The Book of Deacon: Book 02 - The Great Convergence (5 page)

"He will see the light," Myranda said
confidently.

"Yes, well, I sincerely doubt it. People like
Lain have lived in the dark so long, when they see the light they
tend to close their eyes. Say . . . why do you assume the war is
good for us?" he said.

"Lain told me how the hatred it stirs up is
what gets you your business," she said.

"Mmm. It would generally be true to say that
war is good for the business. Of course, a war would generally only
last a few years and be far less widespread. During a normal war
there are mad scrambles for power. People stabbing each other in
the back to grab a hold of the largest slice of power and land.
This war has been going on too long. Everything has stabilized.
Anyone who wants power and has the means to get it has done so,
often with our help. The rest are too weak to hope for anything
better or too poor to manage it. Now, if this war were to come to a
sudden end, chaos would ensue. The bottom would be pulled out from
under society. The old guard would panic and throw money at anyone
who could help them hold onto any power at all, and newcomers would
jump at the dozens of holes in the hierarchy. We would barely be
able to keep up with the clients," he said.

Myranda shook her head.

"You would end the war because it would be
profitable to you? You would do the right thing for the wrong
reasons," she said.

"I never said I would stop the war. And
besides, who cares about the reason, so long as the right thing
gets done?" he reasoned. "But enough philosophy. Would you care to
have a look around? There isn't much to see, but I am quite proud
of it all."

Myranda grudgingly agreed, and she and the
dragon left the room, following Desmeres through the opposite
doorway. There Myranda found a chamber of equal size with three
large bookcases, mostly filled, along the far wall. The rest of the
room was filled with various valuables scattered in a haphazard
manner. There were half full chests of coins, some silver, most
gold. There were statues, goblets, ornate daggers, swords, and
helmets. Here and there a satchel could be found filled with
papers. Desmeres explained it all.

"The fortune is self explanatory. These
papers are deeds. We own a number of very large tracts of land as
part of Lain's pet project. On the back wall is the catalog of our
business to date. The first two shelves are the somewhat
disorganized records contracts. They hold the specifics of the
deals that we have made, as well as anything worth noting about the
way the task was performed. That last shelf has to do with Lain's
little project as well. He's been doing it since before I began
working with him," he said.

Myn approached the third bookshelf and
sniffed at it with much curiosity. Whatever those books held, they
had enough of a scent to pique the interest of the dragon. Myranda
approached the bookshelf and looked over the spines. They were
unlabeled. Some of the books seemed old and well used. Others were
fresh. Myranda reached for one of the books.

"I wouldn't. You'll have to face Lain's wrath
if you do," he said.

"I have reached an agreement with Lain that
any question I have of him must be answered," she said.

"How did you manage that in less than a year
when I haven't made so much progress in seventy? I have tried
practically everything to gain his absolute trust," he said.

"I knocked one of his teeth out with a
training sword," she said, pulling one of the books from the middle
of the case.

Desmeres nodded thoughtfully.

"I hadn't tried that," he quipped.

"He made a wager that I would never be
willing to draw blood, and if I did, I deserved to have my
questions answered," she explained.

"Ah," he replied.

Myranda opened the book. There were no words,
only brownish red stains, dozens of them, on every page. She
flipped through, only to find more of the same. Replacing the book,
she opened one of the older ones. More stains. She replaced it and
chose a newer one. This had an addition. Below each small stain was
a name, each scrawled in a different hand.

"What is this?" she asked.

"You'll have to ask Lain. This is a secret of
his, not mine. Besides, I have more to show you. We've still got my
favorite room left," Desmeres said.

Myranda shook her head, replaced the book,
and followed. They entered the room that Desmeres had been standing
in the doorway of when they had arrived. As soon as the light of
his lamp entered, it glinted off of a dozen polished surfaces. He
moved along the walls, lighting wall mounted lamps as he went. Each
new light revealed more of the room. The walls were hung with
weapons of every type. Swords with carved blades, bows, arrows,
axes, and countless other weapons in racks, on stands, and even
hanging from the ceiling. Other stands contained bottles, vials,
tools, and books.

"Behold, my gallery. Nearly half of the
weapons I have made since I began working with Lain are here. I
tried to make one of every type, and Lain can use them all, but
lately he has been using only daggers and the occasional light
sword. I guarantee he will be asking me for a new one soon, what
with Sasha's disappearance. No matter, I've got two in the works. I
think I can finish one off in a week or so," he said, filled with
pride.

"Look at all of them. You have spent so much
time on making tools for killing," she said, slightly
disgusted.

"Tools, yes. Killing, only sometimes.
Besides, I have got widgets and gadgets for all sorts of purposes.
Potions for healing, potions for sleep, frankly, I've got potions
for everything. I never could get the hang of spell casting, so I
make potions instead. It isn't my greatest talent, but I get by.
This one here is my favorite," he said, lifting a small, innocent
looking vial filled with clear liquid. "It is a poison that will
kill anything but Lain."

Myranda shook her head.

"Why?" Myranda asked.

"Why the poison? Well, surely you see the
usefulness of . . . " he began.

"No, why any of this?" she asked. "I can
understand why you would spend your time on such things in Entwell,
but why here? You seem like such a decent person. Why do you occupy
all of your time with death?"

"Oh, so now it is just death? I liked 'tools
for killing' better. Regardless of your terminology, I simply need
something to do," he said.

"That is it? You need something to do?" she
said.

"I see that you are confused. First of all,
how old do you suppose I am?" he asked.

Myranda considered his appearance. His white
hair was a bit less carefully kept than the last time she had seen
him. His clothes were of the finest variety. Overall, he looked as
though he might be her age, though the way he phrased the question
made her believe he was older than he seemed.

"Thirty," she said.

"I was thirty when I left Entwell. I am now
just about to celebrate my one hundred and third birthday," he
said.

"What? No," she said.

"Father was, and is, an elf. I get the
longevity from him. I get the appearance from mother. It helps me
blend with the human population. Never mind that, though. You were
looking for an answer for why I squander my life so. Think of every
old man or old woman you've met. I'd wager half of them are angry
all of the time for no reason at all, or simply numb and apathetic.
Why? They are world weary. They have done and seen everything that
they care to see or do. There is nothing left for them. Humans have
the mixed blessing of a short lifespan. By the time you run out of
ambitions and motivations, the end is usually near. Elves are not
quite so lucky. We live on and on. As a result, if you are
immortal, you need to find something to occupy your vast time.
Something endless to fill your days. A passion. I have two. First,
and foremost, I am a weapon crafter. I strive for perfection. I
will never reach it, at least I hope not, but I get closer with
each new weapon. My second passion is more difficult to explain. I
like making money," he said.

"How noble," she said with a smirk.

"I do not mean it in a greedy way. I lived
the first thirty years without the need for money at all. I simply
love the negotiation, the planning. I love reading people. It is as
much an art as weapon craft, and just as rewarding. I don't care
about the money once I have it. I would give it away, but that
would rob me of the joy of haggling prices for the things I buy,"
he said.

"If you love money so much, why don't you
just sell your weapons? At least then you wouldn't have to work
with an assassin directly," she said.

"No. Never mix the passions. Weapons are
weapons, money is money. I have only sold fifteen pieces in my
lifetime, and I have spent the years since trying to hunt them down
and buy them back. There are still three out there, and it burns my
mind to think of it," he said.

"Why?" she asked.

"They are in the hands of inept fools! I
can't stand to see one of my weapons misused. It soils the
workmanship. My weapons can make an amateur into a master, but they
can make a master invincible. That is why I work with Lain. He is
one of only a handful of warriors I deem worthy of holding my
handiwork, and his business offers limitless potential for my other
skills. As long as he continues to satisfy my needs, I will work
with him. If he ever ceases to, I will find someone who will.
Simple," he said.

"That is so self serving," Myranda said.

"That is another trait of immortals. Since we
are going to outlive most of the people we know anyway, we tend to
focus on ourselves. It is also the nature of things you are
passionate about. You have a way of making very poor decisions to
indulge them. Like, say, deciding that the people who have been
hunting you for nearly a year are actually trying to help you," he
said, not a hint of apology in his voice.

Myranda gazed at the weapons and armor. Were
she able to bring herself to forget their purpose, she might have
been struck by their beauty. Instead, all she saw was death. Her
dark thoughts were interrupted by an odd scratching sound. She
turned to Myn, the source of the interruption, to see her clawing
madly at her neck. The dingy scales and skin were starting to give
way.

"Well, well. Is our friend shedding? I'll get
a blanket," he said, hurrying off to the supply room.

When he returned he placed the blanket on the
ground. Myn seemed to know it was for her, as she rolled on top of
it and began clawing at her belly. For the better part of an hour,
Myranda and Desmeres discussed the specifics of her adventure that
he had not learned on his own as Myn shed the old scales to reveal
immaculate, gleaming ones underneath. When her focus returned to
her neck, Myranda untied the charm and removed it.

"Say, you didn't mention that little thing.
Let me see that," he said.

Myranda handed it to him. He turned it all
about in his hands, held it up to the light, and tapped on the
metal.

"I remember this. This was on Trigorah's
helmet," he said.

"You remember seeing it there?" she said.

"I remember putting it there," he said,
rubbing it on his shirt to restore its luster.

"You made her helmet?" Myranda said,
shocked.

"No, just the charm. One of my better pieces.
It lets healing and such through, but blocks most other spells. It
was something of an anniversary gift," he said.

Myranda's jaw dropped.

"We weren't married. Not officially. But we
were . . . involved for some time," he said, returning the charm to
her. She was too stunned to reach for it, so he took it back.

"How . . . " she managed.

"How long? Six years. I gave this to her on
our fifth," he said, trying to answer the half asked question.

Myranda shook her head, still struggling to
find the words.

"How long ago, perhaps? I’d say I first spoke
to her perhaps thirty years ago. No, that still isn't it, eh? How .
. . How involved? Well, I have a son she never told me about," he
said, grinning at his last statement.

Myranda stopped searching for words and
simply stared, dumbstruck.

"She's got him squirreled away somewhere up
north. He's twenty-five now, with some military job. Croyden is his
name, if I recall correctly. I wonder if he's given the boy my name
or hers. Must check on that," he said.

Myranda finally found her voice again, and
finished the question he had failed to guess.

"How could you?" she asked.

"Well, she has been after Lain since before I
started working with him. She is no fool, so in following his
trail, she found herself led to me time and time again. I have
always felt that one likes to keep his enemies close, and she felt
the same way. That is how it began. The entire time we were
together was like a sort of dance, each of us trying our best to
learn the intentions of the other. She is very attractive, and we
share membership of a fairly unrepresented race. As we played each
other for information, we found that we had a great many things in
common. What can I say?" he said.

"But she wants to kill you!" she said.

"That is only a recent development. Back then
she only wanted to kill Lain," he said.

"Even still, he is your partner!" she
said.

"It began as a means to protect him. I feel
no shame," he said with a shrug. "It is just the two of us in this
partnership. We do what we must."

"Just the two of you . . . wait . . . didn't
you mention a woman?" she asked.

"A woman. I don't believe I did," he said,
attempting to recall.

"Yes, you did. Sasha," Myranda said.

"Oh . . .
Oh
. A misunderstanding.
Sasha is a what, not a who. Sashat Mance. Bag of tricks. It is the
sword Lain had been using," he clarified.