Wisdom Lost

by Michael Sliter

  “But, if you catch them, you melt their faces.”

  “Melt them, cut them, burn them. Depending on the crime. But, since The House likely knows you are working for me, you will not be greeted with open arms, and you will not have an easy time getting close to Tennyson again.” Darian stood and walked over to a wine shelf, where he stood considering for a moment before pulling a dusty bottle from the top shelf. Sestrian viognier, it looked like.

  “You thought I could get close to Tennyson and kill him?” Fenrir laughed. “That was your plan? He would have murdered me. And, if I’d managed to kill him, there’d have been no escape. I would have been captured, and Peribel’s fate would seem pleasant in comparison to what he’d have done to me.”

  Darian smirked. “I had thought the man who killed the little duke would be more skilled. Did I see a boy knock you to the dirt earlier today?” Darian sat, pouring Fenrir a glass of the viognier. It was sweet when he tasted it—far sweeter than he was used to.

  “A big fucking boy,” Fenrir muttered. His ribs still ached, but the emotional toll of the day (as well as the wine) distracted from the pain.

  “Regardless, thanks to Ingla…” Darian nodded to the Adder, “…you are at least better able to defend yourself and less likely to embarrass me. You will begin serving your country by identifying agents of The House. The execution, tomorrow, will be a perfect opportunity. Agents of The House will be in attendance and will almost certainly attempt interference. You will point them out to us, as well as any nobles that you know have had dealings with Tennyson.”

  “The execution?”

  “Events are moving, boy. Keep up. Tomorrow, Ingla and several others will accompany you to Amorum Square. You will do your task impeccably. You know the consequences.”

  “I don’t know many members…”

  “You know enough. Each one is a link.”

  “Aye, my lord principal.” Back to the sarcastic formality.

  Without any more discussion, Darian pulled away the bottle of viognier and opened a ledger. Evidently, Fenrir was dismissed; he rose, head swimming from all of the wine sitting in his empty stomach. He left the office with Ingla following closely at his heels. Fenrir’s mind was reeling from the day—Peribel, the threat to his daughter, betraying The House…. Whatever had happened to a simple, predictable life?

  Suddenly, Fenrir found himself pinned against the wall, Ingla’s forearm against his neck and cutting off his airway, her face close to his. He grasped at her, but she increased the pressure on his windpipe right away, setting him to gasping. Her hazel eyes were aflame.

  “Why do you disrespect your father?” she hissed through clenched teeth.

  He gargled something until she loosened her grip. Then he took a merciful breath of air, sweet though it reeked of burning ice—like everything in the main warehouse.

  “He’s not my father. He disowned me, though you might not know that.”

  “I was there that day. I know all about you, trash. Lord de Trenton gave us very specific orders about you.” Fenrir’s brow furrowed—Ingla had been there that day? He’d seen a handful of Adders, but been distracted by shoulder pain and goading Sigmund Fitra. Wait… she had been guarding the back door into the warehouse. He’d flirted with no success; it didn’t even feel like the same lifetime.

  “To kill me?” he asked. His father had made that pronouncement the day of his disownment—death if he were to approach any de Trenton holdings.

  “To restrain you and see you on your way,” spat Ingla, scorn twisting her pretty features. It seemed unlikely that Darian would have granted him mercy, if even more unlikely that this angry Sestrian warrior would lie about this.

  She shifted her grip for a moment and Fenrir’s hand lashed out, knocking her arm aside. Briefly free, he struck upward with his knee at her pelvis, finding nothing there as she leapt backwards. Then, he was again pressed against the wall, pain shooting through his ribs as her powerful fingers dug into his injury. Through pain-blurred vision, Fenrir could see a smile tickling Ingla’s usually fierce expression.

  Without precursor, Ingla’s lips were unexpectedly locked with his own, her tongue hungrily searching his mouth. Despite the wound in his side, despite the fact that his father had just murdered and melted a woman scant hours before, and despite the fact that this angry little woman had tortured him over the past months, he returned the kiss with a fierce, rapacious passion. By Ultner’s useless shriveled cock, it had been a long time since he’d had a woman.

  His hands began searching her body, feeling her lithe, powerful muscles through her tight training blues. His left hand wandered to her lower back, lingering for a moment before gently touching her firm, powerful…

  And her fist drove into his gut, setting Fenrir gasping for air again.

  “Mind your father and preserve your daughter, trash,” Ingla hissed at him before stalking down the hallway, a predator intent on her next prey.

  Fenrir couldn’t help himself, despite the pain. He barked out a laugh which set him to coughing, triggering more pain in his ribs.

  Women. Godsdamned fucking women.

  ***

  “And, yet again, I treat the noble warrior for wounds well-earned in fair combat,” Martis said with his customary, omnipresent smile, beard-braids swinging as he began to wrap a tight bandage around Fenrir’s bare torso.

  “You sure nothing is broken?” Fenrir asked, wincing at the tightness of the bandage. The great, multi-colored contusion wasn’t exactly reassuring. At the very least, Hane should have some of his own bruises that would be needing treatment.

  “Bruised at best, slightly cracked at worst. Regardless, you will be fine to resume your training, though I recommend protecting the area with padding. Oh, and perhaps attempt evasion next time.”

  “Training may very well be over for now,” Fenrir said with a strange pang of regret.

  Martis pulled tight on the bindings, eliciting a grunt from his patient. “Does that mean you have an assignment at long last?”

  Fenrir had been somewhat reticent with his friend since arriving at the de Trenton estate, leaving the exact conditions of his release a secret. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Martis. In fact, it was the opposite. He trusted him implicitly and did not want to burden the man with his unsolvable problems.

  “Aye, it looks like I have work to do. Tell me, what is happening in the city?” Maybe a delaying tactic would distract Martis. Besides, Fenrir knew little of what was happening in Rostane. The Blue Adders were insular, and seemed to actively avoid discussing news of the war.

  “As far as I can gather, the mood is split, nearly in twain. Commoners, of course, are hurting the worst, with so many conscripted men having been killed in the Battle of Florens and subsequent skirmishes. Thousands of men are not coming home, and thousands more are not home right now to tend to their families and their work. There are daily protests, rallying around figureheads speaking against the war. The city guard, though, has been keeping order admirably. Barely any violence.”

  “Barely?”

  “There’s been a small riot or two near the docks, and one even in Little Town. A handful were killed, and a good deal of property damaged. One fire, but it was right beneath a great water barrel and was squelched before spreading. Few enough buildings are made of wood in Rostane, anyhow.”

  “That seems like enough to worry the Council,” Fenrir commented.

  “Certainly. There’s some who suggest that The House is inciting these riots, that they are either empowering these figureheads or masquerading as anti-war idealists. But, Rostane is winning the War for Unification, as they are calling it. Many people, particularly the merchant classes, are ecstatic. A unified Ardia means that there would not be duchy-to-duchy tariffs, at least as the Council tells it. But merchants who deal with luxuries—silks, diamonds, spices—are railing against the war. It has been crushing their business for the last six months, and there is a call for peace, to leave Hunesa as an independent duc
hy.”

  “So, Hunesa stands?” Fenrir slumped into the sole chair in his little quarters.

  “Indeed, but they cannot match the military might of Rostane, particularly after heavy conscription in Florens. The Drastonner army, small though it may be, has also been integrated, though they have not seen action. The Council, perhaps rightly so, does not trust the former Duchess Fraunt. Extortion, as it turns out, does not breed loyalty.”

  “No, it never does. Fear, though, can be a powerful tool.” An image of Peribel’s melting face flashed in his mind.

  “Yes, it can, indeed,” said Martis, a brief spasm of emotion crossing his face. “With the winter being so mild, I would expect the Council will launch the campaign against Hunesa any day now. They will fight, it seems, and may have some aid from Jecusta. It is unclear to we common folk.”

  “You are anything but common, Martis,” Fenrir said with a raised eyebrow. “What of the Army of Brockmore? Or what is left of it?”

  “They have sought shelter in Jecusta. That is all I know—the Council has quite effectively controlled the news of the war. Most of what I know, my students or I have overheard from our noble patients.”

  “Speaking of patients, how about some more of those pain tablets?”

  “Certainly. After you tell me of your plight. I can see it weighing on you, a stone resting upon a frozen lake.” Martis smiled reassuringly, pulling out his medicinal satchel.

  “Can’t be distracted, eh?” Fenrir asked wryly.

  “You are too transparent, my friend.”

  “It has always been the case. It’s a bit of a tale.”

  “I don’t mind. I have a task of my own to avoid,” Martis answered, breaking eye contact as he rummaged through his bag.

  Fenrir didn’t precisely start at the beginning, but he told Martis of his involvement with The House, and the rescue of Escamilla and Emma. How he’d become involved with the Army of Brockmore by Tennyson’s order, and how he’d ended up killing the duke. He did not, however, mention anything about the strange paralysis that had taken him and his small command, about how his own ability had set him free for just long enough that he could plunge his sword into the chest of Duke Penton.

  Strange that he hadn’t experienced his phantom since then. He’d been consistently fighting, and these training matches weren’t exactly safe. Such a useless, inconsistent ability.

  And, finally, Fenrir told Martis of his current dilemma.

  “So, you betray The House or lose your daughter? You believe your father would carry out that threat? Hurt a girl who is barely past her majority?” Martis fumbled with his braided beard, seemingly lost in thought. His eyes were far away.

  “Darian doesn’t make threats. He makes contracts. And not hurt, no. Kill,” Fenrir corrected him, his throat strangely tight, feeling as if he had swallowed a handful of flour.

  Martis stood and turned away, beginning to pace the small room, his measured, precise steps clicking in a soothing rhythm, arms clenched firmly behind his back. Fenrir knew it was part of the physician’s process; many times, he had seen the older man march about a room, silent for long minutes while he attempted to work out a specific dilemma. The clack of his boots on the wooden floor was calming.

  “What do you value, Fenrir?” Martis asked, abruptly stopping and leaning against the wall, his expression awash with a curious interest.

  “Huh?” Fenrir asked. This wasn’t exactly the breakthrough he had expected from Martis.

  “What do you value? What drives you? I’ve been observing you, Fenrir, for over twenty years. I recall when you were a frightened, stubborn, teenage military washout with a broken knee, wanting little more than to escape from your father and stymie his wishes. Then, for years, you were a guardsman—never excelling, though certainly capable of doing so. You were often sucked into excesses of life, women and drink, though never lost in them like so many other men. It was enough to ruin your marriage, though, and ensure that you never saw your daughter grow up. This was, perhaps, another attack on your father?”

  “You are certainly speculat—” Fenrir began, not welcoming the intrusiveness of the line of questions, or the fact that Martis had apparently been analyzing his behavior for twenty years.

  “And then you had your fainting episode, finding yourself unemployed and unemployable. You will recall that I had seen you less at the time, and knew not that you’d fallen in with The House. Again, no judgement,” Martis added, seeing Fenrir’s darkening expression. “I respect what you did. But, the major question is why you did what you did. Certainly, even after your disgrace, Darian would have offered you some sort of work. You are still his blood, after all, and it would have been safer for him to keep an eye on you if you were reliant on him for income.”

  “You don’t know my father,” Fenrir said, shifting in his seat. He was starting to feel the analgesic effects of the devil’s root tablets. A shame that Martis doled these out so sparingly—they could solve a lot of Fenrir’s problems.

  “I know him better than you suspect. But, rather than seek out your father, you turned to the underground. And then more recent events unfolded. You rescuing Escamilla, becoming a criminal hero. You slaying Little Duke Penton, becoming a villain hero. It is quite the story, your past. But, it’s not clear why you have done what you have done. So, I ask you again, Fenrir. What drives you? What do you value?” Martis rested on the bed, leaning toward Fenrir with his hands folded. Fenrir leaned away.

  Regret. That was Fenrir’s first thought. So much to regret. His mother and her ignoble suicide, goaded by the ostracism brought about by her domain blood. Followed by his brothers and their well-deserved deaths—or at least that of one of them, apparently. His wife… the only regret there was that Fenrir had had to marry her in the first place. And then, his daughter.… Perhaps, he could have done more to keep the girl in his life. But, would that have made his life any better? Would that have made her life any better?

  Likely not for either of them.

  “Truthfully, I don’t know, Martis,” Fenrir mumbled. Martis smiled sadly.

  “So, I suppose the question is, what will you do to protect your daughter? Astora, who you have not seen for most of her life?”

  Fenrir sighed heavily. “I don’t know.”

  “Would you risk your life to protect hers?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That is what you would be doing…”

  “I know!” Fenrir snapped, twisting himself to his feet. He ran his hands through his tangled hair, which was still shorter than he would have liked after its clean-cutting all those months ago. “Martis, this is enough. This isn’t helping me.”

  Martis was infuriatingly unperturbed in the face of Fenrir’s building irritation. “Some problems, my friend, can only be solved from within. Certainly, I could help you excise a bit of stray bone in your knee. Or, I could sew shut a shoulder wound. But, there is little I can do to help you with a moral conundrum such as this. Perhaps the Yetranian Church can provide guidance.” Fenrir glanced up to see if his friend was serious. Martis’ expression was a mask of earnest sarcasm.

  Fenrir smirked. “I’d get more useful advice from a blind whore. At least she’d be more realistic.” The two shared a quiet laugh, and Fenrir felt his irritation disperse. Martis was a friend.

  “But, sincerely, my friend…. You need to decide what you value. I know you are not one for introspection, but such situations merit a deep look at oneself. And, I know you are not a man for emotions, but you need to decide: do you love?” With that, Martis retrieved his medicinal satchel in one smooth motion, pushing himself to his feet from the low bed. Fenrir moved to help him up.

  “You’re right, as always. I am not a man for those things. I suppose I will figure all this out in due course. At least this execution will be so crowded that I’m unlikely to be spotted or murdered amidst all of that. What is this execution about, anyway?”

  “You don’t know?” Martis’ face lost any hint of j
oviality.

  “I’ve been holed up here for months and no one tells me anything. And they aren’t exactly posting the news on the corner in here. What? What’s wrong?”

  The physician was clenching his jaw. “I’m to help with the execution. I am making a potion.”

  “Poison?”

  “No. It’s to keep the man alive longer. So he… lingers. The Council demands it of me. Lord de Trenton demands it of me.”

  Nothing should have surprised Fenrir anymore. His father used torture to educate others. He might as well have a broader audience. “That’s… unpleasant.”

  “Yes, it truly is.” Martis stared at his hands, the nimble appendages clenching into white fists. “I am made for healing. Not this.”

  “A moral dilemma, it seems.” Martis barked a forced, bitter laugh at the poor joke. “Who is to be executed?” Fenrir asked.

  “I thought you knew, my friend. I am sorry.”

  “Who?” Fenrir’s heart fluttered. Emma? Merigold? Did he have anyone else he cared about?

  “Tilner Pick, your former companion and the retainer to the late Lady Escamilla.”

  Chapter 24

  Trina Almark leapt forward with an impossibly fast overhand swing, spitting sparks into the air as her sword bashed into her opponent’s. Her weapon was locked with Dien’s, one of Ferl’s best fighters, for a couple of seconds before they both hopped back in unison and fell back. Dien, a mongrel with blood mixed from Ardia, Rafón, Sestria, and Ultner-knew-where-else, was somewhat smaller than the warrior woman, but his strength was more than a match for hers.

  But Trina fought with a fury that was impossible to defend against. Her long-standing depression over the loss of so many women warriors only washed away during these training bouts, which she held every morning. Anyone who wished to try their blade against hers was welcome, and, though she fought with a blunted sword, she allowed others to come after her with the sharpest of blades. Emma had forbidden her own men from joining the fight, but she had no such power over Ferl’s Company or the Jecustans.