The Camp of Lord Charles, Castellan of Antace, Outside Heremac. III May, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Ten. After Compline.
Ruik, Vandoren, Sir Will Garnfellow.
A great bonfire blazes furiously in the crisp May night, throwing sparks and smoke swirling into the sky, and casting a warm orange glow over the crowded ring of tents. The air is heavy with the smell of roasted meats and the sounds of music and merry laughter. Dozens of young and old knights gather around the fire, trading tales of war and hunting. Serving-men and squires weave in and out of the firelight, bearing platters of viands or brimming jars of wine, with sleek hounds following close behind, ready to snatch any bit of meat that might drop to the ground. Above the largest tent flies the banner of Antace: a black axe on a red field.
“Saints’ bones!” cries Lord Charles, an enormous bear of a man, broad-shouldered and balding, with a bright red beard. Charles steps into the firelight and clasps old Dunstan roughly. Both men laugh, heartily.
“The clerk’s life hath made thee soft, old friend,” says Charles, grinning. “What has it been—six years at least!”
“At least,” replies Dunstan. “And I fear that all these long campaigns against Tereus have afforded you little chance to soften your warlike frame. I shall have to summon a physic to tend to my bones, cracked in your embrace!”
“And what do we have here!” exclaims Charles, suddenly turning from Dunstan. “The Five damn mine eyes if I do not see one of thine own before me.”
“Indeed,” says Dunstan. “This is my son, Vandoren.”
Charles shakes his head in astonishment.
“Vandoren? I remember thee well. Thou hast changed much since last I saw thee sulking about my halls with thy playmates. Thou were but a frail, milk-soft boy when thou left for Canglen—now look at thee, a frail, milk-soft man, like thy father. Ha!”
“Well met, my Lord,” says Vandoren, bowing.
“What’s this—the lad has manners? Art thou sure he’s thine?” asks Charles.
“Oh, no question,” says Dunstan. “I avow he is my own.”
“Well met, young Vandoren,” says Lord Charles. “I am all-too-glad to host thee and thy father this night. But look thee—thy cup is empty. I shall remedy that situation presently.”
“Huzzah!” booms Garnfellow, stumbling onto the scene, his viol under one arm, a tankard of ale in both hands. “Whose mare is dead, here? Drink deep, lads, drink deep, and revel in Antace’s largesse!”
“How now?” asks Lord Charles, turning to the fat and blowsy knight.
“Castellan!” gulps Garnfellow, drawing up short. “Well—Well—Well met, My Lord! Pray forgive my impudence. ‘Tis so, so good to see you again, I—I lose my head!”
The fat knight bows deeply and, wobbling, splashes much of his ale on the ground.
“Arise,” says Charles. “My apologies, Sir Knight—we have met before?”
“Ha Ho!” says Garnfellow. “His Lordship jests with me!”
“Verily, Sir, I do not.”
“Truly?” says Garnfellow, slyly. “Well then, it was many years ago you knew me, far from here. I was fighting under Bellenore, then. Now dost you recall?”
“Perhaps I have had too much drink tonight, for I fear I do not.”
“Surely you should remember a certain knight with a shield of three lions, renown for his flashing sword-work, famed for his immense valor, praised for his warrior-cunning? Certes, I carried myself somewhat more lightly in those days, but you must recall bold Sir Garnfellow?”
“You shame me, Sirrah. I… I seem to remember someone by that name. But it has been many years, indeed, and the flickering light of the fire makes recognition uncertain. But know that you are most welcome here in my camp, Sir Garnfellow.”
“May the Five bless you, Lord,” says Garnfellow. “Now, if you would forgive me, I must see to refilling my empty flagons…”
And with that, Garnfellow disappears into the dark, leaving Lord Charles to scratch his head.
“Most strange,” murmurs the Castellan, turning back to Dunstan and Vandoren.
“My Lord,” says Dunstan, “Have you heard anything more from within the Seeker’s fortress? How fares the election? It has been weeks since the Brothers of Saint Markham have withdrawn into secret councils, and I have no useful intelligence to report to His Grace. The Seekers have not been particularly forthcoming about these proceedings.”
“Alack,” says Lord Charles, “I had hoped that thou might have had heard some news, Dunstan. I have nothing more to report to the crown. One wonders how much longer this election will take?”
The Bristling Boar, V May. Before Compline.
Mot, Ruik, Valerius, Vandoren, Sir Will Garnfellow, Wyk.
Vandoren takes a deep drink, and looks sadly into his cup.
“Lady Isabelle, as you may imagine, took the news terribly hard—this was a cruel trick for such a fine woman to bear alone. I think she had really allowed herself to hope that Frederick had somehow survived the slaughter at Derwich… and when she learned the awful truth, she had to mourn his death all over again.”
“You told ‘er everything?” asks Wyk.
“Heavens, no. I told Lady Isabelle only what she needed to know: that her brother Frederick was certainly dead, and that her family rested in peace.”
Valerius nods. “And were you able to see Brother Alton?”
“No,” answers Vandoren. “Like many of his brethren, Alton has been too involved in the election to talk much with anyone outside of his order. I did speak with a Seeker-serjeant, though, and passed along what I had told my father about our foray into Derwich. I made sure to emphasize how the rucks at Caxbrill seem to be ‘training’ the trolls. I also took pains to tell the serjeant of the humiliation suffered by Busirane at our hands. The serjeant assured me that the Seekers would be ready, should the rucks prepared some sort of retaliation.
“I also asked the serjeant whether the Seekers had ever heard of anyplace between Heremac and Derwich that might match the odd vision from Mot’s dreams. My description of the cave and the stone table did not seem to ring any bells with the serjeant, but he agreed to pass the word amongst his brothers in the order. It would appear that we are no closer to finding Reginald than we were weeks ago. The one thing we seem to have left to go on is Mot’s dream.”
“My mama says the simplest man is mos’ often the wises,’” asserts Wyk. “Why Mot here, e’s a good man an sees straight, not like these fancy dandies with their servants an’ helpers an smooth talk an all.”
Ruik, a bit nervously, looks around the Boar to see if Wyk’s thinly-veiled assessment of Wich of Threk has offended anyone.
“Wyk,” begins Ruik, but the small man holds up a hand when Ruik speaks, his face bright red. Wyk lifts his mug for another gulp and finds it’s empty.
“Ellen, love! Be a good girl an water us down here!”
Ruik looks at Wyk and then at Ellen nervously. Wyk continues.
“Why this Wich of Threk, he may share me name, but he ain’ me! Reginald is in danger and I don’t see this foppy dandy going to ‘is rescue. Reginald went to our Mot here in a dream, an no one else. I say if they don’ choose Gregory as they should… ”
Wyk appears to lose his train of thought for a moment. He looks down at his mug. Ruik stands up.
“Yes, a cheer to the brave Seekers who have all died for us! And may the best man be chosen to continue leading their order!”
“And,” continues Ruik, “Mot’s words have made it plain to me. Let us not waste our time chasing giants when our friend Reginald lies in extremis! The Five have sent us a sign. To not act on it would be tantamount to abandonment. Let us set out posthaste! Garnfellow, your company would be a welcome help in this hour of need.”
“At the moment,” says Valerius, “I am considerably reluctant to undertake any new enterprises. Our merry band is scattered far and wide. Ruik, you are committed to several weeks of working under Roger, and doubtless Vandoren has as much time due Dame Catherine. Dale and Renton are both drilling with the militia, and we have not yet heard from Mendelor or Friar Sidrach. And the Shaithim knows what is the matter with Saint James!”
St. Welman’s Parish, VII May. Sext.
Ruik, Valerius, Vandoren.
The dark interior of the small church is quite crowded, as the faces of many strangers pepper the throng of regular worshippers. There are no pews or seats, and most people stand or kneel. As the priests perform the mass, many small knots of men gather in the back of the church to talk business and to gossip.
“Just where in Perdition is Saint James?” hisses Valerius. “He should be here.”
“I… I think he was going to the Red Door last night,” says Ruik, blushing.
“His timing is impeccable,” says Vandoren. “Just what is all this about?”
Suddenly, a tall, thin man sidles over from amongst a clump of merchants. It is Roger. He nods for the consortes to follow and then withdraws toward a darkened corner of the church. He scans the crowd slowly and carefully before he speaks.
“Valerius, you had inquired earlier about the men who had… mistreated your servant, Mot. Well, I have learnt specifically which of Tim’s lackeys did this terrible deed. And as it turns out, if you would like to revenge yourself on these men, this would agree with some plans of my own.”
“Speak on,” says Valerius, very attentive.
“There are two men,” continues Roger. “Their names are Rud and Bartle, and they make a good pair. Rud is a large, beefy fellow: both lazy and very stupid, but strong as an ox. Bartle, on the other hand, is a tall, thin man with a crooked nose. He’s quick and rather sneaky.
“Rud and Bartle are the men you want: they were the ones who approached Mot on the street, offering him food and drink. Then they led Mot into a back alley, where they commenced to… rough him up.”
“Where can we find these caitiffs?” demands Valerius. “And in what way does our revenge intersect with your own goals?”
“First,” says Roger, “Rud and Bartle are holed up in a little house near the Citadel. They’ve got a few men with them. They’re up to some dodgy deal, but I can’t for the life of me figure out just what. This is where you fellows come in. I don’t care what happens to Rud or Bartle; I just want to know what they are up to. Should be pretty easy.”
“If the task is so readily done,” says Vandoren, “Why not do it yourself?”
“Well, I am in a very… tricky situation,” answers Roger. “Tim and I have something of an informal… arrangement. We try to stay out of each other’s way. Now, if I jumped Rud and Bartle myself, why Tim would consider that to be a pretty clear violation of our arrangement, and there would be black hell to pay between the two of us. But if you fellows get involved, why then, it’s just a simple matter of revenge, and nobody will make much of it. Besides, I’m sort of fond of Mot. What Tim did to that poor wretch seemed a bit excessive. Tim usually operates with much more restraint.”