Chapter 18 - The Nine

It was said that once, a long time ago, the nameless God of Thieves had been a mortal man.

The God of Death, so the stories went, had been wounded in the great war against the Evil Deities. Lessened by His unhealing wounds, Great Surshana grew careless: He lost sight of the God of Thieves in the bleak night, and could no longer rise from His dark throne to find him.

Forgotten by Death Himself, the God of Thieves mocked Surshana with His life. The shadows were His closest friends - they whispered to him as he slept, shrouded him like a cloak. He could slip between raindrops, travel unseen by day and night. None knew him, and none could stop him.

In time, the God of Thieves grew cruel and arrogant. It pleased Him to take what he desired, to steal not just gold but life itself. He clutched souls in His covetous grip, ripped the very breath from those He passed as His greed grew beyond all restraint.

But the earth remembered His sins, and - in time - the God of Earth arose to punish Him. At heart, the nameless God was no warrior; He fled as far as he could, but wherever he turned, the God of Earth was waiting. In the end, struck down by the God of Earth's ironbound cudgel, He grovelled in the dirt, begging to serve, if only the God of Earth would let Him live.

The God of Earth's justice was harsh, but fair. Two things were taken from the nameless God; the fifth finger of each hand, to mark Him forever as what He was - A thief.

Since then, eight had been His sacred number. His maimed hands, the sign by which He was known.

It may have been serendipity or simply coincidence, but the Eight Fingers had taken His mark as their own. Slave trafficking, assassinations, smuggling, larceny, the drug trade, security, banking and gambling - they had a finger in every pie, a plague rotting Re-Estize from within.

Corruption was endemic. Many nobles, it was said, had been subverted by the endless stream of coin flowing into their coffers. Crime, after all, paid well; It had always been a simple fact of life in Re-Estize, from the lowest slums - where life was measured in hours, and every pleasure was a desperate distraction from one's inevitable fate - to the highest of places.

And then some alchemist had learnt how to process the toxic plant - a weed, really - Laira into the drug known as Black Dust, and all hell had broken loose. Laira powder was dirt-cheap, the plant itself astonishingly easy to grow in Re-Estize's temperate climate, and powerfully addictive.

The easy euphoria it bestowed was, for many, the solution to life's many miseries. The comparative mildness of withdrawal symptoms masked long-term side effects, like the gradual shriveling of the addict's brain; to the public, it was a vice that lacked the inherent terror of other, more exotic concoctions.

It seemed a terrible irony that Re-Estize, the most prolific producer of Black Dust, was the cause of its own misery. The Empire presented an untapped market, one which the Eight Fingers had been eager to exploit; it was a significant enough problem for the Empire to include it in their long list of grievances.

The Bloody Emperor - Jircniv Rune Farlord El Nix - had condemned the drug trade, in his own inimitable way. Harsh punishments were leveled against addicts, but trafficking was a capital crime. Those who flouted the rule faced execution, with their head and hands to be displayed as a warning to all others.

It said something that, even in the face of the ultimate penalty, the drug trade continued to flourish. In fact, it had only grown, in the face of the Annual Wars.

Misery, after all, feeds upon itself.

Then, somehow, things got worse.

In a single night, more than a hundred people had died. Almost every known criminal of rank in the city perished, as if at the scythe of Great Surshana Himself - killed in grotesque, morbidly artistic ways, as if the architect of atrocity had taken a particular pride in his work. Or perhaps he'd simply wanted to send a message.

One man had been force-fed his own organs, and died choking on them. Another had been, for want of a better word, turned inside-out. Yet another had been partially dissolved, as if immersed in a powerful acid. His wife and children had slept on, unknowing, only to awaken to the horrid tableau long after the deed was done.

The underworld had been left in disarray by this night of the long knives. It took silent, terrified months for them to recover - But soon, it'd become clear that the dead had been replaced by pliable, ambitious, and most importantly competent individuals.

The Dust pipeline, diminished over the course of the previous months, surged with renewed activity. A chance search of some outgoing ships revealed an almost aggressive strategy of export, and it soon became clear that production had doubled, if not tripled - Enough to supply the home front, and to introduce vast amounts of the drug to far-off lands.

No expense had been spared in the details, from the lacquered, waterproof chests to the individually-wrapped doses. As Kashan had said, the quality had improved substantially; Unscrupulous dealers who cut their wares with the old standbys of sugar, arsenic, soap powder, flour or (in the case of one truly malicious individual) powdered glass were punished in unspeakable ways.

But that had only been the overture. A rash of natural-seeming or entirely fortuitous deaths had followed amongst the lowest-to-middle tier of nobility. Most of them had been old men, opposed to the drug trade out of sheer stubbornness and arrogance than actual morality; A few had been the heir-apparents to their Houses, allowing second or third sons to step forward into the spotlight.

In what was fast becoming a recurring pattern, these unlikely successors were quick to assert the autonomy of their estates. Their lands soon blossomed with plantations, heavily-guarded caravans arriving to spirit away the harvest. Ironically, it made the roads safer than before; Only the most confident or foolhardy bandits would dare assault a heavily-armed convoy, and the latter simply didn't last long in the face of the overwhelming firepower the guards could bring to bear.

All the while, would-be investigators were paid off or deftly turned away. Especially persistent ones simply went missing. It didn't take a surfeit of imagination to guess their likely fates.

As it turned out, this vast expenditure of gold and effort had been shrewdly judged. With the delay of the Annual War, almost a quarter-million soldiers - most of them conscripts, taken en masse from the farmlands and villages of the Kingdom - had been housed in the capital. Most had little to look forward to, other than the terror of the battlefield or the somehow less-pleasant prospect of returning to poverty-stricken villages.

Unhappy men seek distraction from their plight. They find it in alcohol, in gambling, in vicious amusement, and the Nine Fingers did a booming business. Dust, cheaper and more potent than alcohol, rapidly became the intoxicant of choice. It wasn't long before it became an epidemic, ravaging the already rock-bottom morale of the beleaguered conscripts - Desertion was rife.

More than a few soldiers had taken up petty robbery to feed their addictions, and (after a particularly infamous incident) the muster-point had been set at E-Rantel. But by then, it was too little, too late; Quartermasters and sutlers found a profitable sideline in dealing Dust, and there was a general lack of political will to eradicate what was widely seen as a social problem.

There was, after all - in technical terms - a war on.

The Magician's Guild had been the next institution to come under assault, if 'assault' was the right term. Casters and prominent apprentices withdrew from the Guild or went on long sabbaticals, their talents put to other uses. Recruitment, never high at the best of times, slowed to a trickle.

The Guild's monopoly on arcane casters was being aggressively undermined. No violence had been involved; Large payouts, and the prospect of freedom from the Guild's calcified structure, had been more than sufficient. (In fact, I'd been wondering why it hadn't happened sooner.)

That, presumably, was the reason for the flood of magical weapons and other items flooding the markets. These working counterfeits had cut into the Guild's (and by extension, the Crown's) profits, which lured even more casters away, which weakened their influence even further.

It's amazing how quickly even the most firmly-held certainties can be worn away, when vast sums of money are involved.

It was roughly around this point that the certain elements of the nobility had taken a long, hard look at what was going on, and collectively thought:

Oh, shit.

Princess Renner didn't tell it that way, of course. She'd simply chattered on, carefree as a bird, about the gossip she'd heard from the ladies of the court and her own maids. All the while, I'd listened with growing alarm, and felt a distinct sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach.

From Kelart's expression, I wasn't the only one who felt that way. Her frown had returned, and she looked faintly stricken as she stared as the Third Princess; Even Wolfgunblood had stopped eating his way through the pastry rack, his expression ever-so-slightly troubled as some of it had begun to sink in.

Only Climb - his expression carefully neutral - remained at ease. When I stole a glance at him, he merely looked...vigilant, I suppose. Like a loyal hound, standing guard as his master discussed incomprehensible matters of high import.

I had to hand it to him, he had an incredible poker face.

"It was dear Lakyus who realized the scale of their efforts," Princess Renner said, a note of clear admiration to her voice. "After she saw what was happening...She couldn't just stand aside and watch." Her blue eyes grew troubled. "I'm afraid I may have been the cause of it - She knew how upset the slave trade makes me."

The Golden Princess' expression was momentarily distant, her voice soft as she spoke in low, measured tones. "It's the children who suffer the most. Those poor orphans…" she bit her lip, her blonde tresses swaying at the slight motion. "-I've done all I can to care for them, but there's only so much I can do…"

You've done more than anyone, Climb's eyes seemed to say. I could tell that - more than anything - he wanted to speak up, to move to comfort her...But with the three of us here, it took all of his willpower to suppress that instinct. I wondered if he even knew; It was obvious to anyone looking on that he adored the Princess.

Everyone except Climb himself, apparently.

"Did you know? There's-" Renner colored, her voice just barely above a scandalized whisper. "...a house of ill-repute in the capital, staffed by slaves. The stories I've heard…"

She let her words trail off. "-they're horrible," she finished. "When the women are too weak, or sick...They just vanish. They used to throw them out, but now - They're just never seen again."

"May the Four guard them," Kelart murmured, her words soft but heartfelt.

"Yes, well...I've had some success with the abolition of that horrid institution, but eradicating slavery?" Grave, sad-eyed, the Princess shook her head. She looked downcast, silky strands of honey-blonde hair framing her limpid blue eyes. "There's been...resistance. The Noble Faction, I fear, is staunchly opposed to further reforms - My brother, the Crown Prince, has...other concerns in mind."

There was something, I think, impossibly genuine about Princess Renner. Something childlike and acutely innocent, that had survived the savage politicking and venomous intrigue of court. She may have been a bargaining chip - and not a particularly significant one - destined to be married off, someday, to seal one alliance or another, but perhaps she was slightly less of an empty-headed doll than I'd first guessed.

But then again, she was seventeen. We were all seventeen once, with strongly-held opinions. In truth, I didn't doubt that she meant well, but there was little she could actually do. Suddenly, the tasteful luxury of her chambers seemed like a gilded cage.

Renner lowered her gaze, staring at the embroidered carpet for a long, long moment. A little flush lingered in her cheeks.

"My apologies, Lady Kelart," she said, at last. "-It was never my intention to burden you with the Kingdom's problems. But I fear that Lady Lakyus - and the Blue Roses - have committed themselves to their task." There was a rich and untapped sympathy to her words; "Until something can be done about the Nine Fingers…"

Renner turned a delicate hand, as if scattering ashes. "No aid will be forthcoming, I'm afraid. It's a shame; You may have come all this way, braved so many terrible dangers-" She cast a doe-eyed look in my direction. I could only nod, my mouth dry; This had a distinct tang of failure, and I had a nasty feeling I wasn't going to like what would come next.

"...For nothing. With the Annual War imminent, the Crown can spare no soldiers to aid the Holy Kingdom." A spark of inspiration blossomed in her eyes, and she touched gloved fingers to the tip of her pointed chin.

"Well...Perhaps that's not entirely true. A debt of honor would be one of the few exceptions; If some great service was done to the Crown, even the Noble Faction couldn't possibly decline such a request. Not without losing face...And, of course, that's the one thing they could never abide."

A beat.

As if on some unseen cue, Kelart rose from her seat, rallying magnificently.

"Your Royal Highness," she said, all heartfelt emotion. "Your words have touched my heart. The valor of the Blue Roses has quite moved me; As High Priestess of the Four Gods, I cannot merely stand by while innocents suffer."

She pressed a hand to her full bosom, making her words a heart-truth. "Please, your Highness - Consider us at your disposal. I am devastated by the wickedness orchestrated by these...Nine Fingers. This deplorable state of affairs simply cannot be allowed to continue. Do you concur, Grandmaster Samuel?"

Her gaze bored into me. Fortunately, I had been paying attention to the conversation - I did my level best to look deeply moved, as I bowed my head in acknowledgement.

"-It is as you say, Lady Kelart," I offered, by way of agreement. "A terrible business."

Wolfgunblood made a low sound, almost a snort. I didn't dare to look in his direction.

"Princess Renner," Kelart said, formally. Her brown eyes were serious, her gaze intent. "Please, allow us to work with the Blue Roses in this endeavor. It is said in the scriptures of the Four that the weed of crime bears bitter fruit - Let us assist you, in bringing the Nine Fingers to justice."

"Oh, my…" Renner looked positively overcome, her hand to her mouth. Her eyes shimmered with what might have been tears. "You have my most unreserved thanks, Lady Kelart. I know you will do everything you can to aid us; Lakyus could hope for no better support than the stalwarts of the Paladin Orders. I shall write to her immediately...Your aid will be most welcome!"

She dabbed at her eyes with a lacy kerchief, laying a gloved hand on Kelart's as she smiled, smiled, smiled.

"Rest assured, my father will hear of your kindness. I promise, he will be overjoyed when word of your success reaches him."

Kelart bowed, from the waist. "You are most kind, your Royal Highness."

"Please, Kelart - May I call you Kelart? - call me 'Renner'. That's what all my friends call me...Isn't that right, Climb?"

Climb, put on the spot, looked momentarily startled. He coughed, cleared his throat. "Yes, my L - Renner," he said, embarrassed but ever-so-slightly pleased. The Princess beamed at him, with such warmth it was hard not to feel a little envious; It was a wonder Climb didn't blush, though I had the feeling this was familiar ground for the two of them.

Wolfgunblood stirred, uncomfortably, in his seat. Languid as his pose was, I had the feeling he was unutterably, deathly bored by the whole thing. I didn't blame him: I had the sense that a chess game was being played, but solely by Kelart. You just had to look into Princess Renner's cornflower-blue eyes to know that nothing sinister lurked within.

She seemed well-informed, all right - But the effect was a bit like an amanuensis, or an exquisitely dressed actress taught to recite lines on command. Someone had coached her for this, but who?

Unbidden, my thoughts went to Prince Zanac. Sly and ambitious, Kashan had called him. If the Nine Fingers were really backing the Noble Faction, their defeat would mean the erosion of support for the Crown Prince. When I thought about it that way, it all made sense.

Politics, I concluded, was easier than I'd expected. You just had to assume the worst of absolutely everyone, account for the corruption of all involved, and you were rarely wrong.

Oh God, I thought. This must be how Kelart feels, all the time...

I felt a new rush of sympathy for Climb. We had yet to meet the man, but Prince Zanac was supposedly every bit as much a snob as the Crown Prince. If it was really his hand pulling Princess Renner's strings…

Stop it, I told myself. That's not your problem.

All that mattered was ensuring that the Holy Kingdom received the supplies and reinforcement it needed. We might never see Re-Estize again, after all this was over.

I was wrong, of course, but I didn't know it then.

And yet-

Princess Renner cleared her throat, a gentle cough teased from her lips. There was a warm flush to her cheeks as her gaze swept across us - Settling, at last, on Climb.

"Ummm, Climb - My apologies, but I would speak with Kelart in private. I might require some...spiritual guidance. Could you escort Ser Wolfgunblood and Grandmaster Samuel from the room? I'll send for you in a few hours. I know it's a bother, but…"

Kelart blinked. Spiritual guidance? her expression seemed to say, but she recovered quickly.

"Of course, Pr - Renner," Climb said, looking momentarily surprised. He saluted, as neatly as if he was on parade. "Please, follow me."

As we filtered out, I couldn't help but glance back at the two of them. At Kelart, her slim fingers clasping the talisman of the Four that hung around her neck. At the Golden Princess, her sweetly charming features intent, that blush still coloring her cheeks as she waited for us to depart.

I supposed even royalty wanted someone to confide in, now and then.

After the opulence of Valencia Palace was, it was something of a relief to be out in the open again, beneath the winter sun. I kept worrying that I would knock over something priceless, or make a wrong turn somewhere; the halls of power, to my mind, felt rather more like the world's most gilded prison.

I had to wonder how anyone tolerated it. You could almost feel the crushing weight of history, bearing down on you - It was in the centuries-old engravings, the faintly decayed (but ever-renewed) splendor of the place. Something in the air, that made visitors tread lightly, that turned servants into phantoms that were seen but not heard.

The bowing. The scraping. I was never going to get used to that.

Even Climb seemed to relax, fractionally, now he was in the clear. "I'll have a carriage sent at once," he was saying. Formal, but slightly less so. "If there's anywhere you wish to go-"

"Our quarters," Wolfgunblood said, and he shrugged when we turned to look at him. "If we're awaiting the Princess's pleasure, we might as well wait in comfort."

That was blunter than I'd expected. I had the feeling that most of the discussion had mostly flown over; For a moment, I envied him. When the Princess had been talking, I had the distinct sensation of an invisible vise being cranked tighter, then tighter still-

"Of course, Ser Wolfgunblood," Climb said, his voice carefully level as he turned his gaze to me. "-I suppose you'll be returning with him, Grandmaster?"

Quite why I did it, I wasn't sure. Curiosity, perhaps - Or maybe, it was simply because I'd come this far. It seemed an awful shame to depart, now we'd just arrived.

"Perhaps later," I said. "If it's not too much of an imposition - I'd like you to show me around."

For the first time, Climb hesitated. He looked momentarily troubled, a flicker of consternation in his blue eyes. "That's not…" he began. "I could, but...You understand, certain areas of the Palace are out of bounds, to all except the Royal family-"

"That's not what I meant," I cut in. "I'd like to see how the soldiers of the Kingdom live."

He eyed me, as if searching for any hint of mockery. At last, he nodded - feigned a smile - and said:

"-Of course, Grandmaster."

As it turned out, a soldier's life - Even one barracked this close to the seat of power - was an unadorned one. While the paragons of the Honor Guard and Royal Knights had quarters befitting their station, the lodgings of the rank-and-file were rather less exalted.

The twelve towers housed within the castle's compound had each had been built to stand alone, so the capture of one didn't necessarily mean that the defense of the whole was compromised; It also meant they were all built along the same lines, so once you saw one, you'd really seen them all.

The first floor of the tower was a large hall hemmed in by grey stone walls, training dummies in old mail and battered helms lining the sides. Racks of swords and spears stood close at hand, showing signs of long use. The close air smelled of old sweat, of oil and lapping powders; At this time of the day, the soldiers were busy with their duties or at rest, which meant that we had the training area to ourselves.

"Quite the place," I remarked, which earned an odd look from Climb. Crossing over to the array of weapons, I lifted a dull iron sword from one of the racks - It was an oversized weapon, larger than a great sword, but I felt no strain as I swept it in a murmuring figure-eight. "I've never seen a sword like this before," I said. "It seems a little large for combat, doesn't it?"

"That's…a practice weapon, Grandmaster," Climb said. "It's not actually meant for sparring-"

"Ah," I said. I could have kicked myself. Instead, I set the blunt-bladed weapon down, aware that Climb was eyeing me with a distinctly disquieting combination of confusion and curiosity.

"If I may ask-" he began, and fell silent when I turned to look at him. I waited, and at last he went on: "What did you train on, Grandmaster Samuel?"

Shit.

"Beastmen, mostly," I said, and I heard a sharp hiss of indrawn breath.

I was beginning to wonder if I'd made a mistake; Climb struck me as an exceptionally serious young man. He may have been half my age - My actual age, not this body's - but it was clear that he was more aware than most people I'd met.

This didn't necessarily strike me as a good thing.

"Look, Sir Cli-"

"Climb," he said, automatically. "-I'm no knight."

"Right," I said, with a slight cough. "Excuse my lapse. I'd appreciate it if you called me 'Sir Samuel' or just 'Samuel'. In fact, I'd prefer it. After all, I'm not that much older than you are."

Climb gave me a faintly dubious look, as if he sensed the lie. But then he nodded, as if conceding the point. "Si - I mean, Samuel. If you'll forgive an impertinent question…"

"Go ahead," I said, and his form seemed to unclench slightly.

"I had the privilege of witnessing your match against Captain Stronoff, and...It was incredible to watch. Your skill, your speed...I've never seen anyone draw even against the Warrior-Captain before." This was the most he'd ever said in one sitting, and I was rather taken aback by the passion in his voice, the way his fists clenched.

"How did you-" Climb caught himself, and went on in a slightly less heated tone. "I...know the legends, but - I didn't think I'd ever meet someone who entered the Realm of Heroes. If I may ask...How did you accomplish it? Are all Paladins like you?"

It was clear that he'd been waiting to ask this, for some time. It wasn't mere curiosity; I could sense a kind of desperation in that question, as if I had the answer to an enigma that had dogged him all his life.

And the damnable thing was, I didn't have an answer for him. Nothing that would have satisfied him, anyway. But at the same time, I couldn't lie - I had a feeling he'd see right through it.

Right through me.

"Now, Climb - That's a bit much to ask of a guest, isn't it?"

The deep, rumbling voice was familiar. I'd half-recognized it, even as I turned; Even as Climb's eyes went wide, surprise flitting across his intense features.

Out of that bronze armor, that distinctive silhouette was even more impressive. Robust was the word I would've used. That, or unyielding. Like the ramparts of a castle, or a wall of tempered steel. His arms, folded across his chest, were taut with muscle - Craggy features somehow made more, not less, implacable by the wrinkles that lined them.

Oh thank God, I thought, a surging of relief coursed through me.

"Captain Stronoff," I said, "It's good to see you again."

Gazef smiled. Dark eyes flickered with quiet amusement, as he offered his hand - You could tell a lot about a man by his handshake, and the Warrior-Captain had a grip like a vise.

"Not so formal, please," he said. There was a quiet strength to his voice, one that never wavered.

"After all - It seems that we'll be working together."

Next: Blue Roses