by Jackson Lear
The clerk took the warrant, read it through a couple of times, and looked to Beriss. “How long have you been in Verseii?”
“A month.”
The clerk took his pen, dipped it in some ink. “Where have you been staying?”
“… Mona’s Inn.”
“How long will they say you’ve been staying there?”
“Four or five days.”
I knew there were some numbers on the bottom of the warrant. I presumed they were to tell the reader when the seduction happened, when the charges were filed, or when the warrant was issued. The clerk held the warrant up and peered at Beriss’ face for a moment, back and forth, then said, “Let’s see the inside of your right arm.”
The final flame of hope within Beriss died out as he reluctantly showed off the scar along his bicep. Pink and puffy. A wound from many years ago.
The clerk waved the spearman over. “Take this one in.”
I couldn’t help but brace myself, ready to draw my blade and attack in case the spearman targeted me instead of Beriss.
Thankfully my fears were unfounded. With a quick, “Let’s go,” the young city watch spearman took Beriss away, leaving me standing alone in front of the clerk.
“You’ve come a long way for a bounty that’s on the cheap side of things,” he said.
“I had other business in Verseii to take care of. What’s happening outside with all of the soldiers?”
The clerk didn’t bother to look up. He simply etched the arrest into his book. “The governor’s army is passing through, heading back to Torne.”
“Did I see a couple of General Kasera’s riders? Their sigil is a bear rearing back.”
The clerk shrugged it off. “I’ve been inside all day. I don’t know who from which army is here.”
Fair enough. I took my twenty marks and slipped away, head down, confident that I had been seen by at least a dozen people who could provoke a problem simply because they didn’t like the look of me.
Down one road, along the next, until I passed a tavern, its door open with the barman standing outside, eagerly calling to his staff to hurry the hell up and get everything ready.
“The army have just ended their tour in the north,” he told me.
“And that’s good?”
“It’ll be great if any of them stop for a drink. You should see it when they do. Everyone will pile in, hoping to hear some war story or anything of what’s happening with the barbarians.”
“Everyone loves gossip,” I muttered.
The barman beamed and sent a couple of the youthful ones into the street to encourage the soldiers inside with the promise of the best beer in town for the lowest price there is.
The gossip thing got me thinking. I figured I still had some time before having to rendezvous with the rich woman, and her tea house wasn’t that far from where I was heading.
I returned to the inn infested by military personnel, the one that had hosted the five junior officers the night before. Six uniformed soldiers now stood outside, up from the four I’d seen less than an hour ago. All on duty, keeping everyone away. A man and woman, civilians, around sixty years old, stood nearby in a distraught embrace. Married in all likelihood, but this was more of a hug to reassure each other after a devastating blow. Both appeared downright terrified, facing one of the worst days of their life.
Whatever had happened inside, it was juicy. I could all but taste the free drink and meal that was coming my way if I could find out what had happened.
An officer emerged from the inn. Thirty years old. Helmet with a thick mane of red hair across the top in his hand. Ashen faced. Staring at the ground. The six uniformed soldiers rose a little higher. Back straight, chest out. The young man took a moment to gather himself, strode across to the old couple, started asking questions. He nodded every now and then, not interrupting unless it was to clarify something they said. Both were trying to be as helpful as possible while beside themselves in dismay.
The officer would’ve been about my height, my build, though with a short mop of black hair, a round face, and a jaw so cleanly shaved that there was still a hint of red along his neck from the blade. Had I looked away at that moment and never turned back I would’ve been hard pressed to remember what he looked like. I always had the impression that most military officers come with an air of authority, and while I’m sure this guy had it in spades, the shock surrounding him had snuffed out any sense of military privilege I could see. He simply appeared to be a man in quiet distress with no one to lean on but himself.
Three more soldiers advanced along the road. One in the lead, his helmet proud, his sword dangling by his side. Full battle gear. Not a great sign. The two behind him were privates, newly introduced to puberty and had yet to bulk out. Between them they carried two poles held together with a long length of fabric tied, couple with thick, brown sheet slung over one of their shoulders.
A stretcher with a dark sheet to go over the top.
Someone inside was dead.
The leader of the threesome headed into the inn. The twos with the stretcher followed. I waited long enough to count through the seconds, curious to see how long it would take them to recover the body. Mostly, though, I wanted to know who the body was. The more I knew, the more free drink would come my way.
I reached the count of two hundred before the leader of the threesome returned, this time with a pack and sheathed short sword in his hands. Sure enough, the two new recruits carried a body between them, the sheet hiding as much of the deceased as possible. The body’s feet were exposed on account of covering the head taking priority. Barefoot. Big enough to presume that the body was male; thin, and light enough to presume that he was on the younger side of forty.
I focused more on the pack the leader wrestled with. There were a few extra leather pouches than everyone else in the street had walked with. Two cylindrical tubes, the kind for keeping important documents safe. At a guess, the dead soldier was more of a scribe than a front-line fighter. And, given that he was barefoot, he died either in bed or in a bath.
The thirty year old in charge gave the order. He and the nine soldiers escorted the dead body away, down the road, and out of sight.
The old woman stepped away from her husband, inconsolable, gesturing wildly. He was doing his best to calm her down without looking like she had to be silenced in case anyone overheard her reveal some kind of secret. And it wasn’t like they were alone. Faces were in every window, watching and listening as the tantalizingly new gossip unfolded before their very eyes.
I left the safety of the corner and headed towards the inn and towards the old couple. The man looked my way, started to draw himself inwards as I had my eyes locked dead onto his.
“I’m sorry for what’s happened,” I said. “I just need to know: did they catch the guy responsible?”
The old man shook his head, still cautious at my presence. “I don’t think so.”
“Is this problem going to stick around or is the army going to leave?”
The old woman blinked at me, her eyes cracked with tears. “Sorry, who are you?”
I was fully aware that my accent didn’t fit with Verseii’s in the slightest. Even so, “This is our territory. I need to tell the boss if we’re looking for someone who likes to kill soldiers for kicks or if this is an army problem.”
The couple faltered. Not happy with my answer but also in no mood to fight me on it. The old man said, “The commander said they’ll take care of it. We had some of the officers stay with us last night. One of them died in his sleep. I don’t think anyone was arrested.”
“The commander thought his man was murdered?”
“It seemed like it.”
“Who was the victim? A scribe?”
“An aide, I think.”
His wife corrected him. “Aide-de-camp.”
The senior-most aide, as far as I knew. A secretary, steward, scribe, master of correspondence, and generally the person who keeps the camp running
. He’d approve pay, keep track of supply lines, where the other armies were, and was often the brains of all camp operations. Commanders and generals certainly had the luxury of being written into the books with their decisive victories, but they’d be standing in a field with their troops starving and ready to mutiny if their aide-de-camp was terrible at their job.
“This is the governor’s army?” I asked.
“Gustali’s, yes.”
“And they’re heading to Torne?”
Another confirmation.
“Today?”
“That’s their plan,” said the old man. “I’m sorry, we really need to get back inside and clean things up.”
“Of course. Where did the aide-de-camp die?”
“In bed.”
“He had his own room?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, we really must–”
“Was he poisoned?”
The woman recoiled as though she was about to throw up at the very thought it. At that point, the gentleman had had enough. “No. Look, he just died. That’s all there is to it. There wasn’t any poison, there wasn’t any injury. He just died, okay? We have to go now.” He took his wife’s hand, pushed past me, headed inside, and no doubt barred the door to keep me from entering.
So, a sudden death on the way back home with no obvious signs of murder, but from the dour look the commander wore on his face it seemed as though he didn’t quite believe it was a simple case of someone suffering from a heart attack while in bed.
I looked to the windows surrounding me. No less than a dozen people were watching me stand in the middle of the street. An outsider who was probably noticed by at least one of them in this very street the night before.
I left, deciding that I might as well find the woman from the night before and see if she did in fact rob me. I found the tea house easily enough. Asked inside. No one claimed to know of the woman I described, nor had they ever seen her before.
Not a full blown confirmation that she was a thief, but my instincts were definitely locked in that direction. I was willing to linger in the area for another hour or two to see if she returned. Then, after that, I had little else to do but hunt her down and reclaim my three marks.
I kept to the alleys, planning my next move. Gossip like the death of an officer would benefit me for two days at most, and by then the whole city would’ve heard the story and the truth would become muddled by whoever was the better story teller. And it wasn’t like I could survive on just free beer and meals acquired from my stories alone. I had a look about me that people found off-putting, like I was a ‘stab-first, rob-second’ kind of thug. I also had to brush-up on my people skills.
I returned to the tavern from earlier. Found the barman excitedly talking to some of his regulars. Not a single soldier in sight. He looked my way. Beamed with another smile. “Ah, what can I get for ya?”
“Morning ale. I guess you didn’t get any of the soldiers’ attention.”
“Not so much, I’m afraid. They’re heading back to Torne a lot quicker than I was hoping for. No stopping for a drink.”
“Why the hurry?”
“Problems with Arlo, I guess. Maybe something has finally erupted and Gustali needs his troops along the border.”
“What problems?”
“Not sure. No one stopped to tell me.”
“I mean, what problems is Arlo having? A rebellion?”
“Nah, nothing that severe. Arlo’s governor has been tearing apart the black market. Like, really going at it, ever since Markolo became Emperor. He’s been scaring all the mercenary groups out of the cities. Gustali is worried those assholes from there will find their way here. We already have enough of them. The last thing we need are more rival companies in Torne, Verseii, Solento, Erast ...”
I held my breath. Gustali’s worries weren’t exactly unfounded. If the governor pulled the same kind of crap on us back in Erast and actually managed to force us out, we would’ve headed into Arlo and become a pain in their ass like they might be doing to us.
I asked, “So their tour hasn’t ended early, they’re just being moved around?”
“I suppose so. Still, none of them seemed to be complaining. It’s gotta be nicer down here than in Anglaterra.”
I paused, the name not just ringing a bell but clanging inside my skull. “I thought the army was stationed in the north?”
He nodded happily at me. “Yeah. They were.”
“The north of Syuss.”
“Wellllll, Anglaterra is north of Syuss, so there’s that.”
“When did they become a province?”
“They’re not. Not officially, at least. They got them like they got Syuss a hundred years ago.”
“Through war and conquest?”
“Nah, through treaties and papers. Some general gave them an ultimatum: ‘pay us a tribute or our armies will kill you.’ They agreed. They’ve even stopped trading with the northerners so they wouldn’t piss us off. In something of a weird thank you for all their support, the governor sorts out a few of their problems from time to time.”
“What sort of problems?”
“The kind where he’s happy to send an imperial army into their lands to save the lives of non-imperial people. I don’t know, someone must’ve figured it was a good idea at the time.”
“Were General Kasera’s troops up there as well?”
The barman shook his head. “No idea. Why?”
“I saw a couple of his riders in town.”
He shook his head again. “Didn’t see them.”
I stared back at my drink, growing more nervous with every gulp. A commander stationed in Anglaterra with a dead officer on his hands and two of General Kasera’s riders seen early in the morning.
“Change of topic,” I said.
“Go ahead.”
“Has anyone seen a rich woman around town, likes to gamble, likes to hustle people with a story that her husband is fast asleep and snores like a rolling clap of thunder?”
The barman grumbled. “You too, huh?”
“Where can I find her?”
“Don’t know. I kicked her out of here about a month ago. Shame. She brought in a few extra customers and kept them staying for longer than they wanted. But someone got wise to her and I had to step in.”
I finished my ale. Thanked him. Returned to the magistrate’s building.
Life was certainly showcasing its sense of humor that morning. There were now four horses tied up in front of the building. Two with green blankets under the saddle bearing a pair of golden roses entwined. The other two were the same chestnut horses from Kasera’s army.
I crossed the road, found a corner I could lean against, and waited.
The two riders from before trotted in. Their steeds a splotchy mix of gray and white. Red blankets. Black bear. They found the smaller chestnut horses in front of the magistrate’s building. Both dismounted. One rider headed inside while the other stayed with the horses. A couple of brave kids wandered over, in awe of the fearsome beast of a war horse that close to them. One of the starry-eyed kids spoke to the rider. He shrugged. The kids both raised their hands to feel the neck and jaw of the horse, then squealed in wonder. More talking, this time with a monosyllabic answer. One question followed the next, complete with a bored answer from the soldier. ‘What’s his name?’ ‘Spear,’ or something like that. ‘And this one?’ ‘Shield,’ or whatever. The rider turned to the door of the magistrate’s building and shooed the kids away.
My heart sunk in an instant. Four men came out, all uniformed, all somewhere between twenty five and thirty five in age. All clean shaven. All thoroughly non-descript. They talked for a bit, pointed this way and that, like they were reciting the details of the night before.
I sighed, annoyed with myself for staying within eyesight of – potentially – four of Kasera’s men. I was just about to leave as well when two of the riders snapped to attention and nodded at some kind of command. One of the others stared the two riders down, s
queaked some kind of order at them, and lingered in a ‘my dick is bigger than yours’ stand off. He and his friend brushed past the riders, wandering south to join the rest of the army heading to Torne. The two riders seemed to share a look of annoyance and continued milling about in front of six horses tied up in front of the magistrate’s building.
I took a second look at the duo walking away, picking out their differences. The riders wore long trousers. The two walkers didn’t. The walkers wore leather wrist guards. The riders didn’t. Aside from that, they were all armed with short swords by their sides and were dressed boringly identical to each other.
The young commander who had escorted the dead guy away emerged. Still sullen. Helmet in his hand. He offered a quick word to the two Kasera riders. Nodding back and forth between them all. The two riders snapped to attention once more, so frequent now that they must have developed a permanent knot in their neck and back. The commander gave them each a nod, looking them in the eye as he did so. He and his companion mounted the pair of horses with green blankets, fixed their helmets in place, and rode away, following the same path as the army.
Four horses remained, all bearing the red blanket of Kasera’s riders. With a deep breath, I waited, willing my day to go in one direction while resisting the pull towards the other.
My worst fears surfaced seconds later. A woman emerged from the magistrate’s building. Tall. Broad shouldered. Long brown hair which was immaculately well kept in a braid without a single hair out of place. Black outfit with a sash around her waist. Killer cheekbones.
I held my breath, waiting. A minute passed as Zara stood on the top of the steps, looking over the crowd as the day continued to get underway. She held a familiar squint in her eye, like she was searching the crowd for anything unusual.
Another minute passed, still with me holding my breath. I wanted to push away from the wall and slip away. I commanded myself to do it, yet there I was, feet planted firmly on the ground.
