Forge of the Mindslayers: Blade of the Flame Book 2 Page 7

  Diran considered the tale that Asenka had told him. After a time, he asked, “What became of the sister?”

  Asenka shrugged. “No one knows for certain. The legend is that she just disappeared one night from her quarters in the baron’s palace, never to return.”

  “What was the sister’s name?” Hinto asked.

  Asenka frowned. “Didn’t I tell you? It’s Nathifa.”

  A burst of laughter broke into their conversation. The companions turned their heads, curious who made the sound, but everyone around them was busy talking or drinking and seemed to be paying them no attention whatsoever. The only even remotely suspicious person they saw was a small cloaked figure sitting at a table alone, nursing a mug of ale, and he appeared lost in his own thoughts, though it was difficult to tell since his features were obscured by his hood.

  Asenka bid them farewell soon after that, urging them to stay out of trouble during the remainder of their stay in Perhata—an admonition which elicited a snort of laughter from Ghaji. Asenka gave Diran a last lingering look, said, “See you around, Priest,” and then left the inn.

  Diran watched her go, then turned to see his friends grinning at him. He scowled. “Whatever you’re thinking, I wish you all would stop.”

  “We’re not thinking anything,” Ghaji said, “are we?”

  Yvka and Hinto shook their heads in mock innocence, still grinning. Tresslar, however, said, “Well, I’m thinking that it’s getting near the dinner hour and that we should eat soon.”

  Diran, glad for the opportunity to change the subject, said, “I agree.” He raised his hand and motioned to attract the attention of one of the inn’s servers. A young man came over to take their orders, which, considering that all the inn had to offer this night was fish stew and hard-crust bread, didn’t take long. As the server headed away from their table, Diran turned to Ykva.

  “You were saying something before the Coldhearts barged in.” He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Something about Aldarik Cathmore.”

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  Diran stood shivering on the raised wooden platform. He was dressed only in his breechcloth, and though the dank air raised goosebumps on his bare skin, it wasn’t the cold that made him shiver. It was fear.

  Standing next to him was a brown-haired man who also wore nothing but a breechcloth. Unlike Diran, the man’s wrists and ankles weren’t bound together by leather thongs.

  “Take a good look at him, folks!” the man said. “He may be young, but he comes to us from the Lhazaar Principalities. Life’s rough up there, so you know he comes from hardy stock!”

  “He’s too skinny!” someone shouted from the crowd.

  Diran tried to see who it was, but while the platform he stood on had light-stones embedded along the edges, their radiance was somehow directed inward, illuminating only the platform itself. The area beyond was shrouded in shadow, and though Diran could tell that the chamber was crowded with people, they were only silhouettes in the darkness to him. He could hear some of them whispering to one another, and he could smell the tang of human sweat and nonhuman musk.

  “True, but then he’s only a child.” The man turned to face the crowd and chuckled. “Which, of course, is why you’ve all come here tonight.”

  There was a scattering of dark laughter throughout the crowd. Before being brought here, Diran had spent several days in another chamber, bound in darkness within a large cage. He hadn’t been alone. Inside the cage with him had been a number of boys and girls, some older than him, many younger, all similarly bound, all wearing only undergarments. They sat and talked in the darkness, with no food or water, and they saw no sign of their captors until tonight when an everbright lantern lit the chamber, carried by a grim-faced half-elf. He unlocked the cage door, entered, chose a child seemingly at random, and carried her off through a tunnel entrance, taking the light with him. The half-elf returned three more times, taking a different child every time. The fourth time he’d picked up Diran and carried him out of the cage, through the tunnel, and into this chamber where he was placed on this wooden platform next to the brown-haired man.

  While Diran didn’t know exactly where he was, he understood what was happening. This was a slave auction, and he was the one currently up for bid.

  “I have no doubt he’ll grow up to be a strong one,” the slave-trader said, “assuming you’re looking for a worker, that is.” More laughter from the crowd. “But you don’t have to take my word for it. See for yourselves.”

  The man’s facial features began to blur, shift, and reform. His brown hair became thick and black, and he grew taller, his lean arms and legs taking on muscle. His chest became broader, his abdominal muscles more defined. When he was finished, he looked like a human male in his mid-twenties, with shoulder-length black hair, and a lean, almost wolfish face, with a penetrating intelligence in his gaze.

  Diran couldn’t believe it; the slave-trader wasn’t human at all but rather a changeling!

  Women in the crowd—and some of the men—let out appreciative whistles.

  “Spare us the parlor tricks, Rawiri!” a voice called out. “Do you really expect us to believe you know what the boy will grow up to look like?”

  The changeling turned to face the challenger. “You must be a first-timer—and a latecomer to boot.” Though Rawiri appeared different—Am I really going to look like that someday? Diran thought—his voice remained unchanged. “This is the fourth time tonight that I’ve done this. I could defend my methods, but there are many buyers present this evening who have been valued customers of mine for years. They can speak to the accuracy of my predictions as well as I, if not better.”

  People spoke up from within the darkness that hid them from Diran’s view.

  “It’s true!”

  “The changeling has a gift for it!”

  “I’ve been buying from him for the last twenty years, and he’s never wrong!”

  Rawiri bowed in appreciation of his audience’s support. He straightened and said, “If you have no further objections, I will continue.”

  The challenger, whether convinced or merely silenced by the crowd’s support of Rawiri, said nothing.

  “Very good. Now, who wants to start the bidding at one hundred gold?”

  People in the crowd began to call out offers. The changeling remained in Diran’s form—or rather, his extrapolation of Diran’s adult form—during the bidding, perhaps as a reminder to the audience of what they were buying. In the cage, Diran had heard some of the older children talk about what uses they might be put to after they were sold. Physical labor was the least of it. They might be put to work in brothels or used as pleasure-toys by their new owners. They might be sold to wizards for experimentation or to dark priests for sacrifice. There was even talk that they might be sold as food for those with very particular tastes. Whichever one of these awful fates might be his, Diran was determined to avoid it.

  He’d done more during his time imprisoned with the other children besides listen to their dire predictions for the future. He’d worked slowly and methodically on loosening the leather thongs that bound his wrists and ankles, stretching, twisting, pulling, all the while feeling the leather chafe his skin raw. When the pain became too much to bear, he switched to gnawing on the thongs binding his wrists. When the pain become tolerable again, he returned to stretching and pulling. His plan was simple: when an opportunity came along, he’d break free of the weakened thongs around his wrists, then use his hands to pull off the loosened restraints around his ankles. After that, he’d run as fast and far as he could.

  He’d been lucky so far. Neither the half-elf nor the changeling had noticed what he’d done, but Diran knew his luck wasn’t going to hold out for much longer. If he was going to escape, he’d have to do it now, before he was bought and his new owner decided to inspect his purchase.

  Diran rolled his eyes upward and allowed his body to go limp, not a difficult accomplishment given that he’d had nothing
to eat or drink for several days. As he fell toward the platform’s surface, he pulled his wrists away from each other, and the leather thongs tore like wet vellum. He hit the platform, reached down to his ankles, and yanked the loosened thongs over his bare feet. The leather straps were still tight enough to take skin with them as they came off, but Diran didn’t care, didn’t even feel it. All that mattered was he’d made his opportunity, and he knew he had only seconds to take advantage of it.

  He jumped to his feet and scanned the darkness beyond the platform, hoping to detect some indication of a doorway or opening through which the crowd had entered the auction chamber. He saw no sign of a door in the chamber’s gloom, though, and decided he had no choice but to rush into the crowd, shove his way through as best he could, and hope that he stumbled across a way out of this nightmarish place. Before he could take a step toward freedom, he felt a strong hand clamp down on his shoulder.

  “Not so fast, my spirited young—” Rawiri was interrupted by Diran ramming the heel of his hand into the changeling’s throat. The slave-trader’s voice cut off with a wet glurk, and he staggered back, releasing his hold on Diran.

  Diran didn’t hesitate. He ran to the edge of the platform and leaped … right into the waiting arms of the half-elf. The changeling’s partner enfolded Diran in a crushing bear-hug, pinning his arms to his sides so that he was unable to strike the slaver. Diran tried kicking, thrashing, biting, but the half-elf had seen what the boy had done to his partner and was careful to avoid Diran’s attacks. Diran was considering trying to tear out the half-elf’s jugular, but the man—as if reading Diran’s mind or perhaps simply divining his intent from his gaze—pulled back his head and slammed his forehead into Diran’s. Bright light flashed behind the boy’s eyes and a roaring noise not unlike churning ocean waves sounded in his ears. Diran fell limp in the half-elf’s arms, and the man carried him back to the platform and tossed him onto it none too gently. Diran hit the wood with a dull thump and lay there, struggling to hold onto consciousness, fighting to roll over onto his hands and knees so that he might make another grab for freedom, futile as it might be.

  “How much for the boy?”

  A man stepped out of the gloom and up to the edge of the platform. Diran looked at him, but his vision was blurry and all he could make out were the man’s eyes: cold, sharp, gaze penetrating. They were predator’s eyes, wolf’s eyes.

  Rawiri had reassumed the shape of a brown-haired human male once more, but when he answered, his voice was a raspy whisper. “This brat’s not for sale.” The changeling bared teeth that would’ve been at home in the mouth of a shark. “I intend to keep this one for myself.”

  From the tight fury in the slaver’s voice, Diran didn’t think the changeling planned to keep him as a servant.

  Through eyes still blurry, Diran saw a flash of motion and heard a muffled clank-clink as an object landed on the platform only a few inches from where he lay. Coins, Diran realized, in a leather purse.

  “If that’s not enough to make you change your mind, I have more,” said the man standing at the edge of the platform. His words were neutral enough, but his tone said that the amount had damned well better be sufficient.

  Rawiri knelt to pick up the purse. He looked inside and grinned.

  “That will do fine, Master Cathmore. Quite fine, indeed.” The slave-trader tossed the purse to his half-elf partner, and the man snatched it out of the air as if he feared it might vanish if he didn’t get a firm grip on it fast enough. “Mark my words: that boy is going to be nothing but trouble.”

  Diran’s vision had cleared to the point where he could make out the feral smile of his new owner.

  “I’m counting on it.”

  “… hear me, Diran?”

  “Hmm?” The priest looked at Yvka as if just realizing she was present. “Sorry. I was just thinking about the first time I met Cathmore. My parents were fishers, and one day out on the Lhazaar, we were attacked by raiders. They killed my mother and father, but they let me live, not because they couldn’t bring themselves to slay a child, but because they could make a profit on me. They sold me to a slaver who specialized in procuring children, and I ended up for sale in a secret slave market in Karrnath. It was Cathmore who bought me.”

  “What did Cathmore want with you?” Tresslar asked.

  “Aldarik Cathmore is an assassin. He’s also Emon Gorsedd’s half-brother. They were partners—or at least, they were back then. Cathmore’s job was to find new students for Emon’s academy in Atur. Quite often these students were purchased from slavers, but sometimes they were simply abducted or in rare cases adopted after one of Emon’s operatives killed the rest of their family. Cathmore did more than just find students for Emon, though. He also taught the new recruits, introducing them to life in the Brotherhood of the Blade.”

  “Then what’s he doing in the Principalities?” Ghaji asked.

  For that was the news that Yvka had come to deliver: the Shadow Network had learned that a man called Aldarik Cathmore had passed through Perhata several weeks ago, accompanied by an orc and a kalashtar. They’d purchased numerous supplies in Perhata, and the orc still made an occasional supply run, but as for Cathmore, no one—not a single operative in the entire Network—had any inkling of why the man was in the area or what he was doing.

  “I can help a bit with the why,” Diran said. “Cathmore and Emon had a falling out when I was still a child. Neither of them agreed on the best way to run the academy. Emon believed in keeping his organization small, lean, and mobile, while Cathmore wanted to expand the Brotherhood. Business was good during the final years of the Last War, and Cathmore hoped to establish his own academy elsewhere in Khorvaire. When Emon refused to support him financially, Cathmore tried to have him killed. After he failed, Emon gave his half-brother a choice: leave or die. Cathmore left.” Diran paused, remembering. Then he pushed the memories aside and turned to Yvka. “What I don’t understand is how you knew of my connection to Cathmore.”

  Yvka smiled. “I make it my business to know. I probably know things about you that you don’t know yourself.”

  “Do you think Cathmore’s running an assassins’ academy here in Perhata?” Ghaji asked.

  ’It’s possible. He’s had twenty years to set himself up in business, and since Emon operates out of Karrnath, perhaps Cathmore decided to carve out his own territory here in the Principalities.” Diran smiled grimly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he did so as a way of getting back at me, at least in part. He knew I hailed from here. Perhaps he even had hopes of luring me back.”

  “Why would he want to do that?” Hinto asked. “Because I’m the one who stopped him from killing Emon Gorsedd.”

  Eneas staggered down the street, but he had no trouble remaining on his feet. Like most Lhazaarites, he’d spent his lifetime on the deck of one sailing vessel or another, and he actually felt more at home on dry land when he was drunk. The way the world spun around him and the ground dipped and rolled beneath his feet felt not only natural but comforting, and Eneas could use some comfort right now. Not because of his run-in with the thrice-damned Coldhearts or the man in black with the steel-gray eyes—Eneas wasn’t one to back down from a fight—especially when he’d swallowed a bit too much ale. Even so, though the man in black had interfered and sent him on his way, Eneas wasn’t so drunk that he didn’t realize the man had done him a favor. What bothered Eneas right now was what waited for him at the docks. That was the real reason he’d been drinking so heavily throughout the day.

  The sun had already dipped below the Hoarfrost Mountains to the west, and night was settling over Perhata. Shadows lengthened, thickened, and deepened, like chill dark waters slowly seeping through the streets. The wind blowing in off the Gulf of Ingjald cut into Eneas’s skin like tiny slivers of ice, and though he was a Lhazaarite born and bred, and cold normally didn’t bother him overmuch, he shivered. He was a free-hire merchant, which meant that he’d haul any cargo for the right price and no questi
ons asked. He owned a small sailing craft called the Boundless, and his boat—and the freedom she represented—meant more to him than anything in this life. Even so, he considered turning around, walking away from the docks, heading inland, and never returning to the sea or his beloved boat.

  The shadows were omnipresent now, and though purple tinged the sky, it was beginning to edge toward black. Eneas used to love the night, used to love being out on the Lhazaar, sail billowing in the wind as he charted his course by gazing up at the canopy of stars above, but he didn’t like the night anymore. He doubted he ever would again.

  He reached the main docks of Perhata. There were private docks elsewhere, of course, but these were the ones where most residents and visitors moored their craft. This was also where the fishmarkets were located, as well as taverns so seedy they made the common room of the King Prawn look like the most elegant Sharn teahouse. Normally Eneas patronized these taverns—the ale was lousy, but there was always a rowdy good time to be had, along with an invigorating fight or two. Today, however, he hadn’t been able to stand the thought of remaining close to the docks, so he’d been forced to go further into the city in search of refreshment. He wouldn’t be returning now if he hadn’t needed to. No, been compelled to.

  He reached up, pulled down the collar of his tunic, and scratched at a pair of small bite marks positioned along the thick blood vessel between shoulder and neck. The marks itched and throbbed, but no amount of scratching provided relief. Eneas wondered if he’d ever know relief again.