8
Belsair
talked and Jordan listened. No longer was it the talk of mentor to pupil, but
rather, raconteur to captivated audience. The tidings were not altogether new,
but hearing them from a different source, and so fully from this source, gave
them a life that hitherto did not exist.
“Some would argue that the Black
Hoods are a scourge on the realm,” Belsair began. There was a tireless quality
to the Master of the Knife’s voice that suggested to Jordan that even though
the tale was old, the telling of it still held a quaint charm within the older
man’s soul. Whether or not the prose was practised and recited word perfect
each time was immaterial. It was the tale and not the telling that mattered and
each telling was like conjuring a magical spell anew from the air, every word
building onto the mythos, layer upon layer.
“And in some instances, they would
be right.” Belsair paused here for dramatic effect, aware perhaps that with
that one sentence, he had garnered Jordan’s full attention. “After all,” he
continued, “what else could reasonably be thought of an organisation whose sole
purpose is to bring death?
“Naturally, most people abhor the
idea. It’s hard enough eking out a living through plagues and famines and the
spurious wars of our exulted leaders without having a group of... common
murderers... taking their toll. In this light, it is easy to paint our work—the
work of the Black Hoods—as being indiscriminate, and our roles as being merely
ravenous wolves amongst the sheep of society. And again, in some instances,
that assumption would be right.
“But that, my friend, is viewing our
organisation from the outside looking in. And though I’d rather not use the
term ‘victims’ to describe those whose lives we have to... end... that is how
these people, or those closest to them, would view our organisation. What they
see is the surface of a very deep and very still lake, which is fine, because
that is exactly what the Black Hoods
want these people to see.
“That is why, for example, our main
recruiting drives obtain the services of fellows such as Melvin. Young men
whose blood runs cold with hatred of the society they feel shuns them and who
would stop at nothing to exact some kind of revenge.” Belsair paused once more.
Jordan watched the old man’s face screw up at a private thought. “Though with
this one, the recruiters may have blundered somewhat,” he elucidated.
They shared a wink then, a silent
chuckle. The beauty of conspiracy, Jordan mused.
“The idea that the Black Hoods could
be kingmakers is anathema to most. And yet, we have been present, if not
active, at many pivotal moments in the realm’s history. Your date in Ma’arnar
shall be no exception. If our strike is successful, then we’ll have saved the
lives of countless thousands. Not just
those whose lives will be thrown away as a result of the King’s latest foreign
policy faux pas, but those caught in the political and social crossfire of this
unpopular policy. If we strike hard, and remove the head of the serpent, then
the body will wither and die.”
“What of the succession, though?”
Jordan suddenly quipped. “King Julian has no heir.”
Belsair surprised Jordan by drawing
a long breath and releasing it with an airy sigh and a slow shake of his head
that set the long strands of silver tinted hair to sway. The lined face became
older once more, though briefly, briefly enough for Jordan to surmise he’d only
caught Belsair at an odd angle in the lantern light.
“Such things happen,” Belsair said.
There was a thick inflection in his voice at that moment, hinting at melancholy
and perhaps empathy. The combination seemed weird for one whose sole vocation
was killing people. “It is neither here, nor there. Many capable statesmen
could fill the void, plenty of whom can see the error of Julian’s ways.”
“Men like Darellion Kraithé?”
A rueful smile teased Belsair’s lips
at the mention of his nemesis. “Kraithé is more than capable, that is certain. But
he doesn’t strike me as a man with the patience to sit and wait while the cogs
of politics turn. He is more a man of action. Hence my trepidation with our
mission. Once he has sniffed blood, he won’t stop until he has located its
source. And having located it, it is but a matter of stemming the flow... or
opening it further.”
“You have great admiration for this
man?”
The Master of the Knife nodded, his
movements deliberately slow and purposeful. “Know thine enemy,” he stated. “And
afford him his due respect.”
Jordan nodded, once more the pupil.
This philosophy was certainly not new to him, but to hear it from Felipe
Belsair about Darellion Kraithé gave it
an entirely new perspective. One that Jordan grasped instinctively and
suddenly, feeling as if a dark cloud had suddenly been whipped clear of his
vision.
“The two of you have met?” he whispered,
the words escaping his lips before he could control them.
Belsair didn’t have to answer with
words. His body language alone told the story. The adversaries had met, quite
probably more than once. But because at the time of their meetings they weren’t
in pursuit of one another, their honour codes prevented them from striking out.
It was a dance of politesse among equals; and the greatest dishonour would be
to throw this in the other’s face. While there was no honour amongst thieves,
amongst Black Hoods—and seemingly their most dire adversaries—the honour code
ran thicker than blood and just as true.
Jordan could only nod. There were no
words that could adequately convey what he wished to say. To have this man in
his presence, and Darellion Kraithé on his trail, made Jordan feel as sick to
the stomach as he was elated. The world beyond the confines of the train
carriage suddenly constricted on him. Maurice Jordan was a marked man.
For several long minutes there was
naughty but silence, save for the rattle of the carriage windows and the steady
chugging of the locomotive out front. In that silence, Belsair returned all the
papers to their place inside the battered suitcase. Once secured there, he
shoved the suitcase beneath his bunk.
“We should be catching some sleep,”
he announced.
That was the final word for that
night.
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