Chapter 65: A saviour

Under it, in smaller letters, the date of his death.

Dante stood in front of it for a long time. Fresh flowers lay at the foot of the statue. Someone had placed a small candle among them, and it was still burning. A woman in a plain dress stood a few steps away with her hands folded, and her lips moved as if she were praying.

’On this floor, I’m a hero. Three floors down, I’m a traitor with a price on my head.’ He almost laughed.

’Marcus built both. One for the people who loved me, and one for the people who want to kill me. He wanted me dead twice.’

"Did you know him?"

Dante turned his head. The woman in the plain dress had stopped praying. She was looking at him with red eyes and a tired face, and she held a small child’s hand. The child, a boy of about five, stared at the statue with his mouth open.

"No," Dante said quietly.

"He saved my husband," the woman said. " Some years ago, on the thirtieth floor. A boss came for the camp, and the hunter in front of him held it off until everybody got out." She looked at the stone face. "My husband died last winter. But he lives more years because of that man."

"They told us he betrayed the guild," she went on. "I don’t believe it. Someone like that doesn’t turn." She wiped her cheek. "I come every week. I know it’s silly."

"I don’t think so" Dante said.

"Thank you."

The boy tugged her hand. "Mommy, who is he?"

"A saviour , a man who helped us, baby."

Dante looked down at the boy. The child stared back with big, curious eyes, and for a moment, Dante’s chest felt strange, the way it had at the tavern.

’ some years ago,’ he thought. ’Thirtieth floor. I don’t even remember it.’

He had saved so many people that he couldn’t keep track. He had never asked for thanks, because he hadn’t thought they were keeping count.

He bowed his head to the woman, and he didn’t say anything else. Then he walked away, and the statue’s shadow stretched across the stones behind him.

Dante followed an alley between two towers, past a row of shuttered shops, and came out at the edge of an older quarter. The buildings here were low. Some were cracked. A faded blue banner hung over one door, so old that the silver sword on it had almost vanished.

’The Heavenly Sword Guild,’ he thought. ’This is where Gideon lives.’

He looked at the ruined hall at the end of the street. The roof had fallen in. The windows were black. There was no sign of anyone.

’He’s inside somewhere,’ Dante thought. ’Or he’s still looking for something.’

He wanted to go and check. His feet even turned that way. Then he stopped himself.

’Not now,’ he told himself. ’If someone watches me go in, they’ll watch him too.’

He turned his back on the ruin and kept walking, with his hands in his pocket.

’He’s a grown man,’ he thought. ’He can take care of himself.’

After few minutes...

[VARN’S FORGE.] He saw a shop there.

Dante stood on the opposite side of the road for several minutes. He knew this place. Two years ago, he had walked in here every month, with his armor in a bag and a list of repairs. The old smith had never charged him full price, and he had never explained why.

’Varn,’ he thought. ’Still here.’

He crossed the road and pushed the door open.

A bell rang. A single lamp burned over a long counter, and behind it, a man was bent over a table, hammering a bent blade straight.

He didn’t look up. "Closed. Come back tomorrow."

"I need a knife," Dante said.

"I said closed."

"Plain steel. Short. No guild mark."

The hammering stopped. The old smith raised his head. He was a big man with a beard, and one eye was clouded white.

He looked at Dante for a long time. Dante felt the third reading ready on his hand.

[Open Profile]

[Name: Varn Oakhand.]

[True Rank: B-Rank (retired).]

[Summary: Blacksmith. Served the Radiant Dawn for twelve years. Quit last year without explanation.]

[Heart Reading]

Trust: 70

Respect: 60

Guilt: 55

Fear: 30

Killing Intent: 0

[Dominant Feeling: Shock.]

[Intent: Wants to say something, but is afraid someone is listening.]

Varn put down the hammer very slowly. He walked around the counter, limping, and stopped a few steps away.

"The way you stand," he said quietly. "Left foot forward. Hands low. You never could hide it."

"Your face isn’t the same." Varn’s good eye narrowed. "But nobody else stands like that. I fixed your armor every month for four years."

"I don’t know what you mean." Dante said.

"I think you do." The old man’s voice dropped to a whisper. "Boy. Is it really you?"

For a moment, nobody speak. Then Dante lowered his hood. Varn stared at the new face, young and smooth and unfamiliar, with black hair and dark eyes. He shook his head slowly, as if he couldn’t understand what he was seeing.

"The eyes," he said. "The eyes are the same."

"By the gods." The old smith’s knees gave a little, and he caught the counter with one hand. "I knew. I told myself I knew. Nobody believed me. They said you were dead. They built a statue..."

"Boy, they left you in that room. Marcus and the rest. I heard it from a courier the week after. He was drunk and crying, and he said you were still holding the door when they locked it." Varn’s good eye was wet. "I should have said something. I should have gone to the council. But I was afraid, and I told myself it wasn’t my business. Then I quit. I couldn’t shoe a horse for those people anymore."

"It wasn’t your fault," Dante said.

"It was." Varn wiped his face with the back of his hand. "But I can fix part of it."

He turned and went to the door. He locked it, drew the curtain across the window, and blew out the main lamp. Only a small red flame in the forge lit the room.

"Come to the back," he said. "Quickly."