No ones chosen, p.43
No One's Chosen, page 43
"This is it," Lacha said.
The clearing in front of the cave was nothing special to behold. A half-circle of dirt extending out from the trail that was tramped down with use. There was no sign of horse nor wagon and to Rianaire's eyes there was no sign of life but Inney's regular shifting told her that her eyes were not like to be so useful as she would hope.
Inney pulled the cart from the trail onto the packed black dirt of the clearing. She kept them a good distance from the forest at the edge of the clearing when the wagon came to a proper stop. When the wagon had settled Inney stood, facing the trees.
"If you three come from the wood behind us, I will be forced to kill you. I would ask that if you value your lives, please approach from a different position."
With that the short half elf hopped down from the wagon and offered her hand to Rianaire. The Treorai took it and stepped down onto the dirt and Inney helped Síocháin down as well with a steadying hand.
"I would have you wait in the wagon," Rianaire said to Lacha and her pups. "I should not like for you to play host to arrows meant for us now that you have fulfilled our agreement."
There was no sound from the wood behind them, but in front Rianaire could make out shadows moving among the mouth of the cave. A tall man with fair skin and the brown hair of the river elves came forward first, flanked by at least ten elves on either side. He stood just off the edge of the small trail and spoke.
"I am Nasc," the man said. "Who are you and what business do you have here?"
Rianaire stepped forward confidently. "I am Rianaire, Treorai of Spéirbaile." A few of the raiders put their hands to the hilt of their swords, but Nasc waved a hand and they relaxed. "I am here with a proposal. Though I would have you bring your eyes from the woods and I would also have you show me your leader."
"Why would the Treorai have business with a band of raiders?"
"I will gladly explain it to the leader of your band."
"And if I say I am the leader?"
Rianaire turned to Lacha and the woman shook her head. She turned back to the man and shrugged.
"Enough of this." A high, scratchy voice pierced the air. The accent was thick and one Rianaire had never heard before. It was no Drow. Rianaire could see a shadow move behind the others, taller than the elves.
A wiry, thin creature walked to the front. A satyr and a female at that. She moved in front of Nasc and Rianaire could see her plainly now. She had a tan, freckled face, not unlike an elf's. Her ears were pointed and her hair was a dirty red color. She wore loose clothes, a shift and skirt of dull blue, over her body and her hirsute, hoofed feet poked out from the bottom. There was a sword belt hung loosely around her wait and she held a lit pipe.
The satyr took a drag and motioned to the cart. "Those are mine."
"They belong to no one. Elves are free to do as they will." Rianaire's voice was calm but the satyr let go a derisive, snorting laugh.
"You are a fool or have a fool's ideals."
"I wonder if the kin you left to the centaur would say the same of you." Rianaire did not know much of the satyr, in truth, but she knew that they were not so willing in their service to the centaur.
The satyr's face straightened and her shrill voice became serious. "A proposal. You make deals with thieves."
"A nobler title than I'm sure most of you deserve." Rianaire smiled politely and said nothing further.
The satyr woman stood and looked her over a moment. She shifted the weight of her slim body from one hoof to the other and took a drag of her pipe. She inhaled deep and let the smoke trickle out slowly. When the smoke had gone, she nodded. "We shall talk." She turned and the crowd of raiders split behind her.
Rianaire moved to follow with Síocháin and Inney at her back. As they passed through the gathered rows of elves, Rianaire saw that they were of all ages and origins. There were no other hippocamps among the flock, she noticed. The Treorai could not decide if that was strange or something she ought to have expected.
The inside of the cave was well tended in most places, lined with furs along the lower parts of the walls. The main passage gave way to a larger cavern where most of the day-to-day living appeared to take place. They moved through the room with strange looks from the elves there. Some were quite old and many were infirm, though they appeared well taken care of. At the back side of the main cavern, the cave split into three smaller tunnels. Nasc had fallen in behind Rianaire and her line and he saw to it that they moved down the left side tunnel. At the end of the tunnel, some thick wood had been worked into a door. The satyr had opened it and awaited inside.
"They say my name is Gadaí," the satyr said as she sat herself at a padded bench on the far side of a table decorated in deep reds and golds. The entire room was strewn with such colors and was well outfitted for a cave. There were rugs and wall coverings and art, even a few stone carvings of horsefolk. Rianaire had never seen the style before. She did not know the hippocamps to have artistry, but she could scarcely imagine any elf making such a thing, crude and in the shape of a bitter enemy.
Gadaí motioned to the chair on the far side of the table. "I was not called such a name until I came to this place. My old name does not matter in this time," she said blowing more smoke.
The smoke was pungent, whatever it was, and burned Rianaire's eyes though she could not show it. Rianaire took her place in the chair and the others stood on either side of the chair with Inney nearest the door. Nasc had stopped by the door after closing it.
"I suppose I should first ask why a satyr has seen it fit to create a band of raiders?"
Gadaí took another drag and looked away. "I have questions for you, but this is fine." Her accent was thick as the smoke she exhaled but Rianaire could understand her well enough. "You elves speak often to me of the cruelty of the centaur, but you are capable of as much yourselves. I left my people when I had seen enough of the blood of babes and the tears of parents. I fled to your lands and stole and watched and traveled. Your people rape and kill as ours do. There is no institution to it, but they are not different from the centaur in this way. I saw no choice in it so I began to take in your weak and lame. The weak and lame cannot provide, but the strong and cruel are capable enough at doing as they are told. At least when threatened with the blade. I can protect the weak in this way."
"Then you are a savior."
Gadaí laughed a staggered, staccato laugh in her high tone. "I am nothing like. I am simply tired of death visited upon those who do not seek it. But now an elf lord in common clothes sits before me, so perhaps I am more than I thought. You have things to propose?"
Rianaire adjusted herself in the chair. "I would deputize your raiders to the service of the province. And yourself, of course. In return, your band would be named as a fully sanctioned mercenary group, recognized as such throughout Spéirbaile."
Gadaí took another puff from the pipe. "There are those among my band that have no purpose in this world but to do ill."
"I would yield to your judgment upon who to take or leave. If they are unfit to be among the living, so be it." Rianaire's words were cold and businesslike.
"What of compensa—"
Gadaí was interrupted by a slamming at the door. The angry, gruff voice of a male elf came through it. "Gadaí, open up you satyr whore." The satyr looked at the door casually and the man banged on it again. "I got words with that cunt from Spéirbaile. I warn you, muleborn bitch, I will say my piece."
Inney turned to face the door and Rianaire nodded to the satyr woman. "Let us see what it is he needs."
Gadaí nodded at Nasc and he stepped aside, pulling the door open. A squat but well-built elf walked in, pale face flushed red with rage. Before he could speak Inney stepped to the side to make herself seen.
"I understand you wish to have words, but I should ask that you remain well away from Rianaire." Her smile and voice were the same sickening sweet as ever.
"Little bitch." The man stepped toward Inney with rage in his face.
Inney did not move but the sound of a deep thunk rang out and the man stopped where he stood. A trickle of blood ran down the square iron spike buried in his forehead and he fell to his knees as the bottom of Inney's cloak rustled back into position. The small girl turned and placed herself back at Rianaire's side.
"She is a dangerous one," Gadaí said with a sideways glance. She motioned Nasc away and he saw to the body.
Rianaire did not wait for the satyr to return to the conversation. "Compensation. Ten gold each for your raiders and a small plot of land north of the Bastion City that is theirs to do with as they wish. It is largely uninhabited. The winters are harsh, but it is better than they have now."
"That is a high price for thieves and killers." Gadaí took a drag from the pipe and thought quietly for a time. "You have lost your city."
Rianaire nodded without hesitation. "I have."
"So you expect to find few enough of us able to collect." The shrill, accented voice sounded displeased at the prospect.
Rianaire frowned. "I hope that there is little bloodshed. But it is beyond my sensibility to believe I can walk to the gates and have the city back from those who took it. I expect their forces will be fewer than they imagine. And should I arrive with a force at my back, only the most loyal should bother to take up the fight."
Gadaí leaned toward the table and propped her slender face on a thin hand. "We have no weapons. No steel of any value or strength. You have a plan for this, I think?"
"I do. A mining city just to our north, Daingean. The Regent is a friend and their forge is among the best in Spéirbaile."
"Steel and gold and land," Gadaí said, tapping her pipe on the table. "This will be acceptable. It will take some time to call home the lot that are out. And I should think you would like the unacceptable purged. I expect it will take near a week."
"It is the fate they'd have met under the law so I see no reason to spare them if they will be of no use."
Gadaí stood. "I will go and retrieve paper that we might put ink to our discussion."
"A prudent idea." Rianaire smiled.
The satyr walked from the room ducking as she passed through the doorway. The three were alone in the room, Nasc still dealing with the body Inney had created.
Síocháin leaned down to Rianaire's ear. "Will these be enough?"
Rianaire sighed. "I wish I could say. Though, with Mion's support, however it manifests, I am hopeful."
"And if they are not enough? If you fall and a hundred raiders are scattered to the roads around the city?" Síocháin's voice was as impassive as always.
Rianaire chuckled. "Then I will be dead. And the Fires may take the whole damned province for all I care."
Aile
There were a pair of city guard members along the path to the Inner Crescent wall. Aile had been following them for some time rather than passing them up in the hopes of overhearing some news of use. The bulk of their conversation had been about the local brothels and the quality of the whores.
"Wish I had coin to spend a night at one o' them Inner Crescent brothels. I heard some stories…"
"I been to one," the taller of the two guards said.
"Horse piss, you have. You don't make no more'n me."
"Fires take me if I didn't. Weren't no better'n the brothels here. Softer beds, I reckon, but ain't worth the cost."
"Don't know as it'll matter soon. Hear tell the Binse means to push the whores out of the city entirely." The shorter guard's voice was sullen.
"It's that damn Drow's doin'. Say she lead a band of raiders against the Treorai and cut 'er down. Now that ol' sour bastard Spárálaí's claimin' to run things. Seniority, I heard someone callin' it. Least 'til they can find a new Treorai."
The talk turned to rights of succession and whether the Treorai had left the names of successors as was customary. Aile broke off from them and made more directly for the wall and its tiny drainage ports.
"I am quite ambitious, it seems," Aile thought to herself as she approached the wall.
She made her way up through the drainage wedge and down the other side and she found herself back in the splendor of the Inner Crescent. The area where she entered the district was in the lowest point of the trough of the wall, the farthest from the Bastion she could be and still be in the Inner Crescent. She was not far from the middle gate leading back to the Outer Crescent, but the area mostly consisted of shops. There were three main roads through the Bastion City, each led to the square around the Bastion proper. There was the West Road, which she had come in on; the South Road, which she was near now; and the Port Road, which lead out to the shipyards past the edge of the city.
The bladesmith she was searching for was along the road nearby. The eastern side of the South Road was more brothels, clothiers, and shops dedicated to comfort. It was not likely that this smith, Buail, would be there. It would keep her out of open areas, for which she was thankful. Aile moved to the shadows surrounding the shops across the cobbled way. The Inner Crescent was more thoroughly filled with corners and dark alleys than the Outer Crescent. It was a place that seemed to think little of nefarious intent. Indeed in her time there, the guard had not only been lighter along the outer edges of the Inner Crescent than the other side of the wall, but she had not heard of any real wrongdoings.
The buildings she passed were marked with colorful, intricate signs showing them to be various sorts of metal working shops. A shieldsmith, a jeweler, a general blacksmith. There were even a fair few bladesmiths in the row. It seemed to make enough sense. A town of this size was apt to have a fair need for good steel and the ports meant exporting was easy enough. The names below the signs were not the one she sought, however.
She had covered nearly a third of the distance to the Bastion when she came upon the place. The sign was a simple square of wood with a sword painted upon it. It was not ornate as the others had been. There was no beautiful script lettering or ornately carved inlay of a rapier or a sign in the shape of a blade. Just a square and the words Buail's Fine Steel below the crudely painted weapon.
The door was latched with an iron lock blocking her entry. She pulled one of the cheap blades she had taken from the man in the Outer Crescent. It was a small, thin plunging knife, meant to be concealed, and she worked it into the keyhole slowly until it was wedged into the workings of the lock. She slammed the butt of her hand into the hilt. The sound of metal scraping and snapping came from inside. Aile pulled the blade back and pointed it in toward the frame of the door. She forced it in again and lifted and the door swung open. She stepped inside and closed the broken door behind her.
The shop was much smaller than the one in the Outer Crescent. Aile scanned the walls with patient eyes and saw smaller blades along the wall to her left. She moved to the wall and found that there were only a few dozen blades of a size she could use. She leaned in close to inspect them and saw that the steel was patterned beautifully. Dark lines running through a lighter grey and a delicate, but substantial feeling red-brown cord wrap around the grip. The pommel and ferrule were dark steel and attached well. The ferrule blended elegantly into the quillon. Aile could feel her heart pounding just to look at the blade. The man had not lied with the last words his tongue had spoken.
She lifted a blade from the case and held it aloft. The balance was superb. She spun it in her hands and slashed at the air to get a feel for it. The custom steel she carried had rarely been so well forged. She laid the grip across the edge of her hand an inch below the quillon and the blade balanced there, unmoving unless her hand willed it. There was a pang of guilt as she slid the longest of the blades into her torn leathers. They deserved a better home than she was giving them, but it was a situation she would rectify soon enough. Aside from the larger blade, she took three others. She would lack for the variety she preferred, but certainly she had plenty of what she needed.
Before she left the bladesmith's shop, she moved to the counter and placed the last of her gold coins upon it. It was not nearly enough for the quality of the work, but she felt that it would at least show her respect to the bladesmith when he found his goods stolen. Perhaps she would even return later to pay in full and commission the more exotic blades she required.
She moved back into the street with the large cloak around her. The skin on the wound at her arm was tight, as it had been. She reached up to rub at it. The scabs reminded her that she had run desperately low of the poultices and tinctures she tended to keep. While they would have served little purpose in the forests she had been forced to call home for the past while, they were more useful than the blades in the city. Poisoned folk drew a better sort of attention than an elf with a slit throat. There were concerned bodies looking to help rather than looking for a dripping knife edge.
It had been many years since Aile had bothered visiting an alchemist's shop. She had learned to make the things she needed and the ingredients tended to be easy enough to procure. Alchemists tended to wonder what one would need poisons for, as though it were some sort of mystery. Most of them would sell the ingredients readily as they were often used in dilutions to kill pain and slow bleeding. Others were easy enough to find growing here or there. Before she had learned the arts herself, there was a shop in Spéirbaile. It had been more than a century since she had visited it, she was sure, but she remembered the place.
The walk to the alchemist's was quiet and quick enough. The guards were certainly doing rounds in greater number but they seemed no more diligent than they had been when she had arrived. The shop was where she had remembered and looked much as it did all that time ago. The alchemist was in his middle age then and apathetic about who he sold to. The sign had been repainted from the deep blue she remembered to a dull yellow that stood out from the aging wood a bit better. There were no windows on the first floor, and only a single, small one on the top floor where he lived.
The lack of windows reminded her of the strange ways about the man. He would lecture her on the value of privacy and chide her for being Drow as though she could change it somehow. She moved to the door and pulled free the bent plunging knife she had used on the lock at the bladesmith's. It had snagged the leathers and torn at them but she was beyond caring. She started to slide the bent knife into the locked of the door and it swung open with considerable speed. Orange light flooded into the street.
