by Ben Stivers
Wolf sat back and patted Adam on the shoulder. “So, now comes the learning. Think upon this. Consider this stream as a flow of emotion. The upper stream is your everyday feelings. What is different between the stream and its pool?”
“The pool is part of the stream, but it is deep. The pool holds the water back.”
“Close, but the pool doesn’t hold the water back. The pool is water.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do, but I want to clarify. The pool is there because of rock and dirt. Because of the rock and dirt and their structure, the water grows deep. The more zealous the structure, the deeper the pool grows.”
“Because the water carves the rock.”
“Correct, though that takes much time. Yet, could you and I dig a pool along this stream, block it up and make a deep pool?”
“We could.”
“And the deeper the pool, when it is channeled through the narrowest of places?”
“When it is deeper—it is faster?”
Wolf grinned. “So, let me put this in a less mysterious way. If the stream is emotion, then emotion can also be contained. When it is contained, it is controlled. When it is focused through a narrow channel, it can be powerful. However, how it is contained is through discipline. When the stream simply runs, it is uncontrolled and less efficient and of little use to its master. Even when swollen, the best it may do is destroy all in its path. But when discipline controls, you may direct that action where it serves you best.”
Enlightenment screwed Adam’s face into a frown. “I hated that man.”
Wolf looked away. “We have all done our share in this world. Just—what I have taught you here will give you insight into Arthur.”
“Thank you,” Adam replied.
He climbed to his feet and stood a long while, gazing deeply into the pool.
Over those months before spring, Adam found himself drawn closer to Arthur and Shanay. They broke bread with him most every day. They honed his combat skills and he found himself a swift and eager student.
When, at last, spring pushed winter out of the morning, the four of them assembled at the Lusty Wench. Adam was third to arrive. Wolf parted the gates last, but not long after Adam.
They all took a chair, new ones that Wolf had populated over the last month. Not rickety as the others had been, they suited the new tables that Wolf had also purchased. Twenty tables and sixty chairs were a sizable investment. Adam had helped deliver them, and the carpenter who constructed them had many thank-yous for Wolf. That did not go unnoticed by Adam.
Wolf paid in gold and the two men had walked off to discuss other business, leaving Adam that day to wander the woodworks. Most of the carpenter’s business involved sawing boards for ship repairs. The apprentice and journeyman spoke to Adam briefly, and then returned to their work, though they had welcomed him back at any time.
“Good morning,” Arthur began. “I have an announcement. Shanay and I will leave tomorrow for a return to the Eastern Mountains. Wolf has arranged a small army of smithies, carpenters, and woodworkers to return with us. They will commence construction of a permanent estate. Overlord City generously deeded eastern land to me after the last war.
“Nerva feels sure it is worth little. I believe otherwise.” He rolled a map across the table, letting the thick parchment flatten so they could all see. “There will be a permanent carpentry shop, a stable, and ironmongery on the property. This area here,” and he pointed to the map and a rectangular shape, “will be a barracks for up to twenty men. When the Templars visit, they will stay here if they wish. Ptolomus counsels with both Wolf and I. Shanay?”
Shanay picked up his narrative and pointed with a slender finger. “Here is the house. The stonemasons will route water from the upper stream to the house, a miniature aqueduct, much like Rome’s original design, though smaller. Adam, this shaded area will be your room, if you wish.”
Adam’s eyes widened and though he tried to keep the emotion from his face, the hope of what he suspected she might say pushed excitement onto his face.
“We would like you to come and live with us,” Arthur inserted amid the pause. “We will adopt you as our own, Son.”
Adam looked deep into Arthur’s eyes and thought of how many people saw only stone there. This day, however, Adam saw something different, a manifestation of mercy blended with hopeful longing. Shanay’s expression hinted how much she wished for him to say yes. It was Wolf that he looked at last. Wolf had been snatched out of dangerous circumstances by Arthur when Wolf was not much older than Adam. His life had turned for the better.
Adam considered for several moments, thinking of his parents. He could not bring them back, and Drile would have urged his son not to allow such an opportunity to lapse.
“You need not take my last name as yours, Adam, if that is a concern,” Arthur said, sounding as though Adam refused Arthur’s offer.
“I am honored to be known as your son,” Adam replied and his eyes welled. He did not want to cry, but the moment forced tears to his eyes and then surprisingly to the edge of Arthur’s.
“Good,” Arthur replied, his normally gruff voice nearly muffled. He rounded the table and hugged Adam tightly, as did Shanay.
Adam noticed that Wolf watched Arthur carefully with just the faintest smile upon his face.
From that moment, no one spoke again of Adam as anything other than Arthur’s son. Adam Bornshire became a name broadly spoken.
The same week that the mercenaries entered Ploor, Nerva sat in his plush office and considered his situation. His duties drowned him. Keeping the populace happy and business thriving demanded all of his time all of the time. His fantasy that he would rule Overlord City, stand on the balcony and pontificate majestic speeches, eluded him. His last public attention had even been in the distant town of Ploor, not his home city, and few people had attended.
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Irritated, he barked, “Come in!”
His guard opened the door from the inside and announced the newcomer. “Realius.”
“I know who it is,” Nerva conceded. “Let him in.”
The younger bureaucrat had already started forward, another minor irritant to Nerva’s privacy. “What is it now?”
“Governor, you have a meeting with the man named, Sabinus. You may remember that he scheduled several weeks ago.”
Nerva did not remember, but pretended he did, and he imagined that Realius did the same. “Yes, yes. Bring him in! Why keep him waiting?”
Realius bowed and stepped back through the entryway. When Sabinus entered, Realius did not return. That suited Nerva. He had a busy day ahead of him. No time for unexpected interruptions.
“Close the doors,” he ordered. The guard did so, remaining inside, which Nerva did not mind when being left with strangers. So-called visitors had skewered more than one ruler. To Sabinus, he said, “This man—what is your name?”
“Ham,” the guard replied with emotionless iron in his voice.
“Yes, Ham,” Nerva continued, “will remain. He is a member of my personal guard. Protocol and all. I am sure you understand.”
Sabinus dismissed the remark with a wave of his hand. A bit more youthful than Nerva would have thought but the man carried an air of wisdom in his gait. Nerva considered that he might have summoned the man for a particular service, though he had yet to recall.
“Governor, I have come because I have a particular skill and I suspect you have need of my services. Before we begin, you have done particularly well ruling this city. When last I was here, it was a shambles.”
Nerva took the compliment and fed it to his starving ego. He had taken the position as governor, assuming that ruling could be mostly delegated to other bureaucrats and that credit would be to him. Circumstances had not quite fallen that way.
“Thank you,” he replied, “and where did you say you were from?”
“I travel much of the world,” Sabinus replied, unfolding and refolding h
is hands like a butterfly’s wings. “I serve place-to-place at the whim of my patrons. I hope you will become one.”
Nerva hedged. His personal funds ran low since his business interests had faltered. Yet, he liked Sabinus already.
As though he sensed Nerva’s thoughts, Sabinus continued, “You may wonder of my fee. I assure you that my services pay for themselves. If I may grant explanation?”
“Come sit. I will hear you,” Nerva replied. No sense in shirking politeness. Perhaps he could snatch an idea or two from the man and send him on his way.
Sabinus took a seat on a brightly embroidered stool, crossed his legs and set his hands on his lap. His chestnut hair and hazel eyes gave his face a trusting aura. His thin lips did not betray a smile, but drew a line like a Roman road, strong and straight. He looked quite at ease in the gaudy surroundings, comfortable in the trappings of a powerful man that Nerva assumed himself.
“First, let me say again this city has recovered well. But, I have a notion that you wish more for your city than simple survival.”
Actually, Nerva wanted much more. “There are endless things I want, Sabinus.”
“Will you elaborate?”
“Certainly! I want civil order. The citizens nag me with constant complaints. I want the sewage out of the streets in the lower quarter. When I pass that way, the stench clings to my clothes like a vine to a building. I want the business sector to thrive. We need commerce with other cities. Our business relationships within the walls are incestuous. I want the walls repaired, the streets full of traffic. I want my sick citizens to be well and healers who can heal. I want the aqueducts to run clear again. I hate the taste of foul water and having to wait for my servants to boil it. I want the fountains to flow, the bathhouses to open. People reek of personal odor. I hardly go out anymore, the smell is so bad.”
“You want Rome to return?”
“No, no,” Nerva replied. “Rome built an empire upon conquest and slavery. I wish none of that, though I don’t know how to achieve my goals without either. For that matter, conquest and slavery are not an option. The governorship has many legal constraints that could unseat me should I violate one of the tenets. This is for the city’s safety as a whole.”
Sabinus nodded his understanding. He closed his eyes and sat for several breaths in silence, then opened his eyes and mouth simultaneously. “May I see the written articles?”
“Of course,” Nerva replied. “If you would like to take them—.”
“I will read them here,” Sabinus replied as though Nerva was his servant and not his superior. Yet, Nerva found himself unable to object and no culpable reason to slink away.
An hour later, Sabinus had finished his review and an hour after that, he left, having taken the new position as city planner on behalf of Nerva, who felt Sabinus’ ideas prophetic.
In Ploor, no one had ever seen such a woman, and certainly not near the harbor around a bunch of licentious sailors. She stood taller than most women. Her blonde hair spilled over her shoulders and down her back. Leanness outlined her sculpted arms. Golden eyes attracted men’s concentration. Her eyes alone could have held those who gazed upon her spellbound had it not been for her spectacular physique and how she had chosen to adorn it.
Sharp curves looked chiseled from flint, and her clothes could have been tattooed on. She wore boots of cloth that raised over her knees. They displayed abundant amounts of her calves, muscular and curved as sharply as a sickle. Her thighs remained bare, but she wore a white loin cloth that left little to the imagination, and sailors were quite well known for well-developed imaginations. A chemise wrapped her ample breasts in strips of white that were nearly insufficient to hold them. Despite the wishful thinking of half the docks, however, they swayed but the shirt stayed with them. A circlet with three spiral arms emblazoned her right bicep. The final adornment was a shouldered top and white platinum bracelets, carved with runes bracing her wrists.
Despite their drunken stupor, for dawn remained hours away, the lot of drunken sailors managed to get up off their asses and migrate toward her. As they did, she smiled faintly, showing only a single row of perfect teeth.
“Lady, you are in the right side of town,” a bulbous man leered.
“Is that so?” she asked, her voice sultry and mellow. The promise in her voice tempted them all. Though her eyes caught their attention, another set of her features fascinated them. Temptation had cast man out of Eden and still they remained hungry for the flesh.
“That’s—so,” replied the fattest man of the bunch. Belial had several demons under her command that looked as bloated as this bag of vomit, but since the dawn of creation, men had fallen victim to the wiles of women. She found this guise amusing.
“And what might your name be?”
The man hesitated, still in a breast-fog. “Septus.”
“Do you like what you see, Septus?”
Although she had asked Septus directly, the entire group nodded, hanging on her every step, their heads swaying slightly.
Septus nodded right up to the moment she placed a slender and gentle hand upon his face. “I want you to do me a favor. You need men for your ship, right?”
Again, the two score men nodded, but Septus’ eyes unfocused as she tinkered with his mind. That particular act did not offer a modicum of challenge. Quite the contrary. Spirits of bad rum ate his brain and he did not seem overly intelligent to begin with.
“I know where you can find such a man. I will tell you where. You will do whatever it takes to retrieve him. All of you. When you come back, we will take him on your ship and you can have as much of this,” and she struck an obscene pose, “as you want. Are we agreed?”
No one spoke. Entranced, they simply nodded their compliance. “Go then,” she ordered. “You will find him in a tavern on the main road. His name is Bornshire.”
She pointed and the men turned and left, deeply drawn into her spell, but their own lack of moral centricity completely culpable. With a throaty chuckle, she stepped off the dock, spread the wings she had so easily hidden, flew over the sea, and turned north. She could not leave everything to Mrandor. When his usefulness diminished, she would discard him. His attempt to wear Arthur down through elimination of his family did not suit her. He had killed the father, but she discerned little result upon the son. While Mrandor tended to petty concerns in Overlord City, she had dispatched a dozen of his mercenaries to kill Bornshire, but that too had not gone to her liking.
Mrandor had ranted, stomped and wailed about the loss, but she had merely observed his antics until he realized the blame resided with himself. He should have chosen better men to serve her. The more she understood the contrivance of the Children, the better she could exploit their weakness.
Chapter 8
Adam went to Baldja’s stable early. Ploor’s resident evening fog clung lightly on the buildings and the road. Even the cocks had not yet heralded the coming dawn.
Adam did not find Baldja at the stable when he arrived. He let himself in and proceeded to Artex’s stall. Adam chose to dress in his new armor, had equipped himself with the weapons purchased or bartered through his various jobs and connections within Ploor. He had even strapped his new sword to his side. Unconsciously imitating his father, he had drawn back his thick black hair, tied it with a leather thong to keep his hair out of his face. He had even grown a patch of beard on his chin. He stroked it at times when he was thoughtful, though never around Wolf or Baldja who would tease him.
“Good morning, Artex,” he cooed to the stallion. Artex swished his tail in recognition. Horse and rider had grown inseparable and Adam found himself often conducting discussions with his silent horse, though Artex had his own ways of communicating through body language.
Adam soon had Artex saddled. “We leave Ploor in a few days for a new home,” he explained. “The world, it seems, has swung to both our advantage. Therefore, to celebrate, I thought we might take a ride. I have no chores today. I thought that you might
like to run for a bit.”
Artex stood quietly, taking the conversation in and awaiting his prompt to move forward. Adam led him from the stable, and locked the doors. He jotted a quick note to Baldja that he had come and gone, and then mounted Artex. Together, they trotted out of the side road and onto the broad, main street of Ploor.
Adam wore confidence as smoothly as his armor. He nodded acknowledgement to several vendors setting up on the street. A few waved back and a few did not, but all watched him pass, causing him a modest, inward smile. During his life in the mountains, he could have never imagined such a day, he bedecked in armor and weapons, riding a horse that should belong to a king.
As he reached the lower quarter of town, a pack of sailors drifted down the middle of the thoroughfare. He had never seen such a crowd on the main road and certainly never such a large group of rowdies. Deftly, he steered Artex to the right to avoid the crowd, but like a murmuration of starlings, the drunken tangle of men flowed toward him. Adam let his carefully constructed suspicion guide his actions.
He clucked his tongue, a warning to Artex, who stopped in a single step. The stallion pinned first one ear, then swiveled both ears, a sign of anxiety or foreboding that he sensed an encounter.
“Easy,” Adam murmured, patting Artex on the shoulder.
Adam hoped that the mariners would continue on their way and leave him be when they saw that he would be no easy prey to haul onto their ship, if that were their intention. Nevertheless, that hope drifted away as they drew closer.
They rousted one another and cursed back and forth, seemingly paying no attention to Adam while still moving directly toward him. If they thought they encroached his space without notice of intent, they would soon find differently.
When they were a dozen steps from him, he considered turning Artex around and galloping away. That would be easy enough. The crowd certainly could not catch Artex should Adam choose to retreat.
“Say there, boy, what’cha ‘posed to be there?”
