David Mcintee - The Light of Heaven

"Scarra," Goran Kell said. He carried himself like a soldier, or a noble, and despaired of the slouching fat man. Scarra was far from ascetic, and far from a fighter, but his family was rich, and that made him useful.

"Everything is prepared, Kell. Our man knows what he has to do. There's backup to cover his escape."

Kell smiled mirthlessly. "There's been a change of plan." He beckoned to a tired-looking youth who was waiting in his entourage, on a tired-looking horse. The youth trotted forward. "Tell Scarra what you've just told me."

"Ludwig Rhodon was shot not an hour ago."

"Excellent news!" Scarra exclaimed. "You know, my boy, I have had my doubts about this scheme, but it's a great relief to know that it was merely needless worry." A frown crossed his face. "Actually, isn't it a little early? I thought it was supposed to happen at the feast."

"Oddly enough," Kell said calmly, "I thought that too. I know that, and you know that. But it would have been nice if you'd made absolutely certain that Lukas knew that as well."

"He knew! Of course he knew the plan!"

Kell's expression didn't change. "Someone didn't. So I'm changing the follow-up, just in case. We can't remain in this area. The Swords of Dawn are scouring all of Kalten. I suggest you find a safe territory for a few days. That's certainly what I shall be doing."

Scarra stiffened. "You can't just leave like this!"

Kell raised an eyebrow. "You'd prefer if I stayed here, got caught, and told the Confessors where to find you?"

"We should — "

"We should leave and neither of us should tell the other where he's going." With that, Goran Kell returned to his horse and rode away, his entourage falling in behind him.

Karel Scarra suddenly felt very cold and alone. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. He was supposed to be rising among his peers, basking in the glow of history.

He turned and walked back to his retinue. The waiting mercenaries wore tabards bearing a red dagger. By the time he reached them, he had worked out how to tell them that Kell had messed things up and fled. Yes, that explanation would suffice. The brighter thought struck him that perhaps he could make some advantage out of this. He had spent a great deal in bribes lately, so perhaps he could recoup some of the costs now, cutting down on some more outlay.

He composed himself, arranging his features into an expression that mixed anger, apology and, hopefully, some charm. He mounted his horse before addressing his personal guard of mercenaries, feeling that he would be more commanding from the saddle than from the ground.

"My friends, we are betrayed!" he announced dramatically. "Something has happened in Kalten that was not part of Kell's plan. And Kell has decided to flee, abandoning us to our fate. I have decided that we should not go with him, as he will doubtless lead us to disaster."

"What's the plan?" a shaven-headed mercenary with large ears and a scar across his brow demanded.

"We'll make for the vineyard, Hasso. There I shall pay you my share of your wage, and we'll decide our next — "

"Wait," Hasso snapped. He nudged his horse next to Scarra's, as the other men murmured among themselves. "What do you mean, your half?"

"Kell has taken half our funds with him."

Scarra felt a sudden chill. His instinct for survival struggled with his instinct to be tight with his money, and it was a case of the proverbial irresistible force meeting the immovable object. He smiled beatifically, hiding his fear.

"We hired you together, but while he robs you, I will stand by my promise, and pay what I owe…"

"You mean half of what we are owed, don't you?"

Scarra considered throwing himself on their mercy, but couldn't bring himself to do so. They were his employees, after all. Most of them were just thugs, not particularly intelligent and he was sure he could convince them that the absence of Kell meant the absence of half their fee. Scarra himself, of course, had been the richer of the two, and he could have paid the mercenaries their full fee many times over, but it was much more satisfying to smear Kell for running out on him.

"If Kell has stolen from you, there is little that I can do."

"We could ride after him," Hasso pointed out, "and take it."

"We could," the Captain of the Red Daggers said at last, "but we won't. We'd be fighting our own."

"Since when did that stop us, Sarkos?"

"Cut it out, Hasso," Sarkos snapped. He sighed. "Scarra has a point." Hasso grunted derisively. "And so long as you're in the Red Daggers, you'll show some respect to our employers."

"Respect?" Hasso scoffed. "You're going to swallow his guff and keep working?" He shook his head. "You might be that way inclined, but I can't say I am."

Captain Sarkos nodded slowly. "Like I said, as long as you're in the Red Daggers."

Hasso balled his fists, digging his nails into the palms. This was how he and his fellows were rewarded for their service? Short-changed? His right hand reached for his sword, but he stayed it just before grabbing the hilt.

He didn't want to kill the men he'd been serving with. Sarkos was a good man in a fight, even if he wasn't sensible about money. Most importantly, Sarkos was good enough that Hasso wasn't sure he could take him; not if the rest of the company sided with Sarkos.

There were too many men in the company, and most of them, like Sarkos, were cheap enough to accept the pittance that Scarra offered them. Most of them used to work for cheap protection rackets and were used to being paid a couple of copper pieces; they didn't know what a real professional soldier's wage should be.

Hasso was a real professional soldier, however, and he was used to being paid at least a silver piece per day and that was what Scarra had originally promised. He grimaced, knowing that he should have known better than to trust the word of the fat man. There was little, if any, sincerity visible in Scarra's eyes or audible in his voice when he spoke.

"I didn't sign on for half-pay," Hasso said bluntly. "You're right, Sarkos, I've no place in the Red Daggers." He reined his horse in, and walked it slowly away from the other mercenaries. "I'll take my cut of your half now." He held out a hand.

Scarra hesitated. Perhaps he should order the others to attack Hasso. He was, after all, just one man against several. Then again, he was a good fighter, and Scarra dreaded to think what would happen if he triumphed. He knew that Hasso would kill him, and not swiftly. There would be pain and… And he didn't want to think about that.

He counted out the appropriate number of coins from his purse and slapped them into Hasso' hand.

"I am a fair man," he said primly. "I will always pay you what I owe you."

"You owe me this much again."

"Kell and I as a unit owe you this much again. I've paid my share."

Hasso scowled, and stuffed the coins into a pouch. He wheeled his horse away.

"Where are you going?"

Hasso considered for a moment, then gave a cruel smile. "I'm going to get the other half." He nudged his horse into a gallop, in the direction that Kell had gone. Sarkos and a few others drew swords, clearly intending to pursue him.

"Hold," Scarra said. He was tempted to let them kill Hasso, but after a few seconds' thought realised that Kell would do the job for him. Why risk the safety of the men he had left? It wasn't as if the mercenaries knew the details of his plans. "Kell will pay him off, one way or the other."

Sarkos sheathed his blade. "True enough."

If it was possible for an albino to appear pale Eminence Ludwig Rhodon was getting there. His skin was almost as transparent as melting ice. Rodrigo Kesar stood by the window as he watched the Healers conferring in whispers.

"Well?" Kesar finally asked.