by Dale Lucas
That said, I couldn’t have followed through and crossed the finish line without the inimitable Emily Byron from Orbit UK and my new stateside editor, Bradley Englert, both of whom helped me maintain my focus and find the heart of a big, unwieldy book just as I was despairing of ever doing so. Like everyone I’ve worked with at Orbit, Emily and Bradley are awesome collaborators, true professionals, and fabulous human beings. Where the book shines, give them credit; where its rough edges show, blame yours truly.
Behind it all there is my ever-loyal and inhumanly patient agent, Emily Keyes, whose faith in my work and willingness to answer any ridiculous question about this business that I pose to her (not to mention hearing a constant stream of new project pitches, 99 percent of which will never be written) probably qualify her for sainthood.
Closer to home, this year’s special blessings and trials showed me the true mettle of the engaged and compassionate circle of souls that surrounds me. Chief among those whose faith and love humble and empower me are my sweet Liliana, the love of my life; my superhuman cyborg son, Gabriel; and my parents, Jim and Carol. Come what may, these four people collectively hold my heart, keep it safe when it’s endangered, and squeeze it hard when it freezes over and needs a kick-start. What’s best in me is because of them; what’s worst in me persists in spite of their example.
Finally, to all of you who ventured with me to Yenara: thank you. A writer is nothing if they are not read, and hearing from so many of you over the past year who enjoy what I’ve done and want more of it has meant more to me than words can express. With bold hearts and a little luck, I’m sure we’ll all reunite in Yenara, preferably in a quiet nook at the King’s Ass over a couple of frothy pints.
Until the next time: be brave, be kind, and keep your eyes open, your fists clenched, and your backs to the wall.
Dale Lucas
January 2018
extras
meet the author
Photo Credit: J. P. Wright
DALE LUCAS is a novelist, screenwriter, civil servant, and armchair historian from St. Petersburg, Florida. Once described by a colleague as “a compulsive researcher who writes fiction to store his research in,” he’s the author of numerous works of fantasy, neo-pulp, and horror. When not writing at home or trapped in a cubicle at his day job, he loves travel, great food, and buying more books than he’ll ever be able to read.
if you enjoyed
THE FIFTH WARD: FRIENDLY FIRE
look out for
THE FIFTH WARD: GOOD COMPANY
by
Dale Lucas
It happened in seconds, before Rem could even spring up out of his chair, before anyone nearby took notice or rushed to help. Though launching from a sitting position, their prisoner achieved great speed and force, seemingly with little effort. In the span of a single breath, Torval was flat on his back, the prisoner kicking him hard to keep him stunned, then laying one boot on Torval’s throat. By the time Rem was finally up and moving, by the time he saw other watchwardens closing in from all sides to drag the prisoner off Torval, the man had already removed his boot from Torval’s throat and withdrawn of his own accord.
“I warned you,” the prisoner said quietly, before a half dozen watchwardens fell upon him and yanked him away. “Hit me again and I’ll give as good as I get.”
Still smiling, as though proud of his display of speed and strength, the prisoner let himself be drawn away. The commotion sent the whole administrative chamber of the watchkeep into a flurry of activity, curious prisoners and watchwardens all pressing forward for a better look. Rem, relieved that Torval was safe, offered a hand to the prone dwarf. As their enigmatic prisoner with his unshaven woodsman’s face and inexplicably expensive boots and knightly surcoat was dragged away, Torval’s eyes never left him. Something about the way Torval stared set Rem on edge.
It wasn’t fear, precisely—Torval rarely, if ever, betrayed fear. His gape-mouthed expression was rather indicative of both awe and respect. The man’s sudden movement and attack had left Torval impressed by him, creating of an enemy a grudging admirer. Torval took Rem’s hand and regained his feet. A stone’s throw from them, the prisoner stood still and unresisting, surrounded by wary watchwardens, all ready to arrest another attack if need be.
“You all right?” Rem asked quietly.
“Fast, that one,” Torval said. “Did you see him?”
“I saw a blur, then you were on your back,” Rem said. “What say we lock him up and question him later?”
“What say we offer him a job?” Torval asked.
Rem felt a strange twinge in the center of him—bitter, unfamiliar. “That’s enough of that,” he said to his diminutive partner. “I’m still standing here, you know. But if you want to break in a new partner—especially one that just tried to kill you—say the word, old stump, we can arrange it.”
Torval turned his blue eyes on Rem. He smiled a little, then patted the young man’s cheek with patronizing softness. “The Bonny Prince is jealous,” he said, with no small amount of satisfaction.
Rem threw off Torval’s hand. Without any retort to offer, he turned to the watchwardens still surrounding their prisoner. “Take him below, please?” he asked. “If there’s an empty cage, lock him up in it.”
Their prisoner—already mysterious enough—responded strangely, pressing his hands together as if praying and nodding. He offered what seemed a very genuine smile. “My sincere thanks, Watchwarden. You’ve done good work this night, both of you.”
A moment later he was gone, whisked away to the dungeons. Rem turned back to Torval. The dwarf looked just as puzzled as he. Their night had taken a very strange turn ever since they arrested that fellow when he unexpectedly tumbled off a rain-slicked rooftop.
“I’ve a feeling I never want to see that man again,” Rem said. “No good will come of it.”
Torval nodded. “Aye, that. Thank you, though—for getting him off me.”
Rem shrugged, still amazed at the man’s speed. “Better late than never.”
As they turned to resume writing their reports—which would now be quite scant on details, seeing as they never even managed to get the man’s name—Rem realized they were being watched. Ondego, the prefect of the Fifth Ward night watch, stood on the far side of the desk they’d been using, assessing the scene with his customary scowl. His second in command, Hirk, loomed at his elbow. Rem and Torval both froze under Ondego’s weighty gaze, not sure if they were about to be commended or censured.
“What’s the story on that one?” the prefect asked, suggesting the empty space where their prisoner had been standing just moments earlier.
Rem looked to Torval in an effort to defer to the seasoned dwarf and let him explain. Torval, to his great chagrin, said nothing. He only shook his head and swept out his hand, as if he and Rem were both trying to pass through the same narrow doorway and only one could go at a time. After you, Bonny Prince. Annoyed, Rem set about answering the prefect’s question.
“We found him on a rooftop,” Rem said. “Probably wouldn’t have caught him if he hadn’t slipped and fallen into our laps.”
“That was house livery of some sort, wasn’t it?” Ondego said, raising one eyebrow. “Strike you as odd, finding a rooftop burglar in a knight’s surcoat?”
“Most certainly,” Rem said, “That’s part of the reason we went after him. Skulking on rooftops is one thing—even if we didn’t catch him red-handed in the commission of a crime—but dressed like that? It’s a puzzle indeed.”
“Get anything out of him?” Hirk asked.
Torval finally joined the conversation. “Not a whit. Though the Bonny Prince here made some fine deductions.”
Rem summarized. “You saw him—unshaven and long-haired, like an itinerant lute player, but wearing that surcoat and fine kid boots. I recognize that livery, too—gold over blue, parted by a white chevron and sporting a falcon; that’s a uniform for the Duke of Erald’s house guard. So we’ve got a scruffy scoundrel in
what I’m guessing is a stolen uniform who addresses us in courtly speech, in an accent foreign to Yenara.”
“Has a familiar look about him,” Ondego said thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t you say so, Hirk?”
The second shrugged. “Just another punter in dress-up, you ask me.”
“I had the same thought,” Rem said to Ondego. “I told Torval as much! I could swear I’ve seen him before, I said, but can’t say where. It’s been eating at me all night.”
Ondego nodded slowly, mentally chewing on Rem’s summary of the situation. After a long moment’s consideration, he asked another question.
“You’re sure it was Eraldic livery?” Ondego asked.
Rem shrugged. “Fairly. If I could get a look at a book of patents, I’d be sure—”
“How about some men in the same getup?” Ondego asked, nodding toward the far door of the chamber.
Rem and Torval turned to see what their prefect now stared at. Crowding the main entryway to the administrative chamber were a half dozen men gathered in a tight knot. They wore freshly washed surcoats atop well-oiled chain mail: gold over blue, parted by a white chevron and sporting the likeness of a falcon. The leader of the party was a stiff-backed, patrician sort—level, hawkish gaze, proud profile, square shoulders—and his gray-flecked black beard was trimmed close to his jutting chin, a near-perfect bit of face grooming. His five companions were clearly his subordinates. As they haunted the doorway, their leader scanned the room with his raptor’s gaze, eyes swinging slowly but surely toward the spot where Rem and Torval stood beside Ondego and Hirk.
“I guess that settles it,” Rem said. He elbowed Torval and suggested the new arrivals. “See? What did I say? Neat hair and trimmed whiskers, to the man. I told you our prisoner couldn’t actually be a ducal guard, looking the way he did.”
The newcomer’s gaze finally found Ondego. He seemed to appraise the prefect for a moment—command recognizing command—then led his quintet of men across the room in an orderly march, passing right through knots of curious watchwardens and lingering prisoners without so much as an excuse me or beg your pardon. As he approached, Rem had another chance to assess him—his regal bearing, his apparent age and wisdom, all borne about in a well-exercised, well-cared-for, still-strong body. Formidable was the word that came to mind. The man projected strength, grace, and cunning, a most impressive combination.
Then he stopped just a few feet from Rem and Torval, his men silent behind him, eyes locked on Ondego. There was a long, tense silence as the man once more seemed to study and weigh all those before his gaze—Torval, Rem, Ondego, Hirk—before finally deciding that it was time to offer a greeting.
“Who commands here?” the stranger said.
“That’d be me,” Ondego said, stepping forward. “Care to name yourself, friend? It’s not every night we have a cohort of Old Horunic legionary sorts marching into our ready room.”
The guard commander ignored Ondego’s oblique slight and carried on. “I am Harcta, lord marshal to Verin Lyr, the Duke of Erald. I offer my badge of office and a written mandate from my sovereign.”
With great efficiency the lord marshal drew a leather wallet and a small matching leather scroll case from his belt. He flipped back the lip of the wallet, revealing a golden badge, well tooled and polished, bearing the ducal seal of Erald.
Ondego whistled. “Shiny.” He turned to Hirk. “Can we get some of those?”
Hirk shook his head. “Won’t do. Remember the old gold badges? Always getting stolen?”
“Not for everyone,” Ondego said, suggesting the watchwardens at their business around them. “Just you and me. Prefect and deputy prefect. We at least should have a fine, shiny badge of office like that …”
Rem studied the lord marshal. His face was largely immobile, but the twin ghosts of annoyance and impatience floated just below the surface of his apparent calm. Clearly he didn’t care for Ondego’s joshing about.
“Excuse me,” the lord marshal finally said, and tucked away his walleted badge again. He offered the small leather scroll case this time. “My master’s mandate, for your perusal.”
“Keep it,” Ondego said. “Clearly you are who you say you are. Missing a man, are you?”
The newcomer raised an eyebrow. “Missing …?”
“One of your pretty little yellow birds? We just locked up a fellow wearing your uniform, not moments before you arrived.”
The lord marshal’s back seemed to stiffen at that. It was a subtle gesture, but Rem caught it. The man’s eyes widened. “Is that so?”
“’Tis,” Ondego said. “So what say you state your business?”
The lord marshal tucked away his little scroll case and held out a hand to one of his subordinates. “The circular,” he said.
The soldier addressed went rooting in a satchel slung at his side and produced a sheet of stiff, folded parchment. Gingerly he unfolded the parchment and handed the well-creased leaf to his master. The lord marshal took the parchment, then handed it to Ondego.
“Is this the man in your custody?”
Ondego took the parchment and studied it. His eyebrows rose and he whistled low, clearly impressed by something that he saw on that folded leaflet. He shared a conspiratorial glance with Hirk, who’d been studying the sheet over his shoulder, then handed it to Torval. The dwarf took the leaflet and held it out before him, making sure that Rem could see it as well.
“Now we know why he looked familiar,” Ondego said to them. “Go rooting around on our wall of shame over there, crammed with Wanted posters, and you’ll find a leaflet just like this.”
Rem and Torval studied the creased parchment together. There, staring back at them from a subtle and strikingly accurate wood block–printed portrait, was their prisoner. His hair was even longer in the image, and his beard fuller, but the resemblance was undeniable. As Ondego had said, that explained the man’s familiarity: Rem was almost certain that he’d seen that Wanted leaflet more than once, probably when it was first circulated and then as it hung in the rogue’s gallery on the far wall, gradually obscured by newer leaflets.
“Wanted,” it said, “dead or alive. The notorious outlaw road agent known as the Red Raven. Charged by His Lordship Verin Lyr, the Duke of Erald, with theft, murder, kidnapping, conspiracy, and extortion. To whoever presents the living person of said outlaw, or undeniable proof of his death, let it be known that the Duke shall remit to said presenter a fabulous reward of one hundred pieces of gold.”
Rem threw a glance at Torval. His partner was already staring back at him.
Rem had heard stories of the Red Raven, the first of them during his journey toward Yenara, still more in taverns and taprooms since his arrival. It was well known that the Raven and his band of robbers—called the Devils of the Weald—haunted the Ethkeraldi Forest, a vast, untamed woodland through which the northeasterly road from Yenara to Erald wound. Though Rem’s own approach to the city had not taken him through the Ethkeraldi—the merchants and pilgrims he’d traveled with gave the wood’s eastern borders a wide berth—he’d heard more than a few harrowing tales of the Red Raven’s daring and villainy around many a camp cookfire and the hearths of roadside inns between Lycos and Yenara.
Not a man, but a ghost, some said.
Not a man or a ghost, but a beast, countered others. A trickster. A shape-shifter. Inhuman.
Balderdash, the more literal-minded often said. He’s a man, all right, but quick and cunning and unlike any man you could meet. Unafraid of any man or group of men, rich as a king on the tons of gold he’s stolen from those passing through the forest, and likewise a slaver and raper of women.
You’re giving him too much credit, still others insisted. He’s not so posh. Just a common robber and woodland scum, as like to skin you and eat you as rob you.
Rem knew well that legends often obscured reality—that a person’s reputation often far outstripped the actuality of who they were and how they comported themselves—but the very fact that t
he Red Raven had so many people talking about him, and that those stories were so vast and varied and colorful, told Rem that, whatever the reality behind the legend, it was likely to be almost as exciting, almost as intriguing, as the stories themselves.
How much villainy did an outlaw have to indulge in, after all, to warrant such a princely sum for his capture or death?
Watchwardens were paid twenty-five silver andies each month. With twenty-four andies to the gold piece, a year’s wages for one of them added up to just over twelve pieces of gold. How much could Rem and Torval accomplish for themselves and their loved ones if they were granted even a portion of that hundred–gold piece reward? Even if they handed over a fifth to the watchkeep coffers and another fifth to Ondego himself—as was proper—that would still leave them with sixty pieces of gold—five years of wages—to split between the two of them!
“How did this man come to be in your custody?” the lord marshal asked, interrupting Rem’s already-considerable daydreams about what to do with that gold. “Was there violence? Injuries? Damage to person or property?”
“He fell into our laps,” Torval said.
“Literally,” Rem added.
“Shush,” Ondego hissed. Rem knew the look on the prefect’s face well; it was the look of an annoyed father whose chatty child had just said too much. A moment later the prefect looked to their visitor. “Step into my office, Lord Marshal. What say we hash out all attendant issues of jurisdiction and extradition … as well as remuneration.”
if you enjoyed
THE FIFTH WARD: FRIENDLY FIRE
look out for
THE THOUSAND DEATHS OF ARDOR BENN
Kingdom of Grit: Book One
by
Tyler Whitesides
The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn is the first in an action-packed epic fantasy series featuring master con artist Ardor Benn.
