Scourge of the Betrayer

by Jeff Salyards

  Left to my own devices, I would have wandered the plazas and marketplaces for days on end, observing my fill, but we turned down a smaller street before I had a chance to even begin to take it all in. I was disappointed, but there were still a dozen days left of the fair, so I was sure I’d get my opportunity soon enough.

  With three- and four-story buildings everywhere, crowded so close they practically blocked out the sky, and the streets turning every direction, it really was a warren. I doubted the enamel bars would do much good in guiding me if I was on my own and lost.

  It was nearly dusk when we stopped in front of a three-story inn. A large hanging sign had been newly painted, no doubt for the Great Fair: a pair of legs, with a dog laying across the boots with its head down.

  Braylar said, “The Grieving Dog. Granted, it doesn’t have the cantankerous innkeep, bashful wench, or horrible ale of the Three Casks, but it will have to do.”

  We headed down a small alley, and when we rounded a corner I saw a stable yard much like the Three Casks’, though bigger, patrolled by a number of grooms and stable boys. As Braylar jumped down and the others dismounted, there was a swarm of activity—coins passing hands, grooms taking reins, quick questions exchanged, boys running to the wagon to begin unloading supplies.

  Finally, real civilization again.

  ⊕

  After I gathered my case, supplies, and meager belongings and climbed off the wagon, Braylar told Glesswik and Vendurro, “See to it that the package makes its way to my room. Then tell the rest of the men I’ve returned. We’ll be back in action shortly.”

  Vendurro started to salute but Glesswik hit him in the arm and they disappeared behind the wagon, cursing each other.

  Thunder rumbled close, as if a giant hopped across the rooftops, and I instinctively began to cover my writing case and supplies. A moment later, the first tentative drops of rain began to fall. Hewspear pointed to an entrance to the Grieving Dog. “Shelter, sweet shelter.”

  Inside, the layout was similar to a thousand other inns across the land, though all of the furniture and trappings were of finer quality. There was a large tapestry hanging above the bar that depicted women in various states of undress stomping grapes in a huge basin.

  There was a woman behind the bar as well as above it, though she didn’t look the type to cavort among grapes. Braylar leaned in close and said, “There are many who curse the plague, but women who survived aren’t among them. There are far more jobs than men can do.”

  She was on the pillowy side, but still comely, even in her middle years. I wondered if it was a father or husband who died and left her the inn. As we approached, she recognized Braylar. “Welcome back, my lord. Your suite is the same as you left it. Minus that tray of bones. I took care to have those removed.” This came out as a warm rebuke, as from a slightly exasperated but bemused mother.

  “You ought to take more care with your patron’s possessions, Gremete. Who’s to say I didn’t have a particular fondness for those bones? Perhaps I’d even been pining for them.”

  “You can do almost anything you like under my roof, so long as you don’t attract vermin.”

  Mulldoos said, “You should have thought of that before you let us in the door.”

  She inspected the rim of a mug. “So long as you don’t multiply.” Then she looked up. “Your men have the keys. I’ve ordered some hot water for baths I’m awful hopeful you’ll take. And someone will be by to see you get something with new bones in it.” There was a brief smile and she returned to work.

  I followed the group up some stairs. At the top, we headed down a hall and Braylar knocked on a door. A moment later, the lock was undone and we entered a fairly large common room that had four doors in it, leading to separate sleeping quarters. Vendurro shut the door behind us and handed Braylar some keys.

  Braylar pointed me towards a door. “That room is yours. Lloi has been here already, so there should be a tub in there waiting for you, as Gremete said. Food will follow. After that you, Hew, and I have a visit with… an old friend.”

  He didn’t volunteer any more information, and I resisted the urge to ask, knowing it would only lead to frustration. I entered my room, and there was a wooden tub as promised, water still steaming, next to a bed and table.

  Setting my supplies down, I heard some laughter outside and walked over to the window. My room overlooked a large courtyard that shared a wall with the stable yard, and it was filled with dozens of oak trees, under which were a multitude of long tables, many still occupied by carousers largely protected from the rain.

  There was more laughter and some singing. It wouldn’t be the quietest room, but after our long trek through the empty steppe, it felt good to be in a crowded city again.

  ⊕

  After a long soak, I headed towards the common quarters. The smell of food hit me even before I opened my door. The Syldoon were sitting around the table, plates laden with roast grouse, thick cheese, dark bread, and pitchers of ale.

  I took a seat on a bench between Vendurro and Glesswik. Hewspear, Vendurro, and Mulldoos were arguing about who made the finest helmets, Glesswik had so much food in his mouth he couldn’t have spoken to anyone, and Braylar was silent.

  The grouse smelled so good my fingers were shaking as I filled my plate. It seemed like months ago that I’d last eaten a proper meal.

  After sampling some of everything, and washing it down with ale four times as good as what the Canker served in Rivermost, I waited until there was a good break in the conversation before asking Braylar about something that I’d been wondering about for some time. My chances of being bludgeoned to death were likely smaller since returning from the grassland. “At the Three Casks, when that Hornman tried to run you through, you dodged it without seeing what was coming. I thought at the time you must have heard the sword clear the scabbard, or maybe caught a glimpse of something, or maybe even just been lucky, But that wasn’t it, was it? You felt something then, too, didn’t you? Just like you did before the Hornmen appeared in the steppe.”

  Vendurro hit me in the arm with the back of his hand. “Told you there was something unnatural-like going on with that wicked flail, didn’t I? Well, I didn’t really, because Mulldoos was near enough to cutting my throat for even hinting at it. Couldn’t say much at all. But now you see what I meant, don’t you? I been riding with the Cap for some time before anyone thought to share anything about it with me. Lot longer than you. Count yourself lucky. Or unlucky. Depending on how you count. But don’t look to me for help on that score. I can’t even count wagons, can I Gless?” He laughed, and I found myself doing the same. And it felt good. Surprisingly good.

  Hewspear nodded his approval as he pulled some blackened skin off his grouse. “You picked a sharp one, Captain.”

  Braylar only gave the briefest of twitch-smiles, but that was confirmation enough.

  I continued, “You obviously got a warning of sorts in the grass, before those other Hornmen came to rob us. You knew how many there would be, and that they meant us harm. But I’m still confused about something. Back at the Casks, you woke me, and said you knew something was coming. Violence. You knew violence was coming. And assumed it would involve you. But it didn’t. Could you, or someone,” I looked at the other Syldoon, “please explain that?”

  No one else jumped into the fray so Braylar finally drank and cleared his throat. “The warnings… they’re like dreams, sometimes only slivers of dreams. A fleeting image, a half-felt feeling. My stomach will suddenly churn, my skin will grow hot. Sometimes I’ll taste blood in my mouth where there is none, or hear a scream when no sound has been uttered. Sometimes I’ll smell the shit that soils a man’s hosen as he dies, or feel the rush of an arrow past my cheek when none was shot. Phantom images, sensations. Such was the case at the Casks. I saw a pool of blood on that very table, though who it belonged to, I couldn’t say.

  “Other times, more rarely, everything coalesces—image, sound, all the senses, and it becomes
clear what I’m seeing is a memory, before it’s made, a memory from someone immersed in this violence. Me, someone else, someone who dies, someone who lives. And if this… advance memory is sharp enough, it sometimes serves as a warning. These flashes of violence I see before they occur, they’ve saved my life several times, and on occasion, my entire company as well.”

  Hewspear raised a mug of ale in toast. “Truer words never spoken.”

  “But they can be suspect too,” Braylar added. “There have been times I felt sure something was going to play out a certain way, and was proven wrong, almost to my ruin. But if you consult your notes rather than your memory, you’ll find that that night at the Three Casks, I didn’t say we were the targets, or that we were involved at all. I feared as much. Wide difference. But even when I believe I know what will happen for certes, I’ll rarely say as much. Because the warnings deceive. Just as they deceived me that night.”

  I thought about that as I nibbled at some cheese—it was crumbly, with red veins that hinted at some obscure spice, and actually much better than I would’ve expected. Washing it down, I asked Braylar, “When the soldier rode past and threw the spear at you. You stayed on the bench, didn’t move or dodge, until it was almost too late. It was amazing, really. Was that another instance Bloodsounder gave you warning?”

  Braylar’s mouth curved ever so slightly. “Do you find it so hard to believe that I possess some modicum of unassisted martial prowess?”

  The Syldoon laughed, and I said, “But that isn’t really an answer.”

  Vendurro wiped some grease off his chin with the back of his hand. “Like to be the only kind you get. Best get used to it.”

  Braylar’s smile grew a touch, though was no less enigmatic, as he chose not to elaborate. I tried a different tack, “I’ve been thinking about something else that came up at the Casks. Mulldoos said your emperor insisted you have a chronicler. And in the grass, Captain Killcoin told me that I wasn’t the first.”

  Mulldoos tore off some meat and laughed. “Waited until you had him in the middle of nowhere for the big reveal, eh, Cap? You’re a cruel and clever bastard, you are.”

  I ignored him. “Why exactly was it mandated? Make no mistake, I’m grateful to have the work, but I’m wondering why your company needs an official account.”

  No one responded right away. Everyone looked at Braylar for a cue or permission. He nodded at Hewspear who said, “The empire is made up of countless factions, large and small. And we are always conspiring against each other. So every emperor knows that it’s not a question of if a coup will happen, but when.”

  Mulldoos burped. “Jumpy as cats, our emperors.’”

  Hewspear continued, “So Emperor Cynead decided to institute the policy that there must be a record of each company’s activities. Especially those so far from home.” He indicated the room with a wave of his hand.

  “And let me guess. Your faction—your Tower—they’re not huge supporters of Emperor Cynead.”

  Hewspear tapped the side of his nose with a long finger. “Our Tower supported the previous emperor, Thumarr. Now deposed these five years. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say we bear more scrutiny than most.”

  I weighed all that for a moment and then said, “So he orders an accounting, but he trusts men he doesn’t trust at all to keep a faithful account? I could record whatever Captain Killcoin told me to record. Who’s to say it’s accurate at all? Again, I’m glad to have a patron, and payment, but why wouldn’t the emperor appoint his own chronicler to ensure the auditing was faithful?”

  Mulldoos shook his head as he threw a bone on his plate. “There’s that dull edge again.”

  I didn’t understand.

  Rooting around in his ear with a greasy finger, Glesswik volunteered, “He did.”

  I still didn’t understand.

  Hewspear added, “The first chronicler was appointed, Arki.”

  At last things fell into place, like tumblers in a lock, but that just brought up more questions. The kind that made my stomach twist. “The first one, the appointed one—”

  Mulldoos drew a finger across his throat and laughed like it was the funniest gesture in the world, and I continued, fumbling the words, “If you head home, if you’re recalled, and me with you, won’t the emperor, that is, he’ll know your chronicler… he’ll know I wasn’t the one he assigned, won’t he?”

  Mulldoos shrugged. “Wasn’t all that hard finding two stringy scribblers that looked alike. Three was a bit tougher—you’re a touch shorter than the rest, with a bigger nose—but…” He shrugged his shoulders.

  My position seemed even more precarious than it had even a few moments ago, and seeing that expression on my face, Hewspear said, “It was a clerk who did the actual appointing. Several years ago now. Clerks change. Records get lost. Time passes. And—”

  “And,” Braylar interrupted, “we haven’t been recalled in any event. We still have much to accomplish in this region. Do your job. Do it well. The rest will take care of itself. We start now.” He rose and said, “You and Hewspear accompany me. The rest of you can do what you like with your hours. Drink, dice, what have you. Only don’t tussle with the city watch, don’t draw attention to yourself, and don’t spill any blood.”

  Vendurro shook his head, “So, lock ourselves in our rooms is what you’re saying?”

  “The next few days are critical to our success here. Best remember that.” He and Hewspear started towards the door and I stuffed some bread in my mouth, took a final swallow of beer, and hurried to follow. We headed down the stairs and made our way through the crowd on the lower floor of the Grieving Dog. Lloi, as usual, was off doing something at the behest of Braylar.

  We stepped out into the rain. If we were anywhere but Alespell during the Great Fair, it would’ve convinced most travelers to stay indoors, as it was coming down as hard and fast as nails. But the main thoroughfare was almost as crowded as the inn, and would probably become even more congested until curfew was finally called throughout the fortified city.

  Braylar pulled his scarf tighter around his neck and, looking up at the sky, said, “Bad night for crossbows.”

  “Bad night for crossbows,” Hewspear agreed, pulling his hood up.

  I pulled my hands into my sleeves and said, “Bad night for almost anything, except sitting in front of a fire with some mulled wine. Why aren’t we doing that?” The pair ignored me as they pressed through the people in front of us.

  The baron’s castle was vaguely visible against the night sky, but lanterns and a few lit windows along its towers and walls created fuzzy halos of light as it sat high on the hill above the city, like some great hunching beast or god.

  Though none of Braylar’s retinue had said anything explicitly that led me to believe we were up to evil deeds this night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a great deal left unsaid that would confirm my suspicions. I asked, not for the first time, “Why do you need me for this, exactly?”

  Braylar replied, “Because I ordered you, exactly. You have done little enough to really earn your keep thus far. You really begin tonight. Observe. And when we are through, record.”

  Several times I was very nearly swallowed up by the multitudes as we walked along, but Hewspear stopped Braylar and allowed me to catch up, which must have irked him to no end, but Braylar never stopped long enough to scold me or pierce me with one of his looks.

  We turned down several narrower streets as we wound our way through the city, and it was such an incredible maze that if I had to find my way back to the inn, no amount of enameled bars would help.

  Every street was filled with the requisite jugglers, charlatans, and doomsayers, but the crowds thinned as we got farther from Wide Street, if only a little. After an infinity of turns, we stopped briefly in front of a building. There were several scrawny boys and girls hawking fruit near the doors, which were presently shut, and a large group waiting to enter. I was about to ask Hewspear what we were doing there when I saw the si
gn hanging from a broken hinge between two torches: three lion heads in dire need of new paint. A playhouse, then. In some ways, this wasn’t overly surprising—of low repute among the nobility and high repute among the lower denizens of any city, this seemed as likely a destination as any for my companions, though I was still in the dark about what their purpose might be.

  Braylar guided us around the side of the building and down an alley that led to the rear. It was so narrow I could’ve touched the walls on either side without stretching, and it took several moments for my eyes to adjust as we stumbled over unseen debris.

  We stopped in front of a small door, and Braylar knocked four times. It swung out quickly, and Braylar had to step back to avoid being hit. A short man in garish clothes peered out at us, likely having even more trouble seeing than we did. He addressed Hewspear, “Took you long enough. I was near to locking it.” He glanced at Braylar and me, and then back to Braylar. “This your master, then?”