Darkblade Slayer Page 4

  The Hunter shook his head. Charlatans and hustlers, all of them. These men preyed upon the foolish and wealthy, using clever gimmicks to convince gullible marks to hire them. Doubtless they'd wander around the mountains for a few days before finding an excuse to return to Vothmot, the Lost City undiscovered.

  People from every corner of the continent flowed through the Prime Bazaar. A group of young Praamian noblemen reined in their horses beside a train of camel drivers that wore the flowing robes of the Twelve Kingdoms. Malandrians, Nyslians, Drashi, even a few dark-skinned Ghandians and squat Odarians milled about, listening to the various offers.

  A serious-looking crew of well-equipped Voramians ignored the hawkers but instead moved toward the smaller, quieter streets beyond. They went into a small hut that stood apart from the rest. No loud-mouthed caller drew attention, but the men lounging around the front had the hard, lean bodies of mountaineers.

  One, a stony-faced man with threads of grey in his beard, stood as he approached. "You looking to climb the mountains?" Tall, broad-shouldered, but with an air of confidence, he looked the sort of man who knew his profession. He smelled of citrus, leather oil, and horses—a strong scent, but not unpleasant.

  "Maybe," the Hunter said with a shrug.

  "You don't have the look of a treasure-hunter." The man narrowed his eyes. "I reckon you'll survive longer than most."

  The grim tone of the man's voice brought a smile to the Hunter's face. "Tired of the dandies and gawkers, eh?"

  The man shrugged. "Let the loud-mouths have 'em, says I." He thrust out a hand. "Darillon's the name."

  The Hunter shook it. "Hardwell. Is that a Malandrian accent I hear?"

  "Aye," Darillon said with a nod. "It's stuck with me even though I left more than twenty years back."

  "You can take the man out of Malandria, they say…"

  "But you can't get the Malandria out of the man." Darillon grinned. "You've heard that one, eh?"

  The Hunter shrugged. Voramians had no love for Malandrians; they'd muttered those words more than once, always in disdainful tones.

  "Mind if I ask what brings you on the wild pheasant chase for the Lost City?" Darillon asked.

  The Hunter raised an eyebrow.

  The man laughed. "Last thing you'd expect to hear from a man who makes his living on it, eh?"

  "To say the least."

  Darillon shrugged. "I've been out in those mountains dozens of times a year every year since I was in my twenties and had a full head of hair." He ran his hand over his bald scalp and patted his midsection. "A stone or two lighter, too. I've been on every trail, around every bend, up every cliff face I could climb. There's few men in Vothmot who know these mountains as well as I do, yet no sign of Enarium. Almost enough to make you question if it's even real."

  The Hunter nodded. "I get that."

  "Still, a man's gotta earn a living somehow, and there's worse ways to do it than exploring the Empty Mountains." He swept an arm toward the north, where the craggy mountain peaks rose. "They're a savage lot, but there's a rugged beauty that'll make any man fall in love."

  "What's your rate?" the Hunter asked.

  The bald man scratched his smooth-shaven cheeks, his mouth pressed into a tight line. "For supplies, horses—"

  "I've my own mounts," the Hunter said.

  "Fair enough." Darillon inclined his head. "How many of you will it be?"

  "Just me and one more."

  "Nice small party." He looked the Hunter up and down. "You look like you've done your share of climbing. Means I won't have to be hauling you up the mountain." He shook his head. "You wouldn't believe how many fat bastards think they've got what it takes to survive out there."

  The Hunter nodded. Two of the Praamian youths in the crowd behind had the soft, rotund bodies of men who spent more time in carriages and soft beds than on horseback or their feet.

  "Thirty imperials a head," Darillon pronounced after a moment of thought. "That'll cover enough supplies and gear for two weeks."

  Two weeks? The Hunter stifled a growl. He doubted the Sage would wait that long to enact whatever world-shattering plan he had. Hailen's madness worsened every day.

  Darillon continued. "And, before we head out, you need to understand what you're getting into. Rough, steep trails, cold nights, brutal winds, hard ground for sleeping."

  "You certainly know how to paint an attractive picture, don't you?"

  Darillon shrugged. "No sense getting your hopes up. We go out, we do our best to find the city, and we return back here in one piece. I'll keep you alive and get you home. That's the only guarantee I can offer." He thrust out a hand. "What say you?"

  “Ten imperials,” the Hunter said.

  “No.” Darillon frowned. “If you’re a bargaining man, you’re better off with one of those fools in the Prime Bazaar. I’ve quoted my price, and—“

  “Fifteen.” The Hunter raised an eyebrow. “As I said, I have my own mounts and supplies, and I can handle myself.”

  “Twenty-five,” Darillon growled. “I can always find another customer willing to pay that price.”

  “Sure, but they’ll be one of those dandies or treasure-hunters.” The Hunter grinned. “I’d say eighteen imperials is more than worth it for a break from those effete pricks.”

  Darillon threw up his hands. “Twenty’s the lowest I go, and that’s with the ‘persistent arsehole’ discount.”

  The Hunter grinned. He couldn't help liking the man's no-nonsense approach. "Done." He shook the man's hand. "How soon can you be ready to leave?"

  "From the moment your coins cross my palm, I'll need two hours."

  The Hunter frowned. He'd need more time if he was to get his hands on the Taivoro book the Sage had mentioned.

  "I won't leave any sooner," Darillon said, crossing his arms. "You may be in a hurry, but I won't risk—"

  "No," the Hunter cut him off with a shake of his head. "I've got some things to deal with here in Vothmot before I can leave."

  "Ahh, of course." Darillon raised his eyebrows. "That business wouldn't have anything to do with our famous kaffehouses, would it?"

  The Hunter stiffened. He thought he'd taken precautions to avoid notice as he slipped from the Divinity House.

  Darillon chuckled. "People come to Vothmot for three reasons." He jerked a thumb at the mountains behind him. "That's the first reason, and those bloody great temples are the second. The third's the kaffe. Nowhere else on Einan will you find it as delicious. Seems people enjoy the serving ladies as well."

  The Hunter relaxed. "You've got me there." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Between you and me, I was never too fond of kaffe."

  Darillon laughed, a rich, hearty sound. "Fair enough," he said, throwing up his hands.

  The Hunter's tension drained away. The less people knew of his business, the better. He was happy to let the man think he'd come to enjoy the pleasures of Vothmot.

  He drew ten golden imperials from his purse and set them in the man's hands. "Half now, half tomorrow morning when we leave."

  Darillon stuffed the coins into a pocket. "If you want to cover ground, we'd best be leaving by dawn."

  "Dawn it is." The Hunter nodded.

  "Meet me outside the north gate before first light, you and your companion. We'll be off while the rest of these pleasure-hunters are still snoozing in their beds."

  "I'll be there."

  The Hunter had to hope he had enough time to find the Taivoro book before then. The cost of delaying their trip another day didn't bother him, but the Sage's lead on him grew with every passing minute.

  He turned to walk away, then stopped.

  "If a man was looking for a book," he asked Darillon, "where would he go?"

  The bald man's eyebrows rose. "A book? Anything in particular?"

  The Hunter inclined his head. "Something old and obscure." The guide didn't need to know more than that.

  "Got it." Darillon's lips twitched into a pensive frown. "I'd say the
Royal Libraries just south of the palace. If there's a book you're looking for, they'll either have it or know where to get it."

  With a nod, the Hunter turned and strode in the direction of the palace.

  Well, that's the easy part out of the way. Darillon seemed a capable enough guide, and he liked the man’s pragmatic attitude and calm confidence.

  Now comes the real challenge. He had only the vaguest idea of what he was looking for, and a limited time in which to find it. Life just can't be easy, can it? Everything he tried to do spiraled out of control. Just for once, he'd like something to be simple and straightforward, the way his life had been before he ever learned about demons or Kharna. He just wanted to go back to being an assassin for hire.

  It was a silly wish. He'd learned too much, seen too much. He couldn't hide in a bubble of willful ignorance. He knew the real threat threatened the people around him and all of Einan. Much as he hated it, he couldn't turn his back on it.

  Chapter Five

  "How might I help you…" The bespectacled scribe behind the desk gave the Hunter a long, appraising look. "…sir?" he finished with only a hint of distaste on his face.

  The Hunter ignored the disdain. He knew he didn't look like much, still covered in road dust and wearing his plain, dark grey cloak and simple clothing.

  "I was hoping you could tell me where to find a certain book a friend mentioned to me."

  The scribe inclined his head. "I will certainly strive to do my best." He adjusted his spectacles and peered down his bulbous nose at the Hunter. "What is the name of the volume you seek?"

  "Well, that's the problem. I don't know the name of the book itself, just the author."

  "And that would be?" the man asked, his lips pinching into a prim frown.

  The Hunter hesitated. "Karannos Taivoro," he said after a long moment.

  The scribe's expression went flat. "Is this a joke?" he asked in a voice that made no attempt at masking his displeasure. "You come to the Royal Library, the largest collection of books in the north of Einan, and ask for the erotic works of that mad playwright?" He shook his head and made a little shooing motion with his pudgy hands. "Begone, sir. I have no time for your nonsense."

  The Hunter stifled a snort. The scribe had been dozing when he entered the library, and fewer than ten people milled about the enormous hall. By all appearances, people in Vothmot held reading and literature in as low a regard as Voramians.

  "Look, I need to get my hands on a specific Taivoro tome." The Hunter produced a silver half-drake from his pouch. "Simply point me in the direction of the section with his works, and I will leave you to return to your work."

  Avarice sparkled in the scribe's eyes as he took the gleaming coin and made it disappear into his voluminous robes. "In the southeast corner of the library, in the section marked 'Fictitious Works and Theater Plays'." His expression grew stern. "I warn you that there are very serious penalties for any untoward acts in the library."

  The Hunter shook his head. "You have my word your books will be treated with the utmost respect."

  Rolling his eyes, the scribe turned his attention to the book that lay open on the desk and gave the Hunter a dismissive wave. The Hunter was glad to be rid of the man's acrid stink: dried sweat, ink, and yellowed parchment.

  He strode through the vast expanse of the Royal Library. Shelves of wood, brass, and steel occupied the enormous building in neat rows, with what had to be tens of thousands of leather-bound books, scrolls, and sheaves of parchment wrapped in neat ribbons. The rows of shelving stretched easily seventy paces across and rose at least half the distance to the high-vaulted arched ceiling.

  The smell of old, dust-covered books hung thick in the library, reminiscent of the House of Need in Malandria. The Beggar Priests' collection couldn't approach the vast wealth of knowledge stored here, however. The Hunter had never imagined that there could be so many books.

  He followed the scribe's directions through row after row of shelving until he found the indicated section. The books here were covered in a thicker layer of dust than the volumes in the front of the library. He scanned the meager collection of tomes on the shelf. He recognized a few—An Emperor's Folly: The Fall of the Malandriatus and The Heroic Exploits of Agarre Giantslayer among them—but most were unknown to him.

  The works of Taivoro sat on the lowest shelf. He crouched for a closer look and scanned the faded lettering on the threadbare, aged books. The titles proclaimed such works as The Red-Breasted Nightingale and Paradise in Her Eyes, most of which the Hunter knew to be ribald and risqué. The sort of volumes Graeme, his alchemist friend in Voramis, would have loved.

  He flipped through the first few pages of each book. The stories were rich and varied: from forbidden romances to comedic battles to dramatic tales of bravery, each with bawdy jokes and erotic encounters sprinkled liberally throughout. He found himself blushing at some of the more lascivious scenes and lustful innuendos. Voramians weren’t shy about their sexual appetites, practices, and inclinations, but the Hunter found the vivid imagery a cut or two above even the wildest orgies in Upper Voramis. Taivoro certainly had a way with words.

  As he read, he found his thoughts returning to Bardin, the former Illusionist Cleric that had taken him into his pitiful shelter in Malandria. The man had used a special cipher—the Taivoran shift, he'd called it—to find hidden messages encoded in an ancient work of the mad playwright.

  Sorrow filled his chest and brought a lump to his throat. Bardin had died at the hands of Toramin, a demon masquerading as a nobleman and leader of the Order of Midas. The Hunter hadn't been able to prevent the man's death but had avenged it.

  With effort, he pushed aside the maudlin thoughts and reached for the next book. His eyes scanned the pages in search of a hidden message, though nothing leapt out at him. The illustrations atop each page no doubt contained information of value—as he'd discovered when Bardin deciphered them—but not what he sought. He found tales of warriors and beautiful princesses, silver-tongued rogues, star-crossed lovers, and giantslayers, yet not the tale of the journeyman bard the Sage had mentioned.

  His frustration mounted with every new book. His hands trembled as he reached for the last Taivoro volume on the shelf. This has to be it.

  The book told the tale of three brothers, each cleverer, stronger, and better-endowed than the last. Blacksmith, soldier, and baker, but no bard.

  Damn it! The Hunter slammed the book shut and jammed it back in place on the shelf. He stalked through the shelves back toward the scribe sitting at the front desk.

  "Are those all the Taivoro works you have?" he demanded.

  The pudgy, beady-eyed man looked up at him with disdain. "I'm sorry, is our collection of erotic literature not up to your standards?"

  The Hunter resisted the urge to drive his fist into the man's fat face. "Is there one about a journeyman bard?" he asked through clenched teeth.

  The scribe raised an eyebrow in surprise. "You're talking about The Singer and His Muse?"

  The Hunter shrugged. "I don't know. How many of his works are about a bard?"

  "Just the one," the man replied in a sharp tone. "But it's an incredibly rare volume."

  The Hunter narrowed his eyes. "Rare?"

  "Indeed." The scribe's nod set his jowls wobbling. "In fact, it's nearly impossible to find anywhere on Einan. According to the histories of Taivoro, only three copies of the original manuscript were ever made."

  The Hunter's gut clenched. Nearly impossible to find. The words echoed in his mind. It couldn't be over. He couldn't have come all this way, only to fail so close to reaching his goal.

  "I doubt even the Vault of Stars contains a copy."

  Vault of Stars? Where had the Hunter heard that?

  A memory of Master Eldor—the first time he'd met the old Elivasti, decades earlier—flashed through his mind. "You are one of the best to ever pass through the halls of Kara-ket. When you first came, you had no memory of who you were or why you carried tha
t weapon. Thanks to the volumes in the Vault of Stars, you have learned more of your past."

  "What is the Vault of Stars?" he asked the scribe.

  The man raised an eyebrow. "You don't know?"

  "If I did," the Hunter growled, barely restraining his temper, "do you think I'd be asking?"

  "No need to be snippy about it." The scribe clucked his tongue. "The Vault of Stars is the largest collection of books on the world of Einan. If the Lecterns are to be believed, it contains an original or direct copy of every book ever written. But I expect that's simply hyperbole. The Master's Temple is nowhere near large enough to contain such a vast wealth of knowledge."

  The Master's Temple. The Hunter glanced out the library window at the massive Master's Temple in the distance. Kiro, the Master, was god of virtue and nobility. His priests, the Lecterns, collected wisdom the way a miser collected gold coins. It was said only the Secret Keepers had knowledge to rival theirs.

  The Hunter forced a pleasant smile. "Thank you. You have been most helpful."

  "Good luck getting in there!" the scribe said with a shake of his head. "None but High Lecterns and the Grand Lecterns even know where it is, much less have access to it."

  The Hunter shrugged. "Oh, well. I suppose my quest for the book will go uncompleted. I bid you good day." With a little bow, he strode from the library and got as far away from the irritating scribe as he could.

  * * *

  The Master's Temple was far larger than the Hunter had imagined.

  He’d seen his fair share of magnificent buildings—the towering Palace of Justice in Voramis, the monolithic Black Spire in Praamis, the high-spired heights of the House of Need in Malandria, even the enormous Serenii temples in Kara-ket. None of them came close to the grandeur of the temple before him.

  The Master’s Temple was more than just a single building. Four stately marble towers surrounded the primary building, a rectangular white construction that stretched nearly a thousand paces, spanning the entire breadth of the Court of Judgement, the massive square in the temple district of Vothmot. The exterior was covered in elaborate arabesques, and the swirling, rhythmic, interlacing lines of foliage and tendrils lent it an air of timeless majesty only enhanced by the building’s enormous size. An ornate stained glass window dominated the entire west-facing wall of the temple, rising more than a hundred paces high. The white marble façade gleamed with such brilliance that it almost hurt the eyes. The opulence contrasted sharply with the simplicity of the Master’s Temple in Voramis.