‘Please excuse me, my lords and lady.’ Kethol bowed, and walked away.
Pirojil made his way carefully down the ice-slickened stone stairs, sometimes squatting to set his lantern down on the step below so that he could use both hands and feet to negotiate a particularly slippery spot. Going back up would be easier, he hoped.
The flickering light from the lantern he carried showed that the barred cells were empty. Pirojil didn’t have the slightest idea what the cells’ normal state was, or why a noble would ever throw somebody into a dungeon rather than just have that somebody’s throat cut. Still, there was something that seemed more than passing strange about the prison and the strongroom sharing the same part of the castle.
The oil lamps hung from the naked beams were all lit, and their smoke hovered in a cloudy haze near the ceiling as Pirojil made his way past racks of barrels, towards the rear of the dungeon. He started at a scurrying sound, but decided that it was just a rat, and if the Swordmaster or Tom Garnett wanted the rats here killed, they could order somebody else to do it.
The only thing Pirojil planned on killing today was a bottle of wine he would retrieve from a bin on his way up when Kethol came down to relieve him, as he was now relieving Durine down in the dungeon. Not one of the good bottles on the racks that stretched from one wall to the other - those were likely fully accounted for - and he had no intention of finding himself caught carrying a rare bottle of some fine red that the Earl would want on his table when he returned from Yabon, but he didn’t think that anybody would object to him hooking himself a bottle of ordinary plonk from one of the bins, and drinking himself to sleep with it.
He made a mental note to put on his thickest socks - perhaps two pairs of them - and then his boots, before he drank himself asleep. His boots would take at least a full day to dry properly, and if he didn’t make sure that they stretched as they dried, they would shrink, and it was a certainty that a pair of aching feet were far cheaper than a new pair of boots would have been.
He made his way to the far end of the dark basement, where the door to the room outside the strongroom was closed, and when he pounded on it, it took a few moments before the barred view port slid quickly open, although no face appeared in it.
‘Greetings, Durine,’ he said. ‘It’s just me.’
Durine’s broad face appeared in the window, and he gave a quick glance before the door swung open and Pirojil was admitted inside.
Morray didn’t seem to notice them; he was bent over some papers on his desk on the far side of the room, right next to the iron door that led to the strongroom proper. An intricately-embossed brass oil lantern flickered on the lefthand side of the desk, too close, in Pirojil’s opinion, to the stacked leatherbound books, and a handful of quills stood in a very plain wooden box next to the mottled green ink jar on the right. Near Morray’s right hand rested a steaming mug of what smelled like tea, rather than the ubiquitous coffee.
The hearth in the wall next to the Baron had a good fire built up in it. Durine stooped to throw another log on, then poked at it with the poker.
‘Pirojil is here, my lord,’ he said, when Morray didn’t look up.
‘Who? Oh - fine.’ Morray looked up with a frown. ‘Well, be off with you, then.’ His voice dropped to a barely audible mutter. ‘As though some assassin is going to sneak down the chimney and knife me while I’m working on the books.’ Then he bent back over his work.
Pirojil handed his lantern to Durine. ‘Watch out for the stairs.’
Durine nodded, and left; Pirojil bolted the door behind him. Pirojil pulled on the thick leather glove by the hearth to pour himself a mug of hot tea from the cast-iron teapot that lay on the stones in front of it.
The Baron ignored him as his eyes glanced from one large, leatherbound book that he seemed to be reading out of, to the long piece of carefully ruled parchment on which he was completing a column of figures, and then back again. Look, think, write, again and again - it seemed to be awfully boring work, but at least it wasn’t Pirojil’s work.
Exactly what was involved in ‘working on the books’, Pirojil didn’t know. The other part of taxes seemed simple enough to him - the barons collected taxes, sent some to the Earl, who kept some and conveyed the rest to the Duke, who probably did the same thing and passed along a bit to King Rodric or Prince Erland.
The Baron glanced up in irritation. ‘Well, is there some reason that you’re just standing there?’ He gestured toward the large chair next to the hearth. ‘If you’ll just sit down, I won’t keep seeing you out of the corner of my eye, and you won’t distract me. I’d like to finish this before dinner, so that I can spend at least a little time dispelling some of Verheyen’s lies about me.’ His tone was less irritated than his words suggested. ‘Just sit, and drink your tea, and I’ll be done shortly.’
There wasn’t anything else to do, so Pirojil just sat and drank his tea: it might be an unusual situation to be sitting drinking tea while standing guard, but it wasn’t bad. He probably should make an effort to learn about all this bookkeeping stuff, even if his needs would never be as complicated as an earldom’s Wartime Bursar’s. Pirojil could add a column of figures, albeit slowly and with some errors - though if he tried enough times, it finally added up - but there had to be more to it than that, if he wanted to do it right. If the three of them ever did save up enough to buy that tavern, it would be Pirojil who would be counted upon to handle the money, after all.
It was something they talked about, from time to time. Pirojil would run the business side of the tavern. He had negotiated with military paymasters from Salador to Crydee; he should be able to out-negotiate winemakers and brewmasters, shepherds and cattle ranchers, and never mind getting the whores upstairs - and they would want to be sure to have whores upstairs; it was always good to be able to sell one thing that never ran out.
There would, undoubtedly, be some new tricks to learn, but Pirojil could manage that part of it.
Durine could keep the peace, as long as he had a little bit of help when needed. Anybody drunk enough to want to face off against the big man would be more than drunk enough not to notice him or Kethol coming up behind him with a truncheon. It would probably be best to have Durine fight the first few by himself, by way of letting him establish a reputation, and letting it be known that the Three Swords Tavern - that did have a nice ring to it, didn’t it? - was the sort of place a man could have a few beers, a hot meal and a quick poke, without being bothered, as long as he behaved himself.
It could happen.
They might even find themselves some women - regular women, not just an occasional whore. Particularly after the war. War had a way of shaking things up, and it might be that he could find a nice-enough looking, biddable-enough woman, who would decide that exchanging regular meals and a safe place to sleep was worth having to put up with him mounting her in the night or even the daytime - she could always close her eyes - or even of having to look at his ugly face every morning. He might even make a few concessions to her, like, say, having a regular bath.
That would be a good end, indeed, for the likes of the three of them, and it was a nice dream, and it gave them something to plan and save for.
Of course, they’d likely all be dead long before that dream came true.
He found himself looking at the heavy iron door to the strongroom beyond. There was, undoubtedly, more than enough gold behind that door to buy a hundred taverns, although probably not enough to buy off those who would be sent after them, if they somehow or other managed to get out of the city with that gold. It would be worth considering, though. He noticed that Morray was looking at him, smiling strangely.
‘You seem to be eyeing the door with some interest,’ the Baron said.
Pirojil kept his expression blank. ‘Just staring off and thinking, my lord. No offence was intended.’
Morray nodded. ‘Well, go ahead - just open the door, and take what you want, if you can.’
His tone of voice wasn�
�t threatening, and he made no move towards either the swordbelt hung on the back of his chair or toward any other weapon, at least as far as Pirojil could see.
Pirojil shook his head. ‘I’ve no intention of robbing the Earl,’ he said. ‘Bad for my business, and much worse for my health.’
Morray chuckled. ‘Don’t worry about your business, or your health - there’s more than enough in there for a legion of you to retire on, I assure you. Tell you what, if you can open the door, right here and now, you will be allowed to leave, healthy and alive, with all the gold that you can carry. You have my word on that. Go ahead; try to open the door.’ His expression grew stern. ‘I’m not much used to giving a command twice, man, and I’d like not to ever have to do so a third time.’
Pirojil didn’t know what the Baron’s game was, but it was probably just as well to go along with it. He set down his teacup and walked across the soft carpet to the closed iron door.
It was a solid-looking piece of metal, rimmed along the edge with a riveted band of blued iron, thick as a finger. There was no lock on it that Pirojil could see; just a plain metal handle. He set his hand on it, but hesitated, until Morray’s nod and gesture made it clear that the Baron really did intend him to open it.
He pushed down, at first gently, but then harder.
It didn’t budge.
He set his whole weight on it, but the handle might as well have been welded in place. He pushed harder, and thought that the handle itself gave, just a trifle, perhaps, but it didn’t even begin to turn.
Perhaps there was some trick with the rivets? They looked solid, and as Pirojil ran his fingers up and down them, they all felt solid enough to the touch.
What was he missing?
‘It was an honest offer,’ Morray said, ‘but I had no doubt that you’d be unable to open the door.’ Morray rose to his feet and tucked the thick leatherbound book under his arm, then with his free hand gestured Pirojil to move out of the way.
‘Get the light, would you?’ he asked.
Pirojil lifted the lamp from the desk, as Morray set his hand on the door handle, closed his eyes for a moment, and gently pressed down on it, not touching the heads of the rivets, or anything else.
Morray muttered something, barely vocalizing the words.
The handle turned, silently and easily. Morray muttered something more under his breath as he swung the heavy door open on its hidden hinges.
He accepted the lantern from Pirojil, and stepped inside. Pirojil didn’t follow him in, but he could see that the small room beyond was filled with racks sagging beneath the weight of hundreds of muslin sacks. Morray ignored these and stepped to a bookcase, crowded with leatherbound volumes of various sizes, and replaced the one he held there.
He smiled at the way Pirojil was eyeing the sacks. ‘Pick one of the sacks,’ Morray said. ‘Let’s see what’s in it, shall we?’
‘But -’
‘Please.’
‘If you insist, my lord.’ Pirojil shrugged. ‘I’ll choose the right-hand rack, second shelf from the bottom, the sack behind the second one from the right.’
‘Very well.’ Morray nodded. He retrieved the sack that Pirojil had indicated, untied the slipknot that held the sack closed, and spread it open.
Buttery gold coins gleamed in the lantern light; Morray dipped his hand in, and let them run through his fingers and back into the bag, before closing it and putting it back in its place.
‘I don’t often show anybody the inside of the strongroom, but when I do, I always make a point to show them some of the gold.’ He grinned. ‘I would not want anybody to get the idea that it had become filled with bags of rocks under my stewardship of the Earl’s Purse, eh?’ He closed the door, and turned the handle. ‘Would you care to try it again?’ he asked.
‘Only if you insist.’
There was obviously some trick to opening the door, and Pirojil didn’t really want to know what that trick was - or, at least, he didn’t want anybody to know that he knew what the trick was.
If there turned out to be some gold missing, ignorance was a good defence.
‘Oh, there’s no harm,’ Morray said. ‘There’s a spell on the lock - it will only turn for those who know the words to unlock the spell, and you can imagine that those words are not widely distributed, and there’s some magical . . . penalty involved if someone were to come close to but not quite saying the right words.’
Pirojil shuddered. He could imagine what those magical penalties might be, and the truth was probably much worse than he was imagining. One thing the years had taught him: if it involves magic, it was better to be far away than near by.
Besides, if Pirojil were to try to break into the vault, he probably wouldn’t go through the front door. He considered, then discarded, half a dozen foolish plans involving tunnels, holes-in-the-wall, odd mining devices he had once seen outside Dorgin, and the possibility of the gods granting him a wish out of boredom; then decided to return to the bleak reality he knew: it was not terribly comfortable, but it was familiar.
Morray frowned down at the ink on his fingers.
‘Well, now that that’s done, I’d best wash these clerk-stains from my hands, change into something more festive, and get back up to the Great Hall. The first official meeting of the Baronial Council is tonight, but things have already well started, I’d guess.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you coming along, or would you prefer to stay here and try the door some more?’ He smiled. ‘If you listened very closely, you might even have heard the lock’s key spell almost well enough.’
Almost. Pirojil shuddered at the implications of that ‘almost’.
‘I’m at your service, of course, my lord.’
The fight was just starting when Kethol walked into the barracks, shivering and shaking his cloak, intending to get some much-needed sleep.
Six or seven Verheyen men had squared off against Morray’s men over by the door to the stables, and pushing and shoving had already turned to blows and kicks, although no weapons were drawn, as far as Kethol could see. At least he assumed the men were all Verheyen and Morray’s men; the barracks had only two small hearths, one at each end of the room, so most of the soldiers were bundled up in their cloaks; for all Kethol knew, a couple of rockheads from another baron’s company might have joined in just for the hell of it. Once again he found himself dwelling on the idiocy of fighting when no one was paying you to do so.
It looked more like a tavern fight than real combat, so far, which was just as well. If someone drew a blade it could turn ugly faster than a mountebank could part a farm boy from his coppers on market day.
One thickset Mut went down, and another one leapt on him, thick fists pummelling his chest more than his face, and then another joined in. A sergeant in a Verheyen tabard tried to hold one of his comrades back, but that just gave one of the Morrays a chance to whack him over the back of the head. The sergeant instantly forgot his role as peacemaker, turned and delivered a thunderous wallop that sent the Morray man sliding backwards across the stone floor. He was impressed; the sergeant wasn’t all that big, but he’d served up a blow that Kethol would have been proud to call his own.
Soldiers from other baronies, quite a few of those from both Morray and Verheyen, were staying out of the way, and all of the mercenaries were either lying on their bunks or sitting at the tables, watching with interest but not even raising a voice, much less a hand. It wasn’t their fight, any more than it was Kethol’s.
The only exception was the mad dwarf Mackin. Mackin was counted mad for three reasons, his first being his preference to fight for pay, which made him rare among his kind, and the second being his proclivity for bedding human women, which marked him as unique among his kind, and last his tendency to speak to the thin air, as if someone was standing there holding a conversation with him, which hardly made him unusual among mercenaries in Kethol’s judgment. The crazed dwarf leapt from his bunk and landed on his improbably large bare feet on the hard stone floor, chee
ring at each punch and kick as though he was watching some sort of sporting match.
Kethol was, of course, moving backwards out of the door. It hardly looked a good time to try to join the dice players in the corner, who had barely paused in their game. By now the fight - and he had seen enough of them to count himself an expert -was only moments away from becoming a full-on brawl, complete with broken heads, swollen jaws and missing teeth. He had almost made good his exit when he backed into the Swordmaster, who had just come in from the outside, shaking his cloak to clear the snow off it.
Steven Argent unceremoniously shoved him aside and stalked into the barracks.
‘Stop!’ he shouted, punctuating the word by snatching up a bottle and smashing it on the floor.
There must have been something to this voice of command thing, Kethol judged, because to his surprise, the fighting stopped immediately. The men who had moments ago been beating each other slowly began to pull themselves apart and rise to their feet.
Steven Argent stood in the middle of the barracks for a long minute, looking from one face to another.
There was no sound at all, save for the wind howling outside.
‘You - and you, and you, you and you,’ he said, pointing out men who had been fighting, and then at two of the sergeants who had stood by and watched. I’ve got a little job for you. We need another cask of beer hauled up from the Broken Tooth - good dwarvish beer, if you please - and I’m sending the lot of you out in the storm to get it.‘
He stood silently, his hands still on his hips, a look of utter contempt written across his face; then he turned and swept out of the room.
Kethol shrugged, and spread his cloak over his bed. He unbuckled his sword and hung it on the hook nearby and lay down to get some sleep which, as usual, quickly overtook him.
The last things he heard before the warm darkness closed about him were the comfortable, familiar rattling of dice and the clinking of coins on stone.
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