Byzantium, Book 1: Dead Men's Road

by I.A. Watson

  “Hello, sir,” the new guard ventured.

  Kirkgrim fell into step beside him. “This is one of the best bits of the journey, isn’t it?”

  “Sir? I. um, I haven’t traveled this route before. It’s my first time in a caravan.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean the route. I’ve never been along this road either. That’s the point, isn’t it? The best bit is the not knowing, the heading towards something exciting. A new horizon. Different people.”

  The guard noted a strange accent when the Wanderer got enthusiastic. “Have you come a long way, then, sir?”

  “All the way from Albion, the long route. You?”

  “Just from Veranus. They needed more guards and they were paying good money, so my Da said…” The youngster shut his mouth. Santar had warned him about talking too much with the caravan passengers.

  “Could be a good opportunity to see the world, make some coin, get some experience before you settle down…?” Kirkgrim paused so the guard could reveal his name.

  “Vare. Vare the smith’s son,” the young man admitted.

  “Kirkgrim Carrionwake. So is there a special purpose you want to earn some money for? Some reason to go home rich and experienced?”

  Vare blushed.

  “A girl,” Kirkgrim guessed. “What’s her name?”

  “Agnis,” the guard confessed. “The baker’s daughter. But he won’t wed her to a poor man, nor a mere boy. So Da said I should try my hand at this. A season to Byzantium and back, and then ask.”

  “Your Da sounds like a wise man, Vare. And how are you enjoying your adventure so far?”

  The youngster hesitated, but Kirkgrim was easy to confess to. “I’m missing home a bit. I miss Da and Ma, and seeing Agnis every day. And Commander Santar and the men who’ve been with him for a long time, they can be a bit… crude.”

  “The new man always finds it a bit tough at first,” Kirkgrim assured him. “Your Da would tell you that if he was here. He wouldn’t have sent you out if he didn’t think you were ready.” The Wanderer leaned in confidentially. “Tell you what. You’re not the newest any more. When we camp tonight and you’ve got some free time, why not say hello to Sigroth Sigrothson?”

  “The big fellow? He’s a Viking!”

  “Oh, you noticed, did you? Another traveler a long way from home there. But he doesn’t seem to be a particularly bad sort of Viking, does he? Less rape and pillage than drink, sing, and fall over. And he’s a bit simple in some things. He might need a comrade to watch his back. Talk to him.”

  “Alright,” Vare decided, “I will.”

  “That’s the way. Talking to people is good. I’m going to find an excuse to chat with everyone in this column sooner or later. For example… what’s the story on that lady in the wagon up there?”

  “Lady Mirabelle? Padavas warned us to be very polite to her.”

  “I think you should be polite to everyone, except bullies, villains, and folks who deserve to be insulted. So Lady Mirabelle was already with the company when you joined?”

  “Yes. She’s come all the way from Venice.”

  “Without an escort?”

  “Santar said she’d had a bodyguard but he ran off. Santar and Jessup and Wardik said some pretty rude things about the lady then. I tried not to listen.”

  “Good man. Any word on why she’s heading east?”

  “There are all kinds of rumors. Some say she’s a courier, delivering a rich treasure. Others say she’s heading out to be betrothed to an eastern prince. Or she’s run away from a grand alliance. Or she’s a spy, delivering vital information to the Duke of Byzantium.”

  “She sounds like a very busy young woman. I’ll have to ask her.”

  “Padavas warned us not to disturb her.”

  “Well of course not. But that’s you. Disturbing people is a specialty of mine.”

  ***

  Rhodin the courier rode forward to catch up with Fitz the scout at the caravan’s vanguard. The tracker was accompanied by his armored truffle pig. The Imperial messenger looked a little askance at Fitz’s choice of companion but leaned over to talk to the guide anyhow. “You know this route?”

  “Never been on it before,” Fitz answered cheerfully. “That’s why I signed up for it.”

  “Then you have no idea of the dangers or pitfalls ahead?”

  “I’m guild. I’ve done my research,” the tracker promised. “I’ve talked to some folks who’ve ranged this route before and I’ve checked what maps exist of Thrace, Bithini, and Caini.”

  Rhodar wasn’t convinced. “What’s ahead, then?” he challenged.

  “It’s a little under a hundred leagues from Dirne Waystation to Byzantium,” Fitz reported. “Ten days travel if we can manage thirty miles a day. More likely two weeks. The road follows the hill contours, above the river floodplain that takes the Agrianes and her tributaries west into the Marisa and out into the sea. There used to be manned waystations at the end of each day’s ride in the old days, but most of them are derelict now. We’ll camp at them if we can, but some nights we’ll just have to circle the wagons.”

  “I don’t know what travel conditions will be like by land. I usually sail through the Sea of Marmora to get to the capital,” the courier replied disingenuously. He’d passed this way before. He wanted to test how much the scout really knew. “Is the road maintained?”

  “In some places. Others it will depend on the weather how easy it will be to use. We’ll ford four rivers before we cross the Agrianes herself. There’s a few villages and farms still out there where we can get supplies, but no major settlements now unless we divert to the coast until we get to Circez and Catalcus, a couple of days from our final destination. The most dangerous part will be where the road goes through forest, the middle bit, and the ruins of Burgulae, and a few spots where we pass close between cliffs.”

  “The caravan has already had trouble, I gather,” Rhodin probed.

  “Some raider archers took pot shots at us before Veranus,” Fitz explained. “We lost some men there. It happens sometimes.”

  “You are carrying the Duke’s treasure.”

  “I make it a rule never to look too closely at the cargo. My job’s to face forward, with Fred here.” He slapped his truffle pig’s back.

  “That animal is wearing leather armor.”

  “Well sure. You wouldn’t expect him to go into battle unprotected, would you?”

  Rhodin dy Thermi retreated from the odd scout and his odder companion and went to occupy himself elsewhere in the train.

  ***

  The humblest of the wagons that was not actually a barrow was a two wheeler yoked to an elderly ox, steered by a harassed-looking farmer. It contained his tools, a bag of seed corn, household items, a wife, a mother, and three children. When Kirkgrim had got the life story out of Vare he dropped back to greet the family.

  “Shouldn’t you be planting that grain instead of taking it on holiday?”

  The farmer’s wife pursed her lips. “If there was justice in this world we should,” she hissed. “There’s none.”

  Kirkgrim sensed a grievance. “You’re not traveling by choice.”

  The farmer laid a cautionary hand on his wife’s thigh. “We’re just making a new start, is all,” he said cautiously.

  The old mother who was trying to keep a trio of boisterous grandchildren from boredom looked up. “We’re heading to Catalcus, where my other son has land,” she explained proudly. “Hodis will help him there.”

  Hodis looked less than happy at the thought of being supervised by his more successful brother. The farmer’s wife scowled. “It was that rebellious Baron Olderus’ fault, I say,” she accused, ignoring her husband’s pleas for her to hold her tongue. “Well it was! When our lord heard that there might be an army coming by, he declared a special tax to pay for troops to ward them off our villages, or to bribe them away. A heavy tax. What with a bad season and all we never got out of debt – and look at us now!”

 
“Heading off to a new start,” Kirkgrim encouraged them.

  He chatted for a while, wangling introduction to the farmer’s wife, Katin, to Mother Matya, to unwed daughter Yve and to her younger brothers Hod Junior and Frott. He sympathized with the old woman’s lumbago and gave her some herbs to use in a poultice when travel allowed. He admired Hod and Frott’s pet frog.

  “See you later,” the Wanderer promised them. “I hope things work out with the new farm venture. I wish you a better landlord, too.” He waved at the children, gurned them the most appalling face to set them laughing, and carried on with his inquiries.

  ***

  “It’s easy work if you do it right, lads,” Guard Commander Santar instructed his newest recruits. He wasn’t entirely sure of either Vare the smith’s son or Sigroth the Northman yet.

  “Yessir,” the youngster from Veranus answered.

  “Ask a few of the long term hands, like Truder or Jessop. They’ll tell you how it works. Most of the time you just put on a show and the attitude keeps the thieves away. If you find a sneak at the saddlebags, make an example. No one else will want to be crippled for poking their fingers where they don’t belong.”

  “Right.” Vare didn’t sound so sure about that one.

  “It’s the swagger that gets the ladies, you know. There’s always a few in every caravan, looking for a bit of excitement on the journey. A strapping brave train guard looks pretty good after a few days on the trail. Don’t worry if there’s any little accidents. The lads’ll swear you were never near the bitch, or else that all of us had her because she’s such a loose slut.”

  Vare frowned.

  “You know what I mean, right?” Santar challenged the Viking.

  “No,” Sigroth admitted.

  “You’re a bloody Viking. Everyone knows what you’re like with wenches.”

  “When men are bad to women I chop their bits off. The men’s bits, that is. I don’t like men being bad to women. It makes my head ache.”

  Santar snorted. “More for the rest of us then,” he sneered. “I’m a real man. I’m talking from real experience!”

  “Really? I thought you were talking from your arse,” Sigroth suggested gruffly.

  “Watch your mouth, Northman. Remember who’s in charge here. I set the watches. I dole out the jobs. Cross me and you get the crappiest work and the most dangerous assignments I can find. Don’t forget it.”

  “I can cut you to pieces with my axe and stamp on the remains,” Sigroth pointed out. “Don’t forget that either.”

  ***

  The slave-wagon carried an iron cage, requiring a sturdy pair of bullocks to pull it. Kirkgrim inspected it while its owner was drawing water for the animals from a wayside well.

  He ignored the guard who was dozing against the far side of the cage and greeted the three occupants and the big Nubian who was shackled behind. “Hello there. I’m Kirkgrim.”

  The occupants of the box flinched. “I’m sorry, master, but we are not allowed to speak with you,” the male inside the cage warned the Wanderer.

  Kirkgrim examined the slaves more carefully. The man who’d replied was perhaps thirty, with neat trimmed hair and nails and a nice speaking voice; a trained clerk or draftsman, the Wanderer concluded, and therefore valuable enough to ship to great Byzantium to command a better price. Huddled together at the other end of the cart and chained for good measure to one of the bars were a pair of scantly clad girls, probably twins, who would also fetch a special bonus in a first class auction. The Nubian, tall and muscular, would do well as an arena fighter.

  “You folks can’t talk to me,” Kirkgrim understood. “That’s fine. Nothing to prevent me talking and you listening, though. So listen. I really don’t like slavery. It irritates me. And I don’t like slavers. I’m guessing you don’t like slavery and slavers either but you’re not in a position to say so right now. So no promises, but if I get the chance to change your condition for the better, I will. I swear it.”

  The girls looked wildly hopeful for a moment before their sense of reality cut in. The scholar turned away as if he’d heard it all before. The Nubian pretended not to understand, but his eyes burned.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” the returning owner demanded. “Get away from those bars.” The slumbering guard woke up too and took an interest.

  “You’d be the slaver, then,” Kirkgrim noted, unimpressed.

  “I’m Alfosus of Tarsus, yes. What’s it to you?”

  “Kirkgrim Carrionwake of, oh, lots of places. Let’s say Amberweald. That sounds like the sort of place I’d like to come from.”

  “Keep away from my merchandise. They’re not for sale yet.”

  “I wasn’t interested in buying them. I was checking their health.” The Wanderer indicated the pouches he carried at his belt, showing he had healer’s tools with him.

  “They’re in fine health,” Alfosus insisted. His tone was a little less harsh now that he’d identified the stranger as a professional man. In fact he seemed to recall that the Wanderer had paid Padavas for his passage in gold. “A sale isn’t possible, but if you’re interested in negotiating a little private time with the girls…”

  “Not while they don’t get a say in it,” Kirkgrim snarled.

  Alfosus took a step back to be closer to his bodyguard. “Slavery is still sanctioned by the Empire. I have all the legal documents.”

  Kirkgrim’s smile was bleak and deadly. “I’m sure you do.” He held out his hand for Alfosus to shake. Such was the Wanderer’s force of personality that the slaver found himself responding.

  Kirkgrim clasped the slave trader’s wrist. “I wouldn’t hire out those girls to anyone on this journey if I was you,” he advised quietly. “I’ve some experience as a healer. I think your health would suffer if that happened. I think anything unpleasant that occurs to any of your stock might reflect back on your own wellbeing. In fact I’m sure of it.”

  “Are… are you threatening me?”

  “I’m smiling at you, aren’t I? Hmm?”

  ***

  Many of the travelers had formed part of Padavas’ train all the way from Venice; others had first met on the convoy from Veranus, but the newcomers from Dirne waystation quickly mingled with the older hands. Kirkgrim was hardly the only one to mix and mingle.

  The monks of the Order of St Temensus, for example, explained that they were taking the old pilgrim route through great Byzantium to the holy places of the East. There were sites out there where legend held that St Temensus himself had fought in the great struggle against the Dead Name, more than six hundred years before. The thirteen brothers faced a perilous journey beyond the old imperial capital if the rumors of unrest in the eastern provinces were true.

  Rhodin the courier traveled with the caravan by right of his office, and was one of those newly joining the train. He blended in with the ease of an experienced traveler, but ate and slept apart in another of the rented wagon rooms.

  Davidus of Tessera was the single largest wagon owner in the train, a merchant transporting hides and woolens to Byzantium. He kept his own small retinue of dour, northern mercenaries close by to protect his investment, and mixed little with any but Padavas and the other major traders.

  As they neared the end of the first day’s journey from the imperial waystation, Kirkgrim joined Fitz in riding ahead to inspect their overnight camping site.

  “There was a proper waystation here once, but now its fallen into disuse,” the guide explained as they threaded through the trees.

  “The empire’s not what it used to be. Civil war inside, barbarians to the east, Tyrant Kings to the south,” Kirkgrim acknowledged. “What I don’t understand is the pig.”

  Fitz grinned and bent down to scratch behind the ears of the large armored animal that trotted beside him. “Fred? He’s a truffle pig. He can track. He can sniff an enemy from half a mile off. Fred and I have been working together since he was a piglet.”

  “How did he, um, apply for the job?”
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  “My fault, really. I blundered into his mother’s lair. She went into a protective fury. I had to kill her to save my life. I was sorry for it. I kept Fred and reared him to make amends. We turned out to be pretty good trail partners.”

  “Y’see, that’s why I wander in the first place.” Kirkgrim grinned back. “Back in the Northern Isles I’d never have heard of a truffle pig caravan guard, let alone seen one for myself. How do you do, Fred?”

  The pig snuffled some more and continued along the trail. Just ahead were the broken walls of the abandoned compound.

  “We need to see how defensible this place is,” Fitz noted. “We’re far enough away from Dirne waystation that the Imperial Dragoons won’t be able to help us now, so if those bandits that were dogging us all the way in are still lurking around, tonight’s when they’ll make their move.”

  Kirkgrim scrambled over the broken fortifications after the guide. “If they are bandits,” he suggested. “Baron Olderus’ men would have a pretty strong motive in keeping Duke Sebastio’s pay from getting through, wouldn’t he?”

  “This is true,” agreed Fitz. “In either case I’d prefer them not to. It’s a habit of mine, not being killed. I try to make a special point of it.”

  “And it might not be that rather ostentatious treasure box they’re after, either,” Kirkgrim continued. He trailed behind guide and truffle pig as they quickly assessed the state and security of the ruined waystation. “For example, that merchant, Davidus of Tessera, has quite a lot of valuable things hidden away in his wagons. And then there’s whatever messages imperial courier Rhodin has with him. They might be more valuable to the right person than any treasury.”

  Fitz looked carefully at the Wanderer who had peremptorily joined the caravan. “You seem to have done an awfully good job of casing the vans,” he pointed out. “How do we know that you’re not in league with the bandits?”

  Kirkgrim considered this. “Because my heart is pure,” he answered. And that was about as far as Fitz the guide was going to get with the matter.