Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm

by Shadow's Realm (v1. 0)

  Silme brushed aside a man hawking jewelry. “I used the sapphire.”

  Larson pressed. “I thought you only stored a small amount of energy. That spell seemed so powerful.”

  “A light show.” Silme ducked down a side street to avoid a milling crowd. “Harmless. Those flames had no heat. The guards were just too stupid to notice.”

  Larson frowned, thinking that in the crossbowmen’s position, he might make the same assumptions. He studied the roadways to get his bearings. “You followed me from the inn, didn’t you?”

  Silme nodded.

  “Why?”

  “I wanted ...” Silme started. She grinned, the humor striking her even before she spoke the words. “I wanted to keep you out of trouble.”

  “To keep me out of trouble, huh?” Larson thought about the guard’s taunts in the alleyway and how much more easily his audience with the baron could have gone without Haimfrid’s interference. “Well, thank God for that.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER 6 : Shadowed Alleys

  Death is always and under all circumstances a tragedy, for if it is not, then it means that life itself has become one.

  —Theodore Roosevelt Letter

  Lantern light gleamed from the upper room of the baron’s southern tower. Amidst midmorning sunshine, the glow diffused to pale invisibility; but, from his study in Shylar’s whorehouse, Harriman recognized the summons. Meet now? The old fool. Harriman slammed his ledger closed, and dust swam through sun rays in a crazy pattern. Not a number in his book was fact; it served only for show and, eventually, for the baron’s eyes. The true tallies remained recorded only in Harriman’s head.

  Slouched near the door of Harriman’s workroom, Halden and Skereye had been arguing sword-sharpening techniques since daybreak, their exchange gradually rising in volume and intensity. Harriman interrupted their discussion before it turned to violence. “We need to make another trip to Wilsberg.” Without further explanation, he opened the door to the hallway and executed a broad, silent gesture. Skereye abandoned his point with obvious reluctance. Obediently, he trotted off toward the eastern storage chamber to light a lantern in answer to the baron’s signal.

  Halden flung a whetstone at his companion’s retreating back. It bounced from Skereye’s thick shoulder and struck the floor with a sharp click. Skereye turned, but Halden pulled the door shut before his companion could retaliate.

  Ignoring his guards’ antics, Harriman fingered the silks stretched over the back of his chair, gaze focused on the light burning steadily through the baron’s window. Shortly, the flare winked out, acknowledging receipt of Harriman’s consent. “The old fool,” Harriman repeated, this time aloud. Turning, he peeled his plain woolen shirt off over his head and exchanged it for the frayed blue and white silk of his diplomatic uniform. Before Harriman had fully laced his collar, Skereye returned.

  Harriman pulled the knots into place and strapped on his sword belt, its buckle and scabbard crusted with diamonds. “Let’s go.”

  Harriman and his Norse entourage wandered past rows of bedrooms. This early, most of the doors lay propped open to indicate vacancy; the few clients would be night thieves, off-duty guardsmen, and men of leisure. At the end of the hallway, a staircase led to the meeting and bargaining areas as well as the kitchen, bath, and living quarters that kept this house as much a home as a workplace for the women.

  One of Harriman’s three privileged officers stood, partway up the stairs, but Harriman made no allowances. He trotted down the steps, flanked by Halden and Skereye. The thief hesitated briefly. With an exaggerated flourish of respect, he gave ground, waiting for Harriman to pass at the base of the stairs.

  Harriman acknowledged the sacrifice with a gruff, partial explanation. “We’ll return shortly.”

  The thief nodded once. He made an undulating motion with his fingers to indicate he would see to it things ran smoothly in Harriman’s absence, then continued his climb to the upper level.

  The staircase ended in an open assembly chamber where seven well-groomed prostitutes reclined on chests, padded benches, or the floor. The instant Harriman appeared, all conversation ceased. Disinterested in the girls’ discomfort, he wandered between them to the door. One shrank away from Halden’s disfigured, leering face, and Harriman smiled in amusement. He caught the knob, wrenched the door open, and led his bodyguards through the entry hall to the outer door. Unfastening the lock, he pulled the panel ajar, and they emerged into the sunlight. He slammed the door behind them.

  Harriman received little attention as he threaded through the thoroughfares of Cullinsberg, but the citizens gawked at his scarred and lumbering bodyguards. He knew that the underground and the street urchins on its fringes would ignore him. It had become common knowledge that Harriman visited the ruins of Wilsberg on occasion or knelt in the forests facing south to mourn family and friends. And, though accepted as truth, the information was spurious, its distribution well-planned. Early on, before he had gained the trust of the underground, he had led their spies to the devastated farm town. Later, as Bolverkr wore himself down constructing his fortress, Harriman steered his curious pursuers into the Kielwald Forest for a phony session of laments and vowed vengeance against Cullinsberg’s baron.

  The remembrance lasted until Harriman passed through the opened front gates of Cullinsberg. He crossed the fire-cleared plain without a backward glance and guided Halden and Skereye into the forest. Once lost between the trees, he waited. Whenever the baron called a meeting, he stationed one of his most trusted guards on the parapets. If anyone followed Harriman from the city, the sentry would signal by simulating the call of a fox. Harriman frowned at the thought. The majority of these conferences occurred at night or in the early morning when foxes normally prowled the woods. Now, the whirring imitation would sound nearly as suspicious as a shouted warning. But neither noise disturbed the stillness, and Harriman slipped deeper between the trees, certain no one had bothered to trail him.

  Sun rays filtered through branches heavy with multicolored leaves; thick overgrowth trapped the light into a glow, revealing landmarks Harriman knew blind. He traversed the route without even thinking about it, fallen leaves crunching beneath his boots. Behind him, Skereye and Halden crashed like oxen through boughs, scurrying over deadfalls with an ease that belied their bulk. At length, Harriman brushed through a line of towering pines into a clearing blotted gray by overhanging branches. There Baron Dietrich waited, perched upon a stump. The gold medallion of office at his throat contrasted starkly with a tunic and breeks of untooled leather. At either hand, a sword- and spear-armed guard stood, proudly dressed in a uniform of red and black. A scrap of linen hung from one’s knee where a briar had torn the fabric, exposing scratched flesh. Though large, the baron’s faithful sentries were dwarfed by Harriman’s berserks.

  Harriman executed a flawless bow of respect. “My lord, you summoned me?” His intended question remained unspoken. What did you find of such urgency to risk a daylight meeting?

  The baron shifted on the stump. “Two strangers came to my court this morning. They named you as head of the criminals.”

  Harriman hid exasperation beneath an expression of interest. He spoke soothingly, never losing the tone of deference though he was fully in control of the situation. “Not unexpected, lord. In order to help you destroy the organized underground and bring you the names of their leaders, I necessarily had to win their trust, to make them think I was one of them. We knew this might happen. It’s still important that you pretend to see me as Wilsberg’s diplomat and dismiss such a suggestion as nonsense.”

  “I thought I hired you to put an end to the violence.” The baron met Harriman’s gaze, steely eyes flashing, demanding explanation. “The strangers reminded me that Cullinsberg’s streets are still unsafe.”

  Harriman banished rising anger with professional skill. “Not unexpected either, as you must know, lord.” The lies came easily, without a twitch or furtive glance to betray them. “The lead
ers are in your custody. What you’re seeing now is reaction to their capture.” His gaze remained locked and steady. Once the executions have concluded, the violence will die away. Meanwhile, I need to stay to watch for upstart leaders.“

  The baron fidgeted. Harriman stood, unmoving, aware something as yet unaddressed disturbed Dietrich. The medallion’s chain clinked beneath the sough of wind as the baron squirmed. At length, he spoke. “Those strangers. They lacked common courtesy. They badgered my guards into a fight. They insulted me. And ...”

  By the baron’s sudden reluctance, Harriman guessed they had come to the root of his discomfort. “And, lord?” he encouraged gently.

  “And,” Dietrich continued. He leaned forward, his face red in the gloom. “They fought free of three guards, injuring one and humiliating another so badly I had to put him on suspension until he calms down. And if the Norse woman who tried to kill my bowmen with fire isn’t a Dragonrank sorceress straight out of fairy tale ...” He stopped, not bothering to complete the statement, and cast a nervous look at Halden and Skereye.

  Harriman resisted the compulsion to swear. He knew Taziar’s companions from Bolverkr’s descriptions. And, though Bolverkr had never directly told Harriman, the nobleman knew his master planned to destroy Larson as personally and cruelly as he would Taziar. “These strangers you speak of. A willowy, blond man and a beautiful woman with a sapphire-tipped staff?”

  Surprise crossed the baron’s coarse features. “How did you know?”

  So the little thief wants to bring outsiders into our feud. In his annoyance, Harriman conveniently forgot he had done precisely the same thing, and that the quarrel was Bolverkr’s, not his own. Instantly, the rules of his game changed. Anyone who interferes will pay, beginning with those urchins who harbored him. Harriman regained his composure masterfully and dispatched Baron Dietrich’s query without answering it directly. “You’ll get no more trouble from them, lord. I’ll see to it. And there’s something I need to tell you.” He met the baron’s gaze again. “Taziar Medakan’s in town.”

  The baron’s face collapsed into wrinkles, and Harriman attributed his confusion to more than a decade spent working with the guard captain of the same name. Then, the baron’s eyes fell to slits and his nostrils flared. “The Shadow Climber?”

  Harriman nodded confirmation.

  Baron Dietrich drummed his fingers on his breeks, his manner calculating. “That weasel stole an artifact from Aga’arin’s temple, escaped my dungeons, and led a faction of my men across the Kattegat against my orders!”

  Harriman lowered his head and waited.

  “Not one of my soldiers made it back, Harriman! Did you know that?”

  “Of course, lord,” Harriman reminded without offense. In his eighteen years as Wilsberg’s diplomat, he had worked well and closely with the baron, cheerfully paying taxes to the last copper and supplying the baron with the best of the traders’ crops and wares. Wilsberg’s farmers had served their time among the baron’s conscription forces in the years of the Barbarian Wars.

  The baron went rigid. “I’ll send every guard in Cullinsberg after the thief.”

  Harriman cringed, aware such an arrangement would destroy every trap he and Bolverkr had constructed. “I wish you wouldn’t, lord.”

  The baron went silent, still shaking with anger.

  Harriman seized the baron’s quiet to continue. “Every criminal in town believes Taziar informed on the leaders. If you arrest him, it’ll prove his innocence. The underground will look for another informant, and I’ll be exposed as a liar at the least. So will the guards you commanded to name Taziar if questioned. And since nearly all your guards actually believe Taziar is the informant, you’ll seem like a ...” Harriman softened the accusation. “Your guards will know you fed them misinformation and wonder why you trusted these men and not them.” He indicated the sentries beside the baron. “Criminals are unforgiving by necessity. If your men arrest Taziar, my life and those of several of your guards will become as worthless to the ruffians and assassins on your streets as Taziar’s is now. Believe me, lord. They can do worse to the Shadow Climber than even your dungeon guards could.” And we will.

  “Very well,” the baron agreed. “For your sake, I’ll order my sentries to leave Taziar at liberty.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Harriman said respectfully, though he never doubted Baron Dietrich would take his advice. Despite maintaining courtly formality, Harriman had grasped control of this operation some time ago. I may have lost some of that power thanks to Taziar’s meddling friends, but I’ll get it back, Harriman harbored no doubt. I have some lessons to teach, some warnings to give, and I’ll need to get Taziar back into my custody. He smiled wickedly, and, for the first time, a trace of true emotion slipped through.

  Taziar Medakan pitched another log onto the already well-stocked hearth and watched flames lick around the cooler bark without catching. The firelight struck red and gold highlights through hair the color of coal and swept across fine features ashen with concern. He took a seat on the dwindling woodpile. Shortly, he grew restless and chose to sit on the table instead. His back to the fire, he stared at Astryd, asleep between the packs. An instant later, he was up again, pacing the length of the inn room.

  I can’t believe I let Allerum go off alone, knowing he wanted to see the baron. What was I thinking? Taziar pounded his fist into his palm, aware the problem did not come from a specific thought, but from no thought at all. That headstrong elf can get himself into more trouble eating breakfast than I did breaking into the Dragonrank school grounds. I’m just glad Silme was paying more attention to Allerum’s intentions than I was. Now Taziar frowned, aware more than enough time had passed for Silme to catch up with Larson, convince him of the foolishness of running off alone, and return with him to the inn room. Unless he persuaded her to help him. Gods! Silme has to know you just don’t handle underground affairs through legal channels. Taziar cringed, familiar with Larson’s single-mindedness that often transcended common sense, a trait inspired and nurtured by Kensei Gaelinar. Silme might have found it safer and simpler to give in to Allerum’s obsession. But we’re wasting valuable time.

  Taziar’s ambling brought him to the window over the alleyway. He stopped, feeling the chill, autumn breezes on his face, sharp contrast to the warmth of the fire at his back. From habit, he measured the distance to the ground, sought minuscule ledges in the featureless stretch of stonework. They might need my help. I’ll stay out of sight. How much trouble can I get into just gathering facts? Memory of the beating in Shylar’s whorehouse that still left his cheeks and ribs swollen and splotched with bruises made him wince. His lapse admitted Silme’s warning:“ ”You’re of no use to your friends dead.“ Taziar wrapped his fingers around the sill. But I’m even more useless if they’re dead. My one life is worth little compared with their eight. How many others may die for me?

  Taziar had climbed halfway across the window ledge before he realized it. Astryd rolled in her sleep, and her movement froze him, dangling from the sill. What in Karana’s hell is wrong with me? I can’t leave Astryd alone. He sprang back into the chamber, landing lightly as a cat on the planking. He crossed to Astryd and perched on a pack near her head. Idly, he stroked the soft, blonde locks, pulling free strands that had caught at the corner of her mouth. Since Larson and Silme had departed, every position seemed uncomfortable to Taziar, and he found himself unable to sit still. Urgency spiraled through him, and he fought the impulse to return to the window.

  Harriman doesn’t know where we’re staying; otherwise, he would have found us already. No one will disturb Astryd. Besides, she’s hardly helpless. Taziar recalled his first encounter with Astryd. He had discovered her locked in a berth aboard the summer ferry. Then, mistaking him for a captor, she had evaded him faster than he could think to stop her. Once he managed to catch her, she had clawed and kicked him like a tiger. She’s slept long enough to restore most of her used energy, so she’ll have magic, too. Taziar
kissed Astrryd’s cheek, felt her settle more snugly beneath her spread cloak. Sliding his sword from its sheath, he placed it near her hand. You won’t need it, but neither will I. I’ll feel more comfortable if you keep it.

  Having rationalized leaving, Taziar bounded across the room before he could change his mind again. He paused only long enough to ascertain that the alley stood empty, then lowered his legs through the opening and scrambled to the ground.

  Again, Taziar peered the length of the thoroughfare. Satisfied no one had seen him, he turned his attention to the back wall of Mardain’s temple. Having grown accustomed to longhouses, and simple cottages, the building appeared awesome, taller than any man-made structure in Norway. Taziar accepted the challenge with glee. Recalling the lack of hand and toe holds on the stones that formed the first story, Taziar took a running start. Fingers scraping granite, he sprinted the length of the alleyway, then flung himself at the wall. Momentum took him to the coarse areas of mortar at the second story. From there, he skittered to the roof.

  Wind dried beads of sweat from Taziar’s forehead as he stared out over the city of Cullinsberg. Shops and dwellings stood in stately rows between the confining square of the city’s outer walls. Roads striped, curled, and crisscrossed through the business district, and people traversed the main thoroughfares in crowds. Taziar craned his neck to glance into the alleyway where Rascal’s gang had tended his injuries and discussed the changes in the structure of the underground. A lone figure paced the earthen floor. Though distant and at too peculiar an angle to be certain, it looked like a child. Taziar read agitation in the movements.

  The muscles of Taziar’s chest bunched in worry, and he felt flushed. He found niches in the wall stones and clambered downward, jumping the last story back into the alley. He slunk close to the walls through the dappled shadows of the buildings until he came to a threadlike crossroad. He studied the alley quickly before darting across and into a throughway parallel to the first. Once there, he shinnied up a warehouse. His footfalls made no sound on the roof, and he scrambled to the opposite side. Flattened to the tiles, he peered over the edge.