Reign of Madness (Revised Edition) (40 page)

The black sword was much longer than his Sheyalin longsword
and a bit wider, too. It had a diamond-shaped cross-section the entire length,
stopping at the tang. Rezkin gripped the bare tang and lifted the blade. It was
much lighter than a blade of this length and width should have been. By its
length, it should have been a two-handed blade without a doubt, but because it
was so light and balanced, he could easily wield the sword one-handed if need
be.

It was unique and would probably be the only one of its kind
ever
. It was dark and imposing – the kind of sword
Dark Tidings
would wield.
This
was a king’s blade. This sword would definitely catch
people’s attention and make him stand out, although what he had planned for a
disguise was sure to do that already.

“I will take it,” Rezkin said.

“But we ain’t even discussed a price,” the smith protested
in surprise.

“It will be fair. How long to finish the hilt?” Rezkin
asked.

“Depends on what ye want. What did ye have in mind?” the man
asked.

“Hmm, it should be practical, for an experienced fighter,
but fit for a king,” Rezkin said. “Make it imposing and deadly, a vengeful warrior.
Imagine…something carried by the Rez.”

The smith nodded agreement. “I can see it. Anythin’ less
wouldn’t do this blade justice.”

“How long?” Rezkin asked again.

“I assume ye’ll want it rushed so ye can practice with it
‘afore the tournament. I have some crossguards and pommels I can adjust fer the
weight and style. I’ll pull me apprentice off his other work fer a bit. The
scabbard‘ll be more difficult. I ain’t got one ta fit. It’ll have ta be made,
and I don’t do that work meself. Give me three days, and I’ll see what I can
do,” the smith replied. “I make no guarantees on the scabbard. I’ll, uh, see
‘bout getting’ those su’carai fixed up, too. I’ll not be sellin’ inferior
quality products.”

“Thank you, Master Keskian. I will return three days hence,”
Rezkin stated as he placed the black blade back on the pile of linen.

By the time Rezkin returned to the inn, Frisha was pacing
irritably.

“Where have you been?” she snapped. “You said we were going
to the market. I’ve been waiting for over an hour!”

Rezkin bowed politely and said, “I apologize, Frisha. My
business took longer than anticipated. We may head to the market, now, if you
like. Perhaps I can buy you one of those sweet rolls you liked so much last
night to make up for my tardiness?”

Frisha huffed. “If you keep buying me sweet rolls, I won’t
fit into any of the dresses,” she said sternly and then broke into a teasing
smile.

“I do not see why you need a dress, anyway. What you are
wearing now is more practical,” Rezkin remarked, eying her tunic and breeches.

“These are traveling clothes, Rezkin. I cannot go about the
city dressed in such a way with all these nobles looking at me. You know I am
supposed to be fostering their acceptance. If they see me like this, they will
only ever see an uncouth commoner,” Frisha argued. “
You
wear those
ridiculous doublets in the heat of summer when you are trying to impress.”

“I recognize and accept your reasoning, but I still think it
is an absurd practice,” Rezkin remarked as they left the inn and strolled up
the street to the market.

Frisha giggled. “You think wearing a dress is an absurd
practice?”

“Of course. What possible use could you have for a dozen
layers of floor length fabric piled about your hips?” the warrior asked.

“I think it is supposed to accentuate the female figure,
Rez. Haven’t you noticed?” she asked with a sly grin and flutter of her eyes.

“Accentuate it? It covers over everything,” he said as he
subtly waved toward a couple of women passing on the opposite side of the
street. “Everything below the waist is a complete mystery. In what you are
wearing now, I can see that you are perfectly proportioned, and your hips are
ideally suited for childbearing.”

“Rezkin! I cannot believe you would say such things to me,” Frisha
exclaimed with a furious blush.

“I said nothing that is untrue,” Rezkin replied curiously.
“Does it offend you that I recognize the appeal of your figure?”

Frisha pressed a cool palm to her heated face as she said,
“Well, no, but I don’t think it is really appropriate to voice such
observations.”

“I apologize if I have offended you, Frisha. It was not my
intent,” Rezkin replied.

“No, you didn’t offend me. I mean, I’m glad that you approve
of my…form,” she said with a blush. “I-…I guess I do not mind hearing such
words from
you
, but I would not care for others to make the same
observations.”

Rezkin nodded and said, “Perhaps that is why women insist on
covering themselves, then? They are not accentuating their attributes. They are
hiding them.” He cocked his head curiously and said, “But, then why do they
accentuate their breasts so obviously when it would be equally inappropriate to
comment on them?”

Frisha’s eyes darted to the man beside her. She had not
thought to hear Rezkin speaking of women’s breasts. “I suppose some things are
supposed to observed and appreciated silently.”

Frisha had traveled lightly and did not bring any dresses to
wear once she arrived. Her uncle gave her a note to allow her to draw funds
from his account at the bank, so she did not have to worry about the money.
After visiting a couple of dress shops, Frisha purchased only one dress that
she could wear immediately. The others she liked needed alterations, and she
would have to pick them up over the next few days. She used the dressmaker’s
fitting room to change into the champaign colored frock. It was made of light
silk over layers of airy linen, which was much appreciated in the warm,
tropical climate.

Just as they were approaching a wig shop, Rezkin stopped the
young woman and pulled her behind an awning. “Frisha, if you would not mind, I
could use your assistance.”

“Of course, Rez. What do you need?” Frisha asked in
surprise.

“I need you to acquire something for me, and I need you to
play a role so as not to encourage suspicion,” he replied. Frisha curiously
nodded acceptance, and the warrior continued, “There is a wig shop just ahead.
I would like for you to go in and explain to the shopkeeper that you are a lady
in waiting for a noblewoman who prefers not to be named. Say that the lady
desires to purchase some new wigs and would like as many samples of long locks
as they can provide.”

Frisha frowned and said, “You want to buy wigs?”

Rezkin shook his head and said, “No, I only want the
samples. As many different colors of long hair as they have.”

“Ooookay. I think that is the strangest request anyone has
made of me,” Frisha muttered.

“You will understand eventually. Can you do this for me?”
Rezkin asked.

“Yes, it does not seem so difficult,” Frisha said with a
sigh.

The young woman hurried into the shop and did as Rezkin
requested. The shopkeeper apparently felt that Frisha’s request was not only
reasonable, but she was overjoyed at the prospect of receiving the unnamed
lady’s business. For a moment, Frisha actually felt bad that she would not be
returning to purchase any wigs on behalf of her mysterious mistress. It took a
while, but eventually Frisha returned with a linen bundle filled with every
color of hair the shop had to offer, which was significant since the city was
the largest trade city in the northwestern Souelian Sea. Rezkin praised her
efforts, although she wished he would simply tell her why he wanted the hair.

Over the next few days, Rezkin scoured the city for as much
information on the strikers and Farson as he could obtain. He found nothing
regarding the latter but was compiling a list of the strikers who were
currently in the city. Kai was uncertain of his own standing, since he had
disappeared from Caydean’s service earlier in the year, so he was keeping a low
profile. With the striker’s assistance, Rezkin was able to identify several of
those who were part of Caydean’s
special group
.

The young warrior also spent a good amount of time
investigating the city’s two major thieves’ guilds, creatively named the Ghouls
and the Stalkers. Whether due to overconfidence or wishful thinking, the
general consensus among them was that The Raven would not cross the open waters
simply to take over their business. Little good it did them when Rezkin
descended on them during the night.

The Raven’s first target was the Ghouls. They were known to
be a ruthless, rowdy bunch similar to the Diamond Claws except with even less
respect for human life. Many of them were ex-pirates or the bastard offspring
of sailors who only cared to enjoy the warmth of a companion while in port and
then disappeared without a care for the consequences.

The Ghouls did not fall willingly or easily. They rose
against him with blood in their eyes, and the young warrior was forced to
slaughter all that inhabited the guildhouse at the time. He thought the thieves
should have recognized the futility of their defiance after the first dozen
fell, but still they protested, and still he killed them. Most of the thieves
bore purple-black
ink
within their skin or were under the influence of
an assortment of other drugs. These were not a sophisticated lot but merely
brutish opportunists and murderers. Of course, most of the members were not in
the guildhouse at the time. Only those in the upper tier of the hierarchy could
afford to sit idly while the lower class slaved away in the streets risking
their lives, or at the very least, the loss of an appendage.

The Raven stalked through the carnage that was once a
thriving hive of thieves. Blood dripped from tables, crates, and even the
walls, and he was careful to avoid the worst of it. A horrified gasp emanated
from the open doorway, and he caught a flicker of movement as someone rushed
away from the scene. Rezkin ran after the man, a predator hunting his prey. He
eventually caught up with the fleeing felon a few blocks away in an alley
between two darkened buildings. The man was cowering behind a pile of debris,
his eyes darting in all directions as he attempted to catch his breath. Rezkin
could easily have killed the man with a thrown dagger through the throat, but
this man had not been present for the rejection of his authority. He would at
least give the man a chance to make the right decision.

The dark wraith descended from the sky landing right in
front of the cowering thief. The man choked on a startled shout and bounded to
his feet. Like a hare caught in a trap, he darted to one side and then the
other, but there was nowhere for him to run.

“Wait! Please, I’m not yer enemy!” the man begged.

“Your guild has forsaken my claim,” The Raven replied.

“That wasn’t me! I mean, I’m not
them
. I didn’t get
no say!” he pleaded as he held empty hands in front of him in a pleading
gesture.

“You know who I am?” Rezkin asked.

The man nodded furiously and replied, “Aye, only one man can
do what ye did besides the Rez, I guess, if he be real. Ye be The Raven, no?”

Rezkin inclined his head. “I am.”

“Please, just listen, Master Raven. I already made me
decision ta serve ye. I did! L-look,” he said as he tugged at his collar. Just below
the man’s collarbone was a black tattoo of a raven. “I knew ye’d be comin’. I
didn’t believe ‘em when they said ye wouldn’t. I even told ‘em they better not
fight. Ye took the Black Hall, ye did, and ain’t none of us can fight like
assassins.”

“You defied your leaders?” The Raven asked.

“They weren’t as smart as they thought they be, and now they
be dead. I knew ye’d come and that ye’d win. I got the tattoo ta show my
loyalty, and I ain’t the only one. There be others is loyal to ye. Ain’t no
need ta kill as all!”

“Take me to these others,” The Raven commanded.

The shaky man ducked his head and skittered around The
Raven. He scurried down several more alleys, fully aware that he was being
pursued by possibly the deadliest man in Ashai. He ducked into a derelict
structure that could hardly be called a shelter.

“What ye doin’ here, Pratt?” asked a gruff voice.

“I-…”

“Yer breathin’ mighty heavy. I told ye not ta come ‘ere if
yer bein’ pursued!” the same man growled.

“But…”

“Now, get ye outta ‘ere afore ye bring whoever it be down on
our heads,” the voice commanded.

Rezkin stepped into the doorway, a dark silhouette blocking
out a moonlit night. Three pairs of startled eyes stared for only a moment
before a flurry of movement ensued. Weapons were drawn, blades flashed in the
silver light, and threats of death fell from quivering lips. The hapless guide
jumped forward between Rezkin and the other thieves.

“Wait, wait! It’s
him
!” he shouted. Pratt’s voice
fell to a forced whisper as he said, “It’s
The Raven
!” The men froze in
their tracks. The Raven had not moved during the frantic scramble, and his
stoic confidence was more disturbing than if he had simply attacked.

“The others be dead. At the guildhouse. All of ‘em. They all
be dead! But, I-I told ‘im we be loyal to ‘im, ye see. Show ‘im,” the guide
thief prodded.

The two younger men darted glances between the guide and the
man he claimed was The Raven. They dropped their weapons and then tugged
anxiously at their tunics. Both men wore the same raven symbol beneath their
collarbones. The third man, older than the others, scowled but dropped his
dagger on the table next to him.

“I ain’t got no tattoo,” he grumbled. “I didn’t believe ye
be comin’ ‘ere. But I’ll get one, ye be sure. Now as I sees ye here, I’ll be loyal
to ye. Don’t ye be doubtin’ that.” His voice was firm but held a slight waver
of fear.

“See that you do or the next time we meet will not be so
pleasant,” The Raven said before he disappeared into the darkness.

The encounter was fortuitous for the young warrior. He
already had at least three loyalists upon arrival. They would spread word of
the encounter, and the word of a former non-believer, who looked to be a man
who did not change his mind easily, would go further in convincing others of
the veracity of the thieves’ claims. Rezkin hoped that after seeing the
slaughter at the guildhouse, the others would fall in line with ease.

The warrior returned to the guildhouse to retrieve an item
that he hoped would help him gain control over the other Skutton thieves’
guild, the Stalkers. He made his way to the other side of the city where the
warren lay and let himself into the guildmaster’s personal quarters. The man
was not present, which is how Rezkin intended it. Upon the desk, he plunked
down the severed head of the Ghoul’s Guildmaster with the fresh tattoo of a
raven upon his brow. Beside the head, he left a note with instructions for the
guild’s operation. Rezkin would know within days if the guild succumbed to his
whims.