by Jackson Lear
“I deserved it.”
“No one deserves being drowned.”
“I did. I jeopardized the company and I dragged them into a shitstorm they had no reason to be in.”
Alysia hung her head, unable to even look me in the eye until: “Do you miss it?”
“Every day.”
“Even after all that?”
“A few days of awfulness doesn’t erase twenty years of brotherhood.”
“And now you’re, what, freelance?”
“It shares a lot of similarities to being a closer, so it’s not an unusual leap.”
She sighed, handed the letter back, opened the gate, and allowed me to step back into the street. “The kids are fine, by the way.”
I stopped. Turned.
“They talk about you. The hero even nightmares fear.”
I shrugged it off. “Your husband’s in trouble.”
“He barely tells me what’s going on. He says he does, but … is it worse than what you’ve already told us?”
“Considering the prime suspect right now is a Gustali, I’d say yes.”
“Can you help us?”
“Of course. I need names, addresses, and descriptions. The governor has an assassin on the payroll, doesn’t he?”
“I presume so, but I’ve never met them.”
“All right, what about the governor himself? Is he the type to send someone to kill an aide-de-camp?”
“We all are, if provoked properly. But the governor has held onto power not because he’s ruthless and efficient. Ispar sees him as non-threatening. And in this day and age that’s more valuable than efficiency.”
“He’ll have a right hand man, then. Caton?”
Alysia nodded. “Caton Pelus. His chief-of-staff. He’s the efficient type.”
“Running the province from behind the scenes? Makes problems for the governor go away?”
She gave me another nod.
“Thank you. I need to know where to find people. Artavian’s parents, Sergeant Muro, Steward Gabriella, Lieutenant Gustali, Caton Pelus.”
“I’ll see what I can do but they’ll be watching me. If I have anything I’ll leave it under a rock behind the gate, out of sight.”
“Hurry. And take care.” I stepped away.
“Brayen?”
“You sure like these extended goodbyes, don’t you?”
“Why didn’t you say hello if you saw me in Verseii?”
“I was busy.”
“Then why have you waited until now to come and say hello?”
I moved in closer so that no one else would be able to hear me. “You’re the reason my friends drowned me.”
“Then why help us?”
And with a heavy sigh, I told her. “Because for months I kept thinking that they were wrong for tanking me. Then as soon as I saw you it dawned on me that they might’ve been right. Whether I liked it or not, I had to find out for sure who’s side I had always been on.”
Chapter Fifteen
I asked around, looking for an inn I could afford. Given the high-profile area I found myself in, it wasn’t remotely easy. I walked a quarter of a mile in this direction, then a quarter of a mile in that, never bothering to try a place where the roads were wide enough for an army to march through. Instead, I figured the alley inns would suit me well. Not too well, I hoped since these low-end places were a favorite of gangs and mercenary companies the world over. I had earned my keep in the Governor’s Hand by going from one craphole to the next, threatening the innkeepers who always had some sob story about not being able to pay their protection fee on time. Sometimes we would forgive the delay of payment in exchange for a favor, but mostly our only way of getting paid was if we forced someone to hand over everything they owed. It left me with a tricky dilemma: could I risk staying in a building that was sure to be run by one of my former distant rivals?
The first place I considered a reasonable choice proved my point within a few seconds. I walked in, the innkeeper held a post-war stare and shook his head at me from across the room like he was absolutely done with whatever shit I was going to drag him into. I left without saying a word. The next place was passable. A kid served me. Maybe eleven years old. He had dabbed some soot along his upper lip to give himself a thick, manly moustache. I wanted a room. He had one. I asked to see it first.
“Yes, sir. Right this way.” Upstairs, then halfway down the corridor. Nestled between lots of other dingy rooms, no doubt. He unlocked the door and showed off the delights of what was practically a cupboard. Eight feet long. Five feet wide. A mound of flattened hay had recently been swept against the wall. One window – almost too narrow to climb out of.
“How much?”
“One mark per night.”
I dug into my pouch and handed over a single coin.
“Thank you, sir.” He gave me the key. “Enjoy your stay.” He closed the door, leaving me to stare at a room I could barely afford.
I kicked the hay around, wondering when it was last changed and what might be crawling within it. I couldn’t help but once again be hit by an overwhelming sense of nostalgia. Just a few months ago I had a bed. A decent one at that. I had booze in my hand whenever I wanted it. I had clean clothes that didn’t stink to high heaven. Now look at me.
My first few nights out of the company, on my own, as broke as shit and walking off a few aches and pains, I stared at the rooftops along the outskirts of Erast, believing that I was never going to be defeated, that I had lived through worse. After all, I had spent my early years growing up in an orphanage, sleeping on a paper-thin mattress and a rolled up mat no doubt covered in lice. Even during my years in the company, sleeping on a roof top was no big deal. An alleyway? Easy.
Then the ugly truth hit me: they had been easy because they were temporary. I always had the luxury of a decent bed back home and a few days of misery could be wiped clean because others had suffered the same grueling experience as I had. I never had to bitch about my situation because I had brothers louder than me moaning on my behalf. Now I was burdened with my own voice in my own head.
I stared at the mound of hay, my bed for the night, grateful for the luxury in front of me. Then, I started playing the thinking game, trying to work out just how persuasive Alysia might be with her husband.
‘I think we should trust him,’ she will say.
‘No way. I love you, but no. How do you even know him in the first place?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘I have time.’
And on it would go.
Either way I wouldn’t be too hard to find, not in an area of Torne close to Lavarta’s, in a place I could afford. The real question was when I would be called upon.
I tore a bit of hay free, nothing more than the size of my thumbnail, returned to the corridor, and wedged it into the bottom of where the door met the frame. I checked it. It fell when I opened the door. Perfect. I took the remainder of the piece of hay, pushed the door over just enough so that my wrist could squeeze through and I laid it behind the door, the bitten-off piece pointing away from the door frame.
If I was paranoid I would’ve gone out the window and found a second room to stay in, but that required spending even more money. And, since I had nothing much in the way of possessions to leave behind, I wasn’t too concerned about someone snooping around a room full of hay and an empty chamber pot.
I ventured outside to see what Torne had in store for me.
Everything certainly was different in the light of day. The drunken fools from last night were at home, nursing a hangover. The scent of fresh bread and the sound of sizzling meat drifted through the streets, tugging on my stomach. People passed each other politely. No one was pissing in an alley. Teams of youngsters with shovels and a wheelbarrow tended to the horse shit in the middle of the street, scooped it up, washed away whatever remained on the road, and hurried to the next smear of crap.
‘I think we should trust him.’
‘No. I’m sorr
y, but someone like that is only going to cause more trouble than it’s worth.’
‘He said you were in danger.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘So you are in danger? What is it? Tell me.’
‘I can’t.’
‘If you say ‘I can’t’ one more time I’m going to send Zara out to find Raike.’
‘Don’t do that.’
‘You’re not giving me much of a choice. She works for me, not you.’
‘She works for your father.’
‘And what do you think my father will do if I tell him that my husband’s life is in danger?’
‘You don’t know that. All you have to go on is the word of a murderer. I can’t begin to believe how you could even trust him.’
Or something like that.
I had two people still to question before I could justify closing the trap: the steward Gabriella and Sergeant Muro. According to Martius, Gabriella remained at the camp and had to keep track of where all of the soldiers and stewards were staying in Verseii. A messenger went from Artavian’s inn to her. Either the messenger was intercepted or Gabriella told Muro where Artavian was staying.
Talking to Gabriella would be easier than Muro but I didn’t know where she lived. I didn’t know where Muro lived either but he would be easier to find. I figured that Alysia would help me narrow in on Muro and Gabriella without her realizing it since the commander probably had a record of where his officers and their second-in-command lived.
A little reverse-thinking was needed. If I wanted to be within a quarter of a mile of Alysia then Muro would probably want to be within a quarter of a mile of Lieutenant Gustali. It would have to be in a place he could afford. Not dirt-poor, since Greaser had assured me that sergeants were paid double that of the regular infantry, but he would hardly be dripping with money. In order to find Muro I first had to learn where Lieutenant Gustali lived.
I reasoned that I was probably looking for the governor’s mansion. Mr Look At Me likely grew up with servants at his beck and call and wouldn’t want to downgrade on that if he could help it. Even from his shit-eating grin as he entered Torne I got the feeling that he was a pampered brat, and what better way to fuel his ego than to dine with your parents and exaggerate your exploits in the military?
Finding the governor’s place posed about as much of a problem as learning what year we were in. I asked three people where the governor’s office was. I got three fairly accurate sets of directions. The governor worked in the north of the city close to the river, surrounded by grand temples, an impressive magistrate’s office, and plazas paved in a mix of light gray and sandstone. An obelisk here, a statue there, and city watch galore.
From a distance the city council building was bizarrely fat and squat. From a distance. As I drew closer I realized that the scale of the building was far larger than I first believed. It was a three story building with only ten windows spanning each floor. Statues lined the roof, some of gods in flowing dresses, others were soldiers armed with tower shields and spears. In the center of the spectacle was a chariot led by four charging horses and a woman with flame-red hair leading the attack. When I first saw the building the statues would’ve been the size of gnomes. Cute little decorations that gave me the impression that the architect had a sense of humor which didn’t quite fit with what he was trying to pull off. Then I got closer. The statues weren’t the size of gnomes. They weren’t even the size of full grown men and women. They were each nine feet tall. The windows themselves were fifteen feet high and eight across.
I caught a glare or two from a couple of seasoned members of the city watch. The surprise on my face told them loud and clear that I wasn’t a local. I dropped my head down, pretending to not be impressed by everything around me and carried on. If that really was where the governor worked then I was only a ten or fifteen minute walk from where he lived.
I assumed Gustali would live on a hill over looking the river. He was still a general so his home would be fortified with thick walls and guarded towers, able to withstand a siege from the water and street alike. He probably had a tunnel or two under his mighty fortress.
I walked up and down every road that might help. Several grand homes stood prominent, most with a family sigil either on the gates or on the building behind. Then I came across a winner. Thick walls. Spikes on the top. Towers looking over everything in sight. Rows of trees and shrubs blocked the view of the house from the gate. Odd. Governors like grandeur. They wanted everyone to see how monstrously large their home was yet there was nothing to see of it from the road. The house itself seemed to offer no view of the road I was on. Then again, maybe the road wasn’t important to him. Nor would it offer much of a view, except of other large homes in the area. Perhaps his grandeur lay towards the river.
Since I didn’t want anyone to think that I was scouting the area ahead of a robbery I kept on moving, working my way towards the cheaper homes within a quarter of a mile. Along I went, up and down every likely road, learning the lay of the land.
I stopped at a tavern. “Hey there. I’m looking for a buddy of mine who got back last night with the army. Muro.”
The barman shook his head. I tried the next tavern. And the next. Got nowhere. I tried the markets. Nothing. Started to think that I was wasting my time in the wrong area. I asked for recommendations and was pointed towards a costly option: the messengers. They knew where everyone in their area lived, and if they didn’t they knew how to find out. They were expensive in Erast. I could only assume they were prohibitive in Torne. So who was more worth it, Gabriella or Muro?
Muro would have an allegiance to Gustali. A code of silence. But he would also know Gustali’s dark side.
Gabriella could confirm Martius’ story. She must’ve told someone in the camp where Artavian was staying. She might be a ball of nerves right now, slowly realizing that she was involved in his death. Someone might even get to her, either pay her off or coerce her into silence.
But Muro had dirt on Gustali, I was sure of it.
Muro it was.
I stepped into the messenger’s guild, felt uniquely out of place among the scribes scribbling away next to the large windows. Bought a couple of the cheapest pieces of paper I could. Had a go at writing. ‘Your death will live on for decades.’ It was pretty much the only sentence I knew how to spell from memory. I fished out Artavian’s letter given to me by Martius and carefully transcribed Artavian’s name onto the new piece of paper. Folded it. Sealed it. Done.
Then came the nightmarish part. I took an ink well, a pen, and ended up needing several sheets of paper for practice. All up I could recognize a handful of words, mostly the names of major cities in the area. I could write my name even if I didn’t know the individual letters. Mostly, my experience with a pen had been to use it as a stabbing weapon after being caught breaking into someone’s office. I had used one to draw a map a few times so I was at least familiar with holding the damn thing, but I was pretty sure this was going to be the most taxing morning I’d had to suffer through in a good long while.
Artavian’s letter was cleanly presented. The writing was clear. Nice loops on the top and bottom of the letters. Everything looked consistent and evenly spaced. I set a fresh sheet of paper next to the letter, dipped my pen in the ink, remembered to use a sheet of blotting paper, and attempted to copy Artavian’s letter to his father stroke for stroke.
If you’ve ever begun a task which seemed easy enough at the beginning, only to realize that you were in for a long and arduous journey with no turning back two steps in, you might understand what I was feeling by the end of my first sentence. Copying every letter, while double checking that what I had written matched a professional scribe’s … if there were two hundred words there then that was going to take me an hour at the bare minimum.
My hand started to cramp. I later learned that’s due to holding the pen too tight and I hadn’t even eased my grip when I was checking the next word. I scratched the paper more tha
n I expected and managed to jam a hole into it a couple of times. Several of my words became blotched and illegible with drips of ink running everywhere. Honestly, it looked like a troll had sneezed all over my masterpiece of forgery. Maybe that wasn’t a surprise, considering that my hand was in agony. I even switched to my left a couple of times. I figured I was probably equally crap in both and that it wouldn’t be much of a big deal. I was wrong. I had to start all over again thanks to smudging every goddamn sentence and smearing black ink across the base of my hand.
At last, I was finished. I leaned back, inspected my copy of Artavian’s letter against the original, and decided that writing was best left to scribes and not mercenaries. I cleaned up after myself, tucked the letter into my clothes, and figured that by now Alysia would have had a quiet word with Zara about my arrival into Torne. I returned to the clerk who had served me the first time and offered my sealed note: ‘Your death will live on for decades.’
“Yes, sir. How can I help you?”
“I’d like this delivered today, please. Sergeant Muro from Commander Lavarta’s army.”
The young woman took my sealed sheet of paper and turned it over in her hand. “No name on the front?”
“No.”
“How do you spell ‘Muro’?”
“I don’t know.”
She jotted down her best attempt at the name. “Where does he live?”
“I don’t know.”
“You might be better off trying the military, if I’m honest.”
“They’re not exactly renowned for doing things quickly, are they?”
She smiled at that, quietly agreeing with me. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’d like it delivered today, if possible.”
She winced. The sun was at noon already, she had no address to work with, and the messengers were already out and about. “What’s your name?”
“Artavian.”
She scribbled that into a ledger. “That’ll be five pennies.”
I paid. It stung, but I paid.
She called out to a young little scamp. Big-eyes and a thick mop of hair which didn’t suit him. Barefoot but eager to please. She passed on a set of instructions. He took the note, nodded, and pushed past me like he had no idea I was the customer.
