back until it bumped against the boards behind him. Taking several
deep breaths he attempted to calm himself. Ubel must have heard
for the leathery old bastard barked another single syllable laugh. “Didn’t know about the girls did you, Journeyman?” “Ubel!” hissed Olis more urgently than ever.
From across the muddy courtyard the sound of movement
drifted to the cages and a light was kindled in the guardhouse. “Do as Olis says and be silent, Ubel,” said the Journeyman as
evenly as he could manage.
“Not fucking likely,” growled the swineherd. “If I’m to hang
I’ll be damned if Olis doesn’t swing next to me. I kept his secrets
and did those things he couldn’t stomach. Were it not for me he
would have been found out by the magistrates years ago. If my reward is the gallows then it will be his as well.”
To this the Journeyman had no response. He thought it only
fitting that Olis should join the man who had done his scut work. “I’m sorry,” snivelled Olis. “I’m sorry. You mustn’t believe
him; it is I who speaks truth. Believe me, Journeyman! Please!” “I do,” said the Journeyman. “I believe that you traded the
lives of girls and pigs for profit. I believe that you traded mine as
well.”
“I did,” croaked Olis, his verbal grovelling sinking lower still.
“I did try to trade your life away and I’m sorry. Torr sent his men
to each of the farmholds and to all of the settlements. They were
looking for you. They said if I did not give you over ” “They would put you to the sword and the farmhold to the
torch,” interrupted the Journeyman. “So you’ve said.”
“Yes!” replied Olis, his voice swelling with hope. “And I am
sorry. I had my people to think of. The lives of my men and their
families, the hired hands as well.”
“The Vallénci saw to them,” said the Journeyman dryly. “They cut down your men, their families, and the hired hands the same as
they did the Huuls.”
“And I weep for them,” said Olis through lips wet with spittle
and tears. “I pray for them.”
“Pray all you like,” said the Journeyman, “it will make no difference.” He then spat upon the sodden boards before him. “Gods above, gods below,” said Olis in a thin and reedy
voice, “I do not want to die.”
Ubel laughed, a croaking tumble of spirants that ended in a
wheeze.
“Neither did those men and women who worked for you. Yet
here we are and there they lie; dumped in shallow graves, the
ground too frozen to give them a proper burial.”
Olis degenerated into wailing and blubbering. He pounded at
the bars, the cast iron shaking and rattling. The Journeyman felt the
vibration through the boards at his back. Then, as a door crashed
open across the courtyard, the pig farmer suddenly fell silent. A light, followed by a second, approached rapidly across the
muddy expanse before the cells. The Journeyman could see four
figures, two torch bearers, a man in the voluminous robes of a
scribe or barrister, and the swaggering form of Drysden. The young
noble outstripped the others, marching straight at the cell the Journeyman occupied. When he reached the cage he slammed his open
palms against the bars, sending a jolt through the whole of the
structure.
“You cunt!” barked Drysden. “You unbelievable cunt! Where
are they? What have you done with them?”
“Who?” asked the Journeyman.
“The women!” bellowed Drysden. “Where ”
His tirade was cut short as the two torch bearers and the man
in the flowing robes reached the cage. The Journeyman could now
see that the fellow situated between the soldiers was indeed a barrister. He was balding, his face lined and haggard, his expression a
mixture of concern and near exhaustion. “My Lord Drysden ” he
began. The young nobleman interrupted him with another smack
of his palm against he bars.
“You’ve crippled my case! Dafina and Cinder were to stand
witness before the trade council. They were the key to ensuring the
fat pile of dung and the leathery old bastard next to you would
swing tomorrow! Without them I cannot properly argue my case!” The Journeyman did not respond.
“A year ago I would have been able to hang these two without
so much as a whisper from the trade council. Now they and the
people of Lyvys demand due process. While bandits and Huuls still
stalked the Erstewald they were more than happy to allow me and
my men to conduct our business as we saw fit. Now that we’ve
cleared away the vermin they whine about the rule of law and
pound their musty old books. You’ve gutted this case!” “They’re gone, lordling,” said the Journeyman. “Neither Olis
nor you can get at them. Not any more.”
“Cunt!” howled Drysden and smote the bars a third time.
“Were it not for your Guildmaster peering over my shoulder at
every turn I would have you eviscerated and hung from the stockade by your guts!”
“My Lord,” interjected the barrister tentatively.
“What?” shouted Drysden and spun to face the man. In a whisper, his eyes slipping from the young noble to the
row of cages, the barrister said, “There is the swineherd, my Lord.
He was privy to the crimes of this…Master Olis. He can act as
your witness in the absence of the two women.”
For a moment Drysden stood, his head down, his long hair
obscuring his face. He then lifted a hand to his brow and brushed
the strands from his eyes. He ran the backs of his fingers over his
cheek; the sound of stubble against the leather of his glove was
loud in the cold, still air. He turned from the barrister and stalked
down the line of cells.
“You, swineherd,” he said, and pointed at Ubel. “You are now
my key witness. Give testimony against your former master and
you will be released. Lie or try to fuck me about and I will have you
broken on the wheel.”
Drysden again pivoted on his heel and splashed his way back
towards the guardhouse. The torch bearers and the barrister hurried to catch him up. From down the line of cells Ubel began to
laugh. Olis let out a despairing little wail.
The Journeyman lowered his head as the phantom hound returned. He felt Action and Consequence turn in its circle, one feeding off the other. The mangy beast bit at its own tail and he let it
go. He no longer had the energy to keep his emotions in check. He
simply slumped against the cell’s one solid wall and let the guilt and
self-loathing wash over him.
After a time sleep came and he sank down in the straw.
Despite the rain that fell like a curtain out of the leaden sky the people of Lyvys stood shoulder to shoulder in the muddy courtyard. They mumbled to one another, jostling and crowding the space between the Journeyman’s cell and the gallows. He could hear the squelch of mud beneath their feet as well as muffled coughs and grumbled oaths. Everywhere moisture dripped from frayed, dirty cloaks and drab, threadbare shawls. Though the Huuls were gone and the bandits chased back into their holes, the people of Lyvys remained destitute. Traders and merchants no longer plied the Tyrnon or the Vyrnon, the flood of two years past having ruined these waterways for travel. Though order had been restored, the wealth that had allowed the trade city to prosper had
not returned.
The Journeyman slouched against the bars at the front of his cell watching the men and women before him mill about like so many sheep without a shepherd. Few paid him any mind. They were here to see the wealthy pig farmer Olis receive his just desserts. The criers and bulletins had mentioned nothing about a Journeyman or his involvement with the proceedings.
“Are you pleased with what you’ve done?” The question came from the Journeyman’s right. He raised his eyes and regarded his Guildmaster. The gray-haired man stood leaning against the corner of the Journeyman’s cell, his arms crossed over his chest. Moisture beaded the oilskin he wore and ran in thin rivulets down his weathered cheeks.
“At this juncture how would you qualify a concept such as pleasure?” asked the Journeyman.
“Because you aided the girl and her matron in their escape the swineherd, Ubel, will go free. Again I ask Are you pleased with yourself?” The Guildmaster did not deign to look at the Journeyman. He kept his eyes focused on the raised platform at the far end of the stockade. Dangling from the crossbeam could now be seen a length of rope, its end done up in a noose.
“You would have had them stay?” asked the Journeyman.
“They would have ensured a conviction for Olis and that dog, Ubel,” said the Guildmaster.
“They would have been assured of new terrors at the hands of the noble borne man-child that holds this whole region in the palm of his hand.”
“You do not know that,” said the Guildmaster.
“You did not see him fight,” replied the Journeyman matterof-factly. “While stranded on that pyre the Huuls had built for me I saw his men slaughter not only the barbarians, but the men and women that had been goaded into watching me burn. When he made himself known he was awash in gore. He bore himself like this was an everyday occurrence. You’ve encountered men like him before; I’ve heard you say as much. You know very well what a man like that is capable of, a man who feels nothing as blood is spilled all around him. That is why I sent Cinder and Dafina away.”
“And now this swineherd, Ubel, will be spared the noose,” said the Guildmaster. “You not only acted as a spy for the Hegemony you have let a murderer and a slaver go free.”
The Journeyman snorted. “It seems that you are far more concerned with the proceedings of this tribunal and the rule of law than with the lives of those caught up in the maelstrom.”
“To the contrary,” said the Guildmaster, “it is precisely this sort of situation our precepts are intended to prevent. You set these wheels in motion by passing misinformation ”
“How do you know it was misinformation?” the Journeyman interjected. “Are you privy to the Hegemony’s martial secrets?”
“Drysden has informed me that the troop movements detailed in the missive you so furtively delivered to the paramour were false. The soldiers were simply not where it said they would be.”
“Ah,” said the Journeyman, “then you are now upon the war council of the Vallén.”
“Do not cast aspersions,” said the Guildmaster coldly.
“I cast no aspersions, Guildmaster,” replied the Journeyman. “I’m simply curious as to why you seem to know so much about rival kingdoms, their machinations, and the movements of their troops. Drysden seems unusually chatty for a lord of the Vallén. Normally they are not known for their forthrightness.”
“My inquiries were necessary. They were pertinent to your case,” replied the Guildmaster.
“I see,” said the Journeyman, raising his eyebrows. “As long as it’s you, a guildmaster, who dabbles in matters of state and military planning all is well. How foolish of me not to have realized this before ”
A ripple went through the crowd and the Journeyman raised his eyes to the gallows. Mounting the platform was the robed figure of the barrister he had seen the night before. The man was accompanied by two guardsmen, their spears held over their shoulders. Unlike the night watchmen these were regulars, their uniforms clean and neat, and their spearpoints forged from steel. Together the trio made their way to the far end of the platform and there they paused. The crowd returned to muttering to itself.
“You are as derisive and as snide as ever,” said the Guildmaster. He adjusted his stance, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “If I possessed the evidence, I would have had you cast out years ago. How much illicit gold have you lined your pockets with since joining the service? Five hundred marks? A thousand? Ten thousand? Not only are you a disgrace, you are a bloody liability.”
“She’s a Schlachtvalter you know,” said the Journeyman. “Not all those with red hair are of the Schlachtvalt.”
“Well, the paramour is. Think what that means to the ‘stability of the region.’ If the Schlachtvalt is in league with the Vallén...”
“The alliances of rival empires or barbarian tribes is not our concern,” barked the Guildmaster. “We are Journeyman!”
The crowd stirred once more. Both men looked to the platform.
The Journeyman’s chest knotted itself into a tight ball and he ground his teeth together as Olis was hauled onto the gallows by a pair of overladen guardsmen. The fat man was directed to the center of the platform below the swinging noose and forced to his knees. The wooden structure shuddered as first his right knee, then his left thudded down. Even from the far side of the courtyard the Journeyman could see that fresh tears stained the former landholder’s face and that rivulets of snot depended from his nose. The tears had cut streaks through the grime that caked his face and neck. His prodigious jowls were covered in several days’ growth, the stubble peppered with white. His garments were filthy, torn at the knees and elbows. The crotch of his trousers looked as though it had been soaked, dried, and then soaked again.
Derisive calls and several veiled oaths were directed at the kneeling form of Olis. He lowered his head, taking the brunt of the crowd’s ire for several agonizing moments until a man in white robes with a tall, ostentatious cap made his way onto the platform. He was followed by another barrister and several more guardsmen. The Journeyman watched as the gallows swayed under their combined weight. By his estimation the rickety structure could not endure the addition of many more bodies.
“Order,” called the magistrate raising his right hand. “Order!”
Slowly the cries of the crowd began to taper off. When the courtyard was more or less silent the magistrate began to speak. He droned in a practiced monotone, picking his words judiciously. The careful modulation of his voice worked its will upon the crowed and a ceremonious air settled over the people of Lyvys.
“Today we are gathered to bear witness to the rule of law. In these troubled times when so much of the civilization we have taken for granted has been swept away, we join together in order to reaffirm our commitment to the law. When the Drakkenhuuls poured their wrath down upon us and the flood swept away our city we lost our way. For years banditry and fear held sway. Now, with the aid of the Valléci, we are once again able to enforce the laws that were put by the wayside. We are no longer at the mercy of the barbarous Huuls or the reavers that haunted our forest. We will no longer tolerate the actions of slavers or those who threw in with the barbarians. We ”
Casting about, the magistrate’s words passing through one ear and out the other, the Journeyman scanned the throng. Nowhere did he see Drysden or Silke. He could not say why, but their absence angered him. Was this proceeding so far beneath them? Was the trial the lordling had arranged not a weighty enough occasion to warrant his presence?
The Journeyman’s attention was abruptly returned to the gallows as Ubel was ushered onto the platform. He too received jeers and insults from the crowd. Unlike Olis he took them in stride, smirking down at the begrimed faces of the men and women below.
“This is a farce,” growled the Guildmaster.
“Of course,” said the Journeyman.
“This is not a legal proceeding,” the Guildmaster went on without breaking stride, “this is simply lip-service for the peo
ple. The execution of the pig farmer is a foregone conclusion.”
“If you disagree with Drysden’s methods, why throw in with him?” asked the Journeyman.
This seemed to get the older man’s attention.
“I have not thrown in with that little monster,” said the Guildmaster. “My needs required that I tolerate him long enough to have you arrested.”
“Ah,” said the Journeyman, “now all becomes clear.”
The Guildmaster turned and scowled down at him yet again.
“Farce or no,” said the Journeyman, “Olis is guilty. I would take his life with my own hands were I not currently indisposed.”
“Be silent,” said the Guildmaster. “I’ve had enough of your gall for one day.”
The magistrate, having concluded his speech on the importance of law, opened the proceedings to the charges against Olis. When these had been read, Ubel was brought forth. He gave his evidence, stating the things Olis had directed him to do. He told of witnessing both girls and pigs handed over to the Huuls, of Torr burning rival farmholds. At last he spoke of the Huul’s attempt to burn the Journeyman at the stake. Nowhere was it mentioned that it was the man languishing in the cage to the rear of the crowd that had been set atop the pyre.
“Your doing?” asked the Journeyman.
“There is no need to involve the Guild in these proceedings,” said the Guildmaster flatly.
“Well then,” said the Journeyman, “there is nothing left to do except watch Olis die.
21. TRANSPORT
The crossbeam groaned, the saturated wood of the gallows straining beneath the weight of Master Olis. His face was ashen, his eyes hooded. His tongue, swollen and discolored, protruded from between tumid lips. As he rocked back and forth the loops of intestine that hung from the gash in his belly slid wetly across the boards of the platform. The wood itself was stained a deep burgundy. Rain pelted the corpse, darkening the rags it wore. Water ran down Olis’s face in thin rivulets and dripped from his bulbous nose. The Journeyman sat against the far wall of his cell, his borrowed cloak soaked through, watching as the man who had nearly sent him to his death swayed forward and back, suspended by a costly length of woven hemp.
The splash of boots in a puddle drew his attention from the pig farmer and the Journeyman raised his head. The Guildmaster, accompanied by a quartet of guardsmen, strode to the door of his cell. Wordlessly, one of the soldiers fitted a key into the lock and swung the door open. The iron hinges squealed in protest.
Journeyman in Gray Page 11
