“He surrendered without a fight. Good thing, too. From what I heard, he took Sam Galloway apart in that duel, and Sam was a tough one. He was a rail warden and probably the most stonyhearted, gravel-headed one in the company. Steelwater Rail has a problem in need of fixing, striking workers need their heads busted, wild beasts menacing the trains, that sort of thing, they send Galloway. Never has this mountain seen someone less troubled by mercy than that particular human, I tell you what. He was probably the finest swordsman in the city until this fellow sliced him up in under a minute.”
They entered an open space, and Cleasby breathed a little easier. The gas lamps were far enough above him now that it didn’t feel quite so stifling. It created the illusion that he was inside a normal room and not under a mountain. It wasn’t a very big jail, but Ironhead Station only housed fifteen thousand permanent human residents with probably twice that number of dwarves in their enclave. And from what he understood, the Rhulfolk tended to take care of their own problems without involving the Cygnaran authorities.
“Your killer is right over here.” The jailer gestured for him to follow.
The cells were more like cages—each one was a box made out of welded iron bars, and the boxes were organized into neat rows. The prisoners they passed watched them sullenly; none bothered to speak up. The jailer’s club was obviously well used, suggesting he didn’t tolerate any nonsense. There were different sized cages for different sized prisoners, with the smaller gobber cages being stacked two high for efficiency. The ogrun and trollkin cages were larger and had much thicker steel bars. In all, it struck Cleasby as a very efficient use of space.
As they came around the corner, Cleasby spotted a human in the last ogrun-sized cage. It was hard to tell if it was him—his face was obscured because he was hanging from the ceiling bars doing pull-ups.
“Why do you bother me, dwarf?” The familiar Ordic accent confirmed Cleasby’s suspicions. Savio Montero Acosta continued his exercises, not bothering to look at them. The back of his jail-issued uniform was drenched with sweat. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“You’ve got a visitor,” the jailer declared as they approached.
“Yes. He is so loud in his armor that I thought they’d sent a warjack.”
“Is it who you expected?” the jailer asked softly. Cleasby nodded. “He as dangerous as I guessed?”
“Worse.”
The jailer seemed satisfied at that. “Called it.”
Cleasby took his helmet off and held it under one arm. “Hello, Acosta.”
Acosta recognized the voice and froze at the top of the cell, hanging there. “Wait… Cleasby? Ha! Excellent!” He let go of the bars and dropped to the stone floor. Despite being a powerfully built individual, he landed without a sound. Cleasby had witnessed this man slash his way through an army with a grace that was frankly terrifying, so this wasn’t surprising. The man from Five Fingers was swarthy, dark in complexion and mood, and wore a goatee trimmed in the Ordic style. Acosta approached the bars, wiping the sweat from his shaved head with one black-and-white striped sleeve. “I should have known you were the reason I am back in Cygnar!”
Cleasby had no idea what that meant, but the Ordsman had always possessed a unique way of viewing the world. “I’d say it’s good to see you again, Acosta, but I understand you’re to be executed in the morning.”
“Oh, that?” Acosta made a dismissive gesture. “That is nothing. It is not the first time my death has been ordered, but I’ve managed to avoid such appointments so far. How have you been?”
“Good.”
“I can see you are different. Not here,” Acosta put two fingers to his temple, then thumped himself in the chest, indicating his heart, “but here. Leadership suits you. How are the Malcontents?”
“They’re well.” This was decidedly awkward. Acosta seemed honestly happy to see him, but maybe the Ordsman didn’t realize yet that there wasn’t anything Cleasby could do to save him. Acosta had been found guilty of murder, and Cleasby had no jurisdiction here. “Maybe you’re not grasping the gravity of the situation. In a matter of hours, you’re to be hanged by the neck until dead.”
“Yes, yes, enough about me. I must know what has brought you to this city beneath the stone.”
Cleasby looked at the jailer. “Would you give us a moment, please?”
The dwarf pushed back his pot helmet a bit so he could look up at Cleasby incredulously. “I’ll be waiting right over there, but don’t go too close to the bars, young sir. This lunatic is liable to try and snap your neck.”
Acosta laughed. “On the contrary, dwarf. This is my good friend Kelvan Cleasby. We have enjoyed a most excellent war together. I would never murder him in such a petty manner.”
As opposed to other non-petty manners. “I’ll be fine.” Cleasby waited until the jailer walked away before turning back to Acosta. “I only found out about you by accident. We’re passing through on a mission of no real importance, providing security for an archeological expedition into the nearby mountains.”
“Excellent.” Acosta’s eyes narrowed, and he nodded slowly, as if they’d shared some sort of profound revelation and everything suddenly made perfect sense to him. “We would not have found ourselves together again if there were not a reason. I must go with you on this expedition.”
“That isn’t really your decision to make.”
“You know I go wherever the best fight is, but I see no worthy battle here. That means one must be coming. We both know when that happens, you will want me there.”
Cleasby wasn’t a superstitious man, so he hated to admit that this idea actually made him very uneasy.
He said, “Are you sincerely trying to tell me you were put here by your Lady?” Cleasby was one of the few who knew that Acosta worshipped Thamar, the Dark Twin, though the Ordsman seemed to be an oddity, even for a Thamarite.
“Come now, Cleasby, you know that no one ‘puts me’ anywhere. My path is my own, yet I am always open to interesting suggestions as to which path I should take. I am here; you are here. I can only assume it is for a reason. Thus, I am prepared to leave immediately.”
All Cleasby could ever piece together about Acosta’s peculiar philosophy was that through continual tests and improvement, he intended to become the best warrior in Caen and thus achieve ascension. Or something like that; it was hard to tell. “Really, Acosta. It’s out of my hands. There’s nothing I can do for you. I’m sorry.”
“I do not expect you to do anything, do not fear. You are, how do they say, ‘by the book.’ You are not one to break rules unless it is absolutely necessary. You believe in your systems; you are a man of honor. I, on the other hand, am not.” Acosta wrapped his hands around the bars and leaned over to speak, low enough that there was no way the jailer could hear. “Do you truly believe this is how Savio Montero Acosta will die? Like a common ruffian, swinging from the end of a rope?”
“That does seem bloody unlikely. I’m surprised you let them arrest you.”
“I thought about killing the city watchmen, but let us say I received one of those interesting suggestions. Perhaps there would be something in it for me if I allowed myself to be taken quietly? So, I handed my storm glaives to a friend to hide so they would not be confiscated—I’ve grown rather fond of them—and then I surrendered, confident the reason would be revealed in time. And now you are here.”
“You know I don’t buy into your superstitions. This is a routine mission, nothing more.”
“Ah, but if my Lady wished for us to meet again, perhaps it is because she wants you to remain alive. If I am here, it must be bad.”
“So, are you the cause or the effect?” Cleasby was never quite sure whether or not Acosta was delusional. He certainly fought like somebody who was blessed by the Dark Twin, and that was a good thing when he was on your side. It was just too bad he was so damned earnest about it. “Fine. I’ll take that under advisement.”
“Regardless of why we are together again, I sh
ould not hang. I am innocent.”
Cleasby couldn’t help it—he laughed.
Acosta bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Forgive me. I would never make such a seemingly absurd claim, but the Cygnaran language lacks nuance. I am innocent in this particular event. It was an honorable duel. The rail warden accepted my invitation, and we met as equals, before many witnesses. Sadly, he did not live up to his reputation, and I learned nothing by defeating him.”
“Dueling is illegal. You might have been able to mitigate the severity of the charges because both parties consented. Or it might have been overlooked if you had conducted it in private or at least followed a proper gentleman’s code about the whole affair, but you can’t just fight in the streets with impunity here. This isn’t Five Fingers!”
“Your country is so boring!” Acosta exclaimed.
“Regardless, you’ve been charged with murder.”
“Only because my opponent had powerful friends.”
Cleasby snorted. “You know, if my plan was to duel every killer in the Iron Kingdoms, I’d probably check on things like that before starting fights.”
“I do not have time to concern myself with such trivia. Yet now I am aware that the baron of this place used Galloway as a hired thug, so I am to be an example for what happens when you cut down his servants. Perhaps if you are so moved by your devotion to the law, you will speak to the baron about this matter.”
It was routinely difficult to tell what Acosta was actually thinking. The Ordsman was certainly too proud to come out and ask Cleasby to plead his case, and he was certainly too homicidal to go quietly to a hanging in the morning. He could accuse Acosta of many things, but lying was not one of them. It might not have been legal, but consensual duels still happened, and Cleasby could probably plead social convention. “Because of your friendship with Sir Madigan and all that you’ve done for the 6th, I promise I will personally go to Rathleagh and beg for mercy on your behalf.”
“Do as you see fit.” There was always something chilling about the way Acosta smiled, like everything in the world existed for his amusement. “I’ll be waiting.”
The truth of the matter was that Savio Montero Acosta could not abide being imprisoned. The lack of freedom was making him crawl out of his skin. Giving up his weapons and going along peacefully had seemed foolish, but he’d heeded his Lady’s whispers, and now he was actually contemplating the possibility of dying an ignominious death. It wasn’t the dying that annoyed him so much as the utterly forgettable nature of such a death. Execution was for quitters.
With Cleasby, Acosta had acted as if he’d not been concerned. That was because he could never show doubt or weakness, even in front of an ally. But the Storm Knight’s unexpected presence had given him hope. As it stood now, Cleasby was a man destined to find trouble. Acosta had not been lying about that; his Lady’s will manifested itself in unexpected ways. Going with the Storm Knights certainly made more sense than languishing here until he could either escape or be hung. Thus, Cleasby’s mission had to be why Acosta had wound up in his present circumstances.
Or so he hoped.
Show me the most difficult path, my Lady, so that I may walk it and learn.
He did not have to wait very long because a few hours after Cleasby left, Acosta received more visitors. He didn’t know Baron Casner Rathleagh by sight, only by reputation, but from the obsequious manner in which the jailer acted upon their arrival, Acosta was certain the tall, thin, well-dressed one was the baron, and the one who shooed the dwarven jailer away had to be the baron’s bodyguard. The mercenary community appreciated the baron’s generous payments and willingness to hire even the most unsavory companies, but Rathleagh was also known as a powerful arcanist who was not to be crossed. He had the reputation of being quite unforgiving of those who could not keep a secret.
Baron Rathleagh was wearing the insignia of the Fraternal Order of Wizardry around his neck as if it were a commendation medal, as if joining a club somehow made him special. It was true that the Fraternal Order of Wizardry was rather dangerous, its ranks filled with dedicated seekers of power—which Acosta could appreciate—but Rathleagh had an aura of smug. Acosta was self-aware enough to know that many would think the same thing about him, but he had earned his haughty attitude through blood and effort. If Rathleagh were truly formidable, he would have been running things in Ceryl or Caspia, not in this industrial hole in the ground.
Right now he could have Acosta executed immediately, however, so power was relative.
Acosta stood up and waited for them.
The baron spoke as he approached. “So this is the infamous wandering swordsman, Savio Acosta. Your fearsome reputation precedes you.”
“Yes.” Acosta had no patience for the frivolous. “What do you want?”
“Don’t you know who I am?”
“Yes. So, I ask again, what do you want?”
“I’m here to determine your fate, Ordsman.”
“I determine my own fate.”
“And when I hang you?”
“It would have been my decision to let you.”
Rathleagh stared at him for a long time. Unlike most men, he actually met Acosta’s cold gaze without flinching or averting his eyes. Acosta could see now that the arcanist was a calculating, dangerous sort. With a single word, Rathleagh could have his bodyguard shoot Acosta dead right here in this cell, and that was not the sort of death anyone would write a song about. Still, though Acosta would never lower himself to begging or other such signs of weakness, he could at least attempt to be diplomatic.
“How may I be of service, Baron Rathleagh?”
“Your friend, Lieutenant Cleasby, came by my office earlier and spoke rather earnestly in your defense.” The baron walked slowly around the bars, studying Acosta as if he were some wild animal, captured and caged for his amusement. “He begged me not to hang you. He even went so far as to find some of the witnesses who heard my man Galloway accept your challenge. I believe he takes the very concept of injustice as a personal insult. That Storm Knight is thorough. I’ll give him that.”
Some men were so dedicated to their beliefs that they were incapable of avoiding conflict; Cleasby was one such man. Acosta knew warriors like that in every nation in the Iron Kingdoms. And though Acosta cared nothing for their causes, having them as associates made it certain that he would never be bored—such warriors always provided interesting challenges.
“Your nation is lucky to have him. Cleasby is a good officer and an honorable man.”
“As if you understand honor, Ordsman.”
“Only through observation.” But Acosta figured Rathleagh had no room to talk on that subject either.
“Even though your life is in my hands, he wouldn’t grovel for you. I really don’t like the nobleman he’s working for right now, so I’d hoped he would show some sign of bending, some flexibility that I could use as leverage against Wynn, but nothing.” Rathleagh continued circling the cage. “Do you know what I told your Lieutenant Cleasby? I told him that normally I would think about such a merciful request, but you killed a respected rail warden in a city whose lifeblood is the rails. So, tell me, why should I grant this request for mercy and deprive myself of the enjoyment of watching you hang?”
“The answer depends entirely upon what you decide is in it for you,” Acosta stated.
Rathleagh stopped on the opposite side of the cage. “Do you intend to insult me?”
Acosta didn’t bother to turn around. “Not at all. Self-interest is wise.”
“I thought you were insinuating I’m selfish.”
“Where I am from, we do not consider ‘selfish’ an insult.”
“Of course. You are the spawn of Five Fingers, a corrupt, rotting warren of channel islands, home to smugglers, cutthroats, and degenerate pirate filth.”
“It has its charms.”
Rathleagh passed in front of the cage. “I require something from this expedition your friend is guarding. Cleasby trusts y
ou, and Baron Wynn trusts Cleasby. I believe there is a certain artifact buried where they go. On the off chance they locate it or clues to its whereabouts, if you were to retrieve it for me, in exchange I would be willing to spare your life.”
“A reasonable trade.” Now that Rathleagh had demonstrated he wanted something from him, Acosta could relax a bit. It was nice to know the baron had not simply come down here to gloat before having him killed. Despite this, Acosta’s outward demeanor did not change in the slightest.
“Only we both know your word means nothing,” the baron continued. “Once I let you go, there would be nothing to stop you from fleeing. I understand you are a wanted criminal in Khador because you betrayed the trust and personal friendship of a powerful warcaster there.”
“That was a misunderstanding.”
“Judging by the size of the bounty on your head, a significant one.”
While Rathleagh kept pacing and talking, Acosta noted that the silent bodyguard was keeping a very close eye on him. The man was in his fifties, in a profession that did not well tolerate its participants growing old. He had a stern, weathered face and grey hair beneath a battered tricorn hat. From the intricately engraved pistols, he was a gun mage, an arcanist who could perform tricks with bullets. And after all, Cygnarans were supposed to produce the best gun mages. The bodyguard seemed calm, professional, with the flat eyes of someone who had taken too many lives to keep track. Though Acosta was locked in a cage designed to hold ogrun, the gun mage remained wary, his hands loose and ready and resting next to his pistols. Acosta tested the man by shifting his stance just a bit, placing his body in front of Rathleagh as he walked, so that if the gun mage were forced to shoot Acosta, he’d be in danger of hitting his employer as well. The gun mage unconsciously took a step to the side so he’d still have a clear angle. Acosta smiled. The gun mage’s expression changed just enough to indicate that he realized another experienced practitioner in the art of violence had tested him.
I think I would like to fight this gun mage.
Into the Wild Page 6