a gnoll, emerged blinking into the sunlight. Aeron was disappointed, but not surprised. He’d assumed that none of Kesk’s henchmen would roam around the city alone. The Lynxes had probably stopped raiding their competition—Ombert was shrewd enough to know he couldn’t continue the harassment for long without his rivals discovering who was responsible—but the Axes couldn’t be certain it was over.

  “Loan me a couple of your knives,” Sefris said.

  “That’s not the plan,” Aeron answered as he started toward the end of the bridge.

  She followed, saying, “If I hide, and throw daggers instead of chakrams, no one will realize I’m helping you. They’ll think you made the kills.”

  “Just do it my way, all right?” Aeron said. “Stay well back unless I need you.”

  He almost wondered himself why he didn’t take her up on her offer. Those past few days, his hands had run red with blood. It was probably stupid to scruple at spilling any more, particularly if it belonged to the cutthroats who were holding his father prisoner. Mask knew, Aeron had come to hate the bastards. Yet even so, given the choice, he’d manage the last part of his scheme without murder.

  He slipped down the stairs that connected the Rainspan to the street, then started to shadow Kesk’s men. Fortunately, the street was busy enough that he had a fair chance of going unnoticed. As he skulked along, he took inventory of his enemies’ weapons. The gnoll bore a crossbow that was already cocked and loaded. Since it could strike fast and at a distance, Aeron needed to be particularly wary of it.

  Alas, he had no way of telling what the Axes might be carrying in the way of potions, figurines that grew and came to life, or other magical creations. He’d just have to try to incapacitate them so quickly that they wouldn’t have time to use such tricks even if they possessed them.

  The Red Axes cut across the avenue toward the mouth of an alley. One of the human cutthroats, a beefy youth with a florid complexion and blond hair that stuck up in unruly tufts, kicked a beggar child who was too slow scurrying out of the way.

  When he reached the start of it, Aeron saw that the alleyway wasn’t nearly as busy as the street. Without dozens of pedestrians wandering every which way, he had a clear throw at his targets. He stooped, picked up a pair of round, heavy stones, and hurled them one after the other.

  He wasn’t as accurate with rocks as he was with daggers. He hadn’t practiced as much. Still, the first stone cracked against the back of the gnoll’s canine head, and the creature pitched forward. The second one hurtled past the blond lad’s skull, missing by an inch.

  The human Red Axes cried out in surprise and lurched around. By then, Aeron had another rock in his hand. He threw that one at the yellow-haired cutthroat’s face, but his target jerked up his arm to shield himself. The resulting impact must have stung, maybe even chipped bone, but wasn’t enough to put him down.

  “That’s Aeron sar Randal!” said the remaining bravo.

  Stocky and middle-aged, he dressed all in blue, wore an abundance of cheap silver ornaments, and possessed a shrill, almost girlish voice. He and the blond youth snatched out their blades and charged.

  Aeron was at least pleased that they hadn’t pulled out any obviously enchanted weapons, and the gnoll appeared to be entirely unconscious. Still, the confrontation had become considerably riskier than Aeron wanted it to be.

  He judged he had time for one more throw, so he grabbed a stone and faked a cast at the young Red Axe, who flinched. Aeron pivoted and flung the missile at the man in blue instead. The rock clipped his temple, and he stumbled to a halt. Looking shocked, his scimitar dangling at his side, he fingered the bloody graze.

  The blond youth must have realized his comrade had stopped running, because he, too, balked. It gave Aeron a chance to put his hand on yet another stone. When he grabbed it, though, the Red Axe started rushing in again. He must have decided that even a fair fight, one against one and knife against knife, was preferable to standing off and letting a foe pelt him with rocks.

  Aeron threw the stone. It smacked the youth in the chest but didn’t stop him. He pounced, slashed, and Aeron, his hands empty, could only defend by springing frantically backward.

  The Red Axe pursued him. Aeron had to dodge two more attacks before he could ready his own weapons, his largest Arthyn fang in one hand and his cudgel in the other.

  He feinted a stab to the stomach with the knife, then lashed the club at the blond
youth’s face. Undeceived, the Red Axe simultaneously ducked the true attack and slashed at Aeron’s wrist. The knife tore the underside of his forearm.

  Aeron thought, hoped, the wound was shallow. He couldn’t stop and check. He retreated to a safe distance, fought defensively for a few heartbeats, then flowed into the same combination he’d tried before, a low feint with the knife and a strike to the head with the cudgel. He made the actions just big and slow enough that his opponent was sure to understand them.

  Naturally, the youth responded with the same counterattack as before. Why not, it had worked the first time. When his dagger flashed at Aeron’s arm, the redheaded outlaw spun the club, trapped the blade, and carried it safely aside. At once he stepped in and hammered the heavy pommel of his own knife into the center of the Red Axe’s forehead. The lad’s eyes rolled up in his head, and his knees buckled.

  Aeron felt a momentary satisfaction, cut short when he sensed a presence at his back. He leaped aside, and a scimitar whizzed through the space he’d just vacated. One profile smeared with blood, the cutthroat in blue had shaken off the shock of his superficial injury and crept up on the person responsible.

  Aeron parried the next cut with his cudgel. It worked, it kept the blade out of his guts, but the force of the stroke knocked the club from his grip, leaving only his own blades with which to defend himself.

  The Red Axe hacked at him repeatedly, and whenever Aeron could, he used a variation of the blond boy’s counter. He ducked or dodged his opponent’s blade and slashed or thrust at his extended arm. Before long, the man in blue became accustomed to the pattern, to an adversary who fought as he did, with a single weapon, and that was when Aeron surreptitiously slipped a second knife into his off hand.

  He flourished the big Arthyn fang, locking the Red Axe’s attention on it, then threw the smaller dagger. The knife plunged into the older man’s throat. He made a gargling sound, pawed at the hilt for a second, and collapsed.

  The Red Axe’s death left Aeron feeling vaguely disgusted, but it was not the time to dwell on it. He inspected the gash on his forearm. He’d guessed right, it wasn’t bad enough to require expert attention, not immediately, anyway. Employing his fingers and teeth, he knotted a kerchief into a makeshift bandage, then crouched to check the yellow-haired lad.