A sharp sting stabbed into Ahren’s side, and his hands grabbed at a slender dart imbedded above his hip. He spun to see a figure in a wide hat step out from behind one of the heavy drapes. Polnoch! His vision blurred and his body became heavy. He reached in vain for a nearby table but collapsed to the floor.
Footsteps came from behind him, and Ahren felt his attacker rifle though his pouches and remove the night ruby. Polnoch rolled him onto his back, and slipped one of the signature glass stilettos into Ahren’s limp hand.
“You have the hands of a sailor,” said a familiar voice.
Ahren’s heart lurched. He looked into the fierce green eyes peering from behind Polnoch’s veil.
“Something for you to remember me by, lover.” She pulled her veil away, unmasking the delicate face he had known over the past nine nights. Long curls of auburn hair spilled down her shoulders as she removed her hat and leaned closer; her soft lips trembling against his. “I let you live knowing my face, Black Raven, because you will be the last to ever see it.” Her bittersweet perfume flooded his mind with fond memories, soothing his pounding heart. She kissed him, softly tugging his lip as she sat up.
She smiled seductively. “You’re welcome for my help in the canal.” She slipped the smoky gem into her mouth and vanished.
The Ferrymaster’s Toll
Ahren stepped through the golden velvet curtain into a small room. He no longer noticed the heavy clouds of incense since taking the brothel over a month before. Anna, a bare-breasted whore in a green veil, filled a glass chalice with vodka and handed it to the man sitting in one of the large padded chairs. A black-hilted sword leaned an arm’s reach beside him and a poorly concealed dagger bulged beneath his loosened doublet. Ahren nodded and the pale-skinned girl bowed then left the two men alone.
“I was to meet with Mashkov,” the man said, removing his brown veil. Deep scars pitted his narrow face.
Ahren took the chair opposite him. A long wooden case rested on the low table between them. Ever since Mashkov’s assassination weeks before, Ahren had assumed responsibility until the Tyenee could send a suitable replacement. “You must be Kirril.” He unclasped the veil from over his nose and mouth. “My name is Ahren. Mashkov had urgent business outside the city, and left me in charge of his affairs until his return.”
Kirril’s eyes narrowed. His fingers inched toward the hidden weapon. “Mashkov never said anything about leaving. My business is with him alone.”
“I understand.” Ahren sipped his drink. “I can assure you, however, that I am quite capable of handling all of his business while he is away.”
Kirril said nothing.
“If you’d prefer to wait until Mashkov returns, I understand. However, I couldn’t even tell you how long that will be.”
The thin man chewed his lip for several long seconds before speaking. “I cannot wait. Tell me, Ahren, Mashkov promised me the Black Raven for the job that I have. Do you know him?”
Ahren winced at the name. Mashkov’s penchant for saying things he shouldn’t had been his downfall. “I know him.”
Kirril’s shifting seemed to ease. His hand relaxed and slid away from the concealed blade. “Wonderful. Is it true he stole a dubrald from Baron Rusukny’s home?”
Ahren smiled, but said nothing.
Kirril chuckled. “I thought so. If he was able to do that, then Mashkov was right in saying he would be perfect for this.”
“And what exactly is your job, Kirril?”
Kirril downed his chalice in one gulp. “What do you know about the ferrymen’s guild?”
Ahren shrugged. “It’s the only guild not controlled by one of the Nadjancian noble houses. Anyone who has tried to work outside the guild or to control it has met with disastrous results.”
“Very good.” He poured himself another drink. “But how? How does the most powerful guild survive its independence when the houses command every other major guild in the city?”
Since coming to the Veiled City, Ahren had seen many of its customs and myths. But in a place where mystery and decadence reigned as virtues, only one name symbolized its horrors. “The Ferrymaster.”
A faint smile twisted on Kirril’s thin lips. “That's right. Have you seen him?”
Ahren shook his head.
“Live here long enough, and you’ll see the King of the Canals,” Kirril said. “Upset his ferrymen, and you’ll meet the drowned.”
Ahren swirled the clear liquor in the bottom of his glass. He’d heard of the ghostly guild master his first day in the city. The ferrymen who navigated their slender boats up and down the watery streets all owed him their allegiance. Ten percent of all they made, they dropped into the canal as their tithe. Anyone crossing the ferrymen, or their master, wouldn’t be able to ride the canals again. Otherwise, the bloated corpses of all who had drowned in the canals would exact the Ferrymaster’s revenge. If a customer was upset at his ferryman, the custom was to toss his pay into the water, to pay the master but not the servant. “Who was he?” Ahren asked.
“His name was Vooshkae. When Nadjancia was young, and the ferrymen disjoined, it was known that whoever controlled the canals controlled the city. Before the Grevenik and Rusukny’s war ran blood into the canals, two other houses feuded for control. The Deshirit and Glothrev Families vied for domination. Docks were burned, brawls erupted across the canals, and the city suffered. Any ferryman not under the protection from one of the houses was often found floating down the street. Vooshkae was a young man then, and when a member of the Glothrev Family asked whom he paid tribute, Vooshkae beat him with his oar. The Deshirits assumed that meant he swore allegiance to them, and when they sent a man to collect their cut, Vooshkae sent him back with a knife in his neck.”
“That must have upset them,” Ahren said.
Kirril gave a nervous laugh. “Vooshkae rallied the ferrymen together, saying that the power of the waterways belonged to those who worked them. He set a standard of pay for the workers and anyone who refused to pay it, found that no one would give them a ride. Eventually, the Gothrev and Deshirit Families sent assassins in order to regain control. But they all went missing. After that, no ferryman would take anyone associated with either house onto the canals. When they tried again, Vooshkae’s fury was merciless; any member of either family who entered the canals was drowned by the ferrymen. Men, women, young and old, he killed them all.
“To appease the Ferrymaster, the Deshirits and Gothrevs united and presented him with a jeweled oar cap, declaring him ‘King of the Canals.’ With his guard down, they sent one last assassin." Kirril leaned forward, his voice low. "The story goes that when the would-be killer tried, the bodies of his drowned predecessors rose from the water and dragged him screaming under the surface. After that, no one threatened Vooshkae’s authority.”
“It’s an interesting story, Kirril,” Ahren said, trying to hide the chill creeping up his spine. “But what does the Ferrymaster’s tale have to do with the Black Raven?”
The scarred man straightened and sipped his drink. “It was said that the jeweled oar cap was what made him king over the canals, even those who died in them. When Vooshkae died, the new guild master erected a tower on the Isle of Muritzka for him. He was buried with the oar cap. And every guild master since is entombed there as well. Whoever owns that cap controls the canals and the city. But only the reigning guild master has the key to Vooshkae’s tower.”
“And the Black Raven is to steal this key?”
Kirril’s eyes sparkled. “No.” He patted the long box. “My job was to get the key. But the Ferrymaster’s tower is filled with deadly traps. Black Raven’s is to steal the oar cap.”
Ahren’s eyes narrowed. He opened the wooden box to find a golden rapier inside. His mouth opened, trying to form the question on his lips, but Kirril answered it first.
“The guild master’s sword is the key.”
“How did you get it?”
“The Ferrymaster knows all that happens on his canal
s, but his domain doesn’t reach onto the land.” He gave a killer’s smile. “It’ll be a few days before the ferrymen realize their master is missing, but waiting for Mashkov to return isn’t an option. I promised Mashkov the key. He promised me a cut of his fortune. Ten percent, of ten percent of what every ferryman is paid, is enough for me.” He sipped his drink. “But if you don’t wish to honor Mashkov’s deal, I’m sure I can find another buyer. However, time is short. If word of the guild master’s death—”
Ahren snapped the wooden lid shut. Whether he liked the idea or not, control over the canals was something the Tyenee would want, and there was no time to hesitate. Until an agent was sent to take permanent control of the brothels and the city, Ahren had to make the decisions. “No. I am willing to honor his agreement.”
“So the Black Raven will fetch the oar cap?”
Ahren nodded. “I will pass the key to him, and he will bring us the Ferrymaster’s oar cap.”
“Wonderful,” Kirril beamed. He raised his glass. “To the new Kings of the Canal,” he toasted. “May fortune smile on us both.”
Ahren knocked back his drink. “Return in one week.”
Kirril refastened the veil across his face and stood. “I will see you then, Ahren. I wish luck to the Black Raven.” He bowed his head, slid his sword into its sheath, and left.
Ahren sat quiet for several seconds before pouring another drink.
“I don’t trust him,” Klanya said, stepping out from the curtain behind Kirril’s empty chair. The brown-haired whore sheathed her curved dagger. “He means to kill you, Black Raven. I’m sure of it.”
Ahren handed her the glass. “Thank you, Kalnya. I’ll be careful.”
#
A cool breeze coursed narrow valleys between buildings, sweeping away the canals’ putrid stink. Ahren guided his craft down the dark watery streets. Narrow boats lined the canals, moored for the night. Their wooden hulls softly banged against the stone walls like floating wind chimes. The yellow lantern hanging from his prow cast long shadows across an empty market as he floated past. Gray rats scurried across the flagstones as they raided the lingering scraps from the butchers’ tables.
Crossing the Central Canal, Ahren passed fat nobles and jeweled courtesans in silken veils enjoying the private gambling house courtyards overlooking the water. He steered through the Warehouse District near the Grevenik Docks as drunken sailors brawled over dice and threw away their coin on soured drinks and weary whores.
He paddled his small boat out from the floating city and into the calm harbor water. Once there he lowered the metal hood over the lantern and guided himself by the pale light cast from the half-moon above. Ahead, Muritzka’s sheer walls loomed out over the water. Dark silhouettes of towers and steep tomb roofs rose behind the imposing parapets. A pair of iron torches burned on either side of the portcullised entrance. Beneath them, two guards in blackened chain and dark veils stood silently, watching Ahren approach.
Ahren slowed his craft to a stop before the iron gate. Reaching inside a velvet bag, he lifted out a fistful of golden coins. Letting them fall from his fingers they clinked back into the pouch with musical rhythm. “I’ve come to pay my respects,” he said, cinching the bag closed and tossing it to the sentry’s feet.
The guards said nothing. With both hands, one turned the winch wheel beside him. Chains rattled and grated and the rusty gate rose. Water cascaded from the dark moss wrapped around the portcullis bars.
With a nod, Ahren guided his boat under the dripping gate and into an ornately engraved canal. Statues and obelisks lined the sides like silent guardians. Behind them, thousands of lavish mausoleums spread out across the manicured island like a miniature city.
The wide canal led straight to the island’s center, where it opened into a rectangular lagoon hidden beneath a latticed canopy of leafy vines. Far to the side, near the twenty-foot wall surrounding the island, an onion-domed tower loomed over the necropolis. Ahren moored his boat beside an empty funeral barge, grabbed his lantern, and stepped out into Nadjancia's greatcemetery.
Dark tiles paved the pathways between the stone monuments. Graven saints and gargoyles stared down at him with lifeless eyes as he passed. Ahren couldn’t shake the discomforting feeling from the many lifelike marble and bronze figures standing above the graves. With his lantern high, he wove through the maze of tombs until finally reaching the Ferrymaster’s tower.
Blue veins coursed through the gray marble covering the building. An intricate relief of ferrymen navigating the city’s bustling canals encircled the tower’s wide lower portion. A pointed archway in the monument’s side broke the artistic scene. The shallow alcove, adorned with mermaids and gold leaf, went in only four feet and ended at a green copper wall.
Running his fingers across the cold metal, Ahren searched for an opening. Unsuccessful in finding a hinge or keyhole, his examination spread out onto the alcove walls. The elaborate carvings created a seemingly endless number of places to conceal the keyhole. Raising his lantern, Ahren scanned the graven facade.
A carving of a large fish caught his attention. Its scaly body waved back and forth, as if frozen in a moment of swimming, and its round face swept upward, into the alcove. Its thick lips formed a dark hole.
Kneeling, Ahern peered into the fish’s mouth. The smooth opening was wide enough to slide a finger into. Two slender grooves ran down the left side. Ahren set his lantern down and drew the gold-hilted sword from his waist. A swirling design interlaced with tiny gemstones ran up the middle of the blade. An open flower, with three pearls capped the pommel.
Ahren had spent hours studying the ornate weapon, trying to understand its secret. While the keen blade was well crafted, its adornments and misbalanced weight made it a poor weapon. Kirril had called it a key, but nothing about it appeared useful as one.
Holding the handle tight, Ahren unscrewed the pommel. He pulled out a slender tube running up the handle length. The brass cylinder ended in a jagged ring of squared teeth. Two flat-topped bumps rose from one side of the otherwise smooth tube.
Lining the notches with the grooves, Ahren carefully inserted the key into the fish’s mouth. It slid in perfectly. In his many years of burgling, he had never seen a key or lock as this. He leaned in closer, trying to study how it worked. It appeared ready, but something about it still made him feel uneasy. Remembering Kirril’s warning of traps, Ahren leaned away.
Holding it with only his thumb and forefinger, he twisted the key to the right. The lock clicked and a nine-inch spike shot from the hollow key in the fish’s mouth. Ahren froze, staring at the needle-like blade. Had he not moved, it would have stabbed him.
Pulling himself to his feet, he checked the copper door. It was unlocked.
Cautiously, he pushed it, but it didn’t move. He tried again, driving his weight into the door. Slowly, it swung open. The spike jutting from the fish’s mouth retracted as the opening widened. With a soft click, the trap re-armed.
A sigh of stale air wafted out the dark doorway. Pulling his veil tighter across his nose to block the foul odor, Ahren raised his lantern and peered inside. Bright mosaics sparkled in the dim light. Ragged tapestries of dusty cobwebs hung from the ceiling. A honeycomb of niches, each containing a moldy skeleton in a rotted shroud, covered the back wall. Marble busts, accented with gold and tarnished silver, lined the walkway past engraved vault doors covering the walls and floor.
Careful not to set off another trap, Ahren removed the cylindrical key from the wall and returned it to the sword handle. He glanced over his shoulder one last time and then stepped though the tower door.
Ahren followed the narrow path between the sculpted busts of the former guild masters. Jeweled masks, silver ferry figureheads and other bizarre treasures leaned in the corners and decorated the walls. To the left, between a pair of gold oars, an arched doorway led to a spiral staircase.
A faint breeze trickled down the stairway as Ahren followed the tight spirals upward. The passage opened
up onto the second floor, to a vaulted chamber decorated in amber. A ring of stone sarcophagi encircled a white statue of a veiled woman playing a violin. Ahren only glanced inside before continuing up the steep stairs.
He passed two more floors before reaching the highest level in the tower. Pale moonlight shone through the narrow, barred windows lining the room. Blood-red tiles decorated the inlaid floor. A full-size stone statue of a canal ferry dominated the center of the chamber. Its veiled pilot stared out ahead, holding his bronze oar with both hands. An ivory coffin, decorated with black pearls, rested inside the narrow craft. Its lid was carved into the form of a man lying on a draped cloth.
Amazed by its haunting beauty, Ahren circled the dark statue before finally approaching. He ran his fingers across the smooth ivory, wiping away a thin layer of dust. Placing his hands firmly against the lid near the top, he pushed. The heavy stone didn’t budge.
Taking a deep breath, he braced his feet against the floor, and pressed against the sarcophagus cover with all his weight. Stone ground on stone as the thick lid inched aside. A sliver of blackness widened as the casket slid open. Suddenly, a small pop came from the lid, followed by a loud clank.
With a screech, the ferryman statue whirled around. Ahren ducked just as its bronze paddle whooshed past, knocking the hat from his head. Chains rattled as an iron portcullis slammed down over the stairwell entrance with a thunderous crash, sealing him in.
Catching his breath, Ahren slowly rose to his feet. A thumb-sized metal pin protruded up from the casket's inner walls where Ahren had slid away the lid. Hesitant to move the lid any further, he raised his lantern and peered through the narrow crevice into the sarcophagus.
A dried skeleton lay inside. It held a black, tarnished oar cap against its chest. Gold and jeweled rings covered white boney fingers. Carefully, Ahren slipped his hand through the narrow opening and removed the artifact from the corpse’s grasp.
Mountain of Daggers Page 8
