Slayers REVOLT: The Calm Before
By Elderdrake
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CHAPTER SIX
Old plots, new life
The same day, but far to the west of where Lina and her companions were ambushed, another plot was being set in motion. Crouched in a glade near the forested border between Xoana and Saillune was a group of about twenty men. Most were lying low and hunkered amidst ferns and youthful pine trees. They were further hidden by a flowing, dappled shade produced as an unexpected midday sun shredded and harried off the morning fog, helped by a light breeze.
All the men had bows, slings or javelins ready to hand, but were also all equipped with quite an assortment of very ugly hand weapons: spiked maces, studded hammers, tooth-edged swords, bandoliers of knives, military picks, and wavy or hooked daggers. To most commoners, they would have appeared to be a bunch of bandits, albeit better armoured and equipped than most. But anyone with decent military training would have noticed the choice of weapons and deadly quiet, and broken into a cold sweat.
The leader and another were ahead of the rest, crouched in the shadow on the Sailleese side of one of the large, white stone cairns that marked the border between Xoana and Saillune. Both men were rough and unkempt. They were talking in very low tones.
"Aye, you can hear them through the brake, can't you. Awful cocksure of them to be so noisy so close to a tense border, specially with what they be doing. I can't believe they be troops trained by Bezoar." It was the second speaking, his ear cocked in the direction of faint boisterous laughter and laughing conversation coming from a few hundred yards or so to the south.
The leader let out a derisive chuckle. "Humph. They're not. They're just regular army scrapings: the kind who can't do anything BUT soldier. Dregs left after Martina demobilized and turned her army into a Patriotic Xoanan Reconstruction Force' They sound like drunken boys at hunt, don't they?"
"That they do, ser" He cut himself off abruptly, at a signal from his boss. An odd bird cry had sounded from several yards inside Xoana. The whole clearing went quiet, except for the faint whisper of nocked arrows being drawn.
The leader's companion made his own birdcall, a different one from the first. It was answered by the sound of a chattering squirrel. "Aye, ser, it be Kurgei back from his little foray." At this, the leader waved his hidden troops back to standby.
The man named Kurgei emerged from the brush and scampered down next to the commander. "Heh, Cap'n Fane. It be as we was told. There be a couple dozen down the way busily shifting the next cairn along several yards into Saillune, and two nearer by, on horses. An' Bezoar's one of the two. The lot downways has a keg with'em, and have near on drunk it up. A couple is a'snorin' already."
The leader rubbed his hands with obvious glee. "Alrighty, then. Kurgei, take sixteen and go play with the roisterers. We don't want any wandering off before we do them up right, so be sure to cut off their escape. Leave one or two unconscious but alive enough to make a report when they're found tonight. I'll take Stafan here and four others and pay proper respects to Count Bezoar."
Kurgei pulled out a poniard and gave it a friendly pat. "Aye, Cap'n. Too easy, with em noisy and' drunk as they are. How much fun can Tooth, here, and I have?"
Captain Nartal Fane gave him a slightly disapproving look. "This is supposed to be an attack by bandits, not blood-crazed dark cultists. Nothing exotic, hear? If we've been called back together, it means there'll be plenty of opportunity for that soon enough. And you should know better than to even ask."
Kurgei grinned toothily and offered a sloppy salute. "Ser! But it be good to finally be in action, neh?"
Fane saluted back, just as sloppily. "That it is, that it is. Take your men and move out." He turned to his other companion. "Stafan, with me. Make sure Kurgei leaves us at least one other man who's good with a bow. We give Kurgei five minutes, then head out ourselves."
* * * * * * * * *
The two horsemen that Kurgei had mentioned to Captain Fane were dismounted in a medium-sized clearing. They were obviously men of both noble and martial persuasion. Their horses were lightly barded, tack and harness done up in the black and orange of House Kureyev, the second most powerful family in the Kingdom of Xoana. The two wore fine armour, obviously of high quality but only incorporating as much fancywork as effective functionality would allow. They were also of notably different age. The younger wore a hand-and-a-half sword and a long-knife at his belt. The elder, a truly imposing figure of considerable height and powerful build, carried only a greataxe, strapped to his back.
Both seemed somewhat lost in thought. The younger was regarding the elder with concern. The elder, for his part, seemed edgy as he gazed upward at the unfamiliar golden orb that had for once deigned to creep out from behind its clouds.
It was the younger who broke the slightly uncomfortable silence. "Count, my Father, you seem a little out of sorts today. What's bothering you? Normally, you're down hauling the stones with the best of them. Though why you bother occupying Saillune a few acres at a time is still beyond me."
The elder seemed startled out of some reverie. "Eh? Is my mood showing that badly? Humm, I suppose it is. Well, you know, there's a lot on my mind of late." He turned briefly to his horse and untied one of the bags attached to the saddle. "Almost noon, I reckon." He turned back and tossed the sloshing package to his son. "Good a time as any for lunch. Have a swig or two with me, and then we'll start on the food. As for my hobby alterations of the border, call it a petty revenge, all I've been able to muster so far. Consort Zangulus keeps very close tabs on me."
The son easily grabbed the proffered wineskin out of the air, pulled out the stopper with his mouth, spat that aside, and then took a long draught. "Aaaah! That's good stuff! The west Zefeerian from two no three years ago, neh?" He leaned against a convenient large boulder. His father sat down on another rock to face him.
"Aye, that it is. Been saving it for an occasion, but this seems as good a time as any. We'll call it a celebration of the sun's reappearance, short as it'll likely be." Then he turned grumpy. "Har! If you had put more effort into weapons and less into wine-tasting, boy, you could carry a decent tool and not those knitting needles." His gesture took in his son's swords. Then he reached up to pat his own monstrous axe.
The younger one bristled, more for show than for real. "So you've said many times Father. But we both know I'd never be very effective with a mammoth like that. I take too much after Mother, and my build just isn't right. I'll never have the weight to swing that thing and keep my feet on the ground." He chuckled and took another swig, then decided to change the subject. "So, WHAT is it that's been on your mind of late? Other than the usual griping over missed chances and Martina's unsuitability for the throne, that is." He offered the wineskin to his father, who waved it off.
"No thanks, in a bit Harrh! don't be getting snippy with me either! They're your missed chances as well, Yuran. You were inches from the throne, and I was inches from being the greatest general in history until three years ago. Twelve years building up an army and planning a campaign that could take out Saillune, Elmikia, and any other comers on idiot King Soros' behalf. Destroyed in an afternoon by Philionel's treacherous daughter and that pint-sized sorceress Inverse. Who'd ever have thought the Seyruun's capable of mouthing peace and platitudes while launching a devastating attack of black magic? "
Yuran had heard it all before. "You're flirting with treason again, Father Count Bezoar Sir. And as far as I know, Lese-Majesty is still on the books in Xoana. Criticizing the ruler is a capital offense. Calling the ruler an idiot outright could get you sacrificed to Zoamelgustar. Why do you persist in blaming Seyruun treachery when even Queen Martina's official line is that the Seyruun Family never behaved in any other than an honourable manner?"
"Martina is a half-wit. That's why. If Amelia of Seyruun, or that Inverse monstrosity, told Her Majesty that Her Majesty's hair was really pink and not blue, Her Majesty would believe them. All the while convincing Her Majestic Self that it was the proper Will of her dear Zoamelgus-twit."
Yuran, taking another swig at the wineskin, knew better. Martina was warped, but she was not stupid. Of course she wasn't exactly brilliant, either. He decided to humour his very bitter father, nonetheless. "If Martina is such an idiot, shouldn't you be thankful she's not bearing my children, then?"
The Count of Bezoar Castle blinked sheepishly, then guffawed explosively. "Aye, maybe so! But I rather think the Kureyevan blood would have more than made up for any shortfalls in the tired-out Xoanan blood." Then he became serious again. "But that doesn't change the fact that I, despite everyone's claim it was a fool's quest, I had welded together the army, the tactics, and the plan for an army that could have conquered this whole continent. And I would have led it. The name of Kureyev would have been seared into history. By gods, you could have had your pick of Royalty, and your sons — my grandsons — could have sat on a half dozen different thrones."
Yuran couldn't stop himself, despite knowing it would get his father truly mad. "I'm quite happy with my seat on the Royal Council, Father. Can't we just let things be? Our family motto has always been Whatever it Takes', true enough. But to do what you want, now Kureyevs have never been disloyal to the crown!"
Father crossed his arms and spat to his side. Standing up, he turned his back to his son, and gazed at the sky. "Faugh! You have no ambition. Truly, you do take after your mother. Listen: our motto has always meant exactly what it says. While Kureyev ambition has long marched in step with Xoana's, no Kureyevan man ever gave up his dedication to the family's advancement. We were independent rulers of our own land until my Grandfather's youth!" He turned back to his son, voice dropping low with his intensity. "At that time, Whatever it Took' was an alliance with the Xoana Family. But now, Xoana is just a smothering blanket on our family's rightful place in history. My rightful place in history. Mark my words, son. I will do Whatever it Takes' to insure that place for our family. And I will do it with or without your approval. You will inherit it. Someday, you will come to appreciate it." He paused. "And, I can perhaps get my HA Just revenge on the Seyruuns in the process."
Yuran was used to his father's intense devotion to ambition, but this was the worst he'd ever seen. Where had he suddenly found this energy, and the will and motivation to go this far, so suddenly after three years of mostly harmless, sulking pettiness?
Then, it dawned on him: his father's strange houseguest. She had come knocking on the Kureyev door, two weeks past, with an introduction letter signed by several bitter ex-military men in the capital. She presented herself as someone who thought an effort to bring Saillune down several pegs was long overdue. Father had been closeting himself with her in long, private meetings for over a week.
"Good gods, father! By the Flames of Cepheed, what price did she offer that could buy your loyalty? And, though I agree with you and her that Seyruun power is too great and must be curtailed somehow, what in Hell can the two of you do?"
Count Leyion Kureyev let out a derisive snort. "Buy my loyalty? Bah, you still don't understand, do you? I am loyal to the Kureyev name and my destiny only. No one can buy that loyalty. She is merely the herald of opportunity. And what she can offer is no business of someone who stubbornly adheres to a defective monarch, and merely gripes about Saillune's power with his drinking companions, rather than doing something about it."
Yuran ignored the personal attack, trying to keep things objective. "Some herald. I don't like it, Father. She's dangerous, of that I am sure very dangerous. My hair stands on end just sharing the same roof with her."
Now his father looked on him with amusement, but there was measurement in his eyes as well. "You have a lively imagination, don't you, son? She is merely a professional agent perhaps, a professional assassin a mercenary hired to sound out potential allies, for someone wise enough to know Saillune's oh-so-vaunted justice' is quite lethal to anyone discovered trying to disrupt Seyruun hegemony."
Yuran cut him off angrily. "Exactly! Who is this someone'?" He bit himself off and struggled to regain his temper. "No. Forget I asked that. I doubt you'd answer anyway... if you even know or care." He drew in a deep breath. "Alright, father. Just to show I am more of our family than you seem to credit, I'll not be betraying you to the Crown. But I don't want to hear anything more about this, and I'll not be associated with it. Somebody has to hold the fort and maintain a veneer of honour for our family in Xoana." His tone turned sarcastic. "Just in case, by some terrible wrinkle of fate, you and that woman fail in whatever fool's errand you've undertaken"
To his utter and complete surprise his father reached out and grabbed his shoulder, fondly. "NOW, you're thinking like a Kureyev, son. Always have a Plan B." Then he let out an evil chuckle. "And don't worry. I've already taken steps to ensure our family is above suspicion in Xoana. Our part should only come to light if I win. Listen" He gestured with his eyes in the direction of the household troops who had been busily annexing a few acres of Saillune by moving the border marker.
No longer could the sounds of boisterous laughter and drunken shouting be heard. Instead, there was the clang of metal on metal, accompanied by screams.
"What the hell? Father, what wha's hap pen" Yuran Kureyev was suddenly reeling, then felt his father supporting him as he collapsed.
Leaving his son to lie in the shade of the boulder the boy had been leaning against as they spoke, Count Leyion Kureyev mir Bezoar stepped over to his son's horse. Pulling out a hunting knife, he set about making the beast's tack and harness look as if it had been in battle. As he did so he heard footsteps approaching from behind. Back still turned to the newcomers, he stood himself straight up again.
"Good to have you back, Nartal. When this beast starts running, do me a favour and have your men feather it in a couple of non-fatal spots, would you?"
"Yes, sir!"
Kureyev then slashed the horse's rump with his knife. With a squeal, the beast tore off in the direction of home. It was followed by the swish of two arrows, which struck it in the ribs and a shoulder with audible thwacks. He watched the horse fleeing in terror, waiting until it was out of sight through the woods before turning to face his visitors.
Nartal Fane was grinning from ear-to-ear. "Nice of you to have all those men down there for us to play with, Sir."
The Count grinned back. "Thought you'd like it. I'm pretty sure a couple of them were agents for Zangulus. He's a clever one, despite his choice of Martina for a wife though clever is to be expected from an ace, ex-bounty hunter, I guess."
"Glad to have dispensed of them for you. What of the rest, though? They can't all have been agents."
Kureyev shrugged unconcernedly. "You know me. Whatever It Takes'. A few of Martina's grunt troopers are a very reasonable price for covering my tracks."
Stafan had grabbed the reins of Kureyev's horse and now led it forward. "Ser? What's t'be done about this'un?"
The Count patted the beast fondly on the forehead. "He's a good enough mount, if not my best. Oh well. Send it off the way you came, only this time feather it to kill slowly. So it wanders long enough to leave a blood trail in some useless direction."
"Yes, sir." Stafan set off with another archer to carry out the orders.
Nartal had squatted down next to the unconscious Yuran. "Sir? Isn't this a slight flaw in your plan? He's got to live, but he'll know this was a setup."
The Count Bezoar squatted next to Nartal, reaching out to pat the downed son's forehead fondly. "Nah. The drug I put in the wine is well known to knock out several hours' memory at the least, sometimes a couple days. Which reminds me" He reached over to the skin, still half full and grabbed it. "Hoy! Stafan! Be sharp now!" With that, he tossed the skin high into the air.
The man named, just having finished sending off the Count's poor horse, snapped around, knocked, drew and fired in a single fluid motion. The arrow pierced the bag midflight. It fell to the ground, leaking out the rest of the liquid inside.
Nartal chuckled. "Leaving the bag? Drug leaves no traceable dregs, either?"
Kureyev smiled. "No dregs either. As if anyone would have checked Glad to see you've kept the lads in top form, by the way."
"Only a few like Stafan and Kurgei that I kept handy the last three years, sir. The others need a little sharpening up, and I can't speak for the rest of our little troupe. I rather doubt that Ashalka has let her best men get any more complacent than I have mine, though. The whole lot of us should be in perfect fighting trim within a couple weeks of getting back together. They're all well trained."
"Excellent. Now, to put the finishing polishes on this little play." He signalled at one of the other men who had arrived with Nartal, a slim fellow with a crossed bandolier of knives. "Vestanar. Do please decorate my sleeping son here with a few slashes. He must look like he's fought a battle. Careful, though. I'll be very put out if he bleeds to death. He's a stubborn, youthful fool, with too wide a streak of idealism for my taste, but I'm still fond of him."
"Not to worry, sir. I haven't lost my surgeon's touch. Been keeping in practice." He grinned evilly.
The rest chatted animatedly for a few minutes while Vestanar worked. As they did, Kurgei and several of the other men dispatched to deal with the Xoanan troops arrived.
Nartal noticed first. "Ho! Kurgei! How many did you leave alive?"
"A half dozen, ser, all in poor shape. Two r three should wake up within an hour, sure. The rest I have doubts about. Didn't lose any of ours, not that we could've, those guards sotted as they were." He gestured at the few men with him. "Sent the rest back to help Gilmore with the horses, for when the signal she goes. They also lugged off the loot to put with the pack train."
"Good enough." With that, Nartal nodded to Stafan. The latter pulled out a signal arrow and fired it into the air. It let out a piercing wail.
Kureyev looked at his lieutenant. "What's that for?"
Nartal grinned toothily, again. "Icing on the cake, Sir. We stumbled across some real bandits yesterday. Left what was left of 'em with Gilmore and the horses. With your permission, we'll add them to the heap of your ex-guards. We even left one or two barely alive so they won't be in rigor mortis when the investigators turn up."
The Count patted his man on the shoulder. "Independent thinking. I like that in my men. Next time, though could you try something a little less conspicuous than a signal arrow, or at least warn me?"
"Aye, sir. Sorry, sir."
"Not to worry. I'm sure Kurgei and the other scouts know if anyone is within two miles of here."
Kurgei nodded. "Aye, sir. Not within three, in fact oi, here comes Gilmore and the others with the horses."
Vestanar finished up at that point. "Added some marks to the armour as well, sir. Like it?"
"You're an artist. Last bit is mine. You! Hand me your cudgel, please." The specified man did as ordered. Kureyev took the proferred weapon and walked over to his son a last time. "Sorry, boy, but there's gotta be a reasonable explanation for your memory loss. No hard feelings." With that, he rapped his son heavily on the head, enough to dent the helmet.
When Kureyev turned back, he caught the sardonic look on his senior men's faces. He shrugged "Maybe it'll knock some of his silly idealism out and some solid sense in. And I wasn't about to let any of you do it. Nobody bashes my son but me, hear?"
Nartal, Kurgei, Stafan and Vestanar saluted, and as one said. "Sir. Of course, Sir."
Kureyev looked upon the assembled motley of twenty-five hard-edged men. He broke into a huge smile. "Lads, it is so good to see you all again. It's been three or more years since this many of us were together. In a couple weeks, we'll have met up with Ashalka and her lot. For the first time ever, we'll have joined up all in one place at one time. As I look on you, I am reminded of my belief that never a finer irregular troop has been assembled, and you have proven it to me again this afternoon." He paused. "But you have only proven it to yourselves and me, and we already knew! Men, the chance has come to prove to every sorry, skirt-clutching, run-of-the-mill regimental grunt regular trooper out there that you — we — are the best, and hardest, and nastiest bastards ever to gang together and call themselves soldiers. We were denied our day of glory, three years ago, when Saillune's Princess and her agent the Black Sorceress Inverse sabotaged our war. Well, here's the news, here's why we're together again: we're going to find — or make - a war, our war, and we're going to fight it. We're going to lead it. And we're going to win it."
He paused again, while his men straightened and let out a grimly pleased chuckle. Cheers were not the sort of thing men like this indulged in.
"But there are many changes. From now on, I am no longer Count Bezoar of Xoana. That man died today in this clearing. I, Leyion Kureyev am now no more than Commander Leyion. The Kureyevan Reavers are also dead. We are no longer a special Company in the Xoanan Army. No, we are to become what we should always have been, what many of you were before you entered my service: free mercenaries, following their blades to whatever fight awaited them. We are now the Blacktalon Riders, the meanest, most ruthless and bloody-handed Mounted Infantry to ever curse this continent.
"Our first job is to simply play the part of common mercenaries. We'll be joined shortly by a young lady." Several of the men's eyes lit up ferally, and Leyion decided to cut that line of thought short before someone got hurt. "She's our employer. And I highly recommend you all be on your best behaviour around her. She might be young-looking, but she's an absolute demon with paired blades and probably a sorceress to boot. She wants the cover of a mercenary band at least as far as the foothills of eastern Saillune. That's where we're going. NOW! Mount up lads! No lazing about: the continent is itching for a scrum, and we'd best be doing our part to spark it!"
Nartal then stepped forward. "We split into groups of two to three, each taking two packhorses. All are to take different routes to" He paused in thought for a brief moment. "The Inn we stayed at two nights ago, Highwayman's Lantern, on the north High Road to Saillune City. Be there by late evening tomorrow at the latest. Last group to make it buys a round for everyone else!"
To backslaps and general laughter, the men mounted up and rode out of the clearing, scattering in different directions. Soon only Leyion, Nartal, and Vestanar were left.
Vestanar's eyes gleamed. "So, sir. What's the name of our purported employer? And who are we really working for."
Leyion shrugged. "She answers to Lady Sheila, though I doubt that's her real name. She's tighter than a clam, but hard to ignore when she does speak, and she pays well. I think she may actually be from Dilss, of all places."
Nartal's own eyes lit up a little. "The Cursed Kingdom? They're actually paying attention to the world again? It'll be the first time they've taken a part in affairs in more than twenty years."
Leyion nodded. "With Sairaag gone, the Monster Races' Barrier down, and Saillune's shadow rapidly falling across the whole continent, even Dilss seems to have sat up and taken an interest." He paused. "That's for your and Vestanar's ears only, as my seconds. The only other person you are permitted to discuss that with is Ashalka when we catch up with her."
Vestanar and Nartal both nodded. "Yes, sir."
All three mounted up. Vestanar hung back a few paces, letting Nartal and Kureyev ride ahead and exchange their histories of the last four years. He himself trailed silently in their wake, lost in deep thought. He was a moderately talented sorceror, as well as a professional field surgeon — the jobs went hand-in-hand, after all, at least where White Magic was concerned — which made him just about the best-educated man in what was now the Blacktalon Mercenaries. He also had his own ideas about the Cursed Kingdom, having been an apprentice-assistant to a field surgeon on that fateful expedition into the northern snows, twenty-five years earlier. He was one of the few who made it back, separately from Dilss' King. Suddenly a grin creased his face. An interesting idea had dawned in his mind. Spurring his horse, he cantered forward to join his travelling companions.
"Captain Leyion, Sir? When do we meet up with this mysterious lady swordsman? I have a sudden urge to meet such an interesting-sounding person."
"Eh? She agreed to meet me on the High Road late tonight. The Blacktalons are something of a surprise I have in store for her: she thinks we still have to find and hire some mercenaries to accompany her. I'd rather have you lot around. Besides, I want to try out some of those tactics we used to discuss, and I could only really depend on our boys to ever carry them out." He chuckled grimly.
Vestanar just nodded to show his understanding. "I can't wait, Sir."
* * * * * * * * *
Tain vakh Uriel drifted through one of the middle-class neighbourhoods of the White Magic City. The houses lining the street were the modest but comfortable dwellings of small-crafters and artisans, skilled labourers from some of the higher-paying industries like glassworking and metalworking, and a few small merchants. Many of the buildings had a first-floor shop or craft works and two higher stories of living quarters. They were also crammed together, built with narrow street frontage and abutting walls. Each block was almost like a wooded island, separated from its neighbours by the deep chasms that were city streets. Decorative gables and slate roofs served as grounding for the forest of chimney pots that strained skywards.
The assassin was in a pensive mood, and feeling impatient. His orders had been to find any parties open to an assisted change in government'. After two weeks in Saillune, he had concluded that anyone who still publicly opposed the Seyruun family's policies was not worth his time. Philionel tolerated dissent, as his honour and creed of Justice' demanded, but would never tolerate any conspirators known to be planning assassinations or a coup. The most useful people — if there were any left - would have deeply buried themselves out of sheer self-preservation, particularly after the botched attempt to take out both Philionel and his wife a dozen or more years past.
With certain disgust, Tain recalled the attempt had to be aborted. The assassin had been under specific orders to spare the Seyruun daughters so they could be used both as bargaining chips with other noble factions and the citizenry, and — when they were of age — legitimizers of the new regime through marriage. Trust luck to intervene and have the daughters walk in while the mother was being done up'. With the children bawling and screaming, the Guards responding, the whole Palace in arms, and the Crown Prince become a terrifying avatar of wrathful Vengeance, the assassin had no choice but to flee, his job only half done.
The assassin escaped, and, in fact, despite every effort, the plotters had never been identified.
It's the people behind that job that Tain needed to unearth, approach, and make his pitch on Dilss', or rather Lord Dynast's behalf. Or, coerce into cooperating Whatever was needed to accomplish his mission, and — more importantly — get himself that soul.
It was to that end that he was now skulking down the night-darkened street. Early evening and full dark were not until well after ten, this close to the summer solstice, so most folk except drunken roisterers and the Watch were long indoors and abed. It made moving around easier: the marching tramp of Watchmen, and caroling of sots staggering homeward, were plenty enough warning to disappear into a sunken doorframe or narrow side alley.
Tain rounded a couple of corners and finally reached the block where his target stood. He had cased the area the previous day and knew where he was headed, but decided a little caution at this point couldn't hurt. He drifted down the street to a spot he had noticed during his scouting: a deeply sunken doorway on a shadowed side alley, right across from his destination.
The house he wanted was a three-story affair with windowed attic loft. It was slightly more elegant than its neighbours, and a nameplate by the door announced Arthur Palin, Purveyor of Fine Metalware'. A smaller subtext read: Knives * Kitchenware * Pots' All the lights were out. Tain settled into his nook to watch.
After a moment, a bent little ghost materialized out of nothingness beside him. Tain rolled his eyes. He and his Imp sidekick got along pretty well, but Drizzolt had been insistent of late. The assassin addressed his transparent companion under his breath. "What's with the faded forms of late, Drizzy?"
Drizzolt's eyes narrowed. "Do please stop calling me that. I'm a Mazoku, not a plush toy or fuzzy pet. And the faded form is because of the cursed Holy Wards on this city. They've drained enough out of me that a solid form is just too much effort. So what's the holdup? You've already watched this place for a whole day, and I don't want to spend a second more than necessary in this prosperous, happy White Magic miasma than I have to. It's killing me! Literally! Ick."
"I'm a human, an assassin and a sneak, Drizzolt. Charging in blindly and messily killing everything I could otherwise have avoided is way too much effort."
"Is that all? Jeez, just gimme a sec." The Imp winked out.
Tain just blinked in mild surprise, then silently muttered a few choice oaths. What was the maimed little creep doing?
After two minutes, Drizzolt reappeared. "Just go, will you? The place is empty. No one's home." Despite his assurances, he still kept his voice very low. The key to successful skullduggery is to always hedge one's bets.
"What? How do you know?"
"I cased it from the astral plane, roof ridge to sub-basement. Unless there's been an outbreak of soulless bastards like you, it's empty. Trust me. Whaddaya want with the place, anyway?"
"You'll see." Tain started forward. Drizzolt faded down to an ethereal outline and followed, almost invisibly drifting by the human's ear.
They circled halfway around the block to another narrow back alley that Tain had picked out during his earlier scouting. He ducked in, then nimbly scrambled up the rough stone of the buildings. Once atop, he flitted across the roofs from shadow to moon-sharpened shadow, finally reaching a large loft window in his target building.
He dismantled the numerous traps set into the window, carefully oiled the window frame, then gently, carefully, quietly lifted the pane wide enough to admit himself. Once through he shut it again.
The attic space was moderately opulent, comprising numerous bookcases, a richly patterned carpet, and mahogany desk with brass lamp.
Without turning his head he muttered to the floating apparition drifting at his shoulder. "I don't suppose you could make some light? Keep it a little dimmer than the moonlight outside, and no one will know there's anyone lurking in here."
Drizzolt obliged with a mild grumble. "Duh. I'm a pro sneak too, with several thousand years more experience. I know how bright to make things."
Tain ignored him, moving swiftly to the bookshelves and beginning a meticulous inspection of their contents. His eyes flicked rapidly along the rows. Every so often he pulled out a book and fingered through a few pages.
"So?" Drizzolt chopped out the word irritably.
"The Guild ledger might be hidden in plain sight, not in the desk or a secret vault. There's only a few books that aren't dusty from sitting. Ours may be one of them."
"The Guild? Oh! What? You mean they write down their contracts?"
"Of course. SOME sort of written record must be kept. Trust is thin among professional sneak killers and their patrons. The Guilds need something to coerce payment from reluctant employers, and to act as insurance against betrayal. Employers like to have a preset price before any job is undertaken. Result: a job description, a signature and agreed fee for every contract."
"You talk like they're a different bunch than you."
"Of course. I'm not Guild. The Guilds are for people unskilled enough to need the protection and security of an organization. Anyone who hired my Master - or me — knew they were hiring true artists, the best, for the highest price and hardest jobs. They knew they had to deal on the up-and-up or die. Guild types are for rival merchants, cheated spouses, and crime gangs. My type does Kings, ranking nobles, and high sorcerers and, of course, each other. Good to keep competition down in a market that rarely has more than a dozen jobs a lifetime."
He continued searching for a while, first through the shelves, then, with the insubstantial Drizzolt's assistance, the desk and walls for secret compartments. No luck, and Tain was beginning to feel his own frustration.
Quite suddenly, the whole house juddered slightly as an outside door was opened, then closed heavily. Within moments someone could be heard climbing the stairs casually, whistling tunelessly, clearly not suspecting anything was amiss.
A very nasty grin materialized across Tain's dimly lit face. Almost inaudibly he chuckled, then muttered to his partner. "Oh what luck we can save ourselves some trouble and just ask politely."
Drizzolt winked out. Tain moved swiftly to a shadowed nook near the door.
A moment later, there was some scratching as traps were deactivated, then the rattling of a key in the door lock. An older gentleman, leanly built, stepped into the room and headed for the desk. He fidgeted with the brass lamp on the desk, still softly whistling, and soon a warm golden glow filled the room.
Tain had silently closed the door and wedged it shut as the man lit the room, then decided to casually lean against the doorframe. He pulled out a wickedly thin, hooked knife and began to silently clean his nails.
The older man nearly jumped out of his own skin, face draining to sheet white, after turning to see a dark-wrapped and hard-edged intruder casually cutting off his escape. He found his voice quickly enough, however.
"Wh who are YOU?"
"Why, Master Palin, 'purveyor of kitchenware' or rather, should I say, Mefglas the Knife! You don't remember me? Though I guess I was only an apprenticed, stripling youth the last time we met."
"How could you know that name? You're not Guild! I know every Guildman who could break into here like this!"
"That's right. I'm NOT Guild, and I'm good enough to get in. That should make it clear just what I am. Now, I just want to make an inquiry or two, and then I'll be on my way."
Arthur Palin, alias Mefglas the Knife, found enough courage to cross his arms and set his face into stony resolve. "I'll not be breaking Guild Silence, whoever you are."
"Commendable. But, all I want is the names of the people who employed my recently departed master twelve years ago. You must know, or at least suspect consider it a professional favour, to be returned in kind."
"Since I have no idea who your master is wait? Twelve years ago? That mess-up?" Somehow, Mefglas managed to pale even further, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You're HIS apprentice?" He swallowed. "Artaindric, wasn't it?"
Tain grinned. "Just Tain, now, old man. That other name was far too flashy and heroic for my taste But that's beside the point and I'm in a hurry. So, who hired him?"
"I'm not telling. I guess you'll just have to kill me."
"Tsk, tsk. That's also a very commendable approach. But, sadly, death is no inconvenience. My current job is for some folk who can torment your spirit for eternity" At those words Drizzolt faded back into visibility, his face a study in viciously unwholesome appetite. "see? So, your choice here has just gone from a lingering death, to lingering death with a bonus visit to a Mazoku chamber of horrors afterwards." Tain gave a mock sigh. "Too bad, if you had just been helpful from the outset, I was inclined towards the quick and painless option out of consideration for a professional colleague, if nothing else."
Mazoku and assassin stepped forward, both with eyes glittering in anticipation.
* * * * * * * * *
An hour later, Tain stood at the base of the house stairs, trickling the last of a viscous fluid onto the floor from a small metallic flask. A trail of the faintly cloudy substance dribbled up the staircase and beyond.
Beside him, Drizzolt was at last mostly solid again, his Mazoku spirit and powers recharged by what had passed upstairs. He glanced questioningly at Tain. "Isn't this just a tad overdramatic?"
With a flicker of fingers, the assassin playfully twirled the flask before capping and sliding it into a hidden pocket. "Not at all. Fire is the best way to tidy up after oneself. It gives a pat cover for any remains discovered" He reached up to pat the bulge at his chest. " and I have all I'll really need. There will be some people dancing for joy come morning and news of this unfortunate fire. Imagine their discomfort when I show up with all the records they hoped were lost forever?"
"They'll at least listen to you, that's for sure." Drizzolt's tone was appreciative as he reached out and magically set aflame the bit of fluffy tinder Tain held out for him.
The human casually flicked the smouldering bit of fluff over his shoulder and into the puddle of flame-oil as he stepped out. It flared into searing white fire that raced upstairs.
Tain was chuckling. "Listen they will, Drizzy. Listen they will."
As they disappeared down the dark, silent street, Drizzolt's plaintive " Hey! I thought I've asked you to stop calling me that!" drifted back through suddenly smoke-heavy air.
The whole building was raging flames before they had gone two blocks, and the two neighbouring structures were afire before even the first cries of alarm rang out.
* * * * * * * * * *
NEXT CHAPTER: What has Luna been doing? Looking for the last Gold!
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Slayers Characters © 1991-2002 Hajime Kanzaka, Rui Araizumi, a whole lot of other people and not a few multinational corporations. I'm not looking for a piece of their action, just paying homage to it. Story and all other content © 2002 D. Robbins
Special thanks to Debbie for editing and Sharlene, Diane and Kelly for their pre-reading and commentaries!
