Turning Points (19 page)
Soldt’s angular face remained impassive, and he continued to toy with his glass. Moments passed with no word between them, but finally—”What would it be worth to you?”
Naimun looked up. “What would you ask?”
Soldt peered across the crowded common room: men at every table, serving maids rushing here and there, doxies among them plying their trade, Pegrin the Ugly behind the bar, filling jacks and glasses and mugs. Among the tables a passed-out drunk slumped forward upon one, his mates ignoring him, as well as the one on the floor. Off in a corner booth two men furiously argued; perhaps it would come to blows or blades. Soldt’s gaze returned to Naimun.
“Three things.” He held up his hand and raised a finger. “First:
For each one I face I get paid, whether or not I win, and thrice my usual training fee, since there is blood involved.”
Naimun nodded. “Agreed.”
Soldt raised a second finger. “If I am wounded, I am to be treated only by the best of healers—Pel Garwood will do, if Velinmet’s not available—but I’ll have no mages nor priests involved, and especially no witches… and you will pay for all.”
Again Naimun nodded.
Soldt raised a third finger. “Lastly, I will be paid a fair price for the gemstone itself, as appraised by Thibalt the Rankan. Once the Dyareelans were done with their, um, offerings, there weren’t many jewelers left, but Thibalt survived and is one of the few I trust to give a true assessment. It is his valuation we will use to set the worth of the stone.”
“Agreed,” replied Naimun. He waited, but Soldt said no more. “That’s it?”
Soldt turned up a hand.
“Huah,” grunted Naimun. “And here I was going to offer you a new sword to replace that smudged up blade of yours.”
Soldt cocked an eyebrow at Naimun.
“I still will,” said Naimun. “We’ll go up to Face-of-the-Moon Street on the Hill, up to that new weapons dealer, um…”
“Spyder,” supplied Soldt.
“Right. Spyder… he and that girl—a pretty thing—quiet as a mouse, but moves like a cat, she does.”
A faint smile tugged at the corners of Soldt’s mouth. “Familiar. —Her movement, that is.”
Naimun looked at Soldt, but the duelist added nought. “Regardless, Soldt, my offer yet stands: a new sword. Rumor is that some of his blades are enchanted.”
Again a fleeting smile crossed Soldt’s face. “So they say, my friend.”
“Then shall we add a new sword to your fee?”
Soldt gave a slight shake of his head. “The one I have will do.”
“As you wish,” said Naimun. He swirled then swigged the last of his brandy and glanced at Soldt’s near-empty drink, then he caught the eye of a passing serving girl and raised his glass and signed for two more of the same.
Muttering to himself, Rogi waddled back and forth past a now-lit lantern sitting adock at the root of an empty slip, one of the many built after the great blow, there along the shore nigh Fisherman’s Row. The small hunchback stopped occasionally to pull up a floppy sock, first on one leg and then on the other, but then resumed his awkward gait. As he passed by the lantern for perhaps the hundredth time, a pair of wharf rats scuttled across his path, and Rogi flopped back the cuffs of his too-long sleeves from his hands and clutched at the small blow gun on its thong about his neck and fumbled in his belt pouch for a dart along with his tin of special paste. “Ratth, Mathter,” he said with a lisp, his overlong tongue getting in the way. “I’ll put thorn to thleep for you.” But at gesture of negation from the necromancer, Rogi let loose the pipe and watched the rats disappear into the darkness.
Forthunate ratth
— even Rogi’s thoughts lisped—
you will not awaken to be thkinned alive by my Mathter Hdlott
.
Rogi took up his pacing once more. Now and again the little hunchback peered past the slip and out into the eerie mist… for what?… he knew not. Occasionally he glanced at his Master Hal-ott, seeking some clue as to what might come, or perhaps seeking confirmation that nothing would.
And the dark, blood-red moon was yet swathed in shadow.
And not a breath of air stirred.
But then…
But then…
… there faintly sounded the dip and pull of oars, and coming through the silvery mist, coming through…
“A thyip,” hissed Rogi. “Mathter Halott, a thyip comth.” Not knowing what to expect, the little man scuttled behind the tall, gaunt figure and peered around at the approaching craft.
Halott did not move.
Luminous mist aswirl with its passage, a small, single-masted ketch—its sail hanging lank, its oars creaking—eased through the chill waters and toward the pier, and Rogi could make out a huge figure plying the blades, while a smaller one sat astern at the tiller, both encloaked and hooded.
Onward came the ship, past others moored in the bay at anchor and toward the crowded pier, aiming for the light of the lantern, and as it neared the huge figure gave one last pull, then shipped the oars and stood and turned about; Rogi breathed a sigh of relief, for now he could see it was a man—what else he might have imagined, Rogi could not say. The man stepped to the bow and took up a mooring rope as the craft coasted into the slip. “Aid them,” whispered Halott, and Rogi sprang forward, causing the man in the ship to frown in startlement at this scuttling misshapen creature. Nevertheless, he tossed the line to the small hunchback, and Rogi hauled the bow of the craft to the root of the slip and tied it to a mooring post as the man hung two tethered bolsters of hemp over the side to fend the craft from the jetty.
At the stern, the smaller of the two figures leapt to the dock and secured that end as well. Rogi’s eyes lighted up when he saw that this second person was female, for she cast back her hood and looked about as the huge man lowered the sail and then took up a great sword in a harness and strapped it across his back. As he stepped onto the dock beside her, “This isn’t Ibarr,” said the woman in a flat, accented voice, an accent that Rogi knew not.
“It isn’t even Azrain,” rumbled the man, his own voice carrying an inflection different from hers, but one which Rogi could not place either.
The woman glanced at the dark, ruddy moon and the constellations in the starlit sky. “Nor are these the night skies of Arith.”
Now Halott stepped toward the pair, gesturing at the lantern as he passed Rogi, and Rogi snatched it up and scuttled ahead of his master, lighting the way.
Soldt looked up from his third brandy. “Who is sponsoring this tournament, and why?”
Naimun shrugged.
Soldt’s eyes narrowed.
Naimun took a deep breath. “The Rankans, that’s who. There are rumors that Sepheris is mustering an army, ostensibly for an all-out attack on Ilsig’s enemies to the north. But Jamasharem suspects that the Ilsigi army is going to march against Ranke instead. So, under the pretense of celebrating the Ten-Slaying—some Rankan festival having to do with one of their gods, Vashanka, I think, killing all ten of His brothers—the good emperor has sent an emissary, Badareen, to negotiate with my sire to convince him—to convince him, my dung-eating uncle, Zarzakhan, and my lout of a half-brother—to rally the Irrune against Sepheris should war come this way.”
Soldt snorted and shook his head. “The Irrune are not likely to do so, not likely to take sides.”
Naimun ruefully smiled. “Aye, not likely. Not even my half-brother the Dragon is that stupid.” He took a sip of brandy and then said, “Regardless, as cover for his mission—rather flimsy, I say—Badareen has arranged for this tournament to be part of some bloody commemoration, as the Rankan would have this time of season be.”
Soldt again shook his head and glanced out over the crowd. “Entertainment for the masses, while emissaries of so-called men of power—Emperor Jamasharem and King Sepheris IV—set the wheels of destiny in motion. —Ha! My father, Arizak, will play one side against the other to get whatever it is he wants from them both.”
Naimun nodded, then fixed the other man in the eye. “Nonetheless, Soldt, I would have that jewel.”
The door banged open, and one of the Vulgar Unicorn’s patrons came staggering back in and shouted, “Oi! Come see! The moon has gone all dark and bloody!”
Down at the docks, the huge man gestured toward the icy water. “And that’s not the Valagon Sea.”
Halott came to a stop several paces away, Rogi at his side shuffling from foot to foot. “You are correct,” whispered Halott, his hollow voice a rustle.
Now the big man turned toward the necromancer. “Where, by Tislitt, are we? And how did we get here?”
“Elsewhere,” replied Halott. “I brought you here with the mantling of the moon, and I shall send you back with the shrouding of the sun, fourteen days from now.”
Of a sudden there was a curved blade in the hand of the female, and she stepped forward into the light, the point of the sword held low. “You will send us back now.”
Rogi gasped and stumbled back a step or two, not only because of the threat of the blade, but also because in all of his travels he had never seen such a woman before:
She was perhaps five foot two, with short-cropped, straight, glossy, raven-black hair. Under her gray-green cloak she was garbed in brown leather—vest and breeks and boots. Hammered bronze plates like scales were sewn on the vest; underneath she wore a silk jerkin the color of cream. A brown leather headband incised with red glyphs made certain that even the slightest wisp of her hair was held back and away from her high-cheekboned face. But none of that was what caused Rogi to gasp; instead it was her eyes and skin, for the eyes were so dark as to be black, and they held the hint of a tilt, and her skin… it was saffron—a tawny, ivory yellow.
Rogi was instantly in love.
Perhapth thshe will even want to thsee my dragon, perhapth even fondle it
. But at the moment she was too dangerous to even suggest such, for not only did she have a blade in hand, she also stood in a warrior’s stance: balanced, ready. And Rogi could see the hilt of another sword peeking out from her cloak.
“I cannot send you back now,” said Halott. “Not for fourteen days. Then I will act, but only if you do my bidding.”
The woman growled and brought her sword to guard, but the big man stepped forward. “Ariko, wait, let us hear him out.”
Now Rogi shifted his attention to the man. He was tall, very tall, perhaps six foot four or so, and muscular, and had to scale two-hundred-twenty or -thirty lithe pounds. He had sun-bleached auburn hair and ice-blue eyes. He, too, wore brown leathers beneath a gray-green cloak, but a metal breastplate covered his chest. The hilt of a great two-handed sword rode in a harness across his back. And although Rogi was no sure judge of age, he thought perhaps this man was in his early to mid-thirties, as was the woman Ariko.
Reluctantly, Ariko lowered the point of her blade, but caged fury lurked deep within the black of her tilted eyes.
“I am Durel,” said the big man. He peered into the enshadowed, dark cowl. “And you are… ?”
“You may call me Halott,” came the whisper.
Now Durel looked down at Halott’s companion and waited. “R-rogi,” stammered the little hunchback, flopping his hands about in his too-long sleeves. “H-halott ith my mathter.”
Now Durel turned his attention back to the gaunt figure in the black robes. “And why have you brought us here?”
Halott turned his unseen face toward Ariko and said, “There is this gemstone I would have…”
Naimun was somber and silent when he and Soldt returned to the table and took up their brandies again.
“You seem pensive, my friend,” said Soldt.
“It is an unfavorable omen,” replied Naimun. “Zarzakhan says that Irrunega is troubled whenever the moon runs with blood.”
Soldt smiled unto himself. Even so, he did not gainsay Naimun’s words, for gods surely visited both banes and boons upon the world at large, and upon Sanctuary in particular—or so it did seem.
“Perhaps He is disturbed by the thought that we might ally ourselves with the Rankans,” said Naimun.
“Or perhaps with the Ilsigi instead,” replied Soldt.
Naimun nodded, his gaze on the table, and as if speaking to himself said, “I will have to have word with my sire about this blood-moon, though I am certain the shamans will seek audience as well. No doubt they will tell him that Irrunega wishes us to leave the city behind and return to the plains. Still, if that were it, then why has He taken so long to manifest His disquiet.” He glanced up at Soldt and, as if coming to himself, blurted, “—But this in no manner affects our bargain. I want that jewel, the moon’s ill portent or no.’’
“Do you alwayth thail acrotht the othean in armor?” asked Rogi, scuttling alongside Ariko.
Ariko looked down at the little man. And by the light of the lantern he carried, and in the partial glow of the now-recovering moon, she saw that Rogi would perhaps stand some four and a half feet tall were he to straighten up, assuming the hump on his right shoulder would allow, but the way of his gait put him a foot or so shorter. And speaking of gait, there seemed to be something wrong with his feet—either that, or he had stuffed his shoes with scraps of leather or the like to make himself seem taller. He wore woolen pants held up by a rope on which was affixed a pouch. A shirt several sizes too large graced his distorted form, the sleeves flopping down over his hands. About his neck dangled a blowpipe on a thong. His eyes were so very pale as to seem almost white. Yet the most peculiar thing about him was his hair: It seemed that he was completely bald on the left side, while a long lank of reddish hair dangled down on the right, though he wore an ear-flapped, soft leather cap perhaps to disguise the oddity. And he had but a single yet very shaggy brow over his right eye, the left completely lacking. Ariko could see the shadow of whiskery growth on his right cheek and jaw, but nought whatsoever on the left. Too, whenever the ends of his sleeves had flapped aside, she had seen that the back of his left hand was hairless and smooth, but the right was extremely hirsute. It was as if all of his hair had migrated from the whole of his left side to double up on his right. And from his slack mouth dangled a tongue nearly long enough to lick his own bushy brow.
