Peril & Profit

by M. H. Johnson

  Indeed, in all ways they would have seemed like young lords graced with fortune and favor casually heading for familiar haunts, were it not for their eyes. A piercing sapphire blue, they seemed to glitter of their own accord in the afternoon sunlight like their namesake in truth, radiating with an eerie intensity that perhaps explained why people tended to flinch from them as they strode their way through the lord's quarter. It almost appeared as if their eyes were dancing with a sort of manic glee, odd counterpoint to the grim smiles all four wore in unison, giving them a look of diabolical purpose.

  The utter surety of their steps and intensity of their gaze gave them an aura of confidence and power that suggested that even the idea that anything or anyone could hinder their path was nigh unthinkable, and without question, they could deal effortlessly with any attempt to do so.

  Sorn shivered and smiled as the fey moment passed, captivated for a moment as he had been by their silvery reflection, the odd glimpse helping him to better understand how others viewed them, and why, perhaps, things had gone so smoothly for them up to now.

  Sorn turned to his cousins. "Deep breaths, guys. Ease your glares and try to smile. We look a bit too much like wolves stalking our prey at the moment."

  Lieberman and Hanz exchanged a glance before breaking out in chortles, Fitz grinning as well.

  Sorn frowned. "What is it?"

  "You're the one looking like he wants to tear down Vorstice's house and eat every man inside, we're just enjoying the adventure!" Fitz explained.

  Sorn blinked and grinned sheepishly, schooling his features into a calm smile, and not at all like he was measuring his prey.

  "So Fitz, do you think you will be able to pull it off?"

  "Of course, Sorn!" The youth responded, flashing his companion an irritated look that his competence could even be brought into question. "Three drops or more, discreetly. Remember, cousin, I can play Plunk at least as well as you can, and dropping is easier than plunking in any case."

  "I am well aware of that, Fitz," Sorn said, smiling at his younger cousin. "That is why you were elected to perform this part of our task, in deference to the fact that your plunking skills are without peer."

  "Well, all right then," said a mollified Fitz. "Fear not, cousin, things will go smoothly at my end."

  "I would expect nothing less," Sorn said, still smiling. "It's redundant, I know, but I would rather irritation now than confusion later. If the guards appear threatening but do not, in fact, attack me with their weapons, even if they are unsheathed, what should you all do?"

  "Nothing," the three triplets said in unison.

  "If I am kicked in the back of my knees, beaten about the head with their fists and put in chains, what should you do?"

  "Nothing."

  "If Lord Vorstice assures me that I have but moments to live, what should you do?"

  "Nothing."

  "When is the only time that you should act, save Fitz performing his part of the plan?"

  "When you whistle, or if they attempt to cover your mouth, or when you say so."

  "Excellent, cousins. Should all go according to plan, we will get all the information we need to know, rescue Halence, and perhaps once again play the hero for the king of Caverenoc, exposing one who is most assuredly guilty of treachery, among other things. Ah, here we are!" Sorn said, discreetly pointing to the guarded gate of a particular walled off property. The guards posted here, in contrast to their rather bored looking and in some cases sleeping brethren posted at other gates, appeared both tense and alert. Sorn and his companions stopped some yards away, well out of their line of sight.

  "All right, cousins." Sorn felt his heretofore calm voice give way to his own intense excitement regarding what was to come.

  "Here is where you fade, and I take on the countenance of someone grievously wounded, on the off chance that one of the sailors with Halence informed Vorstice that I had been injured. Hopefully this will make me appear less threatening as well, and the more they underestimate me, the better."

  Sorn's cousins nodded, identical expressions of anticipatory glee slowly fading over a handful of seconds until only Sorn remained. And with a quiet surge of power and a few seconds' calm concentration, a key item in Sorn's possession, presently concealed by his cape, also faded from sight.

  "I know it's not so easy at present, but you guys have to learn to cast faster! No worries, we'll be fine though. And remember, guys, I don't care if it takes you a full minute! Unless you actually see swords swinging for my head, mirror yourselves before you attack!"

  With that stern lecture given to thin air, Sorn collected himself, took several deep breaths, and hunched himself over. His shoulders became slightly stooped and his stride a painful thing, face a mask of discomfort and fatigue, downcast gaze timid and worn. A far cry from the imposing figure whose elegance and bold countenance would have caught anyone's eye but moments before, his former aura of confidence and power were now no more than the faded shards of a broken dream as he limped his humble way to the guards on the far side of the closed and barred gate.

  "Excuse me, sirs." Sorn began humbly, catching the attention of the two men posted by the gate. Their looks rapidly flickered from alarm to mild disdain to amused condescension.

  "You look ill," one conceded to Sorn after giving him a once over with his eyes. His manner was curt, but not cruel. "Why do you wish to trouble Lord Vorstice?"

  "Forgive me, sirs, I had accompanied Captain Halence here to Lord Vorstice's fine home the day before, if you will recall. I am part of the ship's crew. We had been informed by Vorstice that he might send a man down for us this morning had he a mind to, and it appeared that he had. However, we have not seen Captain Halence since he left, and we were a bit concerned. Not wanting to trouble my shipmates with business that, frankly, is none of their concern, I took it upon myself to inquire of the good Lord Vorstice if he happened to know where Captain Halence might have gone off to."

  Sorn immediately broke out in a bout of coughing, hoping his soft, quavery voice hadn't been a touch overdone.

  The startled looks of alarm that flashed upon the pair's faces before being immediately smoothed back into the bland expressions of bored guards, a bit too forced in Sorn's opinion, did not go unnoticed. Even if they had, the spiky scent of their fear and excitement told him all he needed to know in regards to Lord Vorstice's involvement with the captain's disappearance.

  Sorn rubbed his temples, staggering his step.

  "I'm sorry, gentle sirs, but I took a serious injury last night, and am still quite weary. Truth to tell, I could barely walk here from my carriage. Darn it," Sorn said, looking around at the now empty street. "I told him to wait! My coin is as good as anyone else's."

  Sorn leaned against the gate. "The doctor says I should hardly be out of my bunk, but I couldn't help but worry about my captain. I don't suppose I could make use of your bench while I wait for you to inform Lord Vorstice that I have arrived?"

  The guards' looks of alarm had turned to ones of amused condescension once again by the end of Sorn's speech. Their spiky fear had abated, and now their scent was one that Sorn would best call confidence or satisfaction, though he could not be sure.

  "Lad seems hardly fit to stand. No worries here, I think," one guard said to the other with a subtle wink.

  The other guard nodded slowly in turn. "You're right of course, no worries."

  The second guard then turned to face Sorn. His voice strove for reassurance, but his expression was one of amused superiority. Or, Sorn allowed, a cat thinking he's got the drop on a tough looking mouse.

  "Just a moment, lad, let us open the gate and then you can feel free to rest on our bench while Nitch lets Lord Vorstice know you have arrived." The guard's smile was closer to a smirk, but Sorn played naive as he slowly made his way past the gate to the bench for all the world like it was an oasis in the desert.

  Sorn made his breathing a bit ragged, perhaps overdoing it a bit, but the guard seemed well satis
fied with this turn of events. Sorn paused to cough a ragged wet cough as he stood just past the entrance, making it some few extra moments before the guard could close the gate. Only then did Sorn shuffle off to sink to the bench on one side of the gatehouse with a relieved sigh.

  "Truth to tell, the captain would probably be furious should he know I was up." Sorn confided, closing his eyes as if sinking into an exhausted stupor.

  "Oh, I wouldn't worry about him, lad," the guard said with a knowing smirk he was no doubt certain Sorn couldn't see. "Ah, there is Nitch now. And he has brought some friends to give you a proper escort to Lord Vorstice."

  The friends, Sorn noted, were a grim looking crew. Comprised of six men striding forth with military precision, they were armed with broadswords and bucklers at their hips, wearing armor comprised of thick plates of boiled rawhide topped with dark steel open-faced helms, and, in each pair of hands, a cocked heavy crossbow pointed Sorn's way. Their heavy gear was a sharp contrast to the light leathers and sabers worn by the two sandy-haired helmetless guards Sorn had met by the gates. Yet what was even more striking to Sorn was the uniform bronze skin, dark almond shaped eyes, and exotic features each of the six possessed. Quite similar to each other, quite different from that of most of the citizens of Caverenoc Sorn had seen so far.

  "Excellent," Sorn yawned. "It's so nice when people are courteous. You don't suppose they might give me a shoulder to lean on, do you?"

  The guard looked at Sorn, shaking his head. "Sad thing is, lad, you probably need it, don't you?" The guard nodded to himself as if thinking something over before continuing. "Now don't be alarmed, lad," The guard said, slowly pulling out a silk cord. "There has been an attempt on Lord Vorstice's life recently, and so he wants to make sure that none of his guests cause him any harm, so we are binding their hands, just as a precaution."

  The story was an incredibly weak one, Sorn thought. Far better just to deny guests at all than to risk the gravest of offenses. Sorn, of course, simply smiled his acquiescence, acting as if he saw nothing unusual in the request.

  "Of course, good sir." His look then became one of concern. "Please be careful with my left arm. I took… I took a grievous injury there yesterday, and I fear any jerking would be well nigh excruciating. Truth to tell, the only reason I was able to come out here was the poppy syrup the healer gave me. And now I'm so lightheaded, I can barely string two thoughts together!"

  The guard's look was calculating, but strangely sympathetic as well. "Tell you what, lad, I will tie your hands in front of you, so as not to cause your injury any strain. You have to behave yourself now," the guard cautioned. "Lord Vorstice is not one for foolishness."

  Sorn's look, in contrast to his veneer of befuddlement, was penetrating.

  "I will remember your kindness," he said with an intensity quite at odds with his dazed countenance.

  Sorn then leaned his head against the wall of the guard post and shut his eyes, as if sinking back into his stupor. The guard then proceeded, gently, to tie Sorn's hands with the silk, much to the stern disapproval of Nitch and the crossbowmen who accompanied him.

  "You were supposed to tie his hands in back, Vel," Nitch whispered curtly.

  Vel's sideways look showed what he thought of that. "You have got to be kidding. This kid is as weak as a day old kitten. His mind is fuddled with poppy juice by his own admission, and his arm is near lame from a crossbow bolt. Come on, Nitch. He looks like your kid brother after his bout with the runs. There is no way he could be a threat to anyone, let alone be some grand ass wizard. I mean look at him, he couldn't be older than fifteen anyway. Besides, I think he's asleep. Anyway, his hands are tied. In front or back, what's the difference? He couldn't wave his hands either way."

  Vel then gently shook Sorn on his right shoulder. "Come on, wake up lad. Time to see Lord Vorstice. No doubt he's got a comfortable cot where you can take a good nap, when all is said and done."

  "Poppy juice," Nitch said softly to himself. "That's good."

  Sorn blinked a bit, then looked at Vel with polite confusion. "Lord Vorstice? Oh, we can go see him now?"

  "Yes, we can, lad." Vel smiled. "Come, let us go." With that, he gently took Sorn by the side, helping to support the weakened and dazed looking lad up through the gardens, past the rather grand front entrance, and down into Lord Vorstice's lower study. Their grim-faced escort accompanied them silently the whole time, and they were some minutes waiting in the foyer before being allowed down into Lord Vorstice's study proper.

  Sorn was pleased to note from his half-lidded eyes when he slumped against Vel that the front door to the foyer had been left open and that neither of the two crossbowmen who took up positions there blocked the entrance. Not that he would have been particularly worried had it been otherwise. Nitch returned from presumably speaking with Vorstice soon enough, however, and with a grim smile directed toward Sorn, indicated with a nod to Vel that they could head on down.

  The chambers were just as Sorn remembered from his earlier visit with Halence, the master of the house favoring him wit the same cool gaze as before. Of course, there had been no armed escort then.

  "Here you are, lad," Vel said, not unkindly, whereupon he was gently assisted into a seat opposing Lord Vorstice's own across his ornate study table.

  The look Vorstice shot Vel was a cold one. "I see we have trouble with basic instructions."

  Vel's head to immediately jerked up, the guard's demeanor instantly turning to one of apprehension.

  "I find repetition is an excellent method of reinforcing discipline and far more worthy of a skilled swordsman such as yourself than say, ten lashes would be, don't you?"

  "Of, of course, my Lord," Vel said, obviously shaken to his core.

  "I am glad you see it that way." Vorstice's chilly grin was all teeth. "I like you, Vel. You have a good reputation among the house’s help. Far… gentler with the maids than some of your men." At that one of the crossbowmen snickered, abruptly cut off by Lord Vorstice's icy stare.

  "You're good for morale, so I would hate to lose you. You do understand how such things can happen in times like these?" Lord Vorstice smiled as Vel's own face paled. "No matter. Relations. That's what I was thinking of. Why don't you go over to the stables and let the boys know they have the day off? They won't be accompanying us in any case, so it hardly matters where they see themselves off to. However, we still need clean stalls in the mean time, don't we?"

  "Of course, my lord," Vel said in a relieved mumble, bowing deeply.

  "Good, then. I am sure you know what to do. Repetition, my good man. The fount of discipline, no?"

  "Yes, my lord," Vel said, pale face having broken into an anxious sweat. His expression was a mixture of humble deference and relief as he backed away, bowing, for the study door.

  "Oh, and Vel?"

  "Yes, my lord?"

  "You might want to change first."

  This time Lord Vorstice only smiled as the crossbowmen and Nitch broke into course laughter, and a visibly relieved Vel was all too happy to make his exit none the worse for wear, save for a slightly bruised ego.

  Only Sorn's acute hearing picked up Vel's low grumble for all that the crossbowmen were closer, and Sorn wondered what would have happened if Vel had not been so preoccupied and emotionally drained, having, it seemed, narrowly avoided a flogging or outright execution for not following Vorstice's instructions to the letter. For Vel did little more than jerk his head up in confusion when he stumbled seemingly on nothing on his way out of the study before shaking his head and making his brooding way to the stables. Sorn's one silent note of satisfaction with that disturbing scene was to see the crossbowman nearest the study doors quietly close them without stumbling over anything at all.

  Sorn's opinion of Vorstice, however, grew even darker than it already had been. His treatment of his men was callous, and Sorn was sure that one could not just casually beat, let alone kill one's hirelings in Caverenoc on a whim, though in truth he would have to ask some
one in the know to be sure. Certainly neither Halence nor Lord Canterbier had ever shown anything but concern and compassion for their men, whether or not a mistake was made, and without question, they would not have so ill-treated a man guilty only of simple kindness.

  "Ah," Lord Vorstice said, attempting to be civil for Sorn's benefit, looking down at Sorn's groggy and weakened form with a contemptuous amusement that his attempts at gentlemanly demeanor did little to hide.

  "So good of you to arrive, dear Sorn. And at our very doorstep, nonetheless. We were afraid we would have to do something to fetch you."

  The crossbowmen snickered again at that, and Vorstice's grin was one of utter condescension. Sorn just gave a groggy smile for his part, apparently too fuddled to catch any connotations.

  "That's okay. I'm glad I thought to come. It's good to know that you thought about our offer from yesterday." Sorn yawned at that point. "I'm sorry, Lord Vorstice, this poppy juice has me fading in and out. Truth to tell, I didn't feel quite this muddle-headed when I left the ship. I suppose it's the fatigue."

  "Quite all right, lad. Here, have a drink. Perhaps the wine vapors will help dissipate the poppy fumes from your head." Lord Vorstice's smile was wide, but his eyes were cold. He gently handed Sorn a cup, placing it between his silk bound hands.

  "Thank you," Sorn said, giving the wine a discrete sniff.

  He sneezed then, spilling a tad on his elegantly ruffled shirt, more pathetic than offensive, for he did not spill it on Lord Vorstice's fine desk. His quickly whispered words of a very simple cantrip were buried amidst the snickers of the crossbowmen well enjoying the sight of the fearsome wizard playing the muddle-headed dunce. Sorn was pleased to find that his cantrip detected nothing of a toxic nature in his wine, anymore than his highly acute sense of smell had. Still, his senses were imperfect in this form and it was better to be sure.

  To cover himself, Sorn drank greedily at the wine, sighing when he finished with a burp, to more snickers. His eyes unfocused a minute. "Wow, that's strong. I don't suppose you could see your way to refilling my cup with your fine vintage, Lord Vorstice?"