Shade shrugged.
Gordwin hurried over to serve their new customer, seeing that Shade had allowed the man to sit without planting a dagger in his chest. The innkeeper set down a tarnished bronze goblet set with six green emeralds, a chalice kept for so rare an occasion it had permanently lost its shine. He appeared to be a little embarrassed, but the fierce leathery mask of a soldier returned to his face bearing a slight scowl to let the Shamite know he would not tolerate any flack on the matter.
Malgarius barely noticed.
“Would your guest care for a drink, Shade? On the house, of course.”
Shade nodded toward the bottle of Farian Wine knowing the man was a Shamite and would drink nothing less. The Dark Elf would never drink the entire bottle anyway. Temperance was one of his best kept virtues.
“Care for some wine, good sir?” Gordwin asked gruffly, managing a rough, but adequate etiquette that grated against his gristly nature. Shade hid his amusement. “This is my finest bottle of rich Farian Wine, aged on the rack thirty good years, or do you fancy another drink?”
“It will have to do,” the Shamite sighed.
Gordwin looked visibly relieved as he poured the glass. He left the bottle, bowed and backed away.
Shade waited for the innkeeper to return to the bar. He sat back relaxed, a slight grin dancing at the corners of his lips. He took another sip of wine. He kept eyeing the guards. A trickle of sweat ran down the short Derve’s brows. The other man already stank of sweat and damp armor. The Dark Elf regarded the Shamite. “So, what’s wrong, Shamite? Your councilman’s chair not big enough for him? He got his eyes on someone else’s seat?”
“Quite the contrary,” the Shamite leaned back and took a sip. He held his goblet in a lax, gingerly manner. He replied almost too casually, “This is about keeping his seat.” His posture was nearly as relaxed as Shade. The man was either very arrogant or very stupid.
“So?”
“Let’s just say Doljinaarian diplomacy works far too slowly without the sovereign command of the king, as you and I both know King Magnus’s time is consumed fighting the Syssrah at Daggerport leaving his council to rule in his stead.”
Shade stared hard at Malgarius. “I’m waiting to hear your point.”
Malgarius put his goblet down and resteepled his fingers. “I think you would be most impressed with Vizier Prognos. He is a man of kingly qualities and commanding authority. His wisdom crouches on the hem of Thanedom. Surely, you would welcome the aid of such a powerful man to guarantee the protection of your long ignored asylum in these swamplands.”
“I don’t need anyone’s protection.”
“I had expected you would say that, understand that it’s by Prognos’ graces you go unmolested in these lands.”
Shade leaned in and growled darkly, “Then perhaps I should pay your master a visit—to express my…thanks…for his graciousness. Or maybe I could send him my thanks through you.” In half a breath he held a dagger to Malgarius’ throat.
The Derves' hands flew to their hilts.
Malgarius waved them off.
Shade whispered, “I’ll let you try again.”
The Shamite swallowed hard, the smug expression all but gone, “It appears I may have misspoken.”
Shade leaned back and removed the blade.
The Shamite closed his eyes and struggled to regain his composure.
Shade smirked at the Derves.
The room was thick with tension. The tall Dervish guard’s hand trembled wildly on his hilt. The other man rattled even louder in his armor.
“Most of my master’s estates are in Kurn,” Malgarius’ voice shook and he slowly reopened his eyes, “it is growing increasingly difficult to protect his interests, as you undoubtedly know. The Kurn sewers have become infested by a plague of night mortals,” the Shamite paused and smoothed over his words, “I pray you understand I do not list your civilized people in this category. Nay, Dark Elves have a great history of culture, lore and learning. I speak only of those bloodthirsty night races, whom by their own brutal savagery, prove themselves to be monsters.”
“Go on.”
“We have known about this Kurn pestilence for some time. The sewers have deteriorated into a vast and intricate criminal underworld so deadly that not even the legions of mighty Doljinaar dare enter. Over the centuries warring clans of night mortals segregated by race have overrun the sewers. Each clan is ruled by crimelords who, up until now, have always squabbled amongst themselves. In the past the authorities have always left this evil to brood in the festering, stinking pits where it belongs, but we can no longer afford to ignore it. The refuse of night mortals now threaten to seep from the sewers and spill out onto the very streets of Kurn. If this happens my master will lose all that he owns.”
“You speak of Warlord Lewd,” said Shade, “the Sewer King as men call him.”
“Forgive me.” Malgarius nodded graciously. “I forget you are as likely familiar with Kurn’s underground passages as I am with her brightly paved streets.”
“You wish me to strike Warlord Lewd?”
“Yes,” the Shamite’s lips snaked into a crooked grin, “strike Lewd and the refuse of the sewers will turn inward and devour themselves once again.”
Shade considered it. The job suited him. He could crumble the power of the underworld with one bold stroke.
“I dare say, this Warlord Lewd is nearly as infamous as you. They say he is not an identifiable member of any known race. He is called Troll due to his hideous appearance, but he is a very charismatic leader. His appeal transcends the boundaries of race since he is not easily fingered to be any one of them.” Malgarius paused and threw back the meager remains of his drink. He wiped his chin, in a momentarily uncouth manner, but the moment suited him. A trickle of wine dribbled down his chin like blood. The Shamite finished, “It is that transcendent gift we wish to deprive him of. If you are willing to take this mark you may name your own price.”
“The weight of his head in bloodstone.”
“Done.”
“You would make me an enemy of the entire Kurn underground,” said Shade in wry amusement, “hunted to the very ends of the kingdom.”
Malgarius grinned back at him. He poured Shade another glass of wine. He leaned back in his seat and raised a toast. “A very, very rich enemy…”
Chapter Two:
Shade’s Town
Shade stalked the streets of Jile, his leather boots splashing down the gray slush road. Ordinarily, Dark Elves were killed on sight in Doljinaar, but Jile was a different kind of town, a town steeped in shadows…a refuge for criminals, runaway slaves, half-breeds, night mortals and others who wished to remain out of the public eye. Doljinaar may have bothered to wipe Jile off the map like a solider might wipe a smudge off his shiny breastplate, had the seedy town not been so remotely located in the sodden, stinking heart of the Ice Marshes.
Shade pulled his black travel cloak more tightly about him, but kept his hood down. The harsh late winter wind blew fiercely against his cheeks. He breathed deeply and enjoyed his last few frigid gusts of free, unoppressed air. The Dark Elf could show his face in scarce few places out west. He pressed briskly down the puddled road anxious to reach Kurn. It had been too long since he had crossed blades with a worthy adversary. Warlord Lewd would be a target of high honor, and the assassin hoped, high challenge.
Rowdy taverns, steamy brothels, and closed shops with barred windows lined the gray trod streets of Jile. Men braved the winter roads, too many fiery passions and too much frosty ale burning in their bellies to feel the full effects of the cold. Jile scraped the bottom of the barrel of human society. Shade saw among their number hard-featured, dark-haired Doljinns, husky long-bearded Haradrik, fiery redheaded Braznians, brawny black-bearded Grulls, the feisty braided topknot Tulestines and the greedy jewel-wearing Shamites. Most were wanted men—thieves, rapists and murderers masquerading under false pretenses.