A Clatter of Chains

by A Van Wyck

  The keeper’s carriage was an ingenious design, only slightly cramped, given that it contained an alchemy table, a small library, comfortable reading chair, numerous cabinets and a fold-away bed. When the square conveyance trundled by, he thumped his fist on the side.

  “Yes?” the keeper’s voice drifted through one of the open shutters.

  “We’re nearing Twohaven, Keeper,” he supplied.

  “Ah, good. Thank you!”

  He heard the priest’s padded chair squeak. Drawers rattled and books thumped as his mentor prepared to disembark. It would be an early stop today. Twohaven was the last town this side of the range and there were none for several leagues beyond the far side. They would need an early morning start and some good fortune to traverse it in its entirety, unless they planned on spending a night in the frigid mountain pass.

  Their caravan rattled into town. Imperial messengers had preceded their arrival by weeks and every town they’d stopped at had been expecting them. Twohaven was too small to have a governor of their own, waiting by the town gates to greet them. A mercy, perhaps, since he had no wish to see another community leader reduced to near tears by the ambassador’s insensitive critique. It was a border town though and the walls were high and the gates looked sturdy. The man who waited to welcome them wore a chain of office and must have been the mayor, although the person that did the actual talking looked like the commander of the local garrison. At least, the man wore Imperial colors and seemed to be an officer.

  He was too far away to hear what words were exchanged between them and Captain Iolus but the caravan continued into town without a fuss.

  People had gathered to witness their arrival, possibly the grandest spectacle the little town had seen in years and curious eyes watched from open doorways and street corners. Excited whispers reached his ears. He shook his head. Despite this happening almost every time, it still unnerved him. It wasn’t like they were a traveling theater troupe or menagerie or something. Nonetheless, children gawked. Especially at the heavily armored Imperial Guard, who certainly did make an imposing picture. Chattering excitedly, voices overloud in the way of children, they trailed the caravan as it wound its way toward the town inn.

  He cast around, taking in the houses. All were two and a half stories tall, the upper levels pinched by the severely peaked roofs. The narrow homes were built close together and the whitewashed plaster contrasted starkly with the tar darkened beams that were as much a part of the décor as of the sound design. Tinted windows – instead of the murky honey-comb panes of old – were the only change Imperial rule had made to the authentic Betopian architecture. Good for letting in the light but keeping the depressing scenery out. Winter lasted a long time this far east, so close to the mountains.

  They arrived at their in. Even with the building next to it having been cleared in anticipation of their arrival, most of the wagons and carriages would have to be left in the town square, where they could be accommodated. The dignitaries and their staff, of course, would be housed in the inn.

  Leaning forward in his saddle, he carefully worked his feet free of the stirrups before gingerly lifting a leg over the mare’s back. He slid inelegantly to the ground, holding tightly to the saddle, just in case. Ignoring the muffled laughter, he led his horse into the stables. Gratefully handing the mare off to the suddenly overworked grooms, he hurried back to the keeper’s carriage, anticipation already bubbling in him. Viali, who’d driven the keeper’s carriage today, was luckily deep in conversation with one of the other drovers and he used the opportunity to slip by unnoticed. The man always had a hilarious comment concerning Marco’s equestrian skills.

  He rounded the back of the carriage just as the tall hatch opened. He smiled up at the keeper.

  “Perfect timing,” the priest said as if he had not felt Marco coming, and handed down his bags.

  His smiled broadened. The keeper’s extra sense and streaming was to remain a secret. The distinction would probably be lost on the Renali but their distrust of magic necessitated the deception. The keeper had been practicing obscuring his talents with commonplace words and plausible coincidence. It had become a fun game.

  “Stop that,” the priest said with mock severity, correctly identifying his secret delight in their shared deception.

  Straps pulling at his shoulders, he flipped down the carriage’s wooden stairs, extending a hand to help the keeper down them.

  “Ungh,” the priest grunted, arching his back to the accompaniment of popping vertebrae. “Hmm. Did you notice the Betopian style?”

  He nodded.

  “Quite spectacular,” the priest mused. He led the way to the inn. It was quite dark inside, despite the many large, narrow windows. A flustered innkeeper showed them up to their room.

  “Excellent,” the priest commented at seeing the oversized fireplace and its stacked bin of ready wood.

  “Thank you,” the keeper added when the innkeeper had stammered his way through imparting the lunch and dinner arrangement as well as the menu.

  The innkeeper withdrew gratefully, happy to be out of sight of such an important personage. He stared after the man, shaking his head sadly. The ambassador was going to crucify him.

  “Will you be needing anything else, Keeper?” he asked dutifully, aware of his role as the keeper’s assistant and scribe. But his feelings betrayed him, as was obvious from the priest’s indulgent expression.

  “No,” Justin smiled, cutting his eyes in the direction of Marco’s own bag. “You may go.”

  Not wasting any time, he grabbed his things and darted for the door.

  “Have fun,” the keeper’s voice drifted after him.

  He made his way out of the inn. The stable yard was still too busy and probably would be for some time. And the town square would be filled with wagons and was too public in any event. He made his way behind the inn. As he’d hoped, it had a small garden, inexpertly tended and spotted with weeds. Perfect.

  He shrugged out of his bag’s strap. His over robe joined it on the ground. Reaching down, he extracted a long, wrapped package. He paused, remembering.

  Lokus had met him at the Temple gates the morning of his departure to say goodbye. He’d protested, partly because they’d already said their sad goodbyes and partly because Lokus would certainly get in trouble for skipping training.

  Lokus had shrugged off his concern with customary nonchalance.

  “The master knows I’m here,” the willowy boy had said.

  “Master Crysopher?”

  “Of course,” Lokus had assured him. “It’s more than my skin is worth to take one of these without permission…”

  He smiled at the memory, gently unwrapping the seirin. He weighed it in his hands.

  This was the only reason he hadn’t driven himself to distraction yet. If not for Lokus and his thoughtful gift, his devolving skills would have kept him worriedly awake at night, sweating at the thought of Djenja and Jeral widening the already intimidating gap between them. Gripping the wooden sword properly, he rolled his shoulders, walking into the center of the unkempt garden. He concentrated on his breathing as he flowed into a slow cadence to warm up, reveling in the feel of his muscles, stiff from the previous day’s exercise, as they stirred to life. He slipped gently into the trance before he felt the first prick of sweat, moving on to a basic cadence.

  As time wore on, he became aware of eyes on him. This was the second reason he hadn’t driven himself to distraction with his worry about neglected training yet. Cadences were fine but to really improve–

  He turned and his swinging sword clacked woodenly against another seirin.

  He paused.

  It was Finch this time. The masha’na was the closest to him in size and, despite being at least two decades older, the spry bowman with the blue chin was quite a bit faster.

  Having gotten his attention, the masha’na stepped into an attack, lightly probing his defense for weaknesses. Wooden swords clacked. He held his ground, weathering
the assault. But then the masha’na finished warming up and suddenly he was in trouble. He was forced back a reluctant step. Then another. He felt the mossy gravel of the garden path under his heel. It crunched as he back stepped again, fielding blows close to his body.

  Goddess’s grace but the man was fast!

  Feinting left, he darted right in a last ditch attempt to get around the masha’na’s lightning offense. But, of course, the Temple warrior had been holding back. He skidded to a stop, spraying green flecked gravel. It was either that or run nose first into the seirin that materialized in his path.

  He stared at it, breathing heavily, his arms held out in surrender.

  “He’s getting better every day,” someone called.

  He looked over. Some of the other masha’na had brought a table and chairs out onto the back porch of the inn. They held tankards and a steaming pitcher sat between them. Smoke curled from Bear’s spindly pipe, looking strange in the huge man’s hands. Most of the holy warriors were turned their way, watching them spar.

  He felt Finch’s hand pat his shoulder and then the man was walking past him to join the others.

  “He’s almost halfway decent,” the stooped woodsman informed them. Marco blushed at the compliment. “Give him another season and he’ll be some trouble.” The man pulled up a chair, drawing a tankard towards him, tasting it.

  “Plegh,” Finch spat, tongue darting. “All that has put me in the mood for something cool.”

  “Good luck getting any service out of the innkeeper,” Jossram added in a grumble. “Ambassador was still shouting when I went past.” Bear grunted in agreement, loosing a puff of smoke.

  Finch pulled a disgusted face, glaring at the steaming tankard. Shrugging, little masha’na took another swig, throwing an arm over his chair back.

  “Besides,” Longjaw objected, only his eyes visible above the fur collar of his cloak, “it’s freezing out here.”

  “Grasslander,” Parish scoffed, sipping unconcernedly at his drink, bare arms resting on the tabletop. Longjaw growled at him.

  Smiling, he retrieved his bag, shrugging into his over robe. They weren’t at all what he’d expected of the Temple’s holy warriors. They drank, they smoked, they cursed, they joked. They joked with him. He didn’t know why some of their number had chosen to adopt him but he was grateful. His eyes shifted to the scuffed and chipped seirin Finch had leaned against the table. And he was very grateful one of them had brought that.

  “Should have known I’d find you all drinking somewhere.”

  Christian rounded the corner. The leader of the masha’na contingent was a surprisingly young man. Officer commissions could be bought in the Imperial army but not so in the masha’na. The leonine captain’s rank had been earned. You could tell.

  Ryhorn moved over so the captain could pull up a chair. The man was admittedly sneering as he did so but then, Ryhorn was always sneering. The mace-blow that had misaligned his jaw, years ago, had seen to that. His scars, jagged and red even now, cut a swathe through his curled moustache.

  “What is the verdict?” Leffley queried, pouring the blond captain a tankard. “Are we up at first light?”

  “If we are,” the captain threatened, “it’ll be because I’m running all this alcohol out of you.” The man sat, drawing the tankard toward him. “No. The Guard captain and the master drover have prevailed. We stay tomorrow and leave the day after, before first light.”

  “Good,” Parish blusted gratefully. “Because my ass is becoming saddle shaped.”

  “Northerner,” Longjaw scorned, voice muffled by the thick cloak.

  “Barbarian,” Parish returned.

  Longjaw’s eyes narrowed dangerously above his collar. “Snow mole,” he returned.

  The two glared at each other.

  Bear grunted, puffing smoke. Or mayhap it was a growl. Parish turned a serene expression on his tankard and Longjaw’s eyes cleared, staring innocently off at nothing.

  He sat down on the floor to polish his seirin. It didn’t really need it – Finch’s advantage was his speed, not his strength – but he enjoyed the company and they never seemed to mind him hanging around. He listened to tales of people and places he’d never seen as he worked the wax into the weighted wood with a soft cloth. It came to him suddenly that, despite everything, he was quite happy.

  * * *

  The two watchmen on guard outside the Tellar Watch House cast each other incredulous glances as Torvan Mattanuy himself stepped down from his lacquered carriage and into the dust of the street. Wrestling to regain their bland expressions, they looked pointedly away as Mattanuy marched up the center of the Watch House steps with the air of a headsman ascending the gibbet. A leather folder rode in the crook of his arm like a bright and smiling axe.

  “Can I help–” the duty officer behind the reception desk began before being violently taken aback by the black trimmed robes.

  Mattanuy allowed the stunned silence a full moment to resonate in the guardsman’s ears.

  “Commander Grayston,” Mattanuy instructed, making clear in two words that he would brook neither excuses nor delays and that he would, in fact, condescend to being taken to the commander right this very instant instead of having the commander summoned to attend upon his convenience.

  The duty officer’s mouth worked silently, like a landed fish. “The commander–” the man tried valiantly before a gently raised eyebrow from Mattanuy sent the sentence reeling in an entirely different direction, “–is in his office upstairs.”

  “Take me there.”

  The duty officer was probably not supposed to leave his desk unattended but was already out from behind it and motioning for Mattanuy to follow before this realization seemed to take hold. Allowing no opportunity for escape, Mattanuy herded the man up the stairs and the officer had no choice but to guide him up the ironwork steps and along the faded hallways.

  By the end of their journey the duty officer seemed to have recovered himself somewhat and affected a stern expression that wilted somewhat under Mattanuy’s scrutiny.

  “Wait here please, Inquisitor,” the man managed in a tight voice before turning to knock rapidly on a plain door before entering and closing it behind him.

  Mattanuy counted slowly to ten. Then reached out and flung the door wide and strode into the office to see the duty officer wringing his hands before the desk of the seated commander, who transferred his frown from his officer to Mattanuy at the interruption.

  The two of them matched gazes for a breathless moment, the duty officer looking from the one to the other as if trying to decide between death by rabid wolves or death by live burial.

  “That will be all,” the commander said.

  The duty officer unsuccessfully combined a hurried salute with an awkward bow and skittered out of the office, made it three paces outside in his hurry before careening back around to pull the door to with exaggerated care.

  Together the two of them listened to the officer’s fleeing footsteps.

  The watch commander, regarding him with sleepless eyes, pointedly sat back from a desk overflowing with paperwork, signaling that Mattanuy had his full attention. The man did not get up or bow.

  “This is unexpected, Inquisitor. I have not seen you in years.”

  As though this neutral greeting were a most enthusiastic invitation, Mattanuy sauntered over to one of the chairs before the commander’s desk and sank into it with a smile.

  “Indeed,” he answered convivially. “Not since that bad business with the Butcher Murders.”

  If the commander was discomfited by mention of those brutal slayings, it did not show.

  “May I then assume,” the commander tilted his head, “that your unexpected visit today pertains to that investigation as well?”

  “You may very well assume,” the inquisitor smiled brightly. “I am ready to put that sad story to bed,” he lied, “and I would like to double check some of my facts with you.”

  The commander considered him
in silence for a moment. If the man found the dredging up of that old case after more than two years odd, he said nothing of it. “I’m afraid I don’t have any of those files immediately to hand.”

  “Not to worry,” Mattanuy smiled, fishing his spectacles from his sleeve and cracking his leather folder open with a flourish, “I brought mine.” He pretended to consult the file. “Now, the initial consulting priest on the case was–” his finger needlessly searched through the neat lines of writing, “–Keeper Justin Wisenpraal?”

  Grayston nodded. “That’s right.”

  “You have known the keeper long?”

  “Since before he was keeper. He has always been generous with his time where the watch is concerned.”

  “My report states that the keeper inspected the scene himself.”

  “Correct.”

  “And the culprit,” he consulted the file, “Perner Meum, as well?”

  “Yes. The keeper did a reading and concluded that the man was ‘empty’. I’m no mender but I visited the asylum where Meum was taken, months after the incident, and I have to say I agree. The man had not spoken a word or taken any unprompted action since being admitted. To my knowledge, that has not changed.”

  No, Mattanuy thought, it has not.

  At least, it had not changed when he’d visited there yesterday to watch a bored nun trying to spoon some broth into the skeleton Meum had become. The vacant eyes above the dribbling chin had confirmed the original diagnoses.

  “A difficult thing for anyone to see,” Mattanuy nodded. “Especially a child.”

  He noted how the commander pointedly did not react to this mention.

  “Child?”

  “Mmm?” he looked up as if having become engrossed in the file before him. “Oh, yes. The keeper’s assistant. He had a novice with him that day to fetch and carry for him. You do not recall the boy?”