Brute

by Kim Fielding

  The sky was a clear blue, the sun almost bright enough to hurt his eyes, the dusty road soft beneath his feet. He had worried a little about his legs and hips, but he’d allowed himself a few more days to recover before setting out, and even after walking a while, he experienced only a faint ache—not so different from how he would feel after a hard day’s work. It made him smile to know that he wasn’t at work now. No matter his fate, he no longer had to listen to Darius’s abuse, eat Cecil’s terrible food, or endure the villagers’ contemptuous looks. Other travelers and the citizens of Tellomer might think him a monster, but at least none of them would call him the spawn of a thief and a whore.

  Cecil hadn’t offered to give him a meal for his journey, and Brute hadn’t asked for one, so around the midway point his stomach began to rumble. He was passing through a hamlet by then, a collection of stone houses and shops smaller than his own village but more prosperous. When he’d come this way before, it had always been festival day and everything had been closed up tight, but today shopkeepers were displaying shining pots and lengths of fabric and brightly painted wooden toys. In a little yard beside the inn, a boy was cooking skewers of meat over a fire. It smelled wonderful. After a brief hesitation, Brute entered the yard.

  “How much?” he asked the boy, who was gaping up at him.

  “Ten pence each.”

  Brute didn’t know how to do more than the most basic sums. He fumbled in his right hand pocket and produced a single copper. “How many will this buy me?”

  The boy sneered a little, and in a loud, slow voice, as if Brute were a simpleton, he said, “One copper gets you seven sticks.”

  “And if I want ale to drink?”

  “Five and a tankard.”

  Brute set the coin on the edge of the brick fire pit.

  He didn’t bother to sit down on the chairs that looked too spindly to hold him, nor did he remove his small bag of belongings from his shoulder. The ale came in a large tin tankard and was hardly better than the White Dragon’s, but it did quench his thirst. The meat, on the other hand, was the most delicious thing he’d ever eaten: hot and crispy on the outside, still slightly bloody at the center, with none of the gristle he was used to. The boy watched with something akin to admiration as Brute quickly cleared all five skewers. “Bet you could eat the whole lot of these,” he said, gesturing at his remaining sticks of meat.

  “Only if I can have them for another copper. That’s all I have.”

  The boy had a crooked smile. “My da would skin me alive over it. Sorry.”

  “Maybe another time.” Brute walked away with his belly full and his lips tasting pleasantly of grease. He hummed under his breath as he continued on his way.

  He wasn’t used to Tellomer being so crowded and bustling. It was a wonder to him that there could be so many people, and all of them with such important business to conduct. Some of them led mules or horses, some had carts loaded with sacks and baskets, some simply wove through the chaos with their arms full of packages. Merchants and street vendors called out their wares. Beggars slumped against buildings, palms held out. Babies cried and children laughed, men and women talked and argued, and the mingled scents of food and animals and emptied chamber pots and unwashed bodies permeated the air as if they were entities in themselves. Brute saw three men with dark skin and long, flowing robes—visitors from far away, he presumed. He saw a lithe woman performing gymnastic feats as passersby stopped, watched for a few moments, and tossed her a few coins. He saw a beautiful black-haired man in an expensive suit walking arm in arm with an equally beautiful and equally well-attired brunet.

  Brute’s legs wanted to turn left at the fountain with the spitting fish of carved stone, which would take him underneath a stone archway and down a narrow, crooked alley. At the end of that alley he’d descend a cobblestoned hill lined with soap-scented launderers, and then he’d find himself in a confusing maze of buildings, most of which promised a few minutes of pleasure in exchange for a handful of coppers. But he had only one copper, and anyway, that wasn’t why he was here. He ordered his legs to continue forward past the fountain and down the wide street that rose steeply to the palace.

  He’d walked by the palace once before out of curiosity, but hadn’t seen much aside from imposing stone walls. He’d never imagined he might actually go inside, and today those walls looked slightly frightening, like a gray dragon waiting to devour him. He silently chided himself for his stupidity and walked to the gate, which was guarded by a half dozen men in scarlet and cream uniforms. The middle-aged one with the graying beard seemed to be in charge. The look he gave Brute wasn’t so much hostile as deeply skeptical. “What do you want?”

  “The… Prince Aldfrid told me to come here.”

  The guard’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Did he now? And since when is His Highness in the practice of parleying with giants? Giants in rags, no less.”

  Brute glanced self-consciously at his clothing. “He… he was in my village a few weeks ago and—”

  “And I’m sure he had a delightful visit. Now, go away.”

  After a calming breath, Brute removed the letter from an inside pocket. “He gave me this. Said I was to show it and I’d be let inside.”

  That made the guard frown and hold out a hand. “Let’s see.”

  Brute didn’t want to give up the letter; it was his only hope of a future. But the guard was waiting expectantly, and his colleagues were all watching—as were two men waiting to be let into the palace with their donkey and a cart full of sacks of grain. Brute handed the paper over.

  The guard peered carefully at the seal. He held the folded paper up to the light, as if he were trying to see the ink, and then poked at the seal with one finger. “I guess this looks genuine,” he finally said, clearly regretting the admission.

  “It is.”

  The guard shrugged and turned to one of the others, this one a much younger man with a long, skinny neck and a nose like a beak. “Take him to Lord Maudit.” He returned the letter to Brute.

  The younger guard didn’t look very pleased with his orders, but he barked, “Follow me,” and led Brute through the gate.

  Brute had assumed that the palace was a single monumental building, but he quickly discovered that it was actually a complex of structures of varying size. Between them were paved passageways and courtyards and small swathes of green, with people and wagons and horses moving to and fro. It was really a small city in itself. There were stables, of course, but he also smelled a bakery and saw steam rising from a laundry. A smith was examining a horse’s hoof, a crew of several dozen men was erecting a new stone building, and a scholar of some sort was intoning a lecture at a group of youths who scribbled notes on papers.

  Brute quickly grew disoriented, but his guide was confident enough. They entered an ancient-looking building via a side door, walked up several flights of stairs and down long corridors, and finally entered a wide hallway where people rushed back and forth with only a quick glance Brute’s way. The guard stopped in front of a pair of large doors that were flanked by two men in uniform. “He’s for Lord Maudit,” the bird-faced guard said before turning and marching away.

  The man to Brute’s right sighed audibly and opened his door. It was tall enough that Brute didn’t have to duck to enter. He was led to a large room with worn stone floors, lots of wooden chairs arranged against the walls, and several smaller doors leading who knew where. Following like a very large but obedient puppy, Brute was taken to a bored-looking old man who sat at a desk. The man didn’t even bother to gawp at him. He peered at Brute’s paper without opening it, handed it back, and waved vaguely at a stone bench under a large window. “Wait there. Don’t break anything.”

  Brute hadn’t intended to break a thing, but didn’t say so. He sat on the bench and took a closer look around. The ceiling was very high and had a complicated painting involving naked men with beards, winged gods, and sailing ships. Also horses, fluffy clouds, and a lot of words he couldn’t read.
He’d never seen anything quite like it, and he spent a long time staring, tilting his head this way and that until his neck grew sore. Then he looked at the room’s other occupants instead. They were seated on the wooden chairs or pacing the room. Most of them carried sheaves of paper. They were dressed in very fine clothes, and they stared disapprovingly at Brute’s makeshift clothing and dirty bare feet.

  Time passed achingly slowly. Sometimes someone would pop out from one of the little doors and take one or more of the waiting people back in with them, but nobody ever came for Brute. New people came through the large entry doors, did a double take when they saw him, and sat far away. They were eventually escorted through doorways too. His ass grew sore from sitting on the hard bench, his stomach gurgled and growled, and worst of all, his bladder began to complain quite insistently. He knew it was impossible for the giant with the ugly face to have been forgotten, and yet none of the people who worked there even glanced his way. Maybe they thought he was a new and especially unbecoming statue.

  Just as he was about to give in to desperation and ask where he might find a place to relieve himself, a round woman with a feathered hat and the widest skirts he’d ever seen appeared from the far left door and sailed in his direction. “This way,” she commanded.

  His hips and legs had cramped a little as he sat, and he limped very badly as he followed her.

  The far left door led to an office smelling of tea and crammed with books and papers. The woman went away and shut the door behind her, leaving Brute alone with a man who was a few years older than him. The man was dressed in rather plain clothes and was tiny—barely five feet tall and probably one-third Brute’s weight—but he managed to project an aura of such powerful authority that he was almost terrifying. He stood several feet away and looked Brute up and down slowly. “You have a letter?” he finally said.

  “Um, yes sir.” Brute produced the paper from the folds of his cloak and held it out, but the man didn’t take it.

  “You will address me as Lord Maudit. You may call me milord or Your Excellency as well, for variety’s sake.”

  “Yes, Lord Maudit.”

  Lord Maudit rolled his eyes and snatched the paper out of Brute’s hand. He tore open the seal without ceremony and scanned the contents. When he was finished, he considered Brute again, this time appraisingly. It reminded Brute of the way Darius would look over a mule he was considering buying. “So you’re a hero?” he said at last.

  “I—no. I mean, the prince, he—”

  “Needed to be rescued from his own foolishness. Again. And rather dramatically, I understand.”

  Brute didn’t know how to answer that. He licked his lips nervously and fought the urge to shift his feet. His bladder was full to bursting, and the glimpses of the sea he could catch through Lord Maudit’s window weren’t helping.

  “Not very chatty, are you?” the lord said. “Good.” He folded the paper and slapped it against his thigh before tossing it onto his desk. “Wait here.”

  “Please!”

  Lord Maudit was nearly to the door when Brute blurted out his plea. The little man turned, eyebrow raised. “Yes?”

  “I need to—is there an outhouse? Milord,” Brute added hastily.

  “Garderobe’s through there,” the lord said, waving at a narrow door in the corner. Brute made what he hoped was a dignified dash for it while the other man left through the main door.

  To reach the garderobe he had to climb a set of very narrow, winding stairs. The stairs dead-ended in a rounded little chamber with tiny slits for windows. The room contained a wooden seat with a hole in it and a small table bearing an earthen pitcher of water. Fumbling his laces open one-handed seemed to take forever, but eventually he managed to get his trousers undone. He emptied himself with a long groan of relief. At least he hadn’t lost his good hand, he reminded himself for the thousandth time. The gods only knew how he would have managed to get himself undressed then.

  Lacing back up again was even more troublesome, but at least his need was no longer quite so urgent. He just wished he could have managed to find a way to pour the water in the pitcher over his hand to cleanse it.

  Lord Maudit’s office was empty when Brute descended the stairs. Brute resisted the temptation to poke around—he had an eerie feeling that the man would somehow know—and instead admired the view from the windows and then a large painting of a hunting party chasing a stag.

  “Hideous painting, isn’t it?”

  Brute jumped at the voice and whirled around. Lord Maudit had returned, but it was his companion who had spoken: Prince Aldfrid, attired in riding clothes and smiling broadly. The prince showed no sign of limping as he crossed the room. “I’m glad you’ve recovered enough to make the journey,” he said to Brute. “How are you managing?” He seemed genuinely concerned.

  Brute pulled his stump out of his cloak pocket, which made Lord Maudit’s eyes widen. Apparently the prince’s letter hadn’t mentioned that Brute was maimed. “Your Highness, are you certain—” the lord began.

  “Yes,” the prince interrupted sharply. “Completely. He’s the man for the job.”

  “The job, Your Highness?” Brute asked.

  “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? I could just give you a sack of gold and send you on your way—you’ve earned it—but I’m guessing you’re not that kind of man. You want to be… useful.” His laugh sounded a little sad. “More useful than a king’s fourth son.”

  Brute took a moment to consider the prince’s words. A sack of gold. He’d never have to worry about his livelihood again. He could buy a little cottage somewhere, have some clothing made that actually fit. He could eat decent food every day. And then… what? Sit by himself and wait to grow old and die? “I would like to be useful,” he confirmed. “But I don’t know what I can do for you, sir, not like this. I’m sorry.”

  “Have you any skills at all?” Lord Maudit asked. “I suppose it’s too much to ask that you know how to write.”

  Brute hung his head, ashamed. “I wanted to. Had no money to pay the schoolmaster.” After his parents were dead, when his great-uncle would send him scurrying around the village to fetch this and carry that, Brute used to pass the little schoolhouse now and then, and he’d pause long enough to gaze at it enviously. Once he’d even dared to ask his great-uncle to send him—Brute had promised to work twice as much to pay for it—but his great-uncle had cuffed him hard enough to send him sprawling, then growled that Brute was too stupid to learn.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Prince Aldfrid, pulling Brute out of the bad memory. “I have something perfect for you.”

  “Aldfrid, you’re taking an enormous risk.” Lord Maudit sounded irritated with the prince, but in a resigned sort of way, as if he was used to conversations like this.

  “He’s the one, Maud.”

  “But the king—”

  “My father, if he notices at all, will see that a very large and not especially bright man—sorry, Brute; I know you’re no idiot—has been put in place. That’s all.”

  Brute stood there mutely, slightly surprised at the obvious familiarity between the men and not having the vaguest clue what they were talking about. But then the prince clapped him on the arm and grinned. “It’ll all work out. You won’t be seeing much of me, Brute, but if you need anything, just get word to Maud here and he’ll take care of it.” He smirked at Lord Maudit and sped out of the room.

  Maudit briefly closed his eyes, as if he were in pain. “Scrambled your brains a bit more on those rocks, didn’t you, Friddy?” he muttered. Then he glared at Brute. “Follow me.”

  It seemed that everyone was saying that to him today. But Brute shrugged and did as he was told.

  He was led through another dizzying arrangement of corridors and stairways. Once he caught a glimpse of an enormous room—by far the largest he had ever seen—with a polished marble floor, gilded pillars, and a ceiling fresco considerably more elaborate than the one he’d been admiring while he waited. But he
didn’t get a chance to enjoy it, because Maudit dragged him along at a pace surprising for a man with such short legs. Guards saluted when Lord Maudit passed, and various well-dressed functionaries and servants all tried to look more industrious. Maudit ignored them.

  They eventually left the building—through a different door than the one by which Brute and the guard had entered—crossed an oblong grassy area where several women in colorful gowns sat and embroidered, and entered a narrow passageway between two buildings. The passageway dead-ended at a grim little building of dirty stone. The windows in the building were simply narrow vertical slits, and even those were covered by iron bars. The door was iron as well—arched and sporting a heavy bolt—with a bored-looking guard stationed outside. The guard snapped to attention when he saw them coming.

  “Has everything been readied?” Lord Maudit snapped.

  The guard nodded sharply. “Yes, milord. The maids just left.”

  “Good. This is… well, Brute. Obviously. You’ve been told of his duties?”

  “Yes, milord.”

  “If he needs anything, make sure he gets it. I’ll be checking on him.”

  The guard looked slightly horrified at the prospect but nodded again. Then he unlocked the door and waited for Maudit and Brute to enter.

  This time, Brute found himself in a small hallway with a ceiling so low he almost had to bend his head. The walls were rough plaster, dirty and cracked, interrupted now and then by doors made of thick dark timbers. The building smelled of damp and age, with a faint sickly sweet undertone, as if something had rotted long ago.

  “What—” Brute began.

  “In here.” Lord Maudit pressed the latch on one of the doors; the hinges squealed in protest. Brute stepped inside and saw, to his astonishment, a somewhat dim but comfortable-looking apartment. The ceiling was higher than that of the hallway, although he could still have brushed it with his fingertips. The room contained an oversized bed piled with quilts, a chest of drawers with an actual mirror on top, a solid table with two equally solid chairs, and a matching wardrobe and bookshelf. The window was tiny, of course, but the walls were hung with colorful tapestries that depicted scenes of beasts in the forest and creatures under the sea. A small stove with dark green tiles was tucked in one corner, but not lit today because the weather was far too warm.