Morticai's Luck (9 page)

A low whistle interrupted his reverie. He spun to see four rough-looking young men eyeing him from the opposite end of the block. The humans exchanged glances among themselves.

“Hey!” the tallest one shouted at him. “Corryn!”

Morticai took a cautious step backward and found himself regretting that he’d not taken Calsen’s offer to walk him back to his coach. The gang’s knives came out in a flash. No one wasted time with more talk. Everyone in the Pit was prey to the gangs, even Watchmen, even Arluthians. Morticai drew his sword and dagger, spun on his heel, and ran in the other direction. Hoping he still remembered the area, he ducked down the next turn.

The four men gave chase, as he knew they would. One of them whistled in odd, interrupted bursts. The younger Morticai would have understood the code, but too much time had passed since he’d been an urchin hiding in the warrens. He did know what the call meant, though—they were summoning the rest of their gang, informing them that they were in pursuit of a mark.

The alley turned and ended at another that ran crosswise to it. Morticai heard rushing footsteps coming from the right before he entered the turn. His right hand flew upward. He blocked a downward knife thrust with the cross guard of his dagger and immediately followed up with a sword stroke that pierced his unarmored opponent’s chest just below the breastbone.

Using his sword as a lever and his unfortunate target as an anchor, Morticai swung himself to the right, placing his back to the wall. He withdrew his blade from the man’s chest, and the would-be attacker crumpled. The two gang members who had been following the dying man stumbled over him and began yelling as they tried to pull the body out of their way.

Morticai was already running. He was glad that knives were still the popular weapon here in the Pit—his sword would help even the odds. He passed the next side alley and fifteen feet later regretted it—his alley turned right, but went no further. By the time he made it back to the intersection, his pursuers had closed the gap and entered the intersection as he did.

The narrow confines of the alley’s mouth allowed only two of them to come at him at once. The first to reach him tried to block Morticai’s sword with his knife. The Northmarcher easily disengaged and thrust his sword through the man’s belly even as he used his dagger to block a left-handed knife thrust from his partner, a grinning youngster.

Another knife shot forward, driven by the youth’s other hand. Morticai abandoned his sword in the first man’s chest and grabbed the knife hand. The boy’s face showed surprise, but he quickly recovered and tried to disengage his other knife from Morticai’s dagger. Before his assailant could complete the maneuver, Morticai brought his left knee up hard, catching him in his privates. The youth doubled over and started retching.

A dagger struck the wall a couple of inches from Morticai’s head, thrown by a gang member who stood behind the slumping man who was still wearing Morticai’s sword. The others pulled and kicked at the wounded man and the youth, trying to shove past to get at Morticai.

Morticai lunged forward, grasped his sword, and jerked it out of the bleeding, howling gang member’s gut. As he recovered it, he used his right wrist to block the arm of the bent-over youth, and the knife thrust the boy had aimed at his stomach. Morticai had spotted the thrust just a moment too late; the knife’s point raked lightly across his chest.

The boy just wouldn’t give up, and Morticai knew he couldn’t afford to give him another chance. His block had brought the youth’s right arm up high; holding the block, the corryn swept his own dagger back in and slashed cleanly through the youth’s throat. He leapt over the convulsing body and ran, leaving the intersection blocked by the dead and quickly dying.

By the time he’d made two more turns, the remaining gang members were again hard at his heels. At the third turn he risked a glance behind. He’d killed three; four were still in pursuit. Two turns later, the number had dropped to three. Morticai continued on, trying to guess where the missing gang member would reappear. The realization came to him a few steps before the opening—it was a short cut he, himself, had once used. The man leapt toward him, only to be met by a thrust of Morticai’s ready sword.

Pleased to be leaving another obstacle in his pursuers’ path, Morticai continued on. He heard shouting ahead of him—four
more
gang members were coming straight on at him. He ducked down the side alley he’d just reached.

As the chase continued, Morticai realized that there was no good place to face them and no way to shake them. It had been easier for him as a child, when he could find places where he could fit that adults could not. He ran on, praying that the coach was still waiting—by the time he reached it, if he did, he would be too exhausted to continue running. He thought of looking for a place to make a stand, but knew it would mean certain death. Eventually, they would bring him down with sheer numbers.

He was within a quarter mile of his destination when they finally trapped him. He turned a corner only to see three more fresh, unwinded gang members coming from the other direction. He spun, put his back to the wall, and dropped his dagger to palm a throwing knife. He knew he’d have to use it on those behind him while they were still distant enough for the throw to be valuable.

The thrown knife caught one of them in the stomach—not an instant kill, but enough to slow the others. As he ducked to retrieve his dagger, a knife sailed over his own head. It bounced off the wall and spun down the alley, eliciting curses from the three approaching from the other direction.

The three new men moved in quickly. Morticai parried a knife thrust with his sword and blocked another with his dagger. He spun to the other side of the alley as he side-stepped a third thrust and brought his sword across an unlucky man’s stomach. The rest were nearly upon him. He grinned, knowing that he would at least have it to his credit that he had killed half of them before he died.

He blocked another thrust, and then watched in surprise as his opponent gasped and crumpled to his knees. The man’s compatriot coughed and fell in a neat imitation, a throwing knife sprouting from his neck. Behind the others, Calsen stepped out of the shadows and withdrew his long fighting knives from their sheaths.

“I sure wish … you’d kept to the main alleys,” Calsen said, panting. “You were almost impossible … to catch.”

Morticai laughed, and then there was no more time for talk as the other gang members charged. Morticai spun leftward, punched one man in the face with his sword’s guard, and caught another across the face with the blade. He barely missed Calsen.

“Be careful with that damn thing!” Calsen shouted over the screams of the man who’d been blinded by Morticai’s blade.

“Sorry!”

They turned and ran in the opposite direction. At the corner they were met by two more of the gang.

“Did you have to take on the Pit’s largest gang?”

“Hey, how was I to know?”

They moved back to back and staked out the center of the intersection, where they had plenty of room to fight. Morticai blocked with his dagger and brought his sword in from the left, catching his first opponent in the side. Another man moved in before the first could fall, and only the cross guard of Morticai’s dagger kept the attacker’s blade from gutting him. Instead, the blade slithered leftward to slide up Morticai’s left arm. Even as he gasped in shock at the hot pain of the cut, he brought his sword in, slicing it through the man’s side as he kicked him back into his companions.

“Let’s go!” Calsen called. He’d dropped the two facing him, but the blood running down Calsen’s side was his own. They ran the last three blocks and turned the corner to see the coach still waiting. The hack had turned the coach around and now looked, open-mouthed, over the top of it. They jumped onto the back.

Morticai wrapped an arm around Calsen and shouted, “Get us movin’, man!” His words were lost in the sound of tack and hooves.

“Dyluth, why does … this type of thing always happen … whenever I see you?” Calsen asked between gasps.

“Just lucky, I guess.”

They were soon moving at full speed down the narrow street, and they didn’t slow until the coach turned onto Shipwright. The coach quickly sped up again; Morticai began to fear the hack would drive his team full-speed across the entire city. He obviously didn’t realize how jarring a ride he was giving his passengers.

Calsen began to lose consciousness. Fighting the pain of his own wounds, Morticai feared he would not be able to hold him upright. Finally, the coach slowed as the hack turned it onto Mainway. Just after the corner, it pulled to a stop. Morticai tried to step out but mismanaged Calsen’s weight. He tumbled out and landed behind the coach with the barely conscious Calsen atop him.

“Mate, are ya’ a’right?” the hack asked.

“Uhh … don’t know,” Morticai gasped.

The hack knelt beside him and stared.

“Look,” Morticai continued, “do you know where the Dapple Stallion Inn is?”

“O’ course!”

“Then, help me get him inside the coach.”

* * *

By the time they reached the Dapple Stallion Inn, Morticai had somewhat stopped Calsen’s bleeding. He’d wrapped his cloak around his own bleeding arm.

“We’re here,” the hack said, opening the door.

“Good. Look, go ask for Paxton—he’s the owner. Tell him that Dyluth needs some assistance and is out in your coach. Wait,” Morticai stopped the hack as he started to leave. “Here.” He pressed his last royal into the hack’s hand.

“Mate, y’don’ need t’ —”

“Yes, I
do
. You don’t know how good it felt to see your coach when we turned that last corner.”

* * *

“Dyluth? Morticai?”

The voice was Paxton’s. Morticai opened his eyes, realized he’d drifted off to sleep. The aged owner of the Dapple Stallion sat down and laid a gentle hand on his arm. Morticai’s chest and arm had been cleaned and wrapped, and he lay on the Inn’s best bed—Paxton’s own bed.

“Can you spend the rest of the night here, boy? Or do we need to get you back to Northgate?”

“Unfortunately, I’ve got gate duty tomorrow,” Morticai said.

“I presume that means we need to get you back.”

“Yeah. How’s Calsen?”

“He lost a bit of blood, but I think he’ll be all right. Is he a … brother?”

“No. For years, he’s suspected me of being an Arluthian, but that’s all it is—a suspicion. It’s almost a joke between us.”

“And will he suspect anything when he wakes up?”

“No, I don’t think so. He knows I have a lot of friends in odd places. I hate to admit this, but the last time we got together I had to board him at an Inn for similar reasons.”

Paxton shook his head and laughed. “I’m glad I didn’t run with you when I was younger, Morticai. I don’t think I’d have survived it!”

“Hey!”

Old man Paxton just laughed harder.

* * *

Dualas insisted on checking Morticai’s wounds. Grudgingly satisfied with his condition, Dualas rewrapped his arm. Coryden, who had remained surprisingly quiet, sat next to the bed.

“That should do,” Dualas said as he finished. “You are fortunate the cut was vertical. If you are careful with it, it should heal in a few days. I do not believe it will interfere with your duties.”

“Well,
that’s
good, at least,” Coryden said. “I don’t know if I’d have been up to facing Kirwin again.” He leveled an exasperated stare at Morticai.

Eager to change the subject, Morticai asked, “So, what have you learned while I’ve been running from street gangs and spending every royal I own on coaches?”

Dualas shook his head. “I have learned quite a bit, but it does not look as though it will help us. I checked the list of decisions made by both the Watchaven and Dynolvan Trade Councils. This situation has apparently been developing since last Light Season. It all looks very innocent. In fact, it looks very much as though the Dynolvans started it. However, all of the damaging decisions which have fueled this affair have been proposed by one of our three Droken.”

“I’m worried about Lord Danvek,” Morticai observed. “If he’s in their camp, we’ve got real problems.”

“Yes,” Dualas agreed. “That would explain some of it, if the Droken were being aided by someone, or several someones, on the Dynolvan side of things. You have not had much to say about any of this, Coryden. Do you still think this is an affair we should not be pursuing?”

Coryden stared thoughtfully at the window, where dawn was beginning to show itself.

“No … no, I think it needs to be pursued,” he said. “I wouldn’t have said that a sennight ago, as you both know. But I’m not blind. I never thought I’d see corryn and humans set so against each other. I helped break up just such a fight in our own hall last night. If the Droken can set corryn Northmarcher against human Northmarcher, what’s to keep them from setting Dynolva against Watchaven?”

“That is what I fear, also,” Dualas agreed.

“Well, I’m tired of losing nobles where they shouldn’t be able to go,” Morticai announced. “Calsen said that some odd things have been happening at old Burnaby Manor. I intend to find out what.”

“How do you propose to do this?” Dualas asked.

“First, I’m going to set up a meeting with Fenton. Calsen said that he knew more about it. Then, I might just pay a visit to the manor.”

Coryden asked, “What do you think you’ll find there, Morticai?”

“I don’t know. When Calsen first mentioned it, I thought he was crazy—he said rumors have been circulating that the manor is haunted. But since then, I just don’t know. I keep coming back to it. Something feels strange about it.”

“Morticai,” Dualas said, “do you mean to imply that you feel
guided
in this?”

“I dunno, Dualas. Maybe?”

Chapter Six

Morticai stood on the battlements and gazed across the city, his thoughts drifting back over recent events. He heard the door open behind him, but didn’t bother to turn around—it was just about time for Evadrel to relieve him.

“Morticai!” Kirwin’s voice snapped.

Morticai’s heart skipped a beat—he knew that tone. Making certain his movements were casual, he swung to face his commander. Evadrel stood behind Kirwin.

“Yes sir?” Morticai asked, innocently.

“What have you gotten into?” Kirwin demanded.

Morticai was honestly confused.

“Dammit! Don’t give me that damned innocent look of yours! I’ve got a man from the Inquisition sitting in my office. He says they’ve had
reports
about you! What in Darkness have you done to bring the Inquisition here?”

Morticai’s mouth dropped; Evadrel’s eyes widened.

“I … I …” Morticai blinked, swallowed, and tried again. “I don’t know, sir.”

Kirwin scrutinized him. Gradually, his features began to soften.

“You truly don’t know?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

“You’ve done nothing at all to break the law of the Faith?”

“No, sir.” Morticai’s confusion compounded as he quickly thought it over. He’d never done anything that violated the law of the Faith.

Kirwin sighed. “Don’t ask me why—I probably shouldn’t—but I believe you. But, so help me, Aluntas, if you’re lying to me … ”

“Wha-what do they say I’ve done?”

“They won’t tell me. They’ve asked a lot of questions and haven’t answered a single one of mine. Their man is waiting in my office with a whole list of people he wants to talk to, starting with
you
. Come on, let’s go see what it is they think you’ve done.”

Evadrel stepped aside to make room for them to leave. His amber eyes were full of concern. Once Kirwin started through the door, Morticai turned and quickly shrugged, indicating to Evadrel that he really didn’t know what was going on.

Evadrel nodded, once, and made the sign for luck.

* * *

Evadrel was the last to be interviewed. Morticai sat outside Kirwin’s office, waiting for permission to leave. Coryden, Dualas, and Berret Heimrik waited with him. Berret, one of the few humans who served in Coryden’s patrol, had been the sergeant of Morticai’s squad for several years.

The interviews had lasted ten hours; Morticai had watched his entire squad file through, one at a time. Kirwin had taken over his second’s office in an attempt to recover at least a portion of the day.

News that the Inquisition was at Northgate had spread like wildfire. The atmosphere was, at the same time, too quiet and too much abuzz to be normal. Because of the patrol schedules, the news would reach Dynolva in just a few days. Morticai was thankful he didn’t have to patrol in Dynolva himself—the Levani only knew how the story would sound by the time it reached the corryn city.

At last, Evadrel emerged. Some of the squad members had come out obviously shaken, but most had walked out defiantly. Evadrel smiled reassuringly as he passed them.

The human who had introduced himself as Geradon Kinsey, Faithful from the Inquisition at Abbadyr and aide to Inquisitor Rylan Glaedwin, emerged just behind Evadrel. He was of average height and build, with sharp features and a closely cropped beard. His hair was a dark blond, his eyes a brilliant blue. He dressed in tasteful and well-made but not fashionable clothes. To Morticai, he looked more like a successful merchant than an aide to an Inquisitor.

Kinsey raised his eyebrows as he surveyed the three men who had remained to wait with Morticai.

“I should not need to speak with you further—today,” he said to Morticai. “I understand you have two more days off duty before you are scheduled to patrol again. I do not know yet if we shall allow you to continue patrolling or not—that is a question the Inquisitor will address when he arrives in a few days. In the meantime, be certain that you remain in Watchaven. Good night.”

Kinsey nodded curtly and walked out without addressing so much as a word to the others. Morticai slumped in his chair.

As they climbed the stairs to Morticai’s room, they ignored the questioning glances they received from those they passed. It was Berret who finally broke the silence.

“I sure wish you would let me in on these things earlier, Morticai.”

“I didn’t want to involve you, Berret. It’s not that I don’t trust you. Really.”

“I suppose I should be thankful. I’d still like to hear what in the Darkness is going on, though.”

“Yeah—but upstairs,” Morticai replied.

Berret placed an arm around Morticai’s shoulder as they passed through the attic storage rooms.

A buzz of noise filtered toward them as they approached Morticai’s door. The four stopped and exchanged knowing glances—Coryden’s patrol had apparently gathered in Morticai’s room, as was usual in times of trouble. Coryden opened the door.

More than just Coryden’s patrol crowded the room. Apparently, anyone who considered himself a friend of the patrol had gathered there as well. Coryden addressed them.

“I know you’ve all got questions, but they’ll just have to wait a little longer. I’d like everyone to leave except those who were actually questioned by Brother Kinsey.”

The crowd reacted as expected—they filed out of the room, muttering softly among themselves. Coryden’s jaw dropped as he watched a human in the exiting group pass. The man stood almost seven feet tall—even Dualas had to stare
up
at him. He had short, curly hair, dark brown eyes, and his tremendous musculature wouldn’t have been out place on a heroic statue. He had to duck to clear the doorframe as he left.

One of Coryden’s men stepped up beside him and said, “That’s Richard, one of the new men who joined last week, sir. He’s from Briarwood.”

“I hope you don’t mind that I brought him here,” he continued. “He’d like to join our patrol if Alvis decides to move back to Dynolva. I thought it better for him to hear rumors from us than rumors from the rest of Northgate.”

Coryden blinked. “Can he fight?” he asked.

“Who cares? Do you want to spar with him? I don’t.”

“I see what you mean. Gods, he’s big enough to serve as a mobile rampart.”

It was hours later before the rest of the squad left for their own quarters, leaving only Coryden and Dualas behind. Coryden had done most of the talking. Giving no details, he simply explained that Morticai might have stumbled across some sort of Droken plot, which had brought in the Inquisition. Most of the conversation had centered around what questions had been asked and what answers had been given. Morticai sat crossways in an old, large chair, having pulled further and further within himself as the evening had progressed.

Coryden walked to the liquor trunk, retrieved a bottle, and poured glasses for the three of them. He knelt beside Morticai’s chair.

“You going to come back to the world?”

Morticai smiled crookedly and took the drink.

“What for?”

“So we can decide what we’re going to do.”

Dualas pulled up chairs for himself and Coryden.

“So,” Dualas asked softly, “what do we do now?”

“Well,” Morticai began, “I happen to have a meeting scheduled with Fenton tomorrow, and if you gentlemen are willing to accompany me, we might just gain some useful information.”

Both Dualas and Coryden stared at him in surprise.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re going to keep this up?” Coryden asked. “After today, you’re going to meet with Fenton?”

Morticai waved his hands, spilling a few drops of his drink. “Why not? What is there to lose? What else can happen—is the Inquisition going to show up? They already have!”

* * *

The Hilltop Tavern was crowded with patrons, both local and foreign, who were enjoying the music and food the famous tavern offered. Geradon Kinsey moved through the crowd, barely avoiding being caught up in a circle dance. He noted that the Watchaveners certainly seemed to enjoy enjoying themselves.

The mood was quieter on the back side of the L-shaped tavern where the private booths were located. Moving to the far back booth, he knocked lightly before opening the door. A man in his early thirties smiled up at him. His straight hair was dark brown; his eyes a warm hazel, and his smile looked comfortable, as though it was worn often.

The table was already set with food in covered dishes. Geradon sat down as the man lit a candle. The white candle was ringed with narrow gold bands—one band every inch—and stood in an ornate candlestick in the center of the table. As the candle burst into flame the noise outside the booth died. It was as though the tavern itself ceased to exist.

“We do not have to worry about our neighbors?” Geradon asked, gesturing to the booth around them. He lifted a dish cover and began serving himself.

“No, I have already paid the bartender to make certain we are left alone and that no one will be allowed back this far.”

Geradon gestured to the food. “Have you eaten, Rylan?”

“Yes,” the Inquisitor replied. “Well,” he asked, “how did it go?”

Geradon leaned back in the booth and sighed. “It looks like it’s going to be interesting, I’ll grant that …”

“So his hatred of the Droken is not well known?” Rylan asked. He lay Morticai’s Northmarch file down on the table.

“Not known at all,” Geradon replied as he placed his now-empty plate to the side. “And once I learned he had grown up in the streets a few things did fall into place—it explained his cocky attitude, anyway.”

“Yes,” Rylan agreed with a knowing smile. “First rule—never show weakness in front of your enemy.”

“Precisely. I am very sorry to say that he reminds me of that vagabond we dealt with last month in Tradelenor.”

Rylan’s brow furrowed. “How?”

“My fear is that he will get himself killed before we can track down Aldwin’s superiors. I tried to convince him of the danger of what he is doing, but danger is too much a part of his life in the Northmarch. I really doubt my little speech had any impact. How about you? What did you learn?”

“Well, he has rubbed against the Watch a few times, but has never actually been jailed. It seems that Captain Coryden has intervened when needed.”

“What type of trouble?”

“Primarily problems resulting from women and gambling—fits very nicely with what you heard. Lord Ullock tried to jail him over an affair concerning a certain lady, but the charges were dropped. He has fought a few duels. When he was a child, he was caught several times picking pockets and stealing food. He was sent to the orphanage, but he apparently ran away before he ever reached their doors.”

Geradon shook his head, bemused. “Can it be this straightforward? Is this a simple case of revenge upon his part?”

“It may be just that. Did you find out how he came to suspect Aldwin?”

“Yes, Dualas told me. Apparently he just stumbled onto it. He found a coded note at a party and watched two noblemen, ah …” Geradon pulled out his notes, “Sir Ellenwood and Lord Valdir—“

“Those are the two Sir Dualas reported to the Grand Patriarch,” Rylan interjected.

Geradon nodded, “—retrieve the note, copy it, and return it to where it was hidden. Morticai decided to take the note at the end of the evening, but it was gone. So—and listen to this—because he was curious about it, he broke into Valdir’s estate while Valdir was out of town. He supposedly found Droken robes in his closet.”

Rylan shook his head. “Unfortunately, I would be inclined to believe his claims about the Droken robes. I looked over some of the recent Trade Council records today. The three noblemen in question are certainly up to something, and it does not look good for king or country. So, did you stir up the Northmarch appropriately?”

“Oh yes. Any Droken spies in the Northmarch are certainly aware that the Inquisition has arrived. They should think we suspect this Morticai of being Droken.”

“Did you notice any friction between the corryn and humans in the Northmarch?”

“No. Do you think the situation is that volatile?”

“It is quickly moving in that direction, I am afraid. Not much blood has been spilled yet, but the reports from the Watch do show an increase in brawls and the like between humans and corryn. I suspect it would be worse, except that many from Dynolva and Menelcar have decided that this is a good time to travel back home to visit their friends and relatives. Apparently the Watchaveners, in Dynolva at least, are doing the same. Our innkeeper told me this morning that the amount of business we are seeing here is very unusual; he said it is almost as though Dark Season had not ended.”