The Book of Deacon Anthology

by Joseph R. Lallo

  "D'karon? The inhuman creatures? The ones that created those wretched Cloaks and . . . and the dragon thing that killed the swordsman?" she cried. "I don't believe it."

  "I don't expect you to. I only ask that you keep your eyes open, and listen for these names. They are bad people. There is a reason that few living men and women have ever seen them, and that is because those who see them seldom live long. The first is Trigorah. You know her well enough and she is, to a degree, the least of your worries. She is the decent and honorable sort and will only do what she is ordered to do. In the same vein, she will always do what she is ordered to do, and since she takes her orders from the other generals, she is capable of anything.

  "Next is Teht. You won't likely run into her, but you may be brought before her if you get caught. She is fairly inactive, spending nearly all of her time in research, experimentation, and training others. A powerful wizard, and surrounded by many of the same.

  "Now, Demont. He is one you had best keep away from. He doesn't seem terribly dangerous. A rather slight and weak-looking man, but he surrounds himself with the most vicious and twisted of D'karon creatures, and they take his will as law. Beasts snap to attention more readily and obediently than soldiers around him. He likes to spend his time researching as well, but research of a different sort. Many is the story I have heard of a patrol of soldiers torn to shreds by a swarm of creatures none had ever seen before while a man matching Demont's description watches. He tests these creatures.

  "More disturbing is the man he often brings as a partner. Epidime. Nearly all of the information I have about this fellow is contradictory. This much I am certain of: He is an intelligence officer and a very good one, specializing in interrogation. His skills in that area are the stuff of legend. Those who come before him are never the same afterward. I have spoken with one or two of his victims. They ended up telling him things they didn't even know they knew.

  "However, all of them report to one man, Bagu. Don't be fooled by the name. He is a masterful leader and, if what is said is true, every bit the wizard and warrior to keep the others in line by fear or force," he said.

  "I can't imagine them being as evil as you make them sound," she said.

  "It depends on your perspective. Frankly, most of our countrymen should be worshiping them. I guarantee you that without them, the north would have fallen to the south fifty years ago. It is on the strength of the five generals that the Alliance Army has withstood so many years against a far larger and healthier force. From your point of view, though, they are most definitely evil. These are the men and woman who want your freedom," he said.

  "They want to help me, and the world," she said.

  "If you choose to believe that," he said with a shrug. "Just remember, these are the most important and powerful people in the north. If you meet them, consider every breath from there after a gift. People don't tend to outlive their usefulness around them."

  "Point taken," she said.

  "I sincerely doubt that. Regardless, back to the business at hand. We need to do something soon. I believe these to be the last dispatches that we will receive until we can establish some new informants. We need manpower," Desmeres said.

  "How much gold do I have?" Lain asked.

  "Most of what we have left is yours. I'd say perhaps ninety bars worth," he said.

  "That will be enough," Lain said.

  "For what?" Desmeres said, in a tone of humoring a child.

  "There is a mining company in the mountains to the northeast . . ." Lain began.

  "No. No! Absolutely not. You know I cannot go out there. If you like, I'll show you the order by the Alliance Army demanding my head! I didn't even need an informant for it. It was nailed to a tree. You expect me to go out and negotiate a purchase now?" Desmeres objected fiercely.

  "It will give us countless new opportunities," he countered, calmly.

  "I don't care what it will give us, it is a terrible idea. I simply will not do it. And don't think that you'll be able to do it either. Unless those interrogators were kind enough to return that cloak that hides your face, you won't last three words into the first round of negotiations before either your throat is slit or you are forced to slit someone else's, and it will take me months to replace that little gadget. Not that anyone would conduct a negotiation with a man he couldn't look in the eye," he said.

  "We'll send Myranda," he said.

  "No! Absolutely not! I don't want anything to do with this awful business of yours!" Myranda objected.

  "You want to send her!? We have only just gotten her back into the fold after you released her the last time! Now you propose that she be sent out, alone, with all of our money? I thought that you had mentioned best judgment as the standing order," he said.

  "We do not have very many options," Lain said.

  "That doesn't mean that we must choose the worst one! I've got a business or two left. We only need to get to one," he said.

  "If it was so simple, you would have done it," Lain said.

  "Perhaps I was waiting for you," Desmeres offered.

  Lain looked calmly at his partner.

  "How many?" Desmeres asked, defeated.

  "Two hundred," Lain answered.

  "It's Grossmer's? Grossmer's, the suppliers of half of the iron and copper in all of the Low Lands, is what you've got your eye on?" Desmeres said in disbelief.

  Lain nodded.

  "When did they even mention the possibility of putting that place up for sale? It isn't a gold mine, but it may as well be! They've got military contracts! Guaranteed business until the end of the war! Of course, long-standing military contracts mean that some of the older administrators could have fairly firm connections on the inside. That would be useful. We might have to bargain hard to take them for only ninety and have any left for your little practice in futility," he said thoughtfully. Finally he threw his hands up. "There is simply too much that needs to be done. I shall have to come along. We will need a carriage, an impressive one. With equally impressive horses and a driver. Impressive, but not extravagant. We need to convince them we are oozing with money, but we use it wisely. It will set the tone of the day and turn the deal in our direction before we even start. We will need a disguise for Myranda in keeping with her supposed social rank. The carriage will need a hiding place for me."

  "Weren't you listening? I simply won't go!" Myranda objected again.

  "You will change your mind. As for you, Lain. Since this was your idea, I will be expecting you to gather the necessary equipment. I will finish working on Myranda's staff and draw up the paperwork. And I'll mix up some of the smoke flares to keep the oloes away from the horses while we load up the carriage," Desmeres said.

  "Meet me on the road east of here in seven days," Lain said.

  With that, he rose and headed for the door.

  "No, not again! Come back here! I haven't agreed!" Myranda called after him.

  It was no use, she threw open the door that he had shut behind him, only to see him whisper a word or two to Myn, who sat obediently and watched as he whisked up to the hatch and slipped out.

  "I'm not through with you!" Myranda called uselessly.

  "You are beginning to repeat yourself. A word of advice from a veteran in dealing with that fellow: He and no one else decides when you are through with him. I have yet to finish a conversation with him that did not interest him," Desmeres said.

  "Both of you are so selfish," she said.

  "That is a fair opinion. One I happen to agree with, in fact," he said.

  "How can you be so cocky? You take it for granted that I will help you," she said.

  "You will. You are both intelligent and helpful. It is in your nature to do what others need of you. You are already becoming aware of how businesslike I am, and it is only a matter of time before you realize how useful it will be to have performed a valuable service for us," he said, walking back to his workshop.

  "What do you mean?" she asked, following him.


  "Your life, or death, depends entirely upon the value of each to us. You are alive because you are worth more to us in that state. Were I you, and I was after Lain’s aid in this Chosen nonsense as you are, I would be spending most of my time and effort proving that I am more valuable as an ally than as a captive," he said, taking a seat at the bench and picking up the wood chisel.

  "How could I possibly do that?" she asked.

  "I don't have all of the answers, but I would say that helping us with this purchase would be a fine start. You might think about sabotaging our relationship with the Alliance Army while you are at it. That way, we would have a harder time turning you over for the reward to anyone but Trigorah. We would have to hold onto you longer, and you would have more time to convince Lain to end the war," he said.

  "Why are you telling me this?" she asked.

  "It will both plant the seeds of an idea, making it more likely for you to make the decision that benefits me most, and confuse your desire to do the opposite of what I say," he said.

  ". . . I wish you were not quite so forthcoming with your explanations," she said, less than pleased with this glimpse into the disturbingly well-crafted manipulations of her host.

  "I'd warned that my honesty would become bothersome . . ." he said, looking up distractedly. "Lain . . . he didn't bring a weapon, did he?"

  "I didn't notice. I suppose not. Why? Are you concerned for him?" she asked.

  "No, for any who may face him," he said.

  "I don't understand," she said.

  "When . . . when he holds a weapon, particularly one of mine, he is a graceful, silent, clean killer. When he is unarmed, he is something else altogether. Vicious, forceful. He reverts to something primal. I dare say he is even more deadly that way, but in a way that is unmistakably animal," Desmeres said with a shudder.

  "What do you care?" she asked.

  "If a man must die, so be it, but there is no reason to be cruel. I must finish his weapon. But first I must finish yours, and the paperwork. So much to do, and only seven days to do it," he said, turning back to his task.

  Myranda found her way back to the room with the table, where she had set up her bedroll, and retired. Try as she might, though, she could not bring herself to sleep. She was more at home on the freezing ground outside than in this place. Knowing that all that surrounded her was paid for by blood turned her stomach. She wondered how the peace of the world could be left to the whims of such twisted minds.

  Chapter 4

  The best Myranda could manage was a light doze, interrupted periodically by an odd sound or smell emanating from Desmeres's workshop. Myn, lying atop her as always, slept peacefully until what must have been morning. When the dragon roused, Myranda decided she may as well end this fruitless pursuit of sleep. She wandered into Desmeres's workshop.

  The half-elf, visibly weary, was admiring what he had done to the staff. He noticed her walk in and held it up proudly. Myranda took it from his hands. It felt much lighter. He had carved a good deal of the exterior down and shaped it carefully. Her fingers fit easily and comfortably around it. The color was different, streaked with darker colors that made the formerly white surface resemble the gray bark of a tree, and covering the surface were dozens of small, intricately carved symbols. She had noticed the same symbols decorating the blades and handles of nearly every other weapon in the room. Lowering its tip to the floor, she found it stood at a more appropriate height than before. His improvements were apparent, though she wondered about the reasoning for some.

  "Why the darker color?" she asked.

  "A side effect of the solutions I soaked it in to strengthen it. Natural wood at the thickness that is appropriate for your hand size would not be strong enough for my tastes. I could restore the color, if you like," he said.

  "I don't much care. What of the symbols?" she asked.

  "Runes. Lain has put them to fine use over the years, and I see no reason why you couldn't do the same. He doesn't know a word of magic, as I’ve said, so he needed something that could turn the defensive skills he does have into something effective against magic. Those runes will allow you to defend against spells tossed in your direction as though they were conventional attacks. You can deflect a fireball as easily as a thrown stone, or shatter a conjured shield spell as though it were glass, all without wasting an ounce of your own mystic strength. Of course, a stronger spell is more difficult to deflect, just as a larger stone is. Also, though I stand by my work, I cannot guarantee that the enhancements will work against all magics. It is an ever-changing area, after all," he said.

  Myranda tested the strength of the now-much thinner tool. Touching it for the first time in a day, she was struck by the clarity of mind it brought. Certainly the effect had not been so noticeable before. Seeming to notice her expression, Desmeres offered an explanation.

  "Among other things, I treated the wood so that it will aid focus in absence of a crystal. With a crystal, the effect is doubled. Useful, yes?" he said.

  The girl admired the work for a few more moments before a suspicion crept into her mind.

  "You only did this to raise the price on my head again, didn't you?" she said.

  "Heavens no. Not only that. I also needed some practice in the manufacture of mystical weapons. I almost never get the opportunity. I'm glad you thought to accuse me, though. It shows that you are developing a healthier outlook on the people around you," he said with a grin, as he searched around for some sheets of paper, some ink, and a quill.

  "Healthy? I thought the worst of you!" she said.

  "And you weren't completely wrong. You'll find that you seldom are when you think the worst of people," he said, finding some high quality parchment and ink.

  "That is a terrible thing to say!" she objected.

  "Prove me wrong," he said, dipping a quill and beginning to scribe in impressive calligraphy.

  "What are you writing?" she asked.

  "Paperwork. There is a fair amount of it involved in transferring land," he said.

  "Aren't you going to sleep?" she asked.

  "I prefer to wait until my affairs are in order," he said.

  "And Lain? Does he ever sleep?" she asked.

  "Not in the traditional sense. They call it 'the warrior's sleep,' but the two couldn't be more dissimilar," he said.

  "You spoke of the warrior's sleep before. What is that?" she asked.

  "It is . . . well . . . let us put it in mystical terms. It is like meditation, only far, far deeper, and not merely of the mind. It focuses the thoughts, and it brings the body near to death. They have been teaching it at Entwell since the beginning. I could never get the hang of it, but they say a few minutes like that will do the work of a few hours of real sleep. Back before he had someone to cook up healing potions, that is how Lain dealt with serious injury. It is not nearly as fast as a potion or a spell, but it is measurably better than simply waiting," he explained.

  "He never sleeps normally?" she asked.

  "If you ever find him lying down, especially in a bed, you can be certain it was not his idea," Desmeres answered.

  As she watched him sculpt the official language of the paper with great care, she decided he had best be left alone. She found herself drawn to the room that contained the gold and the records. Myn's tapping claws followed her, and once inside, the little dragon leapt up onto one of the chests that was mostly coins, instinctively drawn to the gleaming treasure. She curled up and watched Myranda as she approached the second shelf.

  The books that filled the shelf were in groups of four. All told, there were a few more than seventy such sets. She reasoned that, since Desmeres had been partnered with him for roughly seventy years, the groups must be by season and year, though if there was a written indication of exactly what year each represented, it was not in a form she recognized. It was just as well. The standard method for labeling the years these days was to measure from the day that the war had begun. By that measure, the year was 156. The thought depre
ssed her.

  In the days to come, days that seemed painfully long with nothing to fill them, she spent much time leafing through the books. The names of the people and places, as well as the prices, were the only things not written in some bizarre language that they had certainly learned at Entwell. As a result, she found herself scanning the pages for any places or names she knew. It seldom took long. A lifetime of journeying from town to town had taken her to most of the places in the north. Apparently Lain's business had done the same. People of much renown were frequently named in the pages as well. Wealthy landowners, merchants, and people of all walks of life had either hired his blade or fallen to it. Without understanding the language, it was impossible to tell which. Much of what she saw she had heard in the form of rumors over the years. The Red Shadow. The fact that he was real, the fact that she knew him, filled her with an icy, gnawing anxiety.

  Soon it was the seventh day. Desmeres had long since finished his preparations, the last of which was the completion of some manner of sword for Lain. He refused to unveil it to her, claiming that Lain ought to be the first. He slipped out the entrance hatch, warning her that he would arrive back at the end of the day and they would have to move quickly when the time came. Until then, there was nothing to do but leaf through more books. She had worked her way backward through fifteen or so of the years, and came upon a name she had known about already. Rinthorne, the unfortunate man who had been in charge of Kenvard when the massacre occurred.

  Dark memories filled her head at the glimpse of the name. She’d lost her home, her family, everything that day. Then something odd caught her eye. A line in the book was struck out. It was clearly written in a different hand than the rest. With a bit of effort, the words could still be read, not that it did any good. She still hadn't worked out what they meant. Something else was odd. There was no indication for whom or to whom the job was done. There was only one word that she did recognize.