by Scott Rhine
Navara hummed noncommittally. But the glint in the bodyguard’s eye was unmistakable; as head protector to the Heir, Morlan would be wearing the Imperial Honor before too long, adding strength to the child’s claim on the throne.
The Inquisitor changed tactics. “Why did you betray your oath?”
“I told you, I thought the oath died with Kragen! They took me as a hostage to the pier, and forced me to row.” Lies rolled off his tongue now so fast, he was afraid that something simple would trip him up. Navara was watching him like a hawk. Bunji closed his eyes, risking a part of the truth to add credibility to his tale. “When we landed, they made me an incredibly lucrative offer to travel with them as far as Innisport. With my service at the palace over, I saw no reason to refuse.”
Navara looked like he had just bitten into a lemon. “What could they have promised? What lies did they spin?”
Bunji decided to continue with the truth gambit. “No lies. They let me hold the treasure in my hands. I knew that there was so much wealth that they couldn’t carry it away without my help. Its weight ensured my continued survival for the rest of the trip. Had I answered no, I would have been forced to accompany them as a slave. I chose to accept one quarter of a king’s ransom instead. Look at what we carried in the cart if you doubt me. I defy any man among you to honestly say he’d have chosen differently.”
Navara looked puzzled, inspecting the sticks and bell for himself. He mumbled some disparaging remark, and kicked it with the metal-capped toe of his boot. Even dented, and on the ground, the bell chimed an ethereal note. Bunji enlightened him. “It’s solid sesterina, under our noses at the palace the entire time. And nobody noticed, not even those snobs in the sept. The sound it makes has magical properties as well.”
Navara was the only soldier there intelligent enough to estimate how much the holy metal was worth. Now it was the Inquisitor’s turn to sweat. “I see your point. Had we lost even one more man in our squad, I might have been tempted myself.” Bunji looked at Morlan, and could tell who the ‘one man’ stopping the division of treasure was. “But sadly, this fortune is the sole property of the Heir, and it is our duty to return it to him.” Poor Navara struggled with this decree. In the end, the certainty that it would cost at least two men to kill Morlan forced his hand. Afterward, there would not t there wabeen enough survivors or oxen to move the bell again. At least perceived virtue on this grand scale might provide him with some reward. “Young Lord Kragen is still the strongest contender for the throne and he’ll need every advantage this treasure will buy if he is to succeed.”
Navara signaled the others to load the bell back on the wagon while he took the prisoner aside for a private discussion. “There’s still the issue of how to punish you.”
Bunji flinched. “You shouldn’t kill me, sir. I surrendered, did everything you asked, and even saved Morlan’s life. If you slew me, no one would lift a hand to aid House Kragen again.”
Navara pursed his lips. “Granted. But there’s a lot we can do without killing you. Tumberlin had his spirit torn from his body and he’s still alive, technically.” The Inquisitor paused while the implications sank in. “We have a reputation to keep. Until the new Lord gets established in his own right, the only thing maintaining his inheritance is everyone else’s fear of us. From that standpoint, the more diabolical your end, the better. Tell me, now that you’ve answered all our questions, why do we need you?”
Bunji stared at the lean man and swallowed hard. Unusual for an Imperial, the Ferret’s eyes were so dark that they looked like polished marbles, or hollow pits of night. The Inquisitor habitually spoke in the royal or tribunal ‘we’. The only person left to convince was Navara. “To identify the sheriff’s body and to spot the smith before he gets to Tamarind Pass.”
The Inquisitor nodded. “Points well taken. But it seems too lenient just to confiscate your stolen goods and let you walk away unscathed.”
Bunji used his most persuasive tone. “Sir, it was quite a lot of treasure.”
Navara grunted. “I suppose we could still cut out your tongue to prove our point.”
“Not that, sir,” he begged. “I could be Morlan’s most faithful sergeant for life.”
Navara raised an eyebrow. “You’ll never touch a blade or wear a military uniform again in your life. You lift your skirt at the drop of a hat. And volunteering to be faithful hound to someone already assuming that role speaks ill of your intelligence.”
Bunji feared the worst until he mulled the comment over again in his mind. He had to admit that Morlan, though handsome and brave, did have a reputation as one who obeyed orders without question, lacking in both the self-preservation and scheming that seemed second nature to most nobles. What wasn’t being said seemed most important here. “Morlan is not the problem, then. He would let me live out of thanks and for the chance to hold a fabled blade. How about you, good sir? Are you in need of a servant who would owe you a life-bond?”
Navara pretended to consider this for the first time. “It just so happens that my clerk Antioch recently died, and I’m in the market for a replacement. But only if the candidate is clever. Are you clever, Bunji?”
“Only when you ask me to be, sir,” he groveled.
This made the Inquisitor smile. “You may serve me until the matters of the sheriff and smith are resolved. After that, if you’ve proven your usefulness, we’ll see.”
Bunji bowed at the officer’s feet, and the Inquisitor waved him up. “You’ll have to be branded, of course. Otherwise, you might decide to th="29">Nay some day, and we couldn’t allow that. Your first duty as my servant shall be to solve the puzzle of your punishment in a manner calculated to enhance my reputation.”
The former sergeant pondered this, and stared at the back of the wagon. “No one outside this group knows what I look like, right?”
Navara nodded. “Go on.”
“We tell everyone that your dead adjutant was me, and I step into his identity. We hang the body from a tree at some busy crossroads, suspended from its own entrails, and put up a sign that this is what happens to men who dare to cross House Kragen,” Bunji finished.
Navara nodded. “Yes, exactly as I would plan it. And we shall cut off his hand for his thievery. Remember that, adjutant. I like punishments to fit the crime. Now help pull that wagon like a good servant. We have a long way till town and another criminal to hunt down when we get there.”
Chapter 25 – The Crossing
Barnham was a bus
tling river town surrounded by a low, mortarless wall of fieldstone at the farthest reach of the southern kingdoms, where no city of this size had any right being. Nigel poked fun at the sheriff for staring at the sights like a yokel. “This isn’t even the capital, you know.”
Tashi was busy puzzling over several incongruities and didn’t rise to the bait. Although he’d been to many large cities in the south, the details remained shrouded in the fog of his injured time. Under the tutelage of Jotham, he’d come to value solitude and quiet. This place had none of that.
“The wall is for defense against the forces of the Pretender and the armies of the north,” explained the actor, as if to a child. It was dinnertime and vendors with carts did a healthy business selling spit-roasted meat, golden-brown bread, and sauce-covered mystery vegetables.
Tashi blinked and seemed to notice him again. “It takes a lot of money to build such a wall. How did these folk get so prosperous?”
“The main trade route through the swamplands of Intaglios starts on the other side of that river. This town has the only bridge within several days’ travel and collected a fortune in tolls and transportation fees before the partition happened. They’re also the primary supplier for every river town we passed, down to the sea. Goods move much more easily by water than by land. The merchants here still do a passable trade and they know that the embargo won’t last forever. Eventually the empire will be unified again, and no one wants to abandon such a profitable location.”
/> “And why are we stopping at an inn here? The road on either side is peaceful and free to all.”
Nigel shook his head. “If you like insects and robbers. No, I have some business to transact at one of the alehouses. You’ll need to find a money changer.” Tashi nodded. He hadn’t considered this before, but the coins in his purse might betray him as an enemy of the northern empire.
The actor continued with his instructions. “Tell them you wish to purchase something from a freebooter and need the proper currency. Don’t tell them we’re planning to cross over. The town looks the other way when the occasional midnight package finds itself on their shore, as long as the courier doesn’t set foot on their soil.”
“That’s smuggling,” Tashi decided. They were on a crowded street and Nigel pulled them off into an alley.
“Have some tact, man,” the actor hissed.
“That’s illegal,” the sheriff explained.
“Not under Imperial statutes,” countered Nigel. “Besides, under kingdom laws, that sheriff’s uniform of yours alone carries a death sentence.” Unable to refute him, Tashi removed his outer uniform tunic with its distinctive badges and tucked it into his pack. Underneath, he still wore a shirt of ring mail and a ceremonial, white undergarment called a kalura. Soldiers of honor wore them into battle because, with the mail removed, they were suitable for funerals.
The actor raised an ironic brow. “Good, no one will recognize you incognito.” But he didn’t put too fine a point on his barbs because at least the sheriff was cooperating now instead of arguing every fine point of the law. What the actor didn’t realize was that the silence meant his companion was thinking hard about something else, several small items that had been eating at him like rodents at a granary since the two met. “When you’ve finished, meet me at the Inn of the Green Oars.”
Almost casually, the sheriff said, “I hope I can find it in such a great city. There are a lot of boats around the wharves. There must be at least four dozen.”
“Fifty-three,” blurted the actor before he could consider the consequences. The change in Tashi’s expression from wide-eyed innocent to accuser told him that the trap was already sprung. Nigel considered stabbing him and leaving him to bleed to death in the alley. However, the sheriff was made of sterner stuff than that and wouldn’t be shaken easily.
Gears were turning in Tashi’s mind. “That’s why you were so interested in obtaining fresh wound-wort in each town. You just wanted to see how much they have. Measuring the supply of medical herbs would be one of the best indirect methods to determine a kingdom’s readiness for war.”
“Gods, that food smells good,” Nigel said, changing the subject.
“You’re a professional spy. Who pays you?”
“Not so loud! Are you trying to get us both killed?”
“The Pretender,” Tashi deduced. “You make me ill. People like you gave the entire brotherhood of bards a bad reputation. Your order was slain because they were falsely suspected of this very thing.”
Nigel snarled, his face contorting from its normal, amiable mask to one of rage. “First of all, they weren’t my order, they were my captors. I was a prisoner on work detail, remember? Second, the kings of the north gave me a choice: spy for them or die. Third, those bards were no innocents; they’d been manipulating both sides for years. The kings had ample, real motivation to seek their eradication. Putting a simple label on it merely helps explain it to the unwashed masses. Fourth, you need someone of my talents to get you to your precious temple. How else could you expect to make it so far into enemy territory?”
“This is treason,” muttered the sheriff, unable to match the heinous crime with the kindly person who shared his travels.
“Because of our covenantyou can’t condemn me to the authorities any more than I can run. We’re stuck with each other till we get to your destination. Besides, you’re hunted in more places than I am.”
Tashi balked at this. “I’m wanted for religious reasons, not political.”
“Politics is religion in this empire,” Nigel hissed. “If you haven’t figured that out by now, you’ll never find what you’re looking for. I’m shocked that you were even able to piece together this much about me.”
“It wasn’t me; it was Gamael. Something he wrote, actually.”
“Who the blazes is that?” asked the actor. The resulting confusion silenced Tashi for several minutes. Gamael the Wise was part of something larger, a chorus of history. Trying to pull on this thread was elusive, and his eyes lost focus.
Unable to wait any longer, Nigel bargained with a grilled-beef vendor for his meal. He paid half the going rate in exchange for telling everyone he met how superior this food was to any other he’d tasted in Barnham. Having been the only meal, it would be axiomatically true. Meanwhile, the silent sheriff took a bowl from his pack, and purchased a scoop of vegetables from the oldest huckster on the street. The old man was nearly blind from age, so Tashi tipped him the remainder of the silver coin. Even the vision-impaired man noted the symbol on the sword’s hilt that Tashi had almost forgotten. The old vendor blessed him, but the actor shook his head in disgust. This was their parting of ways until nightfall.
So Tashi wandered the streets in a daze in search of memories, moneychangers, and innocence. He settled an argument between feuding merchants by quoting words from an ancient text, escorted a crippled woman across a busy intersection, and in general performed every sort of kind and dutiful action that one might have expected from an Honored knight in a city of his lord. However, the local swordsmen were undermanned and corrupt, never venturing out of their mansions for more than tax collection. The citizens of Barnham were accustomed to being a neglected outpost of civilization, forgetting how pleasant and comforting the system of honor could be. All of this had the effect of starting more rumors than killing men in broad daylight.
To bind together his scattered thoughts and remove some of the road from his feet, Tashi’s last stop was a bathhouse. While soaking in the warm water, he stared at the model temple strung around his neck. Eventually, Gamael’s name popped into his head as the fifth Abbot of the Spirit Temple. Before the water cooled, another thought popped into his head unbidden. Who had Nigel been expecting at the crossroads, and what else was the confessed spy concealing? When Tashi finished, he surprised everyone in the establishment by paying on the way out. Local knights rarely paid.
By dark, everyone had heard how much kinder southern knights were. By the hour the pair made the river crossing into the Pretender’s realm, the boatmen were gossiping about the tattooed gentlemen and how good life might be under the rule of Lord Kragen. The word of hope trickled downstream with the supplies they hauled.
****
The fifth Abbot of the Temple of Souls had been from this area. Between the abbot’s advice and Nigel’s handling of the natives, they made uninterrupted progress. However, the sheriff was out of sorts the next, overcast day. His dreams for the past few nights had been about bleak wastelands populated by gray men; however, he remembered little but the sweat that clung to him on waking. “This land has no soul,” he muttered.
Tashi was tired of everything in Nigel’s cooking pot being called “gumbo.” Several days of mud, mosquitoes, snakes, rice, and pepper plantations had wearied him. The road here was not well-paved, but packed dirt, sometimes a finger’s width above the water line. The path was often overgrown from lack of use. Cattails and bulrushes lined the road. The reek of the rice fields still clung to his boots and his cloak. Tashi grumbled, “Is there any filth in this kingdom that hasn’t smeared itself on me? I need a hot bath.”
“’Tis only because the god of this realm rejects you. Intaglios prefers the miser and the dabbler in intrigue. You’re not to his taste,” the actor reasoned.
Tashi rubbed his forehead and the band covering it. “My tattoos give him indigestion, more likely. When we first met, why did you think you knew me?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” the
actor said calmly, hand drifting to the hilt of his foil.
Tashi pressed his advantage. “You’ve bargained before with a being of power. You thought I might be one. Did I look familiar?”
The actor snorted again. “No, it was that supreme arrogance and confidence you always wear. Perhaps it had to do with the way you seemed so unconnected with the world around you. I never rely on outward appearances; they change too frequently. The powers enjoy passing in secret among us.”
“Direct communication to the powers is forbidden, this is the law of Osos, given to us by the Traveler.”
“You seem to waste a lot of breath insisting things must be a certain way when all evidence points to the fact that they are not. Does this tell you anything important about your narrow worldview, killer?” Nigel spat into the cattails.
“Have you met the Traveler?”
“Men who kiss and tell don’t get repeat invitations,” the actor said, laying a finger aside his nose and winking.
“It must have been long ago, just before the Answer,” Tashi deduced, frantic for some clue that might aid him in his search and angry that such a resource had been at his side for weeks, keeping silent out of spite. “What did he tell you?”
It was Nigel’s turn to visit his youth. The lines in his face softened as his eyes lost focus. “I met him at a three-way crossroad, just like I did you. We had a friendly rhyming competition, and he rewarded me with this lucky coin.” The Sheriff now understood the man’s obsessive flipping of the thing during their journey.
“Do you remember his rhyme?” the Sheriff asked.
“It was for me alone. But he did promise that if I always kept my word, one day before I died I’d meet him again.”
