Slasher kicked a pebble into the air amid a shower of dirt. The stone bounced from the wall behind Taziar and dropped back to the roadway. “Taz knows, ’e’s actin’.”
“Is not.” Rascal glared. “He really doesn’t know. Does that look like the face of someone who’s lying?”
Obligingly, Slasher studied Taziar. “No,” he admitted. “It looks like a face what got kicked by an ’orse.”
Weasel and Bag snickered. The waif between them twisted his shirt tighter, stretching it farther out of shape. Ida turned Slasher a disgusted look before replying. “Shylar’s arrested.”
“No.” Taziar shivered, set upon by a strange merger of grief and doubt. Shylar had lived too long among thieves and deception to be taken easily. It was common knowledge that the prostitutes would work for no one else, and the whorehouse would collapse without Shylar to run it. Yet, apparently, miraculously, it had not. “How?” Taziar shook his head, aware this gang of street orphans could not have the political knowledge needed to explain. “Where did this Harriman come from? I can think of half a dozen trustworthy men who served the underground for years. Why would anyone submit to a stranger?”
The youths exchanged uneasy glances. “Half a dozen?” Rascal repeated. “More like eight, Taz. All grabbed by the baron’s guards and tossed in the dungeons.” Rascal ran down the list with a facility that could only come from repetition. “Waldmunt and Amalric first. Then Mandel, Fridurik, Odwulf, Asril the Procurer, Adal, and Waldhram, in that order. Anyone who could serve as leader was taken even before Shylar.”
The Weasel added, “Harriman come along just ’fore the confusion. Ain’t ’fraid ta kill or terrize no one, not even guards, ’e put th’ unnerground back together.”
Taziar sat in silent awe, certain he had slipped beyond consciousness and was now mired in nightmare. He rubbed a hand across his face, felt the cold reality of lacerated skin and dried blood. Tears of grief welled in hardened, blue eyes, and he banished them with resolve. Suddenly, the plight of the beggars became clear. The arrests cut them off from Shylar’s charity and the money from members of the underground who paid them as witnesses or hired them to aid in scams and thefts. Starvation must have killed some and driven others to prey upon one another.
An image came vividly to Taziar’s mind, the remembered visage of the dockhand in Kveldemar’s tavern, neck twisted in an illusory noose. Dread prickled the skin at the nape of his neck. “What does the baron plan to do with my friends in the dungeons?”
Eternity seemed to pass twice before Rascal responded. “Hanging. Day after tomorrow on Aga’arin’s High Holy Day.”
“Except Adal,” Ida clarified.
Rascal flinched. “Except Adal,” he confirmed, and his tone went harsh with rising anger. “A blacksmith found his beaten corpse stuffed in a rain barrel.”
Taziar lowered his head, distressed but not surprised. Until his battering at the hands of drug-inspired berserks, he had considered the baron’s dungeon guards the most cruelly savage men alive. Grief turned swiftly to rage. He clamped his hand over his sword hilt until his fingers blanched; tension incited his injuries, and he felt lightheaded. His awareness wavered, tipped dangerously toward oblivion. “How?” The word emerged as a grating whisper. “How did the baron know who to arrest?”
Strained stillness fell. Every orphan evaded Taziar’s gaze, except Rascal. A wild mixture of emotions filled the leader’s green eyes, and misery touched his words. “Clearly, some trusted member of the underground betrayed them.” He blotted his brow with a grimy sleeve. “Taz, aside from us, no criminal, guard, or beggar harbors any doubt that traitor is you.”
“Me?” Startled, Taziar found no time to construct a coherent defense. “That’s madness.”
“Is it?” Slasher’s finger traced the haft of his dagger. “Odd someone informed on ever‘ leader, ’ceptin‘ you and th’ ones what joined after you left Cullinsberg. Ever‘ guard questioned, by bribe or threat, has guv your name.”
“That’s madness,” Taziar repeated.
Before he could raise further argument, a long-legged, young woman skittered into the alleyway. “Rascal, Harriman’s coming!”
Slasher muttered a string of wicked obscenities. Rascal delegated responsibility with admirable skill. “Ragin, tell the other scouts to stay where they are. Taz, put that hood up. Keep still, and don’t say a word. The rest of you, act like normal. Slasher, don’t do anything stupid.”
Ragin trotted off to obey. The Weasel edged in front of Taziar.
“How can Slasher act normal if he’s not doing something stupid?” Ida’s quip shattered the brooding strain, and even Slasher snickered.
Moments later, Harriman and his bodyguards entered the alleyway, and the laughter died to nervous coughs. Studying the newcomers from the corner of his vision, Taziar recognized the Norsemen whose malicious pleasure had nearly resulted in his death. Skereye appeared uglier in daylight. Furrows of scar tissue marred his scalp where some sword or axe had cleaved his skull. Thin, white-blond hair veiled his head in a scraggly, nearly invisible layer. A film covered pallid eyes, as if years of the berserker drug had burned him to a soulless shell. Halden, too, appeared marked by battle. One hand sported three fingers. A swirl of flesh replaced a nose once hacked away. But his eyes remained fiercely alert.
A half-step behind the bodyguards, Taziar recognized Harriman as the man who had called his beating to a halt. In Shylar’s whorehouse, the new leader of the underground had seemed out of his element. In a rogue-filled alleyway, he appeared even more the piece that jarred. He carried his swarthy frame with a nobleman’s dignity, and his trust-inspiring features seemed more suited to a merchant. Only a dangerously fierce gleam in his eyes marred the picture. His gaze traveled over every member of the gang to rest, briefly, on Taziar.
Taziar stiffened. Aware the children’s lives would be at stake if Harriman noticed him, Taziar hunched deeper within the folds and hoped the nobleman would not recognize his cloak.
A thin smile etched Harriman’s lips and quickly disappeared. Otherwise, he paid Taziar no regard. Brushing aside the towering Norsemen, Harriman approached Rascal. “Only six coppers?”
Rascal swallowed hard. “The rest was food. We had a bad day.”
Harriman pressed. “You have more.”
Rascal moved his head stiltedly from side to side. Taziar read fear in the youth’s demeanor, but his voice remained steady. “I’m sorry, Harriman. Ragin gave you all of it.”
Harriman stood unmoving, leaving the children in a silence etched with threat. The unremitting quiet grew nearly unbearable. Suddenly, Harriman whirled to his guards. “Search them. All of them.”
Taziar jerked backward as if struck. Horror crossed every orphan’s face, and Ida hissed in terror. Taziar groped through the creases of his cloak for his sword hilt. He knew he would not last long against the Norsemen; he had barely regained enough strength to stand. But he hoped his interference might give the children a chance to run.
Before Taziar could move, Slasher stepped between Skereye and the remainder of the street gang. “Karana damn you ta hell! Rascal’s told you we ain’t got more.”
Without warning, Skereye jabbed a punch. Slasher threw up an arm in protection. The Norseman’s huge fist knocked the youth’s guard aside and crashed into the side of his head. Slasher sank to one knee in agony, then scrambled backward to forestall another blow.
Arm cocked, Skereye took a menacing shuffle-step forward. But Harriman caught his wrist. “Enough. Don’t hurt the children. They’re family.”
Harriman’s voice and manner revealed genuine concern, but Taziar watched Harriman’s eyes and the fleeting upward twitch at one corner of his mouth. By these signs, Taziar recognized a masterful performance. No doubt, Harriman savored the children’s discomfort every bit as much as his guards. Abruptly, Taziar realized Harriman had met his gaze. The nobleman gave no indication of recognition, yet the icy lack of reaction failed to soothe. Identified or not, Tazia
r expected no clues from Harriman. Cursing his helplessness, the Shadow Climber turned his face toward the wall, clasped his hands to his knees, and waited.
“Fine.” Harriman used a voice devoid of emotion. “Tomorrow, you’ll make up for today. I’ll expect a full gold. Whatever you have to do, get it.”
Taziar sneaked a peek from beneath his hood. Rascal returned Harriman’s stare with no trembling or uncertainty. For a moment, Taziar thought the youth would protest; a full gold would require an extraordinary stroke of luck in addition to the best efforts of every gang member. But Rascal responded with the bland good sense that explained why he, not the tougher but more impulsive Slasher, served as leader. “You’ll have it,” he said simply.
The matter settled, Harriman nodded. “One thing more. The traitor, Taziar Medakan, is back in town. If you see him, turn him in to me and it’ll be worth twenty gold ducats, free and clear.” Harriman’s gaze roved beyond Rascal to settle, unnervingly, on Taziar. “It’s another twenty if you give me the names of anyone who aids him.” His voice went soft and dangerous as a serpent’s hiss. “Because anyone caught helping him will die.” Without another word, he spun on his heel and walked back the way he had come, the Norsemen at his heels. In the ensuing silence their receding footsteps thundered through the alleyway.
Taziar clambered to his feet, glad to find he could stand without reeling; his mind remained clear.
Rascal seized Taziar’s arm with such sudden violence, he nearly knocked the little Climber back to the ground. Though eighteen, three years younger than Taziar, he stood a forearm’s length taller. “What’s going on here? Harriman recognized you.”
“He did not,” Ida chimed in to defend Taziar. “If he did, he would have taken Taz.”
For once, Slasher remained silent, rubbing his aching cheek.
Taziar winced in sympathy, familiar with the Norsemen’s power. “I don’t know whether he knew me or not. But if he wanted me, he already had me.” Reaching into the pocket of his britches, he emerged with his depleted purse. He dumped the contents into his hand, counting seven gold coins and as many coppers and silvers. He offered the money to Rascal. “Buy horses and traveling rations. All of you, leave town. You’re not safe here.”
Rascal stared at the assortment of Northern coins without moving. “We can’t take all that.” He said nothing further, but his tone implied he would refuse to leave Cullinsberg as well.
Taziar pried Rascal’s fingers from his sleeve, slapped the coins into the youth’s palm, and curled the grip closed. “I owe you that and more. Take it.” He released Rascal’s hand, stuffing the empty pouch back into his pocket. “Believe me, Rascal. I understand how difficult it is deserting the only home you’ve ever known.” Taziar recalled how his own loyalty to the city of his birth kept him from moving to the farm of an uncle after his parents’ deaths. “There’s a world outside Cullinsberg. It’s a lot less civilized but definitely worth seeing.” He broke off there, too familiar with street mentality to lecture. Sometimes even certain death seems easier to face than the unknown.
“I’m sorry about what happened, Taz,” Rascal said softly, though whether he referred to the incident in the alleyway or his refusal to abandon Cullinsberg was unclear.
“I’m the one who should apologize. I never meant you any trouble.” Taziar’s hands balled to fists, and, though he addressed himself, he expressed the words aloud. “No more innocent deaths; I can’t allow it. The baron’s gallows will lie idle if I have to unravel every rope in Cullinsberg with my own hands.” He turned to leave amid a tense stillness, the promise a burden that lay, aching, within him. And he had no idea whether he could keep it.
* * *
CHAPTER 4 : Shadows of Magic
A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies.
—Oscar Wilde The Picture of Dorian Gray
Al Larson crouched in the deepest corner of the third-story inn room, his spine pressed to the wall. The last dim glare of the day trickled through the single window, casting a watery sheen over the only piece of furniture. A table stood in the center of the room, carved into lopsided patterns by an unskilled craftsman. Atop it, a pewter pitcher and a stack of wooden bowls stood in stately array. A fire burned in the hearth. Earlier, sunlight through the open window had eclipsed the hearth fire to a nicker of gold and red. Now, the flames cast fluttering patterns on the wall, plainly illuminating Astryd and Silme where they perched on the stacked logs, but knifing Larson’s half of the room into shadow.
Larson flicked open his left cuff and glanced at his naked wrist. In the last four months, since the god, Freyr, had torn him from certain death in Vietnam and placed him in the body of an elf, Larson had spent nearly all his nights in evergreen forests. The inn did not seem much different. It’s not as if we’ll find mints on our pillows; there aren’t any pillows. Sleeping on floorboards and spare clothes can’t be much better than sleeping on pine needles and spare clothes. There’s the fire, of course. But if I don’t shutter the window, it won’t provide any more warmth than a campfire in a drafty wood.
The thought turned Larson’s attention to the only window, cut in the southern wall and directly opposite the door. From his hunkered position in the southeastern corner, he gleaned a slanted impression of mortared stone buildings on the other side of the thoroughfare. Rambling, narrow, and discolored by mud, moss, and dying vines, they reminded Larson of row houses in New York City, with the graffiti conspicuously absent. From a more detailed study a few hours earlier, he knew ashes, rotted vegetables, and broken wood littered the dirt floor. Now, he heard the crunch of bones as a cat or rat feasted on the garbage. Every other side of the inn overlooked a cobbled roadway, and Larson could not fathom why Taziar had suggested this particular room. Whatever his reason, it wasn’t for the view.
Astryd tapped the brass-bound base of her staff on the stacked logs. Metal thumped against wood. “Allerum, why do you keep staring at the back of your hand? Are you hurt?”
Self-consciously, Larson rubbed his wrist, unaware that concern over Taziar’s absence had driven him to consult his nonexistent watch often enough for his companions to notice. Explaining the conventions of his era always seemed more trouble than it was worth. Freyr had bridged time in order to fetch a man from a century without magic or its accompanying natural mental defenses to serve as a means of telepathic communication for a god trapped within the forged steel of a sword. Once, while Silme attempted to contact the imprisoned god through Larson’s mind, a wayward memory had pulled them all into the deadly light show of the Vietnam war. Since then, Silme never doubted Larson came from another place and time. But unfamiliar with faery folk and never having accessed his thoughts, Astryd and Taziar attributed Larson’s peculiarities to the fact that he was an elf.
“Old habit,” Larson replied simply, surprised by the surliness that entered his tone. Though inadvertent, Astryd’s curiosity had returned his contemplations to the one topic he wished to avoid: Taziar’s absence. The conversation in Cullinsberg’s alley returned in detail, replaying through his mind for what seemed like the twentieth time. In Vietnam, a competent, reliable companion was forgiven even the most callous insults once the fire action started. Yet Larson could not forget his own unyielding manner, cruel words, and the stricken look on Taziar’s face when the Climber found his loyalties torn. I shouldn’t have called those street kids “scum.” Shadow’s sensitive, and he identifies with them. The punks may be thieves and hoods, but buddies do for each other. I owe it to the little slimeball to watch his back. He’d do the same for me.
Frustrated by guilt, Larson slammed a fist into his palm. Astryd was right. I should have gone with Shadow. He knew his thought was foolish, but it would not be banished. An image filled his mind. As vividly as though it had happened yesterday, he recalled Taziar’s wiry frame, clothed in black linen and clinging, naturally as a squirrel, to the “unscalable” wall of the Dragonrank school, returning from an unannounced visit to its “impenetrable
” grounds. Again, he glimpsed a flash of steel as Gaelinar, his ronin swordmaster, slashed for Taziar’s hands. And, though severely outmatched, Taziar had accepted the challenge, turning Gaeli-nar’s hatred and attempts at murder into a dangerous game of wits. All it would take is one person to call something impossible, and that jackass, Cullinsbergen friend of mine would go off, half-cocked, to prove he could do it.
Larson sprang to his feet, his decision made. “I’m going after Shadow. He’s in trouble.”
“No.” Silme’s voice scarcely rose above the crackle of flame, but it held the inviolate authority of a general’s command. “Allerum, don’t be a fool. Shadow knows the city. You don’t. If he’s in trouble, you’re not going to find him. Your leaving can only divide us further and put us all in danger.”
Larson could not deny the sense of Silme’s logic, yet the thought of waiting in ignorance seemed equally distasteful. “Don’t you have some sort of magic that could tell us where he is?”
The women exchanged knowing looks; apparently they had already discussed this possibility. Astryd allowed her staff to slide gently to the floor. “I could cast a location triangle, but it’s not in my repertoire. It would cost a lot of life energy for little gain. I’d have to center it on Shadow. We’d get a glimpse of his surroundings, perhaps enough for him to know where he was, but not for people who don’t know the city.”
Silme elaborated. “If Shadow’s fine, we would have wasted Astryd’s efforts. If he’s in trouble, we won’t know where to go, and Astryd won’t have enough life force left to cast spells to help him.”
Larson lashed out in restless resentment. “Let me get this straight. You can conjure dragons from nothing.” He stabbed a gesture at Astryd, then made a similar motion to indicate Silme. “And I’ve seen you design defenses I couldn’t even see that were strong enough to burn a man’s hand. Both of you want me to believe neither of you could make Shadow unrecognizable to the guards or figure out where the hell he is? That makes no sense.”
Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm Page 9
