Journeyman in Gray (Saga of the Weltheim)

by Linus de Beville

  The newcomer’s face was lined, his skin leathery, his hair close cropped and gray at the temples. Despite his weathered appearance his features were chiselled, the set of his jaw strong and angular. He glowered at the Journeyman from beneath his high brow, his dark eyes unblinking.

  The Journeyman swallowed. He desperately wanted to ask his

  LINUS DE BEVILLE superior why he was here, what business he had with the Erstewalders. In the presence of this man he knew better than to speak out of turn and so kept his tongue.

  At last the newcomer broke the stalemate. Reaching into the leather pouch at his belt the Guildmaster drew forth a crumpled bit of parchment. The missive looked oddly familiar. Disconcertingly so.

  The Guildmaster proffered the parchment saying without ceremony, “Would you care to read it? No? I think, perhaps, you have no need to examine it. It was not so long ago that this very dispatch was in your possession. If I am remembering correctly it was stolen from you.”

  The Journeyman nearly stumbled backwards. He regained his composure before any outward display could mar his defence. “I do not know of what you speak,” he said, eyeing the parchment then raising his gaze to again meet that of his superior.

  The Guildmaster’s expression did not change. “This letter was paid for with Hegemon gold, and sent with you to the town of Ghul. Once there you engaged the services of a paramour. It was she that lifted it from your bag. This lapse in judgment is forgivable; it has happened before and to better men than you. What is unforgivable is that you went outside the directives of your Guild. It was your intention that the paramour rob you of the missive, thereby passing misinformation regarding troop movements to a political rival of the Hegemony. In doing so you violated Guild precepts. You actively engaged in affairs of state. More than that, you involved yourself in the inception of war!”

  Muscles stood out in cords along the line of the Guildmaster’s neck. The Journeyman could clearly see them bunching and rolling as his superior clenched and unclenched his jaw.

  He inhaled slowly, trying to calm the calamitous thudding of his heart. The details of what had been said spun like a whirlwind through his mind. How did the Guildmaster know that the missive had contained misinformation? How did he know that its theft had been intentional? Why was he suddenly on trial? Attempting to match his Guildmaster’s fury with an air of practiced detachment he said, “As I have stated, I know nothing of what you speak.”

  The bang of a door being flung open sounded from behind him and the Journeyman pivoted on the ball of his foot, his hand going to the empty sheath at his back. He clutched at the place where his dagger should have been as, escorted by Drysden, a cloaked and hooded figure entered the meeting hall. The roll of the newcomer’s hips was distinctly feminine, though all other details were hidden by the voluminous cloak she wore.

  “I think,” said Drysden, unable to keep a smile from his lips, “that you know precisely of what your Guildmaster speaks.”

  “What the hell is this?” bellowed the Journeyman. “I did not come here to be assailed by accusations of misconduct. I have done nothing that would...”

  “Do not be dense!” bellowed the Guildmaster. “Lord Drysden has informed me of exactly what transpired in Ghul. You stepped outside your codes and as such invited the wrath of the Huuls down upon yourself and the townsfolk.”

  “Since when does our guild entreat with the Lords of the Vallén?” growled the Journeyman. “Why would you accept their word over one of your own?”

  “You are not as clever as you think, Journeyman.” The Guildmaster’s voice was cold, his dark eyes flinty. “We have seen what you do when you think no one is watching. We have seen you accept gold for the delivery of messages forbidden by our laws.”

  “What proof have you that…”

  The Journeyman’s words died on his lips as the woman Drysden had escorted into the meeting hall threw back the hood of her cloak. Brushing a coppery lock of hair from her forehead she gave the Journeyman a coy smile.

  “Silke,” said the Journeyman.

  “It is good to see you again,” said the paramour. “We had to part so suddenly the last time we met.”

  Her smile widened and the furious beating of the Journeyman’s heart fell suddenly still.

  19. TRUTH WILL OUT

  “No need to look so shocked,” said Drysden with a smile. “Silke is here to bear witness, nothing more.”

  “Witness to what?” growled the Journeyman.

  The paramour matched Drysden’s smile, her lips curving back from her straight white teeth. She held the Journeyman’s gaze, her green eyes unblinking.

  “To what?” asked Drysden. He paused then poked one finger at the Journeyman’s chest. “To you.”

  The Journeyman balked.

  Drysden let out a quick, derisive little laugh. “I did not come to be a lord commander of the Vallén by allowing loose ends to flap about in the breeze. You, my friend, are a loose end. I intend to tie you back up where you belong.”

  The Journeyman stood rigid, his fists clenched at his sides. His every nerve was alight, his every muscle tense. His gray eyes darted from the young nobleman to his Guildmaster, to Silke, then back again. Each regarded him in turn with amusement or righteous indignation.

  Drysden stepped closer. The coldness behind his eyes belied the smile he wore. “A Journeyman, no matter what his crimes, cannot be brought to justice by any court save that which his guild has convened. Nearly every nation that I know of respects these precepts, no matter how ridiculous they may be. Considering the grievousness of your offense I considered acting independently, regardless of the consequences. However, the lords of the Vallén rely far too heavily upon the Journeyman Guild for me to hang, draw, and quarter one of their own. Were I to invite censure by your guild I would risk losing my own position. Therefore I sent out riders and lo, they have returned with your very own Guildmaster.”

  Without pause the Guildmaster picked up where Drysden had left off. The man’s words came in rapid, clipped succession. “Your aiding a military force in passing misinformation to its rival is a direct violation of guild statutes. The paramour that stands beside me can bear witness to this transgression. Moreover, the people of Ghul suffered mightily thanks to your actions. The brother of the Huul you slew put the town to the torch, its people to the sword. Dozens of lives were lost. Because of what you’ve done thousands more are imperiled.”

  “You would blame me for Torr’s act of vengeance? It was Silke that hired his brother and set him upon me! What choice did I have but to defend myself?” The words had passed the Journeyman’s lips before his mind had a chance to caution him to silence.

  “You could have chosen to follow Guild Law!”

  The Guildmaster’s voice boomed in the hollow council chamber, reverberating from the unadorned walls. Feeling as though he had been struck in the chest by a hammer the Journeyman stiffened. He stood rooted as his Guildmaster leaned closer still.

  “I do not care what games these petty empires play. I do not care what territory they claim or where they plan to make war. My concern is only for the Guild. Violations of our statutes will lose the trust of those who pay and pay well for our services. Without the guarantee of our neutrality we cannot operate freely across national borders. And, if we cannot operate freely we are no better than a lordling’s hired men. The Journeyman’s Guild spans the continent, passing information across political and social boundaries, between warring factions and peaceful neighbors. We connect

  LINUS DE BEVILLE everyone and everything without the taint of bias. So far as I am concerned there is no duty more important than maintaining this network.”

  The Guildmaster stepped back; the emptiness that rushed in to fill the space his words had left was thick and oppressive. In this new silence, amidst the motes of dust that hung listlessly in the air, the Journeyman stood speechless. His mind reeled, dozens of jumbled and discordant thoughts vying for prominence. Outwardly he remained still, his
eyes no longer dancing from one face to another. He stared straight ahead, unable to focus.

  “Poor fellow,” said Silke with a pout. “I do not think this will end very well for you. No, I do not think it will end very well at all.”

  With a guttural cry the Journeyman sprang for the paramour, his hands hooked into claws. He saw her gasp and draw back, her eyes gone wide. Then the ground came up to meet him. The next thing he saw was Drysden looming over him.

  “Foolish thing to do,” said the young noble. He tilted his head to one side and brushed his long hair over his shoulder. Reaching forward he placed one hand on the Journeyman’s chest.

  “As I have said, were it up to me I would have you executed. Sadly, I must acquiesce to your Guildmaster. It is up to him whether he will take you back to a guildhall, there to stand trial, or if he will simply strip you of title and uniform here and now. If that is the case then, mark my words, you will be dead before the morrow.”

  “No,” said a voice from beyond the Journeyman’s field of vision, “I cannot allow you to mete out justice in our stead. I must return with him so that he can stand trial before an assembly of his peers.”

  With a sigh Drysden got to his feet. “It baffles me how an independent consortium such as yours has managed to spread across every nation known to man yet remain stubbornly and stalwartly neutral. Think of all you could do with your network of agents and couriers...”

  With a shake of his head Drysden turned on his heel. The Journeyman watched as the young noble stalked from the

  council hall. He then adjusted his gaze to Silke. The red-haired woman stood looking down at him, one hand to her breast, her expression dark. She saw him looking and smiled. One of the unseen councilmen barked a short, dry laugh. Silke then pulled her cloak tightly about her shoulders and followed Drysden.

  “On your feet,” said the Guildmaster as he reached for the Journeyman. Still too stunned to struggle, he allowed himself to be helped to a sitting position. He then swatted the older man’s hand away and pulled himself to his feet. The wound in his side gave a twinge and he closed his eyes until the pain had passed. The Guildmaster took him by the arm and lead him towards the door.

  “You will be held under lock and key until I can make the necessary arrangements for our departure. When this is done you will return in irons to the nearest guildhall where you will stand trial for your crimes. Silke will join us as witness.”

  The Guildmaster gave him a shove and the Journeyman stumbled from the council hall and into the muddy lane that ran before the somber old structure. Though his jumbled thoughts and emotions beat like a tempest against the walls of his skull the Journeyman felt glad he had sent Cinder and Dafina on their way. Were they to become further embroiled in this mess of politics and war he was certain they would pay far more dearly than he.

  20. THE CELL, THE GALLOWS

  His cell sat facing an open courtyard ringed by high wooden ramparts. The space was unpaved. Thanks in no small part to the rain and the passage of feet the dirt yard had been churned into a quagmire. Puddles of stagnant rainwater sat reflecting the dull glow from the clouds overhead. At one end, directly opposite the cage he now occupied, stood a gallows. The Journeyman huddled in one corner of his cell staring fixedly at the construct of wood and iron.

  There were no ropes hanging from the gallows’ crossbeam. These, he knew, would come later. Hemp was expensive and to expose a noose to the damp would have been a waste. Hanging ropes or no, the gallows drew and held his attention.

  His cell was open to the elements, only the floor and the far wall having been constructed of wooden planks. Iron bars cut alternating patterns of light and dark across the sky above and partitioned the view of the courtyard. To right and left more of the same separated him from the adjoining cells. There were five in total. Straw covered the floor, now soaked through and smelling of mold. The Journeyman crouched in the sodden pile, his knees pulled up to his chest, his borrowed cloak drawn tight around his frame. Idly he wondered if Iker, the man who occupied Drysden’s gibbet beside the postern gate, had spent his last days in a cell like this one. He listened to the steady drip of water from the bars overhead and continued to stare out at the gallows.

  Two cells down a man coughed. The Journeyman did not turn to see with whom he shared his incarceration. The cough came again. His gaze remained unvaried.

  The accusing voice of his Guildmaster rang hollowly in the Journeyman’s ears.

  He shook his head.

  The words would not go.

  Over and over again he listened to the litany the older man had rattled off in the council hall. Despite the damp and the cold, the haze of barely shrouded guilt in which he stumbled, the words rang clear as a bell.

  He gritted his teeth and tried again to drive away the biting admonishments. Still, they would not go. Instead the concepts of action and consequence went back and forth in his mind, one slipping into the other, blurring into a single shape. They nipped at their own heels, turning in a circle like a hound chasing its tail.

  He had taken money in exchange for a minor violation of his guild oaths. He had done so numerous times. Nothing had ever come of it before.

  He shut his eyes then opened them again. The hound continued to nip and bite.

  No, that was not true. He had never seen anything come of his actions. It stood to reason that any event he had set in motion would have an effect, some manner of consequence. Whether for good or ill he could not say; dared not say. It was probable that he had been the architect of suffering for a great many men and women whom he would never meet.

  No!

  He shook his head. What he had done was not the same as Torr’s assault on Ghul. He had not swung the sword or wielded the torch that had claimed the lives of the villagers. That had been Torr’s doing, not his. To hold him responsible was injudicious. One need only apply reason and it would become glaringly obvious that he was not to blame.

  The cough came again. The sound was harsh and sudden like a dog’s bark. The Journeyman’s heart sank and he lowered his eyes from the gallows.

  The boy.

  A vision of the ragged, clubfooted little boy and his dog swam into view.

  The lad’s family had sheltered him after he had slain Torr’s brother and Silke had fled from the inn. What had become of them? Had they been slaughtered like so many of their neighbors? The Journeyman could not bear the thought of the desperately thin child lying bloodied next to the still form of his dog.

  Squeezing his eyes shut he tried as best he could to stem the flow of tears that coursed down his cheeks.

  “Journeyman.”

  The word was spoken in a rasping whisper, barely audible.

  The Journeyman opened his eyes. Around him was nothing but

  inky blackness punctuated by the orange glow of torches set high

  along the surrounding ramparts. They guttered and flickered, sending up tiny showers of sparks. The light they cast was poor, barely

  managing to illuminate the stockade and the framework of the gallows.

  “Journeyman.”

  This time he was able to pinpoint the whereabouts of the man

  who had spoken. He looked to the left and saw the outline of a

  face, round and porcine, peering at him through the bars. The face

  coughed and the Journeyman knew the speaker for who he was. “What do you want, Olis?”

  “You must tell them,” said the pig farmer.

  “What must I tell them?” asked the Journeyman.

  “You must tell them that I was forced into collaboration with

  the Huuls. You must tell them that it was Torr. He was the one

  who made me give him pigs and women. I did not want to do

  these things. I was forced!” To the Journeyman the pig farmer’s

  words sounded like a barely controlled sob. Their piteous tone

  churned his stomach.

  “You were forced?”

  “Yes! H
e said he would kill me and burn the farmhold if I did

  not capitulate.”

  “Hmm,” said the Journeyman.

  “You must believe me!”

  Atop the ramparts a sentry cleared his throat and spat over the

  wall. The Journeyman watched as the man drew his cloak tight

  against the cloying cold and damp. He was bearded, his face half

  hidden by whiskers. On his head rested a nasal helm not unlike

  those worn by Drysden’s soldiers. This man, however, looked to be

  of poorer stock. His cloak was rough, his spear topped by a bronze

  head instead of steel. It seemed as though the young nobleman had

  no desire to waste his troops guarding a prison stockade in the

  middle of a dank and moonless night.

  “Journeyman?” the plea further knotted the Journeyman’s

  guts.

  “What is it, Olis?”

  “You must tell them what I have said!”

  After a short pause the Journeyman said simply, “No.” A harsh, racking sob drifted from between the bars accompanied by the sound of fat, sausage-like fingers clawing at the iron.

  “What I speak is truth!”

  “Ha!”

  The single syllable came from the far side of Olis, loud and

  abrasive in the still of the rain-soaked night.

  “Ubel?”

  “You were no more forced to give Torr those pigs and those

  girls than I was.” The rasp of the swineherd’s voice made the Journeyman grit his teeth. “Besides, the stinking Huul burned out your

  two closest rivals. I should know; you had me pay him to do it.” “Be silent, Ubel!” hissed Olis.

  “You had at that little blonde thing you passed on to Torr two

  winters ago. I remember she was a screamer, that one. Would have

  had at Cinder too if Dafina had let you. The pigs you marked down as a loss to animals and weather. No one ever questioned your ledgers; not the magistrates or the militia. The girls were all strays. No