Greenstone and Ironwood, Book One

by Luke Webster

  “What would you have me do?” asked the heavyset doctor.

  “You said yourself there is nothing to do. Mayhap if you didn’t take so long to reach us.” The doctor tried to defend against his obesity. The Master would not hear it, dismissing the fat man.

  There were tears throughout as Damian entered the chamber to witness Haylee at their father’s bedside. Ivan had been tied down to prevent the convulsions from snapping his back, his muscles in constant spasm. Damian ran to him, pouring out mournings alongside his sister. They embraced, supporting one another.

  “Where is Ammba?” Haylee begged. Damian shrugged.

  The door opened a further time, the children turning to see their frail mother bundled in the arms of her personal guard. She was weeping, a long dirge of a moan escaping as she lay eyes on her husband. It set off the children more, their own cries building into a crescendo. A servant wiped the sweat and foam from the face of the poisoned lord, a wet facecloth the only application for the ailed.

  “Fix him, please,” Kayla croaked to the room. She had no understanding of poisons, or the lethality of the administered dose.

  “Who did this?” Damian asked. There came no reply, only despair. He reached out a hand, cupping his father’s, ignoring the high heat that radiated from it. Damian tried to slip his fingers through the tight clenched fist but could not.

  A gentle knock came from the door. Master Freeman entered. He graced Kayla’s shoulder with his hand, offering what little support he could. He had already seen the death of two regent’s and a king before that, a spectacle that dogged his career. He turned to the children, hugging them as he crossed the bedside.

  “Who did this?” Damian again asked.

  “That’s what we’re going to find out,” the old man whispered. “I have issued for a team of detectives. I will consult with them when they arrive. Your father had few enemies… the nobles perhaps… or a rival,” he said, reminding them of the regent’s sister still in hiding.

  “Where’s Ammba?” Kayla managed. Freeman returned to her side of the bed.

  “She’s spending the day in Victoria’s company. A courier has been sent to fetch her though I fear she may arrive too late.”

  Sobs greeted mention of the inevitable. Another knock, this time of a messenger, sent to inform Freeman of the councilors’ assemblage. With quiet words he excused himself, climbing back to the meeting hall.

  “You must give exact details,” Gehrig demanded of Freeman as he entered. They were standing in the chamber where Ivan had been poisoned, examining the cup.

  “It happened after the council,” the old man retold, visibly upset. “As you all know, I prefer to give our lord personal council. He was drinking spiced wine, for a stomach ache.”

  “The poison was in the wine,” Stephen said, sniffing at the cup.

  “You should not disturb the evidence,” the Master continued. “A team will be sent to investigate properly.”

  “You would be used to this though, Master Freeman,” accused Damon. “Lords have a tendency to die around you.”

  The old man was aggrieved by the charge, stopping to recompose himself.

  “Leave him,” snapped Maria. “What else occurred?”

  “The doctor confirmed it was Tylon Ferment.”

  “I know it,” Clarissa told them. “Not preferred, it gives off a slight but distinct odour. You wouldn’t notice it in spiced wine though. They farm it in the deep north.”

  A few eyes scrutinized the tight set body of the spy, checking her body language. She was relaxed, unconcerned that they might host fantasies of her killing Ivan.

  “Where would you find it in the city?” Stephen asked, trying to build an image of the perpetrator in his head.

  “The usual quarters,” she answered. “Any one of the crime syndicates could get hold of it. Merchants might carry it from times. Like I said, they farm it in the north, it’s not rare.”

  “Availability is not the issue,” Freeman continued. “My concern is how this substance made it into the regent’s cup under our noses.”

  “Ivan pours his own draught,” Gehrig noted.

  “From his personal store. Whoever planted the drug must be very close to the regent.”

  “Do you think it was one of us?” Maria asked Freeman, her eyes shifting to the barbarian.

  “What are you implying?” Gehrig recoiled, noting the look.

  “Enough,” Stephen interjected. “It’s possible that any of us could have planted it through a sleight of hand, but much too risky. I would be looking at the servants who wait on our lord.”

  “Indeed,” the Master agreed. “I will issue orders for all suspects to be rounded up and interrogated to the full extent.”

  “To be helled that this happened the day after they opened the citadel,” stated Gehrig, “I say point the finger to the nobles.”

  “It’s possible, but also a convenient scapegoat,” reflected Damon. “If I were to kill the regent then now would be the time.”

  “He’s right,” Clarissa backed. “We should keep an open mind.”

  “The church will want to be notified,” interrupted Freeman.

  “What’s it got to do with them?” Gehrig asked, ignorant to the workings of social hierarchy in the city.

  “They induct the regent,” Maria informed, mocking the barbarian.

  “More to the point, they support a candidate docked for the position,” Freeman added.

  “That would be Ammba,” Stephen said.

  “Are we sure?” asked Clarissa. “He hinted that preference could one day go to Damian.”

  “No. The reason for our talks was to discuss the ascendancy.” All eyes turned to Freeman.

  “And what did you discuss?” Damon asked.

  “The lord had wanted to formalize Haylee Steward as heir to the state.”

  30

  News came of Ammba’s kidnapping by word of urgent messenger. The councillors had been discussing choices for a guardian to replace the role of Ivan Steward, the names Longshore, Geiland, Bartlett and Brook all arose. Each of the high nobles would make suitable guardians to watch over the next regent until their coming of age. There had also been the suggestion of some of the smaller families, a neat trick that might drive a shift in the internal politics of the city, the Goldshores and Reitlins both an option. The councillors cut short their talk when the message came.

  “Who would seek to kidnap the girl? It makes little sense.” Gehrig was lost, the recent events building into too much.

  “Should we assume that it is directly linked to Ivan’s murder?” Stephen asked.

  “We should not assume anything,” Clarissa stated in her soothe voice.

  “And what would you suggest?” cracked the Master, visibly upset.

  “We must keep ourselves open to possibilities,” Clarissa noted. “Examine the flow and effect of these events.”

  “The what?” Gehrig stuttered.

  “She’s talking about the consequences. Someone might be trying to swing the politics of the city by eliminating not only the regent but also his first-in-line.”

  “But she has not been eliminated,” Stephen noted, his logical mind working on the problem. “I don’t think the two events were timed… personally.”

  “Perhaps,” conceded Freeman. “She may have been intended as a bargaining chip.”

  “For what?”

  “To give up the Themmond boy perhaps. If that were the case we must suspect the nobles.”

  “Or it could be a ruse,” Clarissa interjected. “This has a reek of the church.”

  “I thought they were on our side?” wondered the barbarian with a dry tongue.

  “The church are on no one’s side,” Damon told him. “They work for themselves. I don’t see what gain they could hope to achieve by doing this though.”

  “Maybe there was some dissent among the voters?”

  “Or maybe we are looking in the wrong place,” stated Maria. “The regent’s most i
mportant role is to administer foreign affairs. Who would stand to gain the most by robbing the regent of his first born?”

  “Merchants?” Stephen asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “Or a kingdom…” Maria replied, an eye on Gehrig.

  “Or an empire,” he spat back. “Watch who you accuse here woman.”

  “Enough,” Freeman rose. “There is too much at play for us to sit here and argue. We need time to think and rationalize. Break for a meal and return by the hour, I will inform our charges of their sister’s predicament.”

  Damian was perched out on the regent’s balcony when the Master came. He had been watching the city from across the walls, mesmerised by the flakes of ash that glided across his face. He did not want to think. If he did then he would start to fear for himself and his family. Black plumes billowed out from distant towers, their clogging soot soaking the city. It was appropriate to his desperate mood. Inside he could hear his sister wailing again, a sound that repeated itself. He did not check, she had been raving for half the morning.

  The heavy oak frame opened, the teacher stepping out into the brisk air. The old man was not used to the outdoors, preferring to spend his late days couped inside a heated room. The immediate effect was known, Freeman trying to keep a chatter from his jaw while he informed the boy.

  Damian did not respond to news of Ammba’s abduction. He continued to watch the black smoke pumping out, contemplating the world. The silence made the Master feel more uncomfortable and he prepared to leave. Damian spoke a word, ‘Freeman’, holding him back.

  “What is it son?”

  Damian turned to him, eyes swollen and cheeks blistered red.

  “I want to be regent.” The words came from a weak voice.

  “That is a matter for the council as a whole.” The old man spoke with a kind voice, not wanting to distress him further.

  “It was what my father wanted.”

  “It was never formalised, I’m afraid. The ultimate choice lies somewhere between the council and the church.” Damian understood that, the council selected a candidate and the church supported them. Without the church’s backing a regent could not be inducted.

  “Who will get my sister back?”

  “There will be an investigation,” Freeman told him for the second time that day. Damian stared out as the Master left.

  31

  “It is a shame that your servant killed the child,” Horaius muttered, a weathered parchment in hand. He was scanning through church legislation, noting laws set down centuries past. “Interrogation is always preferable to assumption.”

  “Indeed brother,” Callis agreed, shifting on the uncomfortable Gumnut Pine stool. “It worries me to think that my colleague could have administered such a plot. Not knowing is the worst part.”

  “Well, despite his declarations, the law does state that a master is responsible for the acts of their Fledgling brood. A crime of this calibre by the child cannot be overlooked. Gustus Esum must be held accountable, lest we start a dangerous precedent.”

  “Is there no way an outsider could have coerced him? Perhaps another faction head?” Callis was playing his part to ability, enjoying the calamity that the farcical assassination attempt had inspired.

  “It’s a definite possibility,” Horaius admitted. “But one that still falls onto Gustus. He should have paid more attention to his chattel.”

  “A shame,” Callis sighed. Horaius was the Crudent Manot, the Judgement Hand within the church. It fell to him to settle disputes of church law, weighing evidence and ruling sentence. He had spent days with the case, interviewing the associated over and again. Everyone from Callis and Gustus, down to the tower watch guards had spent many hours in his office. He was not a man to weigh lightly on such a serious case.

  “Gustus must be purged from his sin,” Horaius continued. “As the highest victim in this incident you have the right to strike the blow if you wish.”

  “Gustus would not want it any other way,” Callis said, solemn toned.

  “I will announce it tonight then. My ruling has been made. You need to do this and organise for a priest to take his place in the Bestial sect.”

  “I will start searching at once.”

  Horaius dropped his scroll, a look of exhaustion evident on his wrinkled face. The decision was a conflicting one within him. He disliked the thought of holding a faction head responsible for the act of a servant, yet the law was unbending.

  “There is one other thing,” Callis pressed. A bushy eyebrow rose in waiting. “I know it is against tradition but I want the Fledgling Nielle promoted to honorary guard.”

  “That is out with tradition,” Horaius agreed.

  “He saved the life of an Ihn-Manati, it is reasonable.”

  The old man removed a set of rimmed glasses, rubbing his red eyes.

  “You’re correct. The boy should be recognised. Will he take it though? It would require devotion to the Aea-Baeni for life.”

  “I will have a word to him.”

  “If he chooses to, it will be granted. I understand how the Beast Men struggle for members.”

  “Balance in all things,” Callis quoted versed script.

  Aea-Baeni’s dungeon was a small part of a giant complex. Black walls hid the mould that infested them, leaving only a faint whiff of a growing sickness. A running furnace at one end of the room took little from the cold recess. Callis stood in the central atrium with Nielle at his side, his golden winged clasp exchanged for a steel chain. At his belt hung an Ihn’s sabre, the fine blade suitable for his small hands. The pair watched Islemann work, setting the insulators into place.

  “It was my invention,” Callis noted with a hint of pride. “Though our friend here built it.”

  Islemann nodded once in appreciation of his acknowledgment. Nielle had served Callis for over two years yet it was the first time he had met the man. He felt intimidated by the stranger. Islemann had a cruel face, yellow under the light and covered by terrible pock scars. One eye was swollen, red where the eye should stay white and a drooping lip. He wore a beard and cloak, covering most of his body. He was not dressed in the typical church manner, but in colours that would blanket him at night. Yet he was graceful, almost a glide in his step. Nielle watched as Islemann moved back and forth, a natural inclination to stay tread in the darkest shadows working in a subconscious mind.

  “He looks dangerous,” the honorary guard whispered.

  “That’s not the right word,” Callis smirked. “A swordsman is dangerous. He is more like a plague, critical and deviant – totally devastating. He is a man that even poets would not sing about from fear.”

  “He serves Aea-Baeni?”

  “No. You would be hard pressed to call him a churchman. Even the beast would be too civilised for this man.” Nielle did not register the sarcasm, too subtle for the scared boy. “Don’t speak to him. Know that he serves myself only and therefore he serves Aea-Baeni.”

  There was a nod from the child as Islemann returned from a holding room, a squirming sack lurched over one shoulder.

  There was a whimper as the bag landed heavy on the wet stone floors, before a torrent of swearing erupted as the binding cord fell loose.

  “You scum,” Gustus croaked, his purple face screwed up as the light hit touched him.

  “Dear brother Gustus,” Callis welcomed, a wide smile beaming.

  “Go fuck yourself Callis. I know what you’ve done, you and that bastard of yours.”

  Callis smirked, enjoying it too much.

  “Do not fret brother. They have ordered me to renounce you of your sins. Do you wish to confess before we begin?”

  A thick gob of phlegm flushed out, missing them both. Before a second shot could be mustered Islemann wrapped a gag around Gustus’ head.

  “Please don’t. I want to hear his screams unfettered.”

  The executioner acquiesced, removing the gag. He dragged the crippled man to the centre of the room and tore his clothes away, so that G
ustus’ pathetic member clung tight to its shivering host. Islemann locked his limbs into gold shackles, a copper ring coil sliding up over each limb, locking into place. Gustus could not move, spread-eagled and standing, copper coils wrapped around the length of his arms and legs.

  “It’s ready,” Islemann barked, his voice croaking like an off-pitch singer.

  “Good. Nielle, go invite our guests in please.”

  Each faction head was present, eleven witnesses and one victim. There was an atmosphere of excitement as they wandered in, Callis greeting each with a handshake, a forced frown dismissed by their own interested looks.

  “This, my brothers,” he started, gesturing to Gustus, “is ‘The Insulator’. It has been a project of mine for many months now. So far it has been tested only on lowborn criminals and those volunteers seeking redemption from their sins. It gives me little pleasure though to work its machinations on my brother Gustus. Yet what is redemption worth, if it is not bought though suffering?”

  There was a rumbling of agreement.

  Callis strode to the control panel, hoping that his pride and excitement was not evident. Islemann had disappeared before the leader’s arrival, keeping his presence hidden. On the panel was a series of buttons and dials. Callis started the machine with a single press, opening a valve from the burning furnace that was Nielle’s job to stock. It took several minutes for anything to happen, the faction leaders amusing themselves by admonishing Gustus by his downfall, he in turn lashing out with curses. Callis found it amusing, that Gustus would rather abuse the faction heads than claim his innocence one last time. A guiltier man would have tried to convince them, he thought.

  As the copper heated, Gustus turned his attention away from them, squirming under the rising heat. Callis and Islemann had spent many nights experimenting with the coil metals, finding the right conductor. They had found that some did not conduct enough warmth and would only heat up at the base of the coils, whereas others heated up too fast and overwhelmed the victim before time. Copper seemed to be a good balance of the two, a slow heating metal that cooked the entire limb.

  While many found perverse pleasure in Gustus’ discomfort, there were those that found the scene disquieting, taking leave early. Callis noted that both Singers and Artists had left almost immediately, gifting the ceremony with only an official presence. Likewise, the high priest of the Builders also found himself absent, leaving only his knight counterpart to watch. The men who stayed found enjoyment in the scene, as Gustus’ squirming turned into thrashing as his fingers and toes blistered from the rising heat. He was screaming still, though this time at no one in particular, just a general shriek for clemency or help.