The Tally Master

by J. M. Ney-Grimm

  “In Lord Dreas’ apartments, Secretarius.” This boy merely bobbed his head respectfully, more careful of his neighbors. “He dines in conference with the march.”

  Apparently the march’s demise remained unknown as yet. That would not last, but he would not break the news.

  “Thank you, lad,” Gael replied, turning to wade through the swarming boys.

  Traffic on the Regenen Stair was as heavy as Gael had expected, and he dodged through the place of arms on the next level up, heading for the Lake Stair and collecting some curious glances from the warriors putting away their training mats and butts. Given that this time of the day normally saw him in the vaults, checking in the metals from the smithies, his presence elsewhere would occasion remark.

  The Lake Stair was beautifully untrafficked, and the view from its arrowslits lovely. The angle of the evening sun – still fairly high in the sky, this being summer – made the blue of the water luminous and the green of the forested shores very rich.

  This stairwell led to the castellanum’s quarters, making no connection with those of the march. Gael would need to ascend all the way to the battlements and cross back to the Regenen Stair in order to reach Dreas’ front door. Gael swallowed. No longer Dreas’ front door. But the deserted steps and the peace of the lake would pay for his detour.

  Gael pondered as he climbed, mulling over Barris’ assertion that he had neither stolen copper ingots nor disguised them as tin. It seemed there must be a third malefactor under Theron’s thumb, one whom Gael had yet to identify. No matter. He had enough with which to confront the castellanum, provided the regenen was willing to play his part.

  When Gael arrived in the foyer between the regenen’s apartments and those of the march, the march’s door was open, with two porters maneuvering a divan out through the portal. Another porter carrying a backless chair followed, and then a boy burdened with a chamberpot and a quilt rack.

  Gael frowned and stopped the boy with the chamberpot.

  “Is the regenen within?” he asked. He’d expected to find Carbraes alone and grieving. This parade of porters moving Dreas’ possessions disconcerted him.

  “Yes, sir. You’re to go in to him, sir. He sent a messenger to fetch you, sir.” The boy craned his neck, apparently expecting to see said messenger conducting Gael into Carbraes’ presence.

  “I’ve come on my own errand,” Gael reassured the boy. “I’m sure your friend will be along shortly.”

  “Yes, sir!” The boy bowed, and his chamberpot wobbled.

  Gael reached out a quick hand to steady it. “Get along with you now.”

  The boy grinned and scampered toward the stairs in the wake of the porters. Gael passed through the two anterooms just inside the door – both strangely bare of furnishings – and on into the receiving room. This space still possessed its wall hangings, beautiful renditions of maps on leather, but nothing else. Carbraes stood next to an open casement overlooking the artisan yard’s rampart above the lake.

  Beside the regenen stood a short, wiry troll with bowed legs. He wore a rust-colored tunic and a matching leather cap with a strap beneath his chin. His eyes glittered, very bright.

  Dreben.

  Dreben had organized a gladiatorial ring for his own pleasure. Dreben regularly beat his bastan to vent his own spleen. And Dreben had pounded Gael thoroughly in that stupid fight on the Cliff Stair.

  Hells!

  “My lord Secretarius,” called Carbraes, his gaze stern, “come meet the new march of my legions. My magus has already had that pleasure. Now it is yours.”

  Gael contained the string of curses boiling up to lift from his tongue, instead walking composedly – he hoped it was composedly – across the room to bow and murmur, “My lord March.”

  Dreben returned his bow and his greeting, “My lord Secretarius,” but his eyes gleamed with malice.

  “Lord Dreben will be invested with his office on the morrow’s afternoon,” said Carbraes, deadpan, “but must take up his duties immediately. My warriors must not go leaderless for even a day.” He turned to the new march. “Go down to the First Bellatarius, my dear Dreben, if all is in train to your satisfaction here. He is expecting you.”

  Dreben bowed deeply to the regenen. “I am satisfied and more, Lord Carbraes. I thank you for this honor!” He nodded at Gael, his glance scornful, and tramped from the room.

  * * *

  As Carbraes turned back to Gael, Gael blurted, “You fill Dreas’ boots too soon!”

  Carbraes’ icy blue eyes, already cold as they rested on his secretarius, grew colder yet. The good understanding Gael had enjoyed for so long with his regenen had not recovered from its recent extinguishing. “You forget yourself, Lord Gael. Every office within Belzetarn is mine to fill as I will and when I will.”

  Gael knew he should drop the matter, but somehow he could not. He had liked Dreas himself, seeing in the march an older Arnoll, seeing himself and Arnoll in Carbraes and Dreas. The regenen’s swift recovery from the death of his friend seemed a betrayal of that friendship. Dreas had been honorable, loyal, almost a paladin, if any troll could aspire to such. Dreben was greedy, power-hungry, and violent. How could Carbraes set him in Dreas’ place?

  “You defile Dreas’ memory by your choice of Dreben!” Gael snarled, appalled at his unwisdom, but unable to stay silent.

  “Do you court your own death?” asked Carbraes, an edge to his calm tone. “For if you do, I am well able to supply it.”

  Gael got a hold of himself. “I beg your pardon, my lord Regenen. My grief for Dreas makes my speech wild and overbold. And” – Carbraes had always valued frankness; surely he could not have changed so much – “Dreben and I have never been friendly.”

  Carbraes directed a long unsmiling look at Gael.

  Gael met it stubbornly. He was willing to retract a remark bordering on insult. He was not willing to retreat from his true convictions.

  Carbraes’ expression softened. “All Belzetarn shall miss my best beloved. There was no one like him, never will be again,” he said gently. “Your sorrow at his passing does you credit, Lord Gael. You have my forgiveness.” Carbraes’ gaze sharpened, and his tone grew sharper with it. “I trust you will find yourself able to respect Lord Dreben, despite your former differences.”

  Gael doubted it, merely because Dreben would not fail to push matters, but telling Carbraes so could bear no fruit. “Yes, my lord Carbraes.”

  “Good. Good.” Carbraes nodded firmly. “Be about your affairs, Lord Gael.”

  That was dismissal, but Gael had not broached his business with Carbraes, even though Carbraes had finished his with Gael.

  “Your messenger did not find me to bring me before you,” said Gael. “I sought you on another matter.”

  Carbraes stiffened. “You cannot destroy the gong on the morrow’s morn,” he said, disapproval in his voice, “is that it?”

  Gael and Nathiar and Arnoll would not be destroying the gong. That lay beyond the heat of Belzetarn’s forges. They would merely disarm the artifact. But now was not the time to remind Carbraes of the distinction. “No, my lord Regenen. The procedure for muting the gong is well in train. I came upon another matter.”

  “Oh.” Carbraes relaxed. “Tell me your matter then.”

  “Do you recall that before I departed for Olluvarde, I informed you that a thief had been stealing ingots of tin from your smithies?” Gael thought of them as his own smithies, but his ability to be politic had returned.

  Carbraes frowned. “That shall be your next duty when you’ve melted down that cursed gong. Catching the thief.”

  “I’d prefer to catch him this evening,” said Gael. “It could be done.”

  “Who is he?” demanded Carbraes.

  “If you are willing to lend yourself to the trap I’ve devised, I shall show him to you,” said Gael.

  Carbraes stared an instant, then nodded. “Tell me what you require,” he said, his whole demeanor more friendly than it had been during the entire
previous interchange.

  Gael went over his plan, explaining the few pertinent details, while avoiding mention of whom he intended to catch. The regenen seemed intrigued with Gael’s provisions and pleased with the chance to take direct action in the matter. Perhaps he tired of always telling others to act while never doing so himself?

  “You understand that the timing is critical?” Gael asked, concluding with that question.

  Carbraes smiled. “I do. On your knock, I’ll come in.”

  “Then I shall see you shortly, my lord Regenen,” said Gael.

  Carbraes sighed, a shortened huff of breath. “You were used to address me as Carbraes, Gael. From time to time.”

  Gael directed an assessing glance at the regenen. Had he won his forgiveness? “I feared I had trespassed beyond your clemency, Carbraes,” he said, testing the informality.

  “Dreas was the heart of my honor,” answered Carbraes. “I shall attempt to retain it in his absence, but already the challenge proves hard. You, too, value integrity, Gael. I’d . . . forgotten that. For an interval.”

  Carbraes’ eyes hardened momentarily. “Though your notarius lacks your probity!” The regenen turned away to gaze out the open casement beside him, where a sliver of lake glimmered bluer than ever beyond the rampart below.

  He glanced back over his shoulder at Gael again, his eyes softer in the wake of his surge of temper. “Forgive me?” he said, his voice matching his eyes.

  Gael nodded, swallowing down the lump forming in his throat. The bulwark of the trust between himself and his regenen – missing from the moment of Dreas’ death – had returned, and it felt like when he’d stepped into his tally room this afternoon. It was Carbraes’ backing that made Belzetarn bearable.

  “Go, Gael,” said Carbraes, surveying the view again. “Let us catch this thief!”

  * * *

  Chapter 18

  Gael waited on a landing within the dimness of the Lake Stair where the passage from the great hall debouched. The view through a nearby arrowslit showed the dark shadow of the tower stretching far out across the glittering sunlit waters of the lake, but Gael had his back to the opening. He stood directly in front of the steps leading up. He did not intend to let Theron have unimpeded access to the ascent to his quarters.

  The brightness filling the feasting chamber – direct sun through its southwestern windows mingled with torchlight – did not reach so far as the stairwell, but the din of five-hundred trolls eating and conversing carried easily. A steady rumble of shifting chairs and shifting diners sounded beneath the cacophony of voices, while the occasional ting of a knife against a bronze serving bowl sang above it.

  The scent of almond cakes made Gael glad that Barris had pressed a trio of meat tartlets upon him before he left the kitchen. Eating held definite appeal, but real hunger remained in abeyance.

  Gael had located the castellanum quite simply.

  The march’s quarters lay a mere three and one-third twists from the tower’s topmost level. Gael had retraced his steps after his interview with Carbraes, climbing to the battlements and then descending via the Lake Stair, checking each great hall as he went down.

  The high table in the upper feasting chamber had lain bare and untenanted. The elite trolls dining at the flanking boards dined without their regenen, their secretarius, their march, or their castellanum – as they did whenever Carbraes chose to eat elsewhere.

  The middle great hall had been equally barren of the four officers bearing Belzetarn’s highest prestige.

  In the lower great hall, Theron presided alone at the high table, usurping the regenen’s chair and filling the neighboring seats with his cronies. Gael had been gratified to notice a hint of elated satisfaction in the castellanum’s demeanor as he gestured graciously to the steward beside him. Theron’s fall from favor – if one could call the regenen’s tolerance of his castellanum such – to disgrace would be great. As well it should be.

  Having found his quarry, Gael had retreated from the passage mouth.

  Theron would be the first to summon a server with basin, ewer, and cloths to wash and dry the castellanum’s hands; the first to rise; the first to depart the feast hall. He might invite a few guests to attend him in his quarters, but they would follow at a discrete interval, rather than accompanying him on the stairway. Nor would he retire to some other haunt within Belzetarn. Theron’s evening activities were quite predictable.

  Gael raised his chin from his chest when footsteps sounded in the passage from the great hall – leisurely footfalls, those of a troll confident in his power and his position.

  Theron rounded the corner a moment later. He reared back, nostrils flaring in his thin nose, when he spotted Gael.

  “Really, Secretarius,” came the castellanum’s cultured voice, “I should not have to ask you to stand aside.”

  “Walk with me,” answered Gael, gesturing down instead of up, as Theron likely would have preferred.

  “Can it not wait?” asked Theron, coldly.

  “I believe not,” said Gael, curious to see if Theron would assume that some official concern required his attention – something tangential upon Dreas’ death perhaps, which event Theron surely must know. Or not. It didn’t matter. Gael had additional promptings ready, should he need them.

  But Theron fell in with the arc of Gael’s gesture, moving toward the steps down. Perhaps the castellanum’s sense of his own dignity disinclined him to stand brangling with the secretarius barring his way.

  Gael took the outside position as they descended, the better to block the castellanum unobtrusively, if he should decide to change his mind.

  “You occupy a position of great trust, Theron,” Gael began, a tinge of rigor in his tone. “You have in your keeping the keys to every chamber in this citadel. Except those to my tally room and my vaults, of course,” he added deliberately.

  Did Theron quiver just the least bit? Gael knew it rankled in him that the castellanum did not possess those keys, too.

  “And you send your boys into every chamber as well,” Gael continued. “I am not convinced that you deserve the faith placed in you.”

  They had reached the first landing down from the great hall, one and two-thirds of a twist around the newel post. Gael was tallying – a tally he could make in his sleep, if need be – as he must time his provocations to their progress.

  Theron sniffed. “Your own position of trust carries similar requirements. And opportunities.” His voice grew acerbic. “Are you certain that you have not abused those opportunities granted by it to you, Gael?”

  Ah! Theron had given him the perfect straight line.

  “You shall tell me,” said Gael. “But did not your boys abuse their position of trust? They entered my chambers while I travelled from Belzetarn to Olluvarde, and used their seclusion to pry into my padlocked storeroom. Or was it you abusing the chance offered by your keys and my absence? Did you order those boys to gain access to that gong? Had you nefarious plans for the artifact? Theron?”

  They had reached the second landing, another one and two-thirds of a twist down.

  “Don’t be a fool, Gael” replied Theron. “I’m no magus! But you once were.”

  “The regenen is making changes in his stronghold,” said Gael. “He has appointed a new march.” Gael glanced at Theron to note whether he showed surprise or dismay at this tidbit. He didn’t, which was informative. “How if Carbraes were to appoint a new castellanum?”

  Theron snickered.

  They had reached the third landing, and Gael ushered Theron into the passage toward the place of arms.

  “I wonder that you envision Carbraes replacing his castellanum,” said Theron. “Surely he would prefer to replace his secretarius! Think, my dear Gael! My boys committed a minor peccadillo; your underling killed a troll and perhaps not so innocently. Did you order him to kill Dreas? Your underling was far less trustworthy than were mine. Unless he did your bidding, of course.”

  The place of arms was ut
terly empty, cleared of the practice butts and mats, no warriors lingering. Long rays of sunlight shone in the southwestern windows to their left, and the ornate stairway that wound around the massive center pillar – the channel for the smithies’ smokes – climbed into the shadows of the high vault.

  Gael marched straight across the space toward the passage to the Cliff Stair, just a half-step ahead of his companion.

  Theron continued with his own brand of poison. “I scarcely believe that Carbraes keeps faith with you, Gael, in the wake of the murder of his dearest friend!”

  Gael paused before answering, giving them time to enter the passage. They paced side by side and then began their descent again, toward the next place of arms.

  Gael spoke. “Carbraes and I remain solidly allied. I am just come from him, my dear Theron, and he assured me of his forgiveness and his continued support. The regenen will believe me, not you.”

  They were nearing the first landing.

  “The regenen showed every evidence of his mistrust in you when he presented his new march to me,” parried Theron. “And his new march –” Theron allowed himself a beat of silence “– Dreben, mislikes you in the extreme. I urge you: beware!”

  They had reached their destination, two steps above the landing.

  Gael stopped.

  “I possess reins for Dreben,” countered Gael. He didn’t, but no matter. The surface, not the substance, counted here. “But you, my very dear Theron, are failing in your duties, and there is no redemption from an obligation ill-done. Or omitted altogether.”

  Gael threw open the door in the curving wall of the stairway.

  The stench from the latrine with the clogged outlet rolled over them. Theron flinched back, astonishment on his face.

  “My dear Gael, really? A clogged latrine? Really?” Did the castellanum look the least bit nervous? Perhaps not.

  Gael gestured Theron to enter the cramped space. After a momentary hesitation, he did so. Gael followed him closely, shutting the door behind them. The cranny was utterly dark.

  Gael gestured with his wrist – a gesture very like the one Nathiar had made in quest of honey.