Page 5 of A Tower of Half-Truths
Though his accomplices changed faster than the seasons, Neldren had always been consistent when it came to finding work—and getting paid decently for it. Now that the payout had been split four ways instead of five, Mavery had over five hundred potins to her name. It wasn’t a life-changing sum, but for the first time in ages, she didn’t need to pinch every copper until the next job came along. She could begin thinking in broader terms.
She sipped from her tankard and winced at the sour, watery ale. It was no surprise that this low-end establishment would serve low-end drinks. This place appeared to be made of driftwood and held together with dust. The handful of other patrons were what you’d expect to see in a backwater village’s public house at nearly two in the morning: passed out in their cups, or well on their way to it.
The only thing that stood out was the painting behind the bar. It was a crude rendition of a wizard with a long white beard and blue robes, raising his staff against an eldritch horde of black wings, red eyes, and countless fangs. A plaque hung beneath the painting:
Seringoth’s Rest—Est. 1012
Named in honor of the Wizard Seringoth the First, who cleansed Burnslee Village of demons in 534
Mavery held back a scoff. Perhaps wizards had been more heroic five centuries ago, but she doubted it. Saving villages was the type of work your average wizard would contract out; they would never risk damaging their precious spellcasting fingers. They preferred keeping to their towers, crafting spells and writing books. Stashed away in Mavery’s pack were pages from some of those books—all that remained of her far-too-brief wizarding education.
Nowthatwas something she hadn’t thought about in some time.
She wasn’t foolish enough to entertain the idea of completing her studies, much less becoming a wizard. She’d dropped out of university nearly twenty years ago, which meant she would have to start over anew, and she was too old for that. Though mages often lived for a century or more, she assumed these past two decades had shortened her lifespan by just as many years—likely more. But with the payout from this job, maybe she could scratch the itch, take a class or two…
“Mave? Are you still with us?”
She blinked as she came to her senses, starting with Neldren’s voice, followed by a slight pressure against her upper back, a taste of blood, a sharp pain along her thumb. Another blink, and she realized Neldren had draped his arm around her while she’d been gnawing on a hangnail.
“Where’d you drift off to?”
She wiped her bloody thumb on the hem of her shirt, then shrugged off his arm without making it too obvious she wanted to put some space between them. She still couldn’t reconcile the man next to her with the man from earlier that night, with the man she’d known off-and-on for eighteen years. Neldren was many things—a smooth-talker, a thief, a charlatan—but he’d never been akiller. He’d promised her that from the night they first met.
“Nowhere,” she muttered, but Neldren’s cocked eyebrow was proof that he didn’t believe her. “I’m just a little tired, is all. I think I’ll call it an early night.”
“Oh, but we’re just getting started!” Itri said, slurring his words. At some point during Mavery’s musings, he’d abandoned the piano and returned to the table. Now, only snoring filled thetaproom, and the innkeeper looked all the happier for it.
“Go easy on her,” Ellice said. “The thrill of a good score lasts a lot longer for you than it does for us older folks.”
It took all of Mavery’s resolve not to roll her eyes.Older folks. Ellice was twenty-four—only five years older than Itri. Her red hair didn’t have a streak of gray, her fair skin not a single blemish. Mavery doubted the girl started her mornings with her joints protesting as she rolled out of her bunk. What didsheknow about being old?
Mavery would be thirty-seven in a few days. Maybe she already was. The days tended to blend together when you spent your life hopping from one town to the next, sleeping in a different inn every night. Regardless, she had well over a decade on both of them. And for someone in this line of work, she was practically near retirement age—though the typical “retirement plan” was death.
“I know what’s going on here,” Neldren said. He leaned in, and Mavery fought the urge to lean away from him. “You’re still upset about Fen. Look, I did what I had to do, and at least he didn’t suffer.”
She scoffed. It hadn’t appeared that way to her.
“He was slowing us down,” Neldren continued. “But if we’d left him alive, like he wanted, what do you think would’ve happened once Roven’s guards found him? At best, they would’ve tortured the bastard to death. Worst, he would’ve ratted us out and led them straight to us. You can’t deny I made the pragmatic choice.”
A man was dead, and Neldren wanted to discusspragmatism.Mavery was in no mood to argue with him. She pushed back her chair and stood up.
“Good night,” she said. “Enjoy the rest of your celebrations.”
She lay on her bunk, gazing at the ceiling. The inn’s thin walls did little to drown out the crew’s lively chatter from downstairs. Without her around, their spirits had lifted again. In the far cornerof the room, a stranger snored loudly. Mavery lowered herself over the edge of her bunk and dropped to the floor.
She hadn’t changed out of her travel clothes, so packing up her belongings took very little time. As she laced up her boots, a shadow crossed over her. She looked up to see Neldren leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, his figure limned by the light from the hallway.
Even in shadow, she could still make out the features that had made her nineteen-year-old self fall for him so hard and fast. As a native of Nilandor, he had slate-colored skin, tar-black hair, and subtly pointed ears. He stood over a head taller than Mavery, who was already a taller-than-average woman. Nilandorens aged slowly, thanks to their elven ancestry. Though Neldren was in his mid-forties, Mavery looked more his age than he did: her golden brown hair was streaked with gray, her beige skin was weatherworn, her green eyes were framed with fine lines.
Their scars seemed to be all they had in common anymore. Mavery bore a slash spanning the bridge of her slightly crooked nose, along with dozens of marks elsewhere on her body. Neldren sported gashes across his bottom lip and left eyebrow. His goatee hid a jagged lesion on his chin, a souvenir from his own run-in with demonspawn years ago. No amount of magical blood could prevent scars. Not when you lived the kind of life they did.
She had loved him once, and for this past month, she had thought she could learn to love him again. But tonight’s events had quelled those already tenuous feelings.
“Where are you going?” he demanded.
“I can’t sleep. I thought I’d step outside and clear my—”
“Don’t bullshit me, Mave. You’re leaving.”
