A few minutes later, the men-at-arms returned. “Never been in a buttery before,” the shorter man said. “Don’t know how butlers keep from temptation with such a wealth of drink available to them.”
Fillister laughed. “You were able to resist, yes? Just one bucket of ale and my jug of wine.”
“Well, yes, but I’m not faced with the temptation every day like a butler. I’m also not a thief.”
“Just as well. Thievery might bring riches but more likely a stretched neck. Honest labor keeps one clear of the law and provides a clear conscience.”
The guard nodded. “And who can put a value on that.”
As Fillister poured wine from the new jug, the two guards quickly glanced at one another. They tensed as he sniffed the contents of his cup.
“Ah, marvelous,” Fillister said to himself with a pleased smile. “This should prove to be a most momentous event.” He looked at the two guards. “Eat. There are no pretentions here.”
The guards poured ale as Fillister first sipped from his glass, then smiled and took a long pull of the deep burgundy liquid.
The three ate and chatted, Fillister inquiring as to recent events in Cruxford.
“This plot you mentioned, have there been any deaths?” Andre asked.
“None yet,” the shorter guard said with an intent look. “I think it was found out before it was begun. How’s the wine?”
Fillister blinked slowly, a look of confusion crossing his face. Placing his hands on the table as if to stand, he paused and lifted them, flexing his fingers before looking at his dinner companions. “You! You did this,” he said in a slurred voice. “Why?”
“It’s a job, Sir Mage. I said I was no thief. Assassin be me profession.”
“Don’t you worry,” the other man said, “it’s not poison we put in the wine.”
Fillister tried to stand, but only managed to fall to the floor, his eyes growing glassy as the agent placed in the wine took hold. A brief look of panic crossed the mage’s face, soon replaced with one of resignation as the shorter man knelt next to him. “You must listen,” Fillister said. “Important knowledge… I sense Mirkness’ works… need to stop… Cataclysm… important the knowledge gets to the right people… otherwise….”
“What, what, old man?”
Fillister grimaced in effort as he contorted a hand to cast a magic sign. “The… end,” he said as he fell unconscious. The candles throughout the tower dimmed.
“What does that mean?” the man said to his companion.
“It means it's time to do our job. Let’s see to slitting his throat and burning the books.”
“He said he knows of Mirkness’ plots.”
“Sensed it he said. That’s what these magickers do. Always sniffing out each other. If he wasn’t so worried about other spellcasters, he might have know what we was up to, eh? It’s nothing, but best we mention it when we rejoin Malig’s force. Might net us a bit of extra coin. Pull one of the tapestries from the wall. We’ll roll the old man onto it before we slice him. Beats dragging him to a corner so we keep from tracking through blood.”
“Good thinking. We’ve got much to burn.”
. . .
Fillister’s body lay still, a moist red stain surrounding his head glistened as it congealed into the weave of the tapestry. Just steps away, the two assassins tossed the dwindling amount of books and scrolls of the mage’s considerable collection into the fireplace. The fantastically colored flames snapped and sometimes whirled like miniature cyclones as equally odd hued smoke billowed up the chimney.
“Will you look at that,” the taller assassin said pointing at the fire.
“That magic?”
“Who’s to say? Magic or the strange workings that make a book. Matters not a copper.”
“Last stack,” the smaller killer said sliding the last of the works closer to the hearth.
“Wait, we'll keep that one on the bottom.”
“Malig’s man said to burn them all and leave this place with not a written word left in it.”
“We don’t burn that one. We take it with us.”
His partner set the large tome aside and looked at the cover. CATACLYSMA O’ LAERDAVILE read the imprinted lettering at the top of the leather cover. Inlaid with the worn remains of gold leaf and decorated by a true artist, the ancient tome held an allure despite its worn condition.
“What's so special about this one?” he said as he squinted at the book. “Cata… catalsum… whatever it is, what's it mean?”
“A myth tale from long ago. For us it means arse paper.”
“Arse paper? Catlisim? That's not any word for such I’ve ever heard. You sure it means that?”
“To us it do. That book’s got the biggest pages and we've got three or four days journey ahead of us to get clear of Arataine. Might as well live like landed nobles for a bit and have something for our bums. Heard of such being done in the far nor-west. I’d wager kings and queens hereabout do the same and so shall we. Who’s to read it when we’re done with it?”
“I'd rather have spirits, but down me neck, not me arse.”
“We'll have both. I said we’ll live like kings. Bag up some victuals from the larder and any bottle that looks like it’s got some kick in it, find some warm blankets, and we’ll have us a kingly meal at the roadside when we stop. We’ll live the royal life the whole way back.”
“Hey, didn’t the old man say something about catalsum?”
“He did at that. It’s fate. I told you, we’ll get a taste of the life of the high and mighty.”
The taller assassin pulled a tapestry from the wall and laid it flat on the floor. “A floor for our mobile palace, milord,” he said.
His comrade laughed. “Wise thinking, sire.”
“Let’s get grabbing. You hit the buttery, I’ll nab the food. Roll up what don’t fit in our packs. We need to be well clear of here by dawn.”
It took the two little time to gather the items. As they rolled up several bottles in the tapestry, the shorter man said, “Quite a haul we be pulling out of here.”
“So, you lied to the old man. You are a thief.”
“You can’t steal from the dead. A dead man owns and owes nothing in this world.”
. . .
Dech and Theo crested a small hill and the Aratainian capital of Cruxford came into view. Positioned high above a looping bend in the Brodendep River that wound its way to cover three sides of the city and provide a natural barrier against attackers and a navigable water route for trade, the city and its structures provided an awe-inspiring sight. Several bridges crossed the wide river, the most impressive a replacement for the ford that provided the place its name. Long ago dredged deep enough to accommodate any vessel in existence, the river channel brought in nearly as many goods as the road system. Beyond the city walls, the imposing faces of the castle and high spires of the church dominated the skyline, but they were not the only impressive structures. The towers of Arataine University, Hieronymus Institute, mages academies, guild and trade halls, and order houses made Cruxford one of the great cities of the Southerlies.
Theo sighed loudly and gestured at the sight. “From here, quite the spectacle, but once inside…. Ah, capital cities. Palaces and pomp. Power and prestige. A swirling cesspool to which scum, the ambitious, and the greedy flow.”
“You should write that down for posterity,” Dech said.
“And who says that I have not?”
The warder smiled. “Dissy had it right. You are an odd friar.”
Theo laughed. “I am just as the Creator made me.”
“That you are. I must point out, we’re flowing toward the place.”
Theo laughed again and shook his head. “No, neither do we swim, slink, or slither. We ride steeds or walk upon foot and serve kings only when we must. Otherwise we serve a different purpose… and a higher power.”
The pair parted ways once in Cruxford, Theo heading for his order’s priory, Dech to see the senio
r Contrition House authority in the capital, Order-Captain Niall.
. . .
“Warder Dech, come in,” the Order-Captain said as he walked into the man’s office. “Several reports precede you.”
Dech knew by the tone of Niall’s voice he disapproved of one or more of his actions.
“Was the public joust with the Fromaerians necessary? Word of the incident reached me via King’s Legion sources. One of these knights you bested is the nephew of Fromaer’s King Alexander. Now I hear the five foreigners are here in the capital seeking redress and a return of equipment confiscated by a knight they referred to as a ‘cheating brigand in order robes.’”
“The King’s Legion did the confiscating. As for how I dealt with them, what would you have me do? Kill them? They were impeding travel to and from Fridley. They did harm to people of Arataine and seized property belonging to those people. Does the order have a policy regarding the treatment of those conducting a passage of arms?”
Niall stared glumly at the warder. “I had never heard of such a thing until recently, so no, there is no policy. I appreciate the results, but not the showy way you achieved them.”
“There was no means to do it in any other way. The Fromaerians blocked a bridge on a major thoroughfare into Fridley. How might I have stopped them without a crowd of people watching?”
“What is done is done, Sir Dech, but I am sure the Grand Master will have words for you. I had a mission for you from the Grand Master. That may be set aside. King Harold requested your presence once you arrived in the city. I suggest you rest and—”
“Order-Captain,” a young contrition knight said as he stopped in the doorway, “a messenger sent this from the palace. Sir Dech is to report to the king immediately.”
Niall nodded. “There you have it. No rest for the likes of you.”
. . .
Despite having been in the palace countless times when he was the King’s Household Knight-Commander, Dech felt some trepidation knowing what to expect. He doubted things had changed much if at all since he was last there. His attire would draw harsh and condescending looks followed by accompanying derogatory comments he was sure, unless breeches and surcoat made from tough tent cloth and dirty leather riding boots had suddenly become the fashion in Arataine.
“I am Warder Dech, ordered to see the king immediately,” he said to the young guardsman upon arriving at the gate tower leading into the keep.
The guardsman looked over his shoulder and called, “Mack, can you come out?”
“Would that be Macklin?” Dech asked.
“It would be,” a man with salt-and-pepper hair said as he stepped from the tower. “Flattered you remember me, Sir Dech. Missed having you about.”
Happy to see the man, Dech’s pleasure was tempered by Dealan’s talk of convergences and Theo’s endorsement of the idea.
Another guard came from the tower and joined Macklin.
“Find the commander of the guard and tell him we need to get Sir Dech of the Contrition Knights in to see the king,” Macklin said to the man next to him. “Make haste.”
The man nodded and moved through the gate before disappearing from sight behind the wall.
“Still putting up with the nobility I see,” Dech said.
Macklin laughed. “That I am. Not much different than when I started.” Looking to see if anyone was near, he leaned toward the warder. “Still as stuffy as it was before. If anything it’s worse. Today the great hall is filled to the rafters with them.”
The other guard shifted about uncomfortably.
“Calm yourself, lad,” Macklin said. “Sir Dech’s not one to worry over. You’ll learn.” He looked at Dech and gestured at the other guard. “Young Bryce here is just starting out.”
“You’ll get your feet under you soon enough,” Dech said. “Know who the king, queen consort, dukes, and duchesses are and how to address them. Call everyone else milord, milady, or sir, and you should stay clear of trouble.”
The young man smiled. “That’s what Mack told me.”
“Where do you think I learned it,” Dech replied.
“I had no idea what a mess the hierarchy was,” Bryce said. “Once—”
Macklin sighed loudly. “Here we go. The boy toiled as a scribe for a bit before seeking the glamorous life of a guardsman. Toiled just long enough to get thoughts bigger than his place in this world.”
Bryce paid Macklin little mind and started again. “Once it was just kings, princes, and barons. Then some barons got to thinking they might be rulers themselves and carved out their own kingdoms and grand duchies, then the idea of women rulers took hold. Then came dukes, earls, and countesses. They made the functionary positions of margraves and greves into noble ranks, now we have knights with no martial ability. Seems like there could be a better way.”
“And have you a solution yet?” Macklin asked.
“Well, I was thinking about it last night. A—”
“Put a lid on the political blasphemy for now,” Macklin said with a gesture over his shoulder. “Guard commander’s coming.”
A few seconds later, a trio of men came into view.
The man leading the three stopped a few steps from the warder and looked him up and down with distaste evident in his expression.
“You might have dressed for the occasion, Warder,” the guard commander said.
“My definition of ‘report immediately’ must differ from yours,” Dech replied flatly.
The man’s expression soured further. “Quite.” He looked at the pair of guards nearest Dech. “Conduct the warder to His Majesty. These two will man the post.”
“If you’d come with us, Sir Knight,” Macklin said as swept an arm toward the bailey inside the gate.
Once well away from the tower, Bryce pointed at their starting point and said, “Mack, back there, how’d you know the guard commander was coming?”
“Give it a decade or two and you’ll learn to sense the presence of authority. Best you do it sooner rather than later or learn to keep your musings to yourself.”
“Yes, we peasants mustn’t seek a better way.”
Macklin laughed. “We’re not peasants, lad. We be guardsmen and as such, we’re yeoman. Landless, but have the same responsibilities and privileges. Do something tremendous and someone might just knight you like him,” he said with a gesture toward Dech.
“I don’t want to be gelded just so I can wear a smart uniform and be called ‘sir.’”
“They don’t geld knights, not even contrition knights.”
“That so? Well, perhaps it’s not so bad, but still confusing.”
Macklin laughed again and shook his head. “Well, you keep thinking. Maybe you’ll find a better way.”
“Ah, who’ll listen to me? Easier to just point out the problems and complain about them. Now, a knighthood, well, that might be the path.”
They crossed the bailey and were let into the keep by doormen, then made their way to the great hall.
The hall was packed with people, mostly nobles, dignitaries, and servants. The two guards began to carve a polite path through crowd, but the progress was slow. Many of those who saw Dech and his patrol attire sneered or made comments about his appearance as he predicted. At the back of the room, a tall and lanky man stood from the throne atop the dais, golden crown glinting, red finery sparkling. A hush rolled across the throne room, but before silence took hold, King Harold of Arataine bellowed, “I understand the warder is here? Let him pass. Clear the way.”
Most in the crowd looked toward the entrance seeking a glimpse of the man in question, but few moved. The guards politely asked those nearest them to step aside, but again the progress was glacial.
“Damn it all,” King Harold yelled. “Clear a path.”
Some moved toward the walls, but most in the crowd continued to look for the warder and wonder why such a scene was taking place.
Dech grew impatient. He placed a hand on each of the guards and said quietly, �
��Return to your posts. I’m about to ruffle some feathers.”
Suppressing smiles, each guardsman performed an about-face and headed for the entry doors.
Dech began gently, but firmly, pushing people aside. “Make a hole,” he shouted. “By the order of Our Majesty King Harold, make a hole or I’ll make my own.”
The crowd parted, not happily, but they moved at the sight of an armed and armored man of considerable size and displeased demeanor and by the time Dech reached a rapid walking pace, the path to the throne was clear. He stomped his way there feeling the glares of the crowd and noting more than a few amused and approving smiles among those edging the approach.
The warder knelt before the dais and King Harold. Dipping his head, he uttered, “Your Majesty ordered my presence.”
“I did.” Harold looked over the crowd before continuing. “That all might be so diligent at obeying my requests… and so promptly. Warder, rise and come with me.”
Dech stood and saw three men and a woman cutting an intercept course to join the king on his way to his private office, a place Dech had not been since ordered on the escort that ended his previous life.
A servant closed the door after Dech entered, the others having taken seats already. He recognized two of the men, longtime advisors to Harold, Lords Gilbert Arundel and Richard Havers. The others he’d never seen before.
“Sit, Sir Dech, sit,” Harold said. “It’s not like you’ve never been here before.”
Dech unhooked part of his sword’s scabbard to allow him to shift its position and took a seat as the others looked at him uncomfortably.
“You recall Lords Havers and Arundel I assume?” the king asked. Not waiting for an answer, he continued. “The others are Lady Viviane Henning, Countess of Carrick, and High Mage Conway Wace of the King’s Mage Council.”
Dech inclined his head, but said nothing.
“You’ve not changed much,” the king said. “As talkative as ever.”
“He spoke loudly enough out there,” Lady Viviane said. “Saying much with few words.”
“And enjoyed it immensely, I should think,” Harold replied looking at Dech. “As well you should. I certainly did. Do you remember Andre Fillister?”
The Warder Page 13
