Market Square, Heremac. XX May, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Ten, Sext.
Dale, Hamral, Mendelor, Mot, Ruik, Friar Sidrach Landry, St. James, Valerius, Vandoren, Wyk.
As the bells of St. Welman’s peal loudly in the spring air, and are answered by the bells of St. Arleans, and are echoed by the bells of other, more distant parishes, Mot bobs his head up and down, his homely face bright with excitement. He sings:
“Ding, dong, bell.
Puss is in the well,
Bell, dong, ding.
This is what I sing.”
The streets of Heremac are swelled with a flood of townsmen, pouring forth from their homes and from their shops, voices burbling and rustling with speculation.
“Ha Ho!” booms a thunderous voice amid the torrent. The immense knight, Sir Will Garnfellow, spies the consortes through the rising crowd and begins thrashing and heaving his way toward his friends.
“How now, my good lads!” exclaims Sir Garnfellow, mopping the sweat off his brow as he emerges from the crowd.
“Garnfellow,” says Valerius. “For what cause is all this commotion?”
“Is it the rucks?” asks Hamral.
“Nay, Nay, stout Hamral,” says Garnfellow. “Not the rucks, not today. Why, have you poor benighted lads not yet heard? Of course, of course—why would you asked Old Will if you did not have the latest word! Well, worry not: your good friend Will shalt reveal all.”
“What are you talking about, Fatty?” demands St. James. Garnfellow snorts with glee and motions his fellows to come closer. He even lowers his voice—somewhat.
“Well, all shalt know soon enow,” says Garnfellow. “It is the Seekers, lads. The Seekers! They have finally chosen a new Master of the Order.”
“Is it Gregory?” asks Ruik, breathlessly. “It is Gregory, yes?”
“Wich,” says St. James, shaking his head. “I know it will be that damned Wich. I even have coin riding on it!”
Garnfellow shakes his head and laughs. “Nay, lads. I wot not how many a ballot was cast by the Brother-Knights. I hear that on many occasions the debate raged long into the early morning, but always, the results were the same: an unbreakable stalemate. The Brothers were stuck between Gregory on one hand and Wich on the other. Back and forth the debates went, with no sign of either side giving way. It was like asking a father to choose between his own twin sons!”
“Out with it, Sir Girth!” cries St. James. “Out with it!”
“Well,” says Garnfellow, “in the end the brother-knights agreed that they would never be able to choose between the two. So a compromise was accepted: the new Grand Master of the Seeker Order is…”
St. James groans, as if in pain.
“Brother Alan of Belfort,” finishes Garnfellow.
“What!” wails St. James. “What the hell did they do that for!”
“And who’s this Alan to Gregory?” demands Wyk.
“Alan of Belfort,” interjects Vandoren, “is the very devout Seeker—but not a particularly adept warrior, and considered an unlikely successor to Edric.”
“True, true,” says Garnfellow. “But given how long these proceedings had already taken, Brother Alan was deemed the most reasonable solution. The Legate Ubertino has already dispatched a courier to Riems with the news, and the Legate is expected to make a public proclamation to the town later this afternoon. The Seekers have already held some sort of secret ceremony in the Citadel to install Alan in his new office. I hear that Alan’s first order will be to extend the Whitsuntide festivities through the entire week, for all tenants, bondsmen, and servants of the Order.”
“Do you think that Varick was working for Alan?” asks Ruik.
“The prospect seems dubious,” answers Valerius. “Though we shall determine with certainty in a few days, when Varick proves well enough to talk. Yet with the Seeker election now resolved, the apparent worth of whatever Varick says seems considerably diminished.”
St. Welman’s Parish, Whitsunday, XXV May. Tierce.
Dale, Ruik, Friar Sidrach Landry, St. James, Vandoren, Wyk.
At the front of the crowded church, priests in red vestments perform the Whitsunday Mass, and before the priests stand several townsmen dressed in white garments, ready to accept the sacrament of baptism.
“One can hardly believe,” whispers Friar Sidrach, “that it was only a year ago that we were blessed to discover the miracle of young babe Agnes. Only one year!”
“You should see her now,” says old Dunstan, smiling. “She is a dear little creature, just beginning to walk. And of course, you should see also your friend Clement’s young son, Simon. The apple never falls far from the tree, and I suspect that little ympe shall give his father no end of trouble. As Mother Church teaches us, the Five are ever fair and just.”
“I would lief go back to the City of Canglen,” answers the friar. “I have been thinking often of sweet Agnes in recent days.”
“You would be most welcome there,” says Dunstan. “Bishop Martin will gladly extend his hospitality to you all. He is still appreciative of the service you rendered him, by escorting his priests through the ruck-held lands to Lownell. It is a terrible sadness, what all that effort has wrought.”
“What do you mean, father?” asks Vandoren. “We have heard no recent news from Lownell.”
“Terrible,” mutters Dunstan, sadly. “Simply terrible. It would appear that the sons of Tereus are no more trustworthy than their wicked father, may the Five curse his name. Poor Sir John has been betrayed, and Prince Busirane has wrested control of Lownell away from Sir John. The Diocese has learned that many of Lownell’s loyal retainers have been piteously murthered by the rucks. And even some of the priests that you brought safely into Lownell have suffered under this turn of events. At least one parish has been razed to the ground, and perhaps more.”
“How awful!” exclaims Ruik, his face pale. “And I wonder…”
“Wonder how those rucks could be such bastards,” adds St. James, quickly.
“‘Tis the Shaithim’s own work,” says Dunstan. “And apparently, Sir John is now a hostage in his own lands, and the oafish Prince Nestor himself has taken up residence in Lownell manor.”
“Really?” says St. James, unable to suppress a smirk.
“Indeed,” answers Dunstan. “But take heart, dear friends. The foolish ruck prince does not realize that by making poor Sir John suffer, he is only steeling the resolve of good Pentians throughout the occupied lands. Sir John’s endurance should serve to give us all courage in the face of tyranny. Remember the example of the martyred saints, who suffered under Tynar: the cruelty of the Emperor himself could not diminish the spirit of those faithful souls. And thus, we must try to do what we can to support Lownell in its hour of need.”
With that, Dunstan claps Vandoren on the back.
“I must make my final preparations, my son, for we leave tomorrow for Canglen. My old friend Sir Charles shall escort us as far as Antace.”
Roger’s safehouse, Heremac, XXVII May. Compline.
Dale, Mot, St. James, Valerius, Vandoren.
“I arrived as quickly as possible,” says Valerius, removing his dripping cloak, soaked from the heavy rain outside. The tall, thin magician glances intently toward the pile of dirty straw where Varick lies. Tim’s lieutenant warily returns the gaze.
“Has he said anything yet?” asks Valerius, but St. James shakes his head.
“What the hell is this?” demands Varick. “Where am I? And who are you?”
Valerius does not answer, but steps closer.
“I remember now,” hisses Varick. “I remember. At Maggie’s. You were the blokes that came around to the house.”
Varick moves quickly to stand up, but instead gasps in pain and falls back on his side.
“You rotten blokes worked me over but good,” he says. “Must think you’re right clever. Well, wait till Tim finds out what you done to me. You bastards will get yours then, mark my words. We have some friends, some real important friends.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” says Valerius, advancing even closer still. “But where are your friends now?”
Varick’s eyes narrow, and his jaw clenches.
“Now Varick,” begins Valerius, stooping just low enough to look directly into Varick’s eyes. “We are about to ask you a few questions, and you will answer them—please do not waste our time with futile heroics. No, you will answer our inquiries truthfully, and to our complete satisfaction. The only question is whether you will answer us freely: we would rather not resort to… persuasion. But as you saw the other night, we are not men to be trifled with, especially not by a man all alone and in your lamentably impaired condition. Does any of this seem unclear?”
“Shall I fetch that iron brand from the fire, now?” asks St. James, hopefully.
Varick’s lip quivers and he looks hard at Valerius. “You’re that damned wissard, aren’t you,” he whispers.
Valerius offers no answer. Varick flops over onto his back.
“What do you want?” asks Varick, staring at the ceiling.
“Oh, really very little,” says Valerius. “Let us begin with some fundamentals: Which of the Seeker candidates has employed Tim’s services?”
“Wich,” answers Varick. “Wich of Threk.”
“Excellent,” says Valerius. “And what was the nature of these services performed by you and Tim for Brother Wich.”
“All sorts of jobs,” answers Varick. “Mostly running errands and stuff—you know, bringing messages and proposals back and forth from the Citadel. And we were supposed to keep our ears to the ground, and let Wich know what was happening outside of the Citadel. We also tried to learn as much as we could about some of the undecided Seekers—like where they were from, who were their friends, you know, what sort of fellows they was. Stuff like that.”
“Good,” says Valerius, “Very good. I shall have to confer with my associates, now.”
Valerius withdraws from Varick’s side, moving just out of earshot.
“What do you think?” asks Vandoren.
“Varick has confirmed many of our suspicions,” says Valerius, “but I am uncertain how useful this information is at the present.”
“Well, what the hell do we do with him now?” asks St. James.
“An excellent question,” says Valerius. “Clearly, the man is a danger to us all. Surely Tim will be upset over the abduction of his captain, and I suspect that Brother Wich is utterly livid at losing the election. Perhaps, for the time being, we should leave Varick here, as our prisoner.”
The Bristling Boar Inn, XXVIII May. Vespers.
Dale, Hamral, Mendelor, Mot, Ruik, Friar Sidrach Landry, St. James, Valerius, Vandoren, Wyk.
“Ellen! Ellen! More ale here,” cries Ruik, deep in his cups. “To Grand Master Alan!”
“That’s a good man,” says Wyk belching, his face red. “To Grand Master Alan!”
“May he lead us to victory!” cries Ruik.
“We shall see,” says Vandoren, who then recites an old proverb:
“Praise no day till evening; no wife till buried;
No sword till tested; no maiden till bedded;
No ice till crossed; no ale till drunk.”
“True enough,” says Mendelor. “Here is my rede: we should trap the hell out of the apartment and get out of Heremac. There is no reason to stay and put the ropes around our own damn necks. We should head straight for the Abbas, find Reginald, and then go after the Geaunt with him. We should also prepare ourselves for a long stay outside of the city. I am going to buy extra rations and try and travel as light as possible.”
“Please, Mendelor, refresh the other’s memories on this Bourton Abbas,” says Valerius.
“Well,” says Mendelor. “When we first heard that Reginald was missing, Garnfellow told us that Reginald had disappeared while travelling in the occupied lands. At the time, Garnfellow thought that Reginald was heading for Bourton Abbas.
“Later, Lady Isabelle revealed that Reginald was actually headed to Derwich, to determine if her brother Frederick was still alive. But when we reached Derwich, no one there had seen Reginald. So what happened: Was Reginald sidetracked? Did he somehow learn that Frederick was dead? And there’s Mot’s mysterious dream, but how do we puzzle out the dream’s meaning? This leaves us Bourton Abbas as our only remaining prospect for finding Reginald. Mayhap Garnfellow was right all along.”
“I say we go after Reginald!” cries Wyk. “Or maybe we should settle up with that bastard Tim. I’m sick of all this sneaking around. I have half a mind to just march on over there and settle our score with him, once and for all.”
“You have half a mind, certes,” mutters St. James.
“I have no qualms with finding Reginald,” says Ruik. “But consider this, Saint James. What if the two of us went to the Geaunt’s tower and stole something of great value to the monster. Then we could make it look as if the thievery were the work of rucks—or even tell the Geaunt that rucks stole the object, in hopes that the vengeful Geaunt would go off on a rampage against the Black-blades.”
“Sounds a lot like what Wetpants and I suggested a while back,” says St. James.
“Now listen, you rascals,” says Ellen, arriving with a new round of ale. She sternly wags a finger at the consortes. “I want no trouble from the lot of you, hear me? You take any quarrels to the streets.”
“Good gossip,” says Vandoren, “Surely thou know my companions better than that. We would never list to bring dishonor upon thy fine establishment.”
“Well, mind that you keep your word,” answers Ellen, turning about in a huff.
“What was that about?” asks Dale.
“About? That was about the fact that we are all marked men,” says St. James, glumly. “Word has gotten around about our little ‘party’ in Maggie’s cellar. By the Hammer! Sweet Maggie won’t even deign to grant me her sweet, sweet charms anymore. Oh, you might think that Tim’s no one to cross—but you lads have never seen Maggie angry. I wot not what sort of awful revenge Mags has in mind, but just you wait.”
“How did word get around?” asks Ruik. “Was it Fat Charlie?”
“No, I can assure you that it was not Charles,” says Valerius, almost betraying a smile.
“Then how?” asks Ruik.
“How? How? I can tell you how!” says St. James. “How many other people do you know who run around town, brandishing swords and axes and conjuring demons in the middle of decent people’s cellars. How many?”
“By the sound of it,” says Mendelor, “the sooner we get out of Heremac, and the sooner we find Reginald, the better.”
Valerius nods. “I also want to go find Reginald—but first we should decide what to do with Varick.”
“Yeah,” says St. James. “Mayhap we should not leave him tied up when we leave. Then again, maybe we…”
A large, greasy mutton bone suddenly clatters onto the table. At once the consortes turn. A hulking, bearded man sits at the next table with Nym and Bardolph. The old veteran and his young friend struggle vainly to keep the bearded man in his seat.
“What the hell is this!” cries Wyk, grabbing the bone and springing to his feet. The bearded man heaves the table aside, and Nym and Bardolph are thrown to the floor. Patrons of the Boar suddenly clear a wide berth.
“You damned witch-lovers!” roars the bearded man. “The Five curse you all, you whoresons! Do you know how much coin I lost the other night on account of you? I was winning at knuckle-bones when you fiends burst into Maggie’s cellar. All my winnings were lost in the panic, and one of you will pay for my loss, if I have to take it out of your hides!”
Wyk lets out a low growl and begins pacing towards the bearded man, who is easily taller than anyone else in the bar. Ruik tugs at his man’s sleeve.
“Wyk,” he whispers, “Wyk, remember what Ellen said. Ellen. Remember…”
But Wyk tears himself away, suddenly flying at the bearded man. The towering opponent snarls and brings up his fists, ready to block any blows to his face. But Wyk comes in low, and wallops the man between the legs. The crowd and the man groan in unison. As the man doubles over, Wyk grabs him by the beard and delivers a shuddering head-butt. The man falls to his side, but Wyk quickly follows through with a kick to the mouth. Blood and a couple of teeth fly across the Boar, and the crowd roars its approval.
Wyk readies to pounce on the man, when suddenly, Wyk falls to his knees, his eyes swimming. Behind him stands Ellen Golding, a stout oaken cudgel in her hands.
“That’s it! I warned you. Out! All of you, out of my house!”
The crowd groans, but after Ellen bludgeons a couple more fellows, the men begin exiting the Boar. Mendelor and Ruik drag a dazed Wyk away, while the bearded man lies on the floor, moaning and cursing.
The street outside the Apartment. XXX May. Sext.
Dale, Mot, Ruik, St. James, Valerius, Wyk.
“What in Perdition is this?” demands Valerius, furious.
Several members of the town watch stand outside the door of the apartment, leaning on their pikestaffs and watching the consortes carefully. The consortes, in turn, watch helplessly as husky men file in and out of the apartment, carrying out personal belongings, which are then thrown rudely from the top of the stairs and into the street. Already, a large heap of furniture and equipment lies on the cobblestones. Wyk sits nearby, clutching his nose. Above the housetops, Noxumbra circles the scene. Curious onlookers, hearing the commotion, have begun to gather in the street.
Ruik hands Valerius a sheet of parchment, which the tall man quickly scans.
“Damn his eyes!” snarls Valerius. “This bears the seal of the Town Council, and is signed by Geoffrey Carder himself. We are being evicted!”
“These men mean business,” says Ruik, sadly. “Wyk tried to get in their way, and… well, that’s why his nose is bleeding.”
“Why would that fool Carder ever consent to this?” hisses Valerius. “I shall have his head!”
“I knew it,” mutters St. James. “I just knew it.”
“What? What? What did you know?” snaps Valerius.
“I knew she’d find something. She’s got something over everyone in this damned town,” answers St. James.
“She?” asks Valerius. “What are you babbling about?”
“Maggie,” answers St. James. “It was Maggie who did this—who put Carder up to this. Her little way of getting even.”
A stout chest is heaved over the stairs and plummets into the street, smashing open upon the stones.
“Quite a lady you have there,” says Dale, forcing a smile.