The Empire Stone

by Chris Bunch

  “I sensed that,” she said. “You are one who prefers the real world.”

  “I beg pardon?”

  “I do not,” she said. “For it has handled me badly.”

  “I’m sorry to be thick-witted,” Peirol said. “But I still don’t understand.”

  “Do you wish to?” Her eyes were piercing.

  Wanting to say no, Peirol said yes.

  “You’ve finished your meal. Come outside, and I’ll show you.” Peirol followed her into the sunny square. “I ask again, do you wish to see what is real?”

  “I think so.”

  “I ask you a third time, do you wish to see the world as it truly exists?”

  Peirol nodded. Kilia pointed, moved her arm up, then in two semicircles. The neat row of houses across the square changed to blackened, rain-soaked rubble. There was grass growing through the cobbles, and in front of the largest house were scattered skeletons: half horses, the other human. Kilia moved her hand again, and the houses were bucolic perfection.

  “As it was, as it is, as it shall be, as long as I live,” she murmured.

  “What happened? Are you a witch?”

  “A witch? I do not know. There was one who called herself a witch, before the men came, but she couldn’t stop them.”

  “The men?”

  “Soldiers. They rode in and began killing, without words, without explanation. I saw my father die, heard my sisters scream, and I ran, ran into the fields. But half a dozen, perhaps more of them, ran after me. They found me, and they dragged me back, threw me on the ground while Casaubon burned around me. Then they hurt me, laughing, said even one as ugly as I was wouldn’t be spared. I lay on the ground, bleeding, their seed inside me, my body torn, wanting to die, and then I knew I would not die, that I’d live, and felt the power come.

  “Then they died, all of them, died screaming in agonies worse than any they’d brought to me or to my people, and I fed on their deaths, felt the power grow, and all changed, all went back to the way it was before. I healed my body, then decided I would change myself too, I would be as the prettiest ever was, even though she lay dead with a spear through her chest. Am I not beautiful?”

  “You are,” Peirol said, honestly, trying to keep his voice from shuddering.

  “Is Casaubon not lovely?”

  “It is.”

  “Why, Peirol of the Moorlands, why do you think, when I’ve offered others a chance to see things as they are not, a few even to join me here, in this paradise that shall last forever, or until I die, if I yet live, none have taken my offering?”

  “I don’t know,” Peirol said. “Maybe we’re fools.”

  “The road goes on for you now,” Kilia said. “I am sorry you chose that, instead of me.”

  “Maybe,” Peirol said, almost in a whisper, “maybe I am, too.”

  Kilia laughed gently, and a breeze came across Peirol’s face. When it had passed, there was no one in front of him. The village remained, empty, perfect in its beauty. The only life was the two ravens in their tree.

  Peirol realized his stomach was also empty, wondered what, if anything, he’d eaten. He picked up his staff, started back the way he’d come.

  “Good-bye, Kilia. I’ll dream of you.”

  His words echoed, and one of the ravens cawed, and Peirol felt the world’s sadness in the sound.

  • • •

  Four days later Peirol reached a small city, whose gates, amazingly enough, weren’t barred. Two guards laughingly challenged him, gravely decided he would be of no harm to the greatish city of Tybee, and allowed him entrance if he promised to wreak no havoc. Peirol, wishing that the myth that dwarves could work magic was true — if it were so, he’d cheerfully change certain sentries into goats — entered Tybee in a growly frame of mind.

  He quickly cheered, feeling cobbles under his feet, smelling human ordure and garbage, listening to marketplace shrillings and tavern music. He’d always be a city lad, he decided, and determined to find a peaceful inn, have three or six glasses of good wine or perhaps even brandy, then seek lodging and a bath. He saw a sign for the Inn of the Bare Bodkin, went for it. Two men, rough, dirty, carrying both swords and daggers, half-drunk, blocked him.

  “No beggar lads allowed in here.”

  “That’s the long and short of it,” the other said, and both bellowed what they thought was laughter.

  Peirol looked at their sneering grins, thought of his innate peacefulness, considered what he’d been put through in the last year. One end of his staff caught the first thug on the ankle. He howled, grabbed it, leaped to and fro. Peirol, not pausing, rammed the other end of the staff into the second’s stomach and rapped him hard on the back of the head. That man fell on his face in the muck and began snoring. The first tough saw his mate down, reached for his dagger, and got the staff between his eyes as if it were a lance. Cartilage crunched, and he fell, clutching his face. Peirol let him moan while he quickly searched his unconscious companion, then did the same to the first.

  It said something about the district that passersby noted what was going on but made no effort to intervene on anyone’s side.

  Peirol ended with a rather nice haul of cutlery and a quarter bag of copper and silver coins to add to his loot from the potato field. He thought of stripping the roughnecks naked but decided he didn’t want to get his hands dirty. Instead, he located an armorer’s. A bit later he came out with a nicely balanced shortsword with a baldric he could use as a shoulder sling, a belt for one of the desperado’s daggers that he fancied for its nicely carved onyx handle and balance, even a dart similar to the one he’d used to kill Libat the eunuch. He’d been offered a brace of pistols, but the price was exorbitant. He was left with a few coins and directions to a public bath and a tailor.

  Some time later, clean-bodied and shaven, wearing a hastily cut-down pair of leather breeches and linen shirt, he went back to the Bare Bodkin. Wym’s gold had made the tailor very civil, and two more sets of clothes, plus a cloak guaranteed weatherproof by the best spells, would be ready in a day or so.

  The two lummoxes were gone from the doorway, and he entered. The inside was smoky, smelling of lees, spilt wine, sizzling meat, and cheap perfume. Peirol dragged it deep into his lungs, feeling his mood soar. He found a table where he could put his back to the wall, put his new dagger in front of him, and ordered chilled red wine, a snifter of brandy, and two roasted capons. He smelled the brandy happily, sipped at the wine, and began pondering what would come next, after he slept in a real bed.

  Again, no idea came but pursuing the Empire Stone, although Peirol thought he was at least obsessed, most likely cracked, given what the quest had brought. But this was adventuring, was it not? Peirol wondered if adventuring wasn’t more comfortable being heard from a bard instead of actually taken part in; he drank more red wine. His fowl arrived, and he ate heartily until nothing but bare bones gleamed, then ordered fruit and ices to finish.

  Perhaps the thugs outside were gone, but someone must have noted what happened to them, for he was left severely alone. A wench swayed up and inquired his pleasure.

  Peirol thought about it; then, for some unknown reason, Kima’s face intruded. “A bit later, perhaps,” he said, and tossed her a coin. She smiled, showing very bad teeth, and went elsewhere, as did Peirol’s flash of lust.

  Stomach full, he allowed himself to drink the brandy, ordered one and only one more, having a very good idea what might happen to a Bare Bodkin patron who drank himself into a stupor.

  A rather tattered wall map of the Manoleon Peninsula hung over a nearby table, and he examined it. He grimaced at how far he had to go before even reaching the mainland, let alone Restormel. Then a small name caught his eye. An idea — or more correctly a scheme — came, and he admired himself for its nefariousness as well as its arrogance.

  He asked a barmaid about the name and got a shrug, but she directed him to a more traveled person, a man who guarded the merchant caravans up and down the peninsula. He boug
ht the man a drink, and was given a warning to avoid that area as if it were demon-haunted. But his guess about the name on the map was confirmed.

  Three days later, well rested, nursing a slight hangover, and wondering if he should feel guilty for having visited a rather plush brothel, Peirol left Tybee, pack full of clothes, cooking gear, and dried victuals.

  Four days after that Peirol saw a castle looming menace from a nearby hillside. Just past its turnoff, a peasant was hammering away frantically, repairing a broken cart wheel, his small wagon levered up on a pile of logs. “Help you, sir?”

  The man stared suspiciously, then nodded. “I’ll thank you, for I’m cursed, stranded by this den of devils.”

  Peirol set his pack down and went to work. He thought it was amusing that both he and the wagoneer made sure their backs weren’t turned to the other.

  The wheel repaired and remounted, the man pulled away the lever, and the cart thumped down on its wheels.

  “Now I’m far gone,” he said. “Would you ride with me? My nag’s not fast, but it’s quicker than being afoot.”

  “Perhaps,” Peirol said. He pointed at the castle. “What’s that over there?”

  “The lair of a murdering bastard,” the carter said. “A man without pity or mercy, who holds this land under his thumb, taking what he wants when he wants it.”

  Peirol asked if the murderous bastard had a name, was told it, and held back a smile as the teamster raved on. “Yes, and may the demons hear me and seize him by his throat and balls and tear him apart! Stranger, don’t chance his hospitality, for he knows no kindness and will likely kill you just because he’s never murdered a dwarf, and will wonder if it’s the same as slaughtering a full man.”

  “That sort,” Peirol said, “is the very sort of man I seek,” and he went up the road toward the castle while the carter gaped, then whipped his spavined horse away at full rattle.

  12

  OF OLD FRIENDSHIPS AND BLOODY GEMS

  The castle wasn’t that prepossessing. Its stone bulk sat atop a hill, surrounded by artfully tended grape vines. Instead of arrow slits, generous glassed windows studded the angular cone-topped turrets at each corner of the walls. The huge gates thudded open, and a dozen armored men galloped out, lances lowered. Peirol pulled up and waited.

  The men smoothly surrounded him, and Peirol was at the center of a nest of lance points. Their evident leader, a bushy-bearded man with a scar down his face where his right eye and most of his nose should have been, bayed a laugh a wolf pack leader might have envied.

  “It’s nice when the prey comes to you, even if it’s nothing but a bearded child.”

  “‘E’s a dwarf, Honoro,” another man said.

  “Dwarf, changeling, what matters it? What tribute do you have for us, little one?” Honoro bellowed.

  “Not a copper,” Peirol said.

  “Then your life is forfeit.”

  “Perhaps you’ll let your lord, Aulard, the one I seek, decide that,” Peirol said.

  Honoro jerked in surprise. Instantly all the lances were lifted. “You have business with him?”

  “I don’t think it’s any concern of yours,” Peirol said haughtily. “Where I come from, lackeys listen and obey, no more.”

  Two or three of the riders laughed. Evidently Honoro was no better liked than most bandit leaders. Honoro started to scowl, met Peirol’s steady gaze, dropped his head. “Sorry. Sir.”

  “Now you may escort me to him,” Peirol said. “And I find you a good and proper guard.”

  Honoro, insulted then praised, didn’t know what to do. Eventually he touched his free hand to his helmet in salute, and the dozen men, Peirol in their center, rode back up to the castle. Over the sallyport a motto was carved in the stone: HELD NOT BY THE MIGHT OF MY STONES, BUT BY MY LORD’S STEEL.

  Peirol glanced into the moat as his horse clopped over the stone bridge, then looked more closely. There was no water below, only green grass, but the moat was an even deadlier guardian than normal. There were at least half a dozen huge bears patrolling the strip of land. Two were worrying over bones, and there were other bones scattered around the sward.

  “Lord Aulard, when it strikes his fancy, or when the beasts hunger, tosses one of his prisoners over.”

  “Are there always prisoners?” Peirol asked. “Generally,” Honoro said. “But if there ain’t, we grab a peasant. They do fine. And if we get lucky, and it’s female, we get pleasure of our own before the bears.”

  • • •

  Lord Aulard was a perfect example of the sort Peirol had always feared and, secretly and ashamedly, envied a bit. He would have been a huge baby, always growing faster and larger than his fellows. Boys and men like him had always found Peirol their natural prey, and it wasn’t until the dwarf had learned the equalizing power of a stick, a rock, or later, a small knife, that he could come and go undisturbed. Now in his thirties, Aulard bulked over his retinue, and his long dark hair and beard made him even more menacing. He wore a dark red silk shirt, leather breeches, and an incongruously jesterlike baggy red cap. A sheathed sword stood beside his ornately carved chair.

  His receiving room was hung with weaponry and trophies of the hunt, both four- and two-legged prey. Fires burned in great hearths on either side of the room.

  A servant hurried up with a crystal decanter and four glasses, two filled with chilled water. Aulard poured brandy into the two empty glasses. He dipped a finger in each, flipped a drop over each shoulder. “Give a bit to the gods,” he explained, “and they’ll reward you tenfold.”

  “Of course,” Peirol said. Good, he thought. A superstitious man. That moves my goal a bit closer.

  Aulard pointedly sipped from each glass, proving neither was poisoned. “I honor you, Peirol of the Moorlands,” he said. His voice was gruff, boisterous, in keeping with his size. “Even though you’re not a minstrel, as I hoped when my men, er, escorted you here.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint, lord,” Peirol said.

  “You do indeed,” Aulard said. “We have no troubadours, nor sorcerers or even a witch for entertainments. You have no idea how bored my women become, without gossip to twitter about in these hinterlands, nor anything but the passing seasons to look forward to, and how miserable their boredom can make my existence.”

  Peirol didn’t voice what he was thinking — men who prized women as decoration seldom thought they had to provide anything to ward off boredom.

  “It’s all this stupid war those damnable Beshkirians have mounted on Arzamas, which has unloosed every barbaric son of a bitch to loot and pillage to his heart’s content. Normally the winter would find all of us, save the garrison of course, spending time in the capital and regaining perspective on what it is to be a man instead of a bumpkin. But travel in this times is absurdly dangerous, and I chance it not.”

  But you sit here like a hawk on its perch, swooping on every other poor fool that must go abroad, Peirol thought.

  Aloud he said, “I understand the problem well, lord, and agree with you. For I myself was a slave of those Beshkirians until I was able to make my escape.”

  Aulard grinned, drank brandy. “Which means you’re a free man. Any slave who can outrun his captors should automatically consider himself free, in my eyes. Of course,” and Aulard’s eyes glittered, “should he then be misfortunate enough to be captured by other slavers, he might revert to his old status, and curse whatever made him continue his flight beyond the bare necessary.”

  Peirol stiffened at the implied threat, but his voice remained calm. “Even an escaped slave can have hidden fangs to make his new captor regret his actions.”

  Aulard grinned, settled back in his chair. “So what, sir, made you seek me out?”

  “I, sir, am a man who travels in gems,” Peirol said. “I first heard your name aboard ship, and was impressed by what I heard.”

  “So my — I won’t be arrogant enough to say fame, but let us say reputation — has spread abroad?”

  “In a
sense,” Peirol said. “The teller of the tales was a beautiful virgin named Lady Zaimis Nagyagite.”

  Aulard, surprised, sat up straight. “You were aboard the Petrel with her?”

  “I was, sir, and both of us were captured by those Beshkirian pirates. I became a galley slave, and have no idea what happened to the noble lady, except I hope she survived her travails and is now safe in your household.”

  “She is,” Aulard said. “I now recollect she said something about a dwarf jeweler of great charm and knowledge, but she was afraid he was killed. Obviously — ”

  “Obviously,” Peirol agreed, drinking brandy.

  “Let me ask you this, before we proceed to your business. What was your impression of milady? Speaking in utter confidence, man to man?”

  Aulard was not a subtle person.

  “I was quite impressed with your choice of brides,” Peirol said. “I found her modest, yet outgoing and quite witty. She kept mostly to herself, and the only man she spoke of was you, her intended.”

  Aulard beamed.

  “I’m glad the Lady Zaimis was ransomed,” Peirol said. “Before the pirates took us, she told me she’d drown herself before letting anyone chance her virtue.”

  “I ransomed her,” Aulard said. “And it was a good lot of gold, too. And now she is indeed part of my household. A very spirited part, too. Sometimes …” Aulard didn’t finish his sentence, but drained his brandy. “I’ve thought again on what I said,” the big man said. “Perhaps your business might be entertaining to my ladies, since they are always fascinated with baubles. As I’m sure you know, I have quite a collection, which I assume is what brought you to me.”

  “It is, my lord.”

  “I’ll have a servant take you to your quarters. Dinner is a glass past sundown, and I’ll send someone for you.”

  “An excellent idea, my lord,” Peirol said. “I don’t know if I can amuse your ladies, but certainly discussing diamonds and such, and their possible uses and gifts, generally interests anyone, especially if there’s a good profit for them in the offing.”