Adversaries Together (2 page)

Finding this particular Spire had been easy
enough. It wasn’t the one gazing out over the huge lake void of any
windows looking down into the city and marked with delicate looking
balconies that stared out across the waters. It wasn’t any of the
Spires near the gates significantly more soiled that the others,
especially at the base due to market stalls and torch soot. No, he
had to slog the entire length of the city, through trade districts,
home districts, artisan alleys, worker dens, guild houses, and
commoner neighborhoods to the Spire in the farthest corner. It
stood with the hills to its back and the expanse of the city before
it.

He had picked the worst gate to enter
spending nearly the whole day trying to make his way through to it.
The entire time he could see it, seemingly always lying to him
about how near he was. Just around the next corner, just over the
next hill, or just beyond the horrid neighborhood he found himself
in. Before he reached it, he found an inn where he let a room for
the week. He soon discovered that the district was seeing less than
its fair share of the spoils from The Blockade. Grey and dingy, not
foul smelling but by no means rosy, the streets were wet,
cluttered, and devoid of foot traffic that felt to any degree
hospitable. Yet he hadn’t felt in danger nor had he worried about
leaving his possessions in the room. It wasn’t a pleasant inn but
it wasn’t dodgy, it would respect his purchase. Districts and
neighborhoods like these were peopled more with sheep than jackals.
Although, he couldn’t shake the tiny rumble of disgust that came up
in his gut seeing the locals. They reminded him far too much of the
county folk where he grew up—dirty, dimwitted, loud, and base.
These people lived in a great city but they were no different from
the rural rubes, they never ventured outside their neighborhoods
and never thought much beyond them either.

Since he had left his nameless hamlet as a
boy, he’d made it a point to stand firm with an air of
disinterested pride, one of the small ways he distinguished himself
from the rabble. Though not tall, he was not short and his prideful
stance was often enough to supply him with the deference he wanted
and required from the common folk. Ghostly grey eyes sank deep into
his beardless face and left many unnerved. His short silvery hair
gave him a look that wavered between fierceness and detachment.
Bartering with the inn keep for the room and board had gone
smoothly most due to his own countenance and projected aura. When
he got into his room and latched the door, he let it all fall from
him as he collapsed onto the bed. For a moment, he had simply let
himself soak in the comfort of a warm, private place. One never
knew when one would have the chance to do so again.

After stowing his packs away throughout the
room to discourage any nosy inn staffers, he had changed out of his
ranger gear into casual clothing. A deep gray long-sleeved tunic
under his favorite rust colored jerkin sufficed, and although he
didn’t change his knit trousers, he did make it a point to put on
some black, soft leather chaps he’d had specially made with several
pockets and slits sewn into them. Refreshed a bit, he had proceeded
onward to the spire not more than ten minutes’ walk from the
inn.

His decision to change clothes was mooted,
however, when he arrived as the guardsmen placed him in a holding
room. Not a cell or a prison, just a bland empty room with a plain
table and a single door with no handle on his side of it. He had
been left in there for nearly an hour before a different guardsman
had entered demanding he strip. He scoffed at first but there was
no levity had from the guard, who took his clothes and left him
naked in the room. Another hour passed as he waited on the wooden
table keeping his temper in check by reminding himself that whoever
sat at this table next would have the memory of his ass all over
it. When they returned his clothes he immediately realized that the
handful of small knives and trinkets he had hidden in his chaps
were gone. He didn’t ask the guard about these and couldn’t tell if
this yet again new guard could even tell him anything.

When he was lead out he wasn’t taken through
the customary halls but lead through some narrow and poorly lit
passages. Every so often, he could catch the faint sound of people
talking, laughing, or arguing through the stone and he realized
that he was being taken through the spire via the servant routes.
The fact annoyed and humored him, this was all a bit too
clandestine for his taste and ridiculously so, he thought. Finally,
he reached a tall, thin door. The guard stopped, said nothing,
abruptly turned, and left the way they had come. Standing alone
staring at a closed door, he let out a long sigh. Of course, he
opened it and discovered an even narrower, even darker passage only
this time it had thousands of tiny ascending stairs.

The walk up the stairway that had dumped him
into the library had taken him at least another hour. He was fit
but the trek had required him to stop several times to catch his
breath. He had no idea how high up in the spire he was, but he was
certain that it was no low elevation. He was impatient now staring
out the window slit down the spire side. It confirmed his
suspicions. He was too high up to make out any persons below beyond
being mere ants and the light of the day was nearly gone. He
realized he wouldn’t get back to his rented bed until late and
probably miss any dinner as well. He was beginning to think that
coming here was a poor decision.

Finally, the heavy woodened main door of the
library opened as two hooded men entered, each holding odd glaives
whose edges shone like glass. The pole arm wasn’t their only
weapon, both had a very plain falchion at their hip, and their
attire was clearly different from the guards that he had
encountered each in very plain leather brigandines. These men wore
the black subarmalis of a clearly higher order of soldier. They
walked to the center of the room facing him without expression. He
raised an eyebrow sizing up the two. Neither sentry seemed more
than twenty years old, if that, but they already had that
empty-eyed certainty of an elite guard, crusader paladins
perhaps.

As the two took their positions, a rather
soft looking blonde man with an unnaturally rosy complexion came in
to stand between them dressed in a purple jerkin and a long black
skirt. The fringe of the skirt and the man’s sleeves were
embroidered with an intricate pattern of silver thread; this man
was a Kyrio, a lord from one of the Spires. He was already talking
when he came into the room.

“…
of course I apologize for
the wait. This not being my own spire, of course, makes things a
bit more…not difficult but sluggish if you will…”

The Kyrio looked up and took a measure of the
man. Noticing his pose, he said, “Yes, well. I suppose I should
come to the point.” He tapped both sentries on the shoulder and
they abruptly left.

When they had closed the door, the lord’s
demeanor changed, becoming more confident and his eyes narrowed, “I
am Kyrio Tobin, Master Rainway.”

Rainway tilted his head, blinked, and leaned
against the wall crossing his arms, “Declan is fine. I’ve been in a
good while, ya know.”

“
Yes, well, if you had
somewhere better to be you’d be there wouldn’t you, hireling?”
Tobin said dismissively. He went over to one of the tables, pulled
a chair out for himself, and sat, without ever breaking eye
contact.

“
Doesn’t make it right.
Plenty of inconvenience for me being here.” Declan pushed off from
the wall and walked slowly towards Tobin.

“
Your compensation will be
enough.” Tobin seemed to relax as he crossed his legs and folded
his hands on his lap.

“
For what work,
exactly?”

Tobin smiles, “Soon there will be two
Cassubians traveling on the highroad from Sulecin to Anhra on their
way to Lappala.”

Declan broke in, “That’s a bit of a trek.
Just the two?”

Tobin continued ignoring the question, “One
will be an alm and the other a paladin. They’ll…”

“
And I’m supposed to what?
Kill them?” Declan interrupted turning away from Tobin and again
toward the window.

“
That wouldn’t be difficult
for a man like you,” Tobin scoffed, “Nor would it be difficult for
us to do ourselves.”

“
So then?” Declan unfolded
his arms and held is hand up waiting for Tobin to get to the
point.

Tobin pulled a purse from a pocket in his
sleeve, “This is a hundred and fifty aurei.” He held it up and as
he shook it, Declan’s eyes went right to it.

“
That’s not enough to kill
a Cathedral crusader.” He shook his head but never took his eyes
off the purse.

Tobin sighed, “We don’t want you to kill
anyone.” He tossed the purse to Declan hard but he caught it
firmly, “And we’ll pay you twice that once we know that the two are
safe. Here.”

Declan held the purse, judged its weight,
then tossed it up and down, “That makes a wholotta no sense.”

“
Let me be clear, we don’t
want you to kill anybody. We just want you to keep an eye on the
two. Monitor their progress and perhaps…” Tobin smiled as he
continued to give instructions. “Guide them to us.”

“
Guide them?” Declan looked
doubtful, “You mean you want me to change their route from Lappala
to Ardavass without them knowing? That won’t happen.”

“
They don’t need to not
know they are being diverted. In fact, making it clear that coming
to us is a necessary detour will most likely help.” Tobin seemed
indifferent but then leaned forward, “There will be others looking
to harm them.”

Declan smirked, “So I need ta shadow ‘em an’
dispose of these others.”

Tobin shook his head, “You don’t need to stop
anyone that might cross their path but if the two do have their
mission terminated, you need to acquire proof of their demise.”

Declan listened, but his mind began to wander
as he tried to figure out what the Spires wanted with embroiling
themselves with the Cathedral. It was quickly becoming clear that
this wasn’t above board with the Spires and the idea of being mired
in the politics of the Cathedral was not appealing. However, the
purse’s weight in his hand felt right and he couldn’t help but
fantasize about how good twice the amount would feel, “So, go on
then. Tell us some more…”

Rikonen, Lammas Day

The morning blue was cold, the air thin
carrying sharp echoes from distant alleys. In the background, the
white noise of the bay mixed with the hum of the scattered fires
sending up black columns from throughout the city. Fery opened her
eyes and immediately shot up; there was a moment of shock and
disorientation. Every morning started this way. She couldn’t
remember the last time she had to fight to wake herself, the last
time she fought to stay in a warm slumber from a deep safe sleep.
She couldn’t remember when the sound of birds in the morning had
stopped. These days Rikonen never fell asleep nor ever woke up. It
was bleeding into Fery, getting to the point where she was merely
abiding not surviving.

She looked around the room and realized where
she was. The night before had been moonless, she had made her way
through the alleys of the third ward trying to stay ahead of the
cannibal gangs that had flushed her out of her last hiding spot.
The third ward had been the distillery district, small but
distinctive with its tall and narrow stone buildings whose cream
color bricks stood out from the rest of the city’s white plaster.
For hundreds of years the district had taken a portion of the grain
and seed harvest from the plains outside the city creating one of
the most popular and strong spirit the world had seen. But it’d
been one of the first wards shutdown because of The Blockade, then
the first to be abandoned. Fery had hoped she could steal away for
at least the night here and, if things went well, perhaps
longer.

The morning became brighter as she remembered
where she was. It was a storehouse, cold, hard, and vacant. Fery
threw off the tarp she’d been using as a blanket and looked around
to absorb more details of the place now there was light. Most of
the level was open with pillars roughly every twenty feet and huge
arched open-air windows lined the three walls. She had climbed up
four floors, the wind whipped through leaving Fery unable to stop
trembling. She stood and began folding up the canvas. Kneeling as
she stuffed it away, her stomach lurched and she felt a rumble go
through her entire torso. She needed to eat, but her food was
nearly gone—small pouch of goosefoot, a heel of heavy bread, and
the brick of cheese she had stolen.

“
No,” she whispered to
herself as she looked at the cheese, “I didn’t steal it. She was
dead, I was alive.”

Still, she hadn’t taken a bite of the cheese
since she had pried it from the dead woman’s hands. Every time she
raised the cheese to her mouth, she saw the corpse’s face, the
woman’s last living look. Resignation. How had she died? Fery
didn’t know. Most likely exposure. A hunk of cheese, a treasure.
The woman had not marks on her, no blood. Perhaps she had frozen to
death or her heart just gave out. She’d seen it before on the
streets, people who had just given up. Some had taken their own
life—many hung themselves, more than she would have thought had the
will to impale themselves with makeshift stakes. A good number had
stabbed themselves in the neck and bled out; it had gotten so
common before the flesh-eaters that folk called it Parmentier’s
Way. It made little sense to Fery, dying by your own hand. She
couldn’t imagine not living, but every day that she saw more
corpses she felt herself spinning away from sanity.