DargonZine Volume 24, Number 2 (long)

[dar...@dargonzine.com]

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DargonZine Distributed: 8/28/11
Volume 24 Number 2 Circulation: 654
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Contents

Editorial Jon Evans
A Slight Danger Jim Owens Vibril 30, 1020
The Lie Jon Evans Vibril 20, 1019

========================================================================
DargonZine is the publication vehicle of The Dargon Project, Inc.,
a collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
Please address all correspondence to <dar...@dargonzine.org> or visit
us on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/, or our FTP site
at ftp://ftp.dargonzine.org/. Issues and public discussions are posted
to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.

DargonZine 24-2, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright 28 August, 2011 by
The Dargon Project, Inc. Editor: Jon Evans <thego...@verizon.net>,
Assistant Editor: Jim Owens <gym...@yahoo.com>.

DargonZine is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs-
NonCommercial License. This license allows you to make and distribute
unaltered copies of DargonZine, complete with the original attributions
of authorship, so long as it is not used for commercial purposes.
Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
To view a detailed copy of this license, please visit
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0 or send a letter to
Creative Commons, 559 Nathan Abbott Way, Stanford CA, 94305 USA.
========================================================================

Editorial
by Jon Evans
thego...@verizon.net

The city of Dargon has always been thought of, by the authors, as a
somewhat rough region. It's a backwater town located hundreds of leagues
(miles) from the capital city of Magnus. As the northernmost point on
the continent, and protected by the Darst Range of mountains, it is
difficult to access by both sea and land. As such, The Law is a
combination of both the King's Rule, and what men make of it. This image
is not necessarily portrayed in every story we tell. There is a large
swath of material regarding Dargon as a not too terrible a place to be.
Sure, some bad things happen ... fires, causeway crumbling, even enemy
armies invading ... but the town and the denizens of Dargon seem fairly
nice.

Well, Victor Cardoso aimed to correct that. He issued a writers
challenge to our intrepid little group asking us to tell stories that
show just how dangerous the town of Dargon could be. Several of us liked
the idea, and what you have in this issue is two of the stories that
have come from that challenge. I should also mention that Victor issued
that challenge in January, and first drafts were due in March. For
Dargon writers, that's pretty fast turn around.

This issue is also being released during and after the arrival of
Hurricane Irene, predicted to be one of the worst storms on the east
coast of America in over 20 years. I wish everyone -- even those not in
Irene's path -- good health and safe harbor during this time. I hope
this issue can give you something to read and pass the time while we're
shut in and hiding from the storm. This issue features two stories along
the theme mentioned above, the first of which is from one of our premier
authors, Jim Owens, and it is titled A Slight Danger. The second is my
own effort, titled The Lie. So sit back, stay out of the weather (unless
it's lovely where you are), and enjoy!

-Jon

========================================================================

A Slight Danger
By Jim Owens
gym...@yahoo.com
Vibril 30, 1020

The wind was blowing straight up the Coldwell, and carrying a fine
mist that soaked everything it touched. Tethered to the pier by a single
line, the barge shook as irregular waves battered the hull. The deck
hands, overburdened with cargo, had no time to steady the gangway for
the few passengers boarding. Some of these hardy travelers threaded the
bucking plank with relative ease. Others were not as practiced. One such
person had almost reached the relative safety of the deck when a random
wave struck the bow and nearly toppled her into the murky water below. A
burly figure already on the desk seized her upflung hand and steadied
her, bringing her aboard.
"Careful there, missy," the man said as he helped the slight woman
aboard. "The water's treacherous today. Fall in and you'd be hard to
find later."
"Thank you, sir," she replied. With one hand she pushed back her
gray hood just enough to reveal her face while with the other she
cradled a leather case. "Your kindness to a stranger speaks well of
you."
"Not all travelers in Dargon would be kind to a stranger," he
replied, leading her to the small shed that server as a cabin on the
barge. "The city is not always a friendly place." He gave her an
appraising glance. "Many people see danger where there is none, and miss
the trouble right in front of them."
"I have only been to Dargon once before," she replied, looking
around the tiny room, noting the sparse furnishings and the few other
passengers. "It seemed a kind enough place then."
"Begging your pardon, miss," the man replied, pushing back his own
hood to uncover a graying pate, "there's plenty of good people in
Dargon, to be sure, but there's plenty to watch out for as well." He
moved closer to the small stove that heated the cabin, holding his hands
out to catch some heat. "Many people come to Dargon every year who are
never seen again. It pays to be careful."
A heavy thud rattled the cabin as something large struck the
outside wall, tossing a few hot embers out of the stove onto the floor.
From outside came the bellow of a cow, followed by the bellow of the
deck hands as they tried to corral the stubborn animal towards its place
on the deck. Seeing the red coals smoking on the wooden floor, the man
stepped on each carefully, extinguishing them.
"Can't have that now, can we," he said. "Fire on a ship is terrible
thing."
"You seem to be a handy fellow to have around," the woman replied.
"Do you know a lot about how to travel these treacherous waters?"
"Oh, I've been around," he replied. He rubbed his furrowed brow,
tracing a rough scar from his hairline to his temple. "Seen my share of
dangers, and been my share of danger too." He nodded. "Me and my mates,
we've had a knock or two, learning our way around. We've made our own
space now, though." He nodded thoughtfully, almost to himself. He turned
back to her. She was looking out the single oil-cloth window, which was
open. He eyed her slender form, her neat travel cloak, the finely tooled
leather case, and the golden broach pinned to her shoulder. "You passing
through, or do you have business in Dargon?"
"I have business in the city. How far away are we?" she asked.
"Not far," he replied. "It would be a full day's journey, if you
could walk it. Taking a barge is much faster. Right now the river is
high. We'll be there very shortly." With that, he took a seat on one of
the wooden benches.
The deck hands had finished hauling aboard the gangplank. The cold
mist had changed to cold rain, and the wind had picked up. The deck
hands were practiced, and they worked their poles and oars hard as they
pushed the vessel through the ice-laden waters. The barge slipped free
of the pier on the western shore of the Coldwell and started the journey
to the city. The woman stood silently and watched out the window,
holding her case against her chest. When the wind changed direction, and
the rain started to come in, she closed the shutters, but stayed at the
window, looking through the slats. From outside came the chant of the
oarsmen as they rowed the flat vessel out into the center of the great
river, where the current would carry them downstream to their
destination. For a long while no one in the cabin spoke. Finally the man
got up and went to the stove to warm himself. That done, he joined her
at the window.
"Are you traveling to meet family?" he asked.
"No," she replied, "not family. An ... old acquaintance." She
smiled slightly. "He spent some time in our city." She glanced back at
the man. "I doubt you'd know him. He is not originally from Dargon."
"He's going to show you the sights, I assume?"
"Not really," she replied. "He has called me here for other
business."
"A shame," he said. "A young thing like you would have a grand time
in the old town, or even in the Old Town, if you get my drift." He
chuckled a moment at his own joke. "If you tire of his company and want
to see the city, I'm sure my mates and I could show you a thing or two.
You don't want to be wandering the city loose, a small thing like you,
to be sure."
"No?"
"No, miss." He smiled broadly, but his eyebrows knit together. "A
lass alone in the city can come to many a bad end."
"Is it really that dangerous?" she asked, turning toward him. The
dancing firelight reflected from her wide, luminous, hazel eyes.
"Yes, miss," he replied, momentarily swallowed by those eyes. "Oh,
yes. Even something as simple as where to get some food can trip you up.
Why, when I first came to Dargon I was sick for a whole sennight because
I ate some fish stew a man sold me off his cart. Nearly threw my whole
guts out, I did, if you'll pardon the language."
"Bad food?" she asked, pulling back just a bit.
"Very bad, if you don't know where to go," he said. "And bad drink,
too. If you're lucky it's just watered, but I've seen men chunder from
one sip of bad mead, if it's not just plain spiked." He nodded at her
quizzical look. "Oh, yes, there'd be those who would do that. Drop a
drop in a man's beer, wait for him to roll over, then rob him, or sell
him even. Sailors wake up in irons on someone else's ship, far from
port, and sometimes never come home."
"Who would do that?" she asked, her voice low and smooth.
"Slavers, or pirates, or worse," he said. "Not all the gods
worshiped in Dargon are bearers of light," he said, raising his arms to
the heavens and shaking them theatrically. "Strange rites are practiced
in some temples in Dargon."
"I think you're trying to scare me," she said, a slight smile on
her lips. "Those are just silly superstitions."
"Oh, I don't know, I've seen strange things. I just ..." Before he
could finish, the barge jumped as it struck something hard. The man was
thrown back and fell onto one of the wooden benches that lined the walls
of the cabin. She steadied herself against the window sill, still
clutching her case. Outside came shouts from the deck hands. Both of
them regained their balance and looked back out again. The barge was now
in the midst of the river. All around them the muddy water danced and
leaped as waves crashed against each other. The bow of the barge seemed
to have taken root and sprouted, for branches overhung the sides of the
boat. A tree, washed into the river upstream, had fetched up against the
ship and was trapped there by the current. Several deck hands raced over
and began to push with their poles. They soon had the boat freed from
the snag, but now the barge was turning, moving sideways down the river.
Not far ahead the river grew even more restless as rapids surrounded the
shipping channel.
"This could be exciting," the man muttered. The two travelers
watched, transfixed, as the crew struggled to reorient the boat for a
safe passage. On either side, standing waves higher than the deck rose
up where the engorged river roared over underwater boulders. The deck
began to roll and heave.
"You might have had a better time of it if you'd walked, missy,"
the man said, gripping the window sill. "This might turn into a very
cold ride."
"Do many ships sink on the Coldwell?" she asked.
"Dozens, every year," he said. "And it's worse at sea. We lost an
entire fleet just this year. Terrible that was. They say it was a curse,
hit the whole city." He paused as the barge crested a large rill and
crashed back down. He paused a moment before continuing. "There were
fires, floods, mad horses crashing about, and worse of all the causeway
crashed right into the river, sinking a barge just like this one, full
of people. Lots and lots of people died."
"Terrible."
"Yes, miss. Not as bad as a few years ago, when those Bennies came
in and laid siege ..." He paused again, watching another tree sweep by
in the river. "Laid siege to the whole city. I was new in town back
then, and hardly knew anyone. We all ended up in the keep during the
battle. Lots of people died then, too."
"Why would anyone live in such a dangerous city?" she asked.
"Well, it's safer than in the countryside, I hear," he replied.
The river was beginning to open out before them. On the sides of
the river fields were replacing forest, and houses could now be seen. In
the distance, through the mist, dark shapes loomed. The crew yelled and
hollered and worked their oars and pushed the barge out of the center of
the river. The dark shapes resolved slowly into cliffs lined with dark
walls and great homes, to the west, and many houses to the east. The
pair watched silently as the barge was rowed out of the current and into
shallower waters near the shore.
"What a smoky city this is," she said, sniffing the air.
"Smells like home," he said, slapping his belly.
"Smells like other things, too," she said, wrinkling her nose and
frowning. "Less pleasant things."
"Just don't stand under any windows in the morning, is all I say,"
he replied and moved out of the cabin. She followed. Together they
watched the crew row them in to the pier. There was a flurry of activity
as the barge was lashed in. As soon as the gangway was set the two
headed ashore. The man bounded up and across the gangway. She followed,
slower. Once on the dock, she set her leather case on a piling and
carefully opened a small panel in the side. He watched, bemused, as a
black bird emerged from inside. It chirped at her, and she pursed her
lips and made small sounds to it. It hopped on her hand, and cocked its
head as she whispered to it and stroked its head. Suddenly, in a flash
of black wings, it took off, flying off into the mist.
"Hey!" the man yelled. "You let it get away!"
"She'll come back," the woman said. "She always has."
"Clever bird," he said. "Let's hope the Duke doesn't have his hawks
out today." He looked around at the crew unloading the cargo and the
stevedores coming to collect it. "So I expect you'll be meeting him here
then?"
"Here, or there," she replied. "We have no set place or time."
"Well, take care. As I said, it can be a dangerous place." He
started to walk down the dock towards shore, then stopped for a moment.
"If you need a place to stay, there's a place up the street that's good.
I can show it to you, if you want."
She inclined her head to one side and studied him. He stood,
expectantly. Finally she nodded. "All right."
She followed him down the pier and up the road, carrying the case
with her. She watched the people as they passed, each on their own
errands.
"They don't seem terribly dangerous to me," she said after a while.
"Who?" he asked.
"All these people. They all seem quite ordinary."
"Most of them are. It's the odd one or two you have to watch out
for. You never know where the real dangers are."
She followed him to a large, well-lit inn. He pointed inside.
"Go to the man at the bar, ask for room eleven. Tell him Burl sent
you. He'll know." He nodded and walked off. She watched him go, then
turned into the inn. As instructed, she hailed the barkeep. He looked at
her oddly after her request, then nodded and took her coin. He handed
her a key and motioned her to follow. They passed down a long corridor
decorated with tapestries and shields. Odors of cooking food and
fermented beverages came to her nose as they went. Overhead, candles
flickered behind glass enclosures, and they passed rooms of people
dining. At the end of the corridor there was a door. The barkeep lit a
stubby candle off one of the many lining the hall, handed it to her,
pointed at that door, then turned and went back.
She unlocked the door and opened it. There were stone steps leading
down to another door. She descended, closing the first door behind her.
She opened the second door and passed inside. The room on the other side
was dark. A fire burned very fitfully in a grate, casting little light
and less heat. Gone were the aromas of food and beer, replaced by a dank
musty odor. She walked towards the light, stopping when she was right
before the grate. She turned back, and saw that she was not alone in the
room.
"Who is there?" she asked.
"Gone so long you've forgotten me?" a familiar voice answered. A
figure approached from the dark. It was the man from the barge.
"You."
"Me," he said. "Welcome to my home."
"This is your safe place?" she asked sharply.
"Oh," he said, "I feel very safe here. This is where my mates and I
live these days. It's not much, but the guard doesn't come around here."
"The guard?"
"The town guard. We'd rather not deal with them much, these days."
"She's a little one," another man said from the darkness. "Where'd
you find her?"
"She came in on the barge with me, alone," the man replied.
"Alone," she repeated. "I came in with you. I came here with you."
"Yes," he said, "with me. Nice and handy, that. Convenient."
Three other figures emerged from the dark. The four men stood,
considering her.
"I like that broach. Let's see her face," one said, and stepped
towards her. He reached out a thick arm for her hood. He immediately
snatched it back, bleeding, from where she stood, now holding a bloody
blade.
"I'll not have any of that," she said sternly.
"Girly," her errant guide said, "the doors are closed, and no one
else is coming in here. You might not want to make this hard. There are
four of us and only one of you." The other three moved to the sides,
hands out, encircling.
"And one of me," said a voice behind them. The four men spun to
face the sound. The fire flared up, lighting the dingy abode and
revealing a lone figure standing in the corner. In one hand he held a
naked sword. The other arm was held aloft. On it perched a black bird,
and in the hand a palm-sized disc swirled with color and light. The four
thugs seemed transfixed by the sight, their arms and weapons slowly
lowering. For a long moment there was silence. Then, one by one, each of
the brutes lowered themselves to the floor and curled up in sleep.
The woman lowered her dagger as the tall newcomer stepped between
the now motionless bodies. "Well met, wizard," she said. "For once I am
glad to see you." She wiped her dagger on one man's shirt and slipped
the weapon back into its sheath. She watched as he lowered his arm with
the black bird until she could reach it. Taking the creature, she
returned it to its travel case.
"I hope the journey was otherwise pleasant," he said, looking at
the sleeping thugs. "I apologize for the poor welcome. Your servant," he
indicated the bird in the case, "brought me here, and I recognized this
one," he pointed at the gang leader. "I slipped in after him, in the
dark. Still, I'm a bit surprised to find you in such ... low company."
"He seemed amusing at the time." She looked around the room, her
lip curling in distaste. "I remember now why I do not often come here.
How can you stand to live in such squalor?"
"Not all of Dargon is like this. I take it the charm served its
purpose?"
"So it would seem," she said. "Its effect weighs on me, though.
Take it off." She pushed back her cowl, loosing a wave of silver hair to
flow across her shoulders. The tall man closed his eyes and hummed
softly. He reached out and touched a fingertip to the broach. As he did,
the woman's features changed subtly. Her skin, already fine and smooth,
grew luminous beneath unblinking eyes that grew deeper and older ...
much, much older. She sighed with relief as her true, alien form
asserted itself.
"That is better," she said, finally. "I can only hope that you have
better accommodations waiting elsewhere."
"I do. This way." He led her aside to where a crude door pierced
the wall. Together they passed though to an alley. Turning back they
gazed at the place, which was nothing more than a barn built behind the
inn. The tall man paused, turning back to face the hovel. "This building
is a hazard, so poorly built. Why, the roof could fall in at any
moment." He raised his hand, held it for a moment, then closed it as if
gripping something hard in his hand. His arm trembled for a moment, then
twisted suddenly. As he did so, there came a loud crack from within the
ramshackle building. The roof folded, and the walls collapsed inward,
crushing down until it was just a pile of rubble.
The petite Eelail shook her head. "The way you wallow in that ...
glamor ... sets my teeth on edge," she said. "Anarr, why do you torture
yourself with it? What do you hope to accomplish?"
"You know what I seek," he started, but she interrupted.
"Did you learn nothing from your time among us?" she asked. "Did
you gain no wisdom from our company?"
"Forgive me my forgetfulness of your kind teachings," Anarr
replied. "It was difficult to hear my elvish tutors over the clanking of
my elvish chains."
The two fixed each other with unyielding gaze, his hand tight on
the handle of his sword, her hand tight on the handle of her dagger. It
was she who finally spoke.
"It would seem you are finally having your revenge," she said,
releasing her dagger. "Swirl your magics as you wish. You seem to have
some facility with it, as uncouth as it is. Just be careful you don't
... lose yourself. That could be truly dangerous." She sighed. "Now,
take me to your home." She looked around at the dark walls and the
mists beyond, her lip curling slightly. "We will complete this
transaction and then I will be gone. I don't want to be here any longer
than I have to. I'm afraid if I stay I may catch something."
Anarr nodded, and together they walked off into the mists.

========================================================================

The Lie
Vibril 20, 1019
by Jon Evans
thego...@verizon.net

Even as Baska's eyes registered familiar market stalls, vendors,
and the glimpse of customers and goods flashing past in a blur, he felt
the initial stabs of pain in his lungs. His feet slapped at the cold
ground, no longer the lithe running legs of the shadow boy he had been.
Still, he knew these streets, corners, and alleys better than the man
that chased him, and he had an incentive to speed his legs: he wanted to
stay alive. He spotted a familiar cart in the middle of two stalls and
ran headlong toward it. When he was fifteen or sixteen summers, he would
have leaped it easily to lose his pursuer, but the past two years had
him in more sedentary employment, and he no longer had the practiced
skill for such dexterous activities. Instead of leaping, he turned short
before the cart and bounced off an armored body before he continued
running.
The Dargon town guard made to give chase, but his armored attire
held him back. He was soon left behind. Only Baska's pursuer maintained
a steady distance. In fact, he was getting closer. Baska glimpsed a
shadow boy standing in a corner alley and decided to turn there. He flew
through another alley and into a third as he dodged through the
warehouse district that ran beside the piers at Commercial Street.
The winter sun was low in the sky, but the shadows were not dark
enough to offer protection. Nor did he glimpse any familiar hiding
spaces from when he was a shadow boy. Baska had hoped to dart through
alleys Darrin would be unwilling to follow, but that was not the case.
Baska's lungs worsened. How was Darrin maintaining the chase?
Whenever Baska glanced back, the man was still leaning forward in a
sprint, determination burned into his eyes. "You can't outrun me,
Baska!" he heard Darrin yelling. "I know these alleys as well as you
do!" Baska feared that might be true. But did Darrin know the insides of
the buildings? He remembered he was close to a warehouse that had been
abandoned since he was a boy, even before he had joined the shadow boys.
He turned another corner, and saw the doorway. If by some miracle he
could get in before Darrin saw him, he might escape. He ran straight for
it, turned his shoulder toward it at the last moment, and broke through
with a soft splintering of wood.
He skidded to a stop in the darkness, then turned and shut the
door. He held his body against it in case Darrin should try the same
thing. Shattered segments of the interior door frame lay scattered on
the ground. He closed his eyes and tried to quell his gasping breath. He
heard Darrin's footsteps getting closer, and closer. Then they stopped.
Inside the warehouse, it was dark and silent. He imagined he could hear
Darrin outside, breathing deeply. Could Darrin hear Baska's lungs
gulping for air? He guessed Darrin was staring up and down the alley.
"Where did you go?" he heard Darrin yell. "I'll find you. You're not
far!" He could hear trash and debris being kicked and pushed outside the
door. Darrin's frustrated snarls moved up and down the alley outside.
"There's no place in this town you can hide from me!"
Baska knew it would only take a few moments for Darrin to try the
door, so he took advantage of the commotion Darrin was making. First, he
glanced around and took better notice of the building he had entered. By
the wan light streaming through the cracks of the walls, he could make
out a staircase to his left. There were a few old, wooden crates still
littered on the floor. While Darrin kicked around the alley, Baska moved
a couple of old crates in front of the doorway. They would not secure
the door, but Darrin might look elsewhere if he thought Baska had not
come this way. Then he crept up a few stairs and prepared to flee
upward.
Suddenly Baska noticed another sound coming from inside the
warehouse: footsteps on floorboard. It sounded like bare feet. He
noticed the flicker of candle light coming into a hallway at the rear of
the building. He could not go outside, Darrin would surely find him. Nor
did he wish to be found by anyone inside this warehouse. He tiptoed
further up the staircase.
Suddenly the door handle shook, and Baska could hear Darrin pushing
against it. The old boxes and broken door were no match for Darrin, and
he shoved them open easily to the sound of old wood grating against the
floor.
"Who's there? Who has come?" a voice rasped. The man with the
candle, Baska guessed. But the voice was so dry, the man was either
decrepit or had not left this building in years. Baska had thought the
warehouse abandoned, but perhaps it was this man's home. Darrin's
silhouette filled the doorway. Baska could not see his face, but
Darrin's stillness told Baska that he would not enter this building.
Something about the old man frightened him. Darrin quickly closed the
door, and the light in the warehouse diminished to the lone candle held
by the old man. Baska retreated further up the stairs.
He heard the light tap of unshod feet climbing the stairs. Baska
did not know who the old man was, but anyone who could stop Darrin in
his tracks was worth giving a wide berth. He continued up to the second
floor. In the dark, it was impossible to see, but the man with the
candle behind him would have no problems. His only choice was to keep
climbing the stairs and hope the man stopped on this level. His lungs
were slowly recovering from his run, but his heart had not stopped
pounding out its rhythmic beat.
On the third level, there was a soft glow of light from a room a
short distance away from the landing. There were no more stairs up, so
Baska went quietly toward the room. The rotting remains of a desk and
chair littered the area beside the door to the room. He could hear the
footsteps still climbing, and the dusty voice called out again, "Is it
you, my lord? Does something disturb your rest?" Baska could not imagine
anyone resting in this area. He entered the room slowly, carefully
perusing its contents. There was a large window on the far wall, the
source of the soft light by which Baska could see. Several unlit candles
adorned the walls, some books and paintings on shelves, and a large desk
with a high-backed chair.
"Ol's balls," Baska muttered when he had a closer look. The
darkness and the chair nearly hid the body that sat in the chair,
slumped over and face down on the desk. He knew immediately the man was
dead by the long dagger sticking out of his back. He suddenly realized
that in escaping Darrin, he had not escaped danger. There was something
odd about the wound, however. Baska moved closer, and by the dim light
through the window, he saw that while there was only one dagger, the
body had been stabbed over a dozen times. Any one of them, he thought,
would have been enough to end a life.
"Do not rise, my lord," said the dry voice. "I am here, as always."
Baska stepped quickly behind the door as those bare feet stepped onto
the third floor landing. He crouched down in an attempt to minimize the
light his body would block through the gaps in the flaking wood. His
heart resumed its staccato beat when he looked back at the corpse and
saw its legs. The corpse�s feet and lower calf had been chewed down to
the bone. Little bits of flesh and strands of dried vein dangled from
the meatier, less-molested section of the upper calf and knee. Scratch
marks on the floor indicated to Baska that the rodents in this building
had been working on that corpse for some time. He felt something in his
stomach lurch, but he swallowed hard and shuddered.
His eyes watered as he returned his attention to the man on the
stairs, and he peered through a crack in the door. He saw a disheveled,
balding man whose face glowed with the flickering candle light. The
man's skin hung on his skull like an unfurled topsail with no wind.
Scraps of clothes revealed a still-strong body, though his mind was
obviously loose. There was intensity in his eyes, however, and a
single-minded focus on the room.
The man entered the corpse's office and placed the candle on the
desk. Then he moved to behind the chair, and stared briefly at the
corpse. "Is it the rats again, my lord? They do seem to like you."
The aged man placed a hand upon the haft of the blade that was sunk
half-way into the corpse's back. His fingers wrapped slowly over the
handle, and he grunted softly as he pulled the blade free. He leaned
over to speak in the dead man's ear. "Here," whispered, "this will help
you sleep. I've done it so many times, now. But I expect you will always
be restless. Sometimes, the dead do not stay dead." He plunged the blade
back into the corpse. He pulled it out and plunged it back in again. And
again. Finally, he sighed, and let go of the knife, still deep in the
corpse's back. "That should keep you quiet."
Baska hadn't realized he had raised himself up to a standing
position. The decrepit man stepped back from the corpse and saw Baska
for the first time. A momentary glimpse of coherence shone in his eyes.
"Cril," he spoke softly. "Do not worry. He is merely resting. Let us
retire to the anteroom." His voice was smooth and calm, but his eyes
were those of a shivaree. Baska turned his back to the man, just long
enough to place his hand upon his own dagger. He heard the man grunt, he
sensed his movement. When Baska spun, dagger in hand, he saw the aged
man raise a dagger above his head, ready to strike at Baska�s spine.
Baska's movements were smooth, graceful, and practiced. He ducked away
from his attacker's swing, and plunged his dagger up and into the man's
neck. There was no resistance until the tang of the blade stopped
against the jaw.
The blood was insuperable. It flowed like water over his arms, his
chest, and the floor. The evisceration was complete. Baska was not one
to kill lightly, but in his own defense he had no qualms. This life
ended quickly.
His thief's instincts took over immediately. On the old man, he
found only a ring of keys that might have locked the front door, if
Baska had not already broken it in. He sent a brief hope to his gods
that Darrin was long gone, and continued his search. There were books on
the shelves, and the corpse had a ring on his left hand. Baska pulled at
it, but it would not come easily. He glanced around the room, now lit
more clearly by the candle the old man had left on the desk, but he only
noticed a single book. The ring on the corpse's fingers looked to be the
most valuable object.
Baska grasped the lifeless hand with his left, while he wrapped his
right hand's fingers around the ring. He moved it slowly in a circle,
and tugged gently. He did not want to tear the corpse's finger off -- he
had already had his fill of nausea when he noticed the gnawed feet.
Thinking of that, he glanced around briefly for any rodents that might
be in the room, just in case. Then he quelled his fear and tried again.
The ring came slowly to the tip of the man's finger, then released with
a gentle tug.
A sudden gushing sound came from below Baska, while a stench so
vile assaulted his nostrils that his stomach immediately lurched again.
He stepped away from the corpse and noticed the meaty legs were now
dumping a greenish, viscous liquid slowly onto the floor. The body
seemed to be emptying its innards as it decomposed at a rapid rate. Its
skin withered and cracked. A putrid smell assaulted Baska�s nostrils. He
could no longer stave off the contents of his stomach, and he leaned
forward and wretched. The stench continued. He dropped the ring in
terror, lifted himself weakly from the floor, and ran out of the room.
Some instinct made him grab the book from the desk.
He made his way cautiously down to the second floor, careful not to
be underneath the spot where the body had decomposed. He made a mental
note to never put on that ring. When he found a room that had an old
broken window and a candle, he sat down and opened the book. Reading the
first page stopped him cold.
Surely that name could not be correct? He shivered just reading it,
and felt sweat at the collar of his neck. It couldn't be. He hadn't
heard that name since he was a boy. His mother would frighten him with
it; warn him not to go out at night. His master would use it to keep him
from leaving the shop. And when his master had been murdered in front of
his eyes ... he was certain this man was responsible. Small beads of
sweat gathered at his forehead. His fingers shook as he turned the page,
and saw the names of men and women that had dealt with this legend, this
myth, this ghost of evil. He recognized their names, too. Many were
dead. Some were gone. A few still practiced their business in Dargon.
His heart pounded in his chest as an idea formed in his mind. Did
he dare? Was it possible? Certainly, he would need more research, but
the material was here, present, and available. Surely there were more
books and ledgers around this building. He had a lot of reading to do.
And he had to know if anyone else lived in this abandoned warehouse.

***

"Retire?" The word hung in the air like a secret everyone knew, but
refused to speak. Two men sat around a desk in the office of the Captain
of the Dargon town guard. Koren played absently with his silver mustache
while his friend of many years, Lieutenant Darklen, stared at him in
astonishment. "You can't be serious," Kalen continued. "You are a
foundation of the law, here in Dargon."
"And if I keep at it, they'll bury me in the foundation," Koren
said as he smiled. "Come on, Kalen. I could have retired years ago.
Should have, if not for the war with Beinison, and the gang wars we were
fighting. You know how it was. There were fires every night. We found
new bodies in the streets or floating at the docks every morning. Gangs
fought gangs, and if you were on the street at night, you were either a
criminal or a target. Patrols were six men at a time, not two, and they
were armed for battle. Dozens of victims were drowned, stabbed, or
otherwise killed by whatever means the killer had available. All in the
name of money." Koren leaned back and sighed. "It was mad, then. We had
too few friends and too many enemies. I couldn't retire, then. But I
can, now."
"What about the Doravin? We're going to have problems, you know
that. We've already got problems."
"I don't think the Doravin are the problem. It's the townsfolk
you're going to have to deal with. Gods know, however, things are
getting bad. That problem at the Serpent is just the beginning."
"Me,� Kalen said. He let out a sigh. �Gods, I knew this would come
my way one day. That time you were injured, and we hid you down in the
catacombs to pretend you were dead. That was one of the most stressful
periods I've ever gone through. I was happy to have you resume the
post."
"You did well then," Kalen said. "And you've come a long way since,
as well. You'll do fine. Just listen to Ilona, and she'll keep you
straight."
Kalen laughed. "You're kidding, right? She's crazier than I am."
A knock on Koren's door interrupted their reverie. "Come!" Koren
shouted. The door opened smoothly to reveal a younger guardsman. The
markings on his uniform denoted his rank, but Koren knew his staff well.
"What is it, Cepero?" Captain Koren asked.
"We've got a floater, Captain," the sergeant replied. "We thought
you'd like to hear about it."
"Murder?" Lieutenant Darklen asked. "What makes you think so?"
"Stabbed, sir," Cepero replied. "Just once under the chin before he
was dumped, and he's a fresh kill. We think he might be an old
acquaintance of yours."
"Yes?" Koren asked, his eyes lighting with concern.
"We need to you identify him, of course, but we think his name is
Kesrin Mardos."
Koren and Darklen exchanged a quick glance, and rose to accompany
the sergeant to the morgue.

***

"Shea, darling, more flower petals," Eliza Tillipanary said as she
descended the stairs and entered the parlor of her home, The Lucky Lady.
The air was suffuse with rose, cinnamon, and lilac. A musician played a
soft tune in the corner, while Shea and Enia, twin girls clad in silk
negligee, used soft brushes to clean the red velvet tapestries covering
the walls. A blond man, clothed only a silk pair of short trousers,
stared around the room, analyzing the placement of the chairs, couches,
small tables, tea settings, and standing plants. His intense stare at
every detail complemented the cut lines of his muscular body. Even at
her age, Madame Tillipanary felt drawn to his delicious good looks.
"Delex, you'll drive yourself crazy," she said to him. "The room
looks divine. Now go and clean up. Seventh bell will ring soon, and
business will start to pick up."
"Yes, mom," Delex replied. Like many of her employees, he always
called her mom. She thought that might be for the best. It kept a
miniscule barrier between his body and her desires. It helped her
pretend that she did not own him, that she could not just take him
whenever she wanted. But of course, she knew that she could.
There was a brief knock on the front door before a page entered. He
could not have been more than ten summers, with sandy hair and hazel
eyes. The twins, Shea and Enia, immediately put down their brushes and
ran over him, cooing and running their hands through his hair and
squealing at how cute he was. The boy began breathing very fast; his
discomfort was evident.
"That�s enough, girls! His will drop soon enough, and rest assured
he'll bring his hard ... earned money ... to our door. But what brings
you now, young man, to my establishment?"
"M- Message, m'lady," the boy stammered. His hazel eyes lingered on
the two women standing near him as he fumbled for the letter he held in
his pocket. "Madame, this comes straight from the docks for you. Ran all
the way, I did, which is why I'm so out of breath."
"Of course you did," Tillipanary replied. "Girls, give him a tip,
won't you?"
While she examined the letter, she heard more squeals, and dramatic
kissing sounds. She shook her head. "That boy will age faster than
nature intended," she thought. When she saw the seal on the letter, she
caught her breath. Her heart immediately quickened. It couldn't be!
"Girls, stop!" she barked the quick command, and they immediately
ended their teasing. The boy's face was red, and his legs were wobbling
as if he could barely stand. She stepped quickly across the carpeted
floor and stared him straight in the eyes. "Where did you say you
brought this from?"
"The docks, lady, just north of Main Street."
Tillipanary's skin blanched, but she spoke calmly. "Thank you, boy.
You may leave." The girls pouted, but the boy stepped hesitantly out the
doorway. Tillipanary's fingers trembled as she broke the seal on the
note. Her eyes gazed intently at the letter, moving rapidly over its
words several times. One of the girls approached her hesitantly.
"What is it, mom?"
Tillipanary's head jerked up, as if suddenly remembering where she
was. She looked at her girls, and then smiled warmly. "Nothing for you
girls to worry about. A weather report. Pass the news, will you? No
leaving The Lucky Lady tonight." She reached out and pinched the girl's
cheek. "I don't want my darlings getting caught in a storm."

***

"What is this, a joke?" the shop owner yelled. He waved the small
note in his hand while stepping toward the boy in front of him.
"Don't know what you mean, sir," the page answered. He ducked his
head while he backed away from the man. He glanced quickly toward the
doorway.
"Who told you to give me this note?" the shop owner yelled again.
The page backed up further, knocking into a bolt of wool. That bolt fell
over and knocked into several others, and the shop owner's apprentice
ran forward to prevent an onslaught of falling material. The shop's door
opened from the outside, and the page saw his opportunity to flee. An
incoming customer dodged aside as the page sprinted out the doorway.
"Good even, Master Gilchrest," the woman said. "I didn't see the
boy carrying anything, so he can't have stolen any goods. What brings
your temper so high?"
"Mistress Mudge," the shop owner replied. "He delivered a message
I've no intention of responding to, is all." His left hand crushed the
note it had been holding, and he stuffed it in his pocket.
"News is what we make of it, Master," Leanna Mudge replied. "As a
seamstress, I've seen and heard many pieces of information that appeared
to bode ill for my clients, but resulted in good fortunes when
approached properly. What is it?"
Master Gilchrest put his best face on for his customer. "Nothing
your wisdom can resolve, gentle lady. My father -- may he rest in peace
-- had some hard choices in business partners when he started this shop.
But all accounts were settled years ago. Now one of those partners is
back in town, and wants to get back into business."
"Ah!" Leanna's face brightened. "An extra investment might allow
you to expand your business! Mayhap you could open another store in
Shark's Cove, or Kenna, or --"
"I'm sorry, mistress. I appreciate your enthusiasm, but he's not
that kind of business partner." Master Gilchrest waved his hands as if
to dismiss the issue. "It matters not. What can I do for you today? Do
you need wool for winter clothes?" He extended his arms toward the pile
of bolts that his apprentice was stacking. "Or some linen for summer?"
He indicated several bolts of material on the other side of his shop.
Then he leaned forward and smiled slyly. "Or perhaps some silk? Eh,
mistress?"

***

Baska lay in a soft bed, in one of the rooms on the second floor of
the abandoned warehouse. The warehouse's interior had not been of a
design he would have imagined. Rather than have a large, open area where
stockpiles of goods were held until shipped, it was divided up into two
main floors, and a small office on the third floor.
The first floor held a common area and kitchen, much like a tavern
would have. The second floor comprised a dozen personal rooms for
sleeping, again like a tavern might, but the rooms were more lavishly
furnished. There were two large rooms with several beds, and several
smaller ones for individuals. And there were actual beds in the rooms,
not just cheap mattresses stuffed with leaves, hay, heather, or whatever
other soft ingredients a tavern keeper might find. One of the rooms even
had a mirror mounted at a small desk, much like a woman's vanity. The
mirror had cracked, or been broken, at some point in the past, but it
was still quite useful. This was the room Baska had chosen for himself.
As he stared at the ceiling, he considered his plan. He had sent
several messages to the existing business partners he had found in the
ledger. In those letters, he had passed himself off as the crime lord
who once inhabited this building. He had told the business owners that
they were now going to start paying him protection again, as in the days
of old. He was hoping at least one of them would have delivered him some
coin, but none had responded. Baska still shuddered even to think the
man's name, but it was possible that the name no longer inspired the
kind of fear it once did, particularly with the Doravin in their midst.
He was going to have to remind the people why they used to fear this
name. Then the money would come in.

***

Darrin stared intently at the floor, not wishing to meet his
master's gaze. Gilliam Hytheworde was a merchant by trade, and was not
likely to actually harm his own employees. His business sense was
excellent in that matter. Darrin was still hesitant to stare his
employer in the eyes, however, as delivering bad news was never
pleasant.
Hytheworde sat at a large wooden desk that was completely clear of
any items. His balding head was decorated with wisps of grey hair like a
gentle fog. His jowls hung loosely from his clean-shaven face. His nose
was unobstructed by any beard or mustache. But his thick, long, bushy
eyebrows -- white against his ruddy skin -- partially obstructed his
hawk-like eyes.
"So what you're telling me," Hytheworde said with a raspy voice,
"is that my own employee had been cutting into my collections. You knew
about it. And when you tried to bring him in to face me, he got away."
"He was faster than I thought," Darrin stated.
"He used to be a shadow boy, Darrin," Hytheworde stated. "They
don't survive by being fat and slow."
"There is some good news, sir. I ransacked his room, and recovered
quite a lot of coin. Wherever he is, he's poor. He won't be able to
leave town anytime soon, and that gives me time to find him."
"Yes, yes," Hytheworde agreed. "I'm more concerned about the money,
of course. You did well, Darrin."
"Thank you, sir. But I don't like anyone else to get the same idea.
An example will have to be made."
"Only if you can find him, Darrin," Hytheworde said. Then he fixed
his hawk's gaze upon Darrin. "So find him."

***

Baska adjusted the pack slung over his shoulder as he stared across
the muddy street at the plain, closed door to the alchemist's shop. He
had lost count how many times he had cursed himself for being greedy.
Six months of skimming collections from Hytheworde's protection money
had seen a nice little pile of coin building in his possession. But he
pushed that textile merchant for too much, one day, and Gilchrest had
complained to Darrin. Darrin started digging, and the next thing Baska
knew he had been running for his life through the streets of Dargon. Now
Baska needed to buy some ingredients from an alchemist, so he could
convince the populace that a long-gone crime lord had returned ... but
Baska had no money. Thus, the pack of valuables he had slung over his
shoulder.
The sign above the door showed a sun, partially eclipsed by a moon,
and a mortar and pestle. It had not changed since the day he had left,
though the original owner had been dead for years. Once upon a time, he
had had a master there. He had apprenticed to be an alchemist himself,
until a man and a woman had entered the shop and killed both his master,
and another apprentice. First he had seen Kapatil killed by the woman.
Then they had locked him in the shop with his dead friend's body lying
on the floor. When they had returned, they had lain in wait for his
master, Terrell, to return. Baska had been confined to the rear
laboratory. He heard his master yell, "Half-breed!" There had been a
short scuffle. When he was released, Terrell lay in a pool of blood.
Judging by their armor, the two had been warriors. Terrell and
Kapatil had never stood a chance. The murderers had instilled a fear in
Baska that he remembered to this day. Baska had sworn never to rat them
out, at the cost of his life. When he was free to go, he had left
forever. He had lived on the streets for a while, and eventually had
been taken in by the shadow boys. His ability to read, write, and do
math had helped the group, but he had learned a hard lesson: the only
person he could trust was himself. Now he needed supplies only an
alchemist could provide. As he stepped through the damp, unpaved street,
he hoped there would not be too many questions.
He turned the door handle to the shop. The soft jingle of a bell
rang as the door swung open. The interior was lit, as he remembered it,
solely by the unshuttered windows. It was still daylight, after all. He
could smell a coal fire emanating from the rear laboratory, and
envisioned a brazier burning low and hot, distilling some mix of arcane
elements. That was good. A working laboratory meant the shop owner had
stock on hand, and would likely not have to go searching for the
ingredients he desired.
A youngish man, perhaps a few summers older than himself, emerged
from the laboratory. He wore long, heavy robes of brown wool, tied about
his waist with rope. Baska thought his clothing looked more like that of
a Cyruzhian monk than an alchemist. He had a look of happy surprise
about him, as if he was unaccustomed to conducting business, but glad to
have a customer. That thought encouraged Baska.
"Greetings, good sir," the gentleman said. "I am Killian, the
master of this shop. How can I help you?"
"Good day to you, Master Killian. My name is Baska. I need to
purchase a few ingredients to solve some problems around my home. I
wonder if you can help me." Baska handed the man a note that contained
the particular elements he had researched the previous night.
Master Killian's thin eyebrows rose as he perused the list. He put
the list down and looked sincerely at Baska. "The ingredients you list
here can be quite dangerous, if mixed improperly," he said. "I would be
happy to mix up whatever solution you desire."
Baska attempted his most sincere face. "I appreciate that, Master
Killian," he replied, "but I assure you I am quite skilled at mixing
these properly. I apprenticed in this very shop under Master Terrell
some years ago."
"Did you?" Mardos' voice betrayed obvious doubt.
"I did," Baska replied. "How else would I know you are working with
a coal brazier in the laboratory in back? Your wool robes, which are
heavy even for this season and temperature, protect you from any
accidents, so you must be working on something delicate and perhaps even
dangerous. Furthermore ..." Baska sniffed the air for effect. "It
appears you are bringing some barley to boil." Baska smiled. "Are you
brewing beer?"
Master Killian smiled broadly. "Indeed, sir! If you can keep a
secret, the proprietor of Grey Talka's is looking to bolster his
business. The Doravin spend their coin there, it's true, but they don't
spend much, and many of the locals eschew the inn because of them." He
added in a whisper, "I can whip you up something that will protect you
from those stone-fiends, if you like."
"No, thank you," Baska said. "But indeed I can keep a secret. And
my needs are simple, I assure you. There is an aroma in one of my rooms
that I wish to dispel, and some rats that need extermination in another
part of my home." Mardos nodded in understanding at Baska's
explanations. "I wonder if I might pay for these ingredients in trade. I
have a few items here of some value." Baska removed the sack from his
shoulders, and placed it on the counter. He reached in and removed a few
of the objects he had found in the warehouse.

***

Captain Koren watched as the fire ripped through the dark night,
casting a staccato rhythm of orange light and dark shadows upon the
surrounding buildings. The smell of burning wood saturated the air, and
clung to his lungs. Men and women ran through the night and formed a
human chain that passed full buckets of water up the line. After the
lead man hurled the contents onto the burning building, he tossed the
bucket aside and grasped for the next one. A runner brought the empty
bucket back to the water's edge, where it was filled and returned to the
line.
Captain Koren spied Lieutenant Darklen by the light of the blaze.
Kalen was organizing the fire brigade, assigning sergeants to different
sections of the watery defense. He walked over to his friend and waited
until Darklen was available to speak.
"Status?" Koren asked.
"Three lines, lots of water." Kalen replied. "Thank goodness it was
a building close to the docks. Something further in, and the whole block
might have gone up."
"Any known cause?"
"Not a one. The shop keeper was out at Belisandra's, enjoying a
pint and some music."
Captain Koren scanned the building and its surrounding neighbors.
"Any sign of contamination? Any of the adjoining shops burning?"
Lieutenant Darklen looked him square in the eyes. "Not a one. This
fire was contained before we even set the brigade to working."
"It was targeted, then," Koren said. Kalen nodded. "Whose store was
it?"
"Textile merchant named Gilchrest," Kalen responded.
"Ol's balls," Captain Koren swore. "He was paying protection to
Hytheworde, wasn't he?"
"That's the rumor," Kalen responded. "I'm waiting for Ilona to ...
ah, and here she comes," he said. They both looked over to a huddle of
people who were sitting on a bench across the street, away from the
burning building. A woman in full guard uniform walked quickly in their
direction. She saluted Koren before starting her report.
"He left the shop at the second bell of the night," she said. "Went
to Belisandra's, had a few pints. Came back just a few menes past, when
the fire was well underway."
"And his connection to Hytheworde?" Kalen asked.
"Well, he wasn't saying anything specific," she said. Her shoulders
slumped slightly, relaxing her stance. "But I'd bet next month's wages
he was paying protection money."
"Wonderful," Kalen said. "So we've got someone paying protection
money, whose shop suddenly goes up in flames, and none of the connecting
buildings are touched by it."
"Valuable shop, specifically targeted," Koren agreed. "Think he
missed a payment?"
Ilona shook her head. "Hytheworde is all about the money. It takes
a lot more than a missed payment to make him mad enough to burn a
building. And Gilchrest had enough stock that Hytheworde would simply
have taken that in payment, instead. He could just stick it in one of
his merchant ships and sell it in Narragan, or even Beinison if he
wanted."
"Which is one of the reasons we have a hard time nailing him,"
Kalen added. "He exports stolen goods, he doesn't smuggle them in.
Definitely makes it harder when he's got a hold mostly full of
legitimate stock. A few coins can make an inspector avert his eyes from
three or five crates that aren't listed on the manifest."
"This fire," Ilona said, "do you think it has anything to do with
the fact that we found Kesrin's body yesterday?"
Koren nodded. "If it does, then we've got a bigger problem," he
said. "As if there wasn't enough unrest with the damned Doravin,
someone's trying to edge into Hytheworde's business."
Kalen's eyes widened. "You don't think it's L --"
"No," Koren interrupted him. "He's been gone for years. It's
someone else. It has to be."

***

Hytheworde passed through the doors of his office to see a room
full of his men, each holding back the angered cries of a different
merchant. "What are you doing about this? Who's doing this? What do you
know?" he heard them calling. He slowly scanned the crowd, making eye
contact with each and every plaintiff until they calmed down. His gaze
finally settled on Gilchrest, but he knew Gilchrest wouldn't stay quiet.
That was alright with Hytheworde. He wanted to answer Gilchrest's
questions in public, where his words could be heard.
"My entire shop burned down, all my goods," Gilchrest stated. "I
think my apprentice might have been caught in the fire as well, I don't
know. Won't know for certain for a few days."
Hytheworde raised his eyebrows a little, and tried his best to
soften the expression in his eyes. "My dear Gilchrest," he said, "this
is a tragedy. Truly, for all of us. You say you don't know where your
apprentice is?"
Gilchrest sighed once and nodded.
"Well, it would be a great loss if he has passed," Hytheworde
continued. "On the other hand, if his remains are not found in the fire,
it does beg the question of how this little blaze started, does it not?"
Gilchrest stood up suddenly, his own fire now burning in his eyes.
"That boy did not start the fire! He wouldn't have!"
Hytheworde spread his hands questioningly. "Surely we don't know
what he might have --"
"What we know," Gilchrest interrupted, "is that two days ago, I
received a letter. A letter that I ignored, because you told us all that
the man who wrote it was dead."
Hytheworde's mask disappeared. "He is dead."
"Then why has my shop burned to the ground, with all my stock gone?
I have to start over from nothing, Hytheworde. That business has been in
my family for decades, and now it's gone. I'm telling you, he's alive."
The room burst into a pandemonium of cries and outrage, louder than
when Hytheworde had first entered. His guards looked nervous as well,
and Hytheworde knew why. His old enemy was notorious for putting
traitors through slow, painful deaths, and several of them would be on
that list. He raised his hands above his head and yelled as loudly as
his aging voice would allow. "Enough!" His voiced cracked with the
effort. "Enough, already. He is dead, and I'll have no one speak his
name around me. But if it makes you feel any better, I'll send Eliza."
There were several nods of agreement at that idea. "She knew him better
than anyone. If he's still alive, he'll see her. And if she sees him,
she will recognize him."

***

Madame Tillipanary twisted the parasol in her hands. Her gown was
exquisite, of course, and the parasol a perfect match. Still, she
fretted. She had not seen him in ... how long? Six years. He had
disappeared six years ago. And now the whole town was buzzing with the
idea of his return.
"Could it really be him?" she wondered as the carriage made its way
through Dargon's streets. It wasn't far from The Lazy Madame to the
alley where the carriage would drop her, but her thoughts raced quickly
as she anticipated meeting him again. Would he still have that mustache?
How had he aged? Where had he been? Why return now, after all this time?
And what would that mean for her?
In the past, he had used her establishment as a place to force
women into financial bondage, to coerce them into prostitution or
thievery. One of his women had even killed a man in her rooms, and that
had brought Eliza some uncomfortable conversations with the town guard.
But he had also paid her well, enforced protection from any unruly
patrons, and even sent business in her direction. And he had kept the
likes of Hytheworde off her back. That yoke she did not enjoy.
And if it wasn't him? What danger was she walking into now? What
odds that she would be able to walk out? She thought herself well enough
known and established in this town that no one would think lightly of
causing her harm, and yet mistakes did happen. It was a risk she was
taking, she knew that. Hytheworde was smart to send her, rather than
risk his own neck.
She stepped out of the carriage and instructed the driver to wait.
The sun was nearing its zenith, so she opened her parasol as she began
her walk down the lane. Her heels clicked on uneven cobblestones as she
thought about the last time she had come to this place. She had heard he
was wounded. That annoying and pompous Kesrin had prevented her from
seeing him. She regretted allowing him to force her away. No one would
do that again.
When she reached the door to the warehouse, she removed a key from
the purse hanging from her wrist. She was doubtful it would still work
after all this time, but she wanted to know. Before she could put the
key in the lock, however, the door swung open to reveal a youngish man,
perhaps 20 summers, standing in the doorway. He looked familiar, yet she
was certain he was not a customer of hers. He was short for a man,
perhaps only a hand taller than her, and lanky. He wore clothes common
to the working class. His blond hair was uncut and draped about his
shoulders, and his hazel eyes were clear and calculating. She had the
feeling he was assessing her as well. There was also a satisfied smile
on his face.
"Madame Tillipanary," he said. "It is a pleasure to see you, again.
Quite a surprise, however. I was expecting a messenger, or courier."
"I preferred to make this visit in person," she responded. "May I
come in?"
She noted only a moment's hesitation before he answered, "Of
course." When he stepped aside, she entered the main floor. It had
changed very little since last she was here, except that there was a
thick layer of dust on the ground, and a few footprints visible going to
and from the stairwell.
"My name is Baska," the man said. "We have met before, briefly. I
was in the employ of Lord Hytheworde prior to coming here."
"I thought I recognized you," Eliza replied. She raised an eyebrow
and glanced sidelong at him. "Risky business, isn't it, shifting
employers like that?"
"You know who I work for now," Baska replied. "It would be riskier
not to accept his employment."
"Indeed, it might be," she conceded. "May I see him?"
Baska hesitated again before answering. "I am not certain he is in,
though we can check if you like." He took a step toward the stairs. "You
do remember the way? He mentioned that you used to be close."
This was the moment she feared. If she went up those stairs, her
danger doubled, or tripled. She was almost fifty summers now, while that
man was in the prime of his life. Her life was forfeit if the subterfuge
she suspected was true. But she had to know the answer. She could not go
back to Hytheworde with a "maybe." But Hytheworde be damned, she could
not leave the question unanswered for herself. She had to know: was he
alive?
"Of course I remember, Baska. But thank you for asking," she
responded.
She climbed the first flight of stairs and looked down the corridor
of the second floor. Several of the doors in the rooms were open, with
light coming from within them. The same thick covering of dust on the
floorboards, but she saw more activity up here. That made sense to her.
On the third floor, the same desk she had seen six years ago still
sat in its usual position outside the office. There was no assistant
waiting at it. The aroma up here was also pungent and heavy. She coughed
lightly, and removed a fan from within her sleeves. When she opened it
and fanned herself, she looked at Baska with raised eyebrows. He did not
need her to ask the question.
"There were rats here, recently," Baska replied. "This building was
mostly abandoned for years, as I'm certain you are aware. I am using
clove and rose to clean the air, though I am unused to their
applications in this manner. If you have any suggestions ..."
She coughed lightly again. "Yes, get rid of the clove. It
overpowers the rose, and really ... frankincense might do the job and
not be too heavy. It is expensive, however."
"I appreciate your advice," Baska said. "If you will just wait here
a moment, I'll let him know you have arrived." Baska opened the door to
the office just wide enough to slip in, and closed it behind him.
Eliza's heart beat faster and faster. How would she get out of the
building? Should she just leave right now? "Two flights of squeaky
stairs in these heels," she thought. "Baska would be on me in a moment.
But running is not an option. I need to get into that office and know --
one way or the other -- if he is back."
The office door opened up, this time revealing the desk and window
within, but no one beside Baska. "I apologize, Madame," Baska said, "but
it appears he is not in. He comes and goes by the back stair so often,
these days."
"Of course," she said. She reached into her purse again and removed
a small bag of coins. "You don't mind if I put this on the desk, do
you?" She could hear her own voice tremble, and felt her hand lightly
shaking.
"Be my guest," Baska said.
She saw him eyeing her carefully as she walked into that office.
How many times had she been here before? The dust was not thick here,
but it was still present. Someone had been sitting at the desk recently.
There were several containers of herbs in the room, cloaking the air in
a thick, cloying aroma. There was a ledger on the desk, with names,
dates, and money paid or received. She walked to the glass window that
overlooked the market. The only clean pane in that otherwise filmy
window was just about her height and she could see her carriage waiting
for her return. She turned around and placed the pouch on the desk.
"Thank you," she said.
Baska had already entered the room, and closed the door behind him.
He was leaning his back against the door. The smile had faded from his
face. This was the moment Eliza had feared.
"You are no fool, Madame Tillipanary," Baska said. "And I am not
blind to your perception. But if you don't mind, what exactly gave it
away?" Baska stepped toward the desk and slowly drew a dagger from a
sheath behind his back. Eliza paled when she saw the blade's edge in the
flickering candle light.
"It was several things," she said. She tried to steady her voice,
but her suddenly dry throat was hard to control. She swallowed hard, and
held the back of the chair. She could delay the inevitable, but she had
only one card to play. If she were to play it, she must be calm, and
appear in control. She moved around the chair and sat in it, placing her
hands gently on the desk. She gave Baska her most confident stare. "The
lack of footprints in the dust in the first two floors indicated little
activity. That the dust was there is inconsistent with his character."
She glanced quickly at the ledger. "The last date in that ledger is from
six years ago. It was an interesting ploy, but you missed the details.
And finally," she nodded toward the window behind her, "the only clean
pane is about two hands shorter than he would stand. It's about your
height, isn't it?"
Baska nodded. "As I said earlier," he said, "I was not expecting
you to deliver the purse directly. I only had a mene to prepare when I
saw you exit the carriage in the market. I brought the ledger up from
the second floor, where I've been studying it, and lit a few candles in
the rooms to try to make them look occupied. Otherwise," he shrugged,
"there was little I could do." He took another step forward. "I really
do regret this."
"You'll regret it more, if you do it," she replied. This was her
card. She hoped it was an ace. "There's a reason that carriage is
waiting for me. Hytheworde sent me directly to see if your employer was
really engaged. Whether I return, and tell him this is a ruse, or I
don't return because you've killed me, does not really matter. Half a
bell from now, Hytheworde will be making a decision as to whether or not
to attack. He knows time is short. That little fire you lit -- that was
you, wasn't it?" Baska nodded. "That really angered him. You need to
leave now. Flee Dargon before I return to Hytheworde. If you don't, your
death will take ages."
Baska's face was unreadable, except for his eyes. Eliza wondered
when it was a man learned to control the emotion in his eyes, for that
was truly the difference between boys and men. Baska's eyes showed fear.
His mouth, his complexion, even his body language revealed nothing. But
his eyes told her everything she needed to know. She stood up and walked
around the desk. "I'm sure you've better use for that dagger," she said.
"Keep the purse. It's a pittance, but it might help you escape."
She turned her back and walked slowly out of the office. She
descended the stairs deliberately. "Don't let him see you run," she
thought. She was acutely aware that at any moment, she might hear him
rushing behind her. Would she feel the blade? Would it take her in the
back, or the neck? Would he strangle her first? Her heart beat fast and
hard in her chest, and the bodice under her dress felt tighter by the
moment. If she could not reach the market quickly, she would faint. But
she maintained control and walked calmly down the lane until she stepped
into the carriage. When the door closed, she let out a sudden sigh. Her
hands and arms began to shake, and tears formed at her eyes. She heard
the coachman ask, "Where to, ma'am?"
"Old City," she cried out. She felt the carriage jerk as the driver
urged the horse onward. She hoped she had not sounded weakened and
desperate to him. She was going to have to gather her strength before
she faced Hytheworde.
"Hytheworde," she called out to the driver in a firm voice. "That
bastard," she said softly. There was a thorn she would rather be rid of.
If only Baska had not been lying. If only *he* had been in that office,
instead of an old ledger and some candles. Hytheworde's yoke would be
gone. How much protection money did she pay him? Twice what she used to.
And his free services, whenever he came to The Lazy Madame, which was
often. None of the girls wanted to touch that old man, either. Eliza had
to bribe them to take him upstairs.
Then an idea occurred to her. It was wonderful. It was risky, but
it might kill two scree gulls with one stone. And she would be
blameless. "Driver, stop!" she called. The carriage jerked to a halt.
She opened the carriage door and stared around quickly. They were at the
southern end of the market, and it hadn't been but a few menes. She
might have time. She spotted a dirty-faced girl in an alley, and called
her over. "Quick, girl, a Bit for you if you can deliver this message
instantly!"

***

Baska's brilliant plan had failed. He stood in the office and
watched Madame Tillipanary calmly walk out. His stomach dropped and the
blood in his veins turned cold. He thought about following her, perhaps
killing her just to buy some time. But it would have been useless, and
despite his general disregard for the law, he had no wish to have her
blood on his hands. Besides, he did not seem to be able to move his
feet; it was as if his boots were stuck to the slime that had spilled
from the corpse's body.
He could see her carriage through the one clean spot in the window.
He saw it pull away, and his bowels nearly left him at the same time. He
would be dead within a bell. Then his mind started racing. What
valuables were left in the building? Was there anything he could sell
quickly? Who could he sell it to before they found out about the price
that would surely be put on his head? Those, and a hundred more
panicking thoughts burned through his brain until he heard a rapid
pounding on the front door. How long had he been standing here? Surely,
Darrin could not be looking for him already.
He walked calmly down the stairs. His mind had gone numb. There was
no more running. Perhaps if he fought them at the door, if he could take
one of their lives, they might kill him out of instinct, before
Hytheworde could have him tortured. He again drew his dagger from its
sheath and held it behind his back. He opened the door slowly, expecting
it to be kicked in.
Instead, a small girl stood nervously at the doorway. She could be
no more than six or seven summers, and she had not been eating well.
Baska glanced up and down the alley before he returned the dagger to its
sheath behind his back. "Yes?" he asked.
"Please, sir, tell me your name is Baska," she whispered quietly.
Baska again looked up and down the alley. Then he looked to the
rooftops for archers. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he glanced
back at the girl and said, "It is."
"Madame in a carriage just gave me an urgent message for you. She
says, 'I'll keep your secret. You owe me.'"
Baska's eyes went wide. "What? Where? When? Describe the woman!"
Baska had to hold himself back from grabbing the girl by her ragged
clothes.
"Pretty lady, fancy dress, in a carriage," the girl replied as she
took a step backward. She pointed up the alley way. "Just now, at the
market."
Baska sighed. A great weight lifted from his stomach. Then the girl
said, "She also told me you'd pay me a Bit."
Baska smiled at the girl. He opened the contents of the pouch
Madame Tillipanary had left with him, and removed a coin. As he handed
it to her, he leaned forward and whispered, "Go find the shadow boys,
I'm sure you know where they are." She nodded. "Find Russo. Tell him his
alchemist friend has sent you to them. They'll take care of you." She
nodded again. In an instant, she was gone.

***

Since that moment, several other visitors had knocked on that door.
Four of them were ex-shadow boys -- Carlo, Fleet, Farouk and Riker --
looking for employment. That was good because he needed men, but he felt
foolish running up to the office to have loud conversations with himself
whenever he needed to pretend to be taking orders from someone else. But
he was comforted by the fact that they had been shadow boys, having
lived among them. He instinctively trusted them.
Yet more visitors were messengers from merchants, with small
pouches of coin and a request for protection from Hytheworde. That,
also, was good. But it meant problems, as well. He knew, now, what
Tillipanary had done. She had gone to Hytheworde and told him the lie.
She had told Hytheworde that she no longer needed his protection. And
she had done it publicly in Hytheworde's offices. Hytheworde was
weakened. Many merchants were going to slip out of his fingers and
become independent. Some of his men would leave. But that would also
mean a fight. Hytheworde would be coming for Baska and his boss. Baska's
problem was, he did not actually have a boss.
Then a messenger arrived from Darrin. He and a partner wanted to
remove Hytheworde, and wanted Baska's help. Darrin would then declare a
truce between the two gangs, and prevent hostilities. Baska agreed. He
knew it was a trap. Darrin had wanted him dead for the better part of a
sennight; he wasn't about to let that go. The question was, at what
point would Darrin spring it?

***

The wind whipped the cold spray of the ocean inward, covering
Baska�s cloak and soaking into his neck. Baska stood on the dock near
the edge of the water and listened to the surf as he scanned the route
that led from the dock up to the northern-most part of the outer wall
protecting the Old City. The path itself was treacherous in winter, its
rocks and stones covered in ice, and poorly lit, as late-night ferries
were few and dangerous trips. His only four men were spread out and
hiding in the brush and boulders. This part of the Old City would be
poorly patrolled, as no one ought to be here. While he waited, he
contemplated the possibility of Darrin betraying Hytheworde, but it was
unlikely. Instead, Darrin probably had two or three men with him, and
they would hope to surprise him. Baska hoped his four compatriots could
turn the tables.
Baska barely made out the movement of two men as they approached
from the outer wall. In the darkness, they were difficult to spot, but
as they neared, they became clearer. Darrin held a lamp aloft with one
hand, while he dragged along a tall man with a sack over his head. Baska
shook his head -- that body looked nothing like Hytheworde's. Then Baska
saw his four men converging from the outside, approaching Darrin slowly
and quietly. "Not yet," he thought to himself. "Not yet. He hasn't shown
his own men. They'll be able to surprise us." But his men kept creeping
down closer to Darrin as he walked along. By the time Darrin got to the
waterfront, it occurred to Baska: this was the trap.
Darrin pulled the man to a stop at the edge of the dock, and placed
the lantern on the ground. Baska heard the man whimpering and crying
beneath the hood, but his eyes were tracking the men he had brought with
him. Instead of surrounding Darrin, they were surrounding Baska.
"You are such a sucker, Baska," Darrin said. "I told you to come
alone. Instead, you brought the four men I sent to infiltrate your
little mob. I know where you come from. I knew you'd trust shadow boys."
Baska nodded. That had been foolish. He had been so desperate for
someone else to be part of his gang that he had spent no time
determining if they were loyal. He moved to draw his dagger, but four
blades were raised before he could complete the action.
Darrin smiled wickedly. "Take his weapon and bind him. Hytheworde
has plans for him."
Fleet came over and removed his dagger. Carlo pulled his hands
behind his back and tied them tight with twine. Baska could feel the
rough edges of the strands scrape against his wrists when he tried to
pull loose. It was no good. He looked at the man with the bag over his
head. "Who's that?"
"Oh, him," said Darrin. "He's a particular pain in Hytheworde's
side." Darrin reached behind the covering the man's head, and tore it
off. Standing in front of them was Gilchrest, and he was gagged. "It's
interesting, really," Darrin said. "He's the reason I caught you
skimming from Hytheworde. And, his very loud complaints are also the
reason Hytheworde's hold on the merchants slipped so dramatically. So,
we're leaving him here." Darrin slowly drew his dagger from it's sheath.
He brought the blade up to Gilchrest's eyes so the man was sure to see
it.
"You will die more quickly than Baska, here," he said to Gilchrest.
"But I don't think you will feel it is quick enough." Darrin put the
blade inside the man's trousers and cut them loose. They dropped to the
ground quietly, exposing his manhood to the night air. "You are going to
bleed for a few bells before you die. In the darkness, no one will see
you. You'll be dead before dawn. I'm told you can feel your life
slipping away with every drop." Darrin placed the cold edge of his blade
against Gilchrest's scrotum. Gilchrest's eyes bolted wide with fear, his
gagged voice trying to plead. Darrin raised his gaze to meet
Gilchrest's, and then shoved his dagger forward.
The muffled scream made little difference this far from the castle,
with the surf in the background. Gilchrest collapsed to the ground.
Baska saw a flood of blood pour out from between the man's legs, and
wondered why it would take bells for him to die. He thought Gilchrest
would surely be dead much sooner.
Darrin tossed his blood-covered blade into the surf. "Let's go," he
said. He picked up the lantern and started walking up the steep hill.
Fleet and Riker followed him. Farouk pushed him from behind, and Carlo
carried up the rear. "Now that he's gone," Darrin continued as he
walked, "we'll drop you with his lordship and head on over to your
place. The boys here tell me you're all he's got. This problem should be
solved by the end of the night, and everything will be back to normal."
Baska forced a laugh. "You have no idea what you're up against." It
was easy for him to sound convincing when he wasn't lying. "You won't
find him there. He's already out of the building."
"Straight?" asked Darrin. He stopped by a large rock and turned to
face Baska.
"Straight," Baska said. He smiled. He spoke with the conviction of
truth. There was no one else at the warehouse, and they would not find
his boss. He held onto that thought, wrapped his mind around it. No
matter what else he said, he needed to remember that truth. Then he
could tell them anything.
"And where would he be, then? I don't suppose you'll tell us that."
Baska needed something unexpected and shocking. He needed to insert
fear. "Hytheworde's place," Baska said.
Darrin laughed loudly. "And what would he be doing there?"
"He works there, of course. He's been in your organization for five
years." Baska paused for a moment to let that idea form in their minds.
"Why do you think he disappeared all of a sudden?"
Even by the dim light of the lamp, Baska could see the question in
Darrin's face. He wasn't sure. "You're lying."
Baska kept his eyes locked with Darrin�s. "I'll be free in a bell,
and you five will be dead. You, Darrin, just because." Baska nodded
toward his guards. "But these four are traitors, and he doesn't like
that at all." Baska looked at Farouk. "He has very special techniques
for traitors."
Darrin turned toward the Old City and began trekking the steep
incline at a faster pace. "Keep moving," he said.
Farouk stepped in close to Baska. "Hang on, he's coming untied,"
Farouk said. Baska felt the bindings at his wrists tug and loosen. When
he felt his dagger being placed in his hands, he smiled. "I'm still your
man," Farouk whispered. "I'm no traitor!" To the rest of the group, he
said, "Let's go."
When the group started moving, Baska sensed Farouk hanging back.
Against the sound of surf and footsteps, he heard a grunt and a muffled
cry, and a body drop to the ground. Riker turned at the sound, and Baska
took that moment to break his bonds. His dagger was in Riker's throat
before he could utter a word, and then Baska and Farouk faced Darrin and
Fleet. Darrin felt for the dagger at his waist, but it was not there. He
looked down, and then over to the water's edge where he had tossed the
bloody blade. "Balls," he muttered.
Fleet looked at Farouk and Baska, both wielding bloody daggers. He
looked at Darrin, who was unarmed. Then he backed up slowly, until he
was behind Darrin. He was uphill from them, but he knew he stood little
chance to take out two armed men. He raised his left foot and placed it
at Darrin's back, and then kicked him toward Baska and Farouk. As Darrin
fell into the two armed men, Fleet sprinted up the hill with all the
speed and dexterity of a shadow boy.
Baska held his knife against Darrin's throat. "Looks like a new
game," he said.

***

"There's another one over here," Lieutenant Darklen called out to
the guards who were scouring the area of the ferry in the Old City.
Captain Koren and Lieutenant Ilona were also in attendance. The murder
rate in Dargon had risen dramatically in the past sennight, and a crime
scene with multiple stabbings required the top officers to be present.
"Koren, Ilona ... you should see this."
The two officers made their way to Darklen's position. He was
standing at the edge of the pier, looking under it. Kalen could sense
Ilona, who was standing next to him, start to shake. "No," she said.
"No."
Under the pier, they could make out the shape of a man's body. His
head lolled to one side, just breaking the surface of the receding tide.
His eyes had bulged out, and his skin was clammy looking. His arms were
tied to the posts, and his mouth was gagged. It was obvious he had been
put there during the night, before the tide rose. Ilona gasped, and
grabbed at her wrists.
"Who is it?" Koren asked.
"Looks like Darrin, one of Hytheworde's hired muscle," Darklen
replied.
"Balls," Koren said. "Hellfire, balls, and damnation." Ilona turned
away from the scene. He knew that she had barely escaped that precise
execution years before. "Three of Hytheworde's men, and his best
merchant, all dead."
Lieutenant Darklen walked up to them, and put his arms around
Ilona. She buried her face in his shoulder. "And there's only one man
that kills men like this. You know it, I know it," he placed a kiss on
Ilona's head, "and she knows it."
Koren muttered another stream of invectives. "I know it," he
agreed. "Liriss is back."

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