Roy watched Ashferth part the curtains, only enough to see Wylder swing. The shouting below rattled the Stallion's walls: his grand tavern house that made all the others in the Lesser Vior look like sheep sheds. From his solar, which sat on the third floor, they could see the Greenboys taking spear butts to the face as they tried to break through the line of armored men.
"Greater Vior comes to meddle in our affairs," mused Asmion Ashferth, "What will it take to send them back home?" The gangsman lord had dark-brown skin and long black hair that fell over his shoulders. Under a heavy grey cloak, trimmed with sable, he wore a black doublet and breeches.
His real name was Azmi Fa-Zahmir, Roy knew, but the man felt he needed a new name when he made himself known in the city. The rumors went that it was a way to escape his past that somehow shamed him. Azmi Fa-Zahmir was a poor boy helping his father sell old and sick horses, Roy had heard, Asmion Ashferth is the secret king of Lesser Vior, and soon the Greater.
"Mayhaps they mean well," Roy said, shifting in his creaky seat, "mayhaps they'll have a deal for you."
Ashferth sighed with annoyance and turned to face Roy, "Or maybe some rag knight in the Greater is ready to employ me." He snorted. "I'll never serve under some pompous sod whose only leeched from the lickspittle that sired him."
"And if they threaten with the noose? Then what?" When Roy caught Ashferth's glare, he frowned and looked at his feet. "I shouldn't have asked," he said apologetically.
"If you fear them that much, Roy," Ashferth spat, "then take flight like Ebernathy." But the mentioning of Elbert reminded him of why they were having this meeting. "About the girl," Ashferth began, rubbing his temples, "what did you find out before you were …" The gangsman languidly gestured at him for a reminder. "What was it you said? Attacked by demons?"
"I didn't know what else to call them." Roy uselessly began to think of another word, wasting more of his master's time, "Shadow-Dwellers, like in the legends, that would haunt the woods. That freak. What it did to Stinson was—"
Ashferth cut him off, his irritation yielding to anger. "The girl, damn you. For the sake of the gods, tell me about the damn girl!"
Roy drew back, swallowed, and said: "She didn't know where Ebernathy was. She wasn't alone, either. Sitting with some boy, she was. Black hair. Grey eyes."
"Did you get his name?"
"No," Roy shrugged and gave a nervous giggle, "he was nobody. He was just some young fool."
"What about the girl's?" Ashferth asked. "Did she tell you anything about why Ebernathy brought her here?"
"No."
"No?"
"I … well, she was quite timid. She didn't want to say much."
"Timid, you say?"
"Yes. Not quite, actually, but very. Very—"
"Very timid," Ashferth finished, his anger rising, "and you thought to entice her into being a whore to get her to me? That was your best strategem?"
"It's common," Roy defended himself, "I swear it, Ashferth. She was going to come with me. I had her, but then that monster—"
Ashferth quickly turned, sucking his teeth. He inhaled and bellowed: "Borro! Get in here!"
The door opened quicker than he expected. Ashferth's cousin, who also grew tired of the Iriaji wastes, stood in the doorway with his hand still on the knob.
"Yes, Az—" he stopped himself. "Lord Ashferth. How may I be of service." His voice was still thick with the accent of Dil'vanzi, their home country of which lay at the foot of the Iriaj's mountain ranges.
"I'm not a lord, you bloody idiot." He looked at Borro's feet still in the doorway, hoping his gaze sent a message to its dimwitted owner. "Did I not say to get in?"
"I am sorry." Borro quickly got in and bowed, his nervousness still making him desperate to please. "What do I do?"
Ashferth pointed at Roy with three fingers. "Strike him," commanded Ashferth, "as hard as you can."
Borro hesitated. Roy was a big man, and he couldn't see the boy's bony fist turning even a hair on his jowly face; the boy most likely feared retaliation. I doubt he knows how to deliver a blow properly, mused Roy.
"Go on, Borro," Roy said sullenly to Borro, bristling and getting ready for the punch, "try to break something if you can."
Still, Borro held himself back. "S-s-strike him with what?" he asked stupidly.
"Why, with your ball-bag," Ashferth said drily.
"I … " muttered Borro, his hands slowly and timidly going to the laces of his breeches.
Roy snapped his face away from Borro and uttered: "Easy, boy."
"Gods, you're thick," criticized Ashferth, exhausted by the idiocy surrounding him, "it was jape. Use your fist. He isn't your lovely Sweet Sera." Borro had fallen in love with one of Stag's girls; Roy himself never discovered what was so sweet about Sera when he had her last night, however.
After delivering the punch to Roy's chin, one which was limp and half-hearted, Ashferth ordered him out. Reyen could, and had, once, stricken him twice as hard, despite being four years younger. And now he's gone, Roy thought sadly, remembering his old friend's son, I promised Victorya I would care for him. Now, he's out there running away to only the gods know where. Some days he wished he would have fallen instead of Laird.
"That Borro of yours isn't meant for this life," said Roy, rubbing his unhurt cheek.
"To be sure," agreed Ashferth, "I have ways of scaring him back home. I'll let him have his fun first, I suppose. Then we'll test him. He'll run back home, back to dragging dead horses to the pit."
The gang lord sat on his divan: an expensive piece of furniture he had delivered to him from Dil'vanzi. Everything about it Ashferth swore was enchanted. The soft feathers that padded it must have been plucked from the Simurgh. The golden threads of the fabric that wrapped around it must have been stolen from the ancient pleasure towers of the Lost City. The short legs of bone that held it must have been torn from the broken bodies of the cloud giants felled in the battlefields of Valynstrom.
He gave a long, relaxed sigh as he lay himself down.
"Get my pipe," he commanded. Roy stood up and obeyed. "It's on the table. Right there, next to the— that's it. Do you see that shelf with the books? Give me that little bundle sitting on the red one."
The small bunch tied together with a purple ribbon contained three different herbs: Sweet Illecks, Wayfarer's Friend, and Sinblossom.
"Go back to the Well of Blood," ordered Ashferth as he packed his pipe, "ask around. Get Mott and his men to go with you if you're scared to go back on your own." After lighting his pipe, he drew from it, its essence filling his lungs. "You know where the door is," he said to Roy, waving a languid hand. "And if you happen to come upon them," he warned, "try minding your manners with the lady this time, yes?"
When Roy departed and closed the door behind him, he heard the booming voice and judgment delivered by the man of justice outside. "… declare … guilty of …" were some of the words Roy could make from within the Stallion, "… crimes … Barram Wylder … death!"
He headed straight home, however, leaving the silver-haired girl business for dusk. After entering his house, he went up the stairs; in his bedchamber, he shut the curtains and let himself fall upon the straw-mattress on the floor. The streets were noisy and alive with the talk of Wylder's hanging.
Roy could care less about the gang lord that rivaled his own. Had not Ashferth came to him and his men first, perhaps they would have served him as well. As he tried to sleep, he found himself thinking about the time before his men were brutes for wealthier city folk.
They were blades for hire, under the leadership of a man named Jaiden of Hornwell. There came a long time of peace, unfortunately; the cities seemed to leave each other be. Little Reyen was growing hungry. Brigandage became their only option. Scraping only a few dents and coppers from lonely travelers and weakly guarded caravans, they barely made enough to keep themselves fed.
Jaiden had an idea one night. While they were deep in their cups, the man declared that they should sack his home village. It was no secret he despised Hornwell; his neighbors had hated his family, and the lord worked his father to death. "I can feel our luck changing, boys," Jaiden had said that night, looking at the starry sky. "You see that? A shooting star, that was. And look how brightly the Silver Ox shines." He threw his cup into the campfire and shouted, "the goddess of fortune is on our side!"
Another false sign; Jaiden had put too much faith in the stars. Before they attacked Hornwell, there were twelve of them. Only five went home. The memory of that day came back clear. Ill luck, Roy told himself as he did the other times he remembered the siege, ill luck was all it was. Had we planned the attack a day earlier or later, things would have been better. The portion of a liege lord's army was passing by when they heard the screams of villagers. Quickly, they came to their vassal's aid; the pillagers soon found themselves surrounded. Their misfortune had maddened Jaiden.
"Bugger the stars," Jaiden had raved as he held his sword against Lord Hornwell's throat, "bugger this damnable village. I'll kill you all. This our bloody day! We'll kill you all!" The captain pleaded for the lord's release. If Roy remembered correctly, he was a cousin of the Hornwell lord. There was a moment of silence in the village: Jaiden held the fate of his men in his hands.
Ever so softly, Jaiden said: "It's an awfully unlucky day for all of us."
After he sliced open the lord's throat, a dozen crossbow bolts stuck into his torso; two buried themselves in the dead lord's torso. More bolts flew, and Roy turned and ran. They had set up a camp over a nearby hill, and when he got there, he met Stinson, who had arrived before him. After half an hour, Shegg showed up with a crossbow bolt planted below his knee. Robertus and Frankton were helping him up. When no one else showed after an hour, they headed back home to Beggar's Keep.
All Roy managed to steal away with was half a loaf of bread and a fat wedge of cheese. At home, Reyen ate it all in a heartbeat. It was what the boy said that shocked him, however: "Thank you." He hadn't said anything to Roy since Laird's death. He felt there was hope between them; perhaps one day he'll tell him the truth. Sir Laird was my real father, the boy had screamed at him, you killed him. He had stricken him for that. Never once had he hit him; small wonder he sent him running away. But perhaps it wasn't a lie, though Victorya told him Laird hadn't even touched her for those months. Roy had, however, when she was feeling lonely and forsaken by her knightly husband. The gods know he had loved her long before Laird did.
That damn enchantress, thought Roy with anguish, we should have slain that demoness in the pond, but we were too weak and stupid. We fell so easy to her charms. The noise outside finally died down; the crowds must have dispersed, and each member returned to their daily duties. She enticed Laird, my best friend, and then she took my Victorya. And now …
Roy's eyes sprang open, and he sat up, terror filling his chest.
And now she's taken him! Roy got up and stumbled over his sheets. He headed down the steps, then towards the steel room. In there, he kept a collection of weapons and armor he had gathered over the years as a mercenary. Such armaments were either picked off corpses or taken from cities his employer's successfully conquered.
How could I have not seen it? Roy cursed himself as he looked for a good sword and dagger for his belt. Who else could have spawned such monsters? He adorned his sword belt with Marla: A pretty sword with a long, single-edged, curved blade. The weapon had been taken from the lord of a Sarazzalean city, one far too old and lost to wield it. No doubt the name inscribed in the fuller was a woman or a place close to the doddering bastard.
Victorya took his place, giving herself up to save her son. After finding a dagger, he slipped on a leather jerkin; his hair bristled when he remembered how Stinson shrieked as the wooden spearhead dug into his flesh. She promised to leave Reyen alone, but why trust such evil beings?
Hanging on the wall was perhaps the most expensive item in his collection: A metal crossbow with two pairs of limbs, allowing it to hold and fire two bolts before reloading. The crafter had placed an iron head of a barking dog at its front: the bolts spewed from its maw when fired. The Alaunt was this weapon's name. It used to belong to a princess of Aventyn, one who was known for her cruelty and unruliness. After her assassination, one of her killers, Lumm Greenspool, took it from her cold hands and sailed back to Roum. Had Lumm not tried to cheat Ashferth, this exquisite piece would still be in his possession; now the assassin was just bones in the bed of Butcher's River.
She will not harm that boy. He took a quiver of bolts of a hook and headed out of the steel room. She's already stolen enough from him. Pushing open his front door, he took a cloak to protect him from the cold. He remembered the sewed-up living corpses in her congregation and tried not to think about Reyen becoming one of them.
Waif in the Weeds, Roy thought with contempt, Mistress Rayhanei, you have robbed me of my closest friend and my love. He walked down the road and turned right onto Bronze Street, towards the stables to buy the swiftest horse they had. You will not have my son.
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