The Agent (2 page)

“You will never make it back to Leva. Our people are already moving to cut off your only route into Anatolia.”

“What makes you think I’m going to Leva?”

“A basic knowledge of geography, you moron.”

“Oh, right…” Garran muttered.

There was nowhere else to go from here except Anatolia, and any agent from that kingdom would of course be going to Leva. The Urqan agent was wrong about one thing, there was another option for getting into Anatolia, but it was wrought with peril. He could take the high passes and drop down a hundred miles closer to the capital than the lower trade routes would have brought him. The journey would be treacherous, but he had few other options.

Garran waited until the men gave up and doubled back to find a passable route to resume the chase before abandoning his cover and heading higher into the mountains. Garran considered himself an excellent mountaineer, but making the crossing would be a challenge even without a debilitating injury. With it, it could well prove to be his undoing.

Night came and brought the bitter cold with it. A fire was a poor idea when someone was hunting you, but after spotting his pursuers’ fire burning in the distance, he chose to risk discovery instead of freezing to death. The available fuel for his fire was far from prime burning material. He was able to get a small flame going using some dry moss and tinder from his kit, but he would need something more combustible to get a proper fire going. He retrieved the stack of papers he had stolen from the embassy and read them by the light of the small flame.

Garran had not bothered to look at what the packet contained beyond verifying that it was what he sought. What the pages revealed caused him some confusion and more than a bit of consternation. They were primarily accounting sheets detailing large transactions between several notable public figures and heads of state. Much of it was coded, but it did not take a brilliant cryptographer to decipher much of its meaning. Anytime the papers described the sale of wheat, timber, or other commodities they obviously were talking about silver. The disturbing part was that it was all heading into Leva or a nearby town. Garran was certain someone acting as a go-between moved it into the capital from there.

He knew some of the names, and he was certain many if not all of them were Free Traders or at least sympathizers. He was certain that this money was used to finance the King’s road. Why would Remiel want him to procure documents detailing information he already knew? Garran had a good idea why, but the cold presented a more pressing issue at the moment, so he used the pages to stoke a bigger fire.

Garran used the last page to light another laudanum-laced tobacco twist before dropping it into the flames. He leaned back and let the drug dull his pain, and when it managed that task, he continued imbibing until it did the same for his mind.

When he awoke, his fire had dwindled to a lump of glowing embers, and his stomach reminded him that he had forgotten to eat beyond a few mouthfuls of dry rations. The sky was still black, and the stars shone brightly overhead. Until the sun began to rise, Garran had little more than a guess as to the time. He rolled up his meager bedding and ate the trail food as he walked. With any luck, he could gain a couple of hours on his pursuers.

It took all of his resolve and a good bit of laudanum to stay ahead of the Urqan agents and soldiers. He exhausted his food by the second day, and his body demanded more to replace the extraordinary amount of energy he had burned during his transcendings.

Thirty-six hours without food for Garran was similar to three or four days for a normal person, and it was beginning to take its toll on his body and spirit. The thin veil of snow crunched beneath his feet, alerting the doe he stalked just ahead. The deer raised her head and flicked her ears about nervously. Garran hoped that enough of the laudanum was out of his system to transcend again. Even if it was, his energy reserves were nearly depleted and might not be sufficient to the task. Already his face was becoming gaunt and pale, even more so than his usual sickly pallor.

Garran took his focus off the deer and directed it inward, blowing on the tiny spark deep within his soul. It flickered and sputtered before flaring to life, filling its host with renewed power. Garran launched himself at the deer. The animal turned as if in a dream state. The thirty or forty feet separating him from his meal vanished in little more than a second. He held a grim smile as he reeled back his reaping blade to deliver the death stroke.

His smile vanished when his inner flame abruptly snuffed out. The deer bolted, and Garran’s blade met nothing but air. He tripped and tumbled as his meal bounded away. Garran lay on the ground bemoaning his fate until he realized that face was resting in a pile of droppings. He sat up, cursed, and flicked away the fresh pellets sticking to his cheek.

He reached down and plucked out a seed the size of a blueberry from the pile. “Hello, what’s this?”

The deer had been feeding on a stoneberry bush, passing the indigestible pits. Stoneberry seeds were inedible in their natural state, but once they passed through an animal’s digestive tract, one could crack open the tough pit and make a strong, fortifying tea from the seeds.

Garran began picking out the small stones and sighed. “I am a shit-eating fish.”

A chill wind blew against his back. Garran raised his head, sniffed the air, and worked his jaw around as if to make his ears pop. An early mountain squall was on its way in and was likely to dump some heavy snow on the mountain peaks. He needed to find shelter and quickly. Snatching up the last of the stoneberries, Garran picked up a brisk jog.

He searched the forest around him for a suitable place to build a shelter. It was a tricky proposition considering that he had people chasing after him. If he stopped too soon, they might catch up to him, heedless or ignorant of the impending storm. Dark, ominous clouds were already beginning to roll over the northern peaks to unleash their burden of freezing wind and snow onto the lower range and passes.

Garran’s breath came in plumes of fog, and the temperature was dropping rapidly. He figured he had an hour before the first snows began to fall when he spotted a stand of tall boulders at the base of a rocky escarpment. The stones and cliff face provided excellent protection from the wind on three sides. This was the best shelter Garran was likely to get, and the Urquans were hopefully far enough behind that they would not catch up to him even if they were too stupid to stop and pitch camp.

Garran used his reaping blade to hew long limbs and small saplings. He laid them across the tops of the boulders to provide overhead cover and made a pallet to keep his body off the frigid ground. He then stacked fallen timbers and branches at the opening to create a fourth wall as well as a ready fuel source for his fire, without which he would surely freeze to death within hours.

While dragging the driest wood he could find to his camp, Garran unearthed a nest of giant wood grubs. The plump, white creatures were about the size of his fingers and made for a nutritious if less than palatable meal. It took him almost half an hour to get a proper fire burning, just minutes ahead of the first snowfall. The flakes were large and floated serenely from the skies for the first few minutes. Within half an hour, it became a blizzard, blotting out the world and covering it in a shroud of death-dealing cold.

Those who lived in the mountains called this type of storm a witch’s squall. They were usually brief but extraordinarily fierce. The three rock walls helped reflect much of the heat from his fire, allowing Garran to keep it small and hidden from sight. Not that anyone could see it through the driving snow unless they stepped in the middle of it and smelled their flesh cooking.

The flakes were the size of maple leaves and covered everything in a thick, white crust within minutes. Several times during the night, Garran had to clear the snow from his shelter’s roof to prevent it from collapsing and burying him beneath it. Thankfully, the squall was a brief one and relented to gentler flurries a few hours after it started.

Garran’s leg throbbed and burned. He examined the injury by firelight and found the tissue around the wound red, swollen, and weeping. The darkening of the small veins at the site indicated that infection was setting in. With no other treatment options available to him, Garran took out the flask tucked inside his coat pocket. He cried out as the powerful alcohol dribbled onto the wound, not so much from the pain but from the sight of his limited supply running onto the ground.

He slept in fits and starts, woken several times by the pain in his leg or the sound of limbs snapping beneath the snow’s oppressive weight. Unwilling to build a larger fire, Garran’s feet and hands were numb, and involuntary shivers wracked his body. Casting his gaze down the slope, he spotted the large blazes set by his pursuers. Farther down the mountainside nestled in the cleft, several more fires dotted the pass. Those were likely the riders using the King’s new trade road. They were certainly a tenacious lot.

The rising sun was just barely hinting at its impending arrival when Garran set out after fashioning a pair of snowshoes from supple pine boughs and braided cord. The blanket of snow would make it all but impossible to elude the Urquans, so his only hope was to stay ahead of them. A light snow was still falling, but not enough to cover the deep trail left by his passing.

Around midafternoon, the path he was on meandered beneath a tall escarpment with several feet of snow tentatively clinging to its steep face. Garran seized the opportunity to shake his footed pursuers and end the chase. Knowing that the Urquans were following directly in his footsteps, he deliberately walked across the base of the steep slope before working his way around to the side. When he reached the summit, Garran took up a hiding place behind some snow-covered boulders and waited.

It was more than an hour before the first enemy agent plodded into view with six more following close behind him. When the group neared the base of the slope, Garran came out from behind the rocks.

“I burned the documents, so you may as well turn around and go home,” Garran called down from his perch maybe three-hundred feet over their heads.

The lead man looked up and spotted him standing near the crest. “It doesn’t matter. We won’t let you take whatever might be in your head to Remiel.”

“The only thing in my head is thoughts of booze, broads, and brain-numbing chemicals.”

“That might be, but it doesn’t change anything.”

“Well, no one can say I didn’t try.”

Garran hurled his remaining flash bomb at a large boulder piercing the snow a few dozen feet below him. He watched it arc out and land in the soft powder several feet away from it with no effect.

“Aw, crap!”

He grabbed his reaping blade, hacked at the snow near the ledge and stomped on it with his feet. The ice shelf gave way with a deep, soft whumph. Garran scrambled to grab hold of one of the boulders mostly buried by snow as the avalanche bore down upon the men struggling to get out of its way. Tons of snow and ice obliterated everything in its path that was not strong enough to withstand the brutal pounding, and that included the men now entombed beneath it.

He looked down upon the death and destruction he had wrought, lit up a laudanum-laced tobacco twist, and smiled. He laughed uproariously when his flash bomb exploded, sending up a spray of snow. It was the perfect testament to his life.

CHAPTER 2

“Your Highness, I wish you would listen to me regarding this gala you insist on throwing,” Gregor beseeched for the third time in as many days.

“Gregor, I appreciate your caution and concern for my safety, but my roads are nearly finished, and I will not back down now.”

“I am not asking you to back down, Remiel. All I am asking is for you to proceed quietly and not rub it in The Guild’s face. You have shown them that you are the true ruler of Anatolia, but they will make your success as bitter as they possibly can. I have gotten very sound intelligence that someone is intent on hurting you.”

“Let them try!” Remiel coughed and took a deep, shuddering breath. “Even if they do manage to kill me, they will not destroy my legacy. Once the people see how I have broken The Guild and they begin to prosper, they will never allow anyone to take it away.”

“They can hurt you without touching a hair on your head.”

“You think they will attack my family?”

“I am almost certain of it, and this event you insist on is the perfect place to do it. Everyone who is anyone will see you take a blow that I don’t think any loving husband and father could withstand.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Cancel the gala.”

“Suggest something else. The Guild isn’t the only one who wants the public to see someone get knocked down.”

“Send the Queen and your children away for a while. In a few weeks, the last of the trade roads will be complete, and the Free Traders will have access to all the markets it brings.”

Remiel sighed. “My wife is not going to like it, nor is Evelyn. She is all grown up, and the wealthiest, most eligible bachelors in the kingdom are attending.”

Gregor smiled. “You’re the King. You can throw another one once the backlash has subsided. Maybe The Guild will even realize that your road is not the end of the world for their organization. If anyone can figure out how to turn what they think is a disaster into a profit, it is them.”

“I’d like to pave the last few leagues with their miserable bones,” Remiel said with a vicious scowl.

“As would I. There is a lot of blood on their hands, and none are likely going to see justice for it.”

“The blood may be on their hands, but it is on my soul. Many blame me for those who died on the road.”

“They will forgive the indenture and those who perished when their children are no longer hungry and do not face a future whose only certainty was continued poverty.”

“I hope you are right, my friend. Can you keep my family safe? I swore to give my life to this road, and I still do, but I cannot allow anyone to hurt my family because of it.”

“I will handpick a contingent of guards and agents to escort Damodara and your children to your mountain chateau. They could hold of an army ten times their size with ease from there, and we’ll do it quietly so no one even knows they are leaving.”

The king clapped his friend and advisor on the back. “Thank you for looking out for me and my family all these years, Gregor.”

“It is my duty and pleasure, Highness.”

“You say that now, but I will wager you shall be changing your tune when we tell Damodara.”

***

“You want to bundle me up and send me off like some parcel?” Damodara snapped.

“It is for your safety and for that of our children,” Remiel stressed.

“Then you should cancel the entire damn thing if there is such a threat.”

“That is what I have been trying tell him,” Gregor said.

“No, we sent one of our children away already, and I will not do it again,” the Queen said adamantly.

“Please, be reasonable. We had no choice but to send Adam away. It was for his own good just as it is for yours, Evelyn’s, and Marcus’ to take a short vacation away from the palace.”

The Queen stroked one of her sable coats hanging in the wardrobe. “It is the last chance we will have of enjoying the high retreat before the snows reach the lower passes. Gregor, do you think this is necessary?”

The senior agent nodded. “If Remiel insists on hosting the gala, we have to keep you and the heir safe.”

“You have always been brutally pragmatic, Gregor. Very well, husband, but you will either join us after your flaunting or we come home.”

Remiel looked to Gregor who nodded his assent. “Thank you for being reasonable, my dear.”

Damodara smiled and poked Remiel in the chest. “Oh, I am not being reasonable. You owe me big for this.”

“I will gladly do whatever I must to make you happy.”

Damodara leaned close and kissed her husband deeply. “You always have. When must we leave?”

“Now, Your Highness,” Gregor answered.

“Now?” the Queen exclaimed.

“It is best to leave tonight or very early in the morning before the staff and most of the city is awake. We want you and the children to leave as inconspicuously as possible. A platoon of soldiers has already ridden ahead and is waiting a few miles from the city. You, Princess Evelyn, and Prince Marcus will travel in a nondescript coach escorted by men bereft of heraldry handpicked by me.”

“As usual, you have everything sorted out, Gregor,” Damodara said crisply. “I suppose I shall go pack mine and Marcus’ things for the trip.”

Gregor cleared his throat. “Actually, Your Highness, I have taken the liberty to have your trunks packed and loaded.”

“I suppose I should have guessed.” Damodara turned and headed toward her children’s rooms.

Remiel grinned. “That went much smoother than expected. She must really believe the threat is real, or we would have been here arguing until Marcus ascended the throne.”

Remiel found Damodara in Evelyn’s room, helping their daughter pack a few things no man would think to bring. He smiled at the sight of his daughter who had managed to grow into a beautiful young woman without his even realizing it.

“All ready to go then?” Remiel asked as he stepped into the room.

“Nearly,” his wife replied.

“Daddy, is The Guild really going to try to kill you at the gala?” Evelyn asked, her eyes glistening with tears at the thought.

Remiel held her in his arms and kissed the top of her head, a feat requiring him to stand on his tiptoes these days. “Gregor is paid to worry incessantly about my safety. I do not think the danger is nearly as great as he portends. The Guild is a scheming, lying, thieving bunch of scoundrels, but they are pragmatic above all else. There is no profit in making any attempts against me now. My road is nearly complete, and there is nothing they can do to stop it. They have fought me these last nine years and lost. I will publicly declare the road’s success, and things will return to normal.”

“Will Adam come home too?”

Remiel sighed at the thought of his eldest child. “He is a grown man now. I think it might be time for him to visit if he desires. He has settled into the abbey over the years and might not want to leave it.”

“Do you think he has forgotten about us?”

“Of course not.” Remiel squeezed his daughter tightly but coughed when she hugged him back. “Come, I will walk you all to the carriage.”

Damodara kissed him lightly. “Go to bed. It is late, and you look dreadfully tired. We will be back in a week or so. You will not even have time to miss us.”

“I already do.”

“Silly man.”

Gregor escorted the Queen and their two children down the palace halls and to an infrequently used door leading outside. A young man stood nearby and stepped forward.

Gregor said, “Highness, this is Captain Owens. He leads your guard and will show you all to the coach.”

Damodara faced the agent and fixed him with a stern gaze. “Take care of my husband, Gregor Ward.”

Gregor bowed at the waist. “On my oath, I shall.”

The young captain held his elbow up for the Queen. “Your Highness, if I may escort you out?”

Damodara laid a hand on his arm and allowed him to guide her through the door. In a small courtyard, several men in ordinary clothes stood near a coach and baggage wagon. The driver opened the door to the coach, and the royal party climbed inside. Damodara stopped with one leg on the step and looked at the driver.

“You are not one of my regular drivers.”

“No, Your Grace. Arnold came down with the crud.” He turned out the collar of his coat and flashed his silver agent’s pin. “Don’t worry, Highness, you’re in good hands.”

“I expect so, but I would know the name of the man driving my carriage.”

The man ducked his head. “Dragoslav Zeegers, Your Grace.”

***

Garran’s skin was clammy, sweat rained out of every pore in his body, and a strong wind blew against his face. The world bobbed and tossed him about like a ship in a storm. It took him a moment to remember that he was on a horse. He had stolen it from somewhere, but his mind was awash with various hallucinations and could not remember where or when.

The Urquan agents, the mounted ones who had used the lower passes, had pursued him halfway across Anatolia, and it appeared as though they meant to chase him right through Leva’s gates, assuming he could stay seated in the saddle long enough to reach the city.

It had been an intense week of cat and mouse. Several times, Garran thought he had finally lost the Urquan riders only to find them hot on his heels the next day. Leva’s high walls and towers hove into view, bobbing and wavering in his sight. For a brief, nearly cognizant instant, Garran thought he might make it. His vision blurred around the edges and spread inward, darkening from red until it all went black. Garran fell against the horse’s strong neck. He became a passenger, no more in control than a pair of saddlebags.

***

“What do you make of this fellow?” a gate sentry remarked when he spotted the horse trotting toward them with its rider draped across its neck.

“Likely a drunkard,” another answered.

“Bit early for that, don’t ya think?”

“Not for some. At least the horse seems to know where it’s going. See if you can’t grab the reins when it comes through.”

Four soldiers standing guard at one of the primary city gates raised their arms over their heads and tried to coax the animal to a stop. The horse slowed enough when it drew near for a pair of them to grab hold of the reins and calm it down. The other two grabbed the rider, slid him off the saddle, and laid him onto the ground.

“I think that’s Agent Holt.”

“What’s that stench?”

“Yep, that’s Garran all right.”

“No something’s gone foul. There, his leg. Cut away the trouser leg.”

One of the soldiers drew a dagger and ran it up the seam of Garran’s pant leg, revealing the gangrenous wound. “That’s bad; we need to get him to a physic.”

“Wait one second.” The soldier began patting Garran down from head to feet.

“You find any other injuries?”

“Injuries? No, the shifty bastard owes me fifty dinarins.” He stood up in disgust. “Bah, broke as usual. All right, toss him in a wagon and haul him to the physic’s. Maybe Gregor will kick in a few bits for us saving him.”

“We haven’t saved him yet. From the looks of him, he’s got one foot in hell already. Even if he makes it, that leg will likely not come back with him.”

“You don’t know Garran Holt. He won’t die. Neither death nor the devil wants to deal with the likes of him.”

***

The carriage creaked to a halt, and Captain Owens opened the door.

“Why are we stopping?” Damodara asked.

“It’s a few more hours to Highrest, Your Grace, and I thought you all might like to take a minute to stretch and walk about before the last leg of our jaunt.”

“Thank you, Captain, that is very considerate of you.”

The carriage passengers got out and stretched while the soldiers dismounted and took up positions around the area. Marcus immediately took to exploring the limits of the perimeter.

After a brief respite, Captain Owens ordered his men to mount back up and requested the royal party to return to the coach. Dragoslav held the door open until Damodara and Marcus entered but slammed it shut before Evelyn could join them.

“Mr. Zeegers, what is the meaning of this?” the Queen demanded.

Dragoslav slipped a pin in the door to secure it shut. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but you and young Marcus will be making this last journey on you own.”

“Guards, detain this man and let us out of here immediately!”

The soldiers ignored her command, several of them even looking away to hide their shame. Captain Owens took ahold of Evelyn’s arm and pulled her away from the coach. Dragoslav climbed onto the driver’s bench and cracked the buggy whip until the horses were galloping at a dangerous pace.

The carriage careened down the road, heedless of the passengers’ safety. A sharp bend rapidly drew near, but Dragoslav only urged the animals to greater speed with his whip. He leapt from the bench at the last second, rolling off the road and into the ditch. Damodara held Marcus tightly as the feeling of weightlessness came over them, refusing to let loose the scream desperately trying to escape her throat until horses, coach, and passengers crashed onto the rocks eighty feet below.