The Black Bouquet r-2 Page 12

  The real challenge came when the stairs deposited her in a twisting tunnel, the inky darkness relieved only by the smears of phosphorescence on the walls. Peering around, she saw nothing to indicate in which direction the Red Axes had gone.

  Accordingly, she listened, hoping that, since they'd returned "below," the toughs would start taunting their victim or gloating over their success. In her experience, such mindless, undisciplined behavior was typical of robbers and goblin-kin the world over.

  She thought she heard catcalls and laughter echoing faintly from the right, and she hurried in that direction. She judged she was heading more or less toward the river, though the mazelike warrens were already muddling her sense of direction. She rather wished she could cast a spell of tracking or guidance to keep her on the proper course, but the simple fact was that no sorceress could master every conceivable conjuration and enchantment, and such tricks weren't a part of her repertoire.

  As it turned out, she didn't need them. She rushed or skulked past various scenes of the sort the Underways provided in such abundance-a burglar selling a silk wedding dress to a dealer in such stolen commodities, ruffians and apprentices squatting in a circle throwing knucklebones, several orcs closing in on a human who'd managed to draw his dagger but looked too drunk to wield it properly-and the kidnappers came into view. Unfortunately, they still had such a lead on Sefris that she wouldn't have spotted them if that length of tunnel hadn't been unusually straight or if a brothel-keeper hadn't hung a scarlet lantern to lure patrons to the doorway of his establishment.

  She loped to close the distance, meanwhile pondering the tactical parameters of her situation, not with trepidation, but simply in order to manage the coming slaughter as efficiently as possible. Her foes were many, and she was only one. They had crossbows, which could shoot their quarrels considerably farther than she could fling a chakram. The non-humans could see considerably better in the dark.

  She, however, possessed her own advantages. The enemy didn't know she was trailing them. Even more importantly, the Red Axes were simply ruffians, while Sefris was an elite agent of the Lady of Loss, possessed of all the lethal skills a Dark Sister required. A single spell could thin out the toughs in short order.

  Unfortunately, the drawback to that approach was that the prisoner was limping along in the midst of the outlaws, and he looked frail enough that any magic potent enough to incapacitate a half dozen bravos was likely to kill him outright. Sefris was still trying to think her way around that aspect of the problem when the folk ahead turned down a side tunnel.

  Afraid of losing them, she quickened her pace yet again, but even so, she was too late. When she peeked around the bend, she found that the way dead-ended in a massive oak door reinforced with iron, more like the sallyport of a castle than any entrance to a common residence. Plainly, her quarry had passed through.

  She frowned in annoyance, because though killing a group of Red Axes in the Underways would have posed certain problems, invading their fortress was likely to prove far more difficult. Then an alternative occurred to her.

  She proceeded to the door. Someone watched her approach. She couldn't see the peephole or hidden sentry box, but she felt the pressure of his gaze. She knocked on the panel.

  After several seconds, a gruff voice sounded through the door, "Password."

  "I don't know it," she said. "I'm not one of you, but I have business with your chief."

  "He's busy."

  "Tell him it's about the strongbox Aeron sar Randal stole from the ranger."

  For a while, there was no response to that. Then the door opened. The short passage on the other side likewise reminded Sefris of castle architecture, for it resembled a barbican, with murder holes in the ceiling and another stout door at the far end. Two ruffians, one a black-bearded man whose brawny arms writhed with tattoos, the other a naked, crouching meazel, waved her inside. The latter was another of Oeble's surprises. Sefris would have thought the stunted, green-skinned semi-aquatic brutes with their talons and webbed feet too feral and dull-witted to relate to other humanoids as anything but prey, but plainly the leader of the Red Axes had attracted at least one of the brutes into his employ.

  "We're going to search you," said the tattooed man. It was the same voice Sefris had heard before.

  "Here," she said, removing her chakrams and cesti from her pockets.

  The ruffian frisked her anyway, fondling her in the process. It didn't bother her. During her training, her Dark Father and other teachers had systematically subjected her to ordeals compared to which a bit of lascivious groping was meaningless. The important thing was that the sentry failed to discover the various spell components secreted about her person. The confiscation of those would have diminished her capabilities far more than the surrender of her weapons.

  But even though the tattooed man's impudence failed to perturb her, she memorized his face for chastisement later on. Her faith virtually required it, for as much as anything, the Lady of Loss was a goddess of revenge.

  The toughs escorted her on through cellars crammed with a hodgepodge of no doubt stolen and smuggled goods, then up a flight of stairs into the living areas of what had once been a lavish mansion. In its essence, it still was, but the dirt, dust, scattered garbage, and smell of mildew marred the splendor. Eventually they reached a spacious solar on the second floor. The north wall was essentially one long window, made of genuine glass, and the expensive panes, cracked, smeared, and grimy though they were, provided a panoramic view of the Scelptar, the bridges spanning it, and the moon, her Tears, and the stars sparkling across the night sky.

  The leader of the Red Axes apparently used the chamber as a lord would employ his hall, to grant audiences and issue decrees, for, his battle-axe lying across his thighs, the tanarukk lounged in a high-backed, gilded throne at the far end. A dozen of his followers loitered around in attendance, and the prisoner sprawled on the floor. Someone had pulled the sack off his head, revealing haggard, intelligent features, frightened but defiant, and an old scar around his neck.

  "Bring her closer," the tanarukk growled.

  The meazel gave Sefris a shove, its filthy, likely disease-bearing talons jabbing her but not quite breaking the skin.

  She advanced and said, "Kesk Turnskull."

  He grunted a swinish grunt and asked, "And who are you?"

  "Sefris Uuthrakt."

  "What do you know about the lockbox?"

  "I won't bore you with the tale of everything that happened in far Ormath months ago," she said. "Let's just say I know what's in it, and I came to Oeble to acquire it."

  Kesk grinned around the long, curved spikes of his tusks.

  "Then you're out of luck," he said. "It's already spoken for."

  "I figured you already had a buyer. I'll pay more. I can lay my hands on three hundred thousand gold pieces' worth of gems. Rubies, emeralds, diamonds, tomb jade, and ghost stones, all of the finest quality."

  The lie reduced the hall to astonished, greedy silence for a moment, and then Kesk said, "I don't know you. Why should I believe in this treasure trove?"

  Sefris hoped an admixture of truth would make her deception seem more plausible.

  "I serve the Lady of Loss," she said. "like you Red Axes, our temple reaves plenty of wealth from those unable to defend it." She waited a beat. "Would it bother you to deal with us?"

  Kesk, leering, said, "Do you know where the race of tanarukks sprang from? I'll trade with anybody, no matter what devil-goddess she worships, so long as I can turn a profit. And I'd guess that the secret strongholds of Shar, wherever they may be, do have plenty of coin. But can you prove you're one of the priestesses, or am I just supposed to take it on faith, like the existence of all these jewels you're going to give us?"

  "Have you heard of the Dark Moon?"

  Kesk's eyes, red and faintly luminous, like embers, narrowed.

  "Of Shar's clergy," he said, "yet not. They're protectors and assassins."

  Sefris incline
d her head and replied, "Something like that. If you've heard of us, you know we study a certain unarmed fighting style. If I defeat a couple of your men at once, using only my empty hands, will that prove I'm who I claim to be?"

  "It might," the tanarukk said, "and if they beat you down instead, well, we were already planning on some torture. We might as well question you and old Nicos at once. He can tell us where his son keeps the coffer, and you can give us the truth about all those gems. Presmer, Sewer Rat-you brought her up here, you deal with her. Orvaega, you help. You can bleed her and break her bones, but try not to kill her."

  The tattooed man-Presmer, Sefris assumed-whirled off his short leather cape, dangled it in one hand, and drew his short sword with the other. The meazel-the monastic wondered if Sewer Rat was its actual name, translated into human speech, or just a nickname the other rogues had given it-simply hissed and crouched. Evidently it saw no need for any weapons other than its claws. Orvaega, a female orc, hefted a war club in both hands.

  Sefris stood still as her opponents spread out to encircle her. Then, suddenly, she bellowed a battle cry, pivoted, and leaped into the air, kicking at Presmer. Startled, he recoiled, as she'd intended. She touched down, whirled, and Sewer Rat and Orvaega were lunging at her. That, too, was as she desired. She'd turned her back and feinted at Presmer to lure them in. Control what your adversaries did, and when, and you were well on the way to defeating them.

  Twisting at the hips, she performed a double-arm block that bounced the war club harmlessly away. She then punched the startled Orvaega in the snout, breaking bone and knocking the orc unconscious, and shoved her into Sewer Rat, which served to knock the runtish meazel backward, spoiling its frenzied attack. Floundering out from under the dead weight of its comrade, the black-eyed creature snarled and spat.

  Sefris would have rushed Sewer Rat while the meazel was still off balance and encumbered, except that she knew enough time had passed for Presmer to have returned to the fray. She turned, and he swung his cape at her face, seeking to blind her. And stun her, too, perhaps, it the garment had weights sewn into the hem. She dropped into a squat, letting the cloak fly harmlessly over her head, and she simultaneously hooked his ankle with her foot. Presmer crashed down on his back.

  Sefris sensed Sewer Rat pouncing. She turned, grabbed the meazel-immobilizing its raking claws in the process-spun it through the air, and smashed it down on top of Presmer. The impact snapped bones and stunned the both of them, and Sefris's only remaining problem was resisting the impulse to go ahead and make the kills. A long, slow breath served to buttress her self-control. She inclined her head to Kesk.

  "There," she said.

  He gave a grudging nod. If he had any concern for the welfare of the followers she'd just mauled, she could see no sign of it in his demeanor.

  "I guess you probably do belong to the Dark Moon," the tanarukk said. "It still doesn't prove you have a king's ransom in jewels to barter."

  "I'll produce them when the time comes. If I don't, simply sell the book to the person who first asked you to steal it."

  "The fact of the matter is, he's promised more than coin."

  "Do you trust him to keep his pledges," Sefris replied, "once he has the book in hand?"

  Kesk spat. The gesture left a strand of saliva, which he didn't bother to wipe away, dangling beside the base of one tusk.

  He said, "I don't trust anybody much."

  "Rest assured, if it's a guarantee of future help you want, or even a genuine alliance, no one can offer more than the followers of Shar. We often make common cause with others who stand against the witless laws of men."

  "I'll think about it," said Kesk. "Tell me how to get in touch with you."

  "I'd hoped to stay with you for the time being."

  The Red Axe snorted and said, "I still don't know what to make of you, human. Until I do, I don't want you running around my house."

  "But you may need me. We may need to work together to take possession of the book."

  "I doubt it."

  "I take it you're going to try two approaches," Sefris said. "The first will be to hope Aeron's father knows the location of the strongbox and torture the secret out of him."

  "Do your worst," the old man rasped. "It won't matter. I don't know where the cursed thing is."

  Sefris ignored him to stay focused on Kesk.

  "The problem," she continued, "is that, as we can see from all those scars, somebody got to him before you and mangled him severely. He's fragile now, and elderly to boot. If you question him in some crude fashion, his heart is likely to stop. But a child of the Dark Moon understands the human body as a healer understands it. It's part of our secret lore. I can cause a prisoner excruciating pain without doing serious harm."

  Kesk shrugged and said, "That could come in handy, I suppose."

  "I can make myself just as useful if you need to trade the old man for the book. Because it may not go smoothly. Aeron may decide he'd rather be rich than regain his father. He may try to trick you. Or you may decide to deal falsely with him."

  "The wretch broke our deal. I'm no longer obliged to keep any promises I give him."

  "I agree, and the point is, I can help you catch him. I have my skills, and he won't know we're working together until it's too late."

  The tanarukk, scowling, said, "You're not as special as you think you are, woman. We Red Axes have managed to run Oeble for years now without any help from the likes of you."

  "But you haven't managed to catch Aeron sar Randal. He's still running around free with the strongbox, laughing at you."

  Kesk glared and trembled. His hands clenched on the haft of his axe. For a second, Sefris wondered if she'd pushed too hard, and would have to defend herself against him and all his henchmen, too. She called the words of a spell to mind.

  Then, however, he brought himself under control.

  "All right, you can stay for the time being." He waved his hand at Aeron's father and added, "Let me see this light touch of yours."

  Sefris smiled without having to feign satisfaction, because she'd accomplished her objective, and her new situation, dangerous though it was, afforded her several advantages. As long as she was working with the Red Axes, she wouldn't have to worry about their somehow laying hands on the book ahead of her. A gang of cutthroats could manage a prisoner more easily than could a lone monastic, and since Oeble was their city, they ought to have less trouble making contact with Aeron. When the time came, it would be challenging to snatch the prize and vanish from their midst, but she was confident of her ability to do so.

  She rounded on Nicos, who, his courage notwithstanding, saw something in her manner that made him blanch. She jumped him, found the proper pressure point, and paralyzed him as she had the beggar boy.

  When Aeron slipped through the door of the cramped little shop, Daelric Heldeion was at his desk, whittling a chop from a piece of pine. The paunchy scribe was primarily in the business of writing and reading documents, but he'd made a profitable sideline of providing his illiterate clientele with a means of signing their names, or in the case of the budget-minded, their initials, to a piece of parchment.

  Daelric looked up, realized who'd come to call on him, and his gray eyes opened wide. In light of recent events, that was all Aeron needed to see. He whipped out a throwing knife, cocked his arm, and Daelric froze.

  "Are the Red Axes watching this place?" Aeron asked. "Are you supposed to give a signal?"

  "No!" Daelric said. "But Kesk's ruffians have been around hunting you. The Gray Blades, too, though they don't know who they're looking for. Why in the Binder's name are you still in town?"

  "I can dodge the folk who wish me ill. I always have before."

  "If you say so. I wish you'd put the knife down."

  Aeron returned the weapon to its sheath and said, "You'll see it again up close if you try anything foolish."

  "What would I try? I'm a scribe, not one of you cutthroats," Daelric replied. He produced a lin
en handkerchief and blotted the sweat on his round, pink face. "What's that muck on your tunic? I can smell the stink from over here."

  "Demon gore."

  Aeron advanced to the desk, its surface littered with quills, inkwells, penknives, pine shavings, a stack of parchment, and lancets for those who insisted on contracts and promissory notes signed in blood. He cleared a space, brought the black book out from under his cloak, and set it down. Daelric goggled at it.

  "This is the prize everyone wants so badly?" the scribe asked.

  "Yes, and I need you to read enough of it to tell me why."

  The scribe rubbed his thumb and fingertips together.

  Aeron sighed. He set the rest of his coin atop the desk. Daelric regarded the copper and silver pieces without enthusiasm.

  "Is that all you have?" said the scribe. "If the Red Axes find out I helped you, it could mean my life."

  "I'll give you more-lots more-once I sell the book. Or, if that's not good enough, I'll find somebody else to read it, and not only will you miss out on the coin, you'll never know what all the fuss was about."

  Aeron knew from past dealings that the clerk possessed a healthy streak of curiosity.

  "Oh, all right." Daelric ran his finger under the embossed words on the cover. "The title is The Black Bouquet..Does that mean anything to you?"

  "No."

  "Nor to me," Daelric said.

  He opened the volume, and sweet fragrances wafted up, combined with the smell of crumbling paper. He started to read. Aeron waited for a couple minutes, until impatience got the better of him.

  "Well?" he asked.

  "Well," Daelric replied, "it's old."

  "I could tell that much."

  "The point is, languages, and our way of writing them, change over time."

  Aeron frowned and said, "That sounds strange. Why would they?"

  "They just do, and as a result, old books are more difficult to read than new ones. I'm having a slow time of it, but I think this one is a formulary."

  "A formulary?"

  "A recipe book," the scribe explained. "For making perfumes."