Pathfinder Tales: Lord of Runes (6 page)

Before I could ask, she shrugged and pulled me up into a warm, wet kiss. Usually I’m the one that does the pulling, but I didn’t mind. Before I could really make an effort, she set me back down and sucked in her lip, like she was considering.

“I got a room over in the Heights,” I said.

“Too fancy. Too far.” She shrugged again, like that was that. She put the crossbow on her shoulder and jogged down the alley.

I thought about the drakes I’d seen earlier. So much for good omens.

At the mouth of the alley, Janneke called back to me. “My flat is on Wave Street. Try to keep up.”

I put a kiss on my fingers and blew it to the sky. “Desna smiles.”

3

The Fencing Academy

Varian

Ringing steel and the whisper of leather shoes on a wooden floor spilled out of the open windows above. On the oaken door before me, a pair of carved knockers depicted an imp and drake locked in mortal combat. Diametrically opposed in almost every regard, the venom-laced stingers at the ends of their agile tails formed a visual rhyme to the hissing rapiers, equal but for the skill and determination of their wielders. To me, the image also symbolized the city of Korvosa, the first bastion of Chelish civilization on the Varisian frontier. In many ways the drakes resembled the free-spirited Varisian people, in other ways the dour but independent Shoanti. The cruel imps, I regretted to admit, characterized the draconian regime that had ruled Cheliax for most of my life. I framed a silent prayer to Desna that the drakes would fare better against the imps than the natives had against my homeland.

Rounding the corner of the building, a young man in homespun clothing set aside a broom and hastened toward me. To continue sweeping the porch so long after sunset, he must have been desperate to impress the fencing master. With a glance at my bearing and attire, the young man recognized my station. He bowed and opened the door for me.

Arnisant’s ears perked up as he saw the fencers inside. He looked to me for instruction. I gave him the sign to remain by my side. His ears remained up, alert to any danger that might threaten me.

Inside the grand hall, four pairs of young students fenced. Slightly older students judged each bout, all under the watchful eye of Master Dengaro. He glanced up, clearly surprised to see me after so long an absence. If he despised me still, he hid it behind a veil of courtesy.
He clicked his heels and bowed with a Korvosan flourish. He raised his eyes, indicating the one I sought was on the balcony, before returning his attention to the fencers.

As we went to the stair, I appraised the students. Black mesh masks obscured their faces, and they were garbed head to toe in white canvas uniforms. Their slender bodies moved with both natural grace and practiced skill.

Two stood out among their peers, a boy and a girl. Almost simultaneously, both won final touches, bowed to their opponents, and doffed their masks. The girl looked up to the balcony for approval. The boy looked to the girl for the same. After a moment’s search, both sighed with disappointment.

Some things never change. With a sad smile, I ascended the stairs.

Balconies overlooked the great hall on all sides. Two rows of chairs gave the east and west wings the appearance of a playhouse. That resemblance was not far from reality, as the Orisini Fencing Academy hosted exhibitions throughout the year to ensure a steady stream of applicants. Those from wealthy houses paid outrageous fees, allowing the impoverished to win entrance with a demonstration of devotion involving menial tasks and proof of exceptional talent. The boy outside was undoubtedly one of the latter.

On the northern balcony, a lone figure sat at a table. Before him lay his supper: a loaf of bread, a bottle of cheap wine, a crock of butter, and a plate of fruit and cheese. Beside him rested a rapier in a plain leather scabbard. Behind him stood a pair of iron candelabras with only two of its candles lighted. The spring breeze tickled the flames.

At my approach, the man stood. He noted the blade at my hip. On the table, his sword remained well within what I knew to be his draw range. He clicked his heels and offered me a curt nod. “Count Jeggare.”

I returned the gesture. “Master Orisini.”

“I heard you’d been eaten by werewolves.”

“I heard you had been hanged for treason.”

“Later, a visiting Pathfinder mentioned you’d been chopped to pieces by Tian brigands.”

“But then I asked myself, ‘How could Orisini be hanged if he had already been trampled in the Blood Veil Riots?’”

“Some say a Kyonin dragon made you its slave. Its
intimate
slave.”

“Some say that, do they?” Orisini’s eyes twinkled as he saw he had scored a touch. I made a note to track down the source of that rumor for a later reckoning. “One might as soon credit the tales that you’d grown too old to teach swordplay.”

“No sooner than one might believe you’d joined the Mendevian Crusade. Count Varian Jeggare, crusader of Iomedae? Ha!”

“Or that you once donned the helm of a Gray Maiden and performed the dance of Shelyn’s seven feathers for the Sable Guard.”

At that he lunged toward me, his reaction confirming that the rumored details of his escape from the Sable Guard had substance. He enveloped me in bone-squeaking embrace. Arnisant growled, but I gave him the sign that all was well.

“I
hadn’t
heard you won the bid on the sun orchid elixir, you old bastard.”

“Have a care, Orisini. Men have suffered for lesser insults.”

“Lesser men, perhaps.” He slapped my back a little harder than friendship allows. “I’m saying you look twenty years younger than the last time I saw you, and I don’t mean elf years. You never learned to take a compliment like a man.”

He knew perfectly well it was his reference to my parentage that vexed me—not his notice of my revived youth, which had nothing to do with the fabled age-reversing elixir of Thuvia. I held him at arm’s length for a better look.

The years had been crueler to Vencarlo Orisini, whose blood was entirely human, than they had been to me, whose human blood mingled with elven. Vencarlo’s hair had grown more white than gray and more gray than black, although he still wore it tied back in the classic swordsman’s queue. He had gained a few more lines on his face and a few more inches around his waist. The glove on his right hand had not escaped my notice, nor did the fact that two of its fingers never moved. And yet in his storm-green eyes stirred the same violent righteousness for which the man had become famous—or infamous.

Vencarlo leaned out of the balcony. “Matteo! Make yourself useful and bring our guest a plate and goblet.” He offered me a seat. “I hope you will pardon the wine. I finished the last of yours last winter.”

“I recall your imbibing little.”

“I like drinking wine more than I used to.” In his sigh I heard the echo of my own regrets, all the more poignant since he had been little older than a boy when we first met, and now he looked older than I appeared. “Anyway, I drink more.”

“I shall instruct my factor to increase your shipment.” I produced a bottle from my satchel. “In the meantime, we have this.”

“The ’84?” He lowered his voice in mock awe as he accepted the bottle, yet I heard some sincerity beneath the scorn. He set to work on the cork.

“Here is a little more to replenish your cellar,” I said, removing the other bottles I had taken from Ygresta’s store room. The enchantments on my satchel made its interior the equivalent of a bookshelf—or, for tonight, a wine cellar. “An old friend recently passed on to Pharasma’s Spire, leaving behind seventy years’ of stock. If only he had told me he had given up drink, I would have sent some other token of remembrance.”

“Then we must toast the old teetotaler and beg Cayden Cailean for forgiveness on his behalf.”

“The god of drunkards never punishes the abstemious,” I said. “He pities them.”

“As must we all.”

Matteo came pelting up the stairs, pausing only to walk a wide path around Arnisant, who clearly outweighed him. Regaining his composure, the young man lay a pewter plate and goblet on the table. Over one arm he bore a basket containing more bread, fruit, and cheese, which he set before us. At the smell of food, Arnisant gave Matteo a firm poke with his nose.

“Arnisant!”

The hound froze as still as a Tian guardian statue. Seldom did he require a verbal admonishment, but he was quickly becoming a disgraceful beggar. It was time to reinforce his training.

“Is there anything else I can do to serve you, Master?”

“No.” Vencarlo’s stern expression betrayed not a shred of approval.

The boy’s shoulders slumped. He bowed and turned away. I raised an eyebrow at Vencarlo. He struggled to conceal a smile. Before Matteo reached the stairs, Vencarlo called out, “There is one more thing.”

Matteo turned, his face glum.

“Tell Dengaro your lessons begin in the morning.”

“Yes, Master!” The boy’s face brightened like the dawn. He bowed, nearly throwing himself to the floor in his excitement. “Thank you, Master!”

“Now leave us.”

Matteo practically floated down the stairs. A moment later, Dengaro’s voice boomed over the sound of the fencers. “What?!”

Matteo said, “I swear, Master Dengaro, I have only repeated the master’s words.”

“Is he so drunk already?”

Vencarlo chuckled. His voice had grown richer over the years, lairing deep within his chest.

“Dengaro will think you have gone soft.”

“Perhaps a trifle sentimental.” He filled my goblet, dashed out the contents of his, and refilled it from the fresh bottle. “To absent friends.”

We drank.

“On my way from the Acadamae, I heard a commotion on the Shingles,” I said. “At first I thought it might be the villain Blackjack, but the laugh sounded more like a woman’s.”

“If you mean the hero Blackjack, who liberates the wealth stolen from the poor … Well, I agree the laugh could use some work.” He thought for a moment. “
Was
it a woman’s voice?”

The implication surprised me. If he was unsure whether the new Blackjack I had heard was a man or a woman, he must have had more than one successor. “You are expanding the franchise?”

“Forget I said anything.” He shrugged. “I should be more circumspect when talking with a count of Cheliax. After all, we have not always been on the same side.”

“Indeed.” I left unspoken what we both understood: it remained possible we would be set against each other again one day. “I still say yours was the best laugh.”

“Did you know that Fedele once confided in me, during a lesson, that he wished he had come up with that laugh first? He had no idea he was complimenting his nemesis. He always wished he were more of a swashbuckler. It galled him that Blackjack had more panache than the captain of the Sable Company.”

“He always admired you.”

“As Vencarlo Orisini, the fencing master.”

“He admired both of you.”

After a moment’s reflection, we raised our cups again.

“To Fedele Ornelos.”

We drank.

We refilled our cups and sat. Vencarlo filled his plate. I wanted only a few olives and a bit of bread. My appetite, so long denied, returned reluctantly.

“Do you mind?” I held a lump of cheese over Arnisant’s head. In an instant, the hound was drooling.

“Not at all.”

Setting the morsel on Arnisant’s nose, I replenished the wine in my cup and relaxed in my chair. Vencarlo watched the hound, his eyes gradually widening as he observed Arnisant’s discipline. At last, I gave Arnisant the sign. His gray jaws blurred, pink tongue licking out once. The cheese vanished.

“That is a good dog.”

My old fencing master and I exchanged stories of the past decade while listening to Dengaro correct his students. When they finished a few hours later, Dengaro called up to say he was locking the building. Vencarlo and I continued reminiscing as the night birds sang outside the balcony. Across Garrison Hill, carriages returned nobles from their visits, and night watchmen called out the hour. Vencarlo opened the third bottle.

The tales I shared of my recent journey were mere sketches of what had proven some of the most eventful years of my life. As I recounted my travels through Ustalav, Tian Xia, Kyonin, and Sarkoris, Vencarlo reacted with skepticism.

“Just how many dragons do you encounter in a year? On average.”

Undeterred, Vencarlo told me his own stories, each more improbable than the last, and one with a dragon of his own. Despite my respect for the swordsman, I suspected his competitive pride caused him to embellish the truth.

The stories he told of the person—or persons—who had taken on the mantle of Blackjack seemed tame by comparison. One such anecdote involved recent murders near the Acadamae, which Blackjack or Blackjacks had investigated to no avail.

“The victims were all found drained of life. After a lull, most believed the killings were the work of a vampire that sated its hunger and moved on.”

“You say ‘most believed.’”

Vencarlo nodded. “Over a year ago, there was a string of disappearances, also around the Acadamae.”

“Do you think this killer became careless in disposing of the bodies?”

“Maybe, but the descriptions of the missing differ from the recent dead. The ones who disappeared were almost all big men. One was a half-orc, strong as an ox. They were laborers, street criminals, brawlers, mercenaries—what the Sczarni call ‘hard men.’”

“And the recent victims?”

“All sorts, but generally night workers: lamplighters, street sweepers, watchmen, harlots, and the occasional Acadamae student who went out drinking. They don’t fit the profile.”

“A deduction worthy of the celebrated Count Jeggare.”

Vencarlo choked on his wine. He eyed me over his cup. “I can’t decide whether that’s a compliment, and you’re just that conceited, or it’s an insult, and you’re just that foolish.”

“Perhaps a bit of both.”

As he drank his wine, his eyebrows rose at a new thought. “You don’t think this friend of yours was a victim of the killer, do you?”