Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by Everett B. Cole

“All is in order, My Captain.”

  “Very well.” Gerda looked at him approvingly. Then, he swung to the merchant, fixing him with a stern glare.

  “We shall make note of your name, Merchant. See thou that you make honest and accurate valuation in the future. Another time, we shall not be so lenient. The dungeon of Menstal is no pleasant place.”

  He watched till the last of the bargeload was stowed, then nodded curtly.

  “You may shove off,” he said. He turned his head toward the tower.

  “Down chain,” he ordered loudly.

  The windlass creaked protestingly and the heavy chain dropped slowly into the river. The barge steered to the center of the channel, gathering speed as it passed over the lowered chain.

  When the barge had cleared, serfs inside the tower strained at the windlass in obedience to the commands of their overseer, and the chain rose jerkily, to regain its former position across the stream.

  Gerda watched for a moment, then strode toward the guard house. He went inside, to look at the bags of coin on the counting table.

  “Cattle,” he growled, “to think they could cheat the Baron Bel Menstal of his just tax.”

  He stepped back out for a moment, to watch the merchant barge enter the rapids beyond the chain. Then, he swung about and re-entered the tower.

  Inside, he sat down at his counting table. He opened the bags, spilling their contents out on the boards, and checked their count.

  There were forty-eight over.

  He turned to his clerk.

  “What was your count, Lor?”

  “Two thousand, one hundred, sir, and forty-eight.”

  “Very good.” Gerda smiled a little. “For once in his thieving life, the merchant was anxious to give full weight.”

  Lor spread his hands. “He’ll get it back, and more, at Orieano, sir.”

  “Oh, to be sure.” Gerda shrugged indifferently as he scooped the coins back into the bags. He chose three small scraps of wood, scrawled tally marks on them, and went over to a heavy chest.

  Taking a key from his belt, he unlocked the chest and raised its lid. He looked at the bags lying within, then tossed the new ones on top of them. As he locked the chest again, he saw Lor go to his account board, to enter the new collection.

  The Officer of the Guard straightened, stretched for a moment, then glanced critically in at the windlass room. The serfs had secured the windlass and racked their poles. Now, they were sitting, hunched against the wall, staring vacantly, in the manner of serfs. The guardroom, its commander noted, was properly clean. He shrugged and walked out again to the wharf. Once more, he looked at the iron cliffs opposite him, then glanced downriver. The merchant barge had disappeared.

  Beyond Menstal, the cliffs closed in still farther, to become more rugged and to form a narrow gorge. Between them, the Nalen took a tortuous course, turbulently fighting its way over the rocks. Eventually, it would drop into the lowlands, to become a broad, placid river, lowing quietly under the sunshine to water the fields of Orolies. But during its passage through the mountains, it would remain a dark, brawling torrent.

  The merchant barge swept through the rapids just beyond Menstal, her polemen deftly preventing disaster against the rocks. At last, as the gorge became a little wider, the steersman guided his course toward a small beach beneath the cliffs. With his free hand, he thoughtfully rubbed his injured cheek.

  As the boat’s keel grated against gravel, he shook his head and stepped forward. For a moment, he fumbled under a thwart, then he brought out a small case.

  “Konar,” he called, “fix this thing up for me, will you?” He opened the case and laid it on the thwart.

  One of the polemen laid his stick down and came aft.

  “Pretty nasty clip, wasn’t it, sir?”

  Meinora grinned. “Guy’s got a heavy hand, all right,” he admitted. “Made me dizzy for a second. Almost got mad at him.”

  Konar raised an eyebrow. “I felt it,” he said. “Good thing Ciernar and I backed you up a little. Wouldn’t help us much to knock out the baron’s river detachment right now, would it?” He reached into the case.

  “Looks as though the merchants weren’t exaggerating, if you ask me,” he added. He approached Meinora, a small swab in his hand.

  “Hold still, sir,” he instructed. “This’ll sting for a few seconds.” He dabbed at the cut cheek, then reached back into the case for an instrument.

  “Ouch!” Meinora winced. “Did you have to use that stuff full strength? After all, I can wait a couple of hours for it to heal.” He shook his head as his companion turned back toward him, then dashed involuntary tears from his eyes and blinked a few times to clear his vision.

  “No,” he added, “the merchants aren’t exaggerating a bit on this one. Bel Menstal’s a pretty rough customer, and he keeps rough boys. Now, we’ll see whether he’s the guy we’ve been looking for, the guy with our equipment.”

  Konar focused the small instrument on his superior’s face, passing it along the line of the jagged cut. “You didn’t explain that part.”

  “Simple enough.” Meinora grinned wolfishly. “Those coins were a Vadris-Kendar alloy. Now that they’re out of their force field, they’ll start to sublimate. In a couple of hours or so, they’ll be gone, and someone will be asking a lot of questions. Set up the detectors. If the baron is the boy we think he is, we should be getting a fairly strong reading shortly after that guard’s relieved.”

  From somewhere atop the cliff, a bell tolled. The hoarse voice of the lookout drifted down to the wharf.

  “Relieve the guard.”

  Nal Gerda looked up. A line of men were coming down the steep path, stepping cautiously as they wound about the sharp turns. Gerda nodded and walked back into the guard room.

  “Draw up your guard,” he ordered.

  He beckoned to two of the serfs.

  “Take the chest,” he directed, “and stay close in front of me.”

  Herding the bearers before him, he went out to the wharf. His guard was drawn up in their proper station, facing upstream, so that they could view both the steps from the cliff and the river. No traffic was in sight in the long gorge.

  The new guard came slowly down the trail, formed at the foot of the steps, and marched to the tower portal. Their commander dressed their ranks, motioned to his clerk, and came forward, saluting as he approached Gerda.

  “Anything unusual?”

  “Nothing,” Gerda told him. “Seven barges, this watch. Traders are gathering for the fair at Orieano.”

  “I know,” the other agreed. “We’ll have rich collections for the rest of the summer, what with fairs all down the valley. You’ll be going to the Orieano Fair?”

  “Got my permission yesterday. I’m to ride with the Baron. Have to give the merchants back part of their money, you know.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” The other grinned, then sobered. “I’ll relieve you, sir.”

  “Very good.” Gerda saluted, then turned.

  “March off the old guard,” he ordered.

  The men started up the steps. Gerda followed the serfs with the money chest, bringing up to the rear.

  Slowly, they toiled their way up the trail, halting at the halfway point for a brief rest. At last, they were at the top of the cliff. Before them, the castle gate opened. Within the tunnellike passage through the wall, two sentries grounded their pikes.

  Gerda nodded to his clerk, accepted the account tablet, and followed his serfs, who still bore the money chest, into the castle.

  Inside the main counting room, his bearers set the chest on a large table. The castle steward came toward them.

  “And how were collections?”

  “Reasonably good, sir. Seven barges came through during the night, with good cargoes.” Gerda held out the tablet.

  The steward looked at it, checking off the entries. “Meron, of Vandor—Yes, he would have about that. And Borowa? A thousand?” He nodded thoughtfully. “That seems about rig
ht for him.” He tapped the tablet a few times, squinting at the last name on the list. “But who is this Teron? I never heard of him. Must have had a rich cargo, too.”

  Gerda laughed shortly. “He’s a new one to me. He tried to get away with a tenth, then protested the valuation. I fined him an extra five hundred.”

  “Oho!” The steward smiled thinly. “What then?”

  Gerda shook his head. “Oh, he was suddenly so anxious to pay the right amount, he gave me forty-eight teloa overweight. I’ll know him next time I see him, I’m sure. I marked him well for receipt.”

  He inspected his knuckles reflectively, then took the key from his belt and opened the chest.

  “You’ll want to verify my count, of course?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, to be sure. Have to be certain, you know. And there’s your share of the fine and overpayment to be taken care of.” The steward reached into the chest, removing bags which clinked as they were dropped to the table. He stopped, to look into the chest with a puzzled expression on his face.

  “And what are these?” He reached in, to withdraw three obviously empty bags. He looked curiously at the thongs which tied their mouths, then shook them and looked questioningly at Gerda.

  “Why, I . . . I don’t know.” Gerda looked incredulously at the bags. “Certainly, I had no extra money bags.”

  “I should think not.” The steward frowned, then beckoned behind him. Two heavily armed guards approached.

  “We’ll have to examine into this.”

  As the guards came close to Gerda, the steward looked closely at the bags on the table, then picked one up, opening it.

  “Borowa,” he muttered after looking inside and comparing the tally chip with the count tablet. He weighed the bag in his hand. “Yes, it seems to be about right. Certainly not overweight.” He picked up another, then still another. At last, he looked up.

  “Of course, I shall have to count all of these carefully,” he remarked grimly, “but I see no coin from this Teron you have listed.” He stared coldly at Gerda. “And the tower lookout confirms that you had seven barges. That was a considerable amount. What did you do with that money?”

  “Why, I counted it. It was all there.” Gerda shook his head unbelievingly. “My count agreed with that of my clerk, and I dropped tallies in and closed the bags again.” He looked uneasily at the two guards who flanked him. “Surely, you don’t think I’d be so foolish as to tamper with the Baron’s taxes? Think, man! I know the Baron’s ways!”

  “I’m not sure just what I think—yet.” The steward shook his head. He picked up one of the empty bags, opened it, and gave it a shake. The small tally chip fell out and he picked it up, comparing it with the list on the tablet. Frowning thoughtfully, he opened the other two bags. More small blocks of wood fell out. He looked at the bags, then tossed them aside and looked coldly at the guard officer.

  “It’s witchcraft,” cried Gerda. “I had nothing—”

  “We’ll see.” The steward motioned at the two guards. “Search this man.”

  Dazedly, Gerda stood still, submitting as one of the guards went through his clothing while the other stood ready to deal with any resistance. The searcher made a thorough examination of Gerda’s clothing, muttered to himself, and went over his search again. A pile of personal objects lay on the table when he had finished. At last, he looked at the prisoner, then faced his chief.

  “He has nothing on him, sir, not even a teloa.”

  “So I see.” The steward frowned, then looked at Gerda.

  “You may reclaim your possessions now, captain. Is there any chance that your clerk might have opened the money chest?”

  Gerda shook his head. “I don’t see how he could, sir, unless he had a duplicate key, and that’s hardly possible. I kept the chest locked at all times, and the key never left my person.”

  “And there is no chance that any of your men could have hidden anything on the way here?”

  Again, Gerda shook his head. “None,” he said positively. “I was behind them all the way, and would have seen if any had made any unusual motion.”

  “Very well.” The steward clapped his hands sharply.

  There was a clatter of arms, followed by the scuffle of feet. Across the room, a door opened and a detachment of the castle guard filed in. Their leader stepped forward, saluting the steward.

  “There is a river watch outside,” he was told. “Disarm them, take them to a cell, and search them thoroughly. A considerable amount of coin has been stolen. Report to me when you have finished.”

  “Yes, sir.” The group filed out.

  The steward turned to Gerda again.

  “This matter must be examined carefully,” he declared. “You may have been the victim of witchcraft, of course, though I doubt it, never having witnessed such a thing. Or one of your men may have worked out a cunning method of theft, an occurrence which I have witnessed many times. Or, there’s the other possibility.” He stroked his chin. “After all, you were the rearmost man, and the one none other would observe.”

  Gerda looked at him fearfully.

  “This may become a matter for the Baron’s personal attention,” continued the steward. He looked sharply at Gerda. “How long have you been in the Baron’s service?”

  “Why, you know that, sir. Ten years, ever since I—”

  “Yes, yes, I remember. And you know how hopeless it is to try to deceive the Baron?”

  “Yes, sir.” Gerda swallowed painfully.

  “But you still insist you had nothing to do with the disappearance of this money?”

  Gerda spread his hands. “I can’t understand it, sir. But I had nothing to do with it myself. As I told you, we collected it, listed it, counted it, and I put it in the chest and locked it up.” He shook his head again. “It’s witchcraft, sir.”

  The steward leaned back, a slight smile playing about his lips.

  “Witchcraft is good enough for serfs,” he said smoothly, “but you and I are intelligent men. We have had collection money disappear before, many times. Almost always, there has been the cry, ‘It’s witchcraft!’ And always there has been a more simple, worldly explanation.” He snapped his lingers and a page hurried forward.

  “A cup of wine,” ordered the steward. “This questioning is thirsty work.” He faced back to Gerda.

  “Always,” he repeated, “some explanation has been forthcoming. Usually, I have discovered the errant one—with the help of my guards, of course. And the criminal has been duly punished. But there have been some few occasions when the malefactor was so clever as to force the Baron’s intervention.” He paused, leaning forward a little.

  “And do you know what happened then?”

  Gerda’s throat was becoming dry. His mouth opened, but he closed it again.

  The page returned, bearing a large cup and a flagon of wine. Carefully, he filled the cup, then set it before the steward, who lifted it to his lips, drank, and set it down with a satisfied sigh.

  “Thank you, boy. Here is one thing we can produce well in these mountains.” He wiped his lips and turned his gaze to Gerda again. He shook his head slowly.

  “The Baron can detect guilt or innocence in a moment. For a short time, he questioned the persons brought before him. He soon determined the guilty ones, and wrung confessions from their wretched lips. We then took them away, and turned them over to the torturers.” He raised the cup again.

  “You know,” he added, “I’m told that some of them lasted as long as ten full days.” He shook his head. “I could never understand how the executioners can put up with such noise for so long. But then, I suppose one gets used to most anything.”

  He looked toward the door. “Strange,” he murmured, “I wonder what’s keeping Maro so long.” He clapped his hands sharply once more, and waited.

  The page dashed to a door and disappeared within. At last, he came back, holding the door for the leader of the castle guard detachment, who came forward to salute his superior.

&n
bsp; “Have you found anything yet?”

  “Nothing, sir. We have stripped them, but they have no unusual things about them. And we have questioned them. None will admit to seeing or doing anything other than normal duties.”

  The steward sighed. “Very well. Secure them, then. I’ll call for them later.” He stood.

  “Come, Nal Gerda,” he ordered,

  “unless you have something further to tell me of this, we must have an audience with the Baron.”

  Florel, Baron Bel Menstal, sat at his ease. Before him was a dish of good cakes, beside him, a cup and flagon of good wine. He looked contentedly around the apartment.

  For fourteen years now, he had been lord of this castle. And for fourteen years, he had busied himself building his forces and increasing his power and influence in the duchy. He had made himself feared and respected.

  During the past several years, his word had been of great weight in the Duke’s councils. He was now one of the great barons of the realm. He smiled to himself.

  As he had risen in importance, Orieano, the soft holder of the rich fields to the west, had fallen. The man was getting old—even older than the Duke himself, and he was tired. And his daughter was the sole heir to that barony.

  Again, Menstal smiled to himself as he thought of the daughter of Orieano. Next month, at the fair, he would press suit for the hand of the heiress, and a few months after that he would have control of the rich farm lands and the trading city.

  The girl would probably protest, but that would do her little good. He knew what fear could do. And he could rouse such fear as to render even strong men but helpless masses of flesh. The beauteous damsel of Orieano would be a simple task. None other would dare dispute his claim, and the Duke would come to support him.

  And the Duke himself? Ah, well, perhaps it would be as well to allow him to finish his life in peaceful possession of his broad fields. But certainly, the son of Dwerostel would have no word in the control of the duchy. An accident could be easily arranged, and Flor, one-time woods beater and scullery boy of Budorn, would become the great Duke he had long planned to be. No, it wouldn’t take too many more years.