Rhys Vardran

  Dar Tulca

  Missio post otium

  

  Hagas O’ Cyran

  The Lesia patrol hadn’t moved from the bridge since they had arrived there. From the cottage they had taken over during the night, Hagas could see the comings and goings on the large stone bridge over Rochstab River. Horses had arrived at some point from Rochstab town that was but a few kilometers to the south, but other than that the bridge traffic had been minimal. Probably they warned everyone to use the bridge near Jackal’s Fort and the Desert Road to conduct their business so as not to clog up this road.

  Thus leaving it open for the Lesia army.

  Pretty well-organized cunts, Hagas decided, already impressed with the speed and decisiveness the Lorians had reacted to the main raid. Now that eagerness could turn fatal as Flardryn waited at the mouth aboard the galleass Arassil, along Captain Aelmar with Delgarandis, and Ettrisar aboard Peniril, to bludgeon anything coming out of the gulf in pursuit.

  But it was impressive nonetheless.

  “Where does the 2nd Leader’s mind wander?” Vaerdiel O’ Atriesha queried, the fit Zilan female smelling fresh after managing to bathe herself in the river. A risk the others were unwilling to take during the night. Vaerdiel was born in one of the sister towns at opposite sides of famed Bariesha Lake on the island of Nureria. The second town of course taking its name from the lake itself. Not many of her neighbors had made it out. Actually other than Lady Aenymriel Hagas didn’t know of another and it was similar with Theodil O’ Onas’ Fort, the other Hoplite inside the cottage’s living room. Onas’ Fort of course stood once as watchtower facing Hector’s Peak to the east and the lost city of Elauthin to the west.

  The old Imperial Capital.

  “Cunts,” Hagas murmured and felt Vaerdiel bristle in anger as he turned around. “They make it difficult for us to get moving.”

  “We can rush the bridge,” Theodil offered and Hagas run his covered with thin leather strips fingers and hand over his shorn skull. A protective measure, fist fighters used. Not that Hagas liked using his bare fists.

  But everyone in the Cryptae did at one point or another.

  “Keep your helms inside the haversacks and your ugly heads covered with headscarves,” Hagas grunted after a thoughtful moment. “We’ll use any clothes we find inside this house to cover armour-markings and in the event we have to speak, remember that we are freed gladiators.”

  “What about her?” Theodil asked and Vaerdiel hissed, already fired up from Hagas’ earlier comment.

  “She’s a slave owner,” Hagas decided. “Taking us on a tour.”

  “Eh, I shall not take orders from her!” Theodil grunted.

  “Shut your mouth!” Hagas snapped at him. “Vaerdiel takes command in the event I don’t make it. We don’t keep ranking here. You want more, best her, but not afore we finish our job. Until then, I hear another word about this, we are going to have problems Theodil and out here there are no mediators.”

  Other than him.

  “I can’t believe Aquilan couldn’t make it,” Vaerdiel noted and Hagas gave a nod, turning towards the door as he’d heard Tanyth O’ Abarat returning. The youngest of their squad was monitoring the back of the Lorian cottage for them.

  “Aquilan had to handle an Aken problem,” Hagas told them.

  “A lot of soldiers are coming from the town,” Tanyth reported looking at everyone. “We’ll need a local map to exfil, sir.”

  “No map is needed yet. We’ll just follow the river to its sources and find our target there,” Hagas replied with finality and with a last glance at Theodil, he added. “Rest up, I’ll keep watch until nightfall, then we move.”

  Rhys strolled through the open adjoining entrance hallway’s doors, open since no doors had been installed yet, or any furniture for that matter. The first thing finished were the stables and the large kitchen on the north side of the villa, with the first floor’s walls and roof completed a couple of days ago.

  The half-Nord Moore stood near the entrance and watched the laborers finishing the internal stairs leading to the terrace. The man was armed with several blades and clad in medium-armour, so Rhys slowed down near a pile of planks and snatched a couple of floor-nails from a sack just in case, since he only had a pair of leather pants on.

  And his golden smile.

  “Hey, there. Ye tall fucking bastard,” Rhys rustled in his usual warm and fussy manners. “The fuck do you want? The Villa is closed for all non-members. Haha!”

  Moore grimaced a little peeved, probably at the amount of fucks used. “The Chief wants a word.”

  “Why come with the blasted carriage? Caught a case of nasty hemorrhoids from the saddle and dropped riding altogether alike a little cunt?” Rhys asked, slotting a long iron-nail between mid and ring finger to use as weapon. The custom made nail was pretty rusty, but rust didn’t prevent penetration last time Rhys had checked.

  “We found the carriage…” Moore wiped his mouth with the back of a hairy hand. “The Governor waits in there.”

  Aha!

  “The big carriage?” Rhys grunted and glanced over the mercenary’s shoulder at the yard where the carriage was parked.

  “Aye. Just hop inside to speak with him, Rhys.”

  “What was that? You want to suck my phallus? Nah. I’m spoken for and you look like a brothel-loving dude to me. How about the good Lord comes in here instead? We got nothing but shade, but it’ll suffice.” Rhys retorted.

  “Why would…? Gods damn it, are you stupid?” Moore cursed and glared at the grinning Rhys. “And what’s with all them weird fake teeth?”

  “Solid gold teeth goatfucker!” Rhys taunted aggressively. “Custom made Zilan denture by a real technician,” he added snapping his jaws audibly.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like a deranged freak,” Moore hissed. “Are these fangs?”

  “No, it’s your sister’s nipples! Is that all you got? Ha! Get your sorry arse out of here!” Rhys snapped back and the carriage’s door opened with a bang. The Governor’s head peeked out looking very annoyed.

  “Is this going to take too-much longer, Mister Rhys?” Nattas protested. “I have a plaguing province to run!”

  “It depends. What do you want?” Rhys yelled at the fuming at his tone and manners governor.

  “You expect us to talk from such a distance? What is this, a Gish’s market?”

  “Not my fault you parked ten meters away. I told your hairy man,” Rhys repeated. “We can speak in here. Exercise that foot a bit, governor.”

  “Milord?” Moore probed and with a sigh of despair the governor replied.

  “Stay with the carriage, Moore. Come Sudi, we’ll talk inside the villa.”

  Storm Nattas looked tired, his head sporting several grey hairs to match the fresh wrinkles on his face and sunken eyes.

  “You are going for a warehouse look for the villa? You don’t see it outside a port usually,” the Governor commented wryly looking about the empty and rather Spartan hall, whilst putting his weight on his cane in the absence of any chairs.

  “We’ll have a nice terrace for the sun. As for the windows, they are easy to break in, so I removed them from the drawings,” Rhys replied.

  “Well, you could build a short tower and spare yourself the expenses,” Nattas taunted.

  “Ain’t worried about coin, I’ll just tax your people more,” Rhys retorted with a grimace.

  “I can build another bridge upriver, Rhys,” Nattas warned him.

  “Bridges are dangerous in the night, especially upriver,” Rhys fired back and Bekare chuckled enjoying the conversation.

  “Alright enough of this malarkey,” Nattas grunted. “I found your man.”

  “Which man?”

  “Robart Barlow,” the Governor replied at the end of his tether.

  Rhys run his tongue over sharp golden fangs. “Where?”

  “Wetull.”

  “Ha!” Rhys grimaced and then knelt to punch the nail he held in a plank. It went in right to the knuckles rust or not. “Can you be more specific?” He asked rising up pleased.

  “I can’t. But there’s a man who can lead you right to him. He’s leaving for the port of Mussel with Captain Casola early on the morrow.”

  “Barlow might be a construct, Lord Nattas,” Rhys noted. “How did you find someone to snitch on him?”

  “He didn’t,” Nattas retorted. “Grogan won’t know about our deal. Keep it this way.”

  “Grogan,” Rhys murmured, trying to remember where he had heard the name before. “So, Barlow is in Mussel or thereabouts?”

  “He’s aboard a ship. The Fleur De Luce. Whether it is near Mussel or not, is irrelevant,” Nattas expounded. “You’ll shadow Grogan and find him. Or you’ll make sure the info is correct another way.”

  “What way?”

  “Mister Larn is on Eplas. Probably Wetull,” Nattas hissed. “Open a contract for Barlow and it’ll pick the closest servant for the job, or the better skilled as I understand it. Since Larn is already looking for him, I bet it’ll write his name over any other.”

  “Many assassins on Eplas, governor,” Rhys retorted with a grunt. “If he’s too-far away, it might even go to an Oras mediator. Then he’ll have to find someone and it might be months afore we get a proper reply. You don’t order hits from a continent away.”

  “I can do whatever the fuck I want. Now, is there one available?”

  “There is, but he’s in Rida at this point trying to purchase a shop front for the Guild. Aside from that we do need Barlow’s real name or something to point out who he is.”

  “Constructs have names?”

  “Everything has a name.”

  “Use the name Mister Grey,” Nattas said with a grimace. “Write it down and see what Oras suggest.”

  Rhys looked about him. “I don’t have quill or paper.”

  The Governor turned to the approaching Sudi. The dark-skinned lackey had produced a vellum and a small stick of coal. He offered the paper to the scowling Rhys, who snatched it from his hands.

  “Robart and not Robert,” Nattas reminded him annoyingly as Rhys scribbled everything on the paper.

  “Listen, I can’t make the journey at this particular time, Nattas,” Rhys said while they waited for a reply. It wasn’t a certain thing anyway. Sometimes you got one immediately, others it took a bit of time and there have been instances when no reply had been given to a request.

  Gods can be busy too.

  “Why is that?” Nattas queried. “The villa can be built without you.”

  Rhys didn’t want to talk specifics with the governor.

  Nor did he want to leave Selussa alone whilst she was pregnant. Granted the Gish was there, but still… He went to answer, but noticed a name had appeared under that of Mister Barlow.

  A servant’s name he didn’t recognize and then another burned itself on the vellum just next to it.

  Ah.

  Bizarre.

  “I smelled burned paper,” Nattas grunted perceptively. “What does it say?”

  Rhys showed him the name.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Larn’s pupil,” Rhys replied thoughtfully.

  “Why not pick Larn outright? Is that ghoulish son of a bitch dead?” The Governor hissed and stabbed his cane on the dirt-covered floor annoyed. “Abrakas curse him. That’s fucking inconvenient and it might cause problems down the line.”

  “What problems?”

  “None of your fucking business.”

  “Fine. Well, I don’t know what’s going on here. It could be a number of reasons,” Rhys murmured not liking the implications and puffed out.

  “Whatever. It doesn’t matter,” Nattas decided. “I have Mister Grogan waiting in the carriage. You’ll tack him in for tonight, just a blanket on the floor or in the stable is fine. He’s used to worse accommodations. Look to befriend the guy somewhat or whatever, and come morning escort him to the ship for Mussel. Hey, consider it a paid vacation Rhys.”

  “This isn’t a hostel, governor.”

  “Eh, come on, don’t be a phallus and I’ll make it up to you. How about a crew of proper builders on my coin? Huh? Ah, there… you see reason! Truth is, I can’t be seen near him and Grogan knows you work for me on some other projects. That’s the story, so see not to make a mess of it. A simple job really. You help me tonight, I help you on the morrow and we’ll all be better for it! Sudi, tell Moore to wake Grogan and bring him here posthaste.”

  Rhys pursed his mouth and cast a blank stare on the governor’s face while Sudi walked out to return near Moore and the carriage.

  “Just find Larn and unload the problem to his lap,” Nattas added seeing Rhys’ sour expression. “Let him take care of it.”

  Right.

  Rhys returned after half an hour. He showed the non-talkative Grogan where to sleep, playing the good host and then walked the unfinished yard to enter the kitchen building that was adjoined to the north side of the main villa.

  Selussa was putting powder on Flix’s face to show him a Cofol-type makeup or some other female beauty tip, when Rhys walked inside the main hall after not finding them inside the kitchen. They had dragged their only couch there from the kitchen area –other than their cots and a table not many other furniture had arrived, despite Rhys placing the order to a Moon’s Haven carpenter some months back.

  Selussa wanted to cancel the order and buy them from Novesium or directly from Cartagen, but Rhys wasn’t about to lose the coin he’d paid upfront without a fight. So the large hall stood now gloomily empty but thanks to a couple of lightstone torches, not as dark as a mausoleum.

  Plus the nights are silent, Rhys defended his prudent policies with the Guild’s coin.

  “Let go of the brush, so I can reveal the older look,” Flix told the pregnant female. Selussa had changed into one of the Gish’s scandalously short sheer pink camisole at some point, raised too-high by her protruding swollen belly and the equally much bigger pair of breasts, not to mention that as Selussa had lowered to her knees in order to work on the sitting on the couch Gish, her fit arse had fully revealed itself to the approaching Rhys in all its enticing glory.

  “Gods damn it,” Rhys cursed, clenching his jaw. “What are you doing, Flix?”

  The Gish put the brush down and reached for a crayon. “Face painting is an art, Rhys.”

  “Her arse is a fucking work of art, but that don’t mean we have to parade the goods about! I can see both holes from where I’m standing!” Rhys roared more aroused than angry and an annoyed Selussa stood up to stare his way with suspicion.

  “We’ll have this villa to our disposal,” Selussa recited searching the nervous assassin leader’s face. “These were your words to me, Rhys. Until our child is of age. Hmm?”

  “Eh, I did say that,” Rhys admitted, let out a burp and stared at the swept from the dirt, nicely tiled floor. It was a bit chilly inside the villa’s hall. Too-humid due to the nearby gulf’s waters.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Um, it won’t be a makeup-themed evening, I reckon,” Flix decided a little disappointed and gathered his cosmetics back inside a nice leather case.

  “Alright, what did that creep want?” Selussa hissed, referring to their good Governor.

  “Now, afore we get to that… know that the governor shall dispatch a full crew of proper builders from Novesium to work on the outside details, but also polish our interior walls,” Rhys started with a fierce smile. Selussa nodded once in understanding –always a cause for concern, before stooping lithely in order to reach with a hand inside her bag and then stood up again -despite carrying all that extra weight, in order to hurl a dagger at Rhys, who had enough of a warning to dive out of harm’s way.

  Rhys rolled on the tiled floor and then jumped to his feet with a grimace of frustration. “Come on now! Think of the kid, woman!” Rhys yelled at his flushed lover, whilst Flix strolled slowly between them, walking on his small naked feet, to go and pick up the hurled dagger.

  “Rhys, I swear to Oras, if you don’t speak—”

  “I was speaking!” Rhys cut her off hoarsely, as Flix returned with the retrieved dagger and half his face under the white powder stuff, but both his brows penciled. “Then had to duck for cover!”

  “Rhys!” Selussa screamed to drown his raised voice.

  “A job came up,” Rhys grunted, staring at her contracting tanned neck and the swell of her milk-heavy breasts starting right below.

  We also want to sleep with her again, Bekare whispered forlornly, turning his arousal into a violent flinch.

  “What job?” Selussa hissed narrowing her eyes confused with Rhys’ weird reactions. The Guild’s leader flashed her a strained smile, putting all those gold teeth to good use.

  “Robart Barlow showed up,” Rhys explained upon realizing the grin didn’t work like before.

  “He’s here?” Selussa asked a little worried.

  “Somewhere in Wetull,” Rhys said immediately and Flix started chuckling, after hopping on the couch. The Gish had a similar white camisole on and his toes painted white to match it.

  We can bring the Gish in too, Bekare whispered, although it might be better to kill it in its sleep afterwards.

  Fuck’s sake, shut up ye murder-loving apparition, Rhys retorted, losing his train of thought.

  “Barlow is in Wetull,” Selussa murmured oblivious to his internal turmoil. “And the former Baron, the Lord bastard, knows it how?”

  “He has an associate,” Rhys explained. “We can use him to track down Barlow.”

  “Write a contract,” Flix proposed. “You just need the name given to the construct, in order to discern it from the original.”

  “The real Barlow is long dead,” Rhys grunted. “And we tried the contract trick, but it returned the boy’s name.”

  “Toutatis?” Selussa frowned. “Why not Ralnor? They are always together. Did something happen?”

  Eh, it’s likely.

  “He could have let the kid go on his own,” Rhys blurted out instead, saying the wrong thing afore he could control himself and Selussa clenched her jaw angry.

  “Ralnor would never do that!”

  “He did with me,” Rhys argued, although he tried to prevent himself from speaking. Just stop talking, Bekare urged him as well, but he just couldn’t. “Callous son of a bitch.”

  “Shame on you, Rhys Vardran!” Selussa snapped furious. “You are alive because of him and you know very well it was you that decided to leave us back then!” She roared and then turned around in order to march livid towards the kitchen. Selussa slammed the door behind her and the sound echoed inside the empty hall.

  I couldn’t watch him hurting you, Rhys thought staring at the closed door. Both of you. Fuck the guild, you are more important.

  Why couldn’t you just say this? Fine, you may be a human alas, but you don’t have to be a fool on top? Right? Bekare wondered in his head and the grimacing Rhys’ eyes stopped on the Gish’s painted face. Flix was putting some red crayon on his mouth not really bothered with their argument.

  “Not easy to kill Ralnor,” Flix commented seeing his incredulous stare.

  “You could have told her that,” Rhys grunted irate. “Sort of helped a brother out here, you know?”

  “Anywhere else but in Wetull,” the Gish expounded, probably to show the ogling Rhys why he didn’t speak earlier. “This goes for all.”

  “He’s fine,” Rhys argued with a croak.

  “The construct has taken the real Barlow’s place?” Flix queried changing the subject.

  “Larn saw the real mediator get killed, then buried him,” Rhys explained breathing out. “This one is a fake. Yeah.”

  “Where is the Aken that made him?”

  “Ugh? No Aken. This Mister Grey is the blasted culprit!” Rhys grimaced as the pressure had made both his ears pop.

  Not how it works, Bekare whispered. Unless Grey is a Bonemancer himself.

  What? Rhys asked.

  “A made-flesh construct can’t predate its target,” Flix said and walked near him. Rhys had to strain his neck looking down at the very short feminine Gish. Despite his claimed years, Flix wasn’t unpleasant to look at with enough makeup on and a good wig. The wig was missing and the Gish’s thinned and washed-out pink hair broke the illusion a bit. “If the switch happened after the real Barlow was killed, then either Grey or an Aken made a construct of him they control. What did you write on the paper and where is this Barlow?”

  “He’s on a ship probably and I wrote his real name,” Rhys replied with a frown.

  “Would Toutatis be aboard a ship?”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Then if he’s near or thereabouts to Mister Grey, this Barlow construct isn’t on a ship.”

  “A port? People live on boats.”

  “We are talking about a construct tasked with a job.”

  “So what?” Rhys insisted.

  Flix pouted his painted mouth. “Fine. Maybe. Or Grey isn’t with the construct. He doesn’t have to be.”

  “How can a fake person learn to be a Bonemancer on his own?” Rhys queried and Flix shrugged his naked shoulders.

  “Every art can be learned eventually. You just need time. Now, military constructs couldn’t grow out of their roles usually or were too-preoccupied fighting, but other creations could. It depends on who made Mister Grey initially, because he’s not a young construct for sure,” Flix paused to think about it. “No Aken generals then or their pupils. Hmm.”

  A Galith Elder, Bekare suggested. Given the talents I’m hearing this Grey possesses, he must be one of Zargatoh’s, who was on Eplas for a long time. He uses eye-colors to name his different creations or other variations always color-based, so that’s another clue. Everyone uses something different.

  Ah, Rhys stared in Flix’s unsuspecting face, a sweat rivulet trickling down the assassins’ guild leader’s forehead. “Ehm… could it be… hypothetically, an Elder of Galith?” He asked and Flix narrowed his eyes curious.

  “Only one comes to mind, but still, it’s been eons upon eons since he last surfaced,” Flix replied measuring his words. “The Aken don’t build ships for they fear Abrakas.”

  Abrakas my arse. Obviously they know how to get one! Every art can be learned and obstacles can be circumvented, Gish, Rhys thought, remembering the Gish’s own words from earlier.

  “Do you know who I’m talking about?” Flix asked.

  “Enough with the patronizing tone, Gish! Of course I fucking don’t!” Rhys retorted aggressively, deciding not to out himself and the dead Alafern chick out.

  Gratitude, Rhys, Bekare said politely. Although, I wasn’t technically alive in the first place nor a chicken.

  Nobody gives a shite, Rhys countered. Let me hear my fucking thoughts!

  “That’s true, you wouldn’t,” Flix agreed, but he was clearly bothered with something.

  “Wouldn’t what?” Rhys growled, as he’d forgotten what they were talking about.

  “Know what I meant,” Flix repeated patiently. “Tell me, where is this Grogan right now?”

  “The stables,” Rhys replied and breathed out. “I need you to stay with Selussa while I escort him to Mussel on the morrow.”

  “You won’t survive in Wetull nor locate Ralnor, if he’s in trouble or in hiding,” Flix cut him off with a grimace. The Gish appeared troubled. “What were Grogan’s vices? The Governor seemed reluctant to keep him around.”

  “Little shit, you eavesdropped?” Rhys snapped and then recoiled as Flix had leaped to land his small fist in his solar plexus. Grogan was wanted for smuggling, murder and rape, a worried Bekare whispered, her memory better than his. “Damn you… little fucker. Oh, shit!” Rhys cursed ogling his eyes now in the grips of full panic. Then they both heard Selussa’s muffled scream coming from the kitchen’s closed door and leapt into action.

  Eh, fuck me, a deathly worried Rhys cursed as he burst into the Kitchen kicking the door off of its hinges. He spotted a disheveled Selussa stumble next to the sink and run to her, slipping on the large pool of blood staining the floor momentarily. “Rotten Hells!” Rhys growled and then grabbed the deflated woman’s arm. “What’s all this blood? Are you alright? SON OF A BITCH!” Selussa had a nasty gush on the left side of her head, the cut as long as his index finger. It was bleeding a lot and she appeared to be dazed. “Who did this? Where is he? SPEAK DAMN IT!”

  “He’s dead,” Flix told them. “Stop howling in her face idiot.”

  The Gish’s voice had come from behind the cases with dried up produce and supplies, they had received from the miners. “A kitchen knife to the right ear. Came out the left side of his jaw.”

  “I turned my head… and he hit me with an iron rod,” Selussa finally murmured as Rhys helped her sit on a chair. “When I came about that… bastard was all over me. I panicked and just reacted, Rhys.”

  Thank Oras you did. My beautiful lethal girl!

  “Did… Did he…?” Rhys asked unable to get the words out. “Fucking hell!”

  “Just check her wound, and stop yelling you fool!” Flix cut him off and Rhys grunted in frustration.

  “Let me see it,” he tried to say feeling guilty for what had just happened, but Selussa pushed his hands away.

  Rhys was remorseful but also furious with himself.

  “Had me convinced he would harm the baby, so I fought back. He kept mentioning... how good I felt after so long in the hole... his hands and mutterings… what finally jolted me awake...” a pale Selussa recounted, taking a moment to express everything, while Rhys listened grimacing, and trembling with suppressed anger, as he struggled to restrain himself from striking the kitchen counter.

  Absent another target.

  Hurting you was even worse! Rhys thought, grinding his teeth, but kept it to himself.

  Good. You’re thick as a brick wall, Rhys! Bekare hissed, sort of backing his decision.

  “What happened?” Flix inquired as he came closer, offering a towel to Rhys.

  “He believed I was a Cofol slave... serving the villa,” Selussa managed to say with a bit of effort. She didn’t look all there.

  “It's okay,” Rhys comforted her. “Press this against your head for a bit. We need to tend to the wound.”

  “Use a healing potion and new wrappings,” Flix recommended. “Keep her seated in that chair, in case she has sustained any brain injury. A head trauma can turn fatal long after it occurs.”

  Rhys shot a frustrated glare at the Gish, but then nodded, clenching his jaw.

  After making certain Selussa had escaped the worst, Rhys went to take care of Grogan’s corpse. The ex-convict had no other injury than the rather gruesome wound on the side of his face. Selussa had almost cracked his skull in her panic and Rhys kicked the dead Grogan in the ribs hard enough to break a couple, before Flix’s voice stopped him.

  He might have landed a good number of kicks in overcome with rage.

  “We might need the body,” the Gish said in a quiet voice and Rhys turned around to stare in his face bewildered.

  “What for? He ain’t leading us anywhere now!”

  “Lower your voice,” Flix warned. “She’s finally sleeping.”

  “You said she shouldn’t.”

  “It’s been two hours. I gave her a healing potion,” Flix replied. “You are too emotional.”

  “I almost had her killed,” Rhys grunted, the realization crushing him. “Can’t keep my mind straight lately damn it!”

  “Why is that?” Flix queried and walked near Grogan pushing past the grimacing Rhys.

  Don’t tell him anything! A panicked Bekare hissed in his ear and Rhys flinched all wound up like a coil, his nerves shot.

  “Eh, I underestimated… this bastard,” Rhys croaked with difficulty.

  “You did. Had another girl been in Selussa’s place, he might have done even more harm,” Flix agreed, not helping Rhys’ guilty consciousness.

  “What do we say to the Governor? We need to take care of Barlow, the bastard has caused enough grief already.”

  “I’ll go,” Flix said simply and knelt near Grogan’s head. “We are lucky he wasn’t a construct.”

  “You are retired,” Rhys reminded him. “Too-old and thinking of spending the rest of your days out of harm’s way. Wetull is a death sentence for our kind. Your own words.”

  “Old I am,” Flix agreed and stood up. “Well past my expiration date in fact. He-he,” the Gish chuckled and glanced at the frowned assassin leader. “Nothing to live for and with all my friends and loved ones already dead. We were both made in a sense by monsters, Rhys. Mine unfortunately was much worse than yours because she had better options available than Ralnor ever did. Anyways, let’s just call it an extra mission after retirement. A bonus, uhm.”

  “Right,” Rhys grunted although he wasn’t certain where the Gish was going with this. “Lord Nattas would expect a living Grogan to board the ship, and even if we pull that off… how in the all-hells are you going to approach Larn? Assuming he’s still breathing. He hates imperial cunts!” Rhys grimaced and then lowered his voice. “I didn’t mean you…” he added and Flix chuckled.

  “I don’t mind the language,” the Gish said with a silly smile and cast an appreciative look on the assassins Guild Leader.

  “You know this shite makes me uncomfortable,” Rhys snapped. “Cut it out.”

  Flix sighed. “We can load Grogan on the ship and I’ll get rid of him later. Use the governor’s fear of exposition against him. I’ll take care of the ship’s captain’s concerns with plenty of coin.”

  “Ah. What about finding Larn and of course locating Barlow?” Rhys asked. “Grogan ain’t saying shit, anytime soon or ever. The dead don’t talk.”

  Hey! An insulted Bekare protested. Not true!

  “There are ways,” Flix murmured and went towards his cot. Rhys walked after him, but paused to check on the bandaged Selussa, who slept peacefully near his own bed. They had used a part of the kitchen as a bedroom of sorts. “And Ralnor will listen once I tell him Selussa was almost lost by Grogan’s own hand. The love for his strays is very strong. Yes, it is.”

  “Love? Do you know what he did to her?” Rhys hissed and Flix nodded.

  “Had he didn’t, she would be dead now or worse. It’s the only thing Ralnor knows, what he taught her,” the Gish said. “Things really. Some he learned from Edlenn, and others from Dar Nym. Ralnor is a very simple creature once you get to know him. Still a monster, but not much of a mystery. He’s stays near Edlenn’s daughter and if she’s around then Ralnor is safe. It is a strange dynamic they have.”

  “Not if Garth finds them first,” Rhys grunted and the old Gish let out a series of muffled giggles. “What so fucking funny? You know I talk about the dude with the big ole wyvern?”

  Flix sobered up and then stared at the frustrated assassin with strange red-rimmed eyes shaded with blue paint and long eyelashes. “The witch’s natural weapons, is Hardir’s biggest weakness,” the Gish professed and then added in between chuckles. “And her biggest weakness, is that darn fool’s specialty.”

  “The wyvern?” Rhys guessed.

  “Glen didn’t need the wyvern to deal with the witch,” Flix retorted and with a small hesitation he added. “This witch.”

  “Aha,” Rhys nodded once although he had no idea what the Gish was mumbling about, then asked. “Who the fuck is Glen?”

  Early the next morning

  “A Ticu’s tits! What’s wrong wit him?” Socrates Casola, the Juno’s captain grunted, eyeing the bandaged and covered in a blanket Grogan, Rhys had carried on the brig. “Something he ate?”

  “Had too much rum, then jumped to bed but missed it and cracked his head open against the tiles,” Rhys explained and walked past the captain towards the quarterdeck’s cabins. “He’ll sleep it off in a day or two.”

  “What if he doesn’t?” Socrates queried, munching on tobacco. His mouth had almost as many gold teeth as Rhys’, but in a much worse condition.

  “We’ll cross that bridge,” Flix told the curious captain, face half-hidden under a giant hat to protect himself from the morning sun and draped in a tight and lacy summer dress with flowery patterns. “When we find it.”

  “Don’t know about no bridges. Tis a ship and not a carriage,” Socrates griped and crooked his mouth. “I got to report to Mister Lotus the cargo is safe.”

  “Tell the governor Grogan boarded,” Rhys said getting out of the cabin, where he had dropped Grogan’s covered corpse on a bunk bed. “I’ll report the same thing.”

  “I don’t give a copper about the governor,” Socrates Casola grunted. “It’s Mister Lotus ye should worry about.”

  “Socrates. Know that it’s the other way around,” Rhys said placing a heavy hand on the captain’s shoulder and looking into his eyes intently. “And if you want to worry about something or someone, worry about me and this lovely Gish.”

  “Is that so? What’s her story?” Socrates murmured a little taken aback and Flix chuckled in a coquettish manner making a small twirl on the modest heels of his new boots.

  “Keep me well-pleased, dear captain,” Flix babbled, using both hands to brush down the modest dress that had somehow risen to his thighs. “And I just might tell you.”

  “Eh,” Socrates murmured crooking his mouth and then walked away from them.

  “I think our captain is married,” Flix declared sadly.

  “Plenty of other sailors on the ship. Just give them a day or two to get fully drunk,” Rhys half-barked, a little emotional, as he wasn’t that good in saying good-byes. “Be careful, Gish,” he added looking away and Flix touched his hand in a comforting manner.

  “Whatever you hear,” the old Gish told him. “Keep her away from Larn’s enemies. To love someone in this business is a weakness Dar Tulca,” Flix continued. “But to love Dar Eherdir’s pupils stands a death sentence.”

  A moody Rhys left the masqueraded Gish aboard Juno and strolled through Moon’s Haven port towards the tied horses. He wanted to return near Selussa and Villa Silentium as fast as he could, but the half-breed with the scarred face waited for him sitting on a log near the water trough. Sudi Lotus carried an ornate cane like the one Lord Nattas had, but didn’t appear to need it.

  “Mister Vardran,” Sudi greeted him and stood up. “All is well, I gather?”

  Rhys crooked his mouth and checked whether Sudi was alone.

  “It’s a public place,” Sudi said as if to ease Rhys’ worries or warn him.

  Rhys nodded. “Everything is fine,” he grunted through his teeth.

  “Good. The Chief was worried. It’s good to get a problem out of the way.”

  “It’s a bit soon to declare victory,” Rhys commented and went to his horse.

  “Perhaps you should have taken matters in your own hands then,” Sudi suggested.

  “The Gish is better for this mission.”

  “Um.” Sudi smacked his lips and cast his stare on the open sails of the departing Juno. His left eyelid stood lower than the right, the whole left side of the half-breed’ face a little off. “The Governor was busy with city matters today and I need to tackle another problem, so I’ll have to travel as well today.”

  “Aha,” Rhys retorted. “You needed something?”

  “Keep an eye out for the Zilan,” Sudi said.

  “We have Zilan around here?” Rhys grunted.

  The Zilan can be dangerous, Bekare whispered in confidence.

  “We do,” Sudi rustled. “You don’t keep up with the news at all?”

  “Not really,” Rhys grimaced. “Where are you going?”

  Sudi sucked on his fake teeth, the half-breed’s mouth had barely an original tooth left standing in there. Rhys realized that in this part of the world, the dentists were making a killing literally. “What was that?” He asked Sudi aggressively, as Rhys had missed the lackey’s reply.

  “An Issir arrived at Holt’s Stables looking for a way towards the Capital,” Sudi replied sounding troubled. “But he’d no coin to buy animals or rent a carriage, so offered a story in exchange.”

  “Right. How did that work out for him?”

  “By the time word reached my man, the news had sort of spread in the village,” Sudi continued.

  “Aha.”

  “Someone tried to take the stranger up on his offer, but something went sideways and the hostel was completely destroyed. Um. Thirty casualties in all, clients, patrons and the owner, plus the stranger and whomever visited him, disappeared in a second. The number might be higher.”

  “Wait,” Rhys said with a grimace. “When you say destroyed… you talk of magic?”

  “There are only debris left and a big hole in the ground according to the first responders,” Sudi replied. “The whole community is shook. Some speak of a falling meteor or even Uher’s wrath. Yep. The truth is that had the darn hostel been inside the village or even nearer, we might have had a whole new catastrophe to deal with. Was it magic perchance as you ask? I’ve no clue, but don’t believe it,” the lackey added breathing out. “Still, I got to find this man, if he is still alive. He’s heading for our capital perhaps, or looking for a way out of Jelin, if my suspicions are correct.”

  “What was this story then, the one he looked to get coin for?” Rhys queried, now intrigued and Sudi replied soberly.

  “The man claimed he was an alchemist.”

  “Eh? Are you serious? There are no blasted alchemists!” Rhys dismissed Sudi’s words abruptly, but Bekare let out a screeching hiss that almost blew out the membranes of his brain and retorted even more abruptly.

  Of course there are! The Alafern’s ghost squealed more lively than ever before. And we have to find him, Rhys!