Scourge of the Betrayer ba-1

by Jeff Salyards

  The baron handed Hewspear a goblet and filled it from a pitcher on a small table alongside him. “Anyone else?”

  Mulldoos shook his head. “Too sweet for my tongue.” As he watched the interrogator move around the table, his hand had drifted down to the pommel on his falchion, like a fierce hound with its hackles up.

  Braylar accepted a goblet. The baron offered me one as well, and while I was terrified of not keeping it down, I hoped it would help me focus on something besides the awful scene in front of me, and so I nodded and mumbled a thank you.

  I lifted it to my lips, hand shaking violently, and took a sip. It was pungent and mellow at first swallow, but then burned a golden trail down my throat. Strong, very strong. That was good.

  Brune raised his goblet. “There’s much more to good mead than the quality of honey, of course. The brewmasters here have their closely guarded secrets. Generations of perfecting their craft, and revealed only to guildmasters. Apprentices are kept in the dark for years. Isn’t that something?” He sniffed the liquid. “So powerful and peculiar, secrets. Some are a professional matter. The brewmasters, as an example. Others are personal, closeted on account of shame or fear. I detest them on the whole. Nothing I hate more, really. Because in my experience, where there are secrets, there are usually traitors harboring them.” He called over to his interrogator, “Would you be able to convince the brewmasters to reveal their methods, do you think?”

  Untovik’s reply came in the form of his prisoner screaming some more. I took another large swallow.

  “Yes. I expect you could.” Brune took another sip. “But you didn’t come down here to hear me prattle on about bees and honey, did you? To business then. Gurdinn had a fair number of unflattering things to report about how you conducted yourself at the temple, and on the road back here. While he accepted responsibility for his man killing the underpriest, he also pointed out they wouldn’t have found themselves in that position if you’d made better decisions. Claimed you jeopardized everyone’s lives, and nearly undermined this little ruse you’d done so much to orchestrate. I’d be very interested to hear your version, if you don’t mind, Captain Killcoin.”

  Braylar swirled his mead around in the goblet. “Your captain is staunchly loyal, and stalwart as well. Inspiring bravery, truly. But he’s also something of a tremendous fool, my lord. Had we done anything differently, the odds are good you never would’ve received a report of any kind. Not unless Henlester left our corpses for you to find. And that would have been a murky report at best.”

  The baron smiled. “A difference of interpretation then? Not surprising, really. After all, Gurdinn clearly doesn’t trust you or bear you any love. If he had his way, in fact, it would be all of you strapped down to tables just now.” He refilled his goblet slowly. “So, you still believe High Priest Henlester is responsible for hiring you as assassins?”

  “I saw nothing at the temple to indicate otherwise, my lord. The underpriest was there with payment for the deed. Which I’m sure Gurdinn delivered.” Brune tilted his head in thanks, and Braylar continued, “They arranged an ambush, wanting to wipe out their co-conspirators. I don’t know for a fact that Henlester ordered all of this, but all signs point in that direction.”

  “Such a shame we don’t have the underpriest.” The prisoner was trying to speak. Brune nodded at Untovik, who turned the wooden handle with a squeak. The prisoner gurgle-screamed again as the hooks bit deeper, knuckles white in his balled fists, feet twitching. “He might have been able to confirm some of this. But then again, perhaps not.”

  Brune stood and walked over to the table. The prisoner’s eyes were rolling white, the cords in his neck bulging, blood trickling out his nose and his mouth, flowing more freely now.

  Braylar said, “I don’t presume to tell you your business, my lord, but have you sought out Henlester? I expect he would provide some interesting answers to any line of questioning you and your savvy interrogator here might pose.”

  Brune nodded to Untovik again. I closed my eyes tight and wished I could do the same with my ears, but this time the cranking of the handle wasn’t accompanied by screaming. I looked-the interrogator was turning the handle back the other way, loosening the straps on the prisoner’s head. When they were finally slack, the baron pulled the hooks clear of the nose and mouth, dropped them on the table, and then wiped his hands on a rag. “As it happens, I sent a battalion to the High Priest’s compound just after Gurdinn gave his report. But it seems Henlester had urgent business elsewhere just now. He disappeared in the night, taking his underpriests with him, leaving behind only a handful of servants and staff. I’ve spoken to a few already, but as you might expect, they have limited knowledge about the comings and goings of their master. Not terribly useful. Still, extracting secrets isn’t half as challenging as detecting who has them in the first place, is it?”

  I wasn’t sure who he directed the question to, or if it was rhetorical, but no one responded. Brune wiped a rag across the prisoner’s face, clearing off most of the bloody spit and snot.

  The prisoner, finally able to turn his head, tried to talk, though his injured mouth muddied the words, “You never asked me anything, my lord! Ask me! Ask me whatever you want! Please! I’ll tell you anything you want to know, my lord! Please… just please. Ask. Ask, my lord. Whatever you want.”

  Baron Brune looked down at him, smiling. “The truth. Not what you think I want to hear. Only the truth. Nothing more, nothing less. Can you do that, lad?”

  The prisoner nodded vigorously, tears coming. “I can! I swear I can! Whatever you want!”

  The baron patted the prisoner’s wet cheek, and said, almost sadly, “Off to a poor start.” He looked directly at Braylar. “You may go. Though not far, I hope. I do so appreciate your assistance. I could well have need of you again.”

  Braylar forced a smile, remarkably without twitches. “And miss another chance for a lively exchange? Never, my lord. Though perhaps next time it will be above ground.”

  Hewspear drained his goblet and put it on the platter. “Thank you for the mead, my lord. It was a complex flavor. Several unexpected spices.” The baron didn’t respond, his attention back on his prisoner.

  I tipped my goblet up, nearly choking on the final gulp, and then we walked over to the door and filed out. There was only one guard outside, and he pulled the door shut after me and locked it without saying a word or looking at us. We began the long climb up the stairs. The only sound besides our heavy breathing was the occasional pop of a torch. Hewspear and Mulldoos were both struggling with their injuries.

  When we got back to the main hall, Hewspear’s breath was ragged and Mulldoos had to lean against the wall. Braylar didn’t wait. He started towards the stairs leading out of the keep and called out, “All downhill from here. Let’s go.”

  Braylar paused at the bottom of the stairs long enough for us to join him, than headed across the courtyard. I fell in alongside him, lightheaded and heavy-stomached. It felt good to be in the open air again, but I couldn’t get the image of the prisoner out of my head. Seeing no one close, I said to Braylar, “You’re letting them torture an innocent man.”

  He replied, “You give innocence a bad name, Arki. That guard protected a man who claimed to be a conduit to Truth, all the while abusing and murdering whores and cheating his liege lord. Admittedly, it’s possible he was unaware of his master’s true dealings. But we’re all of us pawns, and many in games far beyond our understanding. I have no liking for torturers-even the best of them rarely unearth anything truly useful. I’m not glad for the man’s suffering, but it ultimately serves our purpose, and that’s an end to it.”

  I continued to protest, “And Henlester’s steward or servants or whoever else he left behind? Are they just useful pawns too?”

  Anger was flaming into fullness behind Braylar’s gaze. “Perhaps the baron will use them more gently. Perhaps not. Either way, it was not my choice to abandon them to the cruel world. Their lives are beyond my
reach, and therefore, beyond my caring.”

  I started to object, my voice rising, but he pushed me against a stone wall, hissing, “Still your tongue, archivist! That is not beyond my reach.” He slowly released me and led us through the gatehouse and down the hill.

  Mulldoos cleared his throat. “You want me to round up the boys, Cap?”

  “Round them up?”

  Mulldoos looked at Hewspear for some kind of confirmation. “Seems we played this thing out as far as we’re able. Expect we’ll be heading out.”

  Braylar led us through another gatehouse. Once we were out of earshot of the guards, he said, “And you, Hewspear? Are you as equally timorous?”

  Mulldoos looked ready to object but Hewspear replied, “Our orders were to sow discord in this region, Captain. They gave us quite a bit of latitude in determining the how of it. We’ve planted the idea that one of Brune’s trusted advisors betrayed him, sought his blood. It will be known that many guards are dead, the underpriest as well, and Henlester fled. Our whisperers will spread word in the streets, no matter what the baron does to contain it, or even if he believes it. Once burghers, priests, and fieflords learn of it, chaos might not ensue, but it could. And that’s what we were tasked with. Lieutenant Mulldoos is stubborn and hard, but I say he’s right. We’ve accomplished what the Citadel required of us, and as you noted, it’s been costly already.”

  Braylar looked around to be sure no one could overhear us. “Stay, and we comply with our orders, we do our part to keep the Boy King in check, as commanded. And we’re afforded a rare opportunity to truly wreak havoc in this barony. But we follow on Henlester’s heels, flee Alespell, we not only cast doubt on Henlester’s thirst for assassination, but we incriminate ourselves and give credence to any accusations Gurdinn lays against us. Flee, and we undermine all that we’ve accomplished here, and the deaths of our comrades are meaningless. Is that what you two want?”

  No one responded right away, but finally Mulldoos shook his head and said to Hewspear, “Was I the only one down there in the dark? Wasn’t just me was it? ’Cause right now, it sure feels like it. Seemed to me it was real clear the baron’s just looking for an excuse to turn us over to old Mapface there.” He looked at Braylar again. “We got no chance to do more than we done here, Cap. None. You think Brune’s going to invite us to his inner sanctum for candied eels and sweet wine, open his coffers, hand out some titles? We’re not winning that horsecunt over, not now, not ever. Stay, and only thing we got to look forward to is a trip back down to the baron’s playroom.”

  Braylar said, “You hit upon it, Mulldoos, though I suspect you missed it in the same breath. The baron lives for plays and spectacle. He could have received us anywhere in the keep, but chose to have his audience there for obvious reasons. He wants to provoke us to act rashly, to reveal any secrets we have. Which is exactly what you propose.”

  Mulldoos rolled a tongue over his lower lip. “Seemed to me he was delivering a message. And I got it real clear. We stay, we end up on the torture table. Tomorrow, maybe the day after, as soon as he can prove we’re double-dealing. That table’s the only kind of future we got in Alespell. So let’s tell our own we done what we came to and put this place behind us. Better yet, kick up dust on the road west and then send the report once we hit-”

  Braylar stopped and turned on Mulldoos, their noses nearly touching. “I’ve heard enough! We don’t flee. Do you understand, Mulldoos? Not now. Not ever.”

  Perhaps unwisely, judging by his captain’s present fervor, Mulldoos replied, “Wide difference between a rout and a retreat. Never said flee, said leave. We done what the Citadel charged us with. Now-”

  I thought Braylar might strike him, but instead, he said, through gritted teeth. “We. Stay.” Then he started walking again. “Hewspear-see if any of our men can pick up Henlester’s trail. I would very much like to find him before the baron does. Mulldoos-get me that rogue. I don’t have much time.”

  Mulldoos rolled his jaw around. “And what’s for you, then? Draining pitchers until Alespell runs dry?”

  Braylar didn’t respond until we cleared one of the gates and the guards. Quietly, he replied, “I’ll be composing letters to grieving widows and harlots. But before I do, I’ll tell you one thing, and tell it once. You and I have endured a great deal together over the years. You’ve saved my life. I’ve saved yours. None are more trusted or valued. But if our familiarity causes you to forget who your commanding officer is again, I’ll ribbon the ground with your flesh. Are we clear?”

  Mulldoos bit back a reply I’m sure would have earned him that whipping. Hewspear gave the smallest shake of his head as Mulldoos said, “Oh, we’re plenty clear, Captain Killcoin. Plenty.” He saluted, not caring who might see, and then stomped ahead, doing his best not to let the limp show. Hewspear kept pace with us as and was silent until we made it through the next gate and the road began to level off. Finally, having considered his words, he said, “I only have the vaguest idea what you are going through. And I’m glad of it. Without Lloi… I’m sure you suffer. Greatly. And of all men, I know some of the losses you’ve endured. I was there at the beginning, lad. So I know you’re cold because you have to be. But Bray…” He waited, and when Braylar didn’t respond, finished, “Mulldoos was wrong-Lloi’s loyalty was nothing compared to his own. But you test it, Captain. Sorely.”

  Braylar sighed, long and deep, but offered nothing in the way of rebuttal. When we made it back to flat ground, Hewspear shook his head and headed off down a sidestreet. Braylar kept walking in the general direction of our inn. I stayed next to him, saying nothing. He finally looked over at me, and blinked twice, quickly, as if he’d forgotten I was still there. “Shadowing me, yes? How very dutiful.”

  He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. I looked for the signs I’d seen out in the grassland, and asked if he needed anything. He laughed, though there was an undeniable edge to it. “Your tender worrying is very touching, but just because Lloi is dead, don’t think I’m in need of another dull-witted shepherd.”

  I noticed some blood drops on the side of his scalp. Braylar reached up and touched a new wound that hadn’t been there an hour ago, then looked at the red smear on his fingertips. “That is…” He closed his eyes, wiped his fingers on his tunic. “Leave me, Arki.”

  I looked around, unsure if I’d heard correctly. “Where… where shall I go?”

  His eyes flickered open at my question. “You’re in a city hosting one of the finest fairs in the land. Full of wonder. Delight. Go. Explore it. I have no more need of you today. You won’t run. You’re with us now, Arki. Irrevocably. Your fate, knotted with ours beyond untangling. You won’t run. And even if you should forget that for a flicker of time, I’m sure you’ll remember what befalls those who flee. So… to the stalls and the sights. Back to your room. Go where you will. Just leave me.”

  I didn’t obey right away, until I saw his eyes narrow. Then I nodded, though still didn’t move, unsure where I would head. His eyes were nearly slits, so I took a few directionless steps, figuring I would determine the destination en route. Behind me, Braylar asked, so quietly I barely heard the words, “You were fond of her, yes?”

  I half-turned to answer, but didn’t trust myself to keep my voice from quivering, and so stopped and only nodded quickly.

  “Good.” He sighed deeply. “Then you’re that much closer to living a complete life-you finally know something of grief at last.”

  I faced him, but he was already striding away, which made me both angrier and suddenly bold. “If I’m such a vital member of the company now, then maybe you can finally tell me what’s in that mysterious crate we’ve carted over half of creation.”

  He spun and advanced on me quickly, and I immediately wished I’d held my tongue. You would think I’d have mastered that by now.

  His nose nearly touching mine, the captain said, “Your ability to record won’t be hindered in the slightest if I rip out your tongue and nail it to a post
, which is precisely what I mean to do if you spill our secrets in the street again. Do you understand me, scribe?”

  Though I was still angry, I was more terrified, and so I nodded.

  “Very good.” He took a single step back. I expected him to spin on his heel and leave again. But he paused, as if considering something. Then, unexpectedly and quietly, he said, “It is full of the coronation clothes of the boy king. Or what he would have worn if we hadn’t stolen them.”

  I was as stunned by the revelation itself as by the fact that he chose to reveal anything at all. “But… why? Why did you steal them? Wasn’t he crowned some time ago?”

  “The young monarch’s ancestors have worn the royal robes, collar, and smock for every ceremony going back for time immemorial. He has not. We managed to steal them before the coronation, though it did take us some time to smuggle them out of the capital.”

  Suddenly things, some things anyway, began to make sense. “That’s where you went after you hired me, wasn’t it? When you took to the road after the interview. But I still don’t understand why? Why go to such lengths? Do the Anjurians place that much stock in simple vestments?”

  Braylar smiled, though with a predatory curve. “They place more stock in ceremony than any people alive or dead. There are a fair number who were dubious of their new monarch or his regent as it was. They pledged only the weakest of support. When word got out that the coronation trappings had disappeared, well, to them, it is simply one more indication that his reign is destined to be a short or disastrous one. Absence can be as powerful a sign as spectacle.”

  The Anjurians were a strange lot. What he said did make sense of a sort, at least from their perspective. “And what will you do with them?”

  His scarred lip twitched. “You are finally beginning to think like a Syldoon. An excellent question, and you can be sure, when I have an excellent answer, you will be the fifth to know.” He heard someone approaching, and without another word, turned and headed back in the direction of the inn.