Almost immediately, another figure drifted into his tent like a fog, nearly silent and just as obfuscate. Tennyson entered, heavily cloaked despite the summer heat, lantern light glinting off his silver mask. Ultner’s face seemed to leer at Hafgan.
“It appears you are making friends,” said Tennyson, slumping easily into a seat. Hafgan didn’t bother rising, himself, and didn’t bother responding. He was not intimidated by Tennyson like so many others, and he took liberties that most of his associates would not dare. The two had a mutual respect, not unlike that between two lions, whereas most people held fear for Tennyson and contempt for Hafgan.
“Quiet, this evening, my Wasmer friend.” Still nothing from Hafgan. Very few people, indeed, would be bold enough to refuse a response to this man. However, instead of becoming enraged, he snorted. “You are in a stubborn mood. Shake it off—I do not have much time here, and we’ve matters of import to discuss.”
“It has been some difficult days,” offered Hafgan. Exhausting days, first by earning his spot, and then by maintaining his deception amidst hostile Wasmer stares, and disregard, condescension, or outright hostility from the human soldiers. His position was precarious at best, and he was more than aware of the dangers.
“Indeed. I heard you fought quite the battle, toying with the Wasmer warleader and then dispatching him with hardly a facial hair askew. Impressive, as always.”
It didn’t feel impressive. He felt malicious, villainous. Siarl had been doing what he’d been raised—and encouraged and rewarded—to do. Be the fastest, the strongest, and fight better than everyone else, becoming the leader. Hafgan had defeated and humiliated him simply for the sake of a complex ruse. Little wonder that Siarl had been giving him spiteful, venomous glares while he cradled his broken wrist in a sling.
“I be doing what was necessary for this plan of yours, Tennyson.”
“Plan of yours, my Wasmer friend. I wanted eyes and ears in the military, and you illuminated me on the intricacies of Wasmer military culture.” It was true. “Now, what have you learned?”
“General Lucius be… imprisoned when he be… when he learned that Savant Iolen was to be the new High Strategist, his superior. No general at the moment. Baron Erlins’ wife, Farah Erlins… Stirred the officers with an untrue tale of rape and murder by the Florens’ military. It be seeming that she was duped, but I be… was uncertain if Savant Iolen and Lord Faris were aware of the little duke’s deception.” Hafgan was barely even trying to catch his mistakes. Too much pressure.
“Any indication of who the new general will be?” Tennyson leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“No, Tennyson. General Krast be massed with the regulars at the Florens borders. He may be given control of the whole army, but I be hearing it be… is unlikely. Too many men. I am expecting that there will be a promotion from the ranks.”
“Right. How many troops are being deployed?”
“The regulars at the border number around eight thousand.” That had been a tricky bit of information to acquire. “The conscripts from the noble houses, the enlisters, and the local regulars be near twenty-six thousand, at my best guess. Many of these not be fit to fight, though they be training now.”
“Fodder,” mumbled the silver-masked leader of The House. “Keep your eyes and ears open. Troop movements, unit strengths, disposition of the officers. Anything that might be of use.”
“What will you doing with this information?” asked Hafgan, expecting answer Tennyson offered.
“You cannot know, in case you are found out.” An unlikely scenario. More likely, Hafgan would be pushed out of strategic meetings or deposed by his own command of Wasmer. “But know that we have allies. Though I would rather not see the destruction of the Rostanian military, a change in leadership is desired. We have some in mind who would be more sympathetic to our cause, and less so to Recherche Oletta.”
“How be things in the city?” The camp seemed a world away instead of mere yards from the western gate.
“Unrest. The people are nervous, of course. War has that effect, particularly when so many are being conscripted. Rumors are tearing through the city about the war, the people fearing attack from Hunesa and Florens. There are darker rumors, too. A small town not more than thirty or forty miles east and south was destroyed under mysterious circumstances. I am certain that the little duke with blame Florens, though I expect that is quite false. Dunmore, it was called.”
Dunmore. Hafgan had never heard of it. “What of The House?”
“We continue to meet strong resistance. Three more of our agents found dead, and one enforcer found fingerless. We have eliminated one agent of Recherche Oletta who attempted infiltration. It was… messy.” Hafgan would rather not think about that. He did not approve of torture or the grisly, public displays put on by The House in this recent turf war. “We have not been able to locate this… Patriach… that you identified.”
Tennyson twisted to his feet, displaying sudden, smooth movements similar to those of a serpent. “Enough for now. I must be going, but first: I need you to do some recruiting.”
“Recruiting?” asked Hafgan, rising to his own feet with some grace.
“Indeed. We need more informants among the military. You need not tell them that you work for me. In fact, do not tell them under any circumstances. I’m certain you can be circumspect. They will report to you, and you will report to one of my agents, who will report to me. I, of course, will not be leaving the city again.”
“Obviously. And how do I recruit?” Hafgan growled. How much dung did Tennyson plan on heaping upon him?
“Be imaginative. I don’t have time to instruct you, but I need more information than you can provide. This should help.” A heavy cloth bag dropped to the table with a metallic clink, followed by a second, smaller bag. Hafgan deftly unwound the drawstring of the latter to reveal a modest fortune of yets. Certainly more money that he had ever had held before.
“This is—”
“Plenty to get you started. Money is knowledge. Money is power. Money is loyalty. Of course, that is for you, Hafgan, and the larger bag is for incentivizing your agents. Don’t get too excited—these are mostly smaller denominations.”
So, Hafgan was now the holder of enough money to, say, purchase a butcher’s shop. Or invest in a well-stocked trader’s wagon. Or, perhaps simply purchase a big house in a decent part of Rostane, although he would be hard-pressed to find someone to sell a home to a Wasmer in those neighborhoods. His money was worth less than the money of the meanest subhuman. He had rarely considered his larger ambitions or goals here, in human society. Certainly, blending into the human society had been his primary goal. To be able to walk the lanes of Rostane, frequent the nicer establishments and try delicacies, and hold intelligent, rhythmic conversations with individuals who drove the fate of the nation. Without the venomous glares, half-baked insults, angry expulsions of saliva, and occasional threats. But, despite his herculean efforts to both alter his body and his language, fitting in with these humans seemed as likely as the Tulanques crumbling to dust.
What, then, was his goal? Was it to accumulate wealth, and if so, to what purpose? The richest Wasmer in Rostane was still a Wasmer, even if he was a fangless, smooth-faced, well-spoken Wasmer. And, he was budredda, so there was no place among his people—not that he could return to the Carreg Da.
“Tennyson, please hold on to this gold for now. Perhaps I will live to retrieve it from you, after all this be said and done.”
The mask of Ultner gave him a long, unnerving stare, attempting to pierce the veil that was his mind. And Tennyson gave a shrug, the smaller bag disappearing under his cloak. Without a farewell, Tennyson flowed out of the tent as smoothly as he’d entered, pulling off his mask as he ducked out of the flaps. Hafgan darted around the table and glanced after the enigmatic man, curious to catch a glimpse of his face, but he was already lost in the darkness.
Chapter 24
First light was approaching, thoug
h the humid night felt heavy and untouched by time.
It seemed an eternity since Fenrir had last slept on a plush, down-stuffed mattress. At least, it felt that way, though it had really been little more than two weeks. Two weeks of dangerous exploits and, even worse, spending time with Emma, who ate away at his patience like a termite. And now, he could look forward to spending more time with a man who loathed him. Fenrir smiled at that one twist—at least he could displace his frustration with Emma onto Tilner, who was just so easy to bait. Escamilla’s trusted retainer especially smarted at the fact that Fenrir and Escamilla had clearly been building some sort of rapport, which was maybe even bordering on a comradeship.
She wasn’t a bad sort, for a noble. Perhaps because she hadn’t been born into that caste. She’d pitched in with work on the road, helping with the horses (though clumsily), attempting to cook food (though tasteless), and even gathering firewood. Escamilla was willing to get her manicured hands dirty. She did have the tendency to try and delve into his past, but Fenrir had so far managed to neatly sidestep most of these questions. When push came to shove, he’d just bluntly refused to answer many of them.
Fenrir rolled about the lavish bed he enjoyed now, realizing that despite its initial comfort, it was becoming stifling. He kept sinking in too much, and his knee and shoulder were aching. His body was drenched in sweat.
This gods-cursed bed… could one drown in a cloud?
He rolled awkwardly to his feet, briefly stretching out his soreness. Or attempting to, anyway. He remembered the days of springing from a bed, feeling like a stack of shiny new yets. Granted, there’d often been a beautiful woman in such a bed and he’d been springing out to avoid an angry husband or lover. But the point was that he’d been able to spring nimbly, back in the day. Now… Well, there was significantly more creaking and flailing involved.
He limped to the door of his comfortable little room. A walk might calm him a bit and loosen his rusty joints, and then maybe he could hope for a crumb of sleep before jumping onto a horse in the morning. He’d have to be refreshed in order to bandy words with Tilner.
Brockmore Manor was an impressive building. Compared to the Plateau, which was obviously built for functional defense, the architects of this place had had beauty in mind. Even in the empty hallways, where he now found himself wandering, graceful arches rose from floor to ceiling, each displaying unique carvings of knights and warriors, Taneos, and heathens vying for power, or simply standing tall, noble and proud. Great heroes and dastardly villains. The walls were decorated with the odd banner or tapestry and the occasional ornate sword, axe, or lance. The weapons had no scratches or scuffs, appearing never to have been used. A collector, not a warrior, must have amassed these. Probably in an attempt to impress his neighbors or to look like a war hero.
Fenrir, himself, had expected to be given a hero’s welcome at Brockmore, having defended its lady from a variety of dangers, risking his own life in doing so (even if the risk had been motivated by coin rather than chivalry). But instead, he’d been met with mistrust, disdain, and outright hostility. Tilner was insufferable, of course, and the other captains shot him sharp looks, with the one even having threatened him before the war council. On the positive side, he had gotten some revenge by braining that jackass, Perod. On the negative side, he had been in one of his weird, disconnected phantom states when it had happened, watching himself engage in the aforementioned braining without really getting to experience it. However, even disconnected, he had noticed that Emma gazed at him with unconcealed lust for a moment, lest he were mistaken. So, that was something.
The moons were high outside, visible from the third-story windows, pale light illuminating a still active, if ghostly, military camp. The tips of the tents appeared as teeth, ready to swallow up the hapless soldiers.
Strolling slowly, lost in thoughts of neglected heroism and weapons and women and teeth, Fenrir nearly jumped when a door opened just in front of him. Out walked—stumbled, really—the messenger boy from earlier, the one with the dead father. His hair was disheveled, and he was buttoning his shirt. At seeing Fenrir, he turned tomato red, color spreading to his chest and evident in the lamp light of the hallway.
“Er… um… Yes, sir,” he mumbled, pushing past. Fenrir watched him go, perplexed, amused, and, if he’d admit it to himself, a little jealous of the boy’s apparent activity. It had been a long time for Fenrir. Had it been that barmaid from Yetra’s Embrace? If so, he barely remembered it, between the awful pain in his shoulder and his alcoholic coping mechanism.
“Ah, Sir Coldbreaker. Enjoying an evening walk?”
Fenrir pivoted upon hearing Escamilla’s voice. She was standing in the still open doorway, wearing a shimmering white silk robe, her hands gently straightening and smoothing the fabric over her hips. Unlike her much (much!) younger partner, her hair was exactly in place, and she had no aura of embarrassment. In the lamplight, Escamilla appeared vibrantly youthful. He would never have guessed, at this moment, that she was in her sixties.
“Indeed. My room was stifling. Enjoying some evening fun yourself, my lady?” She merely smiled. “What is that boy—seventeen years old?”
“Fifteen, actually. You know, he is not even a soldier. He was just accompanying his father on his mission, playacting at a military life. His father, a hero to the boy, now mostly likely dead to a Rostanian spear.”
“His father was probably in his thirties.” He did not know why he was suddenly a guardsman of morality. It seemed somehow… wrong… for Escamilla to have been using the boy, like this.
“Do I sense a tone of judgment? Are you saying that you have never lusted after a much younger woman? A teenager? Why, then, is it wrong for me to do the same? To help assuage the boy’s grief with a small gift? Believe me, he will appreciate it this morning, when he might actually find a moment of sleep before the reality of his life crushes him once again,” Escamilla said a little sadly.
Fenrir saw nothing sexual about Escamilla. He imagined that it would be like bedding a rock. A cold, competent rock. But, he could not argue with her logic.
It did seem a little pathetic, in some way, for such a woman to be lusting after a much younger man. But, what had he been doing for years? He wasn’t exactly a spry youth anymore. Every joint in his body ached, especially his knee and his shoulder, and his beard was increasingly streaked with gray. Gods, from the perspective of others, he probably looked like a slightly younger version of Escamilla with her little soldier boy.
“You have the better of me. Please, continue with your carnal pursuits with my blessing.”
“That means everything to me,” she said, sardonically, crossing her arms. The pair stood for a couple of moments in a somewhat uncomfortable silence, the sounds of the camp echoing through the open windows.
“So… it is to be war,” Fenrir commented, needing to break the silence.
“Yes, there is little choice. Florens will be lost if we do nothing.” She frowned out into the night. Perhaps she saw the tent-teeth, as well. And, it wasn’t too far of a stretch to say it was her gaping maw about to consume all of these soldiers.
“Chances are, Florens will be lost even if we do something, in addition to thousands more deaths,” said Fenrir.
“Believe it or not, I have little desire to go to war. The impact of hiring all of these soldiers and mercenaries, in addition to reducing production in my various holdings, is taking quite a toll on my purse.”
“Then why are you going to war?” Fenrir fell in beside Escamilla as she strolled down the decorative hallway. “You told me it was the ecomony, earlier, that you were worried about how war would affect your coffers. That was before I knew you were raising your own army. All this?” Fenrir gestured out the window. “This is inestimable more expensive than letting the little Duke fight his way through the four duchies. There is more to this story, my lady. Tell me, why do you fight?”
“You know the drill, Sir Coldbreaker. You think I haven’t noticed th
at you are about thirty answers short of asking another question?” Escamilla looked at him askance.
Fenrir gave a sigh. He might have to offer something, after all, if he wanted more information.
“What do you want to know?” he asked, reluctantly.
“Why did you join The House?” A loaded question.
“After leaving the guard at the Plateau…” he began, but Escamilla give him a pointed look. He sighed again. “After losing my job at the Plateau, I had few prospects. I drank before, of course, back when I could afford it. Afterward, I burned through my savings on liquor and women, and couldn’t hold a job.” It was mostly the liquor that had cost him the work, though he’d never likely admit it. “I was never good at much. I had no mind for my father’s business and no desire for it, anyhow. Tennyson, he noticed me after a barroom brawl. I don’t perfectly remember it, but I was told I threw a rich man through a window and broke the arm of a second.”
“That was how you joined The House. But why did you join it?” Escamilla asked. A tough question.
“You know, I spent nearly twenty years guarding the Plateau, and I was content. I liked my life. I had good friends and good women and I was able to keep my father off my back. There was a solace in that life, the predictability and simplicity,” Fenrir said contemplatively, almost forgetting that he was talking with Escamilla.” When I lost all of that… It was hard. I suppose that I was looking for somewhere to belong, somewhere I could at least attempt to use the skills I’d gained from years and years of military training. And make some money for good drink.”
“So, at least indirectly, I have bought you a drink,” she said wryly.
Solace Lost Page 33
