“I’ll explain when we’re free of the city,” Cole said as they shut the door to the guildhouse behind them. “I mean it when I say your ears should be the only ones hearing this.”
“Your confidence in the importance of this matter is admirable,” Muzien said as they walked down the main street toward the western entrance through the wall surrounding the city. “For your sake, I hope you are right.”
“I think in this matter, I’d rather be wrong than right,” Cole said.
Muzien raised an eyebrow.
“I’m not kind to those who waste my time.”
At that, Cole let out a laugh.
“Well aware, Muzien, but when you see what I’m afraid of, I think even you will be relieved to find out I’m worrying over nothing.”
Suddenly the last vestiges of his good mood from Zusa’s display were gone. Cole wasn’t nervous over something minor. No, this had him worried down to the bone. Not good. Not good at all.
They kept to themselves as they neared the gate, and they passed through without inspection, the star on their clothes all that was necessary to prevent questioning. Down the well-worn dirt path they walked, putting the city behind them.
“Would you consider us alone?” Cole asked, giving one last glance around. There were a few walking the same road, but they were either several hundred feet behind and falling farther, or much too far ahead to hear anything but shouting.
“Safe enough,” Muzien said. “Now tell me where we’re going, and why the secrecy?”
As they crested a shallow hill, Cole pointed up ahead, to where a covered wagon remained stationary a quarter mile away.
“We were bringing in the final shipment Luther sent us,” Cole began. “Was the smallest by far, just four of the tiles bearing our mark. Because of it, we loaded up some crates of crimleaf along with it before leaving Ker, hid ’em beneath stacks of wheat. Filled up the wagon pretty good, probably too much given the shitty condition that rotting piece of junk is in. Broke an axle coming down the hill, and we didn’t have a replacement seeing how it was the third damn time it’d broken on the trip here. Anyway, since Veldaren was so close, we just sat tight and sent Daryl out to get us what we needed to fix it.”
“All of this is fascinating,” Muzien said, his patience starting to thin. “But I hope you did not bring me out here because of a broken wagon.”
“Give me more credit than that, Muzien. While we were waiting, we decided to unload everything to make it easier to lift up the wagon and get it fixed. That meant dropping a couple of those tiles onto the dirt, and there they stayed for a good hour while Daryl wasted all our time haggling, no doubt hoping to pocket whatever coin he saved. Well, he came back, we fixed our wagon, and then started loading everything back up … and that’s when we stumbled upon our little discovery.”
Muzien didn’t like where this was going in the slightest, but he asked anyway.
“Luther’s tiles,” he guessed. “Something’s not right with them.”
“That’s right,” Cole said. “The one that’d been pushed into the dirt by the weight of the others atop it, to be specific. We couldn’t get the damn thing out. Tried prying it up, digging it out, but nothing. Wasn’t budging. Lifting it was like trying to lift a boulder. Last we got ourselves a long bar of iron and jammed it underneath real good. Daryl’s the biggest of all of us, so we had him give it a nice strong push.”
“What happened?”
“Daryl collapsed to the ground, flopping like a fish out of water.” Cole shook his head. “He didn’t seem hurt too bad, just real surprised. Said it felt like his hands got stung by bees, only it went through his entire body. Wasn’t but a few seconds before he was able to hold himself still. No mark on his hands, no injury that we can tell, but given the circumstances, we figured it best we go and bring you over to handle the matter yourself, all things considered.”
All 337, you mean, thought Muzien, the number of tiles they’d buried throughout the city at Luther’s behest.
“It may just be a simple protection,” Muzien said as they approached the wagon. Three men waited there, sitting in the grass or in the back, and they hopped to their feet once Muzien was only a minute away.
“Protection?” asked Cole. “By who?”
Muzien glared at him.
“No more questions,” he said, refusing to answer. Things were already spiraling out of control. The last thing he wanted was Cole’s wagging tongue making it worse. Given Luther’s secrecy, and how the burial of the tiles had been his only requirement for aiding the Sun Guild in taking over Veldaren, he’d known the man had ulterior motives. The question was what exactly they were. His assumption had been that the tiles bore some use against Ashhur’s faithful, perhaps weakening their power or alerting Karak’s priests to their presence should they pass by. That the tiles had protections built into them to prevent removal, while displeasing him, did not surprise him.
Still, now that he knew for certain magic was involved, it was time to discover what exactly those tiles might do.
“Has anything changed with the tile during Cole’s absence?” Muzien asked as he stopped before the three.
“Not a thing,” said the biggest of them.
“Are you Daryl?” Muzien asked.
“I am.”
“Good. You still have that piece of iron?”
“That I do. You want to take a crack at it?”
Muzien shook his head.
“No, but someone else will.”
Looking none too pleased, Daryl followed him around to the back of the wagon, where in the grass not far off the road was one of the tiles bearing the mark of the Sun Guild. Muzien stared at it, starting to regret ever agreeing to cooperate with Luther. At the time, invading Veldaren had looked to be an incredibly difficult task. When Grayson had died, that pushed him into agreeing with Luther’s plan. Being able to smuggle in so many goods and men, all with the city guard turning a blind eye at the gates, had given him the initial foothold he’d needed. How did the placing of a few stone tiles bearing his own symbol compare to that? Easy work, and though he’d known there was more to them, he’d considered it a mild curiosity, something pertaining to gods and faith and other matters he could not care about in the slightest. But now? Now he’d get to find out how greatly he should regret that decision.
“Cole, head back to Veldaren,” he said. “Find yourself some hired labor, the dimmer the better, and then bring him back here. Just one man, you understand? If anyone asks, you need help getting the wagon fixed and loaded. Oh, and procure a nice heavy sledge, too.”
“Understood,” said Cole.
As the man returned to the city, Muzien found himself a comfortable patch of grass a suitable distance away from the other men, lay down, and waited for Cole’s return. It took over half an hour, and all the while Muzien ran through scenarios of what the tiles could do, and how he would react when he knew for certain. He could challenge Luther about it, act furious, or pretend he knew nothing at all. It depended on the game the priest played, and how that game affected him.
When Cole returned, a gargantuan of a man walked alongside him. His arms stayed in a locked position as he walked, his footsteps strangely stiff and uneven. As he walked, his eyes remained focused on the ground, his head slightly bent.
“So who is this?” Muzien asked, rising from the grass to meet the two on the road.
“Caretaker said to just call him Boy,” Cole said. Boy looked up, and he smiled once in greeting. “The guy said he’ll do whatever we ask so long as it don’t hurt him.”
“That’ll work,” Muzien said. Boy seemed an appropriate-enough name, for the way the big man looked about, Muzien doubted he had intelligence beyond that of a five- or six-year-old human child. “Give him the sledge.”
Cole did, and leading the way, they circled around the wagon to where the tile lay buried in the grass.
“See that?” Muzien told Boy. “When I yell for you to start, I want you to break th
at thing into as many pieces as you can. Do you understand me?”
“Yeah, I got it,” Boy said, each word slow and carefully spoken.
“Excellent.”
Muzien turned and walked back toward the road. He had enough experience around magic to know that the best way to observe unknown occurrences of it was at a very, very safe distance. His hope was that it all meant nothing, and that even if the tiles were protected, it’d just break a few bones or give Boy a nasty shock. Cole followed him, hands in his pockets and a frown on his face. Meanwhile the other three lingered at the wagon, watching.
“That tile nearly knocked Daryl out,” Cole said. “You sure it’s a good idea doing this?”
“No, I’m not,” Muzien said, turning about to watch after ensuring there were no nearby travelers on the road west. “But unless one of you four feel like volunteering, that’s why we have our idiot over there doing it for us. Speaking of, tell him to start.”
Cole cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled for Boy, who’d remained still as a statue before the tile, to begin. At first Boy stared at the tile for a moment, then lifted up the sledge by its long wooden handle. With a motion akin to that of chopping firewood, a task Muzien had a feeling Boy had performed many, many times, the enormous man lifted the sledge up into the air and then swung it down with all his impressive might.
The metal head cracked the tile, and with the crack came a sound like a great release of air. Silence followed, incredibly brief, and then the explosion rocked the ground. Purple flame rolled in all directions, consuming the wagon and turning the grass to ash. The loudest stroke of thunder Muzien had ever heard struck him like a physical blow to the chest. Staggering a step back, he watched with mouth open as the fire slowly dwindled, revealing an enormous crater in the earth where the tile had been. All that remained of the wagon was broken wood and scattered, burning wheat. Of Boy and the other three he saw nothing, not even bodies.
“Holy shit,” Cole said, eyes wide as saucers. “Shit, shit, shit. What was that, Muzien? What the fuck was—”
Muzien slashed open a red smile beneath Cole’s blond beard, twisting to dodge the sudden flow of blood. As Cole dropped to the grass, body convulsing, Muzien let out a sigh.
“I’m sorry,” he said, turning back to the smoking remnants, “but no one can know, not even you. It’s a matter of trust, Cole, and right now, I trust no one but the dead.”
He doubted the man heard, but he felt better offering that parting wisdom anyway. Watching ash flutter about, listening to the crackle of dwindling fire, Muzien felt his stomach harden into an iron ball. Luther had been tricking him, that Muzien had always known, but to accomplish this … madness? This insanity? If every tile could erupt in the same way, then all of Veldaren was an idiot with a sledge away from becoming ash and rubble. It went beyond anything logical. Anything sane.
Plan forming in his mind, Muzien turned to the city and began trudging back, chastising himself along the way. He should have known better. He should have seen this coming. When dealing with a fanatical man of faith, what meaning did logic and sanity hold? But at least he still had a chance to correct things, even if doing so meant visiting with yet more fanatics.
That night he would have a word with Karak’s priests in Veldaren, and he knew just the woman to show him the way.
CHAPTER
8
Three hours. That was all Haern had slept in the past day and a half, and he felt the effects of it wearing on his nerves. After they’d hung the mutilated body, Haern had insisted he and his father lie low for a while to rest and plan. Finding an inn on the opposite side of the city, they’d crashed, Thren in the bed, Haern on the floor. Pretending not to notice the cockroaches skittering in the corners, Haern had closed his eyes and slept, though not nearly long enough.
“Get up,” Thren had said, pushing the tip of his boot into Haern’s chest to wake him. “It’s almost midday. Enough rest.”
Haern had disagreed, but he would not appear weak before his father, who acted as if sleep were something he occasionally flirted with. Unwrapping himself from his cloaks, he’d risen, rubbed his eyes, pulled his hood lower over his face, and then prepared to face another day of hunting and bloodshed. Neck aching from the uncomfortable sleeping position, Haern pushed the pain into a far corner of his mind and tried to focus through the groggy fog on the task at hand.
“Ridley’s death is bound to upset Muzien,” Thren said as he led Haern through the open market and its buzzing crowd of men and women. Stomach grumbling, Haern swiped an apple and tossed a copper all without the seller, a young girl, noticing until the coin landed in her lap.
“Good to know our efforts will annoy the bastard,” Haern said after taking a bite. “But I’m still not sure how that helps us.”
“Ridley was important, which means he’ll need to be replaced,” Thren said, twisting sideways to slide between two big men who stood chatting in the middle of the pathway as if oblivious to the traffic on either side of them. “Until then, Muzien will need to be more hands-on when it comes to his various enterprises … and that means someone might actually know where he is.”
So that’s why we’re in the market, Haern thought as he glanced about. His father was searching for members of the Sun Guild, no doubt hoping to take another for interrogation as he had Ridley. His gut said the result would be a similar dead end, but it wasn’t like Haern had any better ideas, so he followed.
“We’re getting an awful lot of strange looks,” Haern whispered to his father as they neared the center of the market.
“Most cloaks have turned themselves over to the patches, coats, and earrings of the Sun,” Thren said softly back. “Soon the style of the west will become highly fashionable among even the noble bloods. You and I, we’re walking relics of a dying past. Plus, you’re wearing that damn hood. You might as well write ‘thief guild’ in blood across your chest.”
“You’re cheery in the morning, you know that?”
“It’s midday. Keep up.”
Throughout the stalls, Haern saw young street rats trained to pilfer the pockets of the wealthy and unaware. Nearby would be a taskmaster in charge of them, and to whom they’d bring their score immediately in case they were later caught, and more importantly, so they didn’t sneak off to spend it themselves. That taskmaster would be on the lower end in terms of rank, but at least it was a place to start. Near the northern corner of the market, back to a wall with arms crossed and eyes alert, Haern spotted such a taskmaster. The symbol of the Sun was sewn proudly onto the front of his shirt, and folded at his feet was a long gray coat. Haern made sure to not meet the man’s eyes, instead nudging his father’s elbow.
“There,” he said, nodding his head slightly.
“I saw him,” Thren said. “His name’s Halloran, used to belong to my guild. Muzien would never let someone like him know anything of the slightest importance. Keep moving. We’ll find someone else.”
“How about we let Halloran lead us to that someone else?” Haern asked, and before letting his father answer he turned about, looping past a stall of blueberries to get a closer look at the former Spider. The man’s garments were clean, yet his hair was long and ratty, his hands dirty. It made him resemble an ugly animal stuffed into fine clothing, and he looked fittingly uncomfortable. Taking one last bite of his apple, Haern flung it sideways, aiming for the man’s forehead. It smacked him straight between the eyes, eliciting a furious howl.
“Get back here, you piece of shit!” Halloran shouted, wiping at his face with one hand while drawing a dagger with the other. Haern turned, and he spread his arms out to either side as if confused.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t see you there,” Haern said as Halloran came rushing toward him.
“The fuck you didn’t,” the other man said, and he punched his free hand into Haern’s stomach. Letting it connect, Haern doubled over, exaggerating the pain while keeping an eye on that dagger. The second he looked ready to use it …
Not that he let it show. No, Haern sold the punch the best he could, stumbling back another step and then falling to his rump. Halloran pointed his dagger at Haern and then spit.
“Watch what you’re doing,” he said. “I might not be so nice next time.”
“Now, now, no need to lose your temper,” Thren said, stepping between them and grabbing the wrist of the hand that held the dagger. Before the man could react, Thren had pushed him to the wall, then to an alley that formed a shaded exit from the market. Wiping blood from his swelling lip, Haern rose to his feet, giving another glance about to ensure they’d gotten the proper reaction. To anyone casually observing, Thren was just someone preventing a beaten foe from enduring more punishment. After fixing his hood, Haern followed them into the alleyway. Thren stood before Halloran, a huge grin on his face.
“How’s life been treating you in your new guild, Hal?” he asked.
“I didn’t know you were back, I swear,” Halloran insisted, eyes wide, hands shaking. Thren had drawn no weapons, but the way the former guildmember stood with his back to the wall, arms raised, there might as well have been a blade to his throat. “You disbanded, that’s what everyone said, you were gone and we were free to do whatever. So I did. I did what everyone with half a brain would do and joined the Darkhand.”
“But you only have a quarter of a brain,” Thren said, leaning closer so all Halloran would see was his eyes. “So I hope it doesn’t tax you too terribly when I ask where I can find Muzien.”
Halloran swallowed.
“You know I don’t know that,” he said. “Muzien keeps to himself, always does.”
A Dance of Chaos: Book 6 of Shadowdance Page 10
