How loud can a drop of water be? Gar thought, flicking an irritated glance back up the alley. Like most of the rundown buildings in the poor quarter near the river’s edge, the guttering along Gar’s chosen alley needed some serious repair. Although he could not truly complain now that the persistent rain from an hour earlier had melted into a dense, soupy mist, providing him with the cover he so desired.

           But that drip! Gar growled, working to ignore its incessant patter and wiping his face to clear the moisture condensing on his skin. The constant tapping sound on the cobbles and rotting barrels worked to strain his hearing and mask the sleepy murmur of the city beyond his chosen alley. Not that many would be out this time of night, but there was work to do, and his guild fee was begging due again.

         What else can I do? Rhard will have my skin this time if I don’t cough up. But a little murder and a touch of robbery will see that put to rest.

Not that Gar actually enjoyed killing. The fact is, I don’t really mind it either. Honestly, it just makes robbing a little more convenient, Gar mused, straining at the night sounds filtering through the haze.

       Grab them from behind, a quick slip of the knife from ear to ear, keeping a hand over their mouth until they stop kicking, of course. And then..? Well, plenty of time to pick through their pockets, and who needs to leave a witness to run to the Night’s Watch? Besides, a man’s got to earn a living somehow.

It was a callous thought, really, but Gar was a simple man in his opinion. Well, a simple man with a knife and a gambling problem. But what are morals to the likes of me? It is not like I can eat them.

So tonight, Gar lurked among the barrels and refuse at an alley entrance. Which one in the twisted maze of streets by the docks, he was not sure. But it stank of piss, dead things, and rotting cabbage.

        Why do they always smell of cabbage? He thought absently, his mind drifting through simple boredom. It was not a question he had an answer to, but it did not really matter; they all did, and besides, it masked his own fragrance. Pressed against the slippery, rain-wet wall, and hidden by the gloom, he was just another indistinct shape in the misty dark. It was the perfect hiding spot, really, now that a dense mist drifted in off the river Sil to soften the edges, dampen the sound, and lengthen the shadows. Honestly, the night could not have been more perfect for a robbery. Yet, it had provided little chance to earn his living, Gar lamented, adjusting his rope belt. His stomach was empty and growling, which went a long way to explain his less than usual caution as the hours stretched on with little chance to ply his trade.

Close to giving up, and hoping to beg a little change in the morning while avoiding Rhard’s fee collectors, Gar took a sharp breath at the telltale click of boots on worn cobbles.

They were close… Far closer than they should have been before Gar marked them, he thought, disgusted at his loss of attention, having almost missed them in his musings and the mist-muffled night. Sighing in relief, he focused the best he could as little butterflies of fear swarmed in his head and belly.

        Or is that just hunger? Gar thought his instincts balanced between flight and fight. But it did not really matter if it gave him caution. It paid to be careful regardless of the hunger, for Shăr at night was a dangerous place after all.

Hands pressed against the slick, wet wall, knife at the ready, he crouched, poised on the balls of his feet, muscles tensing and relaxing, eager to get the job done and out of the damp. Straining against the milky lamp-lit street, Gar saw little at first aside from a dark shadow, until a man of above-average height materialized from the mist. His face was unremarkable except for the scar that ran from just under his right eye to his lower jaw. A heavy, hooded, gray woolen cloak worn to beat back the winter damp, covered long black hair framing ice-blue eyes that held an air of danger about the man as he moved with that fluid grace only hard-fighting men displayed.

        Good, I need a new cloak, Gar chuckled to himself, missing the warning signs.

Gripping his knife, he counted the heartbeats as the man walked past before he lunged for his latest victim. And that is where it all went terribly wrong. Gar felt a very sharp sensation in his gut before he hit the ground with an explosion of air. Panicked thoughts swarmed in his head, as the last thing he would ever see arrived in the shape of a very long knife slammed into his throat and up into his brain, with a crunch and a wet smack.

​

​

 

***

​

​

 

Tugging his dagger free, the man stepped back and quickly glanced around the street for more assailants. Upon seeing no immediate danger, he cursed at the mist-shrouded night. “Shăr, what a shithole,” Kallus muttered and shook his head, catching the stench of the dingy alley. Crouching with a sigh of disgust, he cleaned the blood from his dagger on the thief’s cooling corpse.

“Poor fool, you were probably expecting a drunken sailor or a merchant, not a war-hardened veteran,” Kallus whispered, giving the rag-clad cutpurse a crooked smile and tossing a small copper coin onto the former thief’s chest.

“Ormü owns you all,” he whispered, resuming his journey toward the river.

 

It was not long before Kallus stood outside a tavern, warm light spilling onto the foggy street through cloudy windows. Above the door hung a crude sign of a woman leaning on a keg, tankard in hand. The drunken wench, it read, just one of a dozen or more run-down taverns and alehouses along the wharf district, with equally predictable names and equally awful wine or ale. It was filled, for what it was worth, with local fishermen playing dice and sailors on shore leave, or waiting for a new ship. Pipe smoke drifted heavy in the room, much like the river mist outside, and the air tasted like the inside of a moldy boot. At the bar, a short, bald, piggy-eyed fellow sporting an apron that at one time may have been white, occupied himself with cleaning a none-too clean mug with a cloth in no better condition than his apron. The man eyed Kallus as he entered the common room, looking all too much like a hermit crab that had lost its shell.

        “I only got ale, ain’t got no wine; it be two coppers, it’s young, and no food at this hour. Drink it or not, you pay or be gone,” the man barked in that predictable dockside pathos, common to all wharf-side taverns and bars. Frowning back, Kallus kept a hard-eyed stare on the tavern keeper until the man began looking rather nervous.

        “I would have expected a tavern to serve wine, but ale it is then,” Kallus replied, breaking the tension with a smile that never quite touched his eyes and radiated all the warmth of a winter river. Chuckling at the startled look on the tavern keeper’s face, Kallus found a seat in the back corner, where he could watch the tavern door and as many of the occupants as possible. Noting a familiar hooded fellow near the fire smoking a pipe, Kallus twitched a smile in recognition, then frowned as the tavern keeper dumped an earthen mug containing a suspicious oily liquid on the table. Raising a questioning eyebrow at the crude approximation of ale, Kallus bestowed the tavern keeper with another icy look. Sniffing at the murky mess slowly coming to rest in the dirty mug, Kallus tossed two coppers on the greasy table, which the man quickly scooped up and scuttled off with.

Ignoring the ale, Kallus simply observed the patrons for a time in the dingy space, before the common room door opened to reveal a slim form in a heavy hooded cloak. Two much larger men, not doing a particularly good job at hiding the fact they were armed to the teeth, followed the hooded stranger into the tavern. Shoving a drunken patron out of the way, they proceeded to plough a path through the tables for their slender charge. Both had the typical light olive skin common to the inhabitants of the southern lands of Nin’De and Shao, if the plain curved swords and slave brands did not reveal their origins.

        Chăñ slave soldiers? Kallus noted with a grunt, eyeing the pair. Impressive to look at, and a truly expensive purchase to make at the south gate market, but generally they were not very bright. However, his client had the coin, it would seem. Scanning the common room, the trio pushed their way through the tables of drunken and dice-playing patrons toward him.

“You are known as Kallus Ravenclaw?” Asked a soft, melodious voice edged with just the smallest hint of a southern Shărrian accent. “My master has a task for you,” the soft voice of a girl behind the hood said as she took a seat, revealing just a hint of a gold band around her delicate right wrist when she placed her slender hands on the table.

       A female house slave, and an expensive one no doubt… so the client is a cast noble, Kallus mused. Typical, the Shăr aristocrats would never demean themselves to come to a place like this, nor in fact risk it.

        “What sort of task?” Kallus asked in a level voice, studying the two guards who simply ignored him. The slave gave him a half smile, obviously noting his appraisal of her two Chăñ men. They would be there as much for her protection as for stopping her from running away.

        “My master asks that you obtain certain items, is all, and the compensation will be more than adequate, I am told,” the girl said in a crisp voice, earning little more than a raised eyebrow from Kallus.

No, not a girl. You are young, but no girl, Kallus thought, appraising the slender thing hidden under the hood.

“Hey, you three!” shouted the landlord, his voice rousing a few of his sleepy patrons from their half-slumber.

         “We got only ale at this hour. There be no wine, no food, and ye be paying or ye be gone. I’ll have no lechers staying in here to get out of the fog!” he growled, slapping his rag on the scarred and worn bar top. Flicking a hostile glance at the piggy-eyed fellow, the young woman whispered something to one of her guards, who shrugged and tossed a small coin bag to the landlord. The man’s eyes widened when he looked inside, and with a startled look, quickly followed by a surprised smile, he scuttled off to fetch mugs, all the while clutching the tiny bag tightly.

        “Back to business?” the young slave said, flashing Kallus a thin smile, clearly dismissing the landlord’s existence. Kallus could not help but smile back. The woman was calm, confident, and utterly sure she would be obeyed without question.

      No, not your typical slave girl at all, are you? He thought, catching a glimpse of raven-black hair. She would fetch an astonishingly high price at the South Gate market, which narrowed the list of potential clients down considerably. The slave was certainly young. Her face half hidden inside the hood, delicate and beautiful. But the blue of her eyes held a hard, yet haunted edge. They had seen much, it would seem, in her short years, Kallus thought, letting the silence draw out a little longer before he answered the slave. It paid to be careful in Shăr, because you could get tangled in some very nasty shit dealing with cast nobles if you were unwary.

         “Burglary, is it?” Kallus said with a sigh and shook his head, clearly not all that interested. “If we like the conditions, then we will obtain the items your master seeks, but I have a few, as I said, conditions that must be met first.” The slave girl eyed him as the landlord scuttled up with three mugs, and just as quickly scuttled away. The hooded woman simply ignored the oily ale, her eyes fixed on Kallus, expression devoid of all emotion. Kallus had seen this before with other slaves; it was not unlike the skills applied by noblewomen who played the great game of houses. Yet with slaves, they learned to bury their emotions for simple survival.

      “Conditions were expected from one such as yourself. The guild stressed you would be careful, and very discreet,” she answered in a flat voice, before tossing a wax-sealed slip of parchment over the table to Kallus. “You will be at that address the first hour after the middle day tomorrow, and we shall discuss the conditions... in more?” She paused and smiled. It was cold and never touched her eyes. “Ah... pleasant surroundings,” she continued, waving a slender hand at the oily ale with a look of distaste. The action was the only genuine emotion Kallus saw from the woman before she gave a sharp nod and left the table, leaving her two guards in comical unison to sniff their ale, grimace, and leave the mugs to follow their charge.

Leaning back against his chair, Kallus sighed as he watched the lithe beauty leave the tavern. Something about her face tickled his memory, but that was of little importance as his mind focused on the guild job. There were many cast noble slaves in the western Empire, and dark hair and blue eyes were not uncommon among them.

          But still you have a familiar look, he mused, then shoved it away as the recognition tickled at his sense of caution. There were other, more pressing matters than an indentured noble girl as pretty as she was. Another noble feud...? Kallus thought. But it did not really matter; the caste elite played their games, and if you were careful, you profited from those games. The problem here was obvious, and his brother would be blunt in pointing it out, that this would be no simple burglary, for if it were, the guild would have just passed it off to the thieves.

         Guild..? Bah, don’t make me sick. You are little more than a disparate gang of thieves, frauds, and protection racketeers. But they had a code, and by the by, the shady underworld stuck to it or got their throats slit. Each city had one, with the possible exception of Oshelila in the east, but that was immaterial, Kallus mused. If you wanted to work, then you followed their code and paid your dues.

        “Gods, Kallus, could this look any more like a setup?” A sharp-faced man with long black hair loosely tied with a simple leather strip said as he sat at Kallus’s table. Promptly picking up a mug, he gulped its oily contents, then thumped the mug down and settled an unhappy look on Kallus.

           “Wexian, how can you drink that cat piss?” Kallus asked, with an amused smile cracking his stony features.

        “Well,” Wexian retorted, “I open my mouth and swallow. You can’t taste it until you stop and don’t change the bloody subject. This looks like a setup to me,” continued Wexian. Gracing him with a chuckle, Kallus sniffed his own mug and put it back down.

          “You, old friend, are a brave man,” Kallus replied, pushing the mug aside. “But to answer your question, I don’t like it either,” Kallus continued, answering his brother’s question. “Meeting here in a wharf-side tavern? Not the best place to keep a secret, but maybe a second meeting in this case makes more sense? Rhard said, the client was a little paranoid.” Grunting at the question, Wexian shot Kallus a flat look and then shrugged.

           “Maybe...?” Wexian replied noncommittally, grabbing another mug. “Look, Rhard gave us nothing to go on Kall, and add to the fact it is us and not some foot-pad being called up, has me nervous,” Wexian added placing the second mug on the table, and reaching for the third. “Looks like caste nobles if that slave girl and her designer guards are any measure of it.” Frowning at the oily liquid, Wexian placed the mug back down and pointed a finger at Kallus, clearly irritated. “Which means we ask for double the money because you know damn well if it is cast nobles, then it means more than double the problems we have to deal with, brother. I am as sick of escorting wagons and merchants as you are, but this job stinks worse than this city,” Wexian hissed at Kallus, all mirth gone as he tapped the slip of paper.“So, are you going to open that?”

Kallus eyed the parchment before picking it up to crack the plain red wax seal. Scanning its contents, his eyes widened just slightly when he read the address. “Pleasant surroundings indeed,” Kallus said, tossing it to Wexian, who curled his lip when he read it.

“If that is who I think it is, ask for triple, and up front, Kall. The Duke of Shăr is an insufferable prick, and less trustworthy than a cut-purse,” Wexian said in a flat tone. “Either way, you want me to follow them, I gather?” There was no question of it, really; Wexian would do exactly that, and Kallus could count on it.

“Follow them for sure, and get as much information as you can before dawn,” replied Kallus. Wexian simply nodded in reply and tossed the message onto the table.

“Rhard is not trustworthy, Kall; we both know that. But he would be cutting his own throat if he double-crossed us, and the rest of the guild would flay him alive if we did not slit his throat first. As it is, my network here in Shăr is small brother, but I will dig what I can before dawn,” Wexian said, inclining his head at Kallus, who made a disgusted sound at the comment and rolled his eyes to the grimy, smoke-stained tavern roof.

          “True, but you know the game. Ema will have some contacts here if you really get stuck,” Kallus replied, screwing the message up into a ball and tossing it into his ale mug. Snorting at the name, Wexian shook his head, dismissing it.

             “Some..? That woman will have half the city on her payroll, but no, I would avoid Ema. She will demand conditions upon conditions, and then some if I do. Best we avoid that,” Wexian replied in a flat voice and stood, his all too ready smile returning as he left. “See you in a few hours, Kall.”

 

Watching his brother leave, Kallus gave him a wry smile. Wexian was not a man anyone sane would want to waylay on a night like this, but he was right about Ema, and neither wanted to get tangled in her webs again.

          I love you as a sister and more, Em’laya, but neither of us trusts you, Kallus mused, thinking of the raven-haired beauty. He had known the woman as a rag-clothed child, and loved Ema from the day she staggered into his adopted father’s camp… but Wexian?

The man was his constant companion, and brother in all but name. In Wexian’s own words, he was the best thief Kallus knew, aside from their sister Katla. Handy with a knife, the sharp-faced man could creep up on a cat. But most of all, Wexian was one of only a handful of men Kallus trusted, even if he was a thief and a cutthroat. They may as well have been brothers; hell, they could be for all they knew. Growing up in a Naxian slum, it did not really matter; only the strong and nimble survived to be adults. And besides, most street urchins were the sons and daughters of nameless whores anyway. None of it really mattered, Kallus thought, chuckling to himself as the memory of their childhood stealing and picking pockets to survive came flooding back. They had a job beyond guarding merchants’ wagons, and that was all that counted.

          “I am getting far too old for this. Why do we keep doing it? We don’t need to,” Kallus muttered as he got up to leave. “Time to return home to Little Oshelila and mother after this, Wex. We have both been away far too long,” whispered Kallus and snorted at the thought. They would both be bored in a month and on the road again if they did that.

The landlord watched him with piggy eyes as Kallus started for the exit, and the less chewy air of the dockside road. Kallus just shook his head at the man’s sullen look and tossed a silver coin at him as he passed the bar.

          “Put it back in your vats, man! That ale is still fermenting, and on your life, do not serve that swill to the guild. They would likely hang you from your own door sign before the Night’s Watch gets a chance.”

Outside, the mist swirled in clumps as a light dusting of snow worked to replace it. I never did like this city, Wex; and the nobles here least of all, Kallus thought, slipping into the mist beyond the milky light of the tavern’s windows.

​

 

***

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Stalking through the shadows that lined the narrow lane, Wexian curled a tight smile at the trio slipping through a heavy iron-shod door. The grand entrance to the extensive palace would likely open onto the city’s water square on the avenue leading up to the imperial palace. But back here in the narrow lane, a block away from the marble facades and manicured gardens, the walls were plain local stone, pitted and stained from neglect.

          Much like Shăr and its nobility, Wexian thought, eyeing the solid door the slave girl and her guards pulled shut. All pretty on the outside, but rotting from within.

It was only the truth in Wexian’s opinion. Shăr, both as an empire and the city that gave it its name, was rotten to the core, and corrupt beyond redemption. Dismissing thoughts of the empire and the nobility that ruled it, Wexian slipped over the cobbled lane to the palace wall. The slave girl and her designer guards had taken quite the detour in arriving at their destination, but of the two stops they made, it was the one at a guild safe house that truly piqued Wexian’s interest.

          What dealings would Helcis have with the guild, and why this servant’s entrance? Wexian mused, curling his lip at the thought of Helcis, Duke of Shăr. “Just what are you hiding, girl?” Wexian whispered at the dark, worrying at the thought, his instincts tickling his sense of caution.

It was a troubling question, considering the shady underworld of this city, or any city for that matter, avoided its local lord at all costs. He would have to dig for that answer through his own small network of spies and informants, but that would take time, and time was a commodity he was short on.

          Damn it, Kallus, I have a bad feeling about this job. Helcis is not a man I want to get that close to, and you know damn well if he is playing the Great Game, then Ema will be involved somehow, Wexian thought, his own street born instincts sounding the alarm as he made his way along the palace wall to the door.

Helcis ab’Vander was an insufferable prick in Wexian’s opinion. Not that he had actually met the man; his reputation simply preceded him. To Wexian, Helcis was just another over-pampered noble with little care for those around him. But Ema Oshelila... that woman’s name brought uncomfortable memories, all equally good and bad.

           I have no desire to get tangled in your webs again, Ema. They tend to get people killed, Wexian mused, and shoved the thoughts aside as he pushed on the door... But it did not budge, and with no discernible lock to pick, Wexian quickly gave up on it. Eyeing the palace wall, Wexian shook his head at the height before any window or landing appeared.

       “No climbing that,” he whispered, and set off back the way he had come, seeking an entrance to the maze of halls and corridors below Shăr’s filthy streets.

 

Like many of the ancient cities of the Middle Kingdoms, Shăr was honeycombed with passages that ran in and out of the sewers and cellars, mixed among the remnants of much older settlements. The thief’s highway, some called it, but in reality, only the guild used it, or those given permission by them to shelter in its warrens. To say Shăr was old did not even remotely portray the city’s true age. Founded nearly three thousand years past, after the collapse of the Old Ones Empire, the city had seen destruction at least twice and more than one dynasty deposed. Only Tālān and Mengia rivaled Shăr in age, and both were riddled with deep passages.

Pushing aside his musings, Wexian dipped into an alley and carefully shifted an iron grate in the grimy cobbles aside. The dirty shaft it covered reeked, but it would lead him to where he needed to go, and few but the most desperate, or those that truly did not want to be seen, would wade through the sewage revealed at the bottom. Growling at the stench, Wexian lowered himself into the dirty hole, trying not to gag at the smell.

        “You owe me for this, brother,” Wexian growled, feeling his boots squelching in the dirty rivulet trickling through the bottom. In many ways, Shăr was little different from Tol’Naxia, where he and Kallus grew up. Both cities were dirty and old, and Tol’Naxia, just like Shăr, was a crime-ridden dump in Wexian’s opinion. In all likelihood, he and Kallus would have ended on the gallows as thieves if it were not for the first Ionian crusade and being press-ganged into service by Tol’Naxia’s local lord. There, they had found a new life and a family. And we squandered that life, brother, Wexian thought, feeling his way carefully through the dark back toward the palace.

Stumbling through the slippery dark passage, with only the stub of a candle for light, it took him much longer than he wished to find an outlet from the palace privy into the stinking tunnel. Growling at the filth-smeared and rusted iron grate blocking the entrance, Wexian stepped back and eyed the way he had come. “Not getting in this way either,” Wexian hissed and set off back down the stinking shaft.

It took him the better part of an hour to slip through the tunnels, back streets, and alleys of Shăr to the little guild safe house the slave girl paid a call on. The place was silent and shuttered tight against the night chill, yet something felt off about the house.

            No fire lit, and no one is home? Wexian thought, narrowing his eyes at the chimney stacks on either side of the tall building.

There were always guild keepers in these places that never slept, even if the guild hierarchy moved around each day to avoid the city guard and the ruling family’s secret police. On near-silent feet, Wexian climbed a shabby wooden fence to the stables. The building would have been an inn or tavern at one time if not some wealth merchant’s home. But now it was just another rundown building among dozens of others that edged the western side of the city near the river. Reaching the back edge of the building, Wexian smiled a little at the low light spilling from the shabby stable doors.

          So, there are occupants, but why the stables? Wexian thought, eyes narrowing on the dim glow filtering through cracks in the wooden doors and walls. Keeping to the dark edge of the overgrown grounds, he worked his way toward the decaying structure, noting the low murmur of voices within. Crouching low, Wexian put an eye to a long crack in a gray and weather-beaten board.

         Temple rats, Wexian growled internally, eyeing four plainly dressed men sleeping in the space and two others talking in low voices near a fire. To the unobservant, the group would look like any other company of mercenary guards, but Wexian knew better. Their weapons and armour gave the game away. No one other than an Ionian Temple Knight or guard would be foolish, or in fact, stupid enough to wear it. No matter the plain clothes the men wore, the pommels of their swords and the shape of their helms were distinctively those of the Ionian Temple.

          Just what are you doing in Shăr? Wexian pondered, pulling away from the long crack. But more to the point, what has that slave girl got to do with you? The thought was as troubling as it was irritating. Wexian had no love for the Temple, and none for those who trafficked with it. The Ionian religion was outlawed in much of Shăr, as it was in Naxia, and rightly so considering the fanatical faith had caused no less than two holy wars in the past thirty years and scores of others in the past centuries. Placing his eye back to the crack, Wexian gritted his teeth and quickly moved away from the stable. And a temple priest is with them? Just why would you risk coming to Shăr? Wexian pondered, making his way back toward the southern gate and the little inn he and Kallus had chosen.

           If Helcis thinks we will work with those temple rats, he is sorely mistaken. The Temple had about as much love for him and his brother as they had for the Temple. Yet it was all conjecture. Wexian had no evidence the slave girl had come here to see these temple men, and it could be simple coincidence, considering many in the guild and those that worked for them met at these places.

Coincidence…? Maybe, but it would be stupid to simply dismiss it as such, Wexian thought, casting a glance back at the silent building. But then again, we both have a price on our heads in Ionia, Kallus, and we have not been that shy about being noticed in Shăr. Yet, temple rats hiding in a guild house? Wexian narrowed his eyes at the thought, then shrugged.

        “Gold is gold after all, and every man, or indeed guild, has its price,” Wexian whispered, yet he could not quite dispel a growing knot of worry at what he had seen. The guild would never have worked with the Temple in the past, and Helcis? It did not really surprise Wexian all that much. The imperial family was as degenerate as it was corrupt, well, in his opinion.

           The only thing that holds the Temple back from outright ruling Ionia is Queen Arisa. and her sister Vera. And thank Ilisa they do, Wexian thought, invoking the goddess of creation, love, and wisdom. “King Tibias is not fit to rule a midden heap, let alone a kingdom,” Wexian growled, thinking of the incompetent king of Ionia. The man was an imbecile, and a violent one in his opinion, but the arranged marriage of M’sharlla, queen of Naxia’s cousin Arisa, had at least maintained some sort of peace, if not true freedom, for the people of Ionia. Then again, is the imperial throne of Shăr any better? The Emperor is a violent, senile old man. It is his son Ouen and cousin Helcis that truly rule the empire, Wexian mused, then grunted at the thought. If not you two, then it is Zirana, Ema’s niece, who holds the power here.

Thinking of the young woman brought a frown of consternation to Wexian’s brow as he made his way down a side avenue toward the southern gate, working to avoid the night traffic weaving its way into the city. The girl was a constant irritation to Ema, and rightly so in his opinion.

           I killed her mother for you, Ema, and I doubt not Zirana would return the act in kind if she gets the chance. She is known as The Spider of Shăr for a good reason, Ema. That girl’s webs are no less deadly than yours. With the knot of worry increasing, and his instincts sounding an alarm, Wexian shoved the inn door open and headed for the innkeeper’s chambers. The man was part of his own network, but best of all in contact with Ema’s, and as much as Wexian wished to avoid the woman and her games... he needed her information.

​

 

***

​

 

Laria shuddered and quickly twisted her head away from the gurgling, kicking man as the life drained from him. Snorting in disgust, the raven-haired noblewoman holding her captive pulled a dagger from the man’s throat and tossed it on the table. Laria would have run if she could only break the bonds that bound her naked to a chair beside the casually discarded blade. The cell smelt close and cold, sound amplified by the rounded vault that made even a whisper feel like a shout. Blinking to clear the cold sweat from her eyes, Laria could not help but watch the man’s last convulsive moments with a horrid fascination.

She barely knew the man. Even weeks on the road had rendered little conversation and no real companionship. The man was little more than a common thug, and no less of a pawn than she was in her former mistress’s game. With a final shudder, Laria averted her eyes from the ruined man chained to the wall. Her fate would be no better.

Gracing Laria with a dark smile, the raven-haired woman dipped her hands in a bowl of water and took a towel from the table to wipe the blood from them as she gracefully sat in a chair facing her.

          “Laria...? That is truly your name, child?” the noblewoman asked crisply, gracing Laria with a thin smile. Laria swallowed and screwed up her face in terror at the ice-blue eyes regarding her.

      “Yes, Countess Ema,” Laria replied quickly, working to avoid the gaze of the hard-faced noblewoman. Snorting a contemptuous laugh at the reaction, Ema selected a spoon-shaped knife from an ebony case at the table’s edge.

          “Do you know what this is?” Ema asked, slowly dragging the flat of the blade down Laria’s tiny face. Shuddering at the blade’s cold touch, her breath coming in quick gasps, Laria could only shake her head.  “No, few seldom do. It is for shelling an oyster, Laria, but I found if you sharpen it further and reduce its size, it is wonderful for removing eyes,” continued Ema, the smile draining from her face. The look of abject terror on Laria caused Ema to chuckle, a dark and mirthless sound, and place the object on the table.

          “We are going to have a little chat, Laria, and you are going to tell me everything, as if your life depended on it. And it truly depends on it. Lie even once, and well... I think you understand the consequences,” Ema said, her voice falling to a near whisper. Patting Laria’s leg, Ema sat back in her chair and flashed her a cold smile. “Shall we begin?” Closing her eyes at the flat question, Laria nodded sharply, for what else could she do?

             Gods, I am a nobody, Laria thought, panic surging in her. What in Ilisa’s name do I have to give her? She cried internally. But Laria knew she had nothing to stave off the painful death she was all but certain would arrive before the hour was out. Opening her eyes, Laria lowered them immediately, unable to hold the gaze of the formidable woman.

            Ilisa’s mercy, Countess Ema Oshelila, I was better off as a house slave, Laria screamed, the thought echoing around her head much like the sound did in this dank, vaulted space. Countess Ema, the subject of many a noblewoman’s nightmares, sat regarding Laria for a long time. To say she was ruthless was the same as naming water as wet. Ema could probably frighten the tide into staying out, such was her reputation and that of her sister rulers of the Eastern Empire.

             “Tell me, Laria,” Ema asked, leaning forward and tapping a brand high on her right arm, “how did you come to receive that? You have not long worn that brand, by the looks of it,” continued Ema, narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips at the angry red scar on Laria’s arm. Puzzled, Laria frowned at the question; it was far from what she had expected.

             “I was a house slave, my Countess,” Laria replied in a shaking voice. Ema just curled her lip in disgust at Laria’s shaky-voiced reply.

          “Indeed, and one that ran away once before,” Ema said, sounding strangely sympathetic, snatching the towel from the table with a sigh to wipe the cold sweat from Laria’s brow. “You were lucky they branded you and did not hang you, girl,” Ema added, sounding disgusted, and dropped the towel on the stone floor. “You do not need to tell me who did it. The brand tells me it was an ab’Vander, but which one?” Ema asked, frowning Laria. Growling a little despite the situation, Laria glanced up at Ema, a flash of hatred crossing her eyes.

            “Prince Ouen’s slave master branded me, at Princess Zirana’s command,” Laria hissed back, then swallowed hard when Ema just grunted at the heated reply and pursed her lips again.

           “So, tell me, Laria, why the brand and not the rope?” Ema asked in an oddly soft and puzzled voice, considering the situation, yet Laria simply slumped, missing the almost tender tone. Well, she slumped as best she could with the harsh hemp bonds holding her in place. It had been a hard year since her indenture to House ab’Vander, and she felt used, abused, and tired to the very core of her being. But never in her darkest nightmares did Laria dream she would end up in Countess Ema’s hands. Smoothing her face and employing a calming technique, Laria fought to regain what composure she could.

             “I wore a gold slave band and not the copper of a common slave, my Countess. Princess Zirana believed I would be of better service alive than a lesson to the other slaves,” Laria said, and closed her eyes in fright, losing what composure she had at the mask of naked anger that flashed through Ema’s eyes. Picking up the sharpened spoon, Ema tapped it lightly against her hand, eyes of ice fixed firmly on Laria.

                “So, we come to the core of what I wish to know, child. You have done well thus far… but lie now and you will wish they had hung you,” Ema whispered in a deadly soft voice and snorted at the sound of liquid dripping on the floor.

“That never helps Laria, yet you all do it,” Ema said with an amused smile. Lowering her head in shame, and eliciting a chuckle from Ema, Laria could only stare dejectedly at the floor as the sharp tang of urine rose to mingle with the smell of blood from the dead man.

               “Tell me, little Laria, what tasks did the spider set for you? My niece is a canny player of the game, though she has much less care for the fate of her pawns than I do,” continued Ema. Glancing up at the smiling woman, Laria shuddered at the cold look of contempt and quickly returned her gaze to the puddle of her own making spreading around the chair. The look on Ema’s face could have frozen rivers and shattered stone.

               “I do not know my Countess,” Laria replied in a weak voice. The slap she received from Ema snapped Laria’s head to the side, dazing her. 

                “One more lie, Laria, and I will take your right eye,” Ema growled. Shaking her head to clear the stars, Laria drew a deep breath to calm the rising panic.

               She is going to kill you, Laria… Gods, I have nothing to tell her to stop it, Laria thought, fighting away terror, but it did little good with the brooding presence of the Countess so close. With great effort, Laria turned her eyes up to Ema, forcing calm onto her face. Ema just chuckled and patted her leg, noting the skills used by noblewomen in the great game to hide their emotions and true intentions. 

            “You have had some instruction in the calming techniques to play the Great Game, it would seem,” Ema said, gripping Laria by the chin and leaning in close, her face and eyes utterly devoid of any emotion. “But I am better at it than you are, girl. Now answer my question. What has Zirana tasked you with?” Ema hissed close to Laria’s ear. Swallowing and fighting the urge to pee in terror, Laria tried to nod, but with Ema’s hand gripping her chin, it was difficult.

              “Princess Zirana told me little other than that I was to travel with that man to Oshelila. Once there, he would find me work through a contact in your household. That is all I know, my Countess, I swear it on Ilisa’s name,” Laria squeaked in panic. Sniffing at the confession, Ema held her eyes for a while, then dropped her hand from Laria’s chin.

             “Good girl. You see, the truth is much less painful, but be careful swearing to my goddess in front of me, child. I will stand no blasphemy in my presence,” Ema said, leaning in and whispering in Laria’s ear. Laria simply nodded rapidly, screwing up her face and swallowing hard, her face flushing with shame as her bladder finally let go again.

           “Yes, my Countess, I meant no disrespect,” Laria replied, almost shouting it in fright. Ema simply grunted at the wet patter on the floor and settled back in her chair, absently tapping the sharpened spoon on the tabletop.

          “Tell me, Laria, what were you to do once you were in my employ?” Ema asked, eyes boring into Laria, who just shook her head, clearly terrified out of her wits.

           “I do not know, my Countess, I swear it. I was told nothing more,” Laria replied, bracing for the expected beating or worse, and closed her eyes. But after long moments when nothing came, she opened them to see Ema eyeing her with a crooked grin.                     “No, I truly doubt that, not at all. Zirana is not that sloppy,” Ema said with a little snort. Smoothing her dress, Ema regarded the slight girl tied to the chair. “So tell me, Laria, which house sold you into servitude? You are not common-born; that is plainly obvious,” Ema inquired, absently tapping the spoon on the tabletop again. The sound felt truly unnerving to Laria in the vaulted space. Trying to ignore the rhythmic tapping of the device that Laria was all but sure would end her life; she finally slumped in the chair. She had no will left; the weeks on the road and the harsh life as a slave had left her drained and frightened out of her wits.

         “House d’Alder, my Countess,” Laria replied, her voice resigned to a painful fate, eliciting a snort of disgust from Ema as she tossed the spoon into the ebony case. 

            “I gather you are one of Martain’s children. The missing older girl by your name,” Ema said, picking the dagger up from the table and leaning forward.

           Oh, gods, this is it. She has no more need for me, Laria thought, her mind screaming in panic. With a deep breath, Laria closed her eyes, unable to watch her last moments. Yet when the inevitable did not come, Laria tentatively opened them in wonder as the bonds on her hands came free. Ema just gave her a wry smile and tossed the dagger back onto the table.

         “I detest slavery, child. And like my wayward niece, I have a use for you. Though you will earn my clemency, of that I can assure you,” Ema said, patting Laria’s leg as she stood and went to the cell door. Opening it just a little, Ema spoke in hushed tones to a man standing on the other side before returning to Laria. “Come, girl, let us clean you and feed you. Then we can have a long discussion about your new duties. Serve me well, and I will return your nobility. Fail me… and well?” continued Ema, glancing at the corpse chained to the wall, with a dark smile. “I think you understand the consequences of that.”

Eyeing the corpse, Laria burst into tears, eliciting a deep sigh from Ema as she crouched beside her, taking Laria’s hands. “I am not quite the monster people would have you believe, child. But I will be obeyed without question, Laria. Is that clear?” Ema said in an oddly tender voice, but Laria simply nodded sharply, keeping her eyes on the urine-damp floor.

          What choice do I have? Laria thought, lifting her eyes, puzzled at the soft face regarding her. It seemed discordant with the harsh, commanding Countess only moments before. Pursing her lips, Ema regarded her for a moment. Laria was small even for her age, her light brown hair sweat-plastered to her milk-pale skin, green-gray eyes red-rimmed and haunted.

           “How old are you?” Ema asked, brushing the sweat-damp hair back from her face. Pulling her emotions back under control, Laria gave Ema a tight, shy smile.

          “I saw my seventeenth name day last spring, Countess. I think father sold me, as no one wants a bastard child as a wife,” Laria replied in a halting voice, still bamboozled at her escape from certain death. Frowning at the reply, Ema’s smile turned sad at the admission.

         “So, you truly are Martain’s illegitimate girl. That makes sense. I thought you dead or sold, but it would seem the latter was the case,” Ema said, taking Laria’s hands and pulling her to her feet. “I have a friend who owns an inn on land next to your father’s holdings. So, I will see that he thinks you are no longer among the living.” Laria looked puzzled as Ema led her to the door and took an offered robe from the man behind it. “You are still technically a slave, Laria, but we keep none in Oshelila. I do not allow it in my province, but imperial law compels me to return you to your owner. So, it is better for all that you are seen to vanish,” Ema added with a significant look, and chuckled at the flash of understanding on Laria’s face. “Come, you need to bathe,” Ema continued in a crisp voice, ushering Laria out into the long, damp stone hall beyond.

​

 

***

​

 

Closing the door on a sleeping Laria, Ema flashed her a tight, knowing smile at how quickly the Isa root and milk poppy caused her to drift off. The girl was a complication in some respects, and in truth Ema should simply dispose of her, considering it was her husband’s indiscretions that brought Laria into the world. But Ema felt indebted to the girl and disgusted at her husband’s actions. Laria was a political problem for Ema and her own family, yet while Ema was many things, and no less ruthless than any other in the Great Game, she was no murderer of an innocent, abused child. No, Laria was useful in her connection to d’Alder, along with her distant connection to the throne through House d’Swein, and Ema would exploit that. Legitimacy meant little in the Great Game if one were determined enough, and Laria, bastard child or not, was still useful in the game, if only to bring her own husband down in time. Not that the girl knew it, but Laria had provided Ema with a wealth of information on Zirana’s movements while Ema bathed her, and far more than torture alone could ever provide. With a tight smile, Ema sighed at the man waiting in the corridor, and the dark, uncomfortable look he gave her as she joined him.

          “You disapprove of my methods in this case, Vern?” Ema said, sounding tired and more than a little fed up. Vern simply regarded her for a moment, then shook his head.

            “Yes and no, sister. She is little more than a frightened child, and…” Vern tried to say, but Ema cut him off with a quick wave of her hand as she started toward her own apartments.

         “That girl is not even half as young as you think. Laria is just small for her age, and she was never in any real danger, Vern... you should know me better than that,” Ema replied curtly, and snorted in disgust at her brother. “Gods, Vern, when have you ever seen me actually torture a child? Oh, she received a slap for encouragement, but little else, other than a fright,” Ema said and eyed him for a moment.

        “Do not let that pretty little face fool you. That girl was raised in the rotting heart of the Empire, and she has seen much beyond her years. I can see that in her eyes,” Ema continued, her tone stern and growing annoyed. Raising an eyebrow at the terse edge, Vern frowned at his sister, then sighed.

         “Sorry, Ema, you are right. I should trust you more, yet why the compassion? You do not have a habit of taking in strays, so who is she?” Vern asked, flicking Ema a questioning glance. Gracing him with a quick smile in return, Ema paused at the foot of the stairs that led toward her private wing.

         “Unlike the girl I have sent for, she is not of any immediate significance, just another pawn in my niece’s current game. But she is the daughter of a house allied with the Imperial throne, and a cousin to it in point of fact. So useful in that respect,” Ema replied, mounting the first few steps. Vern nodded as he leaned back on the balustrade, eyeing his slender sister before pushing her for more.

        “There are many cousins to the throne, Ema, so which house?” Vern asked, gracing Ema with a flat look that she snorted a laugh at and started up the stairs.                                                                            

      “My, you are full of questions today, brother, but to answer them, she is one of Martain d’Alder’s girls. The eldest and illegitimate one, if you must know,” Ema answered in a voice no less flat than her look. Vern growled as he started up the stairs behind her, finally understanding who Laria was.

         “He sold her then? You should have forced Mathias to take her in when he confessed,” Vern hissed, glancing back the way they had come. Ema simply nodded, a look of anger creasing her brow.

           “Yes, Vern, I should have, and yes, that custom is in no danger of dying out anytime soon in the Western Courts. Indenture is entrenched in their culture. Bah, the entire region is rotten to the core, and my husband is little better. You do not need to remind me, brother,” Ema replied, her voice full of disgust, eliciting a growled response from Vern, his eyes focused on the polished stairs.

          “What do you intend to do with her? As much as I loathe the idea, you are legally bound to return her,” Vern said in a tight voice, causing Ema to pause and fix her brother with a hard smile.

        “And what in Ilisa’s name would ever make you think I would do that? I owe that child a debt, as it were, in place of my husband. Most would dispose of the girl, and honestly that would be the easier option… but I don’t waste talent, and never an opportunity, Vern,” Ema bit back, causing Vern to shake his head at the all too familiar warning of Ema’s explosive temper coming to a boil.

            “So you do have plans for the little thing?” Vern said. Ema just snorted in disgust and continued on her way.                                        “What makes you think I would not? And besides Vern, I said she was useful. But if you must know, I will teach her and employ Laria as a Ladies personal maid for now,” Ema said, twitching her lips into a warm smile. “That little thing, as you so aptly called her, is so grateful I have taken her in and did not simply dispose of her, she will be utterly loyal to me. So, I plan to use her as the maid to the girl I have summoned. That way, I have a girl close that will spy for me without question,” continued Ema. Pausing at the upper landing, she took her brother’s hands and frowned at his questioning look.

           “Watch them both, Vern. No harm can come to either, especially Isa, when she joins us. Little Laria will be given other duties in time, and Mathias will make good on his mistakes. But for now, she will be a maid and no more,” Ema said firmly, holding Vern’s eyes until his frown turned quite puzzled at her actions and sentiment.

             “Normally I would not question your motives, sister, but why all the interest in these daughters of minor houses? Laria, as innocent as she seems, is a complication and an embarrassment to d’Alder and his wife’s house. I seem to remember d’Swein was far from pleased when he found out what Mathias did,” Vern replied, sounding at once confused and not a little angry at his sister. Providing Vern with a disgusted snort, Ema waved a dismissive hand and turned for the door at the end of the landing.

          “My reasons, brother, you may not know. Just do as I bid you,” Ema snapped back. Grunting at the sharp response, Vern looked back down the stairs toward the lower corridor.

       “What of the man? He did not survive your questioning, but that is not out of the ordinary,” Vern asked, shifting the conversation to safer ground. Vern knew the look in Ema’s eyes, and the icy edge to her voice all too well. Pressing her further would not be wise, yet Ema just chuckled, cocking her head to the side at Vern’s question, knowing full well her brother knew her moods and when to dig no further. 

        “Said with your usual understatement, brother, but he was little more than one of Zirana’s messengers who made the fatal mistake of returning to my province. I would save the tears for the man. His past is unsavory, to say the least, considering his connection to that rapist and murderer, Reese d’Goya. But he was useful in what little he knew,” Ema replied, gracing her brother with a knowing smile as she opened the door. “It would seem two old friends will be paying a visit to my province, and I intend to keep Ravenclaw and his brother close this time.” Flashing Vern a knowing smile, Ema went to close the door on her brother and paused as Vern held up a hand. “What, Vern…? I will discuss this no further,” Ema said in a crisp and irritated voice.

         “It is not that Ema, one of the court pages, turned up dead in the lower west wing. He looks to have been strangled,” Vern said with a worried look. Ema took a deep breath and shook her head at the pronouncement.

         “Double the guard around my son, and look into it. Since he was not stabbed, I doubt it was a court girl that did it, and I want to know what he saw that warranted his life. Have all in that tower questioned, because Thea’s son lives in that tower as well as my son, and gods all I need is Tobias’s death on my hands. As much as we are friends, Thea will turn on me if he is harmed in my house,” replied Ema, and shoved the door closed with an angry growl.

Letting go an uncomfortable sigh, Vern stood at the top of the stairs for a while, eyes narrowed in thought, before he returned down the way he had come.                                 

           That is not the first court boy to die this year, and nor is it the first child to go missing in this house... But careful sister, if that girl you summoned to court is who I think she is, Ravenclaw will be less than pleased you never told him, and pray your past with his brother never catches up with you or your own husband may see fit to dispose of you, and your daughter.