Aden grimaced, but did not turn away as the Cobalt General's just-severed head was driven onto a pike in the middle of the courtyard, alongside the rotting heads of the Krian royal family. All of them, from the Kaiser to his wife, and all their children. There were also the bodies of several supporters, strung up to die slow deaths in cages above the rotting heads.
Even by Krian standards, it was barbaric.
The royal heads were at least a week old. The bodies swaying above them were older still; it took a strong man several days to die that way. One of them had just been put up that morning, the son of the dead Cobalt General. The unfortunate son was crying, and still wore the bold blue tunic of his father's army.
Unable to bear the sight, or the fact there was nothing he could do about it, Aden turned away from the grisly sight that had turned the central pavilion into an executioner's playground and made his way back into the city proper.
So the royal line of Kria was dead and its supporters were rapidly falling. Very little remained now of the once proud nation of Kria. Salhara ached to take it over once and for all, the finest of feathers in its cap—but Kria had taken five of its precious Brotherhood down in the earliest days of the bitter war, and Salhara's power was not all that it should be.
Nor could they completely defeat Kria, not while too many knew that a claimant to the throne remained alive—not to mention the two missing Generals, who continued to fight from locations unknown. Cobalt had been captured and executed, but Saffron and Verdant remained.
He wondered if Kria missed having four Generals, and if that fourth might have made a difference. Likely not; the Scarlet had been tainted ever since that long ago betrayal by the Holy General.
Aden needed to find a way out of the city and report what he had learned to the Queen. At the very least, he needed to get a message out. All his avenues of escape and communication were cut off, however. Those of his contacts who had not fled at the start of the mess were now too terrified to do anything.
Damn the Salharans anyway. It was times like this Aden really wondered if his ancestors knew what they had been doing when they rid Illussor of magic.
He needed to get home. His information could not wait. If Salhara took Kria then they would not wait long before going after Illussor. And Illussor would be all too easy to take with a sickly Queen and her only heir a despondent prince-by-marriage who avoid the responsibilities of the throne at all costs.
Stifling a sigh, he threaded his way through a pack of youths looking too grim for their age and into his favorite tavern. He was heartily sick of Krian food, but enjoyed the beer and atmosphere—or had enjoyed the atmosphere, before it was drowned in anger and depression and fear.
Once, the Krians had been the mightiest, fiercest nation in the world. Now, they were scared of their own shadows, while the drug-addicted Salharans slaughtered their leaders in a desperate search for the last remaining heir to the throne and two generals who refused to give up.
He went to the bar to order his food, then carried it to the back of the tavern, tucking himself into a corner that had easy access to the kitchens if an escape was needed, while affording him a position where he could watch everyone without anyone being able to watch him unnoticed.
Not that anyone had any reason to watch him, but neither was it the time to grow overconfident and careless. He had not gotten where he was by being reckless.
There was little worth watching, this night. Disconsolate men who obviously had been soldiers and were trying not to be to avoid being found by the Salharan army. Krian soldiers were either forced into new service, or executed on the spot. The winter palace and its surrounding city was no place to be right now, least of all for a soldier.
Aden picked at his food, forcing himself to take a bite here and there. Whatever plan he came up with, he would need his strength. Even if that strength came from sausages and sour cabbage and a dozen other foods of which he was heartily growing sick. He could not wait to return to Illussor and gorge himself on real food.
Though, he would miss the beer. No one made beer like the Krians. It alone was almost a good enough reason to save them from Salhara.
Of course, he would not be able to assist in that saving if he could not get himself or a message through to Illussor. Damn it!
He ate another bit of sausage, hiding a grimace, and pondered his options. He had tried almost everything, so he supposed it was time to resort to those methods he considered his last resort. Whoring might work, if he could find the right soldiers to turn his tricks. Did he have what he needed for that? Aden drummed his fingers on the table as he thought and signaled a bar maid for another beer.
Well, what he did not have, he could acquire. A night or two of that might turn him up some new avenues to pursue. Men said anything after a good fuck, and Aden could do that as well as he could everything else.
It would be well worth fucking even the most unpleasant soldier if it led him home, to report to his Queen before running off to his own home, an ancient but still sturdy Fortress overlooking the sea. He could sit on the terrace and watch the waves while his cook served him every delectable dish Aden could coax him into making.
He was so engrossed in daydreams of home and food, he nearly missed the conversation happening one table over. People were never as quiet as they liked to think, and his ears were trained to pick up even the most innocuous of words—even when he was dreaming of spicy fowl and cream sauce.
Murmuring thanks for the fresh beer, he kept his casual, disinterested ear and drank in every word the idiots said.
They were talking about the man just hung up in a cage less than an hour ago—the Cobalt Generals' son. They wanted to break him out, and move him from the city.
Aden latched on to those words—if they were going to get him out of the city, obviously they had a way out.
But they couldn't figure out a way to free the man; apparently the plan to get to him before the cage had gone awry.
Well. Aden knew an invitation when he heard one.
Picking up his beer, he moved to the group of men and dropped down in the empty seat beside the nearest—and pressed a dagger to the man's gut. They all three stilled, the one with the dagger pressed against him going pale. But they did not fight, odd for Krians, and it said more loudly than anything just how far they had fallen.
"Friends," Aden said. "I would like to have a friendly discussion. I'm thinking we can help each other out."
They just glared at him.
Aden smiled pleasantly, and took a sip of his ale. Then he spoke, far more softly than these men had managed—in Illussor. "Come now, you have nothing to fear from me. The dagger is formality, I promise."
Two of them looked at him with annoyed scowls—they recognized the language, but obviously not the words. The third one, sitting next to him, however, gave a snort of surprise. "One of the pale ones," he said. "What in the name of the Spring Prince are you doing here?"
"Trying to get out," Aden replied, slipping back into Krian. "I cannot. You seem to have a way. I will put it to you plainly. If I can free your friend, you will take me out of the city with you. How does that sound?" He put his dagger away, to show he had faith in their intelligence.
The man directly across from him only glared. "Why should we trust you? You are Illussor, but obviously pretend to be Krian. How do I know you have not sided with Salhara? You could be a spy. We are not that foolish."
"I could be a spy," Aden said with an easy smile. "However, I am only a humble wanderer eager to get home, trapped because I stayed a day too long in your fine city. I want to go home. You want him free. I do not see the problem with this bargain."
"How do you intend to get him free?"
"The less said, the safer," Aden replied. Then he gave a long sigh. "I see you do not believe me. Very well, I shall prove it to you. If you want to see me free him, then watch tonight just after the stroke of midnight. I suggest you find a safe place from which to watch. I can save one man; I cannot save four." He smirked.
The men exchanged looks, obviously unhappy, but every man at the table knew they had no choice.
"Very well," the man across from him, who seemed to be in charge, spoke at last. "If you mean it, then free him and meet us at the watch tower on the east side of town. One of us will be watching, and if you do anything suspicious, you will be leaving this city, but not in the manner of your choosing."
Aden acknowledged the point with a gracious nod. "Good sirs." He tossed back the last of his beer, set the empty tankard down with a thunk, threw down a handful of coins, and left the tavern before they could think better of it.
Outside, he called himself an idiot in every dialect he knew.
How in the name of the Goddess was he supposed to save a man from a birdcage in the middle of the central pavilion when it was crawling with guards watching over the corpses and heads to prevent the very thing he was going to attempt?
He prided himself on not being reckless, but every now and again he proved himself a self-deluded fool.
Well, what was done was done. He had struck a bargain, and he would uphold his end. That in mind, he retraced his earlier steps and made his way back to the pavilion. The crowds had largely died down by that point; those who had born witness to the grisly executions had gone on their way. Only the guards, some stragglers, and a handful of pickpockets and other desperate figures loitered.
Aden pulled his cloak more securely around his shoulders, pulling up the fabric of the high collar to cover most of his face, adjusting his posture to give the appearance of one of the morbidly fascinated gawkers who flocked to such spectacles like flies.
He eyed the son of the late Cobalt General, rifling through his memories to turn up a name, wondering if he even knew it.
A moment later, however, it came to him. Reinoehl von Hostetler. The General's only child, if he recalled correctly, which he always did. Aden examined him as thoroughly as he could without rousing suspicion. Under normal circumstances, he was likely a handsome and striking man. At the moment, he simply looked battered, exhausted, and miserable. Brown hair, touched enough by the sun there was almost some true blond in it, visible even through Goddess knew how many days of grime and lack of bathing. His clothes were just as ragged, torn and bloody and barely fit for keeping him from freezing to death—about the only concession the Salharans made, because freezing to death was too easy.
He continued to stare, this time taking stock of the birdcage—what most called the atrocious devices. It was barely big enough to hold a man, the bars so close together that little more than a finger could get through. The victim could move just enough to be tantalized by the thought of real movement. But he could not sit, could not even really slouch. There was no comfort, just constant agony until the poor bastard finally died, one way or another.
Aden looked again at the man within the cage—and drew up short as he found eyes meeting his. They were, shockingly, cobalt blue. What were the odds of that? Krians with blue eyes were a rare thing, and he had never seen a Krian with eyes that vibrant. Even the Salharans, with their glowing eyes, did not have that much force behind them. Aden felt like he'd been kicked in the gut by a horse.
Dark, chapped and bloody lips turned down in a frown as the man stared at him.
Then nearby noise drew Aden's attention, and he turned just in time to get cuffed by a guard, who then gave him a kick in the ass and sent him off with a flurry of curses. Aden did not argue the point, not wanting to draw further attention.
He resisted an urge to look back, to see if those eyes still watched him. Shaking his head, unsettled by the eyes and his reaction to them, he abandoned the main street and wove his way through various smaller streets, until he at last reached the tiny hovel of a room he had rented because it was all a proper wanderer—as he purported to be—could afford.
In his room, he locked the door and then pulled out the large satchel with which he always travelled—large enough to prove he was a dedicated wanderer without being so large as to rouse suspicions. And it could carry everything he needed, most of the time.
Tossing aside various costumes, a couple small sacks of various currencies, other miscellany, Aden finally drew out the case he wanted. It was small, of a size to hold jewelry or other such things, made of ebony and seemingly without lock or hinges.
But he knew how to open it, pressing and sliding with familiar ease.
Inside, nestled in their pockets of black velvet, were two dozen small crystal vials. Some held pale liquids, others dark. Seven of the vials, lined up neatly in a row, formed a perfect rainbow of colors. Of all his poisons, of the two dozen here and the many more at home, his collection of arcen was easily the most valuable—and the hardest to obtain. He had a scar on his back as testament to that little adventure.
Not that he ever had much cause to use them, thankfully. He just liked having the arcen in his collection. The greatest drug and poison in the world, and only Salhara itself knew how to turn the arcen flowers into the elixir that gave a nation unmatched magical prowess.
Sliding his fingers fondly over the vials of arcen, he then dismissed it and focused on what he actually needed, and selected a vial full of a liquid so dark a blue it was nearly black. Perfect.
Poison was a tricky thing, a very delicate art. Too much, too little could alter the affects and it varied greatly from person to person, use to use. Still, if one mastered it, the effects of certain poisons could be controlled and predicted.
He held the vial up to the weak light of his feeble lantern, watching the dark liquid within glimmer. This one had cost him nearly as dearly as the arcen, acquired from a handful of pirates who had not been inclined to hand the poison over willingly or easily.
It was purportedly made from the ink of some vile sea creature. Aden had seen it once, or at least, he had been told that it was the rumored creature. He had not been impressed.
The poison, however, did impress him. Depending on the dosage, it could do anything from inducing a state of seeming drunkenness to causing the victim to fall dead asleep. For his purposes, somewhere right between the disorientation and the fast asleep would be ideal. Soldiers in a severe state of intoxication would not have the wherewithal to take offense to his breaking a prisoner loose.
Aden had told them he would do it shortly after midnight, which was of course the perfect time—the guard was lightest then, and they were all bored and eager for their beds or a tavern. A desperate whore eager for any bit of coin would not warrant more notice than a quick way to pass a bit of time, and it would be simple to poison them without harming himself in the process.
The scheme was almost too simple, and more than a little mad—but it might just work. All he needed were a few minutes to drag himself up the cage, pick or break the lock, and get von Hostetler out of there. Whatever happened after that, he would have to figure out as he went.
Nodding, decided, he stowed his box of poisons, left the vial on the table, and began to strip. The clothes he wore at present would not do for a whore.
Unfortunately, playing the whore meant freezing to death. At least he usually had an easy time of it obtaining customers, by way of his rather interesting heritage. One of his ancestors had been a Krian soldier who defected to Illussor to join the Holy General. It gave him a lineage that made him blend in perfectly in either country—and made him slender, dark, and almost pretty. Combined with a host of other skills... well, there were reasons he had once managed to work two months in a high class brothel while gathering dirt on a particular politician.
Cheap, thin clothes advertised his wares, and a bottle of rotgut he always kept to hand for such purposes added a nice touch of drunken desperation splashed on his clothes and skin. Then he pulled out a small jar filled with a pale, thick cream. This he used to coat his hands. Until he scrubbed it off with a special soap, liquids would slid across his skin like water on glass. This meant he could touch and administer the poison without it affecting him. Another pirate trick.
He stared longingly at his bed, but if he was going to do this, then he needed to set the act now. The best way to look tired, desperate, cheap, and easy, was to render himself as close to that state naturally as possible.
It would also give him more time to analyze the pavilion, makes note of the guards, and see just how hard it would really be to scale the scaffold to get at the cage itself.
Hopefully he would be able to do all that without too many people actually propositioning him. He might be a good whore when the occasion called for it, but that did not mean he enjoyed it.
Slipping outside, he went in the direction opposite the way by which he had first returned to the room. Looping around the outer streets, he swiftly made his way to the poorer districts of the city, pausing at the edge. Removing his hat, he stuffed it into a pocket of his threadbare cloak and raked out his shoulder-length dark blonde hair.
It did not take long for people to start eyeing him; some speculatively, others with open hostility as they saw a newcomer in their territory. Most simply ignored him, desperate to avoid one more bit of evidence of all that was wrong.
The next few hours were not pleasant, but by the time the late hours came around, his goal had been achieved—no one was giving him a second glance, except insofar as to gauge whether or not he was affordable.
Pretending a certain level of drunkenness as the bells began to toll the midnight hour, he teetered and tottered his way to the central pavilion. He reeked of sweat, sex, smoke, and rotgut, and he did not have to pretend the weariness even a bit. Pausing at the edge of an alleyway, he opened the vial of poison and let a few small drops fall into one specially treated hand. Then he tucked the vial away, and rubbed his hands together, spreading the poison across both of them.
Balling his hands into loose fists, he stumbled his drunken way in the general direction of the four soldiers stationed around the grisly center of the pavilion.
"Ho, gentlemen," he called with drunken cheer. "Amazed you've not frozen to death in this cold. I hear told Salharans lose bits to the frost every year."
One man laughed in unpleasant fashion, as the other three snorted and immediately dismissed one stupid, drunken whore. "Not as many bits are you're going to lose, you don't put some clothes on."
"Then there'd be too many to take off," Aden replied, smirking, tossing his head so his hair fell just so, and he could see two pairs of eyes already more drawn to him than their duty. He scanned the surroundings, ensuring no other guards were tucked away somewhere, watching the guards on the distant castle walls as well.
It was a bitterly cold night, however. Even the Krians preferred to bury themselves indoors on such a night. The only guards on duty tonight were those who could not get away with slacking off, such as these fours. The guards on the walls were inside their towers, and they had ducked out of them only to give an obligatory look around when the bells had struck the midnight hour.
He would have to act quickly from here. One of the two men seemed definitely interested in a distraction. Moving closer, letting his clothes fall open the slightest bit despite the frigid air—
He nearly laughed as another grabbed his arm. This would be too easy.
"Go get your coin elsewhere," said a soldier in crude Krian, not quite willing to let his fellows screw around that much while they stood watch. Aden covered the man's hand with his own, just barely getting a finger on a smidgen of bare skin between sleeve and glove.
"I'll go, I'll go," Aden said to appease him and pulled free. He reached out as he passed the interested man to playfully touch his cheek, spreading more of the poison. "Come and find me when you're off duty, handsome."
The remaining two men chuckled, while the first looked on in disgust.
Aden turned playfully away from the man still eyeing him with interest and moved toward the remaining two. He poked one in the chest, smiling teasingly, reaching up to tweak his nose when the man only rolled his eyes.
The man gently pushed him away—but straight into the other one, who settled a hand lightly on Aden's hip. His breath stank of the rank liquor Salharans favored, as well as a bitter trace of their precious arcen—green, to judge by the faint glow in the man's eyes, just visible in the moonlight.
Laughing, Aden twisted away and patted his cheek the same as he had the second man. "You should all come and find me, I'm very talented."
"Not that...talent..."
Aden held his breath as the words faded off, then looked at each man in turn. They all stood as though asleep on their feet, eyes vacant in the weak available light. It had worked. In an hour or so, they would stir, recalling little or nothing of being all but dead on their feet. They may not even remember him clearly, if he were lucky.
Wasting no more time, Aden knelt and plunged his hands into a pile of dirty snow, using it to scrub the remaining poison from his hands. Then he pulled out a cloth at his belt, brought for this very reason, and used it to wipe his hands and ensure no trace of the poison remained.
Then he moved to the nearest main beam of the scaffolding holding the cages, climbing swiftly, and moving along the top beam until he reached the proper cage. Swinging off the beam, he climbed down the cage until he was hanging precariously over the pavilion, with only his hold on the ice-cold metal to keep him from falling to the stones below.
He reached into his boot and extracted a lock pick—but it proved to be the wrong size, and so he slipped it back into place and pulled another. When he glanced up again, he saw the noise had stirred the prisoner he was attempting to free.
Aden put the pick in his mouth, and pressed a finger to his lips.
The man—Reinoehl—frowned, but said nothing.
It took only seconds to spring the lock, and Aden let himself slip further down along the side of the cage, until his hands were all that bore his weight, and his feet dangled over the stones—but it was close enough to drop, and so he did. Once landed and out of the way, he motioned to Reinoehl.
A moment later, Reinoehl dropped down neatly beside him.
Not giving him a chance to ask the questions plain upon his shadowy face, Aden motioned for him to follow and made his way swiftly from the pavilion, weaving his way through the city to the appointed meeting place.
"Here you are," he murmured as he saw the three men from before step from the shadows. "As promised."
A hand grabbed his upper arm, yanking him around, and beneath the wavering light of a torch, Aden found himself the captive of jewel-bright eyes. "Who in the name of the gods are you?" Reinoehl demanded. "What have you to do with this?" He glanced over Aden's shoulder to glare at his men. "Tits of the Winter Princess, what have you lot done, and what is going on here?"
"We could not break you free," one of the men said. "Our avenues were all cut off..." The man's mouth quirked. "And, we obviously do not have his considerable assets and resources." Aden did not turn to look, but he could feel more than one set of eyes crawling up and down his body. He really disliked having to play a whore. "He's definitely not what he says, or anything which he pretends to be—but he got your free, as he said he would, Lord General."
Reinoehl grimaced and shifted his full attention back to Aden. "Who and what are you?"
"Nothing but a helpful neighbor, eager to return home," Aden answered in Illussor. "They needed you, I need a way out of the city. We reached an accord."
Eyes narrowed and the grip on his arm tightened to the point of pain. "You will tell me your true reason for being here, or I will kill you," Reinoehl said in perfect, if somewhat stiff, Illussor.
Aden glared back. "Killing me might not be as easy as you think, General. I saved you. All I want is to get home, that I might tell those who need to know what has happened here. There is no love lost between our countries, but we share a mutual dislike."
Reinoehl sneered. "Illussor has never troubled to dirty its hands before, why bother now?"
"I saved you," Aden said again, voice even, but full of steel. "The least you can do is uphold the bargain struck. All I want is out of this city, Krian. Without me, you would still be in a birdcage, watching as your father's head slowly rotted."
The backhand caught him by surprise, and he was shaken by that—no one took him by surprise. Not like this. Aden wiped blood from his lip with the back of one hand.
"Do not speak so crassly of such things, you pale-skinned coward," Reinoehl said coldly. "I acknowledge you freed me, and I honor promises made on my behalf. So be it; you will leave the city with us."
"I need to collect my things," Aden said, slowly lowering his hand, the right side of his face throbbing. "It will only take a few minutes."
"Fine," Reinoehl said curtly. "We will accompany you, however."
"Fine," Aden said, mimicking him. He turned away, then turned sharply around again, forcing Reinoehl to take a surprised step back to avoid crashing into him. He held a dagger to Reinoehl's throat. "If you ever strike me again, Krian, I will kill you myself. Learn a bit of gratitude." Then he tucked the dagger away as quickly as he had drawn it and stalked from the square, shadowed by four loudly silent Krians.
Back at his room, he swiftly climbed the stairs, ignoring it when Reinoehl ordered his men to remain on the street to keep watch.
Inside, still ignoring Reinoehl, Aden packed up his belongings. He should not be so angry; he had received less for doing more in his life. The life of a spy was essentially one of never receiving proper credit and appreciation for what he did; the very nature of his job required that precious few knew he did anything at all.
Still, Reinoehl's attitude rankled. He easily could have gotten himself killed rescuing the bastard—and he had known full well that they could have simply tried to kill him and renege on their promise. Betrayal was a way of life in times of war. Aden had taken a great risk.
Only to be threatened and backhanded and treated like... a common, dirty spy, he supposed, grimacing. Still, a simple 'thank you' would not have hurt anyone.
Belongings packed, save for a couple of last minute things, Aden stripped out of his whore clothes and quickly pulled on more suitable attire—heavy clothes meant for hard travel and harsh weather, saving for last a fur-lined cloak with a deep hood that would beat off the worst of the snow that would resume falling before too long.
Shoving his discarded clothes into his bag, he buckled it up and swung it onto his shoulders. He used a bit of leather to tie his hair back, then pulled up his hood and motioned to Reinoehl he was finished and stalked to the door.
A hand caught his wrist, and Aden immediately jerked free, glaring at Reinoehl from the depths of his hood.
Undaunted, Reinoehl grabbed his wrist again and used his free hand to shoved back the deep hood.
Then he dropped his hand enough that he could brush a thumb across Aden's split lip—the one Reinoehl himself had damaged when he'd struck Aden. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, hand sliding away after a moment. "I thank you for saving my life."
Aden nodded stiffly and pulled his hood back up. "So long as you hold up your end of the bargain, you are welcome." He led the way from the room before Reinoehl could say anything further.