The Silent Blade Read online

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  Copyright

  Dedication

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  The Silent Blade

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  About the author

  Note from the Author

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Silent Blade: A Seven Virtues Novella

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  Copyright © 2017 Jacob Nathaniel Peppers. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

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  The Silent Blade

  The door of the Maiden’s Haven flew open and slammed against the tavern’s inside wall with a resounding crash. Conversations cut off abruptly as men and women turned wary gazes on the open doorway. At first there was only the darkness, huddled and waiting outside the light of the common room, a creeping, living thing. Then a man materialized out of the shadows and stepped into the lantern light. He wore a tattered brown cloak over his clothes, and as he entered, he pushed the hood back to reveal a face that might have been handsome if it hadn’t been so cold. The stranger stopped in the doorway, studying those gathered with eyes that seemed to be everywhere at once, that seemed to know them in an instant and men and women looked away as the weight of that gaze fell on them.

  Benjin, the innkeeper, had lived in the Downs, the poor, crime-riddled district of Avarest for over fifty years, and he’d seen that look before. It was the look of a man with murder on his mind. The thought gave Benjin little comfort, the man himself even less. It wasn’t uncommon for street toughs or men set on violence to come in the Haven, but there was something different about this one, something that made a shiver of fear run up Benjin’s spine. Some of it was the man’s eyes, the way he seemed to take in everything, missing nothing. Part of it was in the way he held himself, a man that looked as if he was only a moment away from violence, but, most of all, it was the fact that, beneath the brown cloak he wore, the stranger’s tunic and trousers were covered in blood, so much of it that Benjin was hard pressed to tell what color they’d originally been.

  Benjin also couldn’t help but notice the sword sheathed at the man’s back. Weapons, too, weren’t a rare sight in the Haven—it was the Downs, after all—but most of the time they were carried by either off duty guards or young men wanting to put on a show about how tough they were. This man wasn’t a guard; Benjin would have bet his life on that. He was more like the reason why people hired guards in the first place, and he thought that any show the man put on would be one he’d pay to miss.

  Benjin let his hand drift beneath the counter to where Bertha, a stout foot and a half club with a well-worn grip, lay always within arm’s reach. Bertha had served him well over the years, and he’d once liked to joke with his friends that his peacemaker could also be a “piece-maker” depending on how the night went. They were old jokes made by a younger, dumber man, and they’d not been made about men like the one now standing in the doorway of his inn. Still, as the stranger approached the bar, the club was some small comfort.

  The man sank onto a stool with an exhausted sigh, and Benjin felt sweat begin to bead on his forehead as the newcomer studied him, his expression unreadable. “I need a room,” he said finally, “And a drink—the strongest you’ve got.”

  “Sure,” Benjin said, having to force the word out. He poured a double shot of whiskey, barely resisting the urge to pour one for himself. He’d quit years ago. It had been lose the booze or lose Sheila, his wife, and that really hadn’t been a choice at all. Five years since the fever had taken her, yet he hadn’t taken the habit up again, had never had the urge. At least, that was, until now.

  He spared a glance at the corner of the room where his daughter, Anna, was serving two bearded men who, judging by their sleeveless shirts and high-cut pants, were sailors only recently arrived from dockside. It was, he suspected, more luck than skill that kept the two mugs of ale from winding up all over their owners considering that Anna (like everyone else in the room, including the men themselves) was studying the stranger with a guarded wariness as if she expected him to draw the sword at his back at any moment.

  Benjin forced thoughts of Anna and the whiskey away. They went hard, especially the whiskey, but they went, thank the gods, and he slid the glass across the bar to the stranger. “There you are. And don’t worry, it’s on the house. About the room though … well, sorry to say we’re all full up.”

  “Oh?” The man said, raising an eyebrow, “Too many fair maidens seeking sanctuary?”

  Benjin tried an uncertain grin, but it felt wrong on his face, so he let it fall. “Something like that.”

  The man sighed and reached into his pocket, withdrew something and tossed it onto the counter. Benjin barely managed to catch it before it rolled off the side of the bar and stared at it in surprise. A gold coin. Real gold, if the weight was any indication. The Haven was no fancy hostel on God’s Row, and if he was being honest with himself it wasn’t even near the best the Downs had to offer. A gold coin like the one he now held would have bought a man a month or more of room and board.

  Benjin swallowed then slowly, reluctantly, put the coin back on the table and slid it back to the man. “Listen, mister, I don’t want any trouble. I’ve a daughter to look after.”

  The man studied him intently, “That yours in the corner there? Big brown eyes? She’s a pretty one—you and the missus must be proud. Though I’ll say she looks plenty old enough to take care of herself. What is she, eighteen? Nineteen?”

  Benjin found himself frowning, his fear giving way to anger—and how had the man known she was his daughter anyway? “Nineteen, she is. And just what concern is that of yours?” As he spoke, his grip tightened on the peacemaker’s handle.

  The stranger waved the question away. “I don’t mean any offense, friend. Look, my name’s Aaron Envelar. What’s yours?”

  “Benjin. Benjin Caldesh.”

  The man reached into his pocket again and, in another moment, a second gold coin rested on the counter beside the first. “Listen, Benjin. I’ve had a really long night. Shit, a long week as far as that goes, and I just need a room and something to eat; there�
��s no need to pull that beater you’re eyeing. And as for trouble, well, it’s already come and gone. The way it will.”

  Benjin’s hand froze where it gripped Bertha’s handle. The way it will. There seemed something a little too final about that last bit, as if maybe the man had been the one to make the trouble—trouble that bled a lot, by the looks of it—go away. Benjin saw Anna shaking her head out of the corner of his eye, but he pretended not to notice, watching the man as he took a long drink of the whiskey. “Alright,” he said finally, letting go of Bertha and putting both his hands on the counter. “That’ll do me fine, but I’d just as soon you not pay so much. Rooms are two coppers a night and dinner’s an extra. Nothing fancy—my daughter Anna isn’t a particularly good cook, takes after her mother, the gods look after her, but you won’t starve.” He reached across to take one of the gold coins, “Let me just get you some change.”

  The man grabbed his hand before he pulled it back and forced the second coin into it. “Never mind that, just take it. And two coppers a night, you say? A third for dinner?” He shook his head, a rueful, tired smile on his face. “An honest man in the Downs. I never thought I’d see it. Just what in the name of Salen’s dead fields are you doing here, anyway?”

  Benjin shrugged, reluctantly taking the coins. “Been here near all my life. Just living.”

  The stranger grunted, taking the sheathed sword from his back and setting it on a stool beside him. If he noticed the looks of relief that spread through the room at that, he gave no sign. “Aren’t we all. Until we’re not, anyway.”

  Benjin swallowed hard, “You know. That is, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so. You’ve got a bit of something right,” he gestured vaguely at the length of the man’s body, “well. Just there.”

  The stranger, Aaron, looked down at himself as if he’d only just noticed the crimson stains on his clothes and nodded. “Yeah. It’s blood. Not mine though. Or, at least,” he shrugged, “most of it.”

  He took another pull of his drink, and Benjin watched him, fascinated despite himself, as the man finished it and sat it down on the counter. “Well, I won’t say it’s good whiskey, but I guess it’ll do the trick.”

  “The only bad kind’s the kind that won’t,” Benjin said, the grin coming easier this time. “Now, about your room—“

  “I’ll show ‘em to it, Master Benjin.”

  Benjin and the stranger turned to see Dayna, the Haven’s newest serving girl, sauntering to the bar. There was a glint of excitement in her eyes Benjin didn’t much care for, and he thought, not for the first time since two weeks ago when he’d hired her, that he’d made a mistake. She was pretty enough, if in a dirty, misused sort of way, and he’d hoped, selfishly maybe, that some of the eyes that so often wandered to his daughter might wander to her instead. And maybe they even did, but it seemed to him that the woman had spilled more drinks than she’d served and anytime work needed doing she somehow managed to disappear. Still, better her than Anna to show the man to his room. “That’ll be fine, Dayna,” he said, “Just come on back soon as you’re done. That stew won’t serve itself.”

  The girl frowned, a look of disappointment on her slightly too-pinched face. “Yeah, alright, Master Benjin.” She turned to Aaron, “This way, mister, on up the stairs, ye get.”

  The man looked at Benjin, raising his eyebrow again, before sliding his empty glass across the table. He grabbed his sword from where it lay and started toward the stairs, Dayna following close behind him. As they walked, Benjin met Anna’s disapproving gaze. For his part, the sellsword was focused on putting one foot in front of the other, the whiskey having hit him harder than normal in his exhausted state. For this reason, neither of them noticed the look Dayna gave to a man sitting by himself at a table in the corner, or the slow smile he showed in return.

  ***

  In his room, the door closed and latched, Aaron finally allowed himself to relax. The room was small with nothing but a simple bed and an old wooden night stand in way of decoration but that didn’t matter to him. It was clean, and what was there was well kept, but most importantly, it had a door with a latch.

  He eased his tunic over his head, wincing as it caught on the quickly drying blood. Despite what he’d said to the innkeeper, Benjin, some of the blood that covered his shirt and trousers most definitely was his. He looked down at his bared torso, grunting as he noticed that the hasty bandage he’d wrapped around the wound in his side was stained a deep crimson. A nasty wound, but not a killing one, thank the gods. The cut on his arm was shallower, and the bandage he’d used to wrap it before leaving his other room was only spotted with blood.

  The rest were only the minor bruises and scrapes a man could expect when fighting for his life. Not bad, all told, for someone woken up in the middle of the night with two men trying to kill him. He bared his teeth at the memory. His door being kicked in, two men, Hale’s men, he was sure of that, charging into his room, their swords drawn.

  And just how had they known it was his room, anyway? Soon, he’d have to pay a visit to Sloan, the inn’s owner, and have a long talk, maybe one of those talks where somebody stops breathing. Still, he’d left the bastard a mess to clean up anyway. The two assassins had died, but they hadn’t died easy, Aaron had made sure of that, and he suspected Hale would have some hard questions for Sloan when his men didn’t come back.

  Maybe you should have just said yes, a part of him thought. A sellsword’s life was no easy one, after all. Taking jobs a man would rather pay good coin to get someone else to do than risk himself at, not to mention the fact that half your employers tried to kill you when the thing was done. No more wondering where his next meal was coming from, no more looking over his shoulder. Hale was, after all, one of the most powerful crime lords in the Downs, matched only by Grinner. Not a purse was stolen or a pocket picked in the Downs that one of the two didn’t get their cut. Would it really be so bad to have some stability? Some people looking out for him?

  But no. He was not a good man, he knew that about himself, had known it for many years now, but he’d promised Darrell, the man who’d taken him in and taught him the sword, that he would not become a criminal, and so he would not. Besides, fuck Hale. The man would learn that being told no to a job offer wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. Aaron would make sure of it.

  A knock on the door pulled him from his reverie, and his eyes snapped up, his hand darting to his sword where it lay on the bed, “Who is it?”

  “Dayna, sir,” the woman said, “come with your food.”

  He kept the sword in hand as he opened the door and took a step back to let her in. The woman held a bowl of steaming soup, and Aaron found his mouth watering as she brought it inside and put it on the nightstand. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he smelled the aroma of cooked meat and vegetables. He frowned as another man entered the room, straining and dragging something behind him.

  Aaron frowned, “Who’s this?”

  “Hmm?” The girl asked, her eyes roaming over his bare torso before finally looking to the doorway. “Oh, don’t mind him, sir, that’s just Olem. He’s a simpleton, you understand, can’t talk, but he’s as strong as an ox. Benjin keeps him around the place to do odd jobs for him.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust, “Though I can’t say as I know why anyone’d want to keep a half-wit like him around.”

  “I don’t know,” Aaron said, meeting her gaze, “maybe having someone around that knows how to keep their mouth shut isn’t such a bad thing. Anyway, what’s he doing?”

  Her face turned red at that, and she opened her mouth to say something before thinking better of it. When she did speak, her tone was abrupt, obviously angry, “I thought as maybe you’d like a bath to wash all that blood off. They’s a well in the basement the water comes up just as hot as you please. Though can’t say as why I bothered if’n I’m just going to get talked to like a piece of trash anyway.”

  If you don’t want to be treated like trash, stop acting like it, Aaron
thought, but he managed to keep the words back. Barely. “Thanks, but I didn’t order a bath.”

  “It won’t cost you none extra. Besides, if’n you lay on the bed with those clothes on, why you’ll get it filthy and who’ll be doing the wash? Not that spoiled Anna, that’s for sure, no not the sort of work for her. Why it’ll be poor old Dayna has to spend her day soakin’ em and washin’ out the blood. That is,” she said, grinning what she must have taken for a seductive grin, “unless you was to sleep naked.”

  Aaron frowned, part of him thinking that the woman could be a problem but the bigger part thinking that a bath did sound good. A chance to wash the blood off, to clean his wounds. He’d seen men die from infection in smaller cuts than the one on his side, and it was never a pretty thing.

  “Alright,” he said, “a bath’ll be fine.” She grinned, and he held up a hand, “a bath and that’s all.”

  She recoiled as if struck and turned to see that Olem had managed to get the wooden tub into the room. “Come on then you idiot,” she said, slapping him on the arm, “His highness is much too good for the likes of us. Best we get out of his way before he sets his guards on us.” She turned back at the door, giving a mock bow, “I’ll be filling it up for you directly, your Majesty.”

  For the next half hour, Aaron sat on the bed and ate, savoring the meal. There was nothing better for a man’s appetite, he’d found, than nearly dying. The meat was tough and stringy, and the vegetables were slightly soggy, testifying to the truth of Benjin’s words about his daughter’s cooking, but right then it tasted like just about the best meal he’d ever had. As he ate, the woman, Dayna, came back and forth, filling the tub with buckets of water and pointedly not looking in his direction. He paid her little attention, his mind already on thoughts of ways to pay Hale back for the surprise awakening.