Shadow's Son (6 page)

"Excellent." He bowed to Josey and gave Anastasia a peck on the
cheek. "I shall see you later."

Josey remained behind as Anastasia walked Markus out. They whispered their good-byes out of eyesight. Several minutes passed before
Anastasia returned to the sitting room. Her eyes danced with joy as she
plopped down beside Josey.

"Isn't he magnificent? I'm so happy, Josey. I feel like a cloud floating
high above the world."

Josey hugged her friend and murmured the words Anastasia wanted to
hear, but she couldn't shake the suspicion that things might not remain so
congenial between husband and wife after the wedding day. Markus was
polite enough in mixed company, but his cavalier manner didn't suit her
friend, who was the picture of a perfect lady, refined and unassuming. Yet
Josey kept those fears to herself. Anastasia was clearly smitten, and there
was no use spoiling her good feelings. And some part of Josey wondered if
she wasn't just the tiniest bit jealous that her friend had found such love
while she was still alone, chaste and waiting for the man of her dreams.

Josey listened with half an ear while Anastasia chattered about visits
to the seamstress, finding the right orchestra, and all the other minutiae
required to plan a wedding. She nodded at the appropriate places and
made polite noises, but the greater part of her thoughts were on her own problems. Her ship departed in two days. The matter couldn't wait until
she devised an airtight argument. She had to speak with Father tonight.

Ral watched them from the shadow of the Emperor Tronieger monument
in the center of Torvelli Square, the strapping officer of the Guard and the
young daughter of a respected statesman, as they shared a deep kiss on the
front steps of the manse. The prefect's hands slid down to clutch his lady's
slender bottom in broad daylight. Ral smiled to himself. The wagging
tongues of High Town would wear themselves ragged.

Ral didn't understand the fascination with romance. Oh, he enjoyed
the company of women aplenty, the sorts who were attracted to a man of
means, and the girl was a pretty slip of a thing, but he didn't have time
for anything that outlasted the night. Perhaps after his work was done he
would take the time to find a companion, someone suitable for an
upcoming man with a bright future.

Finally, Markus bid the girl farewell. Ral followed him, keeping his
distance. The prefect, in his scarlet coat, was simplicity itself to shadow
through the broad streets of Opuline Hill.

The sights and sounds of High Town did not distract Ral. Growing
up, he had sampled every type of excess that wealth could buy. His life
might have turned out differently if his father had lived to a ripe old age,
but fate had intervened in the form of news off an Arnossi trader bound
for Illmyn. Both of his father's ships had disappeared in a storm off the
Hvekish coast, lost with all hands. In an instant, he went from a boy to a
man of means. He sold his interest in the shipping company and bought
a big house. He found new friends in the sons and daughters of the city's
finest families, hosted lavish parties that went on for days, and lived the
life he'd always wanted. Until the money ran out. Then the loan sharks
started circling. He borrowed to keep up his sumptuous lifestyle, and
then again when that ran out. By the time he realized the depths to which
he had sunk, it was too late.

They found him dead drunk in the back room of a Low Town dive.
Five big men with cold eyes propped him on a rickety chair and lashed
his hands behind his back.

"Mr. Ayes isn't happy with you," the biggest of them rumbled. "You
been spending his money like it's piss, and he ain't seen nothing back in
more than a fortnight."

Another thug flashed a long-bladed dirk, so big it was almost a
sword. "Not a smart thing to do, making Mr. Ayes angry. Now we come
to collect."

They cut off his clothes and shook them out, but Ral laughed at them,
too drunk to care whether or not they killed him.

The man with the big knife rested the point between Ral's legs and
whispered in his ear. "If you can't pay, friend, then you have to make good
some other way."

They gave him a simple choice: lose his skin or do one small favor for
his debtor in exchange for wiping the books clean.

All he had to do was kill a man.

That job changed him forever-the apprehension as he stole into
another man's home in the dead of night; the tingling of his skin as he
found his quarry abed, oblivious to the doom looming over him; the
euphoria that surged through his veins when he drove the knife into that
soft belly. His victim's death moan had been a paean of rebirth, setting
him free from all the constraints that had been ingrained into him by a
society blind to his needs, apathetic to his desires. That night he had
stepped into a world where the power over life and death rested in his
hands. He had never looked back.

Ral followed Markus through the old Forum with its afternoon
strollers out for their constitutional amid the rows of vendor stalls. The
shouts of hawkers punctuated the susurrus of the crowd. Markus strode
straight ahead like a charging bull, never glancing to his left or right.
Complete obliviousness to the city's dangers, great or small-that was the
prerogative of being an officer in the Sacred Brotherhood. Markus's stride
didn't even slow to the sound of cracking whips.

Ral slipped behind a stack of cloth bundles as a band of men in
bloodred robes burst from a merchant's tent. Their scourges split the air
as they flung the object of their ire onto the dirty pavestones. The man
was dressed in the tattered remains of a fine suit. His round cap rolled in
the dust. The Flagellants surrounded him-Ral could now see he was the
owner of the stall-and proceeded to beat him without mercy while a scrawny woman, possibly his wife, wrung her hands and sobbed in the
tent's doorway. What had been the man's crime? Ral couldn't guess. It
could be almost anything, from cheating his customers to failing to display a proper image of the prelate within his establishment. Like the
Brotherhood, the Flagellants were a law unto themselves, answerable only
to the Church.

Ral skirted the scene. He found his quarry on the other side of the
forum and followed him into the Temple District. A few streets farther,
Markus entered the Pantheon, a converted pagan temple. While the prefect entered the stolid building through the front via a set of immense
bronze doors, Ral went around to a side entrance located in a constricted
alley. Avoiding piles of garbage, he wedged the tip of a dagger into the
keyhole and snapped the simple lock. The door accessed a crowded storage
room. The deep tones of choral singing filtered through another door on
the other side of the room. Ral took a moment to rummage through a varnished wardrobe, selected a white cassock, and pulled the garment over
his head. A red stole stitched with circles in gold thread went around his
shoulders. Smiling, he slipped through another door.

The Pantheon's circular walls bowed over the main worship chamber
of the church. The building was an architectural masterpiece, dating back
to imperial days when Nimea had enjoyed an era of magnificence
unmatched by any nation in the world. The ceiling was open to the sky,
another sign of its pagan origins. Prayer mats formed orderly rows on the
floor's red-and-white checkerboard flagstones where priests and trains of
dutiful acolytes walked among the faithful, swinging pots of smoking
incense and murmuring prayers.

Ral pulled up the robe's hood and slipped behind a gaggle of old
women in black shawls, their eyes downcast as they walked the stations
around the perimeter of the great chamber. He slowed as they stopped
before a hollow niche inhabited by the gray stone statue of some saint. So
pious, they made him sick as they whispered fervent prayers over clenched
fists. If any of them dared to raise their eyes high enough, they would see
the marble base of the original statue that had adorned this shrine before
the advent of the True Faith. Perhaps it had been the likeness of Torim, the
Storm Lord, or Hisu, the patron goddess of love and nauseating poetry.
Whichever god it had been, the name had been chiseled out of the pedestal as if it never existed. Ral smirked under the hood. It was a shame people
couldn't be eliminated as easily as deities. His life would be a lot simpler.

As the old women shuffled off to the next station, Ral sank down
beside Markus, who knelt in the last row, his large hands clasped together.

Markus barely looked over. "No, thank you, Father. I'm-" Then the
prefect caught sight of his face. "Ral? God's breath! Isn't anything sacred
to you?"

Ral glanced at the massive sculpture of the Prophet of the True Faith.
Lord Phebus, the Light of the World, towered above the high fine at the
end of the nave. The statue was clothed as a simple peasant, but glittering
rays chased in real gold radiated from his bloodied brow.

"I'll worry about God when he starts worrying about me."

Markus looked around. "Someone could see you."

Ral had already checked during his approach. No other worshippers
were in earshot.

"Not likely. These bleaters are too busy worrying about saving their
souls. With all this praying, you'd think there was an army of Shadowmen
banging at the gates, eh? Or old King Mithrax riding from the grave with
his Hellion Host."

The scabbard of Markus's sword scraped on the floor as he shifted
position. He moved easily for a big man. "What are you doing here?"

"Just making a last-minute visit. I take it you haven't heard the
latest?"

"No, what?"

"Your grand master has been arrested."

"On what charges?"

Ral put his hands together as if to pray. "Treason. Sedition. It doesn't
matter. Our benefactor will make sure he never sees the light of day again."

"I never thought-"

"That's your problem, Markus. You never think. But now that the
head of your order is out of the way, the way is clear for new blood to rise
to the top. Especially for those with allies on the Elector Council."

Markus sucked in a deep breath.

Ral let him ponder that idea for a moment. "Is everything in place?"

"Sure. The plan is simple. I'll get there a candlemark after sundown.
The signal is-"

"How many men are you bringing?"

Markus glanced over, a flicker of annoyance passing across his pale blue
eyes. "I got a few boys on board, just like you told me. A couple of them
owe me money, and another guy is bucking for a promotion so he can move
out of his mother's house. They'll do what I say without question."

"And afterward?"

"They'll keep their mouths shut."

"They'd better. Our patron doesn't forgive mistakes. If one of these
men talks-"

"I know what I'm doing."

Ral leaned into Markus, hooking his right arm through the man's
elbow. His left hand pressed into the prefect's side, the needle-sharp point
of the stiletto held in his palm pricking through both surcoat and mail to
touch the flesh beneath. Markus huffed and strained to remain still.

Ral pitched his voice to a low whisper. "Listen to me. You don't have
to worry about the boss. If you mess this up, I'll peel your worthless hide
from your back myself. Do you understand me?"

Markus nodded. With a hiss, Ral released him. The stiletto vanished
into his sleeve. Markus clutched his side and stared at the floor with his
lips compressed into a tight line. The prefect wasn't used to being manhandled, but he had to understand and fast. Both their lives hung in the
balance if he messed up.

"Get more men," Ral said.

The prefect rolled his shoulders. "I'll need more money for that. God's
soldiers don't come cheap."

Ral wanted to laugh, but he didn't let it touch his features. He
reached under his cassock. Markus stiffened, one hand dropping to the
hilt of his sword, but he relaxed as Ral passed him a heavy pouch.

Ral stood up and rested his hand on the prefect's beefy shoulder, the
very picture of a pastor counseling one of his flock.

"Remember, Markus. No mistakes. No loose ends."

"Don't worry. We'll arrive just a moment too late to save them."

"And their killer?"

An evil grin dimmed the prefect's chiseled features. "Sadly, he'll be
killed trying to elude capture."

"Perfect."

A moment later, Ral was out the side door and down the alley,
heading toward home. He had his own preparations to finalize. A horse
was waiting for him at the west gate, reserved by the offices of the Elector
Council, with remounts at every roadhouse and garrison station between
here and his target. Tomorrow night, the culmination of his dearest ambition would begin. He would rise higher than his departed father had ever
dreamed. Soon people would call him the most feared man in the city, and
in the process he would eliminate his only true rival to that title.