Somewhere North of Heremac. XIII Drieland, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Nine. Nones.
Dale, Hamral, Mendelor, Mot, Renton, Ruik, Valerius, Vandoren, Wyk.
“Piss off!” cries the man. He is short, dark, and very angry.
“Oh, you like that? Huh?” says Wyk. “Well, how about this… And this…”
Wyk suddenly punches the man in the face twice. The man grunts with the blows, and struggles vainly against the stout ropes binding him. Blood runs freely from both his nose and his mashed lips.
“Let’s try that again,” says Wyk. “What’s yer name?”
The man looks down. Wyk shakes his head and then punches the man again, breaking one of his front teeth. The man howls and then bites his tongue.
“Wyk,” gasps Ruik.
“Yes, enough, Wyk,” says Valerius, clapping his hands and motioning for the small man to stand aside. Wyk hesitates for a moment; Ruik repeats his request and Wyk shrugs and walks away, muttering.
Valerius kneels down in front of the man, bending his head to look the captive in the eye.
“It will not get any better than this, I fear,” says the tall, gangling man. “While remarkable, your resolve is futile. We will have the answers we want. And we will have them sooner, rather than later. So please, spare us such tedious stoicism. My patience is at an end, I’m afraid. Cooperate, and I promise you shall be spared further… discomfort.”
The man growls something and looks down. Valerius moves even closer; his voice drops to a whisper.
“We shall have our answers. We shall have them even if I have to drag your dead, wretched spirit up from Hell itself and bind you to speak.”
Valerius stands, abruptly, and sighs.
“Wyk: you may resume,” he says.
“Damn!” mutters Renton. “Good thing we left the Friar back in Heremac.”
Wyk strides toward the captive, and the man squirms in his bonds.
“Alright,” says the captive. “Alright—I’ll talk, I’ll talk.”
“Excellent,” says Valerius. “Let us commence with some fundamentals. Your name?”
The man pauses, but glimpses Wyk standing behind Valerius.
“My name is Oeta.”
“And for whom do you work?” asks Valerius.
“I serve my master, Lord John of Lownell.”
“Good… good,” says Valerius. “How did you come to serve—Lord John?”
“I met His Lordship in Canglen, little more than a year ago,” says Oeta. “He was looking for some men handy with a sword, and I joined up with him then. The pay is good, and we haven’t had a lot of fighting.”
“Give our friend Oeta here some water,” says Valerius, gesturing to Ruik. The lad quickly uncaps a waterskin and places it to Oeta’s face. The captive drinks deeply.
“That’s enough,” says Valerius, though Oeta’s plaitive expression contradicts this command.
“Now,” says Valerius. “Just how did Lord John, the bastard son, come to rule Lownell?”
“Well, when Tereus invaded the Frounter,” begins Oeta, “The Old Baronet and his two sons, Steven and Edgar, were set to fight—even though Sir John thought he could work out a deal. The Baronet and his knights were soundly beaten by the Black-blades. A lot of men were killed and many more taken prisoner—The Baronet and his sons barely got out in one piece. They took what was left of their fighting men and made for Kirke.
“While all this was going on, Sir John led an envoy to Tereus and arranged his own peace. Saved the whole Barony, he did… you know what those damned Black-blades have done elsewhere, where the nobles were not so reasonable as Sir John was. I’ve been to Derwich—Let me tell you what a sight that place is, now.
“Since Richard, the old Baronet, had fled for Kirke, King Tereus declared Sir John the rightful ruler of Lownell. Many of the old Baronet’s men stayed on with Lord John, and some of His Lordship’s old friends have come to Lownell.”
“So Lownell is subject to Tereus?”
“In some ways, but not really. His Lordship has been pretty much given free rein within Lownell. Sure, we’d like to see the damned Black-blades gone as much as anyone does. They’re awful bastards, and they’re bleeding Lownell dry with all of their taxes and tributes and such. But we’re alive, and free. And what’s more, Lord John figures Tereus won’t hold the Frounter forever. We’re just sitting tight, for now.”
“How opportunistic,” says Valerius. “I see that you are not the only scum in your lord’s employ. How do the Rotting Eye rucks fit in?”
“Those bastards?” says Oeta. “They’re alright. Not too smart and not too brave, but they’re loyal to Lownell. And they hate the Black-blades as much as anyone! What with all of the blokes killed and those men who went with the old Baronet to Kirke, we need all the extra help we can get.”
“What do you know of these shipments from Heremac?” asks Valerius.
“I know that His Lordship has a man in Heremac who can get us most anything we need,” says Oeta. “Beats the hell out of paying Tereus’s taxes.”
“What else do you know about these shipments?” asks Valerius.
“Nothing. Nothing, that’s it, I swear…” says Oeta. Valerius stands up and scratches his chin with his long, thin fingers.
“What are we going to do with this guy now?” asks Wyk.
“I say we kill this little ruck-dealing bastard!” says Renton. “The world will be better off.”
“Yeah!” says Wyk.
“What are you saying!” cries Ruik. “We cannot just murder this man. Hamral?”
Hamral looks impassively at the prisoner.
“I say we kill him now. Saves us the trouble, later.”
“Enough!” snaps Valerius. “That’s quite enough. Oeta will not be killed here, by us.”
“But look at this carle,” begins Renton. “Working side by side with…”
“Enough,” says Valerius again, holding up his hand. “I gave my word. There is no latitude for negotiation. Understood? I…”
Suddenly, Valerius closes his eyes and stoops. His face turns red, and a great, hoarse croak eructs from his mouth.
“What the hell?” says Renton, stepping away as another loud, hoarse croak bursts forth. Valerius shakes his head, opens his eyes, and stands up straight.
“What are you looking at?” demands Valerius. “Why are we standing around here? Let us make for Heremac!”
“What was that?” asks Renton.
“Nothing. That was nothing,” insists Valerius, turning abruptly. “Enough of your foolishness.”
“Valerius—he talks funny!” says Mot, giggling and shuffling to keep up with his master, who is quickly hurrying away.
St. Arleans Parish, Hemerac. XVI Drieland, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Nine. Prime.
Mot, Valerius.
The short, balding Seeker, Brother Alton, worries at his thumbnail. He looks around the dark, quiet church pensively—and seeing that there is no one nearby, he sighs heavily, glances about once more, and turns to Valerius.
“And how—just how did you discover this cart?” asks Brother Alton.
“My companions and I were walking in the woods north of here,” says Valerius. “We were looking for signs of ruck-men when we happened upon this abandoned cart, loaded with siege equipment. We thought it was all rather suspicious, so we decided to watch. The cart was soon claimed by a small band of masterless men, whom we assumed were highwaymen. We followed them for a couple of days, until they reached some sort of rendezvous point. That is where we saw the knights, their men… and the rucks. We observed as the cart was exchanged, and then we followed the knights and their ruckish lackeys for a while: they were headed for Lownell. And then we decided to deal with this obvious threat to the safety of the Frounter. Mot, show Brother Alton the shield.”
Mot drops a sack on the floor, making a loud clatter that echoes and reechoes. Brother Alton winces. Mot pulls out of the sack a large, battered kite shield bearing the emblem of a lily.
“The men and even the rucks were wearing these colors,” says Valerius.
Brother Alton stares hard at the shield, as if trying to see into some distance space beyond the lily. He fidgets with his hands.
“And you have no idea as to who left this cart? No idea at all?” asks Brother Alton.
“We cannot say with any certainty who left the cart in the woods,” says Valerius, carefully.
Brother Alton sighs, and rubs his temple. “Put that shield back in the sack. I would like to take it with me, please.”
“And the man-at-arms you captured,” says Brother Alton. “What did he tell you? Exactly what did he tell you?”
“Little of import, Brother,” says Valerius. “The most striking point was that he served one Lord John of Lownell. Strange. Have you ever heard of him, Brother Alton?”
“What? No, no,” answers the Seeker. “Where is this man, now?”
“He is just down the street, safely under the watch of our trusted friends.”
“I would like to take him to the Citadel when I leave,” says Brother Alton.
“Of course, of course,” says Valerius. “This is all very curious, is it not, Brother?”
“It is. It is very… curious. Now listen, this is very important. Do not speak of this matter to anyone else. Anyone at all. This is a very sensitive matter that we will examine very closely, I assure you.”
“As you will,” says Valerius.
The Bristling Boar Inn, Heremac. XVIII Drieland, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Nine. Vespers.
Mendelor, Mot, St. James, Valerius.
“All in all, it was quite a profitable venture,” says Valerius. “The gems were not especially remarkable—Onyx, and unless I miss my guess, probably pried out from a church altar. The Seekers happily bought the war-horses and even the donkeys for a decent price, to boot. And though the armor could not be refitted for our warriors, at least we were able to get a handsome sum for those, as well. Altogether, five thousand shillings. Over thirty pounds of silver for each principal.”
“Yeah, I wish I had been there,” says St. James. “Maggie and Roger are bleeding me dry, as usual.”
The door to the Boar opens, and Renton enters. He spots his consortes and rushes to the table.
“Did you hear?” he asks, breathlessly.
“Hear what?” asks St. James.
“That Seeker—Brother Alton!” says Renton.
“Sit down and lower your voice,” says Valerius. Renton nods and sits.
“Brother Alton,” begins Renton. “Was murdered last night!”
“What the hell!” says St. James.
“Yeah,” says Renton. “They say it was that Oeta. Murdered Alton dead, trying to escape. Of course, Oeta didn’t make it. The Seekers killed him before he could make it out of the Citadel. Crazy, isn’t it?”
“Indeed,” mutters Valerius. “Indeed.”
The Apartment, Heremac. XX Drieland, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Nine. Before Lauds.
Mendelor, Renton, Ruik, Valerius, Wyk.
Mendelor wakes. Something is wrong. Dawn? No, not yet. Not for hours more. The room: dark. Still. What is it?
Movement. Shapes. Something in the room. Breathing. Here. Close.
The woodsman bolts upright, but something bites into his throat. Mendelor jerks back, stifles a cry. Someone… someone has a knife to his throat. And elsewhere in the apartment: sounds of movement. Other people. Muffled thrashing.
A new sound now. Outside. Outside the door. Someone moves in the darkened room, opens the door.
Light. A candle. Three figures outside enter. One is Tim.
Furtively, Mendelor looks around. There’s someone behind him, with the knife. Someone who let Tim in. And the two men who came in with Tim. There’s someone in Valerius’s room. And more people in the other rooms.
“Bring them all in here,” barks Tim, “With the woodcutter.”
Sounds of struggle. Valerius, Ruik, and Renton are brought into the room, each accompanied by one of Tim’s men. Wyk is brought in shortly after, dragged in by two more. He seems dazed, and is holding one of his eyes.
“Now then, gentlemen,” says Tim. “It is high time we met. I am very disappointed with you. Very disappointed. I know all about what happened to my last shipment to Lownell. Very messy. And costly. I went through a great deal of trouble to secure those goods. And I now have clients who are very displeased. Very important clients. And their displeasure makes me very upset.
“We have already had a go-around, once. But we reached some sort of agreement…”
Valerius begins to speak, but the man guarding him beats him on the back of the head with the pommel of his dagger, dropping the tall man to his knees.
“No, no, no,” says Tim. “I’m not here to talk with you. I’m here to tell you something. I have found your little band of misfits useful in the past. You have performed some very helpful services to me. Which is why our agreement worked: you gave me something of value. But this little raid you launched—pathetic!
“You do not seem to understand just how vulnerable you all are. Why, all of you could be dead right now, if I wanted that. I could burn this tower to the ground. I could take everything you have of value. I could do anything of these things right now. I could do them tomorrow. I could do them any time I want. I know who you are, where you live, who your friends are.”
Tim gestures to one of his men, who promptly opens the door and disappears outside. He soon reappears, dragging in with difficulty a heavy bundle and drops it on the floor with a sickening thud. It is Mot, crying softly and curled in a ball. His face is bruised and bloody. His hands are black and mangled. One of his legs doesn’t seem to bend right.
“This ends here, tonight,” says Tim. “There will be no further retaliation: I will not be so kindly, should you cross me again. I have very powerful friends, you see. And they will not stand for any more of your interference. It took all of my influence to spare your lives, this time.”
Tim gestures to his men, who suddenly back towards the door. Tim smiles, waves, and the men leave. The room plunges into darkness, completely quiet except for Mot’s agonized cries.
The Apartment, Heremac. XXI Drieland, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Nine. Prime.
Hamral, Mendelor, Mot, Renton, Ruik, St. James, Friar Sidrach Landry, Valerius.
“Dear me,” says the Friar. “Our friend Mot has been treated most cruelly. Most cruelly indeed. Know, my sons, that I have worked what healing I could on him. But he will take time to mend. It will be a couple of weeks, at least.”
“That is unfortunate,” says Valerius. “For I have pressing business that cannot wait. I must leave tomorrow, and I will require companions.”
“You’re not going to mess with Tim, are you?” asks St. James. “Maybe that’s not such a good idea, considering what happened yesterday.”
“I have no intention of confronting Tim… immediately,” answers Valerius. “Rest assured, he shall suffer grievously for what has befallen my servant. But all in due time.”
“So what the hell is so important that you’re going to just leave Mot like this?” asks St. James.
Valerius turns, glowering, and a hoarse croak erupts from his mouth.
“And what the hell is that noise?” asks St. James.
“Cease and desist!” commands Valerius. “It is nothing, nothing I tell you! I shall hear no more of your foolishness. My business is of the utmost importance. That is all you need to know.”
“Well, can you least tell us where the hell we are going?” asks St. James.
Valerius scowls.
“I can… no. No, I cannot say for certain. I will know when we find it. Somewhere in the Westwoode.”
“It? It?” cries St. James. “What the hell is ‘It’? And do you think you could be a little more precise?”
“No,” hisses Valerius. “I… I… Enough of this! Who is willing to accompany me?”
“How long are we talking?” asks Hamral. “And how much danger?”
“Perhaps a week,” answers Valerius. “I am not certain. And I think that there is some peril ahead. I assure you that my mission is of great consequence. It cannot wait; I must leave tomorrow. I would not leave Mot otherwise.”
“Count me in,” says Mendelor. “I’m tired of hanging about town.”
“I’ll go,” says Hamral, “But only if we aren’t gone far or for too long. If something goes down with the rucks, we’re going to be here in Heremac.”
“I’m game,” says Renton.
“I as well am ready,” cries Ruik. “For whatever adventure awaits us! Though Wyk is unavailable—he is training with the militia, these days.”
“I fear I must stay behind, my sons, and attend Mot,” says Friar Sidrach, eyeing Valerius warily. “Though I fear greatly for your safety. I shall say many prayers for your deliverance.”
“Hell,” says St. James. “If the Friar is going to watch Mot, I guess I’m going to have to go with the rest of you. Dale’s stuck with the militia, too.”
“And Vandoren is also busy studying with Dame Catherine,” says Valerius. “Gentlemen, I suggest that you prepare yourselves. We leave tomorrow.”