“The Pendragon heir is alive and well. Another assassin has failed.”

“So, the Holy Order failed again?” Peck grinned behind his shadowy veil. The hood of his cloak hid him well in the alley's dark. Brick walls pressed in close. The putrid-sweet smell of rotting vegetables stained the air. “The High Exemplar will never learn.”

“That isn’t what you came to ask, though, is it?” The old beggar smiled a toothless smile. His bare feet shuffled with anticipation. “I know you, Peck.”

“Sometimes you talk too much, Boyle,” Peck said.

“It’s hardly been a complaint with my other customers.” Boyle shrugged. “They get mad when I don’t say enough.”

“It’s no mystery why I’m here. The disappearance of Lady Miranda shocked everyone. But don’t go telling our business, nor mine.” Peck thumbed the pointy pommel of his hidden dagger.

“You know you can trust me, Peck. If I told my clients the business of other clients, I’d soon be out of clients!”

“Just tell me what you know about Lady Miranda’s disappearance,” Peck said, tossing Boyle a silver circling.

The old beggar caught the coin. He turned it over in his hand, brought it to his mouth, and gnawed it with his gums. Boyle eyed Peck, brown beads gleaming with suspicion. “Red Sashes kidnapped her. Boys from the docks. They're all in an uproar because of the new taxes. And Lady Miranda’s uncle is the Lord of Lundy, who was the most vocal supporter of the new taxes, and the man who stands to profit most from them–besides the King, of course.”

Of course, Peck thought. My brother always stands to gain when a new law passes through the High Courts. He’s as reckless at politics as he is at war. Peck crossed his arms. “Speak, Boyle. I already know the Red Sashes are involved. Do you have any names?”

“First you want me to talk less, now you’re telling me to talk more.” Boyle crossed his arms, not-so-deftly tucking the circling into his waistband.

“Boyle!” Peck barked.

“Alright, alright. Don’t lose your head! Do you know the man who owns the Troutman’s Retreat?” Boyle asked.

Peck rubbed his chin. “John’s got a hot head, but he’s not a fool.”

“His brother works as a bargeman.”

“Yes, yes. I know.” Peck grew hot under the collar. “And the Troutman is a Red haven. Stop with the games. Are you saying Jordan Blackfin is behind the kidnapping?”

“We both know Jordan’s not smart enough to pull off a stunt like this.” Boyle eyed him. “But the men he’s working for....”

Peck flipped the beggar another silver circling. “Just tell me where they’re hiding her.”

“You’re a good man, Peck. But I don’t know the answer to that question.” Boyle tossed the coin back.

Peck caught the glimmering silver. He nodded. “Thank you for your time.” The shadows clung to him as he slunk away, winding through narrow alleys, trapped in a maze of stone. But I have little time to spare.

He skirted the Market District, where guards patrolled day and night. They may be the King’s men, but they were certainly not his men. He was a bastard. The whole kingdom was unaware of his existence. A long stretch of cobblestone cut a line through the city. Tall buildings stood on either side of that line. An open road separated him from the next alleyway. He stopped. Horse hooves clapped on the cobblestone, approaching fast. He watched the rider and steed pass, then darted across the road. The entire city will know by tomorrow. This must end tonight. It seemed his brother’s kingdom was always on the brink of falling apart. The shadows held it together–the battles fought in the dark. The battles I fight, for a kingdom that will never know my name and a king who would execute me if he learned of my existence.

His legs burned, but the night air was refreshing. It felt good.

Grabbing the edges of his cloak, he tugged on them, as if imitating a bat flapping its wings. A gust of wind howled down the alley. The gray wool flared and he soared into the air. The buildings became a blur as he shot through the night. He looked down on their shingled roofs, wind whipping through his hair. He steered the cloak by tugging on its edges. In a gliding descent, he landed upon the spine of a roof. He ran. Flying roof to roof, he cut straight for the Docking District. This is something Jordan would do. It fits. Something is wrong, though. Something doesn’t fit. They took Lady Miranda from her manor. There are plenty of disgruntled handmaidens and servants in the Noble District, but the perpetrators knew how to avoid the houseguards.

The Reds didn’t act alone.

Perhaps I should have questioned Boyle further. Then again, maybe I’m overthinking it. Regardless, if I can find Lady Miranda, the nobility can worry about clearing the rats out of their mansions.

His feet found purchase on the Troutman’s roof. He crouched low. And if they’re rats, then what am I? Not quite a cat, yet not a rat, either. Perched upon the roof of the Troutman’s Retreat, he meditated upon the teachings of the Holy Order: “I am but a vessel of God’s will.”

He slunk into, and through, an alley, and found the doors of the Troutman’s Retreat standing wide open. Light and sound spilled onto the street. Drunkards stumbled about and boasted in booming voices, clattering steins and mugs, spilling ale and wine on hard-grained planks. He walked in, his hood drawn down, and approached the bar. Big John was gone. His wife, Hilde prepared drinks while barking commands at the serving maids. She worked up a heavy sweat, moving about frantically. Her thick red hair clung to her. Hilde wiped her forehead and sighed.

“Big John left you all alone?”

Hilde looked over. Her eyes grew wide. She smiled. “Well, Maker-me, if it isn’t Darrell Hunter!” Hilde walked to him and leaned in close. “Let’s not talk about John. Not right now. Oh, it is good to see you’re back in town! What can I get you?”

“I’ll take a mug, you know the make,” Darrell said.

“Hunter’s Honey, of course.” Hilde imitated her best noble curtsy. She did well, but how would Darrell know?

Darrell scanned the tavern. A group of men gathered at a table near the back of the room. Each man wore a red sash tied around his neck, waist, leg, or arm. Hilde returned with his drink. Darrell drew in a slug of sweet, honeyed mead. It was Peck’s favorite, too. And Robert’s favorite. And Tom’s favorite. Some things carry through, no matter who you are. “Rough customers,” Darrell said, pointing at the Red Sashes.

Hilde nodded. “There’s more and more of them every day.”

“Can you blame them?” Darrell asked.

“They only know how to work. It’s what God made them to do. The Lords can’t expect them to understand taxes and trade. That’s why they’re supposed to protect us. But, no matter how hard we work, we can’t make enough money to survive. It’s no surprise they’ve taken matters into their own hands.” Darrell eyed her. “Well, never you mind. You just enjoy your stay. I know I sure will. I always miss those good looks.” Hilde winked. “When are you shoving off again? I could use some help around the tavern.”

“Shoving off in the morning, unfortunately,” Darrell said.

Hilde pouted. “That’s too bad. Well, it was nice seeing you, Darrell.” She smiled.

“Hilde?” Darrell asked.

“Yes?” The woman returned.

“Is John okay?”

Hilde stared at him.

“You can’t do anything, Darrell, you’re just a boy!” Hilde paced back and forth in her office. She looked at the empty bed, a quaint set-up for two struggling divorcees who loved money more than they hated each other.

Darrell sat on the edge of the desk. “Listen, Hilde, I have friends in the south who would carve these guys up and have ‘em for breakfast. I’m used to dealing with rough customers. John's gotten himself wrapped up in a dangerous game, but I know I can help him. Just tell me where they’re hiding out. ”

“John is at his wit’s end!" Hilde cried. "The Red Sashes filled his head with nonsense. That little weasel, Jordan, talked him into it!”

“Tell me where they are, Hilde,” Darrell begged.

She threw her hands in the air. “He’ll kill me!”

Darrell stood up, approached Hilde, and placed his hands on both her shoulders. She refused to meet his eyes. “Hilde, if you don’t tell me where John and Jordan have taken Lady Miranda, the courts could charge you with kidnapping and treason. You are an accomplice, too.”

“I didn’t help! I did nothing!” Teardrops formed in the corners of her wrinkled eyes.

“You watched them transpire to kidnap a noble heiress and did nothing? That sounds like an accomplice to me,” Darrell said.

“Darrell! Why are you being so cruel?” Hilde pleaded.

“Lady Miranda is ten years old. Did you know that?” Darrell walked back to the desk and sat down. “They're threatening to cut her throat and send her body down the Blackroot River. It's pure madness. Do you think the death of our King’s distant relative will make him eradicate the new taxes? Don’t you think it more likely that this will anger the King? That there will be retribution?”

“You’re talking funny, Darrell.” Hilde studied him with a mixture of confusion and horror. “John said they would let her go after a while–give her to an orphanage or leave her at a bakery. Is she truly ten years old?”

Darrell gripped the desk's edge. “Will you tell me?”

“I will…" Hilde whipped away a tear, sniffled, and then locked eyes with Darrell. "But I don’t know what you can do. If you go to the guards, the Red Sashes will know.”

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

“Hilde? Where are they?”

“A warehouse in the Market District." The words tumbled out of her mouth. "Do you know where the Mending Forge is?”

I do, but Darrell does not, and if I want to save this character, I had best stop playing detective and start playing Darrell. He shook his head. "Can you explain how to get there?"

Hilde sighed. “These waters run too high. The Reds own this city! Let the matter rest!”

“You and John have been good to me," Darrell said. "My boat leaves tomorrow, so if the waters get too rough, I can drift away to somewhere safe. Trust me, Hilde.”

He whirled through the night sky at a breakneck speed. His eyes watered, whipped by the brown curls of his hair. There!

The warehouse sat like a black box on the corner of a four-way intersection. Flying over the shingled roofs of smiths, fletchers, and artificers, he stopped at the heart of the Builder’s Square, landing on top of the Mending Forge–a small armory–across the road from his destination.

Two men stood in front of the warehouse wearing the uniforms of king's men. He did not recognize them. What are my options? Creeping along the roof, he examined the building. He found an open window near the back. For most people, it would be too difficult to reach. Not for him. He flared his gray cloak and, with a leap, flew into the air. He floated gracefully onto the roof of a lower building next to the warehouse, then shoved off its roof, flapping the cloak’s edges. He shot toward the open window. In mid-air, he wrapped the cloak around himself and spun. A lining of silver threads, on the inside of the cloak, shimmered. He passed through the window and his cloak swirled about, dragging behind, forming a parachute to soften his landing.

All was quiet. The hallway was dark and empty. The floorboards were old and rotted, the walls ruinous.

Where are you?

Lady Miranda was a good kid. He would not see her harmed. He crept down the hall. He heard something–a few doors down the hall, a muffled voice spoke. The voice grew louder. A door opened. Twenty feet ahead, a big man with a grizzly beard and round belly walked into the hallway. “I don’t know, Jordan. This has gone too far,” the big man said.

Big John!

“John, you are a damned coward! I knew I couldn’t trust you! That Hilde has you hen-pecked!” his brother, Jordan, called.

“I’m going back to my tavern!” John yelled.

“We can’t let you leave, John," another voice carried into the hallway. "Stick it out to the end, or I’ll stick you in the alley."

His cloak allowed him to creep closer to John. The air shifted around its magical fabric. To the others, he would be a ghost–invisible. John placed his giant fists on his hips and glared through the doorway. Glancing around the barkeep: six men were in the room, each wearing a Red Sash in some fashion. Lady Miranda sat in a chair near the back. The monsters tied her up with dock ropes, thick and heavy. They gagged her mouth with a red sash. The poor girl sunk into her seat, lifeless and defeated.

“Get back in here!” Jordan yelled.

John shook his head. He grunted. The big man stepped away from the door.

Now! He flared his magical cloak and pushed off his toes, bouncing around John and flying through the door. He moved like a wraith–a chill air of invisible death. He landed on the wall above Lady Miranda, crouched and ready to pounce.

“What was that?” Jordan asked.

“It was a breeze,” a wiry man spoke. His head was bald, his beard short with gray stubble. Two snakes looked over his shoulders, tattooed on his neck. “You boys are big, but you spook easily. I’m starting to think you’re just cowards.”

I know you. You should be rotting in the dungeons, Snake. Who did you snitch on this time?

Thunderous footfalls resounded in the hall. John fled.

“Go get him.” Snake waved his hand. Three Red Sashes moved toward the door, Jordan in tow. “Not you!” Snake pointed at Jordan. “You’re gonna stay and watch the girl.”

Jordan stopped. He sighed. “I can talk to him!”

“It’s too late. Your brother is a traitor,” Snake said. The three other Red Sashes dashed out the door, giving chase to John.

Should I save John and leave Miranda for now? Snake won’t hurt her unless he thinks the game is up. But what if Jordan does something stupid to jeopardize the Lady’s safety? He clung to the wall, his magical cloak concealing his presence. If those men catch John, Hilde will be a widower.

“Come on, Snake! This is John, we’re talking about. Let me go talk to him,” Jordan begged.

Snake drew a rusty knife. “I’ve gutted fish meaner than you, Jordan. Remember who you're dealing with. If this job goes south, every Red in this city will look for you and your brother.”

Jordan shook his head. “John was right. You don’t care about taxes. You’re just turning a bad situation into a profit.”

Snake laughed. Jordan was not as big as his brother John but was big enough to kick like a mule. Snake found out the hard way as he thudded against the back wall. His flaying knife clattered to the floor. Three remaining Red Sashes charged Jordan. I suppose you can always count on a fool to be foolish! Flaring his cloak, he shoved off the wall. A skinny young man with a wooden club swung at Jordan and caught the big man in his arm. The young man caught an invisible foot in the face. He flew through the air and slammed into a wall. Momentum carried him across the room, the inner lining of his cloak glimmering with magic. He bounced off the far wall and drew his dagger. A silver-steel blade curved away from its bone handle into a beak sharper than any hawk. Black runes covered the handle, carved and inked, a foreign tongue. Its talon-bone pommel was shaved into a fine point. A Red Sash turned but did not feel the silverlite slicing through his forearm. His pathetic dagger clattered to the floor. A jolt of lightning passed through his body. The rigid Red hit the floor with a thud–paralyzed.

He spun, cloak flared. He was invisible again.

“What the hell?” The last Red dropped his club and dashed toward the door. Jordan grabbed the much smaller man by his shirt collar and picked him up. Then, he smashed the Red Sash onto the floor, cracking the planks. The weight of both men nearly broke through the third floor.

Thankfully, I’m on your side, big guy.

“Treacherous wretch!” Snake cried. The bald man scraped his knife off the floor and pointed it at Jordan. He stood. “I’m gonna skin you alive!”

Invisible to all, his talon-handled dagger in hand, he pointed it at Snake. He pushed his thumb into the pointed bone-carved pommel. Animiki’s Talon stung like a wasp, pushing beneath his skin. A droplet of blood pooled. The talon blade glowed blue, then white-hot. He released his thumb and closed his eyes, but a flash of white light washed away the darkness. Lightning crackled, and thunder roared, rattling the room. Snake’s knife glowed white-hot. He cried out in agony, dropping the knife and grabbing his wrist.

Jordan rubbed his eyes and stumbled about. “My eyes!”

“You’ll be fine." He whipped the blood from his silver steel dagger and sheathed it. "Watch the girl.”

The curly-haired brute rubbed his eyes. Jordan looked at him, blinking, eyes watering. “Darrell?”

Well, there goes that character. He walked over to Snake, who squabbled on the floor, squealing in pain. “You will not walk free after this.”

Snake turned his agonized gaze upon him. His eyes went wide. “You? Damned you, Greengood! You’re not a fisherman! Who are you?” He held up his seared flesh. "What did you do to me?"

“Whoever I need to be to make the world a better place.” He kicked Snake in the face. “Watch the girl, Jordan.” Lady Miranda did not stir. If she sees me here, I’ll lose another character. This mission had already cost him Darell–possibly Peck, too.

“I can help!” said Jordan.

“There’s no need. Just make sure Snake is tied up. As well as the others. You should be able to handle them now. Untie the girl after you’ve taken care of the Reds. The guards will arrive soon, finding you with some beat-up Red Sashes and a freed Lady Miranda. You could be a hero.”

Jordan looked around the scene. “Me? A hero?”

“Do we have a deal?” He moved toward the door.

“Just make sure John’s okay,” Jordan called.

“I owe him one.” At least Darrell owed him one. He didn’t owe anyone anything. Not anymore.

He felt great relief now that Miranda was safe. Jordan was a good man, despite his misgivings. I hope his brother's heart doesn’t give out before his legs. Hilde was right about John. He’s too high-strung. Elven fabric fluttered in the night. The rooftops were his kingdom, the night his realm. No one else had a cloak like his and could not move like him. In the night sky, he was free. Free to be whoever he wanted to be. Leaping high, he spotted a big man darting down the cobblestones of Peddler’s Street, a few streets away. Three men gave chase, ignoring streetlamps and abandoning secrecy. John’s giant footfalls could wake the neighborhood.

He bounded toward Peddler’s Street and descended into an alley, bouncing off balconies and windowsills, spinning before he hit the ground. His cloak shimmered, melding with the shadows. He walked into the road to intercept his prey. They were close at hand.

Big John hit the cobblestones with a big, wet, thud.

Three Reds stopped dead in their tracks. Bolts whistled through the air, flying past. One ripped through his magic cloak. The Reds cried out. They hit the cobblestones–full of bolts–their blood wet the city streets. His heart pounded. He jumped, soaring into the air, landed on a nearby roof, and studied the road ahead. Where are you? A group of five men marched down the street, wearing long black robes, their hoods cat over their heads, hiding their faces. Each held a crossbow. They walked over to the corpses. They turned them over and studied their dead faces. “Do you think that’s all of them?” A youthful voice asked.

“No,” a familiar voice answered.

Memories of the Holy Order, and a childhood serving the Temple, writhed their way back into his brain. He felt the sting of a whip, the knuckles of a brother–every pain they instilled in him. Every lesson hurt and every lesson lasted. Some things carry through. He levitated down into the street. He pulled his cloak back, revealing the dagger on his belt. “Gregory!”

Gregory glared at him. His eyes flickered toward the bone-handled weapon.

“Why is the Holy Order involved?”

“You know why,” his former brethren said.

“Now that you mention it, I think I do. The High Exemplar wants to be the only answer to every problem–even the ones he makes. No law passes through the courts without the approval of all Houses. And I know such a proposition would never be considered without the support of someone extremely influential. Lord Watergrove of Lundy is a lesser lord of little importance. How could he gain the approval of every house? Who could he align with? Who could tip the scales in his favor?” He smiled. “Doesn’t the High Exemplar know it is illegal to accept bribes?”

“Careful, heretic!” Gregory snarled.

“Your names have no meaning to me. Your words have no meaning because they do not come from you. They come straight from the High Exemplar, from the Temple doctrine. Honestly, brother, I’m still wondering how a bunch of peasants broke into the mansion and stole Lady Miranda away in the first place. Only a seasoned criminal could pull off such an impossible task. Surely, our great father hasn’t sunk so low?”

“That would be disastrous for us. What would we gain?” Gregory fingered the trigger of his crossbow.

“Those are the only answers I’m finding–more questions.” He wrapped his cloak around him, concealing his weapon, and his intentions. “I suppose you all are cleaning up his mess, then. Saving face? The girl is okay. If that matters to you.”

“Where is she?” Gregory asked.

“Across from the Mending Forge. You’ll find two Red Sashes at the front door, but I've already taken care of them. And the rest.” He shrugged. “Jordan and John turn cloaked, as you can tell.”

Gregory lowered the crossbow and moved closer. “Why do you continue to stick your nose in other people’s business? You say names have no meaning to you, but you act as if you were born to a far greater name than you have any right to claim, bastard.”

The name didn’t hurt, but the truth behind it did.

“Watch your back, heretic.” Gregory spat at his feet, then slung the crossbow over his shoulder. The priest sauntered up Peddler’s Street, heading toward the Builder’s Square. His four disciples followed.

They’ll take Lady Miranda back to her parents and claim the glory for the Temple. God have mercy on Jordan, for your Holy Order will not. Lord Watergrove won’t be pleased, but with time and money, he’ll forget. I imagine Miranda will return to Lundy. It’s a shame. She flourished in the royal courts. He studied the buildings nearby–no lights, no sounds. He walked over to Big John and looked into his big, dead, eyes. In those black pools of death, he saw Darrell staring back. Darrell died that night, too, but some things carry through. Darrell, Peck, heretic, bastard. They all meant the same thing–him. He jumped into the air and, tugging his cloak, soared through the shadows of the night.

Then again, who am I?