Stardeep (4 page)

He quit the chambei. Back in the empty hall, he didn’t bother to check the temaining two doots. He made directly fot the door at the end of the hallway. No mote distractions. He glanced at a document he’d snatched from the desk: a map of Sathra’s base.

He was close to retrieving his prize.

He was close to claiming Angul, the Blade Cerulean.

The door at the hall’s end opened on a wide warehouse. Wooden crates of various sizes were piled everywhere in haphazard stacks. Dangling lanterns from above provided weak light. The smell of wet stone was strong in the chamber. Gage crept along the outer wall, ready to fight or flee should he be discovered. Voices in the central portion of the room banteted back and fotth. Were they members of Sathra’s Shadow Cadre, or merely brute laborers?

A man’s rough voice echoed, “Didn’t listen, did ye? Didn’t listen when old Bendar told ye not to take that snake charmer’s coin. Oh, no! And now look what ye got!” A laugh.

A different voice answered, this one slurred with drink or

disfigurement. “Damned hedge wizard. How’d I know he could make good on his promise to curse me? I had to slit his throat, though. Passing phantom coin just ain’t good business. He had it coming. I don’t deserve what I got in return, I’ll tell ye that.”

“Snakes keep finding ye, eh? Even in winter’s cold. Gotta watch whete ye step, eh?”

A grunt in return.

“Ha! Old Bendartoldye!”

Gage left behind the bantering voices as he slipped into a side passage. He caught his breath—a huge form was propped on a stool too small for it, blocking most of the cotridor. An ogre! Tattooed and pierced, Gage recognized it as one of Sathra’s trained guardians. The figure shifted and loosed a hooting snore. Not trained well enough.

He eased past the creature and tiptoed to the passage’s end. Another look at the map, a grin, and he found the secret catch in the floor. Down the narrow, steep stairs he disappeared, guided by the greenish glowing eye on his left gauntlet.

He came to the secret sliding panel the map promised, and paused to listen. All was quiet in the chamber beyond. He slid aside the panel and saw a wide vestibule. To one side, broad steps mounted upward. On the other side, a rounded door closed off Sathra’s personal quarters.

Gage moved along to the iron valve that sealed Sathra’s vault.

Sathra’s name was inscribed on the rusted surface. Rumors suggested Sathra’s personal quartets served double duty as the treasury vault of the Shadow Tongue criminal organization, but he hadn’t believed them. His skepticism may have been misplaced. Either way, vault or personal quarters, it seemed likely he’d find the sword Angul within. A pitted metallic wheel protruded from the iron door, next to a keyhole. To the side was a pull chain. A few heartbeats examining the wheel

‘and keyhole revealed expertly wired elements of a mechanical trap. Mechanical, probably riddled with spells to boot. Sathra could afford to be lavish with her security.

But Gage was no slouch. He pulled his packet of alchemically hardened, arcane-proofed tools from his belt. It was rare that a mechanism, trap or otherwise, got the better of him. He just needed to study it awhile, get a feel for it…

The wheel spun, squealing. Someone was behind the door, about to emerge!

He stood from his crouch, dropping his tools to the Hoot. The sound of the turning wheel covered the noise of his metallic files as they slipped loose from their case and clattered on the floor. He kicked the implements into a corner.

No place to hide in the vestibule. Up was the only way to go.

He jumped, right arm straight up. His palm slapped the ceiling. Crunch—the mouth on his gauntlet bit into the stone, as he’d hoped. The little beast would bite anything it could get its mouth on. Hard. The trick was making the glove let go. He’d once used it as a climbing aid, but feeding the demon something tastier than stone with every handhold proved too cumbersome.

With his gauntlet holding flat against the ceiling, he swung his legs back and forth, and with a stifled groan managed to swing them up flush to the ceiling, then thrust them into the corner where two walls met.

The wheel ceased spinning and the iron door below Gage slammed open. Sathra stormed out, screeching. She cradled one hand in the other. The cradled hand was red and blistered. It trailed smoke and the odor of burnt flesh. Had she just botched a spell or alchemical mixture?

The decorative metal spikes in her hair barely cleared the thief’s suspended form. The description Gage paid good coin for was accurate. Sathra’s infamous gluttony was visible in a

full figure beneath folds of black silk. An overabundance of black metallic jewelry pierced her flesh.

The description he’d paid for failed to mention the shroud of shadows coiled around Sathra like mist. The darkness trailed in her wake, uttering a susurrus of whispers, “… find out where… lost the light… so hungry… cold…” He held his breath, clamping down on an urge to gasp with fear.

Gage waited only a moment after the sound of the last whisper faded up the stairs. He dropped, or tried to. As before, the glove wouldn’t release the ceiling. He hung down in front of the door by one arm. He rifled his belt with his free arm, anxiously glancing up the stairs, then into the vault. Lucky she’d forgotten to close the door…

Damn it, she must know he was here! But why hadn’t she attacked him when she opened the door? Because she burned herself, he answered. She was in obvious pain. Perhaps she had simply forgotten to close the door. Not evetything was a trap.

Right. That’s possible. The leader of the Shadow Tongue forgot to close the door to the vault containing all her most valuable loot. Sute.

It was a false hope. You didn’t become the head of a criminal organization as powerful as Sathra’s if you made mistakes when distracted. Which meant she probably went up the stairs seeking underlings to deal with the intruder in her lair. Him.

With his left hand, he found a niblet of jerky on his belt and held it up next to his gloved hand, still affixed to the ceiling. The mouth unclenched and he dropped, landing easily on his feet. He flipped the jerky into the waiting mouth. It gibbered and noisily chewed its bribe.

Time to run. He hadn’t adequately investigated the nature of the vault. He should retreat, make a plan. But wasn’t that

a blue glow ahead? It reminded him of Angul’s signature aura. By the frost giantess’s icy kiss, the sword must be just inside.

He ran. Into the vault, not up the stairs. Stupid, stupid!

His pulse pounded and a flutter of reckless joy stuttered his breathing. He was in uncharted territory, and he liked it. Taking uncalculated risks meant he wasn’t dead. He took them willingly—they weren’t pressed on him by any sense of duty or because of a devotion to a higher power. He was his own man.

He was too close to retreat. He was about to lay hands on Angul. No doubt about it. He’d recognize that unearthly flame anywhere. The blade must be secreted just ahead. He wondered how Kiril, Angul’s legitimate wielder, was reacting to the loss of the sword she complained about so vociferously.

City of Telflamm, Shou Town

The blueness darkened in the stone, leaching away over several days until it was black as grave dirt. The sky’s glad hue that had silhouetted the symbol of a white tree conveyed hope. Against the black, the white tree seemed defenseless and fragile. Overlapping inscriptions nearly too small to recognize as anything other than texture cramped every other surface of the stone, in a language not spoken for thousands of years. A silver chain clasped the stone, making an amulet of it.

The amulet was the single forget-me-not given to Raidon Kane by his absent mother. It was Raidon’s most treasured possession. Fearing its theft, he hid it away. And thus he failed to see the ttansfotmation.

The amulet lay unobserved in a delicate cedar box. The box was carefully packed in a travel bag hidden behind a bamboo panel in the room Raidon shared with a man named Huang.

Huang was heedless of the concealed box, which would have made the man an ideal lodge mate, except for Huang’s arresting odor. At first, Raidon endeavored to ignore the smell. Eventually, he decided the best way to disregard the aroma was to avoid it. Raidon began spending mote and more of his free time away from their room.

Thus Raidon chalked up his discovery of a fine tea house to serendipity. The tea house became, in just a few short tendays, his favorite place in all of Shou Town.

The server poured another cup from a porcelain pot, and Raidon tapped three fingers on the table in thanks. Long Jing, also called West Lake Dragon Well, was the best green tea in the city of Telflamm, and maybe all of Thesk. He sipped.

Perfection. Some of his tension evaporated in the wafting steam and delicate taste.

Long Jing was shipped from the east at great expense— Raidon indulged himself, though he could scarcely afford it. It was grown only in the mythical Zhejiang province in but a few tea gardens. Local teas couldn’t match it. Raidon hoped rumors of trade disruptions along the Golden Way were merely merchants’ talk, a bluff used as a bargaining tool to drive up prices. Raidon didn’t mind high prices, as long as the tea remained available. West Lake Dragon Well was worth it.

But his cares could never be drowned, only momentarily assuaged. Raidon grunted and took another sip. Around him, gentlemen of leisure enjoyed similar moments of peace, savoring their favorite teas. One man had brought his pet bird. The red-feathered creature held tightly to its silver perch and twittered a pleasant song. Singing wasn’t permitted in the tea house, though apparently the ban didn’t apply to pets. Or perhaps, the ban didn’t apply to this particular man of leisure.

His name was Chun. Who could have guessed that from all the tea houses in Shou Town to choose from, Raidon and Chun would find the same one?

Raidon considered serendipity again—if not for his lodge mate’s disagreeable scent, Raidon wouldn’t be present to contemplate violence. Raidon would still be worried about his petition to the Nine Golden Swords. As the elders of Xiang Temple taught, “The usefulness of a cup is its emptiness.” In other wotds, he hadn’t known Chun would be here, but now that he did, Raidon could adapt the moment to his ambition.

Chun had wronged Raidon, though the man of leisure didn’t know it. Chun had taken a family heirloom from his father in payment for a debt never incurred. Chun had stolen Raidon’s family legacy. His grandfather’s sword, his daito, handed down from his own grandfather, who gained the sword from a dragon. In the normal course of things, Raidon’s father would have passed the daito down to Raidon’s fitstborn child—but Raidon’s father was dead, and the daito was gone.

Raidon stood and shook out the sleeves of his decorous silk jacket. They snapped, as if he were initiating the first moves of the Leaping Tiger. He paid his coins on the table, then his hands were empty, open, capable of anything. Like the empty cup.

To restore the honor of his dead father and absent mother, Raidon had pledged the legacy would be restored to the family. He would claim grandfather’s daito, even if comity in the tea house had to be sacrificed.

He bowed to the server, then walked toward Chun’s table. Chun sat with two other men and a dark-haired woman—Chun’s girl of the day? The men were of the Nine Golden Swords, as was Chun. Raidon knew it by the small tattoo each displayed. He had petitioned to join the secret society of vicious criminals. He had petitioned in order to get close to Chun, a mid-level thug in the hierarchy. All those preparations had been unnecessary—chance had dropped into his lap an opportunity to confront Chun.

Raidon reached the table. He stared straight at Chun, ignoring the unspoken rules of civilized behavior among sttangers. Chun was no stranger to him. Raidon flexed his empty hands, hidden as they were in his long sleeves.

Had he known he would one day wield the family sword, perhaps Raidon would have spent less of his life training in the Xiang monastery, achieving mastery of his mind and body. Of course, sword play was one aspect of the training he received in Xiang; no monk of the temple could leave its bounds until he or she demonstrated facility with traditional weapons. But Raidon’s best talents did not require such mundane implements as sharpened steel. His body was weapon enough.

“Your presence upsets my bird,” said Chun in a bored voice. A dangerous voice.

“And your presence sours tea across Thesk,” replied Raidon, his voice as calm as if he’d commented on the chance for rain.

The two men on either side of Chun jumped to their feet. The bird screamed. So did the painted woman.

Raidon observed the scene as if he stood apatt from it. From their sitting positions in relation to each other and the table, Chun and his thugs had only a limited number of actions they might effectively take. Raidon knew what they were, and was prepared.

One thug knocked the table as he rose, spilling tea. The other’s hand went to his dirk. Raidon backhanded the second man with his right fist as the thug’s hand cleared his scabbard, sending the dirk whirling. Raidon followed with a hook from his left elbow, perfectly sticking the side of the thug’s head. As the thug slumped, the monk slipped around the table, taking the fallen man’s vacated position. This put Raidon out of reach of the final thug and next to Chun.

Chun drew his sword and expertly grasped its deadly

length. His two-handed grip on the wrapped hilt, called the tsuka, bespoke training. The blade was an unwavering diagonal line.

“Raidon Kane,” said Chun.

Raidon paused, nonplussed. Chun recognized him? Perhaps the murderer’s presence wasn’t the coincidence Raidon imagined.

“You have named me.”

“Your petition to the Nine Golden Swords is approved,” said Chun. “I’ve been dispatched to tell you.” The temaining thug to Chun’s right edged around the table so only empty space separated him from Raidon.

Chun continued. “Your first task is a simple one.” He caught Raidon’s eyes with his own. “You are to journey to the Temple of Yarom here in Telflamm, where blasphemers claim a soul’s salvation lies beyond life, even beyond the gods we all revere. Raidon, you are to deliver them to that final day. Today. See to it these fools who deride the gods are pushed through death’s door. Since they doubt the gods’ divinity, let them pass into darkness. As they’ve lived in ignorance, so shall they die. By your hand.”