And so the man sat alone, sipping the ale the bartender had cautiously set before him before quickly retreating. The stranger felt it just as well he was not bothered, for he had not come to talk but to listen, not to pay but to receive, and the scantily-clad women in their lacy dresses who draped themselves on the other men in the room could not provide what he sought.
“I tell you, it was bullshit is what it was,” came a voice from the next table. The speaker had a whore draped across either shoulder like a shawl, and so the man sitting at the table could not see him, but he did not need to, for he had marked him upon entering the brothel and knew he was the one he was after.
“Well, sure it was, Greg,” another man answered from the other side of the table, raising his head from where he’d had it stuffed in his own prostitute’s cleavage. “Gods alone know what the folks holdin’ the tournament were thinkin’, lettin’ women fight.” He grinned wickedly. “Still, she was a pretty enough thing, and I don’t reckon I’d mind takin’ a turn at her, if’n she wanted to put down that thin little sticker she carried and let me do the stickin’ instead. That way, I figure she could spin and twist all she wanted to, and I’d applaud just as loud as the crowd did when—” He cut off, realizing what he’d been about to say and turned to look at his companion, the one named Greg. “Well, you know.”
Greg was not a particularly big man, but he was skilled with the two short swords he carried, and everyone who knew him knew that he was a mean, cruel man with little mercy in him. So when he leaned forward, a scowl on his face, it was no great surprise to see his companion’s face go pale. “No, maybe I don’t know what you mean, Richard. Why don’t you tell me? Like the crowd cheered when what exactly?”
“Well,” the other man said, swallowing hard, and the stranger noted the sweat glistening on his forehead in the lamplight. “When she fought, is all. That’s all I meant, Greg.”
Greg grunted and took a long pull of his own ale, then slammed it down on the table much harder than was strictly necessary. “They cheated me, is what they done. That bitch didn’t even come close any of the three times they called it. Shit, even if she had somehow got lucky and managed to hit me, what of it? That little toy sword she carried wouldn’t have done nothin’ but piss me off.”
“You’re right, Greg,” Richard said, eager to get back in his friend’s good graces. “Of course, you’re right. Gods, a little sword like that, can you believe it? All the fancy foot work and flipping around in the world ain’t going to help you none, if you show up to a fight with at toy, and that’s just what she had. Why, I imagine—”
“Why don’t you just shut the fuck up?” Greg said. “I’m tired of hearin’ you run your damn mouth.”
“Alright, Greg,” the man said, hurt and scared at the same time. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. I was just agreein’ with you is all, just sayin’—”
“Never mind what you were saying. I don’t give a shit.”
“I think she was great,” murmured one of the prostitutes hanging on Greg’s shoulders, nibbling playfully at his ear.
“Yes,” her companion said from the other side, and either they were new, or they trusted in their safety here in the common room of the brothel, or they were not as good at telling a man’s mood as their companions, for they seemed oblivious to the anger building in Greg’s face. “She was so fast. Like lightning come to life.”
“Yes,” the first said in a soft voice, her hand reaching below the table onto Greg’s lap. “Just like that. She was like a storm, so fast I almost couldn’t follow her. And the way she moved, flipping around…” She shook her head in wonder. “It was amazing.”
Greg grunted. “What are you then, a couple of whore poets?” he asked, his voice hard and full of menace. The other man, Richard, blanched, studying his friend’s face the way a man might study a wild animal, expecting it to attack at any moment.
“Now, now, that’s not nice,” one of the prostitutes said. “You were great; she was just better, that’s all.”
“Yeah, honey, there’s nothing to be worried about,” the other said, pausing to run her tongue along his neck before continuing. “We don’t doubt your manliness, not for a moment. Still, maybe it would help if you showed it to us…upstairs.”
But Greg didn’t seem to hear her. Instead, he turned to look at the first, and she must have seen something in his gaze, for her playful demeanor was gone in an instant as she seemed to realize her danger. “She was just fucking better, that’s all. Is that what you said to me?”
“I-I didn’t mean anything by it, sweetie,” she said, her voice not afraid, not quite, but not far from it either.
“To the Fields with what you meant!” he roared, and the woman gave a shout of surprise as he backhanded her across the face. Her head was rocked by the force of the blow, striking the wall with a thump but the man wasn’t done yet. “Fucking whore,” he sneered, giving her a violent push that sent her crashing to the ground.
“Greg, hold on,” his companion began, “she was just kidding is all, man. You don’t want to—”
“Not another word,” the angry man said, pointing a finger at him. “Might be you’re okay with havin’ whores talk to you like they’re smarter than you, but I don’t intend to sit here and listen to it.” He stalked toward the prostitute lying dazed on the floor, blood flowing from her nose and mouth. “Is that it, whore?” he demanded. “You think you’re smarter than me?”
“N-no,” she gasped, “I don’t—” Whatever she’d been about to say turned into a scream as he grabbed a fistful of her hair and jerked her off the floor, only to slap her back down.
“Leave her alone, you asshole!”
Greg turned to look at the other woman who’d been sitting with him, his eyes flashing dangerously. “You’ll want to keep that whore’s mouth of yours closed until I pay you to open it. Unless you want to be lyin’ next to your friend here. She’s in need of some disciplinin’ and I aim to provide it. Now, you want the same education she’s gettin’?”
The woman stared at him with open hate in her eyes, but she said nothing, and he grunted. “Well, well. Seems you can teach an old whore new tricks, after all. Now, then,” he said, turning back to the woman lying half-senseless on the brothel floor. “Where were we?”
He gave the woman a kick in the midsection, and the air exploded from her in a whoosh. “Better than me, was she?” he demanded. “Better? The judges cheated—anyone with eyes in their heads could see as much, and I ain’t goin’ to sit here and be talked down to by no whore.”
The stranger watched calmly as the man delivered a second kick to the woman’s midsection, and if he felt any emotion at all it was only a small sense of contentment, for he had come to the right place, had followed the right man. Instead of being satisfied by his own display of physical superiority, the angry man only seemed to grow further enraged, and the stranger realized—without feeling one way or the other about it—that, if someone didn’t intervene and soon, the woman would die. He’d seen such anger many times before, and it was not easily quenched.
He’d no sooner had the thought than the barkeeper—along with two thickly-muscled men who served as the brothel’s bouncers—appeared from out of the crowd who’d gathered to watch the spectacle. “Greg, I’m gonna need you to leave the lady alone.”
The man and the moaning prostitute turned to the barkeeper, Greg with a sneer of anger on his face, the woman with an expression of desperate hope as if gazing upon her savior. “You callin’ me out, Edder?” Greg asked. “That it? I beat that bitch fair and square and anyone watchin’ woulda known it.”
The heavy-set barkeep raised his hands to show he meant no harm. “Ain’t nobody callin’ anybody out, Greg. I don’t think that woman belonged in the tournament anymore’n you, and the gods alone know what they were thinkin’ lettin’ her in. You had her and every swingin’ dick here knows it. But I’m gonna have to ask you to stop beatin’ on the whore. Ain’t nobody gonna want to pa
y a coin for her, her face all smashed up.”
“Ain’t my fault she don’t know when to shut her fuckin’ mouth,” Greg said, and some of the anger was gone from him now, replaced by defensiveness. “I come here all the time, Edder, and I deserve better than this shit.”
“Naw, it ain’t your fault. She ought to know better, and I aim to teach her,” the barkeep said, looking down at the bloody woman who was staring at him now not as a savior, but a demon come to whisk her away to Salen’s Fields. Finally, he looked back up at the man. “But what lessons she needs to learn, I’ll be teachin’ her, Greg. Not you.”
“Or what?” Greg sneered, some bit of his rage returning. “You’ll set those two big fuckers beside you on me, is that it, Edder?”
“If I have to,” the barkeep agreed, “but I’d just as soon it not come to that.”
Greg frowned, glancing between the prostitute and the barkeep. “What then? Because if you’re expectin’ an apology out of me, Edder, I can tell you now that we’re goin’ to be seein’ whether or not those bastards are worth what you’re payin’ ‘em.”
“Apology?” the barkeep said, giving a chuckle. “And what next, I’ll have you apologizin’ to that chair over there? Maybe the table? Naw, Greg, she’s a whore is all—wouldn’t know what to do with an apology if’n you gave it to her. She’s property, just like that floor there’s got blood on it,” he continued, gesturing to the crimson stained wood underneath the woman. “Difference is it’s easier to mop a floor than mend broken flesh. Now, I figure you pay me for the damages, maybe take the rest of the night somewhere else until you cool off, and we’ll call it square.”
Greg thought it over, and despite the difficulties it would cause should the man refuse the barkeeper’s request, the stranger found himself hoping he would. What followed would make his job a little harder, but it would also make it a little more interesting. So it was that he felt some small sense of disappointment as Greg withdrew his coin purse and began to pay the barkeep.
The show done, all of the brothel’s patrons and workers went back to their own business. After all, there was coin to be spent and coin to be made, and one busted-up prostitute wasn’t enough to keep them from either. All of them went back to their own affairs, that was, except the hooded stranger in the corner who watched the two men finish their transaction, watched with unblinking eyes as Greg started for the brothel’s door.
Once the man was outside, the stranger rose, checking to make sure that his hood still covered his face, then followed after him into the night, and without knowing they did, everyone in the brothel breathed a little easier once he was gone. He paused at the mouth of a nearby alley, and a vague form, cloaked and hooded as he was himself, moved forward, staying within the darkness of the alley. “He’s made too much of a fuss of himself,” the man told the figure. “Kill those inside and burn it down.”
The figure vanished into the shadows once more, going about its task, and the stranger gave a small smile as he started after Greg. “Hey! Excuse me, sir!”
The man, turned to look back at the approaching figure, his face twisted as if ready to fight. Good, the stranger thought. He’s got plenty enough fight in him, that’s sure.
“The fuck do you want?” the man demanded.
The stranger smiled. “I saw you at the brothel back there—saw you in the tournament too. You were splendid. I just wondered if I could, perhaps, buy you a drink.”
A look of distrust passed across the man’s face at a hooded stranger appearing out of the night to offer him a drink, but it was quickly banished. Men such as he, the stranger knew, took it as a point of pride that they were afraid of nothing. To such men, reasonable caution was all too close to fear. “Well, why not? You got somethin’ in mind?”
Oh yes, the stranger thought, giving another small smile beneath the hood he wore. I have something in mind, alright. “There’s a nice brothel two streets over—much finer than that flea pit we just left. If you’d like, it would be my pleasure to…coordinate your night’s entertainment.”
Greg considered that then finally smiled. “Well, alright then, fella. You’ve got my attention.”
Yes, Caldwell thought, his smile growing beneath his hood. And I’ll have much more than that before the night is through. I am quite certain, Greg, that we will see just exactly what fear looks like on that face of yours. “This way,” he said, starting down the street at a fast walk. After all, the night was still young and—now that the tournament had begun in earnest—there was much work to do.
CHAPTER TWELVE
They stood on a vast mountain top, so tall that beneath them they should have seen nothing but clouds. Instead, the whole of the world lay spread out before them, and when Aaron concentrated, he could make out individual cities in that great vastness, could even make out individual people as they went about their daily lives. He felt a vague sense of peace settle over him, one he recognized from the conversation he’d had with the Speaker the night the Akalians saved him. For the first time he could remember, he felt no fear of the future. Nor, he realized, did he feel any cold which was strange, considering the height. And the wind—that surely should have been a frigid, driving force—was instead no more than a light breeze upon his face. “Am I dreaming?” he asked the man standing beside him.
“No, Aaron Envelar,” the Speaker said, his face, stripped of the black wrappings he often wore, a welcoming, kindly one. “This is no dream. You, like so many others, have been dreaming nearly your entire life. Now, though, you must begin to awaken. You must open your eyes and see.”
“See?” Aaron said. “See what?”
The Speaker smiled. “Yourself.”
“I don’t know what that means,” the sellsword said, turning once more to stare out at the entirety of the world and all its people stretching out before them. “It’s so big. There’s…there’s so many of them.”
“I did my best to protect them,” a new voice said. “But I failed.” Now, the gray, misty form of Aaron Caltriss, the long-dead king, stood beside him on the precipice. The ancient king turned to regard Aaron. “You must protect them. You must save them where I could not.”
“Protect who?” Aaron said. “Save who?”
“Everyone,” Caltriss said. He shook his head sadly, gazing out at the world. “Boyce Kevlane was not always as he is now. Once, he was my closest friend, my most trusted confidant.”
“Well, Your Majesty,” Aaron said. “He changed.”
The ancient king grew silent then, and it was the Speaker who answered. “Did you know,” he said, “that there is a small sect of desert tribesmen who venerate their children the way most people venerate the gods? They believe that those newly brought into the world are, at their moment of birth, without flaw. That the place from which they came—the place to which we will all return—is a perfect place, of perfect creatures, and it is only by coming into this world that we lose that perfection.”
Aaron grunted. “People are free to believe what they want, Speaker, but I don’t know that I would call something that shits itself and would starve without its mother ‘perfect.’”
“No?” the Speaker asked as if genuinely curious. He shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Either way, these men and women of the desert spend their lives trying to reach that perfection to which they are born. They do not fight, nor make war. There is, among them, no deceit or artifice, for such things are most often caused by greed and envy, and these things we learn as we grow older.”
“So what are you saying?” Aaron asked. “That we should be more like them? Because I’m afraid I’ve got to be honest with you here—I somehow doubt Kevlane and his creatures will lay down their weapons just because we ask them nicely. Sometimes, blood is the only way.”
The Speaker smiled. “Yes, you are afraid, Aaron Envelar. As we all are. You are afraid you will lose those you have come to love, are afraid they will look to you to guide them, and you will be unable. You are afraid you will fail. And because
of this fear, you question yourself. You question and you doubt, and you hesitate when you should act.”
“And here my old swordmaster has been telling me my problem is that I always act without thinking. Now, you’re telling me the exact opposite.”
“Reacting and acting, Aaron Envelar, are not the same thing. You are a man who follows his emotions, who reacts to the world around you, when what is needed is a man who guides his emotion, a man who leads and acts upon the world. Still,” he said, giving Aaron a wink, “you are a good man for all that, and there is hope.”
Aaron sighed, gazing out at the world, at those cities full of people, most with no idea of the evil threatening to destroy everything they loved. And the only thing that stood between them and that certain doom was him and his companions. “I’m not feeling particularly hopeful just now, Speaker.”
“I could hear their screams,” a voice said, and they both turned to stare at the misty form of Aaron Caltriss, his gaze locked on some past time, some past tragedy. “I was dead or nearly so, yet still I could hear their screams when the gates were breached, when the hordes came upon them. My people…my wife.” The apparition did not turn to acknowledge the two men, and it was as if he had forgotten they were there at all as he relived that moment when his life, his world, had come crashing down around him. “Blood ran in the streets, blood and fire, though I had no nose with which to smell it, I did. The smoke in my lungs was suffocating, crushing, the screams of those I’d sworn to protect like jagged glass tearing at my soul.”
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