The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  “You know,” said Dormael, “you’re not very good at hiding your emotions.” He reached down and moved his own piece in answer, and Alton replied with a chuckle.

  “I haven’t had much practice,” Alton replied, reaching down to move another of his own pieces. “It’s hard to find many people amongst the staff who would sit down and play the master of the house at stones. For that matter, it’s hard to find anyone amongst the staff who even plays stones in the first place.”

  “You could always invite the noble Baronet Keeting over for a friendly game,” offered Dormael, smirking as he moved his spearman into position to take Alton’s knight. “Surely his noble self is well-educated in the pursuits of genteel men.”

  “He's well educated on the taste of his own ass, maybe,” Alton smiled. “Most of the local nobility is like him, too. They would probably be more interested in sneaking around my house, looking for a reason to start some ridiculous rumor to discredit me. Not that I haven’t had callers.” He held up his hands at Dormael’s questioning look. “They have come to the door, giving out their invitations to this party or that, and I have attended from time to time, if only to save face. They're empty people, devoid of any real concerns besides maneuvering for power and influence. Merchants are all maneuvering to join their ranks, so they can do even more scheming and plotting on one another. It's all so tiresome, and my family didn't build all of this by playing political games.”

  “No? Not to offend you, but it seems to me that some political scheming is always involved in the building of empires, financial or otherwise,” Dormael said, taking a long pull from his pipe.

  “Not as much as you may think,” Alton said. “My family was low nobility. I'm a baronet as well, you know. The lowliest of the highborn in Cambrell.”

  Dormael looked around the study, pointedly taking in the rich wood and wealth of books.

  “Apparently that didn't hold you back.”

  Alton laughed, “No, not particularly. My father valued education. The old bastard made sure I had my nose in books from sunup to sundown, at least when I wasn't learning the gentleman's arts.”

  “Gentleman's arts?” Dormael asked.

  “The sword, the horse, the bow. Etiquette, honor, and the religious traditions. You know—all the basic rubbish society crams down your throat,” Alton replied.

  “Your society, maybe,” Dormael smiled. “My own father...he values education, too. He made damn sure I learned three things—the spear, my letters, and the guitar.”

  “That's a strange mix of skills,” Alton said.

  “Aye. My father said that a man always needs to learn to defend himself—hence, the spear. He said that idiots die quickest, so the reading.”

  “And the guitar?”

  “The guitar is something that has been in our family for a long time. It's my father's greatest love. We used to sit outside during the high summer and play until the sun fell below the hills,” Dormael said, smiling as he recalled the memories from his childhood.

  “He didn't have a witty reason for the music?” Alton asked, returning Dormael’s smile as he moved another piece.

  “Beauty,” Dormael replied. “He used to say that I'd never appreciate anything without the ability to know and create something beautiful.”

  “He's still alive, then?”

  “Aye. Still puttering around my family's homestead.”

  “My parents both died during the plague,” Alton sighed. “As much as the old man used to grill me, I sometimes wish he was still around. You never realize how much you love them until they're gone, eh? Your own father must be proud. You seem to have soaked up his lessons fairly well.”

  “I...suppose he is,” Dormael replied, sinking into his thoughts. He had been taken from his family at a young age when it was discovered that he was Blessed. His father had been a spearman in the army, and had wanted Dormael to follow in his footsteps. He remembered vividly the look of disappointment on the old man's face the day that the Conclave Scout had come to their home. He was surprised at how the pain of that look still ached even to this day, and pressed those thoughts into the back of his mind.

  “So he taught you to play the guitar,” said Alton, moving another stones piece. “What happened after you left home? It must be quite the story. Tell me, and not so vaguely this time. You have a gift for that, you know—using a lot of words to say nothing at all.”

  “There’s not much to tell, really,” Dormael laughed.

  “Rubbish,” Alton replied, looking irritated at Dormael’s evasion. He fixed Dormael with an unwavering, questioning gaze and resumed his inquiry. “Did your father give you the guitar? It's a fine piece, and rare. I know three noblemen who don't own anything that nice. It must have been expensive.”

  “Very expensive,” agreed Dormael.

  “So?”

  “Yes?”

  “Where did you get it?” asked Alton again, more intently this time. Dormael pretended to peer at the stones board, contemplating his next move.

  “If you must know,” Dormael began, taking a rook from Alton, “my brother is a gladiator back home. You have heard of the Gladiator’s Ring?” Alton nodded in response. “Well, the prize is different every year, and he has been champion for the past three. The first year he won, he was gifted a bag full of gold marks and gems, and he used part of his winnings to purchase that instrument for me.”

  It was a lie.

  Dormael didn’t like lying to Alton, who was fast becoming a friend to him, but the real story—that a wealthy merchant from Lesmira had gifted it to him for tracking down his daughter—was probably just too much for Alton to swallow. Most people in the east didn’t like Sevenlanders to begin with, and though Alton had shown him that he didn’t have that particular bias, wizards were feared all over most of Alderak. Dormael's status as an honored guest might quickly change if it were discovered that he used magic.

  There were, in fact, eastern wizards who were trained in Lesmira at Tauravon. Tauravon was the most wizard-friendly city in all of Alderak, but most of Alderak was afraid of Lesmira. Their close relationship with the Conclave in Ishamael caused most people to hate and fear them as well, though not as much as the Sevenlanders.

  The enmity that the Conclave of Wizards had earned during the Second Great War had never worn off, and Dormael grudgingly admitted that it was understandable. Whole armies destroyed with magic, thousands of men and women dead at the hands of Conclave wizards, and no one with the power to stop it. It had been the backlash to the Dannon Army’s destruction of Orm, a holy Sevenlander temple that had stood for centuries. It was the first and last time that the Conclave had ever marched to war. Afterward, the Conclave had tried to make amends and put things aright, using magic to help rebuild the destruction they had caused. The hatred for magic, though, had only been amplified by the war, and hadn't faded in the centuries that followed.

  As a result, every story about Dormael's past that contained magic had to be carefully edited. Dormael was used to deception, but doing it to someone who had shown him nothing but hospitality chafed on his character. He knew, however, that it was necessary.

  “So,” Alton mused, “you mean to tell me that your brother is Champion of the Gladiator’s Ring in Tept?”

  “Yes,” Dormael replied. That much, at least, was true.

  Laughter issued up from Alton’s belly, and Alton took his pipe from his mouth and held his stomach against his mirth. Dormael looked at him, momentarily dumbfounded by this unexpected reaction, and then began to laugh with him.

  “Come now, Dormael,” chuckled Alton in disbelief, “that’s a likely story. Your brother is the Champion, and you're the gods-damned incarnation of Evmir. If you don’t want to say where you came by that guitar for whatever reason, that’s fine with me. I'm getting tired of trying to dig it out of you, anyway.” Dormael laughed as the tension left his body, and he reached down to the board to make his final move.

  “Game,” Dormael said, smiling as he
reclined in his chair. Alton’s laughing died as he surveyed the stones board, examining it to see if there was some way he could save his doomed king.

  “Evmir’s hammer,” he cursed, shaking his head. “That’s your second win tonight.”

  “I'm well educated on the pursuits of genteel men,” Dormael said with a wide grin. There was a knock at the door, and Lyssa poked her head through the hallway door, bowing at the neck.

  “There is someone at the gate, My Lord,” she said, shooting Dormael a sideways glance. “He says you are expecting him. His name is Jenn.”

  “D’Jenn,” Dormael corrected. “That would be my cousin.”

  “My Lord?” asked the young lady, turning back to Alton.

  “Show him in, Lyssa. Nan should have prepared him a room. She will know where to put him. When you’ve quartered him, bring us up some ale and show him to my study,” Alton said.

  “Yes, My Lord,” replied Lyssa, giving a short curtsy. On her way out, she flashed Dormael a smile and a quick wink, which he returned with a smile of his own. Alton turned just in time to see this little exchange, fixed Dormael with a quick glance, and then watched Lyssa walk back down the hall.

  “Were you...flirting with Lyssa?” asked Alton, peering after the girl.

  “Her? No,” replied Dormael, making a dismissing gesture with his hand and standing up next to Alton.

  “The Hells you weren't. I saw that. Have you slept with her?”

  “Well, not yet,” Dormael smiled. He shot Alton a conspiratorial wink, and Alton just laughed and shook his head in reply.

  “You know, there’s just something improper about you playing around with my servants.”

  “Is she your sister? Cousin, maybe?” Dormael asked, pretending to be scandalized.

  “Well, no Dormael. I employ her.”

  “Then according to Sevenlander customs, there’s nothing improper at all about it. Have you…played…around with her?”

  “Absolutely not!”

  “You should—it's quite fun.”

  “But I thought you said you didn’t…you know…”

  “I haven’t. Well…we’ve necked around a bit. But we haven’t gotten that far. Yet.”

  Alton just shook his head at him, and tapped the remains of his pipe bowl into the ash tray. The nobleman couldn’t help but crack a smile when Dormael laughed and clapped him on the back, taking the ash tray to empty his own pipe bowl. Together, they waited for D’Jenn.

  Dormael's cousin appeared a short time later, tromping in through the door as Lyssa opened it for him. He had doffed his heavy cloak and dropped his packs, but the dirt from the road was still dusted over his clothing. He wore a mesavai much like Dormael's, though it was black with red hems. D'Jenn was partial to the dark color, and his pants and undershirt were just as dark as his mesavai.

  D'Jenn winked at Dormael and turned his blue eyes on Alton. He gave a respectful nod and balled his fist over his heart, bowing at the waist. Alton stumbled over returning the traditional greeting, shrugging his ignorance as he rose from the bow.

  “Dormael has not explained this Sevenlander custom to me,” Alton said, shooting Dormael another mildly irritated glance.

  “Things were a little tense when we met,” Dormael shrugged.

  “D’Jenn Pike,” replied D’Jenn, the air of formality leaving his body as he turned and took his cousin’s outstretched hand in friendship. “I would think he would have told you what it meant, but no matter. I will explain if you want to know.”

  “Certainly,” Alton smiled. “Alton Dersham, Seat of House Dersham. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” At this point Lyssa returned with three frothy tankards of brown ale, deposited them in waiting hands, and left the room with a curtsy for Alton.

  “Well, that's a proper greeting if I've ever seen one,” D'Jenn smiled. He raised his tankard and gestured to the other two men in the room. “To health.”

  “To health,” Dormael and Alton answered. The three men drank deeply, then occupied the three chairs that the servants had brought up for the meeting. They passed around a pouch of tobacco, and a few moments passed while everyone packed their pipe bowls and sat back for a smoke.

  “The bow,” began D’Jenn, “is used for strangers meeting each other for the first time, or for people meeting each other after a long absence. The right hand is considered the hand of violence in our homeland, and placing it just so,” he demonstrated the gesture he had made earlier, balling his fist over his own heart, “demonstrates that you mean the other person no harm or ill will, and that you mean to restrain yourself from doing any violence to them—at least for this meeting. There are, of course, other greetings for close family, or even greetings for enemies. If you ever meet a Sevenlander who does not offer you this bow when you meet him, it means that you cannot trust him. He probably means to do you violence or steal something from you, and is hoping your ignorance of our customs will disguise his true intentions. On the other hand, if you ever meet a Sevenlander who bows with his arms outstretched, or gives you an enthusiastic hug the first time, he probably finds you attractive, and wants to invite you into his bed.”

  At this, Dormael choked on a bit of ale he had been drinking, and spluttered it onto the floor as he began to laugh. D’Jenn just smiled and took another long pull from his tankard. Alton, though momentarily taken aback, laughed and shook his head.

  “I should have known you would share your cousin’s gift for a quick wit,” Alton said, inclining his head to D’Jenn.

  “Pardon my cousin, My Lord,” Dormael said in the tone of the Baronet Keeting. “He knows not thy saintly disposition and incredible awe-inspiring nobility. Shall you not have him flogged?”

  “Will you throw something at him, D’Jenn?” Alton grumbled.

  “Over the years I’ve learned to tune him out,” D’Jenn smiled. “Many long days and nights on the road with him have numbed me to his little sarcasms.” The three of them shared a laugh, and continued to drink for a few moments in silence.

  “So,” Dormael said, smiling at Alton. “Two savages in your house—and on the same day, I must add. What will the gentry say? I hope we don’t start any inconvenient rumors for you.”

  “Undoubtedly you will, but it’s no matter what that goat-kissing lot has to say, anyway. Keeting and the rest of them can bugger each other to death for all that I care,” Alton replied, making a rude gesture out the window.

  “Am I missing something?” D'Jenn asked.

  “Just a little fun we had this morning with His Illustrious Grace, the Baronet of fucking Warehouses,” Alton smiled. Dormael coughed more ale onto the floor as Alton made the comment, unable to keep the snickers from interrupting his drink for the second time.

  “One of Alton's esteemed colleagues,” Dormael explained.

  “He's an unrepentant ass, D'Jenn, that's all,” Alton smiled. “I trust the road was good to you?”

  “It was,” D'Jenn nodded. “Cambrell is pretty serious about keeping the peace on her roadways. I didn't run into any trouble.”

  “Good to hear. Things have been...complicated...lately,” Alton sighed.

  “Speaking of complications, how is the girl?” D’Jenn asked, his tone turning business-like.

  “Still fighting off the infection from her wound,” replied Alton, leaning forward in his chair. He eyed D'Jenn warily, but Dormael nodded for him to go on, and Alton continued. “The wound was a pretty nasty one, close to all the stuff that you need in your belly. I’m not a healer myself, and I don’t pretend to know much about it, but according to the local mender she’s improving.”

  “Can you tell me about her? Dormael was short-winded about the details,” D'Jenn asked.

  Dormael gave a derisive snort, but no one paid him any attention.

  “Well...her father, Dolland, was a well liked man,” Alton began. “The Llewans were horse traders. Nobility. Shawna's father was only a baron, but his line was ancient. Her family are distant cousins to the King of Cambrell him
self, and they traced back their lineage to the royal family which entered the Duadan Treaty with Lesmira—an ancient and noble bloodline in Cambrell.”

  “So,” mused D’Jenn, “her line actually has a bit of Sevenlander blood in it. Soirus-Gamerit, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Dormael nodded his assent, surprised at the knowledge. The Duadan Treaty was a very old agreement originally struck between the Sevenlands and Lesmira. Ostensibly it was to strengthen ties between the two distant lands, but the true purpose was to forge bonds of friendship between the Conclave of Wizards and the Lesmiran School of Magic. The King of Lesmira took a Sevenlander princess to wife, and soon other countries in Alderak entered into the treaty as well. Cambrell had been one of them, and the Cambrellian king had taken a princess of the Soirus-Gamerit—Dormael and D’Jenn’s own tribe.

  “So we’re actually related in some way,” Dormael mused, “if very distantly.”

  “Surprising. Go on,” D'Jenn nodded to Alton.

  “No one knew horseflesh like Dolland Llewan,” Alton continued, “and he built their family fortune after his father had squandered most of the House treasury. It’s a well known story amongst those who knew the family. The man was a terrible gambler, and a drunk. His wife had died and he spent the rest of his life making bets and losing all the family had. Dolland swore to rebuild the family funds and restore honor to their name.

  “He began right under his father’s nose. The man was probably too drunk to notice what his son was doing, anyway. Dolland already had a fine mare that was given to him as a gift from an aunt or uncle—Dannon stock, with strong bones and deep lungs. So, he traded a large part of his own possessions for a Rashardian stallion.”

  “Fine horses down there,” said Dormael. “A large breed, too. Dreadful people, though, Rashardians.” Dormael and D'Jenn both made disgusted gestures at the mention of Rashardians, and Alton gave them another strange look. When they didn't explain, he continued his story.