The Vale: Behind The Vale

by Brian D. Anderson

  Large drops of sweat were beading up on Barnaby’s brow, and his eyes darted to Drake’s gun. “Fine. We’ll do it your way. But I promise that you’ll regret this, hawker.”

  After putting away his gun, he got back in his car. Drake watched him go and then crossed the lot to the far corner where his own vehicle was parked. At the brief touch of his hand on a small mana pad, the lock clicked and the door opened.

  The scent of leather and oil that greeted him as he settled inside brought a smile to his lips. He placed his index finger briefly on a pad beside the steering wheel and leaned back in the seat. In response, the engine hummed almost inaudibly into life. It was a true one of a kind. He took a long breath while listening to its even rhythm for a few seconds. Perfection. Even the black paint was custom, sparkling with flakes of mana-infused silver. The car’s sleek lines and sloped rear end made it look like it could actually take flight. And with what was under the hood…no one would ever stand a chance of catching her.

  “Are you ready, Cal?” he asked, looking at the console. A yellow light blinked rapidly as if in response; a check of the fuel gauge then drew a groan. He had needed this payday. Quality mana fuel was rare…and expensive.

  He glanced over his shoulder to where the sheriff was still waiting. A sinking feeling dug at the pit of his stomach. This was not going to end well. That much he could count on.

  Chapter Two

  Drake lowered the car window and shut off the vibraplayer. Right now, he preferred to listen to the hum of the engine and the roar of the wind. He had been tempted to put the top down but decided against it. Should things take a bad turn, it might be safer to have it up. Besides, it wasn’t all that hot today – a benefit of the overcast sky.

  A pity the scenery wasn’t better, though. Mile after mile of crumbling buildings and shabby houses covered the landscape. Everything was gray and dull; made more obvious by the mana streams flowing overhead in a seemingly infinite array of colors. The few shops scattered about were packed with hungry people scrambling to get what little food was available – though it was never enough. Children either darted about the streets pushing along carts filled with scrap metal to sell to the recycling trucks or dug through heaps of stinking refuse hoping desperately to find something of value that could be traded for food or money.

  Yes, Aurora was about as poor a province as there was in Vale. Not that the others were much better; but Aurora was particularly sickly and run-down. Here, even the newer buildings were covered with a depressing coat of muck and grime, conveying all too clearly the depth of hopelessness felt by locals. Yet despite all this hardship and poverty, for a hawker at least, it was the best place to find business.

  Runners often hid in the very worst areas, believing that they could blend in more successfully amongst the filth. But more often than not, it was the exact opposite. The inhabitants were invariably suspicious of strangers and kept almost exclusively to themselves. The last thing they wanted was someone with a bounty on their head bringing trouble to their door. They might not have had much, but what they did have, they were determined to keep. Half of the time, all Drake brought back was the runner’s body after he had been killed by the locals for stealing food or clothes.

  Lately, though, he’d been thinking it was about time to move on. He was becoming far too recognizable in Aurora, making it increasingly tricky to get in and out of places without attracting attention. Which in turn was making his job a damn sight harder than it needed to be.

  A sigh slipped out. A former royal guard turned hawker was bound to attract extra attention anyway, wherever he went. And it wasn’t like he could hide the fact. The local law enforcement was usually the first to find him out. Anyone new was automatically checked out with the archives in Troi, and the people there were not known for keeping such information confidential. Then there was his P37. If the archives didn’t give him away, his weapon certainly would. Only members of the royal guard carried a P37. You couldn’t buy one; each was custom made by its owner, and the secret of its construction was never divulged. He damn sure wasn’t about to give his up just to blend in with the crowd, not when it had saved his hide so many times. No. Once he was finished with this latest mess, he would move on…again.

  Barnaby kept them going at a fast click – showing off the fact that his car also had some muscle under the hood. Several times he blew by slower vehicles, sounding his siren as he passed and scaring the hell out of them. The third time he did this, he very nearly ran an old man completely off the road. Drake decided it was time to show the pudgy bastard a thing or two about speed.

  “You ready, Cal?” he asked, a wry grin creeping up from the corners of his mouth. “Let’s do it.” He slammed his foot down on the accelerator and was instantly pressed hard back against the seat.

  Barnaby must have seen him coming because he sped up and swerved left, attempting to cut him off. But Cal was way too fast. Drake pushed her to over one hundred and fifty before easing up. By then, Barnaby was just a tiny dot in the mirror. Drake laughed at the thought of the sheriff cursing and screaming that his prisoner had decided to run after all. Just to rub it in even further, he made sure that he was completely out of sight by taking a few hard turns at a speed he knew was sure to send Barnaby’s car skidding off the road.

  The sheriff’s office was near to Vale’s reservoir, an area where virtually all of what little commerce and infrastructure the town possessed could be found. Here, the mana strings could be seen glistening like a spider’s web in the morning dew across the sky. For most people, this signified a place where power was abundant and life was good. But for Drake, it was just a harsh reminder of the past.

  As he approached the sheriff’s office, he saw a long red van parked directly outside. On the side of the van, the lion sigil of the royal court immediately caught his eye.

  “What the hell are they doing here?” Drake muttered.

  He pulled next to the van and waited for Barnaby to catch up. This was no disgraced noble forced to serve the king as a lowly bureaucrat in some dilapidated outpost; someone like that would be driving a vehicle that was old and dented. This van was brand new. Fresh from the factory.

  Maybe they’re not here about me, he thought. Yeah, right. And maybe I’m a high mage.

  He went over in his mind what they could possibly want with a disgraced guard who’d been exiled to the outer provinces. Nothing he would like, that was for sure. The only other time Troi had been interested in him was when they had wanted him to kill a civilian activist who’d been causing trouble up north. But Drake was no assassin. Sure, he killed. Quite often, in fact. But only when he couldn’t bring a runner back alive.

  Some hawkers didn’t care. They would simply kill the poor bastard and move on rather than take the extra time and effort needed to capture someone alive. Dead bodies don’t try to escape. Half the money, but also half the time and aggravation. That was not Drake’s way. He had never been a cold-blooded murderer – regardless of what the royal court claimed.

  Barnaby eventually screeched into the lot and parked directly behind Cal, clearly a tactic to block him in. Drake chuckled at the man’s clumsy attempt to assert his authority. If he wanted to leave, this sure as hell wouldn’t stop him. Cal could tear through the sheriff’s car like it was made from wet paper. The mana-infused silver in the paintwork was more than just decoration. Drake got out and started toward the office entrance, the chirp of Cal’s auto-lock sounding from behind after a few steps.

  Barnaby hurried over to join him, puffing and wheezing as he took hold of Drake by the arm. Drake shot him a warning glance.

  “We don’t want this to get rough, do we?” Barnaby asked. From the nervous expression on his face it was clear that this was not intended as a threat. “At least do me a favor and close your coat.”

  Drake chuckled and nodded his compliance. “You got it, boss.” He buttoned his coat to cover his weapon, though the bulge this created would still make it obvious to almost anyo
ne that he was armed. “Lead on.”

  Barnaby opened the door and stepped inside, pulling Drake along with him, though taking care to use the very minimum of pressure.

  The cool air felt nice, and though the outside of the building was in desperate need of a good scrubbing, the interior was clean and orderly. Chairs were lined up against the wall, and soft music was coming from a speaker overhead. The desk clerk, a thin, pale-faced man with round spectacles, was sitting behind a glass window at the rear of the lobby. To his right was a door leading to the rest of the station. He looked up at Drake, frowning.

  “Still waiting for that promotion, Milton?” Drake asked with a smile.

  The clerk ignored his jibe and switched his attention to the sheriff. “He’s waiting in the interrogation room,” he said. “And he’s getting impatient.”

  “You plan to tell me what someone from the royal court is doing here?” Drake asked Barnaby.

  “You think they tell me anything?” he replied, opening the door leading to the back.

  Lights from overhead buzzed and crackled noisily as they passed along the hallway. The wall on one side was lined with holopics of past kings and the present ruler – though at some point these had been taken down and never put back in the correct order of reign. Whoever the court had sent was sure to have noticed this and would likely be giving Barnaby a severe reprimand. The black and white tile floor was clean, but had numerous cracks and blemishes and was badly in need of repair. In spite of this, overall it wasn’t such a bad place to spend your working hours when compared to what was usually found in Aurora.

  They continued down the hall and through a small conference room where three doors lined the wall to their left. The middle door was slightly ajar, and a waft of smoke drifted out, accompanied by the scent of tobacco. Tobacco was expensive, so this meant that whoever was inside was either very rich or very powerful. Most likely both. Drake hadn’t had a good cigar in years, and the aroma was making old, almost-forgotten cravings return.

  Barnaby opened the door fully and gestured for Drake to wait. From his present position, he could see only a pair of boots propped up on a metal table. Military boots. This just keeps getting better and better, he thought ironically.

  “You can go,” said a familiar voice. “I’ll speak to him alone.”

  Without a word, Barnaby turned and started back toward the hallway door. Drake could see the fear in his eyes. And there was a good reason for it being there. He could feel his rage building as he continued staring at the boots.

  “Do come in, Drake. Hasn’t anyone taught you that it is rude to keep old friends waiting?”

  The way he rolled the letter R and exaggerated each syllable only served to make Drake even angrier. Pretending to be a top dweller; that’s all it was. Yet the man inside the interrogation room was as far removed as possible from one of the elites. More like the very lowest of bottom feeders, in Drake’s eyes.

  He unbuttoned his jacket and pushed the door fully open. There, dressed in his finest white uniform complete with medals and ribbons, was Xavier Mortimer, captain of the royal guard. His black curls were oiled and pushed back in the fashion of the nobility, though contradicting this he had the angular features and deep-set brown eyes of the working class, which was why he tended to keep his collar turned up high. A cigar hung between a set of perfect teeth as he gave Drake a welcoming smile.

  “It is so good to see you again, my old friend,” Xavier said, removing his feet from the table. “How long has it been? Eight years?”

  “Nine.” Drake took a chair on the opposite side. “Why are you here?”

  Xavier sighed. “I see that life amongst the rabble has robbed you of your courtesy.”

  “And I see that you are still trying to forget that your father was a cook.”

  Though Xavier’s expression didn’t change, Drake noticed a tiny twitch in the corner of his eye that made him suppress a satisfied grin.

  “Ah, yes. Dear old Dad. He still asks about you when I visit. It broke his heart when you were convicted. He still thinks you were falsely accused, poor fellow. He just can’t imagine the great Drake Sharazi could ever have become a…murderer.”

  “I’m losing patience, Xavier. Get to the point.”

  Xavier clicked his tongue. “Mind your temper. We don’t want this to become unpleasant, do we?”

  Drake sneered. “Oh, I don’t know. Let’s find out.”

  It was an invitation Drake knew for certain would be accepted. Both men reached to their side simultaneously. In a blur of motion, two P37’s were drawn, each trained and ready to fire.

  Xavier’s smile never faltered. “You’ve lost your touch, old friend. I think this harsh environment is definitely starting to take its toll.”

  “I’m still fast enough to blow your damn head off.”

  Even as he spoke, Drake knew this to be a false claim. They had drawn their weapons virtually in chorus. Had they pulled their triggers, both of them would now be dead. But it had not always been like that. Had he really gotten slower? Or had Xavier gotten faster? Probably a little bit of both, he suspected.

  Xavier holstered his weapon, then waited for Drake to do the same before continuing. “I have a message for you, one that I think you will want to hear. So perhaps you should stop acting like a child for a moment.”

  “I’m not doing any of your damn dirty work,” Drake snapped back. “So unless you’ve come with a royal apology, you have nothing to say that I want to hear.”

  “A royal apology?” Xavier chuckled softly. “Now that would be a cause for celebration, I imagine. But alas, no. Still, you might be pleased to know that King Nedar still thinks of you fondly. So fondly, in fact, that he has sent me to deliver a personal message.”

  The hair on the back of Drake’s neck prickled and his heartbeat increased significantly. A message from the king. Though he had long since learned to accept what had happened to him, in reflective moments he still dreamed about returning home. Not that it did any good. As the years passed, any hope of actually achieving this had all but disappeared. Home had become nothing more than a memory. And yet now, was it possible that this message was about to rekindle his long-abandoned dream?

  “If you need a moment,” said Xavier, obviously amused by the effect his words were having. “I can only imagine what life must have been like for you, living in filth for all these years. And then here I come, bringing a glimmer of hope into your tragic tale.”

  Xavier’s smug expression quickly had Drake regaining his composure. “I’m fine,” he responded. “I was just amazed that the captain of the royal guard would be reduced to the status of messenger boy. When I held the position, the king would never have thought to send me on such a mundane task.”

  “His Royal Majesty wanted to be sure you understood the importance of the matter,” Xavier explained, though a bit too eagerly.

  “Then why don’t you get on with it?”

  “He wants me to convey his deepest regret over how events transpired. And that he truly wishes circumstances had been different.” He rolled the cigar between his fingers absently, watching the smoke rise from the tip.

  “Is that all?”

  “Of course not. He also commands you to come to Troi and report to the magistrate.”

  When Xavier did not continue, Drake leaned in, forcing him to make eye contact. “Nothing else?”

  “What did you expect? A full pardon and a welcome home parade? Or perhaps reinstatement as captain of the royal guard? Feel fortunate that the king thinks of you at all. Your sovereign has a duty for you to perform. That should be enough.”

  The faint hope that had been rising inside Drake began to collapse, leaving behind only fury and resentment. Straightening his back, he forced himself to keep his expression impassive. “Please thank His Royal Majesty for his considerate message and kind words. Tell him I’m afraid I am otherwise occupied at the moment.”

  Xavier rubbed his cheek and groaned. “I thought you mig
ht be difficult. I even told the king as much. But he assured me that you would come.”

  Drake rose from his chair. “Then he was mistaken. And for once, you were right.” He began to leave.

  “They’ve taken Prince Salazar,” Xavier said quickly. “I wasn’t supposed to tell you that until you reached Troi. And you can’t say a word to anyone. But that’s why you’ve been summoned.”

  Drake halted, his hand resting on the doorknob. “Who has taken him?”

  “We don’t know. But we think they’re from the outer provinces. That’s why we need you.”

  Now things were different. Drake could hear the sincerity bleeding into Xavier’s haughty tone. He drew several deep breaths before finally speaking. “Very well. Tell the king I’ll be there.”

  He opened the door and strode out.

  “Don’t you want to ask?” Xavier called after him. “I know you do. Are you not even the least bit curious about her?”

  Drake continued walking, pretending not to hear him. Barnaby was waiting just outside in the hallway, sniffing a cigar obviously given to him by Xavier – no doubt the bribe for bringing him in. He snatched the cigar from the man’s hand as he passed by and shoved it into his pocket.

  “Hey, that’s mine,” Barnaby shouted.

  Drake called over his shoulder, “Not anymore it isn’t. Now move your ass and get that heap of a car out of my way before I ram it.”

  Kicking open the lobby door, he quit the station. Barnaby followed close behind, hurrying as fast as his ample girth would allow. When the way was clear, Drake fired his engine and pulled back, stopping for a moment when he was parallel to the sheriff.

  “Tell the guy who sent the mage after me that I’ll be seeing him real soon.”

  Barnaby shot him a hate-filled look but said nothing.

  As Drake pulled out onto the road, he tried to calm himself. The thought of returning home was exciting, but also terrifying. He was an exile. Everyone in Troi knew his name, and unless the king proclaimed him innocent, he was still a criminal in their eyes: a murderer. He would always be thought of as one. And something told him that a royal pardon wasn’t forthcoming. They needed him; that was the beginning and the end of it. Once he had served his purpose, he would be cast out again. Even so, it was impossible to extinguish the tiny flame of hope that had been rekindled.