Vanderjack thought about what the Sword Chorus had said to him, about his mistake, about the killing of an innocent. Etharion Cordaric couldn’t really be considered an innocent, he thought. He was a member of Theo’s company, wasn’t he? He signed on knowing that was a dangerous business. Nobody volunteers to become a mercenary, even if it’s just to bake cookies, without that understanding. But if that was true, why did Vanderjack feel so bad about it?
He saw a few members of the Seaguard running past him in the direction of the street where the cook and Annaud had been killed. They didn’t spare him a glance. Apparently, his nondescript disguise was adequate for the situation. That or the Seaguard didn’t really care about the perpetrator and wanted to get to the bodies in time to loot them themselves.
Killing people always brought out the worst in folks, he mused, including him. Vanderjack had stolen, broken into places, robbed people, even lied and cheated and beguiled his way toward riches before, all while acting as a soldier for hire. He wasn’t a good man. He liked living well when he could get the money and the resources. It was all part of the lifestyle-kill people; take their stuff-wasn’t it?
Vanderjack rounded the corner two streets away from the courtyard where he’d left the gnome and the baron’s aide. Damn the cook, anyway. He’d never questioned his mistakes before. He didn’t really care about the cook, but Theo evidently did, and right then he did actually need Theo not to be angry with him. Theo was good at what he did, and Vanderjack was sure that, sneaking into some castle behind enemy lines, he’d need those skills.
Sometimes sacrifices had to be made, he thought. The cook might not be the last one to die on his trip. Gredchen might not last it out … or Theo himself. In that business you never could predict when somebody was going to get run through with a life-draining sword in the middle of a pitched battle with dragonarmy soldiers.
Vanderjack stopped just before the next corner, frowning. The ghosts had insisted he’d killed an innocent. What were the ramifications of that? He suddenly realized that if they were right, and Etharion’s time to die was not in the middle of a pitched battle with dragonarmy soldiers, then the sword’s curse might have been activated.
He drew the blade out from its sheath, feeling the power in the meteoric iron humming into his palm and up his arm as it always did, watched as the ghosts manifested around him, and counted.
There were eight of them.
“So you see,” said the Philosopher. “Our number has grown by one.”
“Your mistake has earned you another advisor,” said the Conjuror.
“I hope you realize what you have done,” asked the Aristocrat.
“So I have a cook’s ghost now too? I suppose that will come in handy when I’m making dinner.” Vanderjack tried to make a joke, peering at the eighth ghost, like all the others indistinct, spectral, and only semireal.
“On the contrary,” said the Apothecary.
“He is not all that he appeared to be,” said the Balladeer.
Then the eighth ghost spoke in a voice clearly different from the others, not as confident or loud or even as ghostly. He just sounded confused. “What happened?”
“Well,” said Vanderjack. “What is he, then, if not a dead cook?”
“Give us time to let him become acquainted to his new state,” said the Apothecary.
“You have other things to do,” said the Aristocrat.
“Find the trail,” said the Hunter. He and all of the others faded from sight.
Vanderjack looked down at the sword. He was still holding it, but the Sword Chorus had gone. That was the first time they had ever done that. Granted, it was the first time he’d actually killed any innocents with the magic sword. He slid it back into its scabbard and continued on.
He ducked under a low arch leading into the courtyard by the east wall, between a series of lean-tos, shanties, and other indications of those who live a life without a real home. Toward the gate itself, where the courtyard widened enough to admit the throngs of people, he could see the gnome and Gredchen sitting in a shaded spot.
“So,” he said, walking over to them as bold as brass. “Do you want the good news or the bad news?”
Highmaster Rivven Cairn gazed into a pool of water that had collected on the top of an ale barrel.
Rivven knew many divination spells, most of which she used to discern the nature or strength of her opponents or to communicate with her underlings. The latter was the chief purpose of the spell she had just invoked, conjuring a watery window onto a far place currently occupied by the wizard Cazuvel.
“So what news do you have for me?” she asked as she noted the locals keeping their distance from the exterior of the Monkey’s Ear Tavern. Rivven had arrived there to find the place abandoned, and she was hearing news not only of a bloody duel elsewhere in Pentar but of disturbances to the east.
“My lady,” Cazuvel spoke, his bone-white face swimming on the surface of the water. “I have arrived at Castle Glayward, though I believe it is North Keep that demands the most of our attention.”
Rivven rubbed at the back of her neck, where sweat and leather had irritated the skin and where her great helm would usually keep the rain out. She’d left the helm on the saddle, and the saddle was on Cear. The dragon was presently perched on the roof of the tavern, another reason for the locals to stay the Abyss out of her way.
“Is that young idiot making public speeches again?” she asked the mage’s image. “Doesn’t he know we only let him out of his room if he promises not to rouse the rabble?”
“The king has indeed been making speeches, my lady,” said Cazuvel, as smug as ever. “He forgets what that did to his father a decade ago.”
King Huemac Kerian, the previous king of Nordmaar, had refused to submit to the Red Wing when it had swept into Nordmaar. Proud and stubborn, his army had made its last stand at Qwes, a frontier keep on the edge of the khan’s lands. The khan at the time, always one to throw his lot in with the winning team, joined the dragonarmy forces; without the support of the horse nomads, King Huemac couldn’t hold the line, especially not against red dragons. Nordmaar fell before the Red Wing’s assault, and Rivven had been there to enjoy the spectacle. Shredler Kerian had watched his father die at the end of Highlord Phair Caron’s spear, and since that time the newly crowned king had remained sequestered at North Keep. It was the capital city of his inherited kingdom and his own personal prison.
“He is supposed to be watched at all hours by his personal guard,” Rivven said, exhaling. “They are sivaks, second only in rank to the Red Watch that the highlord keeps with him in Kern. They’re not blind idiots, are they?”
The mage betrayed no knowledge of the truth. “Not blind … perhaps idiots. I am but Your Ladyship’s servant.”
“Oh, that’s enough of that nonsense,” Rivven said. “Make sure the baron’s … property is still at the castle, and stay there until I send more instructions.” She dismissed the spell with a pass of her fingers through the water, and it was once more just a puddle on a barrel top.
“Cear!” she called out impatiently.
The dragon’s neck craned down from the roof, lowering its head to level with Cairn’s own. “You called?”
“Any sign of more disturbances?” she asked. “Do you see the sellsword walking about with the gnome I told you about?”
Cear bared a row of enormous ivory teeth. “Not as such,” he responded, his hot breath washing over Rivven.
“Not as such?”
“What I mean is I don’t usually pay much attention to gnomes. The human? Literally dozens of dark-skinned humans walking about the city, even now.”
Pentar was a hotbed of piratical activity as well as being home to a diverse population, so Ergothians and Saifhumi weren’t uncommon. Vanderjack was both, or so it was said, and thus, his ability to blend in there was to be expected. It was a fact that Vanderjack had become just famous enough to have a cult following almost the like of any Hero of the Lance. It was also a fact that Cear, like all red dragons, didn’t really know how to tell one human from another until he’d roasted them with his breath.