Chapter Five
Chapter Five
Lord Aldwin sampled the appetizers his chief butler had just brought to the library. “Thank you, Hadley,” he said. “You may leave now.”
Lord Valdir nervously brushed his long, brown curls away from his eyes and assaulted the appetizers. “You know,” he suggested, “you would have better luck with your hawks if you varied their diet.”
As Valdir picked and plucked the appetizers from the tray, popped them into his mouth, and chewed them with obvious gusto, Aldwin noted the man’s similarity to his beloved hawks. Not only did he have sharp, birdlike features and a beaky nose, but he also matched his pets in the greedy ferocity with which he attacked his food.
Aldwin waved a hand. “I have heard varying opinions on that subject.”
The butler left the room, closing the door behind him.
“Well, now that that’s out of the way,” Ellenwood said, “shall we get back to the more pressing business at hand?” Sir Ellenwood was older than either Aldwin or Valdir, and he was more conservative in dress and manner. He kept his straight black hair short for a nobleman; it barely touched his collar. His dark eyes were serious, his rare smiles humorless.
“Yes,” Aldwin agreed. “As I was saying, Helgorn merchants are already in the city, spreading their lies. I tell you, every kingdom in the Confederacy will be ruled by the merchants if we don’t stop it now!”
“That is why we are here,” Ellenwood replied. “Once the Droken control the northern kingdoms, the other kings will recognize that only by joining with us can they save their own kingdoms from the fate which has befallen Helgorn.”
Valdir stopped stuffing himself and looked up. “Surely you don’t think the other kingdoms will join us, do you, Sir Ellenwood?”
Aldwin glanced toward the ceiling as Ellenwood took a sip of his drink. Ellenwood set his drink down, stood up, and began to pace, slowly, before the fireplace.
“My dear Lord Valdir,” Ellenwood said, “you must try to understand what we are about, and why, for your own good. We must not fall as Helgorn has fallen! You know what happened. The merchants slowly amassed great wealth, by which they gained more and more power—since money is power—until they were able to overthrow the king. They forced him to sign that damnable Accord that abolished the nobility in his kingdom, and, in its place, established the Council of Merchants. Now, if we do not keep tight control over the merchants in our own kingdom, the same will happen to us.” Ellenwood stopped pacing and stared, hard, at Valdir.
Valdir swallowed and nodded.
“In addition to the merchant problem, we have our own agenda. Most of our people have been forced to live outside the Confederacy, in distant Cuthaun. They lead a most pitiful existence there. Because of the weak soil—not to mention the hideous weather—they can barely grow enough food to stave off starvation. Also, of course, we most fervently desire the opportunity for all Droken to stand up, without fear, and proclaim our love for the Dark Father. But how can we do this? We certainly cannot accomplish this as long as the Faithful have control of the kingdoms—can we?”
“Of course not,” Valdir replied.
Aldwin sneered inwardly. While Valdir was not a complete simpleton, he seemed ignorant of the fact that Ellenwood was lecturing him as if he were a child.
Ellenwood continued. “Thus, the first step to gaining our own freedom is to take control of the northern kingdoms—to give our people a safe place to settle and live, and to establish strongholds from which we may launch our blessed war against the other kingdoms. And this, Lord Valdir, is where the merchants come back into play.”
Valdir looked puzzled.
“You see, Valdir,” Ellenwood said, “the best way for us to accomplish both goals—that of saving the kingdom from the merchants and securing it as a sanctuary for our Droken brethren—is for us to use the trade issue between Watchaven and Dynolva to bring the two kingdoms into open conflict. This is the perfect solution for us. It will occupy the merchants in a disastrous competition with other merchants and prevent them from forcing the kingdoms to accept their anti-noble “reform” agenda. A trade war and the resulting economic disruption will win them nothing but disfavor. The citizens already complain about the high cost of good tea, wine, and other goods, and they blame everyone for the problem—the merchants, the nobility, and even the king. And the merchants, who think with their purses, consider the tariffs to be a threat to their profits. They will push the two kingdoms into war!”
Ellenwood paused, raised a glass of wine to his lips, and drank. “And let us imagine that it does lead to war,” he said. “That will further anger the populace against our current leaders, this because those leaders will have proven themselves to be ineffective in controlling the situation. If, at that crucial point, we Droken move in to stop the war, and if we set up our own, more efficient structure, the citizens will be grateful to us. So grateful, in fact, that the Faithful will be discredited. The people will turn to us, and to our Dark Father—and we should therefore be able to maintain our hold over them without having to kill too many of them. In their eyes, we will be the heroes who saved them from the greed and incompetence of the merchants, the kings, and the Faith. Now do you understand?”
“So that’s why we are stirring up the merchants!” Valdir replied, his face lighting up with a new understanding.
Aldwin suppressed a groan. “As I was about to relate,” he said in an attempt to reclaim control over the meeting, “the High Priest is very pleased with how well things have gone so far. He even remarked that our plan appears to be on schedule.”
“Well, I suppose that is good,” Valdir remarked, sighing. “I still wish they would let us know a little more about who is helping us. I was so afraid that we would not be able to secure the backing we needed in Dynolva. Have they told you who from Dynolva has joined us in this? My curiosity has been driving me mad.”
“No,” Aldwin admitted, “they have not said.”
“I am certain they will tell us as soon as it is safe to do so,” Ellenwood said.
“Nonetheless,” Aldwin interjected, “things apparently are on schedule, and that can only be for the good. Now, we have already covered the agenda for the next Trade Council meeting. Is there any question on how we are voting? None? Good. As I mentioned before, we must be prepared for the onslaught of questions and protests this will bring from the merchants. Thus far, they have seen us as acting in their best interests. We are simply responding to the ‘unrealistic demands’ the corryn are placing upon us, as Lord Orrick so aptly stated at the last meeting.”
“Yes,” Valdir said, rather smugly. “He has been one of our strongest allies, hasn’t he? He would absolutely die if he knew he was supporting the Droken.”
“True,” Aldwin agreed. However, as I was saying about the merchants, we must be prepared for anything. They are near the breaking point. The Helgorn merchants will undoubtedly stir them further, to our benefit. We must make certain they continue to see the Trade Council as working in their interest. The nobility have accepted the tariffs rather well, considering the negative effect they will have on their purses.”
“We can be thankful Dynolva is a corryn kingdom,” Valdir said. “I do not believe our nobles would be so cooperative if we were cutting the throat of another human kingdom.”
“You are probably quite correct,” Ellenwood agreed. “Well, are we finished then? I must be leaving.”
“What?” Valdir asked. “Are you not interested in hearing about Lord Aldwin’s burglar? I couldn’t wait for us to finish with business so he could tell us about it!”
“Well, as point of fact,” Aldwin replied, “we are not quite done with business. It seems that a little information has come from—shall we say, ‘higher up’—concerning my burglar. I now know that he is a both an orphan and a member of Watchaven’s Northmarch.”
Valdir and Ellenwood exchanged startled glances.
“You do not know his name?” Ellenwood asked.
“Not yet. There is one more bit of information I have been given, however, that should help us locate the fellow—he is corryn.”
“Are you serious?” Valdir asked. “Gods, how do they find these things out? That is incredible!”
“Yes, one wonders,” Ellenwood said.
“Yes,” Aldwin replied, chuckling. “We all know how effective the Droken are—after all, look at us!”
“Quite,” Valdir agreed.
“Of course,” Aldwin said, “you must pass this information to your own cells and have it passed down the rest of the chain. By the time it has reached the bottom, surely someone will be able to give us a name.”
“Absolutely!” Valdir replied. “My own cell shall be meeting quite soon. Shall we place a bet as to which of us can supply Aldwin with the name of his burglar first, Ellenwood?”
Ellenwood gave Valdir one of his cold, mirthless little smiles. “I suppose I should take you up on this one, Lord Valdir—but, as you know, I do not gamble.”
* * *
A block away, the burglar in question waited impatiently for Ellenwood’s coach to leave Aldwin’s estate. In the distance, Grandhaven Sanctorium chimed the half hour.
“That’ll be another korun, mate,” the hack said.
“Okay, Okay,” Morticai replied.
Morticai sat beside the coachman on the driver’s seat of a rented coach. Grudgingly, he gave the coachman another korun. Ellenwood had best hurry—this was expensive!
Following the Droken noblemen had become increasingly difficult. Aldwin and Valdir tended to frequent the same places, which made guessing their stops easy, but they also seemed to do nothing of interest. Ellenwood and Danvek were much more interesting to follow, but they were extremely random in both their haunts and their transportation.
He had toyed with the idea of following Ellenwood on his patrol horse, until he realized how obvious a lone horseman would be. Sir Dualas had suggested hiring the coach. Perhaps Dualas should come along and pay for it!
“Dyluth!”
Morticai jumped and checked his left hand, which was halfway to his dagger.
“Blessed Benek,” the coachman said, “what was that!”
Morticai peered over the edge of the coach. The street around them—in fact, the entire alley—looked deserted.
“It’s a friend of mine,” Morticai said. “I’ll be right back.” He quietly lowered himself to the ground.
“Tagger?” he whispered. He’d recognized the boy’s voice and knew where he had to be hiding. A moment later, the urchin’s shaggy mop of hair, followed by his dirty but grinning face, appeared from under the coach,.
“Did I scare the old geezer?” Tagger whispered.
“I think so,” Morticai replied. “But if you’d clean your ears out, you’d realize you’re whispering too loudly.”
“Aw, Dyluth.”
“Aw, nothin’.” Morticai sat down. “So, what’cha need?”
The boy crawled over and sat beside him. “Well, I was jus’ wonderin’ what was goin’ on. You’ve been runnin’ all over town after those frilly shirts.”
Morticai’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been followin’ me?”
Tagger’s eyes widened in feigned innocence. “N’uh. I-I mean, not til t’night.”
Morticai smiled. “And what about the others?”
“What others?”
“C’mon, Tagger,” Morticai said, letting just a bit of threat creep into his voice. “You know exactly what I mean.”
Tagger chewed on his lower lip. “After I told ’em what happened, some of ’em have been keepin’ an eye on ya’.”
“Who?”
Tagger shrugged. “Slip, Tubby, Nailer, Boskens. A few others, maybe.”
Morticai released a heavy sigh. “Tagger, you’ve gotta’ stop followin’ me.”
“But y’might get hurt!”
“I’m a lot more apt to get hurt if I’ve gotta’ keep an eye out for you and your friends!”
“Then it is dangerous!”
Morticai grinned. “You’re just afraid you won’t have me around as an easy touch.”
Tagger looked hurt. “That’s not true.”
“I know,” Morticai replied, still smiling, but then he grew serious, “Look, Tagger, I know that y’mean well … but, well, this could get dangerous, possibly very dangerous. I can take care of myself pretty well, but it could be a problem if I have to defend myself and you or one of the others.”
“Yer not gonna’ tell me what yer doin’, are ya?”
“No, I’m not. Let’s just say … this is special Northmarch business, and I could get in trouble if I told you ’bout it,” he lied.
“Alright …” Tagger replied, more than a little bit sullenly.
“And you’ll tell the others to stop following me?”
“Yeah, I’ll tell ’em.”
“And if they keep followin’ me, I’ll round up the whole bunch of you an’ take you to the orphanage.”
Tagger’s eyes filled with fear. “You wouldn’t!”
“Of course not. But if y’keep followin’ me, I may think about it. Understood?”
“Yeah.”
“Here.” Morticai dug into his boot pocket and pulled out a korun. “You fetch the others that’ve been followin’ me an’ go buy some food.” He shook his finger at Tagger. “And if I hear that you didn’t—”
“I know,” Tagger replied.
“One more thing,” Morticai said. Tagger, who’d already started getting up, sighed and sat back down. “Do y’know what they call me in the Northmarch?”
“Yeah. Uh … Morticai, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. When you see me with strangers, you use that name instead of Dyluth—all right?”
Tagger looked confused. “They don’t know yer Dyluth?”
“Some of them do. But some of them don’t, and I’d just as soon keep it that way.”
Tagger nodded knowingly. “All right. An’ I’ll tell that t’ the others, too.”
“Good. Now, be off with ya’.”
Tagger grinned and ran down the alley. Shaking his head, Morticai climbed back onto the coach.
The coachman eyed him suspiciously.
“Anythin’?” Morticai asked him.
The coachman shook his head. “Not yet, mate.”
* * *
A few minutes later, Ellenwood’s simple but elegant coach emerged from Aldwin’s estate and traveled the few blocks to Dynolva Way. As the coach turned east onto the main thoroughfare, Morticai’s hired coach pulled out of the alley. Wheeled traffic was light, but there were enough coaches in the street that Morticai’s hired coach wasn’t too obvious. They stayed at a comfortable distance, following the glow of the lamps on Ellenwood’s coach.
“I think he’s goin’ t’ the docks, mate.”
“Then I guess we will too,” Morticai said.
The hack threw him another suspicious glance, but he continued driving. Morticai hoped the coachman would keep his tongue still after tonight. Of course, the remaining royal he had in his pocket should help. The coach turned northwest onto Shipwright’s Road.
“Ah … mate,” the hack said, “y’ didn’ say anythin’ ’bout us travelin’ t’ the nor’east side o’ town. Y’know, many a man has got his throat slit up that way.”
“Well,” Morticai said, pulling out the royal, “would this maybe make it worth the risk?”
The hack looked at Morticai in surprise. “You’re a might’ bit serious ’bout this, aren’t ya?”
“’Fraid so.”
“This mus’ be pretty important, eh?”
“Is to me.”
“A’right, mate. You’re on.”
They had just reached the turn. As they made it, Ellenwood’s coach turned off the main road.
“Did you see him?” Morticai said. “He turned north!”
“Wha’? Where? I was busy with m’ team.”
“Slow down. I think it was … here. This is it! See him?”
“Aye. Let’s take it easy here.” The hack slowed his team to a lazy walk and turned to Morticai. “If you’re truly serious, mate, I sugges’ y’blow our lamps.” He gestured to their own burning coach lamps. “Can ya get ’em while we’re moving?”
Morticai smiled and scrambled over the topside of the coach. He returned quickly. The hack picked up their speed and turned down the darkened street.
“Didn’ think you’d find that a problem,” the hack said. “We’ll still need t’ be careful, though, or he’ll hear us.”
“We shouldn’t need to get that close as long as we can see when he stops.”
“You’re the one with the corryn eyes, mate. That’ll be yer job.” After a couple of miles, the driver pulled his team to a halt. “Y’see where he’s headin’?”
Morticai sighed. He could see very well where Ellenwood was heading—straight for the Snake Pit. For a third time, Ellenwood was leading him into the worst section of the city. The infamous area had once been the palace district, but the palace had been relocated centuries ago, after a hurricane had ravaged the area. The shipping companies had built warehouses in the cleared area, then abandoned them when the new south docks opened. The city’s poor had moved in and had rebuilt the area countless times, breaking up the decrepit remains of the old warehouses into a trackless, tangled maze of shacks and warrens, snaking alleys and narrow streets.
Nowadays, even the poor didn’t want to live there. The gangs ruled, each gang fiercely defending its tiny fiefdoms. The Watch rarely entered the Pit, even by daylight, and then only in force.
Morticai dug along the top of his boot and produced another royal.
“Would this be enough?”
The hack considered it. “Y’know m’coach can’t travel those narrow streets—if I was crazy ’nough t’ want t’ travel ’em.”
“I’m not asking you to—his coach can’t either.”
“Ahh … a’right, mate.” The hack cautiously accepted the coin and continued on. Finally, Ellenwood’s coach stopped.
“That’s it!” Morticai said. “He’s stopped.”
“What now, mate?”
Morticai shrugged. “Well, I guess we part company.”
“Are y’daft, man? Y’don’t really want me t’ let y’off here, do ya?”
“Well, actually I’d like you to wait. But I don’t think I have enough left in my purse to make it worth your while.”
The hack strained to look at him in the darkness. “Y’seem like a nice ’nough chap, for a corryn. Can’t figure what you’re doin’ followin’ this noble. Course, I can’t figure what a nobleman’s doin’ on this side o’ town. Tell y’what, I’ll wait for ya—but not too long. If I think trouble is headed m’ way, I’ll leave. But, if things stay quiet like they are now, I’ll stay as long as I can. Can ya handle that thing?” He pointed to Morticai’s rapier.
“Had plenty of practice.”
“Somehow that don’t surprise me. Don’t forget how.”
Morticai grinned and quickly climbed to the ground. “Thanks.” He grabbed his old cloak from inside the coach and raced towards Ellenwood’s coach.
Two blocks from his quarry, Morticai turned into an alley, took his first right, and then cut back to the street the coaches had parked on. As he’d expected, Ellenwood had disembarked from his coach and was now on foot, once again wearing his tatty cloak for disguise.
Morticai cautiously followed. A scrawny cat purred and followed him, briefly, before it decided that he had no food to offer. Further on, a rat—nearly as large as the cat—sauntered leisurely out of his path. As a boy, he’d made a game of using such rats for knife practice. Once, one had run off with his best throwing knife embedded in it.
He traveled another block north before Ellenwood turned left.
“Pssst.”
Morticai jumped and swung leftward, dagger ready, his hand to his sword hilt.
“Gettin’ jumpy in your old age, Dyluth?” The question was spoken in corryn.
Morticai relaxed.
“That’s a good way to get cut, Calsen,” he replied, also speaking in corryn.
The man standing in the doorway laughed softly. A human would have seen only a shadowy form standing in the darkness, but Morticai’s eyes could still make out most of Calsen’s features. Calsen’s shoulder-length black hair was pulled back, but the shadow cast by his tattered, wide-brimmed black hat effectively hid his corryn ears.
“Come on,” Morticai said as he re-sheathed his dagger and ran down the street to catch Ellenwood. Calsen followed. Another stray cat dashed madly out of their way.
“What’cha doin’ here? I haven’t seen you on this side of town in years.”
“I’m following someone.”
“No wonder you’re in a hurry. Anyone I know?”
“I doubt it. He’s a nobleman.”
“What? A nob, here?”
“Yep.”
“Good gods, is he insane?”
“Shhh! There he is—slow down.”
Ellenwood had already passed several side alleys, but he continued to follow the ‘main’ alley as it bent rightward. A figure ducked back into a nearby doorway and was gone by the time the two corryn passed the same door.
“I followed him to the Cobblesend one night,” Morticai said. “He doesn’t seem to have any problems. Have you seen him before?”
“No. Decent disguise. He ought to change his shoes, though”
Morticai laughed. “You’re not the first to make that observation.”
“No one bothers him? That’s odd. But he certainly seems to know where he’s going.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
Ellenwood had turned off into a side passage and was negotiating a series of jogs in the tangled web of alleys.
“Someone hire you to follow him?”
“Yeah, his last mistress,” Morticai lied.
“Good money in that?”
“You’d have to ask her.”
“Nice t’see you haven’t changed,” Calsen said, chuckling. “You still in the Northmarch?”
“Yeah. How about you?”
“Oh, a little of this, a little of that. I’ve been workin’ the docks kinda regular, here of late.”
“Really? That’s good to hear.”
“You still tryin’ to talk all your old friends into honest jobs, uh?”
“No, I gave up. Of course, a lot of them have died.”
The faint sound of singing drifted toward them, but the echoes from the old stone walls made it impossible to tell where it came from. The cobblestones became scarce as the deteriorating pavement quickly turned into dirt.
“Yeah, I know,” Calsen admitted. “That’s why I’m workin’ the docks now. It’s safer. How come you never come around anymore?”
“Most of the time the Northmarch has me. I get off three days out of ten. As you’ve mentioned, this isn’t the safest side of town. After seven days of duty I’d rather have three days when I don’t have to worry about whether my sword is in reach.”
“Like now,” Calsen said with a smirk. “You ever see Heather?”
“Oh, yeah. She still gets me invitations to some of the better parties.”
“She still Lord Ullock’s mistress?”
“No, she’s with Lord Jendall now.”
Calsen studied Morticai closely. “That’s too bad. I always thought, y’know, you two would maybe get matched.”
Morticai shrugged. His long running, on-again-off-again affair with the silver-tressed corryn courtesan had become an item of common gossip among his old friends. He’d long tired of their meddling attempts to keep them together.
“I don’t know that we were ever meant to match,” he answered slowly. “It’s true that in some ways we match, but in those ways … we’re almost too much alike. And in other ways, we’re too different. Besides, all that matching stuff is for the upper class and merchants—I don’t know that it means anything for us.”
They lapsed into silence as Ellenwood turned yet another corner. They were still within a couple of miles of his coach, despite several minutes of walking. They turned the corner. Ellenwood had vanished. They jumped back and quickly moved back to back. Calsen had produced two long, narrow knives, while Morticai held both his sword and dagger at the ready.
“He wasn’t that far from us,” Calsen whispered.
“I know. He could have seen us.”
“I don’t think so. We both kept to the shadows.”
“Talked too much.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. Backtrack, or go forward?”
“Let’s go forward.”
Morticai carefully moved forward. Calsen stayed at his back. They turned the corner to once again face the deserted alley. There were no doorways for Ellenwood to have entered. As they edged down the alley, Morticai chided himself for letting himself be drawn into idle chatter with Calsen. Maybe Coryden was right, maybe he would get himself killed this time—the Gods knew, he’d deserve it if he kept making mistakes like this.
They reached the next intersection. There was no sign of Ellenwood—nor of anyone else, for that matter.
Morticai lowered his sword. “Well, that’s that! Damn! This is the second time in three days I’ve lost him!”
“Hidden door?”
“Back there? I wouldn’t think so—would you?”
“I don’t know. They’re gettin’ better at it.”
The two corryn went back and began checking the alley’s walls for inconsistencies.
Morticai observed, “You know how dumb we must look?”
“Who cares?”
“I had a coach waiting for me outside the Pit. He’s probably gone by now.”
“Hoy! Travelin’ in style now, aren’t we?”
“Yeah, and costing a fortune! I hired it to keep up with the noble’s coach.”
“Dyluth,” Calsen stopped and lowered his voice, despite the fact that they were still speaking in corryn.
“Yeah?”
“What’s this about? You wouldn’t waste your time followin’ a nobleman for an ex-mistress.”
Morticai sighed and turned to his old friend. “Dangerous stuff, I’m afraid. I’ve found a Droken cell.”
“Good gods, Dyluth! And you think I’m crazy to keep livin’ in the Pit?”
“Look, Calsen, have you seen anything suspicious here lately—anything at all?”
Calsen pondered Morticai’s question for some time before answering. “Well, since you’re talkin’ Droken, I can think of one rumor I’ve heard that might fit their style. Remember the old Burnaby Manor?”
“How could I ever forget? Gods, we had some good times there!”
“Yeah, we did, didn’t we?” Calsen chuckled. “Well, if you remember, it’s just a few blocks from here. There’s been some rumors lately that it’s haunted.”
“Oh, come on, Calsen! We both know what that means. Some gang of thieves or smugglers has decided to use it as a cache.”
“Yeah, I know. But there’s been some odd things goin’ on there. I haven’t heard that much, myself. You ever talk to Fenton, the spice merchant?”
“I know him, but it’s been a few years since I’ve seen him.”
“I’ve heard that Fenton knows somethin’ about what’s goin’ on at the manor,” Calsen continued, “but I haven’t bothered to talk with him about it.”
“Hmm. I may have to arrange a meeting with Fenton. Does he still work out of the Lower Bazaar?”
“Last I heard.”
“Well, it’s obvious I’m going to have to try something other than this.” Morticai gestured to the deserted alley.
“I’m sorry to hear you’re doin’ this type of work, Dyluth. There’s not much future in it, y’know.”
“I know. Well, I guess I’d better get back to my coach, if it’s still waiting. If the other coach is still there, maybe I can pick up the trail again.”
“You want me to walk back with you?”
“Don’t be silly. I haven’t forgotten how to walk these alleys. Besides, it seems pretty quiet tonight.”
“Yeah … sometimes, it is. Well, take care, Dyluth.”
* * *
They parted company, and Morticai began backtracking his way to the coach. Despite his disappointment at losing Ellenwood, he found his thoughts drifting back to his conversation with Calsen. It pleased him to know that his old friend was still alive—it had been too long since he’d lifted a mug with him. He did find it puzzling that Calsen still lived in the Pit. If he was working the docks, he should be making pretty fair wages—unless he wasn’t working regularly. He could see that in Calsen, who had always been a carefree sort.
A low whistle interrupted his reverie. He spun to see four rough-looking young men eyeing him from the opposite end of the block. The humans exchanged glances among themselves.
“Hey!” the tallest one shouted at him. “Corryn!”
Morticai took a cautious step backward and found himself regretting that he’d not taken Calsen’s offer to walk him back to his coach. The gang’s knives came out in a flash. No one wasted time with more talk. Everyone in the Pit was prey to the gangs, even Watchmen, even Arluthians. Morticai drew his sword and dagger, spun on his heel, and ran in the other direction. Hoping he still remembered the area, he ducked down the next turn.
The four men gave chase, as he knew they would. One of them whistled in odd, interrupted bursts. The younger Morticai would have understood the code, but too much time had passed since he’d been an urchin hiding in the warrens. He did know what the call meant, though—they were summoning the rest of their gang, informing them that they were in pursuit of a mark.
The alley turned and ended at another that ran crosswise to it. Morticai heard rushing footsteps coming from the right before he entered the turn. His right hand flew upward. He blocked a downward knife thrust with the cross guard of his dagger and immediately followed up with a sword stroke that pierced his unarmored opponent’s chest just below the breastbone.
Using his sword as a lever and his unfortunate target as an anchor, Morticai swung himself to the right, placing his back to the wall. He withdrew his blade from the man’s chest, and the would-be attacker crumpled. The two gang members who had been following the dying man stumbled over him and began yelling as they tried to pull the body out of their way.
Morticai was already running. He was glad that knives were still the popular weapon here in the Pit—his sword would help even the odds. He passed the next side alley and fifteen feet later regretted it—his alley turned right, but went no further. By the time he made it back to the intersection, his pursuers had closed the gap and entered the intersection as he did.
The narrow confines of the alley’s mouth allowed only two of them to come at him at once. The first to reach him tried to block Morticai’s sword with his knife. The Northmarcher easily disengaged and thrust his sword through the man’s belly even as he used his dagger to block a left-handed knife thrust from his partner, a grinning youngster.
Another knife shot forward, driven by the youth’s other hand. Morticai abandoned his sword in the first man’s chest and grabbed the knife hand. The boy’s face showed surprise, but he quickly recovered and tried to disengage his other knife from Morticai’s dagger. Before his assailant could complete the maneuver, Morticai brought his left knee up hard, catching him in his privates. The youth doubled over and started retching.
A dagger struck the wall a couple of inches from Morticai’s head, thrown by a gang member who stood behind the slumping man who was still wearing Morticai’s sword. The others pulled and kicked at the wounded man and the youth, trying to shove past to get at Morticai.
Morticai lunged forward, grasped his sword, and jerked it out of the bleeding, howling gang member’s gut. As he recovered it, he used his right wrist to block the arm of the bent-over youth, and the knife thrust the boy had aimed at his stomach. Morticai had spotted the thrust just a moment too late; the knife’s point raked lightly across his chest.
The boy just wouldn’t give up, and Morticai knew he couldn’t afford to give him another chance. His block had brought the youth’s right arm up high; holding the block, the corryn swept his own dagger back in and slashed cleanly through the youth’s throat. He leapt over the convulsing body and ran, leaving the intersection blocked by the dead and quickly dying.
By the time he’d made two more turns, the remaining gang members were again hard at his heels. At the third turn he risked a glance behind. He’d killed three; four were still in pursuit. Two turns later, the number had dropped to three. Morticai continued on, trying to guess where the missing gang member would reappear. The realization came to him a few steps before the opening—it was a short cut he, himself, had once used. The man leapt toward him, only to be met by a thrust of Morticai’s ready sword.
Pleased to be leaving another obstacle in his pursuers’ path, Morticai continued on. He heard shouting ahead of him—four more gang members were coming straight on at him. He ducked down the side alley he’d just reached.
As the chase continued, Morticai realized that there was no good place to face them and no way to shake them. It had been easier for him as a child, when he could find places where he could fit that adults could not. He ran on, praying that the coach was still waiting—by the time he reached it, if he did, he would be too exhausted to continue running. He thought of looking for a place to make a stand, but knew it would mean certain death. Eventually, they would bring him down with sheer numbers.
He was within a quarter mile of his destination when they finally trapped him. He turned a corner only to see three more fresh, unwinded gang members coming from the other direction. He spun, put his back to the wall, and dropped his dagger to palm a throwing knife. He knew he’d have to use it on those behind him while they were still distant enough for the throw to be valuable.
The thrown knife caught one of them in the stomach—not an instant kill, but enough to slow the others. As he ducked to retrieve his dagger, a knife sailed over his own head. It bounced off the wall and spun down the alley, eliciting curses from the three approaching from the other direction.
The three new men moved in quickly. Morticai parried a knife thrust with his sword and blocked another with his dagger. He spun to the other side of the alley as he side-stepped a third thrust and brought his sword across an unlucky man’s stomach. The rest were nearly upon him. He grinned, knowing that he would at least have it to his credit that he had killed half of them before he died.
He blocked another thrust, and then watched in surprise as his opponent gasped and crumpled to his knees. The man’s compatriot coughed and fell in a neat imitation, a throwing knife sprouting from his neck. Behind the others, Calsen stepped out of the shadows and withdrew his long fighting knives from their sheaths.
“I sure wish … you’d kept to the main alleys,” Calsen said, panting. “You were almost impossible … to catch.”
Morticai laughed, and then there was no more time for talk as the other gang members charged. Morticai spun leftward, punched one man in the face with his sword’s guard, and caught another across the face with the blade. He barely missed Calsen.
“Be careful with that damn thing!” Calsen shouted over the screams of the man who’d been blinded by Morticai’s blade.
“Sorry!”
They turned and ran in the opposite direction. At the corner they were met by two more of the gang.
“Did you have to take on the Pit’s largest gang?”
“Hey, how was I to know?”
They moved back to back and staked out the center of the intersection, where they had plenty of room to fight. Morticai blocked with his dagger and brought his sword in from the left, catching his first opponent in the side. Another man moved in before the first could fall, and only the cross guard of Morticai’s dagger kept the attacker’s blade from gutting him. Instead, the blade slithered leftward to slide up Morticai’s left arm. Even as he gasped in shock at the hot pain of the cut, he brought his sword in, slicing it through the man’s side as he kicked him back into his companions.
“Let’s go!” Calsen called. He’d dropped the two facing him, but the blood running down Calsen’s side was his own. They ran the last three blocks and turned the corner to see the coach still waiting. The hack had turned the coach around and now looked, open-mouthed, over the top of it. They jumped onto the back.
Morticai wrapped an arm around Calsen and shouted, “Get us movin’, man!” His words were lost in the sound of tack and hooves.
“Dyluth, why does … this type of thing always happen … whenever I see you?” Calsen asked between gasps.
“Just lucky, I guess.”
They were soon moving at full speed down the narrow street, and they didn’t slow until the coach turned onto Shipwright. The coach quickly sped up again; Morticai began to fear the hack would drive his team full-speed across the entire city. He obviously didn’t realize how jarring a ride he was giving his passengers.
Calsen began to lose consciousness. Fighting the pain of his own wounds, Morticai feared he would not be able to hold him upright. Finally, the coach slowed as the hack turned it onto Mainway. Just after the corner, it pulled to a stop. Morticai tried to step out but mismanaged Calsen’s weight. He tumbled out and landed behind the coach with the barely conscious Calsen atop him.
“Mate, are ya’ a’right?” the hack asked.
“Uhh … don’t know,” Morticai gasped.
The hack knelt beside him and stared.
“Look,” Morticai continued, “do you know where the Dapple Stallion Inn is?”
“O’ course!”
“Then, help me get him inside the coach.”
* * *
By the time they reached the Dapple Stallion Inn, Morticai had somewhat stopped Calsen’s bleeding. He’d wrapped his cloak around his own bleeding arm.
“We’re here,” the hack said, opening the door.
“Good. Look, go ask for Paxton—he’s the owner. Tell him that Dyluth needs some assistance and is out in your coach. Wait,” Morticai stopped the hack as he started to leave. “Here.” He pressed his last royal into the hack’s hand.
“Mate, y’don’ need t’ —”
“Yes, I do. You don’t know how good it felt to see your coach when we turned that last corner.”
* * *
“Dyluth? Morticai?”
The voice was Paxton’s. Morticai opened his eyes, realized he’d drifted off to sleep. The aged owner of the Dapple Stallion sat down and laid a gentle hand on his arm. Morticai’s chest and arm had been cleaned and wrapped, and he lay on the Inn’s best bed—Paxton’s own bed.
“Can you spend the rest of the night here, boy? Or do we need to get you back to Northgate?”
“Unfortunately, I’ve got gate duty tomorrow,” Morticai said.
“I presume that means we need to get you back.”
“Yeah. How’s Calsen?”
“He lost a bit of blood, but I think he’ll be all right. Is he a … brother?”
“No. For years, he’s suspected me of being an Arluthian, but that’s all it is—a suspicion. It’s almost a joke between us.”
“And will he suspect anything when he wakes up?”
“No, I don’t think so. He knows I have a lot of friends in odd places. I hate to admit this, but the last time we got together I had to board him at an Inn for similar reasons.”
Paxton shook his head and laughed. “I’m glad I didn’t run with you when I was younger, Morticai. I don’t think I’d have survived it!”
“Hey!”
Old man Paxton just laughed harder.
* * *
Dualas insisted on checking Morticai’s wounds. Grudgingly satisfied with his condition, Dualas rewrapped his arm. Coryden, who had remained surprisingly quiet, sat next to the bed.
“That should do,” Dualas said as he finished. “You are fortunate the cut was vertical. If you are careful with it, it should heal in a few days. I do not believe it will interfere with your duties.”
“Well, that’s good, at least,” Coryden said. “I don’t know if I’d have been up to facing Kirwin again.” He leveled an exasperated stare at Morticai.
Eager to change the subject, Morticai asked, “So, what have you learned while I’ve been running from street gangs and spending every royal I own on coaches?”
Dualas shook his head. “I have learned quite a bit, but it does not look as though it will help us. I checked the list of decisions made by both the Watchaven and Dynolvan Trade Councils. This situation has apparently been developing since last Light Season. It all looks very innocent. In fact, it looks very much as though the Dynolvans started it. However, all of the damaging decisions which have fueled this affair have been proposed by one of our three Droken.”
“I’m worried about Lord Danvek,” Morticai observed. “If he’s in their camp, we’ve got real problems.”
“Yes,” Dualas agreed. “That would explain some of it, if the Droken were being aided by someone, or several someones, on the Dynolvan side of things. You have not had much to say about any of this, Coryden. Do you still think this is an affair we should not be pursuing?”
Coryden stared thoughtfully at the window, where dawn was beginning to show itself.
“No … no, I think it needs to be pursued,” he said. “I wouldn’t have said that a sennight ago, as you both know. But I’m not blind. I never thought I’d see corryn and humans set so against each other. I helped break up just such a fight in our own hall last night. If the Droken can set corryn Northmarcher against human Northmarcher, what’s to keep them from setting Dynolva against Watchaven?”
“That is what I fear, also,” Dualas agreed.
“Well, I’m tired of losing nobles where they shouldn’t be able to go,” Morticai announced. “Calsen said that some odd things have been happening at old Burnaby Manor. I intend to find out what.”
“How do you propose to do this?” Dualas asked.
“First, I’m going to set up a meeting with Fenton. Calsen said that he knew more about it. Then, I might just pay a visit to the manor.”
Coryden asked, “What do you think you’ll find there, Morticai?”
“I don’t know. When Calsen first mentioned it, I thought he was crazy—he said rumors have been circulating that the manor is haunted. But since then, I just don’t know. I keep coming back to it. Something feels strange about it.”
“Morticai,” Dualas said, “do you mean to imply that you feel guided in this?”
“I dunno, Dualas. Maybe?”