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"He's out cold, Your Eminence."
"I can see that. Take his body and dump him somewhere in the city."
"Any special part of the city, Your Eminence?" Tavalisk thought for a moment,
a mischievous smile spreading across his full lips. "The whoring quarter will
do nicely."
The city of Rorn boasted the largest whoring quarter in the known world. It
was whispered that there was not a pleasure imaginable, no matter how illegal
or bizarre, that could not be bought for the right price.
The quarter was a refuge for the miserable and the wretched: young girls
barely eleven summers old walked the streets, beggars racked with disease
could be found on every corner. Pickpockets and cutthroats waited in the
shadows for a chance to relieve an unsuspecting passerby of his purse or his
life.
Weapons and poison and information could be purchased from the countless inns
and taverns that jostled for business on the filth-ridden streets.
The streets themselves were so thick with human waste and rotting vegetation,
it was said one could tell an outsider by the cloth he held to his nose. It
was not a good idea to look like an outsider in the whoring quarter. Outsiders
were an easy mark for con men and thieves; they were asking to be robbed or
tricked out of their money. But still they came, drawn by the promise of
illicit diversions and the thrill of danger.
Young noblemen and honest tradesmen alike stole into the quarter as the day
grew dim, looking for a game of chance, or a woman for the night ... or both.
The sharp smell of excrement was the first thing he became aware of. The next
was pain. It was unbearable, pulling every muscle into its knotted snarl. He
tried to move through it, to come out where there was now light, but he was
too weak. He spiraled downward to meet oblivion and found that it too was
crafted from pain.
The dream tormented him once more. He was in a small room. There were children
around the fire; two
young girls, golden haired and rosy cheeked, smiled up at him, and there was a
baby in his arms. The door opened and something glittered brightly on the
threshold. Light from the vision eclipsed the glow of the fire, but not its
warmth. As he reached toward the brightness, the baby fell from his arms.
Stepping through the portal, the door closed behind him. The vision fled,
receding to a pinpoint on the horizon, and he turned back to the door. Only
the door wouldn't open. Try as he might, he couldn't get back to the room and
the children around the fire. In desperation he flung himself against the
door. His body met with stone.
He awoke with a start, sweat dripping into the corners of his mouth. Something
had changed and unfamiliar air filled his lungs. It made him afraid. He was
accustomed to his cell, and now even the comfort of familiarity was denied
him.
When had he been released? He could barely recall when he'd last felt the cool
brush of water upon his lips. One thing was fixed in his mind, though, and
that was his name: he was Tawl. Tawl-but there had been more than that. Surely
he had been Tawl of somewhere or something. The vaguest of stirrings rose in
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his breast; his mind tried to focus, but it was gone. He could not remember.
He was just Tawl. He had been imprisoned and was now free.
He forced his mind to deal with the present and he began to take in some of
his surroundings: he was in an alleyway between two large buildings, there was
a chill in the air, and he was alone.
Tentatively, he raised an arm and pain coursed through his body. His arm was
bare and he noticed the two-circled mark. It was familiar to him, it meant
something, but he didn't know what. Tawl looked up as the sound of voices
approached him.
"Hey, Megan, don't go near that man there. He looks as good as dead."
"Hush, Wenna. I'll go where I please."
"You're not liable to get a penny out of him. He doesn't look up to it."
Tawl watched as a young girl approached him-he was unable to do anything else.
A moment later, her friend also drew close and he began to feel uncomfortable
under their scrutiny.
"He smells really bad, like he ain't seen water for a year or more."
"Wenna, be quiet, he might hear you. Look, his eyes are open!" The one called
Megan smiled gently.
"He's not like the usual type down here."
"He's half dead, ain't he? To me that's the usual type."
"No, he's young and golden haired." The girl shrugged, as if to excuse her own
folly. "There's something about him ... look, Wenna, he's trying to say
something." Tawl had not spoken for many months and could only manage a bare
murmur.
"I think he's saying his name. It sounds like Tork or Tawl."
"Megan, come away before you land us in a pickle. You're right he ain't the
usual type and that spells trouble." The one named Wenna pulled at her
friend's arm, but she would not be budged.
"You go if you choose, Wenna, but I can't leave him here all alone. He'll
surely die before the night is
through."
"That, my girl, is not my problem. I'm off. I'm wasting precious time here
when I need to be earning. If you've any sense in that pretty head of yours
you'd do the same, too." With that, the older of the girls marched off,
leaving him alone with the other.
Tawl tried to raise his arm again, and this time the girl took it. "Here, let
me help you up." She noticed the mark. "Oh, that's strange. I've never seen a
knight's circle with a scar running through it." Tawl let the girl help him to
his feet and then promptly fell over again. He could not stand; his legs were
not used to carrying any weight. "Oh, you poor thing. Here, try again. My
little place ain't far from here. If you could just manage to walk." They
tried again, this time Tawl leaning on the girl for support. He was surprised
that she could bear his weight for she was slightly built.
"Come on," she encouraged him. "There's not far to walk. We'll be there soon."
Tawl struggled along by her side, learning to master his pain.
Baralis carefully allowed four drops of the pink-tinged poison to fall into
the jug of wine. The poison rippled and then thinned, its deadly transparency
soon lost to the eye. He was rather proud of his latest brew, as it was nearly
without odor. He washed his hands thoroughly in a bowl of cold water. It
wouldn't do to have any residue of the materials left on them; this was a
particularly lethal mixture and he could already feel a burn upon his flesh.
His hands bore the marks of years spent working with deadly substances.
Corrosive acids had gnawed the fat from his flesh, leaving his skin upon the
bone. The skin itself was taut and red, and as it tightened he could feel it
pull upon his fingers, drawing them inward toward his palms. Every day he
rubbed warm oils into the straining flesh, hoping to retain what little
mobility was left. His fingers, once long and elegant in youth, were now old
beyond their years.
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It was a price he paid for his expertise. It was high for one who valued
manipulation and swiftness of hand as much as he did, but he would have it no [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]