Myranda shook her head.
"Why?" Myranda asked.
"Why the poison? Well, surely you see the usefulness of . . ." he began.
"No, why any of this?" she asked. "I can understand why you would spend your time on such things in Entwell, but why here? You seem like such a decent person. Why do you occupy all of your time with death?"
"Oh, so now it is just death? I liked 'tools for killing' better. Regardless of your terminology, I simply need something to do," he said.
"That is it? You need something to do?" she said.
"I see that you are confused. First of all, how old do you suppose I am?" he asked.
Myranda considered his appearance. His white hair was a bit less carefully kept than the last time she had seen him. His clothes were of the finest variety. Overall, he looked as though he might be her age, though the way he phrased the question made her believe he was older than he seemed.
"Thirty," she said.
"I was thirty when I left Entwell. I am now just about to celebrate my one hundred-third birthday," he said.
"What? No," she said.
"Father was, and is, an elf. I get the longevity from him. I get the appearance from Mother. It helps me blend with the human population. Never mind that, though. You were looking for an answer for why I squander my life so. Think of every old man or old woman you've met. I'd wager half of them are angry all of the time for no reason at all, or simply numb and apathetic. Why? They are world-weary. They have done and seen everything that they care to see or do. There is nothing left for them.
"Humans have the mixed blessing of a short lifespan. By the time you run out of ambitions and motivations, the end is usually near. Elves are not quite so lucky. We live on and on. As a result, if you are immortal, you need to find something to occupy your vast time. Something endless to fill your days. A passion. I have two.
"First, and foremost, I am a weapon crafter. I strive for perfection. I will never reach it--at least, I hope not--but I get closer with each new weapon. My second passion is more difficult to explain. I like making money," he said.
"How noble," she said with a smirk.
"I do not mean it in a greedy way. I lived the first thirty years without the need for money at all. I simply love the negotiation, the planning. I love reading people. It is as much an art as weapon craft, and just as rewarding. I don't care about the money once I have it. I would give it away, but that would rob me of the joy of haggling prices for the things I buy," he said.
"If you love money so much, why don't you just sell your weapons? At least then you wouldn't have to work with an assassin directly," she said.
"No. Never mix the passions. Weapons are weapons, money is money. I have only sold fifteen pieces in my lifetime, and I have spent the years since trying to hunt them down and buy them back. There are still three out there, and it burns my mind to think of it," he said.
"Why?" she asked.
"They are in the hands of inept fools! I can't stand to see one of my weapons misused. It soils the workmanship. My weapons can make an amateur into a master, but they can make a master invincible. That is why I work with Lain. He is one of only a handful of warriors I deem worthy of holding my handiwork, and his business offers limitless potential for my other skills. As long as he continues to satisfy my needs, I will work with him. If he ever ceases to, I will find someone who will. Simple," he said.
"That is so self-serving," Myranda said.
"That is another trait of immortals. Since we are going to outlive most of the people we know anyway, we tend to focus on ourselves. It is also the nature of things you are passionate about. You have a way of making very poor decisions to indulge them. Like, say, deciding that the people who have been hunting you for nearly a year are actually trying to help you," he said, not a hint of apology in his voice.
Myranda gazed at the weapons and armor. Were she able to bring herself to forget their purpose, she might have been struck by their beauty. Instead, all she saw was death. Her dark thoughts were interrupted by an odd scratching sound. She turned to Myn, the source of the interruption, to see her clawing madly at her neck. The dingy scales and skin were starting to give way.
"Well, well. Is our friend shedding? I'll get a blanket," he said, hurrying off to the supply room.
When he returned he placed the blanket on the ground. Myn seemed to know it was for her, as she rolled on top of it and began clawing at her belly. For the better part of an hour, Myranda and Desmeres discussed the specifics of her adventure that he had not learned on his own as Myn shed the old scales to reveal immaculate, gleaming ones underneath. When her focus returned to her neck, Myranda untied the charm and removed it.
"Say, you didn't mention that little thing. Let me see that," he said.
Myranda handed it to him. He turned it all about in his hands, held it up to the light, and tapped on the metal.
"I remember this. This was on Trigorah's helmet," he said.
"You remember seeing it there?" she said.
"I remember putting it there," he said, rubbing it on his shirt to restore its luster.
"You made her helmet?" Myranda said, shocked.
"No, just the charm. One of my better pieces. It lets healing and such through, but blocks most other spells. It was something of an anniversary gift," he said.
Myranda's jaw dropped.
"We weren't married. Not officially. But we were . . . involved for some time," he said, returning the charm to her. She was too stunned to reach for it, so he took it back.
"How . . ." she managed.
"How long? Six years. I gave this to her on our fifth," he said, trying to answer the half-asked question.
Myranda shook her head, still struggling to find the words.
"How long ago, perhaps? I’d say I first spoke to her perhaps thirty years ago. No, that still isn't it, eh? How . . . How involved? Well, I have a son she never told me about," he said, grinning at his last statement.
Myranda stopped searching for words and simply stared, dumbstruck.
"She's got him squirreled away somewhere up north. He's twenty-five now, with some military job. Croyden is his name, if I recall correctly. I wonder if she's given the boy my name or hers. Must check on that," he said.
Myranda finally found her voice again, and finished the question he had failed to guess.
"How could you?" she asked.
"Well, she has been after Lain since before I started working with him. She is no fool, so in following his trail, she found herself led to me time and time again. I have always felt that one should keep his enemies close, and she felt the same way. That is how it began. The entire time we were together was like a sort of dance, each of us trying our best to learn the intentions of the other. She is very attractive, and we share membership of a fairly unrepresented race. As we played each other for information, we found that we had a great many things in common. What can I say?" he said.
"But she wants to kill you!" she said.
"That is only a recent development. Back then she only wanted to kill Lain," he said.
"Even still, he is your partner!" she said.
"It began as a means to protect him. I feel no shame," he said with a shrug. "It is just the two of us in this partnership. We do what we must."
"Just the two of you . . . wait . . . didn't you mention a woman?" she asked.
"A woman. I don't believe I did," he said, attempting to recall.
"Yes, you did. Sasha," Myranda said.
"Oh . . . Oh. A misunderstanding. Sasha is a what, not a who. Sashat Mance. Bag of tricks. It is the sword Lain had been using," he clarified.
"What? No. You said that she never said a word, but she sang, and that they would try to coax secrets out of her," she objected.
Desmeres chuckled and pulled a sword from its mount on the wall.
"Listen," he said, swiftly drawing it from its sheath.
There wasn't a whisper of sound. He then ran his finger along
the flat of the blade. The immaculate metal resonated with a crystal-clear tone.
"There are more than a few blacksmiths that would give their right hand to learn how I make these. Those are the secrets I'm worried about. A fellow by the name of Flinn has gotten wealthy off of one of my daggers . . ." he said, immediately changing the subject. "Say, you know what I haven't made in a dog's age? A staff. Lain doesn't use magic. Not a word of it. Frankly, it doesn't make any sense to me, because he swears by that 'warrior's sleep' they taught him back in the belly of the beast, and that is deeper and harder to manage than any trance. I've made normal staffs, but a casting staff would be a fine diversion. You say you are a full master? I suppose that I would be justified in giving you a piece of my handiwork, but . . . I just can't be sure. I would have to see you in action before I made something from scratch. I might not mind working on the one you've already got, though."
Myranda shook her head in disbelief again. He spoke of betraying his friend and having a relationship with his enemy as though it was nothing, but the very moment that the subject of weaponry was introduced, he latched onto it with boundless interest. Before she could object, Desmeres had fetched her staff.
"Good heavens. Have they still got Coda making these? I could improve this immeasurably. There are at least a dozen runes that could make this doubly resistant to hostile spells. A few potion infusions. Yes. This could be a fine weapon . . . Gracious, this is heavy. Did they give this to you?" he asked.
". . . No, Deacon gave it to me," she said. She knew by now that attempting to bring closure to anything that Desmeres wasn't interested in discussing anymore was useless.
"Well, Deacon must not be a weapon specialist, because this is the wrong size, weight, and shape for someone like you. The crystal could use work as well, but I haven't got the equipment for that. Not here, anyway," he said.
That was the last she heard from him for most of the day. He retired to a corner of the weapon room and set himself to work, flipping through books, selecting tools, and carving at the staff. Myranda watched for a time. He worked with a speed, grace, and enthusiasm that she admired. He must truly love the work, she thought. Before long, though, her mind became fixed on other things. She moved back to the dining room and retired to a chair.
Myn had finished shedding and looked to Myranda for attention. The girl moved to the ground to better dote upon her friend. She patted the little creature, whose scales were now as smooth and shiny as the day she was born. As she did, she thought.
She thought back to her encounter with Trigorah. It pained her to think of it. She had been desperate to escape. In her desperation, she'd nearly killed the commander. Now it was possible that all of this time they had been dedicated to the same goal. If she had only turned herself over, all of this could have been avoided. But, then, if she had turned herself in, she would not have helped to conjure the other Chosen in Entwell, and she would not know nearly as much magic. She would not have even been sure of Lain's place in the Chosen. Was it all part of the prophecy? All part of the plan for the world that she would not know the truth until she had earned it? So much hardship had come since then . . .
Her reverie was interrupted when Desmeres entered the room.
"Ah, excellent, the dragon has shed her skin," he said, gathering up the blanket and dumping the remnants of the act into a bag. "This is a very useful and very rare resource. I can think of a dozen or more things to do with this."
"Then when you put down the blanket, you didn't want to make Myn more comfortable, you wanted to make it easier to collect up the shedding?" Myranda said, annoyed that yet another seeming act of kindness was false.
"Yes. Would you stand up, please?" he asked.
"Why?" she asked.
"I need your exact height," he said, offering a hand to help her up.
Myranda reluctantly accepted the help. He looked her up and down, eventually asking to see her hands as well. Once he seemed satisfied with sizing her up, he told her so.
"Before you sit down, though, I imagine you might like something nicer than the floor to sleep on. We haven't got any beds, but there are a few bedrolls. One for each of us and a spare. If that dragon of yours--" he began.
"Her name is Myn," Myranda interjected.
"If Myn can hold onto her flame, I would not mind offering her the spare," he said.
"Myn likes to sleep on top of me," Myranda said.
"Do you like for her to sleep atop you?" he asked.
"I don't mind it," she replied.
"Then, by all means, let it continue. Sleep wherever you find room enough on the floor to do so, though I would not recommend directly below the entrance. It would lead to a rather rude awakening," he said.
Myranda accepted the bedroll and set it up, but she was not ready for sleep yet. She sat up longer and thought. It was perhaps a few hours more, in the dead of the night, when the door quietly creaked open and Lain deactivated the traps and slipped back inside. Desmeres was too busy at his task to notice the entry. Lain sat at the table in front of Myranda. He had nothing new with him. The dragon leapt from her lap to his, eager for the novelty of her other favorite creature in the world.
"Desmeres has shown me around," Myranda said.
Lain shifted his gaze to her without acknowledging her words.
"I have seen the books. The first two shelves are all about your business. Desmeres would not tell me what the third shelf's books were for," she said.
"Desmeres knows his place," he said.
"All I have to do is ask, you know. You have made a promise to me," she said.
"So I have," he answered.
"Then tell me. What is the purpose? Most of the pages do not even have names," she said.
"I am not interested in names. I am interested in people," he said.
"Tell me what I want to know," she demanded.
"Those are drops of blood. I collect one from each person who owes me a favor so that I can identify them by scent," he said.
"Owe you favors?" she asked.
"I have helped them in some way," he said.
"Oh? I suppose that you murdered someone for them and they have yet to pay you," Myranda said harshly.
"Now, now. That is an oversimplification of the services that we offer," Desmeres said, drawn by the voices. "We don't merely kill people. We also dabble in espionage. To wit, I have here every dispatch that we have managed to seize from the military through our various channels since you went missing.
"Allow me to condense. Up until about six weeks ago, dispatches were flying in every direction with inadequate and, frankly, rather skewed descriptions of Myranda here. Separately, there have been significant efforts put into reminding the populace of the evils of malthropes. Then the messages began to taper off. By the end, the rather thin selection of messages available all seemed to agree that the primary targets of late are dead or of no more concern.
"That is, of course, except for one that we managed to sneak a peek at en route from Trigorah herself to General Bagu, urging that the search not be ended until a body is found. I have reason to believe that Bagu agrees. He may even have sent one of the other generals to give Trigorah a hand, although other dispatches seem to indicate a second general has been involved for some time," he said.
"What does all of this mean for us?" Myranda asked.
"For us it means that we will be facing the Elites as a smaller, more focused, and much more powerful group. Fortunately, thanks to Lain's less than subtle actions prior to retreating to the Belly of the Beast, the Elite proper has been reduced to a handful of men, and with the way the combat on the front lines has been heating up, I cannot foresee many new members anytime soon. The rest are just mercenaries in uniforms, comparatively no threat at all. It also means that if we disguise you a bit, we may be able transport you from one place to another without rousing too much suspicion. So long as you don't run into Trigorah herself, who knows your face," he said.
"But Trigorah is the o
ne person I want to meet. She is the one who can deliver me to the Alliance Army safely so that I can begin finding the other Chosen," Myranda said.
Lain's gaze shifted sternly to Myranda.
"Yes. She has leapt to a rather lofty conclusion about the Alliance Army seeking to help her join the Chosen together," Desmeres explained.
"You agreed," Myranda said.
"I agreed it was possible. I also remarked that it was not at all likely. I would guessed that their intentions for you are not quite hospitable, but there is no sense guessing about one's intentions when we can read them in their own words. From Bagu to Trigorah a few months ago: 'I cannot stress the importance of this capture enough. As long as this target remains out of our reach, the possibility of failure exists. We must have her, if possible alive. She could be an invaluable resource.' Capture, target, resource, if possible alive? These do not sound like the words of a helpful and concerned party," he said.
"I don't care," she said.
"If you knew more about the people who want you, you might. You need to learn just who is really after you. The five generals are the ones most interested. Regardless of what you may have seen or heard, the generals are not the sort of people that you want looking for you. I know that you think that they have the best of intentions for you and the world, but keep in mind that if not for them, this war would have come to an end, possibly peacefully, decades ago."
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"There are standing orders from the generals to kill anyone sent to broker a peace. There is every indication that those have been the orders since the war began," he explained.
"So I have heard . . . wait. This war has been fought off and on for the past hundred and fifty years. How could the same five generals be at fault?" she asked.
"They aren't human. At least, four of them aren't for certain. Trigorah is an elf, as you know, but she was the last to be made a general, well after the war began. As for the others . . . I believe that they are D'karon," he said.
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 48
