Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

I’ll Be Good

“Most things are easy. It's only fear that makes life difficult.”

CYGNUS

Glate Bay was murky and thick, and a shield of gray obscured anything further than a hundred feet from a jagged, unpleasant shore — when the mist got heavy like this, on nights like these, there were some who believed it separated living from dead.

Jace passed knots of fishermen, hard-bitten after decades of plying the deep of the Hezlin Sea, where any mistake could swallow a person up for good. These people didn't care about who controlled Zarponda. They didn't care about airships, golden riders, Tears, or anything else. Out here, life was about survival.

Now they spent the night throwing whatever they had earned away, wagering a pittance between themselves. They hardly even looked at him. In passing, he could have been mistaken for a messenger and nothing to lure interest away from their dealings. A pile of coins — with his father's face on them — sat enclosed by the largest group. Jace guessed someone was winning too much and would be found with a slit throat before the next morning, their boat raided and vanished. Some fishermen and farmers were bloodier than assassins. But tonight he was looking for a man whose money came from places no one knew, and deeds none with sense wished to dwell on.

The Outrider’s steps took him to a group of abandoned buildings; someday they would be used again, but for now nobody dared challenge for them. He felt a dozen pair of eyes on him before he crossed the broken threshold of the largest warehouse, and was lucky that, even after all these years, most knew him for what he was. His gaze pried into every shadow, but never landed on anything more than a vague suspicion.

Jace heard who he was looking for before he saw him, and cursed himself for carelessness.

"The last time I saw you, you swore I would never do so again. And yet here you are, Dorsey my darling, an impossible shadow in my doorway. How long has it been? Why … has to be a decade, at least, I’d say."

"About that," Jace said.

"Well then, we'll just dispense with the pleasantries, shall we? Time doesn't have much meaning down here, as you may or may not recall, yet still I am not in the habit of wasting it. I see that Treinen relayed my whereabouts. I was skeptical, I’ll admit. Though Cygnus said it would be so. That you would come because of a feeling that you should. A feeling you couldn't resist."

Even with nothing but the moon to light his way, Jace knew the face as clearly as if he had seen it the day before.

"First Marshal Neville Katic," he said, plastering a dangerous half-smile on his face. "I thought you didn't like wasting time."

The sound of men laughing crept out of the shadows.

Neville was laughing, too, as he responded.

"I'm afraid the First Marshal died with your father, and the disbanding of our merry little band of cutthroats by your brother." He spread his arms and executed a perfect, formal bow. However long it had been since he had attended court, the bow was still perfect. Most likely the product of muscle memory, much like the art of cracking a neck. "It’s just poor old Neville now, I’m afraid." He pouted and tilted his head. "So tense, my darling, so tense. I can see it in every muscle in your body. Surely you know I don't want to kill you ... I mean, if you thought that, why would you have come?"

"I don't know," Jace said without thought.

Neville closed his eyes and drew in breath, as if savoring the scents of a cooking meal.

"You see that, boys? Honesty. Truth!" He spun slowly as he spoke, as if he were standing on the floor of Solonea Hall, addressing parliament in Telminster. The impenetrable shadows were his eager-earred senators, who he held captive with every word. Then he stopped and looked back to Jace, clasping his hands together. "You came because you could not help yourself. Not everyone has what it takes to walk the path set out for them, but you do. You do."

Despite Katic's words, Jace was growing less and less convinced of the man's intentions. Donovan Kerrick had never trusted him. Not in his capacity as liaison between the king and the Adamant Gaze, and not as a human being. And now all of his mentor's drunken rants were coming back to him, and he could not recall what in the hell he was thinking by coming here.

Jace smiled, despite the feeling of anxious weakness that fluttered in his stomach.

"Just as a professional courtesy," he said, taking a single step closer toward Katic. He was still a good distance away, but felt the tension draw out like a wire in the darkness. "You should know that your rabble here might get me in a rush, but not before I put you down. This might seem like the old days, just poor old Neville now, but it just seems that way. These days, you might find me too much to handle.”

"Oh, I'm aware," Katic said. "Intimately aware you might say. Besides, there's only one set of your skills I'm interested in, darling."

"You couldn't handle that, either."

The shadows relaxed and laughed again.

This time, Neville did not. His expression was like stone.

"Oh, Dorsey. I would say how much I've missed you, but in truth, there's been scarcely a day when you've been out of my sight. And a good thing, too ... for if that was not the case, how would I have known you were going to need that rope thrown down to you? At the exact moment, I might add, you needed it."

Jace looked with fresh interest at the shrouded-in-darkness crowd, and turned back to Katic with eyebrows raised.

"That was you?" he blurted out.

Neville shrugged.

"More like ... my doing, one might say."

"Why?"

"That would be a better question for Jaden, as I am told she has become something of a mentor to you in recent months. That’s nice. It’s nice to see you two reconnect. And now my shadows tell me you’re soon to return to her presence. And so, it would appear our reunion is destined to be brief. And our time, which we mustn't be in the habit of wasting, is limited as well. So ..." Katic gestured toward the bulky table before him. "Business, then."

Upon it were a few coins, a few small pieces of jewelry, things of little worth that had somehow found their way into Katic's hands. Jace looked over it all for a few seconds, examining baubles and gems.

"See anything you like?" Katic asked.

"Not really."

"Oh. Apologies, my dear." Katic reached over to a cloth on the table and pulled it back, and what it revealed drove Jace’s surroundings clear out of his mind — forgetting the shadows of the present for those of the past. "What about now?"

You're no longer just an observer, boy.

What was revealed were two daggers - one with an ivory dragon hilt, the other with an onyx snake - and a ruby ring.

Remember what I taught you to feel.

Jace reached forward like he was in a dream. Like he was supposed to do it. He picked up the ring and it glinted scarlet in the moonlight. He slipped it on, and there was a shift in the shadows all around him; a sort of grinding noise that jerked him back to alertness. He took a deep breath, feeling like he was coming up from underwater, and the first thing he saw, or more accurately, the first thing he registered, was Neville staring at him, the stone seriousness having returned to his expression.

Are you listening to me?

"I couldn't have my people kill you now if I wanted to," he said. Not with that decade-overdue formality out of the way." He stopped and motioned toward Jace with both hands, as if he were presenting him to an audience. "Decade-overdue or ... about that, as you say."

Jace's fist clenched and unclenched just out of view. At another table, not far from where he was standing with Katic, a silhouette leaned forward and focused on him with green eyes that almost glowed. Eyes like a will-o-the-wisp. In the depths of those eyes, the Outrider could see all the pains that were withheld for him on the path he had taken to get here.

They’re you’re people now., the Outrider heard in his head.

The stench of rust and the savor of blood threatened to overpower him.

"My people?"

Katic murmured something as one hand toyed with a tarnished silver necklace, lifting it with his forefinger as if to offer it to Jace.

"To say it out loud, in public, would be an offense punishable by death."

"You said the Adamant Gaze was disbanded."

Katic snorted.

"Ask those standing around us if they care. Ask Cygnus is he cares."

Jace looked back down at the daggers. He could still see them swaying on Donovan Kerrick's belt as he berated him for this or that. He remembered like it was—

"Yesterday," Neville said. "Or maybe in a vision underwater? Take them, they’re yours."

Jace reached back and drew his Outrider short swords from the criss-crossed sheathes on his back. He laid them down on the table. Then he picked up Kerrick’s weapons ... his weapons, and sheathed them in their place.

"What's a Cygnus?" Jace asked, taking a steadying breath before remaking eye contact with the man.

"Who is Cygnus. He's the one waiting for you out back, which brings our time, not wasted for now, to a close." Jace only glared in response. "Suffice to say, I believe in what he's told me. Yes, that's right, I'm a believer. Guilty as charged."

"A believer in what?"

"Why, a believer in you and yours, my darling. In the possibility, at least. The ... potential, as it were." He tucked the silver necklace back behind his shirt. "I believe in a Ciridian fractured no longer. A Ciridian with no fear, no tyrant, where everyone is free to walk their own path, where the roadless traveled are roadless no more." He paused. "Now go. Go to the reason I've learned to believe. By now he'll be up big, I'd wager. Though not against him, of course. Go now and leave this world behind you."

Now a smirk lit up Jace’s face—but it didn’t reach his eyes.

"Donovan hated you, you know."

Katic rolled his eyes in the light of the moon.

"Donovan hated everyone, young one. And everything. Except for you. He could teach you how to kill a man as quickly and efficiently as possible. But he never learned about loyalty and it led to his downfall. Minch was never the threat in that trans-dimensional backwater. It was the butcher. But he wouldn’t obey orders, just as His Majesty and I suspected. He never would have stopped killing innocents. Or innocence for that matter. We are fortunate that you had the fortitude to honor your side of the deal. Although you killing that Overshadow vexed me, darling. Quite vexed, I’m not gonna lie.”

Jace nodded, straightening his spine. He knew that the way he presented himself to others affected how they saw him. And he knew how important that was, especially here, where appearances could be the difference between life and death.

"The person you think I am ... believe I am, doesn't exist."

Neville merely shrugged again.

"Perhaps. Time will tell, my darling. It always does. But now this is running long, and you’ll be running late. So, really now, I must insist ..." He motioned to the door at the back of the warehouse.

Jace cleared his throat and straightened his shirt — an action made all the more amusing because it was little more than a tattered rag — and then offered Neville Katic a mocking half-salute. His jaw hurt, his ribs hurt, he was sleep deprived, and nothing about this seemed real. And as he started moving again, he wondered if this could be the longest day of his life.

This time, Jace left no shadow as he reached the old door and passed through it.

After he was gone, Neville Katic sat heavily into a chair that was at the table, as a farmer or fisherman might do after a long days' work.

He appeared as a man who had the weight of the world off his shoulders, and absently picked up Jace's short swords to examine them.

"Gaze in the Veil'driel Outriders," he said. "Honestly, whatever next?"

The shadows laughed again, louder and harder than before. Katic threw the short swords down and they thudded into the warped old wood of the table, wobbling back and forth.

Then he leaned back with a laugh of his own, peering at the red depths of the room through a ruby the size of his thumbnail.

It was still early in the evening, and the first thing Jace thought about was how little things had changed — if anything had changed at all. The last time he had stood here, behind this warehouse, he had been 16-years old, just a few days before the mission to Mirror Lake that would change his life forever. It was the end of Ruby now, almost Peridot, and on Sapphire 24 he would be 26. A lifetime had been forgotten and remembered, and yet in all that time, nothing had changed. These people were oblivious to change.

It would be many hours before the first rays of daylight reached through the clouds and scattered the rogues and vandals back into their holes. The fishermen were still gambling, and the closest group said nothing as Jace invited himself over, taking a seat on a barrel and watching silently. He couldn't even have said why he was doing it. But there was something comforting, something soothing about the unchanging simplicity of it all. As if the past was something tangible he wrapped around himself like a boat cloak, shielding himself from the tumultuous cold of an unsettling present.

The rotten fingers of the dock stretched out into the water, and a lone raft sat forlornly on the waves, tossed by an indifferent current. Whatever game this group was playing was obscure, and complicated, and the cards were bent and worn and dripped with sea spray. Their old designs were barely recognizable. Even without knowing the rules, Jace saw the only natural talent in the group. Anyone could see him. He stuck out like a smoking pyre, heaped with coins like fiery kindling. He was thin and lean and wore a broad leather hat, and Jace knew he had seen him before. But he couldn’t quite place him, which Kerrick — back in the day — would have scolded him for.

Jace sighed and looked down. Pain from his ribs, where Hazel had kicked him, heaved in great waves, with answering throbs at pulse points on his body. He was tired. Damned tired, and when he was tired he thought too much.

The familiar man sat with his legs crossed under him, limber and relaxed. His arms were tan, his face covered by a scraggly, brown beard. But try as he might —and he tried more than once — Jace could not see his eyes because they were always shaded by his cards. He hardly ever spoke up; while the others talked in grim voices about the tide, what had been biting that day, and what a nuisance the battle had been, he rearranged his cards in long-fingered hands. The topic turned to the weather and the perils of the mist, and yet still, this silent, familiar man shuffled and shuffled and shuffled until it seemed like he could shuffle no more. He appeared to be waiting for new cards to leap out from the old. To this sordid company he kept, it made it all the worse when he would show his hand and slide another fistful of money into the pile at his feet.

"Haven't seen you around here, stranger," one of the big men finally said, eyeing him none too subtly over the top of his cards.

"Then this must be your first night at my table," the familiar man answered, forever shuffling. "Anyone here will tell you I've been here for months. 3, in fact. Give or take a few days."

"Ahhh," the other man mused, standing up. "Suppose, then, what I meant to say, is I just don't like ya much."

The thin man looked up with a shrug.

"Leaving so soon?"

The fisherman lifted the familiar man by the shirt with one hammy fist.

"Heard tell of ya, though. Folk been talkin'. Talkin' 'bout you. Says you ain't got no calling. Says you're one of them ice-bloods." His hot breath steamed against the man's stubble. "Or maybe you're one them Tears. Showing up, thinking they own the place, control things like the old days. Looks like today, though, you and your lot go your clock cleaned, no? Maybe your friends can't help you none. Not anymore. Maybe you're all alone now, Tear." The other fishers began to grumble in their comrade's reflected bravery. Some of them made their way toward the coin, restraint only inspired by the equally angry men around them.

Their teeth gnashed a symphony.

Jace's shadow detached from the nearby barrel he was sitting on. He almost whispered idiot under his breath, and started back toward the warehouse, back the way he came. He had to find a place to sleep, eat something, and get drunk — in that opposite order. It served the guy right. Coming down here, taking all that money from these killers for ... what did he say ... months?

Jace was in the shadows of the warehouse, completely hidden from view, with his hand on the door handle ...

The thin, familiar man reached up slowly to the brim of his hat, then tipped the brim upward with his thumb.

"I'm not a Tear. I wasn't part of the occupation," he said. "I'm a monk."

... and at this, Jace froze.

"A monk!" The fisherman’s grip tightened on the front of the familiar man's shirt. Raucous laughter exploded all around them. It stopped when the big thug shook his foe like a straw man. "I'm gonna take back what's mine!"

"It was never yours to begin with," the familiar man said, clear as a bell.

Jace turned around now, just in time to see him smile.

The big man's fist was like a battering ram.

But the other's knuckle clipped his chin before it ever made contact. A wild blow passed through empty air and the smaller gambler slid back to his feet, wrenching his arms around the first with serpentine grace as his enemy tried to pull back, animal fear on his face. One twist and the momentum was thrown aside, sending the man flying from the pier and into the water below with a terrific splash.

"May you go with Luna Scarlet's protection," said the self-proclaimed monk. "Anyone else like to try their luck?" No one did. He sat before the money, smoothing his old clothes. One by one, the others drifted away, finding no way to reclaim their fortunes. He shoveled the money into a bag that sat on his shoulder, whistling as he worked. "And what about you?" he asked the air.

Most people would have been utterly undetectable in the shadows. Jace had been an assassin in the Adamant Gaze from the time he was 8 to 16. He had been an Outrider of Veil'driel since then, and since Lornda Manor he remembered both. There was no way this familiar man could have seen him.

"Well? I know you're looking for an answer or two, not least of which why I look so familiar." Jace held his breath in the misty darkness. Unhurried, the monk continued: "I've been waiting here for 3 months, 2 days, and this evening. Ever since your little excursion in The Tunnels of Armageddon. Although my people call them The Crossroads." The Outrider swallowed hard but still didn't move, like a fish resisting bait. "You know me from the vision that new Due Timer showed you. I was there, two centuries ago in Mazhira, at the Ziggurat of Ur with his ancestor on the day that it fell. Or about this?" The man cleared his throat and grinned. "Word will reach her at Lornda Manor, even if—"

"—we do not," Jace mouthed silently in the shadows.

"That's right, Outrider. Now you got it, well done." Moving with great extravagance, he turned away and stretched his limbs, stifling a yawn. When he turned back, Jace was right in front of him. "You're seven minutes late." He gestured to offer him a seat. "I've slit men's throats for less."

"Hilarious," Jace said with no emotion.

"Forgive me, but I was only gonna get once chance at that." He smiled, his eyes wide, but his face was like winter. "Right. Well, then, on to more important matters. What have you to wager?"

"I don't gamble."

The monk laughed. It was loud and genuine and he was still laughing when he spoke again:

"I would say all those who paid Mr. Dale on your behalf after those stunt rides of yours might disagree. As would poor old Charles and the Illumanatii at the bottom of that Lornda Manor staircase."

"You don't look like a Luna Scarlet Monk," Jace said.

"And you don't look like an Outrider of Veil'driel, so let’s call it even," the man shot back. His tone was more serious now. "Do you want to play, or not?"

Jace's left hand moved to his right, like someone else was moving it and he didn't resist. He slid the ruby ring off his finger and held it in front of him. Even up close it had that tiny glint, the glint of the moon turned red in the stone. There was a signet carved into it, the signet of the Adamant Gaze.

The monk looked at the tiny thing for a long while, stroking his beard in thought.

"That'll do, Lord of Assassins," he said, sitting again in that twisted up style. He passed out eight cards.

"Did you invent this game?" Jace asked, as he set the ring down. This was a different deck than the one he had used with the fishermen. The ink was fresh and the edges were flawless, a week's worth of work at any paper mill. The pictures had been illumined by hand.

"Nah. This one is as old as time," he said. "It's the game of Regicide — you know it?"

Yes. He knew it. It was the name of the game Relic had tried to explain to him, but whenever he talked about his experiences in that wagon, on that wild night in Westwood, it usually just gave him a headache. Avery would say it was like trying to describe a dream — how everything made perfect sense while you were in it, but was utter nonsense in hindsight when you awoke. How words seemed to cheapen it, how they weren't adequate enough. But when Relic had talked about Regicide, he—

"—said it was played on a board," the monk said. "Different version. Similar rules. Identical stakes. It's about seizing the right moment. Or to put it in the language of the commoners ... timing is everything."

Jace said nothing for a time, examining the intricate designs on the faces and looking across at the backs of his own.

Lost ... lost ... I'll get lost ... get lost ... forever.

"Now, now. None of that, greenhorn, ignore that voice. Most things are easy. It's only fear that makes life difficult. That's the voice of fear, and the one to stay the hell away from. No thinking now. Just focus. We'll get to Relic in time, but right now ... right now you have my complete and utter attention. Relax."

Jace did precisely that. He stopped thinking.

Tick. Hunger stabbed at Jace’s stomach.

He stopped worrying.

Tock. He realized he could not remember eating.

He stopped planning.

Tic. He had not slept in ages.

He ... somehow, impossibly, recognized ...

Tick. Tock. Tick.

"I do know this game," he said.

"That would be a welcome surprise," the monk answered, cutting the cards and leaving a few face up between them.

Jace's fingers danced over the top of his own, images of how the game had been played before flickering in his mind's eye. When all was done, the World card faced him; a globe with much more land than could ever be real, held in the gentle embrace of a queen who was elegant as a flower. The Outrider slipped the Page of Wands from his hand and laid it facing the nameless monk.

"So," he asked, lazily thumbing through the cards. "Who are you really?"

When Jace looked up, he found the monk examining him keenly behind cards held like a lady's fan.

"As I said, I am a monk."

He laid the Ace of Pentacles to the left of the World.

"Maybe you were, but you're not now," Jace accused. "What happened to you?"

The Outrider laid out the Knight of Cups so that the World lay balanced between the point of an arcanum triangle and the edge of a goblet.

"What about you?" the monk shot back calmly. "Really. I've watched you for a very long time. Not only is it a lie that you don't gamble, you're almost obsessed with it from what I've seen."

"Everything in life is a gamble," Jace said. "Only amateurs need cards. And I know you from somewhere else, not just the vision, or whatever that was in the tunnels.”

"Do you?" he asked. The monk, or not-monk, laid the King of Swords against the top edge of the globe, a majestic man who surveyed his domain from above, holding the world hostage with the tip of his blade.

"I saw you my first week in Veil'driel, at the Harvest Festival. When Relic and I saved that little kid who ran into Westwood Forest. The first night I ever saw Isabelle, she was giving a speech on a stage." Jace perked visibly. He knew that memory could not have happened in the exact way he had seen that night — when the visage of a young Artemus Ward had come to see him — but the basis of it was real, the outline of it was real. And he knew in that instant that this monk had been responsible for allowing him to lock out his past the way he did. He had been with him long before ... before …

… the memories started to fade again, as if focusing on them dissipated their substance like heat on snow.

“I imagine there’s a question somewhere in all that reflection, but I can’t say what it is.”

"Can you tell me ... do you know if Isabelle is alive?"

The monk's eyes were as black as the night sky when they rose to meet his slowly, and then they flashed through every fathomable color. There was something horrible and beautiful about it. Like magical warfare. It made Jace think of the comets over the Tenzan Plains on the night this journey began. It made his mind burn and bubble and melt like a rainbow made of wax candles. Or freshly-blown glass. Or sparkling fireworks on the bay. It was a kaleidoscope of reflections and half-seen glints of potential and outrageous, inhuman beauty.

And he forgot what his question had been.

"I didn't think my beard was that thick," the monk mused. "You could say I have no place to go."

"So it's true what they’re saying." Jace’s eyes were wide. Half trying to reckon what he felt, what he had experienced in the monk's eyes. He had seen that somewhere before as well, someone else had done it, but it was nothing like what he was feeling now. The other half of his thought was recalling the stories his grandfather had told him — stories about those who refused to walk the path laid out for them, whether knowingly or not.

"That I'm an ice-blood?" the monk asked. "Your grandfather was a very wise man. Did he ever explain to you why they were called that?"

Jace looked at the monk as if he were stupid. He wasn't even paying attention to the game, and the Outrider was beginning to suspect that the real game being played here was him.

Still, truth was, his grandfather had explained why they were called that.

"He said that anyone who would turn their back on their calling is so selfish, they must have ice water in their veins. If it were up to them, no one would know what to do or how to do it."

"And what happens to people without trades?"

"Everyone is born into something," Jace said. "Or maybe you don't remember who you are. Maybe you washed up on the pier and now no one will claim you."

The monk looked at him for a long moment.

"Now we're back to talking about you, I think," he said with finality as he laid the Tower card over all. "And I've just won your ring." He swept it into his hand and stood up, collecting the cards in a series of quick motions.

"Wait. I asked you about Isabelle." Somehow, whether by design or not, he had forgotten he had. But now ... he shook his head, the idea of losing not intruding on his thoughts yet. "Is what Hazel told me true?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Can't ... or ... won't?" Jace snapped.

"Won't," the monk said. "Because I can't."

An unintelligent noise escaped Jace's mouth, something like hwa?

"I gave the Horn of Cambria to Mr. Dale, to give to you, and offer no specifics then, either. Creed, in all his infinite wisdom, kicked us out of his camp, shunned our guidance and knowledge, otherwise Valith’s time loop would never have happened. I left my robe behind, and Isabelle made good use of it, or so I've heard. A private, secret farewell in your tent, was it? I was rather hoping Relic would use the horn, all things being equal. There would have been something amusing in that: Relic using a relic." He chuckled. "Alas, he was meant to walk a different path, and judged ready that night in Westwood. I have waited here for you to judge the same, but the jury’s still out as it were.”

"Ready for what?" Jace yelled. "How about I just sit here and do nothing? How about I say I'm sick of all this intrigue, these visions, this ... vague nonsense? What if I just choose to be an ice-blood myself?"

"Do as you like. I'll be going." He began to walk away without a backward glance. "You'll be a bigger failure than Artemus if you fail to stop him. And the woe of the world will be on your shoulders, then. Arkhelan will reign forever, and you can just sit here rotting on this dock."

This was not the expected reaction. Worse, he had Kerrick's ring ... his ring. Jace jolted to his feet, following at his heels. He had a long stride, but Jace kept pace with him easily.

"Hey! What kind of Luna Scarlet Monk fleeces innocent people like that? Huh? What kind of Luna Scarlet Monk leaves a person with more questions than answers?"

"Most kinds," he declared.

"Well, then ... what was the point of you meeting me here? Wanting to see me, waiting to see me?"

"I told you," the monk said. "To assess. To see if we're ready to proceed."

"Proceed? Proceed with what?"

"The beginning of the end, greenhorn. This fog will soon rise like a curtain, and our final Act will begin."

"Now you sound like Artemus did!"

The monk smiled, but never broke stride.

The docks were empty now, and Jace would have thought that was strange if he had been paying attention, but instead he was focused entirely on the monk, who was trudging along on a path back toward the center of Zarponda. Rickety buildings loomed on both sides and the rhythm of the sea grew distant. There was only so far he could follow him, and if he expected to get his ring back, or get any more information, he had to change tact.

"Alright. I'm begging you now. If there's something specific I'm supposed to be doing, or ... I don't know, some big picture I'm missing, just tell me!"

"Telling someone what they're supposed to do, before they do it, is the quickest way for them not to do it. Which is why Alarick told you he got the horn from the Fairlawn Bizarre," he said, smiling to himself again as Jace tensed. "And why—"

"Stop walking!" Jace shouted, grabbing the monk by the arm.

The knife had been coated in oil, but the Outrider saw the flash as it was withdrawn and the mugger lurched out of the alley ahead of them. No style, no stealth, no tact. And there were two more moving in from the other side, the drip-drop of water announcing they were the men from the docks — out to reclaim their due one last time. Now their chances looked good: there was no escape.

"You know,” the monk said as he faced the pair, one of whom was soaked to the bone. "I like to think people learn from their mistakes, but if you do, you're hiding it beautifully."

They pressed forward, daggers flailing, until he was almost back-to-back with Jace. He was fast and strong but there was no room to manuever and nothing to use. On the other side, the drenched mountain of a man had his shiv raised, threatening to cut a waif as soon as the monk moved.

"Hand over the money," he snarled, slow and angry.

To the monk's surprise, it was the Outrider who spoke up. Only it didn't sound like the Outrider. It sounded like the Lord of Assassins.

It sounded like Dorsey Trent.

"Listen to me very carefully. I don't know if you know who I am, and I don't care. But I'm giving all of you a chance to just stop right now, chalk this up to a bad night, and walk away. This is not a threat. It isn't brevado. It's an honest request. I'm requesting you don't make me kill you."

The mugger was in no mood to listen to anything. He charged; Jace's foot flew out, smashing into the man's kneecap with a sickening crack, and the fisherman stumbled over, with his fingers loosening around his weapon. Seeing his chance, Jace grabbed the giant man's arm and pulled until his own weapon — the one with the an ivory dragon — was pressed against his throat. Gasping for breath, one hand braced against the ground, the thug could see the hate burning in Jace's eyes.

The world shrank away from him like a demon.

When a man’s dedication is twisted to obsession, madness always follows, and the penance is all he is.

Jace wanted to slit the man's throat and get it over with.

All he has been.

And then take his friends apart.

These cutthroats.

Kerrick used to take him down here for practice as a kid, and as that kid he had killed 19 men this way.

His deeds are washed from history.

And this one would deserve it just as much as they did.

Cutthroats.

All of these disgusting, dangerous, ignorant animals deserved it. So secure in their shallow selfishness. Only ever thinking about what they could get out of something, what they could get out of someone. How the world could serve them.

He becomes nothing!

He should gut this fisherman right here and now. Kill him before he killed someone else over nothing. Then he could take his friends apart piece by piece. The thought filled Jace with hatred. Hatred for everything.

You have always had the mind of a cutthroat, Dorsey ...

Damn right. And it sent a thrill through him to remember what it was like to see the terror in their eyes before he snuffed it out forever. Burned it out. Tortured it out. And he should do it again right now. He was back. He was the Sindell Lord of Assassins. He should finish this and savor that look of pure humility, pure regret in those guilty eyes when these fools realized ...

... but never the heart of one.

Jace closed his eyes …

The world was cold, the river of time turning to solid ice as it waited for a choice.

… and when he opened them again, they flashed through colors no one living had witnessed before, startling the mugger-fishermen that much more. The assassins's ... the Outrider's hand trembled. He felt a burning in his chest, a burning that ran down his arms. His eyes were gray again and he gritted his teeth. And then he thought he could actually feel fingers wrap gently around his wrist.

"Drop the knife," Jace whispered, voice empty. There was no response at first, as the thug was quite clearly stunned. Stunned by Jace's near supernatural speed and strength, stunned by what he had just seen in his eyes, and perhaps most of all, by the fact he was still alive. "I said," and with this Jace tugged his arm, bringing the fisherman back to the present; the action made only a scratch, but he gasped as the blood leaked from his throat. "Drop it." The mugger let go — which only gave Jace a better grip, seizing it by the handle. "No more knife, no more fighting."

"Who are you?" he dared to whisper.

"Someone you don’t want to see again. Not ever. Do you understand me?" Jace nodded slowly and eventually the fisherman nodded with him. "The rest of you," he called to the other two who had frozen in place. "Light out. While you still can." The scuffle of boots confirmed their retreat, and Jace narrowed his eyes on the giant man again, winning a gurgle of shock. "I want you to spread the word and remember it yourself. Dorsey Trent is back and always watching. You need coin, outsmart some fish. Otherwise you'll answer to me," Jace told him, flicking Kerrick's dagger so it just missed cutting into him again. "Next time, I'll use both of these. And I’ll take my time doing it. Go."

And go he did.

Jace watched them leave and then knelt to slip the ivory dragon dagger back into the sheath on his back. He never looked back at the gambler-monk; if he moved, he would know. The Outrider worked with deliberate slowness, until everything was put away in its proper place.

"I saved your life," he said. "That should earn me my ring back."

The monk already had it in his hand. He gave it back to Jace who slipped it back onto his finger.

"Now who's playing a role?"

"What?"

"You're not Dorsey Trent. Not anymore, I understand that now,” the monk said, and then he paused, giving him an appraising look. "People call me Cygnus. And you're Jace Dabriel."

"Wait. That … what are you saying, this was all a test?"

"In a manner of speaking. There are bigger games than Regicide to be played," he said, turning away. "In your pocket you will also find a small, smooth stone. That's for Relic when you see him."

Jace patted his pockets, feeling an unfamiliar weight. Questing, he found the stone and a new pouch of feverlew.

"Relic's in Veil'driel," he said. “Bryce Valley’s impassable and I have no idea when I'll even see—"

"You didn't come this far just to come this far, Outrider. And having no idea is what this story’s all about. In the meantime, I'll continue to keep my eye on you."

Hearing some commotion, Jace looked past the monk to realize they had come almost completely back to the Dock Complex. The bronze braziers were all in place and now and burning, beckoning him out of the shadows with their light.

"I'll be damned," Jace said.

The monk adjusted the straps of his pack around his shoulder, shifting the weight of his things.

"Not literally, Dabriel. Of that much, I can assure you."

Jace felt uncomfortable and exposed on the docks, yet this was not an interaction to be hurried.

"Be careful around here, Cygnus," the Outrider said, looking at the stone in his hand. The feverlew was in a teardrop-shaped leather pouch, but that was still in his pocket. "This is no place for a man who's made enemies.".

"My boy," Cygnus said, as he started away. "This is no place for anyone."

STATIC

Chapter Seven  (E) Up the Republic #2190669 by Dan Hiestand