Good Company

by Dale Lucas

  “Stop,” she said gently. “Come away with me.”

  In the woods they’d talked long and hard about what to do with the prisoners.

  Two Devils were among the dead, while one—the tall woman called Tymon Longstride—had escaped during the fight, even managing to take a satchel of gold with her. But two men remained: a bald fellow with gold rings in each ear, known among his folk as Dedrik Firebow, and a great bear of a man called Orhund. Once disarmed in the midst of the fray, they had offered no further resistance.

  “What would you have us do with you?” Tzimena asked them.

  “To be honest,” Dedrik said, “you’d be within your rights to kill us, milady. We threatened you with as much.”

  “You actually tried to sell her to someone intent on killing her,” Elvaris responded coldly, “which is infinitely worse.”

  Dedrik nodded. Outlaw he might be, but he was clearly a reasonable man.

  “What of you?” Tzimena asked the bigger one, Orhund.

  “I agree with Dedrik,” Orhund said. “We wronged you. You should put us down. We deserve no less.”

  “Did you hear that, Lord Marshal?” Elvaris called toward where the patrician sat on the ground. “These men—these thieves—have more honor than you ever could.”

  Tzimena studied the prisoners for a moment before asking her next question. “Tell me true: What became of the soldiers sent into this forest? The ones bearing the missive that sent your master after me?”

  “They died to a man,” Dedrik said. “Honestly, we wanted prisoners, for ransom. But they were strong men . . . brave men. They wouldn’t surrender even when we offered quarter. We were forced to kill them because they wouldn’t stop fighting.”

  “How many?” Tzimena asked, gaze cold.

  Orhund and Dedrik exchanged a glance. It was Orhund who responded. “Eleven,” he said. “I remember well because it seemed an odd number for a cavalry troop.”

  Tzimena turned and speared the lord marshal with her cold glare again. “Eleven men,” she said quietly. “Your own. Men who trusted you. Who fought and died to preserve your honor—used like worms baiting a fishhook.”

  The lord marshal remained silent for a time. Then—

  “I would not resist if you saw fit to kill me,” he said soberly, sitting awkwardly with his broken arm and broken leg, the latter still unsplinted and horribly swollen. “I have failed my master and his crown and dishonored my office. That makes me unfit to see another sunrise.”

  Rem noted that the lord marshal made no mention of endangering the rest of them, nor of the many deaths now attributable to his actions.

  “Which is why you shall,” Tzimena snapped. “We’re delivering you alive to your masters in Erald, Lord Marshal. And if there’s any justice in this world, they’ll give us the satisfaction of seeing you publicly shamed and executed.”

  The lord marshal said nothing to that. His eyes remained downcast.

  Tzimena then turned back to the Devils. “Let these two go,” she said. “I think there’s been enough killing for one day.”

  Dedrik and Orhund stared, both gape mouthed and flabbergasted.

  “Milady,” Dedrik began.

  “Go swiftly,” she said, “before I change my mind.”

  * * *

  They’d met an Eraldic cavalry unit in Pyka, a small, fortified settlement on the eastern borders of the Ethkeraldi. That unit escorted them the rest of the way to Erald, where ten days of arch and awkward tribunals and inquiries unfolded before the city’s lord mayor, the duke’s grand chancellor, and the city’s high priest of the Church of Aemon, along with an army of privy council advisers, secretaries, notaries, and solicitors. Rem and Torval were housed in adjoining rooms in one of the meaner wings of the palace—probably chambers reserved for the servants of visiting dignitaries—while Tzimena, her last remaining swordmaidens, and old Wallenbrand were ensconced elsewhere—unknown and apart from the two watchwardens.

  They were not misused or abused in any way—far from it, in fact. They were given use of the servants’ bathhouse, their beds were comfortable and the bedclothes changed often, and food arrived in their chambers three times a day, regular as the tide. And yet the two of them could not entirely relax in their seemingly benign surroundings. Even after they’d decided they could trust the food and bathe in relative safety, neither of them could shake the fear of being quietly murdered in their sleep, victims of some fiction hatched by the Eraldic court to save the late duke’s good reputation. And so, despite the relative comfort of their beds, the regular changes of sheets and blankets, and a steady diet, Rem and Torval had continued to take shifts through each night, one remaining awake while the other slept. By the third night, they’d both admitted they felt silly doing so, that their paranoia was probably excessive and misplaced.

  But they hadn’t stopped.

  Neither one of them slept all the way through the night until the day finally came when all the survivors of the lord marshal’s ill-starred train were gathered in the same tribunal chamber and heard the determinations of the Eraldic court.

  The public comments offered by the ministers of the tribunal suggested that the late Duke Verin’s plundering of the royal coffers to fund orcish mercenaries, privateering contracts, and clandestine ransoms was both illegal and hitherto undiscovered. Apparently there was a great deal of coin missing from the royal treasury. Its vanishing could only have been Verin’s doing—though Torval and Rem each suspected that more coin might have vanished in the days since their return . . . riches that could easily be pocketed, their theft attributed to a dead man.

  The lord marshal was found guilty of dereliction of duty, misuse of crown resources, and reckless endangerment. He would hang, and the inherited title of lord marshal, protector of the realm and sword of the duke, long a source of pride in his family, would be stripped from his heirs.

  Lady Tzimena Baya, having defended herself from misuse and murder, was guiltless. She—along with her two swordmaidens—would remain in Erald as guests of the court until a large honor guard could arrive from her home country to escort her in safety back to where she’d come from.

  The two watchwardens from Yenara, having arrested a wanted fugitive in the line of duty and embarked upon the long, dangerous journey to Erald in good faith, would be rewarded: fifty gold pieces were theirs, along with the court’s sincere hope that their homeward journey would be uneventful, and that neither of them would find need to visit Erald again. Ever.

  Indilen frowned upon hearing that. “Hardly sporting, making you feel so unwelcome.”

  Rem shrugged. “It was an ugly business for them, I suppose, and we were just a pair of unfortunate complications. Their cut into the reward rankled us both, but I suppose it was better than disappearing into an Eraldic coal mine or dying in our sleep, eh?”

  They were outside now, having taken the lull in the festivities as a signal to seek a little privacy. They settled themselves into the cozy herb-and-vegetable garden Aarna kept, sandwiched between the King’s Ass’s aft end and the walls of its immediate neighbors on the block. There they sat, upon the wooden frame of a planter sprouting sweet basil, savory rosemary, and spearmint, a cool breeze twisting down into the narrow confines of their curious cloister from the open sky above.

  Rem heard something: a slight, low moan, the sort one might offer in pleasure or relief. Indilen stiffened beside him; she’d heard it, too. The two of them peered into the darkened recesses of the narrow alley just beyond the wide-open back gate of the garden, searching for some sign of life.

  There. Another low, sensual moan. It was a small sound, audible only when the wind subsided. Indilen finally patted Rem’s leg and pointed toward the shadows. About ten yards off, two shadowy forms squirmed in the dark alleyway, pressed against one of the stone gateposts marking the edge of the garden. Those intermittent moans, it seemed, were offered between soft caresses and passionate kisses.

  Rem and Indilen shared grins and stifled giggles.


  “Should we leave them?” Indilen asked quietly.

  “It’s a public garden and I’m settled here now,” Rem said. “If we keep quiet, they’ll never notice us.”

  Rem put his arm around Indilen then and held her close. He buried his nose in her hair. Inhaled. Savored. Truth be told, he’d like to take her to his own dark corner about now . . . or back to their rented rooms.

  “Were you there,” Indilen finally asked, “for the end?”

  “Of the lord marshal?” Rem asked.

  Indilen nodded.

  “We were,” Rem said with a sigh. “Partially because the court demanded it—some Eraldic pap about bearing witness to the results of one’s sworn testimony. I suppose we also wanted to know he’d gotten what was coming to him. Big turnout—right in the city’s main square, beside that waterfall Brekkon had told us about.” He shook his head. “As it should be, I suppose . . . but it gave me no pleasure.”

  “But they heard you,” Indilen said. “They heard you all, and your words brought about justice.”

  “Justice,” Rem said, almost wistfully. He knew it was true, of course. Tzimena’s sincere gratitude and her last tearful goodbye to him had proven that. It really hadn’t hit him until that moment—offering farewells and trying to finally treat her like the noble lady he knew she was—but her words, her tears, and the warmth of her embrace had made the profundity of his actions clear at last.

  Please, milady, he’d said as she’d held him tightly, I was just protecting someone in need. Doing my job.

  You saved my life, she’d answered. That’s no small thing. If I can ever repay you . . .

  No, he’d said, pulling himself away and trying to smile so that she knew he honestly wanted nothing from her. No, milady, you owe me nothing. Knowing you’re safe is enough.

  Send him one of those fancy blades, Torval had broken in, indicating Elvaris. The swordmaiden stood just a few feet behind her mistress, a striking figure in a new suit of silk and linen, her plate and chain mail being cleaned by the duke’s own armorers. Though she was dressed as a civilian, the handsome lady still wore her Taverando at her hip.

  Torval, shush, Rem snapped.

  Tzimena, to Rem’s great relief, hadn’t been embarrassed or insulted. She’d only smiled. The girl you told me of, she said, is very lucky to have you, Rem. If only I could find a man of noble birth with half your character . . .

  The sound of kisses from the couple in the alley invaded Rem’s thoughts: soft, wet. Another moan. A low, gravelly sigh.

  “Do you ever miss it?” Indilen asked, her voice still low so as not to disturb their snogging neighbors.

  Rem turned to her. “Miss what?”

  “Before,” she said. “The court.”

  Rem thought about his answer before offering it. “Sometimes,” he said, “I miss the ease. I miss good food and fine clothes. I miss a castle keep to call my home and a stable full of horses I handpicked. I miss sunny afternoons hawking and presiding over feasts or fetes—when I felt like I was giving something instead of taking it.”

  He stopped, studied her. Indilen’s face was open, understanding. She wasn’t asking for a comparison—old life versus new—simply a window into his heart.

  “I should think anyone would miss those things,” she said.

  “But all those things,” Rem continued, “as pleasant as they are, came with too high a price.”

  “Civilization,” Indilen said, “at its most decadent and sumptuous.”

  Rem shook his head. “No, civilization at its most naked—its most base. The everyday people that crowd this city—blacksmiths, greengrocers, brewers, and day laborers, all struggling to get by, creating mechanisms and institutions to make the collective effort less taxing, less terrifying—that’s civilization. What Korin Lyr couldn’t escape and what his brother and the lord marshal followed through on . . . that was savagery. It might have worn ermine and silks, but it was primitive nonetheless: plotting, backstabbing, power wrested and fought over and wrested again. Nature itself isn’t half so vile or treacherous.”

  Indilen nodded, seeming to understand. For a moment she lowered her eyes, gathered a thought, then lifted her gaze again and met Rem’s own. “I’ve thought about him, ever since that day you left. My whole experience of him came solely from the walk between the watchkeep and Roylan’s Square, but something about him stuck with me.”

  Rem stared, not sure where this was going.

  “He reminded me of you,” Indilen said.

  Rem wasn’t sure how he felt about that. “Oh?”

  “A young man desperate to make his own way, to forge his own path—to be a thing of his own making, secure in himself and beholden to none.”

  “You gleaned all that?” Rem asked. “Just from a walk and a few glances?”

  “Well,” Indilen said, “your tales of what came after have filled in a few blank spaces for me. But you shouldn’t act so shocked. You saw it, too. That’s what’s weighing on you now, I think: You’re wondering how much the two of you might share. If you, deep down, may be just like him.”

  Rem was stunned. He wanted to refute her words, her assumptions . . . but he couldn’t. For the life of him, he couldn’t.

  “But,” Indilen hastily added, “there is one great difference between you, so far as I can see. He didn’t have your character. You ran off to test yourself—to find yourself. That one—I don’t think he ever found anything. He was just a scared little boy, hiding in the woods. Playing roles, but never sure who he was when the mask was off.”

  Rem exhaled the breath he’d been holding. Nodded. That did make sense. In truth, he had thought about Korin Lyr a number of times since they buried him. He, too, felt the kinship between them . . . and imagined more than a few ways in which, given the right circumstances, Rem could have become him.

  “I know the feeling,” Rem said, and felt the sting of a tear in his eye. Aemon’s bones, not now! This was not the time or the place. But when he carried on speaking, he heard a quaver in his voice—low, but present nonetheless. “In truth, I sometimes wonder who I am, now that I’m no longer the man I was—”

  Indilen kissed him. It was quick, soft, but heartfelt and eager, a gesture of comfort and reassurance. “I know who you are, because I see what you do, every day.”

  Rem held her face in his hands. “I was going to say—when those questions subside, when I know who I am, it’s because I have you to assure me. Maybe I did run off to hide in the wilderness . . . but you’re the one who found me and saved me from myself. I can never repay you for that.”

  Indilen smiled and laid her head upon his shoulder. “That sword cuts both ways,” she said. “We saved each other.”

  He held her for a long time, rocking her gently, the sounds of the city swirling around them as the shadowed couple in the alley continued their amorous liaison and an old lover’s ballad wafted from the open windows of the King’s Ass. Rem had never known such warmth, such contentment, as he did in that moment. He was just about to lift Indilen’s face again, to kiss her again, when he heard a great commotion: a table overturned, pewter plates and ale steins clattering across the rush-strewn floor of the tavern, the metallic slither of blades leaving scabbards. A woman screamed. Someone begged: None of that! None of that!

  Indilen stiffened beside him. She heard it, too.

  “No no no no,” Rem muttered. He’d so been enjoying the evening . . .

  The couple in the alley heard the commotion, as well. At the first clatter of dishes, their kissing and groping ceased. With the sound of drawn blades, one of them stepped out of the darkness and into the light.

  Rem had to stifle a burst of laughter. It was Torval who’d just stepped into the dim secondhand light from a lamp by the back door of the King’s Ass. Just behind him, emerging from the shadowy alleyway, was Aarna. Her dark curls were disheveled and the upper laces of her bodice hastily undone.

  “Oh my,” Rem said.

  “About time,” Indilen
added.

  Torval stepped toward the door, eager to break up the erupting fight—but he froze when he realized that Rem and Indilen were there, staring at him. When Aarna saw them, sitting so close and staring with (Rem imagined) bald shock on their faces, she did what came most naturally to her: she burst out laughing, long and loud.

  “So much for a secret rendezvous,” she said between howls.

  Torval did his best to look unperturbed, though Rem did relish the fact that—for the very first time in his memory—Torval actually looked embarrassed, like a child caught in some naughty act. The dwarf powered through it, though, immediately scrunching his face into his customary scowl and jerking his head toward the doorway. Inside, insults were hurled and feet thumped over floorboards as people scurried for safety or a good view of what was about to unfold.

  “Well?” Torval growled, and marched inside.

  Aarna propped herself against the stone gatepost of the garden’s outer wall now. She was still laughing.

  Rem looked to Indilen. Indilen indicated the door. “They need you, good watchwarden.”

  “I’d really rather not,” Rem said.

  “I know,” Indilen answered. “But then who would you be?”

  He smiled. Clever girl.

  With a sigh he rose from the planter and strode toward the door. As he stepped back into the warm, bread-and meat-scented air of the King’s Ass, he heard Indilen joining Aarna in raucous laughter behind him.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Here we are, at the end of another adventure, settling back into our daily routines, awaiting the next call—whenever it might come—to leave our cozy nests and venture out into the wide world. I sincerely hope you’ve enjoyed what I’ve come to think of as “Rem and Torval’s Road Movie” and assure you that, Fates willing, our two miscreants shall return for more buddy love and two-fisted adventure on Yenara’s cramped and muddy streets. This outing was brought to you by the amazing team at Orbit, including my hardworking, keen-eyed editor, Bradley Englert, whose notes and insights keep my work both narratively consistent and emotionally honest. Great editors are worth their weight in gold, and Bradley is a great editor.