At first, Fenrir had felt a little flutter. That alone had been somewhat unusual for him. She was certainly not the first woman to reach out and touch him, and the place that she’d touched him was rather innocent, after all. But, she was young and beautiful and her touch was soft, almost accidental. As she had continued to rest her fingertips on his hand, he had felt… a wrongness. Like she was stealing something essential from him. He’d felt a pull—a gentle tug, really—and felt himself slipping away, bit by bit. It was possible that he’d just been exhausted, or that it had been a trick of his injury-addled mind, but he didn’t think so. His reaction had been visceral and immediate, with him jumping up and grabbing the girl’s hand. Moments later, he had found himself face-down against the table, his head exploding in pain and his eyes cloudy. He had managed to roll over, noting this his assailant was the innkeeper, before he’d lost consciousness.
Whatever had happened with that Merigold girl (definitely her name, he thought now), Fenrir was unlikely to ever find out. Assuming he survived his benefactor’s inquisition, and kept his job and his skin, he’d never be going back to that inn. He’d hopefully never see that little chit again, or her surprisingly sturdy father. Fenrir had always followed the old adage “grudges are like whores; hold on too tightly and you’ll catch an elbow to the nose.” And, like whores, grudges were easier to forget when they were miles away.
Fenrir had finally reached the southern gate of Rostane, its imposing thirty-foot tall stone walls filling his field of vision, with only a few buildings visible behind the fortifications. In close proximity to the Tulanques, Rostane was a city of granite and marble, built to be permanent and imposing, if not visually appealing. The cobble streets were straight and well-planned, and the buildings blocky and practical like the great fortress that rose above the city, a towering island in a sea of beige, white, and burnt red. The Plateau was visible from anywhere in the city, so high did it rise above the houses and shops, the warehouses and manufactories. It was build atop the ruins of an ancient pyramidal structure, moss-and-ivy-covered ruins from a time long past. Few even realized this; they simply accepted the massive structure as the floating patriarch of the city, giving little thought to the foundation.
Those who were unfamiliar with the city might have found the entire sight to be beautiful. There was beauty in strength, after all.
But, like most of those who were raised in the city, Fenrir noticed none of this.
Above the gates rose two slender turrets, these being manned by guardsman who appeared imposing to unaware travelers. Fenrir knew better. Wall duty was typically reserved for new recruits, men who could barely swing a sword or a spear. Sure, in their armor and their green and gold wolf-emblazoned tabards, they had a dangerous look about them. But, they were likely numb with boredom and exhausted from standing all day in their heavy equipment, sun cooking them like turkeys in the oven. A child could probably knock them over with a wooden sword.
This was the main ingress into the city and, it being late afternoon, the line of foot traffic attempting entrance into the city was growing shorter. The guardsmen at the gate itself tended to be veterans, with some having actually seen battle. Never in Rostane itself, of course, but either in quelling minor tax-related rebellions or, more likely, border skirmishes with the mountain-dwelling Wasmer to the west. But Wasmer had been quiet for at least fifteen years, a tentative peace having been informally negotiated, with the veterans of the incursions being integrated back into regular service.
These veterans were exactly what was needed where money was involved, and a great deal of money was collected by duty officials at the southern gate. Trade being the major driver of commerce in Rostane, tariffs were imposed on nearly every imported good—hence the informal market square at the crossroads just a few miles south. Periodically, Little Duke Penton would sally forth some soldiers to break up the crossroads market, as he saw this as high thievery from Rostane and, as a result, from his own coffers. But, ultimately, it would always re-form like a boil on his ass.
“Name and reason for visit?” asked a bored, stocky guardsman, not bothering to look up from his register.
“De Trenton, to fuck your mother in her wrinkly asshole,” replied Fenrir, grinning broadly.
“Well, you’d better bring a gallon of vinegar, because she’ll need some cleaning first. Fen, I’d ask how you are doing, but it’s pretty obvious. You look like a partially-drowned weasel who took a nap in shit,” replied the guardsman, a hint of a wry smile curling one side of his mouth, wrinkles creasing his eyes. Silas was a few years Fenrir’s senior, and starting to go gray.
“I’ve had better weeks, Silas. I’d rather not talk about it. What news?” asked Fenrir. Silas waved for another city guard to tend his post, and the two stepped inside the city gates, moving into the shadow of the wall to allow traffic to move by unimpeded.
“About me or this rat nest of a city?”
“To learn about the rat or the nest? How about one then the other?”
Silas barked a laugh. “Well, I’ve actually got some news for a change. You know I’m tired of this city guard shit. It’s better than fighting the Wasmer, but I’m too old to be dealing with angry little merchants all day. I put in to retire, last month, and my papers were denied,” said Silas, taking a swig from a small canteen. Fenrir felt a sudden, aching thirst, though he knew the canteen held only water.
“Denied? Can they do that?”
“The legal men say they can in the case that there is a ‘deemed threat’ to the duchy. They told me that there’s evidence that the Wasmer are stirring, breaking the peace, raiding some villages. Saying that the hairy bastards are stealing some of the commoners from the border towns to the south and the west. So, no resignations are being taken.” Silas smirked. “It smells like bullshit to me.”
“So, you’re stuck gathering tariffs until the day you die?”
“No, that’s what I was going to tell you. I threatened to get my own legal counsel, and the little duke’s men caved almost immediately, gifting me a promotion! I’m to be made a Knight of the Wolf! Sworn in next week, a whole noble ceremony and shit.” Silas had a wide, goofy grin on his face now. The Wolf Knights—the elite personal guards of Duke Samuel Penton III, the ruler of Rostane and liege lord to the dozens of counts and barons in the duchy. Penton III had been dubbed the little duke by his detractors, which consisted of—albeit quietly—most of the people in the city. Penton II had been a great man, working tirelessly for the betterment of Rostane and the unification of Ardia, while his son did little but for the betterment of himself. Fenrir knew father and son personally, though neither had ever spoken to him; a suit of armor in the corner of an audience chamber does little to merit attention. Regardless, the “little” moniker was accurate; Penton III would never be the man his father had been before his death.
Frankly, the little duke was a pompous shit.
“Wolf Knight, eh? Protecting the little duke will be better than this?” asked Fenrir with a raised eyebrow, gesturing at the shuffling mass of traders and travelers.
“Eh, it couldn’t be worse. But, I will work fewer hours and the pay will be much better. With what I’ll be able to put away, I’ll finally be able to open a herbology shop when I truly do retire.” Silas had always taken an interest in plants and medicine. A strange hobby for a soldier.
“Well, congrats, my friend,” Fenrir said, slapping Silas on the shoulder.
“Thanks. It’ll be just in time, too, to protect some of Ardia’s finest noble slugs. By the way, have you heard that little Penty is sending out invitations, trying to institute another Ardian Council? The first one since… well… you know.”
Fenrir groaned at the unwelcome reminder. Silas had been one of the guards in the room at the time of Fenrir’s topple from grace, at the previous Ardian Council, three years ago. He wasn’t likely to live that down, even if he lasted another hundred years.
“A council, huh?” Fenrir worked to keep his face neut
ral.
“As you would expect, Penton seeks to make himself king, although we all know that he’s a quarter the man that his father was. Word is that few of the big players are interested. Every duke—and the duchess, even—sees himself as having the best claim. They say that Draston and Hunesa are sending second and third sons, or even just minor vassals. Nothing of import could possibly be accomplished there.”
“So, why bother, then? Why would Penton spend the money necessary to host all of those sweating, silk-clothed pigs? Is he so deluded that he actually believes he could be king?” Fenrir realized he was speaking too loudly. Though most disliked Penton, it was to be kept to a whisper. Not all guards were as lax as Silas.
Silas glanced over his shoulder, ushering Fenrir deeper into the shadow of the wall, out of earshot of any passersby.
“So?” Fenrir prompted, quieter now.
“We city guard have a theory, though there may not be much to it… You know, my story—unable to retire, being promoted—isn’t much different from a lot of other veterans coming up on their twenty-fifth year. We’re stuck in the military on a technicality, some obscure law that no one has invoked in recent memory. As always, blame the Wasmer, right? But, there’s more.”
“More?” Fenrir scratched at his head wound. The thing was throbbing again, so much so that he could hear the blood pounding in his skull, a severe hangover without having to pay for the liquor.
“There’s been a spike in military recruitment, officers traveling from village to town, offering an easy life as soldiers. More than a typical spring bolstering, and it’s doing more than just replacing those who retire. No one can retire, after all. So, Rostane is finding itself with a larger military than usual. Bigger than each of the other three duchies of Ardia.”
“So you’re thinking…” Even with a headache, the pieces weren’t hard to assemble into a coherent picture.
Silas again looked around furtively, his face paler than usual. “Yeah. War. If Penton doesn’t get what he wants through politics, maybe he’ll go to war to take it.”
There was something in Silas’ expression. Did Fenrir see fear, there? From the man who had protected him, outnumbered and with his knuckles bloodied, from other recruits back in training? Back when Fenrir had been little more than a stupid kid, running away from his problems?
“What of Florens? Surely Malless must have some idea of these machinations.” Duke Henrik Malless of the southern-most duchy was Penton’s primary rival, his domain being equal to Rostane in population and wealth, though not military power. Florens was focused on trade and culture, art and science. There hadn’t been a war for seventy years, after all, and there was little reason to maintain an army aside from dissuading bordering countries from aggression. Jecusta and Algania were never the friendliest of neighbors.
“Like I said, these are just rumors among the city guard, and really just the veterans. They might be false. We veterans of the Wasmer incursions are jumpy, after all. And besides, it’s said that Duke Malless himself may be coming to the Ardian Council, though probably only to gloat. He seems to be gaining popularity across Ardia… improving roads and bridges, opening schools and universities in cities across his duchy. Lowering tariffs to encourage trade. Even in the last week, a huge mercantile retinue from Florens set up shop in the warehouse district. Apparently, they’re driving some Rostanian merchants out of business, and little Penty is none-too-pleased. Though, you don’t have to worry—your family fortune is safe.”
“So, Malless might be oblivious of any threat if he’s coming to Rostane,” said Fenrir, ignoring that last bit. “Or, your suspicions are misplaced.”
“Just so. Like I said, we are a jumpy lot. Anyway, Fen, it’s been good to see you, but I really need to get back. Tariffs need collecting, you know.” Silas patted the sword at his side. The thing was probably rusted into its scabbard by now.
“Yeah, yeah.” The discussion of war should have been more distracting, but Fenrir wasn’t a soldier anymore. And, besides, he still needed to report back to The House; with his luck, he might not survive to see any war, even if it were to happen. “I’ll see you soon.”
Fenrir began to blend back into the crowd, his mind already pushing thoughts of the little duke into the periphery.
“Oh, Fen,” said Silas, grabbing his arm and speaking quietly before he could leave. “There is one thing that might ignite your interest. Ever hear of Martin Frommis? He’s a recently retired adjudicator, formerly of Rostane, now living in Umberton. That little town with those crooked red trees? Well, apparently, he was hit by The House, but things went poorly. He was messed up pretty badly, might lose more than just a finger. And, his son-in-law isn’t doing so well, either. They think there’s something wrong with his head. You, or your friends, know anything about this?” Silas asked, looking at Fenrir askance. It wasn’t exactly a well-kept secret among his circle that Fenrir had taken up with The House. Of course, the organization guarded its secrets well, but enforcers like Fenrir found it nearly impossible to keep their identities safe, and The House did little to help with the endeavor. Fear of retaliation was about the only thing that kept Fenrir safe.
Fenrir shook his head wryly. “I’m sure I have no idea, Silas. It’s a shame. Though I’d imagine Frommis must have done something to deserve it.” Like condemning the murderer of a young woman, and refusing to destroy the evidence or bully witnesses.
“Well, just be aware, Fen. I hear that the nobles are out for blood about this. Apparently, Frommis was well-respected, even among those ass-licking, blood-sucking slugs.” The nobles, of course, never liked when a message from The House was too extreme. There was some solace in the fact that the organization always took a finger before taking a life.
“Thanks for the warning, friend.”
Friend, indeed. Even though Fenrir’s current choice of occupation ran in direct opposition to Silas’, the man still protected him. Fenrir needed to treat Silas to a beer in the near future, assuming his wife would let them go out. For whatever reason, that shriveled old witch didn’t care for Fenrir. Must be a bad judge of character.
---
As much as Fenrir would have preferred to slink to his boarding house and sleep off his various injuries, he knew that it was in his best interest to seek out his benefactor and get the inevitable out of the way. At least, if they killed him now, it would halt the terrible pain that was again building in his skull. So thinking, Fenrir wove his way toward the warehouse district, and toward the current headquarters of The House.
The sun had just set behind the jagged Tulanques, streaking the sky with dark blues and oranges. Yet Rostane was just as alive at dusk as during the day. Torch-bearers were lighting bright oil lamps on all of the major roads of the city. With intelligently-placed mirrors reflecting the light, it seemed to be practically always daytime. This also created the illusion that the city was safe for people to wander and explore, which Fenrir knew firsthand was not true. The House was not the only illicit power in the city, though it was the most influential and organized.
Nonetheless, the stone-cobbled streets were packed with people going about their business, carousing, or otherwise moving about with or without a purpose. On every street corner was a tavern or inn, filling the streets with the smells of food, the sounds of laughter, and the occasional fistfight. Packs of city guards maintained order, patrolling the most populous areas, their glinting spears and measured pace providing feeling of security and protection. Any traveler would think that Rostane was a pleasant, modern, thriving city… at least on the surface.
Fenrir, however, was going below the surface. Just as a solid structure could be undermined by termites, Rostane had its own lurking parasites. Fenrir happened to be one of those—a cognizant bloodsucker. Dodging a fat man and squeezing between a couple of food carts, he started into an unlit alleyway (affectionately named Vagabond Stretch), taking a shortcut toward the warehouse district. This alley, as with most alleys in Rostane, hid what the reg
ular people and nobles pretended to ignore. He passed piles of refuse and rotting trash, stepping over bundles of rags that contained remnants of humanity, people who either failed themselves or been failed by society. Sometimes, these guttersnipes would simply sit in filthy run-off instead of moving a few feet to a dry patch, so resigned were they to their suffering.
Occasionally, the destitute reached out for him, imploring Fenrir to part with some of his money. Some invoked Yetra’s name, attempting to guilt Fenrir into sharing. Yetra bless you. To be honest, it did almost work at times; this day, he even got to the point where he had his fist wrapped around a small yet—his last one—and was about to toss it to a ragged boy who couldn’t have been more than twelve. But, instead, he clung to his coin tighter, feeling the edges digging into his hand.
The elaborate drainage and waste system in Rostane only applied to the main streets, and as a result, many alleyways were heaped with human fecal matter and other unknown substances. The smell brought back unbidden memories of slogging through the waste ditch in Umberton, with unnamed stuffs smeared on his hair, face, and clothes. With his stomach still queasy at the thought of it, Fenrir quickened his pace, avoiding the poor wretches lining the lane and trying to keep his boots from absorbing yet more waste matter.
Looking down, focused on quick-stepping around moist trash and feces, Fenrir almost collided with someone standing, wide-legged, in the middle of the alley. He came up just short, ungracefully skidding to a stop an arm’s length away. The man blocking his path was tall, taller than Fenrir by at least a head, and certainly heavier. He carried a good deal of weight distributed across his body, looking for all the world like a strongman who had been overindulging for the last five—or ten—years. Fenrir sighed, knowing instantly that the situation meant trouble. He sighed again when he heard motion behind him… likely another street tough who’d been camouflaged in the rags of a derelict. The man in front of him had a wide, toothy grin.
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