by J Seab
~~~~
The snow had begun in earnest by the time Marcus Drull arrived at Meldon. The sun was a weak glow buried behind thickening clouds and the temperature was dropping quickly. Despite the weather, it seemed that most of the village’s residents were congregating on the green in front of the Doma.
Something was going on.
Marcus dismounted at the inn and hurried over to the gathering, looking for Fillip. He finally spotted him sheltered near the front entrance of the Doma, arms crossed and head cocked back as if he were some privileged noble. It didn’t seem that any of the villagers felt the same way as they jostled about him, listening to some short man, heavily cloaked but with his hood thrown back, exposing a near-bald head sprinkled with melting flakes of snow. He was speaking from a podium centered on the green. Most of the villagers looked worried, with darting eyes and frowning faces.
Marcus paused to listen.
“Right, then,” the short man was saying, his voice loud enough to be heard by the crowd. “We’ll ask a mounted Patrol unit from Hosberg to base here for patrol duties. We’ll also ask them to teach everyone not already practiced in basic bo defenses. Finally, we’ll keep a sharp eye out for any other rogues scouting our farms.” The bald man spun in a slow circle, scanning the crowd. “What else?”
A woman near the Doma waved her hand. “We live on the fringes. Should we move into the village for safety?”
“Probably a good idea. We’ve got plenty of room in the Doma, I think.” He looked over at a man standing near its entrance. “Servitor Holloway?”
“We can accommodate five or six families, more if we squeeze in. Let me know so I can make sure we have sufficient supplies set aside.”
“You could also travel down to Hosberg, if need be,” the bald man added, addressing the woman again, “at least until we learn more about this threat. Bring your alpacas here where we can tend them.”
He scanned the crowd again, eyes lingering on the many troubled expressions, and then continued. “It’s best to be overly cautious rather than risk another tragedy. This threat is real and substantial. It’s necessary that we take precautions until we find the source and prevent additional attacks,” he said, glancing at a tall figure bundled next to the podium. “This snowfall does tangle our options. Old Bently,” he called, looking at a man wearing a gray, wool jacket and broad-brimmed hat, standing in the street near the edge of the group. “What of tracking the rogues?”
“Slim, I’d say,” he admitted. “What traces that remain will be obscured by the snowfall. Depends partly on how clumsy they were. Maybe I could still find traces; have to take a look.”
“Will you do that first thing in the morning?”
“Sure, planning on it.”
Marcus studied the trekker for a moment. He looked competent. Was he competent enough to track the Sworn through snow? Did the trekker need to disappear too? He decided not. Nobody could find what few tracks the Sworn might have left beneath a foot of snow, despite the sloppy job they did burying the bodies. They were trained to obscure their trail. It was just bad luck that the Servitor had that dog to track. Regardless, this snowstorm was turning out to be a plus, worth a little inconvenience. Marcus suppressed a burst of laughter and relaxed. These Etusian flops were doing exactly what he wanted: panicking.
Marcus Drull kept half an ear tuned to the talk as he worked his way over to Fillip. The bald guy was now talking about doing that Remembrance thing these Etusians did when somebody died. No matter. The bodies weren’t supposed to be discovered, ever, but they had been in the ground long enough to be partly decomposed. Even if they dug them up, what could they find? In the meanwhile, let the flops plan and plot their little countermeasures and sob sessions. It wouldn’t do them any good, just make them feel more secure. That was good. Made his work even easier.
Marcus reached out and grabbed Fillip’s shoulder. He spun around, startled. “Marcus!” He fumbled a moment and then groused, “’Bout time you showed up. Where you been?”
“I’m sorry,” Marcus oozed with his most practiced look of contrition. “Thought I’d scout around but I got lost.”
Fillip snorted. “Humph, figures. You’re an idiot, Marcus. Why do I let you hang around, anyway?”
“Sorry,” Marcus said, fighting the impulse to wrap his hands around Fillip’s scrawny neck. Soon, I’ll be rid of him. And someday his usefulness will expire. Then it’ll be my turn, he thought. I wonder how long he’ll survive in the box? Marcus licked his lips, keeping his eyes downcast.
“Sorry? Sure, you’re always sorry. But sorry doesn’t make it in this business,” Fillip fumed. “I’m a senior correspondent. I can’t write a story about how sorry you are.”
“Sorry,” Marcus repeated, hands clenched at his sides, afraid that if he looked up he’d lose it.
“Fine. You be sorry. I’ve got a story to write and I need to think through some things. I’ve got a room at the inn. There’s nothing important to learn here and I’m frozen solid. Follow me.” Fillip began pushing his way through the people clustered near the Doma. Marcus followed, his face contorted. One last time, he repeated to himself.
There was nobody else there when they entered the brightly lit inn, stomping off the snow clinging to their boots and shaking it from their cloaks before they hung them on the pegs next to the door. Fillip ordered him to find him something warm to drink, preferably ale. Then he walked to a high-backed chair near the big fireplace and slouched into it, rubbing his hands before the flickering flames.
Marcus kept his grumbling to himself. He needed an ale too, he thought, as he entered the kitchen, but he didn’t think it was likely they’d find any here. He was immediately assaulted by the enticing odor of a rich stew simmering in a big pot at the back of an open fireplace. Inhaling deeply, he decided there must even be some meat in the pot, venison probably. Real food, he sighed, vacillating between the stew and a big teapot he spotted warming on a lectric stove to his left. He turned toward the teapot; it would have to do. He wasn’t about to serve Fillip his dinner too. He pulled down two large ceramic mugs from a shelf, poured in some tea, and returned to Fillip in the common room.
“Hot tea,” Marcus said, handing Fillip a mug. “Only thing they have.” Marcus pulled up a chair and sat, waiting for Fillip’s brain to warm up enough to generate some feeble thoughts. He had to let Fillip get the thread going, let him think he was coming up with all the good ideas. Otherwise, he would fight it, rush off in some different direction.
“When I came here, it was wolves,” Fillip finally offered. “Dragged the bodies off into the forest.” He took a sip of hot tea, face turned toward the fire, his eyes glazed. “So I went out to that farm, where it happened.” He glanced at Marcus and then quickly turned his eyes back to the fire. “And what did I find?” he said, holding a hand up and shaking it. “Nothing. That’s what I found: nothing. I searched thoroughly, everywhere, but there was nothing to be found. That’s a fact.”
Marcus let Fillip’s brain simmer more, concocting his tale, although there seemed to be a smugness behind his words that Marcus couldn’t interpret. It didn’t matter, as long as he figured out the right tale, the one that Marcus wanted him to tell.
“So I came back here. Figured I’d interview the locals. They were all saying the same thing, must have been wolves.” Fillip shifted in his chair, stretched his feet closer to the fire, and took a swallow of tea. “Then, that Servitor appeared from nowhere; been out to the farm, he claimed,” Fillip said, disdain punctuating every word, “and started riling everybody. It wasn’t wolves, he said. It was a bunch of crazed rogues.”
Marcus waited a moment, then asked, “Did the Servitor say what he’d found to support that belief?”
Fillip slashed a hand. “What he found? What could he have found? Aren’t you listening?” Fillip said without turning his gaze from the fire. “There’s nothing out there or I would have found it! He didn’t go out there to find anything; he already knew what was ou
t there.”
Marcus, elbows propped on his thighs and cradling his mug in both hands, leaned forward, facing Fillip. The fire flickered within his eyes. He was uncertain of the direction Fillip was taking. “It was only after the Servitor showed up that it became rogues?”
“Yes,” Fillip said, pulling in his feet and sitting up. “Don’t you understand, Marcus?” he asked, turning to face him, his eyes now dancing. “After the Servitor arrived, it suddenly became this big rogue emergency rather than just some pack of wolves partaking in an easy meal. The wolves, or maybe bears, buried the remains for later. It happens,” Fillip said confidently. “Had to call out the Patrol. Had to huddle together at the Doma for protection. Had to do what the Servitors wanted, be indebted to them.
“Don’t you see?” Fillip said, springing to his feet. “It all fits perfectly: the oddment, the map, the killings, the misdirection to confuse what really happened and clear the path for the self-serving Servitors—everything. Even explains the amazing coincidence that a Servitor shows up here at the same time a senior correspondent from the Gazette shows up. He had to get their version of the story set before a real investigator published the truth.” Fillip waved his mug, smiling, and then drained it. “And that’s a fact. Any more of this?”
Marcus stood, hesitating, and then asked, “What, exactly, did you conclude?”
“That, you will find out when you read my next article. It will be brilliant,” he said, thrusting his empty mug at Marcus. “Russel will be pleased,” Fillip continued, as if talking to himself. “Very pleased,” he added as he slowly leaned back into his chair, eyes distant, lips twisted into a self-satisfied grin.
Marcus Drull left him to his fantasy while he returned to the kitchen to refill the mugs. What had Fillip found out about a map and how was it connected with the oddment? And what about the bodies? That was sloppy work that would have to be addressed.
Would Fillip’s concoction divert Etusian attention while he completed his preparations? Fillip did have a talent, Marcus reflected, that enabled him to squeeze logical sounding conspiracies from the slimmest of evidence. Furthermore, if the evidence didn’t exist, he’d twist the facts around until they did fit.
Rebar kept saying that he could market anything to these Etusians if he knew which desires needed stroking, that he could sell sand to an Etusian living on the beach. Ignorance was a beautiful thing in the hands of a master marketer, Rebar had assured him. In Fillip’s case, that was certainly true, but Marcus wasn’t convinced that all the Etusians were like Fillip. They weren’t going to be the easy target that Rebar imagined. Fortunately, that was Russel’s job. He wasn’t sure how Rebar’s get acquainted with the land and customs had become babysitting Fillip. Marcus was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, he decided.
Regardless, he needed to find out about this map. Rebar likely had another ploy running, one that he didn’t know about. And what he didn’t know could be fatal.
He wondered if he should hang on to Fillip for a bit longer before passing him to Russel. She already had him panting, he noted. Regardless, did he have any choice? He needed to cut the tie tonight so he could focus on the most important part of Rebar’s project. That, by itself, was worth it. And that’s a fact, Marcus thought with a huge grin as he pushed back into the common room.
The first wave of people babbled into the inn, escorting a burst of cold and snowy air as Marcus resumed his seat and handed Fillip his mug. Fillip took the mug and then went back to studying the fire, his brain, no doubt, twisting together the facts to fit his theory. Marcus left him to his concocting while he studied the people crowding in.
They didn’t seem all that panicked, he observed, brows lowered. But then again, they were probably just cold, more intent on getting some hot food than fighting off rogues nobody had seen. They’d fret and worry for a while, spend a lot of time and resources defending against their fears, and then, after nothing happened, settle back into their usual routines, maybe even begin to wonder if it had been wolves after all. That would be the time to stick them again, when their backs were turned. They would all start hollering, bumping into each other in their frenzy to escape. It would be delicious. Make his job easy when it was their turn to be liberated, he thought chuckling.
The room was already packed when the bald guy came in and pushed his way toward the kitchen, grabbing a couple of people to help with the food and drink. The tall man followed him, shucking his cloak, revealing a graying, bearded face, and scraggly hair. The big black dog accompanied him, her fur heavily speckled with snow. Her head twisted about as she sniffed the air. The dog barked at the man and then padded off toward the kitchen. The man immediately turned his head to the back of the room and locked eyes with Marcus. Even from across the room, Marcus could sense power behind them. He winced but held the man’s gaze until he began to work his way closer.
Marcus gathered his wits. Speaking with this man would be nothing like the playacting he engaged in with Fillip. It was time he met this mysterious Servitor, but he would have to be careful. He couldn’t let on that he was more than he seemed. Perhaps the best tactic would be to let the fool do the talking while he sat back and observed. He lowered his gaze to the floor.
Everam stopped before the two men, studied Marcus for a moment, and then turned his attention to Fillip, who was studiously ignoring him. “Are you Fillip?” he asked, his voice piercing through the background hubbub.
Fillip stirred, twisting in his chair to look up at Everam, his gaze wavering, finally settling on Everam’s mouth. “I’m Fillip Brent, senior correspondent for Greely’s Gazette,” he said stoutly. “And you are?”
“I’m Everam. I understand you wished to speak with me.”
“Yes, yes, I suppose I should,” Fillip responded, eyes bouncing between Everam’s face and his mug, which he held tightly with both hands. “This rogue business that you claim,” he began, now looking at Marcus, “where did you come up with that?”
“I sensed it within the ethereal chaos echoing through the Lamont farm, felt the wraiths of man-made and senseless brutality perpetrating rape and violence against the peace of the lands and the beauty of the Lamont family.”
“You, uh, what?” Fillip continued to look at Marcus. “Marcus, what is he talking about?”
Everam was now focusing on him too. That idiot Fillip was doing just what Marcus didn’t want: putting the attention on him. Marcus stammered, kept his eyes averted, played the role of ignorant farm boy. “I don’t know, Fillip. Ghosts, I guess.”
“Ghosts! Ghosts? He’s telling us ghosts did it?” Fillip risked looking back up at Everam, his incredulity overcoming his discomfort. “You say you saw ghosts out there? That they killed the, uh, those people?”
“It’s not ghosts that did the killing. It was real people—people saturated with ugliness and evil. Such disruptions in the Balance of Being always leave a tear, a rent that ripples consequence from the past and skews disorder across the paths of probability. These ghosts, as you name them, are merely traces of the past propagating across space-time, much as ripples spread from a stone tossed into a lake. From the pattern and strength of these ripples, we can infer much about the event that caused them.”
“I see,” said Fillip, totally confused. “These ghosts, you’re saying, told you that rogues killed that family?”
“That is not what I’m saying, but it’s close enough to suffice.”
“And that’s all you found? Some wraithy ghost things that nobody but you can see?” Fillip asked, his eyes back on Marcus. “He’s saying that wraithy ghost things, rather than wolves killed them?”
Marcus stared into his tea, ignoring the question.
Everam sighed. “Even my dog, Snow, confirms. She could find no trace of wolves or any other type of animal. Even so, wild animals wouldn’t drag the bodies deep into the woods and bury them.”
“Humph. Your dog told you it was rogues.” Fillip stood, slamming his mug on the table. “Well, I underst
and now,” he sneered, staring into Everam’s eyes, pointing a shaking finger. “You Servitors think you’ve got the wool pulled over our eyes but not all of us are the sheep you’d like to make us into. Russel and I know about your oddment cover-up and I’ve examined your secret map. You haven’t fooled me, not one bit!”
Everam’s face went hard. He reached out a hand. “What do you know about a map?” he demanded.
Marcus stood and grabbed at Fillip, his voice low but firm. “Fillip, time to go. We’ve got to get an early start tomorrow.”
Fillip shook him off. He glared at Everam, then at Marcus, his eyes still smoldering. “Sure,” he said angrily. “Come on, Marcus, I’ve got a room upstairs. You can bunk with me if you quit pestering me with all your lame-brained, infantile advice. I don’t need you. I don’t need anybody. I know what you’re up to, trying to horn in on all the glory, but I’ve got it all figured out. I don’t need your so-called help.” Without another word, Fillip pushed his way toward the stairs.
Marcus started to follow, but Everam put a hand on his arm. “Marcus?”
Marcus paused, keeping his face neutral, dull. “Yeah?”
Studying him closely, Everam said, “I believe we might meet again.”
“No, no, I doubt it,” Marcus responded, twisting free. “I’ve got to go,” he said, pushing his way into the crowded room and heading for the stairs. This is a perfect excuse to drop the fool for good, he thought. I’m done with his insults and insolence. He glanced back once and saw Everam still watching him. No, he frowned, not all Etusians will be so easy to fool. That one is a danger. There’s no easy way to deal with people like this Servitor but it’s rumored there’s a pack of vicious wolves in the area that may find a lone traveler easy prey.
He grinned as he raced up the stairs after Fillip.
END Book I
The story continues in
Game of Destiny, Book II: Secrets
Map: Known Lands of Etus
