Setmal, Yvenea
May 22, 1190 PT

Shane

As Shane zem’Arta entered Setmal, the capital of Yvenea, the sunset turned the sky a dazzling magenta. He drove his horse-drawn cart toward the Freeland embassy, a large manor of pearly stone, stained-glass windows, and steep hipped roofs. From the pillars of the front porch hung seven flags representing the coalition city-states of the Freelands, bordering Yvenea to the east. The largest was the Palim flag, a golden sun silhouetting a crescent moon on a black expanse.

Shane rode through the marble archway of the carriage yard. Stopping the cart alongside the embassy, he saluted the two watchmen on either side of the drive by pressing his left arm into his right shoulder. The two black-clad guards mimicked him.

The doorman, dressed in a gold-trimmed red coat, scowled as Shane hopped off the ramshackle wagon onto the cobblestone. When the troll dropped his hood, however, the servant immediately stood at attention. “Good evening, Captain,” he said. “I didn’t recognize you in that—”

“It’s called blending in, Hemley.”

“Yes—thoroughly done, sir.”

A large, gold-trimmed carriage drawn by two steely white horses rolled into the yard. Hemley scurried to the carriage door and opened it with a flourish. A middle-aged woman and a teenage girl exited, picking up their brightly colored skirts and stepping around a puddle. They resembled each other as mother and daughter, right down to their wide, golden eyes, pointed chins, and pale-yellow hair.

The brightness of their eyes and long, narrow pupils identified them as thurse—or trolls as they were called in Palish. Their kind normally frequented the Freeland embassy, but it was wholly uncommon to see women and children. Their outfits, which put them right at home in the Yvean courts, rarely appeared on Freelanders.

“My ladies.” Hemley held the door open and smiled. “Your room is ready. I’m sure you are quite tired after a long day at the palace.”

The mother lifted her chin. “It’s not so much the royal court as it is these ridiculous outfits, Mr. Hemley. I will never understand Yvean style. Vastly impractical.”

The daughter giggled and twirled as she stuffed a loose curl into her elaborate hair pinning. “I think it’s marvelous, Mother.”

Shane chuckled, earning a scowl from the mother.

“Venna, dear. You’re here for your razt’vos, not to twirl around in corsets. Focus.”

The girl tripped out of her spin and dropped her gaze. “Sorry.” When she looked up, her attention settled on Shane. She momentarily froze, her eyes widening.

“Venna! Come along.” The woman snapped her fingers, and the girl nodded fervently.

“Ladies.” Shane inclined his head. He wondered how quickly a lovely girl like her might be devoured by predatory noblemen while she completed her traditional Karthan rite of passage. Her claws and fangs wouldn’t deter the aristocrats of the Cilé Faíl from preying on her obvious naiveté.

The mother grabbed the girl’s elbow, pulling her toward the manor entrance.

“He had three marks,” Venna said. “Three!”

Her mother huffed. “I don’t know what your uncle is doing, hiring thugs and murderers. Hurry along.”

Hemley closed the great green door behind the women. “You really should get out of those rags, Captain. Folk are already mistaking you for riffraff.”

Shane scratched at his cheek. “Even in a uniform, the scars are all a Freelander will see.” As he rounded the cart, he motioned to Hemley. “Come here. I have a present for Leron, and I need your help delivering it.” Shane climbed into the bed of the cart and forced open the secret compartment, revealing the comatose body of Daeven Kritcher.

“You have . . . a distinctly morbid taste in gifts, Captain.”

—

The nearby district clock chimed in the tenth hour before Leron Novelen finally came through his office door. He carried his dusty blue coat tucked under one arm, and his chest-length gray hair fell loosely around his shoulders. Alight in the shadow of the room, his clever golden eyes appeared bloodshot and puffy.

Shane perched on a stool in the corner near the door. He relished the Red Watch Commander’s startled expression at the unconscious body propped in his desk chair.

When Leron slammed the door behind him, the many framed paintings and documents on the walls rattled, and Kritcher’s body slumped forward, face slamming into the stack of papers on the desk.

Leron drew in a frustrated breath. “Zem’Arta . . . you fiend.”

“You’re welcome.” Shane folded his arms over his chest and smiled.

Leron jumped and fixed Shane with an annoyed glare. “You left your crew behind.” He then threw his coat over an armchair, stepped around the mahogany desk, and closed the heavy curtains. For a moment, he examined Kritcher’s body with clinical interest, then tipped him onto the floor and collapsed into the seat.

Shane walked across the room and sat in the armchair facing the desk. “I work faster alone. And Remm has a hundred wanted posters in every city west of the Modrian Mountains.”

“Your crew has been a nuisance.” Leron moved stacks of parchment and thick envelopes from his desk to a growing pile on the floor. “Leo banned them from his house weeks ago. They’ve been terrorizing the embassy staff ever since.”

“Why do you think I left them all behind?”

Pointing at Shane, Leron glared. “Zem’Arta, that is on you. They’re your crew. Train them or replace them.”

Shane pulled at a loose thread on the chair’s upholstery with an extended claw and blatantly changed the subject. “I heard you were in Shevak. Trouble in Drawlen paradise?”

“I was on assignment.”

“Look at you, working the field. I thought you just told the rest of us what to do.”

Leron leaned forward. “I was managing the rather sensitive mess you and your crew made, actually.”

“You mean the Setvan informant I secured for you?”

Leron shook his head. “She’s fickle and skittish. And her price is high.”

Shane folded his arms, leaning further back in his seat. “Then use one of your other temple spies.” He threw up his hands. “Oh, right. You don’t have any others. The Red Watch hasn’t had ears in the Setvan Temple in its entire existence.”

“Was it worth nearly exposing our entire operation?” Leron asked.

Shane narrowed his eyes. “You tell me. I turned a disaster into the best chance the First Lord’s ever had to gather intelligence on Drawlen.”

“Hindsight is a poor defense.” Leron sighed and gestured to Shane. “But you’re right. Foolish, reckless, and arrogant—but you’re right. We’ve never been this close to having an upper hand before.”

Licking his sharp teeth, Shane smiled. “So, I get a raise?”

Leron arched a brow. “I recall you telling Harry you wanted to be paid in Drawlen blood.”

“I was being funny.” Shane plucked a wide-brimmed hat from the side table and flicked the outrageously long plume stuck in its brim. “Nice hat. Doesn’t really seem like your style, Novelen.”

Leron reached across the desk and snatched the accessory from Shane’s hand. “I’m preparing for my next assignment. The Freeland ambassador to Yvenea has taken ill and retired. I’ve been appointed to take his place.”

Shane tilted his head.

“Don’t give me that look! It’ll be a healthy change of pace for me. Besides, my son, Orin, is entering his first year of university here in Setmal. And my niece Venna is staying with me to complete her razt’vos. She’s studying ancient languages.”

“The blonde girl?” Shane asked, receiving a nod from Leron. “Might want to keep her away from the courts. They’ll eat her alive.”

“That’s why I’ll be assigning Sid to Orin’s guard. You’ll have to find yourself another enforcer.”

Shane suppressed a groan. Sid was the only member of his crew he liked, even though the man’s affinity for young women often landed him in hot water. “Why not Morgel, or even Remm? They’re human. You’d have less trouble getting approval from the Yvean constable. Besides, that womanizer will be just as bad as a Yvean arist—hanging around a pretty little thing like her.”

“Sid vel’Forr knows better than to cross me,” Leron said. “My son trusts him. I trust him. And Constable Asteryn trusts me. He was one of the officers who helped me during the Three Days’ Night.”

“Will I be taking orders from Harry, then?”

“No. You’ll be returning to Palim.” Leron grinned and jutted his chin, his blunt fangs glinting in the cool lamplight.

Shane sprang to the edge of his seat. “Why?”

“The First Lord’s order.” Leron folded his hands and leaned back. “He didn’t say why. I suspect that you and your crew—especially Remm—wandering around the Drawlen territories like vagabonds makes him nervous.”

Bending over the desk, Shane pointed to Kritcher’s heaped form on the floor. “I was snatching this fool on his orders.”

Leron waved a hand. “You certainly took your time with it.”

“Do you know how hard it is to move an unconscious body across twelve hundred miles of highway crawling with Drawlen rangers and collectors?”

Leron settled into his chair. “How did you manage that all by yourself?”

Shane leaned against his armrest. “There’s a Tarish smuggler I know.”

“And how are you acquainted with this fellow?” Leron squinted, always wary of Shane’s outland connections.

“He’s Remm’s old man, and a mutual enemy of Henrik Lowe.” Shane spat the pirate’s name, scowling.

“Very well. You depart tomorrow. Get your crew ready.”

Shane left the room with a sigh and headed to the second-floor parlor. He found Remm sprawled on a chaise lounge, his awkwardly long legs bent over the back of the chair. He clutched a voluminous, ancient-looking edition of The Rise and Fall of Vulta: Thurse of the Motherland, written in tall Karthan letters.

“Can you even read Karthan?” Shane asked.

“No,” Remm admitted in his high, chipper voice. Along with his tSolani dark skin and slender frame, he must have gotten his mannerisms from his late mother, for he seemed nothing like Jon. “But the illustrations are quite lovely.” He flipped the book to show Shane a detailed wood print of a severed head on a pike. Then he slapped it shut and rolled over, kicking his legs behind him and folding his hands under his chin like an eager child. “So, how was your little solo adventure?”

Shane slumped on the plush couch next to the hearth stacked with bright yellow sunrocks. They held no heat but gave the room a homey glow. “Fine.”

“How’s ol’ Jonny?”

“Could have found out yourself if you wanted.”

Remm flipped back, tucking his hands behind his freshly shaved head. “Pretty sure I wasn’t invited.”

Shane gave a bitter guffaw and tossed a pillow at him. “It’s never stopped you before. Although it was nice not having to clean up bodies after you. You’ll be pleased to know that when we get to the Freelands, you can kill all the Drawls your twisted little heart desires.”

Remm stuck out his bottom lip. “There aren’t any Drawls in the Freelands.”

Shane kicked his feet onto the lounge table. Bits of dirt and gravel fell from his boots onto the shiny surface. He dug an envelope from his vest and tossed it at Remm. “Some mail for you. Your siblings would appreciate a reply now and then.”

Remm’s eyes lit up as he plucked the envelope from the floor with a hum. “How is our little mouse?”

“Snarky as ever.” Shane pursed his lips. “She misses you.”

Remm stroked the envelope with his thumb. “Hmm. Just her?”

“I’m sure Jon has a tragic lack of trouble-making in his life. Ruth asked about you too. I didn’t see the boys. I had to get out of town pretty fast.”

Remm huffed, then sprang to his feet. “C’mon. I’ve got a little surprise for you.”

Shane shook his head. “Is it the same as last time?”

“You know, zem’Arta”—Remm put his hands on his hips and cocked his head—“you won’t explode if you have a bit of fun now and then.”

Exhaling, Shane settled deeper into the sofa and closed his eyes. “Just tell me.”

“Since dear ol’ Sid is ditching us to chase Yvean skirts, I got us a new recruit.”

Shane slowly opened his eyes. This was bound to go poorly. “Okay . . .”

“He’s a ralenta, one of the strongest I’ve ever seen.” As if it somehow helped his point, Remm waved his hand, prompting one of his shades to swirl around the room, momentarily snuffing out the light from the hearth.

“Remm,” Shane groaned. “I’m too tired for this. I’ll meet him in the morning.”

“He’s ten.”

Shane jolted upright. “What?!”

Remm quivered. “I’ve never even heard of a ralenta coming into their craft that young. And he’s so burning strong already.”

Shane slammed his fist on the table, glaring at Remm.  “You. Recruited. A child?”

“Purchased, technically.”

Shane jumped to his feet. “What in the fires, Remm Therman?”

Remm folded his arms. “Burning hell, Shane! What was I supposed to do? Let the Drawls have ’im? He could be the most powerful ralenta in all Palimar, and there he was, on the slaver’s block in Drawl, eighty-six marks. They didn’t have a damn clue what they had.”

“Where is he?”

Remm gestured over his shoulder. “In the carriage house with Carris and—”

Shane’s patience evaporated at the mention of the kobold mercenary. “You left him with Carris!” He stomped toward the door.

Remm fell back onto the chaise lounge, mumbling, “No appreciation,” and cut open Ella’s envelope with a throwing knife.

Shane stormed out and marched through the halls of the Freeland embassy, causing the few servants still going about to cower from his path. When he reached the open door of the carriage house, he heard familiar voices and the steady thud of metal hitting wood.

“Blazing fires, kid,” Carris’s gravelly voice said. “You’ve lasted twice as long as anyone.” THUD. THUD. “Maybe he’s blind.” THUD. “Don’t you think his eyes are bit weird? The whelp’s not even blinkin’.”

Shane steeled himself, resolving not to murder the goblin no matter what stupidity she was engaged in. He pushed through the door just as a knife sank into the far wall, an inch from the ear of a small, blank-faced boy.

“Ey, Captain. Want a round with the rookie?”

Carris, a muscular kobold woman with long, sharply pointed ears, offered up two small knives, one in each hand. Several more lay on the ledge of the half wall beside her.

Morgel, the Greqi ralenta, who surprisingly had a shirt on for once, lounged on a hay bale in the corner.

Shane rounded on Carris but stopped short when a sleepy voice drifted from the loft.

“Bad idea, Carris.” Sid stuck his big head full of long brown dreadlocks over the edge. Blotches spread across his tan face—apparently sleeping off several evening drinks. He grinned at Shane, showing off his sharp, pearly teeth.

“Out. Now!” Shane ordered.

Carris shrugged and threw her two remaining knives into the wall behind her. Morgel rolled to his feet and backflipped off the haystack. He followed Carris to the door, pointing at the woman and twirling his finger in the air, as if to say, “She’s crazy.”

Carris snickered and smacked her husband in the rear. “You love it.”

Sid fumbled down the ladder and followed Carris, hands in his pockets and ducking through the door.

With the crew gone, the boy against the wall tottered forward.

“Not you,” Shane said.

The boy froze, his dark eyes wide. If he’d been with Remm since he was purchased in Drawl, then Sid and Shane were probably the first thurse he’d seen. And the two of them fit well with the bedtime horror stories so popular in the outlands.

Shane approached the boy and dropped onto a dusty trunk next to him. He motioned for the boy to sit on the bench along the wall. The child, who looked distinctly tSolani with his tightly curled black hair, sat hesitantly.

“Did they feed you?” Shane asked.

Keeping his eyes on the stone floor, the boy nodded.

“What’s your name?”

“Bren,” he whispered.

“You from Drawl?”

Bren shook his head. “tSolan.”

“Do you know what you are?”

With his head tilted, Bren raised his eyes. “Shadow friend.”

Shane nodded. “What did Remm tell you about us?”

“You’re Freelanders. Assassins.”

“I don’t deal in slavery, Bren. You’re not staying.”

Bren’s eyes flashed between relief and fear. “Will you—will you sell me to the clerics?”

“I’m not selling you, kid. I’m taking you home. Back to your family.”

A smile crept onto Bren’s face, but then it fled, and his shoulders fell, his gaze returning to the floor. “No family.”

Shane rubbed his eyes and exhaled. “Well, if you want, you can come along with us. You need to learn to use your power. Remm’s a whelp, but he’s a decent teacher.”

Bren lifted his head. “Where are you going?”

“Back to the Freelands, to Palim.”

“The Dragon City?”

Shane laughed. “Don’t get too excited, kid. There aren’t any dragons. Just ornery old terrion.” When Bren wrinkled his brow, Shane added, “Fliers.”

“What will I do there?”

“You can work with us if you want.” Shane’s stomach turned at the prospect of enlisting a child this young. “Or you can get a job as a message carrier. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to ditch this crazy circus.”

Bren paused, frowning. “I think—I think I’ll stay with you.” He glanced at the door. “They’re not so bad.”

“You’ve had worse things thrown at you than knives?”

Eyes still on the door, Bren nodded.

Shane slapped his hands on his knees. “All right, kid. Get some rest. You can bunk with Remm.” He rose and assessed the boy’s outfit: an ill-fitting smock covered his slender frame. “We’ll find you some decent clothes before we leave in the morning.” Then he headed to the door.

When Shane waved him along impatiently, Bren followed. Before they left the carriage house, the boy pulled on Shane’s sleeve. “Sir, the woman said she’s kobold. What—?”

“Goblin. Elf. But don’t ever call her an elf. She’ll aim for your throat, and she never misses.”

The boy gulped. “What—what are you?”

“Thurse,” Shane said. Bren’s face wrinkled, so he added, “I’m a troll.”

“Like the big fellow, Sid? And the master as well?”

Shane swiveled. “The master? Leron?”

Bren nodded.

"He’s half-troll,” Shane said. “But he’s not your master.”

“You are, then?”

“No one owns you Bren. I’m offering you a job.”

Bren grinned briefly before his face resumed a blank stare. He followed Shane out of the carriage house and remained in his shadow until Shane brought him to Remm’s room.

—

Despite his exhaustion, Shane’s restlessness drove him to wander the halls of the embassy. When the district clock sounded the second hour after midnight, he entered the third-floor conservatory, a converted balcony at the back of the manor. The glass room usually offered a spectacular view of the city, especially with the crystal-blue streetlamps alight in the darkness. But rain poured from the sky, and the windows were fogged, making the urban scene look like a blurry painting. In the room, stone benches dotted the narrow paths between small fruit trees and tiered beds of exotic plants.

Shane rested his forearm on the brick ledge of a flower bed, his tattoos contrasting with his skin in the dim light. Deep in thought, he spun a dainty silver wedding band between the fully extended claws of his thumb and forefinger. The creak of the glass door echoed in the vaulted conservatory. A moment later, Leron strolled around a thick hedge. Wearing a blue sleeping robe, the older man leaned against the half wall next to him. Shane turned his attention back to the ring.

For a few minutes, they stood silently, listening to the rain. Leron leaned his head back and stared at the glass ceiling. “The pain never goes away . . . but it does get easier. You should find something to believe in other than vengeance.”

Shane retracted his claws and stuffed the ring into his pocket. “Tell that to my dead wife.” He strode out of the conservatory, glad to be leaving this city—this whole burning country—in the morning. Too many memories remained here. Too much of her.