If you have spent any length of time in his presence, you must know how that will end.
It is your choice. I cannot promise you safety among the crew of the Mourning Dawn, but I can promise you death if you deny me your aid.
The choice is yours.
Destroy this letter.
Dalan d’Cannith
Seren looked up at Dalan coldly.
“At the time, it still served my purposes to conceal my history with Marth,” Dalan said. “Thus I wished for her to destroy the letter. Now that we all know that uncomfortable truth, hiding the truth serves no further purpose. Do you believe what you have read is a lie?”
“No,” Seren said in a low voice. “How could you do this, Dalan? Kiris was manipulated. She was an innocent. You would have set that murderer on her.”
“She set that murderer on herself,” he said. “She was a foolish girl, who bound herself to a horrible man because she believed she could repair him. I have no patience for such idiocy. Marth would have killed her eventually, as he later proved. Remember that I offered you that letter as a last resort. No matter what you may think of me, I do not enjoy threatening people. What I said to her was necessary.” He smiled faintly. “Just as your warning to me on the Karia Naille was necessary.”
Dalan walked back in the hallway, looking back over his shoulder for only a moment. “We are not so different, Miss Morisse,” he said. “In times of crisis, you are all as manipulative and pragmatic as I am. You simply refuse to see it. Reflect upon that.”
EIGHT
Raylen paced between the dusty crates with a fretful expression. The air in the old warehouse was dead, choked with stale dust from years of neglect. A single lantern hung from a beam, casting unsettling shadows across the room. This place had not seen any life since the end of the Last War, save the rats who made their homes in the crates of surplus military uniforms and other mundane supplies. It was a place no one remembered, which made it a good choice for the business at hand.
Raylen was not a young man, nor was he an old man. He was a lean, greasy, entirely unmemorable sort of person. The military surplus warehouse reminded him distantly of his youth, when he had served in the Karrnathi army just long enough to get himself wounded in battle and discharged. After that, he had floated about Korth for most of his adult life, taking whatever odd jobs were offered. Most of the time he simply acted as a city guide. Though few people remembered Raylen, he remembered everyone. He was good at putting people in touch with whomever or whatever they wanted to find in the city. Though that sort of work didn’t pay well, at least it was consistent. Someone was always lost in Korth. More frequently, Raylen’s employment was not quite so legitimate, helping thieves find a safe place to sell their stolen goods, or helping visiting nobles with questionable morals find what they required to sate their appetites. As a man of rather limited conscience, that sort of thing rarely bothered him. What good did ethics do a man who was starving to death?
At least that’s what he always told himself.
These people, however, made even Raylen queasy. He hadn’t quite realized what he was getting into when they had offered him the job. It seemed a little strange, sure, but a man like Raylen couldn’t afford to be too picky. Some wealthy clients had odd tastes. It was just something you had to accept. When a man hands you gold and asks you to dig up some corpses, you don’t argue. It wasn’t as if the Karrnathi graveyards were particularly short of corpses. When Master Jiazen offered Raylen two gold crowns for a fresh human corpse, it seemed as if a small fortune was a short walk and a quick dig away.
But the disturbing stranger kept coming back, fixing Raylen with his steady gaze and listing his demands in a cool, delicate voice. The more corpses Raylen brought, the more Jiazen asked for. The pay increased each time, but each time the demands became more specific. A cadaver of a certain height, a certain gender, a certain nationality, or even of a specific pigmentation. Once the strange fellow even asked for a satchel of finger bones and a half dozen undamaged blue eyes. It was growing to be too much for Raylen. He began visiting different bars, taking different routes through the city, hoping to avoid Jiazen. The strange man always found him, always smiling that too-intense smile. He would eagerly list off the materials he required, paying Raylen in advance, always assuring Raylen that he trusted him to uphold his bargains.
As tempted as Raylen was to flee the city with the money, he was afraid of what would happen if he did. Jiazen had no trouble locating him. Could he track him as well? What if Master Jiazen was some sort of demon, or worse, a wizard? What sort of terrible purpose did he have in mind for the corpses Raylen delivered? If he tried to escape, would Jiazen kill him and add him to the heap?
Raylen shuddered. If he vanished, he would never be missed. He had no family, few acquaintances, and no close friends. Most of the other vagrants he spent time with in the taverns didn’t even know his name. Jiazen had probably chosen him just for that reason. Whether he fled or not, the dark stranger would probably kill Raylen once he no longer required him. Considering the rather specific nature of what Jiazen had ordered this time, Raylen feared that this would, in fact, be his last job.
Raylen’s teeth chattered loudly as a quaver of fear washed over him.
“This is damnation,” he babbled to the empty air. “I know it is. The Host has cursed me as a thief and coward. I’ve wasted my life, and now they’re taking it away from me while I’m still alive.”
“The Host has better things to do than worry about scum like you,” came a gruff voice from among the crates. “Get it together, Raylen. We can’t let Jiazen know anything is wrong.”
“I can’t d-d-do this,” Raylen stuttered. “I don’t want to do this. The deal is off.”
“You’d rather live in fear forever?” the voice said.
“I’ve been afraid all my life,” Raylen said.
“Then if you die here, you haven’t lost anything worthwhile,” came the reply. “Consider this a turning point. A chance for redemption. You don’t get those every day.”
Raylen opened his mouth to reply, but the sound of a creaking floorboard beyond the warehouse door froze the words in his throat. He looked around quickly. The rear door was still open. He could run. He could still get away. Maybe Jiazen wouldn’t find him. He could start again somewhere else, maybe Karrlakton or Rekkenmark. A man who knew how to fit in could vanish forever in either of those places. Maybe even a wizard couldn’t find him there. Maybe. He took a single step toward the door.
And he stopped.
The fear remained, but Raylen ignored it. He didn’t think about why, or how. He just didn’t let himself back down. He cleared his throat, turned, and faced the door.
“You know what to do?” the voice said.
Raylen nodded.
The doors slid open, and four men-at-arms stepped inside, each carrying a long halberd in one hand. A small lantern hung from the haft of each spear, dangling just under the blade. They were dressed in silver armor with black, featureless tabards. Plain, black-enameled visors covered their faces. Raylen wondered how the men could see. They fanned out, watching Raylen cautiously while the others searched the warehouse. Raylen tensed as they passed the stack of crates behind him, but they apparently saw nothing. One faced the door and clapped a mailed fist against his breastplate.
Master Jiazen entered in no particular hurry. He wore a finely pressed suit of cobalt blue with a matching cloak draped over one shoulder. His eyes were lined with dark paint, intensifying the paleness of his skin. He smelled faintly of wet earth and vanilla. His lips quirked in an unsettling smile as he gave Raylen a short bow. Two more of the silent warriors followed him, watching Raylen patiently.