Ralnor

(aka Larn)

(aka Dar Eherdir)

Thirty gold Eagles

 

Dar neighed once, desert mud caked on his mane and body a washed out brown, same as his legs. From a distance and in the dark, man and horse appearing as one thing. Ralnor chewed the dried cube slowly, moving it around in his mouth, letting moisture liven the taste. The guards at the gates were caught being busy during their shift change, just before sunset, and one merchant not wanting to wait for a fresh customs official to arrive and missed him completely. No one would remember seeing him enter later.

One.

He tied the reins himself, a special knot that allowed Dar to free himself, should the need arise; choosing the closest inn’s stable. Left him there and rented a room, in the one right next to it. Big Sparrow, the sign wrote. Walked another city square, into the City’s largest brothel, the Blue Maiden, straight to a powdered patron talking with a young wench, sitting in the best coach in the large hall, to ask for the Whoremonger.

“Show some skin love,” The man said in city common, lips painted a rich ruby color, cheeks shagging despite efforts to mask it with makeup. “Can barely see your face.”

Ralnor raised a gloved fist, turned it around and opened it, a gold Eagle shining inside. The man’s eyes almost popped out their sockets.

“Sheesh, take that away. You want to go home after, I hope,” The patron said. “What’s with people bringing gold to my pleasure house?”

My brothel was his meaning.

“You’re him.”

“Guilty. Let me make this, more comfortable,” The man said and called for a tray. Two scantily clad girls brought him wine and fruits, along with a comfy armchair. The latter was for Ralnor, but he declined.

“I’ll stand.”

“You’re not here for my girls, or my boys,” The Whoremonger decided, popping half an orange in his mouth, juices running down the sides. One of the half-naked girls wiped him, with a soft cloth and a giggle. He’d a lot of tender meat on her, Ralnor noticed, making a note to count his cubes after, see if he would need… more supplies for his journey. “What are you after mister…?”

“Larn.” Ralnor said dryly.

“Right. I’m Hama. Yes, my father was a Cofol. It’s shocking, given my complexion,” Mistaking his silence for surprise. “I’m all ears Larn.”

“A girl was here, some time back. A month.” Ralnor explained. “She had a lot of gold Eagles on her.”

“Rarely seen outside a bank, or in a noble scion’s hand,” Hama droned, pointing at the girl in his lap. “She’s a silver, for the night. Best one I got. For a gold, you get four for a whole week, or two. And I would be robbing you blind.”

“You want the coin?” Larn placed it on the table between them, without waiting for his answer.

“No girl came through with gold on her.”

He stared in his light brown eyes.

“Someone did.”

“Only a Northman, hair red as wine,” He pointed at the double doors leading upstairs. “Big head touching that casing, but that was a couple of days back.”

One.

“A merchant.”

“A mercenary.”

Ralnor watched for a while, the girl’s hand massaging the Whoremonger’s neck expertly.

“He’s gone.” He said, distracted.

“Aye. They usually do, once the coin runs out.”

“Anyone else?”

“High Judge’s son,” Hama replied, with a small smile. “But I have a feeling, you’re not interested in him.”

“Was he alone?” He probed, ignoring his opinion.

“Four of them. All known families in Castalor.”

Turned out, he was in the right.

No shame there.

Ralnor smacked his lips, not pleased. Finding a mercenary, was not easy. They rarely stayed in one place. Not to mention, the small chance that Zestari would even hire one, in the first place.

“Anything else?” Hama asked, his hand hovering over the gold coin. Ralnor checked the girl on his lap. Eighteen perhaps, almond eyes, plump lips, and a generous bust, you needed two hands to handle proper. There was potential there, he thought.

“Not this time,” He decided and Hama cupped the coin, with a satisfied smile.

 

---

---

 

The Port worker spat on the ground, eyes heavy, still half asleep. He pushed himself off the porch, next to the Customs warehouse, brushing his face to rouse himself.

“Was waiting for Dang… the port guard,” He murmured. “Went to get some water, asked me to watch out, in his stead.”

“Probably drunk himself to death,” Ralnor suggested, and the bulky man laughed hard at that. Truth brings joy to people; sometimes.

He’d also gotten the wrong man.

“Wanted to ask him… Dang,” He started, watching the man slowly coming about. “If a tall Northman, with red hair, a mercenary for all intent and purposes, boarded any ships last couple of days.”

“Only one I saw, left yesterday, aboard the Marquette. A Barque.”

Ralnor pressed his lips into a thin line frustrated. The Issir worker seeing his reaction, scratched his unshaven jaw, with a sturdy finger, eyes searching about them. The port was mostly dark, the hour late, but there were lights here and there, where ships were still loading or unloading for the morning.

“Listen, I don’t see Dang coming back and me thinks, he might’ve given me the shaft,” He said talking fast, but keeping his voice low. “Ye pay me a meal… and a drink, I tell ye where to ask for the passenger’s list.”

“How much is a meal?”

The man thought about it, trying to decide how much he could lie, and get away with it.

“Four coppers. Silver, if ye have it.”

“I’ll give you two. Silver Eagles.”

“Wow, yeah. It works. Gratitude, milord.”

Ralnor waited for him to calm down.

“Name the place,” He said, when he did.

 

---

 

Dar snorted hard, to clear his system. They’d travelled a lot these past days. Down the coast, the Fall still hot and the desert dry, but for a downpour a couple of days back. It lasted not even an hour, but caught them in the open and drenched them proper.

Ralnor counted the contents of his food bag, as Dar followed the path towards the nearing houses of Deadmen’s Watch. He’d another good and fresh piece of flesh, wrapped in his horse’s bag, curtesy of a thug that thought to ambush him, in the middle of the night.

Lone rider, coming from Castalor, probably half-asleep on his mount. He could see, why the man thought it a good idea.

Just had to shoot first, ask questions later.

Even a rock is a better weapon, than nearing an opponent, you don’t know, he thought appraising the man’s performance. Not that it matter for him now. Some lessons, you only get to have once. You will either pass them.

Or you won’t.

Life being the price.

Five cubes of flesh, he counted.

Plus the one, he had last night.

One.

 

---

---

 

The Sergeant-at-arms eyed him with suspicion. The docs were small, with only a small merchant ship and a couple fishing boats moored. There were people about though, a good colorful crowd, for such a small place. Lots of guards as well.

“Lose the hood,” He ordered him, not in the mood and Ralnor pushed it back, revealing his face. “Rats got your ears?” The mustached brute asked, steel vambraces protecting his arms to the elbow, good chainmail the rest of his torso.

“When I was young.”

“Must’ve hurt a ton,” The Sergeant laughed hard at that, a couple of his men joining. “At least you’re not a Cofol. A Lorian then?”

“From Asturia.”

“Reckons, lots of arse fucking up there, Naossis temple, but a boat trip away.”

The Island of Valeria, was his meaning.

Seeing he failed to insult him, the man frowned.

“What do you want?”

“A Northman traveling with a Cofol. Maybe a month back.”

The Sergeant snorted.

“Why?”

“She owes me money.”

“Figures, was she a whore? They can take a mean cock, them Cofol bitches. Right?”

Ralnor stared at the opening on his collar, where the mail stopped and his neck started, soft skin dancing, as the man chuckled, greatly amused.

“Did you see her? Or your men?”

The man cleared his throat annoyed.

“Listen mister Lern, or whatever the fuck is your name. This lad you’re looking for, I want to question as well. Have a captain missing, a local lad named Phel. Last seeing traveling with a mercenary company, a gang more like.”

“Was the Cofol, with them?”

“Who cares? Maybe? A couple of them had hoods on, like you. Middle of summer, that’s suspicious, if you ask me.” He stopped, puffing hard. “Anyways, most of them came back. Phel missing, couple of Issir fighters as well, but the hooded ones weren’t. Had a Lorian, older guy and a boy wit them, story goes.”

The knight.

So Zestari had come back? With him?

“Where did they go?”

“Left, afore I had the chance to ask a single question.” He cursed once, the latter bothering him. “But they bought horses. Said they were riding for Castalor. Good luck finding them there.”

Oh, but they left Castalor already, Ralnor thought. Heading for Raoz.

The old knight and a boy.

A Lorian mercenary captain and his right hand. A killer, pale as death.

A Northman, as tall as giant.

An Issir woman, carrying an injury.

And a tattooed girl with no nose, the man had said. Pink hair and a dirty look in her eye. Stooping so as not to be heard from the others, he’d added. People say, it was a Gish. Head nodding, as if they’d shared a rare moment.

A Gish, Ralnor thought, not very impressed.

But no Zestari.

She never returned.

Else he’d knew, by now.

Who came back in her stead?

One.

 

Five cubes of cured flesh, plus the one he ate, in the night.

Five mercenaries boarding, plus one that goes missing.

 

He omitted a number.

A verse, was not there.

That was twice in a row, he’d lost the count.

 

“They paid with gold,” The Sergeant said, watching him weirdly now. Sensing perhaps, Ralnor would have better luck finding them, than him and his men. “Phel, was my half-brother. A good man. I’d pay to get them fuckers.”

If you can help me, was his meaning.

But the man couldn’t remember the name and without it, one couldn’t call on the Silent Servants.

Know the name, and we will listen.

“Anything else?” He asked, a hint of a smile on his thin lips, the numbers slowly lining in place.

But for one.

He missed one, from before.

Three verses, where he should have counted four.

Without them, Ralnor couldn’t close the door.

 

How did the verses go? He asked silently, keeping the frustration off his face. The question returning again and again, until the man answered it.

 

“Stable boy hid and overheard them talking. They got paid thirty gold. Five pieces each.”

To betray her.

 

The numbers told him what happened.

 

Thirty pieces of cured flesh, minus one.

Thirty arrows in a quiver, minus two, if made of Wyvern’s bone.

Thirty days in a month; not for this, but the one before it.

Thirty gold eagles, to put a knife in his daughter’s back.