The Way of Caine (The Warcaster Chronicl

Caine and Montague tinked glasses and the fourth round of brandy disappeared in a sudden warm rush.

“Every day! She used to bake them ev’ry day! You wound’t be’lieev how good they were,” Montague slurred, eyes wide at Caine. For his part, Caine had only managed to get tipsy, but with each new round, the aches and pains of the day receded a little further. In fact, when he’d gone down for the bottle and glasses, he’d managed to patch himself up with some bandages and a cooling balm. It felt wonderful on his shoulder. On the whole, he felt surprisingly good, despite the fact that just about everything he’d touched in the past week was a smoking disaster.

He leaned back on the slope of the roof, looking up at the stars.

“Just remember what I said about yuir brother, Montague,” he said. “If he sold yeh out once, he’ll do it agin.” Montague’s eyes were instantly glistening, and he rubbed them with a sleeve.

“Thaddeus, Caine. Call me Thaddeus. Kreel, … my brudder, ... he … wasn’t always like this. Before he started playing cards …”

“Don’t yeh make excuses for him!” Caine snapped with surprising anger. “I mean ... well ...”

“What … will happ’n to you now?” Montague, still sitting with the bottle between his legs, looked down at Caine, frowning with brandy-exaggerated worry.

“Hell with it. I don’t care.” Tracing the lines of a constellation with a finger, he shrugged. “Oh, I reckon they’ll toss me out. I got men killed last night, Thaddeus. What’s more, when I get to the one I’m actually supposed to kill, I refuse. It’s a mess.”

Thaddeus nodded slowly, a frown forming on his face.

“You’re a better man than I, Mr. Caine,” he said slowly, with deliberate effort. “Whatever your faults, you have a code, and it’s not for sale. Me? I did what I was told, even tho’ I knew it was wrong.” He shook his head, disgusted.

“Relax.”

“No! Listen. You’ve shown me. Starting now. This thing tonight? I never saw you. I ...” Thaddeus gestured, lit up and animated now. A second too late, he realized he’d let his grip on the bottle go. As it started to roll down the roof, his eyes grew wide in alarm. He dove for it.

And disappeared over the eaves.

Caine laughed, looking at the place Montague had been a second ago. “You stupid bastard!” Heaving himself up, he leaned over the eaves, expecting to see the drunken treasurer on the balcony below.

Except Thaddeus wasn’t there.

The treasurer had missed the narrow balcony. He was a splayed heap now, bent in wrong angles on the cobblestones four stories down. A pool of blood was already radiating from him, and the smashed brandy bottle was just out of reach of his dead hand.

“Aw … now what did yeh have to go and do that for?” Caine moaned, resigned. He sat back blankly, and then checked over the eaves again. No, he had not imagined it.

The idiot was still dead.

What now? In the stillness of the night, the bark of a dog in a nearby alley was his only answer.

“Oh, I need a cigar,” he sighed. Reaching in the folds of his coat, he put a hand into a deep pocket, and felt within. He couldn’t find the familiar foil pouch for his stogies, but his hand did brush something else. He pulled it forth, and his eyes widened in recognition. It was the black felt bag Rebald had given him.

“In case the story doesn’t line up,” the spymaster had said.

Somehow, Caine had all but forgotten it. He held the thing in his hand as he sat cross legged on the roof. He debated against opening it. Finally, cursing, he reached within. There was only a single small object he could feel. It was light, and rounded. Drawing it out, he realized he was holding a bit of licorice root.

“Bugger me,” Caine said, stunned, and flopped back on the roof.

In that unseen alley, the dog barked again. Caine sat up, his face gradually more stern. Well lit even at this late hour, he could see Rynnard’s palace westward over the cityscape. It stood head and shoulders above the rest of the spires. He stared at it, and then shook his head.

You had it figured from the start, eh Rebald? Still holding the root, Caine was at a loss.

At length, he looked up to the night sky overhead. “Well? Do you see me now, you old drunk?” No answer. “You’d say I told you so, wouldn’t you?” he scoffed. “Maybe you’d be right at that, eh?” he muttered. He drew a Spellstorm, and aimed down the sights, at some phantom target. Maybe I am no better than this. Then again, maybe this matters. He holstered the weapon, and looked skyward one more time, his expression thoughtful.

“And maybe I don’t give one whit what you think anymore.”