Jerryl grunted. “We have them all, my lady. You can’t exactly discriminate who you will and won’t take.” He took another swig of wine to prepare for the lady’s next verbal onslaught.
“So I thought. Sir Ledes, some people simply need to rot. Some people simply cannot change.”
“My lady, rapists and murderers serve, at the least, a forty five year sentence under feral law, and most of them are human. We are fully aware that there are some crimes that are unforgivable.”
Lord Wyman spoke up again. To the rescue, Jerryl thought. “Lady Galann, what we try to prevent, and have been successful at preventing, are undeserved punishments. May I tell you why I quit Goldleaf’s judgement council?”
Jerryl watched Galann resist any physical manifestation of her own judgement, and instead, squeaked out, “If it applies, as most of this conversation has not, then certainly. Speak.”
Wyman pulled up his waist sash, tightening it. “I must, Lady Galann, if you are to understand the role you all could play in the future of Harmenor. Four years ago, when I was still on the council, a young boy, who had turned sixteen while he had been locked up, was being charged with murder. The story goes as usual; his family’s farmland went fallow, as have many others in the last several years. He was stealing some apples from a local orchard, and was caught by a farmhand. There was a struggle that occurred up a tree, and the farmhand ended up falling from said tree and snapping his neck. Now, obviously I felt that the boy should have been served a sentence, and the family of the farmhand given some recompense. This was to be the verdict, and everyone else on the council felt so as well. But the boy stayed in his cell for months, as the council turned to other matters. I kept trying to say we should send the boy on his way with a fair deal, but the council was too busy dealing with their trade agreements, and their petty squabbling over land taxes. So finally, when they were done bullshitting, the boy’s date came up. And he was now a man, a man just turned sixteen, not a week before. And do you know what they did, Lady Galann?”
The lady shook her head. “I do not.”
Jerryl could not believe his eyes. As the story went on, he had enthralled their small group. He scanned the others to ensure that people were having a good time, while Lord Wyman paused for dramatic effect.
Glorious embellishment... sweet Harma...
“The boy was executed that day. The executioner’s block was wheeled in. Mercilessly, and without any complaint... no complaint from anyone but the boy’s family, and myself. And if you don’t believe my words, check the records in the town hall library. You’ll find it to be as I said.”
Lord Wyman took a drink. “I watched that boy’s head roll. I watched his family cry. And you what else, Lady Galann? The family of the dead farmhand mourned for him too. Even them… it was unnecessary. You see, friends, we have become the enemy. It is not magical beasts or necromancers or wizards that are the issue - it is we, and our stale laws, and our dried up excuse for government. And with the bloom happening all across Harmenor, real change can come to those with open minds.”
Lord Wyman grabbed yet another glass of wine, nearly knocking over the slave who carried it. “Sorry,” he apologized, looking down into the deep red barrel. “We’re in the middle of a bloom, as I said. Everything is improving, except our system of law. You have to wonder why that is…” Wyman sipped slowly, letting new seeds of doubt be sown into the minds of his new friends.
Lady Galann stood very still. Lord Nethendo raised his glass. “A toast. To the boy. And to true justice.”
The seven of them raised their glasses.
“Friends,” Jerryl said, “please enjoy the rest of the evening. Enough of these depressing stories. Lord Wyman and I do have some business to attend here, but please. We’ve been keeping you from the delicious food! See now, everyone’s eating.”
Jerryl opened a hand to the staircase. “When you’re ready, you may travel upstairs at your leisure. Go, enjoy. Thank you for your time.”
One by one, the couples thanked him for his time, and turned towards the food that had been brought in without their noticing.
Jerryl walked with Wyman to the courtyard. Its pools reflected the clear night sky., stars like jewels just beneath the surface. The tall palm trees swayed in the breeze. It was the first cool night the Gorabund had seen in months.
He reluctantly admitted to himself that they just might be the perfect team. He turned an eye to the cloudless sky, breathing in and out, giving himself time for a short meditation. He hated spewing lies, abhorred keeping the evil rich happy, and felt decimated each time he wore the mask of Sir Ledes.
But it kept Lobosa content. Never was the Warden happy, but he could be content. And when the Warden was content, the boys were safe, and so he continued to wear the mask.
Lord Wyman shuffled closer. Jerryl turned to him. Both men watched as the feral enforcers and guards made their rounds.
“That was excellent,” Lord Wyman said, pushing back his long hair behind his ears.
Jerryl nodded in agreement. “Excellent on your part. I was losing them. I think I really did get a bit tipsy.”
“Hmph.” Lord Wyman slid a bit closer. They did not look at each other as they spoke. “This is going to get me killed.”
Jerryl folded his arms. “You complain every time, Wyman. You got yourself into this.”
Every one of their private conversations started this way. Wyman would admit his feelings. Jerryl would put him in his place. Then, as expected, the wide lord huffed a long sigh.
Wyman flicked sand from his clothes. “You’ve always taken issue with me.”
“I take issue with everyone here.” Jerryl said. “You are simply exposed to it. You could have chosen not to be Lobosa’s biggest benefactor. Then you’d be without worry.”
“Jerryl, can we talk business, please?” Wyman said with a groan.
“Certainly,” Jerryl answered.
Lord Wyman buttoned his coat together, bracing against a sudden gust of air with a grimace. “You’ll see in my ledgers that every coin our guests brought with them is accounted for. All five hundred sixty two thousand, four hundred and eighty six gold pieces. Give or take a few roots. Quite frankly, its odd how smoothly things went with collections. No hiccups. No problems at all. There were a few grumbles.”
The sun was just an inch above the horizon now. Lord Wyman stared into it. “I can’t do this much longer. I’ll be in irons or have my throat slit; one or the other. I know that’s how this ends for me. I’m very surprised you’ve lasted this long, ‘specially because of your rank.”
Jerryl unfolded his arms, realizing how tense he was. He rolled back one shoulder, then the other. “I was a general in secret only, and a member the Orange and Black. My identity has always been hidden.”
Lord Wyman waved away a fly. “How lucky for you. Being a ghost seems to have some advantages.”
Jerryl gave no response to the comment. Lord Wyman continued. “Queen Lennith is appeased for now. I keep leaving her crumbs, but by the time she gets to them, Lobosa’s spies have’em swept under the rug or out in the dirt. Then her spies will catch one of Lobosa’s, and that spy will find some way to off himself, then round and round it goes.”
Jerryl had never seen Lobosa’s spies, but had no doubt to their effectiveness, and their reach across Harmenor.
“The only problem I can portend, which I explained to Lobosa, was that they want to see more,” Wyman said. “The nobles. They want more fights, a bigger spectacle. And every time we get bigger, the more the outside world notices. It’s only a matter of time.”
Jerryl considered Wyman’s words carefully, knowing he was right. “Where are the ledgers?” he said.
Wyman tilted his head back towards where they had just come from. “They are with Lobosa. I’ve been over everything with him already, as I said. You know, Jerryl - I may be a liar. I may be the worst human in Harmenor. But I’m tired. Maybe it’s from being too fat or too old, but I’m tired.”
Jerryl looked at Lord Wyman, who was staring off into a dark corner of the terrace.
“That story about that boy,” Wyman said, “It might be the one good thing I’ve ever tried to do. How is it that after a deed so noble, a man can still run off the good path…”
Jerryl said nothing. He looked up to his barred window. All he knew was that good intentions were never enough. My own included, he thought.
Lord Wyman whistled a rough tune. Before Jerryl could blink, and after blinking, he could see two pairs of fists inside the gala, punching and swiping at two heads.
The guards reacted swiftly. The two in the courtyard moved inside, as the fight became larger than what the ferals inside could handle. “Trained to kill,” said Wyman, “but not to think.”
The moment the last guard entered the fray of the fight, Lord Wyman gripped Jerryl’s arm firmly. Both men’s eyes met.
Wyman whispered softly. “The queen’s sent a man for you. He’s coming. I don’t know when, or how, or who. But he’s supposedly the best. A legend, they say. Rumors. Keep your eyes open and mouth shut.”
Jerryl had many words in that moment, but none could leave his mouth. Had his old friends truly not forgotten their brother, their general? Surely, the queen was not the same as she had been. She would be older now, but no less radiant. He knew that the magical life link he shared with his brothers would alert them to his presence, but was it truly strong enough to find him in the wasteland of the Gorabund?
With that, Lord Wyman stepped forward, leaving Jerryl alone. He felt the immediate urge to bolt from the doors and run northeast. Was his daughter alive? Was his wife? Questions he had stopped asking years ago suddenly felt new.
In his mind’s eye he saw a grand scene, and as unrealistic as it was, indulged it completely. In his vision, he saw the Orange and Black riding upon their chargers, with full regalia, slashing and hacking apart the poorly regimented ferals. Following them would be the Spade army, in all of its glory, trumpets and drums and banners.
As the enforcers broke up the fight, which to Jerryl’s surprise was achieved without stabbing or biting, Lord Wyman rejoined him, and together they discussed future plans within the Arnaks and without. Jerryl, however, could hardly pay attention.
The boys. I have to get them out, too.
This thought pervaded his every other one as he proceeded through the end of the night. Just who had Queen Lennith sent? It would have to be someone who could navigate the Arnaks and its tunnels, move past the Raging Sands, and infiltrate the mountains with skill and stealth. He could name a few names, but too many years had passed for him to feel comfort in his knowledge of anyone with such skill.
Who could it be? he wondered.
Chapter 16
As the night wore on, the guests retired to their rooms, inebriated and lustful. It took only a moment after the last guest disappeared that he heard a woman’s moan from somewhere upstairs, and smelled the mind-altering smoke of verinneah. Familiar desires came to him just seconds after inhaling.
The doors and walls of the Golden Sands were thick enough to block out most sound, so as to keep the privacy of lords and ladies, their fantasies fulfilled with a snap of their fingers. But smoke was smoke. Even the tightly sealed doors could not withhold verinneah.
After overseeing the cleanup as Lobosa had instructed, he worked his way back up the stairs, and moved down the long, H-shaped halls. The silence of the thick doors was unnerving when one knew the happenings behind them. Jerryl remembered the short time when he had given in, believing it would craft himself a more convincing persona. Said charade lasted one week before he felt overburdened by the extreme nature of those he played with. A knight was not meant for such intense sexuality, he figured.
Lobosa’s suite was in the northeast corner of the Golden Sands, tucked far and away from the rest. The Warden had his own desires, Jerryl knew, but they were not of the typical kind.
Two enforcers, with shields, spears, and rainbow armor alike, grunted at his appearance, and opened the door.
Jerryl spied Lobosa on the right side, in what was perhaps the strangest, most off-putting situation of comfort. The Warden was lying across a long, slender lounge chair, which had become popular with men and women since the bloom had begun.
A bloom must do funny things to a powerful man’s perspective, he thought. Feral or otherwise.
What was more odd was that Lobosa looked to be at peace. The Warden said nothing to him, and so Jerryl himself said nothing. He admired the decor, which had changed only in amount, not in style.
Jerryl panned across the mounted swords and shields, the mages staves, and many smaller items in display cases. They all had golden placards, adorned with facts and numbers he was sure Lobosa knew by heart.
These were Lobosa’s prizes, for the men and women he had killed or captured. There were a few names Jerryl recognized. He tried to avoid standing near them. He had enough ghosts to deal with as things were.
The Warden rolled over to face him, rolling long fingers over the thick leather lounge chair. “It is queer what humans consider relaxing. Much different from our own.”
Jerryl faced him. “It seemed to be working for you, Warden.”
The Warden sprung up, as if to shout no. “I try, Jerryl. I try to understand all kinds. It has been a fruitless effort so far. Mostly. Let’s be about this quickly,” He said. “There is much to do. Go on, report, report.”
Jerryl recounted what he had discussed with Lord Wyman, and how the month’s lessons with the boys and how well they had gone, and leaving out the secrets. He ended with his latest excursion into what he had dubbed Cave Two, One of the many lower caverns he dared explore upon The Warden’s request. It had gone well, with minimal casualties.
He did his best to push aside his thoughts on Wyman’s words, but found staying in the moment difficult.
Only when Jerryl finished, did Lobosa speak. “Tell me more about the boys. How are they faring with you? You speak little about their physical training.”
“There’s not much to tell, Warden.” Jerryl said. “I’ve taught them everything I know of armed combat. You’re still teaching them the silence. They’re as good as they can become. They are nearly untouchable.”
Lobosa gripped his belt. “Exactly. Nearly untouchable is not enough. I’ve never set them up against an elf in the ring, and there will be blood in the stands if I don’t give the people what they want. Did Wyman tell you the people want more fights?”
Jerryl nodded. “I also heard that many were disappointed Valor and Orrin did not fight.”
“I wasn’t sure I could risk them,” Lobosa said. “Thanks to both of us, they can kill beasts. Thanks to you, they can kill ferals. And - thanks to me - they can kill humans.”
Lobosa wandered. Jerryl kept his feet aimed towards the Warden. “How goes their studies? Tell me again,” Lobosa asked.
“They are as smart as they are strong,” Jerryl said.
Lobosa wheeled to face Jerryl. “Valor is still stubborn. And Orrin intentionally fails his training exercises, making him stubborn too, but in a different way. I had asked you to rid them of these habits.”
Jerryl had expected this question. “I have little to say on their inner characters. They are as brave and cunning and intelligent as human boys just over twenty years can be.
Lobosa laughed. “You’re a special kind of human, Jerryl. You’re actually useful.” The Warden patted the daggers on his hips.
Under his breath, he recited the creed of the Orange and Black. “Bonds of fate, chains across mountains, wings across plains, shelter in the storm.”
“Mantras will not save you, Jerryl.”
“I’m not looking to be saved. They merely comfort me in dark times.”
Lobosa slowly lifted a clawed foot, and then the other. Jerryl wondered why Lobosa studied the weapons of those he had slain so intensely, almost as if he had never seen them before.
“Comfort is not found in fire. A
nd if you’re not in fire, you’re not ascending.”
“Are you quoting the Everburn?” Jerryl asked.
Lobosa scratched his scruffy chin. “Paraphrasing.”
He turned towards Jerryl. “I’ll stop beating around the bush.”
Jerryl pulled out sand from inside of his nose. “Good. I was feeling a bit like I was lost in a hedge maze.”
Lobosa suddenly became solemn. “You’ve served me well, Jerryl. Very well. Too well, perhaps. Well enough that I don’t know if I can lose you.”
Jerryl stepped back as the Warden stepped forward. “What do you mean?” He looked at Lobosa’s daggers, Jaws and Bleed, expecting this to be his end, that the Warden had finally found some way to kill him. “If this is some cruel way to end my life, if such a way does exist, then take it. Don’t mind game me to death.”
Lobosa laughed “You? Jerryl, I could never harm you. Though I did try.” Lobosa poured himself a glass of water, opening his wide jaws, and swallowing it in one gulp. He poured another, and handed it to Jerryl, who remembered all the times Lobosa had tried to torture him. Thanks to Queen Lennith’s magic, his body regenerated over time, and each attempt failed.
Jerryl remembered the pain, however. Those first few days of his capture were terrible, his regenerative powers working mostly against his mind and for Lobosa’s pleasure.
“My human - you trained the boys. You gave them brains and brawn. And you mapped some of the undergrounds... my own people couldn’t do that! None of them! Not even my most powerful mages, who could burn holes in the sky if they wished, have such courage. And beyond all, you conduct yourself properly. You are what all humans should aspire to be.”
Lobosa moved towards Jerryl, pushing a finger in where the branded mark of the Everburn lay beneath Jerryl’s clothing. “Well,” he said, “Except for that time you tried to help the boys escape. Even still, you’ve put the needs of others before you countless times since you’ve been here. You’ve shown me how a human can truly be, once he’s been properly trained.”
Memorias: Deep in the Arnaks Page 17