by Ulff Lehmann
CHAPTER 6
It was early evening when five hooded figures entered the Laughing Horse Inn. It was the better of the two inns in Carlgh; hence it was more expensive. Only some merchants could afford to stay here.
All five wore long, black cloaks and boots, and aside from the belted swords that poked out from under their cloaks they were indistinguishable. Morna, the proprietress of the Laughing Horse, looked up from her knitting and stood, ready to greet the newcomers.
One of the five approached the table that served the innkeeper as counter and desk. Morna suppressed a smirk as she regarded the dark clad people. They could not be as remarkable as the shepherd, Drangar Ralgon. Every step the person took was accompanied by a jingle, telling Morna he wore some sort of mail armor as well.
The stranger removed his hood, and smiled as he regarded her. It was a smile she was very familiar with; only a day before Pol Haggrainh had reminded the people of Carlgh of their status. It spoke of power and wealth, and arrogance. The stranger was about five feet six inches, had jet-black hair, and was well groomed. In spite of his thin smile, his eyes showed no emotion.
Nobles, Morna thought derisively, always considered themselves more important than they really were. “What can I do for you, good sirs?” she asked aloud, hiding her annoyance behind a well-practiced veil of reverence appropriate to one of her station.
Without changing expressions, the man replied, “We need rooms for the next few days, and stabling for our horses. Can you give us both? At a reasonable price, of course.”
Morna smiled. “Certainly. Stabling for… five horses?” The man nodded. “And rooms?”
“Yes.”
She looked at her customer and did a quick, and in her mind very generous, calculation and said, “Well, that would make two leaves. Does this suit you?”
“Yes.”
Startled by the stranger’s ready acceptance, she added, “Supper and breakfast?”
“Yes.”
The other four hadn’t moved since entering, but Morna guessed that they were watching the room and the street. She frowned. “For how long?”
“Until we leave.”
The answer was almost as haughty as the man’s behavior, Morna thought, resisting the urge to shake her head. She wiped a strand of graying hair out of her face and said, “Well that would make three leaves for a night and two meals. It’s best if you pay at the beginning of each new day.”
“Agreed.” He poured out some coins from his moneybag and, sorting through them, asked, “Where are the rooms?”
“Upstairs. Pick any you want, except for the last one on the left. Supper is after sunset. Stables are in the back.”
“Thank you,” the man said, handing her the coins. He turned around and nodded to his men.
Following the silent order, the four strode out. Two returned shortly afterward, carrying several large bundles.
The leader walked to the stairs and climbed them at a brisk pace. The two followed.
Morna heard doors opening, and closing. A little while later, the last two hooded men came back from the stables. There was straw marring their black clothes and their boots were dirtier than before. “I will have the boy sweep the stables,” she said, nodding at the two, only to be ignored as the men followed their companions upstairs.
Nobles, Morna thought with scorn, and headed for the kitchen to tell her husband to prepare more food.
Later that night, the association of local businessmen gathered in the Boar and Bustard to pass some time. Morna was one of the last to arrive. She was greeted by her friends and quickly joined one of the larger groups, drinking ale and joking in the way folk around the world behave in well-liked company. After those five strangers had appeared at her inn, she badly needed the relaxation a good drink offered.
“How was business, Morna?” Kellen, the butcher, grinned.
Adjusting her leather apron, Morna replied, “Got some more guests. Rich customers.”
“Guess you can pay your bill soon.” The butcher laughed, and was joined by several others.
“Aye,” she replied.
“Know why they’re here? And what the warrior’s doin’ here?” another asked.
The innkeeper shrugged. “No. You know I don’t question my customers, Will.”
Grinning sheepishly, Will said, “One still can ask, eh?”
“Sure. Jus’ don’t expect an answer.”
The next day Pol Haggrainh’s body was discovered. Amidst the trouble caused by Lord Haggrainh’s steward conducting an investigation, General Kerral began to levy troops like he had already done in a few other villages. All of the young men and a few womenfolk soon were in arms, training to fight in a shield wall with the King’s warriors and the other draftees. The army moved into town from their camp outside Carlgh, and soon armed folk crowded the inns and the tavern. The citizens were forced to clear an old barn and set up a makeshift tavern. More ale was brewed, but it didn’t suffice, leading the townsfolk to buy some from neighboring villages that had hardly suffered, since General Kerral had merely added people to the ranks and moved on. Carlgh, he explained, was the first line of defense.
The five men, on the other hand, inquired about a stranger, a tall man who must have come through Carlgh in the last two years. They said he was wanted for crimes in several countries. It was urgent that this fugitive be captured.
It wasn’t long before someone guessed they might be looking for the shepherd. As soon as this speculation aired, the five strangers left the village, despite the threatening thunderclouds.
The sun went down over the desolate plain north of Carlgh, when five black-clad riders closed on the lonely shepherd’s hut. Wind had come up during the afternoon, and its steady rush blew leaves across the hills, masking the horses’ steady hoof beats.
The sky had darkened at a frightening rate; clouds covered it from horizon to horizon, threatening a downpour of immense proportions. When the rain started, the grassland around the hills would quickly turn into marshland, but the riders were unconcerned with the threatening weather.
They closed the distance between themselves and the hut to about fifty feet. The leader gave a sign, and the riders fanned out, covering as much ground as possible, positioning themselves around the hut so their prey could not escape.
Twenty feet from the building the horses came to a halt, their riders dismounted and approached the hut. Lightning flashed across the dark sky, illuminating the scene.
The leader stared at the building, which for the blink of an eye was discernible. His hand flashed up.
Carefully the leader edged forward.
Reaching the door, the man charged. He kicked the door. Behind him, his four companions froze, hands on their weapons.
Nothing happened.
Another flash of lighting lit the area.
“Damnation! Curse his bloody carcass!” roared the leader above the deafening thunderclap that followed. “He’s gone!”
CHAPTER 7
Eighth of Chill, 1475 K.C.
Passion was an apt name for the place, and Jesgar Garinad was enjoying every moment of it. Sure, some folks knew him as the little brother to one of the best smiths in Dunthiochagh, but only one person, other than himself of course, knew who he really was. Right now, that person was teasing his neck with little bites. They were alone in the steam bath, lounging on one of the wooden couches, usually meant for only one.
“And then, dear?” Evlin breathed into his ear. “What happened?”
A content sigh escaped his lips, and he turned and looked the pretty blond lass in those gorgeous green eyes. Indeed, he was a happy man. “Oh, I ate some of the leftover roast, had a nip of wine, and was off again.”
“To see me?” The wicked gleam in her eyes left little doubt of what she had in mind.
Jesgar didn’t mind the thought either. “Of course, dove,” he said as he leaned forward and kissed her.
Their kiss didn’t last long.
The door t
o the steam room was shoved open, Evlin pulled back, and he turned to the intruder. “Private party, get out.”
The man in the doorway, Jesgar noticed against the backdrop of the corridor lights, was dressed, hardly the right attire for the hot vapor. “We need to talk, Hand.”
“No idea what you’re talking about,” he replied. How could anyone except Evlin and him know? A quick glance at the girl showed that she was as confused as he. No, she hadn’t told anyone, he decided.
“Listen, boy, I have not time for your games,” the man said. Now that Jesgar’s eyes had adjusted to the murk caused by the steam, he saw the intruder wore some kind of armor, possibly even a surcoat, a hooded cloak, and most definitely a sword. “If you want to, we can go see Upholder Coimharrin right now to verify if you’re telling the truth.”
“Close the door, if you please.” This answer was no ready admission of guilt, but what was he to do? The stranger did as requested. “How did you know?”
A few steps brought the man forward and he settled on the other couch. “Overheard you a while ago.” He nodded toward Evlin. “She didn’t sell your secret to me, but I have to warn you, boy, some walls are thinner than you think. Be wary of pillow talk.” He gestured toward his groin and smirked. “Shall I fetch some ice water?”
Jesgar felt himself blush; Evlin giggled as she stood up and wrapped a towel around her. He covered himself with the cloth they had been sharing. “No need.”
“Very well. Lass, be so kind and leave us.” So far, the stranger had not revealed his face.
“As you wish,” Evlin replied and hurried out, closing the door behind her.
“Now to business,” the man said. “From what I’ve gathered, you’re neither a thief nor a killer, correct?”
“Yes, sir.” Jesgar didn’t know why he gave the unexpected visitor an honorific; it just felt right.
“You’re Bennath Garinad’s little brother, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” What was wrong with him? He didn’t have that much respect for most priests; then again, it was sort of difficult to remain aloof when the person you were talking to was dressed—and armed—and you weren’t.
“And why do you break into houses?”
“Because I can.” There, that was more like the defiant man he was.
“And you think it right for anyone who can do something to do it?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “As long as no one gets hurt.” His opposite was about to voice another question, when Jesgar blurted out, “Right, you know my name. Obviously, you are not here to put me in chains. This is about as secret as you can get. Evlin won’t talk. Before this little interrogation continues, tell me: who are you?” The stranger removed his hood, and Jesgar sat up. “I’ll be damned!”
“Pleasure to meet you, Jesgar Garinad,” Kildanor, Chosen of Lesganagh, friend and advisor to Baron Duasonh, said.
He couldn’t believe it, a Chosen. Rumor had it that the God of Sun and War had blessed them at the time of the Wizard War, or Heir War as folk called it. They were the king’s elite guard in Harail. And one of them was sitting here! For a moment, he was unsure what to do: worry, be elated, or worry some more. The little he knew about the Chosen made up his mind for worry, it was never good to meet an experienced… was killer the right term? After all, Lesganagh’s faith had been prohibited years before he was born, and from what Ben had told him, the Lesganaghists had been a violent bunch at the best of times.
“What do you want?” Jesgar blurted out.
The warrior nodded. “Right to the point, I like that.” He took a deep breath and continued, “You like the Baron?”
“Aye,” the Hand answered.
“Why?”
Jesgar raised fingers for the points he wanted to make. “He’s no toad, for starters.” Where was this Kildanor going with these questions anyway? “He doesn’t have any kind of stick in his ass, unlike a whole bunch of other folks. Unlike what I’ve heard from other places, he actually is a lord, and no bastard. And if the people have complaints he listens.” As an afterthought he added, “Unlike that cousin of his, that Jathain fellow.”
He must have said something right, because for an instant Lord Kildanor’s eyes flashed in approval. “Splendid.” The Chosen poured himself some of the wine Jesgar had arranged for Evlin and himself to drink. It was just as she liked it, sweet as an overripe berry. Kildanor spat out the first pull almost as soon as it passed his lips. “Gods, what’s this?” He shook his head and finally continued. “Never mind. So, how long has your family lived in Dunthiochagh?”
Jesgar thought for a moment then said, “One of my great-granddas fought for the old Baron in the Heir War. Got his wife pregnant and died.”
Kildanor’s look grew distant for a moment then he shook his head. “So, your folks have been here a long time?”
“Yea.”
“If I were to tell you the city is threatened from within, what would you do?”
Before the Chosen had finished his question, Jesgar blurted out the answer, “Try to nail the bastard, of course.”
The warrior nodded, apparently satisfied with the reply. This was where the entire affair was leading, the young man realized. Kildanor was asking him to help.
“Would you also go to jail for it?”
Jesgar was still pondering Lord Kildanor’s plan when he left the Passion. Thanks to his ample allowance he could afford to frequent the establishment at least once a week and still have enough left to spend carousing. Sure, he had to help his brother in the smithy every once in a while, but most of his time he had to himself.
Now that he’d agreed to the Chosen’s plan, all of this would change. Provided he survived the night. The gong-strike heralding sunset, one of the few customs carried over from the now-banned religion of Lesganagh, signaled the sinking of the sun; slowly the late evening’s gloom was replaced by lengthening shadows, Jesgar’s favorite time. Not yet utter blackness, but closer to it than the brightness of day.
The Passion was at the western end of Boughaighr Alley. The way might have been aptly named many years ago when only a few streets had made up the keep at the Dunth. Nowadays there were very few people left who could remember the ruinous fire that had swept this alley clean of all buildings save Eanaigh’s Temple. What had once been a narrow dirt lane with wooden houses on each side was now a stone-paved street two cart widths in breadth. Shingle-roofed stone houses that contained well-to-do inhabitants had replaced the timber buildings. Although Trade Road in the center of the triangle between the two temples and the Palace still was host to the open-air market, Boughaighr Alley was home to some of the finest craftsmen, and they had profited from their proximity to the market. Yet many people, including Jesgar, called the street Beggar’s Alley: in the old days before the fire, beggars had lined up in front of the Temple of Eanaigh to receive alms. Beggars were still a common sight here, but the giving of alms was now in the hands of the people who walked the streets.
Jesgar observed the last of the drifters slipping away into the night as the street emptied itself of potential marks. Even though the smell that surrounded the beggars went with them, the pungent odor of the first canal, into which every connected household dumped their refuse, remained. It wasn’t as bad as the smell of the slum near the West Gate, or other areas not near a canal or the river, but it was ever-present. Also ever-present was the watchmen who patrolled this part of town and went to the non-canal spots only when needed, a fact that Jesgar had begun to appreciate ever since he had started his trips into other houses.
As he turned right onto Trade Road, he saw what he’d come to expect; the Palace’s drawbridge was raised. And as Lord Kildanor had pointed out, the battlements were strangely devoid of warriors. On his nightly trips, Jesgar had made it a point to avoid the Palace’s vicinity because of the sentinels, but when he focused on the merlons and what went on behind them he barely saw any movement.
The Hand was of a mind to walk right up to the moat and look for the
spot Lesganagh’s Chosen had mentioned earlier, but caution prevailed. Instead he kept to the shadows; a relatively easy task considering that with the cloudy sky there was nary a well-lit place. He reached the northwestern corner of the moat and stared into the splashing and gurgling waters. Sure enough, there was a lot of junk in the moat. It almost seemed as if the canal waters had stopped flowing south entirely and that the only way fresh water came into the ditch was from the river. This current was not enough to dislodge whatever was forming a second bridge to the outer walls.
How the Scales could any diligent guard miss this crossing, Jesgar wondered. It certainly confirmed what Lord Kildanor had mentioned earlier. Baron Duasonh’s cousin, Lord Jathain, was not acting in the city’s best interest. If the wall was in the same state of repair as the moat, climbing the Palace’s outer fortification would be very easy.
For a moment Jesgar questioned his decision. Was it really wise to get involved in the intrigues of Lords? He was a citizen of Dunthiochagh, freeborn. His loyalty lay with Cumaill Duasonh, who was a rarity himself, if visitors to the city could be believed. Other nobles mistreated the villeins, even the freeborn, with high taxes and the unjust overruling of Lawspeakers’ judgments. All this was nonexistent where the Baron was concerned. But the city and the Palace’s safety were Lord Jathain’s responsibility. The watch inside was still doing its duty as far as Jesgar could tell, but the patrols on Dunthiochagh’s outer wall were not what they should have been.
There was movement. Jesgar remained still, his eyes focused on the battlement. A lone, lantern-bearing warrior trudged toward him. The woman—upon closer inspection he realized he knew her—held her spear in the cradle of her right arm, while her left swung the lantern lazily back and forth. The Hand couldn’t believe his eyes when the woman stopped and undid her braid only to plait the blond curls anew. When she was done, the Spear took a long pull from an earthenware bottle, wiped foam from her lips and, after replacing the cork, resumed her patrol.
