by Marin Landis
“Well I never,” came the amused commentary from Janesca. They all ignored her.
He awoke to the sounds of retching. Knowing full well who it was he didn’t panic but slowly sat up. The sight that greeted him was at once utterly unwelcome and at the same time extremely alluring. Janesca, her head out of the window, was nude, her shapely rear swaying hypnotically. Were she not vomiting loudly he would have been embarrassed but he tried to put his feelings aside.
“Are you well?” he asked, feeling a bit foolish.
She didn’t answer, but spent a couple of minutes coughing and spitting. Melvekior kept his eyes averted politely until she had finished and then again inquired as to her health.
Again there was no response. Janesca threw herself on the bed, uncaring that she was unclothed, her breasts rising and falling with her deep breaths, his amulet laying flat between them. “That ain’t never happened afore, must have been a bad batch of ale,” she said.
“Well, I feel fine. You’re probably still sick from your ordeal, don’t think anything of it.” Or maybe the dead cannot drink.
“Yes, that must be it. I’ll sleep now, sorry for waking you.” She closed her eyes and Melvekior picked up her blanket from the floor and lay it over her.
He watched her for some minutes, just to make sure she was well and got into his own bed. Where was all this taking him? He checked himself. It was taking him nowhere different. His mission hadn’t changed. Find his mother, understand the death curse that followed him, avenge her death, even if it meant killing a King.
A weight lifted from his shoulders. He’d never really outlined his mission to that extent before and it felt good to know what he was aiming for. Previously it was a nebulous sort of goal, find out what happened to your mother, but now it was concrete. A beginning, find Bavh and get what he could from her. Failing that, contact followers of Ain-Ordra, the Goddess of Death. It is said that they can communicate with the deceased and that would suit him.
He had an end game as well. Find out what the amulet was all about and how it fits in with the Three Kings, avoiding Sunar who would probably try to accuse him of treason and confiscate his estate and then string him up by his neck. Then plan the downfall of the most powerful men in the land. That is of course, if they had anything to do with his mother’s death. It sounded lofty to him as he lay in the dark thinking about it, but he was highly trained for a reason and the more he thought about it, the more it became obvious why his father made to very sure of his martial and academic expertise. To carry out the revenge he could not.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Immortal City
“Behold what we have wrought…” - Thacritus, the Mage King, at the sacking of Stonehaven.
Mile after mile of crops, livestock and fallow fields. He felt as though he’d been riding through the same farm over and over. He knew basic agriculture and the value of farmers and how difficult their task and how thankless. That didn’t mean he desired to spend any more time in their presence than absolutely necessary.
Mistaking the outlying suburbs for the city itself, Melvekior was laughed at more than once by passing peasants when asking for directions. It seemed that manners were in short supply in the big city. Many was the time that Janesca made to offer advice but found herself unable to speak for fear of being sick. She had started to look positively awful. Her skin an ashen color and when she tried to speak it came out as a gurgle and the first couple of times had her retching though no food had passed her lips at any time during that day. This was a worry for him and did a lot to convince him that his initial diagnosis of her was correct. That she was Draugr, somehow and she would continue to decay, in mind and body until she became a ravening creature whose only desire was for the death of the living.
It was late afternoon when the gates of the city itself came into view. The hour didn’t mean quieter however, the roads had been getting busier the closer they got and now they were positively jammed with wagons, horses, pedestrians, beggars and people crossing from one side to the other.
Melvekior was painfully aware of his companion’s position and her appearance. It wasn’t immediately obvious but every now and then a whiff of decay would assail his senses and he quickly realized that her state might soon become obvious to anyone looking at her. He stopped before attempting the gates, removed her cloak and wiped it in some horse dung that lay all over the road. That would certainly disguise her odd smell and put anyone off searching her too closely. He made her keep the hood up when he returned the cloak to her. She complained about being hot, but better than being dead or denied entrance to the city. He hoped that the disguise didn’t make her stand out, but looking at the vast array of people, human and non-human, in plain site, that wasn’t going to be a problem.
Whatever other adventures awaited him, his first task was to find some sort of cure for Janesca’s condition.
The city gates were huge. Easily thirty feet tall and eighty wide, the two enormous barred creations were wide open. Guards stood at either side of the entrance to the vast metropolis and they didn’t look friendly. Entrants were scrutinized by the guards in passing and some were taken aside and accosted. Melvekior and Janesca both waited their turn patiently, his nervousness masked by his confidence that his name and position as a nobleman would get them through no matter her state. They would just think she was some sort of drunk concubine, not that he cared what they thought beyond letting them in. There weren’t too many people on horseback waiting to enter the city but there were some, meaning that they didn’t stand out too much.
He did his best to look arrogant and idle. He remembered the look of Prince Sunar and tried to emulate that. He couldn’t think of a more arrogant looking man.
When it was their turn a guard signaled them forward, looked at him, looked at her, narrowed his eyes, looked back at him and then motioned to the next person in line.
Dammit! He wanted some information from the man.
“Excuse me, guard.” He pulled up and looked down on the guard.
“Move along, keep the gates clear.” The fellow barely even spared him a glance.
“But I..” Melvekior began.
The guard motioned for a pedestrian and started to engage her in conversation, turning his back on the knight. Half tempted to make more of an issue, he remembered that he was quite possibly unknown to this man and it was not unrealistic to expect that nobody was likely to care about his rank or heritage.
Motioning for Janesca to follow he spurred his mount forward.
The scale of the city was staggering.
Melvekior’s ancestral home could easily fit into the main square. Punctuated by a larger than life statue of King Calra Alpre XVII holding a sword aloft, surrounded by smaller statues of who he guessed were heads of states of the other contributors to Amaranth’s existence. Prince Sunar was the only one he could remember having met, though he was sure he had been in the presence of King Alpre as a child. The robed, faceless statue was undoubtedly the chief Mage of Thacritus and the man in the loincloth looked how Melvekior would imagine a Denier of Kurhu would look.
The Deniers weren’t even a nearby state but they held such martial power that they could not be ignored. A portion of Amaranth had been signed over to them with the appropriate amount of taxes delivered twice yearly in exchange for their support in the eventuality of one of the other three incumbents getting ideas about taking the entire city. Their duties extended to guarding the all-important mines. A standing army of 400 Kurhian troops inhabited a no-go part of the city. They never left and nobody ever went in. They didn’t visit brothels or bars and weren’t interested in commerce or pleasure. They weren’t called “Deniers” for nothing. They were one of the sights that Melvekior had been looking forward to seeing.
The statue was heavily muscled, the figure standing straight and looking straight ahead. Even Ottkatla spoke about these people with reverence, she who believed Uthites lazy and spoiled only able to conquer her people
through strength of numbers. They fought sometimes with long spears or staves but most often with curved swords and small round, slightly concave, shields. Born to the blade, they trained from youth, much younger than he when he picked up a weapon for the first time, and lived a life of hardship and service to some unknown goal. It was said that so feared were they that the Three Kings were forced to include them in the wealth of Amaranth for fear that they would invade and simply take it.
He stood for a while, by his mount, regarding the statues, contemplating his lot. His situation was certainly exciting but he was outside of his comfort zone in every way. He found himself, if only momentarily, attracted to a woman other than Ottkatla, he was in an alien place that was many, many times more strange than he’d expected and down on his luck monetarily. The twenty crowns he had brought was now ten, thanks to Janesca and the Tashers. He could send for more funds and in fact he was certain that there’d be a finance house somewhere in this vast metropolis that would advance him some gold, but he didn’t want to take from the estate. That was promised to those families. He had a brief, desperate thought. Maybe he’d have to earn money. Which of course was ludicrous; he was the Earl of Martelle and still owned land and he knew that his father had concerns in many other areas, how to find them was the problem. There were serfs who worked his land that paid taxes, so he must be wealthy. Surely. That was something he’d look into when he next saw Aeldryn. How exactly did his father make his money?
“Excuse me Sir,” a timid, quivering voice broke the knight’s reverie.
Melvekior looked around to see a man, one with worse luck than he, bearded and dirty. A beggar by the looks of it, his clothes ragged, his expression earnest and lackwitted.
“Begone beggar, I’m not a gracious man.”
“I’m not looking for a handout Sir, I am a guide. And you look like you could do with a guide to our wonderful city. You are new here, am I correct?”
Melvekior did need a guide. He had no idea what he was doing or where he should go, apart from a name. Bavh.
“Actually, yes, I need to find a specific person.” He studied the the down and out local. His appearance was a shambles, shoes thin and poorly made, his hair wild and untended. “And also an inn. A good one. Imagine that if you were to frequent an inn yourself, that would be the sort of place to which you should definitely not introduce me.”
“Of course Sir, I understand.” The man’s head bobbed up and down, his ugly face grimacing into what might have been a toothless grin but Melvekior couldn’t be sure. “Let me help you up onto your fine steed, Sir.”
The tramp ineffectually tried to help the mailed knight up onto his mount, but Melvekior swiped his hand away. He hated that someone would just touch him. The side effects of living amongst all the people he surmised.
Once mounted, he made sure Janesca was fine. She sat staring into nothingness and he knew he must get her help straight away. He motioned for the beggar to go. He old man set off with a start and a nodding head but stopped literally just fifty feet away. A large sign, clean and freshly painted, sat on the wall of a fine looking establishment. The Maiden. It looked suitable. The “guide” held his hand out, but Melvekior wasn’t finished with him.
“I also seek someone who might be able to help in the matter of ahh, never mind. Where is the Great Library?” He chastised himself internally for not speaking to the beggar at his level. What was the point in trying to include him in the discussion. Ask the question and see him off.
The old man gawped at him blankly. Of course, he probably couldn’t read, a library would be somewhere he would never go.
“Very well, do you know where I might find a Necromancer?” Melvekior asked, assuming that a beggar would at least know the seedier side of life quite well.
“Nocturne Close, sir,” he appeared pleased that he could be of service, his wizened head nodding up and down, his tongue making a clacking sound in his mouth.
“Your service is appreciated,” Melvekior responded, plainly disgusted at the old beggar. He slipped him a silver piece and turned his head slightly, ostensibly to look at a passing woman, but mostly to turn his nose away from the ‘guide’.
Once the beggar saw that it was silver, he coughed his gratitude and ran as fast as his scurvied legs would carry him. To the nearest alehouse, no doubt, thought Melvekior.
Shaking his head, he made sure Janesca was still there. She was. Looking wan, still holding on to the reins of both horses. He turned his attention to The Maiden. The sign held an extremely detailed painting of a courtly woman with a long conical hat peering into a pond, the script in a calligraphic style popular amongst the wealthy. A man stood before the door, ramrod straight using peripheral vision to visually vet potential customers. He wore a scarlet robe with gold filigree and a perpetually sour expression.
Melvekior faced him and the man put on a fake smile. “Good day Sir, do you need directions to somewhere?” His nose crinkled as though he smelled something rotten.
“No I do not. I have it on good authority that this establishment is suitable for a man of my station.” The doorman didn’t look convinced and did not answer. “Need I draw you a picture man, fetch someone to see to my horses and usher me and my sister through to a waiting room.” This got more attention. Only a certain type of person spoke to underlings in such a fashion and actually knew what a waiting room was.
“To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
Obsequious toad, thought Melvekior.
“I am Melvekior, the 5th Earl of Martelle and this is my sister Janesca. As you can see, she is not well and we were waylaid on the way here, dampening my mood somewhat. I’d much rather not be discussing my business at the front door like some common tradesman.”
“Of course Lord Martelle, right this way.” He leaned to his right, pulled open the door of The Maiden and smiled invitingly.
This was the most luxurious building Melvekior could remember setting foot in. He knew he’d been to King Alpre’s palace in his life but was too young to remember and he struggled to think how it could have contain a more obnoxious display of wealth than The Maiden.
There was no desk or bar like every other inn he’d seen. This one had comfy leather chairs, side tables, a large fireplace, not in use currently and dark wood bookcases covering two walls. There were two other doors out of the room and one man sitting on one of the chairs, reading. The table next to him was covered with odd little foodstuffs at which he picked intermittently and a glass decanter of some dark red liquid.
“Sit, will you?” he said to Janesca who was standing behind him, looking ever more sick. She did so at the same time as a another stuffy looking fellow came from the doorway on the left.
“Lord Martelle, welcome to the Maiden. Will you require two rooms?” His voice was clipped and precise, not polite but efficient.
“One room will be adequate, my sister is unwell and I will tend to her.” He affected an air of disinterest. He had learned that from Mikael, who while he never used such a tone with his own servants, was a master at being an arrogant bastard.
“I see. Lord, what ails Her Grace, can I be of any assistance? I am a trained medician and know of every expert in the city.” He looked serious and appropriately concerned.
“Possibly, um…”
“Havimelle, Sir,” the concierge said.
“Quite possibly, Havimelle,” he continued thinking what an odd name that was, “she is in need of some care, but it will require discretion.”
“Say no more, Lord,” the servant said and turned his back to the other man in the room, standing, head slightly bowed, shoulder to shoulder with Melvekior.
He needed to trust someone and he couldn’t afford to be cautious otherwise he would never have volunteered any such information. “Havimelle, my sister has been infected with a curse of death. Look at her, she is gray and listless. She cannot eat. I feel she is near the end and a specialist in that field is what I need in a hurry. I know of someone, a
n expert who works in the Great Library, Bavh. She is whom I seek.” He spoke softly, neither wishing to excite Janesca or share with the man drinking the wine.
“I know of her, Lord, but her location is unknown to me and all in the Library and in the Temple. Her master, Hestallr has announced that she is on a pilgrimage and it should be said that this is not an unusual thing for Bhav.”
“This cannot be! How long has she been gone?” He leaned against the back of a chair, his hands gripping the soft leather.
“Roughly half a month to my knowledge, but while I am,” he paused to look up dramatically at the ceiling, “current, I am not in the confidences of the Church.”
“Do you know of others then, Havimelle, who may know how to cure a death curse.” Melvekior was struggling to keep calm and also not mentioned his suspicions. ‘Death curse’ he hoped wasn’t too specific but he hoped it got the point across.
“Experts in death are rare, Lord, it is a forbidden subject, spoken of only in whispers. The penalty for Necromancy is harsh in Amaranth and I believe in Uth and Maresh-Kar too. King Alpre has a particular dislike for followers of Ain-Ordra and as I’m sure you know, her worship is kept under close scrutiny.” He looked like had more to say but he checked himself.
“Spit it out, man, I’m no King’s agent if you need to say something ‘forbidden’.” The man could utter the utmost blasphemy but Melevkior’s whole reason for coming to this place, let alone Janesca’s life, depended on information, so he wasn’t concerned about its content, merely its veracity.
“It seems to me that the King is a little too hard on Her Dark Majesty’s adherents. Not that I am one, you understand,” he added quickly, “but each to their own is what I say and we in Amaranth pride ourselves on our tolerance. Some of our guests, in the past, have been able to find assistance with such matters from a shopkeeper in a less than pleasant part of town. I say less than pleasant because of the people who live their. Deviants and perverts, but each to their own, I say. Nevertheless, Galtian is a disgusting fellow with a keen eye for robbing a person blind, though he also has a keen mind and specializes in information in a manner similar to me. Though that information is of a different kind.”
