Forest For The Trees (Book 3) (21 page)

“It’s all right,” he finally declared.  “Beld will
find a way to get the skittering little maggot if he’s running around a city.  No
one to watch his back.  Should be easy.”

Tallior snorted derisively.  “
You
stay quiet in
the room until I poke about.  Then we’ll see who is easy meat and who isn’t.”

*        *        *        *        *

Marik stared at Rail, utterly lost for what to do. 
Twice he shut his eyes hard, expecting the man to be gone when he opened them,
or be a stranger with only a passing resemblance to his father.  That would
make far better sense than the haggard man sitting at the counter.

In a daze, he rounded the L’s corner and slid onto an
empty stool.  Rail said nothing while the raucous cacophony thundered around
them.  At last, Rail cocked his head to the side, his eyes bisected by the long
sword handle jutting up from where it leaned against the bar.

“Not to be fussed about it,” Rail grunted, “but I’m
not in the mood for a drinking companion.”

“I—”  Marik coughed out a wad of phlegm that stuck in
his throat.  No less uncertain for it, he tried anew.  “I didn’t come to
drink.  Or eat a meal for that matter.”

“Friend—” Rail started before he had to pause as
well.  Rather than hocking out a blockage, he leaned more heavily on the bar,
his breathing emerging in deep bellows until he regained control.  “I’d rather
finish this before it goes sour than be sociable.”  He lifted a squat, clear
glass filled with equally clear liquid that might have been water.

Marik waited, hoping for his brain to kick in rather
than for Rail to recognize him.  Over the last few years, Marik had undergone
many physical changes.  Other than his training to increase his strength and
muscle bulk, the lingering aftereffects from his magical near-death adventures
had left him with skin that looked weathered beyond what a man his age should
claim, along with deepening the tone into a permanent tan.

Simply blurting out who he was seemed…unreal.  He kept
expecting to awaken from the dream at any moment.  After a protracted period
where Rail drained half his glass, Marik touched on the only topic with which
he might be able to speak coherently.

“So you’re a mercenary, are you?”  When Rail glanced
sideways with a single eye, Marik hastily continued.  “You’ve got the look. 
The clothes match, and the…this sword isn’t anything you see soldiers
carrying.  Beyond that, you’ve got the air.  The bearing.”

Silence.

Marik groped for new words until a barman materialized
opposite him, setting a matching glass before Marik with a loud
thunk
. 
“Four coppers on the one, unless you want fillers during the sport.  Then it’s
two for seven.”

“Sorry, I didn’t order a drink.”  He brushed the
barman off until the barman brushed himself back on.

“First timer, are you?  Let me tell you then.  As long
as you’re in the Queen’s Head, you’ll be drinking the sporting man’s drink
without complaint or hike it back out into the street.  All the same to me, so
what’ll it be?”  He folded his arms over his chest, his gaze challenging.

Nonplussed, Marik dug a second five-copper coin from
his purse.

“No fillers then.  If you change your mind, it’ll be a
fresh start at four for a new glass.”  The barman kept the entire coin, never
bothering to ask if Marik had meant to offer the last copper as a gratitude
gesture.  His gaze shifted off the barman’s retreating back.  He noticed a
soot-covered sign on the wall above a bottle row.  It read, “
Fancies make
Reality.
”

Marik seized the glass as the perfect excuse to avoid
Rail’s line of sight for the moment.  He thought nothing of the warmth his
fingers detected until the contents entered his mouth.  The liquid hit the back
of his throat.  A violent cough exploded from him.  Whether it was from the odd
alcohol or the high temperature to which it had been warmed made no difference
to him while he struggled to breathe.

Rail studied him as a magistrate might look upon a
pathetic liar spinning a story filled with holes to explain away pockets laden
with stolen valuables.  “Takes a cur to know a cur, is it?  Although,” he
deliberately arched an eyebrow, “if that is your first choice in fangs, then I
don’t think much of your bite.”

Lifting the sword taken from the black soldiers, Marik
replied, “My last sword was destroyed during a fight.  You don’t have much
choice when you’re stuck with picking up a blade from the battlefield.  It’s
good enough until I get a replacement.”

A snort came through Rail’s nostrils while he raised
the glass to lips.  “Yeah.  I’ve been known to do that.”

“But being destroyed while fighting on contract, I can
get a quality replacement without much trouble.  Sennet will complain, but he
always does when I ruin his stock.”

Rail’s hand came to a stop over the space of several
inches.  It hovered over the counter in the act of returning the glass to the
polished surface.  “Did you say…what did you say?”

“It is noisy, isn’t it?”  Marik dug through his purse
until he fished out a flat iron tag that had drifted to the very bottom.  He
slapped it on the counter with the embossed red crown stared up between them.

“So…” Rail murmured, his eyes following the crown’s
points.  “A Crimson King, are you?  That’s saying something in these parts. 
It’s tough as outwitting Vernilock at Stones to get into that band.”

“I know that.  I had to train all the first winter to
improve a class.”

“A D, were you?  Plenty enough of them make it through
the trials each year.  I came in on the C/B line the year I applied to enter
Kingshome.”

“I guess the Twelfth Squad must have been hit hard the
summer before.  I’ve noticed the best fighters usually get assigned to the
squads that are hurting worst.”  Marik ignored the sharp look from Rail to
point at the massive sword’s hilt.  “So this is the monster sword Sennet
forged, is it?  He never described it at all.  Mind if I get a feel for it?”

Rail kept his hard, suspicious eye on Marik.  Rather
than demand how Marik could have known which squad Rail had once been part of,
he quirked one corner of his mouth.  “I think you’ll find it’s a sweetheart
outside your ability to swoon.  But give it a go if you like, out of respect
for a fellow band member.”

Marik could see Rail’s knuckles clench slightly.  He
expected trouble.  He thought it would likely come as a foolish attempt by this
unknown stranger to attack him with his own sword.

The blade’s hilt was thicker than any other sword’s
Marik had wrapped his fingers around.  Nevertheless, it felt perfectly
proportioned, as Sennet’s work always did.  He tilted the sword forward from
the bar onto its point until he secured a solid, one-handed grip.

Its sheath covered the entire blade and had been
corded to the guard to prevent it from being drawn.  Too bad.  Marik would have
liked to examine the blade, to see what he might expect when Sennet eventually
delivered Marik’s version.  His design, he knew, differed in several respects. 
Still, it would be good to start getting a solid feel for the new weapon type
as soon as he could.

He could tell by Rail’s manner that his father
expected a certain turn of events.  In all likelihood, he waited for Marik to
attempt to lift a sword far heavier than any weapon ought to be, dropping it
before he could bring it to bare on its owner.  That would be the moment when
he would strike back.

To put a cork in that, Marik instated his strength
working.  Using his personal creation, etheric power ran through thousands of
minute channels winding through his body, enhancing the natural flows, boosting
his muscle strength.  Peripherally he noticed Rail’s ear twitch slightly when
the working settled into place.

With his one hand he easily lifted the lengthy sword
until its point bumped off a low rafter.  Before, with his previous blades, it
had felt as if he held nothing heavier than a feather.  He could swing swords
without regard for counter-momentum since he was able to change directions
faster than a heartbeat.

This time he could feel the enormous weight of the
massive weapon.  With his enhanced power, it felt equal to the black soldier’s
sword that he’d been carrying for eightdays.  Nearly three-quarters weight in
solid steel had vanished from his notice.

Twice he swung it at the floor, getting the feel for
it.  The awe from the nearby men nearly made him laugh…but Rail put them all to
shame with his incredulous shock.  To play it safe, Marik returned the blade to
its resting place against the counter.

“A little heavier than I expected,” Marik observed,
“though that’s probably because of the sheath.”

Rail quickly regained his composure.  “That much
leather can add plenty in extra weight.”  He struggled for a moment, confused,
then simply mumbled, “Training must be a horse of a bloody different color
since I left there.”

“Not by much,” Marik countered.  “My friends tell me
I’m more motivated than most.  I couldn’t afford to be kicked out of the band.”

A shrug came from Rail.  Men who entered the band
usually had their own reasons.  Most learned not to ask too many questions. 
Still, he said, “It is the best paying band around.”

“It’s also the one you were with when you vanished. 
After traveling across the kingdom on the Southern Road, I had to make several
hard decisions about how I could possibly find you with no idea where you
were.  I also had to make a living in the meantime.”

Rail’s eyes flickered again, at first in suspicion. 
Then, abruptly, to Marik’s fascination, he saw a new flicker where surprise
replaced the wariness, followed by a dawning comprehension, one that was
awestruck rather than cautious.

“No…”  Rail stretched the word out, sighing it with
exhaled syllables.

Marik met his gaze.  “It’s been a very long, hard, and
strange road since I left Tattersfield.  But I always knew that somehow…
somehow
I’d finally be able to catch up to you, father.”

*        *        *        *        *

They spent the next candlemark talking.  Or rather,
Marik spoke the most while Rail came to terms with what he heard.  Lilly’s
death hit him hardest.  It evoked the heavy breathing as before until he
resembled oversized bellows in a high-production forge.  Marik told of leaving
the town, glossing over the aspects that struck him as juvenile now.  Of his
journey to Kingshome, of joining the band, of his contracts with the best
mercenary fighters in Galemar.

He explained why he looked older than he should.  Rail
hardly batted an eyelash at hearing how mages had twice tried to incinerate his
son.  Marik, with effort, maintained a stolid manner, acting as any experienced
man should act.  Hazards of the job.

Through the recitation, Marik only avoided mentioning
the fact that within him dwelt the ability for magecraft.  He had no idea how
Rail would react to learning that his son was a freak.  But Rail must have
guessed pieces of it since Marik lacked the talent to spin the tale’s threads
in such a manner as to keep the holes hidden.

Just when Marik concluded, a noticeable rise in the
crowd took place.  Rail jerked his chin in the direction of the circular
construction.  Beyond it was a narrow staircase hugging the wall.  Down came a
large man, broad enough that his shoulders brushed both wall and railing on the
last step.

From the state of his face, Marik could see he was a
longtime brawler.  Everything about him was squarish from his jaw to his body
frame.  He must spend no small amount of coin on quality clothing despite
eschewing fancy materials and pompous trappings, such as lacy fringe or
elaborate pocket handkerchiefs.

“That’s Shaw,” Rail explained.  “He owns this rat
den.  Used to be a pugilist in the fighting halls around the city.  He’ll bore
you until you want to gnaw off your own arm to escape if you let him talk about
his old fights in front of the bluebloods.”

“Still looks like a brawler to me,” Marik replied.

“He earned enough to open the Queen’s Head.  Or take
it over, like as not.”

Shaw moved about the room, squeezing through the tight
confines with impressive ease.  He called out, “Your orders, gentlemen!  Give
them up!  The sport’s about to start, so give your orders!”

Marik watched his father.  Rail kept staring into the
bottom of his third glass until Marik could no longer contain it.  “Are you
going to tell me why you never came home or not?  Where have you been?”

“Working.”

“For five years?  Eight now!”

“The contract’s still open.”

“What contract takes that long?  The war with Nolier
was over in a single fighting season!”

“Marik, I don’t want you pulled into this.  It’s a
black dog.  A jilly with long nails and sharp teeth and nothing but spite in
her.  It has nothing to do with you, and best it stay that way.”

In the background, Shaw kept calling, “Go on and give
your orders, gentlemen!”

“It has plenty to do with me since it has to do with
you!  I can be my own judge.”