The temple of fate, p.3
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The Temple of Fate, page 3

 part  #5 of  Bander Series

 

The Temple of Fate
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  “You’re serious?”

  “Quite serious.”

  “May I ask a question?”

  “Of course.”

  Bander said, “My understanding is that Prichard’s deals in rare goods.”

  “That’s not a question. It’s a fact.”

  “Yes, of course. The thing I am curious about is, if these items are so valuable, why take the chance transporting them? Especially with one rider and one guard? That seems like a considerable risk. Why not just keep the inventory at your local office?”

  Melanthris Jeigh shrugged. “Sometimes the acquisition of our inventory is not completely clear cut. To everyone involved that is.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We often buy out the estates of the recently deceased. Of course, we make a considerable effort to ensure that we are dealing with the legal owner of the goods in question. However…” She trailed off.

  It became clear to Bander. “You don’t want relatives coming out of the woodwork laying claim to the goods you just acquired.”

  “Exactly. We work hard to establish provenance and legal ownership, but still it’s best to avoid—shall we say—local complications.”

  It made perfect sense.

  Melanthris Jeigh smiled at him. “You have a curious mind, Mr. Grannt.”

  “I always have.”

  “An admirable trait. I suppose you have another question to ask me.”

  “Oh?”

  “Don’t be bashful, man. We’d be happy to take you on.”

  “Are you talking about a job?”

  “Of course.”

  He smiled. “I don’t need a job. I’m retired.”

  Her face fell. “Really? We are down one man.”

  “I’m honored, but I must politely decline.”

  Melanthris Jeigh stood up straight. “Well, our loss, I am afraid. You appear to be a very competent fellow.” She beckoned at the items on the table. “The thing you may not deny us is bestowing your reward. Make your choice, Leocald Grannt.”

  Bander didn’t really need jewels or gems. Over the years he had amassed a sizeable fortune—most of which was cached in various places throughout his walking route. But he knew he would have to accept something on the table or seriously offend the Jeighs. And that was not something he was prepared to do.

  His eyes moved from item to item. He saw the tarfet diamond. It was beautiful and expertly cut. Worth a quite a bit as well. Next was an amethyst ring set in tarnished gold. There were a half dozen uncut sapphires, a small cat figurine that looked like it had been carved out of pelidod, and another ring with a large ruby in the center and smaller emeralds along the band. Bander also saw a jeweled fob, a jade bracelet, and a small silver semi-circle pendant that looked like a piece of a necklace or an earring.

  “May I take a closer look at that pendant?”

  “Of course.”

  The crescent-shaped pendant was only the size of his thumbnail and looked like it was made of polished silver with a bail on the top. As he studied it more carefully, Bander noticed that the back of the pendant was rougher and had a series of markings etched into it. His tired eyes couldn’t make out what the markings were, but they were definitely not just scratches. He turned it back over on its front and stared at it. By the light of the candelabra, the pendant looked like a little moon.

  “I’ll take this one.” There was something about the crescent. He couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was though.

  “Really? That’s probably the least valuable item on the table. Nothing more than a charm, really. Rather primitive workmanship.”

  “I think it will be a lucky charm for me.”

  “Perhaps it will be, Mr. Grannt. Please, take it with our gratitude.”

  Chapter Four

  As Bander left Prichard’s, he put the crescent pendant out of his mind. Whatever there was about it would eventually come to him. For now he needed to decide how he was going to make up the time he had lost with this detour to Gilweald.

  It had been four years since Bander had retired as the Imperial Investigator in Rundlun and on this first day of the new year he found himself less than 150 miles away from the city where he had spent almost a quarter of a century.

  He had been on his way to the capital because of the disturbing news about the new Empress Ardara and her Viceroy Bryn Eresthar, who was an old friend of Bander’s. It seems Ardara was in the process of dismantling the Guild and tightening the Empire’s grip on the City-States—which made no sense.

  Nine months ago Bander had fought alongside Bryn Eresthar, Hirbo Thrang, Silbra Dal, and others against Lord Governor Asryn, crime lord Gredarl Kar, dark mage Morin of Thect, and several of the Imperial Magisters. These conspirators had attempted to undermine and destroy the Mage Guild and those in the Imperial government who supported it. Even though some of the villains had been ferreted out and dealt with, the Empire was left in shambles and rumors persisted of dark forces lurking in the periphery.

  With the support of Bander’s friend, the Imperial Spymaster Etthar Calain, a powerful and mysterious woman named Lady Ardara had formed something called the League. She recruited Bander’s team to her cause and to battle the forces of chaos who would destroy Harion.

  Bander himself had opted not to join this League. He was done with adventuring and wished to live out the rest of his days on the open road, beholden to no one but himself. But still he was fascinated by how quickly Ardara wormed her way into power: first as the Emperor’s new wife and Imperial consort, and then—upon his recent death—Empress herself.

  Ardara had quickly installed Bryn Eresthar as Viceroy and the two of them began quickly instituting dramatic changes—including sanctions against the Guild and the first steps towards dissolving the institution. Which, ironically, is what Asryn and his conspirators had been striving for.

  Now Bander was on his way to Rundlun to speak to Bryn Eresthar and hear from the horse’s mouth what in Dynark’s name was going on.

  If he marched quickly, Bander thought he might be able to get to the capital in four long days. The road between Gilweald and Rundlun was the Northway, a well-maintained Imperial highway that ran along the Meredel from Laketon to Rundlun. The Northway was flat and wide and if you could avoid all the wagons and caravans, you could make excellent time. His other option was to take a portal from Gilweald directly to Rundlun, but Bander discarded that option almost immediately. Beyond the exorbitant cost, Bander was mindful of his recent bout of portal sickness, an affliction that might turn out to be fatal—according to Wegg the healer.

  Apparently certain people at Bander’s age developed a greater susceptibility to the ailment. As a result, he had not stepped foot through a portal since last Spring.

  No, he would travel by foot. One big push, a forced march, and then he could rest all he wanted in Rundlun. Maybe even winter there. He was certain that the new Viceroy would put him up.

  Before Bander left Gilweald, he made his way to Lowmarket and stocked up on provisions for the next leg of his journey. He also found a tailor who he paid to add a hidden pocket to his shirt. That’s where Bander concealed the crescent pendant. Then, under the noon sun, he headed south towards the crossroads.

  He never got there.

  Chapter Five

  “Your names and business, sirs?” The officious doorman was tall and gaunt and he reminded Mortam Rowe of a scarecrow. However, the doorman was not frightful in the least. He looked downright fragile, like Mortam Rowe could snap his thin neck like he might snap the neck of a bird or a rabbit.

  “We’re here to inquire about a lot of merchandise that was acquired from the Dubbard family.”

  “Buying or selling, sir?”

  “Buying. Definitely buying. Right, Mr. Keave?” Mortam Rowe turned to his companion. It was always good to involve Keave in basic interactions like this. He didn’t want his companion to lose interest and wander away, which was always a possibility.

  “Aye,” Keave said.

  “Do you have an appointment?” the scarecrow asked.

  “Regrettably, no. You see, we just arrived into town this morning.”

  The doorman looked down his nose at Mortam Rowe, which wasn’t hard to do. Most men—and some women—were taller than him. But it didn’t bother Mortam Rowe. Long ago he had realized that stature was all in the mind.

  “I’m afraid, Gaon Jeigh is occupied at the moment, and he’s the man you would need to speak with.”

  “We’ll wait. Won’t we, Mr. Keave?”

  They pushed past the flustered doorman and entered the drawing room. It was a square chamber, light and airy, with high ceilings, pillars set against the walls, and clerestory windows. The floor was made of large stone tiles with decorative edges. Large, old paintings—mainly landscapes—hung on the paneled walls. Judging by the number of sofas and chairs set around the room, this place was designed to slow people down as they moved through the bowels of Prichard’s. Mortam Rowe spied a curtained doorway on the far end of the room. An older man sat behind a large haldwood desk on a carpet near the doorway. It was like a little island on the stone floor. The man had been poring through some kind of ledger book, but he looked up in alarm as Mortam Rowe and Keave strode into the room with the doorman trailing them.

  “I’m sorry Mr. Lardan,” the doorman said. “These men—”

  Mortam Rowe cut the man off and turned to the man behind the desk. “We’re here to see Mr. Gaon Jeigh. Immediately.”

  Lardan rose, a scowl on his face. “Impossible. Please depart the premises!”

  “We just require a moment of Mr. Jeigh’s time.”

  “Take your leave at once!”

  Mortam Rowe fixed his gaze on the curtained doorway. Unless he missed his guess, they were soon going to have some company from that direction. He reached down to his waist where his long cloak concealed an array of weapons. His fingers closed around the haft of his custom-made truncheon—or mace if you wanted to get technical about it. Belle was her name. On account of the fact her head was bell-shaped and the size of a woman’s fist.

  He knew from long experience that Keave was readying his own weapons beneath his own cloak: two rather heavy knives. Almost short swords, really. Originally used by his father, a rather renowned butcher out of Strathing.

  Two guards pushed their way through the curtains, brandishing swords of their own.

  “Time to leave, gentlemen,” the first guard said.

  But Mortam Rowe was already moving. Except he was moving towards the guards, with Belle free and whistling through the air.

  From their expression, the guards did not expect an attack. Nine out of ten times, they probably counted on their intimidating size to frighten would-be troublemakers. They probably became complacent, sitting on their asses all day, playing pone in a little room behind the curtain.

  Too bad for them.

  Mortam Rowe danced in at the lead guard, feinting right and then he spun in and Belle slapped the man’s wrist.

  Crack.

  The man cried out and dropped his weapon, but Mortam Rowe was on him, smashing a savage backfist into the guard’s face.

  At the same time, Keave charged like a bull, blades first.

  The second guard had a few extra seconds to react. He chopped his sword down at Keave in a powerful diagonal stroke that was designed to sever Keave’s collarbone. But Keave had anticipated the attack and brought his blades up in an X-block which easily arrested the guard’s attack. Then Keave kicked his opponent in the balls. It was his signature move. Crude, but effective. From that moment on, it was just clean-up, and within seconds the two guards were bleeding out on the floor.

  The desk clerk’s eyes widened at the sight of the blood seeping into the expensive Potenska carpet—and he screamed like a young girl.

  Mortam Rowe turned to him and flicked Belle at the clerk’s face, cracking the cheekbone under the man’s left eye.

  “Are we ready to see Mr. Jeigh yet?”

  It turns out they weren’t. Four more guards and six more office workers needed to be dispatched before they had an audience with Gaon Jeigh.

  He was a tall man with a shock of white hair—perhaps made whiter by this invasion of Prichard’s.

  “What…what do you want?” he stammered.

  “Information,” Mortam Rowe said. “All this unpleasantness can come to an end right here, right now. If you furnish us the information we need. Do you understand?”

  Gaon Jeigh nodded.

  “Very good. Now there was a particular lot of merchandise you recently acquired. From a family named Dubbard…”

  “You need to do a bit of washing up, my friend,” Mortam Rowe said as they slipped out of the back entrance of Prichard’s.

  Keave’s jerkin was splashed with the blood of a dozen men and three women. An unfortunately byproduct of the locestra’s particular combat style.

  “I’m due for new clothes, aren’t I?”

  “Yes, of course, my friend. You earned it. Many times over. Let us find a shop.”

  Keave nodded happily.

  The errand took them less than an hour, but now Keave looked more presentable. Which was important if they were to gain an audience with the man who was in possession of the aona.

  According to his recently departed brother, Phaler Jeigh and his wife Zarla lived in a rather prosperous part of Whill known as Ridges. It didn’t take Mortam Rowe too long to locate the neighborhood. Ridges was a well-ordered grid of cobblestone streets, estates, gardens, and parks—all situated on the bluffs high above Whill’s downtown.

  Mortam Rowe and Keave made their way through the wealthy neighborhood until they finally located number 10 Welsham Lane. But they didn’t knock upon the gate. Their mission was simply surveillance. Mindful of the mess that they left at Prichard’s, Mortam Rowe had decided to delay their visit to the Jeigh’s until that later that night.

  So they returned to the heart of the city and enjoyed a nice meal at a restaurant catering to well-to-do clientele, including several instructors from Delham University. After their meal, they went two doors down to The Blue Zephyr where they listened to a troubadour from Lhawster sing of long dead kings and emperors.

  When the moon was high, they departed the tavern and returned to Ridges and 10 Welsham Lane.

  It was surprisingly easy to gain entrance to Phaler Jeigh’s estate. He wasn’t at home, but his wife Zarla proved to be a gracious hostess—right until the time Keave ripped the clothes off her and threatened to hunt her body for buried treasure with a hot poker from the hearth.

  The woman screamed at the top of her lungs, but at that point there was no one left alive at the estate to hear her—let alone help her.

  In the end she told them what they wanted to know and only suffered a tiny bit before she died A fair bargain, Mortam Rowe thought.

  They learned that Phaler Jeigh had departed Whill for Gilweald the previous morning by horse. It was quite likely that he had already arrived at the Gilweald location of Prichard’s.

  If that was true, they’d have to visit that city’s Prichard’s and very well could have another mess on their hands. The thought brought no cheer to Mortam Rowe.

  It was true that their employer had given them a certain amount of latitude in dealing with the locals, but even someone of his station might have his limits in that regard.

  “But that is a problem for another day, is it not, Mr. Keave?”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “What I say is that I spied a very promising-looking wine cellar on our way in. Do you reckon the Jeigh’s have good taste in wines?”

  “Prob’ly,” Keave grunted.

  “Probably, indeed, Mr. Keave. But there is only one way to find out, yes? Let us avail ourselves of the continued hospitality of our good hostess, in absentia, of course.”

  A nice bottle of Granis would be quite welcome right about now. And afterwards, no need to find an inn. They could stay the night right here, ensconced in the Jeigh’s no-doubt-sumptuous bed chambers. In the morning, Keave could teleport them to Gilweald well before any visitors or servants might arrive at the estate.

  That was that. Marked and settled.

  Chapter Six

  If the hour had been later or earlier, or there had been clouds in the sky, or if Bander had gone to sleep before he did—if any of these had occurred, he would still have been on the road to Rundlun.

  But he wasn’t.

  Bander had turned around and was now backtracking to Gilweald.

  All because a chance look up towards the sky. Where he saw a moon.

  A crescent moon to be exact.

  It had prompted a memory of a conversation with an old friend.

  The last time he had seen his eccentric friend Valthar, the man had offhandedly mentioned an amulet shaped like a small silver crescent. Like a moon. A crescent moon.

  Once Bander had caught a glimpse of the moon hanging low over the hills, it triggered the memory. He remembered the look on Valthar’s face. Deadly serious. The look of a man who had everything to lose.

  And now Bander was facing a quandary.

  Backtrack all the way to Gilweald and beyond? Eight days minimum. Probably nine. His destination would be the outskirts of Hamwick where Valthar lived in an old hunting lodge. At least, that’s where Bander thought Valthar might be.

  To be honest, Bander wasn’t completely sure where exactly his old friend lived. Some sort of spell or geas prevented him from remembering the exact location.

  But he had fixed certain details in his mind that might help him find his friend once he got close.

  A green man on a red door.

  The question was, should Bander drop everything and bring the pendant to Valthar.

  Bander searched his mind for some fragments of memory about the crescent amulet Valthar sought. How important was it?

  Valthar was certainly a peculiar man—and the oddest of Bander’s friends—by a wide margin. A very wide margin.

 
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