by Dave Dobson
I looked at Boog. “You’ll still do this now?” I asked.
“If you untie me and let me send the signal.”
“How do we know the signal doesn’t mean, ‘Come here and fill the flatlanders full of arrows?’” asked Boog.
Gora’s smile broadened. “I guess you’ll just have to trust me.”
52
Jiggity Jog
The next two weeks passed sometimes in tension, sometimes in boredom. Tension, such as when we raised a blue flag above the gate of the ancient structure and summoned Gora’s warriors. Holding Gora at swordpoint, we talked them down, eventually negotiating terms of something like a surrender. True to her word, Gora gave us two horses, supplies, and papers, written in the barbarian clans’ inscrutable script. Boredom, like our long ride out of the mountains.
Tension, like meeting up with clan warriors, and hoping Gora’s papers didn’t say "Kill these two idiots on sight and bring me their livers in a pickling jar.” Whatever they said, it wasn’t that, and we passed out of the clans’ domain, crossed the border, and rode into the lands controlled by Frosthelm. Boredom again, as we avoided Legion outposts, Guild scouts, and all the major roads and settlements on the way back to the city, to the Guild, to Marron.
After we crossed the border, we put on our scarlet cloaks and our full uniforms, which Gora returned with our other gear. We reasoned that, from a distance, two Inspectors riding hard would draw less notice than two mysterious riders skirting major settlements. But I think we both felt good to be back in uniform, back on duty, even if it was a mission we’d set for ourselves. I thought Sophie might be proud of us, riding toward home in Guild scarlet to save the city from destruction.
Or, she might berate us as fools. We had no real plan, although talking with Gora had increased our sense of urgency. We knew the enemy’s plan, though, and we thought we knew how to disrupt it. Whether by stealing or destroying the objects they needed to free Faera, or by disrupting the ceremony long enough for the eclipse to pass, we thought we had a chance to fend off the worst of it. We could deal with Marron and his minions afterward, or fail at that, as long as the city was safe.
After two weeks of hard riding, we crested a final hill, Hearth Ridge, the locals called it. The city walls came into view below us. A lump grew in my throat as I saw my city, my home, in the valley before us. Spring had come to Frosthelm in our absence of nearly three months. I could see newly plowed fields all around the city walls, a patchwork before us, interrupted by homesteads, some alone, some in clusters in small villages. The fields gave way to roads and denser houses, and behind those, the outer curtain walls rose up, their battlements shining in the morning sun, high in the sky behind us to the east. I could see the inner keep in the center of the city, perched up on its hill, its thick, towering walls protecting the castle and the nobles’ houses within. To our left, the Serpentine River rumbled out of the city walls, winding its way southward toward the distant ocean. It was gray-green in the sun, fed and dyed by the clay-rich soils all along its path through the countryside.
It was a happy sight, but it brought with it some unpleasant realities. We took off our cloaks and uniforms now, criminals again rather than Inspectors. Surely the ardor to catch us had cooled. New crimes and new criminals always took the attention of the Guild and the Guard. I was fairly certain that our descriptions would have faded from the memory of nearly all the City Guard. In the Guild, many knew us, but we hoped that only some of those wanted us apprehended and beheaded. Other than those people, it was only Marron and his cronies who would know us and seek us out, and I hoped there weren’t many of them who knew us on sight.
Seeing the city also made another factor much more real – our limited time to act. Madame Lenarre had calculated the eclipse at almost six months from when we spoke. We had worked in the city for another month or so after that, been absent from the city for three months, and were now returning. If I had kept proper track, today was the 12th of Senna, and the date Madame Lenarre gave, the 20th of Mia, was little more than a month away. We had time to get our bearings and hatch a plan, but our day of reckoning was fast approaching.
We were not accosted on the way through the farms and houses, two dusty riders from the countryside being of very little note. We decided to press our luck and ride right through the open southern gate, although we went through separately, ten minutes apart. I tried as hard as I could to look nondescript and nonchalant. I was certainly more comfortable in the saddle now, after our time posted at the border and our ride back, so that was no giveaway. Our hair was far longer, more unkempt, than when we left, and we were bronzed by exposure to the elements. We had made no real effort to clean ourselves up, so our clothes were stained with the dust of the road, which I hoped added to our commonness. The horses we rode were long-haired and built for speed, not like the sturdier, carefully groomed specimens common in Frosthelm, but that was not enough to draw much notice, as trade with the clans had been common before the conflict. Still, my skin crawled as we passed under the gaze of two bored guards.
We settled at a tawdry tavern just inside the city – the Tarted Trollop, which name might have been a selling point for some. For us, though, it was small enough and quiet enough that we thought we could lie low for a while. We used the names Florin and Crozier, our false names from the border, because we were somewhat used to answering them, and because we figured our allies might know us by those names. Gora had given us more than enough coin to cover the costs of this place, along with stabling for the horses.
After an unexpectedly good meal of cheese, broth, and fresh-baked hard bread, we took stock. “We have to get word to Gueran that we’re here,” I said.
“Shouldn’t be hard,” Boog replied. “We can hire an urchin as a courier, write something careful but descriptive. Let him know where we are.”
We argued a bit over the content of our note, but eventually we finished. Dearest Gueran, your lost sheep are in town at the Tarted Trollop. Please visit soon to reminisce. I went out, walked into town, toward the southern street market, and found a thin girl with bright eyes who looked relatively trustworthy. I gave her a coin and our note, sent her on her way to Guild Headquarters, and then bought myself a bulging sack of roasted sugar nuts. The smells, the sights, the sounds of the market were unexpectedly comforting to me. At last, I was home.
I spent a few hours wandering around the streets, mindful enough to avoid the guards and any inspectors I saw, but mostly, I felt at peace. I made it all the way north, avoiding the inner keep on its hill, to Fountain Square, where seven jets of water shot twenty feet in the air to land in a vast blue pool. I wandered the stalls of the street market there, watching the bustle, enjoying myself. At last, thinking Gueran might have received our message and sent some reply, I returned to the Tarted Trollop to check.
The tavern’s interior was dark as night compared to the bright sun outside. I pushed aside the thick wood door and stood blinking in the musty air, which was rife with odors of spilled ale, baked goods, and far-too-infrequent bathing. I spotted Boog hunched over a corner table, and as my eyes adjusted, I saw Gueran himself across from Boog. I can honestly say that in the nearly six years I’d known Gueran, this was the first time I’d been genuinely happy to see him.
As I approached the table, I could see Boog’s face was decidedly grim as he spoke in quiet tones. Gueran, too, seemed disturbed. I wondered what had happened. My mind flashed to all manner of ill tidings and horrible scenarios. Was the resistance discovered? Clarice captured, or dead? I pulled a chair back and sat with them.
“Nice to see you, Marten,” said Gueran. “I’m always surprised by how you manage to stay alive.” He was trying for humor, but he was too tense to make it work.
“What is it?” I asked, looking from Boog to Gueran. “What’s wrong?"
“Not good,” said Boog.
“Remember Madame Lenarre, the scholar?” Gueran asked. I nodded. “She sent the Augur a letter a few months ago. She
said she'd happened to consult her astrological book, by Werole, I think it was. And that reminded her of her discussion with you.”
“Touching,” I said. “But that’s not what's wrong, is it?”
Gueran continued. “Apparently, while reading, Madame realized she’d done her calculations incorrectly before. Something about discounting the cycle of Peristache, I believe. She’d gotten the wrong date for the eclipse.”
I was beginning to see the nature of the problem. “So, when is it? What does she say now?”
“Tomorrow,” Boog said. “It’s tomorrow. At noon."
53
Only a Day Away
Gueran filled us in on the events of our absence. He and the other Inspectors resisting Marron’s plots had been busy, and they’d redoubled their efforts after receiving the letter from Madame Lenarre. Though they had their regular duties to perform, and though Marron's appointed Inspectors kept careful watch, they had still been able to track many of the movements and activities of Marron, Algor, Brand, and Tolla, and of Marron’s various guards, stewards, and employees. They had also identified a number of confirmed or probable Faerans, some of whom were lowly beggars and some wealthy aristocrats, including a number of landed nobility. One inspector, Torgen, had infiltrated the group by posing as a Faeran initiate, and his information had been among the most valuable.
They had uncovered and observed many details and events. Brand was definitely the second-in-command of the organization, taking orders only from Marron. Tolla was more of an enforcer, a strong right arm, although she seemed to believe deeply in the Faeran religion, or creed, or whatever it should be called. Algor seemed lower in the hierarchy, merely a useful adjutant. But Marron was the true leader. It was Marron's influence in the court, among the nobles, in the Guard and the Justiciary, and now in the Inquisitor’s Guild, that allowed the group to grow and operate uninhibited.
The Jezarmi warehouse served as a meeting hall on several occasions, where many of the Faeran followers gathered to hear readings, read prophecies, pray to Faera, and announce plans. Torgen reported that the leaders seemed confident they had what they needed to bring about Faera’s return, and they had promised all the assembled cult members that they would be rewarded for their efforts to restore Faera to life. For most of them, especially the lower-status adherents, all that was required was to come to what they called the Ceremony of Reawakening, which we now knew was tomorrow. Some others were given orders and assigned tasks. Still others were asked for donations of money or other resources. All gave of their time and money willingly. Doubters were cast out of the group, and in some cases, they vanished completely. Those that remained shared a religious fervor and strong faith in their cause.
Gueran was unsure of the Prelate’s role in the organization or of how much he knew, although the cult involved enough of the court (perhaps a quarter of its members, including some of the most influential) that it was hard to imagine he hadn’t heard something about it. He had not been seen at the meetings. He met with Marron frequently, but he met with many nobles, and he’d been meeting with Marron for years, even before making him High Inquisitor.
In response to all of this, Boog and I were able to fill in what Gora had told us about the nature of Faera and of the history behind the cult. I wasn’t sure how useful that would be, but at least we could confirm that there was probably a reason to justify the cultists’ zeal. What we said made Gueran seem more and more unhappy. “I thought there was still a good chance there was nothing to all of this,” he said. “A bunch of deluded fanatics running around, killing people, stealing things, but with no truth to any of their mystical prophecy. It sounds like I was wrong. The threat is real. They might really be able to pull it off.”
I couldn’t wait any longer. “Is Clarice here? Is she back?”
Gueran looked at me, an odd expression on his face. “She arrived back in the city a few weeks ago, after we got her word of the shift in dates for the eclipse. She was injured but seemed to be recovering. She carried orders from Kreune, which covered her return from the border, but she wasn’t about to report to Marron at the Guild. I’ve met with her several times, and we’ve exchanged information. She’s been tracking Marron's movements and those of the other cultists, I believe.”
A question occurred to me, a puzzle I’d earlier set aside. “Do we know why she was sent away?”
“It was Sophie’s decision, at the suggestion of Clarice’s uncle. Apparently, Sophie and Edmund were good friends, in close contact," said Gueran. “Sophie noted the decision in her journal, which I managed to pilfer from evidence storage with the help of Lianna. Edmund had heard of the events surrounding Marron’s sorceress, and he worried that Clarice might become a target and wanted her safely out of his reach.”
Except that the border was hardly safe. But there may not have been any good options. “Do you know where she’s staying?”
“No idea. I haven’t seen her in five or six days.” He frowned. “Frankly, Mingenstern, we have more important things to deal with now.”
He was right. At least she’d made it here safely.
There was one more odd detail Gueran related to us. Over the past few weeks, traffic around Novara’s old house had increased. Many people came and went, nearly all of them known or suspected Faerans, and many more than seemed normal for a small home. Ten, twenty people at a time would enter the house and stay, sometimes for hours, often carrying large bags or bundles in and out. But the house stayed quiet. Whatever they were doing in there, it was not a party or a loud ceremony.
“So, what do you think is going on?” Boog asked.
“It is hard to say,” replied Gueran. “The house was clearly important to Marron and to Novara.”
“Could it be the temple, or the prison, or whatever it is?” asked Boog.
“Perhaps,” said Gueran. “But it doesn’t seem large enough, and it's… well, it’s just a house. We were all in it. It looked perfectly normal.”
“Not the house,” I said. “Underneath it.”
“What?” asked Gueran.
“Remember, the privy with the ladder? That you fell down?”
“How could I forget?” Gueran grimaced.
“There was a passageway leading away from it, one that we never got a chance to explore. I bet that leads to the temple, and that’s why there are so many people going in and out. Gora said all of this was beneath Frosthelm.”
“Seems like a big leap,” said Gueran, considering.
“Maybe, but we should check it out,” said Boog. “If we find out where the ceremony is, our job gets a lot easier.”
“We have had teams scouring the city,” said Gueran. “But so far, they’ve come up with nothing.” He tapped a well-manicured fingernail on his forehead and closed his eyes for a moment. “I’ll check with Torgen. He was at a Faeran meeting last night. Surely, they’ll have told him where to go for the ceremony. The house is worth checking out anyway. I’ll have two Inspectors meet you near Novara’s house, at seventh bell. It will be dark then. Was there a tavern or park nearby?”
“Have them join us behind Number 15,” I said, remembering the house next door. “Terrence and Mavis won’t mind if we meet up there.”
“Nutmeg rings,” said Boog. His eyes grew distant.
“I’d say don’t get noticed, don’t get caught," said Gueran. “But if the Reawakening is tomorrow, we don’t have much to lose. I’d go in hard and find anything you can."
54
An Unexpected Guest
“Are we ready?” asked Boog. He looked quite menacing, dressed all in black, his face and hands darkened with soot. The only factors detracting from his fearsomeness were the pastry crumbs and berry jam smeared on his upper lip. He carried his long staff, preserved for him by Lianna back at the Guild. Preserved as evidence, actually – it had been confiscated, tagged, and stored following our arrest for Sophie’s murder. Boog seemed glad to have it back.
Terrence and Mavis had spotted me and
Boog waiting for the others behind their house, and they remembered well our earlier visit. I grew briefly worried that they would know of our murder conviction and report us, but apparently Marron had not made a very good High Inquisitor. Much of the town was unhappy with the summary arrests and searches he had ordered. To Terrence and Mavis, he’d made an even worse neighbor of late. They invited us in, either not knowing or not caring about our supposed crimes.
“Hundreds of them, coming and going,” she had said, holding a plate piled high with berry pastries. “Walking right through my garden, some of them! Would you believe it? And you know we’ve complained to Marron’s steward so many times, and they do nothing at all.”
“If you ask me,” said Terrence, “they’re up to no good over there. Serve them right if you arrest the whole lot of them.”
I agreed wholeheartedly, but did not say so. I didn’t think I was going to be doing much arresting that night. A short time (and for Boog, several pastries) later, Inspectors Cheliaux and Soren, dressed in similar fashion to Boog and I, arrived outside. Soren was a tall blond man. I’d met him before, but he graduated several years before us, and I didn’t know him well. Likewise, I recognized Cheliaux, but didn’t know her other than to exchange a casual greeting in passing. She was recently called back to Frosthelm after a stint in a small village. I’d seen her at various Guild meetings and parties. She was a sturdily built woman, a head taller than I was, and she could likely beat me in a wrestling match, probably using only one arm. After thanking Mavis and Terrance, the four of us set out into the gathering gloom. As I left the house, I saw Terrance pick up his crossbow from behind the hall table.
Novara’s house, tucked back against the wall, had three guards posted at the front door. They stood together, relaxed, talking and laughing. It was relatively easy to escape their notice as we crouched behind the low wall surrounding the property. We circled around to the back, where a single guard stood watch. We waited, tense and quiet, and he eventually crossed over to face away from us, towards the far side of the property. Boog sneaked up behind him, surprisingly quick and silent for one so large, and with a sharp Thunk of his staff, he dropped the guard to the ground. We carried the limp guard carefully outside the low wall and hid him there under a bush. He still breathed, but I wasn’t sure when, or if, he would awaken.