Paul Crilley - Night of Long Shadows

Jana glanced at the man to her right. Cutter reckoned he was in his early thirties.

“This is Corporal Conal. I’m keeping an eye on him.”

“Poor man.”

Jana cocked her head to the side. “You look older, Blackbird.”

“I am.”

“No. You look older than your years. Where have you been?”

“Valenar.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Being a slave. For four years.”

Her eyes widened a fraction. Not much, but enough that he noted.

“And the name’s Cutter now,” he said.

Jana cocked an eyebrow. “What kind of a name is that?”

“The kind of name I earned. One that I’m proud of.”

“What? You’re not proud of Blackbird? It suited you so well.” She turned to Conal. “He was always after the shiny stuff, you see. Couldn’t keep his beak out of trouble.”

Cutter took a swig of spirits, watching them both.

“So what are you up to nowadays, Blackbird?”

“None of your business.”

Jana stepped forward. “Be nice to me, Blackbird. I can haul you off to jail and no one would even notice.”

“Like you did before?”

“Exactly like I did before.”

Cutter stood. “Well, it’s been lovely catching up. We should get together again, have supper or something.” He turned to Conal before he left. “Watch your back, corporal. She’s a dangerous one.”

Silvermist was a dream parlor, a place where people went to experience illusions and shows different from the more run-of-the-mill plays and supper theaters of the upper wards. The changeling Jix even got a write-up in the Chronicle for her one-woman opera, a review that gave the parlor a brief dabbling of fame as the upper class, bored with the usual routine, organized coach parties complete with bodyguards and packed suppers (just in case the food wasn’t up to standard), to take them down into the dangerous wards of Lower Dura.

This was something that quite upset the Boromar clan, as they secretly owned Silvermist and were using it as an illegal dreamlily den.

Steps had to be taken, and Cutter had been one of the Boromar employees hired to hassle and intimidate the guests until they stopped visiting. It had been his first job for them.

He nodded to the doorman and stepped into a dimly lit dining room. The smells of the night’s dinner service lingered in the air. Roasted meat and vegetables. Seafood and lemon. Fried potatoes. His stomach grumbled in response. He ignored it and looked around.

A bright flare of blue and orange light forced him to shield his eyes. An intake of breath sounded throughout the room, sounding like a sigh of wind. He had entered right at the beginning of a show.

The blue and orange light coalesced into a gently spinning ball that hovered in the air over the stage, the separate colors twining and bleeding into each other like paint in water. Then it split into two separate balls that drifted apart until they were hovering close to the walls. They spun faster and faster, their glows growing in strength until one side of the room was bathed in blue, while the other was suffused in orange.

The onlookers’ faces were bathed in color. Cutter looked around and saw that the dream parlor had a full house.

The light slowly dimmed. Cutter looked to the front and saw the balls condensing into tiny points of light. After a moment of near darkness, the balls burst open in a silent explosion, flinging globes of multicolored light in all directions. The audience gasped. Some tried to reach up and touch them, but the spheres darted away as if they were alive, drawing appreciative chuckles from the spectators. The balls stopped moving and again shrunk down in size, the light fading until Cutter realized with a small shock of perception that he was actually looking at the night sky, the balls of light now thousands of stars.

Then tiny dragons swooped through the air, banking around tables, swooping in to hover before the delighted faces of the patrons.

Cutter could see Salleon standing on the stage, the gnome’s hands extended as he wove the illusion with deft flicks of his fingers, his eyes closed in concentration.

Cutter gave himself a mental shake and pulled himself away from the show, winding his way through the tables to a door in the far wall. The door led to a corridor, with the kitchen and private dining suites on either side. At the end was another door, which Cutter found to be locked.

Cutter knocked and waited. It opened a moment later, and he stared into the face of a half-orc.

Cutter racked his brain, trying to think of his name.

“Uh … Dajin, right? How’s it going?”

The half-orc said nothing.

“Fine. Listen, I need to speak to Salkith. Instructions from high up.”

The half-orc stared at him.

“I know he’s here. And so does Tiel. You know who Tiel is?”

Cutter saw the eyes flicker slightly. He took that for a yes.

“Good. Now if you know Tiel, you know he doesn’t like to be kept waiting. I have information to deliver. Are you going to let me in?”

Dajin paused for a moment, then stood aside.

“Thanks.”

Cutter stepped into a large room. Couches lined the walls, along with glamerweave tapestries depicting cityscape scenes from Gatherhold in the Talenta Plains. Seven doors nestled between the tapestries. “Which one?” he asked.

Dajin gestured at a door to Cutter’s left. Cutter opened it and slipped inside the room. The door clicked shut behind him.

The room was tiny. A young dwarf attendant stood beside a bed on which the tanned, wiry form of Salkith was lying. His long, sandy hair was carefully braided and placed on the pillow above his head. The attendant looked at Cutter in surprise, pausing in the movement of lifting a small vial of white liquid to the halfling’s mouth.

“What are you doing?” she said. “You can’t come in here.”

“Wrong. Salkith’s needed back at work. How much have you given him?”

The attendant frowned and glanced at the unconscious figure. “He’s already had one dose tonight. I was just about to top him off.”

“Don’t. I need him awake. How long before he comes out of it?”

“It’s hard to say.”

“Guess.”

“About half a bell.”

“Thank you. Now, get out and don’t disturb us. I may have to hurt you if I thought you overheard something you shouldn’t have.”

The woman drew herself up in protest. “I resent-”

“Resent all you want. Just tell me if you understand. That way, I won’t feel bad killing you if I catch you spying.”

The woman paled. “I … I understand.”

“Well done. Now get out.”

The attendant hastily left the room. Cutter waited to see if Dajin would come bursting in, but either she didn’t tell the half-orc, or he thought it was best to stay out of it.

The room was empty except for the bed. He checked underneath it and found two drawers built into the frame. They were filled with white sheets, freshly laundered and folded. Cutter pulled one out and used his Khutai blade to cut it into strips, then lifted Salkith’s arms above his head. He tied them together with the torn sheet, then ran the strip beneath the bed and did the same with his feet.

Cutter stepped back and surveyed his handiwork. No way he was getting out of that. Cutter pulled the other Khutai blade from its sheath and knelt on the floor, placing the knives to either side of him.

He closed his eyes and waited.

It took a little more than half a bell for the halfling to wake. Cutter heard the rustle of the sheets and opened his eyes. He saw Salkith turning his head from side to side as he tried to figure out what was going on.

Cutter picked up his blades and stood. Salkith’s eyes widened slightly as he saw Cutter rise up from the floor.