Good Company

by Dale Lucas

  “I warned you,” the prisoner said quietly, before a half dozen watchwardens fell upon him and yanked him away. “Hit me and I’d give as good as I got.”

  Still smiling, proud of his display of speed and strength, the prisoner let himself be drawn away. The commotion sent the whole administrative chamber of the watchkeep into a flurry of activity, curious prisoners and watchwardens pressing forward for a better look. Rem, relieved that Torval was safe, offered a hand to the prone dwarf. As their enigmatic prisoner with his unshaven woodsman’s face and inexplicably expensive boots and knightly surcoat was dragged away, Torval’s eyes never left him. Something about the way Torval stared set Rem on edge.

  It wasn’t fear, precisely—Torval rarely, if ever, betrayed fear. His gape-mouthed expression instead suggested both awe and respect. The man’s sudden movement and attack had left Torval impressed by him, creating of an enemy a grudging admirer. Torval took Rem’s hand and regained his feet. A stone’s throw from them, the prisoner stood still and unresisting, surrounded by wary watchwardens, all ready to arrest another attack if need be.

  “You all right?” Rem asked quietly.

  “Fast, that one,” Torval said. “Did you see him?”

  “I saw a blur, then you were on your back,” Rem said. “What say we lock him up and question him later?”

  “What say we offer him a job?” Torval asked.

  Rem felt a strange twinge in the center of him—bitter, unfamiliar. “That’s enough of that,” he said to his diminutive partner. “I’m still standing here, you know.”

  Torval turned his blue eyes on Rem. He smiled a little, then patted the young man’s cheek with patronizing softness. “The Bonny Prince is jealous,” he said, with no small amount of satisfaction.

  Rem threw off Torval’s hand. Without any retort to offer, he turned to the watchwardens still surrounding their prisoner. “Take him below, please?” he asked. “If there’s an empty cage, lock him up in it.”

  Their prisoner—already mysterious enough—responded strangely, pressing his hands together, prayer-like, and nodding. He offered a very genuine smile. “My sincere thanks, watchwarden. You’ve done good work this night, both of you.”

  Then he was gone, whisked away to the dungeons. Rem turned back to Torval. The dwarf looked just as puzzled as he. Their night had taken a very strange turn.

  “I’ve a feeling I never want to see that man again,” Rem said. “No good will come of it.”

  Torval nodded. “Aye, that. Thank you, though—for getting him off me.”

  Rem shrugged, still amazed at the man’s speed. “Better late than never.”

  As they turned to resume their report writing—they still had to offer their own summary of that nasty business with Geezer and Rikka, after all—Rem realized they were being watched. Ondego, the prefect of the Fifth Ward watch, stood on the far side of the desk they’d been using, assessing the scene with his customary scowl. His second-in-command, Hirk, loomed at his elbow. Rem and Torval both froze under Ondego’s weighty gaze, not sure if they were about to be commended or censured.

  “What’s the story on that one?” the prefect asked.

  Rem looked to Torval in a last-ditch effort to defer to the seasoned dwarf and let him explain. Torval, to his great chagrin, said nothing. He only shook his head and swept out his hand, as if he and Rem were both trying to pass through the same narrow doorway and only one could go at a time. After you, Bonny Prince. Annoyed, Rem set about answering the prefect’s question.

  “We found him on a rooftop,” Rem said. “Probably wouldn’t have caught him if he hadn’t slipped and fallen into our laps.”

  “That was house livery of some sort, wasn’t it?” Ondego said, raising one eyebrow. “Strike you as odd, finding a rooftop burglar in a knight’s surcoat?”

  “Most certainly,” Rem said. “That’s part of the reason we went after him. Skulking on rooftops is one thing—even if we didn’t catch him red-handed in the commission of a crime—but dressed like that? It’s a puzzle, indeed.”

  “Get anything out of him?” Hirk asked.

  Torval finally joined the conversation. “Not a whit. Though the Bonny Prince here made some fine deductions.”

  Rem summarized. “You saw him—unshaven and long-haired, like an itinerant lute player, but wearing that surcoat and fine kid boots. I recognize that livery, too—gold over blue, parted by a white chevron and sporting a falcon: that’s a uniform for the Duke of Erald’s house guard. So we’ve got a scruffy scoundrel in what I’m guessing is a stolen uniform who addresses us in courtly speech, in an accent foreign to Yenara.”

  “Has a familiar look about him,” Ondego said thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t you say so, Hirk?”

  The second shrugged. “Just another goon in dress-up, you ask me.”

  “I had the same thought,” Rem said to Ondego. “I told Torval as much! I could swear I’ve seen him before, I said, but can’t say where. It’s been eating at me all night.”

  Ondego nodded slowly, mentally chewing on Rem’s proposition. After a long consideration, he asked another question.

  “You’re sure it was Eraldic livery?” Ondego asked.

  Rem shrugged. “Fairly. If I could get a look at a book of patents, I’d be sure—”

  “How about some men in the same getup?” Ondego asked, nodding toward the far door of the chamber.

  Rem and Torval turned to see what their prefect now stared at. Crowding the main entryway to the administrative chamber were five men, gathered in a tight knot. They wore freshly washed surcoats atop well-oiled chain mail: gold over blue, parted by a white chevron and sporting the likeness of a falcon. The leader of the party was a stiff-backed, patrician sort—level, hawkish gaze, proud profile, square shoulders—and his gray-flecked black beard was trimmed close to his jutting chin, a near-perfect bit of face grooming. His four companions were clearly his subordinates. As they haunted the doorway, their leader scanned the room with his raptor’s gaze, eyes swinging slowly but surely toward the spot where Rem and Torval stood beside Ondego and Hirk.

  “I guess that settles it,” Rem said. He elbowed Torval and indicated the new arrivals. “See? What did I say? Look at that man’s neat hair and trimmed whiskers. I told you our prisoner couldn’t actually be a ducal guard, looking the way he did.”

  The newcomer’s gaze finally found Ondego. He appraised the prefect—command recognizing command—then led the quintet of men across the room in an orderly march, passing right through knots of curious watchwardens and lingering prisoners without so much as an excuse-me or beg-your-pardon. As he approached, Rem had another chance to assess him—his regal bearing, his apparent age and wisdom, all borne about in a well-exercised, well-cared-for, still-strong body. Formidable was the word that came to mind. The man projected strength, grace, and cunning—a most impressive combination.

  Then he stopped just a few feet from Rem and Torval, his men silent behind him, eyes locked on Ondego. There was a long, tense pause as the man once more studied and weighed all those before his gaze—Torval, Rem, Ondego, Hirk—before finally deigning to speak.

  “Who commands here?” the stranger asked.

  “That’d be me,” Ondego said, stepping forward.

  The guard commander carried on. “I am Harcta Kroenen, lord marshal to Verin Lyr, the Duke of Erald. I offer my badge of office and a written mandate from my sovereign.”

  With great efficiency the lord marshal drew a leather wallet and a small matching leather scroll case from his belt. He flipped back the lip of the wallet, revealing a golden signet, well tooled and polished, bearing the ducal seal of Erald.

  Ondego whistled. “Shiny.” He turned to Hirk. “Can we get some of those?”

  Hirk shook his head. “Won’t do. Remember the old gold badges? Always getting stolen?”

  “Not for everyone,” Ondego said, suggesting the watchwardens at their business around them. “Just you and me. Prefect and deputy prefect. We, at least, should have a
fine, shiny badge of office like that . . .”

  Rem studied the lord marshal. His face was largely immobile, but the twin ghosts of annoyance and impatience floated just below the surface of his apparent calm. Clearly he didn’t care for Ondego’s joshing about.

  “Excuse me,” the lord marshal finally said, and tucked away his walleted badge again. He offered the small leather scroll case this time. “My master’s mandate, for your perusal.”

  “Keep it,” Ondego said. “Clearly you are who you say you are. Missing a man, are you?”

  The newcomer raised an eyebrow. “Missing . . . ?”

  “One of your pretty little bluebirds? We just locked up a fellow wearing your uniform not moments before you arrived.”

  The lord marshal’s back stiffened at that. It was a subtle gesture, but Rem caught it. The man’s eyes widened. “Is that so?”

  “’Tis,” Ondego said. “So what say you state your business?”

  The lord marshal tucked away his little scroll case and held out a hand to one of his subordinates. “The circular,” he said.

  The soldier addressed went rooting in a satchel slung at his side and produced a sheet of stiff, folded parchment. Gingerly he unfolded the parchment and handed the well-creased leaf to his master. The lord marshal took the parchment, then handed it to Ondego.

  “We’ve gone watchkeep to watchkeep, inquiring after our quarry. Is this the man in your custody?”

  Ondego took the parchment and studied it. His eyebrows rose and he whistled low, clearly impressed by something he saw on that folded leaflet. He shared a conspiratorial glance with Hirk, who’d been studying the sheet over his shoulder, then handed it to Torval. The dwarf took the leaflet and held it out before him, making sure that Rem could see it.

  “Now we know why he looked familiar,” Ondego said to them. “Go rooting around on our wall of shame over there, crammed with Wanted posters, and you’ll find a leaflet just like this.”

  Rem and Torval studied the creased parchment together. There, staring back at them from a subtle and strikingly accurate woodblock portrait, was their prisoner. His hair was even longer in the image, and his beard fuller, but the resemblance was undeniable. As Ondego had said, that explained the man’s familiarity; Rem was almost certain that he’d seen that Wanted leaflet more than once, probably when it was first circulated, then later, hanging in the rogue’s gallery on the far wall, gradually obscured by newer leaflets that got nailed atop it.

  “Wanted,” it said, “dead or alive. The notorious outlaw road agent known as the Red Raven. Charged by His Lordship Verin Lyr, the Duke of Erald, with theft, murder, kidnapping, conspiracy, and extortion. To whoever presents the living person of said outlaw, or undeniable proof of his death, let it be known that the duke shall remit to said presenter a fabulous reward of one hundred pieces of gold.”

  Rem threw a glance at Torval. His partner was already staring back at him.

  Rem had heard stories of the Red Raven, the first of them during his journey toward Yenara, still more in taverns and taprooms since his arrival. It was well known that the Raven and his band of robbers—called the Devils of the Weald—haunted the Ethkeraldi Forest, a vast, untamed woodland through which the northeasterly road from Yenara to Erald wound. Though Rem’s own approach to the city had not taken him through the Ethkeraldi—the merchants and pilgrims he’d traveled with had given the wood’s eastern borders a wide berth—he’d heard more than a few harrowing tales of the Red Raven’s daring and villainy around many camp cookfires and hearths of roadside inns between Lycos and Yenara.

  Not a man but a ghost, some said.

  Not a man or a ghost but a beast, countered others. A trickster. A shapeshifter. Inhuman.

  Balderdash, the incredulous scoffed. He’s a man, all right, but quick and cunning, unlike any you could meet. Fearless, rich as a king on the tons of gold he’s stolen from those passing through the forest, and likewise a slaver and raper of women.

  You’re giving him too much credit, still others insisted. He’s not so posh. Just a common robber and woodland scum, as like to skin you and eat you as rob you.

  Rem knew well that legends often obscured reality—that a person’s reputation usually far outstripped the actuality of who they were and how they comported themselves—but the very fact that the Red Raven had so many people talking about him, and that the stories were so vast and varied and colorful, told Rem that, whatever the reality behind the legend, it was likely to be almost as exciting, almost as intriguing, as the stories themselves.

  How much crime did an outlaw have to indulge in, after all, to warrant such a princely sum for his capture or death?

  Watchwardens were paid twenty-five silver andies each month. With twenty-four andies to the gold piece, a year’s wages for one of them added up to just over twelve and a half pieces of gold. How much could Rem and Torval accomplish for themselves and their loved ones if they were granted even a portion of that one-hundred-gold-piece reward? Even if they handed over a fifth to the watchkeep coffers and another fifth to Ondego himself—as was proper—that would still leave them with sixty pieces of gold—five years of wages—to split between the two of them!

  “How did this man come to be in your custody?” the lord marshal asked, interrupting Rem’s daydreams about what to do with the reward. “Was there violence? Damage to person or property?”

  “He fell into our laps,” Torval said.

  “Literally,” Rem added.

  “Shush,” Ondego hissed. Rem knew the look on the prefect’s face well, the look of an annoyed father whose chatty child had just said too much. The prefect then looked to their visitor. “Step into my office, lord marshal. What say we hash out all attendant issues of jurisdiction and extradition . . . as well as remuneration?”

  Lord Marshal Kroenen nodded. “That will do, Prefect. Lead the way.”

  In short order they were all crammed into Ondego’s little, airless office, with only its single tiny window placed high on the wall to allow in some fresh air. Hirk offered the lord marshal a chair, but Kroenen cordially declined and simply stood—back straight as an iron rail. Rem and Torval pressed themselves into a far corner of the room, while Kroenen’s chosen assistant—a youngish soldier who bore, if Rem was not mistaken, a quite striking resemblance to Kroenen himself—stood in the doorway.

  “I know not how often you venture beyond your city walls,” the lord marshal said to the prefect, “but the Red Raven and his brigands have been terrorizing the Ethkeraldi for some time now.”

  “Going on ten or fifteen years, isn’t it?” Ondego asked, almost wistfully. “I used to hear tell of him when I made my home in Kaarth. Devils of the Weald—isn’t that the preferred moniker for the Raven’s men?”

  Rem thought of the man they’d just locked up. Ten or fifteen years? Had he embarked on his life of crime when he was a teenager and gained fame so young? Not so unusual, Rem supposed . . . but something in that reckoning—the years of activity considered against the relative youth of the man they’d arrested—just would not sit easy with him.

  “Just so,” Kroenen said. “And devilish they are. Kaarth, Iskera, Erald, Yenara . . . All the free cities round the Ethkeraldi have felt the sting of the man’s villainy. He’s orphaned a hundred children, crippled twice as many brave soldiers or travelers who dared to challenge him, and his greed knows no bounds. That he steals such fabulous sums and still lives like a savage in the woods should be proof enough that he’s mad as well as villainous.”

  “Don’t the forest folk speak well of him?” Hirk offered. “I’ve heard some even call him a hero.”

  “Wood-folk,” Kroenen said dismissively. “These are people who live in caves or primitive hovels and subsist on tree bark and underfed rodents. Should it come as any surprise they would lift up such a dishonorable man?”

  “One man’s outlaw is another man’s equalizer,” Ondego offered, and Rem could see clearly that he was teasing the lord marshal. It was not beyond the
prefect; though he took his duties seriously, he also had an almost reflexive disdain for well-groomed men in bright, shiny uniforms.

  “Prefect,” Kroenen said, cocking his head doubtfully. “You cannot, with any seriousness, countenance or approve of this man’s criminality?”

  “Oh, no,” Ondego said. “Surely not. Just saying that is, at times, the prevailing wisdom. If the Red Raven gives the wood-folk something while the free cities give them nothing, why wouldn’t they lift him up and defend him?”

  “In any case,” Kroenen broke in and carried on, clearly trying to put the conversation back on track, “you say you now have the man. Let me get to the point: if we see your prisoner and verify that he is, indeed, the notorious Red Raven, I should expect his swift remand to our custody for transfer back to our home city. There the duke’s justice shall be meted out to him.”

  “Hold on, now,” Rem said, suddenly stepping forward. “We’re all for cooperation among jurisdictions, Prefect, but we’ve yet to even work out what the man’s done that’s against the law.”

  Kroenen regarded Rem with a dismissive glance over his shoulder. The look became a strange, puzzled double take. For a moment it was as though the lord marshal thought he recognized Rem. A beat later, he once more regarded Rem with nothing but annoyance.

  “Prefect,” he said, “if you could please control your men.”

  “Tried and failed, so many times,” Ondego said with mock resignation. “In this case, however, the lad raises a fair question: What’s this Red Raven done—here, in Yenara—that we should hand him over to you?”

  “What’s he done?” Kroenen asked, disbelieving. “Prefect, you said yourself you’ve heard the stories.”

  “Aye, and they’re most engaging,” Ondego countered. “But the fact remains, we arrest and charge people based on the commission of crimes on the sovereign soil of this city, not based on hearsay and campfire spook tales.”