Good Company

by Dale Lucas

  “Is he a murderer?” one dark-skinned little ragamuffin asked.

  “Is he a brigand?” asked a stout, towheaded boy.

  “He’s too pretty for the gallows,” a girl on the cusp of her maidenhood said.

  “Why so many of you?” one snaggletoothed waif asked. “He’s no bear—more like a possum!”

  Rem and his fellows did their best to shoo the children away. More than once, the Raven responded, working his peculiar, charisma-based magic upon the little street urchins.

  “Do you know who I am?” he asked one cohort of filthy, lice-ridden boys.

  “The God of Death incarnate!” one guessed.

  “Some prince off to the debtors’ house?” said another.

  “I’m the Red Raven,” the prisoner said, and winked at them.

  “Go on!” a third boy shouted. “You lie!”

  “It’s the solemn truth,” the Raven said.

  “The Scourge of the Ethkeraldi?” one boy asked.

  “First bow ’mongst the Devils of the Weald?” asked another.

  “The same,” the Raven answered proudly.

  “He lies,” the smallest boy among them said. “The Red Raven’s too smart to be caught by the likes of these cunts.” He offered an expansive gesture that took in Rem and all of his badge-wearing companions.

  “Scat, now!” Torval barked suddenly. “All of you! Before we throw you in the same cage!”

  The boys obeyed and scattered, laughing derisively as they went.

  “Coarse language from such little mouths,” the Raven said to no one in particular. “And so disrespectful—”

  Torval shoved him. “Keep your sauce box shut,” he said.

  “It’s this city,” the Raven carried on, almost wistfully. “It hardens them. Roughens them.”

  “I’ll roughen you if you don’t be quiet,” Torval growled. “Now keep pace, and no more conversations with the passersby.”

  The Raven gave a diffident shrug and marched on. Torval threw a glance at Rem: Can you believe this sod?

  Rem could only offer a shrug of his own. In truth, he wasn’t paying much attention. There was only one thought in his mind, turning round and round like a waterwheel spinning in a steadily rolling stream.

  Soon I’ll have to leave her, he thought. Soon I’ll be riding out those gates, to meet the gods know what, and she’ll be left here. Yerys, Belenna, and Elimena, bring me back to her. Don’t let us lose one another now, after finding each other under such unlikely circumstances . . .

  In short order their little party came to Roylan’s Square, which marked the last city blocks before the city’s East Gate and the world beyond. The square was huge and bustling, even at such an early hour, lorded over on its north side by a mid-size Aemonic church and on its western verge by an enormous six-story, block-wide inn, the Dragon’s Roost. That great edifice—red stucco crisscrossed by dark cedar beams, a honeycomb of curtained windows and several layers of overhanging eaves—was one of the largest inns in the west, capable of housing almost a thousand guests at any one time, lauded far and wide for its many luxuries and amenities: a fancy bathhouse in its basement, a grand courtyard tavern at its center, and two special chambers on each floor that allowed guests to actually flush their piss and night soil down a complicated piping system into the sewers beneath the city. Waste disposal! Indoors! Truly, wonders never ceased . . .

  In the great flagstone-and cobble-paved square before the vast inn stood the Fountain of the Forebears, larger than any of its water-bearing cousins in the whole of the Fifth Ward. Two stories at its apex, the fountain was adorned with a magnificent, multifaceted marble sculpture depicting the whole history of Yenara in a single complex tableau, woodland settlers from its founding age intermingling with the pioneer women of its boom years, who in turn were lorded over by fully armored Horunic officers from imperial antiquity. Rising above the rest, clear in heroic relief against the sky, were the figures of Velerens, one of the city’s chief benefactors and most beloved founders, as well as Duke Roylan, the Most August, him for whom the whole square was named, one hand on his armored breastplate, the other raised elegantly in the air, gesturing expansively toward the heavens. Beneath and around the ennobled Roylan, an ever-cascading rush of dancing waters flowed from the pressurized plumbing within, the roar of the falling, splashing waters echoing through the whole square.

  Rem gaped as they approached. He’d been here only a handful of times before, but he had yet to tire of the fountain and its artful engineering. Even now he was most impressed by its strange visual sinuousness, the way all its contours, corners, and planes were harmonized so that each dynamically poised marble or bronze figure interlocked with its neighbors, one body blending seamlessly into the next, their forms mutated and transformed by perspective as one circled the great assembly. The chalk-white streaks of bird shit dripping down the contours of Roylan’s bronze face only marginally subtracted from the overall grandeur of the display.

  In the shadow of the fountain, arrayed with almost military precision, stood the train of Lord Marshal Kroenen and his soldiers from the city of Erald. There were five of them in all—the lord marshal and four subordinates—along with a troop of saddled horses and a single four-wheeled, ox-drawn supply wagon laden with provisions and camp gear. Attached to the aft end of the supply wagon was a separate, smaller, two-wheeled cart supporting an iron cage. Rem guessed that was where the Red Raven would be riding.

  Even at their distance, Rem saw clearly that the yellow-blue-and-white-clad Eraldic honor guard were not alone, for mingling among them were soldiers with black-and-scarlet tabards, clearly of separate origin. Rem had never been gifted when it came to memorizing the many arms and colors of all the great houses of the west, but he knew that scarlet was a color frequently employed by the peerage in Estavar, far to the south. And hadn’t Kroenen said that the Duke of Erald’s bride-to-be was the daughter of an Estavari noble? The Countess of Toriel, if Rem remembered aright.

  The Estavari soldiers were five in number, their chain mail of a rosy, coppery tint, as opposed to the polished steel gray of that worn by Kroenen and his men. Their scarlet tabards sported a gyronny-of-eight device of black and yellow beneath a fierce rearing stallion, also rendered in black and traced in silver thread. Rem and Torval approached with the prisoner, the lord marshal and his Estavari counterpart deep in negotiation, each standing square shouldered, their helms beneath their crooked arms. As the commanders treated, the rank and file stood by in stalwart silence or busied themselves with simple preparations: checking their mounts, strapping down their saddlebags, securing their weapons, and the like.

  It was only when they were almost upon the group that Rem realized every member of the Estavari guard was a woman.

  Most impressive, that. Rem had met any number of warrior women on the wardwatch or espied them in taverns with their male or female companions, but he’d never seen a whole platoon of them, all arrayed in armor and house livery.

  Their little band led the Red Raven across the crowded square toward the waiting train, drawing curious onlookers and gawpers as they went. When they hove up to the close gathering of horses, women, and men, Ondego broke from the cordon and stepped forward to effect the transfer.

  “Your prisoner,” he said flatly.

  Lord Marshal Kroenen studied the Raven as if inspecting him, then swung his gaze back to Ondego. “No, Prefect, your prisoner. If your men are to accompany us, the Raven will remain their charge until we reach Erald. I and my men will be more concerned with assuring the safety of this train, and Captain Tuvera here”—he indicated the female officer from Estavar, whose light-brown skin and black hair suggested she had some equatorial blood in her—“has the sole task of protecting the Lady Tzimena during our long journey.” The lord marshal now looked to Rem and Torval, his narrow-eyed appraisal suggesting that he thought very little of them indeed. “Everyone on this expedition will do their duty and pull their weight. Are the two of you equal to tha
t task?”

  Rem and Torval exchanged incredulous glances. It was on the tip of Rem’s tongue to say something snide, but Torval beat him to it.

  “We caught him, didn’t we?” Torval said.

  “Very well, then,” the lord marshal said. “You have your assignment. See to it.”

  He and Captain Tuvera returned to their discussion of riding order and watch schedules. Ondego, realizing he was now being ignored, cleared his throat. The lord marshal looked at him as if surprised to still find him there.

  Ondego indicated the cage. “I presume that’s for him?” Up close, the cage looked to Rem just big enough for a single person to sit in comfortably, though standing up or lying down at full length would probably prove impossible. It was the sort of thing one might find in a traveling circus, small enough to be hitched to a cart or even just a strong horse, but stout enough to hold something fierce and compact within. Its only comforts were a bed of straw, a ratty old cowhide blanket, and a stoppered gourd of drinking water dangling by frayed twine from one of the overhead bars.

  “It is,” the lord marshal said.

  “Is there a key?” Ondego pressed. “We can’t very well lock him in without it.”

  The lord marshal frowned, severely annoyed at Ondego’s belligerence. Finally he called for one of his companions.

  “Wallenbrand!”

  A broad-shouldered old soldier appeared from amid the Eraldic company—probably the same age as Ondego or older, but still hale and strong. He had a bushy gray beard, a raptor’s piercing gaze, and more than a few scars on his tanned old face.

  That struck Rem as rather strange—a veteran of a duke’s house guard all tanned and scarred like a common sellsword? Was he a new hire?

  “Milord?” the old man asked.

  “The key to the cage,” the lord marshal said, waving dismissively at Ondego. “From now until the time we reach Erald, that key shall remain in the charge of these two watchwardens.”

  The old warrior nodded curtly and fished the key from a pouch at his belt. It was iron, only slightly rusted, and hung from a long leather loop. Old Wallenbrand handed the key to Ondego, and Ondego passed it to Torval. The dwarf threw the long loop over his head and the key hung on his chest like a talisman. The circle of watchwardens round the Raven pivoted en masse, angling their prisoner toward his home for the road.

  “Only the finest accommodations,” the Raven muttered mordantly. “Clearly my reputation precedes me.”

  Ondego stepped toward the bound man and cuffed him—hard and swift—right across the mouth. Rem, Torval, and their fellow watchwardens were all shocked by the move. It was fairly rare to see Ondego stoop to physical violence when not directly threatened or engaged in an interrogation. The Raven spat out a wad of saliva and blood, then resumed his straight-backed stance, unbowed by the prefect’s attack.

  “You two listen, and listen well,” Ondego said, addressing Rem and Torval but glaring at the Raven as he did so. “Your task is to deliver this piece of woodland trash to the Duke of Erald, collect the reward promised, and speed your arses homeward. But if, at any point in the journey, this smug son of a whore troubles you or threatens you, you have my permission to kill him where he stands and come home empty-handed. I want that gold, but I want the two of you back in my ward more. Savvy?”

  Rem and Torval each gave an affirmative, along with a curt nod. When Ondego saw their acknowledgements, he turned back to the Raven.

  “There is it, then,” he said quietly. “You might be worth a hundred pieces, but if you trouble these good men, I don’t care if they gut you and leave you for the crows, gold or no gold. Understood?”

  “Understood,” the Raven said—rather earnestly, to Rem’s ears. “Thank you, Prefect, for your honesty.”

  “Fuck off,” Ondego answered, then turned to his watchwardens once again. “Lock him up.”

  The Raven was locked in his cage, the catchpole collar loosed from his throat and the chain around his waist withdrawn. His ankle and wrist manacles remained. Once the cage was locked, Torval dropped the key, still hanging from its leather loop, under his shirt, so that it was in no danger of being torn off or falling.

  “Nice and tidy,” Ondego said, studying the caged-up prisoner with some small satisfaction. “Enjoy your ride back to Erald, good sir. You’ve been a most gracious guest.”

  “For the last time,” the Red Raven said, addressing Ondego directly, “don’t leave your men in this man’s care, Prefect. You’ll never see them again.” Rem didn’t care for the man’s tone. It seemed far too honest, too genuinely concerned, to simply dismiss.

  “What part of fuck off did you not understand?” Ondego muttered, then wandered away from the cage. As he trudged off, he waved impatiently for Rem and Torval to follow him. When he had the two of them and the rest of the watchwardens gathered a little apart from the train, he presented the young man and the dwarf with some provisions for the road, carried in sacks by their fellows who’d helped in the transfer.

  “As promised: barley meal from the watchkeep stores for porridge, hardtack from the seaman’s refectory on the waterfront, dried and salted meat—not sure what sort, but it isn’t moldy, so it’ll do—and a pair of skins filled with small beer. They’re survival rations, but they’ll also keep you on your toes. You’re always a little more wary if you’re underfed. Save these for the hard times on the road and buy fresh stuff from the inns and peddlers you pass.”

  Rem took the bags full of supplies and thanked the prefect. He actually felt gratitude. Supplying them wasn’t Ondego’s responsibility, but he’d said from the beginning he intended to contribute, and he had.

  The other watchwardens present all offered wishes for a good journey, accompanied by handshakes or hearty claps on Rem’s and Torval’s shoulders, then began to disperse. At last only Ondego remained. Rem studied the strange look on the prefect’s hangdog face and realized there was something like real worry there; it was the look of a father sending his youngest sons off on a dangerous journey.

  The prefect stepped closer to the two of them, then placed one of his hands on a shoulder of each of them.

  “Don’t trust these cunts farther than you can throw them,” he said quietly. “Not the Raven, not the lord marshal, not the shield-maids—not a one.”

  Torval huffed. “As if you have to tell us.”

  “We won’t let you down, Ondego,” Rem said, and was quite surprised when he realized how deeply he meant those words. This man—this gruff, profane, blustering prefect of theirs—had become a sort of surrogate father to him in their year together. Rem hadn’t realized until this very moment how much Ondego’s respect and concern meant to him.

  “You’ll only let me down if you get yourselves killed,” the prefect said with a wry smile. “Eyes open, fists clenched, back to the wall. Or a tree, if there are no walls about.”

  He smiled wider at his own joke, clapped their shoulders, then turned and marched away. No goodbye. No “Good fortune.” No word at all. Rem supposed that was as it should be.

  Rem spun quickly to look for Indilen. Gods, he hoped she hadn’t heard the Raven’s warning, or Ondego’s. If she honestly thought there was something to fear in this, she’d work mightily to get him to beg off. And he had to be honest with himself: reward or no, if she looked into his eyes and said she had a terrible feeling and beseeched him not to go, could he really refuse her?

  But Indilen, when he found her, was otherwise engaged. For one, she’d been joined by Aarna—the mistress of his and Torval’s favorite tavern, the King’s Ass—and Torval’s entire family: his sister, Osma; his daughter, Ammi; and his sons, Tavarix and Lokki. There they all stood, far apart from the Eraldic and Estavari soldiers and their arrayed mounts, Aarna and Torval’s brood all bearing sacks and baskets.

  “What’s this?” Torval said, sounding more than a little annoyed. “I told them not to . . .”

  “Which is why they did,” Rem said. “Come on, old stump—let’s get the goo
dbyes over with.”

  They approached their launching party, the children rushing to their father and surrounding him before he’d even taken four strides. As Torval hugged and wrestled with his sons and held his daughter close and urged her—in his most fatherly tones—to watch after the boys and help Aunt Osma however she could, Aarna edged nearer and gently laid a heavily laden bag on the flagstones at her feet.

  “What’s all that?” Rem asked.

  Aarna pulled Rem forward, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and a summary, one-armed hug, then withdrew and regarded the bag. “Supplies,” she said. “I know it looks like a lot, but you should be able to divide it between your saddlebags.”

  “Supplies?” Torval parroted.

  “Aye, supplies,” Osma said. “We came together to make or gather them.”

  Rem shot a glance at Indilen. He knew she was eager for some time alone with him, as he was for time alone with her, but they both knew instinctively that those quiet, stolen moments before their parting would be easier to embrace when the rest of their ad hoc family had attended to its business and was out of the way.

  “There’s a slab of smoked bacon,” Aarna said, opening the mouth of the bag and staring in, “as well as a half wheel of well-aged cheese that should be good for the road. If it molds, just trim it. You can still eat it.”

  “There’s also two jams,” Osma said, “elderberry and apricot. We put them in gourds instead of jars or crocks, so they wouldn’t be so heavy.”

  “Oh!” Aarna said, as if finding sudden inspiration, “there’s also dried apples! And a small hogshead of Joedoc’s red. The Old Thumper is too strong and doesn’t hold up well outside a nice, cool cellar. Water the red down as you tap it, it’ll last longer.”