Crucible of Fortune: An Epic Fantasy Young Adult Adventure (Heirs of Destiny Book 2)

by Andy Peloquin

  Issa scowled. “Then I’ll be bloody well certain to get you that proof before noon, Proxenos!” She stood and gave a formal salute.

  Lady Callista returned the salute, a hint of something inscrutable—was that pride?—etched into the strong lines of her face. “Go, collect your patrol of Indomitables, and tell Sentinel Imale that your training for tonight is to patrol the Artisan’s Tier. Particularly the streets around the house given to Lady Briana and her companions.”

  Issa grinned as she grasped the Lady of Blades’ intention. “Of course, my lady.”

  Callista Vinaus stood. “Keep her safe,” she said in an urgent whisper. “The moment she has the information I need to implicate Councilor Angrak, escort it here at once.”

  “Might I make a request, Lady Callista?” Issa asked.

  The Lady of Blades arched an eyebrow. “You may.”

  “Give me Etai, my fellow prototopoi, to help. With Archateros Hykos, we will be able to rotate between our training and duties to the Keeper’s Blades, while always having two of us on hand.”

  “What of Kellas?” Lady Callista’s tone stopped just short of sardonic. “Four would be better than three, wouldn’t you say?”

  Issa’s gut clenched. “I would not take him away from his training.” She and Kellas might not be at each other’s throat, but the less time she spent around the Dhukari trainee, the better. “And I believe the presence of so many Keeper’s Blades will draw unwanted attention.”

  “Good thinking.” Humor sparkled in Lady Callista’s eyes—she clearly knew Issa’s true feelings on the matter. “So be it. You have my permission to recruit Etai into your efforts.” She held up a finger. “But only tell her as much as she absolutely needs to know. To everyone outside this office, you are simply one more patrol guarding the Artisan’s Tier.”

  “Of course, Lady Callista.” She saluted once more and turned to leave.

  “A word of warning, Prototopoi.”

  The Lady of Blades’ words stopped her in her tracks. She turned to face Lady Callista, her face an expressionless mask.

  “Until the time is right, neither the Pharus nor I can be seen to move directly against the Keeper’s Council.” Her solemn tone matched the piercing intensity in her eyes. “Lady Briana’s actions are those of a Zadii mourning the loss of her father. If it is discovered that she is acting against the Keeper’s Council, there will be little we can do to protect her. She will be judged and hanged for treason. She and anyone else seen to help her, no matter who they are.”

  Issa nodded understanding. Not even her position as a trainee in the Keeper’s Blades could shield her from the Council’s wrath.

  “As you say, Lady Callista.” She gave her commander a fierce look. “I’ll make damned certain nothing goes wrong.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Evren’s heart hammered in his chest as he crept through the shadows of the alley toward the spot where he’d spotted the watcher lurking in the darkness.

  Who in the bloody hell is watching us? It could be any number of enemies—the Gatherers, the Ybrazhe, the Necroseti, maybe even someone else they didn’t know about.

  Whoever you are, I’m coming for you.

  He tested his jambiyas in their sheaths, making certain he could draw them in an instant if needed. He’d spotted just one watcher but there could be more hiding in the shadows.

  Good thing I’ve got time.

  Midnight had come and gone, but he had another three or four hours before sunrise. He could go slow, stalk the man like the Hunter would. First, he needed to get around behind the watcher and approach from the rear to keep an eye on the man. Once in place, he’d find a way to slip up behind the lurker and knock him out. One way or another, they’d get the answers out of him.

  He’d slipped out the back of Briana’s house and used the alleys to get around behind the man. Now, he kept one eye fixed on his target and one scanning the street for anything that could make noise and alert the watcher to his presence. He settled into the shadows of an overhanging roof thirty paces behind the man—just the right distance to evade notice yet still have clear sight of his prey. He kept his breathing steady and quiet as he watched and waited. Fifteen minutes passed and the man barely moved, just shifting once in his hiding place in the shadows.

  He’s good. Evren grinned. But I’m better.

  He scanned the streets for another hiding place nearer the man. He couldn’t get too close, not yet. The lurker would grow tired, his ears numb to the sounds of life around him as fatigue set in. Evren would have to slowly inch his way forward, one shadow at a time, to avoid drawing the man’s attention.

  Fifteen minutes later, he made his first move. He slipped out of his hiding place and crossed the street, ducking around a corner into an adjoining side street without a sound. His pulse pounded in his ears as he waited, silent and still. When he poked one eye out of his hiding place, the watcher hadn’t moved, hadn’t so much as turned.

  I’m coming for you, you bastard!

  He couldn’t help grinning. This promised to be the world’s slowest pursuit—a creeping man racing toward a stationary target at a speed any snail could outrun. He stifled a chuckle and searched the darkness for his next hiding place.

  A nearby sound set his heart hammering and his hands dropping to the hilts of his jambiyas. Mouth suddenly dry, Evren watched the figure that shambled out of the shadows. He froze, but the tension melted as he saw the man’s swaying, reeling shuffle. Drunk as the proverbial possum, he lurched down the alleyway, singing a jaunty tune in a key no human throat should ever produce. He passed the watcher without spotting him hiding in the shadows.

  Evren smiled. Thank you, you drunk bastard.

  With the lurker’s attention fixed on the drunk man, Evren seized the opportunity to slip closer. His steps led toward an open doorway that entered a house less than ten paces behind the man. He slithered toward it, his footsteps masked by the drunkard’s caterwauling.

  Up close, he got a better look at the man’s back. A small man, with a slim build and narrow shoulders beneath his simple clothing. Definitely not an Ybrazhe thug—he lacked the hulking breadth and sloped shoulders. He had the sort of physique common to a pickpocket or street thief, with the extraordinary patience and stillness to match.

  When it came to fight or flight, most thieves Evren had met preferred to flee. Fighters could get bogged down in a brawl long enough for the city guards to arrive and arrest them on the spot. Clever thieves always had multiple escape routes mapped out in case they needed a quick getaway.

  Evren studied the distance between him and his target and decided he was close enough to make a run for it. He reached for the hilt of a jambiya but didn’t draw it. He wouldn’t pull the weapon free until the last instant—the sound of steel on leather or the glint of starlight on the blade could alert the lurker to his presence.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Evren prepared to charge, yet froze as the lurker abandoned his position. The man moved slowly, clinging to the shadows, but after more than an hour of near-immobility, it felt sudden.

  Evren forced himself to remain absolutely motionless as the watcher approached his hiding place. His grip tightened on the dagger’s hilt—he wanted to take the man alive, but if either of them had to die…

  The lurker passed without so much as glancing his way. Evren counted to ten before turning his head to track the man’s movement. His target was hurrying east through the alleys and back streets, casting infrequent glances over his shoulder.

  Perfect. Evren recognized the confidence of an experienced thief. The man would be so accustomed to following others that he knew all the tricks of spotting a tail. Evren had fallen prey to that same overconfidence before—it was how the Hunter had snatched him after Evren stole his purse in Vothmot.

  He followed the thief through the narrow lanes, keeping well out of the man’s line of sight. The cloak of darkness provided ample cover for his stealthy pursuit of the watcher. Eventually, the thief
seemed to deem himself safe enough that he could abandon his precautions and hurry on his way. Just as Evren had hoped.

  Where are you running to? A fierce grin split his face. Time to find out!

  He followed the man eastward, navigating the twists and turns of the alleys at a steady pace, never losing sight of his target. Tension tightened his shoulders as the man crossed Trader’s Row and ducked into a narrow side street. When he was certain the man had gone, he raced across the open space—checking first for any signs of Indomitable patrols—and hurried to close the distance. Thankfully, the watcher was more focused on arriving at his destination than keeping an eye out for a tail.

  The lurker led him to a two-story mill on the northern end of Miller’s Alley, the broad avenue that intersected with the Artificer’s Courseway just east of Industry Square—and one street west of Smith’s Alley, where Killian’s forge stood. Evren’s gut clenched as he recognized the squat stone building. He’d passed right by it after leaving Killian’s blacksmith the night Annat and the Ybrazhe thugs assaulted him.

  Sure enough, as the thief opened the door to enter the miller’s shop, Evren caught sight of a familiar figure within. Annat, surrounded by a handful of Ybrazhe thugs.

  The front of the mill had only a door and a window, but Evren knew mills also tended to have chutes built into the sides—the perfect opening for millers and their apprentices to load sacks directly onto the carts that would haul the freshly-ground flour and grain away. He found the chute along the south side of the building, and he grinned as he spotted the flicker of light shining through the aperture. The miller had left it open and Annat hadn’t bothered to shut it.

  He crouched by the chute and pricked up his ears to hear the conversation within.

  “…is still there,” the lurker was saying. “A couple of them—the light-skinned foreigner and his dark-skinned companion—left just after dusk, but I couldn’t follow them to find out where they went.”

  From his crouched position at the open chute, Evren had a clear view of the interior of the miller’s shop. It was exactly like every other mill: a stone millwheel on a wooden frame with a hitching post for the donkey or ox that turned the wheel, an assortment of piled canvas sacks, and simple wooden furniture. A thick layer of flour dust coated everything—everything except for the eight thugs within.

  “But you’re certain the girl is actually in residence?” Annat’s voice drifted from the near side of the millwheel.

  “Yes, sir,” the thief replied.

  “Good.” Annat nodded. “Send word to those idiots in the tombs. They’ll want to know the location.”

  “Aye.” The man ducked his head and hurried back out into the streets.

  Evren pressed himself deeper into the shadows as the man passed, his gut clenching at Annat’s words. The idiots in the tombs? His mind raced. Is he talking about the Gatherers?

  “And now,” Annat’s voice echoed from within the mill, “let’s get back to our little conversation.”

  The thug stepped aside, and Evren’s heart stopped as he caught sight of the small figure bound by thick ropes to the millwheel. He recognized the youth immediately: Serias, one of Killian’s Mumblers, a scrawny, underfed boy no older than eight or nine. Blood trickled from a split lip and his right eye had swollen into one huge purple bruise. To Evren’s horror, Annat had trussed the boy up in such a way that his hands were trapped directly beneath the millwheel. One turn of the stone wheel would crush the boy’s fingers and palms.

  “Now, I realize you think you’re doing the right thing by being loyal to your blacksmith.” Annat spoke to Serias. “But that’s just going to get you killed here. Or, at the very least, take away those hands you pickpockets find so useful. Such a shame, too, because we can use loyal, clever lads like you when we take over the Artisan’s Tier. Which we’ll be doing any day now, thanks to those fools that call themselves Hallar’s Warriors.” He snorted and turned an incredulous, derisive look on the other thugs around him. “Hallar’s Warriors! What sort of idiotic name is that?”

  A chorus of laughter rose from the heavyset men clustered around Annat, Serias, and the wooden wheel frame.

  Evren frowned. He didn’t recognize the name. Another enemy? If they aren’t the Gatherers, who the bloody hell are they and what do they want with Briana?

  “Either way, because of them, we’ve got free rein to do whatever the hell we want and it’ll all be blamed on them.” Annat sneered. “That makes this a lot easier for me, and a whole lot more painful for you.” He crouched over Serias. “So now’s the time you tell me where I can find what I’m looking for.”

  Serias spat a reply through bloodstained teeth, too weak for Evren to hear. The droplets of crimson that splashed across Annat’s face proclaimed his defiance loud enough.

  “Big mistake, boy.” Growling, Annat wiped the blood from his face with one hand while gesturing to his thug with the other. “Do it.”

  Two thugs bent to the wooden tie beam, straining their huge muscles. Slowly, the ponderous stone wheel began to turn, slowly lowering toward Serias’ fingers. The boy’s screams of agony echoed loud in the darkness as the stone first scraped the skin from his knuckles, then the rest of his fingers, then applied crushing force as the wheel lowered.

  The sound pierced Evren to the core. An image flashed through his mind: Hailen strapped to the millstone, bloody and in pain. Not Hailen as he was now, but the young child he’d met in Vothmot—wide-eyed, innocent, naïve to a dangerous extreme, vulnerable. A year or two younger than Serias.

  Evren felt himself torn in two directions. He had to warn Briana, Hailen, and the others that someone was coming for them—but who and when, he couldn’t know. Yet a part of him knew he couldn’t leave Serias to be tortured at the hands of the Ybrazhe. Annat wouldn’t stop until he got whatever it was he wanted from the boy. Even if Serias gave him what he wanted, he’d likely kill him anyway. Evren had known enough cruel men in his life to recognize Annat for the vicious bastard he was.

  It was no choice at all. There was time before the lurker reached the “idiots in the tombs”, whoever they were, and delivered Annat’s message. Kodyn, Aisha, and even Hailen could protect themselves, and they had Hykos and Rothin to fight for them.

  Serias had no one. He was trapped, helpless, surrounded by merciless men. If Evren did nothing, the boy would die.

  Evren was a thief but, unlike the lurker, his first instinct was always to fight. Especially when it meant saving the life of a young boy.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The Indomitables standing guard outside the Coin Counter’s Temple straightened as Hykos strode toward them.

  “I must speak to the Grand Reckoner at once.” Hykos spoke in a voice at once quiet and ringing with command.

  “Your pardon, honored Blade, but Grand Reckoner Quodaro is abed.” The Indomitable—a Neophyte, judging by the single vertical stripe of silver in the blue band of his helmet—sounded apologetic. “He will not wish to be disturbed—”

  “Unless it was a matter of some urgency,” Hykos cut him off with a slash of his hand. He loomed over the guard. “When he hears my message, he will make the time to see me.”

  “Er…” The two Indomitables exchanged glances—clearly a late night visit from a Keeper’s Blade was not the sort of thing they’d trained to deal with.

  “What’s the message?” the second guard asked.

  “Tell him, ‘blistering beetle’.” Hykos’ face never twitched as he said the words.

  Two pairs of eyebrows rose so high they disappeared beneath their flat-topped, spike-rimmed helmet. One of the guards looked like he was going to snort, yet one look at Hykos’ somber expression stopped him. Again, the two shot questioning glances at each other. If it was anyone else, they might have laughed him away as a madman. But someone as looming and authoritative as an Archateros of the Keeper’s Blades could not be so easily ignored.

  “Er…wait here,” said the first guard. With a shrug to his compa
nion, he hurried into the fortress-like Coin Counter’s Temple.

  Kodyn stifled a grin; it would ruin his disguise as the Blade’s humble servant, complete with a servant’s shendyt and green-and-gold headband.

  Tension lined Hykos’ face with every minute they spent waiting. It had taken Briana a great deal of effort to convince—and finally directly order—the Blade to accompany Kodyn.

  “Lady Briana,” Hykos had insisted. “I have been ordered by my commander and my Pharus to remain by your side and offer you the protection of my sword and skills.”

  “A job which you’ve done admirably.” Briana had countered with her usual adroitness. “Yet right now, you are in a position to be of service not only to me as you have been instructed, but to the entire city of Shalandra.”

  That had gotten Hykos’ attention. Briana had had to give all the details, and even then Hykos had been reluctant. However, when Briana had finally explained how his actions would help to protect the city and root out a traitor, he’d relented.

  Still, Kodyn could sense the nervous tension within the Blade. The man could only be a year or two older than him, but he had the wary eyes of a trained soldier. A soldier that knew that danger could lurk around any corner.

  Kodyn shot a glance east, back the way they’d come. Though he couldn’t see Aisha, he knew she hid in the shadows between the Swordsman’s obelisk and the Temple of Whispers, both to keep watch for anyone following them and to be closer to Briana’s house just in case anything happened while they were away.