A knock on the door drew his attention from writing. He was surprised to see he had eaten almost everything on the tray. He called out; telling whomever it was to come in. The door opened and Rogen entered carrying a small chest under one arm and a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He set them down on the bed, turned, and smiled at Cite.
“It is morning,” Rogen said, “and the tide is coming in. If you want to go back to your village you can get passage east, then up the river. Alternatively, you could continue east and go further to Durgan’s Keep until you feel it is safe to return home. I have sold some of my interests I held here and will give you traveling money. In the bag are supplies you will need; clothes, sleeping roll, and camp supplies. In the chest are more writing supplies as well as valuables that you can sell when you need to.” Rogen continued to tick off the list and purpose of the items in the bag and chest as Cite watched him. Rogen stopped his recital of the inventory when he noticed the look on Cite’s face.
“What is it, lad?”
“I dreamt last night,” Cite said. The older man stood still and waited. After almost a minute Cite realized the next question people always ask was not coming. Rogen had the patience of a mountain. Cite smiled and looked down, as he began to see a little bit more into the ways of the man who trained slaves for the past three quarters of a century. He looked back up, swept his sandy blonde hair from his blue eyes, and told Rogen of his dream.
When he finished Rogen nodded and asked, “Do you know what any of that means?”
“I know my path lies on a boat and to the west, not the east as you suggest,” Cite told him. Rogen nodded and waited for him to go on, “The cloaked man who pointed is an unknown, as is the woman. Towers can have many meanings, and I am sure the ones in the dream will reveal theirs in time.”
“Black towers may represent the Towers of Obsidian, the God of Magic. They had definitely been twisted since the change in power in the heavens recently,” Rogen offered. “I have seen many changes here in the ways of magic. When Verl’zen-luk murdered the other Gods and took his place amongst them, it happened just a week’s travel through the desert and we saw many things from my citadel.” Rogen ran his fingers through his beard and began to pace the small room. “I remember when the first Towers of Obsidian appeared; it was the year after I took on the title of Rogen the Plague. It was on the day of Phaz and I was in the Oracle Plain when the Stone Dragon fell from the sky. I am not much for superstition and hiding inside on the Day of Phaz, which is the custom of most folk. I remember finding the Glass Valley in the Slim Desert on my return trip.” Rogen paused and turned back to Cite. “My apologies, I do not often get caught up in my memories.”
Cite smiled again, this time behind his hand. He had been wondering about this man, and how much Rogen could tell him of the historic events leading to this. Now he wondered if his abilities had anything to do with Rogen’s sudden nostalgic interlude.
“Don’t worry about it, Rogen. It is nice to hear history from an honest point of view instead of a history book or someone paid to tell a very strict side of the events.”
“Well, what else was there?” Rogen asked to get the conversation back on track. “You need to meet some wiggly doxie, scare a sea monster, and then make weapons that kill people?”
“Not necessarily. Sometimes people are events represented by an embodiment. Other times things can be people. Like the sea serpent may be an event or a pirate, the trees may be an army. It may be a plague that kills all vegetation, or it could be the armies of undead walking the land. It is hard to tell ahead of time.”
“Not a very handy thing then, is it? If you do not know what things mean until you are in the middle of them, it as good as pounding your head against a stone.” Rogen smacked the palm of his hand against his head.
“You are the stone!” Cite exclaimed, snapping his fingers. Rogen peered slowly around his hand.
“Thanks. That comparison means a lot to me,” he said with sarcasm.
“I’m not insulting you. The stone hut. You are the stone hut I step into for protection from the storm. See? And you have done just that, protected me until I can reach the place where I can find the ship I need,” Cite explained, half flustered, half excited.
“But the stone hut did not come until after you traveled, did it?”
“It doesn’t matter. The mind does not always put things in the same order and the real world. This shows that we are on the right track.”
“We?”
“Well, me. It seems a different life, a different world than before I met you. Sorry about that, I meant me. I know you have responsibilities here with your people and your empire,” Cite said.
“It is fine,” said Rogen, “but you are right. I do have duties and people for whom I am responsible. I shall find you passage west. I spoke with to some people this afternoon also. I did it while you were sleeping, you being there would have been hard to explain.”
Cite agreed. “I should be there when you book passage. I may make some connection once I see things.”
Rogen nodded. “I should get started,” he said and turned to go.
“Wait, I want to discuss something else,” Cite said. Rogen turned back, head cocked, and Cite continued, “My abilities. The mind reading or whatever it is. I can’t be sure but I think as I get to know you better, I may be influencing some of your thoughts, or sending my thoughts to you,” the lad confessed, wringing his hands. “I don’t like the idea that I may be invading a friend’s head.” Rogen’s barking laugh stopped Cite, who crinkled his brow and squinted.
“Lad, let me tell you something about this old head of mine. It is as hard as stone, as you indirectly pointed out. I think perhaps you are just perceptive and notice where people’s thoughts would go. You have come to know me a bit, and I have come to know you. I have been reading people for well over a century now, I have a bit of practice and you are not exactly a closed book.” Rogen saw Cite’s shoulders droop. “Now, I am not saying you may not be able to do this. I am just saying to have faith in your own control and moral intuition, and never underestimate someone else. Especially me.”
Cite looked into Rogen’s eyes and locked his gaze on the shorter man. Rogen felt more than heard ‘I trust you, Rogen’ reverberate inside his head. His eyes widened.
Rogen laughed and shook his head. He pointed at Cite while still chuckling. “I need to pack. Practice with your knives, boy, I will return sooner than you may think.” He turned and went out the door and left Cite alone with his thoughts.
It was the holy day of Parsay. The day that the God of Chance and Luck would secretly venture forward into the world of mortals and choose a beautiful woman to be his consort for one turn of the calendar. People celebrated with games of chance under the tarps of shops and on tavern tables. The wind even seemed to favor them, as it blew a cooling breeze across the normally arid city. The sun was behind a sky full of clouds, given everyone a respite from its brutal rays. The air was scented with incense burned to bring luck and fortune.
Rogen and Cite stood on the docks looking at the three ships in the moorings. Cite stared at the slim ship with a female form made of waves carved into the prow and the name painted on the aft, ‘Lady Luck’.
Looking around the younger man felt the pulse, the ebb and the flow, of this city. Every city was different. This one felt desperate, and smelled of sweat, refuse, and people who had given up. No one seemed to care much about the upkeep of the buildings or themselves. He would be glad to leave it behind.
“The other two are going east. Only this one goes west.” Rogen interrupted Cite’s thoughts as he pointed at the Lady Luck. “I am not sure how far I would trust it. It has the cut of a river ship, not a seagoing vessel. See the shallow draft? Not that I am much of a sailor, but I know a little.”
“She is the one,” Cite said confidently.
“How do you know?” Rogen asked, doubt in his voice. “You can wait for a few days and other ships will come.”
>
Cite turned and pointed at a tavern across the planking of the docks. The board outside was painted with a smiling cloaked figure pointing out towards the viewer, or perhaps the ship docked behind the viewer. The name under it said, ‘Fate’s Run’. Rogen knew the place. “That’s a low-end gambling hall run by a woman who goes by the name Fate. She rigs the tables and thinks it’s funny when people don’t understand the double entendre of the tavern’s name,” he told the younger man.
“That is the sign I was looking for,” Cite said with a smile.
“That? No, no, no. It is not a sign.” Rogen said. Cite looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “Well, yes… THAT is a sign, but one made of wood, not one from cosmic guidance.”
“I’m used to people not believing signs I see in commonplace things. I have gained a looser interpretation of the universe with age, and as I have begun having more and more dreams.”
“With age?” Rogen snorted. “You’re barely a pup!”
“Sometimes things cannot be taken literally or at face value,” Cite continued as if Rogen hadn’t spoken, “other times that is exactly what you had to do. This is the ship I need, Rogen. Let’s go talk to the Captain and see if he is taking on passengers.” Cite stepped onto the gangplank leading from the dock to the deck.
The crew moved about the deck in the late afternoon sun, tended to things that they had done hundreds of times, and readied the ship to sail. The Lady Luck was a long and sleek schooner with two masts. Though many things were worn with age and use, she appeared well cared for.
Two huge men, a bearded one and a bald one, stepped in front of Cite and Rogen. The bearded one was a head taller than Cite, and Rogen only came up to the bottom of the man’s ribs. The sailor was dressed in loose breeches and a vest that did nothing to hide his hairy chest. He looked down on the two trespassers and one of his eyes wandered off to the left. The other man had deep olive skin and no hair to be seen anywhere on his body except for his eyebrows. He was dressed in white breeches that made his skin appear all that much darker, and though not as tall as his bearded counterpart, he still towered above Cite.
“Don’t you know it is rude to barge onto someone’s ship without asking for permission to come aboard?” asked the larger, bearded man who blocked the way. “It is like walking into someone’s house without knocking. Can I help you?”
“Um, we wanted to ride your boat,” Cite began. The man opened his mouth, a growl beginning to build, when Rogen pushed past Cite on the thin walkway, and almost toppled the boy into the water.
“Pardon me, sir, and pardon my friend,” Rogen interjected before the large man could say anything else. A crowd of sailors had begun to form on the deck of the ship to watch the encounter. “He meant ‘ship’. We would like to book passage on your ship. We have heard she is fast, the captain bold and strong, and the crew the best to be found. Have we heard correctly?”
The large man looked over his shoulder at the darker skinned man, who rolled his eyes and shrugged.
“You have heard all that, have you? Well, I am Tildan, the Quartermaster of the Lady Luck. Who are you?” he asked.
“I am Rogen the Plague of the Great Desert Empire,” Rogen said, figuring that name-dropping could not hurt in this situation. He knew it would raise the price but may offer more safety on board a pirate ship. “And this is Cite, Master Mage and Prophet of Rugber Whitley Estates. We seek passage, erm, west. How far are you going?”
Tildan paused and considered the information he was given. “We go to Edgewater, near Red City. It will cost you though, fifty gold kords each, and you don’t get a private cabin. Surely if you have heard so much of this ship, you have heard of the Captain’s temper?” he asked, and Rogen nodded. “And you have heard of the Captain’s way of terror and mighty appetites?” Again, Rogen nodded and Cite paled. “Good, come aboard, we cast off in an hour. Oh, and one more thing, you have heard that the Captain prefers the company of men, right?” he asked, a grin breaking out on his face and the faces of the surrounding sailors. Cite wobbled and almost fell off the gangplank again, and would have if Rogen had not reached out a hand to steady him.
Rogen left Cite in the marketplace and went off to take care of a few loose ends. They met in front of Fate’s Run a half hour later as the sun sank lower in the sky. Unknown to them, they were watched from an upstairs room of the building. It focused on Cite, who glowed a brilliant silver color to the figure’s eyes. Peeking through the lace curtains, the figure listened to the conversation from a distance from which most others would not be able to hear a single word.
“I picked up some dried fruits, nuts, as well as some cheese,” Cite said as the two stopped in front of the ship.
“I picked something up, too.” Rogen handed Cite a cloth wrapped bundle.
“What is it?” Cite asked, unwrapping the bundle. Rogen watched without answering. The cloth fell away to reveal a smooth leather cover that was very familiar to Cite. “This is my journal! What… how did you get it?”
“I told you I would try to find it, and I always do as I say,” Rogen answered. “I am just glad I got it before we left here. It was close but, well, you got it.”
“We?” Cite asked.
“Yes, I will be joining you. I think you will need your stone-headed hut, considering the storm you are going into.”
Rogen smiled as he gestured for Cite to board the Lady Luck. Cite started up the thin walkway, still clutching the book. They found a spot by the rail, out of the way of the busy crew.
“By the way,” Rogen said as the gangplank was drawn aboard and the lines were cast off, “do you smoke? I packed a few pipes and cigars to go with my brandy.”
The curtain fell back into place as the figure turned away from the window, his leathery wings rustling as they scraped the ceiling. He had seen the one who had caused a surge of magic powerful enough to alert others half a continent away, in Everyway. Now he just needed to determine which side the Cite would choose and arrange to destroy the boy if he chose wrong. And Grenedal Dragonblood knew just whom to contact to help determine that.
Chapter 8: Deals at Midnight
“A dagger in the heart from behind is kinder than one delivered with a kiss.”
Catalysis, Madam of Dark Rendezvous Brothel
5854 – Thon – Quebal – Bestuf
The night shifted as she leaned over the edge of the wet roof to see the men coming down the street, easily keeping her balance. The rising mist and cobblestone below were well lit by the full moon. The twelve men, four foppish and powdered minor nobles, with two men-at-arms each, laughed as they walked. The nobles wore bright jewel tones with accenting ivory lace and they sang out in high-pitched voices and nasal accents. The one named Juhnunt, the leader of this little group, was singing a particularly bawdy tune. The rapier and a main-gauche hanging from his double wrap leather belt accented his long maroon doublet. The other fops laughed and leaned into each other drunkenly as they covered their rouged cheeks and powdered noses with scented silk handkerchiefs to repel the odors and disease of the lower classes.
The dandy’s hired guards trailed behind them and looked bored. It was a trained look, for the gold flowed when the effeminate carousers were happy, and it trickled to nothing when they were not pleased. The second fop wore a deep green coat, the third a navy blue with silver clasps, and the last had a bright gold doublet, each accented with ivory lace, pearls, and silk ribbons. Their hair was curled and tied back; the silver and gold buckles on their shoes shone in the dim light of the lantern their hired soldiers carried.
A boy stepped out of an alleyway. Pale and pink in the cool night, he wore only a pair of knee breeches. He looked startled as he saw the group of men. “I don’t want to do it anymore,” he said as he backed up in fear with his eyes wide. “I don’t care if it makes me rich or whatever, I don’t wanna do the things they want me to do!” The boy began crying as he backed into the alley from whence he had come.
“This must be one of Berdf
ul’s Brood, the Untouched,” Juhnunt said as he pointed at the boy. Then pointing to the building beside them he added, “This is his private pleasure house. Well, we are close enough to it for the boy to be one of his.” He looked at his companions with lust in his drug-hazed eyes. “We won’t have to pay if we don’t go inside for a young boy, and this one does not seem to be fully trained, we can break him in!”
Understanding touched the eyes of the other noblemen; wolfish grins broke their faces and one giggled high and girlish. With nods and a quick command for their hired swords to watch the ally entrance, they followed the boy into the alley, unlacing their breeches as they went.
The girl watched and moved silently as she followed the four rich pansies as they stalked their prey down the alley. Like a pack of rabbits pretending to be wolves that hunted a deer, they bounced and giggled as they approached the boy. The boy backed away from them, frightened and crying. He begged for mercy, and pleaded for them not to do this. He begged to stay untouched by men. He begged for his dignity and freedom. On their honor he begged. The men were only excited more by the pleas that fell on deaf ears.
“Too bad they aren’t more wolves than bunnies,” thought the short watcher from above. “Then again, even a hare would smell this trap.” She watched from three stories up as the men cornered the boy in the dead end alley. They grabbed his hair, punched him and tore off his breeches. They forced the boy to do the things he had been trained to do. The boy struggled. As they began to violate him in earnest, he yelled, “Now! Damn it, you said you would come before this! Now!”
The preoccupied fops didn’t notice three of their hired guards coming down the alley, swords drawn. The fop in the bright gold doublet fell dead, alerting the others that they were no longer alone. A guard had stabbed him through the back, the sword erupting from his chest. The fop in the deep green coat turned, and with the same motion that withdrew his manhood from the boy, pulled his stiletto from his boot and threw it. The weapon appeared in the guard’s throat. With a gurgle, he stumbled backwards into his companions, as blood flooded from his throat and mouth, and dropped his sword that was still in the back of the dead fop.
Harbinger: The Downfall - Book One Page 9
