CHAPTER ONE
The ceramic mug
shattered before he'd gotten it halfway to his mouth. Hot mocha exploded with
the impact of bullet to mug and the once pleasant teem of quiet conversation
made an abrupt switch to startled screams. In the dizzy moment before he took
action Dorian had one thought; he was going to die over a cup of coffee.
Spurring his movements with his Witch-Born magic he slid to the left. The magic
took immediate effect, quickening the whole of his body so that he appeared
like a blur to the general public. Jacket, skin and undershirt flayed open as
the bullet grazed his left arm and Dorian hissed in pain.
Only another
Witch-Born could have hit him at the speed he'd been going. He tried to catch
the trajectory of the bullet as people scrambled out of the way, deserting the
cafe porch with gasps and screams, but there was no time. As soon as he had
evaded the bullet he heard the tell-tale whoosh of a dart gun somewhere to his
right. With a panted curse he kicked his table over and dove behind it,
shielding his body from the succession of darts that sunk into the wood.
Thirteen years on the
run, hunting the Bedim Assassins, dodging through the more squalid ditches and
byways of Magnellum and he was caught by surprise. For coffee, he thought again.
Dorian hunkered
behind the table and squinted at the cafe porch. His manservant Gremor was
leaning up against the cafe bar, terror and distress contorting his saggy
features in an almost comical way. The poor, useless man quivered and waved one
of his ridiculous handkerchiefs in front of his face. It was mildly baffling
that Gremor had proven so loyal, insisting on accompanying Dorian on his mad
quest against the Bedim Knights. The most the old man had managed to do was
make sure he had a bed to sleep in when one was available.
Dorian turned his
attention to his weapons, sliding down until he was almost prone as the
assassin shot at the table again. It seemed a bit excessive given the fact that
both he and the assassin knew the table was sufficient cover. His hand touched
his rapier hilt and he determined that the Bedim had to be new, perhaps not
even a full Bedim Knight yet. A full Bedim wouldn't waste the gunpowder or
bullets; they would just lie in wait for Dorian to pop his head up again.
Which Dorian would
have to do if he wanted to get out of the cafe.
He had six daggers
strapped diagonal against his chest, disguised in his waistcoat as mere
decoration. At his belt was a portion of gunpowder, several bullets and his
pistol. Dorian took his pistol and began to load, his eyes roving over the
terrain while he tried to formulate a plan. Most of the knot-worked steel
chairs had been tossed over on their sides in the jumble of moments after the
first bullet. Partially cooled coffee streamed through the curvatures of the
wooden porch until it encountered his left leg. Dorian ignored the seep of
liquid through his pants and pulled his Talent to his vision, dragging the
world around him into sharp focus.
The cobbled street
beyond the little cafe's porch was empty save for a fine wisp of steam as it
snaked from a nearby sewer grate. Daylight was nearly done and the temperature
was changing; tall buildings fell into shadow with the dying light, casting
near everything in sight with a golden-sepia tint. Dorian shifted against the
table and rolled his neck, feeling the strain of too many days without sleep
bunch in his shoulders. If he had his calculations right there would be a
moment of glare when the sun hit the horizon. It would reflect off the copper
water tower that stood at the end of the street and blind the Bedim long enough
for him to move.
Not that he knew
where the Bedim was hiding to know which way to go, but Dorian figured he could
address that problem when he got there.
"My Lord!" Gremor
called from behind the cafe bar.
Dorian ignored him
and took another steadying breath, praying to the Fates that he survived the
next few moments.
"But My Lord!"
There was a stress in
the old man's voice that made Dorian look his way. Gremor hid one hand behind
his handkerchief and pointed southwest. Dorian nodded to his servant and
frowned. If Gremor had managed to spot the assassin then he was right about the
boys training. He was almost insulted by that. He wasn't just any contract
target. He was the Lord Saldorian Feverrette, the only man who could boast
three contracts out against his life and still manage to keep from dying for
over thirteen years.
Someone should have
warned the boy not to come after him until he was better trained.
The sun hit the water
tower and Dorian made his move; everything around him distorted in the wake of
his magic, elongating and pulling in such a way that it almost resembled the
reflection off a soapy bubble. He was bending time, slowing things around him
while he pushed his magic to make his own body move faster. It was a dangerous
strategy given the number of unknown elements surrounding him but Dorian
figured crashing into the Bedim mid-time-bend was preferable to getting shot.
He rose to his feet
and aimed his pistol southwest, shoving himself to the left and toward the
cover of the bar. The Bedim shot again and Dorian was able to locate him - a
half a block away, huddled behind a stack of wooden crates. Focusing on his aim
Dorian pulled the trigger. Only when he was certain of the trajectory did he
release time. His body hit the ground and he rolled behind the bar, smacking
hard into Gremor. The old man made a grunt of effort to stay upright as the
world around them settled back to normal.
"Making friends
again, I see," Gremor sniffed in a haughty manner that made Dorian smile.
"I'm irresistible,
Gremor. You know that." Dorian peered around the bar and squinted southwest.
His gamble had worked. The Bedim had been too blinded by the sun to aim
correctly.
"Did you hit him?"
Gremor asked.
"I'm fairly certain,
yes."
"Then why are we still
crouched down here like a pack of animals?" Gremor went to stand up and Dorian
grabbed his arm, pulling him back down.
"Because 'fairly' is
not 'absolutely'."
Glancing around the
bar again Dorian spotted two men in white tabards as they made their way to the
scene. The Warders in the city of Basten were faster than in many other towns
Dorian had visited. They were also professionals. While one veered to the
southwest, heading for the Bedim Knight, the other moved to the center of the
cafe, unsheathed his sword and struck it once, hard, into the ground. The sword
sunk three inches through the porch and stayed there, a bright red color
streaming from the hilt and making an umbrella over the scene.
Dorian felt his magic
recess into his core and stood up. Even if the Bedim wasn't already dead the
protection of the Warders was in place. A moment later his suspicions were
confirmed as one of the Warders began to drag the Bedim into the center of the
cafe. Taking an interest in the man who had just tried to kill him, Dorian
moved to meet them. The Warder was respectful enough to lower the Bedim's body,
arranging arms and feet in the quiet reverence of lost life.
He was garbed in the
traditional Bedim way, swarthy pants that would have been baggy were they not cinched
around his legs with various belts and scabbards. Belted boots that rose to his
knees, both containing at least one form of weaponry and a half-mask that
covered nose and mouth while a pair of thick goggles spanned his eyes. Dorian
exhaled through his teeth, recognizing just how young the man was before the
Warder began to strip him of his mask.
"You are lucky," the
first Warder said, "Not many survive an attack by the Bedim."
Dorian grunted his
response as the Warder stood and outstretched a hand of greeting, "Targus apt
Basten."
As their hands met in
formal greeting Dorian could feel the smallest measure of Talent in the Warder
before him. He wasn't surprised by this, since most commoners who found they
had an inkling of magic wound up in the Warders. It aided them in protecting
the Civil Laws, and made them powerful allies to the Great Houses of Magnellum.
Their hands parted again, and though Targus had undoubtedly been able to feel
the measure of Dorian's own talent, the Warder did nothing but nod down to the
Bedim.
"I imagine you were
expecting him?"
"No," Dorian rubbed
the back of his neck. "This time I was not. Were he a full Bedim Knight I would
not be standing here to talk to you."
Targus whistled
lowly, "The Fates must have something special planned for you, then."
Dorian ignored the
comment.
There was an angry,
purplish-blue hole directly to the left of the Bedim's eyebrow. It was the only
flaw on the boy's face. Dorian grunted to himself, calculating by the smooth,
baby-fine features that the Bedim had been fourteen at best.
Dorian felt his neck
hair stand on end, "Too lucky."
Targus stood, steely
eyes casting out at the surrounding buildings. "You think there are more?"
Dorian glanced at the
Warding Sword just to be certain it was still in place. Red mist created a
bubble around the scene, negating all weaponry save fists and feet. Beyond the
mist he could see the brass and copper rooftops making a sporadic, jagged line
across the horizon. The puzzle began to make more sense.
Bedim Knights traveled
alone, worked alone, fought alone. There was no particular style to their
fighting because of this. It was unheard of for them to join forces, and yet he
could almost remember the trajectory of the darts that had missed him. Even if
the boy had the discipline to bend time he could not have moved fast enough to
make that shot.
There had to be a
second assassin.
Targus took a step to
the left, crossing just in front of Dorian. Two small, muffled thumps sounded
and the Warder staggered back. Dorian managed to catch the man as he tumbled,
limp and gone before Dorian could breathe his surprise. At Targus' chest
protruded two small, thin darts.
Gremor gasped
somewhere at his right and Dorian cursed the Warder's sword for hindering his
Talent. Not bothering with formality he dropped Targus and leapt for the edge
of the protective barrier. Taking the offensive was the only way he would find
any answers, let alone stay alive.
There was an
unpleasant electric shock that passed through his body as he crossed, and then
his Talent was alive. Every instinct tingled while he searched for his
assailant, his muscles coiled and ready for the next attack.
It came in short
order.
Another shot made a
cacophony against the empty street, signifying the use of a pistol, and Dorian
spotted the general position of the Bedim. Spurring himself forward he dodged
the bullet with a quick swivel of his body. The Bedim shot again and grazed the
right side of his ribcage, but Dorian kept running. He could see the Knight
clearly now, positioned behind the large, three-meshed statue of the Fates at
the top of the Median Temple. The temple was five buildings away from the cafe,
giving the Bedim just enough time to drop his weapons and start a quick
retreat.
Dorian ran, feet
pounding on the cobbled street, lungs burning, and magic pushing him to be
faster even as the Bedim spurred their own Talent to get away. The world around
him made copper streaks in his peripheral vision, smearing with the speed of
the chase. The distance between them began to close and he noticed that the
Bedim was female. There was a fancy sort of bodice cinched tight around her
waist, accenting the curve of hip and body. He swiped a hand at her back,
missing by an inch or so.
Her left hand opened
and several small objects clinked to the ground, chiming out a warning that he
could not heed. He was too close to her to avoid the caltrops. His left foot
slammed onto three of them, their points piercing through the sole of his boot.
Dorian let loose a stream of curses and pushed himself so that his right foot
missed the serrated objects but the damage was done. He came to an abrupt stop,
keeping his left foot from touching the ground. Torn between the need to remove
the caltrops and the desire to see the Bedim he hesitated, watching as she
crossed the railroad at the end of the street. She disappeared behind the depot
at the same moment that Gremor reached his side.
"My Lord!" the old
man wheezed, doubling over to support himself on his knees.
Dorian grimaced and
hobbled to the closest building. Resting one shoulder against the wall he began
to pick the caltrops out of his foot. Each of them was an inch long and they
hurt like hell. He tossed them aside with another curse and focused his Talent on
healing.
"Did you ... " Gremor
panted, coughed and straightened himself. "Did you get a ... look at him?"
"Her," Dorian
frowned, fighting away the pain in his foot. Muscles fixed themselves, the
several holes that had pierced into his skin mended with an alacrity that
belied time. He'd always wondered why this part of Magic had to be painful.
Bending time didn't hurt. Spurring his body to move faster, harder, and longer
than normal men never hurt either. That was the trick he supposed. One could
struggle through being wounded and allow the injury to heal naturally or one
could seek out the attentions of a male Witch-Born to have the wound taken
away. The latter came with a monetary price as well as a physical one, as
though the body itself wanted to take the time to heal.
"Her?"
"She was wearing a
bodice," Dorian moved back into the street and began to collect the caltrops.
"My, my," Gremor
squinted out at the depot. "Rather clever of her, I suppose. Using a decoy, I
mean. I've not seen a Bedim do that before."
Dorian crouched and
began to inspect one of the caltrops, "That's because they don't. The only
common denominator among the Bedim is the Archives where they can find their
contracts. They never work together."
The spindly,
irritating caltrop was forged brass with three points. There was no
distinguishing mark on the item, so he could not determine the maker. Dorian
hissed and pushed himself to his feet again. Gremor looked about to argue
something when the surviving Warder made his way to them. Far younger than
Targus, the boy's anxious face was drawn with struggle, knowing that he had a
duty to fulfill and needing solitude to mourn his partner.
"We will ... " he
paused, his mouth contorting a bit as he corrected himself, "I will need formal
statements."
"Absolutely," Dorian
clapped a hand on Gremor's shoulder. "Gremor here will have them to you in
short order. You will have our utmost cooperation." The boy nodded his
appreciation and started back for the cafe. Dorian waited until he was a safe
distance away before making his final orders to Gremor. "Find a way to steal
one of those darts. I want a well-trained alchemist to have a look."
Gremor gave a
dramatic and resigned sigh.