Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1)

by Brian G Turner

  A handful of priests huddled around a length of trestle tables. Erin hoped they might provide information on where to go next. As she neared, most left together. Only a young priest remained.

  As Erin drew near she touched her brow, the skin clammy and tender. She remembered with horror that her face remained a little bruised and swollen. Her robes had streaks of dirt and spots of blood from the events of last night. She could only hope none of this was too obvious, nor would be asked about. Her mouth felt dry, and her voice wavered as she spoke, “May the light be upon you. I am here for the spring presentations.”

  “Why of course, my sister, the light be upon you. My name is Brother Emmott and I am here to assist. Do you have your books, and letter of recommendation?”

  “I do.” Erin’s hands trembled as she removed her bag and laid it upon the table. She undid the straps and carefully lifted out both tomes. Last, she took the sealed letters from their leather wrap, and placed them by her books. “I have a recommendation from my guardian priest, Father Clement. There is a second, from a Father Nicoras.”

  Brother Emmott flicked through a few pages in each book, then smiled. “Thank you. If you could please take your books and go down that hallway. Take the last door on the right and a seat anywhere through there.”

  Erin returned her books to her bag and heaved it upon her shoulder. She followed as instructed, light-headed and uncertain. One way or another, her future was about to be decided.

  A Time for Partings

  Sirath

  Sirath was jittery as they walked along the Avenue of the Emperors. Jerine had a parchment in her satchel that would give him one hundred gold coins. That was more than he’d ever expected to see in his life. But the parchment could be stolen by some passing thief — easier to grab than a chest full of coins. And it could tear, get damp, or rot. It could blow away. Become lost. And if it did any of these things, Sirath’s gold disappeared with it. He tried to reassure himself that Jerine kept it safe. But he warily watched every nearby movement.

  It didn’t help his nerves that he was exhausted. He’d barely slept, the memory of last night’s fire and its thunder echoing in his thoughts. Likely he’d made bigger foes here than he’d ever had in Canalecht.

  It was past time to move on. The question was whether Jerine would come with him.

  He’d already ordered the mules to be prepared for riding, once he returned. The yard behind the Lion Inn’s stables had workshops for a blacksmith, farrier, and saddler, who took his instructions. Though Sirath didn’t look like much, it was known that his traveling party paid in gold. More was promised, if they completed the work today.

  That reminded him that he needed new clothes. Partly to reflect his new social status — he’d always fancied himself dressing rich — but also to be less recognizable. They’d have been seen at the docks. No one should know where to find him, but they might seek a street rat. There could be eyes watching the gates for his description. But a merchant, leaving with his mules? He could carry off that disguise, and enjoy doing so. Once he had his money.

  Jerine led him onto a cobbled road where buildings displayed their wealth in the form of gaudy gold or purple decorations, large glazed windows, painted statues, and carvings. Sirath just wanted his, in coin. And to be gone.

  It was a relief to get this far without trouble. But counting houses were surely a draw for thieves. He watched for the merest hint of too much interest, or too much disinterest.

  “We’ll wait here,” Jerine said. She stopped at a doorway, beside a life-like statue of a knight.

  Sirath looked twice, to ensure it wasn’t some street performer painted up. His stomach felt like it was rising into his throat. Which was still sore from breathing in smoke. He coughed and spat a thick wad aside. Mindful that Jerine was all into politeness and stuff, he shrugged. “Sorry. My lungs are still full of cack from the fire.”

  They waited. He lounged against the statue and fidgeted, clasped his hands and rubbed his arms. He’d got close to the dream of money not long before. Cal’s plan to steal the tax wagon had seemed flawless. Father Murrano had promised to arrange it with them, and split the proceeds. Even after Gutter Jack’s cut, it had seemed an easy way to riches. It had sounded almost too good to be true. Which was exactly how it turned out.

  “What’s wrong, Sirath?”

  He glanced at Jerine and shrugged, not wanting to face too raw a past. There was enough to deal with in the now. “We’ve made real enemies. We need to get out of the city, while we can. Why don’t we go in and cash the bond now, just us?”

  “The others will be here shortly. You’ll have your reward before you know it. No need to worry.”

  Sirath could only laugh nervously at that. “It’s alright for you ... you’ve had money before. I haven’t. That there ... what you’ve got is like an escape for me. A way out from the gutter. A dream ... a future. I’ve never had one of them before. There’s a few years good living there. Not here, though.” Not if the Lion Inn’s prices were typical. Better to find a small town where things were cheaper and most anything he needed was close by. Better to be a big fish in a little pond, and all that. “I plan on getting cleaned up in some bath house, barbered, and dressed up all posh. Then I’m gone. By tonight I should be a respectable man, sleeping in some country inn. What about you?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  Sirath would miss her smiling eyes and bright company. “Why not come with me? You could pretend to be my wife.”

  By the way her face froze, he knew he’d said something wrong. He tried to make right with a joke. “Or my mother-in-law.”

  Jerine whispered, “I’ll never marry.”

  Sirath frowned at her. “Why?”

  “The Goddess has a plan for me.” Jerine bit her lip. “It wouldn’t be fair to love, even if I wanted to. Which I don’t.”

  Sirath nodded, his heart sinking. He’d always known he was too low-born for someone like her. Still, it was a surprise that so was everyone else. He forced a smile. “I wish you all the best with it.”

  “With what?”

  “Having a destiny.”

  Jerine stared at him. “You don’t find it strange that I claim one?”

  Of all the outrageous things Sirath had ever heard, this hardly counted. “No, not really.” He’d noticed she sometimes had a green tint to her teeth, even her lips. A sign she used jad leaf. He’s known other people who used it — Cal had dabbled with it, later on. Users tended to have an increased sense of self-importance. Cal had thought he’d a destiny, too, but not the one he’d ended up with. It should be expected that Jerine might think that way, too. “Why, what is it, anyway?”

  Jerine hesitated. Then she stood. “Look!”

  Sirath’s heart thudded fast in alarm. “What?”

  Tilirine strode out from the crowds. Ulric and Dalathos walked behind her.

  They greeted each other with relieved smiles. Now the big men were here they were unlikely to be robbed. But the sooner that flimsy bond went into a counting house, the better.

  “The bishop has been left with the Emperor’s Guard,” Tilirine said, “and Pieter has returned to his office.”

  “Good,” Jerine said. “What do we do after we draw the bond?”

  “I think,” Dalathos said, “that we should take your costs out, before the money’s shared. Then I’m to the smiths’ quarter to look for work. Tilirine said she’d help us find it. Ulric will come with us, before he goes.”

  Sirath already knew what he would buy first — food. He’d gone without so often in life. With the threat of danger behind, and long travel ahead, he was going to need a full stomach. He wondered if the two big men might want to ride guard on his mules.

  First things first — get that merchant bond turned into real money. Better to have gold to run with, than lose it and have none.

  The Scroll Delivered

  Tam

  Tam Candles no longer felt safe in familiar alleyways.


  Washerwomen hung out wet clothes between poor tenements. Kids with dirty faces threw stones at skinny cats. Pimps and wastrels loitered at corners. This was Black Fist territory, and Tam Candles wore his black cloth at his belt. That showed that he was a protected member. He now had brothers at his back. But he kept his good hand swinging free, ready to grab his dagger, if needed.

  There was too much gossip on last night’s fire, which had threatened to destroy the city. Sober men swore they’d seen demons with fiery tails flying to the clouds. There was talk of sorcery and witchcraft, and that left him even more unsettled. He gripped the charm bracelet in his pocket with his shrunken hand, the iron Eye of Pollos digging into the sweating palm.

  It would be a relief to find Pieter.

  He heard the crowds on Oldgate long before he reached it — busy footsteps and chatter, as people traveled to the fish markets at the docks. As he stepped onto its cobblestones, he found the throng of movement and noise pricked already taut nerves.

  It didn’t help that he was tired. He’d been woken by the thunder last night. It had also disturbed those bloody seagulls — they were always noisiest when nesting. He’d have to get onto the roof — where it hadn’t fallen in — and kill any chicks he found. That would keep them away for good.

  After he’d got rid of the scroll. And got his money.

  It was a guilty weight inside of his tunic, covered with someone else’s blood. But it had the seal of the Order on it, and he’d been promised gold for that.

  He smelled the pastry shop coming up that did the best oyster pies. He’d be able to buy one, even after Black Fist Jack’s cut. Or a beef and onion pasty, instead of trying to grab one and run. He ducked his head by the candle maker’s — the first place he’d ever broken into. The owner had disturbed him and chased him off. Tam had dropped the silver and escaped only with beeswax candles. That had given him his street name. He was a lot better at stealing these days.

  He turned right into the relative quiet of Chandlers Lane. It was a narrow side street that dropped thick shadows at night, but at midday was bright and welcoming. Artisans, clerks, and merchants, had their homes here. They painted their townhouses in different colors. Flower baskets were hung from windows. It cheered the place up no end.

  It was also a good place for burglary. Tam had to fight the temptation to check for unlocked doors and loose shutters.

  Chandlers Lane became a crooked road of timber buildings as it wound uphill. The safety of the Sailors Arms came up at his left.

  The door to the alehouse was already open. He stepped into the small common room. The air was cold, the hearth not yet lit. The drinking benches were empty.

  Miggy watched him enter. A mountain made flesh, her arms were like hams. In truth she almost scared him. But Pieter would never brook fighting among his people. So Tam tolerated her. She planted her fists at her hips and glowered down at him.

  “Is Pieter about?”

  “Want to see him?”

  “I didn’t come all the way out here just to charm you, did I?”

  “Upstairs.” Miggy grunted. “With me.”

  Tam knew the way to the office, but was happy to follow. He entered the white-washed hallway, and went up the creaking stairs. It was a relief just to arrive unharmed, and know that Pieter was about. If any trouble followed, let Miggy deal with it.

  Miggy passed the first door on the left, and stopped at the second. She rapped her big knuckles on the wood. “Master Pieter, there’s a nose to see you.”

  Pieter’s voice called from within, “Just a moment.”

  Tam took the leather tube from his tunic. His excitement rose as he fidgeted with it in his hands. Miggy smiled down at him.

  Footsteps approached from the other side of the door. A floorboard groaned. A key turned and clicked in the iron lock.

  Pieter opened the door. “Ah, Tam. Do come in.” The office was cramped and stuffed with parchments, scrolls, and a few books. A copper lantern provided a little light, to supplement that from the meager window. Pieter seated himself on a stool behind a writing desk. “What can I do for you?”

  Tam handed the blood-stained scroll case over. “You won’t believe how I got this ... I were given it by some murdered man!”

  “Do tell.” Pieter opened the case as Tam told his story. Pieter took out a scroll and began to read it. His brow knotted. Then his eyes widened and his mouth gaped.

  “I thought I were going to die,” Tam continued. “But I still went back to check, see if I could help. But the Order had taken his body. All I found were his blood. Anyway — ”

  “Tam, do you know the contents of this letter?”

  “Course not. I can’t read.”

  “Have you shown it to anyone?” Pieter continued, an edge to his voice,

  “No, I’ve kept it safe and secret, I have.”

  Pieter’s manner was urgent. “When did all this happen? When did you receive it?”

  Tam shrugged. “The night before. Only, you weren’t around yesterday.”

  “Two nights ago?” Pieter stood. “Then there lies urgency! I must get this to the Emperor’s Guard.”

  “Is ... is it important, then?” Tam Candles asked carefully.

  “Let me say this, you have never conveyed so important a message in your life. If this letter is what it claims to be, then the fate of the empire could depend upon it.”

  Tam flushed with greed. His voice became all sweetness and honey, “So it’s worth gold, then?”

  Pieter strode to the door. “Wait for my return, and your reward. Miggy, give him good ale, on the house.” Pieter ushered Tam and Miggy aside before locking the door after himself.

  As Pieter’s footsteps hurried down the stairs, Tam grinned to think of the weight of a purse of gold in his hands.

  The Armories

  Dalathos

  Dalathos strode behind Tilirine, Ulric at his side, as she took them through cramped streets. Finally, Dalathos was going to discover his future — and find a smith to apprentice him. It was a bright day, full of promise.

  They walked for some time. A hard thirst came upon him. His chest still felt full of soot, and there was the taste of iron on his tongue. He coughed frequently, like a man with Black Lung. It was as though he’d spent the night beating at a thousand forges.

  They crossed a paved square with a platform at one end, where drummers stood in smart white livery with yellow trim. Street sellers offered wicker panniers of fresh-smelling bread. Others carried trays of sausages seasoned with onions, garlic or spices. Stalls had salted meat, fruit, or pastries for sale. The hawkers cried out the health benefits of their wares. Dalathos had no interest in having his skin cleared, his youth restored, or his bowels loosened.

  But he did need a drink. He asked Tilirine to stop when they passed a trader with a barrel on a handcart. Dalathos gulped down two mugs of small ale, but his mouth still felt dry.

  A town crier announced a public beheading would shortly begin. Dalathos had no interest in remaining to see one, and neither did the other two. They left their cups and walked away.

  Tilirine took them through winding lanes. Recent rains had turned the mud to slurry. Some were more like sewers or drains, but they were still busy with people. Carts squeezed between buildings where they could.

  All the time that they walked, Dalathos tried to remember the fear and the fury of last night. He’d experienced his first proper sword fight, and wondered at how he’d held his guard and stance. But his memory was a blur. All he could recall was a laughing man in a green gown, and little else.

  It was all a disappointment. At least he’d held his own, and escaped unharmed. And now was doing his own thing.

  Eventually, they found themselves on a wide road. The city became all crowds and noise. Arches from an aqueduct loomed above.

  Forge fumes blew on the wind: a mix of iron, smoke, and sweat. Normally it would have been a comfort, but his lungs already had a fill of those.

  They entere
d a passageway that opened into a large square. Tenement buildings enclosed it and blocked out the sun. Brick forges stood in the open with their bellows, and tempering buckets of iron-bound wood steamed. Handcarts, piled with rods for working, stood over black puddles. Workshops spilled out from beneath thick leather awnings and over the sooty flagstones. Polished metal gleamed from displays outside each one. Every type of weapon was fixed to display racks, or piled up in baskets or open boxes. Mail shirts and studded doublets were dressed on wooden dummies, and helmets were set on poles. Three life-sized wooden horses stood across the square, embellished with plate barding, ridden by models of knights with painted faces.

  “This is where the landed send their stewards or staff captains, to order arms for their men,” Tilirine said. “This district is known as The Armories.”

  Hammers rang everywhere, the music of the smith. Bull-necked men grunted as they worked their magic with metal. Forge light cast a glow on everything. The breeze was cool one moment, the next brought a hot draft.

  Dalathos stared. It was all so familiar, and yet so different. The smells, the sounds, the sights were all of the iron camps. Never since he left had he missed it so much. At any moment he expected to see his Uncle Tollin, Sessil, or Iodicos step out, hammer in hand, yelling at their apprentices to work harder. Or Auntie Bronda roaring at them to stop for the huge portions of food and drink she plied them with. Or Alarian, muscles rippling under skin that glistened beautifully from hard work.

  Memory clouded his humor. Dalathos was a long way from home.

  But he’d come here for a purpose. First, he wanted to compare how his skills might measure up. He approached a display of swords hung by nails on a wooden board. He picked one up to gauge its quality. Blue-gray ripples covered the blade through pattern welding, the color given by treatment with tanner’s acid. This was a worthy blade for any high-born. To find it among others, like apples for picking, astonished him. He wandered to another, and examined a long mail shirt. The rings were welded shut by patient journeymen, instead of closed with pliers like his own. It was a joy to see so much quality work. It would be an honor to work alongside such craftsmen.