Out of habit he reached up to his throat, the place where he had once worn the collar of the second mistress of the Coven. He would never forget the jeweled band of slavery he had worn for over three hundred years, until Wigg had removed it after the fall of the sorceresses. But all of that sometimes seemed a thousand lifetimes ago. The members of the Coven were all dead, and their soldiers, the Minions, were stationed far away in Parthalon, the nation across the Sea of Whispers. Tristan had ordered the Minions to stand down from their violence. They were to rebuild Parthalon, helping the citizens there to regain free and useful lives.
Geldon could see evidence of the Minions’ depraved butchery as he went down the various streets. As was their custom, they had used the blood of their victims to paint obscenities and symbols of their victory on the walls and buildings, just as they had done in Parthalon. Geldon knew that the psychological stain of what they had done would remain long after their horrific, telltale artwork had vanished.
He patted his horse to take his mind from the butchery, then smiled to himself at how clever the two wizards living in the Redoubt were. Fearing that the horses would be stolen from the palace stables above ground, Wigg and Faegan had converted a small part of the Redoubt to underground stables, and the horses were now boarded there full time, along with the tack and feed. It had become a part of Geldon’s duties to care for them, and he loved his job.
He had ridden his bay mare out one of the many secret tunnels leading out of the Redoubt. Each of the winding tunnels exited in a different area of the palace or its surrounding landscaping. Their entrances were cleverly disguised, and he had to be very careful never to be seen entering or exiting. From the palace it was only a short ride into the heart of the city. But each time he visited this place it depressed him.
He was headed for the section that had once been the center of Eutracian culture and commerce. Most of the storefronts and shops had been long since looted, but there were still a handful of them open, their owners apparently well heeled enough to pay hired thugs to protect them. This was also the place where most of the idle citizens now seemed to congregate, as if being together would somehow add to their own safety.
The area known as Bargainer’s Square was now a hotbed of whores, thieves, con artists, mercenaries for hire, and beggars. But it was the place where he was most likely to pick up the latest gossip. He knew the danger factor there was high, especially for a hunchbacked dwarf whose size might well make his self-defense more problematic.
As he approached the huge, cobblestone square he could see that it was unusually busy today. In fact, the place was literally teeming with life. He kept his pace slow and his head down, purposely trying not to invite attention. No one need tell him that simply being a hunchbacked dwarf might be enough to invite harassment from rowdies looking for fun.
Street whores with come-hither glances brazenly plied their trade in the open. From many of the alleyways could be heard the homely, visceral sounds of crude, urgent intercourse. Oftentimes the men could be seen standing in line, waiting their turn. Beggars approached him at every corner. Some of them seemed truly needy, while others were simply looking for a coin or a piece of bread to get them through another day without having to work. He bit his lip as he went along, almost crying at what he saw. Some of the unfortunates here were mere children. Orphans, he assumed. Lost and alone in a giant world not of their making, many were filthy and starving.
He would sometimes come across the menacing eyes of those he knew to be the most dangerous—the killers for hire. Professional assassination had become a healthy business since the loss of the Royal Guard. There were many citizens who were more than happy to spend the necessary kisa to eliminate a wealthy relative, adulterous spouse, or more successful business rival. Kisa, the gold coin of the realm, was the only thing that guaranteed survival. And what these mercenaries were willing to do to get it was without limits. With enough money, virtually anyone here could be killed, with no trace remaining of the assassin.
And then there was the final group of unfortunates. The hobbling, crippled souls who were wounded, and nearly dead. Those who had somehow survived the clash with the Minions, but had lost an arm, a leg, or an eye. These men and women were the ones who seemed truly lost, walking the streets as if in a daze. Their eyes were constantly searching, but they seemed to recognize little. Every such encounter with the Minions, Geldon knew, bred such poor souls like flies. And it was plain to see that many of them here were soon to lose it all to the ravages of their quickly advancing gangrene. They had apparently never found anyone of the craft capable of properly tending their wounds.
Thank the Afterlife Tristan has not seen this, Geldon thought. There would be no end to the rage and sorrow he would feel. As if mere cloth could somehow protect him from the horrific scene, he slowly pulled the hood of his robe up over his head and traveled on.
Geldon had made six other such visits to the city. He had purposely not been trying to find out too much, for fear of seeming overly inquisitive. The last thing he needed was undue scrutiny. But he had struck up several potentially valuable acquaintances—people he thought he could now trust enough to tell him at least some semblance of the truth. It was to the first of these he steered his mare.
Familiarity first, the wizards had warned him. Then and only then should come the questions.
He stopped his horse in front of one of the more rowdy, notorious taverns and looked down at the partial amputee seated on the walk. The fellow’s legs were gone just below the hips, no doubt a result of the Minions’ carnage. What was left of his squat body was strapped to a rather poorly made wooden box. Around both of his hands were wrapped dirty bandages, and in each fist he gripped a handle. Each handle was connected to a separate block of wood. In this way he could move along much faster than one would have ever imagined. He would repeatedly extend the blocks of wood before him, then lift his body-box upward and forward, placing it down into the space between them. He was known only as Stubbs, and his dark, dirty hair and black eye patch were always the same. He seemed to be quite sure, as he looked up at Geldon, that at least a few kisa were about to come his way. He smiled, several of his front teeth missing.
“And how are you this fine day?” Stubbs asked the dwarf, his greedy smile far from retreating. “Have you come for yet more supplies?”
Geldon took a quick look around the unusually crowded square before responding, making sure there was no one else within earshot. “Yes,” he said simply, continuing to gaze down at the cripple.
“For the life of me, I don’t know why you don’t get a wagon,” Stubbs added, rubbing a hand over his grizzled, salt-and-pepper chin. “It would make life a lot simpler, and you wouldn’t have to come into town so often.” Reaching out, he placed the blocks one step in front of his truncated body. Hoisting himself into the space between them, he moved a little closer to the hooves of Geldon’s horse. He used his good eye to look up at the dwarf. “Nobody honest ever comes to this part of town ’less they have to. That is, unless they’re in need of a good time from one of the ladies.” He winked knowingly. “I could do with a bit of that myself, if you know what I mean.”
Geldon opened the leather cinch bag that was tied around his waist and took several low-denomination kisa from it, holding them casually in his hand. He jingled them lightly together. “Perhaps I could help you with that,” he said softly.
Stubbs took another of his small leaps forward, his eyes shining with greed. “What do you need, m’lord?” he asked quickly. “I can get you anything you want: liquor . . . women . . . or perhaps there’s someone you’d like to see out of the way?”