Web of Eyes

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Whitney couldn’t tell if she was attractive or not through the fibers of his thin blindfold, only that she was young. Her golden hair was tied up in two buns, one on each side of her head, and she dressed like a proper noble, something Whitney didn’t expect to see in Bridleton.

  “My name is Nauriyal. When it is convenient for you, my father, Constable Darkings, desires to meet you.”

  “Where can I find the good constable?”

  “Good is not a term generally associated with my father,” Nauriyal said, offering a bemused smile. She motioned for Whitney to follow her a few steps outside of the threshold and pointed to a large house atop a shallow hill just beyond the perimeter of town.

  “We live there,” she said. “You’re new here, and it’s nice to have such a young Father, so please don’t keep him waiting. He isn’t a patient man.”

  “The will of Iam is never rushed. We enact it precisely as He means us to.”

  “Even still, it will make things far simpler.”

  “Very well. I’ll be there within the hour.”

  “Thank you, father.” Nauriyal bowed, then departed. Whitney promptly shut the door and removed his blindfold.

  “Altar server?” Sora asked. “Isn’t that for children?”

  Whitney turned around to find Sora peeking over with one eye open. “What? You look young.”

  Sora popped upright so fast Whitney flinched. He laughed nervously. “It’s a compliment.

  “Sure.” She relaxed her shoulder and rubbed her bleary eyes. “What do you think that was about?”

  “Who knows, but that’s our potential mark, if you agree. Constable Darkings… Even his name invites theft.”

  “‘Please don’t keep him waiting,’ to a priest of Iam?” Sora put on a wry grin. “I have a good feeling about this one.”

  Whitney couldn’t tell if it was forced or not, but he was glad to see her getting in the spirit of things. Every so often, when he caught himself looking at her, he could see the forlorn look in her eyes of a person who’d lost their home. Whitney had met plenty of people in his travels who had, both to war or disasters. He worried that she was throwing herself into all of this simply to distract herself from the pain of loss, but even if that were so, he’d do his part to keep up the distraction. He owed her that much.

  “So do I,” Whitney said, smiling in return.

  A short while later, he and Sora stood before the tall iron gates of Constable Darkings impressive home. The emblem of a ship sitting atop a coin marked the entrance. If Whitney knew one thing, it was that men who erected walls around their houses in towns the size of Bridleton were always of a bad sort.

  Whitney tilted his head back to peer through the bars under his blindfold. It brought back memories of his last few days, first in the Glass Castle dungeon, and then in the Glass Castle dungeon again, and finally, the cultist’s hideout.

  Shog, am I losing my touch?

  He wondered briefly what had come of Torsten. They hadn’t grown into best mates, but Whitney had to admit, he was kind of taking a liking to the rigid, humorless Shieldsman. Enough, at least, to hope he’d made it out alive.

  They’ll probably sell him for ransom, he thought. Serves the giant oaf right for getting us captured.

  Whitney shirked the thought, then shoved his face against the bars of Constable Darkings' gate. “Constable Darkings!” he shouted.

  After a moment, a man dressed in chainmail armor descended the steps of the mansion. This one wasn’t a conscript of the Glass army. Whitney had seen finer armor, sure—Torsten’s came to mind—but never anything like it in such an insignificant place.

  “Quite a house for such a humble town,” Whitney whispered to Sora.

  “Make’s Wetzel’s place seem like a barrel,” she replied.

  “Just about anything makes Wetzel’s place look like a barrel.”

  She shot him a glower.

  “No offense,” he said.

  The armored guard stopped at the base of the stairs. He had a nose so flat it looked like he’d taken a hammer straight to the face, and a scar that whitened one of his eyes. Here Whitney was pretending to be blind, meeting a man who was halfway there. The guard would be extra upset if he discovered the truth.

  “Who goes there?” he questioned.

  “I’m the new town clergy,” Whitney replied. “Whi—uh, Gendrel Gorenheimer.”

  “Who’s the knife-ear?”

  “Definitely our mark,” Sora whispered as she pinched Whitney’s arm.

  “Keep calm this time,” Whitney said under his breath and pushed his way in front of her. “This is Penny, my new altar server.”

  “Hah!” the one-eyed man cackled. “A Panpingese, and a woman at that?”

  “The times are changing, my son. We are here by invitation of Constable Darkings. He is expecting us.”

  “You wasted no time getting here did you, Father Gorenheimer? Anyon passed only days ago. We weren’t expecting Yarrington to dispatch a replacement for some time with all that’s going on in the kingdom.”

  “Bridleton was in luck, Praise Iam.” Whitney performed Iam’s appraisal. Sometimes he swore he could make it in a traveling troupe. They could even perform some of his own adventures.

  “I was in Oxgate,” he went on, “helping with the aftermath of the Black Sands attack—heretics, they are.” He left out the part that unlike Troborough, not a soul in Oxgate had survived. He purposefully made sure he and Sora hadn’t passed by there to stir up any memories in her, and had to hope a larger town like Bridleton hadn’t suffered the same fate.

  “Lucky for us, they sent a whole regiment to Fort Marimount up the road. They won’t dare touch us now,” the guard said as he strolled forward and opened the gate. “Follow me.”

  He led them up the staircase, Sora taking Whitney’s arm to guide him as if he were really blind. Whitney noted through the bottom of his blindfold that the stairs were made of marble. The thick columns supporting a second-floor balcony were as well, with ornately carved capital at the top that belonged in Old Yarrington.

  “Must be good to be the constable around here,” Whitney said.

  “It’s not good to be anything around here,” the man responded.

  “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “I didn’t say it.”

  The large doors swung open.

  “Your apprentice should stay out here,” he said. “Because of the… you know?” He pinched his fingers at the tips of his ears.

  Whitney bit back a response, knowing that the man didn’t think he could see the gesture. He squeezed Sora’s arm to keep her quiet.

  “Where I go, Penny goes,” Whitney said. “She saved my life.”

  “The constable lost a lot at their hands,” the guard replied. “We all did.”

  “The war was long ago, and I assure you, Penny was not involved. Now we are all the children of Iam. Praise be his Vigilant Eye and thanks be to Him for mercy.”

  The guard groaned. “If you insist.”

  They entered a vast greeting hall. It wasn’t overly cluttered with trinkets but for a few pieces of well-made furniture hewn from stained mahogany.

  A curved staircase lined by a wooden railing carved like fruited vines led to the second floor. Whitney knew the constable’s sleeping quarters would be up there—as well as his closet. Public affairs at the ground level, private above, servant’s quarters buried below. That was the way Yarrington nobles designed their homes, and it was no different here. Whitney didn’t even have to spot the portrait of the constable hanging above the stairs with his obscured vision to know it was there.

  He took it all in through his blindfold that barely worked, memorizing everything, the location of every guard, the places where the constable might have locked up his more prized possessions.

  “You're the new priest?” Constable Darkings said, appearing as if from thin air. Whitney would have mistaken the voice for an old woman’s had he not seen him. The middle-aged man wore a s
atin tunic, crimson, although it could have been brown, it was tough to tell through the linen holes. The bit of gold flair on the collar, however, was unmistakable and it drew attention away from his rotund belly and jowls. An exquisite piece fit for the royal court, and with the pants and belt to match.

  “Gendrel Gorenheimer,” Whitney said, bowing his head while purposefully facing the wrong way.

  “Constable Darkings,” he said, licking his lips. “The church allows servants now?”

  Whitney heard a hard exhalation but didn’t bother to look back at Sora.

  “This is Penny, my altar server,” Whitney said, emphasizing the end of the word.

  “A woman?” He laughed. “And a knife-ear too? Iam’s lost his yigging mind, has he?”

  “Are we not all created equal beneath his all-seeing eye?”

  “Not in my experience.”

  “The High Priest Wren has begun to see things differently.”

  Darkings barely let him finish before he scoffed. “I couldn’t care less about those pansies in the capital. I invited you here to make sure you understand how things work out here.” He stopped at the base of the stairs, smiled, and smoothed his pants. “Care for a drink?”

  He snapped his fingers in the direction of a nearby doorway, and a servant hurried out carrying a cask on a silver platter. Again, Whitney heard Sora make a dissatisfied noise. The servant was a Panpingese boy, barely more than ten.

  Darkings filled and offered it, but Whitney raised his hand in polite refusal.

  “The love and mercy of Iam are not for sale, Constable,” Whitney said.

  “Cut the yig-and-shog. We both know you’re here for the same thing I am. I collect taxes, and you collect tithe. I have a house, free of charge; as do you. As long as you and the church don’t stick your fingers into my coffers, I’ll leave yours be as well, and I won’t inform the clergy about your unusually fulsome altar child.” He gave Sora a once over, and Whitney quickly realized what he was implying.

  “I think you misunderstand my motives, Constable Darkings. I’m here for the good of the people of this fair town.”

  Darkings' chortle echoed throughout the room. “It’s your lie, priest. Tell it how you want to.” He stepped in front of Whitney and appraised his robes with two fingers.

  “Shoddy things, these,” he said. “There’s a tailor on the western side, tell him I said to have new ones made for you on my coin. He’ll make them white as snow like a proper Yarrington Father.”

  “I think I’ll kindly pass on your offer. I prefer to wear the mud of the world over my shoulders.”

  Darkings moved forward until Whitney could smell the alcohol on his breath. “You’re new here,” he whispered. “You’d do well to play nice. It would be a shame for Bridleton to lose a second father so soon.”

  “Indeed,” Whitney said.

  “All I ask is that you keep church business within the walls of your chapel and stay out of my way. These are simple folk who have never left these fields. They wouldn’t know Yarrington from Westvale. This place…” he raised both hands and gestured to his grand hall, “…might as well be the Glass Castle itself, and I like it that way. You play your cards right, you can have a place just like it.”

  Whitney circled his eyes and bowed. “Under the watchful eye of Iam, I have no intention of interfering with your matters of business, Mr. Darkings. Though I needn’t a shelter of this… grandeur.”

  “Good enough for me.”

  Behind the cover of his ineffective blindfold, Whitney shifted his focus upstairs. With the right play, he could pilfer an outfit, and they could be on their way before sundown. If Darkings would wear his current outfit to meet with a mere man of the cloth, Whitney could only imagine what finery he dressed in for formal events. He cleared his throat and asked, “May I use your facilities?”

  “You can use your own facilities, priest,” Darkings replied. “Our time here is concluded.” He turned to his daughter, who Whitney hadn’t even realized was standing beside them. “Nauriyal, escort the father and his friend back to their hovel.”

  “Of course, daddy,” she said, curtsying.

  It’s never easy, Whitney thought to himself as they were led outside. Why can’t it ever be easy?

  When they’d cleared the front doors, Nauriyal placed her hand on Whitney’s arm. “I’m sorry about him. He can be a bit extreme at times. I do hope you won’t hold it against me, Father?” She smiled bashfully.

  “I condemn no child for the sins of their parents. You are always welcome in the house of Iam.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  Whitney stopped and took her hand. Now, up close and in the sunlight, if he squinted through the blindfold, he could make out her face in more detail. ‘Pretty’ was barely adequate to describe her. “You never have to thank me,” he said softly.

  Whitney felt Sora’s elbow jab against his ribs and quickly released the young woman’s hand.

  “Yes, yes, thank you, Nauriyal,” he said, clearing his throat. “I will remember your kindness.”

  A pair of the constable’s guards opened the iron gate. It slammed shut the moment Whitney and Sora were outside. Nauriyal remained behind the bars, staring.

  They walked a short distance before Sora whispered, “Priests don’t get flirty. Don’t screw this up.”

  “I wasn’t flirting, I was being polite,” Whitney said.

  “I know what your flirting looks like. It’s painful.”

  “Trust me, if I ever flirted with you, you’d be swooning.”

  “Oh really? ‘Can I use your bathroom?’ Some master thief you are.”

  “Worth a shot,” Whitney said. “Lesson two: always start a job by testing the route of least resistance, then plan accordingly. Consider this on the job training.”

  “Oh, making me endure the insults and prying eyes of those bigots was training?”

  “Now that I’ve got the lay of the land, it won’t be hard to return tonight.”

  “You did see how many guards there were, right?”

  “Four inside and at least two outside,” Whitney answered. “Your point?”

  “That’s too many to risk for a shirt.”

  “I’ve snuck past twenty wizards, broken out of castle dungeons, and robbed a dragon of his gold. You think a handful of small-town thugs is going to stop me?”

  “Dragons? Now I know you’re mad. They’ve been extinct longer than we’ve been alive.”

  “You will see how mad I am when I return this evening wearing the finest silks in the region.”

  Whitney rounded the Bridleton streets toward the ramshackle cottage beside the church. He tugged on his blindfold to reach an itch on his cheek. “I can’t wait to get this thing o—"

  A high scream echoed across the town square. “Father! Father! Please come quick!”

  Whitney turned to see the outline of a young boy charging toward them. His face was streaked with red.

  “My f-f-fath-f-f-fath—”

  “Slow down,” Sora said, kneeling to meet the child eye-to-eye.

  The boy froze momentarily as he regarded Sora’s ears, then he drew a deep breath. “My father was b-b-bit by a wolf,” he said. “P-please come help.”

  “Wolf?” Sora asked. “This close to town?”

  Sora followed the boy toward a ranch at the edge of town, giving Whitney no choice but to follow. He ducked under the rickety wooden fence. Whitney nearly tumbled over the top in his heavy robes, but Sora caught him.

  A herd of cattle clustered by the farmhouse, but the closer they got Whitney could make out the low groans of the man stolen amidst the tall grass over.

  “I’ve found help, pa,” the boy said as he kneeled beside him. “Don’t worry.”

  The rancher held a wound on his side to keep the blood from gushing, but his hand wasn’t nearly large enough. Four deep cuts wrapped his torso, rent by the claws of no normal sized wolf. Had the beast extended its claws even a fraction more and the man’s intestines wo
uld be forcing their way out.

  Whitney placed his hand over the wounds, still pretending to be blind even in crisis. Never surrender the grift until the grift is through. “This wasn’t done by a normal wolf,” he said, remembering his and Torsten’s encounter in the woods.

  “I s-saw it. It was huge!” the boy said.

  “Redstar,” Whitney whispered and shook his head.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Careful with him,” Whitney said to the boy. “Don’t agitate the wound.”

  “What do we do, Father?”

  “That doesn’t look like it came from a wolf at all,” Sora whispered in Whitney’s ear. “And it’s too late in the season for bears.”

  “It was neither,” Whitney said.

  “So, the boy was seeing things?”

  “Dire wolf,” Whitney said.

  “There’s no way. They don’t come this far south… ever.”

  “Tell that to the ones that attacked me and the knight just a couple of days past. You were following, didn’t you see.”

  Her eyes went wide. “I saw you too break camp and rush away one night for no reason. I didn’t see why.”

  The rancher released a hair-raising cry and kicked his legs, drawing their focus back from their bickering. The boy sprung at Whitney and shook him. “Please, Father Gorenheimer, you have to help him!”

  Whitney finally felt a tinge bad for pretending he was a priest. Earning the cloth of Iam meant some training in the healing arts, but Whitney knew about as much about that as his bumpkin father. The rancher’s eyes were closed, his breathing was shallow, and sweat beaded on his forehead even though it was mid-autumn. Even looking at the bubbling, bloody gashes across the man’s ribs made Whitney’s stomach turn.

  “Fever has already set in,” Sora said.

  “What am I supposed to do?” Whitney whispered, turning himself toward her and away from the boy. “I’m no priest, much less a healer.”

  “Please, Father. Would you pray for Iam to heal him?” The boy hugged his father, tears freely flowing again.

  “Take the boy over there,” Sora said. “Pray the most believable prayer you’ve ever prayed. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “This is not why we are he—”

  “So, you want to let this little boy’s father die when we might be able to help? Wetzel taught me a few things.”