by Ken Scholes
Those tracts were everywhere in the Named Lands now. Combined with the blockade and the devastated economy, those damning pamphlets fueled the Entrolusian insurrection. Civil war had already swallowed Turam, and even what little remained of the Order was divided. Those of the Androfrancines who had not found their way back to the Papal Summer Palace were now in the Ninefold Forest. And with winter now past, there were rumblings that some of the higher ranking arch-scholars and bishops-men old enough to remember Pope Petronus-were planning a migration eastward.
He filled the cup to the brim, lifted it and tipped it back. It took most of a bottle now for him to forget. Half of another for him to sleep.
Oriv heard a knock at his door, and tried to stand. He swayed on his feet and sat down heavily. “Come in,” he said.
Grymlis pushed open the door. “Excellency, may I have a word?”
The old soldier looked more tired than usual. His eyes were red-rimmed in the flickering lamplight, and his shoulders slouched.
Oriv waved him in. “Grymlis. Come. Sit. Have a drink with me.”
Grymlis walked into the room, pulling the door closed behind him. He sat in the chair across from Oriv, and their eyes met. Oriv looked away, then pointed to the bottle. “Help yourself.”
Grymlis shook his head. “I don’t need it.”
Oriv thought for a moment that the old soldier would suggest that perhaps Pope Resolute didn’t need it, either. He’d certainly been free enough with that opinion in days past. But instead, he watched the old soldier pull a flask from his pocket and pass it across. “Try this,” Grymlis said. “It’s got more kick.”
Oriv accepted it, unscrewed the cap, and sniffed it. “What is it?”
“Firespice-a Gypsy brew. Very potent.”
Oriv nodded, took a sip, and felt it burn its way down his throat. He stretched the next sip into a gulp, then screwed the cap back on and held it out to Grymlis.
“Keep it,” he said.
Oriv wasn’t sure why, but the generosity moved him. “Thank you. You’re a uYouidtgood man, Grymlis.”
The general shrugged. “I’m not sure about that.” He leaned forward. “But I want to be a better man than I am. And I want the same for you as well, Oriv.”
He used my given name. Oriv chuckled. “We all could do with being better men,” he said.
Grymlis nodded slowly. “We could.” He paused and looked around the room. “Tonight,” he said. “We could be better men tonight.”
Oriv leaned forward. “How?”
“We could leave this city,” Grymlis said. “We could flee to Pylos and denounce Sethbert for the traitorous whore-child he is. We could end this war and go help rebuild what can be rebuilt. Keep the light alive.”
Even as Grymlis said it, Oriv knew it was true. He’d thought the same thing a dozen times in the last few months. Since winter, the war had spread. Everyone had their side and everyone made their warfare in service to their so-called light. But it didn’t take a Pope to figure out that what the New World had fallen into had nothing to do with light and more to do with fear.
He wanted to tell Grymlis that he was right, that they should pack what they could carry and quietly gather the contingent. Sethbert’s men were tied up putting down riots and quelling revolution. They could reach the ruins of Rachyl’s Bridge easily by dawn and trust the rangers to ferry them across.
But instead, he snorted. “And you think Petronus would have us back after this?”
Grymlis shrugged. “Possibly. He was ever a fair man.” He leaned in even closer. “But does it matter? What matters is that we can stop this if we choose to.”
Oriv felt his lower lip shaking. “I’m not sure that I can.”
Now Grymlis was leaning in close enough that he could smell the wine on the old man’s breath. The line of his jaw was strong and his eyes flashed. “Say the word, Excellency, and I will do it for you. I will call my men and we will carry you away from this. You need do nothing but say you wish it.”
But Oriv didn’t say anything. He blinked back the tears and unscrewed the top of the flask and drained it with one long gulp.
Grymlis’s shoulders sagged. He pushed himself up to his feet. “I’ve a bottle in my room,” he said. “I’ll fetch it for you.”
Oriv nodded. _urivtch220;I’m sure this will all sort itself out, Grymlis.”
Grymlis nodded as well. “I’m sure it will, Excellency.”
He let himself out, and Oriv watched the door close. Already the Firespice was taking the edge off, and he saw the fuzzy underside of forgetfulness. Maybe tomorrow, if he felt better, he would go to Sethbert and suggest another parley. Perhaps they could end the fighting. Perhaps they could become better men.
When Grymlis returned with the bottle, Oriv quickly unstopped it and poured it into his cup. The old general sat across from him and watched him drain it in a long swallow. Then, Grymlis stood and walked behind Oriv to close the room’s open windows one by one.
After, the general went to the door and opened it to let the others in. Oriv looked up at them-four Gray Guard and two Entrolusians he knew he should recognize. They moved into the room quickly as Grymlis shut and locked the door.
“What are you doing?” Oriv demanded, trying to stand but finding that his legs would not carry him. The Gray Guard moved in behind him and held him down in his chair. One of the Entrolusians reached down and took the cup from his hands, placing it on the small table next to the bottle of Firespice. Suddenly, he recognized him. “General Lysias?”
The general said nothing, instead looking to Grymlis. Oriv watched their exchange of glances and tried to stand again. Firm hands held him in place.
“What’s this about?” he asked.
Grymlis took a cloth-wrapped bundle from the other Entrolusian and pulled out a long object that Oriv recognized only too well. “What are you doing?”
Grymlis’s big hand closed over Oriv’s, and now Oriv struggled to keep his white-knuckled grip on the arm of the chair. But the alcohol had numbed him, and Grymlis pried it free easily. Oriv felt the cold wood of the artifact pressed into his hand. He felt the cold iron of the artifact’s barrel pressed into the soft tissue between his chin and his throat.
“What are you doing?” he asked again in a voice that sounded more like a whimper than a demand. Only now he knew exactly what Grymlis was doing, and he twisted and turned in the chair in the hopes that it would somehow be enough.
“I’m protecting the light,” Grymlis said, his voice heavy and hollow despite the hardness in his eyes.
“But I-”
And in that moment, Oriv found the forgetfulness that no bottle could ever offer him.
Petronus
Petronus crested the last hill and climbed down from his saddle to stretch his legs. Below, the flat, wide river moved sluggishly south, and on its farthest shore the town of tents had shrunk to more of a small village. A few figures moved between the last of the tents and a fleet of wagons. Beyond the tents, the expansive plain that had once been Windwir stretched out, a soup of mud and ash.
Rudolfo dismounted beside him. “It looks quiet,” he said.
Of course it was quiet. The work had been done for nearly a week. The Entrolusians had been gone for some time now, retreating south to deal with problems within their own borders. Petronus looked at Rudolfo and then back out over the muddy waste. “He’s done good work here,” he said.
Rudolfo nodded. “He has. There’s a captain hidden inside that boy.”
Or a Pope, Petronus thought, feeling his stomach sink. The wind stirred, and a few drops of rain spattered on his cheek and hand. “Indeed,” he said, glancing again to the Gypsy King.
Behind them, he heard the sound of a small bird rustling as a scout cooed and whispered to it. The brown war-sparrow entered his line of sight with a flutter and shot down the hill to cross the river.
Climbing back into his saddle, Petronus carefully nudged the horse along the muddy track that wound them downhill.
When they were halfway to the bottom, Petronus noticed the workers gathering on the far shore. A handful of men boarded the barge they had rigged with ropes and pulleys to serve as a makeshift ferry. Slowly it made its way across the water, and when Petronus and Rudolfo reached the river’s edge with their escort, Neb stood waiting.
He’s not smiling. This surprised Petronus. The boy-young man now, he realized-seemed taller and more broad-shouldered, but those weren’t what caused him to fill out the Androfrancine robes he wore. No, Petronus realized. It was confidence. A quiet confidence, to be sure, but that was the strongest kind.
The boy’s face was flat and hard, the jaw set. “Father,” Neb said, bowing slightly. “Windwir is laid to rest.”
But there is more. Petronus dropped from the horse. “You’ve done excellent work, Neb.”
Neb nodded. “Thank you, Father.”
Rudolfo climbed down as well and clapped the young man on the shoulder. “I was telling his Excellency that you have the makings of a fine captain.”
“Thank you, Lord Rudolfo,” Neb said, inclining his head to the Gypsy King. Then he fixed his stare on Petronus again. “I received a bird for you just before dawn under Androfrancine colors.” He extended a scrap of paper. “It’s from House Li Tam.”
Petronus took the note and scanned it. It was uncoded-a rarity for his old friend-and to the point.
Resolute is dead by his own hand, the note read. Sethbert is deposed and flees the delta. Petronus felt his own jaw set, and handed the note to Rudolfo. He knew he should feel some kind of relief, but didn’t. With Resolute dead and Sethbert out of power, it was only a matter of time before the war burned itself out. This was good news for Petronus, good news for all of the Named Lands. And yet, it saddened him. One more life snuffed out. And at least a part of him felt suspicion at the convenience of it.
The sober look on Neb’s face told Petronus that the young man felt the same way.
Rudolfo looked up from the note, grinning like a wolf. “If this is true, the war is over.” He handed the note back to Petronus. Then, he turned and slipped back to confer with his men.
Petronus pulled Neb aside. “Are you ready to fold it up here?”
Neb nodded and glanced north quickly. His face went wistful, and there was hesitation in his voice. “I am.”
The girl, Petronus realized. He’s seen more of her. Thirty years ago, he’d have insisted that the young man keep himself free from such entanglements. But time and change had softened him, and he couldn’t fault the boy for finding something akin to love here in the Desolation of Windwir. He put his hand on Neb’s shoulder. “You’ll have to tell me about her on the way home.”
The beginnings of a smile pulled at Neb’s mouth. “I’m not sure I can, Father.”
Petronus squeezed the shoulder and dropped his hand to his side. “In your own time, son. Meanwhile, I’m famished. Is the galley tent still up?”
“They’re cooking a digger’s feast for you,” Neb said, gesturing to the barge. “Beans and biscuits with pork gravy. The last of our stores.” A line of men stood near it, ready to shove it back into the river and work the ropes that would carry them across.
Petronus led his horse up the low ramp. Rudolfo joined him, his eyes bright. When everyone was aboard, the ferry lurched into the water.
I’ll not be accompanying you back, Rudolfo signed.
Petronus nodded. He’d wondered as much after the Gypsy King’s hurried and hushed council with his men. Riding south? he signed in reply.
“I’ve decided to do some hunting,” Rudolfo said with a smile and a flourish of his hand. Sethbert is mine.
Petronus’s fingers moved. But you’ll take him alive?
Rudolfo blanched. “Of course,” he said, his voice low. My physicians will have their opportunity to redeem him beneath their salted knives.
He felt himself frown. He did not approve of the Gypsies’ adherence to those darker forms and rituals of redemption. It was a barbaric leftover from an age when Wizard Kings doled out justice in white cutting rooms beneath couch-strewn observation decks. Where, sipping their chilled wines and eating their sliced pears, lords and ladies listened to penitent screams beneath a scattering of stars that pulsed like heartbeats in blackened sky.
It flew against everything P’Andro Whym had made.
Still, the Named Lands needed to see some kind of public justice for Sethbert’s crimes, and Petronus’s own plans served a higher aim than that. Healing would not come from justice alone. There also had to be change.
After all, Petronus thought, change is the path life takes.
He looked at Neb again and felt his heart breaking at what he knew awaited them in the Ninefold Forest.
Sethbert
Sethbert stirred beneath a pile of damp, molding hay and squinted into the shadowed barn. Daylight peeked in through gaps in the roof and walls, and he found he couldn’t distinguish between the sounds of dripping water and what he thought could be footfalls in the puddles outside. Either way, he couldn’t stay here. He sat up slowly, holding his knife with a white-knuckled hand.
It had all happened so fast. Lysias had come for him with a squad of scouts in the middle of the night, pulling him from a deep sleep. “Resolute is dead,” the general had said grimly. “He’s left behind a letter that implicates you in the destruction of Windwir and the Androfrancine Order.”
Sethbert disentangled himself from the drugged prostitute that lay tangled in his sheets. “Who killed him?”
Lysias looked away. “He killed himself.”
He wasn’t too surprised by this news. Oriv had been drunku haem" most of the last few months, a weaker man than Sethbert had thought he would be. “Fine,” Sethbert said. “Burn the letter. Keep word of his passing quiet. We-”
Lysias shook his head. “It’s too late for that, Sethbert. Word is out. Your nephew has the letter.”
“Then tell my nephew-”
When the flat of Lysias’s hand struck Sethbert’s cheek it was a resounding crack in the quiet room. “I don’t think you understand why I’m here.”
Sethbert’s hand went to his face, feeling the heat where Lysias’s blow connected. His eyes narrowed. “You’re here to arrest me, then?”
Lysias smiled. “I am.”
Sethbert’s chuckle was a bark. “Then let’s go.” He scrambled out of the large, round bed and pulled on his trousers. Lysias watched, bemused, as he shrugged into his shirt. “I don’t know what game you’re playing at, Lysias, but Erlund will see reason through whatever cloud of belly-gas you’ve squeezed into his lungs.” He looked to the portrait of his mother that hung on the far wall. “He’ll want the documents, I’m sure.”
Lysias nodded. “Yes, by all means.”
Sethbert looked around the room. At this point, the scouts had not yet drawn their weapons. They looked uncomfortable, their eyes moving from Lysias to Sethbert.
They’re still my men and they know it.
He gestured to one of the men and pointed to the large picture. “Bring down that portrait,” he said. He smiled when the scout went right to it without glancing first to Lysias for confirmation.
Behind the portrait, set firmly into the stone wall, was the round, hinged lid of a Rufello lockbox. “May I?”
Lysias shook his head. “What is the box’s cipher?”
Sethbert considered his options carefully, and finally recited the words and numbers slow enough for the scout to push the various tiles and knobs into place. With a click, the lid swung open.
The scout peered in, then turned to Lysias, his mouth tight. “Nothing, General.”
Sethbert felt his stomach lurch, and saw Lysias reaching for the hilt of his knife. Two of the scouts did the same.
Sheight="0em" width="1em" align="justify"›With a howl, Sethbert threw himself toward the window, catching the heavy curtains and pushing the thick cloth ahead of him to shield him as the glass and latticework shattered. Plunging into the midnight rain, he leaped from t
he small balcony and into the Whymer Maze below.
That had been hours ago. He’d used the passages beneath the maze-the ones his father had shown him when he was a boy-and made his escape. The tunnels dropped him into the more colorful quarter of the city, where he’d rolled a drunk for his tattered clothing and a pair of shoes that were too tight for his feet.
At first he’d thought to stow away on one of the boats in the harbor, but with the blockade he was certain to not get far. And it would not take long for Lysias to spread a net for him, putting guards up at the city gates and along the river bridges.
In the end, he crawled into the sewers and followed them out of the city. Then he worked his way along the coastline until he found the barn.
He stood slowly, mindful of the blisters on his feet and the sharp pain in his ribs and shoulder from last night’s hard landing in the garden.
He’d hoped to sleep here, but his mind wouldn’t stop racing. Where would he go? What was left for him now? And where had the document pouch gone?
Less than a handful knew about the Rufello box. And its cipher had been passed from father to son for generations. No one else could’ve possibly known.
Unless.
It had to be Li Tam’s bitch-whore of a daughter. But it made no sense. If she had the cipher, why hadn’t she taken the documents months ago? She’d shared his bed enough, the pouch tucked safely away. Why would she wait so long? And certainly, if she’d read those documents, she’d understand full well what kind of hero Sethbert truly was.
She’s a thousand leagues away, some saner part of him interjected. She’d been gone for months now, working in the far northeast with that damned fop Rudolfo and his paper Pope.
