Storm of Chaos

by Andy Peloquin

  “Stick close,” growled the one called Goble. “Try anything stupid, get something broken. First time’s your knife hand, second time’s your right leg.” He loomed over Evren with a menacing glare. “Third time’s your neck.”

  “Kind of hard to talk if I’m dead,” Evren pointed out. “Perhaps next time, start with a finger, then a hand, then—”

  “You’d be amazed how delicate Goble can be at breaking just the right bones in just the right way,” sneered the smallest thug. “He’ll make sure you survive that snapped neck.”

  Evren nodded. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  The six thugs took up position around him, boxing him in. No going back now, Evren thought.

  He cast a glance in the direction of the Hall of Bounty. The Secret Keepers had entered half an hour earlier, but they hadn’t yet emerged. Regardless, not even the most feebleminded Ybrazhe was stupid enough to raise a hand against a Secret Keeper. They’d get the grain sample back to the Temple of Whispers and find the poison without him.

  I don’t need priests to get me out of a jam, he told himself. He’d fought, talked, and schemed his way out of worse. Not much worse, not often, and never on purpose, but he didn’t have much choice at the moment. Though, to be fair, they would come in damned handy right about now.

  He felt only a slight disappointment when the Secret Keepers failed to appear at the perfect time. He’d never been that lucky in his life.

  “So,” Evren said in a conversational tone, “what say we skip to the part where you tell me what Blackfiddler wants and we all get on with our day?”

  “Blackfinger.” Goble scowled—an expression Evren had to admit the man had mastered. He seemed to feel the scowl all the way to the core of his bones, and it moved every muscle in his face to form the perfect furrowed brow, pinched lips, and wrinkled nose.

  It doesn’t do much for his face, but I’m guessing Blackfinger didn’t hire him for his good looks. Goble’s sloped shoulders, ham-sizes fists, and perpetual frown screamed “career thug”.

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” snarled the smallest thug.

  The thugs led him westward, away from the Hall of Bounty. The western cliff face of Shalandra loomed far in the distance, but Evren felt fairly certain a man like Blackfinger wouldn’t hide out in the Keeper’s Crypts. Annat and his Syndicate thugs had spoken of the tombs with the same superstitious tone as the rest of Shalandra—few would voluntarily enter the realm of the dead, much less make camp there.

  Blackfinger’s lair had to be somewhere along the Slave’s Tier, likely among the abandoned and crumbling houses close to the Path of Sepulture. It would be a simple matter for the Syndicate master to turn any of those dilapidated buildings into a proper hideout—similar to how the Hunter had converted the center of an empty warehouse into a fortress-like suite of lavish apartments. The poor, starving, disease-ridden Mahjuri would make the perfect cover for Blackfinger’s operations.

  Evren entertained himself by altering his pace ever so slightly. When the thugs tried to move faster to pass a patrol of Indomitables, he let his feet drag and shuffle through the dirt. As the brutes slowed to match his pace, he quickened his speed until his boots kicked against the heels of the thugs ahead of him. They seemed confused by the subtle changes in pace and their expressions grew more and more frustrated.

  Something about the fourth thug, the one that hadn’t yet spoken, drew Evren’s attention. He watched the man out of the corner of his eye. Every few seconds, the huge brute scratched some new part of his body. First his barrel chest, then his ample stomach, and moved on to his lower back, right arm, and finally far deeper into his backside than any decorous man would consider appropriate. But when he pulled down his high-collared shirt to rub his neck, Evren caught sight of a stiff, cracked blue blister.

  The Azure Rot. He gave the man a slightly wider berth, stifling a shudder.

  A thought struck him. That all but proves that I was right about the Ybrazhe not being the ones poisoning the Slave’s Tier. It hadn’t made sense for the Syndicate to eliminate the people that served both as their concealment and power base. Now, seeing the weeping blue sores on the man’s neck, it cemented the belief. No way the Ybrazhe would let their own people end up taking the poison. Either they’d warn them to avoid the grain or they’d provide some sort of antidote.

  Of course, he couldn’t totally discount the possibility that Blackfinger was an absolute idiot who didn’t care in the slightest about the men under his command. Evren’s studies in the Master’s Temple had included a few books on military history—he’d read enough battle accounts to know that some incompetent leaders squandered their most valuable resource, their men.

  It was possible, given what he’d seen of the Ybrazhe. At the same time, the quiet subtlety of some of the Syndicate’s plans—such as using the Gatherers to distract the Indomitables while they consolidated power in the lower tiers—indicated a mind at least moderately clever behind the scenes. Something told him Blackfinger wouldn’t be a total fool.

  That made it even more imperative that Evren meet the man in control of the Syndicate. I might be able to find out something that ties him right to the Keeper’s Council. Killian could turn that secret into a potent weapon against both the Ybrazhe and the Necroseti.

  The closer their little parade drew to the Keeper’s Crypts, the more Syndicate thugs and thieves Evren spotted. They huddled in alleyways, sat on doorsteps, leaned against crumbling walls, or gathered out in the open. The Indomitable patrols that passed gave them a wide berth—clearly the black-armored soldiers had learned to be wary of the Ybrazhe in this, their stronghold.

  That’ll make getting out of here a bit trickier, Evren thought. Hopefully not impossible.

  His gut tightened as his ape-sized escorts led him away from the Way of Chains and down a side street that ran south, toward the wall that separated the Slave’s Tier from the farmlands outside Shalandra. The golden sandstone barrier loomed closer with every step, casting deep shadows over the decrepit buildings and the haggard men and women that lived in this neighborhood. These were the poorest of the poor, a mass of starving humanity too weak and wretched to protest the presence of the Ybrazhe Syndicate.

  The moment he saw the dozen thugs clustered around the only two-story building in sight, Evren knew he’d arrived. The strong-arms and brutes fixed him with leering glares as he was led through the front entrance—an entrance reinforced, Evren saw, by iron rods strong enough to support the solid metal-banded wooden door that hung from thick hinges. Once that door was closed, nothing short of a battering ram could get it open again.

  The interior of the house was as sparse and decrepit as its exterior, but again, the sham only ran skin deep. Evren counted four hidey-holes where crossbowmen could hunker down to protect the entrance. The overturned table wasn’t the result of messy occupants—it was a shield that could be hauled in front of the door at a moment’s notice. Steel shutters hung from the windows and the curtains were made of flame-resistant wool. Everything else potentially flammable or breakable had been removed, hence the spartan appearance.

  Damn, Evren thought, it’s like a fortress in here! His heart sank as the thugs closed and barred the heavy steel door behind him. He’d never get out that way.

  He tried to bring to mind his recollection of the exterior—perhaps he could climb out a window and race across the rooftops to escape. Yet, to his surprise, his escort led him not up to the second floor, but down a set of stone stairs into the basement.

  Crap.

  All sorts of terrible images ran through Evren’s mind of what to except from Blackfinger’s underground chamber. A torture room, perhaps, filled with steel and iron implements of pain. Chains and manacles, certainly. Bloodstained walls and floors reeking of vomit, fear-induced sweat, and bodily fluids released in death.

  Nothing could prepare him for the thick miasma of stench that slammed into him. A musty odor, thick with rot, yet far…earthier than he’d expe
cted.

  Lanterns filled the enormous basement, which stretched three times as long and wide as the house itself. But instead of a stone floor, a thick layer of soil covered the expansive underground chamber. On the far side of the chamber, canvas sacks lay near the wall. Yet Evren had eyes only for the little ear-shaped objects dotting the rich earth.

  Mushrooms? In Vothmot, his mother had grown mushrooms—the only thing she’d managed to cultivate in the rocky soil of their back yard.

  A voice pierced his thoughts. “Is this him?” The voice was rich, sonorous, filled with confidence yet lacking the arrogance Evren had expected. The man to whom the voice belonged seemed almost too slim and frail compared to the hulking thugs that surrounded him. His long, dark hair hung in a neatly oiled braid down his back, with a braided beard to match. He wore no headband, yet his face bore seven black dots and thick lines of kohl. His clothes were neat, precisely tailored, not quite of Dhukari standard yet far cleaner than his men.

  “You’re Blackfinger, then?” Evren made a tsking sound. “Not what I was expecting.” The bluff and bluster did little to calm his racing heart.

  “Oh no?” The man cocked an eyebrow.

  “Yeah.” Evren nodded, forcing the words out despite the sudden dryness of his mouth. “You’re a lot taller.”

  Confusion twisted the man’s face.

  “Anyone who calls himself a name like Blackfinger’s got to be compensating for something.” Evren gave him a too-sweet smile. “I was really certain you were a dwarf or hunchback. Guess I was wrong.”

  The thugs seemed not to understand Evren’s words, but Blackfinger’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “Sharp tongue, you’ve got. Annat was right to want to cut it out.” He snapped his fingers and strong hands seized Evren’s arms.

  Blackfinger’s elegant features twisted into a brutish snarl. “Annat’s not here, but I’ll be happy to finish what he started.” A dagger appeared in his hand.

  Fear coiled like a serpent in Evren’s gut. The blade in his face had a meticulously-honed edge, and the hand holding it seemed comfortable, as if Blackfinger knew his way around a dagger. Yet he forced himself to swallow the instinctive surge of trepidation. His mind detached from the terror that threatened to render him helpless and a cold calm descended over him.

  “Then clearly your men didn’t get the message,” he shot back, inclining his head toward the men holding him. “They said you wanted me here to talk. Kind of hard to do without a tongue.”

  Blackfinger’s lips pursed, a half-frown that turned into a slight smile. “True.” He shrugged. “Then again, I didn’t really care about hearing what you had to say. I just wanted to meet the man that killed Annat.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Evren forced a friendly grin. “Now, if it’s all the same to you, I’ve got a busy—”

  A fist to his gut knocked the breath from his lungs. Evren doubled over, gasping, pain radiating in a tight knot from his abdomen.

  “Goble, there’s no need for that.” Blackfinger’s tone was scolding, like a disapproving mother, without a hint of malice. “Not yet, at least.”

  The huge thug rumbled an apology.

  A hand seized Evren’s hair and pulled him upright. He found himself face to face with Blackfinger. The man’s eyes glittered a hand’s breadth from Evren’s face.

  “You’re not from here, are you?” Blackfinger asked.

  Evren clamped his mouth shut, both out of defiance and a desire to keep the contents of his stomach down. Though he seriously considered vomiting in Blackfinger’s face.

  “Isn’t that the strangest thing?” Blackfinger chuckled and fixed his thugs with an incredulous look. “He’s not even Shalandran, yet somehow he finds a way to mess up all of our carefully laid plains. Amazing!”

  “By our,” Evren said with a grunt, “you mean you and the Keeper’s Council.”

  One of Blackfinger’s slim eyebrows rose. “The Council? What could we, the accursed Syndicate, have to do with the mighty and noble priests of the Long Keeper?” His voice held not a shred of respect for the Necroseti.

  “Making a tidy profit off stealing shalanite,” Evren said. “Seems as good a reason to get in bed with a priest.”

  “True.” Blackfinger shrugged. “If that was actually what was happening here.” His lip curled into a sneer. “Or, if you had any way to prove it.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have any letters from the Keeper’s Council lying around, would you?” Evren cocked his head. “Your half-brother was kind enough to leave some handy for us to find. Any chance you’ll be that considerate? It would really make my day a whole lot easier.”

  Blackfinger shook his head. “No luck there, sorry.”

  Evren stifled a curse. He hadn’t expected the Syndicate leader to give him anything concrete, but if Blackfinger had had something incriminating to hide, he would have shown evidence of it. A furtive glance, a sudden licking of his lips, a tension in his shoulders. Yet, his reaction made it clear: Angrak had been the intermediary between the Council and the Syndicate—Evren wouldn’t find anything to connect the two.

  Nothing other than Blackfinger himself, of course. He studied the man. Blackfinger had the build of a fencer, not a hardened thug or street fighter. He might have the strength of will to order around block-headed thugs, but could he bear up under Lady Callista’s interrogations? We’ll have to see, won’t we?

  He just had to find a way out of this particularly sticky situation first.

  “I take it I’d be wasting my time inviting you to join my Syndicate?” Blackfinger tilted up his palm. “In exchange for your life.”

  Evren smiled. “Sure, I’d love to join! Sign me up to become a proper Crewman and—”

  Now Blackfinger did give the command, and Goble’s fist drove into Evren’s gut. Evren collapsed to his knees, grunting in pain, struggling to breathe.

  “Get him up!” snarled Blackfinger.

  Evren was hauled roughly to his feet.

  “Take a look around you,” Blackfinger said, gesturing to the field of mushrooms. “What do you see?”

  “Dinner,” Evren grunted.

  “Right you are!” Blackfinger beamed. Crouching, he sliced through the stalk of one white-and-brown mushroom. “These are called Ivory Brackets. A particularly delightful varietal, especially when sautéed with butter and flour to make gravy.” He licked his lips. “The Dhukari can’t get enough of them. I’m sold out the day after I harvest them. Makes for a fine little side income, if I say so myself.”

  Evren raised an eyebrow. “Yay, you.”

  Blackfinger grinned. “But do you know why these mushrooms grow so well down here? What makes them so large and succulent?” He waved the little toadstool in front of Evren’s nose. “I’ll give you a hint: we put something special in the soil!”

  Evren’s heart sank. He didn’t need to guess. “Corpses.”

  Blackfinger’s grin widened to a smirk. “The more, the merrier, we’ve discovered!” He took a bite of the mushroom and seemed to savor it. “So, any time we run into meddlesome little shites like you or the blacksmith, we get a whole new bumper crop of delicious mushrooms to sell to those fancy bastards up on the Keeper’s Tier.”

  His smile disappeared in an instant, replaced by a snarl. “Killian will be joining you soon enough.” He nodded to the thugs holding Evren. “Slit his throat and give his blood to the soil. Make sure his body can never be identified.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Kodyn shot a sidelong glance at Aisha, who sat on the cold stone bench beside him. She hadn’t said more than a handful of words to him after his return to the Temple of Whispers—the last half hour of waiting for the Secret Keepers had passed in a tense silence. The shaking in his hands had thankfully stopped, though he still wrestled with an occasional surge of acid in his throat. He’d never come so close to death before, and it had left a mark.

  Briana had remained in her room to continue working on her father’s journal, which left Aisha an
d Kodyn alone to face the Guardians. But it wasn’t the Secret Keepers that worried Kodyn. Aisha’s eyes had a faraway look, as if she wandered deep within the recesses of her mind.

  Give him a mission, something to focus on, and he would fight until his last breath to break through even the most difficult challenge. Yet when it came to speaking about matters of the heart, he was tongue-tied, uncertain, hesitant. He had no idea how to put into words what he felt. At the moment, concern for Aisha’s wellbeing was chief among those feelings. He wanted to ask her what was going on, to continue the conversation they’d begun two nights ago outside Angrak’s mansion, but words eluded him—as they tended to whenever he was around the Ghandian woman.

  He opened his mouth to say something—he still didn’t know what—but Aisha spoke first.

  “You’re an ass.”

  Kodyn froze, his jaw dropping. He fixed Aisha with a stunned expression, and any hint of coherent words fled from his mouth.

  When Aisha turned her gaze to him, anger burned in her eyes. “You went after that assassin even after the Black Widow warned you not to!”

  “Hey,” Kodyn protested, “I didn’t intend to get into a fight. I just wanted to find where he was hiding out, then I was going to call Issa or Hykos or someone else for reinforcements.” Irritation brought his temper flaring to life. “And I’m not some helpless tyro just learning to walk, you know. I’ve spent more time training with Errik than anyone outside of House Serpent.”

  “Which makes you well-suited to face possibly one of the most dangerous men in Shalandra?” Aisha snapped. “You’re not just an ass, you’re an idiot! You could have gotten yourself killed, and we’d never have known because your body would have been lying in some unknown hole in the wall.” She jabbed a finger at his chest. “You should have been smarter. You should have called me!”

  A snappy rejoinder rose to Kodyn’s lips—he was no snot-nosed, helpless apprentice that needed help from his mothers. He’d left those days long behind and resented her for even suggesting it. She, of all people, should know better!