Blood of the Underworld

8

“That’ll do it,” Tarlak said as he straightened up, wincing as his upper back popped twice.

“Are you sure it will hold, no matter how powerful the spell?” asked Victor, surveying the runes carved into the outside of his temporary home. Ten in all covered the large building, burned in as if by fire.

Tarlak raised an eyebrow. He’d spent the past six hours placing markings with chalk, rearranging runes, and casting a variety of spells that protected the building from magical attacks, from the subtle, like teleportation, to the less subtle, such as giant exploding fireballs. Last, but not least, was the requested surprise escape in case of an attack. His back hurt like crazy, his fingers were sore from all the measuring and writing, and he doubted he could summon anything stronger than a magical fart with how bad his head ached. And yet Victor wanted to question his abilities?

“If you didn’t think I could do the job,” Tarlak asked, “why would you request me in the first place?”

Victor sighed.

“You’re right. Forgive me. Today has not gone well.”

“So I heard.”

Word of the attack had spread throughout Veldaren like wildfire. Tarlak had gotten a firsthand account from Haern, at least on how the attack had ended. As for casualties, that was a little sketchier. Tarlak had hoped to glean more information out of the lord, but so far had struggled to get the man to talk. Now that they were surveying his handiwork, at last he had a chance.

“Most of these runes I’ve burned in,” Tarlak said, trying to keep Victor engaged, his mind on their conversation instead of elsewhere. “It’d take a lot to smudge or break them, but it is possible. Make sure your guards are always aware.”

“What should they watch for?”

“Well, I’d say a man with a big mallet smashing the wood in. That’d probably break them. Think your guards would notice that?”

Victor paused a moment, and then miracle of miracles, laughed. Tarlak snapped his fingers. Finally he was getting somewhere.

“No one will lay a finger on the building,” Victor said. “And I think even my least-trained men would still find it strange for a man to be hacking at a wall.”

“Praise the gods for intelligent help.”

“Amen.”

The two walked toward the entrance of the building. Guards trailed behind them. They’d watched Tarlak carefully the entire time, supposedly on the excuse that they didn’t want him harmed while casting the protection spells. Tarlak found the lie insulting.

As if he needed protection.

His balance teetered a bit as he walked with Victor, and he decided that maybe that wasn’t so insulting after all. Victor caught him, inquired if he was all right.

“Just a little woozy,” he said, rolling his head side to side. “Ever had a headache so bad that it split your insides in half, making every light look ten times too bright?”

“I can’t say I have.”

“Then you’re damn lucky. Consider me adding the cost of a drink to your expenses, because I need one right now, otherwise I won’t make it home.”

“Then consider it paid.”

Victor led Tarlak to the door. The wizard made sure not to crack a smile. His head hurt, but not that terribly. Still, Victor looked like he wanted those he hired to trust him, even respect him. A good sign. Anyone willing to buy beer for his underlings was a man with great potential. The guards let Victor pass, then stepped in front of Tarlak.

“All off,” said one.

“All…off?”

Tarlak realized the guards meant his clothes, but Victor interrupted before he could protest.

“Let him through,” said the lord. “I’m trusting my life to his wards, not much sense to fear him slipping a knife on me.”

“Smart man,” Tarlak said as he stepped inside and took a seat at a table. A servant hurried over, pitcher in hand. Accepting it graciously, he sniffed the contents. Strong scent of honey. Excellent.

“Only common sense,” Victor said, dismissing the offered cup as he sat opposite the wizard. “If you wanted me dead, those wards would set my home on fire in the middle of the night instead of keeping out the more determined scum of the underworld.”

“Speaking of scum, did you catch those responsible for the attack on your scribes?”

Victor crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat. His clear blue eyes bore into him, and Tarlak could sense the inner debate. When Victor spoke, it appeared Tarlak had passed.

“Not as many as I would like,” he said, sighing. “The Hawk Guild was responsible, that I know for sure. Guesses run from about thirty to forty that set up the ambush. We killed at least twenty…well, twenty died, I should say. My men can only account for seven. The Watcher took out the rest.”

“He does tend to do that,” Tarlak said, chuckling.

“If I’m not mistaken, he is a member of your mercenaries, is he not?”

Tarlak lifted an eyebrow.

“Aye, he is. Considering hiring him? Doesn’t come cheap, but of course, we’re relying on future payments already. What’s a little more debt between friends?”

“I just hope to know if I can consider him friend,” Victor insisted.

“Money tends to make such matters irrelevant.”

At Victor’s glare, Tarlak raised his hands and quickly apologized.

“Forgive me, I tend to joke when I should grovel. If you’re wondering what the Watcher thinks of you, I’d say right now he doesn’t know. Just between you and me, I think you’re a respectable enough guy, but the Watcher tends to be a bit more distrusting.”

Victor nodded, waved at the servants. Accepting a drink, he downed half. Tarlak shifted in his seat, wondered what troubled the lord so that he would suddenly decide he needed alcohol after all.

“One of my scribes died in the attack,” Victor said, his voice softer. He wiped a few drops from his chin with his fingers. “Good man, a friend. Several other innocent men and women died, having committed the crime of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’ve relocated all our interrogations to inside the castle, with King Edwin’s permission. But things are souring already. My men must travel in larger and larger packs, lest they fall into similar ambushes. Only ten men went to the judges today, and they even freed one of the ten. Whatever tight mouths I thought people had, they’ve grown only tighter.”

“You walked into a nest of hornets and started swatting,” Tarlak said. “Surely you can’t be surprised that they’ve begun to sting back.”

Victor let out a half-hearted chuckle.

“I’m not surprised. No, what troubles me is that my men are afraid. The people we drag in here are afraid. The King is afraid. Everyone is afraid, so I can’t be, yet I’m as terrified as any. How did it get so terrible here? How could an entire city live its life full of fear?”

Tarlak tapped his empty mug.

“This here’s a start. But when your eyes are shut tight enough, you can convince yourself that you’re safe from anything. It’s only when bold, brash outsiders come in braying and waving swords around that everyone remembers just how terrible the guilds can be, and how cruel a bedmate we’ve made.”

“Indeed,” said Victor, motioning for another drink. “Cruel, cold, and ruthless. But you know what frightens everyone most? The Spider Guild has yet to act. All the others-the Hawks, the Serpents, even the Ash-they’re nothing compared to Thren Felhorn. The rumors I hear treat him like the reaper man, a monster from a child’s fable.”

“He started a war that lasted ten years,” Tarlak said, feeling his mood grow somber. “And the only reason it ended was because he allowed it. Thren is the one you need to watch for most. He’s getting old, but that won’t matter. Long as he’s alive, he’ll be a danger. And if you’re hoping someone will turn on him, mention where he lives or some illegal Violet he’s smuggled in…” He laughed. “It won’t happen. Unless you want to abandon this charade of law and order and declare full war on the guilds, you won’t find him, won’t send him to the executioner’s axe. Not unless you kill him trying to kill you.”

Victor frowned. His face hardened, as if the blood beneath his skin was turning to stone. Tarlak shifted, wondering what it was he’d said that angered him so.

“It is no charade,” Victor said. “We will not be monsters, not like them. I would rather die. With every breath of mine, I’ll tear them down, cast them from the shadows and into the light. But I won’t let them drag me down with them. I won’t become like them. That is why I must adhere to the law. I must be stronger, smarter, better prepared. The first day was too easy, and I grew soft.”

He looked to Tarlak, and the earnest desperation was clear in his eyes.

“That is why I need you,” he said. “Why I need the Watcher. I need you to trust me, to help me. I’ve looked into your dealings, Tarlak, and those of your mercenaries. You’ve helped others even when they couldn’t pay. You’ve refused any assassinations, even when the Watcher could do them with ease. You have a sense of right and wrong, just like I do. You know they must be stopped. Please, help me.”

Tarlak stood, smoothed out his robes.

“I must be going,” he said. “Thank you for the drink, and the company. I’ll consider your request, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. You want my trust; so far you have it. What you don’t have is my approval. I’m not convinced you’ll make Veldaren a better place. The guilds were growing lazy, their numbers starting to dwindle. Already they were turning on each other, killing more and more.”

“All it’d take is the Watcher’s death,” Victor said, shaking his head. “The Trifect fears the guilds, and the guilds fear the Watcher’s wrath. Remove that fear, and their greed resurfaces, voracious and starving. Whatever growing pains I create will be a thousand times better than the chaos that was certain to happen otherwise.”

“Perhaps so.” Tarlak bowed low. “I’ll escort myself home, if you don’t mind.”

Victor gave him a sly smile.

“Headache gone?”

“Never felt better. Must be some amazing ale you have.”

“Must be.”

Victor stood, offered his hand. Tarlak looked at it as if it were a trap, then accepted it.

“Just give me a chance,” Victor said. “I’ll prove myself to you, to everyone in Veldaren.”

“I’d be careful of that,” Tarlak said, putting back on his pointy yellow hat. “The more the underworld sees who you are, and believes you’re here to do what you say, the more frightened they’ll be.”

“Good,” Victor said. “Let them be afraid.”

“They fear the Watcher, and they fear Thren Felhorn. Should your name one day be among theirs, I’ll treat you to drinks at my tower.”

Tarlak left, ignoring the cold glares from the guards at the door. While heading down the street, he stopped and turned back to observe his handwork on the walls and think on the man hiding within.

“Crazy bastard,” Tarlak muttered, shaking his head. “What in the world are you thinking?”

He headed back, feeling terribly annoyed. Worse, he wasn’t sure if it was at Lord Victor’s insanity, or his own for helping the man in his impossible quest.

Time was not on his side, but Peb felt confident he could finish quickly. Not that he’d brag about that to anyone else, or even admit it. But with such a daring mission approaching, Peb needed some release, otherwise he’d be a nervous wreck throughout. After Thren had heard what happened from Alan, he’d been deathly quiet, talking to no one for a full hour. When he exited his study, his plan was simple, and his mind set.

Victor Kane died tonight.

“Like it’ll be that easy,” Peb muttered to himself as he headed toward the darkest alleys of Veldaren. He was in too much of a hurry to watch his surroundings, but he feared no attack, not so deep in the heart of their territory. A few coins rattled in his pocket, just enough to pay for what he needed. He usually had his pick of the women, given how weak he looked, how unthreatening. The whores talked, Peb knew that. They knew he needed just a touch, just a kiss, and that he’d never hurt them, not like some of the others who needed to punch or beat someone weaker to get themselves off.

Turning right, he passed a dimly lit tavern, then veered into an alley beside it. He knew many men preferred brothels, wanting a bed where they could lie back and do nothing, or to have clean sheets they could ruffle and cast about. Peb needed none of that, just him standing, and a pretty girl on her knees. What did anything else matter, especially when the cost would go up twofold for all the extravagances?

“Hello?” Peb asked the alleyway as he stepped inside. Normally there’d be three or four girls there, eager to sell themselves to the men who stayed in the tavern. The night was still young, though, so perhaps they were elsewhere.

“Can I help you?” a soft voice asked. Squinting, Peb saw a petite woman further in the shadows. Long brown hair curled around her neck, and she smiled at him with such delicate, pretty features…

“I think you can,” he said, smiling. Gods, those eyes, just staring at them would have him done in no time. He’d be able to go charging ahead of Thren, feeling on top of the world as they tore Victor from his room and beat his face to a pulp. He reached into his pocket as she beckoned him closer.

“How much?” he asked, fearing the normal rates might not apply to someone so clearly of a higher class.

“Not much,” the whore said, her eyes twinkling. “In fact, cute as you are, I might pay you.”

She was just flattering him, he knew, but Peb liked hearing it anyway. His hand reached for the sash of his pants.

“That so?” he asked. “How much you think I’m worth?”

That smile darkened, and those delicate features suddenly seemed far less innocent.

“Two silver, and two gold.”

Peb was too stunned to even move. By the time he saw the small crossbow, it was too late. She pulled the trigger, and the bolt thudded into his neck. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His stomach heaved, and he dropped, unable to maintain his balance. He tried to run, to scream, but his muscles ignored every command. Poison, he realized, his terror increasing. The bolt was poisoned.

“I know you can’t move,” the whore said, kneeling down beside him, covering the front of her brown dress with dirt. “Maybe you think that means you won’t feel anything. You’re wrong. I just want you to know that. You’ll feel every…single…thing.”

A knife flashed before him, held aloft so he could see the sharp edge in the moonlight. Then it turned, and Peb felt tears run down the side of his face. The tip pressed beneath his right eye, slipped deeper. It cut through nerves, muscle, and then with a sickening plop, pulled free. With his remaining eye, he saw her holding aloft his severed eyeball, a thin, bloody strand of tissue still attached to the back. Satisfied, the whore put it into a pocket of her dress, then leaned forward, dagger leading, hungry for his remaining eye.

It was true.

He felt every bit of it.