“The Count of Eichefurt,” Bayard announced, stepping away from the door and revealing a young man dressed in rich velvet the color of parchment.
Konrad stood and extended his hand. “Welcome, Count. I am Konrad Amkire, owner of Sudwinde Shipping.”
“Good day.” The count grasped the offered hand and shook it firmly. “Your company comes highly recommended.”
“Please.” Konrad gestured toward a chair on the other side of his desk. “Have a seat.” He seated himself, propped his elbows on his desk, and laced his fingers into a single, loose fist. “How can I help you today?”
The count sat and fidgeted with his brass-knobbed cane. “I am in need of a vessel to carry a shipment of wool and other goods from here to Rhomanny. Frobinsky, in fact. Depending on how my business fares, I will be in need of more vessels and would want a long-term relationship with my shippers.”
“I understand. When would this cargo be ready?” Unable to hold back his excitement at a permanent client, Konrad stood. “Would you like a drink, Count?”
The count stiffened and a frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I need to ship as soon as possible. I was ready last week, but one of the captains of the shipping company was murdered aboard his ship. A second captain almost met the same fate, though I am informed that the killer was apprehended.” He dismissed the situation with an impatient wave of his hand. “Regardless, I can’t afford to do business with a company so prone to losing ship’s executive personnel and thus losing my shipment.” He grasped the cane firmly, walking his hand idly up it as he made a visible effort to calm down. “I apologize, I get carried away.” He inhaled deeply, released it and gave Konrad a thin smile. “I would love a drink.”
Konrad stared at the young noble in shock. “They caught…”
The count nodded with a half-shrug. “Late last night. Miss Khamleir assured me the threat was over, but I cannot afford to take any chances.”
Konrad dabbed his forehead with a small cloth and stood. “Let me fetch your drink.” He crossed the room to the small table. His hands shook slightly as he unstoppered the bottle and filled two glasses with amber rum. “I’m sure Miss Khamleir was devastated by the loss of one of her captains,” he said, watching the count’s reflection in the mirror. “Rumor is that many of his crew left after the murder. I’m afraid many more will leave now.”
“Perhaps.” The count’s hands twisted his cane knob. “But hopefully that will cease to be a problem once they’ve finished questioning the assassin.”
“He was captured alive?”
“He was. Or so I’m told.” The count turned a probing gaze on Konrad.
“Good.” Konrad set a glass down in front of the count. “Miss Khamleir and I may be competitors, but she is a good woman from a good family. And sailors gossip. If this continued, her men and mine may all decide to find a different line of work.” He settled back against his chair and placed his glass before him on the desk.
The count nodded, sipping his drink. “That makes sense. But back to my offer…”
Konrad chewed his lip. “I’m sure we can do business. However.” He knocked his drink back. “I need to see about fitting your cargo onto the next voyage. If you can give me size and number, I can have a date and price ready for you by the morning.”
The count finished his drink, his pale eyes sparkling. “I understand.” He flashed Konrad a smile as he removed a folded parchment from his doublet. “The warehouse cost in this city is damn near criminal. I need these shipped before I have to pay another week’s fee.”
Konrad glanced over the paper and scribbled down the information in his ledger. “I have several warehouses that you can use any time you need.” He handed the parchment back to the count.
“I would be very grateful for that.”
“I’ll have everything ready for you by tomorrow morning.” Konrad stood. “Let me escort you to the door.”
Konrad stood in the doorway until the nobleman was out of sight before sending Bayard home and locking the door. The shipper paused for a moment staring at the inside of the door, his heart thudding painfully, then set his jaw and left his office on an errand of utmost importance.
#
The evening breeze chilled as sunlight waned. By the Old Kaisers’ light, Konrad briskly walked down the Lunnisburg streets past vendors closing for the night. A creeping tingle slithered up the back of his neck. He looked sharply over his shoulder, scanning the streets behind him, but no one paid him any attention. A nervous chuckle escaped his lips and his pace quickened until he reached The Tiger’s Coat, one of the city’s finer inns.
The smell of warm food greeted him as he stepped inside, and the talk of men enjoying a drink after a hard day’s work filled the air, but Konrad barely noticed. He crossed the bar, dashed up to the third floor and hurried down a narrow hall to a white door. “Helmuth,” he called, pounding his fist into the door.
It creaked open and one of Helmuth’s green eyes peered out. “What are you doing here?” His sour breath reeked of wine.
“We need to talk.” Konrad glanced over his shoulder. “Let me in.”
The door squeaked open. Helmuth towered before him, his blonde hair tangled and silk clothes disheveled. He held a thin-bladed sword at his side. “Out,” he snapped at a young, red-haired wench clutching the bed sheets over her ample bosom.
The girl scrambled out of bed, snatched her garments from the floor and wriggled into a short chemise. Her eyes flashed angrily at Konrad as she scurried out into the hall, a crumpled bodice clenched tightly in one hand.
“What is it?” Helmuth growled. He waited until Konrad stepped inside then closed the door. “You ruin my sport.”
Konrad balled his hand into a fist but didn’t raise it. “Your assassin was caught! I paid you to kill the captains, not hire a killer.”
An amused grin grew across the bounty hunter’s face. “So? He doesn’t know who we are.” He tossed the silver-hilted sword onto the unmade bed and pulled his hair back. “I admit I’m disappointed.” He twisted the hair into a tangled ponytail. “I didn’t spend months tracking him all the way from Ralkosty just to lose out on the bounty. You’re fortunate you approached me right before I found him.”
“But he didn’t get the letter!” Konrad objected furiously. “Now she’s—”
“So we change plans,” Helmuth interrupted with a shrug. “A small setback, nothing more.” He removed a small crossbow from a table and set it on a brass-bound trunk beside the bed. “You look terrible. Go downstairs and get some food, bring back a bottle of wine, and we’ll decide our next move.”
Konrad took a deep breath and ran his hand over his face. He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it, turned and left the room.
Several minutes later, his hands full with a plate of food and two bottles of wine, he pushed the bedroom door open with his shoulder. “I was thinking,” he said, closing the door with his foot. “We could use some of the docksmen…”
Helmuth sat motionless in his chair, his mouth hung open in an expressionless stare.
“You all right?”
The bounty hunter made no reply.
Konrad set the plate down and touched the man on the shoulder. “Helmuth?”
The blonde man fell limply to the floor, a metal quarrel jutting from his back. Konrad dropped the bottles, sending a plume of wine and broken glass gushing across the polished wood. A black raven feather protruded from the hollow metal tube.
Terrified, Konrad looked around. The room was empty, and the shutters closed. Turning to run, he slipped on the blood and wine-soaked floor. He slid and nearly fell, but regained his footing, dashed across the room and burst into the hall, knocking over a patron, as he raced down the stairs. Shouted curses followed him as he shoved his way through the bar and fled out into the chilly night.
He bolted down the narrow streets, dodging traffic and ignoring the shouts of guards. His legs faltered. His breath came in raging gasps and a burning pain
shot through his side. He stopped and slouched against a shop front and sucked air in heavy gulps. As the red haze faded from his vision, he forced himself to look around.
A wooden sign creaked in the wind on rusted rings. ‘Spielder’s Mercantile.’ Konrad smiled; he was almost home. He dabbed the sweat now coating his face and bald head and began walking toward his house.
He made it a block before a familiar tingle danced up his neck. He jerked his head around and glanced over his shoulder to see a lone cloaked figure walking down the street behind him. Red shadows hid the figure’s face, but the determination in his pace rejuvenated Konrad’s fear. He cut through an alley and hurried across a small square, then risked another glance behind. He was still being followed. Konrad’s heart pounded faster and he dodged into the maze work of alleyways.
#
After some minutes, Konrad skidded around a corner and came face-to-face with a dead end. He spun around to double back, but stopped. The steady sound of boot steps echoed from the alley walls.
Trapped.
He swallowed and looked frantically around, then ducked into a door niche. Pressing against the door, he struggled not to pound on it and draw his pursuer’s attention. He held his breath and prayed not to be seen, listening as the footsteps came closer. And closer. And closer. Then stopped. Konrad gulped, straining to hear anything in the sudden silence.
“Mister Amkire.”
Konrad nearly screamed. He slowly turned his head and forced himself to look. A dark-haired gentleman stood in the alleyway, his rich parchment clothes now hidden under a dark cloak. “Count Eichefurt.” He forced a slight chuckle. “You surprised me.”
The count nodded, but said nothing.
“Count,” Konrad’s voice shook. “I think someone’s following me. A…a…cutpurse or some brigand. Can you look back to make sure no one’s there?”
The count didn’t move. “There’s no one back there. We’re alone.”
“But I heard him!”
The count nodded. “You did. The fact remains, we’re alone.” He let fall a long black feather. It drifted down and settled at Konrad’s feet.
Konrad’s gaze lifted from the feather to the count’s face. The count narrowed his eyes. Konrad bolted. The Black Raven’s cane cracked against Konrad’s knees as he fled past. He stumbled and fell, sprawling onto the filthy cobblestones. The cold brass tip of his attacker’s cane pressed into the side of his throat.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t find you?”
“It was Helmuth,” Konrad sputtered. “He tracked you down. It was his idea. I had nothing to do with it.” Tears streamed down his face. “Have mercy. Please.”
“You went along with it,” Ahren said, his voice cold.
“I’ll pay you,” Konrad blubbered. “Whatever you want! Please don’t kill me! I’ll do anything!”
Ahren shook his head. “Miss Khamleir and I have an arrangement, and I am a man of my word.”
“Please, I—”
The Black Raven twisted the round knob of his cane and a slender stiletto point sprang from the tip. The pick-like blade jabbed into Konrad’s neck.
Blood gurgled into his throat and out his mouth. He clutched the wound, trying to staunch the pulsing flow of silky blood pouring between his fingers. Gulping like a fish, he tried to scream, but only gurgled. His killer stood above him, watching with apathetic eyes. Coldness crept in, the world dimmed and faded to nothing.
#
Ahren let out a sigh as Konrad’s twitching body fell still. He pulled back on the knob, retracting the blade into the shaft, then locked the mechanism before pushing the handle back to its normal position.
Stepping around the pool of dark blood now filling the narrow lane, he picked up the black feather, and tucked it in the dead man’s doublet. A satisfied smile grew along his lips as he turned to leave the alley, slowly strolling like a gentleman should.
Tomorrow, he would tell Viveka that it was done. She had told him to report back immediately. And as much as he would love to pay a late night visit, he had more pressing business. Tonight, he would sleep well for the first time in days. Tomorrow, he would collect his reward.
Race for the Night Ruby
“You have the hands of a sailor,” the whore whispered as Ahren took the glass from her. She ran her long fingers along his. “Yet delicate.” She released his hand and gazed up at him with vivid green eyes, the only part of her face not hidden by a red silk veil.
Ahren couldn’t help but smile at the whore’s advances. Fortunately, she couldn’t see her small victory through the gray veil concealing his nose and mouth. The Nadjancian fashion did more than just protect the wearer from the stench of the watery streets, it gave anonymity. Something a wanted man, like Ahren, could always use.
She dropped a nugget of incense into the brazier, adding to the thin sweet haze filling the room. “We could be good together.” She leaned closer with the catlike grace of a courtesan, pressing her bare breasts against him. “Magical.”
A short weasel of a man stepped through the curtains, followed by a pair of whores. The youth of their eyes, and small pomegranate breasts, suggested they were no more than fifteen. Tiny golden bells jingled from their thin veils.
“Ah, Black Raven,” Mashkov said, flopping onto a cushioned chair. “I am glad to meet you.”
“That name, as is our business, is private,” Ahren said.
Mashkov scanned the small chamber. “We are alone.”
Ahren nodded to the girls doting over their master.
“Ah.” His eyes gleamed with amused understanding. “Leave us!” Silently, the women stood and slipped through the heavy velvet drapes to the hall.
Ahren surveyed his surroundings. The carved walls, adorned in thick red curtains, left dozens of crevices for a spy hole. He didn’t like it.
Mashkov poured himself a glass of vodka. “I see you have met Karolina.” He motioned to the doorway. “You like her? You can have her every night during your stay.” He knocked back the glass and set it on the small table between them.
He was stalling. Ahren could smell it. In his two years since joining the Tyenee he had met many of its reputable members; killers, extortionists, smugglers. Yet Mashkov, the ruler of Nadjancia’s brothels, was one of the most famous. So far, Ahren had yet to be impressed.
“And how long is my stay?” he asked, removing his gray veil and sipping his drink.
“Straight to the point. They warned me about that,” Mashkov chuckled. “Not long. Have you ever heard of a dubrald?”
Ahren nodded. “A night ruby. A magic gem that makes the user invisible. The dream of every thief. I can’t think of anyone I’ve ever heard of actually possessing, or even seeing, one.”
“Baron Rusukny.” He refilled his and Ahren’s glasses. “Rumor has spread that the baron, through luck and fortune, has somehow acquired a night ruby.” He unrolled a map on the table between them. The artist’s crude drawings didn’t take away from the floor plan’s massive size. “He keeps it here, in his house.” Mashkov pointed a ringed finger to a small room on the fourth floor. “It’s well protected. The baron’s longtime feud with the Grevenik Family has made his home a veritable fortress, complete with armed guards.”
Ahren leaned closer, running his finger across the inked parchment hallways. A circled X marked where guards were often posted. The city’s canal streets bordered two sides of the house, meeting at the northwest corner. The same corner which held the room he needed to enter. “It’ll take me three weeks.”
“You have one week.”
Ahren’s brow rose.
“Word of an artifact such as this has drawn a lot of attention.” He leaned back in his chair stroking his thin moustache. “My sources say that a local group called The Children of the Rat has already begun plotting for it.”
“The Tyenee usually doesn’t concern itself with local gangs,” Ahren said, returning to the map.
“True.” Mashkov nodded. “But their leader
, a man named Krisah, has aspirations higher than just a neighborhood, or even a city. He’s a growing irritation that will soon be dealt with.”
“Irritations like that are best handled before they become annoyances,” Ahren didn’t hide his contempt. A general of the Tyenee shouldn’t be so careless. His finger tapped an inked window on the fourth floor. “Who drew this map?”
“One of my agents.”
“I’d like to talk to this man.”
“I’m afraid that isn’t possible.”
“Why?”
“Because he was found in an alley with this in his back.” Mashkov held up a broken black and green glass knife. The swirled glass was beautifully crafted into an ideal grip. Its jagged, broken end showed to have once been a tri-bladed stiletto. “The blade shattered inside him.”
Ahren’s heart grew heavy as he eyed the handle. “Polnoch.”
“We've been trying to recruit the bastard for years, but all we've got from him are more of these,” Mashkov said handing it over.
Tingles of discomfort slithered up Ahren’s spine. Polnoch’s reputation as a thief and assassin was near mythical. In fact, aside from his signature weapon, nothing else was known about him. He set the handle on the table, happy to be rid of it. “Well, at least we can tell he’s human.”
“How?”
“The handle is too long to be quellish.”
“Maybe he’s just a smart quellen trying to throw us off track,” Mashkov snorted. “Regardless, with Polnoch on the hunt, we can’t afford to wait.”
“How long can you give me?”
“The new moon is in nine days. On a dark night like that, you can be guaranteed one of our adversaries will try for it then. You have to get to it first.”
#
Ahren flexed his muscles as best he could, trying to combat their urge to cramp inside the small, uncomfortable box. Slowly, he rolled onto his left side to find a short moment of comfort before new joints and muscles joined the protest. With a deep sigh, he listened to the ferryman’s oar paddling through the city. He felt the boat slow.
Mountain of Daggers Page 6
