Forge of Stones

by Vasileios Kalampakas

  All in good time

  A tall bleak man in a uniform approached a couple of soldiers that were standing over a fire. A kettle on top was brewing something with an uncharacteristic, though quite off-putting smell. They were sitting on some sacks laden with what must have been rice or wheat and having a smoke, sharing a pipe of what one knowledgeable in the art of uwe smoking could make out to be stale uwe. They were unaware of the tall man coming their way with their backs turned to him. They were admiring the ships loading and unloading their cargoes in the distance of the harbor, with the suns setting down one after the other, painting the sea mauve and bloody red, the sails casting their last shadows for the day. Their calm reverie was broken by a harsh, raspy voice:

  “What’s in that kettle? Smells worse than the cow dung you’re smoking. Is it to cover that gods-awful stench you’re giving off? Last time you bathed, it must’ve been when the midwife rinsed off your mother’s blood.”

  One of the two soldiers turned around and with a fleeting look of small surprise offered the pipe to the tall man, in spite of him sounding provocatively belittling. The other soldier remained indifferent; his head seemed to follow a flock of seabirds in the distance, swooping over the sea probably hunting fish, or perhaps idling away their time just as they were. The tall man was now standing with one foot on a stack of sacks. He took the proffered pipe and drew a quaff of smoke savoring it before exhaling slowly, and then spoke to the two soldiers:

  “Truly, worse than cow dung. I’d have you flogged but I’d be wasting the procrastinators’ time on some thickset pachyderm hides.”

  The one soldier that still hadn’t turned to look at the man and was gazing at the harbor almost sleepily asked him, his tone of voice revealing a genuine ignorance:

  “What’s a pachyderm, dekar?”

  “From what I’m told your wife for one, and perhaps your mother too.”

  With that, both the dekar and the soldier who offered him the pipe laughed heartily. The other soldier seemed taken aback by the incongruous humor and shuffled himself on the sack uneasily, responding with childlike bitterness:

  “Well you can have your laughs for dinner, cause I ain’t serving you no Mott’s famous Langarfan stew tonight.”

  The dekar, their squad leader, went wide-eyed in apparent disbelief and a wide grin appeared on his face:

  “That’s the stench? Lanra.. Langar.. Whatever, that’s supposed to be stew? Mott, save us the trouble and run us through with a sword right here were we sit. I’d wager it’s faster and less painful for my innards. Can’t speak for Lanris here, he seems to be brave or stupid enough to eat that snot of yours. I think it’s because he’s stupid.”

  “Let’s just say it’s an acquired taste, dekar.”

  “Where did you acquire it then? The swamps?”

  The dekar broke in laughter once again, but this time Lanris did not accompany him but instead turned and replied casually:

  “No joke dekar. It is an acquired taste. It’s taken me the better part of four years now to finally begin to enjoy Mott’s cooking. So don’t spoil it. As they say, dig in or get out.”

  “There’ll be no digging in for dekar Pirru tonight. Or ever. I’ll leave those lowly menial tasks to you two men. Or what remotely resembles men. Ha.”

  Dekar Pirru shook his head, grinning at the same time. Mott was now stirring his broth with a thick wooden stick that just seemed to have been lying around handily. Lanris was putting some fresh uwe in his pipe. Dusk was upon them, the smoke from their kettle barely visible. Dekar Pirru seemed suddenly engrossed with thought with his gaze stuck on the boiling kettle and his eyes seemingly out of focus. Lanris took notice, waved his hand to check if indeed the dekar was in touch with his surroundings and found out that was not the case. He said with some lack of conviction:

  “Dekar?Dekar Pirru?”

  The dekar slowly turned his gaze to Lanris and made a sort of grumbling sound with eyes focused once again and a furrowed brow. Lanris continued:

  “You seemed lost in thought. What’s on your mind? New ways to drill us to death? Make us more miserable? Take away our cir rations? What is it that’s had you daydreaming?”

  “Hmm? I’m not daydreaming, mind you. Plain old bothers, that’s all. This mobilization. Doesn’t seem right. Not to me at least. You think this is all well and dandy?”

  The dekar was standing upright again with arms folded, the sheath of his sword dangling about his belt, his expression a bit sour. Lanris on the other hand seemed quite relaxed, resting on the sacks nonchalantly and seemingly more concerned about the serving time of Mott’s stew. He took a drought of smoke from his pipe, before answering his dekar without turning to look at him:

  “Not my place to tell, dekar. I just sharpen my sword, fill my pipe and gulp down what Mott fancies each time. Though his menu is kind of repetitive. It must be the fourth time in a row we’re having stew,” said Lanris with a mixed feeling of resignation and indifference.

  Mott interjected abruptly, as if he were chiding Lanris:

  “Fifth time in a row. I’m getting us some karch tomorrow. Makes fine soup. You can piss off if you don’t like karch soup, rummage about the camp and see what you find. Perhaps you’ll find a nice boot to munch on.”

  Lanris leaned over and slapped Mott on the shoulder jovially. He was smiling when he said:

  “That’ll be fine Mott. Karch soup’s fine. Don’t get jumpy on me. If I can eat the sludge they serve on marches, I can sure as hell eat some of your cooking. It’s not a gray ooze and that’s enough in my book to make it a gourmet dish.”

  Lanris intoned the somewhat haughty word with a certain character and an outlandish accent that made everyone laugh, especially Mott whose sullen mood was eased and was now up on his feet again, stirring his stew with a certain air of culinary dexterity. Around them more campfires could be seen, soldiers like them who were about to cook something of their own, usually broths of wheat or barley which were the main staple food the army provided.

  They were about to relax from the exercises of the day, as well as their other various duties. Some would eat something quick before heading off for sentry and patrol duty and some very lucky few would rest their aching muscles, have a pipe and perhaps something to fill their bellies and then sleep heavily until the next morning.

  Some would have made their own arrangements concerning food, perhaps going out of their way to procure some meat either by hunting or by making certain trades, sometimes of a dubious nature. Most of the soldiers that did so, traded wine for meat or eggs. Wine and spirits were strongly forbidden but vinegar was allowed to be carried, as it was a proven and allowed way of cleaning up wounds as well as widely used in the soldier’s personal hygiene. At least for those that had one.

  Some had a knack of mixing some vinegar with wine right before consuming it, in case some of the officers or procrastinators were making their rounds checking up on morale, or discipline in the latter case. It marred the quality and taste of the wine, but that was usually low to begin with anyway. Some had dubbed it winegar, and the name was in wide use throughout the army.

  Even the officers partook sometimes, as it was known to them that the morale and cohesion of an army was far more important in battle than mere discipline and adherence to Law. It might be a sin, they knew, but who went through life as immaculate and free of sin as in their day of birth?

  And as long as those buffoons, the procrastinators, were none the wiser, everything worked almost as it should; the army served its Castigator and the Pantheon in a most untroubled fashion. After all as some of the older officers used to say, ‘you can’t make soldiers out of men if you don’t break open a few casks first.’

  Mott announced with some enthusiasm in his voice:

  “Ready to serve! Dekar, you sure you don’t want some of this? Works wonders for the stomach.”

  The dekar was sharing some of Lanris’ pipe when he replied after exhaling thoroughly, wisps of smoke coming out of his mout
h and nose:

  “I’d rather not empty it right now, if that’s what you mean. You can relish it all by yourselves. Don’t let me stop you.”

  Mott simply shrugged and went to his backpack to fetch his canteen. Lanris did so with languid motions, certain that the broth in Mott’s kettle would not disappear any time soon.

  They each helped themselves to a serving and sat down on the ground with their backs against the sacks. They split some leftover bread-pie from their midday meal, and each began eating from their canteens. Mott was clearly more than pleased with the quality of his cooking, gulping spoonfuls away with vivid enjoyment. Lanris seemed much more reserved in his appreciation, and looked simply thankful for having something other than the drab, gray gunk the army called food to fill his stomach with.

  Pirru was looking idly at them while they were having their supper, and after a while he said:

  “You know, I heard the Castigator came around to visit the day before yesterday. No pomp and ceremony though. If that were the case I’m sure everyone would have known. We’d probably still be marching up and down parading our asses off.”

  Lanris paused momentarily and furrowed his brow before continuing to eat slowly, more so because he wasn’t too fond of Mott’s stew rather than because he was savoring it. Mott on the other hand was scraping the last spoonfuls from his canteen, and was quite possibly going to refill it soon. Dekar Pirru went on:

  “I see that didn’t get your attention, did it? Nothing short of your discharge papers would, I guess. The thing is, seems he had a talk with the General. Didn’t last long. Short and to the point, his staff officers seem to say.”

  Mott was up on his feet once more, pouring some smoking hot stew in his canteen. He asked Pirru while sitting down to enjoy it:

  “So, did word get out of what they talked about? Perhaps his Piousness had gotten word of a fine chef among the Army’s 5th, and wanted some of my recipes?”

  Lanris threw a sideways glance at Mott, before throwing a piece of bread-pie to his head as well. He did not add a verbal insult though, and kept trying to consume the broth left in his canteen. Pirru grinned at Mott’s comment and said with a slight edge of worry in his voice:

  “No, I’m afraid his Holiness has not expressed any sort of death wish. I’m sure you’d be happy to serve in that case. In the most literal sense. Word around the staff officers is there has been a change of plans.”

  Lanris left his canteen unfinished, broth and bread-pie still mixed inside. He placed it near Mott, who surely would not let it go to waste once he emptied hiw own canteen once more. Lanris wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and started filling his pipe from a pouch he had not opened before. He asked Pirru then:

  “Dekar, how come you got by all these news? It’s not like you to run around staff officers like Himmdal and Rynse do. You’ve said it yourself; if we even get a whiff about you sucking up to a staff officer, we can strip that dekar badge ourselves. So shall we each grab an arm and do the deed?”

  Dekar Pirru looked at Lanris with one eye pointing a finger at him, his rasp voice making the threat almost believable:

  “Wise-guys get picket duty on the northern face. I’ll make sure we stick you on the fence itself. You’ll make a good scarecrow.”

  Lanris lit up his pipe nonchalantly. Mott was taking care of Lanris’ leftovers and Pirru went on:

  “As I was saying, word is easy to go around. I didn’t fetch coffee and wash uniforms for the staff officers to get by that important piece of intelligence. I used my cunning and my sharp mind. As well as some coin that I’d won on the zar game the night before. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

  Mott put down Lanris canteen empty and burped loudly, feeling his stomach with one hand. He turned to look at his dekar with an evident smile of satisfaction on his lips, and said:

  “So you went to the ’Cent.”

  Pirru started to say something in an apparent protest, probably a mild reprimand, but Lanris added behind a small cloud of pure uwe smoke:

  “Yeah, he went to the ’Cent. Probably ripped him off too. Like the last time when he asked ten coin for some real Iolathan wine that turned out to be vinegar. Not even winegar, mind you. Plain old vinegar from the pharmacium stores. He even had the nerve to insist that it was a vintage bottle that had could be easily mistaken for vinegar by someone who wasn’t a connoisseur. I think he meant you, dekar.”

  “You can make a fool of me all you like Lanris, but I won’t be on the earthworks tomorrow morning, digging up dirt like some soldiers I happen to know.”

  Mott was enjoying a bit of rest, one leg propped up against the other and hands behind his head, his back flat on the ground. He added with a naive feeling of surprise:

  “Oh, you mean Guilemont and Howe? I knew you didn’t like them a great deal, but putting them on the auxiliaries list; now that must mean they really pissed on you proper.”

  Lanris was hugging his face with one hand, always surprised at the ways Mott could sound like a complete dolt. Pirru went on:

  “Something like that. Anyway, yes, I went to the ’Cent. ’One hundred per cent guaranteed’ Tibodot, the little rat. But I got my coin’s worth now. He wasn’t selling cow dung this time. I asked the Centarch somewhat sideways if all was going as planned, and he too said there was some upheaval upstairs. Some stuff would be put on hold until further notice. That’s probably the reason I’m not putting the pair of you on auxiliary tomorrow. The auxiliary’s been abandoned. All men are rotating back in their usual duties, as per regulation. Lanris, you are lucky bastards.”

  Lanris took a quaff from his pipe, savored it and exhaled; the smell of fine uwe smoke wafted through the air around them. He said to Pirru:

  “Actually, I learned about the auxiliary from a guy I trade regularly with at the 4th. He comes up with uwe, I come up with.. Stuff. Told me the auxiliary’s gone starting from tomorrow. So, I figured you couldn’t push us into something worse than what we’re already at. Didn’t hear about the Castigator or the General though.”

  “You should’ve pushed for rank, Lanris. Field Maggot Lanris has a ring to it, doesn’t it? Anyway, spare me the dung talk. I got some details on that meeting as well. ’Cent says that we’re waiting for some new marching orders.”

  “Not the Widelands then?”, Mott cut in with enthusiasm, a glimmer of hope in his words.

  “Can we ever be sure? If the marching orders do not explicitly say ’Widelands’, they could well be saying ’No-man’s land’, or ’West of the City of Pyr’, or ’Middle of Nowhere’. It still wouldn’t change much, would it? All it means, is there’s something serious going on.”

  Mott cut in again, this time with puzzlement in his voice:

  “Where’s Sirius going to? Got transferred, like he wanted? Steam-gunner Battalion?”

  Pirru sighed, before uttering a mild curse concerning Mott’s mother. He went on, concentrating his focus on Lanris who was now listening more intently, having sat up and facing the dekar. He offered his pipe to Pirru who refused it with a slight nod, and went on:

  “Mott, just shut up and go to sleep. As I was saying, there’s a lot going on. I just hope the General knows his stuff so we don’t end up on the wrong side of the turf.”

  Lanris thought a while about what dekar Pirru had been telling them, and said with an air of indifference about him:

  “Well, going into the Widelands seemed strange. But orders are orders, right? So now, when we get new orders, they’ll still be orders. I don’t think it changes anything. About me at least. As long as I get my uwe and even if I have to put up with Mott’s cooking, it doesn’t mean much. Just one thousand four hundred and thirty one days to go, dekar. That’s all that counts for me.”

  “You’re all the same, you conscripts. You just want to get on with your lives, like it gets any better out there. Still, I don’t blame you. If something’s going to kill you, it doesn’t really matter where that will happen. I just happen to find change a bad thing, that’s
all.”

  “You’re not trying to drag me down in one of your morose spells, are you?”

  Pirru nodded while shrugging, an almost disarming and childlike reaction from a dekar well-nigh six feet tall. After a short silence was observed, he grinned to Lanris before replying:

  “I got wine. Not winegar, but real wine.”

  Lanris forehead creased in a conspirator’s furrow:

  “How did you get by that, I wonder?”

  The dekar replied in a hushed voice, a measure of pride in his words:

  “Smuggled some from the centarch’s cabinet. This stuff is guaranteed.”

  Lanris scratched his chin thoughtfully while he seemed to contemplate the risks involved, and said:

  “I see. So, we’re both risking forty lashes.”

  Dekar Pirru waved a hand dismissively and replied:

  “Twenty for me, I’ll pull rank.”

  They both laughed, somewhat bitterly despite themselves. Pirru checked hastily around, not really bothering to indeed look for procrastinators or senior officers lurking in the dark, but rather as an instinctive reaction to fear of getting caught. He reached into his uniform and produced a small leather flask, no bigger than their issued water flask. He unsealed it and gave it to Lanris. He said with a wide grin of accomplishment:

  “Smell that? Pure Decau wine.”

  Lanris took a whiff, grimaced and shuddered reflexively. He gave the flask back to Pirru with exasperation in his voice:

  “Gods dammit dekar, why the hell does the centarch buy his stuff from ’Cent? That’s winegar.”

  Pirru looked genuinely surprised. He took a small sip from the flask and gulped it down. His face lit up with a look of recognition:

  “It really is winegar. Seems the centarch bought ’Cent’s dung speeches as well. But still, it’s better than nothing, right?”

  Lanris had a sour look on his face, but he nodded in agreement:

  “Guess it is. Lemme have a swig.”

  Pirru handed the flask of winegar to Lanris. Mott could be heard snoring smoothly. A rather unfamiliar voice was suddenly heard from the edges of the darkness around them:

  “Let me see that flask, dekar. I hope it’s not winegar, is it?”

  “Dekar Pirru and Private Lanris of the 5th, under the command of Cilliarch Romentho Isoract were put to the sword today at dawn immediately before roll call, by a squad of procrastinators. Expeditious procedures were followed and their files of death were officially sealed by both the Procrastinator’s Office and the Strategium Proper. Private Mott of the 5th, was given fifty lashes and almost bled to death for, and I quote: ’Not being vigilant enough in the persecution of vile deeds that promoted sin, incurred the wrath of the Gods or were an affront to the Pantheon and the Ruling Council’. He was not allowed to return to his duties as an active soldier and as such was denied of medical attention. He was rotated to the work gangs as per the Cilliarch’s orders. Also, Cilliarch Isoract relieved centarch Littmo from his duties and has petitioned that he be discharged dishonorably. The winegar in question seems to have been stolen from the centarch’s personal cabinet, from what the procrastinators’ investigation revealed.”

  Major Guighan saluted crisply and remained there standing like a statue, completely immovable, his one hand holding his reports and the other hand a fist touching his shiny unadorned breastplate, right above the heart.

  General Tyrpledge saluted briefly, barely touching his breastplate with his relaxed fist and sighed. Major Guighan clicked his heels and resumed a more relaxed, but still attentive posture before asking the general:

  “Sir, will that be all? Should I continue with my other assignments, or is there something else you’d have me do, sir?”

  Tyrpledge seemed to ponder that suggestion for a little while, briefly considering what he should have the Major do. He was rather disenchanted by everything today. He was looking at the ceiling in a noncommital manner, the expression on his face lacking its usually austere, professional look. He had taken a look in his mirror earlier. He supposed he looked kind of glum and morose, perhaps even outright sad. There wasn’t much he could do about it, he thought. Neither was there something for the Major to do as well. He waved him away with one hand, while he kept tapping a marching tune on his desk with the fingers of his other hand.

  At length he spoke:

  “No, that will be all Major. Nothing else you can do for me. I’ll bark if I need anything.”

  The Major was about to laugh, when he saw the General was not smiling when he said what the Major had thought of as funny. He then clicked his heels and made a couple of paces backwards still facing the General. He then turned about smartly and left, careful to close the door behind him.

  Tyrpledge sighed more audibly this time, thinking this day had started off more badly than usual. Though the term ‘usual’ was rapidly evolving from day to day, this day seemed as bad as bad days can get. And it was still early morning. Major Guighan had just given him the latest situational report. These two men were the first dead in this campaign, and not a single enemy had been met yet. They’d been executed for drinking winegar and stealing from an officer. The centarch’s career was gone. Perhaps at an opportune time, though.

  Last night a message had arrived, complete with high-ranking ministers and a squad of the procrastinator elite. Tyrpledge had been notified that the army was now officially mobilized and legally at war. Of course, he thought, there were no specific orders included, other than that he should await for further notification at a later time. In essence, they were leaving him and his men to roast on red hot coals until it suited their purpose. Such was the fate of soldiers, he mused bitterly.

  Those orders had cost those men from the 5th their lives. As it is, they were at war even though they didn’t know with who and that meant that by Law, the procrastinators dispersed among them had more authority than he did in matters of discipline, the prosecution of sinners and the relevant penalties that might apply.

  It seemed that in wartime, theft and consumption of spirits and other substances that ‘occluded the mind’ were punishable by death. Tyrpledge was thinking that the centarch whose life was destroyed was lucky compared to his men. He then spared a few moments thinking about the soldier who was found asleep, next to the ones that had been drinking.

  They had given him fifty lashes because he wasn’t vigilant enough. And then they had left him to bleed to death. Tyrpledge’s thoughts on the matter was that it would be a miracle if he made it out alive. But that’s what war was about: bloodletting.

  “Logic is thrown out the window,” he voiced his final thoughts in hushed tones, almost a whisper. He sat upright in his chair with his hands outstretched, his gaze focused outside beyond his window where he could see the majority of his battalions forming up. He could discern a sullen mood. It was not that the pace of the men milling about was slow. They were preparing their equipment fastidiously, checking their armor and their packs so as to make sure everything was in order. They had that unmistakable air of professionalism about them. But they seemed to be lacking the blaze in their eyes. The glimmer, the red flush cheeks that let you know their blood was boiling and their hearts pumping it with excitement. There were no such signs here. No nervous humor from his staff members, no raunchy jokes from the enlisted men. At least he couldn’t see any of them laughing. Every face he could make out from that distance was stern and frigid. These, he thought, should not be the faces of men going to war knowing they might be dead before the night falls, wishing their death would be worthwhile and remembered, perhaps even praised. These were the faces of men thinking they might be dead before the day was through, wishing they were someplace else.

  The execution of the men from the 5th had taken quite a toll on overall morale. They might be much more cowed now, but that’s not what he needed to wage war. He needed hot-bloodied men with vices and things to wish for. Not meek little children fearful of the reprisals of the Law. Why couldn’t the procrastinat
ors understand that?

  For the briefest moment he thought about contacting the Procrastinator Militant asking for his assistance, perhaps telling him even to go as far as relaxing their vigilance in an effort to bend but not strictly break the Law.

  He immediately thought better of it since he reminded himself that Gomermont was above all, first and foremost, an idiot. Telling an idiot who had spent a considerable amount of time and effort to become leader of a pack of idiots to smarten up a bit suddenly was, if not a one-way ticket to the gallows, a certain way to scream in despair at the mind-numbing foolishness the Procrastinator Militant exuded with his every utterance. In essence, it would be a lost cause.

  There was a time for war and a time for peace, security, stability, and lawfulness. War was lawlessness in itself, a grandiose lawless fair where people died horribly and for reasons beyond their understanding; a time when nothing mattered more than victory. When would they understand that? Not soon enough it seemed, probably never as well.

  His bleak thoughts were accented by the lack of a good cup of uwe. He decided he wanted a nice distraction, something to take his mind of a situation he now felt powerless to amend. He would just have to swim through the wave of the coming difficulties as they arose stoically. To do that he had to have a good cup of uwe, fresh and steamy.

  He now felt determined to turn his thoughts around and wish for the best, keep his hopes up. The uwe would be critical in that respect. He went for his bell in order to let his aide-de-camp know he wanted some uwe urgently but before he could do that, as if by a miracle or a mind-reading ability that the Major had not exhibited so far, he saw Guighan enter through the door in a hurried fashion, stand to one side, salute briskly and click the heels of his boots tucking his sword away with his free hand.

  Before Tyrpledge could utter a single word, the Castigator of the Outer Territories walked in the general’s office resplendent in his war gear, a match for what he was wearing on the anniversary of the Pacification of Zaelin; the brightly polished metal casting intense reflections of the suns.

  The Major tried to announce the Castigator’s arrival, but he was cut short by a wave of the Castigator’s hand, barely having had time to utter the word ’behold’. The Castigator was dressed for war, that much was certain. With his lavishly plumed helmet held under one arm, he asked the general directly, who was still sitting down in his chair, too flabbergasted to adhere to protocol and pay proper respect:

  “General Tyrpledge, are your forces ready to march?”

  Tyrpledge rose up from his seat, cleared his throat and replied in a steady, professional voice:

  “The Army is ready to march for war, your Reverence.”

  “Very well. Signal your brigadiers to assemble, General. We move as soon as possible.”

  The Castigator nodded and made a turn to leave, before Tyrpledge asked with some hesitation:

  “Thy will be done, sire. May I ask though, sire, where to?”

  The Castigator’s voice trailed off as he left the General’s office, feeling it wasn’t necessary for him to pause in his stride and turn to speak to the General:

  “The City of Pyr.”

  She woke up drenched in sweat and threw her blanket away. Her breathing came fast and heavy. She had seen a nightmare. This time she had been captured by men with no face. The memory of it was still vivid. The men had tried to kill her child, without killing her outright.. She had made every effort not to let them, but it was vain. They had their way with her and left her where she lay, in a damp place that smelled of metal and rust. They’d left her there to die, right next to the body of her murdered child. She shivered at the thought and felt dry tears staining her cheeks. She must have screamed when she woke up, because Ikebod, House Remis’ master servant, was running down the stairs with a glass of water in one hand, when he said:

  “Lady Celia! I heard screams, are you alright?”

  She nodded in acknowledgement, visibly somewhat shaken from her bad dream.

  “I am better now. I saw a nightmare, that’s all.”

  Ikebod offered her the glass of water which she eagerly accepted and sipped a little, just to wet her mouth and feel its freshness.

  “I had not the heart to wake you from your sleep, so I brought some covers and left you in peace.”

  “That was very kind of you, Ikebod. Thank you.”

  A smile crept up in a corner of her mouth, but it was not as warm and as glittering as usual. It would be a little while until she recovered fully from her nightmare.

  “You seem a little pale. That will not do in your situation. I have prepared dinner myself. I was waiting for Master Ursempyre to return but that has yet to happen. I admit I am more than worried for his safety. He was summoned by the Patriarch himself. His delay could mean a lot of things, most of which I dare not think about. In any case, he would not want a guest of his to starve to death, especially a lady expecting. I would be happy to serve you dinner, even though it is now past midnight.”

  Ikebod’s tone belied his fear. He sounded calm and accommodating, professional as ever. As if the danger his master was probably facing was no more than a hindrance, an annoyance at best, and that he would soon be surely meeting them at the dinner table. Celia on the other hand sat upright with a jolt, her eyes went wide and her face wore a mixed expression of anxiety, disbelief and exasperation. Her voice was pitched high when she said to Ikebod, staring him with a frown:

  “Went to meet with the Patriarch you say? Under the circumstances, that does sound too fortuitous for comfort. Could it be that the uprising has been revealed? Your master could be in grave danger, Ikebod! Surely you must’ve heard the stories! The Patriarch makes people vanish as if they never had been born! And you ask of me to have dinner at such a time? How could I ever?”

  Ikebod took the courage of sitting right beside her, a gesture he would have normally found insulting beyond forgiveness, indeed beyond absolution. Nevertheless, he felt lady Celia would not be offended and he wanted her to understand him wholly on the matter:

  “Dear lady Celia, I know all that, and still I would ask of you to have something to eat. For your child’s sake. Do not think of me as a cynic, or a blandly acquiescent servant. I dearly love Master Ursempyre, for I almost raised him as my own ever since his parents passed away when he was still just a little boy. Right before he left the estate, he gave me specific orders in the event of his disappearance. I too believe in the kinsfolk and the purpose that drives them. I would be betraying my master if I wavered, if I gave up without a fight, if I thought him dead and gone so easily. But even without him, lady Celia, life must go on. We must try our hardest to have freedom for all, for once. If anything should happen to him, I will grieve like a father who’s lost his only child. But I’ve learned there’s a time for grieving and a time for hoping; a time for fighting. And so I shall hope and fight, until I have reason to do nothing else but grieve. Do you understand that, my lady? I hope you do. Please now, come and have something to eat; if not for your sake, for your child’s.”

  Celia looked in the old servant’s eyes with compassion and a sudden care she had not felt until now. She thought she understood. In a manner, that was how she felt for Amonas who though was nowhere to be found and had not seen or heard from him for days now, she still knew he was alive. Against reason, she knew he was alive somewhere. And she’d better give up her life before she gave up hope. Because, she thought, even if Amonas would never return, their child would be born. And she would have to do her best to deliver her child in a new, free world. Even if her love would not be there to greet their firstborn.

  She stifled some tears that welled up in her eyes and sniffed slightly. She nodded her understanding to Ikebod, and without further comment or remark she tried to smile uncomfortably and asked him:

  “What will we be having for dinner then? I believe the baby will not mind at all.”

  Ikebod rose from the coach and offered his hand as leverage to Celia. He smiled and t
old her:

  “Please, right this way. The table is set.”

  They went up the stairs where they were greeted by a large dining-hall, dark green and gray marble columns supporting the high ceiling. Exquisitely ornamented chandeliers adorned the roof and cast bright candlelight across every corner. The grand dinner table was made from a fine solid piece of wood that seemed old and venerable; judging by its healthy sheen it was also thoroughly maintained. It was probably hundred of years old and from its size, Celia thought it could seat upwards of three dozen people, perhaps even four. She noticed there were no plates of food or dishes of any kind set and she was slightly puzzled. They were probably to be seated somewhere else then, she thought.

  He led her to an antechamber through a utility corridor, meant for the servants to have access to the kitchen. Celia asked with evident interest:

  “Where is everyone else by the way? I haven’t seen a soul.”

  “Oh, most are asleep by now my lady. The maids tended to your room, and it’s ready for you. I suggest you lie down there right after your dinner. Some of the other servants and the guards have certain duties to attend to in other parts of the estate, mainly the stables from what I can gather. House Remis is not always this silent, perhaps in the morning you will see for yourself.”

  Celia inquired no further and soon they entered the kitchen itself. Dimly lit by a few candles, it was full of utensils and large wooden surfaces for chopping meat and foodstuffs. Large empty bowls, cauldrons and kettles were gathered in one corner. Though quite large for a kitchen, Celia felt the place was cramped and imagined it would be close to asphyxiating when people were working here in full swing. Ikebod pulled a chair and gestured for her to sit.

  She thanked him with a smile, and sat down to a quite normal table that seemed to have seen its fair share of use. It was indeed laid out with a simple linen, the bowl of soup in the middle, as well as a glass and a wooden jug of wine side by side. Her plate was already filled with steaming soup, which gave off a light aroma. Indeed, the kitchen smelled of a lot of things, and the odors seemed to fight each other fervently with no clear winner. She realized the smells exacerbated her hunger and she started to sip her soup eagerly. Ikebod asked Celia:

  “My feet ache. They tend to do that at my age. Would you mind if I silently kept you company?”

  “I might have asked you that myself. Please do, by all means.”

  She felt genuinely happy and thankful there was time enough for her to enjoy a nice meal. It reminded her of happier times, as if everything was alright in the world.

  Her thoughts were disturbed by what seemed to be sounds akin to yelling and shouting coming from other parts of the house. She could hear there was some uproar, voices from rooms above conversing loudly. It was all too sudden. Ikebod was already leaving the kitchen. He turned to her as he stood at the open door:

  “Please, stay here. I’ll come back right away. Don’t worry, you are safe. If we had been under attack I’d known from the sounds. There’s some uproar, that’s all. Probably important news. I won’t be long.”

  Ikebod was at once gone from her sight. She returned her gaze to the table. The desserts were lying in her plate in front of her, half-eaten and unruly. She noticed she had not restrained herself from eating as she pleased, but she had rather enjoyed it. Which was only natural not to last forever, she thought. The dimly lit kitchen which had felt warm and full of wholesome smells, now seemed vacant, cold, and dark. She felt like leaving the room immediately and did so with some haste. She wanted to see and hear the news herself. Perhaps there was some news about Amonas; her heart skipped a beat at the thought, but she brought her mind to its senses. That would not cause such an uproar. “Something awful’s happened”, she said to herself in a hushed voice that echoed uncomfortably inside the empty kitchen.

  She went through the corridor into the dinning-hall. She could hear voices from below, and she raced to the stairs leading to the waiting-room with wary expectation wrinkling her face. When she reached the feet of the stairs below, she could see Ikebod hurriedly conversing with three men, two of them clad in metal armor, and one of them bearing a disheveled cloak with mud and perhaps blood on his face. The two men must have been guards and were being issued orders probably, nodding emphatically at something Ikebod was explaining. The other man was evidently fatigued, perhaps injured, and he seemed exhausted from running. He was breathing heavily, once every so often gulping down some water from a tall jug.

  She just stood there, not knowing if she should interrupt them, probably fearing she would ask something silly or impertinent. She thought that this was no time for being shy, and just called out for Ikebod, not harshly, but demanding his attention:

  “Sir Ikebod? What is the matter? What has happened?”

  Ikebod and the other men turned to look at her with what felt like concern. After a brief pause of silence, Ikebod answered her:

  “The army is on the move. Castigator Olorius Menamon the IV th has fled the city, and it seems he is in command of the army.”

  He paused again, this time his face visibly contorted by a strange mix of exasperation and sorrow, his eyes torn between shedding tears of anger or rueful weeping. Celia was transfixed where she stood, her breath coming in shallower with every word Ikebod spoke. At length he continued:

  “And Lord Ursempyre Remis has been named the new Castigator.”