Story #27 - Sounder

Sounder

He could hear the ice cracking as he made his way along the city's main canal. Temperatures had been unseasonably cold even for the Northlands and a route that typically saw over two hundred ships per week had effectively been halted.

The canal itself was long and winding; snaking in and out of small stopping points around the city, its blue and silver stonework a shining testament to the Pyol stonemasons who had created it over five hundred years ago. Even their work was beginning to suffer, however, as the climate swung in a lazy arc, first chilling the bones of Treldor and then mitigating just enough for the city and its shivering citizenry to take a collective breath.

Pulling his cape tighter around him, Lars made quickly for his destination. The bridge over the canal was ice-slicked, something most would avoid for fear of a bad fall, but he had no time. He had debated responding to the summons of the High Call at all, but finally decided he'd rather face them head on than spend the next three months dodging assassins. Treldor was known for its back alleys and high rooftops, all excellent places for a well-trained hired blade to take his life in the night.

Or worse, during the day.

Underneath the bridge the ice creaked as though a giant held it tight, crushing it into submission, and he jumped slightly, thoughts of assassins throwing him off balance. Thin, bony arms shot out to the side and Lars gripped the railing of the canal bridge, breathing heavily but still moving. Better late than never but better to never be late at all, when it came to the Call.

Finally back on the relative safety of the street he took a moment to compose himself. The Call would want details – names and dates, profits and losses – something he could provide so long as he was calm. All of it was fabrication, of course, but they did not need to know that. Keeping calm was essential to this ruse, this game he had begun to play.

A hand came up to finger the fur scarf at his throat. Seven months ago such finery seemed beyond the grasp of anyone with his background, something only the very rich, very noble or very corrupt would be able to afford. He had been willing to settle for two out of three and with a spot of luck had found his way into high society.

Of course, it hadn't been that easy. Sounders were a rare breed across the Protectorate, or so old Garm had said, and even more so in the Northlands. He was something of an oddity, a rarity among men and a curiosity for the nobles in the city. He had worked hard to establish a fiction of a life, to create a persona that was easily believed and just as easily dismissed.

Now, it appeared that he had been too successful.

The High Call took its time in selecting exactly who they would “protect” from the ills of the city. Once selected, a man could no more refuse than he could command the ice to melt, much as he would have liked to do so for both his and the city's continued financial success. The Call was tolerated by the Regent and feared by the nobles, with many sure and certain that a portion of the money they took for “protection” made its way back to the Regent in the end.

For his part, Lars didn't care if the money went to the Regent, the pockets of the High Call or the Dim itself. All he wanted was to be beneath their notice – ignored, and alone.

Snow began to fall as he reached the address he'd been given. The messenger boy had been fearful when he delivered it, enough that he'd forgotten to use the proper titles of respect. That didn't bother Lars; his title wasn't real to begin with, but it did raise questions about just how much the Call knew of his activities.

Brushing the gray flakes from his hood lining, Lars DuMont, Third Heir to House Oupele, knocked smartly on the door of a ramshackle building two streets back from the canals. He knocked only once and waited, flexing his hands inside rabbit-fur gloves to warm them and stepping quickly from foot to foot. Noble boots were no better than common, he had discovered, when it came to keeping his feet warm – they simply looked better.

After a long moment the door swung open and a large man in a brown robe waved him inside. No words were uttered or acknowledgment given – had Lars been the wrong man or knocked on the wrong door, he would be dead.

The building was old and unpleasant, a hold-over from pre-war Treldor with dark woods, low ceilings and a distinct scent of...foul. Perhaps the Call kept the corpses of unruly meeting victims here, or perhaps it was simply the stench of the E'nora that used to occupy these homes. The beasts emitted a stench unlike any other he had known.

A long hallway stretched in front of him to a single room, lit each few steps by a guttering candle. The room itself seemed darker still, not a surprising choice given the self-appointed role of the Call in he city.

He strode forward purposely, not bothering to acknowledge the guard as he passed. The Call expected Lars DuMont, and he would play the part with style.

As he stepped into the room he heard a shuffling sound behind him and the door slammed shut. Ahead, a single match was struck and a candle lit at a long table. Yudon, Second of the Call, was illuminated in its faint halo and to his right was another man Lars knew all too well.

“Hello, Sounder.” Yudon's voice was friendly but his eyes were the ice that lined the canal outside – cold and unforgiving.

The man next to Yudon spoke, but Lars ignored the words. Instead, he took their sound, their impact on the air around him and collected it, took it in as a normal man would but stored it up, replicated it, empowered it.

A giant stormed out from within, cracking the icy facade that had been Lars, and men began to die.

- D