“Ram nas spent years patching up soldiers on the battlefield,” said Leonas. “The experience hardened him. Though he is a capable physician his bedside manner leaves much to be desired.” The Journeyman smiled inwardly. He had been correct then; the physician had been a field medic. This discovery buoyed the Journeyman’s spirits, reassuring him of his own powers of perception. Perhaps the man before him was not as imposing as he had seemed a moment ago. His bearing had been, no doubt, one adopted when dealing in matter’s of state. Now that the official business had been dispensed with, he seemed rather benign, even affable. The Journeyman smiled. “He was effective.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Leonas, patting the Journeyman on his uninjured shoulder. “To think that a Journeyman was beset, here in the Vallén…I am ashamed. Though our noble houses are often at each other’s throats our lands are not lawless. Of all people, a Journeyman should be able to make his way on our roads without being accosted. You have my apologies.”
The Journeyman nodded profusely, all the while trying to find his tongue. He was still unused to being spoken to by nobility, especially on even footing. It was certainly not something he would have ever expected to encounter, especially on his first assignment. “Of course, my Lord,” he finally managed to stammer out.
Leonas gave his shoulder another pat, then turned towards his place at table. “I’ve been pouring over the accounts of my estate as well as those of my uncle for most of the evening. I find it staggering how much of an appetite one develops simply reading through documents and making calculations. Be that as it may, I made far more than I could possible eat in one sitting. If you do not partake of it as well, then it will just be thrown to the dogs.”
“That would be a pity,” said the Journeyman.
“It would,” smiled Leonas.
The nobleman stepped aside and indicated the chair where he had been sitting. The Journeyman hesitated for a moment, then sat himself down. In the dim light he hunted about for a utensil of some sort and then remembered his own kit. Once again digging into his pouch he came up with a three tined fork.
“Always prepared,” said Leonas. “Admirable.”
“It helps, when your on the road,” said the Journeyman. He then bent to the roast.
Leonas watched his guest take first one tentative bite then another. Before long the Journeyman was wolfing down the meat and vegetables that flanked it.
“Have you been on the road long?” asked the nobleman.
The Journeyman raised his head. “No, my Lord. This is my first commission.”
“Really?” said Leonas, crossing his arms over his chest. He leaned one hip against the table and crossed his ankles as well. “You do not strike me as a novice.”
“I was top of my class,” said the Journeyman.
Leonas nodded. “As was I, in a manner of speaking. Granted, I had private tutors. No grammar school for the sons of nobility. No, I endured a long line of wizened old scholars that were hired then subsequently dismissed when they could teach me no more.” The Journeyman turned to look at the amiable yet still imposing figure standing over him. “Were there so many?”
“There were,” said Leonas. “All I need do is read a book once and it remains with me, always. When I grew tired of my tutor’s prattling I would raid their personal libraries, read everything they had, then quote it back to them. Only my riding instructor and the master-at-arms were able to retain their positions. One cannot learn to ride a horse or swing a sword by reading books.”
“I suppose not,” the Journeyman said dully and went back to eating. He had never been on the back of a horse, at least not for long. They tended to buck him off as soon as he had one leg over the saddle. As for swords, he was forbidden their use. That, however, was not an issue. He could out-maneuver every other boy in his class and most of the instructors as well. He could do with a dagger what experienced soldiers could not accomplish with even a ranged weapon like a spear or bow.
“As useful as all the books, all the riding, and all the fencing lessons were, it was by far the cook who taught me the most,” said Leonas.
The Journeyman paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “The cook?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” replied Leonas. “She taught me how to roast and broil, to sauté and concasse, to confit and fry. I spent every spare moment allowed to me at her side.”
“So this roast is yours?” asked the Journeyman.
“Yes, I made it with my own hands,” said Leonas. “The preparation of food helps to calm my nerves and bleed away the stress of the day.”
“It’s delicious,” said the Journeyman, inserting another forkful into his mouth.
“I’m glad you like it.”
Inwardly the Journeyman shook his head in wonder. A few hours ago he had been fighting for his life. Now he was dining with a nobleman, eating the fare he had personally prepared. Truly, this change in circumstance beggared the imagination.
“Ah!” barked Leonas of a sudden. “I nearly forgot.” Startled, the Journeyman looked up wide-eyed.
“You will need a drink,” grinned Leonas. “What a boar I am not to have offered one sooner.” He then clapped his hands twice in rapid succession.
A moment later a servant appeared. Leonas gave an order for two tankards and the man strode off into the darkness. Not long after he again hove into view, this time laden with two large vessels filled to overflowing. These he set before his master and the Journeyman, then departed.
“Thirsty work, demolishing a roast,” said Leonas as he hoisted his tankard.
The Journeyman followed suit. He was several gulps in before he realized the strength of the ale pouring down his throat. Abruptly he pulled the tankard away, coughing.
Leonas laughed. “It’s good, yes?”
“Very,” wheezed the Journeyman.
After a few more swallows Leonas had polished off his own tankard and called for another. The servant returned with two more of the same. Not wanting to be rude, the Journeyman polished off his first tankard as quickly as he could then got to work on the second. By the time he had swallowed a third of the ale his head was spinning.
“It’s unfortunate,” said Leonas, looking down into his halffinished pint.
“The ale?” asked the Journeyman.
“No,” chuckled Leonas, “the ale is fine. It’s my aunt of whom I speak.”
“Lady Cerridwyn?” asked the Journeyman.
“The very same,” said Leonas and sighed.
“What of her?” asked the Journeyman.
“She’s gone, lost to us,” said Leonas. “For almost a year she has moved about sporadically, never staying in one place for long. From these hidden locals she sends us demands, threats. She pleads and promises in one paragraph, then berates and makes ultimatums in the next. All the while our house suffers.”
“You suffer?” asked the Journeyman, looking up from his ale. The face of Leonas wavered, split in two, then reformed itself. The Journeyman blinked.
“Yes, we suffer,” said Leonas. “Cerridwyn’s father is beside himself. He blames my uncle for his daughter’s disappearance. As a result he has threatened war against our house.”
“Is it true?” asked the Journeyman. “Is your uncle to blame?” Perhaps he should not have asked such a personal question of a noble, but the man had volunteered so much information already he could hardly see how keeping up his end of the conversation would hurt.
“No,” said Leonas kindly. “My aunt simply took leave of her senses. She saw conspiracies where there were none. Lurking in every shadow she saw assassins and traitors. One dark night she and her retainers fled. When we discovered she was gone we went out after her. Alas, a storm closed the passes and she made good her desertion. Now my uncle and I juggle not only her demands, but those of her father as well. Thus far we have managed to keep our house intact, but only just. We teeter on a knife edge…”
Leonas trailed off and returned to staring into his tankard. After a
moment he raised it to his lips, took a tentative swallow, then lowered it again. In his bearing the Journeyman could see the weight of his words. The broad shoulders that had been squared so proudly were now slumped, his back bowed. The sudden change in his host’s posture tugged at the Journeyman. The thought that this was a man like any other, a man who was desperately trying to keep his family together and his house free from conflict, drove a spike through his heart.
“We need her back,” said Leonas. “The Lady Cerridwyn belongs here, in her home. Despite our best efforts we have not been able to convince her to return. If we are unable to get her back soon, then her father will invade. When he does many thousands of innocents will perish.”
The Journeyman tried to swallow the bit of roast he had forked into his mouth, but could not. It stuck in his throat, nearly choking him. As quickly as he could manage he washed it down with the last of his second tankard. As the ale and meat hit his stomach he felt his head swim. “I’m sorry,” he said, “for your troubles.”
Leonas waved the apology away. “No, that’s all right. You are, of course, above such things. As a Journeyman it is your duty to remain aloof, to separate yourself from the intrigues and politics of those you serve. This is for the best.”
The note of sorrow in the nobleman’s voice nearly brought a tear to the Journeyman’s eye. He wondered if this urge to weep was genuine or the result of the ale. Whatever the case he wished his host would return to his former, cordial self.
“When I saw her,” said the Journeyman, “the Lady Cerridwyn was the guest of a merchant in the Capital. He dealt in the incense the Hegalms…the Hegellmans…” here he stopped and composed himself, “the Hegemons are so fond of.”
Leonas turned to him. “A merchant?” he asked, the lightness of his tone belying the interest in his eyes.
“Agobard,” said the Journeyman. “His house is veeery large. There was a big wall and a big gate. Lady Cerridwyn didn’t look at me when she gave me the letter…the missive.”
“No, she wouldn’t have…” said Leonas distractedly. Then, “Thank you, my young friend. When you’re done here the servants will show you to your room. Tomorrow, be on your way by noon. It’s half a day’s walk to the nearest inn and there’s no sense being caught out after dark. On the roads I hear there are highwaymen.”
With that Leonas turned and strode from the hall. The Journeyman watched him go, trying to wrap his ale-addled wits around what had just happened. When no plausible explanation presented itself, he turned back to his food. He stopped with his fork poised in midair. There, on the table beside the trencher, was a small leather pouch. He set down his fork and reached for it. As his fingers fumbled with the drawstring a cascade of silver marks splashed across the smooth surface of the table.
3. BELOW
“I’ve sent several carrier pigeons,” said Leonas. “Within the next few days my men in the Capital will know where she is.” From the man in the iron chair there was only silence.
“It would behoove the both of you,” said Leonas, “to sign the documents I’ve put before you.”
Still, the man in the iron chair did not respond.
“We have been over this,” said Leonas, “and over this.”
Silence reigned.
Leonas sighed. “I will have her raped,” he said. “I will have her tongue cut out. I will then have her lashed to a horse and paraded naked in front of the Hegemon’s palace. With the blood from her empty mouth running between her bare breasts I will have her proclaimed an adulteress. The good people of the Capital will then obligingly stone her to death.”
The man in the iron chair looked up.
“Ah,” said Leonas, “I have your attention.”
Glaring up at him, the man in the iron chair attempted to speak. He could not. His tongue was swollen, his lips cracked. It looked as though he had spent weeks in the desert with almost nothing to drink.
“Uncle?” said Leonas, leaning forward. He placed one foot on the iron chair between the stumps of the man’s legs. The fresh sutures that had replaced the lower portion of his left leg were inflamed and red. Over the last few hours the wound had begun to seep a clear fluid onto the rough stone floor. The seepage had now turned to yellow and thickened. “Will you sign?”
The man in the iron chair shook his head.
As quick as a viper Leonas darted a hand forward and seized the man by the beard. He twined his fingers in the filthy, matted hair and pulled. There was a rattle of chains and the man let out an incoherent cry of pain. The barbed hooks set in his shoulders and back pulled at his papery skin. Beads of blood welled up where the steel had been inserted into flesh. These went sliding down his back, leaving in their wake trails of crimson.
“Sign it,” growled Leonas.
The man in the iron chair raised bloodshot eyes to the man that stood over him and glared his defiance.
Leonas let go of the man’s beard. He straightened himself, brushed a few strands of hair from his eyes, and smoothed his doublet. His eyes remained downcast for a time. Then, at last, he said, “Your son, Drysden, has deserted you. He still thinks you ill, but instead of staying by your bedside he would rather be out hunting or riding.”
The eyes of the man in the iron chair narrowed.
“I have,” continued Leonas, “after months of searching, uncovered the whereabouts of your wife, that whore from the Western Isles. If you do not sign over this keep, its surrounding lands and holdings to me, I will not simply stop at raping and mutilating her. I will strap Drysden to a wheel and break him one bone at a time. I will cut off every extemporaneous bit of him starting with his nose. After that will be his ears, his lips, his cheeks…I will not stop until I’ve removed every one of his toes.”
The man in the iron chair jerked against the hooks fastened in his flesh. Above him the chains jangled. Baring his teeth he growled like a caged animal.
“You will be left without a future,” said Leonas. “No wife, no heir…nothing. Only empty lands and an empty fortress.”
Opening his mouth the man in the iron chair raised his head and let out an agonized wail. The cry rebounded off the surroundding stonework, echoing throughout the chamber. When at last the scream died away, the man in the iron chair hung his head and began to weep.
“Wise,” said Leonas. He reached to one side and took up a writing board replete with paper, pen, and ink. “Now sign it!”
When the man in the iron chair had made his mark, Leonas straightened and stretched. The vertebra in his neck popped and crackled as he moved his head from side to side. “It still pains me you know…my neck and back. There was no need for you to unhorse me that day. I was only a boy.”
The man in the iron chair did not raise his head. He stared dully at the floor, his eyes glazed, a thin strand of drool seeping from between his lips. The spittle hung suspended, quavering with each breath. From the puncture wounds on the wretch’s back fresh blood had begun to flow.
Without giving the man in the iron chair a second glance, Leonas turned on his heel and strode to the door. He paused with his hand on the latch and looked back towards the man who sat mute and incredulous at his own ruin. “You should have treated me better, Uncle. Were it not for your cruelty this would have ended differently.”
Slowly, painfully, the man in the iron chair raised his head.
Leonas turned to go, then glanced back at the fresh stump of the man’s left leg. “Supper was delicious,” he said, “it’s a pity you missed it.” He then lifted the latch and slipped through the ironbanded door.
The corridor beyond was lit by a single torch. In its flickering glow Leonas could see the silhouetted shape of a man. He stood just beyond the sconce that held the brand, his back to the wall, his head down, his arms folded on his chest. Beyond him a precipitous flight of stairs wound up into darkness.
“How is our young friend?” asked Leonas. The baron did not alter his pace as he passed the man who leaned against the wall. The fellow raised his
head, lifted the torch from the sconce, and fell into step behind him. Together they made their way up the narrow and twisting stair.
“I saw him off,” said the man, “but he did not see me.”
“For the best,” replied Leonas.
“Looks a bit worse for wear,” said the man.
“I don’t doubt it,” said the baron. “He was ready to topple over after only a couple of pints.”
The man grunted.
“He took the silver?” asked Leonas.
“He took the silver,” echoed the man.
“And he said nothing to the servants about being stopped on the road? Nothing about the surviving highwayman who deigned to let him live?”
“No, my Lord…nothing.”
Leonas stopped midstride. He turned and looked back at the man who followed him with torch upraised. In its glow the scars that ran the length of the man’s face appeared livid. As the man searched his master’s face, his cataracted left eye swiveled uselessly in its socket, mirroring the movements of its ice-blue twin. He scratched at his bald scalp then cleared his throat. After a seemingly interminable pause he asked, “My Lord?”
Leonas drew a deep breath and blinked rapidly as if just coming to himself. “It’s nothing, Andagis,” he said. “Tell me, what became of the men you hired to waylay the Journeyman they were the same you paid to have their way with that magistrate’s daughter, yes? The one up north?”
“The same, my Lord,” replied Andagis.
“I’m sure the magistrate will be overjoyed when he hears that we’ve dealt with the men responsible for violating his daughter. I trust he can be counted amongst those who are indebted to me?”
“I’m sure of it.”
Leonas turned towards the stair, peering up into the darkness. “My uncle signed the documents,” he said. “The keep is mine.”
“Very good, my Lord,” replied Andagis.
“All I needed to do was threaten the life of his son. Should have thought of that months ago.”
“And what of young Drysden?” asked Andagis.
“My cousin will be informed that, tragically his father’s illness has claimed his life. Not long after he will be informed that his mother was murdered. Perhaps she died at the hands of an agent sent by the Hegemony. Perhaps she was killed in the course of a robbery. Who’s to say? Once he has finished grieving Drysden will be sent to train with the master-at-arms of House Denýtas. There he will suffer, but he will learn. Provided he takes his lessons to heart, in ten years or so he might prove to be useful.”
Journeyman in Gray Page 20
