by Dale Lucas
“Anyway,” Rem said as he bent over his work, “after that business with Geezer and Rikka, we thought we’d had our fill of excitement, but then some sneak thief crossing the rooftops literally fell into our laps. And could we then relax and tell ourselves this was just good fortune? That finally we could do some simple police work and throw the man in the dungeons? No such luck.”
Indilen stared. He’d moved on to her left foot now. “I don’t understand,” she said.
Rem sighed. This was the part he’d been dreading: the lead-in to the terrible news he now had to share with her before she went out into the world for her workday.
He told her about their immediate sense that the rooftop thief was more than he appeared. The courtly speech and manners, the ducal livery, the complete absence of any stolen merchandise on his person, and his apparent resignation to being locked up. He then told her about the man’s attack on Torval, the arrival of the lord marshal, and, finally, the revelation about the man’s true identity.
Indilen’s eyes grew wide. “The Red Raven? The Scourge of the Ethkeraldi? The Demon Prince of the Devils of the Weald?”
“The same,” Rem said.
“Well, that’s nothing to be troubled by,” Indilen said, clearly trying to cheer him up. “You caught a notorious outlaw! There’s got to be a huge reward! Certainly you should be entitled to some portion of that!”
Rem nodded. “Oh, we shall be—Torval and I. There’s just one catch.”
Indilen cocked her head, inquisitive. “A catch.”
Rem nodded. Drew a deep breath. Spat it out. “We’ve got to go to Erald to claim it.”
* * *
Indilen stared. Her eyes narrowed. Her mouth opened as though she might speak, then closed again. She put both feet—now firmly in their shoes—on the floor and folded her hands in her lap. Rem worked hard to keep his mouth shut. Indilen would be quiet now, to chew on the news before asking questions, then offer portents of doom.
It was a familiar ritual. He’d learned it was best to let her follow through with it. Trying to interrupt or explain it away would only further trouble her.
“You and Torval will go to Erald,” she finally said. “To claim the reward?”
Rem nodded. “The lord marshal offered a promissory note, but Ondego refused. Privately, he told Torval and me that he didn’t trust the man to honor whatever note he had written—notarized or not. And so that was the compromise reached: Torval and I will accompany the lord marshal’s train back to Erald, present the Red Raven in person to the duke, then collect our reward and hurry home.”
“Home,” Indilen said. “From Erald.”
“That’s right,” Rem said. He hoped she could see his own reluctance in his gaze. He wanted that coin—could already dream of so many wonderful things it could do for them. They could acquire a house for themselves and let out the extra rooms! He could buy her a trunk-load of dresses! He could get himself an even better sword than the one Torval had bought for him when he first joined the watch—maybe even have one custom made!
But he knew that she knew the cost of claiming that treasure might prove too high.
Yet it was just a mission, wasn’t it? A job—no more, no less. He’d be a few weeks on the road to his destination, then a few weeks coming back. Before either of them knew it, he’d be right here in her arms again.
It sounded so simple . . . and yet something still gnawed at him and filled him with fear.
The world outside those walls was far more unpredictable and chaotic than the city in which they made their home. Strange to say that—to even contemplate that anywhere in the world could be more chaotic and unpredictable than Yenara itself—but it was the truth. The wilderness was wild, untamed, dangerous.
Sometimes deadly.
Bollocks, Rem thought. I don’t relish this. Not one bit.
“Erald is a hundred miles from here,” Indilen said.
“More like ninety,” Rem said. “As the crow flies, anyway.”
“You’ll go by the Pilgrim’s Road?” she asked.
Rem shook his head. “Afraid not,” he answered, loath to lie to her—though that option had occurred to him. “That adds fifty or sixty miles to the trip, since it goes due west and only turns northward past the hills and the forest. No, the lord marshal swears that he and his soldiers can take us by the Ethkeraldi road safely, and that we’ll reach our destination far sooner. That route gets us close to those ninety miles. We should be there in eight or nine days. Ten at most.” He considered. “Two weeks at the outside.”
“So,” Indilen said, “I’m to go about my business as though nothing’s untoward, while you go off on a monthlong round trip to the nearest sovereign city through a forest rife with bandits and roving orcs and who knows what sort of hungry wildlife?”
Rem nodded. “I’m not pleased about it myself—but that reward, Indilen—”
“Oh, I know,” she said, shooting to her feet and stepping away as he tried to pull her close and hold her. “You don’t think I’ve already come up with a hundred ways to spend that coin?”
Rem tried to feign offense, if only to get her laughing. “Here, now, lass—that’s my coin. You neither apprehended this notorious outlaw, nor will you join me on the road—”
“Take me with you,” Indilen said.
She was serious. Rem shook his head. “Absolutely not.”
“You don’t think I can handle it?” Indilen asked.
Rem shook his head again. “I’m not sure I can handle it,” he said. “And I don’t just mean surviving a journey through the Ethkeraldi. I’m talking about worrying about you when I’ll already be worried enough for myself. Besides, I can’t just bring my lover along . . .”
Indilen nodded. “I know, I know . . . It was a foolish thing to say. But honestly, Rem, something in this makes me uneasy . . .”
“You’re not the only one,” he answered. “I feel like I’ve just gotten to know this city, its rules—spoken and unspoken—its people. A week or more on horseback in the wilderness? A rugged wilderness hiding who knows what sort of dangers? That’s uncharted territory—literally and figuratively.”
“Can’t someone else go?” Indilen asked.
Rem shook his head. “Believe me, Torval and I already had that conversation. Ondego isn’t keen to send us, but he wants his share of that reward, as well—not just for his own pockets, but for the watchkeep coffers. That money could do real good for the ward—for all the watchwardens. This isn’t just about Torval and me collecting something for ourselves—we’re collecting for everyone.”
“And what about the return journey?” Indilen pressed. “You’ll be part of the lord marshal’s train when you go, but when you come back—”
“We’ll come back by the Pilgrim’s Road,” Rem said. “It’ll take longer, but it’ll be infinitely safer. Who knows—if we hire ourselves out as bodyguards to a pilgrim train or something, we might even make a little more coin on our way back to supplement the reward money.”
Outside, morning bells pealed from the Tower of Aemon. Indilen lowered her head, counting the gongs in silence. Rem fought the urge to press her, to try to explain away her worries and fears. Just as he hated to suppress his feelings of grief and guilt after a kill, Indilen hated to have her own feelings invalidated by his clumsy attempts at appeasing her or assuaging whatever it was she was feeling. It was an old argument, and each of them had finally, after months of effort, managed to learn just what the other needed at a given time.
Thus he knew it might make him feel better to try to convince her that there was nothing to worry about, but she would feel better only if she could wrestle with her worry alone, and not have it taken from her.
The bells finished their tolling, eight peals in all.
“I have to go,” she said finally. She raised her eyes to Rem. He saw the worry in them, the sickness. She was ready to blow off her morning clients.
“Go,” Rem said. “Just hurry back when you’re done. Kn
owing that we’ll need sleep and strength, Ondego gave us tonight off.”
“Tonight,” Indilen said. “How soon do you leave?”
Rem drew another deep breath. “The day after tomorrow.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rem made the most of his limited time with Indilen, spending the late afternoon and evening of that first day wandering the streets with her, shopping for a few home supplies, and feeding their fancies by occasionally inquiring after townhomes, houses, or pubs they saw for sale. They slept well beside one another that night, a deep melancholy lingering between them that kept them staring at one another, stroking one another, holding one another tightly, but never daring to break the solemnity of their shared solitude with anything so coarse or prosaic as lovemaking. The following day, Rem went shopping for some travel clothes that he knew he’d need: new wool undershirts, a padded studded doublet to provide a little extra protection on the road, and a woodsman’s mantle with an attached cowl. Then he got his sword and his two daggers—a long dirk for his belt and a small dagger for his boot—sharpened at a local bladesmith’s. When evening came, Rem and Indilen joined Torval and family at the King’s Ass for an impromptu going-away party, so that the two of them could venture off into the world smothered in best wishes and good fortune.
That night, he and Indilen made love, and it was spectacular . . . though laced with a terrible sadness. Rem did his best, both before and after, to lighten the mood with sweet whispers and a little jesting, but try as he might, the pall never totally left either of them. By the time he felt himself drifting off to sleep in Indilen’s arms, he knew that the dewy wetness he felt on his chest was her silent tears. He hoped she would not notice that he had shed a few of his own.
This is foolish, he told himself. It’s just a journey. There and back again. Three weeks gone. Maybe a month. Why should that trouble us so?
The answer was readily apparent, staring at him from the dark recesses of his imagination like a precocious, overly wise child. Because you’re venturing out there, that smug inward voice said. Beyond the walls. Into the wild. Away. Apart.
All sorts of terrible things can happen out there. That’s why you were so relieved when you finally reached Yenara after your month or more of wandering away from home. Why this place welcomed you when no other had. Yenara, for all its insanity and chaos, is still bounded, protected, orderly after its own fashion.
But out there? Anything can happen out there . . .
He well remembered the reports from travelers on the road of bloody business both in the Ethkeraldi and on the Pilgrim’s Trail. Robberies, rapes, murders, kidnappings . . .
Rem finally slid into dreamless sleep and woke with the cock’s crow, long before their landlord had agreed to wake them. He slid out of bed as softly as he could, washed up, dressed in his traveling clothes—not fancy, but fiercely practical, most newly acquired just for the journey—and waited for Indilen to stir. After a while she, too, pulled herself from the murk of sleep. Without much coaxing she rose, washed, and dressed. By the time their landlord knocked on their door, calling that it was the appointed wake-up time, they were both ready.
The agreed-upon meeting place was Roylan’s Square, adjacent to the famous Dragon’s Roost Inn near the city’s East Gate, since that would give the train direct access to the road that would ultimately take them through the near hills and into the Ethkeraldi. However, before Rem and Torval could join the train for their departure, they were required to deliver the Red Raven to the lord marshal. Thus Rem and Indilen walked together, holding hands, from their rented rooms in the Third Ward to the watchkeep in the Fifth, there to meet Torval and collect their prisoner before doubling back toward the Third Ward and the East Gate. Rem carried his supplies in a small pack on his back, and in the secondhand saddlebags Ondego had issued to him and Torval from the watchkeep stores.
This was not Indilen’s first visit to the watchkeep, though Rem did his best to keep her away from the place. For one thing, Rem felt he got more than enough of that den of iniquity nightly; what need had he to be there—or to drag Indilen along—if he wasn’t on duty? Added to that were the boisterous atmosphere and coarse company. Oh, Indilen didn’t seem to mind, surely; very little shocked or surprised her. Nonetheless, Rem always found himself worried and on edge when she was around. Perhaps it was the way the prisoners leered at her, or the way his comrades sniggered and teased him—or worse, the times those roles were reversed and the prisoners did the teasing while his fellow watchwardens did the leering. Worse than the teasing or the leering, though, was the flirting. Be it dusky-skinned Djubal or Rem’s frequent sword-sparring partner, Emacca, or someone else entirely, there was no shortage of Rem’s cohorts doing their level best to banter with Indilen and embarrass Rem whenever she was around. Indilen thought it all charming and hilarious. Rem, not so much.
Torval waited for them on the watchkeep steps. He greeted Indilen warmly when he saw her, drawing her into a tight, wholehearted bear hug. Indilen, after giggling at Torval’s aggressive embrace, gave the old stump a kiss on his bald tattooed head and begged him to put her down. After obliging, Torval offered Rem his hand and let his brotherly love fly.
“She’s too good for you,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”
“You never fail to remind me,” Rem said.
“Fine, clever girl like her,” Torval continued. “She should get herself a proper lord or a scholar or a man of the law, not some poxy, pretty-faced whelp like you.”
“I like poxy, pretty-faced whelps,” Indilen said with a smile. “I always preferred puppies to alley cats.”
The smile she gave Rem made his heart leap.
Torval started laughing, a deep, raucous sound that rocked his whole diminutive, muscular body. “Ha!” he shouted. “She called you a puppy!”
“Are you finished?” Rem asked. “The both of you?”
Indilen offered a sad but warm smile. “Got to get my licks in now,” she said, then drew up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “I shall have no one to tease for nigh on a month.”
Rem had no answer to that. He only offered a smile of his own, then led them up the steps and into the watchkeep.
Indilen waited in the common room while Rem and Torval descended to the dungeons with Ondego and a few more hands to fetch the Raven. To Rem’s great relief, they found the outlaw in his cell, snoring on a bed of straw, bare chested, his filthy shirt rolled up beneath his head as a pillow.
Ondego batted the bars of the cell with a watchman’s stave, making a terrible racket. “Rise and shine, you filthy mug! Time for a long, slow stroll to your standing appointment with an Eraldic gallows.”
The Red Raven stirred on the cell floor, rose, and studied the men and women of the watch who’d come to collect him. Rem half expected some quip or a caustic jest, but the man only nodded, unlaced his breeks, and pissed into his cell’s slop bucket as they all watched. When finished, he relaced his trousers and slipped back into the shirt that had been serving him as a pillow. He indicated his bare feet.
“Do I get my boots back?” he asked.
Ondego unlocked the cell, opened it, and threw something at the prisoner’s feet: the very same finely tooled guardsman’s boots he’d been wearing when arrested.
“The better to bear you homeward,” the prefect said with mock solemnity.
The Raven slipped into the boots, then offered his hands for binding. He got a surprise when he learned that he was to have not only his wrists manacled but also his ankles. He was also to have a chain locked around his middle and a catchpole with a leather noose at its end—the sort used to subdue rabid hounds—wrapped around his throat. Fully encumbered and surrounded by his watchwarden escorts, Rem thought the Red Raven looked like the most dangerous man in the world. Torval bore the trailing end of the chain locked around his middle. Rem handled the long pole whose noose encircled the man’s throat. Four more watchwardens, including Ondego himself, spread in a loose circle aroun
d the prisoner—a most dishonorable honor guard.
All this security for one man. Could he honestly, truly, be that slippery? That dangerous?
Ondego gave a nod. “Follow me, lads. Next stop, Roylan’s Square.”
Off they went, back up to the surface, through the common room, and out into the ubiquitous mists of the Yenaran morning. Indilen fell in behind them and followed at a safe distance.
The ward revealed its familiar morning rituals in the thinning fog around them as they marched. Blacksmiths pumped bellows and fired forges. Fresh-baked bread and morning rolls were drawn from hot ovens, exuding their warm, buttery scents through open doors and windows. Wives, daughters, and younger sons fetched water from city wells or emptied slop jars, while shopkeepers and mongers of all sorts opened their windows, wedged their doors, and adorned their little sellers’ stalls with the goods they hoped to divest themselves of as the day wore on. Amid it all, an almost perpetual array of day laborers—longshoremen, stonemasons, carpenters, diggers, roofers, tillers—came forth from their rented rooms, their cramped homes, and their warm beds into the streets, most half-asleep and drifting like wraiths in a somber dream.
Through the midst of these the party marched, keeping gawkers at a distance and urging any and all curious parties to mind their business and carry on. To be sure, several watch-wardens leading a single well-chained, dog-collared convict toward some unknown fate through the streets was a strange sight. There were often parades of prisoners from the watch-keep to their meetings with the Tribunal on Founder’s Hill, but in those cases the train usually consisted of several prisoners all strung together. Rem, from his vantage behind the Raven, still holding that pole attached to the collar that held him, noted that their prisoner was quite courteous to those they passed. He nodded with brotherly solemnity at the men, smiled and gave curt head-only bows to the women, even spoke to the occasional gaggles of children who fell in beside them to follow the train, calling eager questions as they went.