The mayor shook his head. “I don’t know anything about a woman.” Gryl wiggled the rope. “I swear it! There was no one with him save the knights.”
No reason not to believe the man, his soiled pants attesting to his honesty, Gryl nodded. He let the rope play out and peeled Gailbraith’s fingers from the ledge, the mayor dropping to dangle below the rooftop by his neck. He hissed and clawed at the rope squeezing the life from him. Gryl leaned down and clasped the man’s flailing wrist and slipped the other end of the rope into his hand. The mayor seized it out of instinct, his other hand following suit not a second after.
“Hold tight,” Gryl told him as he released the rope.
“What are you—?” Gailbraith managed to squeeze out before he was suddenly grappling with his own weight, the noose tightening even further. Veins stood out like serpents against his neck, eyes bulging. His knuckles gleamed white against the tan braids of the rope, a line of crimson snaking its way down the length as he tightened his grip and the rough cord bit into his palm.
“I’ve no interest in killing you, Mayor, but I have to admit, I’ve nothing to gain by letting you live either,” Gryl said with a shrug. “Therefore, I leave your fate in your hands. Literally.”
Gryl turned away without so much as a glance back and headed toward the latticework on the far side of the building. As he slipped over the ledge and started down he heard the fwip of the rope coming loose of the chimney and a sullen thump a moment later. Gryl sighed. He hadn’t wanted the mayor’s death on his hands but he couldn’t deny it was for the best.
He would let nothing get in the way of his freeing Jacquial.
Night still clung to Amberton when Gryl reached the Broken Lizard. Much as he wanted to take his time and prepare his assault upon the knights and their charge, the sands were against him. Dawn would find the mayor dead and the city would erupt, every shadow scrutinized, the empress’s soldiers closing ranks to deny him. Gryl couldn’t let that happen. He had but one chance to prise the location of the lord of the Guild Infernal from the slaver and he damned well intended to take advantage of it.
Grateful it was after hours, the tavern locked up tight, he pried a shuttered window open and slipped inside after making certain there was no one on the street to notice his untoward entry. He eased the shutter closed behind him, his teeth clenched at the muffled creak of it, and drifted across the tavern toward the one room he was certain of: the proprietor’s.
Gryl circled around the bar, where the room lay, and cracked the door open. He swept inside as soon as he spied the tavern keeper tucked in his cot. A hand over the keeper’s mouth and a dagger to his eye is what the man woke to. A moment later Gryl had his answer as to where the knights had settled for the night. Gryl nicked the barkeep’s neck and waited until the poison on the blade took full effect. Then Gryl left the room, the proprietor fully aware, but paralyzed in his cot for many long hours to come. He would tell no one of Gryl’s visit until long after the prodigy was gone.
The stairs creaked as he made his way upward, each step a spark of flint on steel, threatening to ignite the past, but Gryl would have none of it. He pushed aside the memories of Korbitt standing atop the landing, holding Vai’s naked body as a shield like the coward he was, knife to her throat, and focused on the task at hand. Clarity was what Gryl needed, not the fury that rumbled in his belly and made a forge of his ribcage. He’d brought death to the Lizard once more but this time it swept in on a whisper rather than a storm, padded footfalls its only warning.
Gryl took the last step at a leap, loosing a dagger the moment he cleared the baluster. The knight who sat sentry at the end of the hall, red-eyed and blinking away the boredom that no doubt pleaded dereliction of duty, spied the prodigy too late. The blade sunk into the knight’s eye and he slumped into his seat with a bubbled sigh. Gryl righted the man before he could topple and pressed his ear to the door. Only snores rumbled beyond.
With the key scavenged from the dead knight, Gryl unlocked the door. He drew a deep breath as he slipped his short sword from its sheath and eased into the room. The first of the knights went silent when Gryl dragged his blade across his neck. The second knight followed an instant after, meeting the same fate. The third, and last, of the empress’s men came to at the sound of his companions’ feet thrashing under the covers. He bolted upright in his cot as they gurgled their last and met the cold steel of Gryl’s blade splitting his ribs and spearing his heart, the point of the sword thumping against the wall behind him, pinning his corpse there.
A lantern burst to life and Gryl tugged his sword free, spinning about to level the blade at the man who’d chased the darkness from the room. Their eyes met.
“Oh… shit,” the slaver muttered, recognition spreading the sour tinge of disappointment across his features, his thick black mustache twitching at the corners of his mouth.
“Oh shit indeed.” Gryl gestured toward the cot with his sword, droplets of blood spattering the covers at the motion. “Have a seat, Surathanan. You and I have much to discuss.”
The slaver did as he was told. “And here I thought I’d seen the last of you in Feln, Prodigy.” He shook his head, chasing away his malaise and replacing it with a practiced grin. “You do know the empress herself sent for me, do you not? And I’m certain she expects me to arrive whole and hale, all my sundry bits and pieces intact and in their proper place. I imagine she would be quite vexed to learn you’d done me harm.”
“You overestimate my concern for the empress’s feelings.” Gryl answered the slaver’s grin with one of his own, pressing the tip of his sword against Surathanan’s collarbone. A dot of blood welled beneath it, standing out against the man’s tanned flesh before running south to stain his rumpled tunic. “But, if it eases your worries, I don’t intend to kill you. At least not as long as you answer me truthfully and keep your glib tongue in your mouth otherwise.”
Surathanan chuckled. “And I’m to take you at your word, Avan? Three men are dead, hardly proof of your restraint and honor, if we’re to be honest.” He waved his arms about, gesturing in turn to each of the knights cooling in their cots. “Their only crime was their gods-awful snoring. Annoying, certainly, but not worth being murdered over.”
“Five men actually, as there’ve been a couple on the way here” Gryl told him. “And I can easily make it six if you’re so desperate to sail the seas of Avraxas, but we both know you’re rather fond of your existence, shallow as it might be. Tell me where she is and I’ll leave you to greet the sunrise. If not…”
The slaver raised his hand in surrender. “No need for all that now. Better you’re the empress’s problem than mine.” He exhaled slowly before continuing. “Your dear Jacquial is being held in a makeshift gaol, built in the cellar of a prominent businessman here in Amberton. Kertol Mallister is his name, if I recall correctly. I hear he’s a cousin of Empress Patah Re Shah, or a nephew or some shit. Hard to keep track of who beds who in royal circles these days.” He shrugged. “Regardless who spat him out, he is not without influence. He has his own men to guard the property, not to mention the dozen knights tasked to ensure Jacquial reaches the capital without delay. His home’s quite the fortress, or so I hear. Haven’t been there myself. You’re not likely to get anywhere near your precious thief friend before they cut you down.” Surathanan grinned. “But, by all means, don’t let that discourage you. You’re up for a challenge, aye?”