The Black Bouquet r-2 Read online

  When the order of the Dark Moon recruited her, it rescued her from want and squalor, and cured her of fear by teaching her to kill. But even more importantly, the Lady of Loss gave her disciples the assurance that the vileness of creation would one day dissolve into the purity of oblivion, and it was that knowledge that truly sustained Sefris. She thought that without it, she might have lost her mind.

  She knew that every errand she completed brought universal obliteration a small step closer, albeit generally in a way no mere mortal could comprehend. Such being the case, she'd never allowed herself to fail, and never would.

  But how was she to proceed? She'd considered summoning the arcanaloth again, but experience had taught her it was generally pointless to seek a second such consultation on the same problem. The spirit likely wouldn't have anything new to tell her.

  She could stand watch over one of the markets full of smuggled and stolen goods, brothels, gambling halls, mordayn dens, counterfeiter's lairs, or other enterprises the Red Axes still had running. Kesk had given her a list.

  But the odds of intercepting Aeron at any given one of them were slim. He simply had too many to choose from, and wasn't likely to strike before nightfall anyway. In the meantime, one of the Red Axe sentries might spot her lurking about. Ordinarily, she would have pitted her trained aptitude for stealth against their vigilance without hesitation, but she didn't know what magical devices the wizard might have supplied to heighten their natural abilities.

  After some consideration, a vague instinct prompted her to visit those locations Aeron had already raided. She didn't know what she might discover there, but thought it would be easy enough to find out. Spread thin, the Red Axes were unlikely to mount much of a guard over a place the red-bearded thief had already attacked.

  She hadn't learned anything at the blackened ruin of the floating wine shop. The place had burned down to the waterline. She could only hope the slave market off Dead King's Walk would prove more instructive. As she made her approach, she scanned the busy street for signs that someone was keeping an eye on the place. If so, she couldn't tell it from outside the high fence all a-bristle with nails.

  She marched up to the entrance as if she had every right in the world to do so, and no one paid her any mind. The gate was locked, so she whispered a charm of opening. For a split second, she stood in cool shadow, as if a cloud has passed before the sun. The latch clacked, yielding to the magic.

  She slipped through the gate and pushed it shut behind her. The hinges squeaked a little. Before her, the enclosure was deserted. Peaceful. At first glance, only the splashes of dried blood and discharged crossbow bolts on the muddy ground gave evidence of the violence that had erupted there the night before.

  Well, those and the taunting "A" chalked in bold white strokes on the roof of one of the low, unwalled slave kennels. Sefris surmised that Aeron sar Randal didn't know how to write his name, but could manage his initial.

  Once satisfied that none of Kesk's minions was going to leap out and attack her, Sefris prowled around examining the ground. She found the broken fetters and the hammers and chisels the thralls had used to strike them off. On the ground nearby were the distinctive tracks the brass mantis had made as it hopped and scuttled about. The rest of the scene was a muddled confusion that only a ranger might have deciphered.

  Sefris felt irritated with herself for even trying. Suppose she could read the tracks. Suppose she could follow the course of the battle from the first flight of quarrels to the final knife thrust. What difference would it make? This was all just a waste of time.

  She started to turn to go, and a pang of intuition spun her back around, just in time to glimpse movement inside the window of the tumbledown shack at the back of the yard. Somebody had peeked out at her, then ducked back down under cover, but not quite quickly enough.

  Probably just a Red Axe with the good sense to be leery of tackling Sefris by himself. That meant he was no threat at present, but since she and the gang were overt enemies, she saw no point in leaving him alive to get in the way later on. Sefris extracted a chakram from its pocket, charged the shed, and sprang through the doorway, hands poised to deflect a missile or blade.

  But it wasn't a weapon that assailed her. Rather, a shrill scream pierced her ears. Huddled on the floor in the far corner, a young woman with an upturned nose and straw-colored hair squinched her eyes shut and shrieked again and again.

  The blonde seemed to be rather comely, though it was hard to tell with her features contorted, tears streaming down her cheeks, and snot glistening on her upper lip. She had shackle galls on her ankles, but otherwise appeared relatively free of bruises, scars, or other signs of abuse. She looked well fed, too. Sefris knew what tender young female slaves had to do to earn soft treatment, and felt a surge of contempt directed in equal measure at the wretch before her and the child she herself had been.

  The feeling was a distraction, and she stifled it with practiced ease. Viewed properly, the blonde was despicable, but no more so than any other created thing. Which was to say, she was of no importance except as a potential resource to further Sefris's mission.

  Assuming the thrall knew something of significance, how best to extract it? Ordinarily, Sefris would have opted for threats and torture, but the blonde was already frightened beyond the point of hysteria. It seemed unlikely that heightening her terror would render her any more coherent. So, distasteful though it was, the monastic rearranged her features into the same sympathetic simper she'd worn while drifting about with Miri.

  She tucked the chakram away, crossed the grubby one-room shack with its few sticks of rickety furniture, and kneeled beside the slave. The blonde cringed away from her gentle touch.

  "Easy," Sefris said, "I'm not going to hurt you."

  The thrall sobbed.

  "Really," Sefris added. She took the blonde's chin between her thumb and forefinger and turned her averted face until they were eye to eye, compelling the other woman to take note of her own compassionate expression. "I'd never hurt a slave. I was a slave myself, once upon a time."

  "I'm not a runaway!" wailed the thrall.

  "It's all right I'm not a slave catcher, and I'm not interested in returning you to your master."

  The blonde said, "I have to go back. What else can I do? But they'll blame me. They'll whip me to death."

  She was afraid to seize the opportunity Aeron had given her and even try to be free. The realization gave Sefris another twinge of disdain, even though she knew that, ultimately, liberty was as foul as bondage or any other condition or thing to which one could put a name.

  In any case, if all the thrall cared about was escaping punishment, then that was the lever Sefris would use to pry some sense out of her.

  "If you mean to return to your master," the monastic said, "then maybe I can put in a good word for you. Help you convince him it wasn't your fault."

  The blonde snuffled, "You'd do that?"

  "I follow the Broken God, and he teaches us to help those in need. The only thing is, I won't be able to persuade another of your innocence until I myself understand exactly what happened. I mean, you say you didn't want to run away, but you did strike off your leg irons."

  "All the other slaves were doing it. I was afraid they'd hurt me if I didn't let them break my chains, too. I went off with them for the same reason, but sneaked away as soon as I could. By the time I got back, though, some more of the masters were already here, loading the dead bodies into a wagon. They'd seen everyone was gone, me included, so I was scared to approach them. I hid until they drove away, then came into the shed to try and figure out what to do."

  "Well, that explains it to some extent," said Sefris, "but you'd better tell me the whole story from the beginning. How did the red-bearded man get inside?"

  "He rang the bell. Or she did, the woman who was with him. When Master Durth went to answer, the man shoved through and clubbed him."

  Sefris nodded. Durth, the half-orc Aeron had knocked unco
nscious but left alive, had only a cloudy memory of the attack, but thought he recalled a woman. The ruffians the thief had ambushed along the docks likewise had a vague impression that Aeron hadn't acted alone, and it certainly seemed unlikely that he'd defeated five Red Axes and an enchanted construct unaided. Sefris had already concluded that he'd found an accomplice foolhardy enough to stand with him against the gang.

  "Master Evendur came out to see what was going on," the thrall continued, "and the man and woman killed him. Afterward, they fetched the tools to strike the chains off, and told us to run away. I said it was madness, but nobody would listen to me."

  "Then the other Red Axes-the masters with the big metal insect-came to investigate the noise?"

  "Yes. I thought that then, everything would be all right I didn't have my shackles off yet, so they wouldn't punish me. But the man, the woman, and Yagan-a hobgoblin, one of us thralls-killed the masters. The man threw knives. The woman shot arrows, then fought with a broadsword and buckler. Yag-"

  "Hold on," Sefris interrupted. A sudden suspicion took hold of her. It was ridiculous, of course. The world was full of archers, and even if it wasn't, no one but a magician or highly trained monk could have survived the fall from the top story of Aeron's tower. Still, she had to ask. "This woman. Was she a good shot?"

  The blonde cocked her head as if puzzled by the question, but answered willingly enough, "She never missed."

  "Describe her."

  "Tall and slim, with curly brown hair chopped off short. She had on leather armor, and when she went into the shed, and the lamplight caught her, I saw it was dyed green."

  Sefris felt astonished. She'd never been more certain of a kill, yet she had no doubt it was Miri the thrall had seen. Somehow, the guide was still alive and had joined forces with Aeron. If Sefris had examined the Red Axe corpses and recognized the arrow punctures for what they were, she might have suspected sooner.

  Yet what sense did it make? She assumed Aeron's goal was to put so much pressure on Kesk that the tanarukk would be willing to undertake a fair exchange of Nicos for The Black Bouquet in order to put an end to the harassment. Miri presumably still wanted to deliver the formulary to whoever had bought it from Lord Quwen. How, then, could they possibly work together?

  When the answer came to Sefris, she couldn't help smiling a fleeting but genuine smile, because it solved her problem. She didn't need to scour the city looking for Aeron. She knew where he'd turn up sooner or later.

  Her companion cringed from the momentary change in her expression.

  "What is it?" whimpered the thrall.

  "It's fine." Sefris rose. "You told me what I needed to hear."

  "Are you leaving?" asked the blonde. "You said you'd help me. Please, take pity on me."

  "No," Sefris said. "Shar teaches that nothing in the world deserves our pity, neither others nor ourselves."

  Still, what she was about to do would be mercy, the only true mercy any being ever received. It was the thrall's good fortune that her deliverer didn't want her repeating their conversation to the Red Axes.

  All it took was a simple front snap kick. The ball of Sefris's foot slammed into the blonde's delicate chin, breaking her neck. She was dead before her yellow-haired head touched the floor.

  Despite the ease with which she'd managed it, Sefris found the kill particularly satisfying. She wasn't sure why.

  CHAPTER 13

  Aeron peered at the crack between the wide double doors, then lightly pressed one of them with his palm.

  "Can you open it?" Miri whispered.

  She looked odd, and it wasn't the olive pigment they'd both smeared on their skin to make themselves resemble half-orcs. He couldn't see the color amid the darkness of the narrow cul-de-sac. Rather, it was the absence of a bow, quiver, and her distinctively dyed armor, which had seemed as much a part of her as her hands and feet.

  "No," he said. "It doesn't have a lock for me to pick, just a bar on the other side. However, the place does have a skylight."

  He prowled along the warehouse wall, looking at a spot where the brick was cracked and pitted enough to provide some decent handholds. When he found it, he swarmed upward onto the slanted roof, where a night breeze wafted. The cool air felt strange on his newly shaved chin.

  It was easy to work a knife between the skylight and frame and pop the latch. The hard part would come after he slipped through. It was a thirty-foot drop to the floor. He'd had good luck lately surviving long falls relatively unscathed-it was about the only good fortune he'd enjoyed-but it would be mad to risk another unnecessarily.

  In other circumstances, he would have lowered a rope, but even if he'd had one, he wouldn't have been able to leave it hanging down for someone to discover. So he gripped the protruding underside of a rafter. Clinging by the sheer strength of his fingers, Aeron inched along it until he could swing himself over the railing onto the loft that ran around the walls.

  He found the long hooked pole used to manipulate the skylight and swung it closed then skulked down the stairs. The warehouse was more empty than otherwise, a testimony to Imrys Skaltahar's ability to move stolen goods quickly, but stacks of crates sat here and there, providing places to hide.

  Aeron unbarred the door, and re-secured it once Miri slipped inside.

  "How in Fury's Heart does this Skaltahar scoundrel get in and out?" she asked, peering warily around the interior of the building.

  "I imagine he has a private tunnel connecting the warehouse to the Hungry Haunting."

  She considered a pile of boxes shrouded with a drop cloth, then gave him an inquiring glance. He nodded, and they crouched down behind it. After that, they had nothing to do but wait.

  It wore on his nerves, and maybe on hers as well, because eventually she whispered, "Nothing's happening."

  "It will. Here in Oeble, thieves move loot through the Underways whenever possible, but some things are just too big and heavy to drag around below ground. They have to go through the streets, and the Red Axes make a delivery to Imrys around this time every fifth day."

  "How do you know?"

  Aeron just grinned.

  "All right," she said, "but are you certain they won't postpone it? After all, they're looking for you, and trying to protect all their various enterprises, too. If the halflings are raiding them as promised, they should be feeling all the more inclined to pull in and stay safe."

  "You'd think. But a gang chieftain like Kesk has to keep his operation running and the coin flowing, if only because otherwise it would make him look weak. He can't afford that. He's got rival organizations, the Gray Blades, and ambitious underlings all eager to strike at him if they think they see an opening."

  "That makes sense, I suppose." She was silent for a time then said, "Was I completely foolish, hoping Ombert would help us just because it's the right thing to do? He said you rogues have a code."

  "It's not the same kind your guild evidently holds to. It doesn't say you have to put your own hand on the chopping block to help out somebody else. It just says outlaws are supposed to deal fairly with one another." He smiled ruefully and added, "Even so, we break the rules when it suits us."

  "I'd be ashamed to tell people my name if I were content to live like that."

  He wasn't sure she'd aimed the barb specifically at him, but even so, it stung.

  "You're so sure you know right from wrong," he said, "but you work for this Lord Quwen, and according to Ombert, the bastard loves war. Maybe he's going to use the gold he makes off the Bouquet to launch another campaign against his neighbors."

  "He's not! He told me himself, it's to provide food and shelter for folk in need, just as, here in Oeble, the book will give a good many laborers a chance to live both comfortably and honestly."

  He grinned and asked, "Do you believe everything people tell you?"

  She glared, but before she could retort, a hitherto concealed trapdoor in the plank floor swung upward, and she had the good sense to fall absolutely silent.
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br />   A lantern in one hand and a scimitar hanging at his hip, Imrys Skaltahar climbed into view and closed the hatch. Oeble's preeminent receiver of stolen goods was a square-built man with dark, watchful eyes. Time had stolen much of his hair, etched lines in his face, and begun to tug the flesh under his jaw into dewlaps, but he still had the lithe tread of the young bravo he'd started out as. He was simply but well dressed in an indigo buffin tunic and leather breeches.

  Imrys started drifting about, idly contemplating this heap of plunder or that, pulling the lid off a crate to look at the ivory tusks inside. Aeron's mouth went dry. Somehow, when he'd conceived the plan, it hadn't occurred to him that the fence might simply wander through the warehouse until he inevitably stumbled upon the intruders.

  Aeron assumed that together, he and Miri could overpower Imrys, but that wasn't the point. Any confrontation would ruin the plan, and even if matters were otherwise, he had no desire to raise his hand to a man who'd always treated him relatively well.

  Fortunately, before it could come to that, someone rapped on the door. Imrys unbarred it, and a wagon, drawn by a white horse and a black one, rolled inside. Tharag the bugbear held the reins, and an orc cradling a crossbow served as guard.

  Imrys shut the door behind them. After the three exchanged a few words, the Red Axes hopped down and unloaded some barrels from the back of the cart. From the ease with which they accomplished the task, it was plain the kegs were empty.

  They had to shift them, however, to more easily raise a hidden hatch of their own. The wagon bed was hollow, deeper than it looked, and held the actual shipment cloth bundles that clanked or clattered when they lifted them out and set them on the floor.

  Imrys crouched to unwrap one, and a pungent scent of oil filled the air. Inside were gleaming sword blades. Evidently nobody had sharpened them yet, for he had no difficulty flexing one without cutting his hand. Poking with his index finger and muttering under his breath, he counted them, then turned his attention to the next bale, which proved to contain spear shafts.