“What is it?” Sulla hissed.
“Something is wrong, Sulla,” came the growled response. “Wrong in Morytania.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have just had a message from… someone. Not my master, but someone more powerful and far, far older.”
“Older than Drakan?”
Jerrod shook his head. And Sulla knew he was afraid.
“I don’t understand it,” the creature continued. “It was a woman, Sulla. She told me about the Wyrd. She told me where it is.”
“Tell me,” Sulla demanded.
“She’s in the lumberyard, Sulla, to the northeast of here. That’s her hideout. The woman wants me to destroy her. But I don’t understand it. This is not my master speaking.”
“So who will you obey?”
“I will obey her, Sulla. She knows things, she is older than the one who sent me. She told me her name. It is one we fear to speak in Morytania. She is Vanescula, Lord Drakan’s own kin.”
“But I thought you were sent by Drakan himself.”
“I thought so, too. That’s what I was led to believe. But Vanescula is even more powerful than the being who sent me, so it can’t have been Lord Drakan. No, I must have been tricked. That’s how the vampires work their games, Sulla.” The werewolf growled in anger and clenched his fists.
“Very well,” he said after a moment’s deliberation. “Tell me Jerrod, is the girl still nearby?”
Jerrod sniffed the air and nodded.
“Good. She has something I want. Come!”
“The embassy left Varrock through the east gate an hour ago,” the man with the thin moustache told Sulla. He then pursed his lips in thought, ran his right hand through brown hair that was flecked with silver at the sides, and reached into the small bag that lay on the table between the two men.
“Kara-Meir and her friends went with them,” he added. “I saw them go.”
The man withdrew his hand to reveal a rounded pebble poised between two fingers. He turned it over and dropped it onto the table.
Sulla grinned when he saw the white markings on its surface.
“An air rune? That’s a point to you, Straven. So you have fifteen to my eighteen. And the death rune is among the three remaining.”
“Your turn,” the thief master replied. “Will you hold? Or will you risk it?”
Sulla shook his head and grinned behind his wild beard.
“I am ahead, and there is a one in three chance that you will pull out the chaos rune. Only then can you beat me. No, I’ll hold.”
Sulla saw Straven’s lip curl slightly in frustration, and he followed his opponent’s eyes as they settled on the item that sat at his side on the bench. Wrapped in a damp cloth, it dripped a brown liquid onto the wood and its smell reminded Sulla of a butcher’s shop. Straven gave a look of distaste. Very quickly, his eyes moved on, to pass over the Blue Moon’s customers.
From their position by the window, Sulla followed his gaze.
It was early afternoon and the tavern was crowded, with at least two-dozen unfamiliar faces half-hidden in the fug of pipe smoke. The only man he recognised there was the gang-master’s own man, the fur trader Bareak, who had given him the message the day before.
Straven reached into the bag once more. Without pause, he withdrew his hand and dropped a single pebble on the tabletop. It was marked with salmon coloured lines stretching outward toward its edge.
Sulla laughed.
“A mind rune! Two points for you. I am still ahead by one. Now there is an even chance of victory or defeat, Straven. Only two runes remain, chaos and death. It’s a choice that reminds me of my own life up to this moment.”
“As I was saying,” Straven responded, “I watched Kara-Meir leave with the embassy. I am amazed that such a slight girl could have bested you in single combat. It makes no sense.”
Sulla shrugged.
“Much about her does not,” he admitted. “She even wounded my companion, and that’s no small feat in itself.”
“Ah, your companion. You’ve spoken highly of him, but he remains very elusive. From the moment you entered Varrock, Bareak had my footpads follow you, and yet you evaded them.” Straven looked Sulla in the eye, and continued cautiously. “I can’t recall anyone having done that before, not even that thief from Kandarin, the one who tried to run with my money. It unnerves me. And I don’t like being unnerved.”
His hand rested on the small bag which now only held two runes.
He glanced subtly at a man who sat by himself. Jerrod was covered in a cloak he had stolen from a beggar the previous night. He had entered the inn an hour before Sulla, and had sat patiently by himself, watching and waiting.
“Come, Straven,” Sulla said amiably. “You have made a great deal of money from me in the past. When I was a senior member of the Kinshra, you worked for me a great deal, even though I could just as easily have used the Black Arm Gang.
“As I could now,” he added, leaning forward.
Straven’s eyes narrowed.
“Don’t threaten me, Sulla,” he hissed quietly. “I have a dozen men in here right now. Within a half hour you could be trussed up and given to King Roald. Or worse. I could send you back to the Kinshra to suffer a slow death.”
Sulla smirked.
“And I have only Barbec, who waits outside in the street.”
“What of your mysterious companion. Is he here now, with us?”
Sulla shook his head.
“I won’t give
Straven leant over and did as he asked. Without waiting for permission the gang-master loosened the cord and peered in. Sulla saw an eyebrow lift in surprise.
“The gem is yours, Straven. But there are more to come if you do as I request. Many more-it will be well worth your time.”
Instead, he waited, watching intently.
“It had better be,” Straven said, “for I could profit a great deal from turning you in.” He licked his lips and glanced around the room. “What do you want?” he asked finally.
“A hot bath would be nice,” Sulla responded. “A shave and a haircut, too. A place to hide for a while. And…” He held up his arms, his wrists still wrapped in bandages.
“…new hands.”
Straven nodded.
“The first requests can easily be accomplished. I can’t help with the hands, however. You might need a wizard or a cleric for that, or even an engineer to fit some artificial appendages.”
