Mar was not so certain of that, especially now that the ironbound gates of the Blue Fortress were in sight and it became apparent that – as predicted – the Viceroy was piqued. His only solace was that he was not uneasy. Apparently, his inner sense was not concerned. To be fair, he did have to admit that Waleck’s plan might have a chance of succeeding.
Under normal circumstances, the Army’s restriction of bridge traffic was perfunctory at best. When Viceroy Ghreghten XI was piqued, a situation that tended to occur about twice a month -- never on thirdday and seldom on eighthday, which was the day most merchants settled their accounts -- those who could demonstrate legal business in the Old City passed through a small postern gate off Blue Gate Plaza. The process was less than stringent with the small gate blocked open and only the most obviously non-appropriate travelers dissuaded by the perennially bored guards.
The looming seven-manheight walls of the fortress cast a long shadow over the broad commons that fronted the barbican and its flanking towers. For the most part, the neighborhood was comprised of houses and apartments rented out to officers, their families, or their mistresses. A large tavern with a bower-shaded terrace sat on the northern side of the plaza, with only a narrow alley between it and the fortress, and just opposite the barbican near the head of the Promenade a bakery occupied the lower floor of an older stone building. The heat of the ovens and the smells of the fresh bread flirted with the open air of the plaza.
Waleck, with a direct and unequivocal air, turned to his right and angled toward the still closed postern gate. Nodding politely in greeting to the others assembled in the impromptu line, but crossing his arms and assuming a look of deep concentration to discourage conversation, Waleck joined the waiting group. There were upwards of two dozen men assembled already, with a number of others approaching.
The man waiting nearest the darkened timbers was also ostensibly an independent merchant. Behind him were several men bearing on their sleeves the ensigns of well-known merchant clans. A man dressed in the tailored black jacket and puce trousers of an official of the Urban Prefecture idled two places ahead. Two scribes and a bondsman laden with satchels accompanied him. The rest appeared to be junior factors, though one immaculately dressed individual with several assistants was certainly an auditor. On the whole, the men had the attitude of fatalistic patience. It was plain that all had suffered this inconvenience previously and considered it hardly worthy of comment. The Viceroy was Piqued, but commerce would forge ahead. Some of the more enterprising were already jotting down the delay as an expense against their imperial levies.
As Mar drew up behind the disguised scrapper, he rested his package carefully on the pavement, and began surreptitiously observing the crowd. Those accompanied conversed quietly, but most simply exchanged polite nods with those in their vicinity.
“…sixteen a thousand will do well in Mhajhkaei…”
“…if I’ve told her once, I’ve told her a thousand times…”
“…usually open by this time of day, isn’t it, Mhertyn?”
The muffled sounds of marching legionnaires nearing the gate from the other side forestalled Mhertyn’s reply. The irregular line tightened in anticipation.
“Sounds like rather a lot of them this time, doesn’t it?” the municipal official offered.
Mar hoisted his package to his shoulder once more, careful to beg the pardon of the young liveried runner who had fallen in behind him. The boy leaned aside as Mar swung the package upright but did not demean himself by replying.
After a few moments, sounds indicated the lifting of the bars of the postern and then two legionnaires pushed the heavy gate slowly open. Immediately behind them three legionnaires with tower shields locked and thrust forward marched into the plaza using the stilted lock-step cadence the army favored at its parades. Only the rounded polished-steel helmets and black boots of the legionnaires were visible behind the large shields. As they advanced from beneath the arch of the gate, the line of merchants was forced to give way, bunching backwards with much jostling, inadvertent collisions, and quick apologies. As the first triplet continued outward, another pair of legionnaires emerged from the gate to link to the ends of the shield wall, and then a second pair that linked to the first. This maneuver continued with additional legionnaires joining the wings of the formation as required, so that the advancing rank expanded in an arc into the plaza. At this point, the merchant queue disintegrated as everyone, including Waleck and Mar, abandoned the pretense of the line and scrabbled back out of the way.
Finally, with a synchronized stamp of boots, the men in the formation, now numbering at least a half troop, halted. From behind the interlocked shields, a fugleman barked an unintelligible command. Using a deft crab-like sidestep, the legionnaires realigned themselves into a large three-sided square, with its center at the postern gate and the missing base along the lichen covered walls of the fortress.
Mar found himself, with Waleck and several other evictees, alongside the outdoor tables of the, as yet, closed tavern on the north side of the plaza. The merchants quickly appropriated chairs.
“Rest there, Kryn,” Waleck commanded gruffly, taking a seat at the nearest table. Mar rested his package again, but, knowing what was expected of a bondsman, remained standing.
“Haven’t done this before,” said one merchant seated to their left. He was a middle-aged man with the ensign of the Tragh on the sleeve of his jacket. “Have they Mhertyn?”
Mhertyn, seated across from the first merchant and now identified, was a bigger man, somewhat younger and also of Tragh. “Not that I’ve seen, Llehdahl. Wonder if old Ghreghten is out of sorts with the wife again?”
Both men laughed, then fell to discussing the price of summer wines on the dock at Mhajhkaei.
Another drawn-out fugleman’s command drew Mar’s eyes back to the shield wall. With one crash of sound that rang off the buildings around the plaza, the shields dropped to the brickwork paving.
After a beat, another command sang out over the now revealed shoulders of the legionnaires. “Rest arms!”
Again, in unison, the legionnaires stamped their left boot and then shifted it a half step to their left. At this point, everything became still.
“Wonder if they could do quite so well in a real battle?” Mhertyn joked.
“I certainly hope not,” Llehdahl replied. “War is bad for business.”
Mhertyn chuckled. “You’ve the right of that. Imagine what all this commotion is about?”
Before his companion could reply, four legionnaires in the side of the shield wall facing the tavern pivoted in pairs, opening the way for a quad of swordsmen. These were outfitted in field duty uniform: steel infantry helmet, baldric, plated cuirass, canvas trousers, new-style tunic in imperial green, and knee boots. After this group took guard positions to the left and right, a man wearing the badges of a Captain-of-Legions strode into the center of the plaza.
At the sight of the officer, the scattered small groups of merchants shifted forward to form a small crowd around the screen of swordsmen. Mhertyn, Llehdahl, and the other merchants at the tavern rose to join the press. Waleck stood, but gestured for Mar to wait.
“Citizens!” the captain called out. “Citizens! Your attention!”
The few murmurs from the company quieted.
The Captain-of-Legions was also in field uniform, though he wore a gilded helmet that sported a red horsehair crest. He was a tall man and had a huge beard curled in black waxed ringlets. The mass of his beard pushed his hinged cheek guards outward and spilled across the collar and shoulder plates of his cuirass.
“My name is Quanj nh’ Lret. I am duty commander of the Blue Fortress garrison.”
Mar had heard the name. Quanj was a son of Marshal House Bhleyr, one of the hereditary groups that had controlled the Imperial Army of Khalar for centuries. He was said to be closely allied with Hwraldek’s rival on the Council, Erhtrys of Merchant House Rhesdin.
“By Order of the Viceroy,
with concurrence from the Council of Patriarchs, all travel to the Old City shall be restricted until further notice – “
The crowd waited.
“– to members of guilds with rightful business.”
On hearing this, Waleck, with Mar following, moved to the edge of the crowd.
“I knew all this display was for naught,” a merchant of the House of Selye commented to no one in particular. “The Army must be bored.”
“I heard that the Army wants an increase in the Trade Levy,” another contributed.
“Citizens!”
Again, the crowd quieted.
“These are the provisions of the Edict!”
“Number One: Approved Guilds: Merchanters and Scribes.”
“That’s new,” someone behind Mar pronounced.
“Number Two: All persons and parcels are subject to search.”
This caused a stir to pass through the crowd.
“Number Three: Persons not members of approved guilds will not be admitted.”
“What in the name of Great Nhish does that mean?” a big man with a shiny bald head near the front shouted. Nhish was the goddess of the harvest. Mar marked the man for a grain trader.
Captain Quanj glared at the bald man, but answered. “Until further notice, only merchants and scribes will be allowed to pass. No others without advance permission.”
“What about my servant?” demanded the man Mar had guessed was an official of the municipal prefecture.
“No bondsmen or porters without advance permission,” Quanj confirmed dryly.
A general noise of complaint and objection began to rise from the crowd. Quanj made a quick gesture and his guards drew their swords. Immediately, quiet prevailed. The Army did not tolerate public disturbance.
“My adjutant,” Quanj announced offhandedly, “will begin the processing.”
The captain raised his hand and a legate, a fugleman who seemed to be the latter officer’s aide, and a legionnaire carrying a field desk and stool appeared from behind the shield wall. With that, Quanj turned on his heel and returned through the shield wall to the postern. Mar lost sight of him as he passed into the fortress. The quad of swordsmen remained, but a curt command from the fugleman caused them to sheath their weapons. Apparently, the legionnaires forming the shield wall were also to remain.
With grudging slowness, the crowd began to form themselves once again into the semblance of a line. There was some hesitation, as few seemed disposed to be at the forefront. After a moment, though, several men of more prominent houses, all with numerous sigils, sanctions, and ensigns, stepped forward confidently before the Legate’s desk. The municipal official, in something of a huff, gathered his entourage and departed back along Blue Fortress Promenade. One or two others also determined they would rather not submit to the unusual inspection and left.
For his part, Waleck took a position in the latter part of the line.
Mar, incredulous, could not contain himself. He leaned close to the old man’s ear.
“What are you doing?” he hissed. “He said no bondsman! And they’ll inspect the package!”
“Calm yourself, Mar,” Waleck murmured. “As you will see, I have foreseen this problem and am prepared to deal with it. Now, keep your place.”
Rebuffed, Mar leaned back, fighting to keep his anger from his face. He had been loyal to his bargain this far, but he had no intention of being arrested.
Taking a slow breath to settle his mind, he began plotting the route he would follow to escape when the Imperials seized the waste miner. Running down the Promenade would be useless; he would have to get off the ground quickly and find a hiding place. He turned his head casually, studying the buildings around the plaza. His best option seemed to be the tavern. One of the tables should boost him high enough so that a running leap would carry him to the bower and the ledge of the second floor balcony was only a manheight above that. From there he could swing to the trellis that shaded the balcony of the adjacent building and climb it to reach the roof. Once he reached the roof, he was certain that he could disappear.
“Name, House, Guild, Destination, Lawful Business,” the legate demanded of the first man in line, who happened to be Mhertyn’s partner, as he set out an ink well, pen, and small notebook from a large leather bag.
“Llehdahl nh’ Hlevaer of Tragh House and the Merchanters’ Guild. I travel to Tragh Warehouse Number Three on Emperor Khaldeyn Avenue for private concerns.”
The legate scratched the responses in his notebook. Apparently, he had been given no instructions to make any attempt to verify the demanded information.
“You may pass.”
And so it went. Mhertyn followed his fellow and then the rest of the line. After the seventh man passed on into the fortress, the Legate stopped repeating the mantra of “Name, House, Guild, Destination, Lawful Business.”
“Irt, Bhradyn, Artful Scribes, Predhzor House, Returning to my Residence.”
“You may pass.”
“Khreff of Mhajhkaei, Factor for Lhorghan Company of Mhajhkaei, the Barge Slow Time, Wines on Consignment.”
The fugleman inspected the Mhajhkaeirii’n imperial sigil closely as the legate recorded his data. Apparently satisfied, the fugleman nodded at his officer.
“You may pass.”
The Legate dusted a full page with sand and turned to the next.
And then it was Waleck’s turn. The fugleman had been frowning at Mar as the young thief approached. As Waleck advanced to the desk, the legionnaire inserted himself to bar Mar’s way.
“Hold there, you.”
The legate looked up from his notebook. His voice was flat. “Bondsmen may not enter the Old City at this time.”
Waleck’s smile was quick and professional. He folded his hands together and bowed slightly.
“Right you are, sir. But I have advance permission for my bondsman to accompany me. Legate..?”
“Khronst.”
The legate’s placid face evidenced no curiosity. Khronst was not young. He had the brass bands for two ten-year terms of service on the brow of his helmet. A man who had advanced no further than the rank of legate in a score of years had obviously been found lacking in some significant aspect by his superiors.
Waleck stepped closer to the desk and stretched out a hand.
“My name is Telwyn. I am on Hire to the House of Ephenn. I arrange the transport of rare commodities. And, as I said, Legate Khronst, I have advance permission for Kryn to accompany me.”
Almost reflexively, the seated man’s hand rose to grip Waleck’s. The legate’s eyes widened as their hands clasped. He withdrew his hand and slowly turned his palm upwards.
At first, Mar thought a full gold thalar glinted there, but when he focused closer, he realized that it was only a tarnished silver thal. That was more of an insult than a bribe!
Khronst’s face tightened and his nose twitched as if a foul odor had brushed his nostrils. He rotated his hand contemptuously and allowed the thal to tumble onto the desktop. The coin struck on edge and spun glinting before rattling still.
The fugleman glanced at his commander, caught his expression, and then reached out and locked his hand in the fabric of Mar’s tunic. His other hand fell to the ball on the haft of his sword.
“Don’t move, boy.”
As a bondsman would not, Mar did not flinch, but he did allow his eyes to widen slightly. The fugleman was now close enough so that Mar could pivot and smash the box into the side of his head. After that, Waleck would be on his own.
Khronst turned his head to the swordsman to his left and opened his mouth to speak.
But then, strangely, the legate hesitated. For an almost undetectable instant, the officer became still. Then his mouth closed and his head slowly swiveled back to his notebook. The swordsman, waiting for a command, raised his eyebrows but did nothing. Mar saw the legionnaire glance down at the thal resting on the table, frown slightly, and then turn his head to direct his gaze purposefully elsewher
e.
Mar looked back at Waleck. The old man’s back was to him, but his head was turned slightly in profile. Waleck was smiling, but there was a light sheen of sweat visible on his forehead.
Khronst took up his pen and began writing another entry.
“Destination?”
“Municipal Quay.”
Khronst finished the line and then reached into his bag and produced a small card, some soft wax, and a seal. He wiped the nib of his pen meticulously on a small piece of cloth and dipped it into the inkwell once more.
“KRYN” Khronst repeated, printing the name in block letters on the card.
“You hold his bond directly?”
“Yes, Legate.”
The officer made a short note and then wrote out something else on the bottom of the card. Taking a ball of the wax between his thumb and forefinger, he rolled it about until it warmed and then pressed in on the lower corner of the card, applying the seal immediately.
Khronst handed the card to Waleck. “Your servant must always be in your company. If found alone, he will be arrested.”
“Yes, Legate, I understand,” Waleck assured, smiling his professional smile.
Khronst cast his eyes at the man behind Mar. “Name, House, Guild, Destination, Lawful Business.”
“Sir?” the fugleman questioned. “The package?”
Khronst glared at the legionnaire until he shrugged, released Mar, and stepped aside.
“Name, House, Guild…”
Mar waited until they were midway of the bridge before speaking.
“Now how did you manage that, old man?” he hissed.
“A small something I learned in my youth,” Waleck cast over his shoulder, striding briskly.
“And what would that be?”
“The coin was mesmeric.”
“Is that some kind of poison?”
Waleck laughed. “No, it was enchanted with a small spell, Mar. That is all. Just a little bit of magic to help us on our way.”
SIXTEEN
They had no trouble on the opposite shore.
There, the gates of the triumphal arch that linked the two watchtowers were open, manned only by a quad of the Viceroy’s Personal Guard. None of the four, who huddled to one side, leaning on the upriver parapet swapping rude comments about women, bothered to glance in the pair’s direction as they hurried by.
Key to Magic 01 Orphan Page 14
