The temple of fate, p.4
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The Temple of Fate, page 4

 part  #5 of  Bander Series

 

The Temple of Fate
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  Thirty years ago, Bander and a group of his fellow adventurers had stumbled upon a lanky lad trapped in the lower levels of an ancient Tengan temple deep in the jungle of the Wilderlands. Once they rescued him, Valthar had claimed that he was from the year 729—which was over 1,000 years ago. He further claimed that he was the son of the legendary Klothar, an exalted hero from myth.

  Since that time, Bander had visited his friend every few years—although the last time had been nearly three years ago. And nearly every time they spoke, Valthar asked if Bander had seen any crescent amulets in his travels. It had become somewhat of an ongoing jest. But beneath the quips, Bander sensed a desperation clinging to his friend. Whatever need the crescent amulet represented, it was dire.

  But was it dire enough to warrant detouring for a nine days there and nine back? Factor in the time he’d spend with Valthar and it would delay his arrival in Rundlun for three weeks.

  Three weeks.

  Was that long enough for Bryn Eresthar to disband the Mage Guild? Who knew?

  In the end, a nagging feeling convinced Bander that he should go. He just hoped that the Empire wouldn’t fall before he finally arrived at the capital.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning, Mortam Rowe and Keave teleported to Gilweald and breakfasted at the Sunken Tree Inn. Afterwards they walked past Pritchard’s on Tayton Street and sat down on a bench in a park with a view of the establishment’s front door. There were only two visitors up until noon, and three from noon until closing. Much less activity than in Whill, which made sense since Gilweald was a smaller city. And Whill had the university, of course.

  As the sun began to set and the air cooled and lamplighters began their rounds, Mortam Rowe watched as a clerk exited Pritchard’s.

  “Now, my friend!”

  The two of them moved quickly to intercept the clerk as he locked the front gate.

  “Pardon, good sir,” Mortam Rowe said to the clerk.

  The man turned questioningly and Mortam Rowe lunged in. Quick as a flash he had a blade pressed against the man’s side.

  “Not a breath, good sir, else I carve your kidney from your body and take it home for dinner. Understand?”

  The man’s eyes widened, and he nodded.

  “Superb. Let us retire within.”

  Mortam Rowe walked the clerk back up to the door, keeping his blade within striking distance, and watching to make sure the man didn’t do anything stupid—like try to summon help.

  “How many people still inside?” Mortam Rowe asked as they pushed inside.

  “I don’t know,” the clerk gasped.

  “Estimate.”

  The clerk looked up for a moment as if he was silently counting and then said, “Two dozen, maybe. Thirty at the outset.”

  “At this hour?”

  “The mistress keeps her house above. She has servants. And guards. We have a lot of valuables on the premises.”

  That wasn’t good, thought Mortam Rowe. Not good at all.

  “What happened to the shipment Phaler Jeigh brought in?”

  “It arrived the day before yesterday, although Mr. Jeigh was severely injured on the road. It’s a miracle he’s alive. A sellsword brought him in—for the reward, no doubt.”

  “What sellsword?”

  “Never saw him before. A man named Grannt. Leocald Grannt, I believe.”

  “Leocald Grannt? Like the playwright?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I only caught a glimpse of him yesterday morning when he was speaking to the mistress. He didn’t look like a playwright.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Big brute of a man, sir. Like a colossal bear. Old and grey.”

  “And you’re sure the shipment came in with Phaler Jeigh?”

  “I logged it myself, sir.”

  “And where is it now?”

  “In the vault, sir.”

  “The vault that is guarded?”

  “And warded, sir. Quite impregnable. The Pritchard reputation—”

  “Spare me.”

  Mortam Rowe knew all about the Pritchard reputation. There would be no gaining access to the vault. At least without the slaughter of everyone in the building and then the assistance of a mage or two.

  Mortam Rowe questioned the man for several more minutes and then slit his throat and dumped his body behind a desk. He and Keave slipped out the front door unseen.

  They purposefully strolled down Tayton Street, crossed Rowland Avenue, and weaved their way through the maze of narrow, twisting streets that surrounded Lowmarket. At one point, Keave became distracted by a confectionary merchant who stood on the street, cajoling customers to enter his shop. Mortam Rowe knew he had to get his partner a sugar crystal stalactite to lick as they walked across town. It was slightly embarrassing to be in the company of a grown man with such a strong predilection for children’s sweets, but such was life with Keave.

  At the far eastern quarter of Gilweald, right on the edge of the warehouse district, were a few cheap boarding houses that catered to the carters, bashers, dockers, wharf men, teamsters, and warehouse workers who worked in the area. Mortam Rowe sought a place to stay where they wouldn’t be disturbed so he could make contact with his employer.

  He found an ancient-looking inn that stretched three stories tall, long and narrow. It had been built between two large warehouses like a kernel of corn wedged between two teeth. Likely it would have what he needed: a solitary garret on the top floor.

  As they stepped into the common room, the innkeeper looked him up and down, and his gaze lingered on Mortam Rowe’s jacket trimmed with the dark blue braid and labon buttons. Then he politely suggested that Mortam Rowe might be more comfortable at a less modest accommodation—such as the Walchen Arms on Dunstable. When Mortam Rowe told the innkeeper that his fine establishment suited his needs just so—especially if they could rent the top room, the man shrugged and named a price for a night’s stay which was doubtless thrice the normal cost. It wasn’t worth fussing over, so Mortam Rowe paid the man and he and Keave followed the innkeeper up a rickety staircase to the third floor.

  There they were presented with the largest room in the inn. Inside were two beds with thin, worn blankets, two dirty windows, one cracked mirror, one small rug, a foul-looking chamberpot, a small table with two chairs, and a few lamps and candles. No fireplace. No wardrobes. No washbasin.

  “This will suit us just fine,” he told the innkeeper.

  The man smiled a gap-toothed grin and bowed. “Very good, sirs.” Then he left them alone. Finally.

  Mortam Rowe wasted no time. He shut the door tightly after the innkeeper and then, from his bag, withdrew a roundish, flat item the size of a man’s outstretched palm. It was a scrying crystal, keyed to another in Lhawster.

  Mortam Rowe glanced over at Keave, and was relieved to see that his partner had stretched out on one of the beds, happily winnowing down his sugar crystal.

  Sitting down at the table, Mortam Rowe activated the device just as he was taught, speaking the steps half aloud as he went through them.

  Half a minute later, the surface of the stone rippled and then fogged over. Tiny points of light swirled within the crystal’s depths—almost like stars in a night sky reflected in a slow-moving river. Then the image changed and the jowly face of an old, fat wizard appeared.

  “Master Kodd,” Mortam Rowe nodded in greeting.

  “Ah, Mortam Rowe. I trust you are interrupting the peace of my afternoon with good reason.”

  Mortam Rowe knew that the old mage had the attention span of a baby shrew, so he quickly reported on his progress and described the quandary of Prichard’s.

  “You were right to contact me,” Harnotis Kodd said. “I believe our employer would want this matter handled with a bit less attention than might result from the cold-blooded slaughter of thirty souls in the heart of the gem district.”

  “Indeed, Master.”

  “Stay where you are, but take no further action. I shall endeavor to contact you tomorrow or the next day. There may be another task for you gentlemen.”

  Before Mortam Rowe could reply, the scrying crystal clouded again and Harnotis Kodd’s image faded.

  Well, that was that.

  Mortam Rowe took a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling. Speaking with Harnotis Kodd always made him feel like he was being judged.

  “Are you done?” Keave asked.

  “What?”

  “With your work?” He sat up and looked at Mortam Rowe expectantly. “I was thinking we could look at the riverboats in the morning.”

  “Of course, my friend. First thing tomorrow, we shall take a stroll down to the Meredel and see what wondrous boats have appeared here in Gilweald from far-away lands.”

  Keave had a perfect memory and a bit of a one-track mind, so when Mortam Rowe arose the next morning, the first thing he heard was Keave asking “Is it time to see the boats now?”

  Mortam Rowe stretched and dragged himself out of bed. “Yes, right after we get some food and perhaps a nice cup of tea.”

  Keave’s face brightened, and he jumped up from the bed. The motion caught Mortam Rowe by surprise and he dodged back. This caused Keave to erupt into laughter and come after him, with an open-handed strike to the face.

  “Oh no you don’t!” Mortam Rowe parried the strike and then darted his hand in and flicked Keave’s nose.

  “Bastard!”

  Keave could move like lightning when he wanted to, and he stomped in and tapped Mortam Rowe’s cheek with three fingers.

  Then the scuffle turned into a full-scale slap fight.

  When they were done, both men found themselves sprawled on the floor laughing until tears clouded their vision.

  Keave found his feet first. “Good one, Mortam.” He helped Mortam Rowe to his feet.

  “I believe I scored three hits to your seven, but who’s keeping count?” Mortam Rowe smiled.

  “Can we see get our meal now? And then see the boats?”

  “Of course.” Mortam Rowe packed up the scrying crystal, straightened his clothes, and led the way downstairs.

  As they exited, the innkeeper gave them a sideways look, as if implying something untoward. Mortam Rowe was tempted to remove the man’s scrotum and feed it to him, but then he reminded himself of the need to keep a low profile.

  Chapter Eight

  The docks were a five-minute walk south. All they needed to do was follow their noses towards the skunky reek of the river. The Meredel was wide and slow here, and the Gilweald harbor was choked with flat-bottomed riverboats—some from as far away as Nordowns—all flying their provincial colors.

  As the last major port before Rundlun, Gilweald could supply just about anything a man wanted—legal or otherwise. If he and Keave weren’t currently engaged, it might be profitable to spend some time getting to know some of the players here.

  Two streets down from the main docks, they found a tavern called the Allard whose kitchen was still open—even though it was past the time when most of the inn’s customers had departed for the docks.

  The food and tea were passable, but still Mortam Rowe and Keave ate quickly so they could return to the docks. There they found a bench with a good view of the wharf near a net-maker’s shop. They sat in the morning sun and observed the hive of activity at the river’s edge.

  After a time, Mortam Rowe glanced over at his colleague. Keave could spend all day on the docks watching the riverboats come and go and marveling at the dockers and lumpers as they swung crates from hoists and moved barrels along special ramps to a boat’s hold. Well, best to let Keave enjoy himself. So Mortam Rowe leaned back, shut his eyes, and soaked in the sun, trying to be patient.

  But by noon Mortam Rowe was eager to move along. He had seen enough boats and the smell of the river was getting worse by the hour. In addition, he was irked that Harnotis Kodd had not contacted them yet. Keave was reluctant to leave—as expected—but Mortam Rowe lured him away with the promise of more candy.

  They quickly walked back to Lowmarket where Mortam Rowe purchased some provisions, including wine for himself and more sugar crystals and a toy wooden puzzle for Keave. Then they returned to Tayton Street outside of Pritchard’s. Mortam Rowe wanted to see if the body of the Pritchard’s clerk had been discovered. But even after waiting around in the park for an hour or so, he had seen no sign of anything unusual at the shop. A few well-dressed people came and went, but no city guard. And no big sellsword.

  The clerk had said that the man was named Leocald Grannt, which struck Mortam Rowe as a rather posh name for a mercenary. Still, it might not be a bad idea to ask around at a few inns.

  “I’m afraid we’re wasting our time here, my friend.”

  “Can I have a sugar crystal then?” Keave asked.

  “When we get back to the hotel.”

  “But I’m hungry now.”

  “Let us get a proper meal then, and you may have your sweets afterwards.”

  That seemed to satisfy Keave, and Mortam Rowe led the way to the closest tavern, where they enjoyed an early supper. Then they began canvassing the inns around the neighborhood, asking about a big man named Leocald Grannt.

  Fortune smiled upon them at the fourth inn they inquired at: the Ryden Arms. The stout innkeeper told Mortam Rowe that a man named Leocald Grannt had stayed there, but had departed two days ago.

  “Are you Gard Coverstone’s new men?” the innkeeper asked.

  “We’re in consideration for the job,” Mortam Rowe said, improvising. “May we see the room where Grannt stayed?”

  The innkeeper raised one bushy eyebrow. “And why would you want to do that?”

  “As I said, we’re trying to make a good impression. Finding Mr. Grannt would be a real feather in our caps.”

  The innkeeper hesitated, but eventually was swayed into helping them once Mortam Rowe produced some coins.

  “Just a quick look then. But I don’t believe the man left anything behind.”

  Mortam Rowe glanced at Keave. His friend had begun to take an interest in the conversation. The locestra only needed a scrap of cloth or some hair in order to pick up his quarry’s trail.

  But they were out of luck. The bedclothes had been washed already and, unlike their own room at the inn in the warehouse district, this guest room was spotless.

  As they departed, Mortam Rowe gave the innkeeper a few more coins to ensure his discretion and asked, “Did Leocald Grannt happen to mention where he was going?”

  “I only said two words to him. Didn’t even know who he was while he was here. It was only yesterday that Lester and Milly heard the story of poor Mr. Jeigh and how Mr. Grannt had found him on the road, ambushed by bandits and such.”

  As they left the Ryden Arms, Mortam Rowe checked the scrying crystal in his satchel. Still no word from Harnotis Kodd. Mortam Rowe wondered if he should contact the old mage with this new discovery. In the end, he decided against it. Harnotis Kodd was a stickler for protocol. Unless they had something more definitive to report, it was best to adhere to the mage’s wishes.

  Mortam Rowe feared that the sellsword’s trail was too cold—even for Keave. Still, it would be nice to locate the man and question him.

  As night began to fall, they headed back to the warehouse district, cutting through a deserted plaza ringed by tall, darkened buildings.

  Keave was prattling away about a woman he saw in one of the inns. Apparently she had striped hair like a chipmunk which fascinated Keave to no end.

  “Probably just a glimmer,” Mortam Rowe said. As he spoke, he caught sight of some movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned and—at the same time—reached for Belle at his hip.

  A half-dozen men—local street thugs by the looks of them—drifted into the plaza from all sides. They were armed with saps and daggers and truncheons wrapped in leather—probably to muffle the sounds. In less than a two heartbeats, the men had surrounded Mortam Rowe and Keave.

  “Ho, ho, ho,” the leader called. “You’re not trying to evade the toll collectors, are ye?” He was a tall, thick man with thin sandy hair framing a hard, weathered face and a heavy brow.

  Mortam Rowe stopped and wiped at his eyes, buying time. The sight of a quarry such as he and Keave must have caused this lead thug more than a moment’s deliberation.

  On the positive side of the ledger was the fact that they were well-dressed with high-quality cloaks and boots and were laden with recent purchases. Also, one of the would-be victims was certainly slight of build and rather short.

  On the other side of the ledger was Keave, a heavyset, lumbering man who stood several inches taller than the leader.

  But another positive entry was the fact that the two men were unarmed and likely ignorant of just where they had stumbled into. Well-dressed gents did not wander into the warehouse district—especially after dark.

  “Can we do this without blades?” Mortam Rowe said to Keave under his breath. “I wouldn’t want your new clothes to get bloodied once again.”

  Keave nodded and his head lowered in that dangerous look he got.

  “What you two prattling on about?” the lead thug asked.

  “Nothing of concern, my friend,” Mortam Rowe said. “What is the amount of the toll?” He stepped forward, closer to the sandy-haired leader.

  The man shot a grin over at one of his compatriots and said, “How about we say… oh… everything you’ve got?”

  The closest thugs laughed in appreciation, relaxing a bit. That was good, Mortam Rowe thought. It gave Keave time to size up the opposition.

  “Rather a rich toll, don’t you think?” Mortam Rowe bantered back.

  “What? Were you interested in haggling?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Mortam Rowe inched closer, but it really wasn’t necessary. The sandy-haired thug stepped forward and slapped his sap against the palm of his hand. The sound echoed throughout the plaza.

  “I have an offer for you,” the thug said. “You two give us everything you’ve got, and if it’s enough to make Bonesy happy, we’ll only break one of your arms. Each, that is.”

 
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