by Duncan Lay
‘While I wish we could help, it simply cannot be done.’
A second gold coin joined the first and Menner’s smile became, impossibly, even more broad.
‘Well, for a special customer such as yourself, we can always make an exception. Let me take some measurements. But before I start, perhaps I can offer you a drink? You have ridden a long way, no doubt?’
‘A drink. And something for the girl to eat,’ Martil agreed.
Menner hurried off into a backroom, returning a moment later with a small plate of cakes, a jug of fruit juice and two goblets. Karia was still not sure about someone dressed like this but could not entirely hide her interest in the food.
Menner passed her a goblet of juice and smiled as she took a long gulp.
‘Thirsty work, shopping, is it not?’ he smiled.
She said nothing, just watched him warily and took one of the small cakes.
‘Say thank you,’ Martil prompted, but she just shrank away from both of them.
‘There’s no need. A little girl like that, bound to be shy.’ Menner smiled, then produced a small chalkboard and several lengths of thin rope marked with knots at regular intervals. ‘Could you hold out your arm for me, please?’
Karia obviously had no intention of doing so. Martil could see a wrestling bout or, worse, a screaming match approaching, but had no idea of how to stop it.
Menner did. He had designed clothes for many small girls, in fact he saw it as a lucrative and essential part of his business. Get them used to buying his clothes young and they would come back for the rest of their lives.
‘Would you like a nice doll to play with?’ he asked with a smile.
Karia could not help but be intrigued, and even gave a little smile in return. Menner opened a cupboard and took out a simple woollen doll wearing a dress. He sat down on the floor and offered it to Karia, smiling as she almost snatched it from his hand. ‘She’s yours now. What will you call her?’
Karia looked down at the doll with delight. ‘Mine?’
‘As long as you hold out your arm and let me see how big I need to make your dresses,’ Menner said gently.
Karia did not need to think about that for too long. She flung her arm out instantly as she cradled the doll. It had a bright smile, stitched in wool. Her old dolls were long gone but she decided this one would be a special friend.
‘Her name is Dolly,’ she announced, holding out her other arm towards Menner.
He finished his measuring quickly and looked at the figures on his board while Karia tucked into the cakes.
‘I do believe I have a sample dress I could let you have now,’ he offered.
‘What will we do with this?’ Karia exclaimed, plucking at the tunic.
‘We could give it to a beggar, young miss, but I fear even they have certain standards,’ Menner said seriously. ‘The only thing that would want that dress is a large fire. I’ll be right back.’
‘He’s funny,’ Karia announced as Menner disappeared into the backroom.
Martil gave a smile. It had been interesting to see how this Menner had won Karia over, using a combination of bribery, diversions and small jokes.
Menner returned with a pale pink dress, simply cut, with no adornments, but it was obviously clean and that made it perfect in Martil’s view.
‘You may change in here,’ Menner offered, pulling a curtain out and around a circular wooden pole to create an instant small room at the side of the shop.
Karia may have been unsure about the dressmaker but she loved the dress, and simply pulled the old tunic over her head and held out her hand for the dress.
‘Aroaril’s beard! Young miss, the changing room…’ Menner gasped at her but she simply took the dress from his hand.
‘Farm girl.’ Martil tried to shrug off his embarrassment. He would have to explain to her again about the importance of privacy and decency, he realised as he quickly turned to look out the window. Whether she would listen was, of course, another matter.
‘How does it look? Am I pretty?’ Karia asked, as she wriggled into the dress.
Menner recovered his composure and rushed off to return with a large mirror, which she used to admire herself.
‘It looks lovely,’ he assured her. ‘Now all that remains is to choose colours and leave the deposit…’
Martil led Karia out of the shop feeling he had probably paid three times as much as the clothes were worth, but the time he had saved and what he had learned made the purchases worthwhile. If he could handle her mood swings, the journey to Thest would be a little less unpleasant. He was beginning to see this almost as a military campaign. Diversionary tactics worked well here, too.
Karia said nothing, because her mouth was full of the large sugary confection Menner had handed her as they left. Martil had no idea about the right colours a small child should be wearing, so had let Karia pick. Her selection of pinks and purples was immaterial—as long as the clothes did not smell, that was fine by him.
For her part, Karia was too busy looking at Dolly and admiring her new dress to pay more than a few glances to the bustle around them. Menner had recommended an inn, the Crown and Sparrow, which was nearby. In the absence of a better plan, Martil rode there. He felt he was doing that quite a bit lately, just going along with what seemed to be a good idea at the time. Still, it worked out all right in this case; he was not sure what to expect but it proved to be a large, three-storey building that dominated the street. He rode around the back, where a huge stable and courtyard stretched out to the road behind. Not just horses but carriages were kept here, tended by a score of young boys.
Martil wheeled Tomon under the main gate, then reined the horse in as a pair of large men in leather jerkins stepped out, both carrying lead-tipped staves.
‘State your business,’ one declared in a bored voice.
‘A room for myself and the girl, stabling and feed for the horse,’ Martil replied harshly.
‘Hold on, I know that voice!’ the other man exclaimed. ‘Captain Martil, as I live and breathe!’
‘By the beard of Aroaril, so it is! The other boys’ll be jealous we met you!’ the first man gasped.
Martil could not help but smile then, hearing their accents. ‘What are you boys doing so far from Rallora?’
‘Well. It’s a fair bit easier than guard duty with a regiment of Berellian Guards over the next ridge,’ the first man grinned, then his smile faded. ‘And there are too many memories down there.’
The three of them paused then, lost in what that phrase recalled. The guards recovered first. ‘Go on in, Captain. Just flash a bit of gold and the boys’ll come running. But if you don’t mind, we’d like to shake your hand first.’
Martil took their hands in the warrior’s grip, wrist to wrist, feeling a little sheepish, then rode past them until a stableboy came running over.
‘We need a room for the night,’ he announced, holding up a gold piece.
‘I’ll get the boss,’ the boy said immediately, and scampered off.
‘Why do people do things for you?’ asked Karia.
‘Because I have gold. People do things for gold.’ Martil shrugged, not wanting to go into his past history with Ralloran soldiers.
‘Da thought people would do things for him if he threatened to hurt them. I like gold better,’ Karia said solemnly.
5
The throne room was full; scores of army officers and nobles milling around, talking quietly. Why had King Markuz summoned them here in the middle of the day and why was every window covered with metal shutters? Earl Byrez, who had ridden from his northern castle to reach this meeting, wondered what this meant.
‘The King!’ a servant bellowed and the room fell silent instantly.
Markuz strode over to his throne, but did not sit down.
‘Berellia will rise again!’ he roared.
Immediately the officers erupted into cheers, although Byrez noted that many of the nobles, such as himself, were a little less enthusiastic.
This time all cheered.
‘And we shall finally achieve all we deserve! Not in Rallora but by ruling Norstalos!’ Markuz continued.
This time the cheering was isolated; even the youngest officer knew such a thing was impossible.
‘My friends, this is true. Norstalos will ask us for help. Together, as partners, we shall rule this world although there will only be one eventual ruler!’
Scattered applause and confused murmuring met those words and Byrez saw his King’s face tighten in anger.
‘But if we are to finally achieve our destiny, we need more men. I order you to begin recruiting again. Train me a new army, so that we might lead it to victory once more!’
Silence greeted those words, and Byrez felt his legs move.
‘Sire, how can this be possible?’ he asked. ‘Our forces are a shadow of the army that marched south. If we attack Norstalos, then the very existence of Berellia will be in doubt!’
Byrez glanced left and right, and saw many heads nodding agreement. He was not watching them; he was looking for Cezar. Surely the King’s Champion would be paying him a visit soon…
But Markuz merely held out his hands for quiet.
‘This time it will be different. This time we shall be victorious! For we have divine help!’
He gestured and a robed and cowled figure stepped forwards into the light.
Byrez let out a gasp of horror and grabbed at where his sword should have been—if he had not surrendered it to the King’s guards already.
‘A Fearpriest! We are to ally ourselves to such as that?’ he cried.
‘We already have,’ Markuz said coldly. ‘Aroaril deserted us. He defeated us in Rallora! Only divine intervention could have stopped us there. Then we were betrayed and stabbed in the back by traitors back home. Glorious Berellia has become polluted, corrupted, weak. With the help of Brother Onzalez we shall burn out this corruption, forge a pure new society and take our rightful place as rulers of the world! Any who do not want to join must be seen as traitors. For all true Berellians would want to see their fatherland great again.’
‘My friends, turning to Zorva is not the answer! Do not stand by and let evil take hold of our country!’ Byrez appealed.
‘If you are not with us, you are against Berellia. Anyone who does not want to share in the glorious future that awaits Berellia can leave now!’ Markuz roared.
Byrez knew that to do so was a death sentence; he also knew that there were some things worse than death. With a stare around the room—none would meet his eyes—he stalked out, shutting the doors behind him. He half-expected to meet his death on the other side, but apart from the usual guards, nobody tried to stop him. Byrez decided to ride for home immediately, hoping he’d reach it.
Markuz stared around the other nobles and officers. None followed the Earl but many watched him go.
‘Tell Cezar to get back here as quickly as possible,’ Markuz told Onzalez out of the side of his mouth, before waving his arms again.
‘Gather round, my friends, and hear how we shall have our final victory!’
Kettering had just about got his hair right when one of the stableboys came running into his office. As under-manager of the Crown and Sparrow, Kettering was responsible for the dining room and sleeping rooms. The bar was the over-manager’s responsibility, ever since Kettering’s little incident with the two Avish warriors and his hair. But Kettering felt most of the town seemed to have forgotten about that by now. Still, he liked to make sure his hair looked its best, so he used the special salve the apothecary had given him to keep it in place across his scalp once he had curled it over the top from where it hung long beside each ear.
‘Guests, sir, with gold,’ the stableboy blurted.
His hair was not quite as neat as he would have liked, but gold was too important to ignore, so he followed the liveried stableboy out to the yard, where a warrior and his daughter sat on a magnificent horse. The man looked like a brute, with his scars, his cold grey eyes and his two swords, while his daughter’s bare feet were filthy. He could not help but cast a glance over towards the gate, where the hired muscle was at call. They merely waved back at him. He decided he might need to speak to them later. He did not want any old riff-raff staying here. Still, you had to give people a chance. You never knew who had bags of money. He composed his face into a smile of welcome and strode out to greet them.
‘I am Kettering, Under-manager of the Crown. How may I help you?’ he oiled.
For answer, the warrior hefted his moneybag and let the sound of its heavy coins jingle significantly. ‘A good room with two bedrooms. Dinner and breakfast,’ he said simply.
‘Well, I’ll see what I can do,’ Kettering said cautiously, looking carefully at the moneybag. Surely it could not all be gold.
‘You’ll do what he says, because he’s got lots of gold,’ Karia piped up.
Both men looked at her, astonished, but it was Kettering who recovered first. He nodded to the guards at the gate, letting them know they had done the right thing, then he bowed low, feeling a twinge of fear as his carefully-arranged hair shifted just slightly.
‘Well then, please leave your horse here, and follow me. We have some fine rooms, I can assure you, while our cooks are some of the best in this town,’ he said effusively, and turned to where a gaggle of stableboys waited. Tomon was led off to be unsaddled, brushed and fed, while Martil and Karia followed the prancing Kettering, and three boys followed them, staggering under the weight of Martil’s saddlebags.
Martil was amused by the man’s antics. He was prepared to put up with the fool, because one look inside the inn showed Menner’s recommendation was right—it was easily one of the better ones he had seen in Norstalos.
Karia was awed by the inn. After the deliberate simplicity of Father Nott’s home, and the wreckage of her da’s farm, the thick carpets, heavy brass lanterns, wooden panelling and rich furniture were very impressive.
‘Sir, we do ask our guests not to walk around with their weapons,’ Kettering remarked as he led them up a sweeping staircase. ‘We have the very best men employed to keep things quiet. Rallorans, you know. And of course, as we like to say, the only sword that can keep the peace is the Dragon Sword—and you are hardly likely to carry that.’
Martil shrugged. ‘I’ll leave them in my room,’ he agreed.
There was plenty of space. The ‘room’ turned out to be several: one comfortable sitting room, with several wide couches, a table and six cushioned chairs. To one side were a large bedroom and a bathroom, to the other was a second bedroom.
‘Da’s farm wasn’t as big as this,’ Karia exclaimed.
Martil saw Kettering’s eyebrows disappear up towards where his hairline should be.
‘I’m taking her to her uncle’s. It was the dying wish of her father,’ he told the man.
Kettering opened his mouth to ask another question, then looked into the warrior’s cold eyes and decided discretion was, after all, a vital part of his job.
‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy your stay with us, and if you need anything, do not hesitate to ask.’ He had the boys place the bags on the table, handed a large brass key to Martil, then disappeared.
‘What should we do now?’ Karia asked. She wanted to jump on the bed, but felt awed a little by the richness of the furnishings.
‘Baths before dinner,’ Martil said firmly.
He ignored her protests to carry her into the bathroom, where a large bath took pride of place. There were two taps, one red, the other blue, and he filled the bath, using the noise of the water to drown her defiant cries that she would not need a wash.
‘I had one yesterday! Da says you only need one twice a year!’ she yelled. ‘The water’s all cold.’ ‘This one is warm. See?’
Intrigued, she tested the water, to find it
was warm. ‘How do they do that?’
Martil struggled to find the answer. ‘Obviously they warm it up with a fire.’
‘How?’
Martil finished filling the bath, began his hunt for soap and tried a joke. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps they have a dragon in the cellar.’
‘Wow! A dragon! Can we go and see it?’
Martil felt like hitting himself. ‘They don’t have a dragon. Now, have a bath.’
Only the threat of no dinner until she was bathed saw a reluctant Karia in the bath.
‘Right, now wash yourself and then call me when it is time to wash your hair,’ Martil told her.
Karia stared at him angrily. The water did feel nice but she could remember the bath from yesterday, with Father Nott. That was where she wanted to be. It was time to remind this Martil who was really in charge.
‘I want to get out,’ she told him.
‘You will stay in here and wash yourself,’ he told her.
‘Won’t.’
Martil realised he had backed himself into a corner, and judging from the triumph in her eyes, she knew it too. Well, he might have fallen into the enemy’s trap, but the only way out was to do the unexpected.
‘Fine,’ he sighed. Time to take a lesson out of that Menner’s book and try something different. He hunted around swiftly for something that could be used as a toy. There was nothing except a long-handled scrubbing brush. And nothing to do but pretend it was alive and a friendly creature. It was hard to do. But he hated being defeated more than he hated being made to look foolish.
Karia was determined to yell and scream but instead of reaching for the soap, he produced the long-handled scrubbing brush and announced its name was Mr Brush and wanted to meet her.
Despite herself, she was intrigued. What did he think he was doing? She forgot about yelling as Mr Brush pretended to swim, then started tickling her on the toes. By the time she worked out it was a trick, there was soap in her hair and on her feet and the bathwater was dirty.
When the bath was finished, Martil was sweating lightly and looking forward to a bath himself. It had been a victory, but hardly one to compare with the battle of Mount Shadar, his first as a war captain. Still, you had to start somewhere.
