Hero in the Shadows (16 page)

He moved back inside and poured himself a cup of Lentrian Fire, an amber spirit he had found to be more potent than the finest wines.

It was not his fault that the boys were dead. Had the Gray Man not threatened to ruin him, none of this would have happened.
His
was the blame.

Vanis had another drink and walked across to the western window. From there he could see the distant palace of the Gray Man across the bay, shining white in the moonlight. Once more he moved out onto the balcony, checking on the guards. A blond crossbowman was sitting on the lower branches of an oak, his eyes trained on the garden wall. Below him two more guards were patrolling, and Vanis saw one of the black hunting dogs padding across the open ground. The merchant moved back inside and sank into a deep leather seat alongside the flask of Lentrian Fire.

Aric had laughed at Vanis’ insistence on hiring bodyguards. “He is a merchant like you, Vanis. You think he would risk himself by hiring killers to hunt you down? If any were captured—and named him—he would lose everything. We’d have his palace and whatever of his fortune rests hidden in the palace vaults. By heaven, it is almost worth hoping that he
does
send assassins.”

“Easy for you to say, Aric. Did you hear about his hunting down of the raiders who attacked his lands? Thirty of them, it is said. And he killed them all.”

“Nonsense.” Aric sneered. “There were around a dozen, and I don’t doubt that the Gray Man had most of his guards with him. It is just a lie put about to enhance the Gray Man’s reputation.”

“A lie, eh? I suppose it was a lie that he killed Jorna with a single blow to the neck and then slew Parellis with his own sword. As I understand it, he did not even break a sweat.”

“Two stupid boys,” said Aric. “Gods, man, I could have done the same. What possessed you to use such simpletons?”

“It was an error,” said Vanis. “I thought they were planning to surprise him on the grounds of his palace. I did not expect them to make the attempt at a ball in front of a hundred witnesses!”

“Ah, well, it is over now,” Aric said smoothly. “The Gray Man gave in without a struggle. Not even an angry word. Have you thought about what you will do with Parla’s fifteen thousand?”

“Thirty thousand,” corrected Vanis.

“Minus my commission, of course,” said Aric.

“There are those who might feel that your commission is a little excessive, my friend,” said Vanis, struggling to control his anger.

Aric laughed. “There are also those who believe that as lord magistrate of Carlis, I should be investigating what caused those two hitherto exemplary boys to commit such a deed. Are you one of those?”

“You have made your point,” muttered Vanis. “Fifteen thousand it is.”

Even now, some hours later, the conversation left a bad taste in his mouth.

Vanis finished a third cup of Lentrian Fire and heaved himself once more to his feet. Moving somewhat unsteadily across the room, he pulled open the door and staggered to his bedchamber.

The satin sheets on his bed had been pulled back, and Vanis peeled off his robe and slippers and sat down heavily, his head spinning. He fell back onto the pillow and yawned.

A shadowy figure moved to the bedside. “Your nephews are waiting for you,” said a soft voice.

Three hours after the dawn a servant brought a tray of freshly baked bread and soft cheese to the bedroom of the merchant Vanis. There was no reply to his gentle tapping, and he knocked
louder. Thinking his master in a deep sleep, the servant returned to the kitchens. A half hour later he tried again. The door was still locked, and no sound came from inside.

He reported this to the head manservant, who opened the door with a duplicate key.

The merchant Vanis was lying back on blood-drenched sheets, his throat cut, a small, curved knife held in his right hand.

Within the hour the chief magistrate, Lord Aric, was at the property, along with the dark-bearded Eldicar Manushan, two officers of the watch, and a young surgeon. The magicker ordered the little page boy, dressed now in a tunic of black velvet, to wait outside the door. “Not a scene to be witnessed by a child,” Eldicar told him. The boy nodded and stood outside with his back to the wall.

“It seems fairly obvious,” said the surgeon, stepping back from the body. “He cut his own throat and died within a few heartbeats. The knife, as you can see, is very sharp. There is only the one cut, a deep slash that opened the jugular.”

“Strange that he removed his robe first, don’t you think?” offered Eldicar Manushan, pointing to the garment on the floor by the bed.

“Why strange?” asked Aric. “He was getting into bed.”

“To die,” said the magicker. “Not to sleep. This means he knew his body would be found. Let us face it, gentlemen, Vanis was not a handsome man. Bald, monstrously fat, and ugly would be an accurate description. Yet he disrobes, sits down on white satin sheets, and insures that he will be found in the most disgusting of positions. One would have thought he would have left his clothes on. A second thought concerns the wound itself. Very messy and painful. It takes a man of great courage to open his throat. Just as effective would be to open the arteries at the wrist.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” said the surgeon. “This is all very interesting. But what we have here is a man dead in a locked bedroom, the instrument of his demise in his hand. We will never
know what was going on in his mind at the time of his death. I understand his beloved nephews were killed only days ago. His brain was obviously unhinged by grief.”

Eldicar Manushan laughed, the sound horribly contrasting to the bloody scene in the room. “Unhinged? Indeed, he must have been, for he was so frightened of the thought of being killed, he surrounded his house with guards and dogs. Then, once he was safe, he cut his throat. I would agree that sounds unhinged.”

“You believe he was murdered, sir?” the young surgeon asked icily.

The magicker walked to the window and gazed down at the grounds below the balcony. He swung back. “If he was murdered, young man, then he would have to have been killed by a man who could move in utter silence through a screen of guards and vicious dogs, scale a wall, commit the deed, and depart without being seen or scented.”

“Precisely,” said the surgeon, turning to Lord Aric. “I shall send for the morgue wagon, my lord, and prepare a report.”

With that the young man bowed to Aric, nodded toward Eldicar Manushan, and left the room. Aric looked at the grotesque bloated body on the bed, then swung to the two officers of the watch. “Go and question the servants and the guards. See if anyone heard or saw anything, no matter how inconsequential it may have seemed at the time.”

The men saluted and walked away. Eldicar Manushan moved from the window and pushed shut the bedroom door. “Would you like to know what really happened?” he asked softly.

“He killed himself,” whispered Aric. “No one could have gotten to him.”

“Let us ask him.”

Eldicar stepped to the bedside and laid his hand on the dead merchant’s brow. “Hear me,” whispered the magicker. “Return from the Void and flow once more into this ruined shell. Come back to the world of pain. Come back to the world of light.”

The bloated body suddenly spasmed, and a choking, gargling noise came from the throat. The body began to tremble violently. Eldicar thrust his fingers into the man’s mouth, dragging out a rolled-up ball of parchment. Hissing breath blew from the dead man’s lungs, and the remnants of his blood bubbled from the wound in his throat.

“Speak, Vanis,” ordered Eldicar Manushan.

“Gray … Man …” croaked the corpse. The body sagged back, arms and legs twitching. Eldicar Manushan clapped his hands twice. “Return to the pit,” he said coldly. All movement ceased.

The magicker glanced at the ashen face of Lord Aric, then lifted the wet ball of parchment he had pulled from the merchant’s throat. He opened it and spread it on the bedside table.

“What is it?” whispered Aric, taking a scented handkerchief from his pocket and holding it to his nose.

“It appears to be the contract for the debt the Gray Man waived. It contains all the promises made by Vanis for repayment.” Eldicar laughed again. “One might say that Vanis was forced to eat his words before his demise.”

“I shall have him arrested!”

“Do not be a fool. I told you the game was not yet over. What evidence will you offer against him? Will you say that the dead man spoke to you? I do not wish that to happen. Great events will soon be upon us, Aric. The dawn of a new age. This matter is closed. As the surgeon said, Vanis took his life in a moment of terrible grief.”

“How did he do it? The guards, the dogs …”

“What do we know of this man?”

“Very little. He came here some years ago from the south. He has business interests in all the great trading nations: Gothir, Chiatze, Drenai, Ventria. He owns a huge fleet of merchant vessels.”

“And no one knows where he comes from?”

“No, not for sure. Lalitia enjoys his favors, but when I
spoke with her, she said he never talks about his past. She believes he has been a soldier, though she does not know with which army, and he speaks with knowledge about all the countries with which he has dealings.”

“A wife, children?” asked Eldicar.

“No. Lalitia says he once spoke of a woman who died. But he has been bedding Lalitia for more than a year now, and still she has managed to elicit no useful information.”

“Then I fear it will remain a mystery,” said the magicker. “For within a few days the Gray Man will be gone from this world, as indeed will many others.”

Just before dawn a blond-haired man wearing a red shirt embroidered with the coiled snake emblem of Vanis the Merchant rowed a small boat to the edge of the beach below Waylander’s palace. Stepping into the shallow water, he dragged the boat free of the tide and then walked up the steps and through the terraced gardens. As he approached the rooms of the Gray Man, he pulled a black skullcap from his head. The blond hair came away with it. Pushing open the door of his rooms, Waylander returned the skullcap to a hidden drawer at the rear of an old wooden cabinet and then stripped off his clothing. The red shirt he rolled into a ball and tossed into the fireplace atop the dried logs. Taking a small tinderbox from beside the hearth, he struck a flint and lit the fire.

Waylander’s mood was dark, and he felt the heaviness of guilt on him, though he did not know why. Vanis had deserved to die. He was a liar, a cheat, and a would-be murderer who had caused the deaths of two innocent boys. In any civilized society he would have been placed on trial and executed, Waylander told himself.

So why the guilt? The question nagged at him.

Was it perhaps because the kill had been so easy? Moving through to the small kitchen, he poured himself some water
and drank deeply. Yes, it had been easy. Always the miser, Vanis had hired cheap guards, getting one of his servants to conduct the negotiations. There was no guard commander, the men having been hired singly from the taverns and docks and told to patrol the grounds. It had been after dark when Waylander, dressed like a guard, had scaled the wall and made his way to the tall oak some twenty feet from the house. Once there, he had sat quietly in plain sight, crossbow in hand, watching the wall. One by one the hired men had moved below him, occasionally glancing up and waving. The dog handler also had been hired independently, but so that his dogs would not savage the guards, he had walked the beasts around the grounds, letting them pick up the scent of every man dressed in a red tunic shirt. Thus, when the man was on his rounds, Waylander climbed down, chatted to him, and patted the dogs, which sniffed at his boots and then ignored him.

After that it had been simplicity itself, waiting in the tree until the depths of the night, then scaling the wall and hiding patiently behind the velvet curtains alongside the merchant’s bed.

He had not made Vanis suffer. The kill had been swift: One fast sweep and he had sliced the knife through the merchant’s jugular. There was no time for Vanis to make a sound, and he fell back on the bed, his blood pumping onto the satin sheets. As a last flourish Waylander had thrust the crumpled contract deep into the dead man’s throat. Moving to the balcony, he waited for the guards to pass, then climbed down to the gardens below.

Once over the wall, he strolled through the nearly deserted streets of Carlis, climbed into the small boat he had left moored in the harbor, and rowed across the bay.

It was in the boat that the guilt had come. He had not recognized the emotion at first, putting it down to the same malaise he had been suffering for months now, a dissatisfaction at his life of riches and plenty. But it was far more than that.

Yes, Vanis had deserved to die, but in killing him Waylander
had returned—albeit briefly—to a way of life that once had filled him with contempt and shame: the dark days when he had been Waylander the Slayer, a killer for hire. He knew at that moment why the guilt was growing. The deed had reminded him of an innocent, unarmed man whose murder by Waylander had sparked a terrible war and the deaths of thousands.

There is no comparison, he tried to tell himself, between a Drenai king and a fat, murderous merchant.

Stepping naked into the dawn’s golden light, Waylander made his way around the terrace to where a small waterfall was bubbling over the rocks. Wading into the shallow pool below it, he stood under the cascading water, half hoping that it would wash away the bitterness of his memories. No man could reshape the past, he knew. If it could be done, he would ride back to the little farm and save Tanya and the children from the raiders. In his nightmares he still saw her tied to the bed, the gaping, bloody wound in her belly. In reality she had been dead when he had found her, but in his dreams she was alive and crying for help. Her blood had flowed across the floor, up the walls, and across the ceiling. Crimson drops fell like rain on the room. “Save me!” she would cry. And he would scrabble at the blood-drenched ropes, unable to untie the knots. Always he would wake trembling, his body bathed in sweat.