by A Van Wyck
“Alright, alright!” he placated, surrendering with upraised palms. “I get it! Schism: bad!” he declared severely. “It was just an idle thought, forget I said anything.”
She took a calming breath, her nostrils flaring white.
“We are trying,” she continued in clipped tones, “to avoid that eventuality. But this must remain a quiet war. Already it has become an exceedingly complicated game of ‘who’s who’. Is it any wonder the purists’ frustrations found an eager outlet in you and Neever?”
His thoughts sped.
“That’s why they needed me, isn’t it? Fresh off the boat. No affiliation to one side or the other. Loyal only to coin.”
A corner of her mouth skewed but whether in contempt or commiseration, he couldn’t tell.
“I imagine so,” she allowed.
I’ve gotten myself tangled in a secret holy war.
His feet twitched. Disappearing seemed a particularly appealing idea at the moment.
“And you?” he queried. “What’s your role in all this?”
“I,” she informed him archly, “am doing an old friend a favor.”
Hmph. Who’s who, indeed.
He sat back.
“What’s funny?” she queried. Displaying again her uncanny knack for feeling his mood through the veil.
“Very little these days.”
“You have a chance to do some real good here,” she tried, half consoling, half cajoling.
“I’m sure that will be a great comfort to me,” he told her.
When I’m lying dead in a ditch somewhere.
* * *
Early evening found them pulling into the next inn – though the word hardly did the miniature mansion justice. He’d noticed when the road’s surface had changed from hard packed dirt to cobbled street early that morning and he’d risked the lady’s ire to peek out the window. He’d been aware, in a general way, of the increasing number of towns and villages they’d been passing each day. Now, finally, there were no more endless stretches of fields or woods to be seen. What lay beyond the thick curtain now, as far as the eye could see, was… town. It was all one, enormous town. As they traveled closer to the capital, the buildings began growing upwards as well. Single stories were replaced by two, three and sometimes four tiered buildings. Like an anthill, the urban landscape gradually peaked towards the center. There, on the north-western horizon, rose the fabled ivory spire of Tellar. White specks (seagulls, he realized) could be seen passing in front of it, no more than halfway up.
The carriage trundled, much slower now, through thronging streets, occasionally bogged down by traffic. He’d always thought Oaragh a city. He supposed it still was but this…
Big, had been about all he’d been able to manage, to the lady’s obvious satisfaction. The seething throng of humanity made a thousand noises. All of it coalesced into an unceasing susurration he was intimately familiar with. It didn’t matter that he only understood one in four words that made it through the thick curtains, the sound was right. From the sporadic peals of laughter down to the steady scuffing of sandaled feet – it was right. It sounded like home.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” the lady had misinterpreted his rapt wonderment. He’d only nodded. If he had to disappear, they couldn’t have brought him to a better place. No one would ever find him. The things he could do in a city this size…
Things are finally taking a turn for the better.
“Lady,” Neever said politely, offering a hand to help her ladyship down from the carriage. Instead of a stable yard, the inn had its own forecourt, complete with fountain. Liveried stable hands stood ready to take charge of the horses.
Neever offered him a hand as he exited the carriage. “Lady,” the man bowed.
“Bastard,” he muttered under his breath. The monk’s lip twitched upward.
“Now now,” the lady cautioned sternly, “none of that. The walls have ears,” she added mysteriously.
He accepted the criticism without complaint. He’d worked too hard at all these tedious rules of behavior and decorum to just throw everything away for a poke at Neever. He resolved to keep his mouth shut.
The monk in driver’s costume exchanged some brief words with the waiting servants, gathering up some of the smaller items of luggage before leading them toward the inn.
The word ‘common room’ did not quite apply. An obscene amount of coin had been spent, cultivating an atmosphere that said your money was in good company here. The warm, wooden floor was polished to a fine sheen and bore no rushes. The tables – irrationally – were covered in pristine white cloths and festooned with fine glassware. The silvered mirror behind the bar ran its entire length. The walls were decked in rich draperies, carefully matched to the plush chairs. No less than two marble-fronted fireplaces added their light to that of a glittering chandelier, sporting more than a dozen lanterns. He tried not to gape at the fortune in high quality glass and crystal.
“Welcome, ladies,” purred the tablemaster, who materialized before them as if by magic. “Welcome to the Golden Seat. I am Goreg Goregson. How may I be of service this fine evening?”
Goregson? The man was unbelievably pale, so much so that veins close to the underside of the skin lent the man a decidedly blue tint.
He was about ready to give up on listing the varied races that comprised this crazed quilt of an empire. He unfolded the fan the lady had provided him, just for something to do with his hands. The wrist movement was tricky and he needed the practice.
“Master Goregson,” the lady began, “I am Lady Hemlin Lassleider of House Lassleider, and this,” she waved an absent hand at him, “is my niece, Valda Lividica. Have you a room for us for the night?”
The tablemaster bowed low. “Most assuredly, lady!” The man was obviously used to speaking to nobility, his tone at once impersonal and accommodating. “It will be a pleasure to serve.”
“Good,” she nodded, casting an appraising eye over the deserted common room. The tablemaster was sharp to notice her gaze.
“May I offer the ladies some refreshment? We boast a collection of fine wines to rival the Imperial cellars and our apricot-roasted lamb is famed throughout the city.”
He felt his mouth water. It had been a long time since the midday meal of bread and cheese.
“That sounds very agreeable, Master Goregson,” the lady approved. “We place ourselves in your competent care. Will you prepare a private dining room?”
“You honor me, lady,” the man bowed yet again. If the tablemaster wondered what was wrong with his perfectly empty common room, it didn’t show on his blue veined face. “If you will follow me,” the man continued, leading them up a carpeted stairway.
Someone must have been listening because a pair of silent servants ghosted quietly after them. Between them, they bore a tray of folded towels, a silver basin and a pitcher wafting lavender scented steam. He caught himself thinking how nice it would be to wash the dust of the road from his hands and face and stopped it. He couldn’t do either whilst under scrutiny anyway.
The dining room was even more expensively decorated than the common room, if that were possible. He wondered idly if he’d miss all this fanciness the next time he was having bread and beer at a corner alehouse.
He waited by his chair for the servants to seat him, getting his knees under the table without incident.
That was quick… he thought as a train of waitstaff were ushered in by the tablemaster to quickly set the table.
“Would the lady care for some wine with dinner? There is an exquisite bottle of Ordland Red laid up in the cellar,” the tablemaster tempted.
“Thank you, Master Goregson, but no. Would you be so kind as to bring a pot of Mjalakat tea instead?”
“Alas,” the man’s face fell as if at a personal affront, “our supply of Mjalakat has dried up, along with most other trade from the world beyond the wastes. May I offer some Freesian Black instead?”
“That will be fine,” the lady nodded a
greeably, “thank you.”
The man bowed again, backing out to give them their privacy.
“‘World beyond the wastes’?” he queried when the man’s footsteps had receded.
“To the north of the desert cities,” she explained absently, polishing a silver knife on her napkin.
“You mean Traljador?”
Her eyes sharpened on him with interest. “Is that what your people call it?”
“No, we call it hakanak riell.”
Her brows dimpled in concentration. “‘The brutal field’?” she tried.
“Close,” he conceded, not halfway surprised she had some familiarity with Purli, “but ‘Barbarian Plains’ would probably be more accurate.”
“I see,” she mused speculatively. “So why call it Traljador?” She stumbled only slightly over the unfamiliar word.
“Hmm,” he stalled, thinking, “I’ve only heard stories. I can’t promise how true any are…” he let that hang there, waiting for her nod to continue.
“Although we in the desert cities are closer to the barbarians than most – I suppose you might call us neighbors – we know little more about them than you. They are secretive and distrustful of outsiders. They are also nomadic, much more so than the caravanserai. The few merchants who dare the treacherous journey through the wastes can never be certain of who they’ll find waiting to trade. Each tribe seems to have several different names for their homeland and rarely give the same name twice.”
“That sounds needlessly complex,” the lady commented.
He shrugged. “Changing its name doesn’t change where it is on the map – it’s not like you can play hide and go seek with a country.” Hearing footsteps in the passage outside he shut his mouth.
The tea arrived. The serving girl poured for both of them. He waited until she was out of the room before maneuvering the thin porcelain cup under his veil. It had a strong flowery smell and a musky aftertaste.
“Do you like it?” the lady queried.
“It’s tea,” he shrugged, unwilling to admit how taken he was with it. Of course, she smiled in a pleased fashion anyway, somehow hearing the unspoken compliment. Dinner arrived in a fleet of covered silver dishes, the servants executing a complicated choreography to place the dishes before them and whip off the lids with perfect synchronicity. The flamboyance was laughable. What had looked like enough food to feed an army was revealed as a cunning ploy, involving multiple garlands, garnishes and other inedilbes. He wasn’t a rabbit, after all. For all the chicanery, the aroma was mouthwatering. He remembered himself (and the cursed veil) in time to control the urge to sniff appreciatively at the steaming platters.
“Enjoy,” the head server bowed himself out of the room.
Eagerly divesting himself of the veil, he seized his knife and fork. Only to be brought up short by a discreet throat clearing from across the table. He looked up into the dreaded raised eyebrow. Sighing, he wrestled his enthusiasm, sitting straight to delicately cut a morsel from the tender meat… cheating a little. A louder throat clearing caught him before he could put it in his mouth. Silverware jumped as his fists thumped on the table in defeated frustration.
She met his agonized glare with frosty expectance. Muttering, he cut the chunk into a more acceptable, sliver of food. Angrily brandishing the fork for her grunt of approval, he popped the morsel into his mouth. You could starve to death before you finished a meal, eating in such miniscule increments. At least it was tasty. He finished his plate and helped himself to a thick slice of bread, ignoring the range of sickly sweet condiments in favor of a healthy dollop of butter.
So involved was he in the food, the knock came as a surprise. His half-eaten bread clunked lightly onto his plate as he scrambled for the veil, meeting the lady’s urgent eyes across the length of the table.
“Who is it?” she called sternly when he signaled the veil was in place.
“Neever, lady,” came the faint reply from beyond the door.
“Come in, Neever,” she invited, only marginally more at ease. The monk-cum-carriage driver bowed himself into the room. Alone. The obsequious manner employed in public sloughed off as the door clicked closed.
“We may have a problem,” were the monk’s first words.
“What has happened,” the lady questioned sharply, crumpling a napkin between her fingers and tossing it down.
“It is possible we were followed,” the monk informed them. “I spied a horse in the stables, a destrier with a regimental brand, and asked around. The owner checked in less than a quarter bell after we did and, from the description, I believe him to be one of the Green Dragoons from Morose.”
The lady’s shoulders stiffened. “Not Lord Wramlinn, surely?”
His skin crawled. The man may have followed them. And he could think of at least two reasons why – one more worrisome than the last. Unbidden, his thoughts turned towards where he’d hide the body.
“I do not believe so,” Neever continued. “He did not announce himself as such and I’m positive the tablemaster would have sniffed him out if he were here.”
“Still,” the lady mused, a finger tapping idly at her chin. “For a Green to arrive here so close on our heels… One of the lord’s men, do you think, Neever?”
“I would imagine so, lady, though I questioned some of the grooms and, apparently, the man wasn’t wearing any kind of uniform or insignia.”
Why were they still discussing this?
“We should get rid of him,” he declared, “just in case. I could do it,” he added, seeing the worried frown suddenly marring Neever’s face. He still didn’t know the monk’s creed on killing. The lady cast him a disapproving look.
“No,” she reprimanded. “If Wramlinn had so much as an inkling of our true purpose, he would have found some pretext to take us in Morose.”
“It’s because he has an inkling that we’re being followed,” he hedged, “and he doesn’t have to arrest us, just kill us.”
“The man is ruthless enough,” the lady mused, shaking her head. “But someone of my stature – there would be a full scale investigation.”
“Which Lord Wramlinn would probably lead himself, lady,” Neever chimed in.
“And,” he added his voice to the priest’s argument, “he wouldn’t arrest you, would he? That’s too official. Your holy war is supposed to stay a secret.”
Neever cast him a startled glance at that.
“Good points all,” the lady waived them to silence. “But since we are neither dead nor imprisoned, we must assume the lord does not know anything.” She stared off into space, deep in thought. “He is a creature of intrigue. I would wager we simply aroused his natural curiosity,” she mused.
“Either that,” Neever offered, “or ‘Lady Valda’ aroused his natural–” the monk had to duck as a half-eaten slice whirred wildly past.
“Hmmm,” the lady agreed distractedly.
“So,” he challenged, reaching for another loaf and eyeing Neever speculatively, “what are we suppose to do about this dragoon? Are we just going to let him trail us all the way to the capital?”
“Perhaps,” the lady surprised him. “If he is simply here to assuage his master’s curiosity, we can afford to leave him be. For the moment. There will be plenty of opportunity to lose him in the city proper. We can worry about it then.”
“And for now?” Neever’s frown had cleared.
“We will be extra careful,” the lady announced. “We have eyes on us now.
“Are you done?” This last was directed at him. He nodded. “Then, for now, we retire to our rooms. Neever, keep an eye out. If this dragoon goes down to the common room, let me know and we’ll go have a look at him.”
Neever bowed himself out.
“In the meantime,” the lady said to him, getting up, “how about a game of side step?”
They retired to their rooms where the lady proved his newly conceived strategies to be entirely inadequate.
“Do not despair,” she sooth
ed. “People play this game half their lives and never become as adroit as you have in just these past few days.”
“I assume ‘adroit’ means ‘good’?” he queried as he moved a seneschal across half the board to flank one of his hounds.
She chortled. “Indeed. You speak the language so well, I sometimes forget you were not raised to it.”
“Those I got it from weren’t too ‘adroit’.” He cursed inwardly as she cornered his pairing with a well placed hero. “How’s my accent?” he asked idly as he thought over his next move.
“Slightly… dockside,” she admitted, smiling to take the sting from the words.
He guffawed. “That makes sense. I learned Heli from dockers.”
A knock sounded at the door, accompanied by Neever’s voice. “Lady?”
“Come in, Neever.”
The monk poked his head in the door. “He’s there, lady.”
The lady motioned and he reached for his veil. “Where is he seated?” she shot at Neever.
“At the bar. A stocky fellow with a blue jaw and a cowlick.”
“Alright,” she said, rising. She gave him a once-over, nodding her approval. “Stay within earshot,” she said to Neever and the three of them marched down the stairs. The monk peeled away as they came opposite the kitchens.
Side by side, the pair of them entered the common room. Business had picked up slightly since their arrival. Diners occupied two tables and a group of well dressed gentlemen sat conversing quietly in the stuffed armchairs by the fireplace. From his periphery he noted the man at the bar. Muck colored eyes beneath glistening hair tracked them in the mirror behind the bar.
“A table, ladies?”