by Matthew Wolf
Darius groaned, rubbing his butt. “Who’s gone?”
“Uh, those vile looking men? They left as soon as you mentioned others coming. How drunk are you?”
He waved it off. “That hurt more than I expected. What did I land on?” He looked down and saw a long, white bone, as if from someone’s leg. “I hope that’s not human.” A hand shot before his face and he recoiled. When he opened his eyes, he saw Gray wearing a silly grin.
“That was the smartest thing I’ve ever seen you do,” Gray said.
“I got the idea from this guy I know. Did it seem familiar?”
“Very,” said Gray. “In Lakewood, when your gambling nearly got you in over your head.”
“I still insist it was not my fault,” he grumbled. “But yes, you saved my skin back then, and now I saved yours. So we’re even, deal?”
Gray laughed. “Deal.”
Darius didn’t mention that Gray had probably saved him a dozen times after that, but if he didn’t remember, then he didn’t need to be reminded.
“Funny, that was our first meeting, all three of us,” Ayva said.
Darius took Gray’s hand and shot up, wavering on his feet. “Well—” he belched, covering his mouth and eyeing their pitiless surroundings “—let’s hope this isn’t an ending to that beginning. If it is though, it’ll be a beautiful ending!”
“You’re scary when you’re drunk,” Ayva said.
“That’s the idea,” he answered.
“That’s not—”
Darius stopped suddenly.
“What is it?” Ayva asked, reaching for her white dagger.
Darius looked ahead, nodding.
At the end of the dirty, dank street was a huge building, bigger than all the others. It had open windows. Smoke emanated from them like from tiny mouths, and shadows indicated there were people inside. But his eyes were rooted to the swinging sign that was shaped like a leaf. He swayed, eyes narrowing. “It couldn’t be…”
In green lettering it read: Maris’ Luck.
“Is that…? That can’t be the same one,” Ayva said.
“It is,” Darius replied.
“But Faye said”—she lowered her voice despite the vacant alley—“even to say the word Ronin is a crime punishable by death.”
“This place is dangerous, Darius,” Gray said.
“Right,” Darius said. “Then this is the one?” He reached out, touching a building for balance. It felt slimy. He retracted his hand as if he had touched fire, wiping it on his crude green clothes.
“Maybe we should go to one a little less ominous,” Ayva suggested, stepping back. The inn seemed to breathe darkness. “The Dragon’s Tooth was just back there, or perhaps…”
Darius shook his head. “This is the one.” With that, he stepped forward, heading towards the solid oak door. Above it, the leaf-shaped sign rattled as if from a breeze, despite the windless alley. He heard voices and the sound of eerie music beyond. The sword on his back felt hot. Quickly, he scooped a handful of grime and dirt from the ground, wiping it on his face and clothes, and gestured the others to do the same. Both did so without pause, Ayva grimacing as she did.
With a breath of confidence, Darius grabbed the door, pulled it open, and ushered the others inside.
Filthy Liars
AS ZANE WALKED BRISKLY, HIS FEAR was replaced by anger, blood simmering as he moved among the Lost Ones. He saw many helping those around them even before they helped themselves. They looked up at him, and despite their torture and torment, despite all the hardship they’d endured until now—a city casting them to its dark depths—many still had hope in their eyes. They were strong. Their minds and wills had been battered, but they pressed onward.
Salamander was a fool to think these people weak, Zane thought, but they did need his help. He would not let them die. No matter what Father said, even if it cost him his exile, he would not let a single Lost One—man, woman, or child—starve. Not if he could do something about it.
Suddenly, he saw a familiar group in the distance, huddled around a fire that sat at the bank’s edge. They were backed against a huge pillar whose broad base was lit by the fires. In the day, however, the pillar was even more impressive—a monument rising up towards the vaulted ceiling high above, as if supporting all of Farbs with its girth.
“Zane!” a reedy youth called, standing. “Have you eaten?”
The others batted at him, yanking on his leg and trying to silence him. But the youth ignored them, flagging Zane over eagerly. Grudgingly, Zane veered towards them.
Steam rose from a nearby kettle that hung over the low burning fire. In the dim light from the flickering flames, he took in the three youths. Rygar was short but stout, like a stump. As the most senior, his too-small brown rags bore the Lost Ones’ emblem.
The other two were new. As such, they still had their thief names. Dasher was quiet as a breeze, wrapping his arms around himself and looking nervous at Zane’s approach. He seemed as if he was trying to disappear in his own clothes. Lastly, Lucky, the one who’d summoned him, was tall but scrappy. Blond hair much like Zane’s topped his head, but it was oily and he’d styled it to stick up at odd angles.
Dasher ladled a bowl for him.
Lucky snatched it, handing it to Zane. “Here you go, Shade,” he said, dipping his head.
Shade, he repeated inwardly, finally addressing the name.
In the desert, shade was protection, a respite from the tireless sun and even a symbol of life and generosity. It was a name many of the Lost Ones had begun to call him. It had happened faster than he had expected, and now nearly everyone was calling him that. Bringing food and coin to the Lost Ones had gained him the title, he assumed, but Father said it was more.
Zane sniffed the bowl. Rat soup, he determined, eyeing the murky green liquid and its thin shreds of meat. In truth, it was little more than broth, but at least it was something. He settled down, his back to the huge column as the others watched him.
“Sorry, Z. We tried silencing Lucky. He didn’t mean to wake anyone up. He’s still learning the rules,” Rygar, the oldest of the bunch, explained. While Rygar was barely more than a boy, he had been a Lost One nearly as long as Zane. Still, Rygar was starting to gain a little stubble on his cheeks, and his kind nature was slowly gaining backbone, perhaps due to his deepening voice—a confusing baritone like a man twice his size.
“It’s all right,” he replied simply.
“I don’t get it. Why do we have to be silent?” Lucky asked.
“Silence is our best friend as a Lost One,” Zane said. “Hiding has kept us alive.”
“But aren’t we hidden down here?” Dasher asked nervously.
“These walls are thick as buildings, but the caverns echo and carry noise like a Reaver’s voice,” he explained. Zane had seen a Reaver wielding the spark speak in a voice that had boomed over a thousand heads.
The three nodded, looking nervous in Zane’s presence. He sat back, lounging and sipping the hot broth in silence. “Don’t mind me. What were you all talking about?”
“Dasher here was just telling us about the rumors,” Rygar said, matter-of-factly.
Dasher flushed red. “No, I wasn’t!”
“Sure you were, something about outsiders?” Lucky pressed.
Dasher sighed. “All I heard was that there were some outsiders asking all sorts of questions in the Shadow’s Corner.”
“So?” Lucky asked.
“So,” Dasher voiced, “They said they’d been to a dozen inns already, asking after the same things again and again.”
“What kind of things?” Rygar pressed.
Dasher eyed Zane then shrunk further into his clothes. “Stuff about the Citadel.”
“They’re looking for trouble then. Asking about the Citadel leads to no good,” said Rygar, stirring the soup and shaking his head. He lifted a spoonful to taste. “Was that all, Dash?”
“Yeah, what’d they look like?” Lucky added.
Dasher shrugged. “All I heard is that it was two boys and a girl. And they rode in on cormacs.”
Rygar choked, spraying soup.
“Cormacs?” Lucky sputtered. “You can’t be serious, can you? Elvin steeds! Were they elves then?”
Dasher shrugged again. “Don’t ask me. No one said. And I’ve never seen an elf so how would I know?”
“Cormacs…” Rygar breathed. “I bet selling one of them could fetch enough food for all the Lost Ones for at least a week or more!”
Lucky rocked back then scoffed. “Well, it’s not that impressive.”
“Oh, ya? What’s more impressive than cormacs?” Rygar asked in his oddly deep rumble.
“I heard something to make a Devari quake in his boots!” said Lucky.
“Go on,” said Zane, hand stilling upon the statue in his pocket.
Lucky swallowed, looking suddenly squeamish. “Well, I don’t know if it was true, but I heard that a man in black with a huge dark cloak was seen about The Shadow’s Corner. They say he moved like a nightmare. Salamander and a few others were following him like a bunch of faithful hounds.”
“Who was he?” Dasher whispered.
Rygar was spooning the soup absently, spilling it upon the dusty stone.
Lucky licked his lips, leaning forward, and then whispered, “Darkeye.”
Silence held the three.
Zane spoke suddenly, drawing their eyes. “Where’d you hear this?”
The boy looked as if he’d just been caught in a trap. Lucky was a notorious liar. Not bad at heart, just still a young thief to his core. He could see it in the boy’s eyes. Old habits are hard to kill, Zane admitted to himself. “If you think I’m lying, I’m not!” Lucky protested quickly, raising his hands defensively, then crossed his heart with a finger. “String me up by my toes and call me an elf, but I’m not lying.”
“Where?” Zane asked. “The truth.”
Lucky rubbed his skinny arms uncomfortably. “Fine, I’ll tell ya, but don’t be angry, all right, Shade? At least, don’t tell Father. I don’t like it when he’s mad.” Zane gnawed on a particularly chewy piece of rat, holding Lucky’s gaze. Lucky threw up his hands. “Stop looking at me like that! I’m sorry! I… I was casing, skimming for easy pickings by the gates from all them new outsiders arriving from fancy places. That’s when I did see that dark-looking man.” He shivered. “See? I told you, it wasn’t no lie.”
“You know that’s not our way,” Zane said softly.
He gripped Zane’s arm with one hand, holding his gaze with teary eyes. Zane felt a tug on his coat, but when he looked down he realized he was imagining things. “I… I know it was wrong,” Lucky pleaded, drawing his attention back. “Please don’t exile me. I won’t do it again, I swear!”
Zane brought out his dagger, brushing it along his cheek in thought, hearing the scrape of stubble. It was a habit of his. With his other hand, he reached into his purse. Fishing from the pouch, he grabbed a heavy silver piece and tossed it to Lucky before rising.
“What’s this for?” the boy asked, confused.
“I always reward valuable information with coin. You needn’t steal any longer, Lucky. I’ll let you go this time, but if you do it again, I’ll toss you out of here myself,” he said. Lucky smiled and pawed the silver coin with delight. “One last thing—split it.”
Rygar and Dasher’s eyes widened.
“A whole silver?” Rygar boomed excitedly, voice cracking and his cheeks coloring.
It was his last silver, but Zane knew they would use it well. Both were good lads: Dasher, soft and spritely, and Rygar generous and as gentle as a leaf on the wind, a boy more likely to spend it on others and not himself.
“Wait a second,” Lucky squawked, “but I had the—”
“—Lost Ones aren’t about greed, Lucky,” he interrupted sharply. “You’ll find that out soon enough. And if you spend it without sharing, I’ll know.” He tossed the bowl into Lucky’s hands and stalked back into the night. Moving through the campfires like a shadow, he saw a figure in a dark gray coat standing at the edge of the Lost Ones’ camp, near the sentries.
Two faces he didn’t recognize guarded the Sanctuary’s border, watching the night nervously. The face of the dark coated man resolved itself, and Zane breathed a sigh of relief. When had he been holding that?
“Zane.” Trev beckoned, ushering him towards the light of a standing torch.
Zane approached. With scraggly brown hair and bright green eyes that were widely set, much like jewels placed in mismatched sockets, there stood Trev, second in command of the Lost Ones behind Father. He was lithe and light-skinned, and many of the younger female Lost Ones seemed to find him attractive. He was several years older than Zane. Trev looked strangely nervous, watching the shadows as if creatures lurked within.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked.
Trev leaned in closer. “I heard you talking with Father recently.”
“You were eavesdropping?”
The lean man shook his head, looking affronted. “No! Well, technically yes, but unintentionally. I only caught snippets. I heard your argument with Father, how he wants to exile you.”
“Then you misheard. It’s not like that,” he countered.
“No,” Trev said, placing a hand on his arm. “I did not mean to make it sound that way. I know Father, and you are like his son. I’m sure Father is only doing it because he cares for you.”
Zane pushed Trev’s hand away, kindly but firmly. “He is, but he is wrong this time.”
“Exactly. We need you, Zane. Without you and your thieving, we would starve.”
“Enough flattery,” Zane snapped. “What do you want? Get to your point.” He glanced at the shadows as if moving to leave when Trev spoke up, voice gaining urgency.
“This morning I overheard something… something dire that could change the fate of the Lost Ones for good. No more thieving, no more starving. An end to the suffering and misery. Naturally, once I heard that, I remembered your little spat with father and realized this could be the solution to all our problems.”
The hair prickled on the back of Zane’s neck. It sounded too good to be true, but his curiosity, his burning desire to save the Lost Ones was like an unquenchable fire in his gut. “Go on,” he bid him at last.
Trev lowered his voice so the nearby sentries couldn’t hear. “A shipment for Darkeye is being delivered to the Eastern Gate. From there, they will drop the cargo off in a warehouse nearby.”
“And the source?”
“Very reliable.”
Zane ran his tongue across his teeth, feeling the sharp edges as he thought. “What’s in them?” he asked finally.
“I’m not sure. All I know is it’s valuable. Very valuable. It will be a hard blow to Darkeye.” The words were a soft spot for him, every blow to Darkeye was a good one.
“The muscle?”
“Nearly a dozen, all disguised as Farbian guards.”
Zane raised a brow. It wasn’t unheard of. Darkeye often employed Farbian guards or had his men pose as them. “I can’t take a dozen men, especially not if they’re Farbian guards, and I won’t kill a man who isn’t of Darkeye’s brood.”
“That’s the thing. A dozen men to escort, but there will only be two guards at the warehouse, and both are Darkeye Clan to the bone.”
“Why two?”
“That’s the kicker,” Trev said, looking anxious. “It’s a Citadel warehouse.”
Zane nearly laughed, but the look on Trev’s face was deadpan. “That is a twist indeed. But it makes sense—I would never expect two guards and a Citadel warehouse to hold Darkeye’s goods.”
“Exactly,” Trev agreed. “And if I’m right, just one of those crates is worth its weight in gold.”
“I wish you knew what was in them,” Zane said.
“Me too. But it doesn’t matter. Take it and we’ll find out later.”
Everything about the job sounded perfect, aside from the Citadel’s war
ehouse. While it was safer than one of Darkeye’s, it was risky for other reasons. But it made sense and was immensely clever. Hiding Darkeye’s goods within the Citadel’s holdings was something Zane would never expect. It sounded just like Darkeye. But how had the man pulled such strings? Was Darkeye employed by the Citadel, or did he finally have a foot in the door of that dark keep? It seemed impossible. The two forces had seemed like oil and water. But either way, it was dangerous news. “Intriguing but, unfortunately, I only receive my orders from Father. He tells me about the shipments and knows the routes better than anyone.”
“But he won’t be helping you anymore, will he?” Trev stepped forward, looking anxious. Perhaps that look of his, that fear, was actually sympathy for those in need. He didn’t know Trev well but, without the man, Father would have had trouble keeping the Sanctuary functioning as it did.
Zane gave an uneasy sigh. He hated disobeying Father, but this was necessary.
“It’s your call,” Trev said at last, “I won’t force you.”
“First, you couldn’t force me, not if you had a dozen of you. And second, I don’t deal with liars.”
Trev reeled. “What?”
“I know when a man is lying better than anyone. After all, a master can recognize an apprentice when he sees one. And you aren’t telling the truth, at least not the whole of it. Tell me what you’re hiding, or I walk.”
Trev stood straighter, eyes hardening. His timid fearfulness fled. “The whole truth? Well the truth is I don’t like you. I never have. Father confides in you, but I don’t see why. I’ve seen the way you move and the way you eye everything like a threat, as if curiously wondering whether you can kill it or it can kill you. In the end, you are just a weapon without a sheath. ”
