The darkness hedged him in on every side. His clothing clung to his sweat-drenched pimpled gooseflesh. ‘How dare he!’ he thought bitterly, ‘How dare he make me wait like a common slave!’ He was not used to this kind of treatment. He was not a dog that he should lap at the heel! He balled his fists in rage. He thought he heard the sound of stone sliding in the darkness, a secret door of some kind. He spun around, eyes searching wildly. The blackness smothered his vision.
A match struck in the darkness.
Irrathane jumped. He spun back around. He saw the match put to a candle. The wick flared and illumed faintly. His heart leapt out of his chest. He barely discerned the shadowy forms of twelve hooded figures in the darkness. Swords hung at their sides. The centermost figure held the candle. The shadows cast the mob like a portrait of grim silhouettes. He could not make out their race, though he could tell they were not Shamites. ‘Assassins!’ he panicked. He was about to call for his guards when the figures parted. A Shamite emerged from the shadows behind them.
The Shamite’s jewelry and lengthy gold chains jingled in the darkness. He wore fine gold linens and a great many piercings. The Shamite’s eyes twinkled like hard cut jewels in the candlelight, calculating and dangerous leaving no small detail unturned. He recalled the Shamite’s name with a shudder, “Goldtongue,” he felt the name stick on his lips. He stared and stared, but could not place the face. Goldtongue’s features remained lost in the darkness like always.
‘How does he do that?’ Irrathane wondered.
Goldtongue’s abilities scared him and his wealth was on the rise. He was a growing rival and leading candidate to pluck the financial crown right off the sheik’s head. The word on the street was that Goldtongue had a tongue of solid gold, but Irrathane could not confirm the rumor in the darkness. He studied Goldtongue as best he could. The man looked like any other Shamite. He could be anyone. Mogul Irrathane might have taken the figure for a poor Shamite, given he had only twelve bodyguards on his person, but this was no ordinary Shamite. He shuddered under that hard icy stare with eyes colder than bloodstone.
“Is it you?” the mogul asked. He stepped forward to confirm.
“That’s close enough,” Goldtongue said.
Mogul Irrathane froze. He frowned fiercely in unmasked displeasure, “Why did you leave me to linger in this dump for so long?”
“I needed to weigh your level of commitment.”
“Well, of course I am,” Irrathane snapped, “in three years time you will have acquired the wealth to do all you desire. I would be a fool to ignore you.” He reminded himself just who he was dealing with. He took a knee. It pained him to feel the grime through the six layers of runners, but he did it out of necessity. He reached out and touched the Shamite’s sandals. The mogul’s face crinkled in disgust, but he kissed Goldtongue’s salty calloused feet, a Shamite gesture reserved only for the high sheik, but this was no sheik.
Goldtongue’s lips broke out into a delighted grin. He allowed the humiliation to drag out a few more long nauseating minutes. “Rise,” he ordered at last.
Irrathane whipped the taste of smut off his lips and rose.
“Did you deliver the good sheik’s message?” he asked.
“I did.”
“And how did the Troll take it?”
“He nearly drew blades on my men, but I lived.”
“That was to be expected. How astute of you to remain alive. Everything is proceeding according to plan,” Goldtongue’s grin seemed to shimmer eerily in the darkness, “my blade that moves in secret will fulfill his purpose soon.”
“Does he suspect anything?”
“No, he thinks this is another job. I have many more uses for him. Now tell me about our mutual friend the sheik, has he caught wind our plans?”
“No, he has not, as far as he is concerned I was just here to deliver his message to Warlord Lewd.”
“Good, report back to your sheik. Be a loyal errand-runner and run along.”
Mogul Irrathane turned to go.
“Oh, and Irrathane?”
He froze.
“Yes, my lord?” Goldtongue’s cold voice crawled deeply down his back collar, “Your sheik has been a busy boy since you’ve been gone. There is another plot afoot.”
Mogul Irrathane turned slowly back around. “Oh?”
Goldtongue’s eyes glittered like a preying snake hovering in the shadows. A grin crawled up onto his lips, “He moves in secret against the High Throne.”
“The High Throne?” Irrathane stammered, “Are you sure?”
“He means to hire the Ghost,” Goldtongue replied, “he has only dabbed his quill in the inkwell. The contract will be stroked soon.”
“The Ghost! Then the contract shall soon be wet with blood!”
“Yes,” he said stroking the long gold chains just below his heavily pierced chin, “I have pondered much on this unexpected turn of events. We cannot allow a transfer of power to take place before we have had a chance to hatch our plans.”
“What do you plan to do?”
“I shall lay another plot,” Goldtongue mused, “a plot behind a plot.”
Mogul Irrathane stared at him in baffled wonder.
“All the pieces are marching across the board,” Goldtongue grinned as if his lips dripped with venom, “they will yet play into my hands.” He let out an unnerving maniacal laugh that chilled the mogul’s blood far colder than all the tortured screams of Mithralmora…
Chapter Eleven:
The Sharkgates
Shade walked guardedly down the abandoned seaside corridors of the Kurn sewers. He squeezed his dagger in his ready fingers. He eyed the water surging in the sewer canal he was following with a careful eye. Two sandy and seaweed-covered brick walkways flanked the canal. He walked along the right aisle bearing a torch to light his way, as not even night mortals used these sewers. He did not ordinarily need the light, even in such a dark place, but he wanted to be extra careful. The bayside sewers, or the Sharkgates as they were better known, had been fashioned not to keep out sharks, but something far worse.
The assassin did not assume such risks without good reason. He had come here to scope out the back sewers and find out whether they might aid him in his hunt. Warlord Lewd had disappointed Shade by not coming to meet him face to face and so the assassin needed to find other methods of ensnaring his quarry.
Shade smiled in faint amusement. Besides he owed poor old Bwedrig a break. He needed to find another way into Lewd’s complex, a back way. The warlord had doubled his guard on all the main entrances. Of course, the assassin could easily break through those defenses, but not without alerting the entire hideout. Warlord Lewd would no doubt hear such a scuffle and wall himself up in a small impenetrable chamber behind ten-foot thick walls where he’d starve himself to death before facing the assassin’s blades.
Shade could see the ocean tide pushing back against the canals, carrying with it a vulgar mixture of sea foam, seaweed and raw sewage. He frowned warily. The tide was unusually high for this late in the morning. He thought he had timed this perfectly. He turned down a long cross-corridor. The tide rose even higher here. He’d didn’t have much time. The tunnels could flood any minute.
He held his torch up to the outer wall of the Old Mino Quadrant and counted his paces. He heard a sound, a slight stirring on the waters behind him. He was certain his keen Elvish ears had picked up on a noise quite apart from the ebb and flow of tide. The assassin spun around. He threw a dagger into the filthy green saltwater. It disappeared with a splash and a ripple that quickly dissolved in the thrashing waves.
Blast! Now he couldn’t tell whether his blade had caused the ripple or some unseen foe. He stared hard into the turbulent seawaters, frustrated with his own imprudence, but saw nothing. He nodded his respect if some silent hunter did in fact lurk beneath the waters. He turned back and continued counting his paces, keeping his wits about him.