by R J Hanson
“Very well,” Dunewell said.
“And quit looking at the tree line,” Jonas said. “If anyone’s watching us, they’ll mark you for a Silver Helm, or at least a seasoned soldier, for sure.”
“We’re approaching a city,” Dunewell said. “If there are highwaymen or cutmen about, this is where they’ll be.”
“I know that,” Jonas said. “Hang that shield I bought you on your saddle horn.”
“You mean the one that’s entirely too flashy to be of any use?” Dunewell said as much as asked.
“Yes,” Jonas said. “That one. If we have quiet work to do, you’re not bringing a shield along anyway. Watch the reflection on it from time to time. Don’t adjust it with your hand, though. If you need to move it around to take a look, move it with your knee.”
It is wisdom, Whitburn said/thought to Dunewell from inside his mind, for he had detected Dunewell’s anger and pride beginning to resurface.
“By quiet work, you mean murder,” Dunewell said.
“I do,” Jonas said unapologetically. “I mean murder. I’ve killed men and women. I’ve killed them in their sleep and while in the jakes. I’ve killed with sword, hammer, shovel, and my bare hands. I was given to understand that you, being a Sword Bearer, were familiar with what must be done.”
“I have murdered in the name of the Sword Bearers,” Dunewell said, thinking of the watchman he stabbed in the throat on the mountains of Moras. Could that have only been a few months ago?
His name was Hydern, Whitburn said/thought to Dunewell. His name was Hydern, and you will not forget it. For, to forget it is to forget why you do what you do. To forget, it is to betray the act and make it a small, repugnant thing. We kill when we must. Chivalry is for the vain. Chivalry, for chivalry’s sake, is sin. We protect. You did not murder; you executed the will of the Sword Bearers. We bring Order to a world that desires Chaos.
I’m aware, Dunewell responded.
He still didn’t feel any easier about it.
They closed with a caravan of mule trains and wagons moving slowly down the road toward Ivantis. At a quick count, Dunewell estimated twenty pack mules, about a dozen wagons pulled by oxen, and a herd of studs and bulls for fresh breeding. The wagons and mules were packed to the brim with finished goods, cutlery, jewelry, and hand tools mostly, the designs of which Dunewell didn’t recognize.
“They’ve likely come from the halfling villages north and west of here,” Jonas said.
It still bothered Dunewell how good Jonas was at reading his mind, assuming his question, and then answering it before Dunewell ever opened his mouth.
“Those hand tools are of halfling make,” Jonas continued. “Furthermore, there’s no reason to caravan along the road, moving south anyway, when the river barges from Ostbier ship south to Pressock, the small port town of Ivantis. Goods must go north along this road to get to Ostbier, but the river flowing south is the best way to move from Ostbier to Ivantis.”
“Then why did we ride south instead of taking the barges?” Dunewell asked.
“The official answer is to stop in and inquire about a trade contract with the small folk,” Jonas said. “The real reason is I avoid flowing waters whenever I can.”
Dunewell gigged his horse up to a trot to come alongside Jonas so he could look him in the face.
“Don’t worry, kid,” Jonas said. “I’m no vampire or ghoul. But there might be one or two looking for me, and I want them to be able to find me.”
“You avoid rivers because you might be hunted by vampires?” Dunewell asked.
“Oh, I know that I’m hunted by vampires,” Jonas said. “The question is not if, but when. I wouldn’t want there to be anything hampering them when they decide to make their move.”
“Isn’t that something I should know about?” Dunewell asked.
“Let’s catch up to them,” Jonas said, nodding toward the caravan and ignoring Dunewell’s question completely. “It would look suspicious if I didn’t try to make a deal with them before we get to Ivantis. Furthermore, if they’re agreeable with the idea, it would be good for us to arrive in the city with them. They would camouflage us in a way.”
Jonas gigged his horse into a gallop. Dunewell reined his horse to a stop in the middle of the road.
You can trust him, Whitburn said/thought.
Can you know his mind?
His father tried very hard to be a good man and raise good sons, Whitburn said/thought. That I do know. He is hated by a vampire, a powerful one. That I do know. Whether or not he is hunted by him…
Dunewell felt, actually felt, Whitburn shrug in his mind.
Dunewell loosened the reins and encouraged his horse forward with his knees. Jonas had already spoken with the guards at the rear of the caravan and was now galloping toward the wagon in the lead.
As Dunewell approached the rearguard, he raised his right hand to salute but caught himself just in time. It felt awkward, and undignified, to simply wave to them as he passed, but that is what he did. Jonas was keeping pace with the lead wagon, and Dunewell spurred his horse on ahead to catch up to him.
“Here he comes now,” Jonas said as Dunewell approached. “This is Hemming, houseman of House Wellborne. This young man is my esquire, Rutger.”
Hemming was a common man of about fifty. Hair that must have turned gray a decade before was now thinning rapidly. He was a pudgy man, but Dunewell noted that his driver, who appeared to be a stern and business-like man, seemed to respect him. Dunewell had a way of feeling that sort of thing. A talent that had grown much stronger since bonding with Whitburn.
“Well met, Rutger,” Hemming said jovially. “I must say I didn’t expect to meet a House Steward out here on the high road. Much less a Steward all the way from Moras.”
“We saw your caravan and thought we might take our noon meal with you,” Jonas said. “My guess is we won’t reach Ivantis before sundown. I assume we’ll begin to see farms and homesteads soon, but…”
“Don’t want to get cross with a landholder by talking business with his bondsmen,” Hemming said. “Don’t want to let these goods get to market in Ivantis without being able to give them a look first, either.”
Jonas smiled as if he’d been caught attempting to slip a cookie or cake from the high jar.
“As you say,” Jonas said. “You’re a credit to House Wellborne.”
“I don’t know about all that, but we’d be happy for you to noon with us,” Hemming said. “The holdings north of Ivantis mostly belong to House Calyrson. It wouldn’t do for us to mix among them either. Not with goods in tow, anyway.”
The ride was a pleasant one, despite the cold morning air and unfamiliar countryside, and they visited with Hemming as they road alongside. Hemming was quite the collector of local lore and tales. Dunewell decided, if the merchant life did not suit Hemming, he would have a good future as a town crier or street bard.
Jonas, much to Dunewell’s surprise, proved loquacious as well. Dunewell had been unfamiliar with the word loquacious until Jonas had used it to describe himself. Jonas told tales of Moras, sea voyages, prospects on different crops ready for harvest in the coming months, and had a joke appropriate for every topic.
Dunewell, trained to ask about and listen for such details, was amazed at how easily Jonas gleaned information from Hemming. Jonas learned about House Wellborne’s stores, the general attitude toward watchmen and inquisitors of Ivantis, suspicious recent events, and Hemming’s gauge of the criminal element in the region. Jonas was, or could be when he chose, charming. The thought stunned Dunewell.
Dunewell, having never been much of a conversationalist, played his role of second man well. He rode along silently and worked at watching their surroundings while appearing to be merely gazing ahead. His ears, trained inquisitor’s ears, caught much.
From what Hemming had to say, there was trouble brewing among the smugglers in Split Town. Some new group was hiring mercenaries and smuggling something into town that they were wareh
ousing and not re-selling or shipping out to sea. The southern island of Split Town was besieged by rust wolves, and that seemed to somehow tie into it all. Furthermore, the Churches of Fate and Silvor in Ivantis were buying more food than usual, almost double previous years, according to Hemming, and had become very specific about what types of food. They sought dried fruits and meats, nuts, and barrels of salt.
Hemming had the information, of course, but lacked the experience, and the skeptical mind, to put it together as succinctly as Dunewell had. The information Hemming provided came in the form of anecdotes, gossip, or merchants’ market news. No doubt, Jonas had drawn similar conclusions.
There would soon be a war, likely unseen by the residents, in Split Town for control of its smuggling and thieving operations. In addition to that, and possibly unrelated, the churches in Ivantis were preparing for prolonged hardship, possibly war.
Ivantis did not sit on strategic ground. Ivantis was a glorified waystation on the road north from Bolthor on the coast, to Ostbier, the capital. The primary fact worthy of note about Ivantis was that it was home to the larger orphanages of the churches.
The principal duty of the churches there had been to care for orphans from all over. Thus, using their labor, the churches grew crops to support the paladins and templars in the field. Of course, the priests saw to the training of those same orphans. Most never rose above a sort of bondsman laborer for the church, but some were trained to be templars; few were even chosen to train as paladins and clerics.
Dunewell spread these thoughts about in his mind. He did this as he would have spread his notes about an investigation across the surface of his desk. He allowed his mind to glide over them and see connections and patterns wherever it chose.
He mentioned only the Churches of Fate and Silvor, Whitburn thought/said. All churches are represented in Ivantis. Either only these two churches are preparing something, or the other churches are buying from other Houses in an amateurish attempt to conceal their preparations.
Dunewell nodded.
“See,” Hemming said, apparently misinterpreting the nod. “Even your young esquire agrees with me. Winter wheat harvests will start in the month of Wachstrum this year. I’m telling you this winter’s been rough, but she’s about blown herself out.”
“Selling early might be the wise course to take,” Jonas said. “But I’ve always preferred to err on the side of caution. I have a standing deal with Thorvol for stored flour, so there’s less risk in that market.”
“How did you get a deal with Thorvol?” Hemming asked. “The Slandik are notorious for being difficult to barter with in their own lands.”
“House De’Char has some small holdings in Janisport,” Jonas said. “We actually conduct our business there.”
The conversation was interrupted when the driver of Hemming’s wagon reined their team of oxen off the roadway into a clearing. The whole of the caravan, obviously crewed by men who knew their work, moved into the clearing with an organized grace the soldier in Dunewell admired. No orders needed to be given. There was no shouting. Each man knew his job and went to it. Some gathered wood for a cooking fire, others unpacked the foodstuffs, and still others saw to the animals.
“They know their business,” Jonas said quietly as he rode up next to Dunewell. “No chain of command; no officers or sergeants needed. Each man knows his job and goes to it. I’ve often wondered if our military philosophies couldn’t learn something from watching a proper caravan operate.”
“Do you think the news about the smuggling and the information about the churches in Ivantis is linked?” Dunewell asked.
“Too soon to tell,” Jonas said. “The churches in Ivantis don’t operate of their own accord. Small matters are handled at the local level, of course, but what Hemming is describing would only be on orders from the high clerics in Ostbier. When we reach the city, I will send a message to your Chief Adjudicator. If there is something to this, they will ferret it out.”
“And the smuggling?”
“We have an assassin to hunt,” Jonas said. “Keep your mind on the mission in front of us. I know you have hunted vampires and witches. I know you’ve made your share of arrests in Moras. But we are hunting a skilled opponent in his own city. We do not travel with a squadron of soldiers, and we cannot call on any watchmen for help. It is only you and I.”
“Understood,” Dunewell said. “Do you have a plan for finding this assassin?”
“I do,” Jonas said.
Dunewell had discovered that Jonas was not given to discussing his thoughts and plans. Perhaps he had worked alone for too long; perhaps it was just his nature. Jonas could be charming and very talkative, but he seemed to use those traits as another weapon he could draw from his belt. They were not part of his nature.
“And…” Dunewell said.
“We know his contact,” Jonas said. “When we get to the city, I will begin to treat you harshly. I have established with Hemming that you are my esquire, my second man. We will set the stage for your motive. You will reach this contact of his, or hers, and pay for my murder.”
“Then we lay a trap for him,” Dunewell said.
“Something like that,” Jonas said.
Ivantis sprawled across a vast plateau that rose almost two hundred feet from the plains surrounding it. Cutting directly under the cliff of the western edge of the plateau was the great river Whynne that flowed south from the mountains of Nolcavanor. The plateau was a little more than six hundred leagues from north to south and almost five hundred leagues east to west. It fell away steeply, making the only access to the city a gentle slope on its eastern side. The slope was only about a furlong in width and, in Dunewell’s estimation, easily defensible. There were three stone guard posts at the bottom of that slope, each equipped with its own signal fire and manned by two watchmen.
Dunewell judged the guard posts unnecessary and decided they were likely maintained out of tradition more than any practical need. Ivantis was not a strategic city in relation to the Kingdom as a whole. It was more than fifteen hundred leagues from the sea, which made it safe from pirates and of no interest to smugglers. Nor were there any tribes of wildmen or bandits in the region. The valuables the city was known for were crops and the nearby salt mines. Neither treasure would tempt many cutmen.
The Gate of Ivantis was actually an ancient stone wall that ran from one side of the slope to the other. It had been repaired over the decades with wooden palisades and had a commanding view of the slope and the territory all around. The gates themselves, iron-bound softwood, opened into a four-way sally port. The four gates opened onto the slope, the gate straight across from them showed the way into the city proper with its own separate palisades, and out onto the plateau on either side.
There were watchmen, eight in all, at the sally port, but no one was stopped for questioning, and no goods were inspected for contraband or tax stamps. The lax nature of the city’s law enforcement rankled Dunewell, but he tried very hard not to show it. His instinct was to correct the positions the watchmen took, inspect their weapons, although he could see from his position several yards away they needed oiling and sharpening, and to look over their gate log. Records of those passing with dates and times noted had been invaluable in some of his investigations. These men didn’t even appear to be noticing who or what was coming or going.
Jonas was right. He must let his old life go. In his oath, his oaths actually, he had sworn himself to serve in whatever capacity justice required of him. He must adjust his perspective and embrace this change.
Lord Moudir was the lord of the region that included Split Town on the coast to the east, Bolthor on the coast to the south, and Ivantis. Dunewell met Lord Moudir once, almost fifteen years prior, in Tarborat. He doubted Lord Moudir would be in Ivantis or would recognize Dunewell if he were. Just the same, he decided it would be a good idea to watch for any sign of Kingsmen that might be accompanying the lord.
It seemed to Dunewell that Ivantis was by
strict definition a city, but it paled in comparison to his home of Moras. The streets here were no more than packed dirt. Most of the structures were made of softwood planks and very few of sturdy stone. Perhaps most notable to Dunewell, though, was that instead of the smell of the sea, there was an ever-present smell of manure.
They stabled their horses, found the inn, and Dunewell carried the bags and packs for both of them up to their rooms. Dunewell discovered it was indeed the inn, Sani’s Pot and Table, as it was the only one in all Ivantis. There were, of course, many taverns where a man could buy a drink and the company of a woman for the night, but only the one proper inn. Dunewell noted it was a large two-story structure and could house forty or fifty guests. It struck him as odd that a city, any city, would have only one inn, but he was unaccustomed to the rural nature of Ivantis. It was clearly not the destination of those seeking entertainment, adventure, or political intrigue. Even those who purchased harvested crops or salt from Ivantis sent money by messenger for the shipments to be delivered.
Dunewell struggled to carry all the bags in one trip, but he managed. He understood that he was playing the role of an esquire relegated to a servant, but it went against his training to move with both of his hands full. A good soldier always has a hand ready to grab, punch, or draw a weapon he heard his old sergeant saying. He remembered well a particular beating he received once for carrying a saddle with both hands.
“Put those there,” Jonas said harshly and a bit loud.
Jonas had pointed to a place just inside his room but had also signaled Dunewell with the concealed three fingers of the pointing hand. Dunewell was a master signaler with horn, drum, or flag. Jonas had been teaching him something he called Thieves’ Cant. It was a complex language consisting of hand gestures, facial cues, code words, and body postures. Dunewell had been an inquisitor long enough to know that skilled thieves and professional assassins had their own means of communicating subtly but had no idea it could have been so complicated or comprehensive.
Dunewell entered the room and put the bags down. While out of sight from anyone in the common room, he gave Jonas a questioning look.
