Bellus relished the failure of others because it was the easiest way to increase his own standing. He was short, hunched, and looked too small for his black suit. His skin glistened as though he’d just stepped out of a vat of olive oil. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy. He rarely made a decision or acted on information although he outranked Hesz and Symian by virtue of his pure blood only. Kraten could pummel the toady on their behalf, but at the moment the swordsman struggled to remain standing.
“Thanks for coming to retrieve us with the auto,” Hesz said.
“Master’s orders,” Bellus said.
“We need healing.”
“What you need depends on his lordship’s mood. You’ve been gone a long time.”
“We had to retrieve Symian.” No one needed to know that they had gotten lost in the sewers. Hopefully, Kraten would have the good sense to keep his mouth shut.
Bellus looked suspicious of the explanation. His paranoia served him well. A whiff of the sewer’s stink persuaded Bellus to back off from the trio. “Wait in the common room.”
The suite took up half the floor and had four bedrooms attached to a common living area, including a kitchenette. By Manhattan standards, the fourteen-foot ceiling and Louis XIV decor with its gold-leaf molding were luxurious for a hotel room, but by Dorn’s standards, this was roughing it. There would be time for luxury after the boy is found, Dorn drummed into them.
Kraten collapsed on the couch. Hesz laid the semiconscious Symian on the love seat.
The elegant gentleman approached.
“Krebe?” Hesz queried.
“Aye,” the gentleman affirmed.
The trick unsettled Hesz. With these two, one rarely knew who one was dealing with. But Hesz was getting better at it. He had to-he couldn’t rest easily when Krebe was about. Something about that one unsettled him.
“His lordship…?” Hesz asked.
“In a mood. Been in his room since we returned from upstate. The headaches are growing worse.”
An uncomfortable pause descended. They all knew better than to acknowledge Dorn’s headaches when the man went to great lengths to hide it from them. The migraines were getting worse, but no one would broach the subject.
“Might want to come back later,” Krebe suggested.
“Failed is failed,” Bellus crowed. “Later won’t change their incompetence.”
“Symian will die without attention,” the giant said. “Get him.”
“His lordship is aware of your wounds,” Bellus stated.
Hesz growled. He strode forward to rap on the bedroom door himself when it suddenly opened. Dorn walked forth, forcing Hesz to backtrack. His lordship studied the trio. He meandered toward Symian and pulled apart the troll’s coverings. Symian’s skin was the texture and color of strudel left in the oven too long. The gray man was now a being of caramelized soot. As the troll shifted, pieces of him flaked onto the cream-colored love seat. His bandaged eyes were stained blue with blood.
Dorn observed Kraten’s wrapped, bloody arm and then Hesz’s bandaged torso. Disgust filled the master’s eyes.
“My liege-” Hesz started.
“Shut up.”
Bellus sniggered.
Dorn walked around them slowly.
Symian tried to stand and teetered forward. Kraten and Hesz caught him before he spilled.
“Let him go,” Dorn ordered. Hesz threw Kraten a quick glance. The desert warrior released his grip, as did Hesz a heartbeat later. The gray man fell with a soft crunch as skin broke into crumbs on the carpet. Symian whined in pain.
“That the captain might have prevailed against you,” Dorn began, “despite his handicap of being unaware of his true identity, was at least within the realm of possibility. After all, he is from the nobility. But a little girl and a common woman…?”
“The centaur and the other took us unaware,” Hesz said.
“Students. Not even adepts. And speaking of the other, you botched that one, too. Blew up a building, but failed to make sure he was in it.”
“This world is complicated,” Hesz said. “We thought…”
“Yes, it is complicated. That’s why you are paid to act, not to think.” Dorn stopped. He closed his eyes for a moment and pretended to brush his hair back, although it was obvious he rubbed his head to assuage another migraine. Dorn gave up the pretense and squeezed the point between his eyes. Everyone in the room felt the pain in Dorn’s head by osmosis.
Dorn’s eyes snapped open. The others looked away from his piercing gaze.
“I saved you half-breeds from the purge because of what you can contribute to Farrenheil’s cause,” Dorn continued. “Such a privilege is earned through success. You’re fortunate my uncle is not here. We’re operating on limited resources. This, and only this, affords you a chance to redeem yourselves, courtesy of this muddled and distant orb we find ourselves on.”
The trio remained quiet.
“My liege,” an agitated Bellus said, “surely at least one must be punished, as an example. They failed to carry out your orders. Your uncle frowns upon insubordination.”
Hesz could have ripped off the little rodent’s head. Mercy from Dorn was worth more than a pachyderm’s weight in platinum. The little shit would report any failure of discipline to the archduke later, putting Dorn in an awkward position.
“I suppose you’re right, Bellus,” Dorn said.
Dorn pulled Kraten’s sword from its sheath. He hefted its weight in his hand. Kraten was not alarmed. Everyone, including him, knew he wouldn’t be the example. Hesz studied the desert warrior’s face to see if he suspected whom Dorn would “exemplify,” but Kraten betrayed nothing. Bellus rubbed his hands in anticipation. Hesz could tell the toady wanted him gone, there was no love lost between them.
Dorn faced Hesz and raised the sword straight up, balancing like a high diver before a plunge. Hesz had made his peace long before this day. It would go easier for his family if he didn’t resist. He closed his eyes. Hesz felt the wind off the sword as it whipped by. It must have been a smooth clean cut because, except for a light knick at his throat, he didn’t feel a thing. He opened his eyes and saw Dorn’s back facing him.
In the corner, Krebe was snapping pictures with a disposable Kodak camera. Bellus’s face had a look of total surprise. His head began to slide sideways off his shoulders. Hesz thought that Bellus, with his pleading eyes and questioning lips, should have brought his hands up to hold his head in place. He looked ludicrous with his arms just flailing at his sides while his skull went for a tumble, but of course, the connections had been severed. More shocking, Dorn had killed a full-blood instead of a half-breed. Hesz wiped a bead of blood from his nicked skin. A superficial wound. Kraten broke out in a loud laugh with his remaining strength. Krebe joined in the revelry. The troll had passed out long before the cut.
“Has everyone learned something?” Dorn asked.
“How to block his lordship’s backhanded hook,” Kraten guffawed.
Dorn smiled.
Hesz forced a grin, though he saw no humor in the events. He had become a master at appeasement-fitting in until the opportune time presented itself. Soon enough, he would act. Dorn and his ilk would count days past as their best of times.
Krebe dropped the camera and suddenly stiffened. His eyes blanked out, like he had been turned off.
“It’s about bloody time,” Dorn said.
A moment later, the elegant man shook his head. His posture straightened. He brushed off his clothes. An air of dignity prevailed that hadn’t been there a moment earlier.
“Oulfsan?” Dorn asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“The detective?”
“Delaware, sir. Driving south on Interstate Ninety-five. He’s found the trail.”
CHAPTER 18