Chapter Four
Chapter Four
The squalid section of town was teeming with peasants and filthy animals. Despite the noonday heat, Lord Aldwin pulled his light-season cloak tighter about him. The stench was horrid. His guards led the way, shoving through the mass of people. Aldwin silently cursed the streets for being too narrow to allow his coach passage. Finally, his guards turned down an alley that was, incredibly, even narrower. Gods, Aldwin thought, how does the Watch patrol here? They stopped before a small doorway. The door was missing; in its place hung a faded cloth.
“Are you certain this is the place, Garric?”
“Oh, yes m’lord. Madam Luvena has cured me of several curses. She’s said to be one of the best in the city.”
Aldwin sighed, wondering if he’d taken leave of his senses. Well, he had come this far. “Wait here.”
Beyond the cloth door a narrow hallway led into the dim depths of the building. Small shafts of light penetrated the thatched roof, in need of obvious repair. The hallway turned twice before ending at another doorway—this one curtained with colorful shells, strung like beads.
Despite Aldwin’s best effort to pass through quietly, the shells announced his entrance. He stood within a small room cluttered with the odd paraphernalia of Madam Luvena’s craft. Strangely shaped, stoppered bottles were lined neatly along a small shelf. A large bowl filled with inky liquid sat in the center of a lace-covered table. Aldwin had seen a similar bowl used at the king’s court. Others had claimed to see pictures in the wizard’s bowl. Aldwin strongly suspected those others of too much enjoyment of the king’s fine wines prior to the wizard’s demonstration.
Before he could explore further, a small girl ran into the room through another seashell-strung doorway. She was dressed in a silk blouse and several layers of long, colorful skirts. Aldwin noted that she wore a surprising amount of gold jewelry. Before Aldwin could fashion a question for the child, she was gone, running back the way she had come.
“Mamma, mamma, a lord is here!”
Aldwin sighed. Surely, he thought, all I shall gain here is a lighter purse.
When the shells rattled again, a lovely, dark-haired woman stood in the doorway. She was dressed much like the child. She did not speak, she but leveled her dark eyes at Lord Aldwin.
“Madam Luvena, I presume?” he said.
“Yes, Lord Aldwin, how may I help you?”
Aldwin jumped visibly as she said his name. “I, ah, require your services.”
“Please follow me,” she said, and led him into the next room. It was furnished much like the previous one, except that the shelves in this room were crammed with books. This surprised Aldwin, but bolstered his opinion of Madam Luvena. The books demonstrated her wealth more than her jewelry.
She led him to an uncomfortable looking, high-backed chair and set about making them tea. Aldwin recognized the scent of it and wondered if she intended it for them both. While he drank vallemo occasionally, he did not advertise his use of the mild but illegal spice. Most of his friends who dabbled in such things used moonflower—also illegal, but much stronger and highly addictive.
“Tea, Lord Aldwin?”
“No thank you, I don’t drink vallemo.” He withdrew a cloth from inside his cloak and unwrapped the daggers and rope he had carefully preserved.
Madam Luvena looked at him questioningly. Aldwin’s nervousness eased as it became apparent that there were limits to her knowledge.
“My estate was broken into several days ago,” he said. “The thief conveniently left me these mementos. I would like to know more about this thief. I was told you could help.”
Madam Luvena carefully examined the items. “How many people have handled these?”
“My blacksmith, myself, and now, you.”
“How long ago did this episode occur?”
“Six days.”
Madam Luvena sighed. “This would have been easier if you had brought them sooner.”
“I was out of town.”
“Well, we shall see. It may not be too late. I cannot work with this one,” she said, pointing to the dagger that had killed Aldwin’s servant. “It has recent death upon it.” Using a handkerchief to prevent contact with the dagger, she gave it back to Aldwin.
She produced a black silk cloth that was embroidered with odd markings. She laid the cloth across a low table and then fetched several candles and jars of powders. Aldwin watched with fascination as she prepared the items. The magicians at court had never seemed to take this much effort. Perhaps it was part of her act.
“You must be absolutely silent while I perform the spell.”
Aldwin scowled. I am not a child, madam, he thought, but he refrained from telling her so. Madam Luvena began to chant as she sprinkled the remaining dagger and rope with various powders. She then closed her eyes and began to sway while she chanted and gestured over the table.
Gods, this is trite! Aldwin thought. Does she think this will impress me?
The dagger slowly floated upward to hang a few inches below Madam Luvena’s hands.
Aldwin blinked. It had to be a fake—there must be a thread—but he saw nothing of the sort.
She lowered her hands. The dagger remained floating. Continuing to chant, she cupped her hands, palms up, a few inches beneath the dagger. The dagger floated softly into her hands. She stopped chanting and opened her eyes.
Aldwin let out a held breath. Madam Luvena stared strangely at the dagger. Finally, she spoke.
“Your thief belongs to the Northmarch.”
“What?” Aldwin asked incredulously.
Her dark eyes caught his, but revealed nothing of what she felt within. “You heard me correctly.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. He is an orphan.”
Aldwin snorted. “Do you know how many ‘orphans’ have joined the Northmarch? Half of them, I imagine!”
Her stare became icy. “If that is so, we may thank the Droken for it.”
Aldwin returned the stare. Just how much did she know?
“There is more. But first, we should discuss price. Do you know more now than when you came here?”
“Well, yes, of course.”
“Then I ask you for one thousand korun.”
Aldwin pulled his purse from beneath his cloak.
“And I shall ask you for another thousand if you would hear the last of the information I obtained.”
Aldwin stopped for a moment, scrutinizing the witch and wondering at her arrogance. “Very well,” he said. “I will pay what you ask. What’s the rest of it?”
“Your thief is corryn.”
Aldwin settled back in his seat and considered it. “And he is a Watchaven Northmarcher? Based here? Not in Dynolva?”
“Yes,” she said.
“And he’s a corryn orphan. Do you know how many corryn there are in Watchaven’s Northmarch?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. But I know there are not many. Do you know if this thief was working alone?”
“No … no, I do not know that. Do you think he may have been in your estate on behalf of the Northmarch?”
“Ah no, of course not. That wouldn’t make any sense.” Was the damned witch reading his thoughts? “No, I just wondered if he had other friends who might have been involved.”
“I see. No, I do not know that, I am afraid.”
“Well, I thank you. You are quite correct, the full information is worth two thousand korun.”
He laid the bagged coins on the edge of the table.
Madam Luvena bowed her head toward him in thanks, and then rose to show him out.
After he had gone, she returned to the table. Aldwin had left the thief’s belongings behind without a single thought as to their disposal. Madam Luvena picked up the dagger and slowly turned it over in her hand.
* * *
Twenty days had passed since Morticai’s assault on Aldwin’s tower. Due to his confinement, and his patrol and gate duties, only three of those days had been off-duty time. He had followed Lord Valdir during those three days, but he’d discovered nothing more than where Valdir’s mistress lived.
He had decided to follow Aldwin tonight, but so far, that had proven equally boring. Morticai’s attention drifted from his thoughts of Aldwin to the more interesting distraction offered by the buxom young woman who was taking drink orders. She glanced his direction, and he automatically smiled. She returned the smile and began drifting his way. He blinked and straightened in the booth. He hadn’t really wanted to talk with her just now.
Sir Ellenwood walked through the door, stealing Aldwin’s attention, which had also been on the young lass’s sweet form.
Morticai sighed with relief.
“Get ya somethin’, darlin’?” she asked.
“’Fraid not, hon.” he said. I’ve already had enough.” Morticai watched as Aldwin got up and began moving toward the door.
“Ah, surely you’d like more than jus’ a couple o’ brandies?” She smiled seductively, but Morticai wasn’t watching.
Ellenwood passed Aldwin without so much as a nod of recognition. Morticai wouldn’t be able to slip out behind Aldwin without causing a scene with the barmaid. A brawny sailor threw some coins on the bar, drained his glass, and shouldered his way out the door. Ellenwood sat down in the booth Aldwin had vacated.
“Well, darlin?”
Morticai settled back on the bench. “Maybe you could bring me another brandy. Thanks.”
She scowled at him briefly. “If that’s all ya want, then that’s all you’ll get!”
Morticai looked up, but she was already heading to the bar. Had he missed something?
His attention drifted back to Ellenwood. He watched with increasing fascination as Sir Ellenwood slid his hand along the edge of the bench. Ellenwood was attempting to be discrete, but to Morticai, trained in sleight of hand, it was as obvious as if he had gotten on his knees and looked beneath the bench. Ellenwood retrieved a paper and slipped it inside his cloak. Then, without even ordering a drink, he rose and moved toward the door.
Sorry, Hon, Morticai thought in silent farewell to the barmaid, but I’m playin’ a different game tonight. He left a korun on the table and followed Ellenwood into the street.
* * *
Ellenwood traveled north from Black Horse Tavern, crossing Mainway into an area of the city filled with small shops. Morticai knew that Ellenwood wasn’t heading home because his estate lay to the northwest. Of course, the fact that he wasn’t traveling by coach was, in itself, unusual.
He eventually crossed Shipwright’s Road, and then he surprised Morticai by turning east, toward the docks. The dockside of the city was extremely dangerous at night—not an area a lone nobleman would wish to frequent.
Ellenwood soon stopped, however, and reversed his fine cloak. Morticai smiled in sudden understanding. The liner of Ellenwood’s cloak looked like the kind of coarse woolen cloak any dockworker would be proud of. Unfortunately, that put Morticai at a disadvantage. He had dressed well, expecting to follow Lord Aldwin to his usual haunts.
Ellenwood continued east for about a mile and then turned north again. If he continued, he would soon be in the poorest section of Watchaven. The area was riddled with long alleys that would make the nobleman easy to follow, but it also contained some of the city’s roughest gangs. Several blocks later, Ellenwood came to one of the area’s ‘major’ intersections. He crossed it diagonally and continued on. Not wishing to attract additional attention, Morticai stayed next to the buildings.
Three young humans suddenly stepped out from a nearby doorway, directly into Morticai’s path. They blocked him deliberately, with their knives drawn. The Northmarcher automatically fell into a fighting stance. His new dagger appeared in his left hand, a throwing knife in his right. The three toughs looked at each other with raised eyebrows.
“What’s this, a knife-fighting noble?” the tallest of the group asked.
“Ya’ gotta’ be kiddin’,” another replied.
“Hey, he’s a corryn knife-fightin’ noble!” the third added, laughing.
Morticai edged closer to the wall and said nothing. He could probably take them, but that would mean losing Ellenwood. The rest of the street was empty, save for a beggar who watched, rather intently, Morticai thought, from across the street.
“You speak human, corryn?” one of the gang said with a sneer.
“We got sharp claws, y’know,” the tall one said, gesturing to his blade. “Why don’t you jus’ make this easy and give us your purse, uh?” When Morticai did not reply, the youth repeated his threat in extremely poor corryn.
Morticai considered his best route out of the situation—if he targeted the tall one and caught him off balance before they moved in he might be able to slip back a few feet, then …
He heard footsteps behind him. Morticai glanced behind to see four more gang members moving up to block his retreat. He knew that he was in trouble.
“Hey, Mika, we spotted him first!” one of the new group called.
“Yeah, but we stopped him,” the tall one retorted.
“Split with us.”
“We’ll talk about it when we’re finished.”
“I’ll wager!”
The beggar still watched, even more intently, as Morticai’s slim chance to escape evaporated. The beggar reached up casually into the shadow of his ragged hood and made a motion. Perhaps he’d just scratched his nose—or perhaps not. One way or another, there was simply no room for Morticai to run. Slowly, Morticai reached out his right hand and dropped his throwing dagger. While the three men in front of him watched it fall in surprise, Morticai quickly gave the beggar a certain hand signal.
The men reflexively jumped back about a foot at the sudden hand sign. The signal was used exclusively by members of the Arluthian Brotherhood, a secret society that was feared by all the street gangs. Although Morticai was a member of that elite group, he hadn’t intended to involve them in his current investigation of the Droken. With Sir Dualas already involved, the risk of exposing Arluthian secrets was too high—and the penalties for revealing such secrets were not to be taken lightly.
The gang members stared at each other, wondering if the hand sign had been a bluff. The beggar straightened and immediately whistled a loud, long whistle. A street urchin ran out of a nearby alley. The beggar repeated the hand sign to the urchin and pointed at Morticai. Although he’d not known the beggar, Morticai recognized the boy as Tagger, one of the many children of the streets with whom he maintained casual contact. Tagger stared at Morticai open-mouthed; Morticai smiled and shrugged. The boy turned and ran like the wind was at his heels.
Cursing, the leader of the group before Morticai spat at his feet.
“That’s what I think of you and your ‘Brotherhood’, Arluthian!”
Morticai smiled. “Ya gotta’ watch out for us corryn nobles,” he replied, speaking the human tongue in the dialect of the streets.
The tall one glared at him and snarled more curses before both groups turned and ran. Now that all doubt had been removed, the gang members knew that if they spilled even one drop of Morticai’s blood, they would repay the Arluthians with every last drop of their own.
Morticai retrieved his dagger and quickly crossed to the beggar. He was lucky the beggar was an Arluthian—not many beggars were.
“I owe you my life, brother. Be at the next meeting and I shall gratefully repay you,” Morticai told him.
“Perhaps. Even if you don’t have the opportunity, you’ll remember me. Now, catch up to your friend,” he motioned in the direction Ellenwood had gone. “And tell him to change his shoes the next time he comes to this side of town.”
Morticai waved a goodbye to the beggar and ran after Ellenwood. At last he spied the nobleman ahead of him. Fortune was with him—he encountered no other gangs, and Ellenwood did skirt the worst section of town, which was known as the Snake Pit. Even Morticai was thankful he’d not entered that section of the city. Not long after passing the edges of the Pit, the nobleman came to the Cobblesend Pub. Without pausing, Ellenwood entered the low-class establishment.
Morticai almost laughed aloud at the irony of it. If he walked in wearing his current attire, he’d not only draw Ellenwood’s attention but that of every cutthroat in the place. If he were dressed in his usual street clothes, the Pub’s patrons would hail him as a friend, and that would also draw Ellenwood’s attention. This maze of narrow alleys and abandoned buildings had once been Morticai’s side of town, his place of refuge.
It was an impossible situation—but Morticai was not one to give up easily.
* * *
“Kithryl, open up,” Morticai whispered.
Nothing. He rapped again, lightly. “Kithryl, come on, open up.”
“Who’s there?”
“Dyluth.”
The kitchen door of the Cobblesend opened a crack.
“Dyluth? Truly?”
“Yes, now let me in!”
“Dyluth!” A corryn woman opened the door. She had black hair and pale violet eyes, and she wore a peasant’s apron over her drab frock, but her beauty still took Morticai’s breath away. She hugged him, hard, even before he’d made it all the way inside.
“Dyluth, I thought you had died! I considered going to Northgate and asking after you, but all I could remember was your street name.”
“I’m called Morticai in the Northmarch—don’t laugh now!”
She had already begun to snicker. “And I thought ‘Dyluth, Lord of Shadows’, was silly.”
Morticai looked down, embarrassed.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Dyluth! I didn’t mean it that way. I remember Dyluth was a very good name at the time—but Morticai’s a human name! Why don’t they call you by your birth name, Moranekor?”
“It’s a long story,” he mumbled.
“All right, I understand. You can tell me some other time. Why haven’t you come by?”
Morticai shrugged, “I … guess I’ve been busy.” Morticai sighed. “Look, Kithryl, I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized it had been this long. But, I’m doing something kinda’ important right now, and I need your help.”
She frowned. “Are you in trouble?”
“No, I’m not in trouble! I’m following someone, but I didn’t think he’d come this way—as you can see.” He gestured to his clothes. “May I borrow a cloak so I can sit in the Pub without being noticed?”
“Well … I suppose so. Is this dangerous?”
Morticai shrugged again. “I don’t know. Maybe.” He gave her his most innocent smile.
Kithryl shook her head. “Some things never change, do they?” she said as she fetched him a cloak.
* * *
The pub was crowded. Morticai stayed close to the wall as he worked his way to a booth. Ellenwood was already engaged in conversation with another cloaked figure. A few patrons wore their hoods thrown back, but most, such as Ellenwood and his companion, did not. At this time of year, it would have been thought odd anywhere else in the city. Here, however, the desire for anonymity often ran deeper than the desire for comfort.
Morticai also kept his hood up.
As though the conversation in the kitchen had never occurred, Kithryl came and took Morticai’s order. She went to the bar and spoke with her husband, Breslen. He glanced toward Morticai and gave brief nod. Ellenwood couldn’t have led him to a better place. Where else would he have enjoyed such cooperation?
He turned his attention back to Ellenwood and concentrated on reading the man’s lips, but that was a skill he had never fully mastered. He could make out only a few words; they seemed to echo some of what was in the messages he had stolen. He could distinguish Dynolva, Watchaven, and finally, Trade Council. At least they were discussing something other than invitations to the Grand Ball.
Kithryl returned with his drink and nearly jumped when Morticai paid her with a royal—the drink was worth only a few ferdhyn. Morticai’s winked to let her know that he’d refuse any change. It was the least he could do for someone who had harbored him and helped him through some of his darkest times. She shook her head and pocketed the coin—it would easily pay the rent on the pub for several months.
He turned back to watching Ellenwood, but the conversation had apparently shifted in the other direction, with Ellenwood listening. Morticai wondered who Ellenwood’s companion might be. By the breadth of the other’s shoulders, he believed it was a man, but he was too tall to be Lord Valdir. No, he must be yet another player.
Ellenwood finished his drink and rose. Morticai had to decide which of the two he would follow, and it was the stranger who currently intrigued him. Morticai remained, sipping his drink, as Ellenwood left the pub.
Shortly after Ellenwood left, the stranger rose to leave. He was tall, and he moved with a fluid grace. Morticai suspected he was corryn, but then, neither height nor grace was necessarily an indicator. Morticai’s own height served as a prime example that it couldn’t be trusted.
Of course, as he followed Ellenwood’s mysterious companion, Morticai’s height, along with his borrowed cloak, made him indistinguishable from the inhabitants of the area. Despite the hour, the streets were still crowded with Watchaven’s restless poor, and they were, almost without exception, humans.
The stranger traveled southwest, directly toward Shipwright’s Road. After he’d walked about a mile, he turned down an alley. Morticai immediately ducked into one himself. He felt certain he had not been spotted, but the route the stranger had taken led into a dead end—the perfect place for an ambush. Morticai loosened his sword in its scabbard and checked his daggers, making certain they were still positioned under the tailored slits in his only remaining Tradelenor shirt.
Suddenly, a coach came clattering out of the dead end. Morticai froze as it wheeled past and traveled toward the main road. Morticai ran down an alley, jumped a low wall, ran down another alley and finally stopped, listening for the clippety-clop of the horses’ hooves. It had been years since he’d tried to follow a coach on foot, but the twisting streets gave him a chance. Few streets here were wide enough for a coach.
He could hear the hoof beats, which came from a little north of his own location, and he could visualize the route the driver would need to take if he were heading for Shipwright’s Road. He set out at a run again, down another alley, then across a narrow street that led to the main road. It was the street Morticai figured the driver would take, but there was no place along it to conceal himself. He gambled that the driver would turn right, toward Northgate. He crossed the main road and started north.
As he expected, the coach emerged and turned right onto Shipwright. He’d gambled that if Ellenwood’s companion had enough money to hire a coach, he would most likely return to the wealthy section of town. The quickest way there would be to travel northwest, then take the tight turn in front of Northgate, and travel due south on Northgate Road.
The coach was traveling at a normal pace, and Morticai knew he would have a chance of catching it as it made the turn in front of Northgate. He hadn’t seen any coachmen when it had first wheeled past him. It had been years since he’d hopped a coach; he hoped he still could.
He made it to the turn a few seconds before the coach. He stopped, panting, and hoped the Northmarchers guarding the gate were busy, that Kirwin was not out taking some evening air. He didn’t have long to worry about it. The coach approached the corner, slowing for the turn, and it slowed even more as it entered the three-way intersection. Morticai ran from the shadows toward the rear of the coach.
Catching the back of the coach was easy, although Morticai worried about the jerk he caused as his weight settled onto it. He’d been much lighter when he’d last done this. As expected, the coach took the tight turn down Northgate Road. Morticai allowed himself a brief glance back. No Northmarchers chased after the coach to inform the driver of an unwanted passenger.
He had time to catch his breath as the coach traveled toward the center of the city. Obviously, the coach’s passenger was, like Ellenwood, affluent. Why had they chosen the Cobblesend for their meeting? What was so crucial, so secret, that they had to go into Watchaven’s roughest area to meet? More to the immediate point, just how close to the palace was the damned coach going?
The coach had almost reached Royal Way. Morticai considered whether he should hang on or jump off. He had just decided to jump when it turned right and began to slow. He disembarked and moved quickly into the shadows at the side of the road.
He was shocked when he realized his exact location. He stood only one block north of the palace itself on the street that carried the nickname “Accent Alley”, this because the street contained the estates of the ambassadors who represented the other city-states and kingdoms of the Confederacy.
The coach entered the large, circular drive that led to the Dynolvan Embassy. Morticai moved cautiously closer. It was risky, but now his curiosity was afire—he had to see who was riding inside that coach. The coach stopped; servants ran out to greet it.
The door opened and a tall, elegantly dressed corryn stepped down from the coach. He had silky white hair, worn long in a nobleman’s braid. Morticai knew that he’d seen the man several times, from a distance knew that he’d heard his name.
Then it came to him. Lord Danvek! That was it! Lord Danvek—the Dynolvan ambassador to Watchaven.