Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1)

by Brian G Turner

  Adoras dared to relax a little on his seat. Was any of this related to Councilor Brannon’s message?

  Galadon appeared thoughtful — a common pretence. “What will Amberlin do now?”

  “The good councilor has hired persons to investigate the matter directly. However, I fear there is little left for them to discover.” Pieter placed a leather folder on the desk. “I put the details of his investigation into your trust, in case you must conclude it for him. My master is making plans to leave the city after tomorrow’s election.”

  Galadon looked at Adoras. “I hear that Councilor Brannon provides you with gossip on that. You are welcome to your care of politicians, I’ll have none of it. Incompetent fools, the lot of them. Amberlin excepted, of course.”

  Adoras opened his mouth, unsure how to answer.

  Pieter bowed. “I must return, to conclude my own duties.”

  “Please, do stay. Just for one drink,” Galadon reached into a drawer. “All this talk of demons and fires, curses and conspiracies, has left a foul taste in my mouth. Today should be a day of joy. I move into my new apartments. I would prefer to celebrate with friends. Ah, here we are ... a wonderful Delophian ’29.”

  “That would be an honor,” Pieter said. “But only for a sip.”

  Adoras licked his lips. He was all too aware of the dryness of his mouth, and what a sweet nectar was promised to wet it.

  Galadon was never far from a fine wine, a true connoisseur when it came to the grape. The tragedy was that he remained an officer of the guard. An affable fellow, removed from the pretensions of the younger officers, Galadon was never unkind. He was also devoid of the qualities required of a man in command. Once Adoras became chief-general, he would see that the man was retired. Then Galadon could return to his family estates, and live out his days as the Duke of Corrum.

  Adoras sipped at the cup handed to him, and relished the plum taste. As he savored it, his resolve slowly returned. Everything he did was for the good of the Emperor’s Guard, and the empire with it. Now he was here, he should make himself useful, and find out exactly what Councilor Amberlin had Pieter investigate. And by whom. Perhaps such information might be useful for Councilor Brannon — enough to force him to explain more of his intentions? Adoras reached for the parchments that Pieter had brought. “Do you mind if I read these?”

  “Not at all,” said simple, foolish, Galadon.

  Adoras smiled as he picked up the sheets, allowing his gaze to stray over the office that would soon be his.

  An Opportunity

  Sirath

  The Lion Inn’s common area was hot, stank of sweat, and was packed with noise. A day of tramping around workhouses was finally over. But instead of relief, Sirath felt the smoldering coals of rage in his belly. That could have been him in any one of them. It would have been better to do something, anything, than just look and leave. The others were similarly solemn.

  He took a swig from his mug of ale and tried to lighten the mood with a story — one that might entertain and endear him to the others. But his recounting of Horse Piss Jack’s vengeance on a love rival fell flat. He hurried to finish. “When they went upstairs, they found him nailed to the floorboards, by the kneecaps.”

  Dalathos winced. “I wouldn’t like to know what a pair of broken legs felt like.”

  Sirath snorted. “Then never compete with a street jack for the favor of a lady!”

  “That, I can promise, will never happen.”

  A portly gentleman approached them, with a neat trimmed beard and fine brown tunic and a jolly laugh. Sirath feared it was another blustering merchant come to threaten them from the table they’d been lucky enough to find. At least Ulric and Dalathos were already here this time. But the man introduced himself as Michalas Harolmeyer, the proprietor of the Lion Inn.

  Michalas directed serving boys and girls from the crowd to bring them dinner: bowls of broth, grilled meat on skewers, a plate of fresh greens, a slab of cheese, and bread rolls encrusted with onions. And two fat pitchers of ale to share between them.

  Sirath laughed to see such a feast. Then tried to stuff as much as he could down his throat before it disappeared. This might be all that would keep him alive the next few days. He was under no illusions — this was an opportunity, not a new way of living.

  Erin blessed the food, then added a prayer that Barillios would walk again. Michalas asked after that, so Jerine told of the beggar run over by a carriage, and how they’d driven him to the Temple Hospital.

  Michalas lavished praise on her for it. “There is no greater Fortune than the kindness of strangers. And at such expense! That was a good deed you did. This city needs more of that. As I always say, if you can’t find a good man, then be one. What do I always say, Tomis?”

  “Get them tables cleared or I’ll whip you.” The lad grinned as he filled seven cups from a pitcher, splashing too much of it.

  Michalas laughed. “A fine jest from a fine boy, hard-working. Nothing but the best for my guests. It is the nature of hospitality.”

  Sirath smiled wryly. Especially to those who paid in gold. No doubt Michalas looked to find new ways to empty Jerine’s purse. Michalas was right, though, and Sirath looked with suspicion at Jerine. Hospitality came at a price. What was hers?

  The spread of food and drink demonstrated how much she needed him — all of them — for no clear purpose. The thought had nagged at him yesterday, but then he’d just been thankful for something to eat and a roof over his head. The shock of today’s fire at the square showed a need to keep wary. Though he enjoyed being with her, what did Jerine want from a street rat like him? Obviously not his good looks and worldly possessions. Then what? His immortal soul? Sirath laughed too hard at the thought, and snorted ale through his nose. He wiped it, smarting like he’d been slapped.

  Something in Harolmeyer’s tone changed and Sirath caught it.

  “Well, Fortune is a wheel that turns both ways. This city is full of dangerous people. Mind you take care on these streets. If concerned for your health, however, I know an excellent astrologer, the best in the city! He can also help with placing bets for the Imperial Tournament, too.” Michalas winked. “I can give you his attention at a moment’s notice, for only a small fee.”

  Sirath smiled dryly. Flattery always had a purpose, and everyone was on the take in some way.

  “By the Mother, I’m tired now,” Jerine said. “But I promise to consider it in the morning.

  Michalas stared at her strangely. Then his face cracked into a grin. He flourished a farewell, and slunk back into the crowds.

  Sirath decided that tomorrow he’d insist they look for a hay market — he’d left that too long. Today he’d been reminded of his past and its struggles, and his own mortality. The Spring Fair was on, and fertility be damned — he was just going to enjoy every pleasure he could afford while he could. Which was none, until he sold them mules.

  Until then, he was forced to survive on Jerine’s goodwill. That should have been pleasant enough, but Michalas was right — Fortune turned both ways.

  Erin stood and excused herself. She bowed a little to Jerine. “Blessings upon you, but I am tired, and I have my presentation on the morrow. I should study. It is my last chance.”

  The acolyte had eaten little, so Sirath grabbed a roll she’d left and stuffed it down his jerkin.

  Dalathos watched Erin leave, then leaned over to Jerine. “Did you find anything to help us get paid?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. You?”

  “The Order stopped us entering a workhouse. Our warrant was useless against them.”

  Sirath knew there was a way to get their money more quickly. “We should just make up records for Pieter. You don’t need to know letters to forge a signature. I can do that! Just point me where to do it. Then we could declare our work done, get our money, and scarper before they find out and come looking for us.”

  Jerine laughed. “Inventive? Yes. A good idea? No!”

  Sirath felt his ch
eeks go hot for the way his good idea had been so easily dismissed. And by Jerine, of all people.

  “A better thought,” Tilirine said, “would be to investigate this Berton Bellinis. The workhouse was leased to him. He also owns warehouses at the Ophidian, Omrion, and Annalech docks. The first two are on the river, the third at the coast. We could separate into three groups to investigate them all.”

  “I agree,” Jerine said. “We need to find proof of something suspicious. That’s what the councilor hired us for. And what the Order may be trying to keep from us.”

  Sirath frowned thoughtfully. Was that why Jerine kept this group together? Just to make Tilirine look good in the eyes of the city rich? Family honor, and all that? He took another swig from his mug, and decided that whatever the explanation, he wasn’t going back to skulking around docks without good reason. “That’s all very well, but what if the name Berton Bellinis means nothing?”

  The serving boy, Tomis, squeezed between Sirath and Ulric to wipe up the spillage from earlier. “Berton Bellinis? He’s a nasty piece of work, he is.”

  Sirath was annoyed to find the lad eavesdropping. Then he realized that the boy knew more than them. “You heard of him?”

  The lad smiled carefully. “It costs to know what I knows.”

  Sirath waved to Jerine. “Chuck us a penny.”

  Tomis scowled. “A penny? I don’t talk for nothing less than a half-guider.”

  Sirath sighed and corrected himself. “Jerine, a half-guilder, please?” He could see from her face, and the looks from the others, that they had no idea what he was doing. He silently cursed them for their lack of inventiveness, but looked pleadingly at Jerine to trust him. His other suggestion had seemed a good idea, but this one was better. She met his gaze — and held it. Then she dug into a pocket and passed over a silver coin, already cut in half. There was uncertainty in her eyes, but Sirath would prove his worth to her. He gave the half-guilder to Tomis. “You were saying?”

  The money disappeared inside the boy’s tunic. “He’s known as Berton the Mule around here. He’s one of Five Fingers Jack’s men. An important one, too. He burns people for fun and punishment.”

  “How do you know this?” Sirath asked.

  “Everyone knows it! A boy came by this morning, looking for work. Said he’d escaped a workhouse when being moved to the docks. Tried to get him a job in the kitchens, but Harolmeyer’s been out buying supplies.”

  Sirath leaned forward and spoke carefully. “Which dock was this?”

  Tomis smiled. “Tell me first why you want to know?”

  Despite the noise behind them, their table had gone quiet. Sirath looked to Dalathos, and prayed to Fortune that the idiot had brains enough for deception. The moment dragged on too long. “Dalathos? Your debt?”

  “He owes me money,” Dalathos said, his face flushed.

  Sirath forced a smile to the boy. “Better?”

  “It was the Ophidian Dock.”

  “Good lad,” Sirath said. “Now, where at the Ophidian Dock might we find this warehouse? I bet you don’t know?”

  “I bet I do!”

  And Sirath listened carefully as Tomis provided directions, only hoping that he could remember all of this properly. Because if this was what it sounded like, they could finish the councilor’s work tonight — and have a fistful of silver to enjoy in the morning.

  The Ophidian Dock

  Jerine

  A mizzling rain drifted over them as they entered Southgate, a busy thoroughfare to the imperial docks. Lanterns set on poles barely pierced the night, the staggered buildings here gloomy and leering.

  They pressed their way past evening revelers, and no few merchants with their servants and baggage mules. Drunken voices shouted or laughed too close by. Jerine shouldn’t have been nervous, but she was beginning to fear that she’d lost the favor of the Goddess.

  The lead to the warehouse was weak. The challenge would be just to find the correct building. The serving boy’s directions had been so full of slang as to be unintelligible. Except to Sirath, who’d stopped the boy only to clarify a word here or there. Despite the great distance between them, Corianth and Canalecht were only a river apart — and the same street talk traveled both ways. They had to trust in the directions from Tomis, and Sirath’s ability to interpret them.

  But then what? There was no plan. All they could do was look, and hope. If they found nothing here, there might not be anything to find anywhere. And it was essential to find something, because it was difficult to see this group remaining together much longer, despite her efforts.

  Everyone was restless to go their own way. Sirath would sell his mules and move on. Dalathos and Ulric hadn’t traveled all the way here to look at maltreated children. Erin would leave for her presentation tomorrow, and had already declined to accompany them tonight, insisting on study — a decision Dalathos took as bad manners, but Sirath as good luck as the Order were against them. And Ezekiel ... was a mystery. She’d not found how to engage him, yet he still accompanied. For the moment. With no clear way to keep him by her, it was just a matter of time before he also drifted away.

  At least Tilirine was being less pugnacious to her now. The wonder was if it could last.

  The day had been trying enough. Workhouses, the fire. Then Barillios, tying his legs and stopping the bleeding, while in a moving carriage. It had been a long while since she’d held someone’s life in her hands. Jerine always hoped it would be the last.

  The buildings became more cramped around here, a mixture of worn timber and crumbling brick. Simple staircases led into darkness, lamplight creeping from shutters. A lot more dirt and refuse lined the street. There was a heady breeze of smoke, fish, and rot.

  Jerine fell into step with her sister. “Thank you for aiding me.”

  Tilirine remained quiet a moment. “You insist on your path, and with that, decide mine.”

  “There is always a choice.”

  “Then do not choose this path for yourself.”

  “Then do not choose to follow me!” Jerine hissed. Even as she spoke, she feared an argument stirring.

  “I cannot,” Tilirine said with resignation. “Where you walk, I must, too.”

  “You could walk your own way.”

  “When given the choice between life with meaning, or life without, it is no choice at all.”

  Jerine smiled sharply. “My thoughts exactly.”

  Walls and towers rose up, and a fortified gate. They passed through it, and into a thick stench like sewage.

  A crowded quayside stood before them, a swarm of boats berthed over black waters. Water lapped against pilings thick with seaweed. Ships groaned and creaked, and their rigging rattled and chimed in the rain. Gulls swooped by in white flashes. Numerous wharfs and piers struck out, some as busy islands of light.

  This was the empire’s biggest port, and it covered a vast area. Jerine’s heart fell. How could they find anything in such a place? She stopped and turned. “Sirath?”

  He stared about thoughtfully, then nodded. “Right, let’s find this warehouse, then.”

  Even though it was night, the quayside was busy. Sirath led past noisy taverns and crowds around braziers. A shower of rain drifted over, whirling in sheets. The smell of sizzling sausages, open drains, and sweaty bodies, rolled on the wind.

  Sailors leered at Jerine with hungry eyes and wolfish smiles. She slowed her step to walk nearer to Ulric, the scent of his old woolens a comforting reminder of Decimos. A great circular building stood ahead that she hoped might be a theatre. As she drew nearer she saw caged bears, dogs — even foxes — and realized with sadness that it was just a baiting ring.

  Touts offered cheap snacks and drinks, good hospitality, and easy pleasures. Jerine found it difficult not to become irritated by their constant intrusion. She passed a pair of gigantic cranes and their treadmills, bigger than anything she’d ever seen in Mardin.

  Finally, Sirath halted. He stared about for a moment, then thumbed
behind. “That wharf is where we want to be. But it’s being watched.”

  Jerine frowned. A wide stone and timber structure stretched out into darkness, set with tall warehouses. Many berths sprung from it, but only one was active — light around a loading ship toward the end. “So what are we going to do?”

  Sirath thought for a moment. “Chuck us a coin ... a full guilder, if you will.”

  Jerine dug again into her pockets, more curious than suspicious. “Why?”

  “I’ll create a distraction. You just walk with purpose onto that wharf, into the narrow alley behind the warehouses where it’s darkest.”

  “Then what?”

  “When you’re a fair distance along, wait for me. I may be a while.”

  Jerine handed him the silver coin, and watched as Sirath retraced their steps. She felt a pang of concern, worried he might not succeed.

  Sirath disappeared inside a baiting pit, only to shortly leave it. He approached a man seated on a barrel, surrounded by rough-looking drunks.

  Dalathos stood next to Jerine. “What now?”

  “We walk.”

  She kept her stride steady and approached what was now an argument. Sirath held attention on him, and stepped around so that the men had their backs to her. She led onto the wharf, her throat tightening in expectation of a challenge to halt at any moment. There was none. Then she was in an alley behind the first warehouses. The darkness became too thick to see properly. She stumbled over rubbish, old rope and broken boxes. At times she had to feel her way along. She checked to ensure the others stayed close behind.

  She looked beyond them to the quayside, to see Sirath stagger along it. A man ran up and kicked him in the stomach. Sirath fell. The man laughed, then strolled away. Sirath crawled to his feet, then limped out of sight. Jerine’s heart skipped — she placed a hand over her mouth, in horror of Sirath being harmed for his bravery. But he’d given her a chance to lead the others to Berton Bellinis’s warehouse. She could only follow Sirath’s directions, hope it was worth it, and trust in the Goddess to guide her.