by Sean Hinn
The two men abruptly stopped laughing. The short one stepped forward. “Vincent Thomison is dead. And if he isn’t, he’ll be wanted. Are you sure you want to be him?”
Vincent smiled wanly. “No, I am not. But I cannot change who I am. Now, do you intend to escort me, or would you rather tell me the way?”
“All right,” the larger one said. “Enough fooling about. You’ll be coming with me.” He reached for Vincent; Gerald lifted a hand.
“You don’t want to do that, young man.”
The tall one swiped a gauntleted fist at Gerald in reply. Vincent caught the blow before it landed. A moment later the soldier was face down in the snow and ash, his arm twisted awkwardly behind him, Vincent’s knee in his back and a dagger at his temple. The short one stood guarded, pike at the ready, unsure what to do.
Gerald stepped calmly towards him. “What is your name, young man?”
“Uh, Smit. Corporal Jan Smit.” Smit turned towards Vincent. “You let him up now, mister, whoever you are!”
“Hello, Corporal Smit. And who is your friend, here?”
“Theel,” the subdued man said. “Private Jaysen Theel. And you just assaulted a king’s soldier!”
Vincent dug his knee into the man’s back. “There is no king, Private, and you assaulted my friend first. Now, do you wish to see another dawn, or would you prefer I let a bit of daylight into that empty head of yours?”
“Vincent. I was handling this,” Gerald objected.
“By all means, continue,” said Vincent.
Gerald nodded, turning again towards the corporal. “Now, Corporal Smit, would it not make most sense to escort us peaceably to your captain, who can decide our fate?”
“I, um, well yes, that’s what we were gonna–”
“Of course. This is just a misunderstanding then, isn’t it Private Theel?”
The man did not immediately reply. A nick from Vincent’s dagger persuaded him otherwise.
“Gah! Yes, a misunderstanding!”
Vincent spoke, his tone a mix of threat and charity. “Listen, the two of you. We’re here to help, and we have a considerable amount of help to offer. I am a friend to the people of Mor, no matter what you may have heard about me.”
“Well, maybe The Merchant is,” said Theel. “But Vincent Thomison is a murderer, sure as dawn.”
Vincent released the man and knelt beside him, pulling up the sleeve of his left arm, displaying the legendary tattoo. “I am both, Private Theel. And I swear to you, I am here bearing goodwill.” Vincent stood and offered the soldier a hand up. Theel considered Vincent for a moment before grasping his hand.
“You helped my mother once. She speaks of you as if you’re an angel of Lor.”
Vincent shook his head. “I am not. But I remember her. Margaery, yes? She was pregnant with you at the time, I believe.”
Theel shook his head. “No. With my sister. I was a year later.” He turned to Corporal Smit. “Corp, I think we oughta–”
“No one in their right mind would display that tattoo if they weren’t the Merchant,” Smit interrupted. “Follow me. Pick up your damned pike, Theel.”
The four made their way quietly into the army compound. They passed several small storage buildings, but no soldiers.
“You two the last brave men in Mor?” Vincent asked as they walked. Smit eyed him with suspicion.
“I did not mean that with sarcasm, Corporal. I heard many of your comrades deserted for the Sapphire. Am I misinformed?”
Smit stared ahead, silent. Private Theel shook his head and replied. “You are not. But I don’t know that we’re any braver than they are. I have a wife and infant son here in Mor. Smit is due to be wed in a cycle, on Winterwind Eve.”
“And I care for my father,” Smit added. “He’s not well. Can’t travel. Otherwise Farah and I would have left with the rest.”
“And your captains?” Gerald pressed. “They would not object to your leaving?”
“You’ll see for yourself in a moment.”
The four approached an enormous stone building, three stories tall, decorated in ash-covered banners that once proudly displayed the white and gold colors of Mor. Four men stood guard at the top of the steps; a word from Corporal Smit and the four were waved through. Smit and Theel led the pair towards a long table on the far side of the hall.
Vincent had only once, a decade before, been invited to the Grand Barracks, the expansive officer’s hall within which the captains and generals of the army of Mor spent most of their nights. He had been a guest then of Maris and Kalindra, who had provided entertainment for the evening when a newly promoted general was presented with his Sword and Shield, two finely crafted implements of war that would be replicated in miniature on the general’s uniform from that day on. The event had proved boring but served as a window into the rapidly deteriorating discipline of the army. There was little discussion that evening of soldiery, no tales of gallantry and honor that should have preceded General Fallon’s ascension. The man had purchased his promotion, and the topics on everyone’s lips that evening were threefold: how the aristocratic guests of the hall that evening had garnered favor with him, how they might, or, in the case of the captains present, how they planned to emulate his consolidation of power and someday procure their own advancement. There had been one bright spot in the evening, and Vincent recalled it fondly. As the newly minted General Fallon and his wife took their place for the first time at the long officer’s table after the ceremony, and the other generals arose in faux reverence on either side, a balding, grizzled-looking old general had refused to stand. That general had once required the services of the Merchant; Vincent knew him, or rather the Merchant did, and admired him as a man of honor. An awkward moment ensued. After a long, tortured delay, the man finally rose from his chair, drained his glass, and walked unhurriedly out of the barracks as fourteen generals, their wives, a hundred captains and all their guests stared agape.
Opposite the table before him now stood that grizzled old general, now thoroughly bereft of hair on his head, if one did not count the wisps of grey protruding from his ears. A half-dozen captains watched over his shoulder as he pored over a stack of documents.
“Pardon the interruption, General Slater,” said Smit. “I have here a man who say he’s–”
“What you have there, Smit, is a dead man. Do you not know you’re dead, Master Thomison? Has no one told you?”
“Didn’t take, General.”
The old soldier shook his head. “Yet.” He turned to regard Gerald. “Longstock, isn’t it?”
Gerald nodded.
“I have orders from Fallon to kill you on sight.”
“If you would resist the urge, I’d be most grateful,” Gerald replied, doing his best to avoid sounding terrified.
“Well, you’re in luck. I hate that painted bastard, and he’s not here. Left south with half the army. I might just spare you to spite him.” General Slater turned his gaze to Vincent. “I suppose there’s a Fury of a story as to how you’re still walking around.”
Vincent nodded. “There is.”
“Well, I don’t wanna hear it. Magic, I’d bet, and I have no use for it. What I do know is this. You two made a Fury of a mess with your act in the throneroom.” Slater narrowed his eyes at Vincent. “Did you do it?”
Vincent knew what Slater was asking. “I did. But it was as I testified. I killed him to avenge my Anie. My wife. No one else would.”
Slater appraised Vincent for a long moment, then nodded. “Hasn’t been any justice in this kingdom since Halsen lost his mind thirty years ago. I’ll take you at your word. Now, why are you here?”
“I’m here to help, General.”
“To help? And how do you plan to do that? You’re a middle-aged merchant. Bit old to join the army. And a bit soft, I’d wager.”
“I’m not young,” Vincent agreed. “But neither am I soft.” He pulled up his sleeve. Recognition flashed on the general’s face. “There has been some
justice these past thirty years, General. And I am not here to join your army. I am here to fund it.”
Slater blinked. The captains on either side of him exchanged glances. “The army.”
Vincent nodded.
“With what?”
“With gold, General. I have access to plenty.”
General Slater cocked his head, a look of contempt warping his features.
“Master Thomison, my men could go door to door and claim every coin in Mor. I’m not interested in your gold. Don’t get me wrong, this lot will be glad to take it. The kind of soldier left here in Mor isn’t the kind who’d relish the idea of stealing from people. These men and women,” the general made a wide, sweeping motion with his arms, “are what’s left of the beating heart of Mor, if it ever had one. Now, what I am interested in is knowing why in Fury you’d want to hire yourself an army. I’m not as sharp as I once was, but I think I could puzzle it out on the first try. Care to wager on it?”
Vincent shot Gerald a glance, taken aback by the quick-witted monologue. The wizard shrugged. He turned back to Slater.
“Fine,” Vincent smirked. “One crown.”
“On the table.”
Vincent pulled a crown from his cloak. The General matched it.
“An army does one thing best: killing. So, it’s a question of who you want dead. And if you need an army to do it, well, that means you’ve got yourself a Fury of an enemy. And we already know who that is. So, you’re here to go after Sartean D’Avers. On the mark so far?”
Vincent nodded. “So far.”
The general wagged a finger at Vincent’s face. “And that right there says the rest,” the general said. “If it were only Sartean you cared about, I’d have seen it on your face. So, you’re hoping to bag that flying black bastard, too, whatever it is.”
Vincent nodded.
“And you’re probably hoping to rally the whole bloody city behind you when you do.” The general leaned forward over the table and snatched the two coins. “You’re not here to hire an army, Master Thomison. You’re here to buy a kingdom. Question is, if I sell you one, what do you intend to do with it?”
XVII: KEHRLIA
The kingdom is yours for the taking, Master,” Jarriah said, setting a stack of reports on Sartean’s desk. “Half the army has gone south. The other half is divided between the barracks and the palace. The Defenders are no more. The laborers of Mor have burned the shops on Kings Way and gather to attack the palace. It is chaos. But…”
“Yes?” Sartean looked up from his desk, a wild, feral look in his eyes.
“But I do not think we should act. Not yet. We should wait until the beast–”
“We?” Sartean withdrew a flask from within his robes, hands visibly shaking as he pulled the cork free from a flask he now carried as a matter of course, a flask Jarriah was now expected to keep full at all times. He took a long drink; Jarriah swallowed.
“Kehrlia, I mean. You, of course. I… forgive me.” Jarriah reached for the flask before Sartean could set it down, quick to refill it from the bottle he now also carried.
Sartean frowned, returning his attention to a book. “Ah, Jarriah, I preferred you when you were more irreverent. You begin to bore me with your cowering.”
Jarriah took a breath. “Then I will be direct, Master. I cower because you are not yourself. Not since you began taking Flightfluid–”
Sartean stood, towering over his desk. “I take the potion, you imbecile, because you gave it to me when you rescued me, and now I crave it!”
“I had no choice. You were unable to walk, unable to move. I had to do something. But now… I am worried that–”
“Oh, spare me. I will wean myself off when things settle a bit. I am no weak-minded commoner. It will take far more than Flightfluid for me to lose my wits.” Sartean sat back down. “Continue what you were saying. You do not think I should yet act?”
“I do not. There is much to lose by laying claim to Mor too soon, and little to gain. The people and the army are at odds; let them sort it out. We–” Jarriah caught himself. “You should focus your attention on the beast. Destroy it, and Mor will willingly submit to you, without bloodshed.”
“And who says I would not prefer bloodshed?” Sartean asked in reply. “Make no mistake, Jarriah. This will not be a bloodless ascension. The army, what’s left of it… do you know who commands it now?”
“A man named Slater, I am told. An old man, surely no threat.”
Sartean closed his book, shaking his head. He glared at Jarriah.
“I think I made a mistake promoting you to Incantor early. You speak like a first-year fool. General Slater is the most beloved general in the army. His men would die for him, fight their way out of Fury, and die for him again. When Fallon took his favored troops with him to the Sapphire, Slater ordered all the single, unattached soldiers to follow him out of Mor. Do you know why he did that?”
“Because they had no one to defend, and thus no reason to fight?”
Sartean rolled his eyes. “No, Jarriah. That is the pretense. Think it through, man.”
Jarriah chewed his cheek, thinking.
“He sent them south because either they would have deserted anyway, or they would have stayed and wreaked havoc on morale.”
Sartean nodded. “Certainly that. But you still miss the mark. Who remains in Mor? Which soldiers?”
“The soldiers with families.”
“Be more specific.”
“Fathers. Husbands. Some wives and mothers, but not many.”
“And grandfathers,” Sartean said. “Captains. Sergeants. Experienced soldiers. Men whose loyalty he has earned over the years. So, puzzle it out. The oldest, wisest, most experienced general in Mor is now in command of the oldest, wisest, and most experienced captains of Mor, who command motivated men who fight for their loved ones, and all those who would sow discontent among such a force have been exiled. Incantor Jarriah, I cannot recall a time when a man in Mor carried more power. And you say he is no threat?”
Jarriah shook his head. “I see your point.”
“The details of the Flightfluid operation are common knowledge now, yes?”
Jarriah nodded. “And worse. The stories have taken on a life of their own. Some say it was you who was responsible for Halsen’s bloodlust. They say you ensorcelled him and drove him mad. You are not much loved at the moment, Master.”
“And you think killing this beast will endear the people of Mor to me?”
“It would help, I believe, yes.”
Sartean took a long pull from the flask and tucked it within his robe. He took a deep breath, trembling for a moment, and stood. “Then you have not been listening. Not even to yourself. I am hated in Mor, Jarriah. And by extension, so is all of Kehrlia. No, I will say it again: this will not be a bloodless ascension. The people of Mor will not be enamored of us, no matter what great beast we slay. Do not misunderstand, slay it we shall. It is an inconvenience that must be dealt with.” Sartean closed his eyes, sending a message to the apprentice assigned to tend to him. He opened them and waved a hand, opening the door of his library. “Let us go do so.”
Jarriah stood, following Sartean through the door. “But we do not know where it is.”
“You do not know where it is,” Sartean corrected as he descended the stairs. “I am the Master of Kehrlia.”
A turn later the two entered the largest of four classrooms in the tower, a level above the vestibule. Twelve of the most senior Incantors in Kehrlia stood assembled, awaiting their master.
“Fire?” he asked. Six Incantors raised their hands.
“You will each command a squad of ten. Go, choose them, and meet me at the steps.” The six left the classroom without comment.
Sartean addressed the others, pointing. “You, you, and you will prevent the beast from closing near enough to bring its jaws and claws to bear. You three,” he pointed to the others, “will ensure the beast does not poison the air around us. You will each com
mand a squad as well. Recruit whomever you like. Go, and send in the Daughters.”
The specialists in air magics left in silence; a moment later four women entered the room, each garbed in crimson robes, hoods pulled down low over their eyes. Sartean directed his attention to the one who stood nearest. “Tell me of your preparations.”
The woman glanced to Jarriah and back again to Sartean.
“Ah. Do not worry about him. I have your loyalty, do I not, Incantor Jarriah?”
Jarriah bowed his head. “I am at your service, Master.”
Sartean laughed. “See? A conniving little thing, just like the rest of you. He will be privy to what happens here.”
The woman nodded. “As you wish. As for preparations, there are two dozen of us positioned throughout Mor, as agreed. The Livening has begun.”
“And?”
“It goes well. Here, see for yourself.” The woman pulled back her hood, exposing herself to be a middle-aged woman, pale but not unattractive, wearing a serious expression beneath a head of bright red hair trimmed short as a soldier’s. She reached behind her head and unclasped a hook, pulling the amulet free and handing it to Sartean. Her knees buckled briefly as the Master of Kehrlia accepted the necklace.
Sartean beheld the amulet for moment, examining it. A golden chain was threaded through at least fifty small bones, human finger bones, Sartean assumed, the smallest near the clasp, the largest near a trio of black stones that hung at the front of the piece, each a black diamond the size of a siskin’s egg, polished smooth and cradled in delicately sculpted claws, these also made of bone.
“Macabre, is it not, Jarriah? Daughter Nia clearly believes in the power of dramatic aesthetics.”
The priestess bristled at the suggestion. “The design is not merely cosmetic. There is power in bone.”
“Nonsense,” Sartean mocked. “The power is in the stones.” Sartean handed the amulet to Jarriah. “Would you?” He turned his back to the young Incantor, expecting Jarriah to fasten the necklace. After the span of several breaths, he turned back around to find Jarriah on his knees, trembling, the amulet held tight within an outstretched fist.
