by Tyler Krings
Fate seemed to smile. “Peace.”
“And then? Will you declare yourself the Lord of Anu?”
Fate cocked his head, “Am I not already?”
The old man sighed, “He threw Fate through a window. Burned the Loom.”
The fire crackled, and Ana gripped Jon’s hand with a sweaty palm. Looking at her, Jon thought she had been there herself, reliving a painful memory. “And then?” Jon asked. “What happened then?”
“The Revolution,” answered the Wolf. “Took time. But then those that decided to look started noticing the changes. For many, it was an abomination; for most…well, they seemed fine with it. Then there was war.”
“And Ana is important to him. To the Lord of Fate,” remarked Jon.
“Very much,” said the old man. He looked to her with a small smile. “She resisted. She broke free. Whether it was because of her nature or his…increased affection for her—”
“Stop,” Ana whispered.
“We think his tampering far exceeded what he had experimented with before in the—”
“Stop!” A deadly wind blew ripped at the flames and the trees, hushing them into silence. The old man looked apologetic and bowed his head.
Jon took a stronger hold of her hand. “Ana…”
“Enough, Jon,” she interrupted. “We bring him here. We end him.”
There was a moment before the Wolf finally answered, “It is not nearly that simple.”
“Then we plan,” Ana responded. “Obviously it isn’t simple. There’s an army of men and the Lord of Murder, but Fate must be brought here to us, where he can be struck, or we are all his. There will be nothing of you or I, and that is it. It is clear we are the last bastion of resistance left, so there will be no other choices after this.”
They stared into the fire.
“Okay,” said Jon. Five gazes turn to him. Ana had a smile in her eyes amidst a tear. He met her proud gaze with a grin and squeezed her hand. “Why not? My great great whatever grandfather started a war he couldn’t finish, and now the god of gods doesn't want my girlfriend to marry me? Seems awful petty for an eternal asshole. Then again…assholes come from somewhere, I guess. I’m in.”
Irving nodded agreement. “Me, too.”
Isca leaned into the old stallion. “I as well.”
The Wolf nodded. Together, their eyes found the old man who sighed as he gazed at Jon, the boy—the man—he had called his son.
“We’re all going to die,” the old man said. “You know that right?”
Jon smiled. “Well, someone wise once said; ‘Fear to act is not an excuse.’”
12
Murder’s Work
“Now, see, I’m positive something’s wrong with him,” said Ham as he spooned another load of gruel from his bowl.
Rom looked at Arne from across the mess. Were Rom not wiser, he would immediately have assumed their sergeant merely hungover. Having listened to his mumblings only a few bunks away for most of the night prior, however, Rom also found himself oddly concerned by the sergeant’s behavior. Arne was currently looking into his bowl of gruel without fondness, the bags under his overly shifty eyes a dark shade of purple. Not that there was any fondness to be shared for the gruel, but the sergeant looked far more depressed about it than the rest of them.
“You think he’s using?” asked Ham with a full mouth.
“Using what?” countered Rom. “It’s not like we have an abundance of crabdashes to grind. At least, not enough anyway. Cap said he’s on some ‘special assignment’ for the Ambassador. Not to be disturbed.”
“You think it’s got something to do with them bodies that washed up from the river?”
Rom looked at him. “Why do you say that?”
Ham shrugged. “He started looking like my shit right before they found ‘em. Maybe Cap tasked him to help find the killer?”
“Maybe.” Rom agreed dubiously. “Bit weird though. Arne’s not really been known for his investigative prowess. Lots of strange around this town all of a sudden.”
Hersh and Beeter found seats next to them, their armor newly polished and hair freshly cut. The group had seen a myriad of changes this passing season, the weather the least among them. Boys who had formerly played a soldiering while they waited out their term now looked the part, and fully realized muscles that had been previously used only for farming gathered in their arms and torsos.
“Any luck with that cannon, Ham?” asked Hersh with a full mouth. Rom rolled his eyes. Can they not swallow before speaking?
Ham grunted. “I swear they gave me the rusty one. The Maddog boys don’t seem too keen on letting us play with the big guns, but I did almost hit the target yesterday.”
“Better luck than us,” said Rom. Now a corporal himself, he and his squad had been mitigated to training and routine patrols through town as the Maddogs busied themselves with interviewing the townsfolk. The cavalry rode out daily, ranging farther and farther as the nights grew longer. Surprising enough, there had been no word regarding Jon or Ana, which gave Rom an involuntary sigh of relief. Perhaps she is who she says she is. Don’t know why I worried. His interview with the Captain had gone smoothly. More or less. The information in the town census matched word for word with what Jon had told him.
“Wicha went missing,” said Beeter absently. Ham and Rom looked up from their bowls.
“Wha’?” Ham asked, “Since when?”
Beeterate another spoonful. “Heard it this morning. Not officially, but the girls at Mag’s are scared shitless. They think someone’s roaming around, murderin’ folk.”
Rom dropped his spoon in the bowl. “Honestly, can at least one of you speak without food in your mouth?” He sat back. “There is someone roaming around. That’s four folks in two weeks. Did they report it, at least?”
Beeter shook his head. “Like I said, not official.”
Ham threw his spoon down. “Tha’ fuck is going on? The fuck’s the constable doing?”
Beeter shrugged.
Hersh mewed on his gruel thoughtfully. “Think it’s them Maddogs?”
“Who the fuck else could it be?!” spat Ham.
“I don’t know,” said Rom. “They’re an odd bunch, but they don’t lack discipline.”
A bell rang.
“Fuck me, I gotta go,” said Ham. He took a last drink before leaving the table.
“Us too, I guess,” said Hersh.
“Hang on, I gotta finish,” said Beeter.
“We’ll be here all fucking day. Just shove that shit in.”
“We still talking about gruel?”
Hersh shook his head. “We got any actual orders today, Rom?”
They did not. “Aye,” said Rom with sudden inspiration. “Finish up and grab your shit.”
Emersin sat at his desk, holding the letter in his hands. The memory of her fingers tracing letters on the page reminded him of their first dance, their last, and all those in between. He could see the makings of words through the faded vellum, knowing her last words to him remained unread, their finality unproved. He put the letter back in his pocket when he heard a knock. The door to his office opened, and Captain Tao Magrin entered without an invitation. He walked casually to the general’s desk and placed a notice on its surface.
Emersin glanced but did not read the notice. “Another?”
“Aye.”
“A whore?”
“Aye.”
“The constable?”
“Quiet for now.”
Emersin grimaced. He did not approve of bribery, but discretion was needed. “What else?” he asked.
“Our Ambassador has frequented the establishment where one of the girls worked multiple times.”
“That is not proof.”
“I know.”
“Anyone else visit this whorehouse on a regular basis?”
“Half the fucking town.”
Emersin gave him a look, and the captain had the decency to look chagrined. The general glared at him.
Waiting.
“Pardon, sir,” said Magrin reluctantly.
Emersin grunted. “Soldiers we may be, but we are also professionals. Let’s make sure we act as such, yes?” He began to shuffle through a stack of missives he had yet to make a reply to. “As for the Ambassador, keep a man on him. He is more than he seems. Make sure they go unnoticed.”
Tao wavered. “What is our intention here, Commander?”
“Ambassadors come with certain protections,” Emersin said awkwardly. “But the Empire cannot be seen as rapists and murderers. We will do what we must. What else do you have regarding our actual directive?”
Tao shrugged. “Most have been interviewed, and only a very few meet our criteria. The census appears to be complete. The ‘foreign’ merchants are barely so, and the only other that might qualify was married to a local farmer over a year ago.”
“And who is that?”
“West. Jon and Ana West. Live on the outskirts with the boy’s aging father. An odd detail but maybe important; they were married outside local customs and the Women’s Council will be giving them a wedding in keeping with Imperial traditions come the Harvest Moon. Folks kept saying she’s a Roamer, whatever that means, but somehow that explains why she hasn’t been seen in town until recently.”
Emersin was silent for a moment. “Have they been interviewed?”
“Not yet. My riders can make a circuit of them tomorrow.”
“I will join them.”
The captain’s eyes narrowed in thought and suspicion. “Is she your girl?”
“Hmpf. I don’t know,” Emersin grumbled. “Seems unlikely but it is the best lead we have.”
Mag’s was one of the oldest establishments in the Errol’s Fortune, and its age was starting to show. On the south side of town, not far from the squad’s usual route, the brothel was a three-story specimen of architecture that predated most styles seen toward the town center. Its woodwork was replete with the imperfections of machinery no longer in use, the colors of the walls had faded from over a hundred years in a southern sun, and its windows either fit snugly into their purchases or threatened to fall out from the ravages of time and warping. This early in the day, the ladies of the house stood along the various balconies or rocked quietly in chairs wrapped in blankets, enjoying the chill morning and nursing their cups of coffee.
Rom and the boys entered politely, removing their helmets. Mag was seated in front of a large fireplace and poked half-heartedly at the night’s faded embers. She had retained much of her beauty through the years, but time and the work had etched lines into her face and added weight to her slight shoulders. She turned as the boys entered and pulled her robe tighter against the crisp morning air.
“It’s a touch early, boys. The girls haven’t even had breakfast.” She found her pipe in her pocket and ambled around with her fingers until she found the pouch of tobacco.
“We’re, uh, not here about that Mag,” said Rom as he approached. “May I sit?”
Mag gave him a questioning look as she lit her pipe. She gestured to the armchair opposite her. Rom sat and smoothed his short hair. Hersh and Beeter made themselves comfortable by the bar.
“You haven’t been here in some time, Romlin. And never in uniform. You here about the murders?”
Rom cleared his throat. “Maybe. How do you know they were murders?”
Mag blew out a long slow column of smoke. “I’ve cleaned up enough messes in my time. I know when the girls are wanting to leave, they usually pack a bag. Every room: Lei’s, Brigette’s, Wicha’s…no bags were packed, but plenty signs of fighting.”
“Any blood?”
“No. Whoever done it made sure to make more than a half-assed attempt at cleaning up. If there was any, we didn’t find it. Did the constable send you?”
Rom grimaced. “No.”
Mag nodded. “Your officers?”
“Don’t know we’re here.”
She sighed, thought, and stood. She gestured for Rom to follow her to the bar. She laid out four glasses and loaded each with whiskey. She held one out, “Cheers!” and downed it. Rom hesitated before following suit.
Mag smacked her lips. “I appreciate you coming down here, Rom. Boys. But the only payment you’ll get for this is a quick death and a shallow grave.”
“Mag,” started Rom.
“Rom. This isn’t the only place I’ve lived. I’ve seen the big towns, and I been in this business a long time. I know when somethings wrong. You say your officers don’t know you’re here. You didn’t tell the constable, even though he knows we got missin’ girls. You know something’s wrong, Rom. Keep your nose out of it.”
Rom took a slow breath. I don’t know what to do. “Mag, we got three girls missing.”
“I know.”
“We’re probably gonna lose more.”
“Maybe.”
Rom spread his hands. “We got to do something.”
The door darkened, and their heads turned. A figure in a large-plumed hat cut a shadow through the window. They heard a voice making polite comments to the girls on the balcony.
“Out the back, boys,” whispered Mag. She poured another shot. “He can’t know you was here.”
“Who?”
Hersh and Beeter donned their helmets and started for the back door.
Mag drank her whiskey. “Our Ambassador. Now leave. Won’t do you no good, him knowin’ you was here.”
Hersh noticed Rom’s reluctance and came back to grab him by the arm, practically dragging him through the back hall as the door swung open on rusty hinges. The voice, deep yet ambiguous, greeted Mag. Rom stopped and shook off Hersh’s hand. He listened as the other two made for the back door, trying to limit the sound of their boots on the aged wood floors.
“Early customers?” the voice asked.
“A couple old friends,” Mag responded. “Paying a visit.”
“Oh? A shame I missed them.”
Mag waited. “What do you want?”
“Such hostility,” the Ambassador said smugly. “I like that.”
Mag did not respond. Rom dared not breathe. He did not know what it was, but something dark, and heavy kept him frozen him in place. Feelings--as though he were being hunted--crept into the corners of his mind. Hersh and Beeter waited around the corner near the back door, the two of them waving and begging him to hurry.
When Mag did not respond the voice spoke again. “So, who’s available tonight?”
Rom heard the sound of the shot glass hitting the bar. “We’re closed tonight.”
“Really?”
“Haven’t you heard? Girls have gone missin’. Can’t have them workin’ with a prowler about.”
Rom could almost hear the smile on the stranger’s face. “Do any of them make house calls?”
There was a strained silence before Mag answered, “No.”
“What about you?”
The heaviness grew around Rom’s shoulders, a pressure in his head. From the sound of her voice, he knew Mag felt it as well.
“You’re…you’re not welcome here,” she said. The warped wood of the walls and floor moaned at an invisible force, bending under sustained pressure. The lights of the candles waned visibly as if to shrink away. A hand took hold of Rom’s arm and pulled him from the hallway through the open door. The early winter air was a shock to his absconded senses, and he collapsed to his knees as the sunlight hit his face. Rom looked behind him; Mag’s was the same as before, old and occupied. There was no damage that he could see, but the girls on the balcony were covering their ears, and many were weeping.
“Rom…” Hersh breathed. “What the fuck is going on?”
Rom shook himself in an attempt to clear his head and nearly vomited. “I think…” He swallowed. “I think we need to go. Now.”
Their journey home was a silent one, the party having had their talk the night before, and most of what had been said left little else to add. To say that Jon felt odd was to belittle “oddness” as a concept
. He had just joined a revolution, and not just any, but one of Lords and Ladies in realms he had never been a part of. And yet, the fight was as much his as anyone present. He and Ana rode in the back of the small wagon, the old man seated in front with the barest touch on the reins as Irving led them through the low country, just edging the woods on the day long trek back home. The Wolf, seemingly healed from his encounter with the Hunt, kept his pack clear of the horses and remained out of sight for the duration of the journey. Isca walked beside them with her head held high, a demeanor Irving shared. The old man’s shoulders, which had sagged with aged weariness for some years, had straightened since the previous night. Pride had regained some favor in his soul, and Jon had noticed the low fire behind the old man’s eyes now burned far brighter. Ana, wrapped in a woolen blanket, stared out into the sunlit fields, her eyes sparkling in the light as she quietly observed the world around her. Her neck-length hair twisted whimsically in the breeze, and her hand fit snugly into Jon’s own, just firm enough to let him know that she would not let go.
Jon’s feelings toward her were the most complicated. In his heart, he desperately wanted to say something, and yet the silence seemed something agreed upon, therefore he feared to break it. Were it not for her hand in his, he would have thought the entire affair in the woods the work of a dream. His free hand wandered cautiously over his ribs, where he had been kicked by a god, a wound that had healed overnight. He had always healed quickly, something that he had attributed to the old man’s prowess with medicine before learning that it was in fact his own legacy, but never like this. The area was still tender to touch, but he could feel no broken rib, and his lungs drew breath as though they had never been punctured. Likewise, Ana also looked no worse from when her body had shattered a tree. She caught him starring and smiled when their eyes met. She did not break the silence but leaned into him comfortably. He felt the stirring in his loins at the touch of her skin and tried desperately to think of something else. Why think of something else? She’s going to be my wife, he thought.
