3. The Shadowfox

  The room smelled of warm wax and the faint rose-oil she wore at her throat. Silk sheets stuck to damp skin; candle-flames wavered each time the bed rocked.

  “Here’s what you say…” He spoke to the bare neck at the end of his fingers, lips almost brushing the small hairs that prickled there in the heat. “Sure you could take the barges but a barge will only ever go in the direction of the river. What if you want to go cross country? What if you want to get someone that’s not on the river? We can do that.”

  He traced his hands down the flesh of her back, slick with sweat, until they came to rest on her hips.

  “Why you?”

  “We’re fast,” he said with a thrust that shook her buttocks, the slap ringing sharp in the hush. “A single coach. Only two people. We keep…” He controlled his breath and the rhythm in the face of the rising pleasure, mattress creaking under them, “costs down.”

  “But…” She moved with him, the motion drawing a soft gasp from her throat. “If there is only two of you…” she breathed, voice trembling, “…how do you protect your goods?”

  “Flip over,” he ordered.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I want to see that beautiful face of yours.”

  She giggled. “No, I am not beautiful anymore.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re just a woman and no longer a girl. That’s fine. I prefer a woman.”

  She relented and twisted onto her back. He wasn’t lying. The countess had a nice face. It was the second thing he noticed about her. And now he could see the first thing too, so well promised by the corset that bound them. He took a handful of her breasts and leaned in close, feeling her heart hammer against his palm.

  “Your goods are safe with me.” He entered her again from on top watching the glorious undulations as she took him. “We don’t get caught.”

  “Is that…” Her breathing was heavy. “Is that why they call you the Fox shadow?”

  He lifted a thigh and pushed deeper still. “I prefer Shadowfox…” He grimaced in delight. “…and yes.”

  For a moment no more was said, they let their bodies do the talking with increasing momentum. The countess shook, those lovely breasts bounced on her ribcage and she threw her head back and the release passed from her lips. He followed and collapsed on top of her.

  He heard a slight laugh in his ear. “You did this for the job?”

  He laughed. “No. I did this because I wanted to. Anything else?” He shrugged. “That’s just a bonus.”

  ***

  The countess still lay tangled in the sheets upstairs, breathing slow and sated, the room thick with the scent of melted beeswax and spent lust. Luka Shadowfox slipped down the narrow wooden stairs, boots silent on the worn boards, the taste of her still on his tongue.

  The moment he crossed the threshold from the dim corridor into the tavern’s smoky main room, yellow lamplight and the sour tang of spilled wine hit him like a slap. There, leaning against a roof-beam with the patience of a man paid by the day, stood the man in the cornflower-blue brigandine and cropped blond hair, catching every flicker of the hearth.

  “All done?”

  “Our services go recommended.”

  The man in the brigandine shook his head and smiled, small and wry, the firelight sliding across the pale mail at his throat. “It’s funny how you always find a way to mix business and pleasure.”

  The Shadowfox grinned, teeth white in the half-dark. “As I should. Meanwhile you’d stand here doing neither.”

  “You needed no assistance from me upstairs.”

  “No. But that wench was giving you the eye before I went up there. You are allowed to enjoy yourself, Rolan.”

  Rolan shrugged, the faint clink of hidden plates under blue leather. “And then who’d drag you out of trouble?”

  “Trouble? I’m the Shadowfox. By the time trouble comes, I’m long gone.”

  “My sword notches say otherwise.”

  Luka’s mouth opened and he forced himself to shut it again, teeth clicking in the smoky hush. Rolan snorted, the sound low and amused, warm breath stirring the air between them.

  “You were going to say something about bed notches?”

  “I was so close. Alas the line never came.” Luka shrugged, the motion loose, already half-turning toward the bar. “How’s the beer here?”

  “Wine only. And I’m drinking water.” Rolan lifted his plain clay cup, the lamplight catching on the pale mail at his wrist.

  “One wine, one water. Sounds like the start of a song…” Luka wandered over to the bar, boots scuffing across sawdust and spilled lees, trying to stretch together the melody under his breath. “One wine, one water… drinking like I oughta, one water, one wine and everything is fine…”

  The tune came out crooked, half-remembered, and already off-key by the third note, but he kept it going, voice low and teasing, just loud enough for Rolan to hear every terrible syllable.

  ***

  Luka rolled onto his front. The pillow smelled of sour wine and cheap perfume. He should have had more water and less wine. There was a knocking at his door. He groaned, the sound scraping his dry throat.

  Rolan pushed the door open without waiting to be called. Cool morning air followed him in, carrying the faint scent of cedar and oiled steel. The cornflower brigandine caught the pale light from the window, blond hair neat, face calm as ever.

  “You need to get down to the merchant adventurer’s hall.” Rolan’s voice was low, steady, the same tone he used before a fight.

  “Why must I?” Luka’s words came out thick, half-muffled by the pillow.

  “Because we are spending coin each day we tarry here. That needs to be replenished.” Rolan stood just inside the doorway, boots planted on the creaking boards, hands resting easy at his belt.

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  Luka groaned, louder this time, rolling his face deeper into the pillow. “But why must it be me.”

  “I don’t possess the charm for it. We both have our roles.” Rolan’s mouth twitched, the closest he ever came to a smile before dawn.

  Luka squinted at him through one eye and shook his head. The motion sent a dull throb behind his temples. Rolan clearly believed that. He was obviously blissfully unaware that a man as handsome as he was didn’t need to actually have charm. People would ordain him with it even in its absence.

  The thought of going down to the hall gave Luka a fresh wave of nausea, the sour taste of last night’s wine rising in the back of his throat. He swallowed hard and tasted iron and regret.

  Luka rolled out of bed. The sheets were cold and damp against his bare skin. In his drunken state he had apparently been able to remove all his day clothes but not don anything for the night. Morning air bit at him, sharp and unforgiving. Rolan averted his eyes as Luka scrambled to his clothing chest, bare feet slapping on the chilly boards.

  “I’ll wait downstairs.” Rolan’s voice stayed flat. He stepped out and pulled the door shut behind him.

  In quick time and in spite of the hangover he dressed. The shirt clung to the sweat still on his back. The hose twisted at the knees. The boots stayed half-laced. He staggered down to the entrance hall of the boarding house. The stairs creaked under his weight. Each step sent a fresh pulse of pain behind his eyes. Old stew and woodsmoke hung thick in the air of the narrow corridor.

  Rolan was in armour and armed. They didn’t expect danger at the hall but looking like they could handle it was a selling point. The cornflower brigandine sat easy on his shoulders, the bastard sword a quiet weight at his hip.

  They stepped out and Luka squinted and shielded his eyes from the daylight. Ravelle City was hot today. It had been hot for the last month and that made it worse. The air was thick with it, heavy as wet wool against the skin. The bath houses would be crammed by lunchtime with people trying to scrub away the humidity, steam rising from doorways like ghosts.

  The people walking in the streets were loud. Their voices were loud, their footsteps were loud. The dogs were loud, the horses were loud. He was sure even the rats were being loud. His head seemed to throb in answer to every noise entering his ears, each shout or clop a fresh hammer blow behind his eyes.

  Over the cobblestones they made their way to the merchant adventurer’s hall. It felt like a failure. After all their work they should have had people coming to them not having to traipse down here to see what crumbs were being handed out.

  The hall rose at the end of the street like a merchant’s boast frozen in stone and timber, its lower walls solid brick the colour of oak bark, laid in careful courses that caught the sun and threw back a faint red glow.

  Above, the upper storey leaned out in dark oak framing, beams thick as a man’s thigh crossing like the ribs of some ancient beast, the spaces between them plastered smooth in pale ochre that had weathered to the shade of old bone. A steep roof of red tiles sloped sharp against the sky, edged with ornate barge boards carved in swirling vines and merchant scales, their edges softened by time but still sharp enough to cut the eye.

  At the centre, a wide ceremonial gate yawned open under an arch of wrought iron, bearing a heavy coat of arms in chased brass: crossed keys and a ship under full sail, flanked by lions rampant. The whole thing smelled of leather and old ledgers, even from the street, with a low garden wall enclosing a patch of clipped green where roses fought the heat.

  Under the eaves of a tree a man in leathers and armed with a sword looked up at them, straightening at once.

  “Luka the Shadowfox?”

  Finally someone got it right.

  “Who's asking?”

  “Someone who wants to give you a job.”

  Validation. This was more like it. No shuffling around amid the other hopefuls inside the hall but a personal commission. He gave a small nod to Rolan to no acknowledgement. Rolan was keeping an eye on the man's sword still.

  “And where is this someone?”

  “Just here.”

  Luka looked at Rolan again. Rolan shrugged. They could always say no if they didn't like the job.

  They followed the man across the road to the large tavern named the Crossed Keys. The sign, swinging slightly on its iron brackets, was a cheap, gaudy rendition of the Hall’s actual crest, an imitation that lacked dignity but not arrogance.

  The moment they stepped inside, Luka was sure it was another place that served wine rather than beer. The air was thick with the acidic, fruity tang of local vintage fermented too quickly and drunk too warm. It clung to the humid air, a cloying insult to his already churning stomach.

  The moment the word wine formed in his head, he felt a small, sick wave of nausea that the morning’s headache eagerly latched onto. He pressed his knuckles briefly against his temple.

  They didn’t stop in the bar. That room was a low-ceilinged clamour of voices and scraping chairs, but the man from the Hall, moving with irritating bureaucratic speed, led them directly to a narrow, dark stairwell hidden behind a cheap partition.

  They began the climb. The wooden stairs were steep, worn down in the centre like old bones, and slick with the accumulated grease and grime of decades. The air in the stairwell was utterly stagnant, heavy with the smell of old dust, stale beer, and the faint, bitter scent of cheap lamp oil.

  They passed the first landing with no relief. The second was identical. By the fourth set, Luka was starting to believe this was in fact a punishment from the gods rather than a great opportunity.

  Every joint in his legs protested. The rhythmic thud-thud of his own boots on the worn treads felt like a cruel metronome counting down to his collapse.

  At the landing of the fourth set of stairs, they proceeded to a large, oblong chamber. It was clearly a hastily-converted dining room. The light was poor, filtered through a single, narrow window covered in thick, dusty glass that made the world outside look yellow and distorted.

  Four guards stood in each corner, their presence immediately silencing any doubt about the room’s purpose. They wore dark leather jackets reinforced with hidden plates, and their hands were wrapped around the shafts of heavy, knobbed cudgels.

  These men weren’t soldiers. They were professionals, their faces blank, their eyes tracking Rolan’s sword hand, not Luka’s face.

  They stood like heavy, silent stone columns, there to illustrate the dimensions of the room, and to define the tiny, imaginary safe zone the merchants intended to occupy.

  Luka had to physically restrain himself from rolling his eyes. Anyone looking to hire the Shadowfox knew they weren't about to be attacked for it; they didn't waste time on petty violence. Their presence served a different, much clearer purpose.

  The message was painted to them practically in big red letters on the walls: We give you coin but don't fuck with us.

  It wasn't a threat of violence; it was an insult to their intelligence. It was the rich man’s arrogant preamble before he even named the price. And that, Luka decided, would cost them extra.

  The merchant stood up. He was thin, dressed in costly but severe black wool, which somehow looked too heavy for the humid air of Ravelle. His movement was precise, minimal, and entirely without grace.

  'Luka, sly as a fox's shadow. That is what they call you, is it not?'

  'I go with Shadowfox but each to their own,' Luka replied, deliberately keeping his tone flat and unimpressed.

  'Yes. It is a good title. It says you are clever and elusive.'

  'More crafty than clever,' Luka retorted, letting the corner of his mouth twitch up slightly. 'Just in case you were looking for someone to write you a book.'

  The merchant laughed, a short, barking sound that grated on the silence of the room and held no humour. It was a noise designed to signal power, not amusement. Luka doubted he really found it funny.

  'No. No book. Something more in your mileu.' The merchant made the final word sound like an epithet.

  'Sorry, what did you say your name was again?' Luka asked, though he knew the man had never given it. He watched the merchant’s tight expression twitch.

  'My name? Let's just say I am four hundred gold crowns and a location, namely here, to collect them. This is all that matters, is it not?'

  'Largely,' Luka agreed. He paused, making a deliberate show of looking round the room with a slow, sweeping gaze, acknowledging the four silent guards and the door. He was playing the part of the nervous, amateur mercenary.

  'Discretion is a problem for you?' the merchant asked, his voice hardening slightly.

  'Not at all. Plenty of people don't want others knowing their business.' Luka shrugged, the gesture loose and easy.

  'Quite.'

  'But discretion is a service. And extra services mean extra charges.'

  'Four hundred crowns is insufficient?' The merchant's voice was sharp.

  Luka smiled, a genuine, predatory expression that finally reached his eyes. 'I have a feeling it will be well earned.'

  'I understand. I should have expected wile from a man like you. So be it. Five hundred crowns. But more money means less information.' The merchant didn't look pleased, but he looked resigned.

  'So be it,' Luka shrugged again. 'If the choice is between coin and nosiness, I can be very discreet.'

  'How correct,' the merchant approved. 'The job is simple. Travel to Messl. It is a village in the Matzbergen region. About ten miles west of the capital. There you will receive a package. You will return this package here. At no point will you know what this package is.'

  'And we get five hundred crowns?'

  'Yes.'

  'How long?'

  'You are not the only person we have spoken to. There is another party who say they can do this in fifteen days. And for four hundred crowns.'

  'We can do it in twelve.' Luka's voice was suddenly hard, stripped of its sarcasm, betraying the sheer professional effort the route would demand. He briefly glanced at Rolan, who gave an almost imperceptible nod of confirmation.

  'That is what I hoped you would say.'

  'How do I know you won't keep offering this around when I leave?'

  The merchant nodded to one of the guards who immediately moved from the corner, pulled a leather coin purse from his belt, and dropped it onto the mahogany table. It hit the dark wood with a solid, satisfying thwack and a muted, heavy clink. It was the right kind of sound, the one where the metal striking had proper weight.

  'A hundred crowns now. This should pay for any equipment you need, provisions and such.'

  'And you're sure we won't just take this and run?'

  The merchant's smile was mirthless, a cold sliver of expression. 'Quite sure.'

  Luka picked up the pouch, his fingers quickly assessing its satisfying heft and temperature. 'Never broken a contract yet. Assume you will see us in twelve days.'

  'I will.’

  The purse jangled pleasingly during the descent down the stairs. The sound of the gold, heavy and solid, was the first thing all day that didn't make Luka's hangover ache. It was a language he trusted, a promise louder than any of the merchant's sneers.

  They moved quickly now, their exit no longer governed by the nervous pace of the merchant’s clerk. Luka could feel Rolan's eyes on his back the whole way down the four flights: silent, assessing, perhaps disapproving. Luka refused to indulge him, letting the tension build until they hit the cobbles of the street outside. The sudden heat was a shock, a stifling, noisy blast of Ravelle’s reality after the cold, silent deception of the tavern.

  'Alright. Say whatever disapproving thing you're going to say.' Luka challenged, turning to face him, wiping a strand of sweaty hair from his face. The wool of his tunic was already sticking to his skin.

  Rolan stood perfectly still, letting the noise and the heat wash over them both. 'The Smith's quarter is on the other side of the river. We should eat before venturing there.' The answer was maddeningly practical.

  'Right. So no...' Luka took on a mock serious voice, leaning close. 'We can't trust that man. This job is going to be dangerous. Don't you realise it's me who will have to do the killing?' He straightened, exaggerating the flair of a nervous swordsman.

  Rolan merely smiled, a fleeting, almost imperceptible gesture that just touched the corners of his mouth. 'I have no need to say this. You know it already.'

  Luka shook his head, the headache returning now that the distraction was over. 'I know we need this.' He tapped the leather pouch hanging from his belt. The gold was warm now from his body heat.

  'And so do I. But you are wrong about one thing.' Rolan's gaze was direct, meeting Luka's eyes over the noise of the street.

  'What's that?'

  'I won't be doing all the killing.'

  Luka paused, letting the statement settle, a sudden, cold clarity

  cutting through the summer air. Rolan’s quiet conviction was always more believable than a shouted threat. He sighed, the sound lost in the din of the street.

  'Right. The Smiths quarter.' He shifted the weight of the gold. 'But first, lunch.’

  The Rule of Ten.