“As well as can be expected in these times.”
“I can’t disagree. I hope we’ll see you again soon, and under different circumstances.”
8
Laedron watched her walk down the hall until she was gone from sight. “It’s good to see her in higher spirits.”
“You call that ‘higher spirits’?” Marac scoffed.
“If you’d seen her mourning in the chapel, you’d agree with me.”
“If you say so.” Marac placed a shield on his arm and buckled it.
“Never thought I’d see you using one of those again.”
“I’d rather take a blow to this hunk of wood and iron than my fleshy bits, if I can help it.”
“You stand a good chance, I’d say. The thing’s more than half your height.”
“Let’s get on with it. My feet are begging to roam the cobbles for hours on end.”
“No need to be dry about it, Marac. At least now we have a useful purpose in the scheme of things.” Laedron gave him a good-natured poke. “Brice has seen more action than you in this city thus far.”
“Oh, so we’re competing now? Little thimble’s got a long way to catch up to Marac Reven.”
Laedron laughed, leading the way through the hall and into the street. He soon found the beginning of their appointed route, the mouth of a narrow back street near the western wall of the Ancient Quarter. It couldn’t have been a well-lit street, now could it? Laedron sighed.
Marac’s face radiated his concern. “Everything all right?”
“Yes, yes. I only wonder what we’ll find along this road.”
“This one’s as good as any other. We’ve been in tighter spots.”
“Let’s get to it, then. It’s not going to patrol itself.”
With the sun setting on the horizon, Laedron watched the lantern lighters scurry through the streets. The light posts gave off a dim ambient glow, just enough for him to make out important features, but not enough to clear the shadows that gave him anxiety. How entertaining it will be for our assailants when I draw this dagger. I know more about fishing than wielding this thing, and that’s pathetic indeed. He was glad to have Marac at his side; he knew the miller’s son had paid close attention to sword training.
Marac walked over to the first business they encountered, turned the knob, and jiggled the door in its frame.
“What are you doing?” Laedron asked.
“Making sure it’s secure. If we’re to be militia, we might as well do it right.”
Laedron checked the next door. “What do we do if they’re unlocked?”
“Reach in and lock it, I suppose. You’ll have to forgive me. I’m a bit new to this whole patrolling thing.”
“We just have to stay close to Jurgen’s apartment. I’d die if anything happened to him.”
“Don’t you mean to her?” Marac asked.
“What? No, of course not. Don’t be silly.”
“What’s silly about it? Has your training made you cold to any possibilities other than the mission?”
“Now’s not the time. We have a war to stop.”
Marac gave him a cross glare. “All duty, eh? What will become of you when duty ends and all that remains is a tired old man?”
“I have some time before that, I should think. Plenty of time by my calculations.”
“Wait too long, and you’ll find things passing you by, my friend. Wait, yes, but no longer than you must.”
“We’re too different, and her father just passed. I don’t want to simply be a replacement for someone she’s lost.”
“No, she doesn’t strike me as that type. She’s willful, and she might even be as stubborn as you. From my limited experience, I could say that you two have several things in common-a love of books and knowledge, a quiet demeanor, all wrapped around a fiery, passionate center.”
“All of that aside, I doubt she’s interested in me. I’ve been in her embrace, but it was only to comfort her in her grief. Nothing more.”
“Then bring her back from the darkness, Lae. Give her hope. Won’t you at least try?”
Laedron stopped.
“Well, won’t you?” Marac took him by the shoulder. “What’s gotten into you? I’m sorry if I offended, but it’s-”
“Look. Just there,” Laedron said, pointing down an alley. In a wider part of the alleyway, a pair of shoes-clearly still worn by a body-lay exposed, and the person to whom they were attached wasn’t moving. Laedron could gather little detail since the body was mostly concealed behind a few barrels.
“Oh, probably a vagabond. We’re militia, right? Let’s check him out.” Marac approached, looked over the tops of the barrels, then turned back to Laedron. “It’s a militia guard, Lae. He’s not moving.”
Laedron walked around the barrels and crouched beside the man. Searching for wounds, he said, “There’s no blood. Nothing. He isn’t breathing.”
“Roll him over.” Marac walked to the other side of the man and hunched over him. “Check his back.”
“Nothing there, either. No blood, nothing.” Laedron scanned the distance when something made a noise in the next alley, a sound much like a pan hitting the ground. “What was that?”
Across from them, a man cowled in black robes took off down the opposite street. Laedron caught a glimpse of red symbols on the back of the man’s cloak, small, indistinguishable characters written in two vertical rows from his shoulders to the hem.
“A killer? Marac!” Laedron sprang to his feet. With Marac’s heavy footsteps on his heels, Laedron pursued the shadowy figure through the alley. Laedron turned the next corner and heard the sound of a sword being drawn behind him-Marac readying himself for a fight. He drew his dagger. Better this than nothing, I guess.
Rounding the next corner, Laedron felt a sting on his throat and recoiled out of reflex. He remembered that same feeling when Heidrik, Gustav’s minion who had tortured Marac and Mikal, had lashed him in the face. The feeling was unmistakable and familiar, the warmth of blood flowing across his skin. He turned and plunged the dagger into the cloaked man as hard as he could. Laedron’s breathing hastened while his target’s slowed and became shallow. From the amount of blood on his hands, Laedron knew that he had hit his mark and hit it well.
The man’s dagger dropped from his left hand, and a bit of wood from his right, as he collapsed. A pool of blood spread slowly and soaked his garments.
Laedron took a step back to keep his boots from getting drenched. Laedron’s eyes widened when he realized that the length of wood was, in fact, a wand. “It’s a mage, Marac! Have I killed one of our countrymen?”
“Keep your voice down, Lae.” Marac leaned down and removed the cloth covering the man’s face. “Doesn’t look like any Sorbian I’ve ever seen.”
“We haven’t seen them all. What if he’s like us? What if he was on a mission, too?”
“If he was on a mission, I doubt it came from the same people we serve. Look, a tattoo on his neck. Unlike anything I’ve seen before.”
Laedron turned the man’s head to the side, and the tattoo on his neck was illuminated by the lantern light. “It’s a word.”
“A word? What does it say?”
“Kivesh.”
“Kivesh?” Marac asked. “Well, what does that mean?”
“Nothing. It’s a name.”
“How can you read it?”
“It’s written in an old language. Zyvdredi.”
Marac’s face twisted with apparent shock and fear. “Zyvdredi? Here?”
“It would seem so.” Laedron rummaged through the man’s pockets. In the belt, he found a black cloth pouch.
“What’s that?” Marac asked.
Without responding, Laedron opened the purse and pulled out a handful of black stones, each etched with a runic symbol that he couldn’t place, symbols similar to the ones along the back of the man’s cloak. A few of the stones sparkled with an artificial glow as if reverberating with energy. The others only reflected the light of the lantern posts.