“I will let you be about it, then. Good luck.”
“We will not need luck this night.” Yeg observed with a smile. “These Mortentians are as blind as they are stupid.”
It was Settis Millerman’s final misfortune that he was cursed with a beautiful sister. His first misfortune was to have been born a freeman in the township of Chiam, in Dunwater. His second misfortune was to have been cursed with poor eyesight. Although his parents insisted that his given name was Settis, he had been called Squinty from the age of thirteen. When Squinty looked at the world beyond a dozen paces he saw only mysteries, shrouded in fog.
But his sister was beautiful, and no amount of flour from the mill or layers of ragged clothing could hide the fact. When she walked men looked, and their eyes did not turn away unless she looked straight at them. Poor Squinty was her only escort, and he could not see when the men were looking unless they were close by, nor could he always tell who they were.
Lanna bore the stares with downcast eyes, for although she walked with a sway to her hips that caused men’s blood to rise, she knew her place. Girls who worked in the mill kept their eyes down, their heads covered and their hands concealed in the folds of their dresses.
Nevertheless, she had not been able to avoid the attention of every man who looked upon her, even at the age of fourteen, and when Jam Kundrell looked she blushed furiously and wished to be anywhere else. Jam Kundrell was of the nobility, and he was used to taking what he wanted. Behind his back and in voices that none might overhear they called him Jam the Raper, and he was feared. On the day he saw Lanna, he decided he would have her. Not for wife, of course, but for a few evenings at the least.
Lanna had gasped when Jam rudely put his hand on her bottom, and poor Squinty, who saw the hand but could not see to whom it belonged, had dared to put his hands on Jam and tell him to leave her alone.
Now Jam was in Lanna’s bed and Squinty was in the starving box, a wooden cage hanging from a beam affixed to the high western wall of Chiam. The box had no floor, and Squinty lay across the wooden bars with his feet and arms dangling, for the box was too small to fit in. He’d been two days in the starving box, and had determined to die proudly, refusing to drink from the skin of piss the guards had lowered into it each day. His mouth was dry and parched, and his throat was an agony of want. He knew that tomorrow when the noon sun began to bake him once again he would drink the guards’ piss and he hated himself for his weakness.
Another night of torment began. The coolness of the evening brought him some small relief, but this was greatly diminished by the thought of what would happen at midnight. At midnight Jam Kundrell would appear below the box, and tell him how he had once again raped Lanna and was going to go back and rape her until morning. The details Jam provided did not bear repeating, but they burned in Squinty’s memory, every one.
Squinty quietly wept, but he’d long since become so dry that he could no longer shed tears, and a dry rattle was all that remained of his voice.
Darkness fell, and Squinty could hear but not see the lamplighters igniting the two lamps that illumined the box at night, so that any late passersby could see his humiliation and punishment. All Squinty saw was two vague balls of yellow light five paces below the starving box that flickered in the slight breeze. It would be two hours before Jam the Raper came, and Squinty’s heart burned thinking of what his sister was enduring.
The lamplighters left and his silent torment continued.
Fits of delirium had taken Squinty in the box twice, brief moments of madness that gave him some respite from his agony, memories of water and food and walking free. So it did not surprise him when his mind told him that a skin of water had been thrown into the box from below. He tried to ignore it, but then a skillfully thrown knife appeared in the wooden beam within inches of his hand, striking with an all too realistic sound that made him flinch. Moments later something soft and indistinct landed on the top of the box, and in the light of the torches Squinty was sure it was a length of rope.
These things had been no part of any delusion he’d previously suffered, and for a moment all he could do was stare. A whisper came from the dark below.
“Hssst. Take them! You know what to do.”
Hoping against all common sense that these things were real, he first put the skin of water to his mouth. It was cold and clean, and he savored the taste for a moment before upending it and sucking as greedily as a calf on a teat. He drank as if he could not remember the taste of water. Then he used the rope to secure himself and grabbed the knife. It was very sharp, and he went to work on the ropes holding his cage together in a frenzy, lest he be discovered before he could escape.
Below him two shadows waited, just outside the ring of light provided by the lamps.
When the starveling had gone, climbing gracelessly down from the broken cage and running with a fixed purpose into the night, Yeg and Derry climbed up the rope, clambered over the stinking cage, up the chain affixing it to the beam and high walked into the town of Chiam. They were students of human nature, these two, and they had charmed the story of the man in the box from several of their custom during the fair. They guessed that the peasant called Squinty would immediately be calling on his sister and her unwanted guest, and that soon there would be one less Kundrell to torment the maidens who worked in the grinding mill of Chiam.
In the morning the peasant would discover that his dagger had a solid gold handle, and the Entreddi had put men in place who would ensure that he used it to secure safe passage for his sister and grandmother far from Chiam and Dunwater Duchy. In the minds of the Kaleeth twins this was justice, and had the fortunate side benefit of misdirecting suspicion and blame for their night’s work, which still lay ahead.
Like the shadows of shadows they moved among the narrow streets of Chiam, avoiding the notice of the night watch as easily as if they were indeed blind. They knew whose house they were to visit and they went there unerringly.
Lannon D’Garth slept like a child, curled around a large and finely made pillow that he held as if it were a woman, not that he knew what that felt like. Junior exchequers of the inquisitors were permitted neither to marry nor to have women, and Lannon had abided by that rule, although a boy now and then was not out of the question. He was accounted an odd man, D’Garth was, for despite his obvious wealth, reflected in his two fine carriages and his excellent clothing, he kept no body servants. His house was maintained by a pair of old cleaning women who came twice weekly, and he never ate at home.
His lack of a household staff was accounted by some to be a sign of his humility, but those who knew him well discounted this theory. Lannon D’Garth was far from humble. He was, in fact, an arrogant and domineering prick, and took great pleasure in collecting the church’s gold through threat and intimidation. Not that he was himself physically intimidating, quite the opposite, but he wore the signet ring of the Inquisitors on the little finger of his left hand, and this alone instilled all the fear he needed to ensure that accounts did not become delinquent.
No, to those who knew him well, his lack of a household staff likely meant that he was doing things in his home he didn’t wish for others to know about. This was certainly not in the realm of the fantastic when speaking of a churchman.
To the brothers Kaleeth, his lack of a household staff meant no witnesses needed to be silenced when they picked the lock of an attic window and let themselves inside. They crept into his bedroom on cats’ feet and regarded the sleeping man. They took off their masks. They were not worried about being identified.
When D’Garth awoke to find two strangers in black in his bedroom he opened his mouth to call the watch, but a sharp blade pressed to his throat silenced his cry before he could utter it.
“What do you want?” He demanded. “I am a servant of the inquisitors. You can die for this.”
“We want to talk to you.” Yeg replied, pulling up a chair and sitting in it while Derry bound the exchequer’s hands together and
tied them to the foot of the bed, leaving the fat man sitting uncomfortably with his hands between his knees. “And were I in your place, I shouldn’t think I would be concerned about other people dying right now.”
“Listen.” D’Garth said quietly. “You speak like a reasonable man. I have gold. You can have it. Just don’t hurt me.”
Yeg smiled. “We know you have gold. That’s what we want to talk to you about.” He took the point of his knife and began cleaning his fingernails. D’Garth stared at the thin blade in the moonlight. “We want to talk to you about fifty Tolrissan royals that you took to the metalsmith in Sister Rock and had recast into Mortentian gilders last spring.”
Perspiration pebbled the exchequer’s forehead suddenly. “I don’t know what you are talking about. It is a crime you are describing.”
“We don’t care about your crimes.” Derry said from the side of the bed, speaking gently. “We aren’t here on behalf of the crown or the tax man. We are not here to take your gold, so you can relax about that. The thing is, when you recast foreign gold, we can’t exactly come up to you in the street and ask you where you got it, but that’s what we are interested in. My brother here thinks we need to torture you to get that information, but I know we can all be reasonable here. The first thing you must do is to admit that you recast the coins, which is all.”
“Like I said.” D’Garth’s voice was gaining confidence. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Derry shook his head sadly, then he stuffed a pillowcase in D’Garth’s mouth, noticing by the soft feel that it was a very nice pillowcase, very finely woven. Then Yeg cut off D’Garth’s little finger, taking the inquisitor’s ring with it. Derry held the man tightly and stifled his screams until they turned to quieter sobs of pain.
“Listen you bugger.” Said Yeg angrily. “I know full well you had the king’s stamp put on that gold, so don’t lie to me again, or I’ll take the next finger by flensing.” He grabbed a handful of D’Garth’s hair and yanked his head back, forcing the man to look him in the eyes. “No more lies or you are going to make me angry.”
“You had better listen to him, Lannon.” Derry continued reasonably. “He means what he says, I’m afraid. There’s no controlling him when he’s angry. Now nod your head when you are ready to talk again, but understand, if you scream, Yeg won’t be so easy next time. Also, we’re in a bit of a hurry, so don’t waste our time, all right?”
After a moment D’Garth nodded. Derry removed the pillowcase from his mouth. “Yes!” The terrified man exclaimed. “Yes, I admit it. I had the gold recast!”
“And where did you get the gold?” Yeg demanded.
“Please.” D’Garth replied. “I cannot tell you. They will kill me.”
Yeg laughed, a low and menacing sound somewhat incongruous with his pretty face. “They aren’t here now, D’Garth. We are. They might kill you some day, if they find out you told us, and if they can find you once you take your gold and run, but that’s someday. Tonight it’s you and me, and I assure you that whatever they might do someday in the future is nothing compared to what I am going to do to you right this moment if you don’t tell us everything.”
“He means everything, Lannon.” Derry explained while gently wrapping D’Garth’s finger in bandages torn from his bedsheets. “Every little thing, all the way back to the beginning. Not just the recasting of the gold, but who you paid with it, and what they were supposed to do.”
D’Garth began talking. “She was a witch. A hard-faced black haired witch.” He whined. “The brothers were investigating witchery that was being done in Greencrook, where two of the Sea Guard had been struck blind. I was along with them to collect payment from the lord mayor for the inquisitor’s upkeep, and she came to me.”
“And why did she come to you?” Yeg demanded. “How did she know to come to you?”
“There was a boy in the town. A pretty boy, and she found out.”
“A pretty boy tempted you?” Derry offered sympathetically, sounding like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. He was a pretty boy himself, after all. “A boy who was hard to resist?”
“Yes.” D’Garth nodded. “And she and her man caught us at it, there at the Inn.”
“What did she want you to do?” Yeg’s voice was hard.
“Only to take the money and have it recast, then to deliver it to those who would demand it later.”
“A person like yourself, a man who travels a lot on the church business, did she want information from you, as well?” Derry asked.
“Yes, she wanted help finding a man. She wanted to know about a full-blooded Aulig who had been in the war but now was on the Mortentian side. They were looking for him.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“Well, I knew the man, naturally.” D’Garth explained. “Or at least I knew who I thought it must be. Baron Brego’s man, that Tuchek.”
“So you told them where he might be found?” Yeg asked. “Or did you help them in finding him?”
“They came to me looking.” D’Garth continued. “A horrible blind beggar and a young nobleman from one of the Greencrook Houses. He was an O’root. Jelder O’root.”
“The one Tuchek killed in Alidis.” Yeg told Derry, who nodded, remembering what they had already learned.
“And you gave them the gold?”
“Yes. All but ten gilders they let me keep.” D’Garth replied.
“Listen D’Garth, for this is important. Who was the witch?” Yeg asked him. D’Garth turned pale and hesitated.
“I … I don’t know her name.” He stammered.
“But you know of her, yes?” Asked Derry in a kindly voice. “You made inquiries. Sure you did, for you wanted to know if you could get out of her grasp, yes?”
“Yes.” The Exchequer admitted, sweating and shaking.
“Tell us.” Yeg commanded.
“She was seen on a ship. The Kalgareth. It’s a cargo boat out of Northcraven that some think might be a smuggler. She has a man who goes with her always, a very tall man with a strange way of talking, like a Tolrissan or a Rhuman perhaps. He carries a longsword. He was with her in Greencrook when …”
“When they caught you buggering the pretty boy.” Yeg finished for him, and D’Garth nodded.
Yeg nodded to Derry. They had what they had come for.
“I want you to close your eyes and think about how lovely that boy was.” Derry said gently into D’Garth’s ear, then he slit the man’s throat from ear to ear, pushing the razor sharp blade through the gristle and windpipe with a sudden strength one wouldn’t expect from a man with such a delicate build and sweet face.
The freemen and peasants who worked at the mill in Chiam ignored the screams that came from the Millerman house, just as they ignored the sight of Gamma Millerman wringing her hands and weeping while she walked beneath the lamp outside. Jam Kundrell’s gray mare whickered and stamped impatiently, tied to a hitching post just a few paces from the front door. They knew the horse. They knew the finely tooled saddle and the Kundrell house livery, and if the horse could have spoken it could have delivered no clearer message than did the livery: Stay away, this is none of your affair.
No, they did not want the gray mare to come to their houses, so they stayed indoors, the men with secret shame and guilt, the women with relief that they were not fair enough to attract the attention of Jam the Raper, as they called him.
In the house Jam the Raper was teaching Lanna Millerman why he was so named, and she was weeping in her shame and humiliation. Squinty Millerman heard her weeping as he silently entered the house through the rear door. He heard her weeping and he heard Jam laughing and he determined that one or both of those sounds would soon stop. He carried the dagger that had been given to him in the starving box, and he quickly put it to good use.
The neighbors were glad when the noise from the Millerman house stopped and they could pretend that nothing was wrong in this quiet part of Chiam. Although their actions
indicated that they had paid no attention to the noises that came from that house, not a single one of them failed to notice when they stopped. A furtive glance from a window or half open door showed them the gray horse was still there, so not one of them dared to come onto the street.
In the morning they wondered, for Gamma Millerman was gone, but the gray horse was still there and the Millerman’s house was as still and as empty as the graveyard. Nevertheless, it was none of their business, and if Lanna and Gamma Millerman did not come forth from their home in the morning, neither did Jam the Raper.
It was not until midmorning that it was discovered that Squinty Millerman had escaped from the starving box and killed Jam Kundrell as well as some church fellow in town, and by then the Millerman family had been gone for nearly twelve hours. There were half a dozen good roads out of Chiam, and twice as many cartpaths and farmer’s roads. The furious and wrathful Kundrells sent hunters down them all, but the Millermans had vanished as if swallowed by the earth itself.
One of the count’s men thought of the Entreddi wagons that had been in town, but these were searched, too, and nothing suspicious found. Had he known the Entreddi better, he would have been alerted from this fact alone, but he did not, and was not.
Chapter 42: Aelfric, Lord of the Privies
“Oh, by the Shadow of King Falante’s arse, Aelfric, you are the twice damned lord of shit!” Kandros O’Bolter exclaimed angrily, with the unspoken agreement of the dozen Red Tigers who stood around with shovels in hand or hauling barrows full of freshly dug dirt. “Asking for the duty of digging new latrines and setting up a whole new buttbungling camp! You’ve lost your fornicating mind! Asking for the damned duty! Asking!”
“Aye, Aelfric the Lord of the Privies.” Added tall Blacwin from Galt bitterly. “If Warin wasn’t in town getting drunk again, he’d be having you whipped for stupidity. Digging out fresh latrines with all of our Lio bedamned armor on. What was you thinking?”
Aelfric did not reply, but merely jumped up on his spade, driving the wooden blade deep into the soft earth in the wide and open meadow. He himself had designed the new latrines, suggesting to Tessil Barith that the Red Tigers should have a camp of their own, closer to the forest so that wood could be more easily gathered. Tessil had laughed at him, then consented. “If you want to be the man who tells your fyrde they need to spend a day digging shitholes, that’s fine by me, Aelfric. They’re going to want to knock you senseless, though.”
War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy Page 42
