Parabolis (19 page)

“What about Arturo Lucien?” he asked.

“What about him?”

“You kill him too?”

“Mister Sunday, please take a seat.”

Dale did not immediately oblige. Between them was a loaf of bread, two bowls of wild boar pasta, and two pints of beer.

“Everything will be explained. For now, let us eat.” Seeing Dale’s apprehension, Remy tried to reassure him. “It is just food.”

“You poisoned me and brought me here against my will. You’ll excuse me if I’m a bit skeptical about anything you have to say.”

“Fair enough. Would you like me to take a bite from your bowl, a drink from your pint?” When Dale did not answer, Remy continued to try and reason with him. “If I wanted you dead, Mister Sunday, you would already be dead. Would I drag you here to revive you so I can poison you again?”

The new guild master seemed to grow weary of entreating his prisoner, and so started into his bowl of boar pasta. Dale finally sat. Remy took notice but continued to scoop in the pasta without a hitch, only stopping to take generous gulps from his glass. Dale took a drink of the ale. It was refreshingly cold with just the right blend of malted barley and hops. Once he tasted it, he couldn’t stop drinking. He emptied the glass without setting it down. With a smirk, Remy gestured to one of his men who filled Dale’s glass from a flagon. With his apprehensions quelled, Dale shoveled in the pasta. The two men ate with a steady vigor found in places where men worked hard from the rising of the sun to its setting. There were active hands, steady chewing, and the distinct sound of heavy breathing through the nostrils.

With a mouthful of food, Dale asked, “So what’s this all about?”

Remy set his fork down and reclined with his beer in hand.

“We brought you here to warn you, Mister Sunday.”

“Warn me about what?”

Remy signaled the guard who promptly disappeared through the cast-iron door.

“The Balean Kingdom is about to invade.”

“Yeah? And how’s that?”

“I am not at liberty to speak to you about details. What I can tell you is that it is in your best interest to gather your family and leave the city as soon as possible—before the Harvest Festival.”

“How do you know this?”

“We know a great many things, Mister Sunday. There are people, and they know other people. These people are privy to some highly sensitive information.”

“Look, we’ve been talking about the Baleans for years. It’s no secret. And even if it’s true, the Republic nearly bankrupt itself erecting an impenetrable structure just for this occasion.”

“Mister Sunday, listen to me very carefully. I will try to make this as simple as possible. There is only one day until the Harvest Festival. You have one day to get out of Carnaval City. If you do not heed this warning, you and your loved ones will die.”

“And if I don’t believe you?”

“That is your choice. We cannot force you to leave.”

Remy set down his glass and returned to his meal. Dale had steadily curbed his eating and drinking. Now he sat motionless and watched as Remy recommenced on his pasta. He did not appear to be a man interested enough in Dale nor in Carnaval City to be lying about the invasion. Dale weighed his options. When Remy looked up to check on Dale’s motionless countenance, Dale said, “You’re telling me the truth.”

Remy wiped his mouth with his napkin and tossed it on the table. “Yes,” he replied, “I am.” Then he rose from his seat. “Now, if you will excuse me.” He buttoned the bottom of his coat and fixed his collar as if preparing for another appointment.

Dale’s mind was racing. He tried to piece together all the information. But between what he had just heard and all he had learned from Detective Lei, there was too much to sort. In the midst of the confusion, a clear question dawned.

“Wait. Why me?” he called as Remy started toward the door. “Why warn me?”

Remy opened the door and the Vengian was standing on the other side of it. He was unmasked, shirtless, wearing dark pants.

“Perhaps he can answer that for you.”

In the Vengian’s hand was a sword wrapped in cloth. He had the face of an Azuric man and appeared to Dale to be about his age. He had raven-black hair sans the customary style that would have been telling of his tribal origins. No topknot, no braided tail. It was instead cut short, barely long enough to run his fingers through. He had a sinewy, muscular cut from hours of rigorous physical training. His arm and back were heavily tattooed. On the side of his neck, the Samaeli machine cogged-compass tattoo was conspicuously displayed.

As Remy stepped past the Vengian he turned back to Dale and added, “Oh, and Mister Sunday. To answer your previous question, we did not kill Arturo Lucien.”

Dale was alone with Death.

He needed no introduction. Even unmasked and shirtless, Dale recognized the man he had helped smuggle in. It was in his gait, his countenance, his aura, the darkness—a darkness that was more than the absence of light. In the Vengian’s world-weary eyes, there was an absence of a soul. Dale was certain he was going to unwrap the sword and cut him to pieces with it. As his body instinctively prepared to fight, Dale tried to think of a way to defend himself. Still sitting, he took a firm grip of the back of the chair, and prepared to jump to his feet.

The Vengian walked slowly around Dale, giving him plenty of space, and sat in the seat previously occupied by Remy. He looked straight at Dale with those empty eyes and asked, “Do you know who I am?”

Dale, still with a tight grip on the chair, was startled by the Vengian’s quiet voice.

“No,” he managed.

“Did Remy tell you why you’re here?”

“He told me that he brought me here to warn me.” Cautiously, he pressed, “Why
am
I here? I mean…is that the real reason?”

The Vengian didn’t respond.

There was no comfort in silence. Dale couldn’t shake the vision of the Vengian lunging at him with the sword. He held fast to his chair.

“I saw Mosaic yesterday,” the Vengian said. “She’s beautiful.”

Dale realized he had assumed incorrectly. The “Azuric friend” she had spoken of was not the detective. With the realization, he felt a chill in the back of his neck.
This thing was standing next to Mosaic.
His dread turned to rage.

“Stay away from her,” he said, as firmly as he could.

The Vengian calmly reached into his back pocket. He brought forth a small, tattered book and tossed it on the table. The dulled cover read
The Walgorende’s Last Stand
.

“You don’t remember me,
rohar
, do you?”

The Goseonite term for
My Brother!
The memories came flooding in. Dale looked up, wide-eyed as if seeing a ghost. The swollen tear-troughs. The prominent scar below the left eye.

“Sparrow?”

Dale looked across the table at the man who was once his childhood friend. There had always been a blank, distant look about Sparrow. Dale would often catch him staring out into nothing. He was quiet, seldom volunteering his thoughts. But even as odd as Sparrow had been as a child, no one could have anticipated that a poor, skinny Azuric boy would become the man now sitting across from Dale. A killer. The overall appearance was intimidating, but the brutality was mostly in the eyes. The blank eyes that used to dart around and avoid direct contact were now fixed on Dale. Unmoving, staring through him. They had lost their humanity—that connection to fear, to a conscience.

The reunion was unlike those that Dale had dreamt. There was no excitement, no embrace. There wasn’t the customary exchanging of rushed, choppy stories. Just stunned disbelief. Even after the Vengian revealed himself, Dale was not convinced that his old friend hadn’t been sent into the room to kill him. Before Dale could fully accept the revelation, Sparrow had moved on to confirming Remy’s story. Dale had indeed been brought to the lair to be warned.

“Take your family south to Brookhaven before the Harvest Festival begins tomorrow night, maybe even as far as Loreland. What the guild master told you is true. The Balean invasion is imminent. Carnaval City will fall first.”

“Wait. What happened to you?”

“Get your family out of the city. Leave today.”

“I can’t. I can’t just leave. I mean—Sparrow, where have you been? On my first leave, I looked for you but no one knew where you were. Where’d you go? What happened?”

Sparrow was quiet for a moment. His face remained expressionless.

“Do you smoke?” he asked, as he reached into his pocket.

He produced a package of smokes and extended it to Dale. Dale took one and leaned in as Sparrow lit his smoke before putting the match to his own. Sparrow took a deep drag, blew the smoke through his nostrils, and started talking. Once he began, he spoke in a steady, well-paced monotone as if he were trying to get somewhere quickly. It was sparse in detail and his pacing did not allow for Dale’s questions.

“After my mother died, Master T’varche took me with him. We left the city. We traveled the world taking odd jobs and training. Always training. When I had become a man, he told me he was part of an organization. And that all the years of training was in preparation to initiate me into this organization. I was initiated and then soon after, Master T’vache was killed. I’ve been working as a part of this organization since.”

“I heard about your mom. I’m sorry.”

“Death was better for her than life,” Sparrow answered quickly.

“So, is that your philosophy on life? Death is better? I mean, you are an assassin, right? Your organization, the Samaeli, right?”

“Where did you hear that?”

“I’ve heard plenty in the last month. That’s what you are. You kill people professionally.”

“Yes. No different from a Republican Guard, who kills on order and collects his monthly pay. Only, my loyalties are to an order, not to country.”

“It’s different. Wars are declared. Soldiers are armed.”

“Is it? That’s what you tell yourself. But it doesn’t matter to me. What matters is Bale is going to attack. And you must leave today. If not for yourself, get your family out. Get Mosaic out.”

“You ever question what you’re doing? What you’ve done?”

Sparrow sighed a reluctant sigh.

“Some people were born to paint, play music,” he replied. “I was born to do this.”

“Sparrow, murder isn’t like playing the piano or making music. You’re not making anything. You’re destroying.”

“The Samaeli destroys what needs to be destroyed. You judge as if the world has two clear notes. But the piano has no right or wrong key. Each note serves its purpose when played in the right arrangement. Likewise, death and destruction may be, in its time, necessary to complete a melody.”

“You sound crazy.”

Sparrow smiled and replied, “I am crazy.”

Dale chuckled back. And for a fleeting moment, they were kids. “When did you become such the philosopher?”

“I read a lot,” Sparrow replied.

“Right. The sharpest weapon’s a well-read mind.”

“Yes. You remember.”

“I do remember.”

“I read everything and anything I could get my hands on. Starting with that.” Sparrow pointed at the old copy of
The Walgorende’s Last Stand
. Then he leaned forward. “
Rohar
, enough about what’s become of me. You have to get out of the city today.”

“How do you know all this?”

“That’s not important.”

“What about the Ancile? How is Bale going to get past the Ancile?”

“Nothing is impenetrable. Everything can be breached. Anyone, killed.”

“I have to warn someone.”

“There’s nothing you can do.”

Dale shook his head.

“It doesn’t make any sense. Why now? Bale’s been posturing for years. Nobody believes they’ll do anything about it.”

“Unseen forces dictate the course of history. The Samaeli exist to restore balance. The Republic is drunk with power and covered in the filth of corruption. Its time has come.”

“Wait. So you’re doing this? You’re behind all of this?”

As quickly as the bond between the two friends had re-emerged, it vanished. Once again, Dale saw a cold killer, a representative of some shadow league with geo-political machinations. His old friend made the Carousel Rogues seem benign in comparison. The Vengian did not answer his question. He continued to try to convince Dale of the urgency of the situation.

“Get your family together. Don’t waste time with your possessions. Head south.”

Sparrow then unwrapped the sword in his lap and handed it to Dale. It was Dale’s sword, only the blade had been reinforced and the hilt ergonomically reshaped. Dale held it up. The slightly curved grip was taped in ridged rubber, designed to keep his hands from slipping even when wet with sweat or rain. The cross guard had been shortened to perfect the overall weight balance in the hand and the blade was now the color of gunmetal. The same dark steel found on Sparrow’s blade.

“I made a few modifications,” Sparrow added. “I hope you don’t mind.”

As Dale admired the craftsmanship, the cast-iron door opened and a Rogue messenger entered.

“The Silver Fox would like to speak to you. He’s waiting for you in the forge. He says it’s urgent.”

Sparrow then stood and summoned the messenger over who handed Dale a black cotton sack.

“What’s this?” asked Dale.

“The Silver Fox says that you’re welcome to choose between this or another dose of somnidrone,” the Rogue replied.

Dale took the sack, stood, slipped the old copy of
The Walgorende’s Last Stand
into his coat pocket, and sheathed his sword.

“When will we meet again?”

“Hopefully, on the other side of the coming storm,” Sparrow replied. Then he grabbed Dale by the arm. And with the end of the world in his dark narrow eyes, he added, “
Rohar
, take care and make haste.”

Then the Vengian vanished through the cast-iron door. Like a dream. Like a nightmare.

“Let’s go,” said the Rogue.

Dale threw the sack over his head and walked in the direction he was shoved. A walk through what felt to him like humid tunnels and caves, followed by an hour-long carriage ride, and then Dale was back on the streets of Carnaval City.