The Temple of Fate, page 13
part #5 of Bander Series




After several hours, I beckoned Holm to depart, but he refused, intending to spend the night there in the hall. I would not leave him there alone, so I retrieved our bedrolls, and we set up camp ’neath the black stone altar, while the remainder of our company slept under the stars, some distance from the Chapel.
In the morn, the spell that had held Holm enthralled must have lifted, for he awoke bright of eye and with good humor. We bade the ancient fane farewell and continued on our westward journey.
“That is all Burritch wrote of the temple,” Valthar said.
“If it was a temple at all,” Eton Sward said. “The description is inconclusive.”
There was something in Burritch’s narrative that struck Bander as significant, but he could not quite put his finger on it. Right now, it was just a nagging notion.
“A cross-shaped stone building with a tower, transepts, and a nave,” Valthar said. “Of course it was a temple. The Temple of Fate.”
Eton Sward shook his head. “Very well, I’ll grant you that Burritch might have discovered some sort of temple-like edifice, but it most certainly was not the Temple of Fate.”
“Bah!” Valthar waved at Eton Sward dismissively.
“I once did a survey of the architectural records,” Eton Sward said. “Throughout the Empire there are or were 319 temples, fanes, shrines, or kirks that fit that general description. Our ancestors were an extremely superstitious lot, you know.”
Valthar did not have an immediate retort to that, so the three men sat in silence for several moments.
Then Bander said, “I still find it difficult to believe that the aonae are not a Guild priority and I happen to be sitting with the only two men in the entire Empire who are interested in aonae.”
“Well, we are,” Valthar said.
Eton Sward leaned back in his chair and let out a long sigh.
“What?” Valthar demanded.
“It may be true that we are the only two men in Harion with an interest in aonae, but we are not the only two people with such an interest.”
“Stop speaking in riddles, Sward.”
“There is a woman—a rather unsavory woman—in Malverton. She has at least three aonae. Reportedly.”
“What? Why would you keep this information to yourself?” Valthar’s eyes flashed.
Eton Sward looked into the fire. “She’s no scholar.”
“Who is she?” Bander asked.
“Her name is Talessa Kreed. She claims to have a rather famous ancestor.”
“You jest.”
“No, she represents herself as a direct descendant of Arrington Kreed.”
That was difficult for Bander to believe. Arrington Kreed was perhaps the most famous explorer of all time, but he died three centuries ago. Not many outside of a few renowned family dynasties could actually trace their lineage back that far.
“What’s she doing in Malverton?” Valthar asked. “Is she looking for the temple as well?”
“She lives there, apparently. I don’t know much more, other than that she fancies herself an explorer like her famed ancestor. But the locals know her as a smuggler and an infamous criminal more than anything else.”
“Sounds like someone you might be familiar with,” Valthar said to Bander.
“Not necessarily,” Bander said. “Especially if she operates outside the Empire’s borders.”
Over the decade he served as Imperial Investigator, Bander had become familiar with many of the Empire’s most notorious criminals. But it had been four years since he retired and the criminal ranks were ever-changing.
He asked, “Does she know what the aonae do?”
Eton Sward rubbed his eyes. “Damned if I know. Maybe she just collects them because she thinks that they are pretty, but somehow I doubt it.”
“I wonder if she knows anything about the place Burritch described,” Bander mused.
“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” Valthar said. “We need to travel to Malverton with all haste and ask this Talessa Kreed ourselves.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Malverton Trading Post stood roughly two hundred miles south of Vale, right on the edge of the misty Tengan jungle which ran to the end of the continent. Malverton was situated on a wide, slow-moving river—the Urfantis—which ran southwest from the Manitorn Hills.
The ancient city itself—if you could call it that—was generally considered a wretched place, filled with more villains than honest citizens. Several thousand people packed into a decrepit, waterlogged jumble of ramshackle buildings, stacked one on top of the other.
Centuries ago, Malverton had been an exciting frontier town, buoyed by trade coming from the river and overland route to the southern port city of Querrin, but these days it was much more efficient for goods to be sent by merchant ship directly into Rundlun’s harbor. Malverton had devolved into a run-down nest of thieves, smugglers, and other assorted scum.
Eton Sward had put Valthar in contact with a mage in Vale who could open up a portal to the edge of Malverton, no questions asked. Bander sincerely hoped that was true—especially given how much Valthar had paid the man.
As they pushed their way through the crowds of downtown Malverton, Bander noticed Valthar coughing and wheezing.
“Are you unwell?”
Valthar waved his hands. “I had forgotten how bad it was down here. It’s like trying to breathe soup.”
“Take shallow breaths until you get used to it.”
Valthar was right. The thick, foggy, humid air was unnatural, and buzzed with the sound of strange and unfamiliar insects—a good number of which probably found their way into Valthar’s lungs.
Shops and residences stacked high likes crates in a warehouse rose along narrow, canyon-like streets, blocking out the already-anemic sun and shrouding the town in dull shadows.
“Are we walking in the right direction?” Valthar asked.
“I have no idea,” Bander said. “I haven’t been here in at least fifteen years. The city looks completely unfamiliar to me.”
“I think it’s over here,” Eton Sward said. “Near the statues.” He led them to higher ground where the streets were marginally less muddy and the smell was marginally less pungent.
Finally they arrived at their destination, a large three-story inn perched on a hill overlooking the river. The Crown of the Jungle may not have lived up to its grand name, but it certainly appeared sturdier than most of the other inns in town. A room here cost quite a bit more, but Bander wasn’t too worried about that, since Valthar was paying.
They secured a room on the top floor with four beds, each with a large sack of packed feathers to sleep on. Against one wall stood a pair of wardrobes, and near the other were some chairs and a worn couch upholstered in sheercloth. All in all, it was fairly comfortable accommodations—if you weren’t bothered by the sparrow-sized insects that found their way inside—despite the shuttered windows.
After they settled in and had a meal downstairs in the public house, Valthar announced that they should begin their search for Talessa Kreed.
Bander shook his head. “This will go a lot quicker if I do it alone.”
Eton Sward began to protest. “You don’t know anything about the woman.”
“I know what you told me. And that should be enough.”
Valthar slumped down in his seat. “Let him be, Sward. If anyone knows his way among the riff-raff, it’s Bander.”
It took Bander two days to find someone who admitted to knowing Talessa Kreed, and another day—and a decent sum of gold—to set up a meeting. Sward wanted to attend, of course, but the mage was overruled by Valthar who was funding the expedition and therefore nominally in charge.
“Just don’t come back empty-handed,” Valthar said. “I’m not sure how much more of this fog palace I can take.”
“You are a fragile flower, indeed,” Eton Sward said. “We’ve only been here for a few days.”
“It feels like a week.”
The meeting was set up for noon at a warehouse near the Horseshoe Docks. As he made his way through the murky streets, Bander wondered how anyone here could determine the hour. He hadn’t actually seen the sun since they left Vale.
Following the sound of lapping water and creaking timbers, Bander navigated to the south end of the city and then walked along the shore east to the Horseshoe Docks.
These three semicircular canals were where most of the freight entered and exited the city. Jumbles of warehouses and storerooms ringed the Horseshoe Docks like barnacles. Space was definitely at a premium here in Malverton, which was built on a peninsula surrounded on three sides by the river and smothered by a dense jungle to the north.
He pushed his way through the crowded streets and kept his eyes open for the ‘green parrot warehouse.’ That’s where he was supposed to meet Talessa Kreed.
The Tengan language was written in pictograms instead of letters so there were no traditional street or business signs. But Bander found the colorful pictograms adorning the city interesting and he was becoming accustomed to roving his eyes across walls to find them.
After a quarter hour of circling through the warehouse district, he finally spotted a big green parrot painted on a storeroom wall. The building looked all shut up, however.
He walked over to the main doors and tried to open them, but they must have been barred from the inside.
“Sir?”
Bander turned to see a skinny Tengan boy, maybe ten years old. Like all the Tengans, he was as pale as a ghost, with flaxen hair.
“Are you looking for mistress Kreed, sir?”
“I am.”
“I shall take you, then. Please follow, sir.”
At least the kid was polite.
They wound their way east along the shore, past the Horseshoe Docks, to the shipyards where the smell of boiling tar burned Bander’s nose.
“This way, sir!”
Bander jogged after the boy, who seemed on the verge of running. They passed ropemakers, sailmakers, lumber yards, and more warehouses.
At one point, Bander lost the boy from sight, around the corner of a net maker's shack.
When he finally spotted the boy fifty feet ahead, he found him in the middle of an altercation with a fat Harionese man with unnaturally golden hair who was dressed more for a noble’s reception than tramping around the warehouse district of a city in a swamp.
“Out of my way, you filthy little mist monkey!” The man berated the boy and smacked him with a walking stick. “Trying to rob me, aren’t you? I’ll teach you, you little bugger!”
The boy staggered and lost his balance, falling to the muddy ground.
“Hold!” Bander called, in a voice he’d used a million times before, back when he was in the Imperial Guard.
The fat man froze and regarded Bander with beady, ratlike eyes. “Are you on patrol, sir? If so, you’re doing a terrible job. Terrible.”
“No.” Bander said, moving closer. “But you need to leave him be.”
“No? Well, then it’s none of your business.”
He struck the boy again. Once, twice—
And then Bander was on him.
In an instant, he wrenched the walking stick from the man’s pudgy hands, pulled it back, and then tapped the fat man in the sternum with the end of the stick. The blow was gentle by Bander’s standards, but the fat man fell back, knocked off his feet, and landed on his ass in a puddle of mud.
“I am so sorry, sir!” the boy said to Bander.
“You have nothing to apologize for, young sir,” Bander said. “This man, on the other hand, does.”
He cracked the walking stick across the fat man’s stomach with a moderate degree of force, causing the man to yip in pain.
“You need to learn some manners,” Bander growled.
“Why do you care? He’s just a damn mist monkey—” The fat man tried to get up.
Crack!
This time the stick found its mark on the man’s head, which jerked back and then lolled to the side as the man collapsed into the mud. Not a killing blow, but also not one that the man was likely to forget.
Bander told the boy to lead on. Although clearly shaken, the boy continued to guide Bander through the cramped maze of buildings along the shore. Finally, the boy scampered up on to a dilapidated pier lined with big old riverboats and barges.
“There, sir!”
He pointed at a creaky old barge tied to the end of the pier. It was single-masted, seventy or eighty feet long and didn’t look particularly seaworthy. Or even riverworthy. A bunch of sailors, some Imperial, some Tengan, loitered about.
“Mistress Kreed awaits,” the boy said, before turning and dashing away. “Good luck, sir!” he called over his shoulder.
“You heard the lad,” called one of the sailors. “She’s waiting for you.” The tone wasn’t exactly friendly.
Bander didn’t react, didn’t say a word. Just stepped on to the gangplank and then on to the deck.
A sailor dressed in a garish violet jacket bowed facetiously and beckoned towards the stern. There Bander saw another sailor sitting in a dinghy, waiting for him.
“This is all very elaborate,” Bander said.
“Yeah, but that’s the way the Mistress wants it. Get in.”
Bander scrambled down a short ladder and managed to get into the dinghy without capsizing it.
The man didn’t say anything. Instead, he began to row and with each stroke he whistled a few notes of an annoying and repetitive tune. Bander tried to block it out and focused more on where they were going.
The dinghy hugged the shore for a while, winding its way west. Then then man turned the boat and rowed due south. It appeared that their destination was a small wooded island that Bander guessed was maybe a quarter mile from Malverton, towards the center of the Urfantis River. He hoped the meeting went well. He had no idea how he would get back if it didn’t.
As they drew closer to the island, Bander saw that it had its own series of docks and piers, populated with various watercraft. He counted two large cargo barges and dozens of smaller boats and skiffs.
A good number of sailors crawled around on the boats, making repairs or performing maintenance. A handful of others fished off the dock.
Bander’s whistling ferryman expertly guided the dinghy to shore. As they disembarked, the ferryman exchanged pleasantries with some of the other sailors. Then another sailor took over and escorted Bander up a road to a complex of huts and cabins surrounding a larger estate. The main building was a blocky three-story manor house, but obviously ancient and in considerable disrepair. Maybe this Talessa Kreed had fallen on some hard times. If so, that might affect their negotiations.
Bander followed the sailor as they entered the structure through a pair of large double doors which opened into a vestibule. There was a guard station right inside the doors, but it wasn’t manned.
They walked into a spacious entry hall filled with artwork. There Bander was greeted by another man, who didn’t look much like a sailor. He was Harionese, maybe a decade older than Bander, tall and boney, but with the pale ghostly skin of a native Tengan.
“Greetings, sir,” he said with a voice that had a bit of a quaver to it. “My name is Dartminter Rigg, Talessa Kreed’s adjutant.”
“Leocald Grannt.”
A faint smile played across his face. “As you wish, sir. Do you have the payment?”
“I do.” Bander withdrew a pouch of gems and handed them over.
Dartminter Rigg opened the pouch, but barely looked at the gems. He nodded and said, “Right this way. As we agreed, you have ten minutes with Mistress Kreed. If you require more time, you will have to make another appointment, though I doubt she will grant a second.”
“So, in other words, get to the point without dallying.”
“Always sound advice, sir.”
He opened another set of doors and held them for Bander to enter.
Bander found himself in spacious indoor courtyard filled with all sorts of large potted plants, pampa and fruit trees, and several small fountains. Polished stone columns formed an arcade around the perimeter of the courtyard, and the floor was intricately tiled. Brightly colored birds sat on ornamental perches and regarded Bander impassively, as if the sight of strangers in their home was nothing remarkable.
“Welcome, sir.”
From the shadows of the arcade, a woman strode towards him. She was tall and elegant-looking with short curly black hair cropped like a man’s. But the shape of her body belied any hint of masculinity. She was dressed in a form-fitting tunic and pants with tall boots and cut an impressive figure.
Bander bowed slightly. “Greetings Mistress Kreed. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. My name is—”
She cut him off. “I know all about you, Bander of Rundlun. I surely do.”
Bander forced himself not to react. He had given his name as Leocald Grannt to her intermediaries, so there was no way she should have been able to identify him.
“Please, sit.” She motioned to a pair of small embroidered couches. “I’d offer you a drink, but our time together is limited, isn’t it?” She smiled a half smile and her green eyes twinkled. Bander wasn’t sure how old Talessa Kreed was. She could have been thirty, or she could have been fifty. Her face betrayed nothing of her age.
“I’ll get right down to it,” he said. “I need a guide and transportation.”
“Not exactly my line of work any more, and I assume you already know that. But go on. Speak your piece.”
“My employers are two scholars, seeking the ruined structure described in Burritch’s Travels. Are you familiar with it?”
“The book? ’Course I am. Burritch built our fair city. But if you are asking about the old ruins he mentions, you’ll need to be more specific. There are dozens chronicled in Travels, aren’t there?”
“There is a structure he compares to the chapel at Aravat.”
Talessa Kreed nodded. “I’ve been down that way. It’s southwest of Lake Horbadin. A few day’s trek, but quite difficult to find unless you really know the canyons.”
“You’ve seen the structure?”