A Sellsword's Hope

by Jacob Peppers

  “So…what? You’re saying that you’re…vindicated somehow, because he’s dead and you’re alive?”

  Wendell frowned. “I ain’t real sure what ‘vindicated’ means, but what I’m tryin’ to say is that, while he was nice to everybody he ever met, he weren’t nice to himself. Oh, this guy, he’d smile and wave, say all the right things to anybody walked up on ‘em—and he’d mean ‘em too, I reckon, ‘less he’s a better liar than I’ve ever seen. But there was a sadness in him anyway, one I caught a peek of, sometimes, when he thought no one was lookin’. When the rounds had been bought, the women had come and the women had gone, and it was just him sittin’ alone, I saw somethin’ in him, and it wasn’t just sadness, Chamberlain. It was hate. Not for the world or for us unworthy bastards sharin’ it with him, but for himself. Every once and a while, I caught a glimpse of that hate, and I tell you it was enough to make me figure that, if given the choice, I’d let him keep his life and me mine, for whatever problems I’ve got—and the gods and my ma knew there were plenty—they’re problems I can set down from time to time, troubles I can forget about.”

  “But…he couldn’t?”

  “Naw, he couldn’t,” Wendell said, clearing his throat and wiping at eyes that had suddenly grown misty. Damned allergies. Damned forest. “See, I watched this fella, watched him kinda, shrink in on himself, as the weeks and the months passed. Most times, he was fine, seemed just as happy as ever, but I could see it there, in his eyes, whatever it was, see it gettin’ worse. It was like he had some kind of sickness eatin’ him up from the inside, one that was all but invisible. And so the days went on—like they’ll do—and this fella got worse and worse until, in the end, even some others started to notice, started to ask him what was wrong. To which, of course, he always said nothin’, smilin’ and sayin’ whatever needed said to make the questions go away.”

  “So what happened?”

  “He died,” Wendell said, surprised at the pain that waited for him as he ventured back into the memory of that day. “Nobody knew, at first, though. We showed up—the usual tavern crowd, whores and drunks, mostly—and he just wasn’t there, the chair he usually used empty. We didn’t remark on it much, ‘cept one fella mentioned it looked like we’d have to pay for our own drinks for a change. There was some laughin’ at that, but not so much as you’d think. After all, the man was about always there, close to the end, and him bein’ gone, well, it was almost like walkin’ in and findin’ the bar and the barkeep both nowhere to be seen. Strange. Off-puttin’.”

  Wendell paused, sniffling, then hocked and spat. Damned forest. Damned allergies. He looked at the chamberlain and saw the man watching him now. “We found out the next day the man’d died. He’d been walkin’ around that big old house of his, leavin’ a fine lookin’ woman in the bed waitin’ on him, mind, when he fell off his balcony with pretty predictable results.”

  “Gods,” Gryle said. “A terrible accident.”

  The sergeant nodded slowly. “Some folks say so, figure maybe he wanted a breath of fresh night air, maybe just to take a breather before he got back to business with his lady friend, and tripped and fell. But you know what, Chamberlain?” he said, meeting the man’s eyes. “I don’t think so. You ask me, I think that whatever disease was eatin’ that man up got to be more’n he could bear, and he did the only thing he could think of to make it stop. Say whatever you want to about throwin’ yourself off a balcony, there’s one thing for sure—it’d make a man’s worries seem small enough.”

  There was silence for a time, then finally the chamberlain spoke. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Sergeant Wendell. A terrible, sad story. But I’m not sure—”

  “We’re all broken, Chamberlain,” Wendell interrupted. “All of us. I don’t know whether we’re born broken, or we end up that way once the world’s taken its hammer to us a few times, and I don’t think it matters much in any case. All of us are vases with cracks in ‘em. Some of us—shit, most of us—wear our flaws on the outside, easy for anyone to see. But not all of us do—that don’t mean we ain’t cracked, understand, that we ain’t broken. Just means that the hammer hit us different, that’s all. You’re fat, I’m ugly, he’s dead, and the world’ll keep right on doin’ what it does.”

  “It’s the world then?” the chamberlain asked, raising his eyes to look at the field still littered with corpses, the soldiers going about the work of tending to what few wounded there were—the mage’s creatures didn’t tend to leave many—and dragging the bodies away. “It’s evil?”

  Wendell grunted. “I don’t reckon the world’s any more evil than good, Chamberlain. It just is, that’s all. I don’t think it’s got no malice in it, when it takes the hammer to us. It’s just doin’ what it does, same as the way you like to eat more’n other folks or your body likes to hold on to it more, whatever the case is. You—and I, and the dead man—we’re just doin’ what we do. Maybe not doin’ it the best way, but the only way we know how. And as for you bein’ fat—seems to me that’s proof that you got some learnin’ to ya.”

  “Oh?” Gryle asked, surprised.

  “Sure,” the sergeant said. “Tells me you—or your body, either one—know a truth few folks do. That, sometimes, the world brings a man a feast, and sometimes it brings him a famine. A smart man—a wise one—eats while he can, knowing that, any day now, he might find himself starvin’. A smart man takes what happiness he can find where he can find it because, who knows, sooner or later he might just open his eyes and see that he’s standin’ on his balcony, the ground a long way below him.”

  The chamberlain nodded slowly, turning back to the corpse at his feet. “This man, here…he called me a hero. Said he just wanted to shake my hand. Then before we were done talking, one of those things came out of the darkness and killed him.”

  Wendell grunted. “I see. And did you shake it?”

  Gryle turned to him, a confused expression on his face, as if the sergeant had just spoken in another language. “I’m sorry?”

  “His hand. Did you shake it?”

  “I…yes, but—”

  “Well, that’s alright then. We’re all gonna die one day, Chamberlain—the world’s got our spot all picked out for us, even if we don’t know it. You ask me, there’s worse ways to go than dyin’ as you’re shaking the hand of a man you admire. Better ways maybe—there’s a brothel, comes to mind—but that sure ain’t the worst.”

  “But…I’m no hero.”

  Wendell laughed, slapping the chamberlain on the shoulder. “Naw?” he asked. “Well, might be these fellas here think otherwise.”

  Gryle followed his gaze to the soldiers around them, studying him with expressions that could be nothing but awe and admiration. “The world needs its heroes, Gryle,” Wendell went on. “Folks need someone to be strong when they can’t, someone to give ‘em hope when their own pockets turn up empty.”

  The chamberlain seemed to slump even further, shrinking in on himself. “It…it is a heavy weight to carry, Sergeant.”

  “Sure it is,” Wendell agreed, “but that’s alright. Just carry it as far as you can, for as long as you can, Chamberlain, and know that every man breathin’ has his own load on his shoulders. Only the dead get a pass.”

  Gryle took a slow, deep breath. “Thank you, Sergeant Wendell. I…it’s remarkable, but I feel better.”

  Wendell grinned, giving him a wink. “Well, that’s something then, ain’t it?”

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  Balen stood on the deck of Festa’s ship, breathing in the cool sea air and reveling in the feel of the wind against his face. For the first time in recent memory, he wasn’t running for his life or doing his level best to defend it. At least, mostly. Captain Festa was not a patient man at the best of times, and these were far from the best of times. Thom, unwilling to be separated from May again after her recent imprisonment, had marched out with the army when they left Perennia nearly a week ago, and no matter of threats—of which there had been man
y—from Captain Festa had been able to sway him. And, since Balen served as first mate on Leomin’s ship, and the Parnen captain also marched with the army, serving as Festa’s first mate until Thom returned to take his place had seemed like fate.

  If, that was, fate was a cruel joke the gods played on mortals for their entertainment—something Balen was becoming more and more sure of as the days went on. Still, the ships had left the same day as the army, and Balen had not loved the prospect of staying in the city, thinking that, judging by recent history, it was only a matter of time before someone else tried to kill him if he did.

  So, despite his own misgivings—namely, not wanting to find himself the target of one of Captain Festa’s common, and always violent, rages—Balen had reluctantly agreed to accompany Festa and the armada of other ships, manned with sailors and soldiers both, as they journeyed on the task General Envelar had set them. Namely, traveling to Baresh and encircling the port in order to cut off any possible retreat for Kevlane or his inner circle. That, of course, as far as Balen was concerned, was a particularly optimistic bit of fancy, but at least it had gotten him out of a city that seemed bent on killing him, and put him back on the sea again.

  So even though he’d felt like the type of fool that put his head in a lion’s mouth expecting it not to bite when he initially agreed to be the first mate on Festa’s ship, Gorgeous, Balen was enjoying himself. Its appearance aside—which, it had to be said, held nothing in common with its name—Gorgeous sailed the water well, skimming atop it with a grace he hadn’t expected. Of course, it wasn’t any match for the Clandestine, the ship upon which he normally served as Captain Leomin’s first mate, but as far as Balen was concerned, there wasn’t a ship in the water that was.

  Even taking on the role of Captain Festa’s first mate had—so far at least—not been nearly as terrible as Balen had imagined. In fact, he had come to almost enjoy the captain’s company, and found himself having to suppress a grin as the heavy-set man, wearing even more clothes and furs than normal now that they were out at sea, launched into one of his many inevitable tirades. Humor, he’d found when once the captain had seen him smiling and decided to change the target of his ire to Balen, was sometimes best kept to oneself. Particularly if, said one, wanted to keep his self—and all his parts—intact.

  And the truth of it was, Balen felt lighter, freer, than he had in weeks. Some men were made to be farmers, born with the dirt of the land on their hands. Others were made to be clerks, their shirts always stained with the ink of their trade, blinking myopically through thick-rimmed glasses at reports all day…but Balen, he was made for the sea, the wide open ocean, stretching out in all directions. Out here, with the feel of the sun on his face, the cool breeze on his skin, Balen’s worries melted away until they seemed—almost but not quite—laughable in retrospect.

  It was as close to paradise as he ever thought a man like him would get, and most of the time it felt like more than he deserved. It was beautiful, and it was peaceful, just so long as he stayed on his toes, prepared to dodge whatever was near the captain’s hands when he grew angry.

  As if the thought had summoned him, Balen heard the loud, unmistakable footfalls—even they somehow contrived to sound furious—on the deck behind him. “How’s things treatin’ you then, Your Lordship?”

  Balen turned away from the view of the sea reluctantly, removing his hands from the deck railing to look at the heavy-set man, bundled in so many furs it was a miracle he could stand at all. “Captain?” he asked curiously.

  “Why do you look confused, Balen? You are a lord, ain’t you? A man with gold and mistresses aplenty, hired my humble ship and crew to cart him around so he could see the ocean in all its glory?”

  “Um…no sir, Captain. I don’t—”

  “No?” Festa interrupted as if surprised. “Huh. Then why, I wonder, are you standin’ here like a damned tourist, gawkin’ at everything we pass instead of doing your damn job?”

  The last was said in a roar, and Balen winced. “Forgive me, Captain. I…only, it’s good to be at sea again.”

  “Well, course it is,” Festa answered as if Balen had just said something incredibly stupid. “Where the fuck else would we be?” He shook his head. “I swear but the gods have taken it in mind to test my patience of late. First, that fool Thom goes marchin’ off to war, chasin’ after that red-head’s skirts and playing at being a soldier. The gods know the bastard’s too old to be wearin’ armor and swinging a sword. Only thing he ought to be concerned about wavin’ around is a hand for someone to help him up, if’n he falls. Then, if that ain’t enough to make a man weep for a world gone mad, my new first mate is more concerned with feelin’ the wind in his hair than seein’ to his duties!”

  Balen nodded, doing his best to look properly chastised—there was a hope, however small, that if he did so, the captain’s annoyance wouldn’t turn into an outright tantrum. Still, he found it difficult to look properly ashamed. After all, it wasn’t the first time he’d heard such a speech—he’d long since lost count of the exact number—and for all his gruff, brash exterior, it was obvious that Festa was worried about Thom. Not that Balen could blame him. He figured there were enough ways for a man to catch his death in the world without him marching with an army that, so far as he could see, was pretty much courting it.

  But for all his own worry, he was happy for Thom. There’d been a time—barely more than a week ago—when it looked as if the first mate would never see his lady love again, and only a lot of dying and a lot of luck had managed to change that. He couldn’t blame the man for wanting to hold on to what happiness he could in a world that looked intent on finding the tallest cliff it could and jumping off it. “He’ll be okay, Captain,” Balen said.

  Festa, who’d just paused to take a deep breath, no doubt preparing for his next recrimination, hesitated. “What’s that?”

  “I said he’ll be okay. Thom, I mean. I know you’re worried about him, marching with the army like he is, but if I know one thing, it’s that May won’t let him get anywhere close to the front line, when the battle starts.”

  Festa sputtered in disbelief. “You…you think I’m worried about that…that…fool? If he wants to go off playin’ soldier, that’s on him. His choice, and the gods never let one pass without makin’ sure a man pays for it.” He sniffed. “Worried about him. Like I’m some old hag sittin’ and rubbin’ her hands together, wishin’ her son’d visit more.” He frowned, leaning close to Balen. “I’ll tell you what I’m worried about, Blunderfoot. I’m worried about my ship falling apart while my new—and temporary, thank the gods—first mate gazes out at the horizon like a poet gettin’ ready to write somethin’ nobody’ll read. And I’ll tell you now, Blunderfoot, the first rhymin’ words I hear out of your mouth, I’m throwin’ your ass overboard, and you can appreciate the view as much as you want while you’re thrashin’ in the water with sharks circlin’. You hear me?”

  “Yes sir, Captain,” Balen said, schooling his features to hide the grin that threatened to come to his face. “I hear you.”

  Festa studied him suspiciously, as if he were picking up some of Balen’s amusement despite his efforts. “Well. Good,” the captain said, as if he’d been expecting an argument and, now that Balen hadn’t offered one, he wasn’t sure what direction to take the conversation in. He snorted. “Actin’ as if I’m missing that ornery old bastard. Ridiculous. Since he’s got with that woman, he ain’t done nothin’ much but test out the beds in the cabins anyway. It’ll serve him right, somebody comes along and caves his head in for him. Seamen belong on the sea, Blunderfoot. The Sea Goddess might be a cruel bitch, but she’s ours, and it don’t do a man any good to go lookin’ for somethin’ else, once the goddess has picked him. You understand?”

  “Yes, Captain,” he said, nodding dutifully. “I understand.”

  Festa frowned. “Ah, get out of here, you bastard, before I take it in mind to throw your ass overboard just for the fun of it. Go talk to Emer. Tell
that surgeon that once he gets done sewin’ up those fools as nearly got themselves killed savin’ Thom’s woman, I got a table in my cabin I need him to see to fixin’ up.” He grunted. “And tell him I don’t want to hear none of his complainin’ neither—if that bastard was as bad of a surgeon as he was a carpenter every one of those bloody bastards he’s workin’ on would be doomed.”

  Maybe he seems like a bad carpenter because you’re always picking up the things he makes and throwing them, Balen thought, but he only nodded again. “Of course, Captain. I’ll go at once.” He started away, headed below decks, but paused when the captain spoke.

  “Blunderfoot,” Festa said quietly. “Did you hear as much?”

  “What’s that, Captain?”

  “About the woman, May, keepin’ that old wrinkly bastard out of trouble? Keepin’ him off the frontline. She tell you as much?”

  “Aye, Captain,” he said. “She did.”

  Festa grunted. Then, seeing Balen was still watching him, gave a scowl. “Well? What the fuck you waitin’ on? Ain’t you got work to do?”

  “Of course, sir,” Balen said, hurrying away so that the captain wouldn’t see his grin.

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  Caleb had long since lost track of the times he and Tianya had almost died. They had spent the last three days slinking through the woods, starting at every sound. Every rustle of leaves in the wind or call of a bird sent a shiver of fear through him, and each time he was certain their luck had finally run out, that Kevlane’s creatures had found them. But, so far at least, they remained undiscovered.

  Of course, without the help of the Virtue of Perception Tianya carried, they would have been dead days ago, but with the power of the bond she could discern sounds from much farther away than any normal person, and had been able to give advance warning when one of the creatures—or what they took to be one of the creatures—drew too close.