Just Deserts
By Ulff Lehmann
Awake? Good.
Sorry about knocking you out, but I saw no other way to get you alone.
The shackles? Oh, they’re for keeping your fat ass in place.
Yes, your family is safe, for now. A little frightened, maybe, but safe. As for your guards—they’ll live.
Who am I? How rude of me! I should have led with that.
The name’s Thyrn. I’m a Knight of Kalduuhn. You’ve heard of my kind, I assume?
Yes, we knights enforce the Rule of Consequence in Kalduuhn, mostly.
Why am I here in Harail, why am I here in Harail? I’ll get to that.
Well, yes, of course. We don’t scour the kingdom looking for pricks like the late Lord Cynnor all the time, people need reminding, sure, but we don’t go about butchering families every month, not even every year. Yes, of course we allow for folks to learn how not to be utter cunts.
But it seems you folks need constant reminding. Comes from shorter lifespans, I reckon.
We elves live longer, so lessons remain with us a little longer. If a Culling happened during our lifetime, even if a few hundred years had passed, we would still remember. Humans rarely consider the food they had for lunch, much less the stuff that happened to their parents before they were born.
Why did I capture you? Now, that’s a good question.
It began south of Valtlaen of all places. Brisen the Younger and Talfyn, my two apprentices—bright for humans, if you ask me—had wanted to see Gathran’s old capital, Honas Graigh, and were just on their way back from that place when they spotted a body on the Tallon’s shore. It’s not like they hadn’t seen corpses before, comes with the territory of working with a Knight, but our task rarely takes us to see people after they’ve been dead for a while. We usually change people’s disposition, you know. Alive to dead, that’s our thing.
Hidden by and tangled in reeds, the body had been in the water for a few weeks, bloated and rotting. Local fauna had already nibbled at the corpse, but there was enough skin left to determine the child was, at least in part, of Dragonlander descent. Brisen and Talfyn dragged the body out and discovered the poor lad, for it was a boy, had not yet come of age.
What? How did they know? No hair growth in the crotch and armpits, stupid.
This far north, Dragonlanders, even those of mixed ancestry, are rare. After burying the lad, my two apprentices returned to Valtlaen to investigate.
Yes, I will get to the point of why you are hogtied. Patience!
Only a handful Dragonlanders live in Valtlaen, merchants and their bookkeepers, mostly, and only one of them had her family living in town.
What? No, some people just prefer to stay at home, and the merchant companies relieve their office personnel on a yearly basis. Why do they send them abroad? No idea, but it works.
Now . . . where was I?
Right. The one Dragonlander family. Talfyn and Brisen met with that family and didn’t even bother questioning them regarding the corpse. Both parents had dark brown skin, and all their kids were accounted for. So my apprentices began to ask around town. Neither of them is as skilled yet to discern truth from lie—Lliania’s gift takes time to hone—but it didn’t take them long to figure out there were no children of mixed ancestry in town, missing or otherwise.
At that point they decided to split up, Talfyn heading to fetch me in Simhaidh, and Brisen riding upriver to Mondaen.
Oh yes, it’s quite safe to travel near Gathran, even alone. There’s a group of . . . an order of . . . people patrolling the area. The Sons of Traksor. Secretive bunch, but if there are brigands around, they usually hunt them down and spread their pieces along the forest.
Two days later, Talfyn found me at the Croaking Frog, Simhaidh’s premier inn.
I sat at my favorite table, corner position, overlooking the entire taproom.
“Heard about the civil war?” a traveler asked her neighbor.
“Lynwen, my dear sister, we aren’t that cut off from civilization to not hear about the shit that’s going down in Chaghthain,” the man said, leaning forward to refill his mug. Now that he was illuminated, the resemblance was obvious.
Chaghthain. I was unfamiliar with the name, so I listened.
“I’m telling you, Celyn! If this feud spills over to the other city-states along the Coast of Steam,” Lynwen explained, “then shit is bound to reach us as well. I mean, look at Haldain! They’ve been changing rulers on a monthly basis. Bad for business. All of it.”
Now I remembered. Sorai, my Dragonlander lover, had mentioned something about the cities along the coast forming their own domains, city-states. Many a Dragonlander had immigrated there, married locally, built a life away from realms of the dragons.
“Used to be only there were only a few Houses in Chaghthain feuding with each other, skirmishes in the streets and all that,” Lynwen continued. “Then one House had the bright idea to involve mercenaries. The others followed suit. Heard about mercenaries fighting it out in Wynndrych?” When her brother shook his head, she spoke on. “Warriors from two competing mercenary groups came across each other in Wynndrych; they had been on opposing sides in Chaghthain and decided to settle some scores. Shit got worse when one of them decided fire would be a nice addition. Burned down a damn neighborhood.”
“That’s why there are so many refugees coming to Haldain?” Celyn asked.
Refugees in Haldain? Another thing I hadn’t heard before.
“Aye,” Lynwen said.
I would’ve liked to listen more, but at that point Talfyn entered the inn. The lad had grown in the months he and Brisen had been away. He filled me in on the murder of a Dragonlander child in Valtlaen, and their ensuing investigation. With what I had heard from the siblings at the next table, the connection to Haldain was threadbare, to say the least, but who knew? It was worth pursuing. Hunches did pay out, at least sometimes. Talfyn and Brisen were capable enough to carry on the investigation here in Kalduuhn.
We headed back to Valtlaen. There I took a barge down the River Tallon.
Haldain was different than I remembered. Then again, last time I had been to the place it was still part of Gathran.
What? Oh, sorry. Yes, you heard right. Gathran was a little bigger than just a forest.
When was that? Before the Decline . . . three hundred years past, I think. Maybe four hundred. Yes, Haldain, Kalduuhn, what’s now Danastaer, everything for a great long distance in either direction was Gathran. Sorry, sometimes I forget who I’m talking to. Uneducated idiots, most humans. I don’t understand how you manage.
So, at last I came to Haldain, a score miles or so south of Ma’tallon.
What? Aye, I heard about the civil war there, they had just switched rulers. Again. Dumb fuckers, greedy, self-important. Don’t know history, and you’re bound to repeat the same fucking thing over and over again.
Anyway, I left the barge at the first harbor inside Haldain’s border and traveled along the Old Elven Road until I reached the first big city, Talford. Nothing elven there, place had been built after my kind withdrew. Timber frame, wattle and daub, with a few stone buildings. I noticed the odd Dragonlander or three on the street—they tend to stand out, you know Dark skin and all. They looked like merchants, not refugees. Still, I snatched one—no, not like you!—and talked with the fellow.
All right, I did threaten, maybe just a little, but since I was just inquiring about the who and what, playing a hunch, I was nice about it.
Yes, there were refugees, but not here and not that many. Halharra, the capital, two weeks down south, that’s where most refugees came. But the Dragonlander had heard of a child’s corpse having been found at the banks of the Tallon.
“Nearby?” I asked.
In the typical sinuous Dragonlander way I knew so well, the man inclined his head. I’ve never seen a dragon, but according to my wife, that’s how dragons nod their heads. “Yes, friend,” the merchant said. “Tragedy. One so you
ng.”
“Dragonlander?” I asked.
“The child? No, skin as pale as any northerner.”
So we had a black child and a white child, both dead, hundreds of miles apart. It could have been a coincidence, you know? But my gut told me it wasn’t.
Yes, we Knights of Kalduuhn trust our gut. Lady Justice has blessed us with a strong sense for right and wrong, and while Lliania’s gifts are varied, at times, all of us Knights know when it comes to shit being wrong.
And this shit felt rotten.
Two children dead. Now I needed to find out if the child here had been treated similarly to the one near Valtlaen.
What? Didn’t I mention that? My apologies. The child had been raped. Why so pale?
Anyway, I located Talford’s constabulary, and proceeded to find out as much as I could. Turned out, the child the Dragonlander had mentioned was not the only one. There had been others, but the constables had kept those murders under wraps. It had been months since the last corpse had been found, and yes, one of the children had been of Dragonland descent.
“Anything else?” I asked Constable Adwen, a tough looking woman with a crooked smile. “I mean, thanks for the information. Is there anything else you noticed when inspecting the bodies? My apologies, I’m used to brevity.”
“And people respecting you for merely being an elf, eh?” Adwen said.
“No, at home they tend to respect the badge,” I said, fishing out my means of proving I’m a Knight.
Here, this badge. Eagle holding Lliania’s Scales. Oh, you really don’t look good.
She arched a brow, staring at the trinket. “You should have led with that, milord.”
“No lord here, just a Knight of Kalduuhn. Now that that’s out of the way, please tell me what else you noticed with the corpses. Were they pushed ashore by the current?”
“They weren’t in the river, only the last boy was. The others were in a field, a forest, a ditch. Horrid stuff.”
“All boys?”
“And girls.”
“Raped?”
“Everyone. Brutally, sir.”
“What else?”
“Their teeth . . . they were rotten.”
“Rotten?”
“Filthy, sir. If you don’t take care of them, they rot in your mouth.”
“All of them?”
“No, the Dragonlander girl’s teeth were near pristine.”
“Lattice-children,” I said.
What? Oh, you never heard the term. Well, neither had Adwen. They’re Ma’tallon’s version of urchins. Homeless children. Most of the time they smell. No washing, either of clothes, or body, or teeth.
“I see,” said Adwen after I had explained. “Don’t have any here.”
“None?”
“Eanaigh’s church takes them in.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, they’re cleaned up, taught a craft, and released back into the world.” Adwen smiled at that. “I’m one of those the Caretakers saved.”
I thanked the constable. If there were no urchins here, the children must have come from somewhere else. Getting maps from anywhere is a bitch, you know, and those cartographers who actually draw decent ones don’t sell them.
A merchant I . . . befriended—Kalduuhneans know the badge—allowed me to study his. There were few settlements of note between Talford and Halharra, the capital of Haldain. So, I followed the road south straight towards Halharra.
Along the way I picked up a few more rumors of children having been found dead. Since each tragedy happened nowhere near towns, finding a lawman was pretty useless, and with the kids having received the traditional cremating, there was no point in pursuing such feeble leads any further.
In hindsight, I could have made more of an effort, mapping out the area and marking the spots where the corpses had been found.
What can I say? I’d never dealt with this shit before. My job as Knight of Kalduuhn is to find those who break the Rule of Consequence, we rarely deal with killings. We do the killing!
Why am I up here in Harail now? And why did I bind you like a hog? I’ll get to that.
Now, where was I?
Right, my way to Halharra.
It took me a few days to get there. From fellow travelers I learned of the recent uprising that had taken place here.
What? Twenty years isn’t that recent? I want to see you live for a few centuries; let’s see how you consider twenty years, alright?
So people had risen to power, killed to do so, but even with the near constant change in rulers, the bureaucracy had matters well under control. It happens, but with all the shit going on at the Coast of Steam, it kind of felt like there was trouble brewing. In such turmoil it’s usually the cunts that gain the upper hand. Takes real skill and planning to not fuck up a revolution. Chances were that whoever was behind those child murders was amongst the ruling class.
Why are you here? Mate, I told you, I’ll get to that. This is part of my process, so don’t start whining now! Stop struggling; I’ve been tying people up since before your grandda was born. You won’t get free.
Halharra is a more haphazard city than Ma’tallon. When I first saw the crude stone walls I thought the builders had used elven building materials. As I came closer, I knew that to be true. Here and there were chunks of worked stone from what was definitely a villa or temple of some sort. Past the gate, I noticed that the foundations of some buildings were definitely elven, and as I went deeper into the city, I even saw some repurposed villas and other structures built by my people.
How did I know? Look around you; this is a basement, right? You can see the crude way the masons worked the stone. Fuck, look how much plaster the builders used to make the bastards fit. You don’t see this sort of shit in elven work. Our architects and stonecutters know their shit. So, yes, I knew.
The city was bisected by the road, inelegantly so, but it does have its advantages. Since the road formed the axis, getting directions was fairly easy.
My first stop was the urchins. They’re easy to find, if you know where to look. Poor buggers keep out of the way, hiding from constables and such, begging where they can, filching where they must. I asked around and heard that most of them were near the temples. Some priests may be cunts, but the majority actually worry about the poorest of their community.
As with the foundations and some villas, it didn’t surprise me to find the temples were actually built by my people. What did surprise me were their size, or lack thereof, rather. It was now that I figured out what kind of a place Halharra must have been before we left most lands to you humans. This city had been built at the site of a garrison; the so-called temples were mere shrines with some sheds leaning against their columns. They were vying for space, building around pillars, and roofing over the spaces in between. One shrine was nothing more than a ruin. Obviously someone had tried to expand the building, but caused a cave-in instead. Why they would want to expand the shrine of Trannagh the Trader was beyond me, but oh well. Now the place served as shelter for some; for others it was a source of worked stone.
The noon gong rang from Lesganagh’s temple, and out of Trannagh’s ruins came a stream of children rushing for Eanaigh’s temple. I watched as a high-ranking Caretaker dragged out a heavy cauldron. The urchins lined up and waited, their bowls and spoons held before them. A few moments later I knew what they were waiting for.
Up the road, from behind the ruins came a group of people, some wore clothes that had been fancy at one time, others still carried themselves with a dignity that belied their bedraggled appearance. Dragonlanders, southerners, those of mixed ancestry, these must have been the refugees I’d heard about. I wished Talfyn had more of a hand at sketching. Asking any one of these people if they had seen a darkly skinned child was like asking someone in a tavern if they had seen someone who drinks ale.
No, Brisen is just as shit at drawing as Talfyn.
I watched as the refugees lined up behind the urchins, but to my
surprise the children stepped aside and let those who had lost everything pass. Over the next few days I spent there, I saw that the two groups, refugees and urchins, traded places every meal. The groups even waited until the last of the other group was there before they proceeded to get their food.
Misery brings out the worst in some, the best in others, I guess.
Aye, I spent several days there. Listening, watching. I pretended to be a down on my luck mercenary, and the priests of all the temples were as grateful for my appearance as the hapless inhabitants. You see, there are always those cunts who want to exploit those who are clinging to the lowest rung of the ladder. Smugglers are more benign than some of the others, and when I stopped some bastards from pressing the urchins to slave for them, my reputation grew. After the third such incident, the inhabitants of the temple district began to trust me.
It didn’t take much time for me to get the information I needed, once urchins and refugees knew I was on their side.
What? Yes, of course they figured out I was an elf. It’s kinda hard to hide your face when sharing meals with people.
Turned out, there were a couple families who had lost a child. Promise of a warm bed and food is too strong a lure for the bereft not to follow. There comes a point where despair overrides all common sense, and those who already have enough—the bastards who could actually make the world a better place—prey on that.
I spent a week with the refugees and lattice-children. Theirs was a miserable existence, and I began to support them from my own purse by day three.
What? Why did I do that? They should’ve gone back to their homes, you say?
I hate it when swine like you refer to those in need as lesser beings, treating their dogs better than a fellow human. Foreigners should go back home, right? It’s not your fault that they lost their homes, right?
No wonder your spouse cheats on you. I wouldn’t want to fuck a self-righteous bastard like you either. I really fucking hate prejudiced, uncaring cunts. It’s all bluster and make-my-country-free-from-foreigners again, until you’re the one hanging from hooks in a meat house.
The First Stain Page 10
