Harbinger: The Downfall - Book One Page 8

  “Maybe so, but there is no need to put his protection to the test, is there now?” the younger man asked as he looked around. No one had noticed the exchange.

  “What is your name, son, and is there anything I can do to help you?” Cyril asked.

  “I’m a girl. Have you been celibate so long that you can’t tell the difference anymore?” she said with a smile. “My name is Gruedo, and I work solo. I don’t want to end up face down and dead on some tavern’s table because I trusted someone, no offense.” Gruedo stood up to leave. “I will have it before the sun rises,” she said, turned, and strolled out of the tavern into the shadows of the night.

  Lord Jaeken stared at the portrait of his twin sons, an ache in his chest. He had done everything he could to give them a good life. He had raised them alone; his wife had died during childbirth and he had never remarried. He had given them freely to the church so they could have the best education and opportunities. They had flourished. Cyril had endless libraries to explore, and Cyrus could be the lad of action he always dreamed of being. They learned from the finest tutors and weapons masters in the kingdom. He held a crystal snifter in his hand as he leaned on the mantle of the grand fireplace; looking up at the oil painting he had commissioned ten years ago; the year they had gained church position. Jaeken had run his business without heirs, letting them achieve their dreams at the sacrifice of his. He had planned to set it up so the business was self-sufficient and would continue to bring them money long after his own death. He had been so proud of his sons. Now he had lost them both.

  Turning back to his guests that had made themselves comfortable in the drawing room after dinner, he gathered his thoughts. Sipping on his whiskey, he looked at the silver candelabras that lit the room, the plush velvet divans and armchairs, and the rich décor. It all meant nothing now. The gathered group spoke in hushed tones, unsure what was to come next. Small talk throughout the meal had told him he had chosen the right people. When he made the requests, he knew the names could never be revealed and the dinner would have to be small. What he was doing could be considered treason, but he would right the wrongs he had created by not listening to his sons.

  “Good people,” Jaeken began, pushing his white moustache away from his mouth with the back of a hand, “there is an evil amongst us. It has tainted the very source of our beliefs and needs to be sought out and destroyed. This will be no easy task. You have each seen the results of this taint. Our soldiers are taking bribes. Our officials put themselves before their protectorates. The number of unwed mothers grows, and orphanages are swelling to the point of bursting. The homeless, beggars, and indigents have become a class of their own now.”

  He looked around the room at the collection of minor nobles, clergy, and mid ranked military men. He wondered if he was beginning a revolution. It was not what he wanted; he just wanted things to go back to the way they had been. Honest, right, and noble. Everyone was nodding with his words and waiting for him to say more. He sipped at his drink before continuing. He whispered a quick prayer to Jonath and began to detail his plan to the group.

  When the meeting had ended, a woman stepped backwards into the shadows and slipped behind a heavy velvet curtain. She waited for the room to clear before opening the floor to ceiling glass doors and let herself out onto the balcony. Pulling her navy-blue skirts apart from the sides, they split in the middle as if made for riding. She then leaned over and drew two cords from each boot that had been hidden under the dress, crisscrossing them up her legs to turn the dress into padded laggings. She drew her caplet from her shoulders, and turned it over to a much darker shade of blue that matched her leggings, and pulled arms from the sleeves and hood from the neck of the clothing. She pulled these over her decorated corset, buttoned it up the front, pulled the hood over her head and tied it down, then retrieved the small grapple and silk cord from inside a coat pocket. Swinging the device in a slow circle she counted the moments before propelling it across the night to the next building. Once she did, she tugged sharply on the line, causing the grapple to pop open and its arms to extend; just in time to catch the chimney that was her target. Kaht was ready to launch herself into the night and report back to Grenedal.

  Chapter 7: Dark Passages

  “Men’s heart can be harder than a stone, colder than the soil buried miles underground, or hotter and more passionate than molten lava.”

  Jonath, God of Honor and the Element of Earth

  5854 – Thon – Jordar – Lasin

  The fat man grinned at Rogen and Cite with a greasy smile. Sweat stained the man’s shirt under his rough vest, and his thinning hair was held down with too much pomade. His finger caressed the trigger of the crossbow like a lover and his other hand was below the table. Rogen’s shorter stature allowed him to see the small box with a button in the center that secured to the underside of the table. He glanced at the walls and his experience with construction showed him the seams of the hidden doorways that most would miss. Rogen sighed and took a step forward.

  “Uh uh,” said the man at the table, “state your name and your business.”

  “Jorjen, you know who I am and, considering all things, I think you know why I am here,” Rogen said, annoyed. The man at the table looked crestfallen.

  “Aw, come on! Say it, I don’t get much to do and it wouldn’t hurt you to say it,” Jorjen replied and Rogen heard a quiet snicker from behind one of the panels. The Rokairn sighed again.

  “Fine. I am Rogen the Plague, Master of the Great Desert Empire. I am here on official business and will rip your damned throat out if you do not quit fucking around and let me past to see Curls,” Rogen growled and watched the man tense and heard another snicker from behind the panel.

  “Ok, no need to get upset. I was going to let you by,” the fat man whined. “Did you bring Emerald? I would love to see her again if she has the time.”

  “No, I did not. Now signal the door so we can get on with our business,” Rogen demanded and stepped forward, followed by Cite. They passed the man and the table before Jorjen could say anything else.

  Cite thought Rogen would walk into the wall, but a panel opened to the right of the man and swung towards the two approaching men. Rogen pulled it open with one hand, and shoved Cite through, and mumbled, “Watch your step,” as Cite tripped on the ledge where the door did not come all the way to the floor. Rogen stepped over the ledge and into the room and slammed the panel shut while glaring back into the room at Jorjen.

  The room opened into a grand foyer, which looked like a storeroom blended with a gaudy whorehouse. Velvet divans sat at various angles in the room, some occupied by the room’s occupants. Golden candelabra guttered and oil lamps filled with incense lit the room and gave it a smoky heat that caused their eyes to water and their bodies to sweat in the closeness. Rolled canvases sat on the floor in stacks, or leaned against the wall in ornate frames. Beautifully carved tables stood against any wall that didn’t have stacks of boxes, portraits, or a couch. The tables had fine crystal decanters, glasses, and other various valuable goods scattered about them.

  A large bald man stood just inside the doorway and looked down on the two newcomers. He wore loose billowing pants, a leather waist cincher and wrist cuffs, and a frown. He nodded at Rogen and went back to watching the room. Three women were in the room, two sitting on couches and one standing at the bar that dominated the far wall. One thin man with rheumy eyes puffed gently on a hookah and sat between the two women. He wore a short silk robe, ornately embroidered with storks, which had fallen open to reveal his nudity. The women wore similar robes, leaned on the thin man, kissed his neck, and ran their bright fingernails down his body. The blonde one stood and sauntered to the bar, and poured brandy into a large snifter. Rogen noted two hallways, one on either side of the bar, which led down darkened hallways.

  “Curls,” Rogen said, nodding at the man with a wig of golden curls as he walked further into the room, his young companion on his heels, “new stock I see? Never k
eep them long, do you?”

  “Rogen, my dear stunted, bearded friend, you know they find other places to go after a while. Have you come to partake of the finer things then?” Curls asked, running one hand along the neatly trimmed gray sideburns that distinguished him even when dressed. He wore a bright red military coat with gold button and epaulets, and short silk trousers.

  “No, perhaps later. My friend here requires a room, a private room. I will also, but first I must to take care of a few matters. I may need to call in some favors also, can you help me?”

  “Of course, Master, you know my house is always your house. Do you have time to sit and talk for a bit?” Curls pushed the naked dark skinned woman away from him and gently and patted the now empty spot on the couch next to him.

  Rogen shook his head and gestured to Cite. “Please find him a room, prepare my private room, and then find me three runners. I will need a meeting called for tomorrow at noon. I think fewer eyes will be out in the middle of the day. Have it set up for the Merchant’s Guild Hall.” Rogen ran his hand through his beard and Curls watched with dismay as sand tumbled to the plush carpet. “I think a bath would be in order first. Which room is available for my young friend?”

  The girl who had been displaced from the couch moved to take Cite’s arm when Curls gestured. “Take him to the Sky Room, darling,” he said, and looked over his shoulder to the woman next to the bar. “Sugar plum, tend to my Master’s bath. See he gets all the trimmings. He prefers the smell of the sandstone incense and the taste of fine brandies. I think we may have some of the Velentian in the cellar, perhaps a fifty year? Bring food for both also,” Curls told the shorter honey haired woman as the raven-haired girl led Cite down the hall to the right.

  Cite watched a man. No features were visible under his hooded cloak except for glowing eyes that seemed to smile. The man stood on a barrel in the middle of a crowd. People milled aimlessly about and paid no attention to him. He pointed over their heads. Cite looked where he pointed and saw a river that was the color of blood. It flowed in midair across the sea and waved like a banner the brisk wind. Slowly he focused on it and saw the individual lines of the current had become flowing hair. A woman swayed her hips as she stood still; rocking with a mesmerizing rhythm and the hair flowed down her back.

  A snake-like head rose from the water and towered above her and she disappeared. The monster rose higher. Its body was bulbous and as large as an island. The sea serpent turned and fled from Cite and went west. The setting sun blinded him and the black of night swallowed the monster. Cite realized it was not night; rather it was a coming storm. He stepped into a stone hut to help weather the storm. The stone hut rose up and flew across the ocean towards the storm and neared the land. He saw it was covered with yew and ash trees. The yew trees became weapons and the ash trees became gravestones as he watched.

  Three towers rose up in front of him, surrounded by the trees. One was black with a grimacing face upside down on it. Another was far in the distance and glimmered a silver color that was almost gone due to the tarnish creeping up from its base. A single beam of light shone from the trees and struck the silver tower, driving the tarnish back wherever it touched the tower. The last tower crumbled as Cite looked upon it but a single small figure dove from the top of it, and was trying to swim through the air for the beam of light. The black tower leaned towards the plummeting figure. The mouth of the upside down face on the tower opened and diamond droplets of drool fell to the ground around it, making the figure look towards it. Then the storm overtook everything.

  5854 – Thon – Quebal – Ginof

  Rogen entered the Merchant’s Guild Hall through a back passage. He didn’t like people tracking his movements, and though he was smaller than most men, he stood out in a crowd. The Rokairn had bathed and changed clothes from his desert robes into more traditional trousers and shirt. He still wore his standard leather girdle, pouches, tools, and weapons. He had pulled his hair back into short ponytail and braided his beard into a single braid to help keep him cool in the afternoon heat.

  He could see the dust dancing in the yellow light that filtered through the slats that served as windows in the warehouse. Three men and a woman stepped forward from the shadows, each bowing to him and greeting as ‘Master’.

  “Jandice,” Rogen gestured to the woman, who raised her eyes to meet his, her face proud but lined, “as mistress of my financial interests I will sign over full power to you in this meeting, prepare the papers.

  “Yes, Master,” the dark haired woman said. She turned, and using a crate as a table, drew a writing box from her shoulder satchel and began writing up the document.

  “I will need you to sell three properties here. The Dastilist Brewery, the Cantil Estate, and the place on the docks that repairs nets. Sell them at a price that will give me money very soon. I will need the smallest sum by this evening, and will give you list of merchants that require payment. The other two sums should be sent to my financial contacts to the west within five days. Only send the papers though, whichever moneylender I withdraw the coin from can petition you for the repayment with interest, as usual.

  “Kilven,” Rogen said to a skeletal man dressed in rags with a wild beard and a gnarled staff, “I call upon you to rouse my network. As Chief Spymaster of the central region of Teurone you will alert my contacts to my needs. Find me the information about the insects; where they are appearing; how often they come; how long they stay, etc. Also, look into movements of priests of Khelikian, Obsidian, and Verl’zen-luk. Find out if there are any major campaigns going on.”

  “It will be as you say, Master,” the thin man said as he scratched at a scab on his rough shorn head.

  “Wasian,” Rogen turned to a short man whose Aeifain mixed heritage was obvious, “I will need cigars and pipes for a long journey. Also a steel flask of good brandy.”

  “Of course, Master,” Wasian said in the musical tones of his lineage and bowed gracefully. “Will there be anything else for me? Perhaps a few items of more ethereal nature?”

  “Yes,” Rogen growled, “have the flask enchanted to give me protection, three cigars whose smoke makes people speak only the truth, and tobacco for the pipes that makes people sleep. Also, I need my special pouch bandolier, fully loaded with equipment for a sea voyage, then an extended land journey. But I will only need two noble outfits inside it. Oh, and shrink the hats this time, don’t just let some idiot fold them and stuff them into a pouch. The magic that expands the inside of those things do no protect my clothes from wrinkles.”

  “As you wish, Master,” Wasian bowed again and turned to go.

  “Tantalus,” Rogen turned to the third man, who was dressed in desert robes, “bring me a tall glass of whiskey, three goats, a silver knife, a mortar and pestle, a flask of wine aged at least one hundred years, and a pound of flawless pearls. Did you prepare the room for my other meeting?”

  “Yes Master. All this is already done, as per your instructions in the letter you sent to call this meeting. If you will just sign the documents that Mistress Jandice has prepared, I can take you to your next meeting. Two burly deaf men with no tongues are already guarding the door of your ritual chamber.”

  “Very good,” Rogen said as he crossed the room to sign the papers. Over his shoulder he added, “I will tell Jandice where I am headed tonight when I get the money from her, she will pass that information on to each of you. Make sure my network is ready for me when I arrive at wherever it is that I am going.”

  Cite woke from his prophetic dream. They always felt different from a normal dream, the same way a lecture from a professor felt different from a man at the bar jabbering on about nothing. One was harder to understand but held more value once it was studied, the other was easier to follow but meant little. Sometimes he wasn’t sure which was which. His dream told him that he could not return home. He knew he had to travel west, and events were on the horizon. Events that threatened to overwhelm everything else. He had a feeling of drea
d and urgency in the pit of his stomach.

  He sat up and stretched in the soft bed he had been given after his bath and felt the healing wound on his chest pull. Rubbing at his bare chest, he rolled his legs off the bed and onto the plush carpet. He remembered the last time he had swung his legs out of a bed four days ago. A surge of panic swept over him as he thought he could feel bugs all around him, crawling on the walls, moving across the silk sheets, clicking, scuttling, and coming closer. He closed his eyes, even though he could not see anything in the complete darkness, breathed deep three times, and calmed himself. He opened his eyes and felt for the table next to the bed. He found the flint and tinder, struck it, and lit the candle on the table. Once it had been lit he lifted it and looked around the room to reassure himself that it was just his imagination, and not actual bugs that frightened him.

  He wished for his dream journal. Rogen had told him that he would try to get the belongings that had been taken from him when he was captured, but that did him no good right now. He surveyed the room for writing materials.

  There was an ornate table of carved oak near the door. It held a wooden box inlaid with pearl and tray covered by a cloth. Cite moved across the room, uncovered the tray and found a meal of bread, cold sausages, cheese, and nuts. Three small covered cups sat beside the tray. Sniffing each revealed pomegranate juice, red wine and water. He chose the tart fruit juice, sat, and began to eat. As he nibbled on a spiced cheese he opened the box. Inside was a stack of parchment, an assortment of writing quills, jars of ink, and one of sand. He smiled at what was no doubt Rogen’s doing. Cite would miss the man’s never-ending planning and organization once he booked passage west. He began writing down what he remembered of the dream as he ate.