Pern did not reply. He did not need to reply. Anyone who could afford a Haarin knew the price was worth it. Rarely did a Haarin work for the blooded but then this customer boasted no affiliation with any of the nine houses. Besides that, if the clan elder agreed to the contract, it was not Pern's place to argue or speculate. It was his place to serve the clan and that meant protecting the client no matter the cost.
With a wave from the customer one his guards walked away and returned a few minutes later with more men carrying four large iron-bound chests. Each of the chests weighed a lot judging from the expressions on the faces of the slaves who carried them. There was a loud, monetary jingle of metal coin on metal coin as each chest was set down.
“S'pose ya'll be wantin' ta count it?” the customer asked in his drawl.
The elder smiled. “We will do so later. If there is any discrepancy in payment you will be informed or refunded.”
The client turned to walk away then looked over his shoulder. He had a striking profile; sharp features with a permanently amused quality. “You must make a lot o' bits,” he said. “I'd be interested ta know where ya kept so much money.”
The elder smiled in the same way he would at a foolish child. “The clan keeps its money in a safe place. There is no need to worry.”
“Aye? Funny thing. I never met a safe gold bit before,” the client laughed and started walking away. At a nod from the elder Pern shouldered his pack and followed his client for the next ten years.
Pern really didn't own much. Such was the way of the Haarin. He had but one set of armour; boiled leather with a light chain-linked shirt over the top and a plain white tabard to keep the metal from becoming too hot in the sun, and a bronze half-helm wrapped in cloth. His sword, as with all Haarin, never strayed far from his side. His pack contained some small amount of food; salted beef for the most part, a large water skin, some medical supplies in case he was injured, and equipment to properly maintain his armour and weapon. A Haarin needed no personal effects and the client was required to provide anything else he may need.
One of the younglings, a boy by the name of Tek ran over and tried to match pace with Pern, his legs were not yet long enough but Pern did not slow.
“Are you going out on contract?” the boy demanded.
“Yes. I have been chosen to serve the clan,” Pern responded.
“You been chosen ta serve me more like,” the client said without turning.
“I serve the clan, the clan serves you, I protect you,” Pern corrected. The client snorted.
“I wish I could go,” Tek continued. “See the world outside the camp.”
“You are too young,” Pern said though the truth was much harsher. The child would never be chosen for a contract because he would never be Haarin. Tek was too scrawny and sickly to undergo the Haarin training; he would spend his life in service to the clan in other ways. There was no shortage of jobs for the weak and the infirm to carry out.
The client laughed. “World outside is a dangerous place. Hell of a lot o' shit ta seduce a man.” He looked back to grin at Tek. “Or a boy. Bet ya never even heard of a pleasure house, eh? Much like a whore house but more expensive an' they cater ta any an' all tastes.”
The boy looked worried, he wasn't sure if he should be talking to a client. Pern tapped him twice on the shoulder and nodded back towards the camp. “Go now, Tek. I will see you again in ten years.”
“Unless I'm on contract by then,” Tek said with a grin and ran off. Pern watched him go for a moment then turned back to the client. The man was no longer in front of him; he had dropped back silently and now walked besides Pern. The Haarin tried to hide his alarm that the man could move with so little noise.
“What 'bout you, Haarin Pern Suzku? Not likely ta get seduced by the shiny sights an' pretty ladies in my city?”
Pern kept his gaze level and face expressionless. “I am Haarin.”
Again the client laughed. “Aye. Well I seen loftier 'an you fall. I been all over these wilds. I've killed blooded lords and bit-less thugs. I've robbed from the rich and poor alike. I fucked pirate queens an’ two-bit whores an' even the most dangerous little bitch ya ever likely ta meet. I climbed ta the top of the Gods Eye an' swam the length o' the Jorl. Been everywhere an' done it all, I have. Even spent some time crewing with the Black Thorn an' let me tell you; a more murderous bastard ya never seen.”
Pern did not respond; he was not required to. His contract was to guard the client's life; not to pamper his ego. Instead he looked around the camp for one last time. He looked upon the small wood and hide huts that had housed him, painted white against the heat of the wild, pitiless sun. He looked at the large cook fire in the centre of the camp where all his meals had been cooked; almost every meal he had ever eaten. He looked at the women returning from the nearby river carrying buckets of water to refill the camp's stores. Pern had never known his mother, he had been chosen as Haarin from a very young age but it was possible she still lived here in the camp. He looked at the giant skeleton of a Carrock bird that hung outside the shaman's tent, the shaman who had helped bring him into this world, the shaman who had named him and the shaman who had decided he would be Haarin. His life had not been long so far; as a trainee it had been hard but simple, as Haarin not under contract it had been tiresome. Pern found himself wondering what his life would be now he had a contract, now he had a client.
“Aye, ol' Swift has done it all,” the client was still talking, more to himself than to Pern. “An now ol' Swift has got more enemies than he cares ta count an' every single one o' the fuckers knows where ta find me. So you best be worth the fortune I jus’ fuckin' spent on ya.”
Again Pern kept his gaze level and his face expressionless. “I am Haarin.”
Thorn
Thump. Thump. Thump.
He woke to a soft scuffing, or maybe a shuffling; it was hard to tell over the noise of the damned, ceaseless pounding. Thorn's eye flicked open and scanned the right side of the room. An elderly man was standing over him and staring at Betrim's chest while muttering to himself.
“Oh... you're awake,” the old man sounded surprised. Betrim just stared at the man with his one eye. “Your stab wounds seem to be healing well. An impressive collection of scars, I must say. How many times have you been wounded?” He had a kind face and an even kinder voice.
Betrim felt a tugging in his head, a pressing need to answer the man's question. “Too many,” he tried to say but all that came out was a scratchy growl.
“Ahh, sorry about that. Just one moment.” The old man disappeared from view and returned a short while later with a skin. He squirted some of the cold water into Betrim's mouth. Thorn had never tasted anything so good. “A little bit at a time,” the old man said. “Otherwise you'll choke. Have to get used to it.”
He wasn't wrong. Betrim sucked down some more water and ended up coughing most of it up over his face. It felt like an age before he could speak again.
“Who... are you?” He growled at the old man. Problem was it was hard to sound menacing when you were strapped down, naked, on a table.
“My name is Oswell Fields.”
“Arbiter?”
The old man hesitated for a moment then nodded. “Yes. I am an Arbiter.”
“Let. Me. Go,” Betrim hissed.
Arbiter Oswell Fields sighed and shook his head. He was a short man, would have been dwarfed by Betrim had he been standing, with short silver hair and shining blue eyes. His face was long, with too much skin and all of it sagging like a thin man who was once fat. Small grey hairs seemed to sprout from everywhere on his face; his nose, his chin, his ears. Betrim noticed his teeth when he talked; two missing from the looks of it and mostly white with a touch of brown on some. Betrim had seen that kind of discolouring before; the old Arbiter smoked casher weed.
“I can't let you go, I'm afraid. It's just...”
“Why?” Betrim demanded, his one eye holding all the fury of a particularly angry thunderstorm.
“Because you're the Black Thorn.” The old Arbiter sighed and sat down on something Betrim couldn't see. He began to wring his hands together. “You've murdered... how many Arbiters?”
Again Betrim felt the tugging in his mind. “Six.”
The old Arbiter pulled a face, somewhere between a wince and having trapped wind, Betrim reckoned. “I don't think there is another man alive who can claim that. You're to be tried for heresy, I'm afraid to say. As soon as you're well enough which, I think, will be very soon. I don't mean to spoil the ending for you but I'm fairly certain you'll be burned.”
Betrim felt the need to rub at the burn scar on his face. Problem was his hands were bound to the table. He tried to move all the same, his left hand shifted some, not by much, just a little.
“What 'bout my pardon?” He asked the old Arbiter. “Thanquil promised me a pardon.”
“I'm not sure I know a Thanquil,” Arbiter Oswell Fields said looking confused.
“Uhh. Arbiter Thanquil Darkheart,” Betrim said. If he could get this man to find Thanquil he could get his friend to set him free. Assuming the Arbiter still counted Betrim as a friend. They hadn't exactly parted on the best of terms; the Black Thorn had left Thanquil bloody and spitting teeth.
“Oh... of course you wouldn't know.” The old Arbiter took a pouch from around his neck and pulled from it a small ceramic pipe, he filled the bowl of the pipe with a dried brown weed from the same pouch and then stood to light the weed from the torch. “Arbiter Darkheart was tried for heresy and found guilty,” he said as he sat back down and puffed out a breath of smoke.
“What?” Betrim felt an impending need to hit something. Hard.
“For the attempted murder of an Inquisitor no less. Ambitious undertaking I’d say.”
“Attempted?”
“Yes,” the old Arbiter was nodding to his words. “He failed thanks to someone I believe you know. Arbiter Kessick, the man who brought you in, arrived just in time to save Inquisitor Heron. Captured both you and Arbiter Darkheart in one night. A hero really. Back in the wilds now, I believe, though I can't be sure. These wandering Arbiters are so hard to keep track of.”
Now Betrim wanted to scream. It was all his fault. If he hadn't been so damned drunk, if he had been able to kill Kessick like they planned, Thanquil would have killed the traitorous Inquisitor and...
“Is he dead?” Betrim asked.
“Who?”
“Thanquil. Arbiter Darkheart.”
“Oh yes. Quite dead. Stripped of his title and burned at the stake for his crimes. An expected end for a Darkheart.”
“What about Jezzet?” Betrim asked, feeling a pressing need to know if any of his friends had survived.
“Uhhh...”
Of course this old Arbiter wouldn't know who Jezzet was. Betrim tried to think of the Arbiter she had been sent to kill. “Kosh! What about Arbiter Kosh?”
The old man nodded, took another deep puff of smoke and blew it out in Betrim’s face. “Yes I do seem to remember Arbiter Kosh was attacked that same night. By a woman I believe. Caused quite a stir when he killed her on the streets. I’m told she was stark naked of all things.” The Arbiter barked out a chuckle and shook his head in wonder.
That was it then. They were gone. Betrim had lost two more friends and failed in their bargain. Truth was Betrim could now count the amount of friends he had left on one three-fingered hand and he was fairly certain he’d have fingers left to spare.
“Fuckin' witch hunters,” Betrim spat with as much venom as he could muster.
The old man's face went hard. “Yes, well I'm not sure that's entirely fair. I'll be recommending that you are ready to stand trial soon.”
Betrim tensed his left hand; there was some give in the bond, not much but it might be enough. “My eye...” he said before the old Arbiter could leave.
“Is gone,” the Arbiter replied in a terse tone, all friendliness gone. “Not that it will matter soon enough.”
“It itches.”
“Yes. It will do that,” the old Arbiter said with a sigh. “Missing bits of the body often do. I would have thought you, of all people, would know that.” Another sigh. “I'll take a look.”
The old man emptied his pipe on the floor and placed it back in its pouch then stood and shuffled his way around the table to Betrim's left side and bent himself over to peer into Betrim's face. It was a disconcerting thing to have someone that close, staring at you that hard and only be able to see them out of the corner of your eye. Betrim tensed his left arm. He pulled, pushed, twisted, wriggled and struggled to get his hand free from its binding.
“There's some inflammation around the socket. I could apply some ointment but... You'll be dead in a few days. Can’t you put up with it until then?”
The old Arbiter seemed to notice Betrim's arm moving for the first time and stepped away with alarm just as his hand scraped free from its bondage, leaving a fair portion of skin behind.
Betrim was slower than he'd have liked, slower than he remembered being. His hand caught hold of the Arbiter's wrist just as the man tried to leap away. Betrim pulled and the Arbiter stumbled backwards and fell on top of his prisoner. With a furious growl the Black Thorn wrapped a once meaty arm around the Arbiter's neck and tensed with all the strength he could muster though that unfortunately was not much.
Back before Kessick had stabbed him and ripped out his eye, before he had been strapped to a table for the Gods knew how long; Betrim had been strong, not as strong as some but strong enough all the same. Now he felt weak, his arms were tired and wasted, his bones felt as though they pushed against the skin and the old man he was trying to choke was putting up a fair sized fight.
The thing about Arbiters, Betrim knew, was that even if they weren't the strongest or fastest or most skilful; they tended to cheat. The bastards had all sorts of magic. With their prayers to their God they could increase their strength and speed, they had all sorts of charms that could purge a hangover or stop a man from remembering his own name. They had runes that could set things on fire and others that could cause the world to grow cold and dark. Betrim had even seen an Arbiter make a wall of stone explode with little more than a word once. The trick to killing an Arbiter, if you couldn't do it before they saw you coming, was to stop them from talking. With that thought in mind Betrim pressed down as hard as he could on the old man's neck, crushing his throat and stopping him from praying.