Servant of the Black and White

 "I guarantee you won't find the same quality for a cheaper price," the merchant insisted. “Well, not in these times anyway,” he added with an uneasy laugh. He moved a skinny, wrinkled hand over his wares in a way that reminded Den of  a spider crawling on a web. “Hmm, yes,” he said with a spark of interest in those too-dark eyes. “I think I know just the thing for you.”

Three months had passed since that day, and the merchant's words still echoed in Den's mind as he sat and examined his newest prize in the dim light that crept in through small cracks from abovedeck. The elegant dagger balanced perfectly on the tip of his finger, at the exact spot where the obsidian blade met the ivory handle.

A Kathevir, he thought with a smile, admiring how easily he could make the dagger spin and dance from finger to finger. A real kathevir.  He'd heard of the weapon before, but only in myths and childhood scaretales. The name meant “black and white” in a long-dead dialect of Ghaldish. It was an assassin's weapon from a bygone age, or so the stories said – an age when that title meant more than just a hired blade with a few kills to boast.

Den still wondered how an old man peddling trinkets from a mule cart could have come across such a masterwork. He couldn't even guess at the weapon's value; he only knew that it had cost him entirely too much. But I can regret that another day, he thought, feeling an odd serenity while he balanced the blade against the ship's rocking.

“So you never did tell me how you stole that thing, Den,” Bram said from the other side of their cell. In the dark, he was barely more than one more shadow among dozens. Duller eyes might have forgotten he was there at all, but Den had . There were four of them in that hot, cramped box that smelled of sweat and salted fish. Jed was sitting at his right side, head perking up from half-sleep at the sound of conversation. Wilem was at his left, using a half-rusted nail to write something onto a loose piece of wood.

“And I never will,” Den answered coolly as he flipped the knife back and forth between hands, careful to match his motions to the ship's. He had no problems with being called a thief. It wasn't an insult, just a fair assessment of his trade, and a trade he was better at than most. And a good thief knows when to boast and when to keep a secret, he reminded himself. It was a relief, for once, to have an ocean between himself and some of those secrets.

“Oh, I get it,” Jed chimed in. “He wants to keep us guessing so he can keep up his little shadowy enigma act. That's how those guild men are, you know. You'll never get a straight answer out of them.” With that, he slouched back against the wall and closed his eyes again.

“Former guild man,” Den corrected, even if Jed wasn't listening anymore. His days as a local legend back in Ravenloft were well behind him. Of course, he didn't expect a couple of farmers and pig-herders to understand the distinction.

“You know, that's something I've always wondered about,” Bram said, leaning in closer so Den could almost make out a face. “How does one leave a thieving guild? I heard that when you join, you have to swear your loyalty for life. Or is that just just another one of the rumors?”

Den's hands were busy palming and and revealing the kathevir, practicing all the forms he'd been taught from childhood. For him, that was the worst part of imprisonment: not the boredom, the hunger, or the squalor, but how easy it was to see his skills get dulled, like a sword too long without a whetstone. “No, you're quite right,” Den said while switching between forms. “Once you're in, you can't simply walk away. If there's anything guild agents excel at, it's hunting down a vow breaker.” He spat the name and the foul taste it left on his tongue.

“So does that make you a-”

“No,” Den cut him off. He wouldn't stand the insult, even if the boy didn't know any better. “I didn't break my vow. I broke the second most important rule: I got caught caught..”

“Caught? How?” The disbelief in Bram's voice almost made Den laugh. Guild agents were legends among common folk. They were supposed to be infallible. Before today, the boy must have assumed that Den was just a conscript like the rest of them, forced into indenture for a debt or some minor transgression against the wrong lord.

“I've been turning over the same question for the last two months, and there's only one answer. I was be-” he broke off, suddenly jolting to attention. “Quiet,” he whispered.  “Footsteps.”

“Is it food?” Bram whispered back.

Den listened more closely. Two pairs, both from behind. The first was easy to interpret: strong, purposeful, rhythmic, and as loud as a man could be out of armor. General Caius. The second pair gave Den a little more trouble. This one gave a gentler, softer sound, with a grace that went beyond mere agility. It was the sort of sound only bare feet made when they took their time to feel the ground beneath them. After a moment the answer dawned on him: Mother Helena. But if they were coming, that could only mean one thing. Could it have been two months already?

“Well, is it food?”

“No, better. It's land.” With a subtle flourish, Den palmed his dagger and tucked it away into his shirtsleeve. Getting caught with a weapon, let alone an assassin's weapon, meant a quick trip to the headsman's block.

The top hatch opened and a wooden ramp crashed clumsily to the floor. The tiny room filled with a painfully bright light from above. The others cursed and groaned. Den kept his eyes half-shut, opening them slowly to a manageable brightness. He saw his cellmates fully for the first time since they'd been thrown into this hole. They were no longer the chubby-faced, clean-cut youths he remembered. Instead he saw three weary, gaunt figures who looked exactly like they smelled.

Don't judge, he told himself, running a hand through an unkempt beard and a  long, greasy mat of black hair, you don't look or smell any different.

“Get up, you sorry lot,” the general barked, almost drowning out Mother Helena's murmured greeting. “Today's the lucky day you get to be someone else's problem.”

“Hold your tongue, Caius,” the blue-robed priestess said with a subtle power in her voice. She put a hand putting a hand on the brawny man's shoulder and pushed him aside with only the strength of her presence, “Come, lads. I'm sure you're all eager to be out in the gods' free air again.” Despite her frail figure and graying hair, she looked prettier than Den remembered. Or maybe he just hadn't seen a woman in too long.

Den was the last to be ushered up the ramp to the top deck. A pair of the general's men grabbed his hands and tied them behind his back like they did with the other three. He paid careful attention to the number of folds, loops, and pulls they made. Even without his knife it was an easy enough knot to break, but Den knew well enough to bide his time. He was outnumbered and they were armed, not that it made a difference. He'd waited two months already. A few more hours would do him no harm.

A clamor of voices rang in Den's ears from every direction. It all bled together save for the once phrase that seemed to leap from every tongue: “The new world!” The inviting smell of ale and salt breeze reached his nose, along with a thankfully weakened stench of bodies. He savored this awareness for a moment then opened his eyes the rest of the way.

He blinked away the sting as searing whiteness softened to more natural colors: The sky and sea were the sort of saturated blue he'd only seen in paintings. Men and women clad in their finest blacks,  silvers and grays crowded on the deck, pointing, cheering, and pretending not to notice the four sorry looking figures in their midst. But most importantly, Den could see the green and brown of land on the horizon, almost within reach.

So this is the new world,  he thought, grinning deeper than he had in months.  A wide expanse of rolling hills stretched on to either end of his vision. The city of First Hope stood on twin deltas where a river formed a jagged trident in the land. The city had a rough-hewn, rural look, with no building but the temple reaching above a single story. Farmlands and plantations spotted the country just beyond until the distant, white-capped mountains cut short his view. Compared to Ravenloft, First Hope was a city in name only. But that did not stop Den from gaping like he'd never seen a city in his life.

He stood and stared, barely noticing when the ship finally landed. Exhilaration coursed through his body, like the soft prickle of numbness fading. It was the same exhilaration he'd felt before a mission in his guild days, a feeling he'd sorely missed. You won't find the same value for a cheaper price, a voice echoed in his head again, old and gruff but not without a certain spark. Den gave the knot around his wrists a gentle tug just to test it. Satisfied, he took his place in the procession marching to the harbor.

“Makes you wonder, doesn't it?” Bram mused as they were shoved together by the crowd, “I've seen First Hope on my father's maps before. I've heard the sailors' descriptions, and yet-” he trailed off, looking confused as if searching for the right words.

“It's different from how you imagined it?” Den asked

“Well, no actually. It's disturbingly similar, but that's not the odd part. You're probably going to laugh, but when I was just a boy, my father had a farm just south of Brightwater Keep. I used to gaze out at the ocean thinking I could see the edge of the world. If someone had tried to tell me then that one day I'd be looking the same ocean from the opposite shore, or that there even was an opposite shore, well, I'd have thought they were mad.”

“None of us knew any better at the time,” Den replied. Then the moment his feet touched sand, a pair of the general's guards shoved him and Bram in opposite directions, He tried to shout over the crowd. “Keep your chin up. Put in your five years and a piece of this land will be yours.”

“Good luck with...whatever it is you do,” Bram's voice was almost lost over all the noise.

Stumbling to keep pace, Den followed the two men who half-led, half-dragged him away. Nearly half an hour's walk passed before First Hope fell out of sight, and a carriage stood waiting on what could loosely be called a path through the countryside.  A slender, old man in a black riding cloak was standing by two reined horses, one black, the other white. As they drew near, the old man gave Den a knowing look with eyes so dark a blue they almost looked black. And with a calm, stern voice that betrayed his frail appearance, he gave a slight nod and said, “Now, Denziel.”

“Yes, master,” Den whispered back with a foxlike grin.

Den kept his motions steady even as his heart began beating like a war drum. He waited for the just the right instant between steps, between breaths, and shifted his weight a fraction. He forced all his strength against the weakest point in in his bindings. The knot budged by a hair's breadth and he twisted his right hand free, the black and white blade falling into his grip with a flick of the wrist. His eyes shot to the man on his right. With the momentum of his step, Den pivoted and spun, planting the kathevir into the man's throat. Then his heart beat again.

Another heartbeat and the man to Den's left recoiled, mouthing a silent scream as a well-placed elbow knocked the air from his lungs. The old man by the carriage reached into his shirtsleeve and flashed a kathevir of his own, the polished blade glimmering for just an instant then gone. Den's eyes followed its motion as it found its mark, and the second guard fell without a sound.

“Not bad, Denziel,” his master said, straightening his cloak just a fraction. “Clumsier than I remember, but not bad. Now clean your blade. There's more work to be done.”

“Yes, master,” Den answered as he pulled his weapon free and brushed it clean against the damp grass. “What about the bodies?”

“I have men to take care of that. Now get in the carriage and lose the smirk. Lord Esric expects a servant just out of debtor's prison.”

“Lord Esric, master? Is that what Marius is calling himself now?”

His master claimed his own knife and said, “Yes, Denziel. Marius thought a change of name would trick us and fleeing to the other side of the ocean would deter us. Let us make sure he never underestimates the guild again.”

Den took his place in the carriage and his master took the reins. The horses led a path through the hilly landscape. Den drew the kathevir again, practicing his forms while the first distant signs of a lavish plantation came into view.

“Remember, you strike when I say and not a moment sooner. ”

“Yes, master.”

“Until then, you play the good little servant to both of your masters.”

“Of course, master.” Den's eyes were on the far-off shape of the plantation, the obsidian and ivory dagger dancing in his hand. In his head, he weighed the costs. Master was right, he thought, conjuring a distant memory of spider-like fingers crawling over that marvelous blade. Justice like this doesn't come at a cheaper price.