Dawnthief

by James Barclay

  Slowing their horses to trotting pace, The Raven moved toward the western market on the north side of which sat The Rookery. The streets were full of people, carts and animals; and mixed with them, the fresh, foul and fetid smells blew with the noise of the City on a steady inshore breeze. Stalls, wagons, hand baskets and shoulder-slung trays offered everything from fine cloth shipped in from the distant elven southern lands; through pottery, iron and steel wares forged and cast in the foundries and kilns of Korina and Jaden; to meats, vegetables and pastries prepared in kitchens scattered all over the City, some clean, many squalid and filthy. The barrage of trade was held in the single language of hard currency, and everywhere, silver and bronze glinted in the reddening sunlight as it changed hands.

  Mercifully, much of the traffic was moving in the opposite direction to their travel as the trading day waned. But the cobbled market square itself was packed with stalls between which The Raven had to pick. Speech was pointless and The Unknown led them in single file toward The Rookery and the quiet of the inn's back room that was their sanctuary after battle.

  Tomas's son, Rhob, a youth forever in awe of the mercenaries, took their horses to the stables and the saddle-stiff companions went inside.

  “Hello, boy!” Tomas's shout greeted The Unknown from behind the bar. It was what the innkeeper always called him, saying that “Unknown” made him sound like a stranger. The Rookery was perhaps a quarter full, reflecting the time of day. It was a large inn, thirty tables spread widely around a low-roofed, oak-pillared room. The bar was directly opposite the door and ran in a quarter-circle from right to left, finishing by doors to kitchens, back room and the upstairs. On the right was The Rookery's open fire. Books ranged over the walls on three sides and reds and greys complemented the lanterns to give a warming atmosphere.

  “Hello, Tomas.” There was a weariness in The Unknown's tone.

  “Go straight through,” said Tomas, a tall, balding man in his late forties. “I'll bring in some wine, ale and coffee. Maris is just firing the ovens. I—” He frowned, stopped speaking, his eyes flicking over The Raven, pausing briefly on Denser, then moving on. The Unknown nodded, walked to the bar and laid a hand on Tomas's arm.

  “There'll be a party in here tonight. We have much to celebrate, much to remember and Ras to mourn.”

  Nothing more was said and The Raven filed past Tomas into the back room, each man nodding or smiling his greeting.

  Three things characterised the back room: the Raven symbol and crossed short swords above the fireplace; its long banqueting table set with seven places which stood by large double doors in the far wall; and its exquisitely sewn soft chairs and sofas. It was into these that The Raven sank, their grateful sighs giving way to silence.

  Denser hesitated. There were ten seats in all. Eventually he moved to a plainer, red-upholstered chair nearest the unlit fire.

  “Not there.” Talan's voice stopped him in his tracks. “Ras sat there. Sit on Tomas's sofa if you must. I expect he won't mind.”

  Denser sat.

  “Now then,” said The Unknown, turning to the Dark Mage. “First things first. How long before we are likely to see payment?”

  “Well, as I explained to Ilkar, the amulet is primarily a research tool and we won't be looking to sell it for some months. However, we will set a minimum price and I can advance you five per cent of that figure, say two hundred thousand truesilver?”

  The Unknown glanced quickly around The Raven. There were no dissenters.

  “Good enough. Our money is lodged in the Central Reserve. Your payment needs to be made there within a week.”

  Denser stood. “It'll be there tomorrow. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need a bath.” He made to leave; The Unknown stopped him.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “I hadn't given it any thought.”

  “Get Tomas to make up a room. There'll be no charge.”

  “That's very good of you. Thank you.” Denser seemed a little confused, though he smiled.

  “And if you're up to it, come to the party. You financed it, after all. Main bar, dusk.” Denser nodded. “Just one more thing. Ilkar? A ForeTell, please.”

  Ilkar nodded, the ghost of good humour touching his face as he stood up and walked over to Denser.

  “What do you need?” asked Denser.

  “Not much,” said Ilkar. “It's a very general spell, single trait only. I'm merely looking for honesty. When I touch you, just answer the question I ask yes or no.”

  Ilkar closed his eyes and uttered a short incantation. His right hand made a pass in front of his eyes, mouth and heart before he placed it on Denser's shoulder.

  “Will two hundred thousand truesilver be deposited in The Raven account at the Central Reserve within a week from today?”

  “Yes.”

  Ilkar opened his eyes and then the door. “See you later.” Denser left. Ilkar pushed the door shut and glared at The Unknown Warrior. “Anything else you want us to give him? The freedom to use Julatsan blood to replenish his mana, perhaps?”

  The Unknown said nothing.

  “I don't trust him,” said Hirad.

  “Why do you suppose he's staying here?” asked The Unknown.

  “No, it's not the money,” said Hirad. “The ForeTell says he'll pay that. There's much more. Like why he agreed to pay us so much so readily. Let's face it, we'd have done the job for two thousand each.”

  “Why do you suppose he's staying here?” repeated The Unknown. “If he's involved us in anything, I want to know where he is. That, Ilkar, is why I want him downstairs tonight.”

  “You expecting trouble?” asked Talan.

  “No.” The Unknown leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs. “But even so, short swords should be worn, and not just out of respect for Ras.”

  “It's only now, isn't it?” Ilkar had pulled the cork from a bottle of wine and poured himself a goblet.

  “What is?” Sirendor motioned Ilkar to do the same for him. The mage passed over his goblet and filled another.

  “Now you've stopped to think, now the glint of truesilver has faded, you're all getting twitchy, aren't you?” He sat down in his chair. “Xetesk is dangerous. Nothing is ever what it seems. There's always a bigger story and I for one don't believe anything he said about that amulet.”

  “Why didn't you say?”

  “Oh, and you'd have listened, would you, Hirad?” snapped Ilkar. “Two hundred and fifty thousand for a day's ride versus me. Don't shovel it my way.”

  “I don't see the problem,” said Richmond. “We're here, we're safe, the money will be paid. We've bought ourselves more choice.”

  “If we live to enjoy it,” muttered Ilkar.

  “You're overreacting,” said Sirendor.

  “You don't know them.” Ilkar spoke slowly. “I do. If he's involved us in something, we're expendable. Xetesk doesn't have any code and they don't follow any rules.” He paused. “Look, all I'm saying is, be careful around Denser. We may well have got away with this one but we'll just have to wait and see.”

  “We don't have to work for Xetesk again,” said Hirad evenly.

  “Too right we don't,” replied Ilkar.

  “We don't have to work for anyone again.” Silence followed Talan's words. Hirad rose stiffly and walked to the table which carried the drinks. He poured himself wine and brought the bottle, another and more cups back to the fireplace. Those without helped themselves.

  “We didn't have to work for anyone before but I know what Talan means,” said The Unknown. “That two hundred and fifty thousand means we can do everything we talked of when we started and everything we never dared dream we could do. Just think of the possibilities.”

  “I think you'd better start by telling me about last night and what you said.” Hirad drained his cup and refilled it.

  “We tried to wake you. We had no desire to exclude you,” said Sirendor. “We went out of the castle to join Richmond. I don't know about the others but looking dow
n at Ras's grave I had my first fear that one day it could be me. Or Ilkar—” He gestured around The Raven, finally nodding at Hirad. “Or you. I didn't want that. I want a future while I'm still young enough to enjoy it.”

  “The decision's made, is it?” Hirad's voice was gruff.

  Sirendor breathed deeply. “While we were talking, it became obvious that we all felt the same. Gods, Hirad, even you've talked about packing it in during the last two years. We all want to live. Talan wants to travel, Ilkar's under pressure to go back to Julatsa. I…well, you know what I want.”

  “Husband and father, eh?” Hirad smiled despite the thudding of his heart and the knot in his throat.

  “All I have to do is stop fighting and the Mayor won't stop us marrying. You know how it is.” Sirendor shrugged.

  “Yeah. Sirendor Larn tamed by the Mayor's daughter. It had to happen some time, I suppose.” Hirad wiped at the corner of his left eye. The atmosphere in the room was intense, focused on him. “You know I won't stand in your way.”

  “I know,” said Sirendor, but the look they shared spoke everything.

  “You can see the sense in it,” said The Unknown. Hirad stared at him blankly. “Gods, Hirad, I've been half-owner of this inn for a dozen years and if I've served behind the bar a dozen times I'm lucky.”

  “And what about you?” The barbarian turned his attention to Richmond.

  “Before yesterday I wasn't sure,” said the blond warrior. “But I'm tired, Hirad. Even standing waiting for something to happen is tiring. I—” He stopped and rubbed his brow with three fingers. “Yesterday, I made a mistake I'll have to carry to my grave. And right now, I'm not sure I trust myself to fight in line and I'd be surprised if you did. Any of you.”

  Another silence. Long. Hirad stared around The Raven but no one said any more.

  “It's unbelievable,” said Hirad. “Ten years. Ten years and yet you've made the biggest decision of our lives…my life, while I was sleeping.” He was too angry even to shout and his voice held calm. But at the same time he knew it wasn't anger. It was a deep and bitter disappointment. The inevitable result of the formation of The Raven. The split. The funny thing was that, at the outset, Hirad never thought he'd survive this long. The future had been meaningless. Until now. Now it crashed over his head and he found he was frightened of it. Very frightened.

  “Sorry, Hirad.”

  “I just wanted someone to ask my opinion, Sirendor.”

  “I know. But the decision wasn't taken last night, just confirmed.”

  “You didn't ask me.” Hirad got up and moved to the door. He needed a few drinks and to laugh. “Tell you what,” he said. “You retired folk fund the party and I'll try to forgive you.”

  Styliann's eyes blazed and his face reddened. In the holding chamber beneath his tower, the three mages cowered where they sat, too exhausted to stand in respect of their Lord.

  “Tell me again.” Styliann spoke low and quiet, the power of his voice filling the small chamber.

  “We were only sure three hours ago and even then we had to make our final fail-safe check. We didn't want to cause concern until we had absolute proof,” said one, an old mage whose life had been devoted to his single task.

  “Concern?” echoed Styliann, voice cracking ever so slightly. “The greatest evil in Balaia's history has gone missing. Causing me concern is the least of your worries, believe me.”

  The three mages exchanged glances.

  “Not just missing, my Lord. Not only are they not in the cage, we don't believe they reside in interdimensional space either.” The old mage swallowed. “We believe that their essence and souls have returned to Balaia.”

  The silence which followed dragged at the ears. Styliann's breath hissed between his teeth. He took in the small chamber, its sketches and maps of dimensional space and spell result equation covering every wall. Notebooks were scattered on the single pitted wooden desk. The chairs, arranged in a loose crescent, each contained a terrified mage looking up at him as he stood near the door, Nyer at one shoulder, Laryon at the other. He wouldn't look left or right; he didn't have to. The impact of what they had just heard sent ripples through the mana trails.

  “How long have they been gone?” he asked. It was the question they were dreading.

  “We can't—can't be sure,” managed the old mage.

  Styliann pinned him with his eyes. “I beg your pardon?” They looked from one to another. Eventually, a younger woman spoke.

  “It has always been the way of the Watches, my Lord,” she said. “The spells are cast and the calculations made every three months when certain alignments offer us more accuracy.”

  Styliann didn't take his gaze from the old man. “Are you telling me that the Wytch Lords could have been in Balaia up to three months ago?”

  “They were in the cage last casting,” said the woman. “They aren't there now.”

  “Yes, or no.” Styliann almost believed he could hear their hearts pounding, then realised it was his own sounding in his ears and throat.

  “Yes.” The old man looked away, tears in his eyes. Styliann nodded.

  “Very well,” he said. “Clear the room, your work is finished.” He turned to Nyer. “We've no choice. Contact the Colleges but say nothing of events here or at Taranspike Castle. We must have a meeting at Triverne Lake. Now.”

  “I wouldn't have believed it unless I'd smelled it with my own nose,” said Sirendor. He was standing close to Hirad at the bar of The Rookery, appraising the barbarian's clothes—leather trousers, a close-fitting dark shirt that showed off his upper body to good advantage, and a studded belt on which hung his scabbarded short sword. Ilkar was with them, dressed in a black-edged yellow shirt and leather trousers, and behind the bar stood The Unknown in a plain white shirt and similar leggings to his friends.

  “What are you talking about?” asked Hirad.

  “Well, my dear friend, in the hours that we have been apart, not only have you shed that revolting sweaty leather stuff you wear for talking to dragons, but you have obviously had a scented bath. This is truly a momentous occasion.” Sirendor leaped on to the nearest table, shouting, “Ladies, gentlemen, Talan. The foul-smelling barbarian has had a bath!” There was laughter and the odd cheer. Hirad even saw Denser smile before the mage, dressed in voluminous black shirt and trousers, returned to stroking his cat and gazing into the fire as he sat in an armchair close to the flames.

  “You can bloody talk, mighty mouth,” said Hirad, pointing a finger at Sirendor. “Just look at yourself. Your clothes must beg questions about which sex you prefer to fiddle with your balls. Your future bride will be heartbroken.”

  “Are you calling me a poof?” asked Sirendor.

  “That's right.”

  Sirendor pouted and looked down at himself. Embroidered knee-length moccasin boots, laced up the front, gave way to a pair of billowing gold-trimmed brown trousers into which was tucked a huge purple open-necked lace and silk shirt. On his belt was his short sword, and a gem necklace rested on a bed of chest hair.

  “Maybe you're right.” Sirendor jumped lightly to the floor of the inn, which had filled quickly as word spread of The Raven's party, and swept his mug of ale into his hands.

  Denser stood up from his seat, leaving the cat lounging by the fire, and weaved his way through a crowd toward the quartet. Ilkar picked up his drink, turned and walked away.

  “I don't think those two are going to be friends,” said Sirendor.

  “Not much gets past you, does it?” returned Hirad, a broad smile on his face as he watched the approaching Xeteskian.

  “Denser.” The Unknown acknowledged the Dark Mage with a nod.

  “Getting busy in here,” observed Denser, lighting his pipe.

  “Is red wine all right?” Sirendor picked up a bottle.

  “Fine.” Denser watched as Sirendor poured. “Thank you.” He took a sip and raised his eyebrows. “Not bad.”

  “‘Not bad’?” echoed The Unknown. “That's
a Blackthorne red, my friend. Expensive speciality of The Rookery.”

  “I'm not much of an expert.” Denser shrugged.

  “Clearly. You're on the cheap stuff then.” The Unknown turned and scanned briefly along the racks to his left, then picked out a bottle and stood it on the bar top, fishing in his pocket for a corkscrew.

  He paused, looking out past his friends to the crowded bar. Here he was, the other side of the counter, and he felt comfortable. It was a simple feeling but he felt good. Very good. But behind all his comfort lurked an abyss he wouldn't let himself see into.

  “This is the life, eh?” he said, stripping the cork from the bottle and gazing out over the thickening sea of goblets, faces, colours and smoke. He charged a fresh glass. “This muck, Denser, from Baron Corin's yards, is your wine. Try not to choke.”

  “I've got a proposition for you,” said Denser suddenly.

  “Oh yeah? More opportunities to be burned alive, is it?”

  Denser stared at Hirad. “Not exactly. Will you hear me?”

  “If you want, but you're wasting your time,” said The Unknown.

  “Why?”

  “Because we retired a couple of hours ago. I've taken a new job as a barman.” Hirad and Sirendor both laughed. Denser's face briefly betrayed both panic and confusion as he tried to work out whether they were serious or not.

  “Even so…” he said.

  “Go on, then.” Sirendor leant back against the bar, his elbows resting on it. Hirad did likewise, with The Unknown between them, resting on his arms on the wooden counter and fiddling with a corkscrew.

  “The amulet we recovered is not the only one,” said Denser.

  “Now there's a surprise.” Sirendor turned his head to his friends.

  “Look, I'll be honest, we are developing a new attack spell that we want to be ready in the event of any Wesmen invasion. There are three more pieces we need to complete our research, and I, that is, Xetesk, want The Raven to help me get them.”