Fires That Forge, page 15
part #1 of Lords of Order and Chaos Series
“I see,” Silas said, involuntarily rubbing his chin and looking into an uninteresting corner of the room.
“Is that all?”
“Oh, sorry. Yes,” Silas said. “Thank you.”
With that Silenstui again began his ritual of intricate hand gestures and magical words. In moments the vapors gathered around him and then were gone.
Now Silas ordered his thoughts. He thought of the tracks he’d discovered near the corpse currently lying on his table. Those tracks originated in the deep dark of that marble enshrouded cavern under the very city of Moras. She had teleported in. He was sure of that. He’d discerned the pattern of her movement based on the many variables given. That being the case, his miner didn’t make sense. All of the others had been left in plain sight and easily discovered. Why had this one been hidden? What was it about this particular victim that caused her to leave him for the rats and sewers instead of the watchmen?
He’d been a miner at House Morosse’s facilities. None of the others had been. In fact, the others had been of higher social station. Silas would be visiting those mines soon enough, indeed later that same day. He would tuck this fact away in his mind for exploration upon that venture.
“I think it’s time we had a word,” came from the dark corner near the iron stove.
Silas was innately calm however he calculated that startlement would serve him best. He allowed himself a slight squeal and jumped as he turned to face the voice. A figure emerged from the deep shadow there, impossibly unfolding, until it stood the height of a grown man. A man dressed in one of the Sanctum’s nurses’ coats.
“Your father and I had business,” the figure said. “Unless you prove to be a complete fool, I see no need in that business waning.”
“How did you get in here?”
“I have my ways, ways that you would not understand.”
“I might surprise you,” Silas said.
“You have, Young Steward Silas of House Morosse, you have.”
“Meaning?”
“Let’s not get caught up in that while we have business to discuss.”
“Did you kill my parents?” Silas asked.
That question was answered with a genuine laughter seemingly born of complete surprise.
“That you should ask me that,” the figure said as he emerged fully from the shadows wearing the face of a nurse Silas knew well. “That is quite funny. More surprises yet. Rest assured, I know who killed Steward Killian and Lady Helena. Let us not speak of such mundane topics. Let us get to it as the miners say.”
“Very well.”
“You may contact me by dining at the Swan a’Flight,” came from the face of nurse Jenik. It came from his face yet was not his voice. “You order the chef’s special, specifying no onions and egg sauce on the side. I will know this to be a sign and will contact you shortly thereafter. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I am an expert in assassination, espionage, and theft. However, I am no street cutpurse. My fee for the most basic of tasks is ten Roarkor. Should you have need of my services, you now understand how to ask. Onto business. Killian and I have made a considerable stack of coin in the desertion relocation business.”
“Desertion relocation?”
“Yes,” came from the man that was not Jenik. “Some very wealthy lads have ventured to the Tarborat front only to find that it does not agree with them. Your father’s company, now your company, ships goods to and from Fate’s End on a regular basis. On occasion you will ship one of these unfortunate, but well paying, souls. I handle all aspects of the operation, however, do need reliable transportation. From time to time you will be given direction to include a specially marked container among your manifests. Your ship’s captains are useful men, but they are sticklers about the Steward’s seal upon their manifests. That is where you come in.”
“I understand,” Silas said.
“I believe you do,” not Jenik said. “I really believe you do. I think we have a bright future ahead of us, young physician. Two things you need to know. I am aware of House Morosse’s dealings in the mines and who those items truly come from.”
Silas wondered what could be meant by that but kept his face stoic.
“I have no problem with that as long as our business is not interrupted,” the nurse impostor continued. “Second, blood is in the water. You have some time before dealing with Rugan will become necessary, however, Whillyd will need to be dealt with soon. I can have that taken care of, for a fee.”
“You mean kill him?” Silas asked incredulously.
“You just don’t quit, do you? Yes, I mean kill him.”
“I don’t want you to kill him,” Silas said.
“Very well,” the impostor said.
“What shall I call you?”
“Ramaj. I don’t give that name lightly. If you use it carelessly, I’ll kill you. I don’t care why Killian and Helena died, unless it interferes with business. Understood?”
“Understood.”
The man who was certainly not Jenik walked to the door of the examination room and exited. Silas followed and pulled the door open immediately after him. He stared all about until he found Jenik. The man was at the end of the long corridor of sheeted rooms carrying two chamber pots out to be emptied. His coat bore stains and tears that the impostor had failed to duplicate. This assassin was a new variable that must be accounted for.
Silas studied the floor within the room and discovered that his visitor had indeed walked through a bit of ash near the stove and tracked it, slightly, across the floor. Further examination showed those traces to end just beyond his office door. Teleportation, but a kind he was unfamiliar with. There was no smoke, no charged atmosphere, no words of power or waving of the hands. The vampire must move in the same fashion. Another variety of magic not known, or not practiced, by the mages and sorcerers of the Archives of Arcana.
Now Silas’s thoughts went to his father’s mines. What secret did they hold? Could this assassin be capable of killing the likes of Dunewell? Would this assassin see Dunewell as an obstacle? If so, how can I warn Dunewell without incriminating myself further?
These thoughts were still going through Silas’s mind as he and two nurses moved the body, now sewn into a canvas shroud, out to a fresh grave in Pauper’s Garden. The grave had been dug that morning, for another resident, but Silas had learned this was an excellent means of dealing with those too far gone for treatment. He would have a nurse dig another two feet down, place the corpse in, and shovel a layer of dirt on top of them. After all, he paid his nurses very well. The unwanted corpses were properly buried, after a fashion, and at no cost or consequence.
That done, Silas made his final rounds for the day at Sanctum Lacra and hailed his carriage. As the wheels rolled along the marble streets of Moras toward House Morosse, Silas’s mind worked quickly, but not furiously. He had read a text, one of Arto’s original writings in the language of the Disputed Isles and as yet untranslated to the common tongue. The text relayed that any man could solve any problem if he possessed the discipline to focus his mind on the singular issue for three minutes.
The proposition sounded easy enough, until one attempted to put it into practice. He had spent many hours in meditation attempting that daunting feat. Focused, uninterrupted concentration for three minutes. It had taken him years to pass the two minute mark. However, his mental powers had grown considerably as a result. It was an exercise that he’d employed in the past to great success. He employed it now.
His problems; Dunewell, Rugan, Whillyd, Uriel Ka, High Cleric Dyllance, Lord High Inquisitor Gyllorn, and Ramaj. Dunewell believed him, so that was less of an issue. Rugan could wait. Uriel-Ka. He would arrange a meeting with him and Lady Evalynne tomorrow. That would answer a number of questions and perhaps head off more trouble. Dyllance could wait as well. He commanded paladins and templars, but none would move against House Morosse openly in Moras. Not yet, anyway. Gyllorn. Dealing with him would require a delicate and distant touch. Ramaj. What a wonderful surprise Ramaj had been.
Among these thoughts also mixed his suspicions of the vampire. What could he learn from her? Had she any involvement in the other developments in Moras? She was working with someone, but who?
The carriage arrived at House Morosse and Silas stepped down quickly.
“Put the carriage and horses away, if you would please,” Silas said to the coachman. “I will be needing a horse shortly, though. Would you be kind enough to see to that?”
“Of course, sir,” the coachman, a man in service to House Morosse for over twenty years, said.
The young Master Morosse had always given this coachman an uneasy feeling. The sight of him always made him instinctively touch the symbol of Kandeci, the goddess of the sea, that hung around his neck. Silas had always been polite and courteous, though. He’d always treated each member of the staff with respect and kindness. Those stories about the Twitch, however. Those stories frightened him.
Once in his room, Silas washed his hands and face. He stripped from his gown and robes he wore to Sanctum and changed to a silk shirt, leather pants, and knee-high boots. He also strapped on his breastplate and weapons belt equipped with short sword and dagger; he would be traveling outside the walls after all. As he started for the door, he noticed a package on his vanity.
Within were two black leather bracers that concealed a mercshyeld rider’s pike in the right and a matching black lava glass, or leiness, pike in the left.
“Excellent timing,” Silas said to no one. “Thank you, Silenstui.”
He strapped on the bracers and found them a bit uncomfortable. It would take weeks, perhaps months, of wear before he became accustomed to them. However, becoming accustomed to them was certainly what he intended to do.
Moments later Silas was wrapped in a heavy cloak atop a beautiful white mare and headed for the southeastern gate. It had been too long since he’d been outside the enclosure of those marble walls the citizens of Moras were so proud of. There was the occasional giant or ogre seen in the mountains nearby, but that was rare. Farmers and ranchers operated safely enough and there was regular traffic to and from the mines. It was Silas’s opinion there were far more monsters within those white stone walls rather than without.
The watchmen at the southeastern gate recognized him easily enough. Likely they had expected him given it was this gate House Morosse accessed so often, being the closest to their mining interests and shops. Their miners, housed at the mines themselves, also used this gate for their forays into Moras when a shift would earn a two day pass.
That thought caused something in his mind to ripple. Some relevance to another issue filed in one of the many mental bookshelves that comprised his intellect. He would store that thought on his imaginary desk and seek its proper registry at another time.
He rode the well-worn trail that rose alongside the cart path which ushered goods from House Morosse’s mines and shops to the thriving economy of Moras. He’d only been to the mines once before. On that occasion only at Killian’s insistence.
Sharrin, Sherry to his detractors, ran the mine and had for over twelve years. He was, by all accounts, a surly brute of Silas’s height and weighing at least a hundred stones more. A former soldier, Sharrin had seen war and was skilled with the sword or hammer. He had no qualms about seeing to it that troublemakers were injured in their labor; some never to recover. Sharrin made his home at the mine as well, not caring for the amenities the city had to offer.
Silas dismounted at the craft shop, a sturdy stone structure, that stood about twenty yards from the main entrance to the mines. There was a guard posted on the roof with a heavy crossbow and another that stood watch at the door.
“May I leave my horse with you?” Silas asked the door guard.
“Of course, Doctor Morosse,” the guard said. “We were told to expect you. I’ll have a man walk you in to Foreman Sharrin’s quarters.”
“He doesn’t keep a residence out here in the daylight?”
“No, sir. He does not.”
The guard opened the shop and said something in an unintelligible and low tone. Shortly thereafter a man of about forty years exited. He sported a well-worn breastplate, war hammer, and a brace of daggers. Silas did not miss the torturer’s look the man’s face bore.
“Wengle’s the name, sir,” the old soldier, and likely assassin, said. “I’ll be showin’ ya’ in.”
Wengle lighted a lantern and handed it over to Silas. Then he gestured with his head for Silas to lead their two man procession. Of course, it was customary for a noble, or Steward in this case, to walk before one of the lower classes. However, Silas had the feeling this was more a decision of sinister tactic rather than etiquette.
Playing his part, Silas held the lantern up to shoulder height in his right hand, which obscured his vision. He had no doubt that was intentional as the mine shaft was lit with other lanterns that did not shine nearly as bright. However, it also allowed him to conceal his left hand as it maintained contact with the rider’s pike holstered in his bracer.
He crafted his mental plan. Likely there would be a threat or some other verbal cue before any attempt was made on his life. He would watch closely for that indicator. He prepared himself to hurl the lantern backward over his shoulder and step out of line to his right while drawing the stiletto with his left hand. He kept an eye on the terrain to his right; knowing that in any moment he might have to navigate the cast-off stones and lumber with great haste.
A short walk took them out of sight from the bleary winter sky and into the absolute encapsulation of the mountain. A wooden door was mounted in a roughhewn frame on the side of the shaft and, as they approached, a man that could only be Sharrin emerged.
“Steward Silas I figure,” the large man sighed.
Silas made note of Sharrin’s eyes straying to both ends of the tunnel, as if verifying there were no witnesses about. Silas also noticed loose hair dusting his shoulders and a shaving nick on his cheek that appeared to be weeks old.
“I am,” Silas replied. “Shall we recline within or speak out here?”
“Inside, please,” Sharrin said.
The large man moved to the side and Silas walked past him into a surprising lush environment. The outer room was clearly designated for business, containing several crates of ore, crafts, and tools. To the side was a large wooden desk laden with ledgers and piles of parchments. Moving beyond this room through a curtained door at its back Silas entered the living area of the quarters. In here the hewn stone walls were lined with thick tapestries and the floor was richly carpeted. Silas also noted the silver shaving basin, crystal wine decanters, and bejeweled goblets that sat on a table next to a finely upholstered divan complete with pillows of silk.
Silas heard the outer door close and lock behind him.
“Please, have a seat, Steward,” Sharrin said, gesturing to the large divan.
Silas sat the lantern down on a table by the door, letting his eyes adjust to the room. He sat, quite comfortably, and reclined on the divan. His mind was prepared to call his body to action at any moment.
“We’ve been expecting your visit,” Sharrin continued. “Let me be clear in that we will be happy to continue to serve the interests of House Morosse. However, there are some business arrangements your father made that must be maintained. You may find the arrangements distasteful. That would be understandable. You may wish to discontinue our commerce as it stands. I hope for your sake that is not the case.”
“I am sure…” Silas began but was stopped short by Sharrin’s upraised hand.
“This is A’Ilys,” Sharrin said gesturing to the back wall of the room.
Silas sat quietly, working to control the emotions that wanted to reveal themselves on his face, as a dark elf entered silently through a hidden door. To Silas’s mind this fellow was a magnificent specimen of the race; although terror was a reasonable alternative. It was rare that he was completely surprised. This was one of those rare moments.
The drow possessed the smoothest ebony skin, sharp facial features, and a lush white mane that was braided and woven with a jeweled silken strap. He wore a black steel breastplate along with matching bracers and greaves. His clothing was of a supple leather, also black, and his cloak was of black velvet. He wore a long sword on one side and a small crossbow hung from his belt opposite it.
Silas began to rise and A’Ilys extended his arm, hand up.
“Please, remain seated, Steward,” A’Ilys said. “I am a representative of Queen Jandanero, ruler of the mountains and caverns that surround your fair city. For a few years now our people have traded with your representative here, Sharrin. Our goods have been sold as works of your own or of those undisciplined fools in the Suthiel forests. This arrangement has profited the Queen’s people and your House. We would see it continue.”
So many questions ran through Silas’s mind. He almost giggled at the fact that none of them were pertinent to the life and death situation he now found himself in.
“I am to concur with your arrangement and commerce will continue as normal, or I will not set foot outside this room ever again, is that a reasonable approximation of my situation?” Silas asked.
A’Ilys smiled and Sharrin’s right eyebrow went up.
“That is not exactly correct, but very close,” A’Ilys said. “You would leave this room. However, you would accompany me back to my coven. You would not return.”
“That being the case, I certainly agree to maintain the contract and trade between my House and your coven.”
“We now have a quandary,” A’Ilys said.
“How can you take me at my word that I wouldn’t run screaming to the watchmen?”
“Exactly.”
“Perhaps I can find a means of assuring you,” Silas said. “To begin with, killing me would resolve nothing for you. You see I have made arrangements to bequeath all my possessions to Inquisitor Dunewell,” Silas lied, “should anything happen to me. I see by your expressions that you are both familiar with him, or his reputation. It seemed the prudent thing to do, given the sudden death of my parents.”
