While Master Aker and Tonin finished their business, Hatta climbed into the trader’s wagon and riffled through the piles of commodities. Tools, brushes, hoops, dyes, ores, cups, and dishes comprised the bulk of it. Just when he’d given up on finding anything of interest he noticed a silvery blue soil in a pouch at the bottom of a barrel. It wasn’t powder; it was too coarse and earthy, liked crushed ore, but unlike any he had seen.
Outside the wagon, it gave off a silvery blue sheen in the sunlight. Master Aker and the trader were in the middle of a conversation so Hatta said, “Pardon my interruption. What could this be?”
“If the man who sold it to me can be trusted it’s cobalt ore. Similar to iron, says he. I’ve been carrying it for over a year and have yet to find an artisan with a use for it.”
Hatta ran his fingers through the pulverized ore. The color did not cling to his fingers like dye would. It was exactly the zest his mirrors needed. “You’ve found an artisan with a use for it.” In his high spirits, referring to himself as an artisan was thrilling.
“Give me four coppers, and I’ll be glad to lighten my load.”
Hatta handed him two days wages without looking away from the curious ore.
“Would you be interested in any other colors? I’ve a few more shades somewheres.”
That was enough to rip Hatta’s attention from his discovery, and he nodded enthusiastically.
Tonin disappeared into the dim interior of the enclosed wagon. Though his girth filled the wagon from one side to the other, he somehow found room to rustle around. Hatta waited anxiously, listening to clinks, bangs, thuds, and creaks, until he finally heard, “Aha!”
When Tonin squeezed out of the wagon’s narrow doorway, half a dozen pouches filled his arms. A treasure, each one, thought Hatta.
The trader opened the pouches to reveal contents similar to the bluish ore, but in a rainbow of colors: magenta, saffron, aquamarine, lime, lilac, and plum. Hatta couldn’t remember ever feeling happier. The trader gladly accepted more than half of Hatta’s meager savings, oblivious to the fact that his unique ores might someday be pivotal in saving the kingdom.
Chapter 7
Pigs
The rough wood in one hand and familiar knife handle in the other helped Chism channel his anxiety. He wandered the cold streets of Knobbes whittling to kill time. It was better than sitting in his room counting the wooden planks in the wall or rubbing his leather until his thumbs bled.
Knobbes, the capital of Far West Province, was the biggest city he’d ever seen, besides Palassiren. The captain of the garrison adjacent to the city walls claimed there were no rooms for the Elite squadron, so they took rooms in the city. Lieutenant Fahrr was furious, claiming it was a sign of the growing tension between the Provinces and the interior of the kingdom, but he had no authority to press the issue.
Most of the squadron was thrilled at the opportunity to board at an inn. In the two months since lodging in Brito, they hadn’t seen a decent city, and couldn’t reach the tavern of the Borderhaven Inn fast enough. But Chism abhorred alehouses of any type. He didn’t care about the judgmental glares of the tavern owners or spending a few coppers. It was giving up self-control to a wineglass or mug that was beyond his understanding. Wine had only been a destructive influence in his life and Chism wanted nothing to do with it.
He snaked through the city, his attention divided between the carving and his surroundings. Thirsty hung at his hip, giving him the confidence he needed to wander through dark streets. In certain areas of the city strong odors of human waste and refuse dominated. In others, cookpots over hearthfires filled the air with enticing aromas.
In a more populated part of the city, dozens of people exited a theater, all chatting excitedly. Chism stopped fifty paces down the well-lit street to observe. Nearly every person wore rich fabrics and jeweled ornaments, and some were accompanied by personal guards. Chism continued to carve away at his small block of wood from where he stood in the shadows.
The sixty fourth, and last, person to leave the theater was a portly man with pale hair and an air of self-importance. He was accompanied by a fancy Lady and three armed men dressed in the dark uniforms of Provincials with the Flame and Stars crest of Far West Province. The woman took tiny steps, resting one gloved hand lightly on the man’s forearm. She had pursed lips and raised eyebrows, and was careful not to touch anyone or anything as they made their way toward a waiting carriage.
Three guards seemed like a peculiar number. Two or four would have been much more comfortable. They didn’t even surround him evenly—two walked to the left of the couple and the other strolled casually to his right. Their hands hung lazily at their sides.
Before the lax guards had time to react, a short woman detached herself from the shadows of a doorway and knelt in front of the noble. If she had evil intent she could have injured him severely before the guards intervened. Chism left his observation point and quietly approached.
The kneeling woman—dirty, with dark hair and dressed in rough farmer’s garb—spoke loud enough for Chism to overhear. “My Lord, my sow was robbed away.”
The finely dressed Lady looked on the stocky, kneeling woman as if she were the sow. As the guards surrounded her, the man primly led his Lady around the figure on the ground and said, “Take it up with the Earl. I am a Duke; I don’t judge pig disputes.” He said the word ‘pig’ as if it made his mouth dirty.
I should have recognized Duke Jaryn, thought Chism.
The woman, Piglet, continued her plea. “But m’Lord, the Earl is him that sent his men to make off with her. He won’t see me, and I’ve no man of my own to take up the matter.”
With his back to Piglet, the Duke responded, “Most likely it was claimed as a rightful tax on your miserable farm.”
“I pays my taxes. I even offered a hog instead. A healthy yearling at that. But they took the sow and now I’ve no means of meat to feed my family.”
When he ignored her pleading the kneeling woman added, “Please, my Lord.”
The Duke stopped and Chism was close enough to hear an exasperated sigh. “I told you, I do not deal with swine, you filthy woman. I have borders to guard and thousands upon thousands of citizens to protect. Appeal to the Earl.”
Before she could respond, Chism spoke up. “She said she’s already appealed to the Earl. My Lord.” He stood close enough to be heard without raising his voice. Piglet sat, dejected, on the ground, and the three soldiers grasped their hilts.
Duke Jaryn finally showed some interest. He turned slowly, sneering as he examined Chism’s uniform. “I see the Elites are recruiting children now. This is none of your business, boy. Run back to your mother’s skirts and let adults see to matters of the Province.” With a limp wrist he waved Chism away.
“It’s my business if you allow nobles to rob honest people.”
The duke stepped toward Chism, his guards looming protectively. He spoke carefully, pronouncing every syllable. “I am Duke Jaryn. Do you expect me to intervene in the matter of one worm-infested, teat-dragging sow and her pig problems?” Ironically, the fat noble looked rather like a pig himself.
“You solve it or Thirsty will.” Chism deliberately laid his hand on the hilt.
Duke Jaryn’s face flushed and he spat as he spoke. “You dare threaten me? I am a duke, and you are nothing more than a pup who’s discovered his bark. Your lieutenant will hear of this before morning.” He turned toward the awaiting carriage but said to his guards, “Teach the mutt a lesson, then find his lieutenant and bring him to me. Tonight.”
The guards drew steel and closed in on Chism. But they were mere brutes, and no match for Chism’s precise forms and expert training. He felt like a blur, a very meticulous blur, as he disarmed two and sliced the leg of the third. It would take a while to heal, but the man was not ruined forever. One of the unarmed guards rushed him as the other clambered onto the cobblestones after his sword. A quick sidestep, followed by a blow to the side of the head with Thirsty’
s hilt dropped the first. Just as the other guard reached his sword, Chism met him and felled him with a knee to the temple. He lay as still as his companion.
Piglet huddled in a shadow as Chism dealt with the men, though she was in no danger from him.
Duke Jaryn glanced over his shoulder at the commotion and was obviously surprised to see his men down and Chism advancing. At least he had the decency to send his Lady hurrying toward the carriage for safety before turning to face Chism. Even by torchlight his flushed face was clearly visible. The duke’s mouth opened and closed as he searched for words. The fool actually came toward Chism instead of attempting to flee.
When he finally formed coherent thoughts, his words were loud enough to summon the City Watch, but Chism didn’t care. “You have no authority here! I am the ruler of this Province you insignificant, meddling spawn of a rat!”
The duke reached him and stood staring down at Chism, who returned his gaze unflinching. “This Sword,” Chism pointed with his free hand at the Sword in the center of the emblem on his chest, “says I have the right to defend citizens of the kingdom from anyone who would break the Circle. And this sword,” he raised Thirsty’s tip to the notch at the base of Duke Jaryn’s neck, “is how I defend the Circle, even from greedy and indifferent rulers.”
“This is outrageous! I’ll have you banished for this. You’ll find out what the barbarians of the Western Domain think about your precious Circle and Sword.” Spittle flew from the corners of his mouth with each word. With a wildly flung arm he swatted Thirsty away from his throat, but Chism just spun behind the duke and kicked the back of his knees, forcing the shocked noble to the ground.
Standing behind the duke, he laid Thirsty’s edge across Duke Jaryn’s soft throat. Just a little more pressure would be enough to draw blood. The duke was frozen, each nervous swallow adding to the pressure of the blade on his neck.
Chism leaned close and in a whisper said, “It appears you need further education on the order of things. The Circle I wear represents a lawful bond between every man, woman, and child in the kingdom, from the filthiest swineherd to every arrogant noble, to King Antion himself. The Circle is sustained by the Sword. When injustice or threats are present it becomes necessary to take the Sword in defense of the Circle.”
The duke didn’t budge and Chism continued, still speaking quietly in his ear. “I represent King Antion and his Council, and I represent the people of Maravilla. I care for you not one whit more than a crippled child in its mother’s arms. What I do care for is justice. You will swear that the woman’s sow will be repaid with two sows of equal value. You will swear that no vengeance will be exacted upon her or her kin. And you will swear to treat your subjects like humans, not animals.”
“I’ll swear no such thing,” muttered the Duke, careful not to move against the blade.
“Then I’ll spill your blood on the street and your heir will have a chance to be more just than you.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I’ve already drawn the sword. How much worse could it be for me if I use it?”
A steadily growing crowd looked on, but Chism only paid enough mind to keep track of the number. Sixteen. If any of them dared to interfere with an Elite, Chism would teach them a lesson. Duke Jaryn didn’t speak, so Chism pulled the sword even more tightly again his neck, causing the duke’s breathing to grow raspy. A quick glance revealed a slow trickle of blood along Thirsty’s edge. Chism could practically feel the blade’s pleasure.
“As you wish,” choked the duke. Chism let up the pressure to allow him to speak. “But don’t think for a moment that I am through with you, boy.”
“Do what you wish to me. Just give your people the diligence they deserve. Now swear it so all can hear.”
“Let me stand first. I’ll not swear anything on my knees like a peasant.”
“I told you you’re no better than them. Now swear.”
The duke made to stand, but Chism stepped roughly on the back of his calf, forcing him to remain kneeling. Thirsty still waited at his throat begging Chism to allow him just one deep slice. He was dangerously close to obliging the ravenous weapon.
After a groan of pain the duke spoke clearly. “I swear that two healthy sows will be given to this woman. And no retribution or reprisal shall be meted to her or her kinfolk.”
“And?” whispered Chism.
Duke Jaryn cleared his throat and announced, “And I shall endeavor to treat all subjects with dignity.”
“Fail to keep your vow and I’ll kill you without a second thought,” Chism added, then shoved Duke Jaryn, forcing him sprawling onto the cobbled street.
As he walked away Duke Jaryn shouted, “Lady Palida and King Antion will hear of this! And Lady Cuora, curse her!”
Chism didn’t spare a glance for the humbled noble. The crowd, now nineteen, parted without speaking, none of them bold enough to risk a confrontation. Even the few armed men who wore armbands of the City Watch melted away from Chism’s determined march. He barely reached the shoulders of many of the men, but they cringed as if from a giant.
Though he had left his anger behind, Chism’s heart pounded in his chest as he counted the steps back to the inn, silently marking every other footfall: two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve....
At step seven hundred forty he rounded the corner, bringing the Borderhaven into view. In order to avoid the other Elites he decided on the back door. Step eight hundred eighty brought him to the stone landing of the inn, and a handful of shortened steps forced the number of paces since leaving Duke Jaryn lying in the street to an even eight hundred eighty eight. The outing had been a total success.
Chism knew there would be a cost for the night’s actions, but hoped the consequences for the good of the people of the Far West Province would surpass whatever recriminations lay ahead for him. It took less than an hour for a commotion to rise from the tavern downstairs.
The words of the numerous pitched voices were too vague to make out, but if sounds of fighting broke, out Chism could be downstairs almost immediately. Eventually the clash quieted, followed by a sharp knock.
Chism half expected Ulrik to be the one to fetch him, but he heard Ander’s voice. “Chism, open the door.” It was Ander.
Still dressed in his Elite uniform, he calmly opened the door.
Ander’s nearly white hair hung loose to his shoulders. “What have you done now, Chism?” It didn’t sound like a question. “Maggots and mice, boy!”
“Where’s Lieutenant Fahrr?”
“In his quarters.” Ander fell into step behind Chism and they walked toward the stairs. “You’ll be lucky if you’re not stripped of the Sword and Circle after this one. I thought you were in your quarters until a full brigade of the City Watch showed up, swords drawn and crying for your head. You’re lucky we were downstairs or the Watch would have been in your room.”
No, they’re lucky. Defending a single doorway against a crowd of so-called soldiers would be a simple task. Only one at a time could fit through, while the others, trying to force their way in, would cause that one to be off balance. One or two dead bodies would hinder any further attempts to enter as the others scrambled over their fallen companions to get at him. He could defend his room indefinitely.
Ander continued. “Even so, we barely stopped them. You have no idea how close to a pitched battle we came, right here in the inn. Against soldiers from one of our own Provinces! Everyone had weapons drawn and the citizens couldn’t get out fast enough. It was like a tinder pile just waiting for a spark. Even now the entire squadron stands guard at the front of the inn, but I don’t know if that will stop the Watch from trying something. Things were tense before and this might well be what it takes to split the kingdom.”
Chism still didn’t speak as they reached the second floor and started toward the end of the hallway where two double doors led to Lieutenant Fahrr’s suite. Idam, the lieutenant’s Fellow, waited statue still until Chism approached and saluted, then f
ixed him with a gaze full of disgust. After a few uncomfortable moments, Idam turned and entered, leaving Chism and Ander waiting outside.
“A duke,” Ander muttered. “You don’t do anything half way, may your fingernails curl.”
The door flew open, revealing Lieutenant Fahrr. Though he didn’t speak, his unkempt hair and cheeks puffing with each breath said enough. He looked ready to lay hands on Chism. Despite his high spirits, Chism hoped it didn’t come to that. He could take a lashing, whether by tongue or whip, as long as they didn’t touch him.
Lieutenant Fahrr merely pointed into the room and Chism hurried inside. Antagonizing his lieutenant would accomplish nothing. He stood at attention in the center of the upscale room and heard Ander take his place behind him to the right.
The door slammed and the irate lieutenant huffed back and forth in front of them. When he finally gained a semblance of control he faced Chism and barked, “Do you have a mote of sense in that hot head of yours? What possessed you to attack a duke?”
Chism was not sure if the question was rhetorical, so he stared straight ahead. Despite the hornets’ nest he had stirred, he still had no regrets.
“Answer me!”
“Duke Jaryn is a threat to the Circle, Sir. He fails to protect his citizens from other nobles even when it’s within his power.” Just as Chism’s brother had failed to protect him.
“So you tried to cut off his head? Ulrik is right about you, you’re out of control. You make me regret requesting you for my squad.”
Chism had been slated to join Bandersnatch Squadron. As a brand new lieutenant, Fahrr wanted to make an impression, but had taken a chance on young Chism. His comment cut deeper than any lash could have. Lieutenant Fahrr had to understand the reasons on some level. Chism couldn’t bear the shame of the comment so he tried to deflect it. “Sir, if I had tried to cut off his head, Far West Province would be looking for a new ruler right now.”
Hatter Page 5
