Chapter 1

 

DAY 1

 

Although Captain Jarn Theffig had lived in Skunnik for nearly a year, the city still seemed foreign to him. He had learned its streets and alleys and neighborhoods as well as any of the other Vothan Riders who had been assigned constabulary duty there, but when he rode along one of its boulevards or entered one of its peculiar districts, he often had a vague feeling of unease, as he did now. It was early in the morning, and he and a Vothan Rider named Braga were riding south down Zayet Street, one of the wide cobblestone avenues that ran north and south through central Skunnik. They were headed toward a disreputable part of the city known as the Bolt, where a crime had been reported. As they neared their destination, Jarn felt his heart beat a little faster.

He pushed all bothersome thoughts out of his mind and focused on the clip-clop sound of the two horses as they cantered along the cobblestones. The morning was pleasantly cool, and the near-cloudless sky promised a fine day. They turned right at Safflam Street and proceeded for two blocks before turning left onto Trink Street, another of Skunnik’s main avenues. As they continued south, the buildings became less grand in style but still looked solid and stable. Jarn approved of plainness of building construction, but the contrast with the grandiose vistas of the northern part of the city was striking. On upper Zayet Street they had passed splendid inns and taverns built of graystone and pinkstone, and their large front doors, often painted blue or red or gold, were set well back from the street proper. Further south the buildings were mostly wood, sometimes brick, and few were taller than three storeys.

They crossed Morsen Street and entered the Bolt, a warren of narrow unpaved streets that sometimes twisted and meandered and often ended abruptly, for no apparent reason that Jarn could see. The neighborhood consisted mostly of small two-storey wooden buildings crowded together like spectators at a hanging, but the Bolt was also home to some of the city’s oldest structures. It was also home to most of Skunnik’s least respectable denizens, and it seemed to Jarn as if he spent half his time there looking into crimes.

They turned a corner, and Jarn swore. The Yellowshirt named Kurff was standing at the mouth of the alley Jarn was looking for, a block away, as if he were waiting. Jarn slowed his horse to a walk and glanced at Braga.

“I see him,” Braga said.

“Kurff,” Jarn muttered. “Again.”

“Third time in as many weeks.”

“Don’t remind me,” Jarn replied.

They halted at the alley and dismounted. Kurff, who wore the bright yellow uniform of the Acrinite Guardsmen—known to all as “Yellowshirts”—looked up and nodded. Kurff was a half-foot shorter than Jarn but weighed as much or more. His short legs and stout torso reminded Jarn of a barrel set on two sticks. Long, stringy black hair hung in lank twists nearly to his shoulders, and his small, dark eyes stared out from a face that seemed fleshy and gaunt at the same time. Kurff raised a bushy eyebrow and gave Jarn a vague smile. “Saddlemaster Jarn.”

“It’s Captain Jarn now, Kurff,” Jarn replied.

The Yellowshirt shrugged. “You’re late to the festivities, Captain Jarn.”

“We come when we’re called,” Jarn said. “We don’t have secret sources of information.”

Kurff frowned. “Implying that I do?”

“Are you implying that you don’t?”

“When an Acrinite finds a dead body or evidence of any other crime, he’s likely to come to the Guardsmen first,” Kurff said. “You can’t expect them to go running to you Voths.”

“Why not? We’re here to serve.”

“Acrinites don’t trust you.”

“We’ve played fair with your people, Kurff. Probably better than you deserve.”

“Could be I wouldn’t argue with you,” Kurff said. “But most Acrinites see the Voths—especially you Vothan Riders—as an occupying force.”

“We’re occupying nothing but our own land—which your Acrinite ancestors stole from us a thousand years ago, through lies and deceit.”

Kurff snorted. “If your ancestors hadn’t been off riding to every part of the known world and beyond, they might have noticed.”

“That doesn’t excuse theft.”

“Leaving a fat coin purse in the middle of the street in a bad part of town doesn’t excuse theft, either, it just makes it more likely.”

“Never mind,” Jarn said. “I want to have a look at the victim’s body.”

“Right this way, Captain Jarn,” Kurff replied before heading into the alley.

“Braga, you stay here with the horses,” Jarn said to his companion, and then he turned and followed Kurff down the narrow alley, which ran between a tavern and a saddlery. Jarn entered a small yard behind the tavern and saw the dead man lying on his back. Two Yellowshirts were crouched over him. They looked up when Kurff and Jarn arrived.

“Captain Jarn would like to have a look at our victim,” Kurff said to the two Yellowshirts.

The two nodded and moved away. Jarn approached the body and knelt down next to it. The victim wore tan leggings, a dark brown tunic, and black boots. He had short brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Dead brown eyes stared up from a face as pale as parchment, and the man’s features seemed twisted, as if he had died from a bad fright.

Kurff approached and stood near the victim’s feet.

“What have you got so far?” Jarn asked.

“Male, early middle years, looked to be fit before someone stole his life away.”

“Any idea who he is?”

“Aye,” Kurff replied.

Jarn looked up and glared at him. “Who?”

“Raff Salorian.”

Jarn swore. “Reported missing nine days ago.”

“Aye.”

“Rebels.”

“Aye.”

“Bastards,” Jarn muttered.

“Aye,” Kurff said. Jarn stared at him, trying to decide if he was being sarcastic or serious, but the Yellowshirt’s stolid face gave away nothing.

It was the usual practice of the major Acrinite rebel group to abduct Acrinites they considered collaborators, hold them for nine days, and then kill them and dump their bodies somewhere in the city. Now and then, they murdered a Voth, but most crimes against the Voths were the work of lone assassins.

“There’s a triangle on the sole of his right foot,” Kurff said. He knelt down and pulled off the victim’s right boot. “Have a look.”

Jarn stood up and went to see. He knelt down again and rubbed his thumb over the small black triangle as Kurff held the victim’s leg up. The mark seemed to be part of the man’s skin, not like ink or dye. If the rebels’ recent pattern of abductions and murders held, the victim’s body would be drained of blood and missing its heart as well.

Kurff lowered the victim’s leg, and Jarn stood up. “I have a litter coming,” he said.

Kurff frowned. “Why?”

“To take the body back to headquarters.”

“Why? What are you going to do with him?”

Jarn resisted the urge to tell the Yellowshirt it was none of his concern. “We have a mage who claims he can see into dead bodies. Maybe he can learn something about … something.”

“Learn what?” Kurff snapped.

“I don’t know,” Jarn snapped back.

“This man deserves a proper burial, not a game of read my entrails conducted by some petty conjurer.”

“He’ll get a proper burial,” Jarn said.

“Aye, with half his innards missing. I won’t have you tampering with the dead, not unless it’s your own dead.”

“The mage won’t tamper with his body,” Jarn said, looking uncomfortable as he said it. “He can look … he claims he can look inside a corpse with some kind of second sight.”

Kurff furrowed his brow and stared at Jarn. “I didn’t think you believed in magery.”

“Right now, I’m ready to try anything,” Jarn said, an expression of unease still clouding his face.

“Do you trust this mage?” Kurff asked.

Jarn shrugged but said nothing.

“I thought not,” Kurff said. “Nor do I.”

“You don’t even know who it is,” Jarn said.

“I’ll find out soon enough. I want to be present when your mage works his make-believe magic.”

Jarn was considering his response when another Vothan Rider, a graybeard named Grion, arrived in the small yard.

“Did you bring the litter?” Jarn asked him.

“Yes, and a message,” Grion said. “Line Commander Lahgoh wants you to return to headquarters now. He says it’s important.”

Jarn nodded. “You and Braga bring the victim on the litter.” He turned to Kurff. “I’ll let you know when the mage plans to do his … work.”

“Thank you,” Kurff said. It was the first time Jarn had heard the man utter that phrase.

“No other Yellowshirts or any other Acrinites,” Jarn said. “Just you.”

Kurff nodded his agreement, and Jarn left the alley.

 

Chapter 2

 

The sun had risen above the buildings of eastern Skunnik, but the air still had a bite as Jarn rode north on Trink Street. He was headed toward the Vothan Riders’ provincial headquarters, a low, nondescript structure known as the Mang, located in Skunnik’s wealthy northern end, the neighborhood called The Basket. The sturdy fortress was two blocks west of the Beldur Palace, the home and headquarters of the Acrinite Guardsman, and three blocks east of the Palace of the High Hext, which had been the home and headquarters of the former Acrinite leader. The Riders could have claimed the Beldur for themselves, but the Yellowshirts had occupied it for a thousand years, and the Riders had no wish to antagonize them further. Besides, occupying such an ostentatious pile of stone and brick would have been out of character for Vothan Riders, who preferred a building that more closely resembled their headquarters back in Rualgar, the capital of Vothan.

Jarn rode through a cross street and saw a shopkeeper in the next block emerge from his shop and begin setting up a stand, piling it with tunics, skirts, and sashmeens, the colorful ankle-length garments popular among the Acrinites. He had been meaning to buy one for Sanaja, but he knew he might not see her for months, so he put the thought out of his mind.

When Jarn drew near the shopkeeper, he nodded a greeting, but the man ignored him, which was no surprise. Acrinites bore little love for Vothan Riders. Jarn looked around and saw tavern owners, guildsmen, and other shopkeepers going about their business, some sweeping away dust and debris from low stone porches fronting narrow two-story buildings, others setting up stands and displays. He glanced over his shoulder and then right and left as he passed another cross street. It occurred to him that he had rarely traveled alone in Skunnik. Although no one had officially decreed it, Riders and other Voths with business in the provincial capital, or anywhere else in Acrin, usually traveled in groups.

Jarn didn’t think anyone would trouble him during daylight hours. Besides being known for their skill with weapons, the Vothan Riders had a well-deserved reputation for toughness, endurance, and fearlessness. In some quarters, they also had a reputation for violence and brutality, a notion they did little to dispel, even though it was mostly false. Nevertheless, Jarn remained wary. Staying on your guard was how you stayed alive anywhere in the known world.

The Mang finally came within sight, and Jarn turned right, traveling a few blocks before turning left and approaching a building that resembled nothing so much as a plain gray brick topped by a square tower at each corner and a double tower over the main entrance. He passed through a guarded gate in the wall that surrounded the squat fortress and proceeded to the stable, where a groom took his horse. He walked to the main entrance, climbed a stairway to the second floor, and continued to the office of Line Commander Lahgoh.

The door was open, and Jarn stepped into the small front room of Lahgoh’s quarters. Sunlight streamed in through three tall, narrow windows arrayed along one wall. The windows extended from a foot above the floor nearly to the ceiling, illuminating the room without need of candles or torches. Lahgoh was sitting at a large oak desk, poring over a map. He wore the familiar leather and brass raiment of a Vothan Rider, and a small insignia on his left shoulder identified his rank as line commander. He had short dark hair with a streak of silver running through it and a dark, neatly trimmed beard. A thin white scar ran from the corner of his left eye down to his beard. He was ten years older than Jarn, but people often took them for brothers.

Lahgoh looked up from the map and gestured for Jarn to take a seat opposite him. Jarn did, and Lahgoh pushed aside the map.

“You’ll be wondering why I sent for you,” Lahgoh said.

“Aye,” Jarn replied. “If it’s to give me an assignment away from Acrin, I can be packed and ready to leave in an hour.”

Lahgoh gave him a crooked smile and nodded in appreciation of the jape—before shaking his head to reject the notion. “I do have another assignment for you and your men, but it’s right here in Skunnik. You’re to start immediately.”

“I’m supposed to be present when that mage tries to peer inside our latest victim. I told Kurff he could witness it as well.”

Lahgoh raised an eyebrow. “You’re being kind to Kurff?”

“He raised a stink about giving the victim a proper burial, without defiling his body.”

“I’m glad you and Kurff are working well together.”

“We’re not, and I don’t trust him. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s a rebel himself, maybe something worse.”

Lahgoh shrugged. “The Yellowshirts don’t trust us any more than we trust them. Nor do any other Acrinites trust us or like us, excepting those who overcharge us for their weak ale and stale bread.”

“Kurff said much the same.”

“He isn’t wrong. But I didn’t summon you to engage in talk of politics—well, perhaps I did.”

The light in the room dimmed slightly as a cloud passed across the morning sun. Both men glanced at the windows, as if waiting for the room to brighten again. Lahgoh stood up and went to a side table that held a pitcher of wine and six goblets. He poured wine into two of the goblets, set one on his desk, and handed the other to Jarn. “Vothan strong red,” he announced before sitting down again. “None of that sour Acrinite piss.”

Jarn nodded his thanks and took a long drink. Then he said, “You were about to tell me why you summoned me.”

“We have a delicate situation on our hands,” Lahgoh said. “As you know, the Brythyn Realm has long had various treaties and trade agreements with the Acrinites. Now that there is no longer an Acrinite Realm, the Brythyners want a treaty with us.”

“I’d take care treating with the Brythyners,” Jarn said. “Their pacts with the Acrinites did the Voths little benefit.”

“True enough, but now that the Brythyn Realm is on our new border, a peace pact and a trade treaty are in our interest. We’ll finally be able to sell Vothan goods to the Brythyners and buy goods from them at fair prices. As for the delicate situation I mentioned, it involves the Brythyn diplomat sent to Skunnik to negotiate the treaty.”

“Skunnik? Why not send their man to Rualgar?”

“It’s the Brythyners’ way of showing their displeasure at the Voths’ ascendancy, even as they deign to negotiate with us.”

Jarn shook his head. “They’re a haughty lot.”

“Indeed. And you’ll find Lord Grenling among the haughtiest. The Brythyners also want us to make some concessions to the Acrinites. They believe they deserve more self-rule.”

“They’re lucky we haven’t thrown them all out.”

“I doubt we could even if we wanted to. The Acrinites outnumber us, and they don’t lack for friends.”

“All this is for the diplomats to jaw over,” Jarn said. “What’s it to do with the Riders?”

“I was getting to that,” Lahgoh said. “On their way here from Brythyn, somebody snatched Lord Grenling’s daughter. She was supposed to marry one of the Acrinite nobility, a lord named Keddro. The marriage had been arranged more than a year ago but was put off because of the war and the other troubles. Lord Grenling is demanding that we find her and punish the culprits responsible for the outrage before he’ll sign any treaty with us. Lord Keddro is even more adamant that we find his betrothed. He’s let it be known that he thinks the Voths might be responsible.”

“Is Lord Keddro a fool then?”

“Aye, and a loud one.”

Jarn let out a long breath. “It may have been the rebels.”

Lahgoh shook his head. “I don’t know that the rebels or their sort would harm an ally of Acrin. I think it’s more likely some brigands took the girl for ransom.”

“Is Lord Grenling willing to pay a ransom, if it comes to that?” Jarn asked.

Lahgoh hesitated a moment before answering. “Lord Grenling wants us to find her. That’s your new assignment.”

“Have you sent out search parties?”

“More than a dozen. Both Riders and Yellowshirts are scouring the city and the surrounding countryside, but the search needs to be better organized. I also want suspected rebel locations in the city checked, and I want you to talk to the Grenlings and anyone else who may have information. Lord and Lady Grenling have taken quarters in the Palace of the High Hext. They’re expecting you.”

Jarn nodded and stood up. “I’ll be off then.”

“There’s one more thing,” said Lahgoh. “I may be able to get you some help in locating the girl.”

“What kind of help? Not another mage, I hope?”

“You’ll remember the woman named Astil.”

Jarn stared at his superior officer as if he had grown another arm. “You must be japing.”

“She has the very skill we need for this—for your—task.”

Jarn sat back down. “She’d never help us, even supposing we could find her in time. And whoever does find her will likely get a bolt in the neck for his troubles.”

“We know where she is,” Lahgoh said. “A few months after she escaped from the prison in Wyndor City, we picked up her trail. We’ve been keeping a watch on her ever since. We could have seized her, but we thought it might be more profitable to observe her, see what she does and with whom she deals. Now that we have need of her, we’ll bring her in. Luckily, she isn’t far.”

“She won’t work for us.”

“She might if we agree to grant her a pardon for her former crimes. Especially when she finds out how we tracked her down.”

“How did you track her down?”

“We had help from another friend of yours.”

Jarn stared at Lahgoh, as if trying to read his thoughts. The answer finally dawned. “Aarla?”

Lahgoh nodded.

“I thought she disappeared into some enchanted forest with her long-lost father.”

“Not disappeared. It seems your Saddlemaster Bleuek and young Aarla have become close. She visited him from time to time back in Rualgar, before your company was sent to Skunnik. Young love, you know.”

Jarn was stunned. “Did some virrling put me to sleep for a month? Is there anything else I’ve missed that I should know about?”

“If everything has gone according to plan, Bleuek and Aarla and a squadron of Riders should be bringing in Astil right about now. We’ll know soon enough.”