by J B Lucas
“Spymaster, I don’t know whether to be your best friend or to throw you off that tower of yours. But you have a certain charm, I’ll give you that.”
“You’d be bored without me, general.”
Antron laughed, and turned to walk briskly towards the chaos of the cart turning in a busy street.
Loreticus got up and loped into the dark of the tavern.
Sapp and Parp sat at a table. They stared at him.
“Those are donkeys leading lions,” the spymaster said as he sat with them. “Now, tell me everything Antron and his clowns have just been talking about. And don’t spare the details, posties.”
BOOK III
THE INDIGO MACE
J.B. LUCAS
First published in Great Britain in 2018 by J.B. Lucas
Copyright © 2018 J.B. Lucas
The moral right of J.B. Lucas to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Chapter 1
The Indigo was an old, rough-bricked tavern, which gloomily peered over the gay colours of the market stalls below. Its dark windows watched hordes of traders squabble in the cool shadows it cast out of the empire’s relentless sun, its open shutters listening to the petty dramas and crude dishonesties. Then the building would sit humbly, isolated in the silent square throughout the hoary night as it waited for eddies of the torrent to break against its walls once more the next morning.
It sat on the far side of the market to the vast red palace, which showered its hallowed glow across The Indigo’s wonky edges. It was an old, squat institution in the market, beaten up by the years, in all of these respects reflecting Bobban, the proprietor. It had just three rooms for guests, and although they were well laid out, they were more likely to see the innkeeper snore his way through an afternoon than any actual visitors.
But today, Bobban had eschewed his digestive doze and was scampering around in mild panic. Respectable guests were coming tonight, and they might just be the making of the place. Previously he had relied on outsized, flatulent foreign nobles to claim his establishment was proper enough for patricians, but now he would have real aristocrats to prove it.
His plan was simple. Smartly brought-up people liked to see others of a similar ilk in the same place, so with a little advice and a few favours, he had sent out invitations to the most influential people within his reach. He would arrange a card game tonight, put on free wine and good food so that everyone would hear of The Indigo before the week was done.
They started arriving soon after dusk, when the shutters were still open and the merchants were packing away their stalls outside. Bobban felt something in the air – a sense that memories would be made tonight, an understanding that this evening would be one to savour.
The wealthiest of the merchants sat first. She was a thin lady with very short hair that was lifted to flaunt her clever cobalt eyes. Although it was rumoured that she knew every trick and trade in the noisy market outside, none of the dirt of the stalls had stuck under her polished nails.
Soon after, when the sun had cut hard shadows on the inside of the tavern, a second lady came and sat next to the merchant. They were the same age but of a different class. The new arrival settled in without offering a greeting to her colleague and studied the room with a swing of her remarkable nose. A bloodless, vengeful attitude drifted around her being, the flinty entitlement of a royal brat.
Then came the spymaster, Loreticus, Bobban’s protector and liege. When he stood upright, he was just over average height, and he was neither fat nor thin. Nor was he muscular in the fashionable military way. He was fine-looking, as such things went, but a certain aspect in his gaze, along with his ubiquitous reputation for an absolute lack of morals, caused more than his fair share of maidens and madams to swoon.
Behind him came his principal agent, Selban. He was a man of many words, mostly those of a colourful, crude and superfluous vein. Each sentence was normally punctuated with a splattering full-stop, which would burst out of Selban’s mouth and either drift through the air or cake the nearest surface. But despite his unctuous demeanour, his sagging eyes, his nostrils bristling with shiny hair, Selban was a daring athlete, a devious mind, and Loreticus’ sharpest weapon.
The gentlemen sat at the table, opposite each other, as if parentheses to the ladies already in place.
“Loreticus,” the spymaster said as he introduced himself.
“Dasha,” replied the short-haired lady.
“Coya,” said the one with the proboscis.
“Selban,” added the agent in his guttural croak, which he had tried to soften with an urban panache. “Bobban! How wonderful to see you.”
The stocky landlord clasped arms with the men as they stood. Bobban gave the smallest of bows to Loreticus, then bustled around the table embarrassed to interrupt the ladies, placing cups and plates beside each of his guests, before scampering away into the dark, which had penetrated The Indigo.
“Well, he seemed to be in awe of you, young sir,” said Dasha with a curious glance at Loreticus.
“Old friends.”
“Old friends, my bum,” laughed Coya. “Who are you, mystery man?”
“Ah,” interjected Selban, lifting his finger up into the air as if to cast a spell, “this is the renowned Loreticus. Lover of song, wine, women, and complaint. Known to many, feared by most, liked by few.”
“Who?” asked Dasha.
“The imperial spymaster,” said Coya, slowly, pulling an expression as if she were drawing the details out from old conversations. “Client of Ferran, loyal to Augustus. They say,” she continued, “that he is devilishly charming and vicious. Cousin Ferran claimed once that he would give all of his treasures to have this man’s mind.” She leaned forward, close to Loreticus’ face, trying to see through his eyeballs into his skull. Their long noses almost touched in a curved V.
“Not true,” said Selban, leaning back and staring at a heavy plate of meats that passed them to a table in the shadows. “He’s neither charming nor vicious.”
“He’s definitely charming,” said Dasha, catching the spymaster’s gaze. “Well, my charming spy, solve for me an old riddle. It is said that one can pass through this world not knowing even a sliver of the secrets of those you are intimate with. If that’s a sin, dear spy, then you must be a zealous saint, holding all of those secrets and embarrassments in your mortal heart.”
There was a moment of quiet whilst Coya and Selban watched to see whether Loreticus would take this as an insult or a tease.
“But he’s still soft as a pussy cat; I’m sure,” laughed Coya to break the potential awkwardness. “You don’t say much, spymaster.”
“I was quite enjoying the conversation without needing to contribute. It was all about me. Although it seemed to be turning in a rather melancholic direction.”
“He says that I talk enough for the both of us,” said Selban. “I bore with my lyrical and colourful words, whilst he stays quiet and wins hearts.” He stood up, scratched the rump portion of his hip and turned to catch Bobban’s eye. Dasha gently moved her chair out of the swing radius of Selban’s backside.
“I know what you do,” said Loreticus, gesturing towards Coya. “But what do you do?”
“Trade, I’m afraid,” said the lady, running her finger tips self-consciously through her short hair. “That heroic compromise of selling your personality one coin at a time. Something my father did; something I do now.”
“Oh,” said Loreticus, “that Dasha.” They hadn’t broken eye contact during the exchange, and as the moment ripened, the other two at the table glanced at each other.
“Which Dasha?” asked Selban.
Two more guests arrived at the table, nodded and sat down. The man was copious in all aspects, the length of his legs and breadth of this shoulders, the meat that covered his shoulders and the stately dark beard that hung in pomaded perfection fro
m his heavy jaw. She was slight, impish, her eyes vacant as she peered around the room curiously.
Selban leaned in to eyeball the colossal visitor.
“Are you a barbarian?” he asked quietly.
“No,” replied the other. “I am Aerix, a prince of a northern tribe, and you are a blunt little peasant.”
Selban laughed.
“Excellent!” Selban declared and clapped his hands. “At last someone I can have a proper drink with.”
The wine arrived, the food came and Loreticus watched the cards play. He was generous with his bids, then tight, unhurried, as the others flicked their cards into the centre. As usual, Selban was the best player by a long way, but he would trade a hand to a lady as a token of affection.
The spymaster’s thoughts eventually turned to closing the night, and Aerix seemed to have assumed the mantle of winner at the table. No one had seemed to mind as the garrulous, chuckling giant swept the piles of coins and debt notes into a small hill in front of him.
“I’ll play for the entire amount you’ve got there,” said Selban to the barbarian and folded his arms.
“No.”
“Why not?” asked Selban, his grimace betraying his disappointment at being denied the chance to show off.
“Because you can play better than you have been, and I only won because you were distracted by one of the ladies.”
“Oh.”
“Then I’ll play you,” said Loreticus.
“That works for me.”
“Every bloody time,” said Selban. “He does nothing, but he gets all the glory. Every bloody time.” He shrugged comically at Dasha and Coya, then jutted his chin out at the spymaster.
“You should take it as a compliment,” Loreticus said with a chuckle. “It means that he thinks that I’m a fool.”
“I could have told him that. Bobban could have told him that. Even–”
“We get the point; thank you, Selban.” Loreticus turned to Aerix, who sat on the other side of Tyba. The woman had been silent the entire night, refusing casual cajoling to play more actively. She ignored the stares of the two players across her, instead staring emotionlessly at her fingers on the table as if alone.
“Same game?” asked Aerix.
“No, my big friend. How about an old barbarian game?”
“Ha! Not a chance. I know the one you’re thinking of.”
“It would get you a lot of money,” tempted Loreticus with a smile. "Imagine doubling that pile in front of you. You’d have to hire Selban here to scare the robbers away!”
Aerix kept smiling but examined Loreticus. The smile became more cynical.
“You’re trying to break an old adage, Loreticus.”
“‘You can have it all, just not all at one time,’” offered Dasha.
“Indeed,” nodded Aerix, “how do I know that you’re worthy for the money, little spy?”
“Bobban,” called Loreticus. The landlord came over. “Lord Aerix here wants to ask you about my credit worthiness.”
“Well, m’lord, Loreticus owns The Indigo with me,” said Bobban, nodding his head as if confirming a point. “He’s the emperor’s man and a landed gent. He’s the best the empire can offer.” He stood tall in a melodramatic fashion, and then with a nod to Loreticus, he clasped his hands in front of his chest and scurried away again to the table in the shadowy corner.
“Seriously, Loreticus,” drawled Dasha, “are you blackmailing him, or does he owe you a lot of money? Because that was just obsequious enough to turn my supper.”
“How do you know Bobban?” asked Loreticus, leaning backwards towards Coya and Dasha.
“This part of the market is mine,” said Dasha, gesturing to the cobblestones and squares beyond, through the window that caught the sun during their earlier arrival. Loreticus considered her, deeply charmed for a moment, then dragged his eyes to Coya. He could see that Dasha kept her gaze on him, smiling gently at that desire that he had let her glimpse.
“I came here once, long ago as an adolescent thing, but since then I’ve always made to say hello as I’ve passed.” She turned to laugh at her own thought. “I have a habit of meeting people who keep turning up in my life. Bobban is one of them. I’m sure that you are, or will be, Loreticus. You have that air of casual imposition.”
“Well, we’ve met before; I’m sure,” said Loreticus. “Didn’t we meet at a wedding or similar?” He squinted as he gathered a picture in his mind. “I seem to remember you wearing the most fascinating blue dress.”
“Very probably. It was the only thing to wear for a long while.”
Loreticus shrugged, slightly peeved that she hadn’t acknowledged his feat of memory. The party must have been eight years prior, when he had first moved to the grander social scene. Her eyes and gestures suddenly became familiar to him, as he realised that she had the typical egotism of the Ferran clan. No wonder she hadn’t commented on his recall. It was expected, not exceptional, that people remember them.
“I stay here if there’s room when I come to town,” said Aerix unprompted. “A friend recommended it, and I’ve never really considered abroad.”
“I don’t think that is what you meant to say,” muttered Tyba. Loreticus studied the girl. She was silent for a moment, then turned to face him, surprised that he would want to hear what she had to say.
“Bobban once worked for a family I know,” she said, shaking her head.
Loreticus saw a fracture in the woman, a fault line that ran through her deepest person. It manifested in such a way that she wanted to present to the world, and meanwhile she was calm, settled in an immersed world under her skin. He had seen dozens of people like that, and he could never relate to or understand them. To be fair, he could never remember them either. They were the forgettables for him, those who had resigned themselves to be obscure from the public for as long as they could. She’d make a useful spy.
“I had met him through you,” said Selban to the spymaster. “We came here; we got drunk; I fell asleep on this table, and then I seem to remember waking up and him telling me you’d bought half the place.”
“I know,” muttered Loreticus drily. “Anything to mention your own name, eh? But this brings us back to the game of Execution. Dare you risk your luck against mine, my big barbarian friend?”
Aerix tapped his nails on the table and stared at him.
“None of the spies I know are particularly lucky,” he said. “They always seem to find themselves in trouble. I’ll take you up on the bet.”
He passed the deck of cards to Dasha, who shuffled and cut, then dealt three cards each.
“The higher total wins the pot,” she said calmly.
Loreticus smiled and turned over the first card. A ten. The highest possible start.
“Did I mention that Loreticus isn’t a very competent spy?” chuckled Selban. “He tends to trust a little too much with the gods.”
“Does that work out for you?” asked Aerix with a smile, then flipped over a card. A nine.
“Rarely,” said Loreticus and took a deep sip of wine from his cup. “I tend to end up in more trouble at the end of a mission than I start with.”
“That’s the story of my love life,” laughed the barbarian and touched cups with Loreticus.
“Your turn again,” said Loreticus.
Aerix kept his eyes on the spymaster’s face as he turned over his next card. Loreticus gave him no indication of his result, so he glanced down and tutted and swore as he saw a three.
“Go on,” he said, “show me your banging rights.”
“I think that you mean ‘bragging’,” corrected Coya.
Loreticus smiled, a huge curling motion unique to his face, an expression that seemed to grow each year. He turned a two.
“Ohhhh,” laughed Selban.
“Tremendous,” muttered Coya, clasping hands with Dasha in a peculiarly intimate manner. Loreticus and Selban exchanged a glance.
&
nbsp; “You again, little spymaster,” said Aerix, the excitement manifesting in his voice. Even Tyba seemed to have woken up.
“Eight,” said Selban as the card flipped. “Twenty plays twelve.”
“Shall we pause for a drink?” asked Loreticus of Aerix. The big man smiled, touched cups again, and they both emptied the heavy wine.
“Another cup,” said Aerix, standing up and pouring them each brimming portions. “We’ll not share the pot tomorrow, but we’ll certainly share a hangover.”
Selban leaned forward, filling his own cup so as not to miss out on a drink. Dasha and Coya followed in turn; then all the six guests touched their cups together, but Tyba’s was the only one not full. Down the drinks went without a pause, and they laughed as Dasha grimaced at the taste.
“I’m going to regret that,” she said.
“So,” said Aerix, considering Loreticus.
“So,” he replied.
The barbarian reached down with his manicured nails and turned the card.
Selban sat sideways on one of the hard benches in the dimly-lit tavern with his back against the wall, snoring angrily. The room was pitch black, only lit by the moonlight that crept through the loose blinds.
Something woke him in a panic, and he lurched, eyes snapping open, stomach rolling. Had he dreamt a noise? He didn’t think so, but through the first insistent nudges of a hangover and the bilious seasickness from a drunken evening, Selban’s mind couldn’t hold together. A headache seized him, and his bony backside slipped off the old wooden bench and settled with a wallop on the floor under the table.
“Bugger,” he whispered and regretted letting the foul breath out of his mouth.
He pulled at the material between his legs as he realised he needed to pee.
Suddenly, from somewhere inside The Indigo, a male voice roared. His bladder started, and he hastily contained it, swearing and glancing down. Then he stood silently, uneasily.
