A Killing in the Air - The Further Adventures of Bander

  * * *

  BANDER WAS HUNGRY. But he knew he didn’t have a lot of time to get across the crowded city and back within an hour. The Palace District was on the far western edge of Laketon, more than a mile away. Maybe if he cut through the southern edge of the Futhark Emporium he might be able to find a street vendor selling meat skewers or stonebread. Then he could take Table Street across the city to the castle. That would work. But he’d be getting wet. Very wet. The weather had worsened but there was no time for a detour to the shelter of the Ramparts.

  Ironically, it was the rain which gave Bander two seconds of advance notice that he was being attacked. 

  After leaving the guildhall, Bander found himself pushing through the throngs of merchants, hawkers, barkers, beggars, porters, and shoppers who swarmed through the Emporium, a gargantuan marketplace that sprawled along the south shore of Laketon’s harbor. The Emporium was nearly as large as Waterside’s Bazaar, but unlike that city’s market (which was a collection of hundreds of independent merchants) the Emporium was operated by a single company. The venerable Futhark Trading Company had held the mercantile charter in Laketon for over 27 generations. That meant that it controlled all the retail trade within the city’s official marketplace. Independent vendors existed around the fringes of the city, and certainly within the Ramparts, but most citizens gave their money to Futhark—one way or another. 

  Bander contemplated this monopoly as he gnawed his grilled meat skewer and strolled down Duke’s Cross. He cut through the manufacturing district south of the Emporium where huge factories, workshops, and mill buildings towered above his head. The streets were quieter here, with few pedestrians—just the occasional two-wheeled delivery cart stacked high with sacks of grain or bolts of cloth. As he stepped into an alley way to avoid being splashed by a cart, he saw the puddle. Or more specifically—what was reflected in the puddle. It was a dark human shape hurtling toward him. Flyer.

  Dropping the skewer, Bander dove into the alley and tucked into a roll. Then several things happened nearly at once. Three Flyers slid down their grappling lines and surrounded him. And someone threw a weighted net on him. Which wasn’t good.

  Bander knew that there’s not much he could do on the ground in an alley with a net on him. He’d been in this situation many times before. The assailants didn’t have a lot of options. They would either need to kill him or subdue him while he was in the net, or they would have to remove the net. In his experience most usually opted for the latter. The dumb ones tried to haul him to his feet themselves. The smarter ones would make him lie down with a ranged weapon pointed at him before they removed the net. The Flyer behind Bander produced a compact crossbow and instructed Bander to do just that. When Bander was face down, one of the guards kneeled on Bander’s back, reached in through the net, yanked Bander’s arms in back of him, and secured his wrists with a leather strap. He then pulled off the net and hauled Bander to his feet. All in all, perfect procedure. Exactly what Bander would have done himself. Except that last bit. Getting close to Bander while pulling him up—that was a mistake. A bad one. Bander had noticed that the Flyers did not wear helmets—which meant that their heads—or more specifically their faces—were unprotected. 

  As the guard hoisted Bander up, Bander snapped his head back in a hard, sharp movement. It was a reverse head butt that caught the Flyer on the bridge of his nose. Crunch! The man stumbled back in blinding pain. Bander pivoted as the second guard fired his crossbow—and missed. At least it missed Bander. The bolt sliced through the arm of the third Flyer who was standing in back of Bander, trying to unsheathe a weapon. Lesson two: when surrounding an enemy, stagger your formation. Especially when there are ranged weapons in play.

  Bander ran at the crossbowman like an angry bull. He used his considerable forward momentum to smash the man against the stone wall of the alley with his shoulder, knocking the wind out of him. A powerful kick to the Flyer’s head finished the job.

  The remaining guard ignored his wound and pulled a short, single-bladed, hooked axe from a sheath on his back. The axe looked like a sawed-off halberd. Bander recognized the weapon as a werris, the traditional weapon of the Gaurorz Raiders. It was a decent choice for close-quarters combat as you could both slash with its wide blade and jab with the spike at the end of the axe head. The Flyer was smart. He was using the werris to jab at Bander. 

  Fighting with his hands behind his back certainly limited Bander’s options. He basically was restricted to using his head and his feet as weapons. The axe-wielding Flyer had already seen Bander use his head to spectacularly smash a guardsman’s face. Bander played the threat up—dancing and bobbing his head like a snake. One of the feints worked. The Flyer saw an apparent opening and jabbed full force with what he believed would be a killing blow.

  It didn’t work out that way. Bander spun, narrowly escaping the werris spike, and swept his foot forward, tripping the Flyer. The man stumbled and Bander shuffled a half step—then kicked out with all his might into the Flyer’s ribcage which collapsed like an egg being squeezed. A few seconds later Bander was free of his restraints and in possession of a werris. But as he turned to exit the alley, his path was cut off by the arrival of a mounted guardsman wearing the insignia of Captain of the Guard—as well as a helmet.

  “Stand down!” the man bellowed in a commanding voice, as he drew his longsword.

  “By whose authority?” Bander replied. Axe versus sword. He liked those odds better.

  There was some hesitation, then the man’s voice shifted to a normal tone, albeit one of disbelief. “Bander?” 

  “Tarthas Jorr?”

  The guardsman swung down from his horse in a single perfect motion and clasped Bander in a warm hug. Tarthas Kor was about a hand shorter than Bander with a strong, wiry physique and corded muscles like snaca vines. He wore a close-cropped beard that was peppered with grey and he peered out from his helmet with big friendly eyes which belied his ferocity as a warrior. Tarthas Jorr was Bander’s Second down in Rundlun, but the two men hadn’t seen each other in years. 

  “What in Dynark’s Blood have you done to my men?” Tarthas Jorr exclaimed as he surveyed the carnage in the alley.

  “A little misunderstanding, I fear.”

  “Are they dead?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  While Bander checked the fallen Flyers, Tarthas Jorr exited the alley and blew a urus horn to summon help. Within a few minutes a city patrol arrived and quickly had the situation under control. 

  “We need to speak privately, old son,” Tarthas Jorr told Bander. The Captain of the Guard handed his horse over to one of his men and then led Bander to a quiet pub on the edge of the manufacturing district.

  “You’re a wanted man,” said Tarthas Jorr once they had been seated in a private room in the back of the pub.

  “Is that why your guards were after me?”

  “We were notified by the Mage Guild that a fugitive was loose in the vicinity of the cathedral area. I didn’t know it was you. I would have sent six men—”

  Bander rolled his eyes.

  “Perhaps ten men,” Tarthas Jorr said.

  At that point, a barkeep entered with a flagon of mead and some mugs. When he left, Tarthas Jorr leaned in. “What did you do to anger the Mage Guild?”

  “I don’t think it was the entire Guild…”

  “Don’t tell me—”

  “Apparently, I have a new friend. A battle mage named Raggur-something. I facilitated a midmorning nap for him while I had a chat with the Guild Master. I’m supposed to be back there right now to bid farewell to a mage who was helping with my investigation, but I have a suspicion that I may no longer be welcome.”

  “You need to get this cleared up,” Tarthas Jorr said as he pushed a mug of mead over to Bander. “Asryn’s bounty hunters started coming in from Waterside this morning. You’ve got the Guild stirred up like a hornet’s nest. There could be an official extradition request any day.”

 
“I was hoping to speak with Bryn.”

  “Get in line. No one has seen him for days.”

  “Isn’t he with the Viceroy?”

  “He was. Three days ago. Not a word since. Scrying hasn’t turned up anything. Isan Lagurian is watching the hearth while the Lord Governor is gone.”

  “Lagurian? I met him in Waterside before this whole thing started to sink into the sullage.”

  Tarthas Jorr took a deep swig of mead. “Maybe you should start at the beginning.”

  So that’s what Bander did. He recounted the tale of Tobin Leroth’s death, Vala’s imprisonment, and his narrow escape with Silbra Dal. 

  At the end of the story, his friend shook his head. “What are you going to do?”

  “I need to get back to Waterside at once and free Vala before they execute her. Then I need to figure out who’s behind all this and why they’ve targeted us. That’s why I was hoping for Bryn’s aid. But it looks like he might be needing my help instead…”

  “I can let you know the moment he returns—”

  Bander shook his head. “No time for that now. I need a new plan.”

  “What about trying to pull together a mercenary team? Donal’s squad is in town. So are the Valshoodin Brothers. Of course, they are most likely here looking for you.”

  “That wouldn’t work. Even if they weren’t hunting me, I don’t have the gold to hire them…” Bander thought for a moment. “What do you say, Captain? Feel like taking a few days off for some freelance work? Your Lord Governor would look very favorably on this endeavor, I can guarantee that…”

  Tarthas Jorr rubbed the back of his neck. “Tempting, old son, tempting. But unlike you, I am employed by the Empire and it would be unseemly—to say the least—for me to be involved in an act of aggression between city-states. However, you just gave me an idea…”

  They finished their mead and walked to a guard station on the Lake Road. There Tarthas Jorr procured two horses and a less-ostentatious cloak for Bander and they rode across town to the Palace District which was dominated by a compound of government buildings and, of course, the striking pentagonal structure known as Castle Flower.

  “Where are we going?” Bander asked.

  “Why, the dungeons, of course…”

  Laketon’s dungeon complex was much larger and older than the Waterside prison. They traveled through multiple checkpoints and guard stations as they wound their way down to the third underground cellblock level beneath the castle.

  “You ever hear of someone named Dusk?” asked Tarthas Jorr as they descended a dark stone staircase.

  “Dusk? Is that a person?”

  “Yes. Thief, spy, assassin, what have you. I’ve got Dusk and two of the gang here. They’re awaiting trial for an attempted robbery of charfit smugglers. My men have been doing so well in the Ramparts that the court is backed up for another month or so. I can lend you this lot for a few days, but you have to bring them back alive and intact next week for their court date.”

  “This is your big idea?” Bander shook his head. “Letting me borrow smugglers?”

  “Robbers, old son. They stole from charfit smugglers. Very resourceful. Reserve your judgment until you meet them. You may be surprised.”

  Towards the back of the cellblock was a series of enclosures. Only three contained prisoners. As they approached, the man in the first cell called out, “Oy! It’s been three days since I’ve seen the sun! This is cruel and unusual—”

  “Shut your gob, Boldfist,” Tarthas Jorr said.

  “Oh, look. Seems like the Captain hisself has deigned to grace us with his presence and he brought a friend. How nice!” The prisoner was a mountain of a man—almost as tall Bander, but where Bander was made of nearly solid muscle, this man was pudgy and soft-looking. His had a round face with long stringy hair fringing a balding pate. His ham-like fists were covered with thick calluses which Bander took to be a promising sign.

  “Faramir Boldfist, highwayman, ruffian, brawler,” Tarthas Jorr said by way of introduction.

  “Ex-highwayman, if you please,” Faramir Boldfist said. “Living to the letter of the law these days, I am.”

  Tarthas Jorr pointed to the man in the next cell. “Wegg of Kreed’s Keep. Traveled a long way to get into trouble. He’s an apothecary and healer by vocation.” Bander couldn’t judge the man’s size; the healer was slumped on the floor in one corner of his cell. He didn’t even bother to look up at them. “He’s a bit ornery as far as healers go,” Tarthas Jorr continued. “Just as soon let you bleed out than patch you up.” From what Bander could see of his face, the man looked to be in his third decade, but his hair was almost completely grey.

  “And last, but not least, one of our most unwelcome guests here at the Laketon dungeons, the thief Dusk.”

  Bander peered into the cell and was surprised to see a tall red-haired woman in a gown. She looked nothing like a thief. In fact, she looked more like a noblewoman. She was about a decade younger than him, with a pale complexion, full lips. and dark eyes with thick lashes.

  “Pleased to meet you, good sir.” she said in a demure voice.

  “You may stop the mummery, Lady DuSone,” Tarthas Jorr said. “Captain Bander is immune to your deceits.”

  “Captain Bander? Not the famed Imperial investigator himself?”

  “One in the same,” Bander said, moving closer to get a better look at the woman. “And who might you be? I heard two names in connection with your lovely visage…”

  The woman bowed slightly in recognition of the complement. “I was born Abelle Mix. My father was Augir Mix of the Mix Stables in Vale and my husband was the Duke Garr DuSone of Hryssan, dearly departed I’m sad to say.”

  “The good lady omitted the small detail of the manner of Duke DuSone’s unfortunate demise. The lord was poisoned, it seems. With some people actually believing that Duchess Abelle was somehow implicated in the old man’s death.”

  “I seem to remember hearing something about the Duke of Hryssan when we were in Rundlun,” Bander said.

  “Aye, it was the talk of the city for a time,” Tarthas Jorr said. “Didn’t find his body for three days. By then it was too late for resurrection.”

  “Pity I was away in Vale,” the woman said. “Sometimes I blame myself for the tragedy.”

  “You, the Duke’s family, and the Hryssan guard.” Tarthas Jorr said to her—then turned back to Bander and resumed his tale. “As the legend goes, Duchess Abelle fled Hryssan and the Southlands and fell in with the Rhingols. She rose up through the ranks, eventually saved up her coin for a glimmer which gave her those lovely red locks, and started going by the name Dusk.”

  “Surely you understand, Captain,” Dusk said to Bander. “Oft times starting anew is the only sensible course of action. There is no crime in that.”

  “Certainly not, my lady,” Tarthas Jorr said agreeably. “However there is a crime in drowning Embid Rhinghol in the canals of Hamwick—”

  “You were the one who killed Embid Rhinghol?” Bander was surprised and a bit impressed. The man had been a notorious and ruthless criminal who operated gangs throughout the Rangeland cities until his death two years ago.

  “I was with him when he had his unfortunate accident,” Dusk admitted. “He was serenading me in a swan boat on the Royal Canal. Most people did not appreciate Embid Rhingol’s artistic temperament.”

  “They found his body half eaten by eels. It had been weighed down with chains. Duchess Abelle—”

  “Dusk, if you please—”

  “Dusk took over the syndicate in Hamwick for a time, until Embid’s brother Kaerin moved in. At which time the good lady thought it might be prudent to leave the city for parts north.”

  “You couldn’t take care of Kaerin?”

  “It wasn’t for lack of trying, sir.”

  Bander nodded at her and then turned back to Tarthas Jorr. “Interesting…”

  “Well, do you want them or not?” asked Tarthas Jorr.

  “I don’
t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I need to interview them first.” Bander handed his sap to Tarthas Jorr. “Hold this for me and give me the keys to these cells.”

  Tarthas Jorr handed over a ring of keys. “You sure you know what you are doing, old son?”

  “Lock down the floor and come back in thirty minutes.”

  Wegg the healer rose to his feet. Faramir Boldfist moved closer to the cell door. Even Dusk was curious about what Bander was up to.

  “Be careful,” Tarthas Jorr said as he turned towards the exit corridor.

  “Thirty minutes,” Bander reiterated. “These three will either be eager to help me or they will be dead. Either way, I’m doing you a favor by taking them off your hands.”