“By the laws of Kirondaal, these are considered, wait...are you a citizen of this city?” The clerk looked up a Fenn again, then sighed. “Of course you’re not...so, these are considered misdemeanours by the laws of Kirondaal the punishment for which will likely be a spell in the stocks followed by two monthes hard labor..which may be avoided by payment of a fine of ten silver marks for a citizen, or twenty for a foreigner. Do you have twenty silver marks on you?”
“Your bullyboys took my bag.”
“So...no.” The pen scratched again, the clerk dipping it into the inkpot. “You’ll be a guest of the city until the Civic Court meets, three weeks hence. Find a space in the back and throw him in...next!”
The guards hauled him away before he could get another word out.
Dungeons by and large looked the same no matter where one went, and the cells below the Fenon Castle met the expected standard. A long corridor, with barred doors lining the sides, filled with various miscreants awaiting their day in court. Sneak thieves and pickpockets huddled next to drunkards picked up for brawling, apprentices clapped in irons for breaking their masters noses, doing their best to avoid the hardened murderers, rapists and worse who ran the cells never mind what the guards did (and they did little, and cared less…) preying on the weak and fearful in this particular jungle.
Two empty cells sat at the far end, filling up with the rioters from the square. “In you go,” said a guard, key ring in one hand and heavy club in the other. He ushered Fenn in, followed by another fellow , then closed the door behind them, quickly locking it.
“I'm watching you bastards,” he said, tapping the bars of the cell with the club. “Don’t make me use this, and we’ll get along just fine.”
“When do we eat?” someone called out from the back of the cell.
The guard only laughed at that, walking away without bothering to answer.
Fenn pushed his way through the cell, seeing a place by the wall. He saw an open spot next to a fellow wearing an old cloak that was patched in several places. The hood was pulled over his head and light snored came fro, underneath.
Fenn sat down, leaning back against the wall. As he did, he caught the bottom of the cloak and pulled it away from the man’s head, jolting him awake. “Here,” said the fellow irritably, “what’s the idea…wait. Fenn Aquila, is that you?”
Fenn looked at the man’s face, his eyes widening. “Kalin?”
Chapter Eight
Coincidence is one of the great unspoken powers of the universe, and far more happens by its will than philosophers or theologians are willing to admit. A smith is paying less attention than he should when forging a nail, which is used to fix the shoe of a horse on which rides a courier carrying message on which the fate of a kingdom depends. Then the nail falls out, the shoe flies free, the horse is lamed and bucks its rider...and history follows a different course than expected.
Or here, in a jail cell in Kirondaal, where two men who never thought to meet again find themselves sharing a bowl of thin gruel.
“Been in this city seven months,” Kalin said, slurping up a mouthful and passing it over to Fenn. “We was on a ship bound for the north side o’ the lake, but a storm blew up, an’ we ended up here. Boat broke a mast, and none had the money for further passage, so here we stay.”
“You and how many?” Fenn asked. He took a mouthful from the bowl, grimaced at the sour taste and handed it back. “Did someone piss in this?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me, these Kirondaal folk are a sour lot.” Kalin took his share and swallowed. “But anything is good after three days in this shite hole. Mercs took me when I was pissing in an ally after a turn in a tavern.”
“That’s a law here?”
“Only law here is what those sellblades say it is. They get a bounty for bringing miscreants in, and don’t much care what charge they give.” Kaling rubbed his stubbly chin. “Alyana is here. Slim Jekky, Howalar...few others you might know by face if not by name. Most are gone...once Garlet died, the rest saw no point in staying on, and lit out for other places. Just me, Alyana, and few of the core best.”
Fenn nodded. “The last of the Red Shadows,” he said. They weren’t around for along, but were a force to be reckoned with, waging unceasing war against the pimps, panderers, and flesh peddlers that catered to Galadorn’s darker desires, freeing young women caught in the life and sending them to place where they would be safe. Garlet Braem was their leader...once a scion of a noble house, gone for years and then returned with more than few scores to settle, against those who ran the city’s sex trade...and those among the great and good who profited from it. Among them his own uncle, leader of an ancient noble house and one of the most evil men Fenn ever laid eyes on.
A noble cause….that ended in a night of fire and blood, where Fenn and Kalin faced off against one of the vilest gangsters ever to befoul the shady side and threw him out of a window. Then Fenn went against Garlet’s uncle...and held Garlet in his arms as he died. A night to remember...which could have ended in a scandal that rocked the city and send Fenn to the gallows, but instead was covered up by Holdenor, the price of which was fenn kneeling before the Prince to swear his allegiance…
His mind flashed back to Garlet’s death. Beware the Shadowy Sun...those were his final words before heading on to his final reward.
Secrets within secrets. He heard Kalen speaking, and pulled himself back to the present. “Hmm? What was that?”
“I said, what brings you here, Fenn? Seems a bit out of your way.”
“I have business in this garden spot of a city. And it was a good time for a man to travel.”
“Trouble back home?”
“Something like that.”
Kalen laughed. “You have a knack for rubbing the wrong people the wrong way.”
“I do what I can,” Fenn replied. He looked over his shoulder and saw some of the mercenaries gathered at one end of the hall, taing with each other. “What’s with the hirelings running wild in the streets?”
“The mercenaries?” Kalen asked.
Fenn nodded. “Is Kirondaal about to go to war?”
“Aye...with herself.” Kalen looked a the mercenaries. “The way things are going...it’s in the cards, as it were. You know how this city is run? The fellows in charge?”
“Arcanists, right?”
“That be so...damned peculiar way to run things, and it don’t work too good. Amazing how some very smart men can be so stupid...there are four schools of them, and they are supposed to be running things together. Talk everything out, take a vote, very simple and straight. But every one of those schools has a powerful hate for the other three, and it’s only gotten worse. Now the citizens are taking sides, brawling in the streets for men who wouldn’t take the time to spit on them…”
“I was caught in one,” Fenn pointed out. Not by choice, mind you.”
“Strange how things turn out, ain’t it? So...the city used to have a militia to protect it. Honest citizens, standing with their fellows to protect their homes and families. And there was a Watch, paid to take down thieves and then like. But then some of the Arcanists began to fear that all these armed men might side with their enemies, take sides in the Schools quarrels. So they had a meeting, where they all agreed to disband the militia and the Watch, and hire mercenaries to take their place. Better sellswords with no local loyalties to locals who might hate one side less than the others, that’s the way their thinkin’ went.It’s the last thing those bastards have agreed upon.”
“They must be blind with hate. What’s to stop the mercenaries from taking sides?”
“That’s the same question everyone else is asking,” Kalen said. “All kinds of rumors about what the masters of this city are offering Mora. That’s the sellswords leader...some fellow from Avexin. Mora.”
“Ludovar Mora?” Fenn asked.
Kalen nodded “Aye that’s him. You know the name?”
“By reputation,” Fenn answered. And it was a mixed o
ne. He’s heard the name mentioned by Lord Aquila and the other officers of his old regiment, a leader of lancorail companies, who’d served taken service with the Oscanaks in their war against the Ruaadian’s. By all accounts a skilled commander in the field….and a dangerously ambitious bastard off it. “These Arcanists have a dog protecting their henhouse, who might turn out to be a hungry fox.”
“I hear the same,” said Kalen. “In the meantime, the streets are filled with sellswords, while the old militiamen and unemployed watchmen gather in the taverns and stews, drowning their anger in strong drink. Beyond the walls it ain’t much better... lot of small towns out there, and hilltop castles. The old nobles what used to run things here are still a power in the Seren hills...and with the Four Schools distracted, they been gathering their own private armies.”
“Wonderful,” Fenn mutered sourly.
“Aye, this town is a powder keg,” said Kalen with a grun “The only reason it ain’t blown up yet is so many be fighting over who gets to hold the match.” Then he shifted his gaze. “Here now...change o’ the guard.”
Fenn looked over, and asaw one batch of mercenaries depart, replaced by another group to take their place. Watching ver with was a fellow who was clearly in a position of some importance. He wore a dark coat marked with gold and silver pins in the collar on the left side above the breast, an Oscanak affectation. Fenn frowned...something about the man looked familiar…
Then the man approached the cells, moving down one by one. “Listen up” he called out in a gravelly voice burdened by many weary years, his Oscanak adding a slight gutterel to his words. “My name is Captain Oleyvac, and I have bad news for you fine fellows! The cells are full, and there will be more of you coming in tomorrow, the way things are going in this turd you call a city! Your magistrates are too busy drinking up their wine cellars and swiving their mistresses to waste the time on trials, since you’d all go to the work gang anyway. The Council has given Lord Mora the right to decide your fates, and he passed on that delightful duty to me! So come the morning you are all sentenced to three months on the labor gang!”
Groans and cries of protest rose up. One of the mercenaries whacked the bars of a nearby cell. “Quiet!” he roared. “Listen to the captain!”
Oleyvac nodded at the man, then continued. “Three months with a shovel in your hands and chains on your feet,” he said. “But no doubt many of you are honest citizens caught up in circumstances beyond your control. Good men and true, with wives and families that would face unjust hardship with your absence…” He waited until the cries for mercy died down before continuing. “Lord Mora has no wish for good men to suffer with miscreants, so he makes this offer. Any man here who can contribute fifteen silver marks to the city treasury - compensation to the hardworking mercenaries who labor day and night to keep you safe,” he didn't bother to hide the sarcasm in his voice, “will be sent on their way with no questions asked. Tonight.”
There was silence in the cells. The one brave souls piped up, “If we couldn't pay the fine when we came in here, how are we supposed to pay you now?”
“So, one of you has a working set of wits,” Oleyvac said a laugh. “You may not have the coin on you, but someone outside these walls might be willing to pay. Give us a name and a place to find it, and I’ll send a man to check. If the money is paid...well then, all is well. But if you send us on a false chase, then it will be six months labor instead of three, so think hard on it!” He slammed his hands together, the sound echoing off the walls. “So...who’s in?”
Men rushed up the bars, pushing their hands through and shouting all at once. Oleyvac waved a clerk forward and turned away, intent on seeking his bed.
Then a voice cut through the noise. “Captain Oleyvac! Does a man of Lord Aquila’s regiment have to pay?”
“Who said that?” He turned around, and saw Fenn by the bars of the cell. Oleyvac frowned and came over. “I know you,” he said. Then a slight smile creased his face. “Fenndar.”
“Lieutenant. Captain now, it looks like.” Fenn raised his fist to his heart in a salute. Eight years since that last bloody day....
“You haven’t changed,” said Oleyvac.
“Neither have you,” Fenn said, a blatant bit of flattery. Oleyvac was young man in his twenties the last he saw, smooth faced and handsome with youth. The man standing before him looked weatherbeaten, his coat bulging over a growing pot-belly. But the eyes remained sharp, taking note of Fenn’s ragged appearance. “Seem’s fate hasn’t been kind to you, Fenndar.”
“An accident, captain. I only arrived in Kirondaal yesterday.”
“Caught caught up in that mess, did you?” Oleyvac laughed. “You always had a knack for finding trouble.” He turned away, waving over a mercenary with a key ring and whispering a few words in his ear. The guard nodded and opened the door to the cell, letting Fenn out.
“He’s with me,” Fenn said, pointing at Kalen. The guard looked at Oleyvac, who glanced at Kalen, eyes narrowing for a second before nodding.
Kalen stood up and came out the cell, ignoring the curses and insults from the other prisoners in the cell.
“Follow me,” said Oleyvac. “These cells stink, and I have a need for fresh air.” They left the cells behind. As they passed by the clerks desk, a mercenary appeared, holding Fenn’s bag.
“It’s all there,” he said, handing it over. Fenn took it without comment. He could feel the long knife through the leather...and would worry about the rest later.
Fresh air wafted across Fenn’s face, and he smiled with pleasure. Even an hour in a cell was enough to make any man yearn for the touch of the sun and the sight of the open sky. They emerged from a door and into a courtyard, where a company of Oscanak pikement were at their drill, moving through various positions at the bellowed command of a sergeant. Nearby a group of men bearing two-handed swords were at work by a set of haced butts. Double pay men...in battle they would be in the front rank, using their great swords to hack away at the points of enemy pikes, opening gaps in their ranks. Hazardous duty, which only the bravest or suicidal undertook willingly. Fenn never begrudged their extra pay and privileges...they deserved every penny.
“All part of the same regiment?” he asked Oleyvac.
“Those fellows are.” The captain jutted his chin at the men. The sergeant paused in his shouting to give the officer a nod and salute. “Lord Mora has four regiments under his command...pike, muskets, horse. Two from Oscana, the others from Avexin.”
Fenn spat to the left, then touched the corner of his right eye, a ward against ill fortune. Oleyvac laughed at the sight.
“No argument from me, they are a pack of godless swine...but they can fight. And Mora has their loyalty. He’s trying to convince the Council to stump up the cash for another three companies, but so far they are balking him.”
Fenn looked at the pikemen again. The bawling commands and responses from the men, the guttural accents and bowl-shaped helmets on their heads brought back all kinds of memories, and before he could check himself, the question slipped out. “Any of Lord Aquila’s men among them.”
Oleyvac grimaced for a e moment. “None,” he said, a bit gruffly. “Not since…well, you know. But what of you, Fenndar?” He gave Fenn the once-over, a frown on his face. “You don’t seem to be prospering, by the looks of it.”
Fenn shrugged. “The skills I learned...you know, before, served me well when I stood under the colors. They served me well afterward, in other ways. But I had a bit of bad luck, and figured on trying my chances here.”
“Thieving, is it?”
“Among other things. Getting in and out of places with no one the wiser is a rare skill. As is seeing trouble coming long before it gets within dagger range.” He paused a moment. “Lord Aquila had me as part of his bodyguard for a while, with the other scouts. Until they decided to go with, well...”
“Don’t befoul your tongue or mine ears with the name of that vermin.” There was no scorn on judgement in Oleyvac’
s voice, nor would there be. Half the men under his command likely had the same in their backgrounds...if not worse. “Well, a man does what he must to survive. But maybe it’s time for you to use those skills in an honest endeavor.”
Oleyvac pointed towards the north, where another fortress loomed, built into a bastion that bulged out from the city walls. “Come by tonight. We’re quartered in the old militia barracks. We’ll share some wine and sad stories. You can meet Lord Mora...he will have a use for a man of your background.”
They reached the gates of the fortress, where Oleyvac bid them farewell before returning to his duties.
Both men walked down a narrow raised causeway towards the city below, barely wide enough for two men to march abreast, or a line of horsemen to move in single file, all the while exposed to archers or gunners on the fortress battlements above.
“You were a soldier?” Kalen asked as they reached the streets.
“Once upon a time.”
Kalen nodded. “I must go,” he said suddenly. “But keep your eyes and ears open. Someone will find you with a message.”
And before he could say more, Kalen disappeared into the crowds.
Chapter Nine
Wine poured into a pair of clay cups. Oleyvac set the bottle down and raised his drink. “Good fortune,” he said.
“The same,” Fen responded. They touched the cups together, then downed the contents in one gulp. Warmth spread through Fenn’s chest as the drink made its way down and he coughed slightly. The vintage was slightly sour on his tongue...and very strong.
“Ruaadian,” Oleyvac said, wiping his mouth with a cloth. “They may be scum under the sun, but they do make a decent bottle of rotten grape juice. Another?”
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