Fomaut was different. Fomaut possessed mines that produced copper, silver, gold and emeralds. The capital of Fomaut lay at the confluence of two rivers but while neither river was deep enough to allow ocean-going vessels to reach the city, they were nevertheless sufficient to provide consistent irrigation for the nation’s crops. Fomaut was wealthy.
Lord Emilio Montoya was young but ambitious. His keep was not large but was well-run and prosperous. Emilio Montoya wanted to rise in the world and in the favor of his Primate. Emilio Montoya was willing to pay for the best men available.
Blake Pierce had spent ten years training and fighting. He had won prizes at fairs and tournaments in all seven nations. He was one of the best at what he did, and he was available. Strange, in a way…ten years wandering the world and fighting. He could barely remember being a spoiled, indolent young man named Terence Allen.
Chapter 13
The keep was well defended. A winding road, with steep embankments on either side, led up the mountain toward the front gate. The owners of the keep had grown complacent, however, always a mistake. Though it was difficult, the mountain could be scaled.
One of his men, below and to the right, gave a nervous giggle. Another suppressed an unhappy sigh. “Shut up,” Blake whispered.
Blake, already a ronin with an established reputation, had commissioned for the position of squadron leader, and since arriving at Miramar, his quiet competence had impressed Emilio Montoya and his officers. Blake Pierce was now a Captain.
A cold, aching and annoyed Captain. Clinging to the slick side of a rocky cliff was not his preferred activity, particularly at night, particularly for reasons that seemed…frivolous. Lower down, toward the mountain’s base, they had been able to drive pitons into the stone. Now, however, they were too close to the first level of the keep. Hammering pitons into rock was not a quiet activity and from here on, they dared not risk being heard. There were enough footholds and handholds to make this idiotic venture possible, if barely, but a misplaced step would send a man plummeting to his death.
His men were competent, however, though few could manipulate soul-stuff, not that soul-stuff would help them here. The ability to lift a kilo or two with one’s mind was not going to provide any of them succor if they should happen to fall down the sheer side of a mountain.
Also, there were birds nesting in the crags, birds that were not used to humans invading their territory. They were small birds but birds willing to peck at anything they felt might threaten their chicks.
Thankfully, though the night was cold and clouds covered the moons, the wind was not blowing.
Finally, Blake felt his hands touch the brick and mortar of the first battlement. He reached into his pack, unfolded a wooden rod and placed the rod between two merlons. A rope was attached to the middle of the rod. Blake let the rope fall down the cliff face—it would make their exit easier—then he scrabbled up and onto the covered terrace.
Stupid, Blake thought. There should have been a guard posted here but the terrace was empty except for a few small tables and some cushioned wooden chairs. Well, an enemy’s stupidity was often a soldier’s principal asset, though never one to be counted upon.
Moments later, the last of his seven men were standing on the terrace. Before proceeding further, they placed six more ropes, then changed into the uniforms of Valandraud guards and walked over to the glass doors.
Over the years, Lord Valandraud had hosted numerous dances, celebrations and feasts. Emilio Montoya, his family and adherents had often been guests in this castle. Lord Montoya’s people knew it well, and had made accurate maps, which Blake Pierce and his men had thoroughly reviewed.
It was assumed that the denizens of Valandraud had done the same after visiting Miramar.
The doors were unlocked. They opened onto an arched corridor with a tiled floor. The corridor led to a stone staircase that bypassed the keep’s main floors and opened onto an observation deck high on the North side. From here, they were able to walk across the roof to a second staircase that led down into a series of bedrooms and up, toward the private suites of Baron Valandraud, his family and his guests.
Valandraud retained over three hundred men at arms, plus servants of all types. Unlikely that they would be recognized as strangers. They marched along the stairs and corridors, rarely passing a guard on duty, who would give them a cursory glance and otherwise ignore them, until they arrived at the private suite of Robert Valandraud, the Baron’s oldest son.
The door was heavy, made of solid oak bound with iron. As expected, it was locked. So far as they knew, Robert Valandraud employed only one personal servant, who slept in a side chamber. Blake gave the door a firm knock. For a long moment, there was no response. Then, a querulous voice said, “What is it?”
“Message for Master Robert.”
“Master Robert has requested not to be disturbed,” the voice said.
“The message is from the Baron. I suggest that you open the door.”
Blake could almost hear the sigh. The door opened. Blake and his men swarmed in and shut the door behind them. The servant, small, slight and near-sighted, squawked. “What are you doing?”
Blake sighed. “We’re kidnapping Master Robert.”
The servant stared at them. “Who are you?”
“Retainers of Lord Montoya.”
The servant blinked. A slow smile spread across his face. “You’d better tie me up, then,” he said. “So, I don’t give the alarm.”
“We planned on it.” Blake said sourly. He looked around. They were standing in a comfortable anteroom with a stone floor, thick rugs, low tables and soft couches. Colorful tapestries hung on the walls. “Where is Master Robert?”
“In his bedroom,” the servant pointed toward a closed door. “I believe he is entertaining a young lady. He instructed me to go to bed early. He doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”
“Ah,” Blake said. “This will be awkward.”
One of Blake’s men giggled. Blake glowered at him.
“The door is locked from the inside,” the servant said. “You’ll have to break in.”
“No,” Blake said. “We won’t.”
Blake stepped forward. Like the door to the suite of rooms, this door was constructed of heavy oak. He reached out with his mind, feeling for the other side. The lock was a double cylinder deadbolt, opened with a key from inside the room. Fairly secure. Blake, however, could easily simulate the workings of a key. He reached inside the lock and released the cylinder. It opened with a faint snap.
The servant raised an eyebrow and looked at Blake as if seeing him for the first time.
“Where would you prefer to be restrained?” Blake said.
“Here is as good a place as any other,” the servant said with a shrug. He sat down on a couch.
Blake nodded to two of his men, Devin and Graham. “Do the honors.”
They tied the servant’s arms and legs together. “These bonds are tight,” Graham said. “You won’t be able to loosen them for thirty minutes.” In reality, the bonds were quite loose, more symbolic than real.
“I understand,” the servant said. “Thirty minutes. Am I to be gagged, as well? So that I can’t cry out?”
“Of course.” Devin loosely tied a strip of cloth across the servant’s face.
“Now,” Blake said. “Let us fetch our prize.”
Robert Valandraud did not hear the door to his bedroom open, engaged as he was in a bout of vigorous and noisy sex with a slim young woman. The woman was lying face down on the bed. Robert was behind and on top of her. Both were groaning.
“Ahem.” Blake cleared his throat.
Neither of them heard.
Robert Valandraud gave one last, loud, fervent groan. His naked rear end flexed forward and seemed momentarily to freeze. The young woman gave out a series of small cries, then sighed. They both relaxed, panting.
“Oh, that was good,” the woman said. “Wasn’t that good?”
Blake clea
red his throat. Robert looked up. He blinked. The woman turned her head, gave Blake a quizzical look, then snickered. She lazily smiled.
“What is this?” Robert said, his voice outraged.
“Oh, no,” the woman said, and turned over. “My tender, naked flesh exposed to the gaze of my father’s enemies. The shame.” She gave a low laugh and arched her back upon the bed. Her breasts were firm. Her nipples were tight, her pudenda lewd, glistening and moist. “You’re not going to rape me, are you?”
Devin gulped. Blake looked away. Awkward.
“Put some clothes on,” Blake said to Robert. “Consider yourself kidnapped.”
Thousands of years ago, on a world very far away, in a nation now long vanished, a group of native tribes had, over many centuries, developed a custom called ‘counting coup.’ The custom involved invading an enemy’s territory, laying a hand or a weapon upon him, sometimes stealing his cattle or horses, and escaping, preferably unscathed. A warrior who successfully counted coup was then allowed to wear an eagle feather in his hair, though if the warrior was wounded in the attempt, the feather had to be stained red. The custom served many purposes, from giving young warriors an outlet for youthful aggression, to identifying the bravest and most clever, to minimizing casualties outside of actual warfare.
A variation of this custom had been instituted by the Primacy over three hundred years before. The Primate of Fomaut wanted his nobles to be on their toes: smart, aggressive, wary, ready and prepared for war, and so they played games with each other, sometimes deadly games, raiding for cattle, stealing horses and occasionally, stealing each other.
Bruises, and the rare broken bone, were acceptable. Nobody was supposed to die, but the defenders were allowed to defend themselves and sometimes, accidents did happen. The winner gained bragging rights. The loser lost face and was required to forfeit a moderately large amount of money. The putative victim spent a few days at his ‘enemy’s’ keep and returned home, having been well-fed and entertained, despite being the butt of near constant jokes.
So far as Blake knew, an armed invasion of a Baron’s keep had never before been attempted, outside of actual, full-blown warfare. When this escapade became known (and Emilio Montoya would make it quickly known), Miramar’s reputation (along with that of Blake Pierce) would soar and Valandraud’s would fall.
It was all in good fun…except that sometimes a giddy young man would fall down a mountain or be stabbed to death in a melee. Oh, well…such an event would indeed be unfortunate, but any such unfortunate victim should have kept his mind on his business. And been more careful.
And sometimes a loser might resent losing enough to make the game real. This was rare. A lord was expected to maintain a philosophical outlook on life’s little misfortunes, as well as a sense of humor. It did happen, however. Great men tended to be jealous of their prerogatives and their place in the world.
On the ride to Miramar, Blake rode next to Robert Valandraud. He looked at the younger man’s morose face, repressed a grin and passed him a flask. “Sorry to interrupt your evening,” he said.
Robert sighed, accepted the flask and took a long swallow. “My second cousin, Stephanie. I’ve been trying to get her into bed since I was fourteen.”
“Hopefully, she’ll still be there when you get back.”
Robert shrugged. “One can only hope.”
“Valandraud was not as well defended as I expected,” Blake said, after a pause.
“No,” Robert said shortly. This was evidently a sore point. “My father feels that his august position on the High Table renders him immune to such frivolous pursuits.” Robert shook his head.
Blake shrugged. “What will he do, now that he’s discovered he’s not?”
“Pay the ransom. Hire more guards.” Robert barely grinned. “Retaliate.”
Blake nodded. “That’s what I’d do.”
Blake Pierce had grown two centimeters taller and four centimeters wider across the shoulders since leaving home, those ten long years ago. His torso was sheathed with muscle. Through some alchemy no longer known to any but the Viceroy’s physicians, his nose had been rendered a bit straighter, his cheeks a bit fuller and his chin just slightly less prominent. He still bore a marked resemblance to his father and brothers, but nobody would mistake him for the late, lamented Terence Sergei Allen, a young man who had died because he possessed more high spirits than sense.
He had soon come to realize that the life of a wandering ronin fit him. Blake Pierce had fought with distinction in many campaigns. He was respected. He had a reputation. When he decided to form his own company, it was certain that men would flock to his banner.
Soon, he thought. Every ronin dreamed of forming his own company, but few managed to accomplish it. Blake had been prudent, if not exactly frugal. At least half of all the funds he had been paid were safely deposited in the Royal bank of every capital. And in every capital, Blake Pierce, a pious man, would visit the cathedral, to take confession and pay his tithe to the Inquisitoria.
The cathedral in Lausanne, the capital city of Fomaut, lay near the city-center. Lausanne was a half-day’s ride to the west of Miramar. Two days after Robert Valandraud had been ransomed and returned to his father’s keep, Blake Pierce rode into Lausanne, to see the sights and ensure the salvation of his soul.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“Of course, you’ve sinned, my son. Sin is the common lot of mankind. To what degree have you sinned?”
“To the second degree, Father.”
“The second?” The Father’s voice, audible through the screen of the confessional, seemed to hesitate. Second degree sins included lust, petty dishonesty, avarice, and a list of mostly minor transgressions. “For your sins, the Lord has decreed that you pay the fiftieth part of your most recent earnings to the font of all grace and wisdom.” The Priest smiled, a calm, benign and entirely satisfied smile.
The exact nature of Blake’s misbehavior was dwelled upon no further. God, being omniscient and omnipotent, would already know the details. The Priest, therefore, need not be bothered pursuing them further, though if excessively curious, he sometimes might.
Blake nodded his head and passed a gold coin, along with a folded piece of paper containing a report of Blake’s most recent thoughts, observations and activities, to the Priest, which would be conveyed by courier to Varanisi. He received in turn a receipt for the coin plus a written dispensation, good for the absolution of two sins of the second degree.
“Thank you, Father,” Blake said.
“Thank you, my son. Go, and sin no more.”
Blake sighed. “I’ll try, Father.”
“The Lord knows that all men are imperfect. It is enough that you try. The Lord already knows that you will fail.”
“Failure is the common lot of mankind, Father.”
“Yes, my son,” the Priest said equably. “It is.”
Chapter 14
“A remarkable discovery,” the Primate said.
Alejandro Garcia smiled. His son, Thierry, sat silently at his side, a look of passive interest fixed upon his face.
“The ancients had many such secrets,” Alejandro said. “The Viceroy guards them well.”
The Primate sat back in his seat. “Then let us take advantage of this secret while we can.” He picked up the object lying on the table, a long thin mechanism, with a concave end meant to fit against the shoulder. The Primate put one eye against a tube fixed to the mechanism’s top and suddenly, each small detail of the room came into sharp focus. He wrapped a finger around a small lever and pulled. A red beam came from the object’s tip and touched a ceramic jar on a shelf. The jar shattered into a hundred small pieces.
“A remarkable discovery,” the Primate said again. “How many of these things are there?”
“Three hundred and twelve.” Alejandro Garcia raised a brow. “I caution you, however; we don’t understand them. We can’t make more of them, we don’t know how they function, and we
have no way of knowing when—or if—they’ll stop working.”
The Primate shrugged. “A few hours should be all we’ll need to decimate the enemy’s forces. They’ll never know what hit them.”
Alejandro Garcia frowned. “I feel obligated to point out, my Lord, that when the Viceroy learns of this, he will probably object.”
The Primate smiled thinly. “The Viceroy is a figure out of myth, said to have godlike powers. Have you ever seen a demonstration of these powers?”
“No, my Lord. This does not mean, however, that they do not exist. It is said that there is a kernel of truth at the basis of every myth.”
“Bah! The Viceroy smirks and simpers and postures and we are all supposed to dance to his tune. He is a man like any other and I do not believe in the legend of the immortal, all-powerful Viceroy.”
Alejandro Garcia bowed his head. “As you command, my Lord, we shall obey.”
The Primate frowned at him. “You may remove your tongue from my rectum, Alejandro. I already know that you shall obey.”
Alejandro Garcia shrugged.
The Primate of Fomaut was ambitious. Alejandro Garcia knew this, and he encouraged the Primate’s ambition at every opportunity. Alejandro Garcia was equally ambitious, and he had long ago concluded that the surest way to satisfy his own ambitions, and those of his House, was to tie them both as tightly as possible to the Primate, to become a power behind the throne. Alejandro Garcia was happy, however, that neither he nor his son would be leading the planned-upon invasion. Alejandro was not nearly so sanguine as the Primate regarding the abilities and intentions of their putative overlord.
No one (except, probably, the Viceroy and the Magisterium, and possibly the Inquisitoria) now knew the site of mankind’s first settlement on this world, or even when the first ancestors of them all had been placed here, though legend had it that this blessed event had occurred some four thousand years in the past.
The why of it was also a mystery. Perhaps the Viceroy knew. Alejandro expected that he did.
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