Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm (23 page)

Reaching the western edge of the warehouse, Taziar flattened to the roof tiles and examined the wall below. The guards pitched stones at pieces of rotting fruit, laughing as a direct hit sent feasting yellow jackets into flight. Halfway between Taziar and the guards, the window lay flat and featureless beneath him. Taking advantage of the thieves’ preoccupation, Taziar descended the wall above their heads, balancing speed against the risk of dislodging dirt and vines and thus revealing his location. The alley guards continued their sport as Taziar caught the window ledge and peered inside.

Men filled the room, perched on crates or on the floor, most huddled near the doors. A brief examination of the storage area revealed no sign of the children, and Taziar realized he had been set up. No doubt, the urchins’ bodies lay, dismembered, in some back street, labeled with a warning of the consequences of helping Taziar Medakan. Few of the street people could read, but it would only take one man to interpret the writing and spread the news. Taziar froze, half-naked and shivering from cold that pierced deeper than the autumn weather. He watched in horror as a thief’s gaze found him. A finger stretched toward the window, accompanied by a shout that mobilized everyone. Taziar scurried up the granite, catching new handholds as fast as he could loose the ones below. An arrow sailed past his ear as he hurled himself over the ledge to the roof. His head slammed into the crossbowman’s face hard enough to set Taziar’s skull ringing. Impact knocked him to his side, and he caught a dizzy glimpse of criminals gathering far below him. He reacted instinctively, wrenching himself sideways to change the direction of his momentum. Catching his balance, he charged across the rooftop to the board, realizing as he did that the bowman lay, moaning on the tiles, holding his nose. Taziar raced across the plank, too pained by the children’s certain deaths to laugh.

Harriman’s men poured into the alleyways, but Taziar had gained distance through his ploy. Dodging, ducking, and climbing, Taziar knew this sector of the city too well to get caught. But despite the excitement of the chase, he was unable to keep the tears from his eyes.

I like not fair terms and a villain’s mind.

—William Shakespare
The Merchant of Venice

Back in the inn room, Taziar Medakan huddled on the stacked logs, feeling weak and as tattered as an old rag. Everything he had done since arriving in Cullinsberg replayed through his mind in an endless loop of accusation. He had not asked Rascal to drag him, unconscious and bleeding, from the whorehouse alley. Even if Taziar had been coherent enough to warn the children, he had not known the danger. No one could have guessed that Harriman would choose that moment to demand his share of the day’s take, nor just how cruel and warped his anger would become. Still, Taziar could not help feeling responsible for the children’s deaths. And after he revealed the information to his friends, the fact that Larson, Silme, and Astryd sat watching him in silent sympathy only strengthened his guilt. Taziar wished just one of his companions would chastise him for running off alone.

Larson crouched in a corner near the window, saying nothing. Astryd sat among the packs, tracing a pattern on the hilt of Taziar’s sword. It was Silme who finally broke the silence. “What time of day is the baron planning to hang Shylar and the others?”

Taziar stared at his hands. “Tomorrow sundown, almost certainly. Aga’arin’s High Holy Day is the most sacred day of the year. His followers, including the baron, will spend most of daylight on the temple grounds.” Taziar looked up, plotting diverting his thoughts from the orphans. “The number of guards on duty won’t change. Atheists and worshipers of Mardain will work. But many of the shops will close early or won’t open at all, and the streets will be nearly empty.” Taziar sat straighter, touched by the first familiar stirrings of excitement that accompanied planning the impossible. “The holiday won’t make the escape any simpler, but once we’ve freed them, we should be able to move through town without much difficulty.” Uncomfortable with leaving his friends in prison any longer than necessary, Taziar frowned. “Assuming we wait until tomorrow to release them.”

“Which gives us tonight to remove Harriman,” Silme spoke gently, but her suggestion inspired a flare of guilt that made Taziar squirm.

“Forget Harriman for now.” Taziar’s words did not come easily. “We can kill him any time, but my friends could die tomorrow.”

Larson looked pensive. “Silme’s right, Shadow. Breaking your friends out won’t do us any good if we leave an enemy at our backs. Harriman got them thrown in prison once. He can do it again.”

Silme continued. “You couldn’t talk a gang of frightened children into leaving Cullinsberg. Do you expect Shylar and the others to run away from the only home they know, passively waiting while Harriman destroys the part of city life they created?”

“Of course not.” Mercifully, Taziar’s remorse and the burden of blame retreated behind this new concern. “At the least, we have to know just how much control Harriman has over the remainder of the underground. We have to define friends and enemies. And that’s never an easy thing to do with criminals. When ...” Taziar avoided the uncertainty implied by the word “if.” “When we free the leaders, we have to know who will stand with and who will stand against them. But ...” He trailed off, licking his lips as he tried to frame the concept distressing him.

Three pairs of eyes confronted Taziar in interested silence, and he met them all in turn. “Harriman knew those children helped me yesterday, but he waited until we raised a hand against him. He killed Rascal and the others only after you went to the baron. I don’t think that was coincidence. It was a warning. If we try to kill Harriman and fail, which of my friends will he destroy next?”

A hush fell over the room as Astryd, Silme, and Larson considered. Larson spoke first, with the guileless moral insight he had openly displayed before Gaelinar’s death had driven him to emulate his swordmaster’s gruffer manner. “This is war, Shadow. In war, innocents die. You can’t feel responsible for every sin your enemy commits. The most you can do is limit your own killing to enemies and protect your buddies to the best of your ability. You try. You may fail. Everyone makes mistakes, and, sometimes, the wrong people pay. But there’s no excuse for not trying at all. ” Taziar lowered his head. It was against his nature to fear a challenge, but it went against all his experience to weigh children’s lives in the balance.

Silme returned the conversation to practical matters. “Who would have the information we need about the underground’s loyalties?”

“I’m not certain.” Taziar wandered through the list of informants in his mind. “Of course, the people who always knew the most about the goings on in the underground are the ones in prison. I got most of my facts from Shylar.” Frustrated, he shook his head. The gesture flung hair into his eyes, and he raked it back in place. “No one will talk to me. They all either hate or fear me, and I won’t endanger any more innocents. Certainly, no one will talk to any of you. It took me eight years to gain enough trust to establish the connections I have. You can’t accomplish the same thing in a day.” Another desperate thought pushed through his disillusionment. “Unless ...” he started before he could dismiss the idea as too dangerous.

“Unless what?” Silme’s tone made it clear she would not accept denial or argument. “Speak up.”

Taziar knew better than to try to hide knowledge from Silme. She had an uncanny ability to read people, and she never brooked nonsense. “Apparently, Harriman’s working out of Shylar’s whorehouse. That’s not surprising. A lot of information goes through that house, and it’s built for meeting and spying. For some reason, men tend to talk to Shylar’s girls, and they share disclosures amongst themselves.”

Silme picked up the thread of Taziar’s thought. “And possibly would talk with another girl who joined them.”

Unnerved by the course Silme’s mind seemed to be taking, Taziar attempted to redirect the suggestion. “The girls know and trust Shylar like a mother. Harriman’s sly, but I doubt even he could turn them against Shylar. In fact, I can’t fathom how the whorehouse is running at all without her. If I could sneak in again and speak with one of the girls ...”

Larson broke in with a loud snort of disgust. “Sure, Shadow. You’re going to slip past Harriman, his drug-crazed Vikings, forty thieves, guards, and other assorted male citizenry out to kill you so you can talk to a hooker who might just as easily turn you in as talk to you. You’d have about as much chance as a frog on a freeway.”

Larson’s last sentence held no meaning for Taziar, but the skepticism came through with expressive distinctness. And having failed once, Taziar could understand his companion’s doubt. “Are you trying to say it’s impossible?” Taziar left his intention unspoken, aware his friends knew that naming a task impossible was to Taziar like dangling raw steak before a guard lion.

Obviously undaunted, Larson rose. “You’re good, Shadow, but not that good. Besides, even if you made it through, you would force Harriman to kill whichever woman you spoke with.”

Silme nodded agreement. “You’re staying if I have to tie you to the door. Harriman may know you, but he’s never seen any of us. There’s only one logical choice as to who we send for information.” She looked pointedly at Astryd.

Dread crept through Taziar, a wave of cold foreboding that left him frozen like a carving in ice. “No,” he croaked. Then, louder, “No!”
I won’t blithely deliver the only woman I’ve ever loved directly into Harriman’s hands.

Astryd responded with calm determination. “It’s not your decision, Shadow. It’s mine. And I choose to go.”

“No!” Taziar sprang to his feet. He measured the distance to the window.

Apparently alert to Taziar’s intention, Larson blocked his escape.

“But Harriman will know ...” Taziar started. He stopped, realizing he was about to reveal information about Harriman’s master that Silme had intentionally hidden from Larson. “Silme, I need to talk with you alone.” To divert Larson’s suspicions, Taziar glanced at Astryd as he spoke.

“Fine.” Silme stood, walked to the door, opened it, and gazed into the hallway. “It’s clear.”

Taziar drew the hood of his spare cloak over his head and followed Silme into the passageway. She closed the door, and he kept his back to the hall so that anyone who passed would not recognize him. “Harriman’s master can access Allerum’s thoughts. Surely, he knows what we all look like.”

“Certainly,” Silme agreed. “But Harriman knows only what his master chooses to tell him. That could be nothing. Unlikely, but possible. Even then, it takes time to memorize features well enough to send images. The master wouldn’t be able to show Harriman what we look like. That would be like an artist trying to draw a detailed picture of a stranger after only a few brief glimpses. He’d have to give Harriman a verbal description. You gave one of the best I’ve ever heard when you described Harriman, but I wouldn’t have slain the first person on Cullinsberg’s streets who fit the description. How would you portray Astryd?”

Taziar shrugged. “Small, short blonde hair, beautiful, female. Carries a staff with a garnet in it.”