Parabolis (17 page)

“Duke Merrick Thalian. It is an honor to meet you,” he said.

“The honor is mine,
Rajeth.
”

“Please, call me Haddu.”

“My royal advisor and director of intelligence, Eli Sorensen. Please, sit.”

The Shaldean Rider sat across from the duke, Eli to his right.

“I don’t know how anyone can suffer this cold,” he said, blowing into his hands.

“Yes, the cold. As foreign to you, I imagine, as the sand dunes of Loreland would be to me. Can I offer you some tea?”

“Please.”

The duke poured him a cup. It was small relief from the effects of the northern chill. In the North, it was not uncommon to have snow as early as autumn.

“I’ll have my servants prepare a hot meal for you as well.”

“Tea is fine for now, thank you.”

“Quite the journey you made with your Riders.”

“We wouldn’t miss a chance at an assault on the Republic’s beacon of pride.”

“I understand you brought your own horses. We could’ve spared you the expense and provided our own.”

Haddu smiled wryly. “There is no substitute for a purebred Saracen Glider.”

“Of course. Fine horses from what I’ve heard.”

“The finest in the world.”

Arun entered the War Room, groomed and dressed in formal regalia. His appearance showed no signs of a man who just minutes prior was hanging off the side of the castle. He saluted the duke.

“Ah, General, please, join us. Haddu, this is General Arun Kilbremmer, who will be leading the assault. General, this is the latest
Rajeth
of the Shaldean Riders, Haddu.”

Arun greeted the Shaldean leader and took his seat to the left of the duke. “How many of you are there?”

“Twenty-four, General.”

“A full cavalry, then.”

“A single Shaldean Rider is as effective on the battlefield as three light cavalry troopers bearing any standard. And we would welcome the chance to prove it.”

“The general has agreed to allow you and your men to lead the assault ahead of our forces.”

Haddu gave Arun a grateful nod. “I do have a question, however,” he said. “According to our last correspondence, you claim the general will lower the Ancile’s impenetrable defenses prior to the assault?”

“Yes.”

“How exactly do you intend to do that?”

The duke and Eli exchanged glances.

“We don’t want to spoil the surprise. But have faith,
Rajeth
. All will be as it should be before you ride.”

“It’s not that I doubt your assertion. Well, it’s just that if we ride, and the—”

“I understand,” the duke interrupted. “If the defenses are not lowered, you and your riders will have nowhere to go. But the rest of our army will advance right behind you. If the defenses are not lowered, we all have much to lose. Trust us. We would neither send you nor our own men if we knew the Ancile could not be breached.”

Haddu appeared satisfied.

“Now, what news have you of your counterparts in the city?”

“Omar has been released,” Haddu replied.

“Good. We were concerned his detainment would affect our plans.”

“Their electric generator will be out of commission. My brethren have made an agreement with the local thieves’ guild. As you so eloquently put it, ‘all will be as it should be.’”

The duke nodded. He looked to Eli and Arun to see if they had anything to add. When they said nothing, he placed his hands on the table and sat up.

“Gentlemen, it appears then that history has brought us together for an undertaking greater than any of us could have imagined. A strange alliance between snow and sand. May the Maker and our Lords have mercy on the Republic, for we will not.”

It’s all been delivered as instructed, sir.”

“Good,” said Cain Listoyanov, loosening his tie.

He had arrived that morning and spent the better half of it making sure his delivery of arms was squirreled away as instructed by his clients.

“Goddamn sandworms. This is the first time I needed a treasure map just to bury the loot.”

Cain settled into his penthouse suite in the Rue Ayan, Central District’s finest luxury hotel. It was situated in the entertainment quarter not more than a block from the Halo. No expenses were spared in his lodging, which included a panoramic view of the city below and a built-in spa. Though it was a welcome end to a long journey at sea, and a long morning, it had little effect on his foul mood. He had it in mind to attend an underground slave auction, only to discover it had been recently shut down. The hotel staff was especially concerned because Cain Listoyanov was a man of very particular tastes, and notorious for erratic behavior when his demands were unmet.

During his last stay in another hotel from which he’d been subsequently banned, he’d set fire to the bed because he’d discovered the thread-count on the sheets was less than advertised. He ended up paying for the damages, but it was of little consequence to him. He possessed enough wealth to burn a thousand beds. Following news of the cancelled auction, he may have again been so inclined to try had he not received a timely notice.

One of his two bodyguards handed him an envelope.

“What’s this?”

“From the concierge, sir. Also—” The bodyguard shifted uncomfortably.

“Also, what?” Cain asked, carefully tearing along the fold.

“There’s a woman waiting for you in the lobby.”

The arms dealer gave his bodyguard a curious glance before reading the note within.

Mister Listoyanov: As always, we appreciate your timely shipment. We hope you find your accommodations agreeable. We’ve also made available the services of our associate, Hilda Bern. She is an excellent resource and at your complete disposal. We look forward to our final meeting tonight. –Friends

Cain scoffed and tossed the note in the waste bin.

“Shaldean flattery,” he thought aloud. “I’ll be impressed if they actually get me that contract with Bale.”

“Shall I summon the girl?”

“You remember the last one they set me up with?”

“This one’s different.”

“Is she?”

His bodyguard nodded.

“If it’s another mule—”

“She’s not, sir. I’m sure she’ll be to your liking.”

Cain would have reprimanded his bodyguard for being so presumptuous had he not been intrigued. “Well, send her up.”

Less than five minutes passed before a young redheaded woman in an emerald green evening dress entered.

Cain was pleasantly surprised. What a woman wore was just as important to him as what she looked like in the nude. He assessed the value of a woman much in the same way he did any object he intended to purchase.

“Mister Listoyanov,” she said, holding up her hand in a silver glove, palm down.

Cain gave it a gentle peck. “Miss Bern, I presume?”

“At your pleasure,” she replied, with an inviting purr.

He paused to study her in detail. Her red hair was in curls. She had a symmetrical face, lightly made up, though a little heavy on the lips.

Noticing his culling eyes, she mocked a turn. He passed quickly over her bust and backside, for they were of little consequence to him. “May I see your feet?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Your feet. May I see them?”

“You can see whatever you like, honey,” she replied with a wink.

Then she pulled her evening dress up to her ankle with one hand, slipped her right foot out of her gold pumps, and held it just off the ground.

“And the other one?”

With a bemused flick of the brow, she repeated with her left.

“Satisfied?” she asked.

Her feet were just the way he liked them. The toes, treated and perfectly scaled in length, each slender but none too boney. Fair and flawless.

“Quite,” he replied, excusing his bodyguards.

An hour later, the two of them had brunch in the hotel restaurant; they exchanged a kiss and a promise of another rendezvous later that evening before Hilda left. Like a child who’d just been dropped off at boarding school, Cain watched her round a corner and disappear. He sighed.

Hilda was one of several affiliated girls under Rogue oversight that had that effect on men—the ability to scale an impenetrable façade and leave a lasting impression, even after a single tussle. The Carousel Rogues often employed them to elicit sensitive information from people of interest. And that was why the new guild master had contacted Hilda just days before to take on the role.

Three blocks from the Rue Ayan, Hilda stopped to rest her feet. She sat on a park bench occupied by a man reading the daily paper, a black rose on his lapel. She removed her heel and began massaging her sole.

“He’s in room one-five-zero-two,” she said, as if speaking into the wind. “The meeting will be at midnight, pink factory, old garment district.”

The man abruptly folded his paper, stood, and walked away, leaving in his place an envelope filled with cash. She took it and disappeared.

By eleven forty-five that evening, a Shaldean convoy was traveling down Seventh Street through Trivelka Square.

“Was it all there?” asked Omar.

“Enough to arm every one of us twice,” his minion replied. “Rifles, scimitars, and kegs of powder. We are all ready,
afendi
. Nothing can stop us now.”

“Pride before the fall, Amsa. Our vengeance comes on the coattails of the Balean Kingdom. Be wise with your words lest the Maker foil our plans.”

The road carried them through the warrens. Beyond that was the old, abandoned garment district on the edge of the bay, now little more than a cluster of rusted steel structures—skeletons that spoke of an industry passed, remnants of investments lost. Surrounded by water to the north and northeast, and bordering Trivelka Square on the slum-side was a large, empty warehouse. It was once the factory for a line of women’s intimate apparel. On the roof, there was an old, sodden advertising board where traces of faded paint had in the past displayed a reclining woman in her undergarments. A slogan across the bottom now barely legible read:
Think Pink!

There was a back entrance in the loading dock on the east end of the warehouse. A carriage was parked there, its tow-horse buried in the provided trough. Omar Basiliech and his entourage of nine men pulled up beside it. Two guards dressed in black suits, heavily armed, were waiting for them by the entrance. They introduced themselves as Cain Stoyanov’s bodyguards before one of them showed Omar and all but one of his men in.

Omar was led through the dark warehouse by Stoyanov’s guard. Concrete pillars partitioned off what were once sewing stations. At the end of the north side, there was a soft glow coming from an executive meeting room. The meeting room was bare but for a few chairs, a conference table, and a large window overlooking the bay. Even the doors had been removed from their hinges. Cropped through the doorframe, Omar could see a lantern placed on top of the conference table. And sitting in a swivel chair with his back to the entry, silhouetted by the light, was Cain.

“Peace be upon you, Mister Stoyanov. We received your…” Passing the threshold, Omar noticed another man in a black tieless business suit sitting at the head of the table on the east end of the room. He was wearing a white, ghostly mask. “You did not mention any guests.”

There was no response.

Stoyanov’s guard spun Cain around in his chair. Omar recoiled at the sight and his entourage immediately drew their pistols and daggers. The arms dealer’s eyes were open, his jaw slack, head hanging to the side from an open throat that had stained the white of his shirt with blood.

“What is this?” asked Omar.

Amsa clutched the duffle bag and backed into a previously unaccounted for apparition that had appeared in the entryway behind him—the Vengian, standing as still as a stone.

Amsa dropped the duffle bag and raised his pistol. The Vengian came alive like a flash of lightning. Movement of his black camouflage created a dissonance against the darkness behind him that revealed his otherwise camouflaged form. He grabbed the Shaldean’s wrist, twisted it back, drew his blade, and jabbed it in and out of his chest like a sewing needle, striking the heart. As if their deaths had been coordinated, five more Shaldea were dispatched in a matter of seconds, the sound of misfired pistols followed by bodies hitting the floor in rapid succession. There were no unnecessary acrobatics and no style in the way the Vengian took life. Just perfectly calculated, efficient movements with dexterity and speed that left the dwindling witnesses in awesome terror.

At last, he sheathed his blade, grabbed the two throwing knives tucked under his arms and, with a flick of the wrists, sent them flying into the heads of the remaining two Shaldea who were huddled in a corner shielding their leader.

When the smoke cleared, Omar was standing alone, surrounded by a disarrangement of bodies.

“Who…who are you?” he asked, blood pooling around his shoes.

“I wish to illustrate a point, so pay close attention,” Magog replied.

On cue, the Vengian walked up behind Stoyanov’s guard, who was in fact a Rogue in disguise, assigned to this detail by Remy. The Vengian then stabbed him in the back through the lung.

“Do you know what I have learned in all my years wandering to and fro throughout the world? The futility of it all. That the sanctity of life is a lie. We are no more precious than dust and stones.” Magog removed his mask revealing his tattooed face. He then leaned forward and looked at Omar with the fury of hell in his eyes. “Death is the only absolute.”

“
Zaal’mavorte!
” shouted Omar. He fell to his knees, his hands trembling, the scent of blood and feces in the air churning his stomach. “Please,
afendi.
I have withheld nothing. I don’t know where Yusef Naskerazim is. I swear it! All of our dealings with him are conducted strictly through a proxy.”

“Shh
. I believe you, Omar.” Magog stood and walked over to where Amsa lay. He picked up his duffle bag, placed it on the table and opened it. From it, he drew a bundle of Balean crowns. “What is the name of this proxy?”