Good Company

by Dale Lucas

“But your men,” Kroenen said, suggesting Rem and Torval lurking in their corner, “they themselves arrested the man, did they not?”

  “We found him on a rooftop,” Torval said. “We deemed that suspicious. But we haven’t even searched the man for stolen goods or wormed out any proof of wrongdoing yet. By rights, if we find nothing, we have to let him go.”

  “Prefect,” Kroenen said, for the first time appearing somewhat flustered, “you cannot set this man free.”

  “What’s he done, then?” Ondego pressed. “You show me proof of a crime, on Yenaran soil, and I’ll remand him to you.”

  “Breaking and entering,” Lord Marshal Kroenen said, overcome with sudden inspiration. “This very night, the Red Raven gained access to a person of some significance to the Eraldic court.”

  “Someone significant to the Eraldic court,” Ondego said slowly, “in this city? In my ward? I’d hate to think a foreign duke was here, under my very nose, without me or my compatriots in law enforcement being made aware of the fact. There are protocols, after all.”

  “I am not at liberty,” Kroenen began.

  “Then neither are we,” Ondego broke in. “To remand our prisoner, that is.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Prefect,” Kroenen countered, “this is most ungracious—”

  “Almost as ungracious as a perfect stranger marching into my watchkeep and asking for one of my prisoners without so much as a summary explanation or probable cause,” Ondego snapped. He was letting his impatience show now, and Rem could see from the lord marshal’s gaping mouth and wide eyes that he was totally unprepared for it.

  “I can take this matter to the high magistrate,” Lord Marshal Kroenen said. “Even the Tribunal or the Council of Patriarchs.”

  Ondego nodded. “There’s the door. Do as you must. If need be, I’ll fight them just as I’m fighting you now. There aren’t many rules in this game of ours, but we try to honor the few laid down.”

  “Why do you resist me?” Kroenen asked.

  Ondego leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his belly. “Could be your pretty blue surcoat. I’m off the color. Gives me the queasies.”

  Rem saw the lord marshal’s eyes narrow. “Treat fairly with me, Prefect. I am not a man to be trifled with.”

  “Neither am I,” Ondego said, and Rem could hear the lowering of his voice, a darkening. “Though I think you thought I might be? Old roughneck, ordering watchwardens around in a dingy old watchkeep. Drunk, probably. Ready to roll over. Sure to be dazzled by your surcoats and your jangly mail and your shiny gold badges. Well, sir, let me tell you: not bloody likely. If you want a fair shake from me, you need to speak to me like I’m your peer and not your subordinate, savvy? Otherwise you can take your well-heeled arse out that door and back into the street.”

  The lord marshal studied Ondego for a long time. Rem could almost imagine the wheels turning in the man’s mind as he appraised the prefect and his belligerence. He was probably trying to work out what Ondego’s angle was . . . what the prefect hoped to accomplish. For a man like the lord marshal—proud, polished, long associated with pomp and power and courtly intrigue—a man like Ondego probably gave the impression of being dirty in some way, morally compromised or suspect. What a man like Lord Marshal Kroenen might have a hard time accepting was that Ondego had just told him precisely what he wanted and why: he felt disrespected, and until he got the respect he was due, he would be intractable. It really was that simple.

  “Shall we try again?” Ondego asked, breaking the silence and offering a mirthless smile. “You mentioned that the Raven broke into a home, here in Yenara. Am I to assume that the Duke of Erald is here, in our fair city, breaking dozens of longstanding diplomatic protocols by not announcing himself to the authorities?”

  “Not the duke,” Kroenen said. Rem could see that he was loath to share more information but could find no way around it. “The duke’s bride-to-be. This very night, the Red Raven forced his way into the lady’s chambers.”

  Ondego looked to Hirk, then to Rem and Torval. Interesting, his raised eyebrows and frowning mouth seemed to say. Very interesting.

  “Who is she?” Ondego asked. “One of Yenara’s favored daughters?”

  “No,” Kroenen said. “Her name is Tzimena Baya, daughter of the Countess of Toriel, in Estavar. An honor guard from her mother’s court brought her this far. We were to meet her here and see her back to Erald safely. Unfortunately, the Raven ambushed us in the Ethkeraldi. He and his Devils killed a handful of our men, stole our supplies, and scattered our horses—we that you see are all that remain. Before we could reach the city, the Raven and a small contingent of his men did. They gained access to the Lady Tzimena by presenting themselves as us. Only good fortune and borrowed horses brought us here close on his heels.”

  Borrowed horses. Hearing those words brought to Rem’s mind the image of an itinerant family in a laden wagon now sitting alone in the Ethkeraldi, their mounts having been stolen from them outright by the lord marshal and his men.

  “See now?” Ondego asked. “That’s all you had to say. That makes sense. I’d like to hear testimony from someone in this lady’s retinue—just to confirm the facts—but here and now, we’re square. Care to see your little caged bird?”

  Kroenen nodded. “At once, Prefect, if you please.”

  Ondego looked to Rem. “Lock-up keys, please, lad? Let’s all take a little walk on the dark side . . .”

  The familiar litany began the instant the door to the dungeons clanked open and Ondego marched in. The cells were not overly full tonight—a dozen miscreants, twenty at most—but those present made themselves known. Hands were thrust from between the bars as eager faces pressed between them, wide-eyed, beseeching.

  “Prefect, sir, I swear, as Turawa’s my witness, I’ve no recollection of where my breeches got off to . . .”

  “Prefect, sir, listen to me! The coin-mongers of the Yenaran bank are holding my assets presently. If someone could but set me free and see me to their offices . . .”

  “Prefect, sir, this is most embarrassing, but the truth is, I’m a very important man where I come from. The word doesn’t translate directly into Yenaran, but some might say it’s equal to prince or potentate . . .”

  Rem almost smiled. Ah, the smell of desperation in the wee hours of morning. It wasn’t pleasing, precisely, but it did have a certain welcoming familiarity to it.

  Ondego led the way along the three banks of chambered cells. He found their quarry locked up alone in one of the smaller cages, sitting with his back against the outer wall, staring off into the gloom as though daydreaming. As he stared, his lithe, rough fingers picked at a reed of straw, alternately bending and straightening it. Rem recognized the aspect—the staring, the busy hands, the deliberate silence. The man was thinking, plotting.

  Ondego stepped up to the bars and presented the prisoner to Lord Marshal Kroenen. When the lord marshal narrowed his eyes, straining to see the man’s face in the inky shadows, Ondego snatched a torch from a nearby wall sconce and thrust it through the bars of the cell. The Red Raven squinted against the heat and glare of the burning torch, but kept his gray eyes fixed on the lord marshal. During a long, tense silence, the two men studied each other across the space between them, hunter and quarry, predator and prey, each sizing the other up.

  Rem looked to Torval. “He doesn’t seem terribly worried,” he whispered.

  Torval shrugged. “Perhaps he isn’t,” the dwarf said. “Slippery eel like that? He’s sure he’ll worm his way free again if he just bides his time . . .”

  “Did you see the size of that reward?” Rem asked, voice still low.

  Torval’s broad face betrayed a sly smile now, blue eyes flashing greedily. “Aye, that, Bonny Prince. What would the likes of us even do with all that gold, if we had it?”

  Rem returned the sly smile. “I’m fairly certain we could think of something.”

  “Lord Marshal Kroenen,” the Red Raven said.


  “At last,” the lord marshal answered. “Right where you’ve always belonged . . . in a cage.”

  “Won’t you greet me by my proper name?” the Red Raven asked.

  Kroenen’s eyes narrowed and his mouth bent into a frown. Rem saw it. Torval saw it. Rem was sure Ondego saw it, too.

  “Would that I could choose just one,” Kroenen said finally.

  The Raven smiled from the corner of his cell. “Just one will do.”

  “So,” Ondego broke in, “I take it that’s your man?”

  “It most assuredly is,” the lord marshal said.

  “Therefore,” Ondego added, “you’ll be taking him back to your duke, to face justice?”

  The lord marshal stepped away from the bars and faced Ondego. “If you would be so kind as to release him to me, yes.”

  “Then let’s talk now of remuneration,” Ondego said. “Seeing as we’ve delivered this notorious road agent into your hands, I’d say me and my men are entitled to that promised reward. One hundred pieces of gold, was it?” Ondego threw a glance at Rem and Torval: Go on, lads—back me up.

  “That’s what I read,” Rem said.

  “As did I,” Torval confirmed. “For I can read now, thank you very much. And that’s what it said.”

  Kroenen nodded deferentially. “As you say, gentlemen. I give you my word, that gold shall be yours . . . contingent upon my safe return to Erald with my prisoner. We could summon a notary and I could write you a promissory note, sealed with my duke’s signet—”

  “Don’t trust him,” the Raven said, now standing and sauntering forward. “He’s all square shoulders and proud declarations now, but let him out of your sight with his prize and you’ll never see that money. Not a single coin.” He had removed the blue surcoat and chain mail and tossed both into a corner. He now wore only those good boots, leather breeks, and a simple wool under-tunic.

  “I don’t recall asking you,” Ondego said, almost wearily. “What say you go back to braiding the hay, right? Let the grown-ups talk.”

  The Raven was on the bars now, gripping them, gaze spearing right through them and meeting Ondego’s own. “You don’t know this man like I do, Prefect. I’m just looking out for you.”

  “How dare you impugn my honor!” Kroenen snarled, a real fury starting to stir in him. “Prefect, I beg you, dismiss any words that come from this verminous pickpocket—”

  “Tell you what, Prefect,” the Raven now said, smiling and whispering through the bars, friendly and conspiratorial. “You know who I am now. You know I’ve stolen boatloads of booty from this fool and his duke. What say I double the reward? Two hundred gold pieces.”

  “Three hundred,” Ondego said casually. “There’s me and my two men here. Three’ll split more easily.”

  The Raven shrugged. “Fair enough. I can cover that.”

  Ondego looked to Kroenen. “Counteroffer?”

  Kroenen looked as though Ondego had just suggested the lord marshal’s daughter be passed around for fertility rites. “Prefect! You wouldn’t—”

  Ondego rolled his eyes impatiently. “Of course I wouldn’t! Belenna’s bunting, you’re a tight one, aren’t you?” The prefect looked to the Raven as though they’d been sharing a wonderful jest. “Can’t take a joke, can he?”

  The Raven shook his head, smiling. “You have no idea.”

  And then Ondego’s fury came, thundering out of him like an explosion in a mine shaft: sudden, terrifying, deafening. Rem actually jumped at the sound of it.

  “Wipe that bloody smile off your face, you radge cunt!” the prefect roared.

  The Raven leapt back from the bars, clearly frightened of Ondego’s sudden change of aspect. Rem looked to Torval. It never failed. The man let his inner beast loose with uncanny suddenness and precision, like a boxer whose left hook you never saw coming.

  “You’re a highwayman on a Wanted leaflet,” Ondego sneered. “Why, in the name of all that is holy and consecrated, would I believe a single word you say, you piece of cack?”

  The Raven tried to hold on to his composure, though Ondego had clearly shocked him. “No insult intended,” he said. “I just thought we were negotiating.”

  Ondego suggested the lord marshal. “We are negotiating. You are cooling your heels in a cell because you’re a gods-damned villainous, pig-fucking bushwhacker. So do me the honor of not mistaking my intentions. I intend to sell your hide like a drake-skin and make fine flash while I do so.”

  Lord Marshal Kroenen turned toward the Red Raven, smiling, exultant.

  “And don’t you start patting yourself on the back,” Ondego snarled at the lord marshal. “I’m not finished with you and your gods-damned bluebirds yet, either. Not by a long shot.”

  “Are you saying we are not in agreement?” the lord marshal asked.

  Ondego looked to Rem and Torval. “Catches on quick, doesn’t he? Come on.”

  With that, the disgusted prefect pushed past the lord marshal and headed for the door to the dungeon. Torval marched after him, leaving Rem standing there holding the keys and staring at the dumbfounded lord marshal. Finally Rem just swept his hand toward the door.

  “After you, sir,” he said.

  The lord marshal turned and threw a last glance at the caged Red Raven, then strode through the dungeon door. As Rem followed him, he heard the Raven from his cell.

  “Your prefect won’t listen, lad, so maybe you should,” the outlaw said, pressed against the bars. “I meant what I said: do not trust that man.”

  Rem turned back, still able to see the Raven, though at a far more oblique angle than before. “We don’t trust anyone around here,” he said. “That’s why you’re in a cage.”

  Then Rem took his leave, locking the door behind him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Rem made it home shortly after dawn to find Indilen just washing up for the morning and preparing to put on some real clothes instead of the nightdress she slept in. Seeing his lover, drinking in the sight of her, he felt turbulent pangs of unparalleled joy and deep foreboding. How lucky he was to have found her, to have saved her when she fell into the clutches of vile slavers, to have started a new life with her here, in this city, so far from the place of his birth. Even now, with the sun’s first light barely peeking over the rooftops, the small sounds of singing birds and a waking city invading their quiet little rented suite, and she probably just moments out of bed—even now, Indilen was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

  But soon, too soon, he’d have to leave her. He didn’t fancy breaking that news.

  Indilen smiled as he closed the door behind him. “There’s my big, tough watchwarden. I’d almost given up on seeing you before I left.”

  Though her eyes were still tired and puffy from sleep, her auburn hair still a wild tangle, Indilen’s natural beauty nonetheless shone through. Her freckles, her big, bright, brown eyes, her wide, sun-bright smile.

  Again, the pangs. Rem moved to her and swept her into his arms. He kissed her lips, her cheeks, her forehead, then held her close and breathed in the musty morning scent of her hair: faint traces of jasmine and vanilla from her favorite hair oils, along with the comforting funk of sweat and that deep, undeniable scent that was her . . . the very essence of her, stripped of all perfumes and accouterments. He wanted to throw her back into bed and ravish her, but that wouldn’t do. He knew that she had two clients already lined up for the morning, and failing to meet with either would be disaster for her reputation as a scribe and notary.

  He felt her arms tighten around his middle and relished it. She giggled a little, face pressed against his chest.

  “There, there,” she said teasingly, “I missed you, too.”

  He lowered his face into the soft storm of her hair, breathed deep, then kissed her forehead again. “It’s been such a night,” he said. “Such a long, long night.”

  Indilen pulled away from him, just enough to look into his eyes. “Now, what’s that I hear in your voice?” she said, as much to hers
elf as to him.

  Rem shrugged. “A great deal. But you’ve got to be going.”

  Indilen shook her head. “I’ve still got to finish dressing. Tell me while I prepare.”

  Rem obliged. He plopped onto the bed, yanked off his boots, and tossed them aside as Indilen finished her morning freshening and began to dress herself for a proper day’s work. She owned only four dresses—all flattering colors, but of simple design and sturdy make. She chose a dark-blue one trimmed in delicate ivory stitching. Rem assisted by lacing it up in the back and making sure all the knots were secure. As she dressed, he recounted the night to her.

  He started with the call to Geezer and Rikka’s, and Indilen immediately turned and swept him into her arms again when he told her about having to put Geezer down. She knew he hated to kill anyone in the line of duty—even the worst, the most deserving—and she had long ago stopped trying to assuage his guilt and grief whenever his watchwarden’s duties forced him to take a life. She knew, based on their shared experience, that Rem’s lethal encounters weighed on him less if he could fully feel them—bitter, dolorous, painful, even. Much like fresh wounds, Rem wanted to clean and tend to those things he did in the line of duty that aggrieved him—not pretend they weren’t there so that they could fester and trouble him later.

  “You poor thing,” Indilen said, stroking his hair, kissing his forehead as she stood and he sat on the edge of the bed. “I can’t imagine how that feels . . .”

  “You don’t want to,” Rem said quietly.

  He let her hold him, comfort him. Then, after a time, he pulled away and carried on with his tale as Indilen pulled up a chair, sat, and held out her bare feet so that he could help her put on some shoes. When Rem saw that she planned to wear her good sandals—beautifully tooled and possessing a complex lattice of leather laces that climbed all the way up her calves and shins—he shook his head.

  “It rained in the night,” he said. “I’d recommend close-toed.”

  “Bollocks,” Indilen muttered, then tossed aside her sandals and gathered her everyday shoes. They were neither expensive nor overly fashionable, but they enclosed her feet and kept the mud and shit in Yenara’s churned-up streets off those precious toes of hers. Rem knew that Indilen looked forward to spring and summer, warm months meaning she could wear those favored sandals a little more often—but a wet day wasn’t the time to enjoy them. Resigned, Indilen propped up her right foot and let Rem go about the business of shoeing her and lacing her up. It was a familiar ritual, one that they both silently relished.