Heir of Novron

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Arista nodded.

  “Blimey,” Rusty said, staring now at Hadrian. “I seen this fella afore too—just a few weeks ago. He’s the tourney champion. He unhorsed everyone ’cept Breckton, and he only missed ’cuz he didn’t want ta kill him.” He looked at Hadrian with admiration. “You woulda dropped him if’n you’d had the chance. I know it.”

  “Who else you got with you?” Ayers asked, looking overwhelmed. “The Heir of Novron?”

  Arista and Hadrian exchanged glances.

  “Our rooms—where are they?” Alric asked, joining them as he shook the wet out of his hood.

  “I—ah—let me show you.” Ayers grabbed a box of keys and led the way up the stairs.

  As she climbed, Arista looked down at the empty space below and remembered how they had spent forty-five silver to sleep there. “How much for the rooms?”

  Ayers paused, turned, and chuckled.

  When they reached the top of the stairs, he threw his arms out. “Here you are.”

  “Which rooms?”

  Ayers grinned. “Take the whole floor.”

  “How much?” Alric asked.

  Ayers laughed. “I’m not charging you—I can’t charge you. I’d be strung up. You get settled in and I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”

  Alric grinned. “See? I told you it was worth coming. They are very friendly here.”

  “For her,” Ayers said, nodding in Arista’s direction, “nothing in this city has a price.”

  Alric frowned.

  “That is very kind,” she told him. “But given our situation, I think five rooms will still be best.”

  “What? Why?” Alric said.

  “I don’t think we want to leave Magnus or Gaunt unsupervised, do you?”

  Hadrian, Royce, Myron, and Gaunt took one room. Wyatt, Elden, Magnus, and Mauvin took the second, and the boys took the third. Alric insisted on his own room, which left Arista alone as well.

  “Relax as long as you like,” Ayers told them. “Feel free to come down and enjoy the hearth. I’ll roll out my best keg and uncork my finest bottles. If you choose to sleep, I’ll send Jimmy to knock on your doors as soon as the meal is ready. And I just want to say, it’s a great honor to have you here.” He said the last part while staring at Arista.

  She heard Alric sigh.

  Wyatt lay on one of the beds, stretching out his sore muscles. Elden sat across from him on the other bed, his huge head in his hands, his elbows on his knees. The bed bent under the pressure. Wyatt could see the ropes drooping down below the frame. Elden caught Wyatt’s look and stared back with sad, innocent eyes. Like Allie, Elden trusted him. He gave the big man a reassuring smile.

  “Stop! Don’t touch that!” Mauvin shouted, and every head in the room turned. The count was hanging his cloak on a string with the other wet clothes. He glared at Magnus, who had a hand outreached toward the pommel of Pickering’s sword, which was sheathed and hanging by a belt slung over the bedpost.

  Magnus raised a bushy eyebrow and frowned. “What is it with you humans? And you call us misers! Do you think I’ll stuff it under my shirt and walk off with it? It’s as tall as I am!”

  “I don’t care. Leave it be.”

  “It’s a fine weapon,” the dwarf said, his hand retreating, but his eyes drinking it in. “Where did you get it?”

  “It was my father’s.” Mauvin advanced to the end of the bed and grabbed his sword.

  “Where did he get it?”

  “It’s a family heirloom, passed down for generations.” Mauvin held the sword in his hand gingerly, as if it were an injured sparrow needing reassuring after its narrow escape from the dwarf. Wyatt had not noticed the weapon before, but now that his attention was drawn, he saw that it was an uncommonly attractive sword. It was elegant in its simplicity; the lines were perfect and the metal of the hilt shone bright. Almost imperceptible were fine decorative lines.

  “I meant, how did yer family come to have it? It is a rare man who owns such a blade as this.”

  “I suppose one of my ancestors made it, or paid for it to be made.”

  The dwarf made a disgusting noise in his throat. “This was not made by some corner blacksmith with a brat pumping a bellows. That there, lad, was forged in natural fires in the dark of a new moon. Your kind didn’t touch it for centuries.”

  “My kind? Are you saying this is dwarven?”

  Again the noise of reproach. “Bah! Not by my kin—that blade is elvish and a fine one at that, or I’ve never worn a beard.”

  Mauvin looked at him skeptically.

  “Does she sing when she travels the air? Catch the light around her and trap it in her blade? Never grow dull even if used as a shovel or an axe? Cut through steel? Cut through other blades?”

  Mauvin’s face answered the dwarf. The count slowly drew it out. The blade shimmered in the lamplight like glass.

  “Oh yes, she’s an elven blade, boy, drawn from stone and metal, formed in the heat of the world, and tempered in pure water by the First Ones, the Children of Ferrol. No finer blade have I laid my eyes on save one.”

  Mauvin slipped it back and frowned. “Just don’t touch it, okay?”

  Wyatt heard the dwarf grumble something about having his beard cut off; then Magnus moved to the bed on the other side of the room, where he was too far for Wyatt to hear. Mauvin still held the blade, rubbing his fingers over the pommel; his eyes had a faraway look.

  They were strangers to Wyatt. Mauvin, he knew, was a count of Melengar and close friend of King Alric. He had also heard that he was a good sword fighter. His younger brother had been killed in a sword fight some years back. His father had died recently—killed by the elves. He seemed a decent sort. A bit moody, perhaps, but all right. Still, he was noble and Wyatt had never had many dealings with them, so he decided to be cautious and quiet.

  He kept a closer eye on the dwarf and wondered about the “misunderstandings” the empress had spoken of.

  How do I keep getting myself into these situations?

  Poor Elden. Wyatt had no idea what he made of all this.

  “How you feeling?” Wyatt asked.

  Elden shrugged.

  “Want to go down for the meal, or have me bring you back a plate?”

  Again a shrug.

  “Does he talk?” Mauvin asked.

  “When he wants to,” Wyatt replied.

  “You’re the sailors, right?”

  Wyatt nodded.

  “I’m Mauvin Pickering,” he said, putting out his hand.

  Wyatt took it. “Wyatt Deminthal, and this is Elden.”

  The count looked Elden over. “What does he do on a ship?”

  “Whatever he wants, I should think,” Magnus muttered. This brought a reluctant smile to everyone’s lips, including those of the dwarf, who clearly had not meant it as a joke but gave in just the same.

  “Where are you from—Magnus, is it?” Wyatt asked. “Is there a land of dwarves?”

  The dwarf’s smile faded. “Not anymore.” He clearly meant that to be the end of it, but Wyatt continued to stare and now Mauvin and Elden were doing likewise. “From up north—the mountains of Trent.”

  “Is it nice there?”

  “It’s a ghetto—dirty, cramped, and hopeless, like every place they let dwarves live. Satisfied?”

  Wyatt regretted saying anything. An awkward silence followed until the tension was broken by a pounding at the door and a cheerful shout: “Meal is ready!”

  The knock came to their door announcing supper and Hadrian and Myron were first on their feet. Royce, who sat on a stiff wooden chair in the corner by the window, did not stir. His back was to them as he stared out at the dark. Perhaps his elven eyes could see more than the blackness of the glassy pane, perhaps he was watching people moving below, or the windows of the shops across the street, but Hadrian doubted he was even aware of the window itself.

  Royce had not said a word since they had left Aquesta. When he bothered, he communicated in nods. Royce w
as always quiet, but this was unusual even for him. More disturbing than his silence were his eyes. Royce always watched the road, the eaves of the forest, the horizon, always looking, scanning for trouble, but not that day. The thief rode for over nine hours without once looking up. Hadrian could not tell if he stared at the saddle or the ground. Royce might have been asleep except that his hands continually played with the ends of the reins, twisting them with such force that Hadrian could hear the leather cry.

  “Hadrian, fetch me a plate of whatever they are handing out down there,” Degan told him as he lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

  Upon first entering the room, Gaunt had immediately claimed the bed nearest the fireplace. He had cast off his houppelande and chaperon, throwing them on the floor. Then he had flung himself on the mattress, where he sprawled, moaning about his aches.

  “And make sure it’s lean,” Gaunt went on. “I don’t want a bunch of fat. I want the good stuff. And I’ll take dark bread if they have it, the darker the better. And a glass of wine—no, make that a bottle, and be sure it’s good stuff, not—”

  “Maybe you should come down and pick out what you want. That way there won’t be any mistakes.”

  “Just bring it up. I’m comfortable—can’t you see I’m comfortable here? I don’t want to mingle with all the local baboons. An emperor needs his privacy. And for Novron’s sake, pick up my clothes! You need to hang those up so they can dry properly.” He looked quizzical. “Hmm… I suppose that should be for my ancestor’s sake, now wouldn’t it? Perhaps even for my sake.” He smiled at the thought.

  Hadrian rolled his eyes. “Let me rephrase. Get your own food or go hungry.”

  Gaunt glowered and slapped his mattress so that even Royce looked over. “What bloody good is it having a personal servant if you never do anything for me?”

  “I’m not your servant; I’m your… bodyguard,” he said with reluctance, the word tasting stale. “How about you, Royce? Can I bring you something?”

  Royce didn’t bother even to shake his head. Hadrian sighed and headed for the door.

  When he descended the stairs, Hadrian found The Laughing Gnome filled to the walls. People packed the common room. Considering their numbers, the crowd was keeping remarkably quiet. Rather than being filled with a roar of conversation and laughter, the room barely buzzed with a low hum of whispers. All heads turned expectantly when he and Myron emerged from the steps. That was followed quickly by signs of disappointment.

  “Right this way, gentlemen,” Ayers called, pushing forward. “Clear a path! Clear a path!”

  Hadrian caught a few muttered false knight and joust champion comments as Ayers escorted them from the bottom of the stairs around to a large table set up in a private room.

  “I’m keeping them out so you can eat in peace,” Ayers told them. “But I can’t kick them out of the inn altogether. I have to live in this town, and I’d never hear the end of it.”

  Wyatt, Mauvin, Magnus, and Alric already sat at the table with empty plates before them. Jimmy, dressed now in a stained apron, rushed about filling cups. He held a pitcher in each hand and danced around the table like a carnival juggler. The room was a small space adjacent to the kitchen. Fieldstone made up half of the wall, along with the corner fireplace. Thick milled timbers and plaster formed the upper portion. The room’s three windows remained shuttered and latched.

  “Are they all here to see us?” Myron asked. He paused at the doorway, looking back at the crowd, mirroring their expressions of awe.

  Hadrian had just taken a seat when a cheer exploded beyond the closed door in the common room. Alric drained his glass and held it up to Jimmy, shaking it.

  “Are you all right? Where have you been?” voices, muffled by the wooden door, called out in the common room. “Were you kidnapped? Will you resume your office? We missed you. Will you drive out the empire again?”

  “Forgive me, dear people, but I have traveled long today,” Arista said from the other room. “I am very tired and cannot hope to answer all your questions. Just know this: the tyrants that once controlled the empire are gone. The empress now—and for the first time—rules, and she is good and wise.”

  “You met her?”

  “I have. I lived with her for a time and have just come from Aquesta. Evil men held her prisoner in her own palace and ruled in her name. But… she rose up against her captors. She saved my life. She saved the world from a false imperium. Now she is in the process of building the true successor to the Empire of Novron. Show her the trust you have given me, and I promise you will not be disappointed. Now, if you will allow me, I am very hungry.”

  Cheering. Applause.

  The door opened and Arista stepped inside, then closed it behind her and leaned on it as if she were barricading it with her body. “Where’d they all come from?”

  “Word spread,” Ayers replied, looking self-conscious. “I need to get back to the bar. I can’t leave the mob too long without refreshment.”

  As Ayers exited, Hadrian spotted Mince standing with the other boys just outside the doorway. Hadrian waved them in. All five entered the dining room in single file and stood just inside—afraid to move farther.

  “They came to our room and told us there was food down here, sir,” Renwick said to Hadrian. “But we don’t know where to go.”

  “Take a seat at the table,” Hadrian replied.

  All the boys reacted with the same shocked expression, a mixture of fear and wonder.

  “Oh, we aren’t going to have the servants eat with us,” Alric said, causing the boys to halt.

  “There are enough chairs,” Arista pointed out.

  “But honestly, stableboys? Look at them. They’re not just servants; they’re children. There must be somewhere else they can eat.”

  “Actually, if I may…” Hadrian spoke loudly, stood up, and grabbed a hold of Mince, who was attempting to worm his way out of the room. “These young men here,” Hadrian said, pointing to Elbright, Kine, and Brand, “assisted in rousing the people of Aquesta to open the gates for you and your army. And Renwick”—Hadrian pointed at the oldest—“was a tremendous help to me as my squire during the time I pretended to be a knight.”

  “Still am, sir. I don’t care what they say.”

  Hadrian smiled at him. “He also fought in the palace courtyard and was one of the first into the dungeon, if you recall. And this young man here,” he said, holding the squirming boy with both hands, “is Mince. This child, as you call him, has been singled out by the empress herself as being instrumental in the overthrow of Ethelred and Saldur. Without them, it is very likely that your sister, Royce, I, and even the empress would all be dead. Oh, and of course, so would you and Mauvin. Not bad for a stableboy. So for all that they have done, don’t you think they deserve a place at our table?”

  “Yes, yes, of course, of course,” Alric said quickly, looking a bit ashamed.

  “Sit down,” Hadrian told them, and they each took a seat, smiles across their faces.

  A rotund woman with short, ratty hair and saddlebag cheeks backed into the room from the kitchen, carrying a deep tray of spit-roasted lamb. She wore a gray wool dress and yet another grease-stained apron.

  She approached the table and stopped abruptly, looking at the diners with a disappointed—even irritated—expression. “Missing three,” she said, her high voice reminding Hadrian of a squeaking door.

  “I’ll bring a plate up for Royce. He’s… he’s not feeling well,” Hadrian explained.

  Arista glanced at him. “Is it okay to leave him alone?”

  Hadrian nodded. “I think so. Besides, if he wanted to do something, who’s going to stop him?”

  “Elden will also be staying in his room,” Wyatt mentioned. “He has a thing about crowds.”

  The cook nodded. Her large breasts, outlined by the apron, hung over the edge of the pan, threatening to nudge the steaming lamb. No one else spoke. Finally she asked, “And where’s that scoundrel Degan Gaunt
? I can’t imagine him turning down a free meal.”

  “Scoundrel?” Hadrian said, surprised. “I thought he was a hero here in Ratibor.”

  “Hero?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, you know. Local boy who went off to seek his fortune, became a pirate, and returned to lead the liberation movement.”

  The cook laughed, though it was more like a cackle that juggled its way out of her round throat. She put down the tray and began cutting the meat.

  Everyone at the table exchanged glances.

  Wyatt shrugged. “I don’t know his background, but Gaunt was no pirate. That I do know.”

  Again, the cook cackled and this time put a hand to her lips, which turned the laughter inward and caused her shoulders and chest to bounce.

  “Are you going to let us in on the joke?” Alric asked.

  “Oh, well, it’s not my place to be spreading rumors, now is it?” she said, and followed the statement by making a show of biting her lower lip. Her hands slowed in their work and then stopped. She looked up and a huge grin pushed the saddlebags apart.

  “Okay, so it’s this way,” she said, lowering her voice. “I grew up only a few doors down from Gaunt—right there on Degan Street. Did you know that his mother named him Degan because it was the only word she knew how to spell, having seen the street sign for so many years?”

  Now that her mouth was going, so were her hands, and she sliced portions and delivered them to their plates, heedless of the little trails of grease she left. “Anywho, his mother and mine were close and I used to be best friends with his sister, Miranda. She was a joy, but Degan—well, even as a boy he was a demon. We stayed clear of him when we could. He was a pitiful little wretch. He got caught stealing dozens of times, and not because of need. I mean, I don’t agree with theft, but pinching a loaf of bread from Briklin’s Bakery when the old man has his back turned to surprise your mother with on Wintertide is one thing. I ain’t saying it is right, but I overlook something like that.

  “Well, as for Degan, he goes in for stuff like smashing the window on the curio shop so he can have a porcelain rabbit he had his eye on. Thing is, everyone knows he’s a no-good. You can see it in the way shopkeepers watch him or shoo him out the door. They can spot the likes of him a mile away.”