Commandment (25 page)

A twinkle lanced her eyeball. Resting next to Torkoth was a sword. It was unwrapped now, as he had brandished it in the Fornix to stave off the pimp. The pommel contained a peculiar jewel, and the hilt was wrapped in some kind of reptile hide. In all it was a stately arm, certainly not the standard fodder of the local weapon-wrights. But something about the arm resonated with the Acaanan. Then it dawned on her—this was none other than Ku-Than’s exotic blade! She had marveled at it the night of the star fall. Its unique features couldn’t be duplicated. But what was Torkoth doing with the arm? Had the shaman given the blade to the Half-man? If so, then why hadn’t Torkoth relied on the arm in their foray into Ebon Myre? This led Lakif to fear that her partner had confiscated the item after their invasion of the monastery. Harboring the slain shaman’s articles was a glaring red flag. She imagined the Half-man gutting the strung up mystic chaps to groin with his own blade! Lakif now more than ever quaked with dread at her dozing partner.

She tried to shake the ghastly scene from her mind. Whatever schemes Torkoth was up to, he had acted only in Lakif’s best interests up to now. Was he truly forthright in supporting the Acaanan, or was he lulling her into false confidence? She could wrap her mind around it a thousand ways and still come up empty. But whatever the truth, she needed Torkoth’s canny reflexes and strong arm at this juncture. But she promised to keep a third eye planted on her partner from now on.

She turned and looked out the window and up into the night sky, specifically to where the star had burned so brightly before. To her dismay, the site was an inky well. She reflected on Capalos’ words in the train station. Tonight was the twelth night out from the star fall.

“H
OW CAN
I
HELP YOU?” THE CLERK ASKED WITH DISINTERESTED EYES.

Lakif stepped forward, summoning up her most cavalier tone.

“My liege is returning to his manor on the Isle of Alma. Important matters have surfaced that require his immediate attention. Time is of the essence, and he requires a carriage as far as the Dank Well Chateau.” Lakif paused to evaluate the effect of her eloquence on the employee.

“Liege? Alma?” the bleary-eyed clerk mumbled. They were in the Arachna’s foyer yard, negotiating with a clerk. Lakif had spouted the introduction with as much speed as she could muster. The Acaanan’s intent was that the clerk would only catch isolated words, thus putting the fellow on the defensive right from the start. She didn’t know if there was an isle called Alma in the Dank Well Sea, but the clerk would not be in a position to dispute this. No one could know more than a few of the countless islands that dotted that endless ocean. The clerk’s befuddled expression suggested that Lakif had succeeded.

“You heard me correctly,” Lakif urged.

“You require a carriage?” the clerk clarified.

“Yes. Chop-chop!” Lakif exhorted, clapping her hands together. Her role in the charade was that of the
liege’s
dutiful assistant.

Just as the clerk turned to run off, Torkoth interjected.

“Wait!” He had been standing astutely at the Acaanan’s side. As he was armored and bearing obvious weaponry, he was to assume the role of the liege’s private guard. The clerk screeched to a halt and spun around at the urgency of his tone.

Lakif threw her companion a disapproving frown. “You know our liege is in a hurry!”

“Yes, but…” Torkoth drew in close and whispered into the Acaanan’s ear through the funnel of a cupped hand.

“Excellent point.” Lakif nodded, acknowledging the private message.

“Good sir.” Lakif redirected her attention back to the frazzled clerk. “My liege is rather punctilious in his taste of horses.” She suspected that the clerk wouldn’t know the meaning of
punctilious
, but that was all the better to bamboozle the lackey.

“It goes back to his childhood stallion, Excelsior. It was a sad story really…” At this, Torkoth nudged her elbow.

“I digress.” Lakif pretended to wipe a wispy tear from the corner of her eye. “The short of it is that we will have to see the horses firsthand.”

“Pardon?” The clerk blinked.

“You didn’t hear me?” Lakif added a tincture of ire to her words. “Has a colt kicked you in the ear?”

“Yes, but…” The clerk hesitated.

“We will need to see the horses! We can’t very well leave the choice up to Lady Luck. If the Master is displeased with either one of them, he will demand a replacement, and all this will eat precious time. Fortunately, I’m in a position to judge his tastes.”

“Customers are not allowed in the livery,” the clerk stuttered.

“This is unacceptable!” Lakif barked.

“Then I would have to consult with the manager…”

“Take the initiative, man!” Lakif encouraged the quaking clerk. “There is no need to involve…”

“I have to confer with the manager!” the clerk warbled.

Before Lakif could object, the meek-mannered clerk chimed a bell. The Acaanan inwardly huffed. Their first plan, directed toward hoodwinking the clerk, had failed. Now they would have to deal with another personality altogether. The more bureaucracy involved, the slimmer their chances of success.

Lakif vowed that she would dispatch the manager swiftly. She would drill the paper-pusher with her sternest look. Hopefully, all resistance would melt under the weight of her evil eye.

The Acaanan’s confidence sank through the floor the moment the manager appeared. The woman loomed larger than life in a doorway above, filling the entire threshold. She was, to the Acaanan’s eye, the burliest woman she had ever seen. Although not particularly tall, her shoulders were so broad as to nearly lodge in the door-jamb. Her face was as tough as a leather breastplate, and her curly chestnut hair uncannily resembled a helmet. A prominent Adam’s apple and a moustache belied her sex. In fact, Lakif would have sworn the virago was a male if not for those breasts that protruded out like cones. She imagined her brassiere was so sturdy that it could double as a trap for imps. Lakif immediately knew this was a no-nonsense taskmaster who ran her business by complete protocol. The manager steamrolled down the stairs; she was clearly incensed at the disturbance.

“What’s the problem here?” She scowled, her voice vacant of any trace of femininity. Lakif would have to polish her sternest glare to cow this disciplinarian.

As the clerk recanted their peculiar request, the battle-axe’s face hardened into a hatchet. Lakif was taken aback by her demeanor. The shrew was as filled with gall by their request as was with testosterone by nature. With each word from the clerk, she only hardened further.

“Clients are not allowed in the stables!” She waved a calloused hand, deflecting the query into the trash bin.

“Of course, there are exceptions,” Lakif began. She mustered the full force of her evil eye, flashing it on the termagant.

“Arachna policy forbids clients in the stables for legal reasons. The lawyers would have a field day!” the tank explained in a brusque tone. Unfortunately, the dyke stood irresolute before her most penetrating look.

“We can sign a waiver…” Lakif faltered before the shrew.

“No, the rules are quite firm on that account,” the manager stated sternly, hammering the point home. “Your employer will have to accept whatever horses we arrange.”

The martinet had settled the issue, leaving no room for discussion. Lakif knew they had no hope of persuading this hard-boiled spinster. In desperation, she looked to Torkoth for aid. He, too, was well aware of the trouble and was scratching the back of his head. This was his sign to Bael that they were floundering. The Kulthean, who was waiting outside, was their final trump card.

“Rebekah!” A resonant voice boomed out from the entry hall. Bael had adopted Lakif’s favorite pseudonym.

“A grave situation is brewing,” Lakif mumbled, looking around nervously for a place to hide.

With wide strides, Bael marched into the foyer yard. Although Lakif had been expecting the Kulthean, she found herself stunned at the grand entrance.

Bael’s freshly shaven chin was as sharp as a blade; his black hair was crimped and gelled into a sheen. A dark cape was clasped around his collar by a silver chain and billowed in his trail. With a leather-gloved hand, he brandished a thin cane topped with a polished mother-of-pearl knob. Formal black boots rose nearly knee-high, accentuating his already imposing stature. Donned in such rich livery, Bael was the very portrait of a Kulthean. The garb had been Bael’s own, apparently reserved for special occasions. Only the cane had been purchased for the charade. It was a last-minute addition by the Kulthean, who thought it would offer a visual cue of authority. Each individual item, by any standard, was of royal quality. Together, they combined to synthesize a triumphant image. Contrary to the popular expression, Lakif felt that this time, it was the man who made the garb. Bael’s own charisma brought out the article’s features in a way no other man could.

The Kulthean’s entrance riveted the attention of all.

“How fares our course, Rebekah?” Bael barked with an authoritative tone.

“Unfortunately, we are deadlocked.” Lakif gulped.

“Come now?” Bael’s voice reverberated throughout the courtyard.

“Sadly, we have to take whatever horses are offered,” Lakif hesitantly explained.

“Hobson’s choice! Have I become the Count of Alma by taking what is offered? This will not do! Who is in charge here?” Although their dialogue had been carefully scripted, Lakif found herself convinced that the Kulthean was indeed an indignant noble.

“He is,” Lakif said, pointing an accusing finger at the clerk, who immediately pointed to the manager.

“How are you called?” Bael pointed his cane at the woman’s robust chest. Lakif was mute, stunned by the Kulthean’s dynamic presence.

“Torren, sir, the manager of this Arachna.” The manager’s tone had noticeably softened. Even her name was telling. Lakif knew it was related to the word
tower
. Fittingly, it was a staunchly man’s name.

“Well, Torren, didn’t my underling explain the situation clearly?”

“Crystal clear.” A quiver warbled the shrew’s reply. Lakif inwardly smirked, sensing that her former bravado was melting away before the heat of the Kulthean’s presence.

“Then I hope we can settle this matter.” Bael waved the shiny cane around as if it were a rapier. He then pointed the majestic rod toward the clerk’s chest. The lackey paled at being singled out. “I want
you
to fetch the beasts personally.”

“Me?” the clerk shrieked.

“Of course! My two underlings will accompany you. Promptly!” Bael issued the command with papal-like majesty. The directive forced the clerk into complete attention.

“I appreciate your sympathetic ear.” Bael returned his attention to the manager. Suddenly, his dictatorial demeanor vanished, replaced with a heart-rending smile. Lakif was spellbound by the change. “It is indeed comforting to see the power of compassion levied, and you, my lady, are its very purveyor.”

“However we may be of service.” The woman nearly whimpered. Before the combined force of Bael’s praise and his sterling silver image, the shrew had buckled.

“What are you waiting for?” Lakif was rudely poked with the cane, forcing her back to matters at hand. Bael had resumed his orders and was upbraiding her for her dalliance.

The fretting clerk hastened down the hall, and the Acaanan and Half-man followed in train. Lakif’s focus darted into every portal they passed, sizing up security.

All manner of crazy ideas had been thrown out on the table the previous evening. Through the cloud of blathering, a plan had gradually materialized. Simply put, they would fabricate a need to be in the stables and inspect the horses. Then, the Acaanan and Half-man would simply ride the steeds out before they could be hitched to the carriage. It was comically simple. The only other leading contender was to actually hire out a carriage and somewhere en route hijack the horses. On the surface, this had seemed like the better of the two options. They wouldn’t have to concern themselves with a potentially hairy situation within the Arachna, or with any resistance they would encounter there.

But the major drawback was how they would dispatch with the driver. According to Bael, these fellows were generally leery sorts and always armed. While they had surprise and numbers on their side, the underpinning fear was that someone, particularly the driver, would be injured in the ensuing melee. Any harm done to the coachman would up the stakes on the heist. Horse thievery could easily escalate to assault with intent to kill. Lakif assumed that this was a graver offense, but considering the district’s quirky judicial system, it could be considered less severe than horse theft. It was thus collectively felt that the heist should be accomplished outright with as much surprise as possible.

The main obstacle was to gain entry into the stables in the first place. They imagined these places were off-limits. Thus was born the hoax just scripted. No one would have any trouble believing the Kulthean was not an actual Count and the two Inhumans his groveling servants. That said, Lakif still harbored misgivings about their chosen plan. She was well aware that plans always appear more feasible on paper than in actual play. But even during their deliberations, Lakif called into question the efficacy of the ruse, branding it a long shot at best. Who would allow an Acaanan to snoop around the steeds? Despite her reservations, she reluctantly agreed to the scheme.

The main obstacle was of a completely different scope. None of them knew how to ride a horse. This was a hurdle they couldn’t avoid and would have to face in stride.

The two Inhumans accompanied the skittish clerk to an adjacent courtyard. The unmistakable signature of manure tainted the stalls. The ground was roughly pitched cobblestone sprinkled with hay. A row of stout wooden gates flanked both sides of the livery. One nearby was wide open. Within, a youth was securing a saddle on a horse. Although Lakif could clearly see the stable hand, the horse was but a vague form. Its sable mane comfortably camouflaged it in the stall’s gloom.