Now, he’d very much love to feed her to some wandering wolves.
“I’ve heard that, when the hair starts to gray, the mind starts to go. Indeed, I once knew a man—a decent man—who used to be able to make me laugh with a clever joke, or make me swoon in wonderment with a clever story. But now, only a few years later, the man is essentially a mental invalid, sitting all day, looking straight ahead and drooling, nearly incapable of speech. Aye, the gray has seeped into his brain. It’s a real shame,” Emma said with sorrow, shaking her head.
“Enough of this, you little cu—”
Havert, a dark eyed and heavy-set Sestrian, rode up next to Fenrir, interrupting his likely angry and witless rejoinder.
“Havert, how goes it?” queried Fenrir with a pleasant tone, thankful for the brief respite from the acid-spitting troglodyte sitting next him.
“Hail, Coldbreaker. We are to take the southern road to Hunesa, so bear right ahead. Sir Pick wishes for the lady to have a warm repast and warm bed this evening, and there is an inn not far along the road. The Duckling, it is called.”
“You’re fucking kidding me,” muttered Fenrir, and Havert raised an eyebrow. “Ah, by Ultner’s burning balls, never mind.” The guard rolled his eyes and resumed his trot.
At the very least, his disguise might now come in handy. He doubted the innkeeper would recognize him.
---
Indeed, the innkeeper would not recognize him, as the inn was little more than a charred husk, a blackened skeleton of wood. Supports still stood, as did portions of some of the walls, but that was about all. The common room and kitchen were visible from the path, or what was left of them were, the stovepipes laid bare to the world. Fenrir pulled the wagon to the side.
“What happened, here?” asked Lady Escamilla, stepping out of the wagon, not a single hair out of place. Servants’ clothing or not, there was no hiding her regal posture.
“There must have been a flood,” drawled Fenrir. Tilner Pick gave him a sharp look.
“You are to show the Lady Escamilla respect.”
“I think I will show the Lady Escamilla a way out of the Plateau, through guards and mobs of the insane, and then I will do as I wish,” Fenrir returned, getting pretty damn sick of this vainglorious, puffed-up popinjay of a man. Between Emma and this Tilner, Fenrir was about ready to borrow one of these horses in the night and ride off. If it hadn’t been for his fear of repercussions from Tennyson, he would have been gone by now.
“You’d best show me respect, as well, you criminal shit,” Tilner spat, literally. There were flecks of saliva on his long mustaches. His hand was again on his sword. Quick to anger, it seemed, when Escamilla was in the mix.
“Gentleman, I would beg for respect from all parties. Tilner, this man means no harm. Sir Coldbreaker, if you would please avoid confrontation until after we determine the cause of this fire, I would be more in your debt.” Fenrir grunted in acquiescence. Tilner shot him another dark glare and pointedly turned his back.
“My lady, it appears there was a fire. Smoke still rises, so I would counsel caution. The embers are likely still burning beneath the ash.” Fenrir managed to restrain himself from making a sarcastic comment, but just barely. Emma must have been rubbing off on him, he thought.
“Investigate,” said Escamilla.
While Tilner and Havert approached the burnt-out shell of the Duckling, Fenrir started to rub down the horses. He had no desire to wade in the steaming ashes of a ruined building, so he stuck to a tenet that served him well at the Plateau: those who take initiative to do a slightly unsavory task but look busy doing it are less likely to be assigned even more distasteful work. Though he didn’t care for horse maintenance, he would rather not singe his leg hairs.
His work made him think briefly of the horse that he’d abandoned in Umberton. His father’s horse, more specifically, that he had borrowed for the outing. Perhaps someone would eventually return the branded beast to his father, which might cause a certain line of questioning, such as how Darian was related to The House. The man had the resources to avoid any real inquisitions into Frommis’ hand mutilation, but it would certainly be a thorn in Darians’s side. The thought made Fenrir smile.
“What’s so amusing, Sir Coldbreaker?” Escamilla had crept up beside him. “Does the thought of burning buildings bring you pleasure?”
“Nothing. Just thinking of family,” he muttered.
“Ah, the de Trenton mercantile empire. I have butted heads with your father a time or two while dabbling in the trading arts. I understand you had a falling out?” Escamilla folded her boney arms.
“You could say that.” A topic he’d rather not discuss.
“Which is why you took that dramatic name?”
“Yes.” He thought it was a bit dramatic, too, but Martis had pushed for Coldbreaker.
“Where does the name originate?”
“My mother.” Quite a few questions.
“Despite my knowledge of all things related to trade in this county, I know little about your mother. Usually these are arranged things, reducing merchant rivalries or forging bonds to strengthen the business. Correct?” Escamilla raised a single white eyebrow, accentuating the creases on her forehead.
“Why all of the questions?” Fenrir had no desire to speak of his mother. “With all due respect, my lady, I have little desire to make friends. My cup already overfloweth in that area.” Truthfully, he had dozens of acquaintances—men with whom he could share a beer or a story. Men who would probably just shrug if they realized that Fenrir was found ripped to bits beneath the ruins of the Plateau, also. How many would show up to his funeral, when it came? Martis, absolutely. Probably Silas. Maybe his ex-wife, primarily to spit on his remains. Certainly not Darian de Trenton. Or Astora. His daughter, named for his mother…
“Well, Coldbreaker. For the time being, we are going to be traveling companions. If you are tasked to keep me safe, I have the right to know a bit about you, don’t you think?”
It was probably true. He was a big man and a capable killer, at least recently, and working for a powerful, underground organization that largely ruled by fear. And yet…
“My lady, my past is irrelevant. The fact of the matter is that I am being paid excellently to smuggle you out of the Plateau and to keep you safe in the interim. My background and past mean nothing. I am your man as long as my superiors say that I am.” He’d kept his tone respectful, but not so much as he once had, back at the Plateau.
“That is certainly reassuring,” Escamilla said with a wry smile.
He gave a sigh. This Escamilla seemed like a decent sort, better than most of the wretched, self-involved, humorless nobles shambling around the Plateau. And, she was right enough: she was stuck with him until a time when he heard otherwise. Perhaps he would be in exile and never hear from Tennyson again. With his father having disowned him, Fenrir wouldn’t even have minded that so much.
Except that he wouldn’t get paid.
“Coldbreaker comes from the Srota, my mother’s people, from the far south, from the Domain. Her surname was Kalabrot, which translates to ‘he who breaks the cold.’ My friend recommended ‘Coldbreaker,’ and given that my former surname was no longer an option, I went with that.”
There, that should satisfy her, and maybe she would start to trust him a bit.
Escamilla nodded thoughtfully. “Why did your father disown you?”
Wow, she went right for the throat.
“I don’t believe that we are good enough friends to discuss that yet,” he said, focusing on rubbing down one of the horses.
“Let’s work on our friendship, then. Ask me a question,” said Escamilla, leaning against the wagon and scratching at her bandage. Fenrir recalled from Martis that bite wounds tended to linger, the filth in the mouth burying itself into the body. Although, he’d been talking about animal bites. Not fucking-insane-people-living-below-the-Plateau bites.
“Why The House?” he asked now. “Why did you re
ach out to Tennyson? Obviously, you had been targeted by The House before.” The question had been weighing on him.
“Yes, I had been the target of The House in the past,” said Escamilla, looking askance at Emma. The girl was sitting on a bench near the untouched inn stables, combing her fingers through her mess of red curls. The setting sun shone amber in the sky, reflecting off of Emma’s hair, almost as if the heavens were highlighting her beauty. Fenrir found himself staring for a moment, and then he scoffed, remembering his day full of jibes.
“Two years ago, one of my competitors contracted with The House to teach me not to meddle in the affairs of men. I eventually found out that it was a merchant, Yulio de Farns, but that is of no concern.” Fenrir knew that name, and remembered rumors that the man was found dead, his eyes burned out and replaced with hot coals. He made a mental note not to cross Escamilla.
“At that time, I learned the value of having such an ally, one who is powerful, but can be controlled through the correct dispensation of money. I began to forge relations with the one you call Tennyson, working through intermediaries and agents. I supplied funding for some of your organization’s operations, and they, in turn, protected some of my interests.” Perhaps by providing the coals? “We had been in communication for months, particularly as the little duke continued to scheme and maneuver for power.”
“You were aware that Penton was planning a takeover of the country?” When Tennyson’s agent had given him the details, that he was tasked to retrieve an imprisoned Escamilla, he himself had been astonished. First, that he was going to be involved in another covert type of mission. Second, that the ruler of his home duchy was apparently planning a hostile takeover of the country.
He wondered what signs he had missed over the past few years. He certainly didn’t recall any talk of war during his tenure as a guardsman, no special trainings on deploying for battle and so on. But, that had been three years ago, so things may have changed. He had heard a little bit about various Rostanian noble houses standing against Penton from time to time. Not in true rebellion, of course, but rather for tax relief or trading rights or some other political maneuvering that Fenrir didn’t understand. But mostly, it had seemed like it was business as usual.
“Indeed. The little duke had begun showing signs of aggression, but on a scale likely not noticeable to the average Rostanian.” Maybe Fenrir wasn’t completely oblivious. “He was pushing for more support from the larger houses and doing it in unsavory ways. He was demanding higher taxes from those who did not pledge military and economic support to the duchy, and threatening to pull others from power by various means. It was all done very sensitively, through agents, using implications rather than demands. However, for those of us who understand politicking, it was very clear what was happening.”
“And yet, you put yourself into his power?” asked Fenrir, finishing his rubdown of the horses, then grabbing oats from the wagon bed. Escamilla followed him, carrying the feedbags.
“Ah, my great mistake. While we knew that the little duke was hungry for power, there were no indications that he would resort to outright abduction. Bribes and threats, I can handle. There is little that the duke can do to me. However, when several ironclad guards escorted me and Emma to an interior room of the Plateau, I had little recourse. I was able to reach Tennyson through covert channels, and he sent me my hero.”
“Why do you care whether the duke takes over Ardia? Why wouldn’t you just work with him?” Fenrir dumped the oats into the feedbags and strapped the things to the elongated faces of the horses. Years of military training taught a man to take care of his horses. Though he rarely rode, he was not unfamiliar with these duties.
“The economy! War certainly stimulates certain portions of the economy. Metalworking, butchery, food production, prostitution, they would all boom. But, what do you think would happen to sales of my silk clothing in Draston? Or my oysters out of Enowl? Granted, armies do drink a great deal of ale and cider, so my apple orchards might remain productive. Assuming that they were not stripped by a foraging army. And, if I bowed to the little duke, I would be little more than a puppet. A united Ardia, under Penton, would come at too great a cost.”
“The economy, eh? So it comes down to money. Interesting how the Lady Escamilla seems to value money just as much as certain elicit criminal organizations, and—”
“My Lady Escamilla,” shouted Tilner, rushing toward them, his sword slapping noisily against his leg. “There is an issue. It appears that this was not just a kitchen fire—there is a pile of… human remains… in what was once the common room.”
“How many?” asked Escamilla, showing little emotion.
“It is difficult to say. My apologies. It looks like the bodies were drenched in some sort of fuel, rendered nearly unrecognizable. Flesh was… melded… with clothing and bone. And, the ceiling partially collapsed atop them. Maybe twenty? Thirty?” His voice was shaking. The gruesome sight had apparently taken its toll.
Escamilla, however, was all business. “Was there sign of violent death?”
“Too hard to say. The only other noteworthy detail is that we were not the first people to investigate the inn. There were other footprints in the ash.”
“We will need to divest ourselves of this location immediately. It is possible that others have reported this incident to the duchy. I need not remind you all that we are not precisely in the clear.”
“Yes, my lady. Havert! Saddle up! Let’s cover some more ground this evening. Brockmore is a long way away, yet.”
Chapter 21
The scene was one of pure and utter chaos.
The crowds were overwhelming, with most men milling about with no obvious direction in mind. Groups clung together smack in the middle of the thruway, speaking in loud, excited voices, and the crowd was forced to part around them, much like a stream running over and around rocks. Unlike with many a stream, however, this flow of people was going nowhere fast. And yesterday’s torrential rain didn’t help. The usually hard-packed ground was little more than muck, sticking to shoes and boots and coating people, from the waist down, in brown goo. A rickshaw, appearing to be full of provisions, was stuck in the mud, causing further confusion as no one stopped to help. Here and there, commanding voices rang out for order, but these were largely ignored.
Such was the state of the staging grounds wedged behind the Plateau in Little Town. Hafgan found that he didn’t need to exert as much effort as others to pick his way through the mess, at least. His stature, hairy face, and slightly elongated fingers were signal enough for the multitudes to give him room. Some manifested their biases against Wasmer by simply stepping back. Others took a more active approach.
“Look, a fucking fuzz-face!”
“Go back under the mountains with the rest of the ugly goats!” Another insult he’d heard, but one that Hafgan had never quite understood. Wasmer did not, in the slightest, resemble goats. And goats lived on mountains, but not in mountains. Probably just some weak human logic.
“What’s slime like dat doin’ ‘ere? We don’t want none o’ dem in da army.” This from a toothless old farmer, far past his prime.
Hafgan was used to these insults. He’d heard them often enough that it was just the normal way of things. He simply pulled down his broad-brimmed hat to both shield his face from the light and shield the crowd from his face. Again, he should have shaved, but what was the point?
Just two days ago, Duke Penton had issued a decree. All registered citizens, men of fighting age, must report to the staging grounds over a period of six days. Men not of fighting age, but who had the experience or desire to engage in the glory of war, were also encouraged to attend. Based on occupation, physical fitness, and—most obviously—wealth, the citizens would be assigned to a military squad, pressed into service supporting the military, or simply allowed to buy their way out. The wealthy could also buy a commission as an officer, to lead men into glorious battle from the safety of the various command tents. T
his was simply for the sake of vanity. Hafgan had learned that these golden officers, as they were called, had little real say in the military tactics of the Rostanian military force; at least, this had been the case during the border skirmishes with the Wasmer.
In the meantime, though the purposes of the large-scale conscription was generally unknown, the city was cordoned off. There was no unauthorized entry or exit. Some traders were allowed in, but not out. This was to be a temporary measure until muster was completed, according to the criers. The military likely hoped to outrun the news of the inevitable aggression against Florens.
Hafgan had reported this news to Tennyson days ago, along with the rest of his reconnaissance, immediately after overhearing the duke. Regarding Morgyn working with Recherche Oletta, Tennyson had simply replied that they must trust the Bull, Fenrir de Trenton, to protect Escamilla. What man wouldn’t be able to repel an assault by a girl who couldn’t be more than fourteen years of age? Besides, The House had no manpower to spare in sending a warning. They were all committed elsewhere. Thanks to their recent efforts, several of the smaller noble houses were back in the fold, again paying for protection, and several agents of Recherche Oletta had been eliminated in a rather brutal fashion. Their… colorful… remains had been left in very public places.
Tennyson was much more concerned about the conspicuous relationship between Recherche Oletta and the little duke. It was obvious, now, where the funding for this group had come from, as well as how they’d had the resources to shield themselves from The House for so long. They must have been working a long-term operation, planning to make themselves known all at once, when the little duke had been ready to move. There was still much that was obscured about the partnership between the duke and Recherche Oletta, and the motivations behind this group. Not to mention that woman who had been involved in the meeting with Penton and this Patriarch. But other members of The House were focused on reconnaissance. Hafgan had his own task.
Solace Lost Page 28