Valentica, by Matt Gilbert

3856.CE

Rapuhr had risen, stretched, and gone to the window to gather his thoughts. The glass was grubby and too thick in places. It was crudely made and so, contrary to its purpose, mercifully obscured the worst of the miserable sights below. He longed to see his beloved home again, Khe-Luxarn, but it had been over twenty years since he had been there. He imagined it was still as warm and beautiful as he remembered, with clean streets and majestic towers. Not like this cesspit. Valentica arrogantly prided itself on being a city of means and modern sophistication. Laughable really, given the garbage in the murky, rodent-infested streets and the illiterate criminals that ran the place. 

Most of whom were in the pay of Rapuhr of course. 

Here, he went by the name of Master Bodwin – ostensibly a wealthy merchant that had made his legitimate trade in spice routes across the Infant Sea and, to those who needed to know, his illegitimate money from well organised smuggling operations. While both were certainly true, Rapuhr’s real mission had been to slowly infiltrate the city’s government and exert influence by whatever means necessary. His masters’ reach was far, for the god-kings needed to pull the strings that made the world dance to their tune. It suited them that Darvled was a puppet-ruler. What influence or blackmail over him the god-kings had, Rapuhr didn’t know. Nor did he care or want to find out. Rapuhr had carefully and steadily worked his way into the inner circle of Darvled’s advisors. His ascension had to look natural. 

He returned to his desk and gracefully sat, sweeping his heavy cloak to one side over the arm of the chair with an exaggerated flourish. Leaning back and steepling his fingers, he gazed at the others that stood in the room, waiting for him to continue. The ogre, Muttagok, loomed menacingly, appearing to fill more of the room than he actually did. He’d had to twist sideways to get his huge frame through the door, and now stood, watchful, gently balanced on the balls of his feet, ever ready for action.  

Jass was an interesting enigma. She came with a formidable reputation for barbarity and ruthlessness. If you needed answers to troublesome questions, there was nobody better at persuading those with that knowledge to impart it. Standing before him however, was a stylish, immaculately presented young lady that could effortlessly mingle at any high-society function. No doubt every part of her expensive finery concealed a large cache of blades, hooks, and other pernicious tools of her trade. 

One look at Bog on the other hand, told you exactly all you needed to know about the goblin, his life and his motivations. He twitched and shifted unconsciously from foot to foot, fidgeting with a nasty looking shank he would use to pick his teeth and nails, while his sly, beady little eyes darted round the room. It seemed impossible he could be still for any length of time. And yet his undeniable skill at assassination, burglary, and just about any other activity that required extreme patience, scheming, and stealth suggested that perhaps such adventure gave him the tranquillity the rest of his life did not. Of course, the missing ear, finger, and countless scars across his whole body suggested that perhaps things had not always worked out as he had planned.  

Rapuhr paused a few more seconds until he believed the silence was suitably uncomfortable. 

“Your target,” he began, “is the organisation known as the Hand of Freedom.” 

“Do we get to kill them?” Bog squeaked, his interest now piqued. 

Jass glanced sideways at the excitable goblin and then turned back to address Rapuhr. 

“I’ve heard of them,” she said, “but I wasn’t aware they posed much of a threat to anyone or anything. Spymaster Sorril’s agents have been watching the anti-Darvled cults for years, and they seem pretty innocuous. At least, so he told me last week.” 

“Sorril isn’t as clever as he thinks he is.” Rapuhr lowered his hands into his lap. “Some of his agents are my agents too, and what they have pieced together means my own plans may be… disrupted. And they seem to be better connected, and financed, than we previously thought.” 

“And you need us to kill them!” Bog’s eyes gleamed. 

“He needs us to get answers.” Muttagok’s deep voice reverberated through the room. 

“To some very specific questions.” Rapuhr leaned forward. “Firstly, I understand that there is a tailor on Wyrm Street near the arches that may currently have a book of names and operations. It passes between members of the Hand so that it isn’t ever in a single place. I want that book.” 

“And then kill him?” 

“No, Mr Bog. The book is likely encoded so we need our tailor to tell us how to decipher it. I believe he fancies himself some kind of troubadour in the local inns. I’d like you to make him sing.” Raphur registered the half-smile that fleetingly graced Jass’s face. 

“He’ll then need to be kept quiet,” Bog’s eyes widened, “but not totally silenced, yet, in case we need him later.” Raphur shot the goblin a stern look. “You will need to move quickly. He is known for spending too much time in his cups on occasion, but his absence will not go unnoticed for long. His accomplices will go further into hiding if they suspect anything, even if we know who they are. We will lose the advantage.” 

Raphur leaned into the back of his chair once more. “There is one other item I need before we move to end the activities of the Hand.” He pulled a drawer open and took out a battered piece of parchment, on which a charcoal sketch of an amulet had been artfully depicted. “While not directly related to the Hand itself, this piece has a certain… sentimental value, and is currently in the possession of the other known member. You, Bog, will use your particular skills to recover this for me. Quietly.” 

The goblin hopped from one foot to the other, practically quivering. “And then I can…” 

“And then,” Raphur cut across him, nodding to Muttagok and Jass, “you two will have found out all the other members of the Hand and where they meet, and you will pay them a visit to ensure they never meet again.” He fixed Bog with a steely glare. “And the heads of the ‘hyrda’ that are not attending the soiree your friends will be gatecrashing, will then all need removing at the same time, before they get a chance to realise what’s hit them.” 

Bog abruptly stopped moving and grinned, eyes sparkling. “Yesss.” 

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