Beshar, Tenth of the
Thirteen, tried to stay indoors at night. His life in the arena was
demanding however, and this wasn't the first time he had been
summoned after hours, nor would it be his last. He was grateful his
business there had been concluded within an hour, with any luck he
would make it back to his chambers before the sun fully set. Though
it was early in the evening, the pits had all been ignited and they
cast shadows that flickered and danced on the clay buildings and
homes that made up the city. The arena was close to the palace where
he made his home, close enough that he'd felt he could walk,
Everflame knew he could use the exercise. Now, he regretted his
earlier desire to try his hand at fitness.
You should have
brought more men. The three
Samur that followed flanked behind him and to either side but even
with the security of his Samur he felt naked and vulnerable. As a
member of the Thirteen, assassins were a constant threat. He
quickened his pace, gazing sharply from left to right, drinking in
the sights around him. The city smelled horrid of course. The rank
odor of the poor wafted up to him, attacking his sinuses and he
pressed a perfumed handkerchief to his mouth to ward off the pungent
smell. What was that?
Sewage and rotting meat?
He shuddered delicately. He was never walking to the arena again.
The palace rose up ahead of him. Emblazoned by the light of the
Everflame, the glass monstrosity twinkled and glowed a brilliant
orange against the sandy dunes surrounding it. When he got inside he
would enjoy a nice steam and a bottle of wine, maybe two.
The palace had been his home for the last twenty years so Beshar did
not notice its sparkling brilliance, or the fact that the fourteen
majestic glass towers were awe inspiring in their size and
architecture. Built decades ago, the palace was made by Torches who
heated the surrounding sands into a fine sheet of glass and
manipulated the malleable glass into tall twisted peaks. The
architecture of the palace was beautiful and unmatched by anything in
the world but Beshar saw none of that because to him, the palace was
simply his home. To be more accurate, the Tenth Tower was his home,
but the towers were all connected to make one fantastic unit.
A
small group of people, upper-class by the look of the fine cotton of
their robes, strolled toward the palace. A few took leisurely swigs
of water along the way, most likely to flaunt their wealth to any who
might observe. New
money.
Where were they
going at such a late hour?
The palace closed its gate every evening and no one, aside from the
Thirteen, were granted entrance after sunset.
There were four of
them, three men and a woman, and Beshar realized that though they
were all wealthy to a degree, only one of them had a Quad in tow. The
four guard men gave Beshar and his men a careful once over.
“I think it's
scandalous.” The voice came from the women and Beshar walked
closer, eager to overhear any gossip she might share. There was power
in information.
“Where do you
suppose he is? It's unlikely he'd tour the cities so late in the
season.”
One of the men
snorted. “He didn't leave for a tour without anyone noticing.”
“Then where has he been? He hasn't been seen for two days...”
The people turned down an alley and their voices faded with them.
They were more than likely headed to the theater, it was the only
source of entertainment this close to the palace, and for a moment
Beshar toyed with the idea of following them. He dismissed the
thought quickly, it was better not to stay out any later than he had
to, besides, he had an excellent vintage waiting for him.
He
continued on his trek to the palace, mulling over the conversation
he'd overheard. It had been a pitiful excuse for gossip. He was
aware, of course, that the First had been missing at court, he hadn't
been seen in days. The rest of the imbeciles that made up the
Thirteen might have accepted the explanation of the daughter of the
First, but Beshar was a man of intellect and the facts remained that
her story didn't add up. The daughter of the First claimed that her
father's illness wasn't serious, but if that was the case then why
hadn't he attended council meeting? A minor illness would not keep
one from his duty of ruling an entire republic. And yet, if the
sickness was serious enough to warrant an absence from council
meetings, why then had the First not seen the palace surgeon? Beshar
knew that he hadn't, he'd paid handsomely for that knowledge and had
the man followed for good measure. The surgeon had not been summoned.
The daughter of the First was up to something, and Beshar's mouth
watered at the opportunities that arose from her deceit. What
was she up to?
He couldn't wait to find out.
He was almost to the palace, he had only to cross one alley and then
he would arrive in front its gates. The gates, while also made of
glass, were reinforced several times over; they were both beautiful
and effective.
He hesitated for the briefest of moments in front of the alleyway.
It was short and narrow, darkened by the height of the two buildings
on either side of it. The courtyard pit did little to light the alley
but Beshar was not afraid of the dark. The absence of torchlight only
made things safer.
He strolled forward, ready to relax with his steam and his wine but
he was stopped by a firm grip on his forearm.
He frowned down at the offending appendage before dragging his stare
up to meet the imposing figure of Kenjiro. His head Samur shook his
head slightly, indicating that there was a potential threat just
ahead.
A surge of adrenaline rushed through Beshar. He was no fighter, when
trouble arose he relied on his wit and and the power of his wealth to
see him out of it. Once again, he wished he'd thought to bring more
men. The darkened alley loomed before him. He took a deep breath and
steeled himself for the worse.
“Who goes there?” He called out. He was surprised at the deep
timber and authoritative ring to his tone.
A figure stepped forward, it was hard to distinguish features in the
light of the distant fire pit but Beshar assumed it was the form of a
woman based on the tiny size of the figure and the unctuous sway to
the hips.
“Hello, Beshar.” The voice purred over his name as it stepped
ever closer.
He was right, it was a woman. She was dressed entirely in black,
loose black trousers and tunic, with her hair knotted at the nape of
her neck and a black silk mask covering her features.
He dipped his upper half into the semblance of a bow but kept his
gaze trained on her face, what he could see of it in any case.
She smiled beneath her mask.
“Such the gentlemen.”
“My lady. It appears you have me at a disadvantage. You know who I
am, but I am woefully unaware of the name of the beauty that stands
before me.”
She chuckled, shaking her head at his flattery.
When she made no move to say anything else, Beshar sighed. “Would
that I could stand here before your presence for the rest of my days
but alas, a bottle of red calls my name.” He took a step forward,
Kenjiro and his other two men kept pace.
She held out a halting hand and the four men stopped, waiting to
hear her words. It galled Beshar to do so, but he would gain no
information from simply cutting her down where she stood. Well,
ordering his men to cut her down in any case, he eyed the dagger that
gleamed from its sheath on her hip.
“You have been summoned.”
“I was,” Beshar nodded. “It was an invitation, I chose not to
accept.”
“An invitation was polite. You will not like what happens next.”
Her voice still purred but she fingered the dagger at her waist,
stroking its silver handle.
“I'll take my chances.” He could afford to be brave with Kenjiro
and the other two standing there.
The woman sucked her breath in sharply, there was a faint whistle as
the air blew between her teeth.
“You are a fool.”
Beshar smiled, nodding his acceptance. “So I've been told before.
But I think once you get to me know me you'll find that I'm actually
quite smart.”
She snorted and turned back toward the alley. She walked several
paces before she turned sharply on her heel. She frowned, shaking her
head and clucking her tongue in a sound of disapproval.
“You're wrong you know. Only a fool would defy him. We'll be
watching you.” She turned and disappeared into the darkened alley.
Beshar watched her walk away, panting hard in an effort to stop the
wild beating of his heart.
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