The Unseen Hand

Ch 18: A Gambling Man

Mir'kadi, Tenth of Sund'im, 445 A'A'diel

The sunlight that streamed through the soaring, ogee-arched windows of Tan'os Ensther's bedchamber illuminated a chaotic scene. A pair of sturdy chairs lay smashed near an upturned table beneath the windows. Their splintered limbs were echoed by the hulking four-poster bed that dominated the far side of the chamber. The Vise's two-handed sword lay on the floor, stained with dried blood.

A large curio with glass doors stood against the wall and appeared to be one of the few pieces of furniture that hadn't been destroyed. Behind the bed hung a timeworn tapestry depicting one of the most glorious sea battles in Thrommish history, the Conquest of Pellandar Bay. The violence of the naval onslaught was mirrored by the stench of death and the room's disarray.

Beneath his wrinkled brow, Deneven's eyes shone with intensity. Contemplating the chaos, the newly deputized Chief Justiciar sought to make sense of the grisly events. Something about the scene did not feel right.

Deneven leaned on his cane with a grumble and shifted his weight to his good leg. He had paid copious coin to various craftsmen, but none had yet crafted a wooden leg that didn't cause his stump to ache.

Behind him, one of the two guards assigned to aid his investigation cleared his throat with an exaggerated cough, stirring Deneven from his reverie.

"What is it?" asked Deneven, his tone flat.

"Begging your pardon, sir. Lord Justiciar Tsardon was quite explicit in his orders. You were to be given until noon to inspect the building, and it is almost that time." The young guard's curled mustache quivered as he wrinkled his nose. "The Lord Justiciar wants the villa to be properly cleansed."

"What is your name, Lance Corporal?"

"Ionaden Kesner, sir."

Judging by the angle of the sun's rays upon the floor, Deneven judged it to be mid-morning. "Corporal Kesner, I am quite aware of the time. I have at least another hour."

"Yes, sir, I only meant to—"

Deneven turned to face the doorway where the cavalrymen stood. "I know what you meant." A quick up-and-down flick of his eyes was all Deneven required to assess the soldier. "Your armor is fit for a cavalcade, not a single nick or dent to be found. You've not been in battle. Indeed, I wager a year's pay that you've yet to kill your first man. Bah, don't try to deny it. One look at you and I know all there is about you. Soft hands, plump cheeks. You are the coddled spawn of some grasping courtier, or lesser merchant, seeking a quick path to power through service in the decorated Ca'Dezer Cavalry." The timbre of Deneven's voice grew dark. "You'd best become accustomed to this stink. Own it, inhale it as you would the aroma of your momma's stew on a cold winter day. Some days the air will be filled with the odor of your enemies' shit and gore, others with that of your comrades' blood. One day the stench may be your own." Deneven hobbled to stand nose to nose with the paling youth, "You chose death's trade when you accepted that sword and armor. You are a Reyzan Ca'Dezer; we eat steel and spit daggers. Right now, you look like some dainty Ferencian noble sniffing his bride's cunt. Now cease wrinkling your nose and grow some hair on your balls."

The cavalryman raised his chin and straightened. "Yes, sir."

With a dismissive snort, Deneven eyed the stiffened guard but said nothing further. He turned and walked back into the room. The clunk of his peg leg upon the wooden floor was startling in the stillness. He stopped at the side of the bed and dipped his head.

Tan'os Ensther might have been a salt-soaked, blunt-nosed bastard, as brutal and cunning in politics as in battle, but he had not been without merits. Despite his foreign birth, Tan'os had used his position for the betterment of Reyza and its citizens as much as for his benefit and that of Thromm. The Thyran warlord had been tough but fair in all his dealings, never giving an advantage to anyone, including his kinfolk, something Deneven had always respected. In many ways, the iron-willed foreigner had treated his adopted city better than its native-born jarle.