Weaving Man: Book One of The Prophecy Series

by Tove Foss Ford

  Ifor was indeed ailing. The haggard man who had been helped off the train earlier that day bore little resemblance to the reticent but brilliant tutor Menders had known. Body-bound with agonizing pain, Ifor could barely walk with Menders and Lucen supporting him. Franz had wrapped him in a brace to support his back.

  Only then had Ifor managed a shy smile, because Katrin ran forward with her hand out, offering to help him.

  Katrin was four years old –Ifor Trantz was a huge, bearlike man. He was not as tall as Lucen but he was probably as heavy when in good health. Menders had immediately taken in the way his clothing hung on him.

  Ifor had been living in abject poverty for five years while trying desperately to remain employed. His injured back led to his dismissal from one job after another, as he could not maintain any posture for long. Several months ago, Ifor had re-injured his back when he slipped while walking along the shore of the Southern Ocean and fell into a tidal pool. He had remained half submerged all night in late winter weather, rescued by passersby just as the tide that would have filled the pool, drowning him, was coming in.

  Months of complete invalidism as a result of his accident meant Ifor had been facing the choice of living with his sister’s family or traveling to Erdahn where Commandant Komroff had offered him a home. These options were nothing Ifor wanted.

  Ifor was of a proud people, the legendary Southern Mordanian fisherman of the far southwest coast. Fiercely independent, huge statured and strong, they fished the Southern Ocean with nets thrown from shallow skiffs. Their trade was difficult and dangerous but they were tough, hardy people who took care of their own. Ifor’s father had been killed at sea in a sudden storm. Determined that her son would not follow in his father’s footsteps, Ifor’s mother had sent him to school. It was there that the young boy’s brilliance was discovered and Ifor was given an entrée to the Mordanian Military Academy and then to Special Services training.

  He was an unlikely spy. Ifor’s bearlike, outsized build and awkward unattractiveness seemed designed to make him stand out in any crowd. His face was heavy and slablike, giving him a superficial appearance of stupidity. Perpetually untidy, coarse black hair and a habit of avoiding eye contact with others completed the picture of an extremely socially withdrawn, retiring man who seldom spoke and withdrew from most human interaction.

  But if Ifor was given a role, he was transformed. During his years at the Academy and then as an assassin, Menders had watched Ifor become diplomats, artists, street musicians, beggars, military officers, butchers – all undercover roles that allowed him to infiltrate situations to gather information or commit sabotage. Menders remembered him posing as a swashbuckling sailor just in port, flirting openly with men and women, rollicking along in a crowd that had been swept into his wake by his jokes, snatches of song and open pockets. All the while, Ifor had been dropping explosive charges that would be detonated later when a certain Surelian dignitary arrived at the same port on his yacht, very much simplifying the Surelian Problem.

  At the Academy, Ifor had been a gentle and patient tutor for cadets who were behind in schoolwork. A plague of ill-educated tutors had worked their way into the network of noble and wealthy families in Mordania. They gave their pupils little real knowledge or skill – then, when the children entered school, they were far behind. Upon entering the Academy, Menders had been referred to a number of officers who tutored such cadets. Ifor had worked with him on history and languages, sparking his interest in both. He had also coached Menders in playing the strategy game, DeGratz, honing his intuition and logic while making him practice patience and prudence.

  “She’s so bright,” Ifor murmured, smiling. Katrin slept on, clutching the remains of a cookie from the jar Cook had set up on Ifor’s bedside table.

  Menders smiled to himself. That was typical of Ifor Trantz. Katrin was a very pretty little girl and people always noted it and complimented her. Ifor would see past that surface as most people failed to do, discovering the blossoming mind underneath.

  “Very. You’d remember her father, Bernhard Markha,” Menders replied.

  “Gods, no wonder it’s been niggling me. She looks like him.”

  They were silent. They knew Bernhard Markha was dead and mourned him. His kindness and inclusiveness had eased their ways during times when they were the new pupils, out of place and trying to adjust.

  “You’re having quite a show tonight,” Menders eventually remarked, looking out the window at the northern sky. The aurora was very active, the spectacular arrays of arches and twisting curtains of light the Thrun called The Light At The Top Of The World blotting out the stars. “It’s even more brilliant in the winter.”

  “Thank you for asking me here,” Ifor said roughly in his heavy voice that sounded like slabs of lead being knocked together. It trembled a bit and Menders could sense the weakness that had brought this big man so close to tears.

  “Thank you for coming. I’m going to need that mind of yours. Now, anything you need before I take this bundle away?”

  Ifor shook his head, closing his eyes and turning his face toward the wall.

  “Goodnight then,” Menders said, lifting Katrin and cuddling her close.

  ***

  Dear Cahrin and Olner,

  Thank you for your help in acquiring the men I needed. The response has been overwhelming, but I’m glad for it. Officially we have a new staff of farmers, gamekeepers, crofters and servants. Ifor Trantz and Harcort Menck are Katrin’s “tutors”. I was stunned by how badly both of them had been injured, particularly Menck’s progressive paralysis. They’re both lodged comfortably on the ground floor of the house, in an area they insist on calling Cripples’ Wing (to my complete disgust). They have hung a sign to that effect.

  I’m grateful to you, Olner, for having Gladdas Dalmanthea trace Ifor for me. It seems he loves the outdoor life and has been invaluable by supplying the table with game or fish when his injury is not troubling him. The outside exercise strengthens his back. As you know, his mind is second to none. He has already set up a system for cataloging information and we have begun to extend our circle of contacts.

  Lucen Greinholz has located a number of demobilized soldiers, one of whom is an excellent blacksmith, and Cook’s son, Tomar, has joined the household in the position of estate tailor. This is a boon as we are all threadbare.

  It is repulsive that the Crown and Council provide no pension or assistance for men who have served and been injured in body or mind. Assassins are started so young and their working life is over by thirty, when the reflexes have slowed too much. These men sacrifice much – their youth, their chances for marriage, social acceptance, health, sometimes their lives, like poor Falk. To think the nation that demands so much demonstrates such a lack of concern for these soldiers – well, my indignation is considerable.

  On a happier note, Doctor Franz has declared Ifor’s back salvageable, though he’s positive that the bullet is too near Ifor’s spine to be removed. He has prescribed a regimen of exercise and drinking a great deal of milk. Ifor doesn’t mind the exercise but he hates the milk rule, as it goes along with severe limits on his smoking and drinking. However, the improvement he’s seen keeps him faithful to the milk diet.

  So our ranks have swelled. Cook marvels that such nice fellows, who help in the kitchen according to a roster, could have been employed as they were. Doctor Franz is also boggled, particularly when the men begin bragging about my school days and my prowess.

  Unfortunately, Franz is very curious as to the number of kills I have. I’ve ordered the men not to tell him, as he is a kindly and dedicated soul and I would not want my friendship with him blemished. He is appalled by our profession and if he knew how many people I have eliminated he would be unable to keep it from affecting his regard for me. Hopefully telling the men to stay quiet about it will end the matter.

  Your friend,

  Menders

  It was high summer when Menders received a letter from Commandant Kom
roff.

  My dear “Son” Menders,

  I have spoken at great length with Bartan regarding the matter of acquiring specialists to help on your estate. I wish to bring a certain young man to your attention, your first cousin, Baronet Kaymar Shvalz.

  Kaymar arrived at the Academy the same winter you were sent to Surelia, so you have not had the opportunity to meet. Against my wishes, he was selected for Special Services training due to his youth, stature and native intelligence – and because there was a massive recruitment of young boys to become assassins at the time. He was a sensitive boy, scarred by unfortunate childhood events and the untimely death of his father. Unfortunately, his ambiguous sexual nature and pretty face made him a prime candidate for the initiative called “The Mordanian Fireboats” by the late Minister of Defense, Deter Varnor.

  Minister Varnor conceived the idea of having a large number of expendable assassins who could be trained with little investment of time, money and effort – with the reasoning that they would be no loss to Mordania if they were killed in action and that there would always be more young boys to train quickly and send out on what were, essentially, suicide missions. These young assassins have not been afforded the training and education you were. These young men, including Kaymar, have been cruelly exploited and overworked. Tragically, there are only three of them left alive out of the original number of one hundred and twenty. Two of the three are beyond hope, their minds broken into irreversible madness – and then there is Kaymar, who has nearly reached your record number of kills.

  Ceaseless service for more than three years without a leave has taken a physical and mental toll on your cousin, to the point where Bartan interceded with the Queen on his behalf. Kaymar had been working on a deep infiltration that led to a complete breakdown of his health. He has been mustered out of the service by the Queen herself, though this has not been made public, and it is assumed by most that he still works with Bartan. As he, like you, is her cousin, the Queen has made him a Courtier and placed him under her personal protection. He has recovered to a large degree but needs a quiet and peaceful situation, as he finds the bustle of Erdahn disturbing.

  I recommend Kaymar for your consideration as a member of the Princess’ household. He is unswervingly loyal, diligent, extremely intelligent though not properly educated, has a capacity for ruthlessness that is more than the average and, like you, has never been known to fail at any task set to him, no matter what toll the task may take from him. He would serve you and the Princess well and faithfully.

  Be prepared for him to contact you in the near future. Don’t be put off by his appearance and mannerisms. He has suffered greatly in the service of his country. I know he is salvageable. Were he not, I would not recommend him to you.

  As always, my best wishes for your continued health and happiness and that of your little daughter, the Princess.

  Your “Father”,

  Morschal Komroff, Commandant

  Menders sat back in his chair.

  He knew of his first cousins, Dorsen and Kaymar, but had never met them. They were the sons of his father’s estranged younger brother. The families had never communicated during Menders’ lifetime. Kaymar’s family lived at Moresby, the southern portion of what had once been the enormous Stettan holdings. The estate had been divided by Menders’ grandfather after his eldest son had become a careless reprobate, thus assuring his younger son of an income and home.

  There was more story here than the words Sir had set down. Cousin Kaymar damaged by an infiltration assignment, then mustered out in need of a peaceful situation – the Minister of Defense who had conceived the fiendish idea of The Mordanian Fireboats suddenly coming down with a bad case of death… was there a connection? And what was the almost offhand remark, “Don’t be put off by his appearance and mannerisms” meant to convey? Menders trusted Sir entirely, but at times Komroff did not enlighten those men he considered “his boys” with every detail he was privy to.

  There had been a sudden rash of killings in the Capitol in the last year, spectacularly dubbed The Gutting Murders by the press. Some of the victims were prominent people, others street trash – all were known to have a sexual predilection for children. One had been Hartsen Trentov, the tutor who had victimized Menders and confessed that he had done the same to Menders’ cousin. Could Kaymar be involved in this series of killings – and in the death of Minister Varnor?

  “Cousin,” Menders muttered, “have you been a naughty boy?”

  He set the letter on his desk and went to the lounge in the Men’s Wing. Bartan’s associate who had delivered the letter was there, engaged in a jesting conversation with several of the newly employed group that had taken to calling themselves “Menders’ Men”. Menders asked him for a word and when they’d walked outside, asked if he knew Kaymar Shvalz.

  He saw what he’d expected, a rapid flicker of fear in the man’s eyes.

  “Of course, everyone in Bartan’s network knows Shvalz,” he answered, his tone easy, his eyes telling another tale.

  “Pleasant young man?” Menders asked innocently, offering a cigar which the rattled fellow took gratefully. Menders didn’t smoke very often but always seemed to have a cigar handy for those who did.

  “Very much a gentleman,” came the careful answer.

  “Good at his work?”

  “Shvalz has no peer in the present network.”

  “I was curious because he is my cousin, though we’ve never met,” Menders explained chummily, redirecting the conversation now that he knew what he needed. After some idle chatter and seeing to it that the man was comfortably settled for the night before his return trip to Erdahn, he retreated to his office.

  “So the Commandant feels that my cousin should come to The Shadows, even though a seasoned assassin blanches white at the mention of that cousin’s name and has no idea that Kaymar is no longer in Special Services. He may be just the man I need,” Menders said aloud as he settled himself behind his desk.

  ***

  A large, spreading oak on the south side of the house became known as The Assassin’s Tree, as it became the gathering place for those gentlemen at the end of a long summer day. Tables and chairs were taken from unused rooms in the house, DeGratz sets and cards were supplied and “Menders’ Men” would sit out in the long, glowing evenings, smoking cigars, tippling wine and talking. Past exploits were bragged about, recent competitions at marksmanship disputed, many lies were told and a lot of laughing went on. A large cork dartboard was nailed to the tree, subjected to many a knife throwing competition. Someone had set up a still in the woodshed, and made a potent lanarfruit brandy that was referred to as ‘Liquid Gunpowder’. Menders tolerated such antics as long as the children were not endangered and things didn’t get out of hand.

  One night Katrin wandered out to the tree in her nightgown. She never slept well during the night-long brightness of high summer. A particularly ribald story had just been told and there was great guffawing and catcalling until one of the assassins looked over and saw her coming across the lawn.

  “Behave yourself, gentleman, the Princess is here,” he said. There was a general tidying and straightening among the group that made Menders smile. A four year old girl gets out of her bed at night and a group of the most dangerous men in the world start primping, he thought, smiling around Ifor at her.

  “You’re up late,” Menders said.

  “I couldn’t find you and the sun is still up,” she said ingenuously.

  “And you very well know why, it’s the middle of summer,” he laughed as he lifted her onto his lap.

  “I heard you all laughing and wanted to know why.” She looked around the men with wondering eyes. There was considerable embarrassment.

  “We were talking about grown up things that you wouldn’t like much,” Menders said in a tone that let her know that there would be no more explanation as the men took their seats again.

  “What do men talk about?” she asked.

  “Oh
generally they tell lies and insult each other,” Menders answered her. “They talk about women, things they’ve done, women, war, women, sporting prowess and women.”

  She looked at him.

  “That’s silly,” she declared.

  “Indeed it is, Little Princess.” He snuggled her closer, knowing she would be asleep in a few moments. “Continue, gentlemen but tone it down a trifle,” he said to the amused gathering.

  “There’s Mister Spaltz,” Katrin said suddenly. Menders looked up.

  Indeed, the farmer was approaching across the yard, accompanied by the guard on duty. Menders felt the group of men tighten reflexively as hands went to pistol grips and knife handles. When the sentry signaled to the Man on the roof that all was well, they relaxed. Passing Katrin to Ifor, Menders rose and went to greet Spaltz.

  “Evening Mister Menders,” Spaltz smiled. “Found myself with a couple of spare hours and thought I would walk over to spend a little time. I have a couple of letters for you from Erdahn – one from our Eiren, the other from her headmistress.”

  Menders took the letters. “Care to sit with us?” he asked.

  “Don’t mind if I do. Well, Princess, you have quite a few admirers here,” he said, taking a homemade cookie from his pocket and proffering it to her with a little bow.

  “Thank you, Mister Spaltz,” she said, taking it with a big smile. “How are you?”

  “A bit tired, to be expected at this time of year, but well enough,” he answered. “And how are you keeping?”

  “Very well, thank you.” She bit into the cookie, silencing herself for the moment. Mister Spaltz pulled up a chair.