Morticai's Luck (6 page)

Morticai edged closer to the wall and said nothing. He could probably take them, but that would mean losing Ellenwood. The rest of the street was empty, save for a beggar who watched, rather intently, Morticai thought, from across the street.

“You speak human, corryn?” one of the gang said with a sneer.

“We got sharp claws, y’know,” the tall one said, gesturing to his blade. “Why don’t you jus’ make this easy and give us your purse, uh?” When Morticai did not reply, the youth repeated his threat in extremely poor corryn.

Morticai considered his best route out of the situation—if he targeted the tall one and caught him off balance before they moved in he might be able to slip back a few feet, then …

He heard footsteps behind him. Morticai glanced behind to see four more gang members moving up to block his retreat. He knew that he was in trouble.

“Hey, Mika, we spotted him first!” one of the new group called.

“Yeah, but we stopped him,” the tall one retorted.

“Split with us.”

“We’ll talk about it when we’re finished.”

“I’ll wager!”

The beggar still watched, even more intently, as Morticai’s slim chance to escape evaporated. The beggar reached up casually into the shadow of his ragged hood and made a motion. Perhaps he’d just scratched his nose—or perhaps not. One way or another, there was simply no room for Morticai to run. Slowly, Morticai reached out his right hand and dropped his throwing dagger. While the three men in front of him watched it fall in surprise, Morticai quickly gave the beggar a certain hand signal.

The men reflexively jumped back about a foot at the sudden hand sign. The signal was used exclusively by members of the Arluthian Brotherhood, a secret society that was feared by all the street gangs. Although Morticai was a member of that elite group, he hadn’t intended to involve them in his current investigation of the Droken. With Sir Dualas already involved, the risk of exposing Arluthian secrets was too high—and the penalties for revealing such secrets were not to be taken lightly.

The gang members stared at each other, wondering if the hand sign had been a bluff. The beggar straightened and immediately whistled a loud, long whistle. A street urchin ran out of a nearby alley. The beggar repeated the hand sign to the urchin and pointed at Morticai. Although he’d not known the beggar, Morticai recognized the boy as Tagger, one of the many children of the streets with whom he maintained casual contact. Tagger stared at Morticai open-mouthed; Morticai smiled and shrugged. The boy turned and ran like the wind was at his heels.

Cursing, the leader of the group before Morticai spat at his feet.

“That’s what I think of you and your ‘Brotherhood’, Arluthian!”

Morticai smiled. “Ya gotta’ watch out for us corryn nobles,” he replied, speaking the human tongue in the dialect of the streets.

The tall one glared at him and snarled more curses before both groups turned and ran. Now that all doubt had been removed, the gang members knew that if they spilled even one drop of Morticai’s blood, they would repay the Arluthians with every last drop of their own.

Morticai retrieved his dagger and quickly crossed to the beggar. He was lucky the beggar was an Arluthian—not many beggars were.

“I owe you my life, brother. Be at the next meeting and I shall gratefully repay you,” Morticai told him.

“Perhaps. Even if you don’t have the opportunity, you’ll remember me. Now, catch up to your friend,” he motioned in the direction Ellenwood had gone. “And tell him to change his shoes the next time he comes to this side of town.”

Morticai waved a goodbye to the beggar and ran after Ellenwood. At last he spied the nobleman ahead of him. Fortune was with him—he encountered no other gangs, and Ellenwood did skirt the worst section of town, which was known as the Snake Pit. Even Morticai was thankful he’d not entered that section of the city. Not long after passing the edges of the Pit, the nobleman came to the Cobblesend Pub. Without pausing, Ellenwood entered the low-class establishment.

Morticai almost laughed aloud at the irony of it. If he walked in wearing his current attire, he’d not only draw Ellenwood’s attention but that of every cutthroat in the place. If he were dressed in his usual street clothes, the Pub’s patrons would hail him as a friend, and that would also draw Ellenwood’s attention. This maze of narrow alleys and abandoned buildings had once been Morticai’s side of town, his place of refuge.

It was an impossible situation—but Morticai was not one to give up easily.

* * *

“Kithryl, open up,” Morticai whispered.

Nothing. He rapped again, lightly. “Kithryl, come on, open up.”

“Who’s there?”

“Dyluth.”

The kitchen door of the Cobblesend opened a crack.

“Dyluth? Truly?”

“Yes, now let me in!”

“Dyluth!” A corryn woman opened the door. She had black hair and pale violet eyes, and she wore a peasant’s apron over her drab frock, but her beauty still took Morticai’s breath away. She hugged him, hard, even before he’d made it all the way inside.

“Dyluth, I thought you had died! I considered going to Northgate and asking after you, but all I could remember was your street name.”

“I’m called Morticai in the Northmarch—don’t laugh now!”

She had already begun to snicker. “And I thought ‘Dyluth, Lord of Shadows’, was silly.”

Morticai looked down, embarrassed.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Dyluth! I didn’t mean it that way. I remember Dyluth was a very good name at the time—but Morticai’s a human name! Why don’t they call you by your birth name, Moranekor?”

“It’s a long story,” he mumbled.

“All right, I understand. You can tell me some other time. Why haven’t you come by?”

Morticai shrugged, “I … guess I’ve been busy.” Morticai sighed. “Look, Kithryl, I’m sorry. I hadn’t realized it had been this long. But, I’m doing something kinda’ important right now, and I need your help.”

She frowned. “Are you in trouble?”

“No, I’m not in trouble! I’m following someone, but I didn’t think he’d come this way—as you can see.” He gestured to his clothes. “May I borrow a cloak so I can sit in the Pub without being noticed?”

“Well … I suppose so. Is this dangerous?”

Morticai shrugged again. “I don’t know. Maybe.” He gave her his most innocent smile.

Kithryl shook her head. “Some things never change, do they?” she said as she fetched him a cloak.

* * *

The pub was crowded. Morticai stayed close to the wall as he worked his way to a booth. Ellenwood was already engaged in conversation with another cloaked figure. A few patrons wore their hoods thrown back, but most, such as Ellenwood and his companion, did not. At this time of year, it would have been thought odd anywhere else in the city. Here, however, the desire for anonymity often ran deeper than the desire for comfort.

Morticai also kept his hood up.

As though the conversation in the kitchen had never occurred, Kithryl came and took Morticai’s order. She went to the bar and spoke with her husband, Breslen. He glanced toward Morticai and gave brief nod. Ellenwood couldn’t have led him to a better place. Where else would he have enjoyed such cooperation?

He turned his attention back to Ellenwood and concentrated on reading the man’s lips, but that was a skill he had never fully mastered. He could make out only a few words; they seemed to echo some of what was in the messages he had stolen. He could distinguish
Dynolva
,
Watchaven
, and finally,
Trade Council
. At least they were discussing something other than invitations to the Grand Ball.

Kithryl returned with his drink and nearly jumped when Morticai paid her with a royal—the drink was worth only a few ferdhyn. Morticai’s winked to let her know that he’d refuse any change. It was the least he could do for someone who had harbored him and helped him through some of his darkest times. She shook her head and pocketed the coin—it would easily pay the rent on the pub for several months.

He turned back to watching Ellenwood, but the conversation had apparently shifted in the other direction, with Ellenwood listening. Morticai wondered who Ellenwood’s companion might be. By the breadth of the other’s shoulders, he believed it was a man, but he was too tall to be Lord Valdir. No, he must be yet another player.

Ellenwood finished his drink and rose. Morticai had to decide which of the two he would follow, and it was the stranger who currently intrigued him. Morticai remained, sipping his drink, as Ellenwood left the pub.

Shortly after Ellenwood left, the stranger rose to leave. He was tall, and he moved with a fluid grace. Morticai suspected he was corryn, but then, neither height nor grace was necessarily an indicator. Morticai’s own height served as a prime example that it couldn’t be trusted.

Of course, as he followed Ellenwood’s mysterious companion, Morticai’s height, along with his borrowed cloak, made him indistinguishable from the inhabitants of the area. Despite the hour, the streets were still crowded with Watchaven’s restless poor, and they were, almost without exception, humans.

The stranger traveled southwest, directly toward Shipwright’s Road. After he’d walked about a mile, he turned down an alley. Morticai immediately ducked into one himself. He felt certain he had not been spotted, but the route the stranger had taken led into a dead end—the perfect place for an ambush. Morticai loosened his sword in its scabbard and checked his daggers, making certain they were still positioned under the tailored slits in his only remaining Tradelenor shirt.

Suddenly, a coach came clattering out of the dead end. Morticai froze as it wheeled past and traveled toward the main road. Morticai ran down an alley, jumped a low wall, ran down another alley and finally stopped, listening for the
clippety-clop
of the horses’ hooves. It had been years since he’d tried to follow a coach on foot, but the twisting streets gave him a chance. Few streets here were wide enough for a coach.

He could hear the hoof beats, which came from a little north of his own location, and he could visualize the route the driver would need to take if he were heading for Shipwright’s Road. He set out at a run again, down another alley, then across a narrow street that led to the main road. It was the street Morticai figured the driver would take, but there was no place along it to conceal himself. He gambled that the driver would turn right, toward Northgate. He crossed the main road and started north.

As he expected, the coach emerged and turned right onto Shipwright. He’d gambled that if Ellenwood’s companion had enough money to hire a coach, he would most likely return to the wealthy section of town. The quickest way there would be to travel northwest, then take the tight turn in front of Northgate, and travel due south on Northgate Road.

The coach was traveling at a normal pace, and Morticai knew he would have a chance of catching it as it made the turn in front of Northgate. He hadn’t seen any coachmen when it had first wheeled past him. It had been years since he’d hopped a coach; he hoped he still could.

He made it to the turn a few seconds before the coach. He stopped, panting, and hoped the Northmarchers guarding the gate were busy, that Kirwin was not out taking some evening air. He didn’t have long to worry about it. The coach approached the corner, slowing for the turn, and it slowed even more as it entered the three-way intersection. Morticai ran from the shadows toward the rear of the coach.

Catching the back of the coach was easy, although Morticai worried about the jerk he caused as his weight settled onto it. He’d been much lighter when he’d last done this. As expected, the coach took the tight turn down Northgate Road. Morticai allowed himself a brief glance back. No Northmarchers chased after the coach to inform the driver of an unwanted passenger.

He had time to catch his breath as the coach traveled toward the center of the city. Obviously, the coach’s passenger was, like Ellenwood, affluent. Why had they chosen the Cobblesend for their meeting? What was so crucial, so secret, that they had to go into Watchaven’s roughest area to meet? More to the immediate point, just how close to the palace was the damned coach going?

The coach had almost reached Royal Way. Morticai considered whether he should hang on or jump off. He had just decided to jump when it turned right and began to slow. He disembarked and moved quickly into the shadows at the side of the road.

He was shocked when he realized his exact location. He stood only one block north of the palace itself on the street that carried the nickname “Accent Alley”, this because the street contained the estates of the ambassadors who represented the other city-states and kingdoms of the Confederacy.

The coach entered the large, circular drive that led to the Dynolvan Embassy. Morticai moved cautiously closer. It was risky, but now his curiosity was afire—he had to see who was riding inside that coach. The coach stopped; servants ran out to greet it.

The door opened and a tall, elegantly dressed corryn stepped down from the coach. He had silky white hair, worn long in a nobleman’s braid. Morticai knew that he’d seen the man several times, from a distance knew that he’d heard his name.

Then it came to him. Lord Danvek! That was it! Lord Danvek—the Dynolvan ambassador to Watchaven.