The Betrayed

by Igor Ljubuncic

  “The Children of the Ways win again,” the priest intoned and was moving away, a few of the spectators trailing after him.

  As the crowd started to melt, Armin reached gently, touching one of the participants on the shoulder. “Greetings, citizen. Could you please tell me who this man was?”

  The other person eyed him with shock. Noticing his strange robe, the curious accent slowly registering, the man recovered. “You are not from around here?”

  “No, I’m from Sirtai.”

  “That was a priest of Feor,” the man spoke, reverence clear in his tone.

  “Feor?” Armin had never heard of Feor. His ignorance of continental religions bit him again.

  This seemed to anger the man. Growling a curse, the man nudged past Armin and strode away hurriedly.

  Armin lingered after the last of the onlookers had gone away. He stared at the temple and started to notice alarming signs—broken glass lying at the foot of gaping panes, stones and rotten vegetables littering the patio in front of the large double doors. It did not look like the vibrant, cheerful place of prayer that temples were supposed to be.

  Prompted by a strange new passion, Armin abandoned his quest for murderers that afternoon and spent hours patrolling the city, visiting holy places and large squares. He saw another three priests of Feor, delivering speeches very similar to the one he had heard. He found most of the temples closed, with battered facades.

  He also suspected the presence of city guards was much heavier than it should be in a relatively peaceful capital city. Then, news of a war in the west reached him, and another tile of understanding fell away, leaving him all the more confused.

  He cleared his schedule the next day and decided to do two things: visit a library and read about Feor, and hire himself an informant.

  His first task was a very simple one. There were no books about Feor. Whoever this deity was, he or she did not star in the scrolls and annals of Caytorean history. Even the most recent works, written merely a few decades before, were empty of any record of Feor.

  Intrigued to the point of madness, he left the vestibules of the large City Library and headed for the City Market.

  Just like in the richer parts of the capital, people in the leather clothes were everywhere, only thrice as many. It was obvious that common people liked the priests and their speeches much more than their rich cousins.

  He was also shocked to discover that the poor people in Caytor were much poorer than the poor people in Sirtai. And he was absolutely disgusted by their poor hygiene. Despite its magnificence and size, Eybalen had no underwater canals for sewage, save the most luxurious parts, like the one he stayed in. There were tiny gutters at the edge of the roads, which connected to other gutters in other streets, all eventually leading to the sea. But the gutters were open and reeked awfully. People crossed them many times a day, often stepping in their own feces. Rats shared the streets with humans, big, ferocious, and unafraid.

  The city slums were even worse. Their gutters were clogged with dead dogs and ancient garbage. The streets were muddy from overspilled crap. But no one seemed bothered.

  The market was a chaos of screams, people hawking a thousand goods. Walking in a straight line was impossible. People rubbed into one another like fish in a net, flopping and squirming while gulping for air.

  Armin had no clear destination, but he was sure he would know his goal once he saw it. He had taken only a few coins with him and carried them in a closed fist, knowing he would lose his purse the moment he stepped into the market.

  After a few minutes of meandering among the city’s finest, he reached an isle of sanity, some empty space around an old, broken spout covered in a thick layer of bird droppings. Cowering in the shade of the debris, several scrawny street urchins were gambling, betting with rat paws and tails.

  Armin casually dropped one of the copper coins into their midst.

  “You,” he declared, pointing at the fastest urchin.

  The boy looked alarmed and poised to flee, but the hairless, smooth-featured face of the stranger stayed him.

  “Don’t be afraid. I mean you no harm. The coin is yours. You have earned it.”

  “Mine?” the boy repeated, unsure. Such a price was not something he would usually earn without a bitter fight.

  “Your money,” Armin said. “And I have more if you are willing to help me.”

  The boy grinned. Most of his milk teeth had fallen out, and the new ones had not grown yet, turning his mouth into a grotesque grimace.

  Armin stepped away. The boy followed him. So did all of his friends.

  “What about my gang?” the boy inquired.

  “Oh, you have a gang. Very nice. What’s your name, boy?”

  The little thing patted his thin chest. “You can call me Squiggle.”

  Armin smiled. Such an apt name. “Well, Squiggle and the gang, I would like to employ your services. I want you to be my eyes and ears and help me around the city.”

  The boy merely blinked. “How much you pay us?”

  The investigator made a face, pretending to think. “A copper a week for all of you. And if you bring me good and valuable news, another copper.”

  Squiggle snorted. “Five coppers.”

  Armin shook his head. “Two, plus one for every piece of good news.”

  The boys looked at one another. “Done.” Squiggle spat in his palm and extended it.

  “Done,” Armin said and patted the boy on the shoulder. “You will meet me every morning near the docks, where I will give instructions for that day. Then, the day after, you will tell me of your success and be paid. Do you understand?”

  Squiggle nodded. “When do we start?”

  Armin smiled. “Right now.”

  Walking back to his mansion, he continued wondering about Feor. The boys had offered him very little useful information on this subject. Moreover, he did not trust their judgment to accurately evaluate the political situation in the city.

  Then, an old memory tickled him. He almost missed a step. Chart-maker Nespos, of the scribes’ guild. The scribes and chart-makers were people who wrote recorded history. If anyone could help him, those were surely the members of the scribes’ guild.

  One of the people in leathers passed him by, almost colliding with him. Armin frowned at the obvious lack of civility, but said nothing. The man had a saunter typical of young peacocks and drunkards, people who sought trouble for free.

  Once you spotted them, your eyes never stopped seeing them, he realized. He was getting more and more sensitive to the sight of priests and their followers, wearing varying degrees of leathers. The cleaner ones looked like clergy or distinguished members of this mysterious religion. Those who wore tatters that resembled leather looked like new converts. But still, they were a complete and utter mystery.

  “Hey, you,” someone called, and he knew that they hailed him.

  He turned to see a trio approach him. They were dressed in rags and smelled of feces. They looked like fine candidates of the city’s lowest society.

  “Greetings,” Armin welcomed. He was unarmed. Inessa was not with him today. She had a very painful menses and could not accompany him.

  “I heard you was doin’ business in my part of the city today. And I don’t remember giving you permission to do business in my part of the city.”

  “Apologies if you were offended, good sir,” Armin started.

  “We hear you has money you give to urchins. But I don’t see you give any money to me.”

  Armin realized this little show was an elaborate extortion. Maybe a threat and maybe a message. Local gang leaders, like gang leaders anywhere, did not approve of trespassers in any way. The investigator realized he may have committed a serious error, but he was not sure how this should end. He had no experience dealing with Caytorean criminals. Especially not the poor ones.

  “We wants money,” another gang member volunteered in a raspy voice.

  He did not have any money about him. A
nd he knew that if he succumbed to their threats and paid, he would forever hinder his work in the city. And yet, he did not feel like bleeding his guts to death in some foreign place.

  “I believe we can try to reach some sort of an agreement.” He stalled.

  “Deal is, you gives me ten gold now, and we let you go. Then, you gives me another ten every week, and we let you employ the urchins. How about that?”

  Armin realized they did not know who they were harassing. Again, it was his own doing. His plain clothing and the choice of transport had undermined his image. Rich people did not walk, nor did they wander into the poor regions of the city.

  In Tuba Tuba, things were so different. The word “poor” had a whole other meaning in Caytor. People like his assailants were nothing but nameless slaves in Sirtai. Back home, poor people did not try to attack their superiors. They would either get killed or enslaved for life, a price too steep to pay, especially when one always had food, shelter, and clean streets beneath one’s soles.

  Armin did not know what to do. He was not skilled in combat. He knew his valiant stand would end in him getting killed very quickly. If something like this had happened back home, the casual onlookers would attack the assailants and beat them senseless. Crimes in Sirtai had classes, just like the people.

  Here, the few people present did their best to pretend nothing was happening. They turned the other way and hastened their pace. There was no City Watch in this part of Eybalen.

  As he stood facing his death, he realized his approach had been wrong all along. He had always suspected the deaths of the city’s rich had been carefully planned deeds of their comrades. Now, the options seemed limitless. Anyone could have done it. Anyone with enough money and a solid opportunity. There was nothing stopping people like his nemeses from taking a knife to a throat of some noble for a sufficient sum of gold.

  Armin felt naked. And ashamed of this alien society. Where were the good citizens to protect him, to protect one another from harm?

  Having nothing to say, he stood and waited, his stomach muscles bunched, anticipating a spike of cold steel. Instead of attacking him, the three villains seemed reluctant to attack. Afraid? They stepped back.

  Armin dared breathe again. A sixth sense made him aware of a presence behind him. Slowly, very slowly, he turned and saw a man, dressed like a gentleman, standing several paces behind him, staring at his three antagonists.

  “We is very sorry, sir,” the leader mumbled, taking another step back.

  Shocked, Armin just nodded. Was he being rescued by a gallant citizen? No, he realized, he was being rescued by one of his stalkers.

  The gangsters ran off, never looking back.

  “I would like to thank you,” Armin told the man.

  “Next time, ride in a chariot,” the man said and was gone. Armin stood there, with more unanswered questions than before.

  CHAPTER 11

  Adam made his way back into the camp, walking slowly and slightly limping. No one dared approach him. Although the patrols had spotted him quite some time ago, he was all alone on the dusty trail leading to the Eracian camp.

  He hobbled past multiple rows of stakes, past small towers crammed full with archers. Everywhere, soldiers stood and stared stupidly. A cloud of stunned silence preceded him to be replaced by a turbulent wind of hushed talk.

  A knot of officers waited for him in one of the camp centers. As he neared, he rehearsed the same lines for the thousandth time. He had been a soldier in Captain William’s battalion. After Bruce and his three sergeants died in combat, the captain had promoted him to an acting lieutenant.

  It should work.

  Finally, a man approached him, offering him a skin. He nodded his thanks and drank.

  “Are you wounded?” the soldier asked.

  Adam shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  The man pointed at his soiled tunic. “You have a huge stain of blood there.”

  Adam smiled softly. “I don’t think it’s mine.”

  The spell broken, people flocked toward him. He cringed under the sudden onslaught. But all that came were gentle, almost cautious touches to his arms and legs, as if they wanted to make sure he was not an apparition.

  “Enough, stand back,” one of the officers barked. The sea of armed men retreated.

  Adam stood frozen for a moment. Then, he noted the two copper leaves on the man’s shoulders. He remembered from his days in Paroth that two coppers meant captains. He recovered and saluted wearily.

  “No need for that, man,” the captain said in a much softer voice.

  “Who are you?” another captain inquired.

  This was it. Adam took a deep breath and gave birth to his new self. “I’m Acting Lieutenant Adam, sir. Served under Sergeant Edwin in Lieutenant Bruce’s company. When they both got killed, Captain William promoted me.”

  He waited. Nothing happened.

  “Are you the only survivor?” the second officer asked, after a short pause.

  “For gods’ and goddesses’ sake, let’s not make a parade out of this. Bring that man into the tent,” a third voice boomed.

  Gently, as if he were some rare beast, he was ushered into a tent, given a stool and a flagon of wine. He drank slowly, biding his time.

  “He must be in shock,” he heard someone comment.

  “Do you remember the…battle?” the second officer persisted.

  Adam put down the flagon. It was time for the second act. “Not really, no, sir. I remember bits of it. I remember we were marching when the enemy ambushed us. Our flanks were exposed. And then, it was chaos.”

  Mali’s brows jumped at the news. “What? A survivor?”

  Colonel George shrugged. “It seems to be. No one can believe it. Looks like a miracle.”

  “Where is he now?” Mali asked, already rising from her chair.

  “My captains are with him now. He claims to be one of William’s men. Field promoted some two or three ranks. I find it highly unlikely.”

  Abruptly, Mali stopped walking. George bumped into her. “You think he’s a spy?”

  George puckered his lips. “I’m not thinking anything. It’s just weird, that’s all.”

  “I want to speak with him,” Mali said.

  “Wait, let me make sure he’s not armed,” George said and rushed ahead of her.

  “So now he’s an assassin too?”

  Adam was surprised by his own calmness. He sat in a crowd of complete strangers, people who would have his head instantly should they know the truth, and yet, it hardly mattered to him.

  His act seemed to have convinced them. He was a bit hesitant, a bit vague, making them believe he suffered from shock and exhaustion. Still, wariness remained. Adam knew more than well not to push his luck. This was no different than being a whore. You had to let your customer warm up to you.

  The tent flap stirred, and another group of officers entered. A tall, imposing man with a black beard led them. He stood there, scowling, as his eyes adjusted to the murk. Then, they found Adam.

  “Welcome,” he said, his voice pleasant.

  Adam tried to rise from the chair, but the man waved a hand at him. “No, please, remain seated. You must be terribly exhausted.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Adam mumbled. His rival had the eyes of a fox, gleaming and knowing.

  “Can you tell me what happened?” the man asked almost too casually.

  As agreed, Mali had remained outside the tent, eavesdropping through the thin canvas.

  She admitted the First Battle of Bakler Hills had been an utter disaster. After some debating, she had decided to move south and meet the enemy face-to-face. Being significantly outnumbered, she had hoped to gain some higher ground before meeting the Caytoreans.

  But her scouts had done a lousy job. A huge force of enemy cavalry had slipped past west and then backtracked in a wide circle from the north, attacking her exposed flank. She had been able to regroup and pull the mainstay of her forces back to her original po
sition, but the vanguard of light infantry had been cut away. With no help from the heavy shock, the skirmishers and former convicts had been decimated easily. Instead of securing a foothold in the hills, she now faced a fortified enemy, with a thousand less spears than she had had a week ago. Partly, it was her fault. She should have sent dragoons instead of the rabble.

  The battle must have been a total disaster. She did not know all the gory details of the fiasco. But she knew that the troops from Penes had been training to harry infantry and stragglers— not to fight heavily armed Caytorean cavalry. Kal Armis’s men had been there just for show, three ragged companies of fodder and some regulars.

  And on top of all that, the Caytoreans had a nasty habit of slaughtering all captives. They did not believe in the prisoners-of-war approach.

  One of the soldiers beckoned her to enter, a sign from George that it was safe for her to meet the stranger. She realized she had missed most of the conversation, her thoughts sidetracked by self-pitying reflection.

  Adam’s heart quickened as the woman entered. It was her. The one he’d seen the day he’d gone to talk to Sergeant Nigel.

  Despite the uniform and obvious manly ego she had acquired as the leader of so many men, she had a strong feminine presence that you could almost smell. She had dark brown hair and dark brown eyes without a flake of mercy in them. This woman did not cry into her pillow.

  “What’s your name?” she asked him without any pleasantry.

  “Adam,” he said.

  “Where do you hail from?”

  “From Penes,” he mumbled.

  “Your town of birth,” she insisted.

  Adam realized it was best to stick with the one city he really knew. “Paroth.”

  “A city boy,” she said, a hint of mockery in her voice. “Show me your hands.”

  Icy fire lanced down his back as she took his hands in a firm yet cool grip and examined them. For the first time in weeks, he was glad for the blisters and calluses from the shit-shoveling.

  “What do you recall of the battle?”