The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (7 page)

Allion’s confidence slipped. Torin knew that his friend cared for Marisha with a brotherly devotion. All three had been hard-pressed of late by their newfound endeavors—those of king, captain, and in Marisha’s case, master and founder of a new order of healers here within the city. But Torin remained far and away the busiest, and Allion had taken it upon himself to keep company at Marisha’s side when Torin could not. The pair had become close, for which the young king was grateful. Especially now, as he sensed his friend’s dilemma in refusing him this request.

For a moment, Allion shifted from foot to foot. One hand twisted the tasseled ends of his ropes of office, then reached up to rub the back of his neck beneath his ponytail. Finally, it came around to pick at the hilt of his hunting knife. “When would you leave?” he asked reluctantly.

Torin kept his own arms folded across his chest. “As soon as the expedition force is assembled. No later than dawn tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? You can’t raise an army in that time!”

“We’re not taking an army.”

“You’d better,” Allion advised.

Torin disagreed. “Speed is of the essence. Summoning and outfitting a full force would require time we do not have. Nor could such a team move as swiftly as a smaller party of, say, half a dozen.”

“Half a dozen? How do you expect to find anything,” Allion demanded, “combing an entire land with but a handful of men?”

“Darinor claims that the Finlorians, if they still exist, are most likely in hiding, and will be far less likely to reveal themselves if made to feel threatened. The smaller the number, the less threatening we’ll seem.”

“And what of safety? From what little I know, this Yawacor is nothing more than a frontier wilderness overrun by cutthroats and warlords. And that’s assuming you manage somehow to survive the sea crossing.”

“That’s why I’ve come to you.” Torin grinned. Silently, he wished his friend would stop reminding him of all the obstacles that he himself feared. “Stephan is already handling the preparations. But since I can take only a few men to accompany me, I’d like you to handpick those who will see me safely home.”

Allion did not share his attempt at enthusiasm. “And what makes you think I know anyone mad enough to join in this?”

“I was thinking City Shield. You’re their captain. I’d hoped you could persuade them.”

The Fason started to object, but Torin could see that his friend was already beginning to consider whom to select. “This is madness,” he repeated finally.

“So you’ve indicated. Unfortunately, that doesn’t change matters.”

Allion glowered, then brightened as if struck with a sudden thought. “What about the Entients?”

“What about them?”

“Maybe you should pay a return visit to Whitlock, see if the meddling codgers can at least confirm Darinor’s story.”

Torin rejected the notion with a shake of his head. “And how would they do that, given that most of it is supposed to be unknown to them? Besides, we failed to find them the last time we searched, remember? If these creatures are already prowling our lands, we haven’t time to hike those mountains again, hoping that the Entients sense our need and agree to grant us an audience—especially when I see no reason to trust them any more than we do Darinor.”

Allion’s jaw worked from side to side as he searched desperately for some other suggestion. At last he yielded, heaving a sigh of exasperation. “I’ll introduce you to a few guardsmen—and let
you
explain to their mothers why it is you intend to drag them off on this fool’s adventure. Maybe then you’ll reconsider.”

“As enticing as that sounds,” said Torin, glancing at the clock that stood in its mahogany cabinet against the near wall, “I have to meet with the Circle to set things in place for the new regent.”

“I never said—”

“And please, keep it quiet. If word is spilled too soon, every guildsman and supplicant and courtier will be demanding that his license be signed or grievance heard or dispute settled before I leave. I can’t afford to be waylaid.”

“I make no promises,” Allion said.

“Nor do I require any,” replied Torin, clapping his friend’s shoulder. “As always, I trust you will do everything in your power to see that the needs of this issue are met.”

Allion frowned at the compliment as Torin released him and headed for the door.

“How did Evhan fare in this morning’s session?” the Fason called after him.

“Very well,” Torin admitted, recalling an event just hours old but which seemed to him a lifetime removed. “He held his own to the last. Had me promise him another row.”

Allion smirked with barely concealed pride.

“They made a good team,” Torin acknowledged. “I should think they’d be excellent travel companions.”

“Oh no, you’re not getting Evhan. If there’s even a chance I’ll be remaining here to look after your job, I’ll need someone to watch over mine.”

Torin suppressed a grim yet satisfied smile of his own. “I leave it to your good judgment,” he said, before flinging open the hardwood door and striding from the room.

A
LTHOUGH HE COULD BARELY CONTAIN HIS EXCITEMENT,
Pagus held himself in check, waiting until Allion had followed Torin from the chamber before dar
ing to breathe normally again. Even when he was alone, he kept still for several moments longer, tucked away in his place of concealment, waiting to make sure that none of them—the king, the Fason, or the sentries—would return. He made himself measure ten full minutes before replacing the tiny viewing slat and reaching through with his knife to trigger the outer latch.

He emerged slowly at first, a crack at a time. Once assured that the way was clear, he swung wide the door of the cabinet in which the pendulum and other clockworks were housed, and leapt free. His knees were only slightly cramped at having been pinned open for so long, and he ignored the uncomfortable tingling sensation as he reached back to latch the closet shut.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, he tiptoed toward the exit. That had been close. The herald had been tracking his king ever since the commotion of that morning, fighting to get near enough to give ear to these furtive goings-on. It wasn’t like Torin to brush him and so many others aside, and he had been all the more determined for it. When the king had found Allion, Pagus knew they would be meeting here, in Torin’s favorite audience chamber. Still, the halls were abuzz with activity, and the pair had moved with uncommon urgency. Pagus had just barely managed to squeeze into his regular hiding spot before the private council had begun.

And what a council it had been. Even now, his ears hummed, and he had to struggle to retain all that he’d heard. He didn’t want to forget a word of it, knowing that to do so would cost him dear. A miner took greater caution when carrying diamonds than coal.

By the time he reached the doorway, his heart had settled somewhat, skipping rather than pounding. The organ had nearly failed him when Torin had looked in his direction toward the end of the meeting. That had happened before, and under normal circumstances, it didn’t bother him. But given this newfound treasure, his every fiber was drawn taut, as he just waited to be discovered.

He peeked around the edge of the doorframe, glanced in both directions, then slipped into the hallway beyond. By the time he reached the stairs, his skin had cooled, and he allowed a spring into his step. It wasn’t until he reached the landing below that he met his first guardsman. Kien greeted him with a quick hello, and Pagus responded with his typically bright and eager smile.

“On my horse,” he said, making his standard apology without slowing.

He made sure of Kien’s nod before scooting down a side passage that would lead eventually to his quarters. A quick stop, then on to the stables. All the while, his smile remained, as he blithely considered just what his news might be worth.

A
SHOWER OF SPARKS CASCADED OVER HIS NAKED ARM
, covering him from chest to foot, to dance like silent hailstones on the earthen floor. Faldron disregarded them, protected as he was by his leather smock and by a hearty layer of soot and sweat. Ropes of muscle bunched and corded as he gripped the iron with a pair of tongs, while with the other arm he continued to rain blows from above.

After forty years of shaping metal in this armory that he’d inherited from his father, the smith’s hearing was not what it had once been. Nevertheless, he could still detect the ringing tones of the service request bell strung from the storefront to this, the back of his workshop—even over the clangor of hammer and anvil. He ignored its summons all the same, waiting for his loafer of a shop boy to answer the call. When after several moments the ringing continued unabated, he responded with a growl. Laying his tools and gloves beside the unfinished piece, he stanched the airflow from his bellows and closed the damper to his forge, then stomped forth to greet his uninvited guest.

By the time he reached the front, he had stowed the worst of his anger and donned the mask of geniality reserved for customer interactions. All of that changed when he caught sight of the spiky-haired youth hanging from his bellpull.

“Leave off,” he snarled, slapping at the boy’s hand. “I ain’t deaf, you know.”

The youth gave one last, accidental tug as he jerked away, just barely avoiding the smith’s meaty swipe.

Faldron looked daggers upon the scamp, who was not fazed in the least. The lad was covered in grime and dressed as a street urchin. But even this could not hide the bright eyes and even brighter smile that shone through the meager disguise.

“What did I tell you about coming to me during hours?” the smith scolded, glancing out at the busy roadway.

“Sorry.” The boy beamed without the slightest hint of apology. “This couldn’t wait.”

“Well, it’s going to,” Faldron rumbled. “I’ve told you before, even out of uniform you’re too recognizable. Come back after dark.”

“But—”

“Sorry, lad. Price you pay for becoming the king’s favorite.” He was about to withdraw when the slow clop of approaching hoofbeats drew him back.

“Master Faldron,” the newcomer hailed. “Good afternoon.”

Faldron glanced at the boy, hoping the lad had the good sense to make a swift and discreet exit. But it was already too late.

“And young master Pagus, is that you?”

Pagus coughed, cast about as if to flee, then nodded.

“Why, I can hardly recognize you. What would your king say if he saw you looking like that?”

“He’s just here to pick up a pair of heavy boots for His Majesty,” Faldron covered swiftly.

Commander Zain was a weasel of a man, with an ermine’s face to match. The thinnest tracing of a beard hugged his jawline, highlighting its sharp angles and the upturned corners of his mouth. Black eyes glittered like marbles in their sockets.

“I wasn’t aware His Majesty ever wore heavy boots,” Zain observed, peering down from his mount with a reptilian smile.

“What can I do for you, Commander?”

“Just come to check on our order,” Zain answered, his gaze bearing down upon Pagus. The young lad, to his credit, had ceased to squirm, but faced the other squarely now that he’d been found out.

“Your order will be ready in two days as promised. I might finish sooner,” Faldron added, “if you and your men would cease coming by to measure my progress.”

Zain’s horse tossed its head and gave a flick of its tail. The steed of one of his two soldiers behind him snorted.

“I do beg your pardon,” the commander offered with that infuriating tone of mock civility. “We’ll be on our way, then, and leave the two of you to talk.”

Faldron glared. “Come, lad, let’s fetch you those boots.”

Zain’s soldiers pulled aside to let their commander by, then fell into line behind him. Faldron, meanwhile, came around to grip Pagus by the shoulder. The trio looked back only once before falling in with the traffic upon the roadway.

The armorer breathed a sigh of relief. As commander-in-waiting of Krynwall’s armies and the right hand of General Rogun himself, Zain was not one to be trifled with. No doubt, Rogun would hear of this before the day was out.

“Well, then,” Faldron snarled, shaking the boy so that his pretty teeth chattered. “The damage is done. Let’s hear what you have to say.”

He shifted his hold to the scruff of the youth’s neck and hauled him around the counter, leaving the boy’s disinterested roan tethered to one side. With a stern pace, he propelled the other forward, past the front awning under which display racks showcased samples of his wares, and into the dark opening of his smithy. He did not stop there, but marched deeper, back through storerooms filled with armor and weapons in various stages of creation or repair, stowed upon shelves and racks or in assorted piles. There they came upon Tam—his
useless bum of a shop boy who hoped one day to be an apprentice—hanging gorgets upon the wall.

“Where were you?” the smith roared, kicking a battered helmet in the boy’s direction.

Tam started and fell back into a rack of halberds that threatened to tumble around him. “I…I was replacing the well rope, as you requested.”

Faldron felt Pagus twisting for a look at the other, and so jerked the herald away to keep his face hidden. “And you didn’t hear the bell from there?”

“N-no, sir,” Tam stammered, eyes affright.

Of course he hadn’t, the smith realized. Nor could anyone. “Bah,” he grumbled, and hauled Pagus onward.

The smell of fire and molten metal and singed hair replaced that of oil and leather as at last they reached the forge. They kept going until they came to a far corner where slumped a pile of coal. There they stopped, with Faldron flinging Pagus toward the mound of crushed ore and jabbing a beefy finger in his face.

“This had better be good,” he warned.

For a moment, the herald did not respond, his young eyes fixed upon Faldron’s blunted nose—an ancient injury that had never healed quite properly. Then, Pagus seemed to remember himself, and in an instant, his smile returned.

Faldron worked hard to mask his own delight as the news was delivered. The stranger named Darinor, the Illysp, and most critical to him, the report of the king’s planned departure. This last part was something for which he’d been waiting a long time, an opportunity that would surely fetch him a handsome sum.

Nevertheless, he squelched his enthusiasm, guarding his emotions behind a stern frown as he considered the eager face of his youthful informant and pretended to deliberate on what this knowledge was worth.

“You did well in bringing this to my attention at once,” he allowed. He uncrossed his arms and reached beneath his smock, pulling forth a small key. “Wait here.”

Leaving Pagus to do as told, he retreated briefly to an adjacent office, where he removed a small wooden chest from a hidden drawer. Using the key, he triggered the lock and withdrew from the chest a smaller leather pouch, which he carried forth with him.

At the sight of the pouch, Pagus’s keen young eyes widened to the size of a breastplate whose outer edges had yet to be hammered round. Faldron smirked inwardly and jingled the pouch before producing two coppers and a three-piece of silver.

As the coins fell into Pagus’s outstretched hand, his hopeful visage crumbled. He seemed at first unable to speak, then screwed his courage into place. “I thought all of that should fetch at least a gildron.”

“A gildron?” the smith balked, though he knew the value to be ten times the suggested amount. “Where would a young lad like you spend a gildron? Least of all without raising suspicion.”

“You said—”

“Bah, this news would have come to me—as to everyone—soon enough. Bring me something secret, something I can use, and the reward will be much greater.”

Pagus was unmollified. “But—”

“Keep it or return it.” He loosened the purse strings suggestively.

The herald gave him a dirty look before thrusting the coins into his pocket.

“I’ll lead you out,” Faldron offered, as if that might ease the lad’s pain.

“I can manage,” Pagus muttered. He turned and shuffled away.

The smith called after. “Wait!”

Pagus rounded, even now, with a glimmer of hope. That hope faded when the armorer handed him a pair of heavy boots.

“Consider that part of your payment,” said the smith. “You may return them to me for a copper. Next time, be more careful, or wait until dark.”

The herald slunk back the way they’d come, looking as though his horse had ridden over him.

Faldron followed him out, scanning the roadway for any sign of Zain or his men. Seeing none, he disappeared back into his workshop, there to stare at the abandoned blade whose angry red folds had chilled to burnt umber. His sudden urge was to leave it be and set forth at once to meet with his client, for by the sound of it, the man would need this word as soon as possible if he wished to organize a pursuit.

But no, he decided. Better that he follow the structure of their agreement. He did not wish to fan the man’s ire as Pagus had fanned his.

After replacing his coin purse within its chest, and the chest within his desk, he squared himself before his anvil and roared for Tam.

“Yes, sir?” the boy answered, skittering near.

“Run down to Orru’s with a full brace of butcher’s knives. Tell him to raise the red.”

“Sir?”

“Just do as I say.” He flipped the other an ivory half-piece withheld from his purse. “Make haste.”

“Yes, sir.”

When the boy had gone, leather-wrapped bundle in hand, Faldron returned to his forgotten task, suppressing the rash of anticipation that prickled beneath his skin. Firing his forge, he snatched up hammer and tongs and went back to work.

A
T DUSK, THE ARMORER RODE FROM HIS SHOP
on the back of a well-worn bay. He was an easy man to recognize, what with that twisted spade of a broken nose. His giant body was practically hairless; that which wasn’t shaved had long ago been singed to the roots. Closer up, one could see that his fire-tanned skin was mottled with burn scars, the signature of an ancient blacksmith.

“Good work, Lieutenant,” Zain said, lowering the spyglass and handing it back to his junior officer. Perched in a clouded window on the second floor
of an abandoned masonry storehouse across the way, the soldier had been ordered to keep a sharp lookout, and to alert him of this very moment. “Follow me.”

The lieutenant accepted the spyglass and saluted sharply before pivoting on his heel and heading with his commander for the stairs.

Moments later, the pair mounted their steeds and urged them into the crowded street. Night fell early during these winter months, coinciding with the end of the workday. Traffic was therefore at its evening peak, allowing Zain and his man to hide themselves among the grinding throng. They kept to the far edges of the brick-laid avenue some twenty lengths back, shielded by a wagoner and the near darkness, wrapped in riding cloaks. Within the hoods of those cloaks, they pinned an eye to their quarry at all times.

Zain recognized a rat when he saw one, especially a royal rat stripped of his tabard and masked in soiled woolens. And it was well known to him that despite his considerable skills with hammer and tongs, Faldron specialized in intrigues. To find the king’s own brat meeting with the renowned armorer on the very day in which an unknown stir had interrupted a long-planned coronation rehearsal was a matter that needed to be explored.

A choking layer of dust coated his throat and scratched at his eyes. Zain would have preferred to be lying as usual within his chambers at this time, being bathed in oils by a pair of palace wenches. But in order to retain such favors granted him by General Rogun, he had to be willing to focus on his duties whenever an opportunity such as this arose.

Time slipped by with slow monotony as they fought their way along the congested maggot trail. Behind his turned shoulder, the sun spewed a final, desperate burst of color over the city’s curtain wall before being dragged helplessly away by the night. Stars glimmered against a charcoal sky, twinkling like dying embers, as the day’s fire cooled.

All the while, Zain and his lieutenant clung to their man as surely as if they had him leashed, giving slow chase through the city streets. Faldron glanced around from time to time as if sensing he was being followed, but never came close to spying the guilty pair.

At last, after forging a circuitous route along the city’s main avenues, the smith doubled back along a zigzag path of quiet lanes and deserted alleys. Continuing the pursuit at this point was more of a challenge, but that only heightened Zain’s thrill. Working as a team, the bundled soldiers kept pace.

They came finally to an inn of some repute—and none of it good. Years ago, Zain had been a regular, and enjoyed himself well enough during those times. But over the years, his tastes had become more refined, until this place had grown too coarse for his liking. A tattered pennant flew upon a flagstaff in the small picket courtyard, fluttering restlessly in a cold evening breeze. It teased and waved, then unfurled at last to reveal the embroidered symbol of a honeycomb. The pennant was scarlet in color, Zain noted, rather than jade. The Queen’s Hive was full.

So why did it appear deserted? From his position of hiding, the commander-in-waiting breathed forth clouds as his narrowed gaze scraped over the beaten
woodwork. It seemed far too early in the evening for the Hive to have filled itself to capacity. Certainly, it was odd that none of the upstairs lights were on, rooms from which Zain would have expected to hear the sounds of drunken laughter and lecherous cajoling. By all appearances, the Hive was closed.

This did not stop Faldron, who vanished temporarily into an adjacent stable to tether his mount. Emerging a moment later, the armorer came around to rap at the Hive’s front door. Zain crouched lower, wary of being seen. He had left his lieutenant with the horses in a dilapidated shack two streets over—just a short dash to safety, without risking that the animals would give him away. Still, he bated his breath as he awaited the Hive’s response.