The Great Restoration (A Tale of the Verin Empire Book 2)

by William Ray

  The Wardens were dedicated to a pure cause, but they lacked the power, the majesty, the wisdom, and the experience of the Elves, which meant that they needed to sink to the rest of humanity’s level to win. Creatures like Dougal were foul, but surely she had learned by now that her cause justified a certain ruthlessness.

  In the end, no doubt more would have to die, and some innocents might suffer, but they were fighting to save the world. There would be sacrifices, and she had to be prepared to accept them. She resolved to steel herself for the cause, to be every bit as ruthless as true devotion required. Next time, she would not need Dougal. Next time, she would drive the knife herself and be willing to endure the guilt for doing it because it was what must be done.

  Resolved, she began to relax a bit more and finally drifted off to sleep.

  Dorna woke sometime in the afternoon. Judging by the light through her window, it was well before sunset, but still shaken from their encounter in the Oblivion, she lit the lamp anyway.

  When she ventured back into the house, the Master’s household servants prepared a meal for her, but he still had not returned, so she dined in the kitchen, alone. The house in which he dwelt was opulent, which befitted his station, both true and apparent, but she had never felt comfortable in it.

  His servants were too dull to converse with, their minds long since lost. Awash in the magic of his presence, they could converse in no topic but their appointed tasks and took neither umbrage to their duties nor pride in the magnificent dwelling they maintained.

  It was unfortunate that they must be so diminished, but as he had long ago explained to her, the risk to the Master was too great for his house to be maintained by mortals of unshackled mind. His true devotees were too rare to be wasted on menial duties.

  Watching them bustle about, Dorna felt another twinge of guilt and another longing to recite the comforting Elven words, but she reminded herself of her pledge; she must be ready to face the unpleasant details necessary for their cause.

  As the sun set, she took a quick bath to wash away the dust of the road. As she dressed in a clean set of robes to go meet the other Wardens, she felt a renewed sense of her accomplishment. To reach their meeting spot, she must travel through the Oblivion once more, but she pushed down the fluttering of anticipation in her heart and looked to her dressing mirror.

  Even without her words, wrapped in the familiar greens she felt strong again. Strong enough to plunge into the labyrinth once more. The route was barely a thousand steps, and despite a metallic taste in her mouth the entire way, nothing occurred, no sounds, no light. Once she emerged through another portal into the back alley that was her destination, she forced herself to laugh at how much that short venture had made her sweat.

  Dorna had arrived early and felt conspicuous in her robes, but she could not be seen from the street, and there was no reason for anyone else to venture back here. Gradually, the other Wardens arrived from the street, still dressed in their usual clothes, only donning their own robes once they turned the corner and were out of sight from the rest of the world.

  Pride overcoming their usual inclination for secrecy, Dorna stood with her hood thrown back, letting each newcomer take their turn to hail her and laud the success of her mission, and she basked in their adulation. It was unlikely any of them knew the particulars of her assignment, but they all knew she had ushered the Master’s plan one important step closer to fruition.

  Terry was one of the earliest to arrive, grinning beneath his open hood as if they were old friends. He returned to her the box she had purchased for the Master, explaining he had held on to it to let her be the one to present it. She wanted to hit him with it. Of course it was hers to present—she had bought it! Remembering her sympathy for the Master’s household servants though, she tamped down her annoyance; perhaps the Master’s presence had taken a similar toll on Terry’s mind.

  Dougal rejoined them as well, and looking back at him, Dorna felt a chill—his easy smile and placid demeanor concealed a killer, and her growing confidence that she could equal that easy ruthlessness withered at the sight. As he greeted some of the other arriving members, she could not shake the growing impression that he was not more than he seemed but instead far, far less.

  His casual friendliness here was no different than what he had offered to the cabbie back in Gemmen. Would he murder any of them with the same ease of conscience? Could Dorna do the same if called to? Looking at him, she felt less certain of it and wondered at the capriciousness of fate that the cause of justice needed someone like him.

  Their newest member arrived, robes bundled under his arm. Sandal Ulm seemed like the very emblem of the human regime they hoped to overthrow, but the Master had made her reach out to him all the same. After her awkward attempts to charm Richard Saucier had failed, only the Master had been able to help smooth things over. Sandal Ulm had proven far easier to lure in.

  She knew the Master had ways to make sure he remained trustworthy, but men like Ulm were exactly what were wrong with the world. Daily, his workers stripped the forests, and the fires of his factories helped choke the city in soot.

  Ulm had earned no share of the sympathy she bore for the Master’s other servants or the poor cabbie back in Gemmen, and had he not joined their cause, she would happily have cast him down with the others once the Great Restoration came. Instead, now he would be spared, even though his workers continued to strip the forests and pollute the air. It seemed unfair, and she pursed her lips tight, holding back the Elven words that would let faith smooth over that discomforting inequity.

  As she watched Ulm unfurl his robe, another man strolled into view, hands in his pockets and lips pursed as if whistling to himself while strolling between the backsides of the buildings. The newcomer froze as he saw their assemblage in green, seeming startled, and suddenly she recognized him as the idiot inquiry agent she’d hired in Gemmen. How could he be here?

  ~

  “Race Results”

  Falmouth Stakes, in which Lord Uster introduced us to Veromatisse, was the principal event of the clay. She is a fine-looking daughter of Wild Oats and Garren Blue and is the first of his present batch of two-year-olds that has yet appeared in public. It did not seem that much was thought of her at home, but for once the public quite neglected Pylian Shot, who actually started at the nice price of 10 to 1, and won easily. Faygar, who was favourite, could only get third, and her seven-pound penalty kept Lovely out of a place.

  – Khanom Daily Converser, 14 Tal. 389

  ~

  - CHAPTER 22 -

  Rounding the corner, Gus stopped abruptly, staring into an alley crowded with Wardens in matching dark green robes. There were a dozen of them pressed close, chatting amiably and greeting the newly enshrouded Sandal Ulm as he arrived and began to mingle.

  Ulm had been easy to follow, and while he had not yet donned his own green robe, he’d carried it casually folded under his arm until he reached his destination—a blind alley that branched off of another alley. The remaining gathered Wardens wore veiled hoods, but their veils were flipped up, exposing their faces as they chatted, and he saw a scattering of unfamiliar men and women.

  In general, Gus had found secret societies seldom lived up to the discretion the name implied. They typically left no one fooled but the occasional spouse who had not hired an inquiry agent to be sure her husband was really attending to ancient mysteries rather than younger mistresses.

  Towards the back of the alley, one Warden in particular seemed to be the center of attention, and Gus recognized her instantly as the false Alice Phand. Unfortunately, she was also staring back at him with an expression of such astonishment that he knew right away she recognized him as well.

  The others all turned to follow her gaze, and as they did, Gus recalled Emily’s commentary on green fabrics and began to worry that, as unlikely as it seemed, these might be real Wardens after all. On each belt around each robe was a dagger that seemed markedly le
ss ceremonial than he had assumed when he observed Ulm carrying it to his meeting.

  A brutish fellow towards the back pressed his way through the assembled Wardens, his beefy hand going towards that unceremonial knife at his belt. Gus quickly backed away with an amiable smile and a hapless, “Oh, sorry, wrong alley!”

  One of the hooded figures chuckled, which felt a little reassuring, but unfortunately it was not enough to keep the rest from advancing as Gus backed around the corner. He limped awkwardly backwards through the garbage-strewn space between buildings that connected the Wardens’ meeting spot to the main road. It wasn’t far, but backwards was difficult for him, and yet he dared not turn his back on the big man.

  The hulking Warden followed around the corner and surged towards him, knife sliding free of its sheathe. Several others behind him followed suit, pulling their own knives to hand as they stepped into place behind the bigger one. Glancing back, Gus realized there was still half a block before this side road’s outlet onto Queen’s, and the Wardens would easily overtake him before he reached the presumed safety of a public space.

  With no other recourse, Gus stuffed his hand into his jacket and pulled out his revolver.

  Seeing the pistol, the Wardens froze in place, forming a dark green wall of unfamiliar faces and gleaming knives. Before that wall, however, stood the largest of their number, who bared his teeth and lunged forward across the three steps between them.

  On the big man’s second step, Gus blazed, catching him square in the chest and eliciting a roar of pain.

  The huge Warden dropped his knife and staggered back, blood staining the green of his robe a rusty brown. The other Wardens stared at their wounded fellow in blank-faced shock.

  Gus waved his pistol back and forth in case any should recover their momentum, but none did. A pair of whistles sounded from the street behind him, and that was what broke the Wardens’ collective daze.

  He kept his pistol up, but the fearful gazes of the Wardens were cast over his shoulder. They turned and ran, scampering back into the blind alley they had emerged from. Only one of them stepped forward, loyal enough to grab his injured comrade and help pull him back. The larger Warden staggered, looking woozy as he clutched his hands to his chest to staunch the bleeding, and the two rounded the corner, moving out of sight.

  Whistles trilled again, immediately behind him, and the sound of shoes slapping pavement made Gus turn to look as two men in olive green came sprinting down the alley, their uniforms similar enough to their Gemmen counterparts to mark them as the local police. They skidded to a halt when they saw Gus’s gun.

  One of the policemen gestured menacingly with his truncheon and said, “Hold it right there! You are under arrest!”

  Gus grinned at the absurdity of the man’s threat, given their comparative armament, but he lowered the revolver. Doing his best to seem non-threatening, Gus held out his hands, releasing the grip of his pistol so that it hung from his finger by the trigger guard, letting the weight turn it upside down to make clear he had no intention of firing it at them. “Constables! I was just attacked by several armed men who ran into that alley!”

  The policemen crept uneasily closer, and one reached out for the pistol, tugging it roughly away when Gus did not resist. The other looked down at the blood on the ground and stepped carefully over to the blind alley.

  Although Gus could not see around the corner, the constable blanched and took a step back, nodding before turning to Gus. “Alright, we … uh … you’re under arrest.”

  “What?” Gus stepped towards the constable in front and looked around the corner.

  The blind alley was empty, aside from a few pages of newspaper cluttering the ground, and there was no sign of the dozen men in green.

  Without a dozen bodies crowding it, he could see the alleyway had no doors, just three blank walls from two adjoined buildings, and a cutout constructed around one of those white Elven obelisks, which stood at the end. The trail of blood tapered off down into the middle of the alley, leaving no indication of where they had gone.

  The constables looked between each other, the one holding Gus’s pistol looked confused, and if the other had witnessed the Wardens’ disappearing act, he was clearly unwilling to explain it. After some silent glances back and forth, the policeman holding his pistol said, “Blazing a gun in city limits.”

  The other constable nodded enthusiastically, so the first continued, “It’s illegal. We ourselves heard it and seen the smoking gun right in your hand when we came looking. You’re under arrest.”

  “I was defending myself! They were coming at me with knives!”

  The constable who had looked down the alley shook his head and pulled a pair of iron cuffs from his belt. Overwhelmed by adrenaline mixed with outrage, Gus gave the man an indignant shove. It was more an expression of defiance than a serious attempt to knock the constable over, but there was a grim set to the man’s jaw as he glanced to his partner over Gus’s shoulder and nodded.

  * * *

  Gus later awoke with a throbbing headache. As he tried to rise from the hard bench he found himself laid across, he discovered several fresh bruises over his body, front and back. The one must have clubbed him from behind, and then they both worked him over before dumping him here.

  With a groan, Gus sat up and looked around. He had apparently been deposited into a barred cell, much like the one he had so recently occupied in Gemmen. Summoned by his groaning, a uniformed jailer appeared at the bars separating the cell from the hallway, grinned at his prisoner, and said, “Look who’s up! Good. We need a name for your file.”

  He shook his head in surprise; somehow they hadn’t found the calling cards in his pockets before tossing him in here. He could easily have held a knife or keys or who knows what else. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t have any of those things.

  Being knocked out always left him thirsty, but even still, the dry timbre of his own voice was still a little startling when he croaked out, “Gus Baston. Could I get some water?”

  The guard nodded absently, and Gus immediately regretted sharing his real name. His regret was doubled when the guard explained, “You’re just in for a twenty peis fine, but since you’re here we have to send your name out over the wire, see if there’s anyone at the Crossing looking for you.”

  Gus blanched. If Ollie got word he was here, he’d have them hold Gus for leaving Gemmen until someone from the Crossing could arrive to ship him back. Luckily, Gus knew he had enough for the fine on him and reached into his pocket to pull out his wallet. Opening it, he found it completely empty; while the constabulary hadn’t bothered to check his cards, they had taken a moment to relieve him of his cash before tossing him in.

  Seeing him come up empty, the guard chuckled amiably and said, “You can go once we get the money. Is there anyone I should contact for you?”

  Back home, he could have sent word to Parland, but he doubted his jailer here was willing to loan him a peis to wire his man in Gemmen. Unfortunately, this far out, he had no friends he could call on to spring him. He needed a friend with money or influence or both.

  Rain Thomas thought he was a detecting-inspector for the Crossing and was hardly the sort of acquaintance he could call on for bail. That goblin club owner had been supportive, but would be asleep by now. Gus had no idea where to reach him during the day and was less than confident that the police would do business with a gob regardless.

  He even briefly pondered trying to contact Dolly Dench, but Gus doubted the man would come within sniffing distance of this place, even if he could be bullied into coughing up the dosh.

  As a stranger in town, his best hope was someone with an interest in his work and with enough money and influence that springing him would be an insignificant effort. With few options, he decided to gamble. “Yeah. Could you tell Maurice Sylvester that I’m here? Let him know I found his guy.”

  There was an awkward pause, and Gus looked back up at the guar
d, who frowned in a moment of indecision. “Serious? If I bother Mister Sylvester, and he don’t know you ….”

  Gus grinned, raised his hands, and said, “Just send the message, alright? And maybe get me a drink. My head is killing me.”

  The guard responded with a nod, then gestured towards the back of the cell before he wandered off. A battered tin cup was there, chained to the wall next to a spigot. Gus filled the cup, wincing as the cold water only redoubled the headache that had come along with his concussion. Instead of drinking more, he just filled the cup again and held it to his head.

  After only a couple of hours sitting on the floor by the sink with that cup of water to his head, Gus was surprised to see the dapper figure of Maurice Sylvester being led down the hall to see him. Sylvester had only to glance at the guard to have the man deferentially bow out, departing with promises to come right away, should his visitor need anything, anything at all.

  Sylvester gave a reassuring smile to the departing guard, then turned his attention back to Gus. Looking around the cell, then back to its battered occupant, Sylvester smirked a bit and said, “You’ve seen better days, Inspector Baston. Why ever are they keeping you in here?”

  “Sir! It’s good to see you again,” Gus replied. He straightened himself up, dumping out the cold water and trying to straighten his rumpled suit. His leg twinged as he rose, making him stagger briefly, and he wondered if he looked as bruised as he felt. “I’d hoped to have a word in better circumstances.”

  The mine owner’s eyes twinkled with an obvious amusement at Gus’s straits that would only have seemed suited for a close friend or long-standing enemy, and he said, “You could hardly have hoped for a word in a worse one!” Sylvester chuckled, shook his head, and then added, “It seems like rough treatment for one of their own. Hardly appropriate protocol for a detecting-inspector of the Crossing to be manhandled by our local constabulary.”