The Consuls of the Vicariate amob-2

by Brian Kittrell

  “It’s still a choice. She chooses to be here with us-with you.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  Marac smiled. “Of course I’m right. I’m always right.”

  “Unless I am,” Laedron said, letting out a laugh.

  “Oh, you got me there. I’m right until the ol’ archmage starts arguing me up and down the Midlands. Can’t be denied.”

  Laedron poured a bowl of stew from the fireplace pot and returned to the table. “Once I get a bit of this in my belly, I’ll be ready if you are.”

  “Go ahead, I’ve already had some. One thing I won’t miss is the food in this place.”

  “Won’t argue with you there.” Laedron poked a chunk of overcooked meat with his spoon. “This stuff’s fit for a dog.”

  “Not even a dog, but you’d better eat up anyway. You need your strength.”

  Maybe this will help it go down, he thought, snatching a piece of bread from the plate.

  After eating, Laedron brushed his shirt free of crumbs, then took the scroll sitting on the end of the table. “Jurgen’s note to get us in the militia.”

  “Good.” Marac sheathed his sword and wrapped his cloak about his back. “At least we’ll get to walk around a bit. Where is this place, anyway?”

  “Near what they call the Ancient Quarter. We passed it on the way to the sea.”

  “Then, lead the way.”

  Laedron followed the same path Jurgen had taken him on earlier. On the trip to the seaside, he had kept his head down most of the way, but he decided to take in the sights and sounds of the city. The buildings were closer together in that end of the city than anywhere he’d seen in Morcaine, but many rose as high as three stories. In his homeland, the houses and businesses were made of carved stone and wood, but the Heraldan homes and shops were built of timbers, brick, and plaster. Maybe they lack quarries. Or perhaps the expense would be too great.

  Every window and doorway had some religious decoration of some kind, and the symbols made Laedron feel even more foreign. He wondered if the people glancing at him as he passed could see that he wasn’t Heraldan. Don’t give yourself away. They can’t know. There’s no way for them to know.

  The houses and shops had well-trimmed grass occupying the open space of each lot, a feature he found strange, yet somewhat pleasant. People in Sorbia, from his recollection, cared little about how their lawns and shrubs appeared. The grass had been allowed to grow long around the passage, and the people apparently cut back bushes only when they threatened to block a door or a window. The only flowers to be found on a Sorbian’s tract were wild and grew at random. The Heraldan houses sometimes had a number of planters or even beds of fertile earth set aside for flowers. That’s likely the reason the air has a certain perfume at all times. These flowers are everywhere.

  Turning the corner, Laedron spotted the golden dome of the consul chamber in the distance and thought of Valyrie. I hope Jurgen keeps her safe.

  A cart caught his attention, and he approached the vendor.

  “Might I help you, young man?” the seller asked.

  Laedron’s stomach churned with delight at the smell of the hot rolls, and he reached in his pocket. “How much?”

  “A pence apiece. How many?”

  “Four should do.” He offered the copper coins to the merchant and received a thin cloth full of buns in exchange.

  As they took to the road once more, Marac said, “You won’t be eating them all on your own, will you?”

  “Of course not.” Laedron gave him two.

  Honey bread? How fine. Laedron savored the roll after he popped it into his mouth. Then, he ate the second, trying not to look like a hungry beast. Marac didn’t fare well in hiding his pleasure, either.

  They arrived at the militia headquarters, and Laedron found the building peculiar. It was the only structure in that end of town built entirely from red bricks-a rich, bright red, as if the color itself had a significance.

  Upon entering the main hall, Laedron stopped one of the guards. “Might you tell me where I can find Master Greathis?”

  “Master Greathis? What business have you with him?” the guard asked, impatience in his tone. He wore a gold and silver tunic with the coat of arms of the theocracy on his chest-a gold and silver shield beset by Azura’s Star.

  I’m beginning to get sick of that symbol, Laedron thought, studying the man’s tunic. It’s displayed on everything here-shops and houses, the flags, the coins, and even the people themselves.

  Marac stepped forward. “We mean to join up, of course.”

  “You can do that without seeing Greathis.” The soldier pointed down the hall. “Go to-”

  “We must see Greathis himself. We were sent here by Vicar Jurgen,” Laedron said, producing the scroll.

  The man glanced at the scroll. “Very well. Third floor, all the way back.”

  “The stairs?”

  The guard sighed and gestured toward the nearby door.

  “Thank you.”

  On the third floor, they walked toward the rear of the structure, stopping when Laedron spotted a sign reading, “Master and Commander of the Militia Dalton Greathis.” Laedron hoped the long, stuffy title didn’t accurately reflect the man to whom it referred. He took a deep breath before knocking on the heavy door.

  Receiving a muffled response from inside, Laedron opened the door. “Master Greathis, I presume?”

  “Yes, yes, come in.”

  The office was resplendent, but the decor was markedly different from any other place Laedron had seen in the city. The room contained an Azuran banner at the center of the rear wall, but he couldn’t place the furniture or any of the other decorations. Looking past the desk, he also noticed the man wore dark armor with studs and spikes all over it.

  “And who, pray tell, are you?” The man’s words were sharp and crisp, and his voice carried a throaty accent.

  “Um… Laedron, and this is Marac. We’ve come to join the militia at Vicar Jurgen’s request.”

  Greathis’s eyes widened. “Vicar Jurgen? Has our friend returned from the city of Balfan?”

  Laedron handed him the scroll. “Yes, Master Greathis. I-”

  “Dalton.” He read over the parchment, then stamped a small piece of paper with his signet ring and handed it to Laedron.

  “Sire?”

  “Any friend of Vicar Jurgen may call me Dalton, for we are friends by association. Just Dalton.”

  “Very well.” Laedron glanced around the room again, taking in the strangeness of the place. “You’re not from the theocracy, are you? I feel as if I’ve journeyed to a new land just by passing through your door.”

  Greathis laughed. “Not the first time I’ve heard that. I hail from Falacore, and these are my possessions.”

  Falacore. The icy north, the land of the fabled warriors. “What is a Falacoran doing so far from home?”

  “His duty, of course,” Greathis said. “We have a close relationship with the church, and it is not as uncommon as you might think. Many of my predecessors have also been Falacoran. Our skill in battle makes us apt at training men for patrolling streets or for service on the battlefield.”

  “We won’t need any training,” Marac said.

  “Won’t you? A wise man once told me that he who knows everything knows nothing. I’ve found it to be true.”

  “He means no disrespect.” Laedron glanced at Marac before returning his eyes to Greathis. “To say it better, we are prepared for duty now and require no further instruction.”

  Greathis dipped his head. “Very well. Jurgen wouldn’t have sent you unless he had faith in your abilities. What are your specialties?”

  Laedron’s gaze fell to the floor. “My friend here is skilled with a sword.”

  “And you?”

  An array of weapons flooded his mind. Which one? What’s easiest to use? I carry none of them!

  “No need to be bashful, friend,” Marac said, stepping past Laedron. “He fights with a dagger.”<
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  “A dagger? Interesting…”

  Though Laedron had only handled a knife for carving fish, he figured he could use it better than anything else. “Yes, daggers. I’m sorry. I know it’s an unusual weapon to master.”

  “No, it’s quite all right.” Greathis clasped his hands. “I’ve seen wonders performed with the shorter blades.”

  Laedron exhaled lightly so as not to appear nervous, then grinned at Marac.

  “The armory is on the first floor,” Greathis said. “There you may acquire your tunics and arms from the quartermaster. Give that order to him once you find him.”

  “Thank you… Dalton.” Laedron bowed, and Marac followed him to the first floor. Hearing shouting from down the hall, Laedron rushed forward and located the source of the racket, a man with a longsword at his hip and sergeant’s chevrons on his sleeve.

  “On the left! Damned fools! No, the other left!” the sergeant yelled. “All the way against the wall and two high.”

  Not wanting to draw the man’s ire, Laedron waited for the sergeant to finish his diatribe. “Are you the quartermaster?”

  “Aye, Sergeant Wilkans. And who are you, boy?”

  “New recruits, come for our tunics and weapons.” Laedron showed Wilkans the missive that Master Greathis had given him.

  Wilkans put his hands on his hips. “Well, you’ll have to wait. We’re reorganizing the stockroom right now.”

  “Perhaps we can help,” Laedron suggested.

  “Maybe. Do you know left from right?”

  “Sire?”

  “It’s a simple question, boy,” Wilkans said with a sigh. “Do you know your left hand from your right?”

  Laedron nodded.

  “Good.” He turned to yell at the men inside the stockroom, “Maybe somebody with some sense about them can get this done!”

  Laedron gestured for Marac to come with him, and they both grunted at feeling the weight when they lifted the crates. Per Wilkans’s detailed instructions, Laedron and Marac moved the heavy boxes across the storeroom and stacked them. Finishing, both of them heaved sighs and did their best to wipe the sweat from their brows.

  Entering the room and inspecting the work, Wilkans said, “Good, many thanks. Let’s see about getting you some supplies.”

  I can’t believe I’m doing this. Laedron eyed the symbol on his new tunic. Everything I’ve come to despise is embodied in this emblem, a symbol I will have emblazoned across my chest. He shook his head, then donned the garment over his shirt and pants.

  “Need any arms?” Wilkans asked.

  Laedron pointed at the daggers across the top of the weapons rack. “I could use one of those and a sheath.”

  Wilkans obliged, then turned to Marac. “I see you already have a sword. You can use your own or one of mine. I care not.”

  “I’ll keep my own, thank you.”

  “All right. Have you a route yet?” Wilkans asked.

  “A route? No,” Laedron replied.

  Wilkans led them down the hall to a room with a large table holding a map of the city. He rubbed his chin and studied the map. “This here would be a good one.” With his finger, he traced a series of narrow streets near the Ancient Quarter.

  “Anything we should know about it?” Laedron asked.

  Wilkans cleared his throat. “Some have gone missing along this route before.”

  “Gone missing?” Laedron raised an eyebrow. “How many?”

  “Three, and the answer to your next question is two months.”

  “Without a trace?”

  “Nothing that we could find. No bodies, no blood, no witnesses.” Wilkans handed Laedron a pair of whistles, each attached to its own chain. “If you get in trouble, signal for help. We run patrols tighter since those disappearances.”

  Laedron gave a whistle to Marac, then put the other around his neck. “Very well, Sergeant.”

  “Get to it. Report anything unseemly to me or Master Greathis. Get a bit of sleep before you go out; you’re on the night patrols, and you start at sunset and keep on ‘til sunrise. The militia quarters are on the second floor.”

  * * *

  “I’m bored already,” Marac said, kicking a stone down the avenue.

  The sun had just dipped below the horizon, and the lantern lighters were busy on their appointed rounds. They had done little more than eat a heavy meal at a nearby tavern and ensure that old women had no harassment or trouble when trying to cross the roads.

  “You’re always bored.” Laedron swatted Marac on the arm.

  Marac scoffed. “What are we doing? Walking along while waiting to be killed under mysterious circumstances?”

  “Giving Jurgen peace of mind.”

  “I’ve never seen a city so tight. What more could he need?”

  Laedron grinned. “We got in, didn’t we?”

  “Good point.”

  “Loosen up, Marac,” Laedron said. “Creator! I never thought those words would cross my lips.”

  “You’re telling me!” Marac rolled his shoulders. “Nothing a good night at a tavern wouldn’t cure.”

  “Don’t even think about it. When we’re done with this, you can have as much ale as you can stand, but not before.”

  “Yes, Da.”

  “Oh, stop it. You know how important our task is. We have no time for loafing.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

  The night marched forward, and even Laedron felt ungratified and listless as the evening progressed. I pray we don’t have weeks of this ahead of us. They returned to the militia headquarters once Laedron caught sight of the first rays of the morning sun. Collapsing on his bed, he heard something crinkle against his hair. Reaching behind his head, he found a scroll held furled by a red ribbon and a bit of wax.

  6

  Dealing with the Enemy

  Brice sat quietly in his room, the lock Caleb had given him in hand. The decorations, the inlays, and the mechanism all captivated Brice unlike anything-or anyone, for that matter-he had ever encountered. Each time he slipped the probe into the keyhole, he closed his eyes and envisioned the little world within, the blocks, levers, and shafts. Opening the lock and claiming victory over its intricacies would be proof that he could open any door or chest which barred their progress.

  He was beyond frustration, but he remembered the feeling well. In Reven’s Landing, Brice had had run-ins with many looms that had given him fits, and he had been tempered like steel to be patient and resolved when machinery malfunctioned. The lock he held, though, was not in need of repair. In fact, his goal was to make the lock work against its purpose and give up that which it protected.

  “Still playing with that?” Caleb asked.

  Brice blinked. With his attention fixed on the lock, he hadn’t noticed Caleb enter the room. “Trying to figure it out.”

  “It’ll have to wait. It’s time for the meeting.”

  “Already?” Brice turned to see only darkness through the window. “Sorry, I hadn’t noticed the time passing.”

  “Quite all right. Made any progress?” Caleb opened the door and led the way into the street.

  “A little. Halfway to getting it open, I should think.”

  Caleb smiled. “Then you’re close to the surprise.”

  “Surprise? What surprise?”

  “It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you, now would it?” Caleb chuckled. “You’ll get there. For now, keep your mind on the task at hand.”

  Brice nodded. “Where do you want me once we get there?”

  “There’s a well in the courtyard. You shouldn’t have a problem hearing us from there.” He passed Brice a mug. “Lie behind it with this in hand and hide yourself from view of either of the walkways leading to the tower. If anyone happens upon you, act like a drunkard and make your escape.”

  “What about you?”

  “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.” Caleb displayed a dagger at his hip.

  “I hope you’re good with it.”


  “I am.”

  Brice likened the sight of the bell tower to the lighthouses of Sorbia and Cael’Bril. The stone structure seemed old compared to the rest of the city, but the well-kept lawn indicated that the building had not lost its utility over the years.

  Caleb stopped at the intersection of two roads opposite the courtyard. “You go. We can’t be seen together.”

  Brice nodded, then hoisted the mug in the air. Once he reached the iron gate of the courtyard, he swaggered across the lawn and belted out a tavern tune with a drunken slant. Having taken a winding, indirect path to the well, he collapsed next to it and closed his eyes. After what seemed like an eternity, he heard footsteps on the cobbled path. Not long after that, he heard another set of steps.

  “Who are you?”

  Brice recognized Forane’s voice.

  “Caleb. I’m all that’s left of us. Lester’s dead.”

  “And who is that?” Forane asked. “Why do you speak in such a familiar way, young man? As if I should know this Lester of whom you speak?”

  “Don’t toy with me, madam. You think Lester could’ve accomplished the task on his own?”

  “Maybe, and maybe not.” She held a long pause. “If you were involved with Lester, how much did I pay him?”

  “Pay him?” Caleb asked sharply. “You mean to tell me that bastard was paid? He told us it was for the good of the order!”

  If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve believed that one, Brice mused, trying to keep his mouth from bending into a smile.

  “Keep your voice down, fool,” Forane whispered. “You would see us discovered?”

  “I apologize, madam, but I hate being used. Good thing he’s dead, or I would’ve killed him myself.”

  “How did he die, exactly?”

  “He went alone-against my advice, I might add-to take care of… our friend. He crawled back to our spot with a slash in his belly. It would seem the vicar has better protection than we thought.”

  Forane, seemingly without any regard for Lester’s death, continued, “Matters are further complicated. The man has returned to the consulship, and we are in peril of losing control.”

  “Surely not, madam, for you are-”