The Book of Deacon: Book 02 - The Great Convergence (3 page)

Myn seemed distracted. The slowly
strengthening wind carried either the scent of Lain or something
else, and it was making her anxious. When they reached the trees,
Myranda noticed a handful of small brown creatures scurrying across
the ground. Suddenly Myn froze. Myranda began to ask what might be
the matter, but her voice caught in her throat when she realized
the source of her friend’s concern. There was not merely a handful
of the little creatures. Behind them there were dozens, perhaps a
hundred. Each had the small size and long body of a weasel, but
their eyes seemed absent, with slight indentations where they ought
to be. They had six legs, each tipped with a trio of short, stout,
cruel looking claws. There were clusters of them, sniffing madly at
the ground around her footprints.

The pair was surrounded by the things, and
more were popping out of scattered burrows by the moment. As they
each sniffed the air, row after row of needle sharp teeth were
bared in anger. They did not like the scent of the intruder. The
creatures approached one at a time. Myn tried to frighten them off,
but as she pounced at them they scattered, keeping just out of her
reach. In moments the two of them were completely surrounded. A
chill of fear ran up and down Myranda's spine as she held her staff
ready. She decided a spell of fire would hold them at bay, but she
would need a minute or two to produce enough of it to protect her,
while the fear burning at her mind increased that time greatly.

"Myn, fire!" she cried.

Myn tried to obey, but somehow the things
with no eyes were able to avoid the flames, only a few getting even
remotely singed. The creatures were swarming about Myranda's legs.
With no spells swift or safe enough to ward them off now, she
swatted at them with the staff, knocking a few away. Just as the
first of them sunk its teeth into the girl's leg, there came a
piercing whistle. The small creatures scattered. An instant later,
blanket about the young woman’s shoulders was torn from her back.
Turning quickly to discover the culprit, she found Lain, dressed in
the black tunic of Entwell, holding his white cloak in one hand and
her brown blanket in the other.

"You!" she cried furiously.

Myn scampered to him leapt about
joyfully.

"Pick her up," he ordered.

Before Myranda could object, Myn obligingly
leapt into Myranda's arms. Lain threw his cloak about her shoulders
and hurled her blanket into the mass of creatures who were already
beginning to venture closer. The very moment that the blanket
landed, the creatures converged on it, tearing it to ribbons.

"Quickly, this way. And do not speak until I
tell you," he said.

The pair moved quickly to a more thickly
wooded bit of the field. Every few moments Lain would cast a glance
at the chaotic frenzy behind them. When a handful of the furry
creatures stood on their hindmost legs and sampled the air, only to
turn away and return from whence they came, Lain broke the
silence.

"You should have stayed in Entwell. You were
there for your protection," he said.

"For safe keeping, you mean. So that you
could go about your murder without fear of anyone else claiming my
ransom," she said.

"Yes," he said.

Myranda was given pause by the frankness of
his answer.

"So, what noble plans have you got that are
more important than ending the war?" she asked.

"I must resupply and meet with my partner.
The Elites will have been busy. It will take time to rebuild," he
said.

"I cannot say that I am sorry to hear it. You
deserve every hardship and misfortune that this world has to give
until you turn yourself to your proper task," she said.

Lain weathered the assault in stoic silence.
Somehow, Myranda could not bring herself to continue to give him
the berating she felt he deserved.

"Thank you, by the way," she said, her voice
still stern.

Lain grunted in reply.

"What were those things?" she asked.

"Oloes. They will attack, kill, and consume
any creature with an unfamiliar scent or sound," he said.

"Then why didn't a single olo pay any
attention to you?" she asked.

"My scent is familiar," he said.

They continued until they reached a tall,
sturdy pine. Lain looked over the roots. In several places they
looped up above ground. After close inspection of one root in
particular, he grasped it, put one foot against the tree, and
pulled with all of his might. Slowly, not just the root but a
square section of ground began to tip up. He pulled and strained
until the square, now clearly a thick wooden trapdoor with a few
inches of soil disguising it, stood on end. He then crouched low to
the ground and carefully reached his hand inside, feeling at the
walls. Myranda peered inside. The pale light that made it through
the thick clouds did not penetrate far into the darkness. When Lain
found what it was he had been probing for, a soft click could be
heard from within the hole that prompted him to quickly pull his
arm free. A blade swiped across the shaft, and the swishing sound
and puff of air from the door hinted at many more that had gone
unseen.

"Put her down. This is the place," he
said.

"After those blades nearly robbed you of your
arm you are going inside?" she said.

"Yes. And once the oloes get a whiff of the
blood trickling down your leg it is going to take more than a loud
whistle to scare them off," he said.

Myranda had forgotten about the creature that
had managed to bite her. She did not relish the thought of facing
those things again. Reluctantly, she looked into the hole. Myn
hopped to the ground and peered in curiously as well. Myranda
searched for a ladder of some sort built into the walls but found
none. She lowered her bag down an arm’s length and dropped it. From
the sound, there was not much of a drop. She lowered her legs and
slid into the opening, dangling for a moment by her fingertips
before dropping a foot or two to a solid surface in the darkness
below. Her eyes had only just begun to adjust when a light flashed
in front of her. She scrambled back to the bag at the base of the
opening and pulled out her staff, turning back in time for a second
spark. This one lingered, as a lamp flickered to life, casting
light on the room.

It was a small room. The walls were made of
stone blocks, while the low ceiling was made of wood with thick
planks running across its length. Placed regularly through the room
were sturdy support beams. There were heavy doors on three walls.
The lamp was in the hands of a man standing in the open doorway
opposite the entrance shaft. Its flickering yellow light fell upon
a face with a look of confused recognition, a look that Myranda no
doubt shared, as this was not precisely a stranger. After a moment
of searching through crowded memories, each spoke the name of the
other simultaneously.

"Desmeres?" she said.

"Myranda?" spoke the man.

Indeed it was the odd fellow she had briefly
met in a tavern when this great journey had only just begun. His
youthful face, wild white hair, and expensive attire were
unmistakable.

"I can't say I expected to see you here," he
said.

Myn, hearing the voices within, darted down
into the room and planted herself between Myranda and the potential
threat. Desmeres took a step back.

"Well, now! That is yours, I trust!" he said,
eying the intruding creature with amusement.

"Yes, yes. This is Myn," Myranda answered,
eager to get it out of the way and have her own questions answered.
"What are you doing here?"

"Well, for the time being, this is my home. A
more appropriate question would be what are
you
doing here?"
he countered.

Before she could answer, Lain dropped down.
Desmeres glanced up, this time with recognition unmarred by
confusion.

"L-L-L-L-Leo, right? Good lord it has been
ages! How has Sasha been treating you?" he said as though speaking
with an old friend.

"Taken," he said.

"No! By who?" Desmeres said, dismayed.

"The Elites," he answered.

"Oh. I thought I'd never see the day," he
said. "I trust she served well? A masterpiece, that one. She was
silent when you needed her to be, but when she wanted to she could
sing
. Shame on you for losing her. You'd better figure out
how to get her back before they squeeze any secrets out of her,
because if I--"

"Wait! What is going on here?" Myranda
asked.

"I am catching up with my friend Leo,"
Desmeres said.

"You know him?" she said.

"Of course! I collect and craft weapons and
he uses them. So how has the business been? Any projects you feel
like discussing?" he began.

"Never mind that. She knows," Lain said.

"Does she? How much?" Desmeres asked,
surprised, but still with a sense of amusement.

"Enough," he said.

"Well . . . that's new," Desmeres
replied.

"I suppose that it was no coincidence that
you and I met in the tavern that day," Myranda said.

"No, no. Of course it wasn't. You can safely
assume that each and every time I do anything, it has been
meticulously planned out to benefit me in some way," Desmeres said
in a tone that made it difficult to tell if he was joking.

Lain pulled open one of the other doors and
entered. Desmeres attempted to walk past Myranda, but Myn prevented
it.

"Well all right, fine. Myranda, would you do
me a favor? There is a rope over there by the trapdoor. Give it a
good strong pull. We've got to close the door and reset the
blades," he said.

Myranda turned to do so. As she did, Desmeres
continued to chat with her as though they were the best of
friends.

"So I recognize the old Entwell garb. Is that
where you ended up?" he asked.

"Yes. How did you know about Entwell?" she
asked.

"Born and raised there. Is my father still
knocking about? He makes the master-level weapons," he asked.

"I don't know. I didn't meet any weapon
makers except for . . . Wait, what is going on here?" she demanded.
Desmeres had a way of making things seem so casual she had nearly
forgotten the ordeal that she had been through to get here.

"You just pull on the cord there and--" he
began.

"Not that! Where am I? Why are you working
with Lain? What do you really do?" she cried.

"Are we calling him Lain now? Eh, regardless.
Just get the door closed, we'll join Lain inside, and all will be
revealed. Well,
some
will be revealed. I don't want to make
any promises I can't keep," he said.

Myranda sighed heavily and pulled hard on the
rope. The heavy door began to drop shut, the weight of it
apparently driving machinery that reset the blades.

"Well done. This way please. This is a bit of
a reunion, so I've finally got a reason to open some of the
vintage. That alone is reason enough to celebrate," he said.

They walked through the doorway to a larger
room with various dried and smoked foods hanging along one wall.
Along another was rack after rack of fine wine. Most of the rest of
the room was littered and stacked with chests of various sizes. In
the center was a table with two chairs. Desmeres lit a set of
candles on the table and several lamps that lined the walls.

"As you see, we aren't equipped for guests.
There is usually only the two of us here, if anyone at all. Pull up
a chest or something to sit on. I dare say I've emptied quite a few
waiting for this fellow to show up," he remarked as he looked over
the stock of wine.

Myranda did so. It was already quite clear
that she would have no answers until Desmeres was ready to give
them. The white haired fellow opened a bottle and set it on the
table, then set about finding enough glasses for all in attendance.
After leaving the room, he returned with two heavy clay cups and
one metal one.

"The honored guest gets the special glass,"
he said, setting it before her.

It was not until she watched him pour a
splash of the wine that she realized that the chalice was of solid
gold.

"Where did you get this?" she asked, admiring
the work of art.

"I don't recall. Some people cannot afford
payment in coins alone. I am willing to accept anything, so long as
it is gold," he said, pouring the rest of the glasses.

Lain returned to his seat after fetching some
manner of dried meat. Desmeres set out some cheese on a plate.

"To old friends and new ones," Desmeres said,
raising his glass. Myranda joined in the toast, while Lain simply
tore into his meal.

After sampling the wine, which was as subtle
and delicious as any that she had ever tasted, Myranda set the
glass down.

"May I
please
have some answers?" she
begged.

"But of course. Just a moment though. Lain,
are we keeping any secrets for ourselves?" he asked.

"Use your best judgment," he answered.

"Oh, are we using our best judgment now?
Because based upon your last few decisions, I thought the new
policy was to try our very best to get ourselves killed and lose
everything we have worked for. My mistake. Now that good judgment
is the choice of the day again, perhaps things will get done.
Questions please," he said. His words had been riddled with
sarcasm, but still carried the necessary sting. Lain weathered them
as though they were anything but rare.

"Who are you really? What exactly do you do?"
she asked.

"I am this fellow's business associate," he
answered.

"But he is an assassin. What could you
possibly do for him?" she asked.

"Oh, not much. I make all of his weapons. I
build, manage, and maintain networks of contacts and informants. I
locate and contact prospective clients, manage cover businesses,
handle finances, keep records, collect and negotiate payments.
Basically everything but get my hands dirty," he said. "And in
exchange I get half of his fee."