by Erik A Otto
“That’s great news…about Hella, I mean. I feared the worst for her.”
Mother sighed sadly. “Yes, it’s good news, but chasten your feelings, and don’t mistake me. I don’t want you to try to lobby to have Hella freed. You need to maintain that Hella is officially condemned as an infidel by Pomeria, but you should be able to claim rights to an interrogation. Aisha, they would never release her, and in fact, as you probably know, she may be killed by the monks before you arrive. This is why you need to go with haste, to at least speak with her before they have their way with her. Also find out what you can from her jailors, her cell mates, or whomever else you think might have knowledge of what is transpiring.”
Aisha couldn’t believe how stark her mother was being, speaking first of Landon and Petra, and now Hella, as if they were already dead. It was such a contrast to her typical social demeanor. Her language was so often fraught with pleasantries that Aisha felt like she was speaking with someone else entirely.
The queen continued as if she were reciting commands from the throne, “We will convey the news of your appointments on the morrow, but only to the Royal Guard and a few of the key nobles. There will be no public announcement. I suggest you move swiftly to gather whom and what you need, and go immediately north without fanfare.”
Aisha only nodded.
“That’s all, Commander,” her mother concluded without affect. Aisha knew her mother’s cold and abrupt end to the oratory was on purpose. There was no place for empathy or compassion in this conversation. The subject was too important for her and the kingdom. She wanted it unencumbered by emotion.
“As you wish, my queen.” Aisha bowed and left the room, her head still spinning.
On rare occasions, Aisha could read signs through the veneer of command and diplomacy to understand the humanity of her parents. In this instance, on the painful descent back down the stairs, Aisha remembered her mother’s comments about her not being the daughter she’d imagined. At first the words had frustrated her. She knew this well—why levy salt in the wound? But by the time she arrived back in her room, she realized it wasn’t because her mother was disappointed with her, rather because she was realizing who Aisha really was, and what she represented.
Aisha might be the only child she had left.
Chapter 4
The General
The prisoner tent wasn’t far from his own, but Timothur took a longer path than usual, circumnavigating the whole camp so he could walk along the ridge. On occasion he would wander here and take in the vista that overlooked the Shepherd’s Road; a great artery that cut north-south between Marsaya and Thelos, and also cut west from Marsaya across the balance of Belidor. This evening he could see numerous horse-drawn carriages and carts. The fear of Sambayan incursions was continuing to fade.
On his walk he was accompanied only by a chill breeze that buffeted his side. The sun was setting, and Matteo’s moon shone overhead, casting an uneven pallor on the road and the rolling grasslands beyond it. The Thelonian countryside was hardly any different from Belidor, but it still didn’t feel like home.
He mulled the request for an audience. Why would the princess want to speak with him? What had changed?
He couldn’t fathom a reason.
The two guards at the prisoner tent were standing at attention when he arrived. They saluted him as he marched through the flap. “As you were,” he told them.
The jailor was a stalky man with disproportionately large hands. An eye patch was strapped to his face. It was a training accident, or so Timothur had heard. “Yannick, how’s the prisoner?” Timothur inquired.
“Fed for the night, sir.”
Hella’s cell had originally been meager and stained, with only one coarse woolen sheet, but Timothur had asked that they clean it and provide more blankets and a chair. She was a Marked traitor, but no one should have to live in squalor. Besides, a few more comforts might loosen her tongue. As for Nala, he had granted her a regular tent, since she was only under house arrest. He even allowed her to visit Hella on occasion, but not out of compassion. Nala was much easier to read than Hella. Whereas the princess might stonewall him, he still might glean insights from her via Nala.
While Hella’s cell had been spruced up, she didn’t look well. She held her head high as always, but her face retained little color. Even with that, though, she maintained her magnetic countenance. And, he had to admit, she still looked like…her.
“Yannick, bind her hands and let her out. I intend to walk with her,” Timothur said.
Yannick did as he was told. Before Timothur took her, the jailor said, “General, if I may remind you, the Matagon Monks await a reply. What should I tell them?”
“I’ll let you know,” Timothur answered.
Yannick didn’t appear to be comforted by Timothur’s response. Indeed, it could be dangerous to delay the monks—he would have to allow them to take Hella eventually. But first, she could be of some use.
Once outside, Timothur led them to the ridge he’d only recently traversed.
“I suppose us walking outdoors saves you having to pace back and forth in the tent,” Hella said.
Timothur allowed himself a meager smile at her quip. “I thought you could use some air.”
“Such a gentleman,” Hella said with a note of sarcasm. “Don’t you think I could try to run or take your sword and kill you like Darian Bronté killed your brother?” Hella asked.
“Don’t be foolish. You’re a woman,” Timothur replied.
“Such a gentleman,” Hella said again.
Timothur’s patience waned. “You requested an audience, Traitor. Speak.”
Hella looked down from the ridge at the Shepherd’s Road, avoiding his eyes. “Why do you delay with the monks?” she asked.
“The monks will have you in good time, but I hope to learn more from you. I know you’re hiding something useful, despite your apparent madness. That, and I hope the Imbecile will come for you.”
“I see,” she said, still looking away from him.
Timothur continued impatiently, “But if you will not loosen your tongue, maybe I should bid them to come immediately. It’s not wise to keep the monks waiting.”
Then she looked at him, catching his eyes. “Why would you lie about your children? Why didn’t you want me to know that your child had died?”
How did she know this? It could have been Nala, skulking around. It was even possible the jailor might have told her. No one in camp would have thought this a secret. That wasn’t the important question, though. The important question was: why did she care about such trivialities? Was she trying to get under his skin?
If so, it was working. It wasn’t a topic of conversation he enjoyed, and Timothur could feel his anger building. “Why, under Matteo’s moon, do you need to know this? I have an army to run and no time for games. Speak, or let’s be done with it!”
She looked away again, then whispered, “I don’t think you are one of them. If you were, you would have called the monks by now.”
Timothur’s blood boiled. “One of what?” he exclaimed.
“A traitor, a conspirator.”
Timothur couldn’t help but laugh. “Of course! Now the Traitor thinks it is I who is the traitor.” He wanted to throw the mad princess over the ridge, but he forced himself to calm, breathing deeply in and out through his nose. Then he said, “Let’s return to the tent. There is no doubt, you have lost your senses.” He pulled her arm back the way they had come.
“Wait, General, please. I’m sorry. I’ll try to explain. I know this will sound hard to believe, but it’s the truth.”
Timothur stopped. He bored into her with his eyes while maintaining his grasp on her arm. Maybe he would finally learn something useful.
The princess sighed and began. “There’s a broad conspiracy in play. The Cenarans are gearing up for a great war against all of the southern nations, with hundreds of thousands of men at the ready. They aim to eradicate us all. They have tak
en the sons and daughters of many nobles and high officials, principally those that have them at the Cena school, and are using the children to blackmail the nobles. This conspiracy has infiltrated even Jawhar, where pro-Cenaran factions are seeking to kill the Herald and set the Jawhari and Belidorans against each other. I was but a pawn in their broad machinations. Their agents are moving rapidly—to prepare for a great war that will commence on the first day of the Third Internecion. On that day they will initiate their first major offensive against Belidor. On that day they intend to take the Old Keep.”
Timothur’s eyes darted back and forth as he listened. Finally, a moment after she’d finished, his eyes went wide. “You really are mad.”
“I know how it sounds, General, but I’ve seen their war engine churning in Jawhar. And the Sambayans were under the thumb of the Cenarans in the north. In fact, the Cenarans have already taken Ghopal and destroyed it, killing hundreds of thousands of Sambayans there. Send a man to find out, if you must. You will see that Ghopal is gone.”
Timothur smirked. “This is preposterous. I’ve seen the scouting reports. Ghopal is fine. We are simply waiting to take it. The Sambayans continue to be weakened. They will surrender, or we will take them all. The incursions are over, so there’s no urgency. It’s all clear as day in Vanaden’s war logs.”
Hella winced. “Your brother…I’m sorry. I believe he was a conspirator.”
Timothur felt an urge to hit her then. It was well deserved. But he restrained himself. Perhaps she was afflicted by a disease of the mind. Perhaps she couldn’t be responsible for her venomous words.
“Back to the tent,” Timothur said, pulling her along forcefully.
She went without objection. When they made it back, he threw her forcefully into the jailor’s arms. “This one really is insane, Yannick. Be wary of her.”
Yannick nodded knowingly.
“Check Ghopal,” Hella called as Yannick thrust her into her cell.
Yannick looked at Timothur quizzically. Timothur reassured him, “Pay her words no mind, Yannick. She’s in your hands now.”
Timothur turned to leave. Yannick called out, trying to catch Timothur before the tent flap closed, “Should I call on the monks to come?”
Timothur paused at the exit. “No, not quite yet. Mad or not, I still have use for this one.”
He headed back to his tent, this time more directly through the intervening tents.
Despite her outlandish notions, the meeting with the princess troubled him. The way she spoke, how she carried herself, made her seem so normal, so much like…her. He tried to make sense of the things she’d said. He tried to find some pearl of useful intelligence. But how does one decipher the ramblings of an infidel?
He wondered if her partners in crime believed these fanciful stories. It sounded like the kind of thing that could have been propagated by poor, deluded Sebastian Harvellian. Perhaps he saw this as one of his elusive “truths.” Or maybe it was all contrived by someone who was mentally imbalanced, someone like the Imbecile. Yes, the Imbecile must have been behind this story, at least partially.
And if the Imbecile believed this fairy tale, it meant he might be acting on it…and it could help Timothur find him…and kill him.
Maybe this was useful intelligence after all.
Timothur called on the Belidoran army contingent to split up. He would lead a brigade south the next day, and then meet with his advisers and leftenants when they’d returned from scouting in a few more days. It would delay their ultimate objective, but he needed to change his strategy immediately.
Timothur had awakened his advisers before light. They were assembled in his tent, unshaven and half-asleep, but otherwise attentive.
Nala entered the tent with her guard, her hands still bound.
“I’ve asked Nala to join us today,” Timothur explained. “She may have intelligence to contribute.”
His advisers looked skeptical but said nothing. At some point he would try to remove the psychological venom that Nala had contracted from the infidels. In the meantime, she could be a useful asset. Of course, Timothur didn’t expect Nala to volunteer anything, but her expressions could be telling as to whether he was heading in the right direction. He would be watching her at crucial moments of the discussion.
Before he could speak to his tactics, a runner came in. “Sir, I have a message from Sir Ronaldo, special adviser to the Great Defender. I also have a message from Tardiff, from the Sigmund estate.”
“The Ronaldo letter, what does it say? The quick version, please.”
The runner opened and read it. “Apologies, sir. It…um, questions the move south and requests that you explain your action or return north immediately. It’s signed by Sir Ronaldo.” Timothur knew taking the brigade south might not be seen as good strategy by the Great Defender, and well…he’d never asked. He just did it so he could pursue the Imbecile.
Sir Ronaldo was of high influence, but the Great Defender himself hadn’t signed it, so maybe Timothur had more time. “Thank you, runner. I will write a reply for you to bring to Ronaldo on the morrow.”
Captain Palantos spoke up. “Sir, may I ask why we linger here, in the heart of Belidor, when there remains a threat in Thelonia? Maybe if you could help us understand the strategic importance of our mission, we could be of better assistance. Vanaden’s orders were to defend the Thelonian border.”
Timothur felt a gut urge to rebuke him, but Palantos had tenure with the men, so he needed to be careful. “Good question, Captain. I will explain. We aren’t going to attack Ghopal anytime soon. There are no more Sambayans coming over the border, either. And the Thelonians have their entire army there. Why should we have so many men up near Sambai when we leave most of Belidor undefended?”
Palantos nodded, but looked puzzled. Timothur couldn’t blame him—the change in plan still conflicted with Vanaden’s last orders. Timothur moved on quickly before Palantos could muster another question. “Next letter, please.”
The runner opened it and scanned it. “Sir, it’s a death notice. Jon Sigmund has passed, sir. A band of rogues assailed him.”
Jon was an old friend of the family. He was a powerful man, although prone to a number of terrible vices. “A tragic loss for Belidor. Pray tell, runner, how many rogues, and have they been brought to justice?”
The runner looked at it again, trying to find the detail. “It says three, sir, and no, sir.”
Timothur looked over to Nala. Her eyes widened ever so slightly, the news catching her attention. This must have been the Thelonian brothers. They must be attacking nobles who they viewed as “conspirators.” Jon Sigmund had two children at the Cena school, so it made some sense the Imbecile might target him. The information made Timothur more confident in his new tactics.
Palantos was apparently still dwelling on Timothur’s response about their military strategy. He chimed in again. “Sir, the Sambayans could come back at any time, and we are better equipped than the Thelonians to deal with them. Plus the border is completely open, not walled off like our border with Jawhar. Perhaps we should reconsider?”
Was Palantos trying to undermine him? Timothur had reviewed Vanaden’s actions from the war log, and some of them seemed strange. Perhaps it had been Palantos’s influence that led him astray.
Timothur raised his voice. “No, Captain, we will not reconsider. We are doing important work in Belidor. In fact, I have intelligence that suggests that the Imbecile and his brothers may have been responsible for Sigmund’s death. We must capture and kill these Thelonian brothers, for the sake of Belidor and to honor the wishes of the venerable monks.”
Palantos nodded slowly, finally showing some deference. Meanwhile, Nala stared at Timothur, hanging on his words. It was hard to read her mind, but her attentiveness must mean he was on to something.
Timothur outlined the plan. “I will be providing you all with two lists of nobles who live in Tardiff and Esienne. We are to send out three squads of ten to each city to c
ontact these nobles, in person. The first group of nobles is in danger of attack from the Imbecile and his brothers; your men should ask them if they have seen the brothers. If there is any reason to believe the Bronté brothers are stalking them, your men should protect them and bring the Bronté brothers to justice. The second group of nobles should be treated differently. Our intelligence suggests the brothers may try to form some kind of sinister collaboration with them. Of course, the brothers’ cause is lunacy, and our nobles would do nothing of the kind, but if there is any contact, I should be informed. Is that clear?”
The men seemed to understand and thankfully didn’t question him on the source of the intelligence. That would be confusing, and Timothur didn’t want to raise undue alarm with stories about a fictitious enemy. His soldiers were well trained—some of the best in Belidor. They would follow his orders.
His ploy was a long shot, particularly because there were hundreds of nobles who could be targeted. Yet Timothur knew the more important ones could be winnowed down to ten or twelve if the brothers truly believed noble children were being kidnapped by Cenarans. Looking at it that way, the odds weren’t that bad.
The Imbecile could soon be in his grasp.
And then, he would have his vengeance.
Chapter 5
The Purveyor