“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I know you wanted to stay a while, but it isn’t safe for us here.”
“Papa—” Joshua began.
“I wish I could change things, but I can’t.”
“Papa, look.” Joshua tugged him back and pointed urgently to a tree just at the mouth of the village. On it, pictures and notices had been nailed for the attention of all those moving in or out of the town.
“Oh no…” Rufus tore down a likeness of himself which had been nailed up. Beneath the picture, the text boasted an extortionate reward for anyone who could deliver Rufus’s head to King Sverrin’s court.
Joshua touched the page. “It’s a good likeness. They drew your scar on the wrong side though.”
Rufus’s own fingers automatically reached up to the scar that ran along the side of his left eye, from the eyebrow to the top of his cheekbone. A gift from his first encounter with DuGilles.
“I don’t think it’ll make a difference.” Rufus’s voice shook. It had been over twelve years since he abandoned his duties in Harmatia, becoming a traitor. But until today, the object of the chase had been to capture Rufus and bring him to trial. Now, DuGilles had changed everything. It wouldn’t only be emissaries from Harmatia coming for Rufus, but every hungry, greedy or law–abiding citizen who saw his face. His blood ran cold.
“We have to go. Now. Quick.”
Without a word of argument, Joshua followed Rufus as they sprinted past the village, up to the Hirondelle’s house.
Even before they reached the back door, it had been opened and a set of anxious arms had pulled them inside. “We’ve prepared your horses and packed your bags—you must go immediately, before they find you here.” Samual Hirondelle was a stout but powerful man, with thick arms and a red moustache that quivered whenever he spoke. Rufus and Joshua had been a guest of his for only a few weeks, but already they were being run to their next safe-haven. “Little Prince, you frightened my husband and I near to death when we found you missing from your bed this morning,” he said. “And you Rufus—when the Kathraks passed through, we feared the worst. They’ve made a sport of you—you must get to Beshuwa to the Moineau family.”
“Which way did the Kathraks go?” Rufus asked.
“I cannot be sure, but I think they are following the river down to Lemra on the coast. They will probably recuperate there.” Samual hurried them along.
“Do you know how they found us so quickly?” Rufus pushed Joshua ahead of him as they moved into the stables at the back.
“No, we have been trying to find their source, but there have been delays in all our communications. I have heard nothing from the Alouettes in weeks. I fear they have abandoned their post.”
Rufus swallowed. The Alouettes had given him and Joshua shelter a few months before, and had been incredibly welcoming to bone-weary travellers. Rufus didn’t want to consider the possibility that something evil might have befallen them on account of that kindness.
“They won’t have been hurt, will they?” Joshua asked fearfully. “We left nothing to incriminate them.”
“No, they’ve probably gone to Brexiam—we have a force gathered there now. It’s safer for the existing Knight families, but it means we have lost another correspondent in our chain. Information comes slow.”
“Just as long as they’re safe, delays don’t matter.”
They stepped into the stable where two horses had already been saddled, ready for departure. Rufus clasped Samual’s hand. “Money should be sent through for me soon—when it comes, take what is owed for your hospitality.”
“I may not have seen him in many years, but your father is a true friend of mine.” Samuel shook his head. “What is mine is yours.”
Rufus insisted, “Please, don’t be generous—you’ve given enough already. Joshua and I are indebted to you and your family.”
“Nonsense.” The first smile broke over Samual’s face, his cheeks glowing red like his moustache. “The world is indebted to you, my boy.” Samual knelt before Joshua, bowing his head. “Your Highness, I regret that I could not teach you the skills I wished to. But know that I am forever your faithful servant and will honour and serve you as long as I live.”
“Rise,” Joshua invited, and suddenly he had all the presence of the Prince he was, his tone mild, but regal. “We’re indebted to you. I promise, when I’m King, your loyalty won’t be forgotten. Until then, my thanks is all I can offer you.”
Rufus watched Joshua with a swelling pride as Samual rose to his feet and bowed deeply to the Prince. “It is all I need, Your Highness,” Samuel said solemnly. “You have raised him well,” he congratulated Rufus, who shook his head. Joshua’s grace and geniality were natural to him—he was truly his father’s son. “You must go.” Samual broke Rufus from his thoughts. “Ride swiftly, my friend.”
Again, Rufus clasped Samual’s hand in thanks and, following his brother’s lead, he clambered up onto a horse. Samual opened the stable door and with a final salute the Prince and Magi charged out of the stable, up toward the woodland path, leaving the house far behind. Just as with the Kathraks he’d killed, Rufus didn’t look back. He couldn’t afford to look back.
To Aeron Faucon the backward streets of Lemra were a place of infinite possibility. Here men could walk in the shadows like they were shifting between reality itself and no law stood above nature’s first rule—that the strong ate the weak. Aptly named ‘The Pit of Bethean’, Lemra had long since forged a reputation of being a nest of thieves, pirates and cut-throats. It was certainly not a place for the fainthearted, which suited Aeron well—his city bred survivors, anything less was unwelcome.
Leaning back against the dusty wall of an old building, Aeron watched the sun setting over the water, keeping half an eye on the shifting forms of mice-like children who ran bare-foot and soundless through the gutters.
Up along the road, two figures appeared and Aeron watched them leisurely as they approached. They were Kathrak, bold in feature and strong-faced. One was tall, shaped like a boulder, with rounded shoulders and hunch. The other was smaller with a long nose and hairy chin. Aeron spat in the street as they reached him. “Milords?” he said, his accent thick, voice deep and gravelly.
“You are the one they call the Black Falcon?”
Aeron sucked his front teeth loudly. “Point out which feckless fuck called me that stupid name, and I’ll forgive you for repeatin’ it.”
The Kathraks considered him. Without warning, the smaller one threw a hard punch toward Aeron’s kidney. Despite his lazy demeanour, Aeron anticipated the attack. With a swift shift of his body, he avoided the strike. The Kathrak’s knuckle cracked painfully against the wall. He yelped and swore loudly.
“You damn—” he began but before he could say any more, Aeron had drawn his knife in one slick movement and pushed it against the Kathrak’s throat. The assassin tutted softly.
“Now that’s no way to charm a favour from a man, is it?” Aeron let his accent drawl, watching the Kathrak’s cheek twitch as the knife rose higher up his neck. “Or is this some sugar-coated Kathrak greet I don’t know about?”
The larger man moved in to help his comrade, but Aeron warned him back.
“Ah-ah! One step closer and your mate gets a new singin’ hole,” he warned.
“You will take us to the Faucon brotherhood,” the Kathrak under Aeron’s knife demanded. Aeron tittered, a strange sound coming from such a formidable man.
“And here, I thought the man with the knife to his throat took the orders.”
The second Kathrak drew his own blade and held it up to Aeron side. “You are outnumbered, Betheanian shit. You will do as we ask.”
Aeron grinned, skull-like. “You think because I stand unhidden, that I’m out here by my whoopsie-savvy self? Hm?” He licked his lips and then removed the blade, settling back against the wall. “But let’s not make enemies of out of money-lenders, as the old proverb goes. You fine folk look in need of business, so put that slinky blade away from wher
e it’s accusin’ me kidneys, cross my palm with silver, and I’ll see what I can suck.”
“I don’t think you understand how this is going to work,” the larger of the Kathraks barked, the point of his blade still pushing lightly into Aeron’s side.
“And I don’t think you’ve fully brained who you’re talkin’ to,” Aeron replied easily, and something in his tone must have unnerved the two Kathraks, because with another nod the blade was withdrawn and the pair pulled back. “Obliged,” Aeron said, making himself comfortable back against the wall. “Now, give me a minute. I have to count the merits of not stickin’ you both—and fairs warnin’ to you, you’re trippin’ a little short of the chord.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully, running his fingers through his dark beard. Finally he gave an exaggerated sigh. “Well, you fine boys just about thumb the test,” he said. “You look glinted enough. But I’m sorry to say I’m sodded if I can assist. There’s no Faucon Brotherhood here.”
“Listen here, vagrant—we do not have any patience for your games. Take us to them, or die where you stand.”
“I wonder how that’d be…death?” Aeron hummed, spinning into a lazy tangent as he turned back toward the sea. “Must be brain-numbin’ly dull.”
“We can solve that mystery for you.” The larger Kathrak still had his hands on his blade.
“Aw, that’s sweeter than a honey-apple in swine,” Aeron cooed, “but I’m not sure how you’d tap back to me when you’d found out.”
“For the last time, take us to the Faucon Brotherhood! We have been sent to find a man by the name of Cethin!” The Kathrak’s knuckles were white around his sword. Aeron sobered immediately at the name.
“Cethin’s no name, it’s a title like King,” he corrected sternly. “And he’s no man nether—he’s the master of death. The head of the Faucon.”
The Kathraks smiled to each other. “You know of him? Take us then. We wish to hire his strongest assassin.”
“Sorry, but Cethin’s a hundred thousand miles north-west of here, on a Shinny throne in Isnydea,” Aeron growled. He started down the street. “If you want a Faucon assassin, come with me. But I’ll warn you now, don’t point the finger when your double-dealin’s on Betheanian soil bury you in your own festerin’ shit.”
Quietly he led them down a narrow path away from the sea, debating with himself whether or not to simply kill them. The tension between Kathra and Bethean had only grown in recent years. These Kathraks had no place here in Lemra.
Reaching an opening in the wall, Aeron cast his thoughts away and decided to put his mind to the business at hand, rather than grand politics. He was an assassin at his core—a weapon. Though a weapon rarely got the chance to turn on its wielder, whereas Aeron still delighted in the thought of killing both Kathraks and hanging them up as a warm welcome to any other Northerners who might be passing into the assassin’s street.
Pulling back the heavy beige curtain that served as a door, he moved into his abode, nodding to the few comrades of his who were already there. ‘Early risers’ in the nocturnal sense, they sat and waited for the next job, squandering their time gambling, reading and having sex. Aeron was the eldest amongst them, already in his early fifties, and yet as nimble and adept as all of them combined.
Walking toward a ragged desk, Aeron sat behind it, putting his feet up. He motioned for the two Kathraks to approach. “So, what’ll it be milords?”
The men eyed the room and its occupants warily before speaking. “My name is Bendth Gregos, and this Ivenn DuRien,” the smaller said. “We were sent on behalf of Lord Brandt DuGilles to alert the strongest assassin in Lemra of this bounty.” They pushed a piece of paper across the table toward Aeron. The assassin took it, but didn’t look, his brown eyes never leaving the two men before him.
“We work by commission,” he said. “Not bounty.”
“If the Faucon Assassins are as capable as your reputation states, you will have no trouble killing this man. The bounty far outweighs any commission price.”
Aeron sucked his teeth in false consideration, and then took the bait. “Alright then, let’s talk straight, golden business—where is the sucker? What is he? And how d’you want him dead?”
“Our information dictates that his next port of call is here in the East, to a family by the name of Moineau, though we are unsure yet of their location.”
Aeron snorted to himself, but the Kathraks ignored him and continued.
“He is an outlaw—a rogue Magi, but no trained fighter. A quick death is all we require, any second he is tortured is another he breathes, and he is unpredictable when provoked. Better to slit his throat while he slumbers.”
“Aye.” Aeron nodded slowly. “Quick death is cheaper, but a Magi… You’ll be double coined, fair warnin’.”
“The price is set and grand, provided you can bring his head.” Bendth bristled, maintaining an arrogant air despite his surroundings. The other assassins present would gladly snap his neck at a single click of Aeron’s fingers.
“Sweetness, have you no faith in us?” Aeron asked sweetly.
“You Betheanians have a reputation for having soft stomachs.”
“Not met many Betheanians, have you?” Aeron leant back again, his eyes on the huddled figures behind the Kathraks who continued their game, tossing the dice in turns as they played. He exhaled. “You see them behind you, milords? Them humans bundled in black. Well we’ve known each other for a thousand beats, all of us—we’re family of sorts. We’ve shared our meals, our weapons, our sweat and blood.” He paused again as both Kathraks turned to look at the figures, shrouded in their cloaks. Aeron considered his comrades for a long moment, putting his head in his hands. “Seven,” he called softly, “kill.”
Almost instantly, the assassin on the right side of the gambling table flicked a knife into her hand from where it was concealed in her sleeve, and slashed it across her partner’s throat, catching the dice as they tumbled from the other’s hands. The man fell silently backward from his stool into a heavy pile and Aeron applauded.
“Now that’s a good kill—clean. Psht, psht. Throw that organ-sack in the back,” he ordered two other figures, indicating to another room behind him, also curtained off. The cloak-clad assassins did as they were told, dragging the body without complaint as Aeron turned back to the Kathraks, who watched, faces mixed with horror and a gross fascination.
“You refer to each other in numbers?” Ivenn finally dared to ask.
“Course—givin’ your name in a place like this would be foolish as fuck,” Aeron said pointedly, grinning again. The Kathraks looked between each other, trying to disguise their dismay as they realised their mistake. Aeron continued. “So I kill your man…What guarantees me I’ll get paid?”
“We are honourable men—”
“Honourable men don’t send a cut-throat to kill a man in his sleep.” He bared his teeth wickedly. “But fair’s fair. I have all I need—tell your commandin’ officer that I’ll be slicin’ stern words with him if I find my pockets picked after a hard day’s work. And that’s after I’ve picked the lot of you. Accord?”
Both Kathraks maintained their composure, but their faces were pale as they left the abode. Aeron laughed after them. “Now let’s see…” He took up the page they’d left him. It was a bounty with a man’s likeness, and a heavy reward printed on it. Below the drawing were fine details of the rogue’s appearance and habits, but Aeron didn’t need to look past the name. “Hah. And just when I thought everythin’ had drugged down to a pretty stupor, they hand me this? What a whip to wake me up.” Aeron stood, throwing the paper down and moving into the back room, where his comrade’s ‘corpse’ sat up, touching a hand to his throat.
“She nicked me,” the ‘corpse’ complained, staring accusingly up at Aeron with reproachful green eyes.
“Go weep a weddin’ dress—she didn’t reap you Cal, seal your barrel.”
“I couldn’t complain if she had,” was the sharp retort. “But honest—we’d
lose more cut-throats then jobs gained if we killed each other for every customer. How’s it people are still fallin’ for this ploy?”
“So far as they can savvy our numbers are limitless, and I don’t care to wisen ’em up.” Aeron pulled a pair of daggers down from where they hung along an iron hook. Below him, the younger man continued to grumble into his hands, massaging the faint cut.
“I’ve been reaped three times since the moon’s turn. Next time, I kill her.”
“But Cal, you’re so good at it.” Aeron kicked him, none-too-gently in the side. He pulled back. “Clean up the mess in here, you bone-rapist. I’ve got to speak to Cethin.”
“Why?” Cal asked tightly, saying nothing of Aeron’s abuse and wisely so. Last time he’d tried to complain, Aeron had pinched his face between his fingers and cut both of his cheeks open. “Who’s the mark?”
“Why, none other than Harmatia’s famous run-away—Rufus Merle,” Aeron rolled the name across his tongue as he strapped his daggers to his side. “Ah,” he sang, “I smell a blood-bath.”
“And then she leapt down from the fountain top and dove head-first into the bandits!” Rufus exclaimed dramatically, leaping around the fire in imitation as he spun haphazardly. “She was like an acrobat, twisting and turning. Not one of those murderous thieves could rise to meet her skill, and when it seemed she might be overwhelmed, she moved faster and faster until she was almost a ghost, shifting gracefully through the air like—ah!” he stumbled on his own long legs and collapsed into a heap at Joshua’s side. The boy laughed as Rufus propped himself up onto his elbow with a huff. “Well, not like that obviously.”
Joshua laughed even harder and it turned into a long cough. Rufus shifted, his expression pinched with concern.
“Right,” his tone became brisk, “I’ve upheld my end of the bargain, now drink the brew.” He pointed to the foul, paste-like drink that Joshua held in his hand. Rufus had mixed it earlier.
“You haven’t finished the story yet,” Joshua complained, taking a tentative sip.
Blood of the Delphi (The Harmatia Cycle Book 2) Page 3
