Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm

by Shadow's Realm (v1. 0)

  “Ducats?” Larson’s gaze probed Silme and Astryd before settling on Taziar.

  “Cullinsberg money.” Under the table, Taziar hooked Astryd’s ankle conspiratorially with booted toes. “The man looks like a Southerner to me.”

  Astryd answered Taziar’s touch with a questioning hand on his knee.

  Larson shrugged. “Very impressive. What do we do now? Ask the man?” He play-acted, catching Taziar’s sleeve and yanking repeatedly on the fabric. “Excuse me, Mac. Excuse me. My friend and I have a bet going. You see, he thinks you’ve got four gold, seven silver, and three copper ...”

  “Two copper,” Taziar corrected. “And that won’t be necessary.” He retrieved the purse and tossed it casually to the tabletop.

  Larson made a strangled noise of surprise, masking it with a guileless slam of his hand over the purse that drew every eye in the tavern. Silme clapped a hand to her mouth, transforming a laugh into a snort. Astryd’s fingers gouged warningly into Taziar’s leg.

  Apparently, Larson’s crooked arm adequately covered the stranger’s property. Within seconds, the tavernmaster and his other patrons returned to their business, but Taziar knew the matter was far from closed. Relishing his companion’s consternation, Taziar drained his mug to the dregs.

  Larson’s voice dropped to a grating whisper. “You ignorant son of a bitch.”

  “Son of what?” Taziar repeated with mock incredulity. When angered, Larson had an amusing habit of slipping into a language he called English.

  “Jerk,” Larson muttered, though this word held no more meaning to Taziar than the one before. “You cheated.”

  “Cheated.” Taziar smirked. “You mean there were rules?”

  “Damn you!” Larson raised a fist to emphasize his point. He tensed to pound the table. Then, glancing surreptitiously around the barroom, he lowered it gently to his wine bowl instead. “You get insulted when I call you a thief, then you pull something stupid like this! We don’t need more trouble than ...”

  Taziar interrupted. “I’m no thief,” he insisted.

  “Then why did you take this?” Larson lowered his eyes momentarily to indicate the purse still tucked beneath his palm.

  “Sport.” Taziar shrugged, his single word more question than statement.

  “Sport!” Larson’s voice rose a full tone. “Let me get this straight. We capture a god in the form of a wolf and battle a dragon the size of Chicag—” He caught himself. “— Norway. As an encore, we face off with a Dragonrank Master holding a bolt action rifle. You’re still limping from a bullet wound, for god’s sake! Forgive me if you find my life bland, but isn’t that enough excitement for you?”

  “That was more than a month ago.” Taziar’s voice sounded soft as a whisper in the wake of Larson’s tirade.

  Larson passed a long moment in silence before responding. “You’re insane, aren’t you?”

  Taziar grinned wickedly.

  The women exchanged glances across the table. Silme’s lips twitched into a smile, and she bit her cheeks to hide her amusement.

  “You think this is funny, don’t you?” Larson’s tone made it plain he did not share his companions’ glee. “And even you may think it’s funny.” He jabbed a thumb at Silme who wore an unconvincing expression of bemused denial. “But shortly, that man over there is going to try to pay for his meal. He’ll find his money missing; and, if he’s half as smart as a chimpanzee, he’ll look here first.”

  “A chimp and Z?” Astryd repeated, but Larson silenced her with an exasperated wave.

  “I doubt he’s got an attorney. In your lawless world of barbarians, he’ll talk with his sword. You’re too damned small to bother with.” Larson glared at Taziar. “So, I’m going to die because you’re crazy. Or perhaps, my dying is your idea of sport. Well, forget it.” Larson leaped to his feet. “I’m giving it back.”

  Before Larson could take a step, Taziar hooked his sleeve with a finger. Mimicking the elf’s Bronx accent, he tugged at the fabric, reviving Larson’s earlier play-acted scenario. “Excuse me, Mac. Excuse me. Your purse just happened to fall out of your pocket. I’d like to return it.”

  Larson hesitated. “What the hell am I doing?” He retook his seat and jammed the pouch into Taziar’s hand. “You’re the one who wanted sport. You took it. You put it back.”

  Taziar rose and bowed with mock servility. “Yes, my lord. At once.” He twisted toward the stranger’s table, and, despite his facetious reply, he examined the man with more than frivolous interest. The tavern contained too few patrons to hide the antics of one. But the inherent danger of Larson’s dare made it even more attractive to Taziar, who had intended nothing different.

  A hand tapped Taziar’s shoulder. He whirled to face Larson. The elf’s features bore an expression of somber concentration. “If you get caught, and he kills you before we can stop him, I just want you to know one thing.”

  Taziar nodded in acknowledgment, the possibility a particularly unpleasant consequence but one he could not afford to dismiss. “What’s that?”

  “I told you so.”

  Taziar snorted. “Jerk,” he replied, borrowing Larson’s insult. He shook the knotted lock of hair from his eyes and turned back to study the common room. No object passed his scrutiny unnoticed. Two tables, each with four chairs, stood between the stranger’s seat and his own, the narrow lane they formed comfortably passable. Beyond the man, a table sat in the opposite corner from the door. Beside it, at a diagonal to the stranger, a cracked, oak table occupied a space beside the one with the engrossed couple near the hearth. Someone had crammed six chairs around the flawed table, though its area was constructed to support only four. The corner of one chair partially blocked the walkway, its legs jammed crookedly against its neighbors.

  Taziar feigned a yawn. He stretched luxuriously, splaying callused fingers to work loose a cramp. Not wishing to draw attention by pausing overlong, he trotted farther into the barroom. Skirting the dark-haired stranger, he seized an extra chair from the overcrowded table and spun it toward the couple. His action knocked the misplaced chair further askew. Still standing, he leaned across the back of his seat and spoke to the boy in strident, congenial tones. “Ketil! Ketil Arnsson. I thought it was you.” Framing a knowing smile, he tipped his chin subtly toward the girl. “Does your mother know you’re here? And what are you doing this far from home?”

  Startled, the youth released his partner’s hand. “But—but I’m not ...”

  Taziar interrupted before he could finish. “How’s the apprenticeship going? I saw your father yesterday, and he said ...”

  The youth pushed free of his girlfriend. “Please, sir, my name’s Inghram. Kiollsson.”

  Taziar continued as if the boy had not spoken. “He said you’d been spending more time ...” He stopped suddenly, as if the boy’s words had finally registered and slouched further over the rail for a closer look. “Inghram?” he repeated.

  “Kiollsson,” the boy finished.

  Taziar straightened, working embarrassment into his voice. “Oh. I’m sorry. I thought... I...” He backstepped. Though the movement appeared awkward, Taziar knew the precise location of every stick of furniture. “Not Ketil. How did I ...?”

  Soothingly, the girl spoke in an obvious attempt to help Taziar save face. “A natural mistake. We don’t mind.”

  But Taziar acted even more distressed by her comforting. He spun, taking a harried step toward his companions. Carefully executed to appear an accident, his foot hooked the leg of the displaced chair and his thigh struck its seat. The chair toppled, taking Taziar with it. He crashed to the floor, suffering real pain to keep his performance convincing. Momentum slid him and the chair across the polished floor. Gracelessly, he tried to rise. But still entangled in the chair, he lurched toward the stranger, wadding the purse into his fist.

  Taziar slammed into the man. Berating his clumsiness with profanity, Taziar used his body to shield his actions from the other patrons. He flicked the pouch int
o the stranger’s pocket. Too late, he realized he had chosen the wrong pocket. But, before he could correct the error, the stranger leaped up, catching Taziar by the wrist and opposite forearm. The purse fumbled, balanced precariously on the edge of the pocket. Taziar stared in horror; his heart rate doubled in an instant.

  The stranger’s grip tightened. He lowered his head and pulled Taziar to within a hand’s breadth of his face, as if memorizing his features. Belted by the odor of onions and ale, Taziar resisted the urge to sneak a look at the teetering pouch of coins. He tried to read the man’s intentions, but the blankness of expression did not quite fit the tenseness of the stranger’s hold on Taziar. Allerum, are you blind? Suddenly, Taziar wished for Silme’s and Astryd’s abilities to contact Larson through his flawed mind barriers.

  “You!” the stranger said, his voice devoid of malice. He used the language of Cullinsberg’s barony with an odd mixture of accents. “You?” He blinked in the smoky half-lighting from the hearth. “Is your name Taziar Medakan?”

  Taziar all but stopped breathing. Months had passed since he had escaped the tortures of the baron’s dungeon, but a thousand gold weight price on his life might prove enough to keep bounty hunters on his trail for eternity. He knew someone would catch up with him eventually, yet he had always expected a direct attack rather than a questioning.

  The stranger shifted his weight to the opposite leg. Coins clicked, muffled by linen, though to Taziar they sounded as loud as a drumbeat. “Well?” the man prodded.

  Taziar sidled a glance toward his companions. Though too distant to hear words, they watched the exchange with concern. Larson’s fingers curled into a fist on the table, his other grip lax against his hilt. Silme’s hand rested on his arm, restraining. The bartender feigned disinterest, but his gaze flicked repeatedly to the stranger and his prisoner, awaiting trouble. Though Taziar knew of no other reason why this man should know his name, he answered truthfully in the same tongue. “I’m Taziar. How do you know me?”

  The stranger’s brown eyes lowered and rose. “You’re even smaller than I expected. I have an eleven-year-old daughter bigger than you.”

  Taziar found the comment annoyingly snide, but familiar with such taunts, he resisted the urge to return a sarcastic comment. “I think I’ve got my equilibrium now. Could I have my hands back?” He twisted slightly in the man’s grasp.

  The man seemed surprised. He released Taziar and gestured at a chair across the table. Apparently realizing he had never answered Taziar’s first question, he corrected the oversight. “I have a message for you.”

  “A message?” Taziar ignored the proffered seat. Instead, he caught the toppled chair, positioned it within reach of the stranger and sat. If the opportunity arose, he wanted to flip the purse safely into its pocket.

  The stranger sat also, hitching his chair sideways and further from Taziar.

  Recognizing an attempt to preserve personal space, Taziar suspected the man was city bred. “Who sent this message?”

  “I was told to mention Shylar.” The stranger examined Taziar for any sign of reaction.

  Taziar gave him none, though the name held more significance than any other the stranger might have spoken. An image rose in Taziar’s mind of a matronly woman, a handsome figure still evident beneath sagging skin, dark eyes shrewd and eclipsed by graying curls. She served as madam to Cullinsberg’s whorehouse and mother to its beggars and thieves. An uncanny reader of intentions and loyalties, Shylar had recruited pickpockets and street orphans like Taziar, building a faction of the underground that had become not only the most powerful, but peculiarly benevolent as well. Once one of Shylar’s favorites, Taziar knew most of his fellows catered to the semilegitimate vices of men: mind-hazing drugs, women, and gambling. Others acted as spies, scouting the city and its treasures until every corner of Cullinsberg belonged to the underground. Those attracted to politics bought guards and information.

  “There’s trouble in Cullinsberg,” the stranger explained.

  “Trouble?” Taziar gripped the edge of the table. “What sort of trouble?”

  “Violence in the streets. Merchants robbed to their last ducat, and sometimes beaten and killed. Guards brutalized so badly they’ve taken to carrying weapons off-duty and using them at the slightest provocation. Daughters dragged away in broad daylight to be sold as slaves in distant ports.” No trace of emotion entered the stranger’s voice; he relayed information in the matter-of-fact tone of a teacher.

  But the words stunned Taziar. He tried to picture his companions assaulting guardsmen in cobbled alleyways, but the image defied his experience. Shylar taught her lessons well. Taziar knew merchants expected to lose a small percentage of wares when they came to the baron’s city, but huge profits absorbed the pilferings and encouraged the traders to return. Greedy thefts could only harm trade and, in the long run, destroy the thief’s own livelihood. And Shylar’s followers would never resort to violence. Taziar spoke, his mouth suddenly dry. “Anything more?”

  The stranger shrugged. “I was told to tell you, Taziar Medakan, that the baron’s fighting back. His men have infiltrated organized gangs. The guards arrested some of the strongest leaders. They’re rotting in the baron’s dungeons while he collects a few more before a mass execution on Aga’arin’s High Holy Day.” The stranger circled his own neck with his fingers, simulating a noose. He made a crude noise, then dropped his head to one side, eyes bulging and tongue dangling from a corner of his mouth.

  Taziar scooted backward with a pained noise, the memory of his father’s death on the gallows rising hot within him. He recalled the elder Medakan’s quietly dignified acceptance of an execution based on betrayal, the convulsing throes of suffocation, and hard, gray eyes still steely after death. Visibly shaken, Taziar gulped down half the stranger’s ale before he realized his mistake.

  The stranger’s face resumed its normal appearance, and he laughed at Taziar’s discomfort. “Gruesome, eh, but no worse than they deserve.”

  Taziar nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He wondered whether the stranger’s cruelty had been intentional. Taziar’s father had led the baron’s guards during the decades of the Barbarian Wars. And anyone in Cullinsberg who didn’t know the captain from his years of service would certainly remember his public hanging. Then, too, Taziar’s alias as Shadow Climber must have become common information. He’s setting me up for capture. But something about the situation seemed jarringly amiss. Only an insider would think to lure me with the name Shylar, but no professional would be stupid enough to send a Cullinsbergen with the message. Taziar regathered his shattered composure. “You’re from Cullinsberg?”

  “Me?” The stranger shook his head and spoke with honest casualness. “Many years ago, right about the start of the wars. My father didn’t want to make me an orphan, or a solider when my time came, so we moved away. I spent most of my life in Sverigehavn.” He twitched, suddenly appearing uncomfortable. “You probably don’t think much of war dodgers, not if you’re related to the hero with your same name.”

  Taziar always prided himself on reading motivations; on the streets, his life depended on it. This man’s replies came too effortlessly to be lies, unless they were exceedingly well-rehearsed. His explanations seemed appropriately fluent, his uneasiness heartfelt. He did not stumble over the term “hero,” despite the fact that the citizenry had long ago exchanged the word for “traitor.” Taziar dismissed the confession with a mild signal of good will. “Not everyone’s meant for battle. I was more interested in how you came by the information you just gave me.”

  “Now that’s odd.” The stranger reclaimed his mug from Taziar, tracing its rim with a dirty finger. “I’m a dockhand. The ferry, Amara, came ashore a few weeks back. An old man approached me, picked me out because of my accent, I guess. He said he’d come on Amara from Cullinsberg and asked me to give you that message. I don’t know how he knew where I’d find you. Didn’t tell me his name, just told me you wouldn’t know him and said to men
tion Shylar. Paid me well enough to make it worth my time finding you.”

  Taziar studied the stranger more carefully in light of this new information. He noticed a face chapped and wind-burned from exposure to elements, muscled arms, and hands callused like a laborer’s. The last piece of the puzzle slid into place with smooth precision. Though a southerner residing in Sweden was rare, the stranger’s story seemed plausible and circumstance supported it. The elderly man could have been any of a hundred street people aided by Taziar’s charity; enamored with the thrill rather than the money, Taziar had always freely shared his spoils with hungry beggars. The payment explained why a dockhand carried gold, but a street person from Cullinsberg could only have gathered enough coinage for travel and ferry passage from one source. Shylar. And if she went to this much expense and trouble to find me, not even knowing whether I’m still alive, she’s in serious trouble.

  Taziar frowned, confused as well as concerned. The underground had long ago adopted a complex series of codes for positive identification of authenticity of messages. The stranger’s method of delivery defied all correct procedure. Maybe the signals have changed or Shylar thought I might have forgotten them. Perhaps she was too desperate to waste time with details. Taziar fidgeted. Could this be a trap, a trick of the baron’s to draw me back to Cullinsberg? He dismissed the thought from necessity. If there’s any chance Shylar’s in trouble, I have to help. I’ll just have to be careful. Another realization jarred Taziar with sudden alarm. “Has the ferry made her last run until spring?”

  The stranger bobbed his head in assent. “But she’ll winter in the south, so she’ll cast off early next week for the return to Calrmar Port.”