“Maybe later.” Fenn’s head swam slightly as the drink hit. He was not a heavy drinker by nature. Men of his type kepr their wits sharp, or they lost their lives.
Oleyvac poured another cup. “So, Fenndar. You were in Galadorn these last seven years, Doing what?”
“Oh, this and that…”
“You will oblige me, Fenndar, by answering my questions in full. I have little time and less patience for half-truths. And I’m not a magistrate, so any crimes you committed don’t concern me a whit.”
“Well, since you ask...I am a master cracksmen, able to handle any lay…” Fenn paused a moment, remembering who he was speaking too. “That is, I was…”
“You were a burglar who never got caught. Whose flag did you stand under? The Crescent Lords? The Docksiders?”
“Neither, I was an independent...you seem familiar with the shady side of Galadorn, if you don’t mind me pointing it out…”
Oleybac laughed. “One of the companies up in the fortress has twenty men from Galadorn, all former Docksiders. And the sergeant in charge of the night watch at the Icolan Gate has Crescent tattoos on both arms. Plenty fellow who started out as jackfooters go on to the mercenary’s life. So, you were a thief. What else did you do?”
“Anything I had too. Bodyguard work, sneaking and seeing, retrieval and rescue.” Fenn gave a brief, heavily edited version of his life in Galadorn. “Not that different from the regiment,” he said at the end. “Though the money was better. Until I had to leave.”
Oleyvac’s cup was empty, He filled it again, seemingly unaffected by the drink. ...not that different from the old days. Fenn recalled someone saying the man had an iron belly, which no amount of string drink would get through. The captain swirled the contents about. “You have questions,” he said. “About the regiment...after the swine turned on our lord.”
Fenn nodded.
“Not much to say.” Oleyvac tossed back the drink, coughing slightly as it went down. “Half the men were dead or scattered, come the morning. Chemnit took command, and those of us that remained swore our allegiance. Including myself, I'm sorry to say..I was young and afraid, and it burned in my craw afterward. Even worse the miserable son of a whore wouldn’t share the money he got from those merchant swine for breaking the contract.”
“Foolish,” Fenn observed.
Oleyvac nodded. “Two weeks later he marched what was left of the regiment to Ascalof. By that point half the officers and most of the en were bitter about the whole affair...some were ashamed of their cowardice, others hated him for a miser. Chemnit knew he was hated and hired on some bodyguards of his own. He must have sensed the knives coming for his back, because the day we arrived, he disappeared with the regimental pay chest.”
“Suns and Spirits,” Fenn breathed. “That’s…”
“The man is filth.” Oleyvac reddened with fury at the memory. “Oh, we tried to find him, but he had friends waiting in Ascalof, and by the time we learned of his deception, Chemnit was far and gone away. We never found the swine. At that point it was clear the regiment was cursed without Lord Aquila, so we pooled what coin we had left, gave every man his share and went our separate ways. Most of the men returned north, others went west. I went south, into Avexin, ad...well, that’s a long story, but the short end of it is I bent the knee to Lord Mora.”
Fenn waited a moment, then refilled his cup. “If heaven wills that Cmemnit crosses my path, my face will be the last thing he sees before I send him to hell.”
“I’ve said much the same. Who knows, perhaps we might have the opportunity.” He then reached out and took Fenn’s cup in his hand. “None of that now. Best keep your wits about Lord Mora. he's waiting.”
“What...now?”
“No time like the present. There is a need for a man of your skills.” Oleyvac stood, swaying for a moment, then steadying himself on the edge of the table. “Follow me,”he aid, his face somewhat flushed.
They left Oleyvac’s quarters and went down a maze of hallways and corridors. Open doors revealed barracks rooms formerly held by the city militia and now claimed by the mercenaries. Ever space was spoken for, every bed filled, every table in the three separate mess halls filled, and still there wasn’t enough room to house them all, hence the lack of space in the city’s inns and taverns. Avexinners and Oscanaks, by and large keeping to their own kind, but the more experienced among them could be seen conversing with one another. Free companies ranged across the known world, and if a man spent many years in the life (and live long enough to claim the honor of a veteran) he knew many men who came from other lands, men he had fought alongside with, and perhaps fought against, depending on the whims of fate. Enough so that the holding of a grudge over something as trivial as ones place of birth was seen as the mark of a small mind, and an impediment to business.
Of course, not all held such enlightened opinions. Oleyvac went up a set of stairs and then down a long balcony, with arched windows looking down on a courtyard. A whipping post as set up in the center, with a burly fellow with a blackened eye being strapped to it, while a sergeant holding a lash supervised. A set of stocks lined the wall behind them, filled with miscreants whose backs still oozed from their whippings, the signs around their necks proclaiming guilty of brawling.
“Lancorails,” said Oleyvack, pausing a moment to wave at the men in the stocks. “Had one too many and started insulting an Oscanak’s mother.”
“And that fellow?” Fenn asked, pointing to the man at the post. He was on his knees now, and did not cry out as the lash came down on his back.
“Oscanak. He was the one insulted. He threw the first punch, and incited others in his company to join in. Lord Mora flogged them all as a warning.”
“Vert enlightened of him,” Fenn observed. He winced at the snap of the whip, the agonized grunts of the victim finally ending as he cried out in pain.
Lord Mora’s apartments were in the former quarters of the garrison commander, seven sumptuously decorated rooms, with a view that looked across the city as a whole. It was a rare thing for him to be present though, as he also had possession of a fine house within eyeshot of the Council Hall. But on this day he was present in the fortress...supposedly. When Oleyvac went through the ornately carved wooden doors (displaying a fellow holding a burning sword on one hand and a pair of radishes in the other, the symbolism of which no one could quite explain) they were greeted with an empty room.
“We should wait,” said Oleyvac, slumping down in a chair. Fenn nodded and looked around the place, his thief’s mind noting the various objects on display (and calculating what their monetary value might be.) A tall portrait of a burly, broad-shouldered man with long auburn hair stood on one wall, nearly rising from floor to ceiling. He wore a gilded steel breastplate and golden gorget over a striped red and blue gambeson, with a crested morion that sprouting three crimson feathers, held under one arm and his other hand resting on the pommel of sword.
That same breastplate, gambeson and helmet (along with matching grieves) stood on a wooden rack set next to the painting. On the other walls were various portraits, landscapes, and on one pedestal a vase made from some ceramic some thing it was translucent, on which was engraved a scene of a great multi-headed serpent descending from heaven to breath fire on a mob of burly, ape-like demons.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?” An elderly fellow came out. “The master took that as plunder in the War of the Northern Princes, from a Ruaadian nobleman whose estate had the unfortunate luck of being but a days ride from the border. And the portrait…” The man turned to the giant painting. “Done by the renowned Giacca of Siala, the great living artist in Avexin.”
“This is Feddor,” said Oleyvac, barely hiding his distaste. “Lord Mora’s equerry. Where is he?”
“Lord Mora is unfortunately delayed,” said Feddor, whose disdain for the captain was plain to see. “He is currently with the Lady Kiala.”
“Ah.” Oleyvac sighed. “Well then, I’ll suppose we’ll wait
.”
“I’ll have some refreshments brought out.” Feddor bowed and left.
“His mistress,” Oleyvac explained. “Damnable woman. She wormed his way into his affections three months ago, and since then he has hardly left his side. There is some power she possesses over him...and half the men on the council as well! It is a complication.”
Whatever delights the Lady Kiala possessed, they evidently weren’t that time consuming. Fddor reappeared a minute later, waving them through another set of doors, this time into a large parlor with several wide windies that were open to the late summer sun beyond. A man sat at a table by it, greedily draining a cup. It was the same man portrayed in the painting, if only a decade older, his auburn hair now an iron gray, the flowing lucks noticeably thinner at the top. “Oleyvac!” he declared, raising the empty cup by way of greeting, then tossing it over his shoulder.
“My lord.” Oleyvac bowed slightly. “This is the man I told you about.”
“Ah! Your old comrade is it?” Mora gave Fenn a piercing look, taking his measure in a glance. Older he may have been, but he hadn't lost a step. “You served under old lord Aquila, yes?” he asked. “What is your name?”
“Fenn Aq…” Fenn caught himself, remembering where he was and who he was with. “Fenndar, my lord. And I served with Lord Aquila for seven years as a scout. I also acted as a bodyguard for him, and a special agent from time to time, as needed.”
“A man of many talents,” Oleybac added. “I can vouch for his abilities.”
“And we have a need for men with...abilities.” The slight pause and stress on the last word caught Fenn’s attention. “I’ve a need for a man who can get in and out of places unseen. Who can watch my back when it’s exposed to my enemies. And who can perform other tasks as needed...said tasks being unusual in nature. The men I have under my command are good on a battlefield, but I need a man who is good in the back alley with a knife, that is what I am saying...”
Oleyvac opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. Fenn noted this, and noted the way Mora’s eyes flicked even as he droned on.
It’s never easy. He should have sensed it...there would be a test. There always was. He looked at the wine bottle sitting on the table, saw his reflection in is, and behind him another man, holding a knife with the blade down, raising it up to stab him in the back.
Fenn stepped aside, letting the knife pass. He grabbed the man’s arm, pulling him forward and off balance, sending the would-be assassin to the ground, twisting his hand to release knife.
“Pardon me,” he said, picking up the bottle and smashing it, then kneeling down and pressing the sharp broken end against his attackers throat, ready to slash it open…
“Enough! Let him go!” Oleyvac commanded.
Fenn stood, broken bottle in hand. After a moment he put it on the table.
The man stood, looking at Fenn with a mix of anger and grudging approval. He glanced at Lord Mora, who dismissed him with a flick of the hand. The man bent down, picked up his knife and slipped it under his coat, then limped out of the room.
“Burchal has feet like a cat,” Mora said. “He’s killed seventeen men at my command. The last didn’t know the knife was in him until his throat was already cut.”
Fenn shrugged. “I’ve seen worse.” He didn’t ask of the man really would have stabbed him, not sure if he wanted to know the answer.
Mora glanced at the bottle. “I will take you on for a period of no less than three months, starring from today. You will not be attached to any company or squad but work for me alone.”
Fenn nodded. “Is there a notary available for the contract?”
Mora shook his head. “There will be no contract. We shall swear on the name of Saint Segion, patron of mercenaries, but only you, I, and Captain Oleyvac here shall know of your employ. You will perform such duties as I require of you, and for this will receive…” Mora plucked the bottom of his lip for a moment, “A hundred Galadornian aurins, or the equivalent in Kirondaal marks, every month.”
No contract… They wanted his association with them to remain secret. Very interesting… “I accept,” Fenn said. And then he gave the Oath of Saint Segion, the Mercenary’s Oath, its words unspoken for many years coming back to his lips. “By Saint Segion, Patron of the Warrior of the Coin, by his Ice-Forged blade, and by mine own neck, hands and tongue, I swear to follow you as my lord by the terms agreed upon, to go where you lead, to fight at your command. My life shall be forfeit and my dishonor known to all should I violate these terms.”
“By Segions Blade, I accept your service,” Mora responded. He drew a dagger and pressed the tip into the fat of his palm, raising a droplet of blood. Fenn pulled one of his own knives and did the same, and both men shook their bleeding hands, sealing the arrangement.
“A bit ornate,” Oleyvac said, “but necessary under the circumstances. Saint Segion sees all. Lord Mora has his faults, but he honors the saint, and knows the consequences of betrayal. As will you, I am sure.”
They were in the courtyard before the fortresses main gate. The doors were open, though the day was getting late and soon they would close. On the other side was a moat filled with still water on which floated a large number of lily pads. Fenn saw several young boys sitting on the edge with fishing poles.
“Do you have a place to stay?” Oleyvac asked. “I’d offer you a place i the barracks, but as you probably saw we’re filled tight as Ubriami wife’s corset.”
“Still looking, I'm afraid.”
Oleyvac nodded. He reached into his coat and took out a small wooden card, painted white On one side was is name, carefully painted in red ink, on the other his family’s sigil (a stooping red hawk over a pair of axes.) “Go to the Sign of the Black Boar - it’s in the Broom Ward, the one with the white tiles on the roof. Show this to the innkeeper, and he’ll find you a place. Come back here in three days, show this to the gate guard captain. There’s something you’ll be needed for.”
Fenn took the card and slipped it under his coat. “Just like old times,” he said with a forced smile. “Only not really.”
“Old times.” The sour look returned to Oleyvac’s face. “If only. See you in three days, Fenndar try and stay out of trouble.”
He turned and went back into the fortress, Head down and shoulder hunched as if bearing a great burden. Fenn watched him go, then went out gate. He passed through the gate house, a pair of mercenaries watching him from the murder holes set above on either side. As soon as he passed through, a horn sounded from the battlements and the gates closed, the heavy iron-bound doors shutting with a hollow boom. Fenn looked back, heard the sound of the bar being dropped, then up at the battlements, where a squad of lancorail’s looked out on the city with sharp eyes. People in the street were looking back at them, and their faces were not friendly.
Not a good place to be. Fenn crossed the bridge over the moat. As he reached the other side, one of the boys fishing cried out and pulled up his line, a small fish flopping on the end.
There was a broad square on the other side, with a busy market. Stalls crowded next to each other, selling foodstuffs brought in from the countryside. Melons with dark yellow husks, baskets of fruits fresh off the tree, bushels of grain from the early harvest. Stewards from great houses or in the service of the wealthy jostled next to house wives shopping for their families dinner. One merchant stood before a stack of clay amphorae, the tops sealed with wax, typical of wine brought in from the Ruaadian lands, though the man himself shouted out his wares in a Galadornian accent that left a pang of homesickness in Fenn’s chest.
“Apples...aaappplles! Handsome sir, can I interest you in an apple.”
“I didn’t think you thought me handsome.” Fenn turned around, facing the tall, rawboned woman pushing a handcart filled with the aforementioned fruit. Her hair was greyer than before, and the dark eyes sharp and suspicious as ever. “Still a peddler?”
“Times are hard, Fenn. A woman does what she can.” She pic
ked up an apple. “Buy this. People might be watching.”
Fenn fished a copper out of his pocket and handed it over. “Kalen said someone would find me. Should have guessed it would be you.”
“He figured a face you knew would mean less questions. Have you a place to stay?”
“For the moment.”
Alyana slipped the coin in her pocket. “Listen closely. Down on the docks, near the northern end, there’s a statue of a saint holding a fish in either hand. Across from this is a warehouse with a blue-painted door. Follow the alleyway to the left of this and you will come to a small yard. Come by tomorrow morning before the noontide bell. We’ll be waiting.”
She picked up the handles of the cart and pushed on. “Welcome to Kirondall, Fenn Aquila. Apples! Aaaaappples! Three for a copper!”
“Wait, three?” Fenn looked at the wizened, browning fruit in his hand, and signed. “Three for a copper. Next time, pay attention, Fenn!”
The Black Boar was as full as the other inns in the city, but the sight of Oleyvac’s card opened up perhaps the last remaining room in the city, offering Fenn a bed to sleep in.
He was up early the next morning, headed back down to the docks. Finding the statue in question was easily enough - it turned out to be a memorial raised to the crew of a fishing boat lost in a storm some years back, a small statue that came chest high, half-buried under generations of bird droppings. The warehouse on the side had a door that was once a dark blue, faded by years of sun and rain to a paler, sky-like shade.
He followed the alleyway on the left, as instructed, stepped over several muddy puddles, wrinkling his nose at the musty smell. The alley curved to the left slightly, blocking the line of sight. He looked up and saw faces peering down at him, watching him opass by. Sentries.
The alleway ended suddenly, and he stood in a small yard perhaps twenty feed across, fronted with a shambling tumbledown building whose rooftimes had long ago lost their color and turned to a pale brown. A wicker fence on one side fenced in a long goat with swollen udders, while several chickens picked their way across the yard. Several men sat in the shadows, watching Fenn walk in without a word.
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