48. Traitors of traitors of traitors

Like the last time, there was no sign of life in the Death Row. Not a rat, not a cat, not a mouse. Perhaps… because of the energy in the air? The discovery left me speechless for a moment. In fact, there was a strange energy in the corridor that I had not noticed the last two times. Witchcraft, I thought. Then I remembered Rogan’s words about the soul being snatched by witches, and my heart quickened. I was so engrossed that only when Dil whispered worriedly “Sharpy?” did I get moving and walk the last few yards to the back door.

Without letting go of Little Wolf’s hand, I knocked on the door. I immediately frowned. Damn, I hadn’t thought of that, but how was Coldpalm going to open the door without Little Wolf? Could she even move from her sofa in her condition?

I was just about to summon up the courage to grasp the handle when suddenly it turned and opened very slowly.

“Four-Hundred. Who are the ones behind you?”

My jaw dropped.

“Gee,” I let out. It was Le Bor! Unlike me, he didn’t seem surprised to see me. I hissed through my teeth. “Oh, Bo… uh… I mean, sir,” I corrected, choking. “These are my friends. What are you doing here?”

The ruffian’s face was barely visible. I heard him sigh and open the door further as he explained:

“Getting all my papers. Come on in. Coldpalm told me about a rather special deal.”

I entered with Little Wolf and saw Le Bor hurry to close the door before one of my companions had the idea of crossing the threshold too.

“Little Wolf,” whispered the voice of Coldpalm. Her voice sounded even weaker than the day before.

The blond boy, feeling he was on familiar ground, let go of my hand, rushed to the sofa and hugged the necromancer, who let out a soft purr of affection.

“Kid,” she whispered. “That’s the last time you’ll ever hug me, you know? It’s better this way. You’ll live with the living. You’ll play with kids your own age. You’ll see the sun every day. You may not speak with your tongue, but you’ll speak with your heart.”

Her voice trembled and broke. I stood in shock by the sofa and watched as her dark figure embraced the little boy. Then I saw her raise a large hand, and suddenly a very faint light shone from it and floated away across the room.

“There, young man,” she pronounced. “There, under that concealed trapdoor, you will find a total of eight hundred and forty siatos in whitewheels or goldies. It’s not as much as I’d like, but… it’s all I’ve got for Little Wolf.” She let her hand fall back, but the light in the corner of the room did not go out. In a whisper, she said, “Remember, Shyuli, that I saved your life. Now save this poor creature’s, whatever it takes.”

There was a brief silence, during which I looked puzzled at the figure of Le Bor, standing in the middle of the room, and at the great mass of the witch. Blasthell. So Coldpalm was asking him to take care of Little Wolf too? Finally, the ruffian cleared his throat and answered with unusual solemnity:

“I will, ma’am. I promise.”

I saw in the gloom that Coldpalm was nodding slowly.

“Keep your word.”

This sounded both like a command and a blessing. The witch then turned her magical green eye towards me and said in a very faint voice:

“Shyuli will help you too, boy. He promised me…”

She stopped suddenly, taking a breath of air, and her body jerked. I thought for a moment that she was going to die right there before my horrified eyes, but then she explained in an alarmed croak:

“People. More people in the Death Row.”

She had scarcely spoken when I heard a child’s cry outside which sent a chill through my veins. Quick as a flash, I rushed to the door.

“Don’t open!” Le Bor shouted.

I did not open the door. I had no time for that: the door flew open and hooded men entered, pushing my companions inside. Some of them had weapons in their hands, others were holding torches which lit up the whole interior. I hurried back with Manras, Dil, and Rogan to the back of the room, and we huddled there as best we could, our mouths closed and our eyes wide open. Good mother, who were those guys?

One of them, in a green hood, barked:

“Witch!” And he continued in a mocking tone, “What the hell is this? People are paying you with gwaks now?”

I glanced at the sofa, and when I saw the witch, I could not help making a face of horror. Though wrapped in her clothes, Coldpalm was a monstrous sight. She was frightening to behold, and from the indecisive gestures of some of the intruders, I knew that they too were afraid. But not the one in the green hood, apparently.

“Gowbur,” Coldpalm pronounced calmly.

Where was Little Wolf? And where was Le Bor? No matter how hard I bent my neck, I couldn’t see them anywhere. None of those present seemed to see them. I squinted my eyes. Could it be that Coldpalm was cloaking them with some spell? Unless they had time to slip under that hidden trapdoor… I tried very hard not to look towards that place and kept my eyes fixed on Coldpalm.

I blinked at the light of a torch that one of the hooded men passed in front of us, as if to make sure we were not going to move. Pff. How were we going to move with so many weapons out? The knife forgotten in my pocket would hardly make any difference. I breathed in. Well, that’s good. So, the one in the green hood was Gowbur, the same one who had sworn to “rip Frashluc’s brains out” the day before, according to the regulars at the Drawer. It wasn’t so surprising that Gowbur had business with Coldpalm… But that they had arrived just as we were there was really unlucky.

“Refusing my offer was a very bad idea, witch,” Gowbur resumed.

He had not drawn his weapon: he held a torch in his hand and walked around the miserable, smelly room with apparent tranquillity. His face was not visible: he wore a muffler and had a large hood. One of the men who were wielding a sword stood beside us and looked at us with a wry smile as Gowbur continued.

“If you continue to work for those of Frashluc, I’ll tear your head off. If you don’t give me the names of your customers, I’ll tear your head off. You hear me, demon? It’s your choice.”

Coldpalm did not seem to be frightened. Her right eye was hidden under a cloth, but the other shone with the same intensity as my nakrus master’s eyes. She opened her huge, lip-less mouth and answered in a voice full of venom:

“If you feel so strongly about tearing my head off, Gowbur: do it. But remember: your quarrels with Frashluc are not my concern. I accept the tasks I want, and the one you asked me to do, unfortunately, I will not be able to fulfill… because I am dying, Gowbur. If you want to put me out of my misery, do it. I have done all I have to do in this life. Come on, Gowbur,” she added, mockingly, as he said nothing. “Draw that sword and kill me. And, afterwards, go and kill Frashluc. Your former companions. Your kindred spirits. As wretched as you,” she spat. “Vice and lust have made you more terrible monsters than Coldpalm. The Bifid Witch.”

The necromancer uncovered her teeth, perfect, white teeth in the middle of a misshapen mouth. Without coming any closer to the sofa than necessary, Gowbur snorted.

“You say you’re dying? Like hell you are. You’ve been dying for years. What’s stopping you from answering my question, witch? Has Frashluc been to see you, yes or no, how many times and why? I have my suspicions, and I want to know. I want to know everything.”

He brought the torch to the witch’s face and demanded:

“Speak, witch!”

At her silence, he gave an annoyed grunt.

“Frashluc did not kill my brother’s murderer,” Gowbur declared sharply. “He cleared him and gave him false papers to keep me from following his trail. He cleared him because he hired him! Deny it if you can!” he roared.

This time, Coldpalm sighed.

“I’m not saying it’s not true and I’m not asserting it either because I don’t know. Frashluc doesn’t give me an explanation when he places an order with me. And he pays more for it, but he can afford it. It’s one of the perks of being the biggest scoundrel in the Cats—”

“Shut up!” Gowbur cut her off. He was still pointing the torch at her, and unconsciously I shuddered as if the flames would burn me, not the witch. He hissed: “Maybe you don’t know the details, but you know the name. You know names. And I’ve come to make you spit them out.”

At that moment, there was a creak. We all turned our heads towards the door. The intruders had closed it on their way in, and through the crack under it a piece of paper had just appeared. For an instant, no one moved. Then Gowbur made a sudden gesture, and one of his companions bent down to pick up the paper. He glanced at it, and we heard him inhale sharply.

“What is it?” Gowbur growled, impatiently.

The other passed him the sheet and whispered:

“We’re in trouble.”

That did not seem to unsettle Gowbur. He shrugged and, to my amazement, turned to us and said:

“Gwaks. You can get out. You are free.”

I stood there staring at them, my mouth agape, as they all moved away from the door. I couldn’t believe it. Free, I repeated to myself. Really? We were still recalcitrant and unbelieving, so Gowbur drew his sword. They opened the door for us, and we went out as fast as we could.

“Halt!”

The voice came not from behind, but from ahead: the end of the Death Row was full of people and lanterns. And crossbows. I widened my eyes and, like an echo, shouted:

“Stop!”

I threw myself at Dil and slammed him to the ground. Rogan and Manras followed almost immediately, and in the stupid hope that they wouldn’t see us, I cast a harmonic shadow spell. But what shadows! I had never expended so much energy, widening and widening the outline to conceal us, to make them forget us… Yeah, sure, I thought then. We were on the floor in a corridor, in the middle of the “battle,” how the blasthell could they possibly forget us?

“Watch out, Frashluc, our gwaks have explosives!” a baritone voice suddenly shouted behind us.

And a demonic laugh rang out before Gowbur resumed:

“The witch told me everything! Everything! Maybe you’ll slaughter us, but your men won’t kill me before they know you’re a traitor, a eunuch, and a—”

Something whistled over our heads, and there was the slamming of a door as it slammed shut. I was so focused on making more and more shadows that I did not even pay attention to Gowbur’s lies. I did, however, catch the next cry:

“Don’t shoot! They’re friends of mine! Please don’t shoot!”

It was Diver’s voice. A dry voice from the crossbowmen’s side answered him:

“Then tell that idiot to undo his spell!”

A sound of protest was heard, followed by a:

“Don’t come any closer, maybe it’s true they have explosives.”

Rogan swore with a desperate cry:

“We don’t have any explosives!”

Footsteps sounded in the complete darkness. Neither the Moon nor the Gem could penetrate my harmonic shadows.

“Draen!” Diver called. “Draen! Please undo that spell. You cast it, didn’t you? Undo it, or they’ll shoot to keep you from approaching. Please, answer.”

“Draen, just answer!” Rogan growled.

The Priest lay beside me and shook my shoulder. Only then did I realize that I was shaking like a leaf.

“I c-can’t,” I stammered in an exhausted whisper. “I c-can’t hold it anymore.”

And indeed, I could not hold it anymore: my energy stem, cut at the root, was completely consumed. I don’t remember ever having consumed it so much in my life: even my right hand didn’t respond. Exhausted, I stopped holding my spell. It unraveled, and more quickly than I had expected. The light penetrated the darkness, and I could see Diver walking the last few yards with a torch in his hand. He came up to us and said in a high-pitched voice:

“Swear to me by all the ancestors that you don’t have explosives.”

I shook my head, but it was Rogan who continued to say:

“We don’t. I swear it by my ancestors, Draen’s and Manras’ and Dil’s. I swear it. Gowbur lied like a miscreant. Oh, blasthell,” he swore. “I think Manras has fainted.”

I groped, looked by the light of the torch, and found that, indeed, Manras was not moving. Horror overcame me as I imagined that he was dead, and my head became even more dizzy, and I sat up half against the wall and groaned:

“Elassar, I want to get out of here!”

“Calm down, shyur!” the Priest cut me off, taking me firmly by the shoulder, and he looked up. “Diver. These people, are they Frashluc’s?”

“All round,” Diver confirmed. “And… I have to search you, if you don’t mind.”

Still dazed and confused by my grandiose spell, I smacked my forehead with my fist and vaguely remembered that Diver had said he was now running errands in the Cats’ taverns. Yeah, right… errands for Frashluc, after all.

Diver searched us efficiently, took the knives away and returned to Frashluc’s men before returning and saying:

“Come.”

We got up, and as I was not at my best, Rogan and Dil took charge of carrying Manras. It was not easy to walk to the crossbows, not so much because I was afraid, for in my daze I could not really be afraid, but because it seemed to me that I was always coming and never could arrive. I remembered a story which my nakrus master had told me long ago, and I murmured in Caeldric:

“Like the oasis… It’s like the oasis.” And I added even lower, “Ferilompard.”

Behind us, at the end of Death Row, all was silent. I didn’t wonder what Gowbur and his people were doing, and I didn’t even think about Little Wolf and Le Bor: the world had turned into a bubble that only Elassar, the oasis, and I were entering. I didn’t even have the strength left to summon the squirrels.

As soon as we passed the line of three crossbowmen who closed the corridor, a gloved hand seized me by the arm and pushed me towards the wall, without violence but with firmness.

“This boy’s the Black Dagger, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Diver confirmed.

My captor’s eyes glowed slightly under his hood.

“Answer, Black Dagger. Were you working for Gowbur?”

I stared at him without understanding his question. After a moment’s silence, he slammed me against the wall, this time with less friendliness. This did not help to clear my head, on the contrary. Diver intervened:

“Sir. He’s spaced-out.”

“Or he’s pretending to be so,” the other growled.

At that moment, a series of shouts were heard at the end of the Death Row.

“Don’t shoot! Gowbur is dead, the witch killed him!”

“We surrender, don’t shoot!”

“We surrender!”

“What pathetic rebels,” my captor muttered.

He turned his attention from me to those who were surrendering, and I struck my forehead with my fist again, knowing that I had to do something, but I couldn’t decide what. To run away, perhaps? By the time the idea came to me, however, the racket of voices had died down, I saw figures, unarmed and bound, passing before me… and someone grabbed me and invited me to follow the procession. It was only when I reached the end of the alleyway through which they were leading me that I thought of my cronies and stopped dead in my tracks. And, without warning, I filled my lungs with air and shouted:

“MANRAAAS! DIIIL!”

I wanted to turn back, and I received a good beating.

“Can you shut up?” Frashluc’s man hissed at me.

Shut up, I repeated to myself. Shut up? No, I would not shut up. I clung to my guide’s cloak and shouted:

“Good mother, the bones! I see their bones! My cronies! Bones! Bones…!”

At that moment, my words had more meaning for me than a holy truth. But my guide did not seem to understand my anguish very well, for at that moment, he and another drove me against the wall and put a cloth in my mouth—I almost choked on it—then they gagged me while I kicked like a madman and kept shouting “bones!”, but my screams were now only muffled moans. Unable to scream, my eyes wept with terror all the way to the Frashluc Guild.