A Sellsword's Wrath

by Jacob Peppers

  He reached under his tunic and withdrew the key from where it hung around his neck. Already, the guards had knelt facing the opposite end of the hall, their heads down and their eyes closed. Belgarin took a deep, slow breath, steadying himself. He hesitated, as he always did, fear slithering up his spine like some icy serpent. Then, reluctantly, he unlocked the door and stepped inside.

  The Knower did not look like much, swallowed as he was by the massive four post bed on which he lay. The bed’s silk coverlet had been thrown aside, and, as always, the man was dressed only in his night clothes. Through the thin fabric, Belgarin could see legs and arms that were no thicker than the fire pokers the servants used to coax a flame to life in the castle’s great hall. The Virtue of Intelligence gave the man who possessed it many gifts but, as with the other Virtues, there was a price to be paid for such gifts.

  The servant boy who’d been assigned to the Knower’s rooms did not turn at the sound of the door closing, but of course that was no surprise. As the guards might be made mute for their own protection as well as the protection of others, so, too, was the boy who served the Knower deaf. A precaution as much for his own health as anyone else’s. The first few had not been, and by the time the third servant, a young, pretty girl of no more than twelve years, had taken her own life like her predecessors, it had become clear that such precautions were necessary.

  Belgarin watched for a moment as the youth, sitting on the bed beside the Knower, drew a spoon from a bowl of porridge and gently placed it in the Knower’s mouth. If the man noticed, he gave little sign as a line of drool hung lazily from his mouth, and he stared out at the empty space of the room with eyes feverish with madness. The boy was forced to push the spoon further into the wasted man’s mouth until finally he chewed on reflex, as much if not more of the honeyed oats falling onto the bib on his chest as made it down his throat.

  It was a hard thing to watch, a hard room in which to stand, but, then, like so many other things, it was necessary. Belgarin stood, waiting, reluctant to disturb the boy though he knew the business he had was best seen to as quickly as possible. Still, the sooner the boy finished, the sooner he would be forced to listen to the old man’s words, words that could drive a weaker mind mad. Caldwell moved toward the boy to make him leave off feeding the wasted form in the bed, and it was all Belgarin could do not to reach out and stop him.

  Caldwell put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and the youth turned dully around. As he did, Belgarin wondered, not for the first time, where Caldwell acquired these servants. The boy’s face was plain, his features the thick, ill-defined ones of a lowborn, and Belgarin noted that he had some sort of rash on the side of his face. The boy took note of Caldwell and Belgarin, and his eyes widened slightly, his face growing red and making the angry rash stand out all the more prominent for that. He dropped his head in a bow that Belgarin thought seemed directed more at Caldwell than Belgarin himself then he took the bowl and hurried out the door.

  Belgarin frowned after him for a moment, not liking the fact that the boy had seemed more terrified of an advisor in simple robes than his own king, but as he turned back to the bed the Knower’s mad eyes were locked on his and all thoughts of the incident left him. Swallowing hard, Belgarin withdrew a silk kerchief from his tunic and held it to his nose and mouth before venturing closer toward the bed. The stink of the man grew stronger with each step he took, and it was all he could do to keep from gagging despite the perfumed kerchief. It was the smell of shit and rot and death, and it was one that he could not grow accustomed to no matter how many times he visited these chambers. For his part, Caldwell seemed unaffected, reason enough for Belgarin to hate the man had he no other.

  “My … king,” the Knower grated in a raw whisper. His mad eyes met Belgarin’s, and he smiled, revealing gums that held two remaining teeth, both black with rot. “What an … honor.”

  Belgarin grunted, feeling somehow tainted by being so close to the man. He wanted nothing more than to get on with his business and be gone. But, then, there were pleasantries to be observed. “How goes it with you, Knower?”

  The man’s grin widened, and he let out a series of choked wheezes that might have been laughter. “I’m dying. But then, aren’t we all, Your Majesty? The boy is dying too, though he knows it not.” He frowned, “I have tried to tell him as much.”

  He stared at Belgarin with eyes that knew too much, eyes made insane by the knowledge they carried. “As you said, we all are.”

  “Yes,” the man said, grinning again, “but the boy’s death will be a special one. Whore rot, they call it. You noticed, didn’t you? His face?”

  Belgarin fought back the urge to snap at the man. The Knower might have information he could use, but whether or not he chose to share it was up to him. After all, what could you threaten a man with who was already dying? Whose every moment passed in excruciating agony as his body ate itself? “I noticed.”

  The man nodded, grinning. “There is a cure for the rot, of course. But it is known to only a very few, alas. The boy will become a man and that man will, perhaps, father sons and daughters. And they, too, will carry the rot, though theirs will be more severe, more ….” He raised his withered shoulders in what might have been a shrugged, “pronounced. Those he fathers will not make it out of infancy.”

  It was Belgarin’s time to frown, “And the cure?”

  The Knower shrugged again, “Too late, I’m afraid. The boy will die, eventually. As will what children he has.”

  The withered husk watched Belgarin with obvious joy dancing in his crazed stare, enough to make it clear that he knew the cure and would not share it. Perhaps, if Belgarin pressed, the man might give it away, but there were more important things to concern himself with than one boy’s life. I do what is necessary. “You’ve been apprised of the latest?”

  “I was sent....” the man cut off, hacking a deep, wet cough that left bloody spittle on the front of his nightshirt. “I was sent documents,” he said.

  “Very well,” Belgarin said, unable to keep the disgust from his voice, “Then you know that my sister and the man known as the Silent Blade are still eluding Caldwell’s hunters,” he said, frowning at his advisor. “The man, in particular, has proven to be a great nuisance.”

  “Ah yes, I have been told of this man. A great nuisance, indeed.” The man let out that withered laughter again, his emaciated frame shaking with the force of it until he once more fell into a fit of bloody, wracking coughs. Finally, he composed himself, wiping a shaking arm across his mouth, the sleeve of his shirt coming away red with blood. “He has led you a merry chase, that one. And, of course, there’s your sister to worry about, isn’t there? Sadly, they will be harder to catch now, as they will be leaving the city soon, if they haven’t already.

  Belgarin frowned, “Leave the city? What makes you think so?”

  The old man shook his head as if Belgarin was a fool, “Your sister and those with her have been discovered now. Their safety, here, was predicated on the fact that any reasonable man would have expected them to flee. Now that they’re discovered, they’ve no choice but to flee in truth. You’ve of course, sent your men to the docks.”

  Belgarin glanced at his counselor who gave a slight shake of his head. “Do it,” Belgarin growled, “now.”

  Caldwell bowed his head then vanished out the door. Belgarin watched the door close behind him then turned back to the wasted form lying in the bed, “What else?”

  The Knower grinned again, “That you don’t know? Oh so much, my king.”

  Belgarin fought back the urge to throttle the man, though it did not go easy. “I meant about the situation at hand,” he growled, “as you well know.”

  “Yes,” the man said, “knowing is my business, after all. And what a profitable business it is, too. Do you know that I soil myself at least once a day? Oh yes,” he said, at Belgarin’s look of disgust, “my thoughts exactly. The mind may hold all of the knowledge the world has to offer, yet the body is
a separate animal altogether, and possessed of its own … truths. Still,” he said, grinning that macabre grin, “do not think me ungrateful. I do so enjoy the oats the boy brings—what little of them my failing body manages to keep down.”

  “To be a Knower,” Belgarin snapped, “Is an honor—”

  “Oh yes,” the old man interrupted, his mad eyes dancing with anger, “an honor to feel each organ in my body shutting down, to know in no uncertain terms that I will die and do so horribly. An honor to know what is happening and to know, just as well, that there is no remedy. Give me no more honors, my king. I’m not sure that my heart could take it.”

  Belgarin sat in silence, watching the man. Finally, “I’m sorry for the suffering you must endure. Still, it is necessary.”

  “Necessary,” the man hissed, “oh, but how you love that word. It is not necessity but nature that drives, my king. House cats chase mice, toy with them, men cheat on their wives and wives on their husbands, men murder and steal and hate not because it is necessary but because it is in their nature. And keep your apologies—I care less for them than I do your honors.”

  Belgarin grunted and rose, tired of the man’s games. He turned and started toward the door. “My king?”

  He turned back at the sound of the man’s voice, saw him watching him with that insane gaze. “Would you like to know how you will die?”

  Belgarin sneered, “And are you some teller of fortunes, to see the future?”

  The man wheezed laughter, “Oh, my honor is not to predict, but to understand, not to guess, but to know. Not that your fate requires much skill to foresee—it is writ plain for those who look closely enough.”

  “May Salen take you,” Belgarin spat then turned for the door.

  “Soon enough, my king,” the man said behind him, “soon enough.”

  Belgarin grasped the door’s handle and swung it open, but the Knower spoke one final time. “They will split up. This sellsword knows his business, knows that they will be too easy to track should they stay together.”

  Belgarin considered that, turning back. “And where will they go?”

  “Where indeed,” the man said, his voice a rasping whisper, “I think it is high time you sent a letter to your remaining siblings, the ones you’ve yet to murder. There are two, besides the one who now confounds you, are there not?”

  Belgarin felt his face flush with anger and something like shame. “I did not murder them,” he said, “they tried to kill me. Eladen and Geoffrey both, and Ophasia …” he shook his head, “she would not see reason. She did not understand what must be done, what I try to accomplish.”

  “Yes, of course,” the creature in the bed said, smiling his ghastly grin, “You did only what was necessary.”

  Hissing a curse, Belgarin fled through the open doorway, the Knower laughing his wheezing laughter behind him. Laugh if you will, foul creature, he thought. I leave you to your knowledge. To your death. The thought was not as much of a comfort as it should have been.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  Aaron’s gaze roamed the streets as they made their way through the city, the anxiety of his companions a palpable thing. Every drunken shout a guard’s cry of alarm, every rapid slapping of a child’s running feet on the cobbles the hasty footsteps of their pursuers as they rushed to attack. “Just take it easy,” he said to the others, and they nodded at him, though the fear remained, writ plain on their faces.

  He, too, felt the sense of being hunted, of being watched. It was not a comforting feeling, but it was one that he was familiar with. It seemed to him that he’d been hunted by one person or another for most of his life.

  And anyway, his thoughts were on other things. In particular, how they were going to make it out of a city full of men and women who wanted them dead. Stealth wasn’t an option—they couldn’t have been more conspicuous of a group if they’d tried at it. The guards at the gates were no doubt watching for them and trying to leave by one would involve nothing but a long walk and a quick death.

  Only one answer for it then and not one that he liked. Nor, he suspected, would his companions. There was little talk as he led them in the direction of the docks, all of them thinking their own thoughts, entertaining their own fears. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he saw the docks in the distance and the knot of tension that had been gathering in his shoulders eased a bit. Ships of all sorts and sizes lined the harbor. Most, he suspected, hired out by men and women who’d come to Baresh for the contest and decided to stay for a time.

  He noted that, unsurprisingly, several guards moved back and forth along the docks, inspecting the ships and speaking with their captains. Could be they were just saying hello, maybe, or doing routine inspections. He didn’t believe it, of course, wouldn’t have believed it even if he hadn’t seen the way the guards were so intent on checking each ship or the hard gazes they used as they questioned each captain. As if they thought the man had been sleeping with their wives or doing something else untoward, like maybe harboring and planning to aid in the escape of several criminals.

  Aaron sighed and turned to his companions who were studying him with mirrored expressions of anxiety. “Balen, you’re a sailor. Any of those ships down there ones you recognize?”

  The first mate’s skin was so pale as to be nearly white and sweat covered his forehead despite the chill northern air, but he seemed lucid enough. He turned to study the ships, shaking his head slowly, “No, I don’t—” he paused, “wait a minute. Well, gods be praised, that’s the Lady’s Beauty, there.”

  Aaron followed the man’s gaze and took in a fine blue sailed ship, its curves and sweeps elegant and somehow contriving to make it almost appear as if it was moving despite the fact that it sat still at the dock. He knew little of ships, but this one looked as if would slice through the water at great speed and looked more like a piece of art to him than an actual ship. “Damn,” he said, “I don’t pretend to know much about them, but that’s a damn fine ship.”

  Adina nodded beside him, “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  “Eh?” Balen grunted, “Well, serviceable, aye, but I don’t guess as I’ve ever heard anyone call the Lady beautiful before.”

  “Surely, you must be joking,” Adina said, her eyes still roaming the gentle curves of the ship, “I’ve seen a lot of ships—my father had a special love for the sea—and that’s one of the finest I’ve ever seen.”

  Balen frowned and looked back at the ships then grunted a laugh, “Ah, yeah, so it is, so it is. A mighty fine ship, one any man or woman would be proud to serve on, if’n they didn’t mind kissin’ ass to some noble or another, listenin’ to ‘em play at barkin’ orders when they couldn’t be sea men if they grew fins like a fish.” He paused then glanced at Adina, an ashamed expression on his face, “Err … that is, I mean no offense, princess.”

  Adina glanced at Aaron and smiled, “None taken, first mate. We nobles do love to bark.”

  “Anyhow,” the first mate continued, his face red, “I don’t know a man rich enough or dumb enough to dye his sails. Ain’t cheap, keepin’ ‘em that way, what with the sun havin’ its way with ‘em day in and day out. Pretty enough blue, I’ll warrant, but the weight of all that dye will slow her down too. Not much mind, but not much can be the difference between kissin’ your lady or a pirate’s sabre, if you catch my meaning. Still,” he shrugged, almost reluctantly, “a fine ship. I reckon with a good captain she’d be just about as fine of one as a man could want. Course, it ain’t the Lady, and that’s a fact. Naw, she’s that one there.”

  Aaron followed the man’s pointing finger and raised his eyebrows. “Ah,” he said, frowning. The ship the first mate had indicated was about half as long as the other with a wide, flat bottom and one square sail. Barnacles covered much of its sides, and its wood surface was faded in places. The overall effect was such that he was surprised the thing floated at all. “Lady’s Beauty, you say?” He asked, unable to keep the doubt from his voice.


  Why do I get the feeling, Co said in his mind, that this ‘lady’ has a beard. And no doubt forgets to wash. Maybe has a—

  Alright, firefly, I get the idea.

  “Yeah, well,” Balen said, “maybe it ain’t the most accurate name, but I wouldn’t say so to the captain. Festa’s a good enough sort, but he’s got a bit of a temper. Particularly when it comes to his ship.”

  Aaron sighed, “Do you think he’d take on some passengers?”

  Balen frowned, as if just now realizing the direction of Aaron’s thoughts, “Aye, I suppose he would. Festa’s a good enough sort. Most times, anyway. There was one time he threw a feller overboard.”

  Aaron nodded slowly, “Well, I guess there’s worse crimes that have been committed at sea than getting a man a little wet.”

  Like that ship, Co said, her tone in his mind filled with barely suppressed laughter.

  “Aye, so they have,” Balen nodded, “Course the fella was dead before the captain took a mind to throw him overboard.”

  “Dead?” Gryle squeaked, shooting nervous glances around the alleyway as if the very word would draw Belgarin’s troops down on them.

  May patted the chamberlain on his shoulder, “Dead from natural causes, I’m sure, Master Gryle, there’s no need to fret.”

  “Sure,” Balen said, “natural enough, anyhow, when you’re dealin’ with Festa and the man was dead alright, you’ve no worry on that score. Few things that’ll get it done quicker than a blade to the throat and that’s a fact.”

  “Wait,” Aaron said, frowning, “he was murdered?”

  Balen shrugged obviously uncomfortable, “Well, I don’t suppose Festa would much agree with that phrasin’. He’d say the fella was rightly punished, so he would.”