Legends of Ahn (King's Dark Tidings Book 3)

by Kel Kade

  He let himself into her bedchamber and was glad to see that the woman kept with the custom of high society Channeríans in which husbands and wives slept in separate rooms. Rezkin approved of this particular Channeríanism and thought that if he ever did marry, he would enact it in his own household. The woman’s bed was a large four-posted structure, and the bed curtains were pulled back to permit the night’s cool breeze into the otherwise stuffy room.

  Rezkin lit the lamp on her bedside table and then grabbed the woman’s throat, squeezing just hard enough that she could not scream. Onelle’s eyes shot open in alarm, and she clawed at his hand as she kicked and struggled.

  He raised a finger to his lips. “Shh.” Lowering his voice an octave, he spoke in Channerían with a raspy Ashaiian accent. “You will not live long enough to shout if you try. Do you understand?”

  The woman struggled to breathe, and by the blaze in her eyes and stubborn set of her jaw, he could tell that she would berate him if she could. He squeezed a little harder, and her obstinacy was replaced with fear.

  “Good,” he said as he released her and stepped back a pace.

  The woman rose quickly and scurried to her feet on the other side of the bed. Two braids of greying hair hung to her waist, which was hidden beneath a loose night rail. She looked as if she might dart toward the door, so Rezkin drew his curved, serrated dagger from his belt and casually spun it in his hand for effect. Onelle froze in place, but her gaze darted around looking for something. She snatched a book from the other bed table and held it before her. Rezkin wondered what the woman thought she could do with the book. He could think of several uses for it as a weapon, but he doubted she was capable of performing any of them. Perhaps she hoped to use it as a shield or to bludgeon him.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” she asked.

  It was always the same two questions, but he rarely answered them the same way.

  “How many men do you know who could breach your security?” he flippantly asked.

  Rezkin had known several, but they were gone now. Such thoughts always led to Farson, and he felt a spike of anger regarding the way his old trainer had treated him that day on the rooftop in Skutton. Rezkin rejected the emotion with a swift mental shove. He needed all his attention in the here and now, and he would not betray his training for counterproductive emotional entanglements.

  Onelle raised her chin and said, “I, of course, do not know any. I would not associate with such people.”

  Her words were clipped, and her face was soured by a stern expression, but Rezkin still thought her quite attractive for a woman of her age. Then he wondered why he had just experienced such a thought.

  “Now you can say you’ve had the privilege of meeting the Raven,” he said with a poorly executed flourish.

  “You mean that reprobate who has managed to take over the Ashaiian underworld?” Pursing her lips, she appraised his disguise with a condescending gaze. “You are exactly as I expected. It is no wonder that Ashai would spawn one such as you—a land where the king is no better than the criminals.”

  “You’re candid for someone facing death,” Rezkin rasped.

  “You do not want to kill me or I would be dead already. You want something,” she said. Her confidence was belied by her white knuckled grip.

  Rezkin grinned. “I’m glad to hear that we’re now on the same page. We’ll get right to business. The king is going to make a proposal to the council. He’ll wish to give the island of Cael to the Ashaiian traitors led by the so-called Dark Tidings.” His voice held naught but disgust and loathing.

  The woman glared at him. “It is rumored that the man who goes by Dark Tidings has a legitimate claim to the Ashaiian throne.”

  “Rebel scum,” he spat. “We’ll make it worth your while to have him captured the moment he steps foot in Channería.”

  “We?” she said with suspicion. “You’re working with Caydean.”

  Rezkin cackled. “No one works with a madman. I work for myself, but in this, our interests are the same. His chaos is my fortune.”

  He grinned maliciously as he stabbed the dagger into its sheath at his belt and then drew a throwing dagger. The blade flashed in the lamp light as it rolled across his fingers, between them and around and then began its circuit over again.

  Onelle scowled and pointed her book at him. “You seek to profit from the terror he inflicts upon his own people, your people. You are disgusting.”

  He grunted. “I’ve been accused of worse. Let’s get back to your role. You’re going to vote against the king’s proposal and denounce Dark Tidings and all who follow him as traitors.”

  “When first I heard of Dark Tidings, he sounded like no more than a rebel terror. The very fact that both Caydean and a fiend of your ill repute oppose him makes me reconsider. For years, rebel factions have lurked within your borders, and Caydean has done nothing. For him, though, you go to great lengths. You believe his claim is legitimate. He is a true threat.”

  Rezkin stabbed the knife into the bed table and growled, “That is not important.”

  She lifted her chin and said, “If King Ionius wants to give that useless island to Dark Tidings, then I am sure he has his reasons, which will be explained in detail to the council.”

  He spun on his heal and stomped toward the open window. Before making his exit, he turned back and said, “It doesn’t matter. You will vote against it. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what can happen if you defy me.”

  By the time the alarm had been raised, Rezkin was already across the street and scaling the temple. The buildings in this area were strong and close enough together that he could travel by rooftop. When he got closer to the slums, he dropped to the ground. He dashed through the alleys back toward the stables. After scrubbing his hair, face, and teeth in a rain barrel, he lay down in the hay for a few hours of sleep.

  Rezkin awoke to the stroke of wet sandstone at his temple. The repetitive lapping continued into his hair. A furry paw came to rest on his cheek, gently kneading at his flesh. His eye popped open to find the little beast nearly wrapped around his head. Its yellow eyes stared back at him. A rumbling began in its chest, and then it butted him with its forehead. When he did not respond, it butted him again and then pawed at his nose. Rezkin frowned at the thing. His attention was then diverted by the soft crunch of footsteps outside the stable door. Grebella appeared a moment later. She leaned on the frame and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Well, seems ya’ve made a friend,” she said with a smile.

  The cat twisted and pawed at Rezkin’s face once more before it resumed licking his hair.

  Grebella’s laugh was husky. “I think that little tortie’s gone and adopted ya. She’s a sweet thing. Had a litter a few months ago—jus’ one kitten. Poor thing died. She was too young to be a mamma, anyhow, only a kitten ’erself.” The woman’s thoughtful gaze sought the house behind her, and the smile slipped from her lips. “Too much of that ’round here.”

  Rezkin awkwardly drew himself to his feet, slouching and stumbling as he made a show of rubbing sleep from his eyes. The long, black hair that hung about his face was flecked through with golden hay, as were his rumpled, ill-fitted clothes. He shuffled toward the door and squinted down at the woman.

  “What’s ’er name?” he asked. He did not actually care if the cat had a name, but outworlders seemed to think those things were important.

  Grebella gazed up at him, but her expression was sad and searching. It was not the kind of look he was used to receiving from women. “Who?”

  “The cat,” he said, pointing down at the small fur ball that was rubbing against his legs.

  “Oh, um, don’t think she’s got one,” Grebella answered. “Got too many of them ’round here to keep track.” She pulled her gaze away and started to walk back toward the house. “The hay’s gonna be delivered soon. Ya can come get somethin’ to eat after yer done.”

  When Rezkin was finished refreshing the hay in the st
alls, he went to the house for a meal. He had not anticipated being fed, but it would have been rude and suspicious for him to refuse. Only Grebella was in the kitchen when he arrived. She poured him a cup of tea and placed a bowl of plain porridge on the table. Rezkin dug in immediately, as befitted a young wanderer such as he. In truth, he was starving and intended to stop in the market for a larger meal. For the past several weeks, his appetite had been growing, despite the fact that his training regimen was significantly reduced since leaving the northern fortress. He wondered if perhaps his body was preparing for additional growth. He hoped not. It would be highly inconvenient to have to replace all his armor, and he was already taller than most of the outworlders.

  A soft, manicured finger stroked his cheek, and he glanced up to see Grebella staring at him with that enigmatic smile of hers. He shifted awkwardly and leaned away, hoping she would think he was bashful and not that he was preparing to defend himself against an unprovoked attack.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “Didn’t mean to embarrass ya. Ya don’t care much fer bein’ touched, do ya?”

  “Not much, no ma’am,” he mumbled.

  “Strange that you’d come to a place like this then,” she said with a grin. “I ain’t gonna hurt ya, darlin’. It’s jus’ that ya remind me of someone.”

  He ducked his head and forced a flush to his cheeks. He had been practicing the effect, but he was not sure of his success.

  Grebella smirked. “Oh, not like that, sugar. Not exactly.” She went about scrubbing the pots and counters as she spoke. “Was a long time ago. Pa was a city guard. Didn’t have much money, but we had a nice home—safe as could be. Was jus’ him and me, since ma died when I was little. Well, ya know, there was a boy. His name was Sim. Ya remind me of ’im. Not in the way ya look—no, not like that—but the way ya act. He was sweet and kind and didn’t talk much … and shy.”

  She smiled when he glanced away. He was doing his best to imitate the way Waylen acted whenever the ladies paid him attention. It seemed to be working. Her eyes were sad as she continued.

  “I got pregnant. Sim was happy. Asked me to marry ’im. We told Pa, and I ain’t never seen ’im like that. Pa and me, we’d always been good together—called me ’is princess. But that day—he said I broke ’is heart.” She looked down at the counter and scrubbed extra hard at a nonexistent spot. “He kicked me out. Never did see my Sim again. He weren’t the kind to take off, ya know. I know Pa did somethin’—called his guard friends mayhap.” She shrugged dismissively, but the heave of her chest spoke of her distress. “Didn’t ’ave no place to go. Came here broken. They gave me a job and food, a place to stay.”

  She paused, clenching the rag in her fist, and then looked up at him through unshed tears. “Always wondered what he was like—the babe. Took ’im to the temple o’course, like we all do here. You look the right age, and I was thinkin’ … maybe he’d be ’bout like you.”

  Rezkin was not exactly sure why the woman was telling him all of this, except perhaps it had something to do with his will. Ever since he came here, he had been focusing to make her feel that he was not a threat, to feel familiar and comfortable with him.

  He met her gaze with squinty eyes and muttered, “I’m awful sorry, ma’am, but ya know I’m not yer boy.”

  She smiled and tossed the rag at him with a chuckle that sounded forced. “I know that. Can’t fault a grieving mother from seein’ her lost boy in a handsome young man who come knockin’ at her door … especially the kind that ain’t wantin’ our services.”

  Rezkin thought he understood now. The woman was already inclined to look for her lost son in the young men she met, an inclination that was magnified by the spell that lay over him.

  “Well,” she said, abruptly changing the tone, “the place is mine now, and I’ve got to keep things runnin’ so as we can keep takin’ in the ones that need us. Best be seein’ the girls are gettin’ up. Got chores to do before the gents come callin’ this eve.”

  Grebella left the kitchen, already hollering to the women before she had reached the stairs. Rezkin returned to the stable to collect his supplies while pondering the woman’s story. It made little sense to him. If the father of the baby wanted to marry Grebella, why would her own father react the way he had? Sim was likely dead, the baby had grown up in an orphanage, and Grebella worked in a brothel. It seemed that Grebella’s father had been angry at the perceived loss of his daughter. Instead of growing his family to include a son-in-law and grandson, he ended up with nobody.

  Upon leaving the slums, Rezkin skirted the docks and wove through the crowds that flowed like water toward and away from the market. As he walked, the story continued to churn through his mind. He had read dramatic tales with similar premises. One or more of the characters become angry and ultimately destroy everything and everyone for whom they cared. Based on historical and fictional accounts, Rezkin knew that outworlders did such things, but he could not summon the intensity of emotion to truly understand why. It was a madness, born of emotion, that consumed them, further evidence of the need for Rule 37.

  The street vendors at the market were ready to serve the midday meal, and he chose two savory pies that were filled with meat and vegetables. He was not fully satisfied but did not wish to embark on a mission with a heavy stomach. Rezkin still did not care for the crowds in the cities, and he left the main thoroughfare as soon as possible. In the high society district, smartly dressed men in floppy, feathered hats strutted beside women as they strolled along the boulevard under cover of decorative parasols that even Lady Shiela would envy. Both men and women could be seen carrying intricately woven baskets, in which lounged tiny, fluffy cats that were adorned nearly as ostentatiously as their owners. Most of the pedestrians ignored Rezkin. Those who did not gave him reproving looks and clutched at their purses as though he might lunge at them in broad daylight to steal their belongings in front of so many witnesses.

  He passed a busy social house, which was the refined way of saying tavern and found two carts parked in the alley. Workmen were unloading goods from the carts, while a woman stood in the rear stable yard scolding the stable boy. With all the commotion, nobody noticed Rezkin grab a sack of turnips from one of the carts. He carried it into the store room at the back of the tavern, and none of the busy kitchen staff acknowledged his presence except to skitter around him in their frenzy.

  Rezkin emerged from the storeroom hidden beneath the same tattered cloak in which he had entered. Once he reached the entrance to the parlor, though, he slipped the cloak from his shoulders and stuffed it into the bag from which he had drawn the Channerían finery he now wore. Some of the inn’s patrons smiled and bobbed their heads as he passed, and he returned the gesture. As he exited the social house, he slapped a floppy hat on his head, sans feather, since one would have been crushed in the bag. The people he passed were courteous and treated him as amicably as had those in the parlor.

  His first order of business was to gain access to the mage relay. In the two weeks since leaving Skutton, he had not had any contact with his agents in Ashai. Those two weeks had also been the most tumultuous for the kingdom. His personnel were either frantically awaiting his orders or, most likely, plotting ways to overthrow him. Luckily, he had accounted for the latter, but it would not hurt to remind the Black Hall of their duty.

  The mage relay was housed in a conical spire in the middle of a busy square surrounded by wealthy merchant and guild houses, the Golden Trust Bank, and a Temple of the Maker. A sign on the building situated between the temple and the bank identified it as the number one breeder of purebred cats of the highest bloodlines. Rezkin mentally shook his head. He could not fathom these outworlders’ fascination with the little beasts.

  The relay building’s façade was ornately decorated with magical symbols, but since Rezkin’s training had been deficient in that area, he did not know what they meant. He knew the building’s construct had to be important, though, since all the mage relays he had v
isited in Ashai had been the same. He considered that it might be worth his while to obtain a few books on mage power and symbols if he could find them. With much to accomplish, though, he doubted he would have the time. Magical tomes were usually archived in the secure libraries of the mage academies and guilds. He would appreciate the challenge of such an endeavor, but it would be time consuming.

  Rezkin entered the building with a swagger, smiling and nodding to its occupants, which included the two mages operating the relay and half a dozen administrators all vying for the chance to send their missives on behalf of important persons or offices. The administrators waited in the seating area at the front of the room as they fussed about their duties. Rezkin strode to the desk and was greeted by a harried blonde mage who had not yet grown into his ears.

  “Greetings. What can I do for you, sir?” the young mage asked.

  Rezkin pulled a stack of notes from the sack that he carried like a messenger’s satchel and said, “I have several letters to be sent on behalf of Councilor Harid. Confidential, of course.”

  The mage’s eyes widened. “Oh! The councilor! We will send them straight away. Do you have the letter of authorization?”

  Rezkin smiled congenially. “Certainly.”

  This time, his letter was genuine. The greedy Councilor Harid had been most accommodating with the Raven. To the mages, the messages appeared as business correspondence to various officials and nobles in several of the Ashaiian capital cities. Each of the letters was from a fictitious noble or merchant, with whom the councilor presumably had investments, and some of them were addressed to equally fictitious recipients. In a few cases, the actual recipients would be confounded about their presumed business, of which they had no knowledge, but Rezkin’s spies would be watching for the messages and would understand their meaning. The benign correspondence contained coded instructions that mages and anyone intercepting them should not find suspicious since nothing in them was of political significance.