Meldi, Twelfth of Sund'im, 445 A'A'diel
Deneven opened his eyes to darkness. A searing line of fire throbbed on the side of his forehead. Every heartbeat thundered against his temples. He would be feeling Ianto's fists for days to come.
A tight roll of cloth cut between his clenched teeth to secure the wad of silk stuffed in his mouth. He was blindfolded and tied down to a chair with what felt like leather straps.
The captive justiciar used the only senses that remained unfettered, intent on determining his situation without betraying his return to consciousness.
The pop and crackle of a small fire, the smell of glowing coals, and an undertone of spices in the air tantalized but revealed nothing. As the silence deepened, Deneven felt a growing unease. The lack of discomfort in his leg caused his stomach to drop. His wooden leg was missing.
"You are still a terrible actor." The feminine voice was as cold as the breeze from an ice-bound mountain gorge.
Despite the long years that had passed since their last conversation, Deneven recognized the voice. He was in the presence of the Mistress of Rats; the woman he'd known during the war as Fhaen.
The woman removed the blindfold from Deneven's eyes. After a few blinks, blurriness gave way to sight. For a moment Deneven believed he was hallucinating. He was sitting in the candlelit kitchen of a small apartment that he had not set foot in for over twenty-two years. Time had passed, but the cramped room was the same as he remembered it. Memories of a time when things were much simpler flooded his consciousness. The rekindled emotions were far more painful than his bruises.
Across from his chair, flames sputtered inside a ramshackle coal stove. Deneven could feel its heat from where he sat. A familiar tea kettle hissed among the glowing embers. A curl of steam wisped from its dented spout. In the far corner, a tallow candle guttered, filling the room with shifting light. The apartment that had once witnessed laughter and the urgent passion of lovers was—in those flickering shadows—nothing more than a museum of broken dreams.
"I see that you haven't forgotten but don't flatter yourself by thinking that keeping this place had anything to do with nostalgia. Considering the rising prices of villas in this city, it was purely a business decision." Fhaen remained out of view. "Besides, a rat can't have too many hidey holes."
Deneven didn't buy the lie for a moment. He turned his head in an effort to catch a glimpse of his hostess. The dancing shadows served their purpose, creating a theatrical milieu that was at once warm and intimidating. The irony of the situation was not lost on Deneven. Fhaen was using his own technique against him—illuminate the prisoner, obscure the interrogator.
"I would apologize for Golias and Ianto's rough handling, but we both know how much you enjoy that sort of thing." Fhaen placed her hands on the back of his chair. "My instructions were clear should you ever come looking for me, but as you know, pride can often supersede reason. Some years back, you jailed poor Golias' father for commercial fraud. He was guilty, but you know how it is between sons and fathers."
Fhaen was near enough that Deneven could smell her fragrance, a heady blend of lush jungle flowers and aromatic herbs. Jacaya! The perfume inspired memories of endless nights spent entangled between the woman's legs. Fhaen still played dirty.
Some things never changed.
Deneven grit his teeth as his loins stirred. Tied as he was, there was nothing he could do to hide the awkward tension in his pants.
As if sensing his discomfort, Fhaen reached out from behind him and caressed the gash on his scalp. Her touch sent a spasm of hot agony coursing through him, but Deneven refused to give her the pleasure of a groan. The fingers moved away from his wound, and the cord of twisted silk loosened and fell free from between his swollen lips.
Deneven spat out the wad and inhaled. He managed a cavalier tone despite the lightning bolts of pain that blazed behind his eyes. "Your men are weaker than I remember."
"Is this why after nearly twelve seasons of silence you finally return my ring? To make poor jokes?"
"I am confident that you are aware of my reasons."
"I would hear it from your lips," Fhaen whispered against his ear.
The warmth of Fhaen's exhalation against his skin stirred Deneven's feelings into a bonfire. He inhaled her scent, recalling the long, terrifying night that had prompted two doomed comrades to seek solace in each other's arms.
Five Isles' war ships were bombarding the city and fire was raining down on them. They were wounded and bloody, retreating through the inferno of the Tangles when a building collapsed, blocking their path. Pinned between burning timbers and an advancing army, they had taken shelter in an abandoned tavern. The fateful night had sparked a romance that had burned brightly for two years. Ironically, the love and peace they had found during the war had vanished during peacetime.
Deneven quashed the memories. "I need your help, Fhaen."
Fhaen emerged from the darkness. Midnight-blue Seh'nahiel silk swirled as she stood before Deneven. She stared down at him for a handful of breaths. Time had not diminished her beauty, only matured it like a fine wine. In the dozen years since they had last spoken, Fhaen had changed little save for a few more wrinkles in her honey-colored skin. Her long hair still framed her elegant features, flowing like a gray waterfall over her shoulders.
"Let us forget the last two decades or so. Set aside how many of my people you have jailed and executed. Let us forget everything that has ever happened between us for one moment. Even with all your accounts settled, kindly explain, why the fuck I would help you?"
"Our past."
Even though he anticipated it, the slap shook Deneven, filling his head with a white flash of pain. His ears rang as his senses reeled. He closed his eyes against the pain and clenched his bound fists. "That is enough, Fhaen. Hear me out or send me on my way, but untie me. I am not interested in the bedroom games we used to play."
The whispering seductress was gone, replaced by a tigress. "It appears that there is still some fire in the Dragon of Reyza's belly." Fhaen stood with her hands on the flare of her hips. She bent to examine Deneven's face, prodding his darkening bruises. "Nothing life-threatening, your wounds will heal." The woman finished her examination, arching an eyebrow. "Injury aside, you appear healthy enough. I don't detect any senility in your eyes."
"I don't know if that is a blessing or a curse," Deneven said.
Fhaen leaned closer until her nose almost touched Deneven's. "How dare you come here after all this time and ask me to help you? Our past is nothing to me but a bitter memory. You sacrificed everything we shared for your personal glory."
"Even had I foreseen the consequences of my decision to become Lord Justiciar, I would have still pursued that office."
"Exactly. People are expendable, including lovers. So long as your pride gets satisfaction."
Their eyes burned into each other's for what seemed like an eternity before Fhaen stepped away into the shadows. She returned with a chair, which she set down in front of Deneven. The woman placed her foot between Deneven's legs and withdrew a stiletto from a sheath in her leather boot. She twirled the blade in her hand as she considered her prisoner. "You look like shit."
Deneven eyed the glinting blade. "You are as lovely as ever."
Fhaen settled into the chair with a huff. "I am too old for dancing. Let us cut to the heart of your purpose."
"You are aware of my current employment?"
Fhaen leaned back in her chair, toying with the point of the stiletto with the tip of a finger. "You have been hired by the Blackspur ambassador to investigate the Vise's death and find his daughter. I imagine that you have come here to discover why I had the Vise killed and where I have stashed the girl. Is that about right?"
"Almost." Deneven tested his bonds to relieve the tingling in his wrists. "I may be paid from Thrommish coffers, but I still work for Reyza's best interest. What most people don't know is that the Northern Fleet is sailing south as we speak. The result of my independent inquiry has the power to preserve the peace or provoke war. Fhaen, I need answers."
Fhaen slipped the dagger into her boot. "I suspected the Thrommish might sail, but hoped they would not."
Deneven licked his bloodied lips. "Tan'os' methods were harsh, but he was good for Reyza. Under his rule we enjoyed peace. Trade was never better for everyone, including your so-called Jewelers' Guild."
Fhaen stood up without a word. She turned her back on Deneven to tend the coals under the kettle. "War is not good for my business."
"What do you know of Tan'os' death?"
Fhaen grabbed a poker. She prodded the fire, sending a rush of embers swirling up into the chimney. "I did not sanction the death of Tan'os Ensther. And even if I had, what would you do? Arrest me?"
"Do you prefer to have this discussion in the dungeon?"
"Same old Deneven," Fhaen scoffed. "You speak as if you stand a chance of laying your hands on me again."
Deneven narrowed his eyes. He too could play dirty. "As I recall, you rather enjoyed the last time I laid my hands on you."
Fhaen's grip on the fire poker tightened. "Leave our past out of this if you wish to continue this conversation."
Deneven exhaled slowly before changing the subject. "The Thrommish do not believe the official story."
The prodding stopped. Fhaen put the poker down and rose. She walked across the room to a cabinet and withdrew a delicate teacup and a small, octagonal tin. She popped the lid off the tin with a deft twist and threw a pinch of dried herbs into the porcelain cup. "Of course not, what the Chancellery is peddling is absurd."
Deneven watched her fuss with the tea. If she was the same woman from his nostalgic memories, Fhaen was in the midst of an internal debate.
Returning to the fireside, Fhaen lifted the boiling kettle from the embers and poured steaming water into the cup. A sour odor with an unsettling thickness filled the room. Fhaen returned to Deneven's side with the teacup in hand. "Drink this; it will help with the pain."
Deneven looked at the brew with consternation. Unstrained, dark leaves swam in the brownish liquid. The aroma stung his eyes.
"Drink." The order was tinged with annoyance as she held the cup to his lips.
Deneven drained the tonic in a long swallow. He imagined that licking a barroom floor at closing time would begin to approximate the brew's awful taste. The foul fluid warmed its way down to his belly, where the heat blossomed much like lamp oil poured on a fire. The brief bloom of heat burned away the pain, leaving a comforting glow in its passing.
Fhaen crossed her arms. "You shouldn't trust me."
"Who says I ever did?"
Fhaen dropped back into the chair. She crossed her legs and laced her fingers around her knee. "Ask your questions."
"Why do you think the official report is absurd?"
"It doesn't make sense for a single man to be able to sneak into the villa, slay the entire household including a Thrommish war hero, then kidnap the girl past a battalion of Zincari mercenaries."
"Care to tell me how one of your rats wound up as the prime suspect in the Vise's death?" Deneven leaned forward, wincing as his head wound flared, "No burglary or assassination occurs in this city without your knowledge, if not your blessing."
"I cannot tell you why Jars was in the villa that night. What I can say is that Jars is one of the best second-story men I have known. A jewel thief yes, but not a killer."
"You expect me to believe that one of your best midnighters broke into the Vise's villa without your knowledge?"
Fhaen uncrossed her legs and leaned forward. "I know exactly how I sound, Justiciar D'Neir! Surprise, surprise. The Mistress of Rats is denying any knowledge of the presence of one of her thieves in the Vise's home and the subsequent disappearance of his daughter." Her voice softened as she peered into Deneven's eyes. "You know me, the real me. Age has taken its toll, but the fire within me burns as true as ever. Tell me, am I lying to you?"
Time and tide might have changed her methods and appearance, but within the woman's eyes the fierce street-fighting girl he'd once loved looked back. Fhaen was right; he did know her. Despite the years of silence, he knew her well enough to recognize the truth in her eyes. "I am not as talented as you when it comes to calling your bluffs."
"You know I had nothing to do with the Vise's death, or you wouldn't have risked coming here alone." Fhaen's eyes narrowed. "So how about you quit playing Lord Justiciar and ask me what you really want to know?"
The tonic's effects were relaxing. Deneven settled into his chair, grateful that the burning pain had diminished to a faint glow. Like Fhaen, he'd grown weary with the verbal sparring. "What type of poison would be described as an oily black sap that smells worse than Esh'fah sauce?"
"Are you asking me a riddle?"
"Humor me."
Fhaen studied the ceiling while she thought. "Sounds like thresherweed oil. Or perhaps forkleaf."
"Which one would work best on a blade?"
"Forkleaf, no doubt there."
"Where might I acquire forkleaf in Reyza?"
"Forkleaf is as rare as a grimmalkin's mercy. It's extremely difficult to obtain."
"Why is that?"
"Forkleaf only grows on the highest slopes of Blackspur. That alone makes it hazardous to harvest. Then there is the matter of reducing the plants to a usable oil which is a very exacting and treacherous process." Fhaen's eyelids closed to slits. "Ah, so that's how the Vise was killed."
"That is my suspicion," admitted Deneven.
"Then I can tell you for certain that Jars did not do it."
"For certain?"
"You need to understand something. Forkleaf is one of the most reviled substances in the underworld. It is a vindictive substance, known to turn on its handler in a single careless instant. It paralyzes the body and causes excruciating pain. I wouldn't wish such a death even on you." Fhaen swiped a long gray lock from her eyes. "Only the most sadistic or insane assassins dare to handle this poison. Jars would never use it. He's terrified of being poisoned."
Deneven's cheeks felt warm. "How about a pleasant-faced Yerr'draki with a cross-shaped scar on his left cheek?"
Fhaen straightened in her chair, then whispered under her breath, "Maél."
"What did you say?" Deneven stared at Fhaen.
"Maél," Fhaen repeated. "Maél Aodhan. You knew him as Mast."
Deneven's jaw grew tight. Anger welled up within him like magma within a volcano. "I know full well who Mast is and that he once worked for you. I also know that for some reason you exiled him from Reyza. Banished or not, an assassin of Mast's reputation is not hired in a back alley or rum shack like some common cutthroat. You are the Mistress of Rats; the Queen of Shadows. No assassin of his talent could be hired without your knowledge, if not also your blessing!"
"You are wrong." Fhaen shook her head. "The Vise's death was as much a surprise to me as it was to you. I can assure you that Mast's contract was not tendered by the guilds."
"That is a wagonload of—"
Fhaen cut Deneven off. "I will say this one final time; I did not authorize nor was I aware of the plot to assassinate Tan'os Ensther. Mast has not been one of mine for over eight years. I banished him from Reyza, forbidding his return under penalty of death. He is an outsider—a freelancer."
"Why should I believe you?"
Fhaen's eyes flashed. "Do you recall the Antillios family?"
"Of course." Eight years prior, the entire family of one of the richest men in Reyza had been slaughtered. Lord Antillios had been forced to watch the rape of his wife and the butchery of his children before the assassin had slit the man's throat. Even for Reyza, where violent death was not uncommon, the murders had been shocking. Deneven had personally led the investigation. "That was Mast's work?"
"The contract was to kill Edgard Antillios only." Fhaen's face grew stony in the candlelight. "I won't pretend I was unaware of Mast's penchant for violence, but that bloodbath he left behind was depraved. Banishing him was far more than just good business. Murder is a tool, not an amusement." Worry gave Fhaen's eyes the shine of wet glass, "Where is Mast now?"
Deneven knew better than to push for further details. Fhaen's military experience and ferocious commitment to her code had enabled the consolidation of various street gangs into a single underworld organization. She reigned over her empire with more professional restraint than the so-called respectable merchant lords who sat around Rigo's council table. The Mistress of Rats was not one to risk losing control of her hard-won position over the chaotic deeds of a lone wolf. "He's dead," Deneven replied.
"Good. How did he die?"
"It appears that he was stabbed in the back. I suspect that Jars, your peaceful thief, killed him. Why would they be working together?"
Fhaen pressed her lips together. After a long minute's silence, she answered with a terse, clipped tone. "I do not know."
"Do you know who Mast worked for after you sent him away?"
Fhaen shifted, smoothed her dress. "The last time I had any contact with Mast was to settle accounts. He was in Ehl'ahim. I assumed he went there to be closer to his new clients."
"And who might those clients be?"
Fhaen raised her eyebrow. "You know as well as I do."
"Dessians," Deneven said quietly.
"Yes, Dessians." Fhaen cocked her head. "Do you truly think Ambassador Neylen's only interest is buggering our beloved Rigo? Everyone knows that at the last council meeting Tan'os humiliated the Ambassador of Cartuj, quashing all hopes for a trade treaty with his country. That is whom you should be interrogating instead of me."
Deneven's mouth was dry, and his head felt fuzzy. "Supposition is not evidence."
"You will never change, will you?" Fhaen shook her head in disbelief. "How much evidence do you need? Who benefits most from the death of Tan'os and possesses the wealth to make it happen? The guilders of Reyza? Even if they could bring themselves to part with the coin required to hire someone like Mast, they aren't fools. You said it yourself; their coffers have overflowed under Thrommish administration. The Seh'nahiel? Everyone knows they share their bed with Thromm. The Calantians are too busy scrabbling over their hereditary plots of dirt. Five Isles? Ha! They shit their pants at the sight of Thrommish pennons. That leaves only one nation on the map with the most to gain."
"Those are my suspicions, but I need proof. I need to know who hired Mast."
"I can't help you there."
"You have eyes and ears everywhere."
"Not anymore." Fhaen's voice grew terse. "My spies have been expiring like flowers in a drought. I suspect there is a mole among my rats and until I ferret them out, I am quite deaf."
"I see. What about Avaren Ensther?"
Fhaen released an exasperated sigh. "I know nothing of the girl or her whereabouts. If someone were holding her for ransom, you would have heard demands by now. My guess is that she is either in hiding or dead. I would wager upon the latter. Contracts for challenging assassinations are typically issued to multiple assassins to ensure complete success."
"Is there anything else you can tell me about Jars that might help me locate him?"
Fhaen leaned back into her chair. "Tsardon's men have been quite thorough rounding up all of Jars' known acquaintances. There are few remaining on the streets who know him, fewer still who would willingly acknowledge it. Tsardon even had his mother arrested—a woman who abandoned Jars when he was a boy."
Deneven's brow furrowed. Fhaen's revelation roused the ache in his temples. Proving a Dessian connection would be all the more difficult if Tsardon continued rounding up every possible witness. He had little doubt that confessions would be forthcoming, all swearing to the official version of the events. Deneven felt the odds shifting against him. "Is Jars the type to save a woman from being raped or killed?"
"Jars isn't the type to lose himself in pretty eyes and parted thighs, but he does possess a sense of honor."
Deneven's heart skipped a beat. Could Avaren be in hiding with an accidental protector? Perhaps there was hope for finding the girl alive after all. "If Jars is on the run, do you know where he might go to ground?"
Fhaen gave Deneven an incredulous smirk. "It amazes me how quickly you forget that we are thieves. People like us trust no one, especially when the dogs are on our trail. We are not in the habit of discussing our safe houses. If we did, they wouldn't be very safe, now would they?"
"I suppose not."
"If Jars is hiding and he has the girl," Fhaen watched Deneven intently as she spoke, "he will not reveal himself until he decides the time is right."
Deneven's eyelids felt heavy. The tonic had done more than eliminate his pain; it had relaxed him more thoroughly than drinking a bottle of potent wine. His gaze wandered to the teacup. "What was in that tea?"
Fhaen settled into the chair across from Deneven. She peered into his eyes and found whatever it was she sought. A satisfied smile curved her lips, "I didn't poison you. But now it is your turn to answer my questions."
"No," Deneven slurred.
"Yes." Her smile disappeared. "Jars Jadien defied me. He broke into the Vise's home without my permission. He may or may not have been working with Mast. Regardless of his reasons, I cannot tolerate insubordination. You of all people know the rot that grows from treason. He must answer to me."
Deneven shook his head, "I can't help you."
"You will," Fhaen reached out to brush Deneven's cheek with a fingertip. "What do you know about that night in the villa. What did you discover?"
The drug's influence was insidious. Deneven wanted to tell her what he knew, and he did. As he blurted all that he had discovered, Fhaen grew more and more impatient. "Yes, yes, you already mentioned that Jars stabbed Mast from behind. You've also told me twice now how the ranger's dog tracked them to the water's edge. Where did Jars go after that?"
A series of knocks sounded at the door to the back stairs of the apartment. Fhaen sighed in frustration. She pulled the gag up and tightened it around Deneven's mouth. "Don't go anywhere."
Deneven blinked as Fhaen opened the door and stepped through. Before the door shut, he caught sight of a leather-clad man with a mask that concealed his nose and mouth. The conversation was quiet enough that Deneven could hear the intonations but not the words. From the sound of it, the news the man was imparting was not making Fhaen happy. Deneven breathed in and out through his nostrils rapidly in an attempt to rouse himself from the drug's effects.
He was distracted when the front door of the apartment opened and closed behind him. To his surprise, a young girl with flaming red hair walked past him as if he were a piece of furniture. Deneven's eyes widened. The pre-adolescent girl was the spitting image of Fhaen; her hair was almost as red as an apple.
Deneven watched the girl open a cabinet and take out a loaf of bread. She cut a hunk off with a serrated blade before returning it to its place. Next, she took down a large jar and fetched a spoon from a pot of utensils. The girl hummed to herself the way contented children do when they've not a care in the world. She scooped out a wobbling spoonful of jam and spread it on the bread.
When the girl looked at him, Deneven froze as if thunderstruck. The girl's eyes pierced his with an intense clarity that was eerily familiar yet defied recognition. He watched her raise a single finger to her lips as she shushed him.
The tonic's effects strengthened, causing the world to tilt beneath Deneven. He struggled to retain focus. The girl took a mouthful and munched happily. The sudden opening of the back door and the reappearance of Fhaen caused both of them to jump.
"Yvina!" Fhaen's face was taut with anger.
"Yes, Momma?"
Momma? The word smashed through Deneven's drug-induced cloud like an avalanche. When did Fhaen have a daughter?
Fhaen's eyes flicked to the gag around Deneven's mouth as she grabbed the girl by the wrist and dragged her into the bedroom, slamming the door behind them.
Deneven's heart pounded as he strained to listen. His vision was growing cloudy, and with each blink, his eyelids threatened to remain shut.
Behind the closed door, Fhaen's words were muffled yet audible. "How many times do I need to tell you to stay away from that scoundrel?"
"Glick is not a scoundrel!" The girl protested. "He is nice, and he is my friend."
"You listen to me, Yvina," Fhaen snapped. "I pay a daevil's fortune to send you to the academy to learn how to be a proper young lady. I will not have you become another one of my rats. Stay away from Glick. And no more skipping history lessons! Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Momma."
"I've had more than enough aggravation this day; I will have no more!" Fhaen's voice was strained with frustration, "Stay in this room and practice your letters."
A moment later, the bedroom door snapped open and shut as Fhaen returned to the room. She sat down and removed the gag. Her eyes glittered as she peered into Deneven's eyes. "Oh, for the love of Ven! Of course, you are going to pass out on me now!"
Deneven fought against the growing compulsion to sleep. It took all of his willpower to bring the question to life, "When did you have a dau—"
The walloping slap to the side of Deneven's head ended the conversation and sent him into blackness.
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