Akiniwazisaga: The Inheritance Thieves

by M. D. Boncher

  Aske said nothing as the entourage made its way to the palace gates. There was a spate of pushing and shoving, and the huskarls drove back the encroaching crowd allowing the carriage through.

  Urban and Aske arrived at the Haertak Boulevard gate to the Kronapalasset as the Alvisaettir carriage disappeared behind one of the smaller cross shaped out buildings. The Kronaguard were on alert as a raucous knot of people had formed at the gate. Some waived parchments. Others held up books and family Bibles, but all had the same desire on their minds: they wanted to see the Visedronning, and if there was time, check the Bok av Familiar to see if any corrections could be made.

  "This does not bode well," Aske said shaking his head in disgust at the sycophantic scene.

  "Fy da!" Urban exclaimed. To his practiced eye, most of the charlatans were easy to spot. Others seemed more honest, but caught up in foolish dreams. Several wore Alvisaettir colors and crests in hopes of gaining access by fraud or status.

  Urban and Aske took their time moving through the people till they reached the gate.

  "Good morning, my son," Urban addressed the huskarl in charge. A frustrated twist of the lips was the return greeting.

  "State your business," came the flat reply.

  "I wish to see the coroner, or if that is not possible, one of his factors or clarks," Urban said, ignoring the man's frustration. The huskarl sighed and said a phrase that was worn into deep ruts by repetition.

  "By order of the chancellor in the name of the Visedronning, the Kronapalasset is closed to all business pending the funeral of our Tign, with an exception for the Statsraad, or any peer of the Hird called to audience with the Crown. If you meet this standard, provide your proof of audience or return after the funeral."

  Urban knew there would be scant chance they would have been allowed in. The urge to make use of his station began to rise but was interrupted by the sound of a scuffle. An officious man, bearing the colors of an aettir he did not recognize, was shoved by a huskarl. The man tripped over his own impressive vestments and landed with an ignoble splat in a puddle of sand and caribou droppings. Mocking laughter rose from a few churls in the crowd at the pompous man's misfortune.

  "Come," Aske demanded, giving Urban’s shoulder a tug. The two pushed their way out of the clump around the gate. It rapidly reformed. Aske sought a more peaceful place to consider their options and steered them off the main boulevard. The pair wandered the quieter lanes toward the Blesseth Borth Inn as Urban considered what to do next. The sun had begun to beat down into the thin lanes drying out the wet muck.

  “I wish we could have gotten into the coroner’s office,” Urban said. “Time is not our ally.”

  "Why not?" Aske challenged.

  Urban squeezed around a butcher delivering his wares from a small llama cart. He considered Aske’s question. Why did he want to hurry? The thrill of the hunt? Was time really of the essence?

  "Perhaps it is just my distrust, but I feel we should not wait. We must find another way to gain access."

  “The rings were on a long dead arm, hidden in a cave,” Aske pointed out.

  “That is true,” Urban agreed with a shrug. Perhaps there was no reason to hurry. Besides, he thought, this will all come together in God’s timing, not his.

  "Then we wait," Aske concluded.

  “Then we wait,” Urban mimiced with a snort of laughter.

  The quiet shattered with a loud crash at the intersection of the narrow lane ahead. From around the corner came cursing, and shouts erupted as an iron monger’s cart toppled over. A short man with a heavy burden in his arms ran by the crossing, a pail and a few brass doorknobs rattled along with his flight. Behind him five ruffians raced to catch up, the last one had a tomahawk in hand.

  Urban sprinted after the man, Aske right behind.

  As they rounded the corner, Aske saw that the short man had not made it far and was trapped in a haberdashery along with the ruffians who were right behind him. Baskets of buttons and beads flew out the door spraying their contents over the lane followed by much shouting and crashing about.

  Urban and Aske approached the entrance as the high diamond paned window blew out due to an airborne hat stand.

  "My foot! My foot!" someone screamed from inside. One of the ruffians hopped out the door with a large knitting needle jammed through the top of his boot. His boot sole tented. Inside more thrashing issued forth, and the haberdasher was thrown bodily out of his own shop. His wife followed shortly after. Suddenly the haberdashery shutters and door slammed shut locking the small man and his assailants inside.

  "Get out of there!" the ousted shop owner shouted, yanking on his door handle with ineffectual fury. The wounded ruffian readied to subdue the man with a truncheon when he saw Urban and Aske and decided that escape was the better choice.

  "Where are they?" one of the ruffians demanded from inside.

  "You will never find them, you skrott'e! You sipill!" A higher pitched voice rang out with almost a sing song taunt as if the short fellow had outwitted his attackers. Another crunch and smash was punctuated with a fearful yelp.

  "This shop will not be the only thing busted up if you do not spill your guts," the leader threatened.

  "Hah!" shouted their intended victim, followed by the sound of shattering crockery. The haberdasher's wife began to cry. Aske gently moved the shop owners out of the way, drew his axe, and with a loud growl he split the door in twain. Urban burst through the two dangling halves.

  Inside, four ruffians and the small man, who wore Koenraadian robes, froze in shock from Urban’s entrance. The burliest of the attackers had his victim by the collar and had been ready to land another blow.

  "Halt! You are all under arrest!" Urban bellowed.

  "What?" the leader blurted out incredulously.

  "You are under arrest for assaulting a member of the Koenraadian order, and as a duly appointed inquisitor, I arrest you in the name of Cardinal Klaus! Surrender or I shall be forced to subdue you!"

  Using the distraction, the little man snatched two large pins out of a bowl and with spiteful glee stabbed his captor's wrists. Startled, the attacker yowled in agony. Unable to hold on any longer, he released the Koenraadian who fell on top of the table he had been repeatedly slammed against.

  "Run!" the other ruffians shouted and fled through the storeroom followed by the man with pins in his wrists. Bruised and torn, the Koenraadian sprawled across the table and laughed wildly at the spirited escape. Their leader paused by the table and with a furious roar, he flipped the man and the table. A spray of pins and needles covered the floor in a shower as he, too, escaped out the back. Urban and Aske dared not follow through such a dangerous mess.

  "Perhaps you scared them too well, Urban," Aske said with a tight lipped smile.

  "I think your axe did that better than I could have," Urban replied gesturing to the split door.

  "Oh no! No, no, no, no, no!" came the exclamation from the doorway as the shop owner and his wife entered their ruined establishment. "What have you done?" the scrawny man shouted at the Koenraadian on the floor. "Why did you come into my shop? You have ruined me!" He started to approach the prone man.

  Urban grabbed the haberdasher by the shoulder, "Stay where you are. Look,” Urban said and pointed to the floor. It was a mire of needles and pins, glass beads and broken pottery. “We need to clean up this tricky mess before we can remove the man from your shop."

  "Jah, please. I could use a little assistance," the Koenraadian said as he lay still, every little move threatening dozens of pokes and prods.

  Passers peeked into the shop to see what was going on and were shooed away by the haberdasher's wife.

  "What is your name, herr?" Urban asked the man on the floor.

  "Jan Bjornsson, Father. I am a novice illuminator at the university."

  "The Koenraadian University?"

  "Jah! It is fascinating work. I hope someday I will become a master illuminator," Jan said, his face lighting up.

/>   "What sort of books do you illuminate there?" Urban queried, then turning to Aske, "One, two, three, lift!" The two men righted the heavy table flipped by the ruffian.

  "All sorts. I have been practicing on the Book of St. Luke. My herre said I have a real talent for illustrating the parables of Christ."

  "It is a good and rare thing when your passion and vocation combine," Urban agreed. "What did those men want with you?"

  "My folio," Jan answered. The haberdasher cautiously picked the needles and pins off the floor next to Jan, sparing an occasional glare at the man who caused him such trouble. Jan gave him an apologetic smile.

  "What is so important about your folio?"

  Jan frowned at the question. It was plain he wanted to tell, but seemed he was commanded not to speak of it.

  "That is a question for my herre. He would be able to explain if you wanted,” he hedged.

  "Who is your herre?" Urban inquired.

  "Father Tuajaksson. He is in charge with keeping the copies of the Bok av Familiar up-to-date," Jan admitted.

  "I see," Urban said, silently praising God for this blessing.

  Satisfied the floor was sufficiently safe enough to stand on, Urban and Aske helped Jan to his feet, turned him around and picked the rest of the needles and pins out of his robes, returning them to the shop owner's wife who stood there, bowl in hand, glowering at all three.

  "Thank you for saving me," Jan breathed when assured that there was no more chance of being stabbed by a hidden surprise. He walked over to a stack of decorative wooden boxes that had survived the chaos, opened one of them and retrieved a large leather folio.

  "Father Tuajaksson will not be able to see you today once I give him this. There is much that must be done right now,” Jan apologized. “But, if you would like to escort me to the university scriptorium, I can set a meeting for you.”

  "It would be our pleasure Herr Bjornsson," Urban said and picked a copper mark out of his purse. "This should cover the expenses to the door," he said and handed the coin to the haberdasher. "Anything extra should cover the loss of stock. May God bless you in your enterprise." The shop owner gaped,incredulous at this generosity.

  With that, the three men left the shop, Jan to complete his appointed task, while Urban and Aske had new hope for their quest.

  32. Golden Promises & Purchased Allegiance

  The remains of Visekonge Gregor Vidarsson Sveinnaettir rose in a pillar of smoke and flame to meet his eternal reward. Tens of thousands attended the vigil, sighing with grief as they kept watch throughout the gloomy day. The pyre raged with blinding orange light as if fed by their sorrow, the longship no longer discernible. For an entire week the fire would be stoked till every scrap of treasure and corruptible flesh had turned to ash and molten glass. The black smoke curled upward and mixed with the low leaden clouds.

  From the west bell tower of the Domkyrkje, Jarl Jakob Vilhoaettir scowled at the requiem mass. Tucked into a bloused sleeve, the Order of Abolishment was crushed into a wad. It had been issued earlier that day from the Visedronning, given to the jarls as they departed the funeral service. The words on the parchment instilled a new hatred for the Sveinnaettir. His rage toward that galling woman was murderous.

  No matter, he told himself slapping the top of the bell tower wall. This order will only hasten my plans, and maybe, just maybe, make it impossible for them to stop me. The thought brought out a savage grin.

  "Really, Jakob?" an ancient voice croaked between wheezes. "All the way up here? You know I loathe stairs," Jarl Vraeidhur Boandisson Asbjornaettir said, as he reached the top.

  "Privacy sometimes requires sacrifice. Particularly when it could be considered an act of treason," Jakob responded without sympathy.

  Old Vraeidhur leaned against the stone wall and puffed to catch his breath. His sneer at Jakob conveyed contempt for the Visedronning and the lesser jarl. He was Gamleaettir. His family line traced their lineage back to King Knut of Denmark. Old Vraeidhur made sure no one forgot it.

  "You need to get outside more Vraeidhur! Sun and water make a man healthy, even those older than you. Too many sweets and soft couches. You need more fresh air and sun. Stop sitting at your desk counting coins!" the boisterous Jarl Manasse Eldisson Olinaettir taunted as he came up the last steps. The other two jarls winced at his loud voice.

  "Oj!" Jakob snapped. "Not so loud, you thundering bacraut!"

  "Bah. Quit acting like an old woman," his voice still as loud as a stevedore's. "No one cares."

  "The Visedronning cares, that is for certain," Vraeidhur sneered. Condescension and fear blended in his words.

  "We have till that lauded little bonfire dies before we must go,” Jakob reminded them gesturing toward the funeral pyre. “That is why now is the perfect time and place."

  "Of course," came the deep rumble of Jarl Kollin Skjalmsson Roscoeaettir. "It is the only reason I consented to this meeting. All eyes are elsewhere."

  "I agreed because Lendmann Mother Ulla Asbjornaettir vouched for you, Jakob," old Vraeidhur said. "I trust her discernment, so do not prove her wrong by wasting my time."

  "It seems you have an effective patroness in the Kyrkja, Jakob. She is why I came. After all, you need God on your side with ventures such as this," Jarl Vieno Ormrsson Rondalaettir said as he emerged from around one of the smaller bells, tapping it enough with his fist to create a dim tone.

  "Bless you, Vieno," Jakob said. Although Vieno was not a monk, he played the part in many ways. He fashioned his hair in a tonsure, his robes of state were cut in Koenraadian style and he professed his piety flagrantly.

  "And may Mary entreat the Lord to bless us in our endeavors," Vieno appealed.

  "Laying it on rather thick, are you not, Vieno? Save the role for your serfs.” Vieno did not acknowledge the reproach.

  "Ofbradh!" Jakob said as the dapper Jarl Evinrudeaettir appeared. "How are things in Silenoeyaneland?" He walked forward to take his friend’s hands.

  "As well as one could expect. Shame about Admiral Sverirsson. Who knew he would go to pieces like that?" Ofbradh said. It was well known among the Statsraad that since the death of the Visekonge, the admiral had succumbed to heavy drinking, publicly blamed for the missing Tronerving. It seemed too much for his shoulders.

  "I suppose it was a shock to witness so common a death happening to a Visekonge."

  "Were it not for that damnable child..." Vieno said, making the sign of the cross.

  A snicker was heard coming from behind the largest bell. A slight youth of nearly sixteen came around, dragging his fingers along the ornamented surface.

  "I heard they had to pick Gregor up in four bushels and load him onto the train like chopped meat," the juvenile Jarl Rohkia Kahmpersson Sutcliffaettir scoffed.

  The older men exhibited a range of revulsion to the youth's impertinent description.

  "I see we are all here. Let us begin," Jarl Vilhoaettir said ignoring Rohkia's statement with courtly habits.

  Some turned their eyes to Jakob, others watched the orange flames in the distance as more wood was added sending billows of sparks high into the sky.

  "Each of us received the Order of Abolishment from the Visedronning, jah?" Jakob asked.

  They all agreed with varying degrees of disgust.

  "I got it, then burnt it. I will not be ordered about by that woman," Rohkia snarled.

  "Rash," Ofbradh said shaking his head. "Did you read the whole order?"

  "A factor did. I listened to some of it before I told him to shut up,” Rohkia sneered.

  "So you did not hear or read the line ‘On pain of death’?" Ofbradh demanded with meadhall bluntness.

  "Ha! Do you think she would have the warriors enforce that order? Her huskarls are loyal to that scrott'e lort’e burning over there." He waved a dismissive hand toward the pyre.

  "Do not assume that the Sveinnaettir are disloyal whelps. These are not drunken river rats who run at the sight of a well-trained band of huskarls. They are the most power
ful aettir, fed by the cream of our crops and purses. Do you see who is not with us?" Manasse barked.

  All the jarls looked at one another, evaluating who they stood with and noting who was missing.

  "Two of the most powerful and two of the most strategic land stand against us," Manasse said, jabbing his fingers at the junior jarl.

  “You cannot fault the Visedronning’s kin for standing with their own,” Ofbradh pointed out.

  Manasse conceded the point with a shrug and a nod.

  "There are seven of us, only six of them," Vraeidhur sniffed, smiling at the numerical advantage.

  “Numbers can be canceled by faith and the blessings of God,” Vieno said.

  “Or more practically, by skill and the willingness to do the unthinkable,” Manasse corrected. “Something the Sveinnaettir still have in abundance. Halmar’s blood has never lost its ferocity.”

  "We are being careless," Kollin said after the others spoke their peace. "Not for two hundred years has anyone dared utter these thoughts. Succeed and we control the Union. Fail and all we love will die. Manasse is right to remind us of Halmar and our bloody history. The Halmarpakt settled who was Visekonge, steward of all the lands and waters of Akiniwazi. The Sveinnaettir won the right to be stewards of the land and rule for the Kings of Gamleverden. Our forefathers signed this treaty lest all our aettir be exterminated. What we have dared consider is to go against their submission and centuries of tradition.”

  Kollin continued. “We all know the law. Jarls who refused to submit to the Halmarpact were drawn and quartered. We see their skulls displayed in the Court of the Statsraad. That is no accident. It is to remind us, specifically, of the risk we take. As a warning to any common karl or kerling who entertains thoughts of rebellion, the giant copper castings that adorn the walls of the Kronapalasset gates in traitor’s alcoves serve that same purpose.

  Ofbradh stepped forward. "The Sveinnaettir have all the money, navy and most of the army. We have only our huskarls and loyalists that we can enthrall into service or inspire to our cause. Few of us have the money to hire mercenary souls to take up arms in our favor. As we stand right now, if a war comes, we lose," he said, clarifying their chances of such an act of rebellion.