A Gathering of Fools

by James Evans

  Dawn found Tredgar and Bakker still sleeping, snoring noisily. Binder woke as the sun rose above the horizon, stoked the fire and refilled their water bottles from a nearby stream. She sat on her heels warming her hands over the fire and thinking about the route back to Heberon and what she might tell her husband when she eventually made it home.

  She sighed, prodding at the fire until the rising sun finally woke her companions. None of them, it turned out, had slept well enough to be truly refreshed and as they broke camp they all found pains and aches they hadn’t noticed the previous day. A night under the stars after a day of hard riding had served as a solid reminder of why they lived in a town. Another few hours in the saddle would see them safely home but the prospect of more riding was not comforting.

  But ride they did. They had eaten all their food the previous day so they were all hungry and keen to return home. Their spirits rose as the rising sun warmed their faces and they made good time, reaching the walls of Heberon after only three hours in the saddle. They rode quickly under the arch of the gatehouse and more slowly through the town, where traders were already opening the shops and stalls that lined the main streets. The smell of new bread dragged at their heads but Tredgar kept them going until they reached the watch house.

  A night of al fresco camping in the hills was, to Tredgar’s way of thinking, more than he could rightly ask of his constables so he sent them home with instructions to report for duty the following morning. They stabled their horses then left and Trdegar grabbed bread and cheese from the kitchen on the way to his office before finally sinking gratefully into his chair.

  His office on the first floor overlooked the courtyard and his desk was positioned so that he could look out across the stables and over the town. After five years, he had settled into his position and formed a strong attachment to the town, which had grown rapidly during his tenure.

  His feeling of responsibility for the well-being of the town and its people was both an advantage, since he believed it helped him to do his job well, and a disadvantage, since it meant he took personal offence from unsolved crimes. The unpunished assault on his men was also an assault on his pride, on his ability to do his job and on his town; he did not intend to forget or forgive.

  For now, he contented himself with writing a simple report for Administrator Nison. The practical difficulties of law enforcement were of no interest to the Administrator but he would support Tredgar’s efforts to apprehend the alleged attacker. Or, rather, Nison would support his efforts if they could be quickly and cost-effectively concluded. Unplanned spending was, in the Administrator’s eyes, a most severe crime against the state and Tredgar was sure it would far outweigh any though of justice for a mere assault.

  Tredgar wrote swiftly, pausing only to take bites of food. Once he had finished he made two further copies, folding and sealing the original with wax and an impression of his ring of office. He kept one copy for his own records and put the other in the basket for filing then he stood and walked down to the common room.

  Constables Awedom and Jared were finishing their breakfast as Tredgar entered the room. They stood and saluted before continuing their meal when he waved them on, taking a seat at their table.

  “You’re looking rather better today, Jared. How do you feel?”

  “Fine, sir, thanks. My head still aches but Healer Ernst set my ribs. You want to see my bruises?” Jared leant over and before Tredgar could stop him, pulled up his shirt to expose an impressive collection of vivid blue and purple bruises.

  Tredgar raised his eyebrows in mock appreciation.

  “Yes, well. I’m glad to hear you’re feeling better. And how is Sergeant Snare? You got him home without further fuss?”

  “We did, sir,” said Awedom, “we took him to the infirmary and they strapped his leg good ’n proper, trussed him like a chicken for market and stuck him in a bed. When we left, they were ready to begin the healing but they didn’t want us to hang around. He should be walking again later today, if he’s lucky.”

  “Good news, thank you. I will visit later, if time allows. Today, though, I want you two to make enquiries about the man who assaulted Jared and Snare. Find out if he came through the docks and who he was. Someone must know him - ask around. Report to me this evening or as soon as you get news.” Tredgar stood to leave, then said, “And find out if anyone’s heard of a practitioner who fights with a quarterstaff. That’s bound to be rare, so someone must know something.”

  He left the room and walked through the public reception area and out of the front door into the town square. As always on a weekday the square was busy but today was market day so there were even more people than normal. Tredgar made his way across the square and climbed the steps to Government House.

  He went straight to Administrator Nison’s office, only to find that Nison was busy and could not be disturbed. He took a seat in the anteroom and settled down to wait. The noise of the clerks was strangely calming as they wrote, processed and filed their paperwork in near silence. The Watch house was always busy, always noisy, and this quiet sanctuary of paper and industry made a pleasant change.

  While he waited, he couldn’t help dwelling on his actions of the previous day. It was his failed pursuit of the beggar that was making him anxious, and not just because of the escape. Should he have pushed harder and caught the beggar before he reached Catshed? Could he have been more persuasive when talking to the gate guards? Would it have been sensible to enter the town in some sort of disguise to look around? It was all speculation; there was nothing more he could do so he shook his head to clear his mind and settled down to watch the clerks.

  Nison sat behind his desk after Tredgar had gone and replayed the events of the previous day. Assault on a watchman was a serious matter but you had to be realistic about these things. The two watchmen were recovering, the perpetrator had made it beyond their immediate reach and there was no threat to the town or Empire. In practical terms, there wasn’t much more to be done.

  The loss of the horse was annoying but the Watch would just have to make do with one fewer beast. Tredgar was embarrassed at his failure to make an arrest but there was nothing more he could have done. At least he had brought his squad home without further injury.

  Nison sighed and made a decision. The incident was unfortunate but it wouldn’t be allowed to affect the wider project. Tredgar's report went into the filing tray, the assault was forgotten and Nison turned back to important matters, like the routing of the northward road and the slow rate of progress as the engineers cut their way through forest and across hills to reach the mines.

  CHAPTER SIX

  MARRINEK SLEPT LATE and woke, famished but refreshed, around mid-morning. He dressed quickly then stood glaring at the staff. He decided to eat before doing anything else so he made his way downstairs. A little while later, back in his room, he picked up the staff from its resting place against the wall and held it gingerly, weighing it in his hands. Then he reached out for power and this time, unlike yesterday, he grasped it immediately. He smiled to himself and sat down on the bed; time for the next phase of work.

  He placed one end of the staff on the floor and held the other, focussing on the core of the staff and gently pushing power into the wood. The trick was to warm the wood and force its moisture toward the surface, where it would bead like condensation on a cold window and eventually run to the floor.

  It was slow work and not without risk. It took a lot of concentration to deliver enough power to achieve the effect without pushing so much that the staff caught fire or exploded. Using power without a charm required a delicate touch; too little power and he would still be sitting here at New Year. Too much power applied too quickly would superheat both the moisture and the wood, causing an explosive release of scalding steam and a shower of fast-moving burning splinters. Not ideal.

  After several hours of exhausting effort, the staff was seasoned and the room was full of warm, damp air. Marrinek relaxed his grip and stretch
ed his fingers, then his arms and shoulders. It had been a good morning’s work but all he really had was a plain stave; transforming it into a proper weapon required tools he didn’t have and energy he couldn’t spend.

  He stood, hungry again, and gathered his possessions. His head was clear for the first time in months and now the folly of staying so long in Catshead was obvious. It was time to move on.

  Marrinek wrapped the sword in a bundle with his spare clothes and tied it with a makeshift cloth strap. He hadn’t seen anyone but the guards carrying weapons on his way to the inn and he wasn’t yet sure how people might react to a man wearing a sword. Best to play it safe. Then he grabbed the staff, knife and the last of his money and left the room, throwing his bundle over his shoulder as he went.

  Downstairs in the common room the crowd was already gathering for a light lunchtime drink. Marrinek found a quiet table and, after a little confusion over the serving girl’s accent, ordered bread, meat and beer.

  He watched the room as he ate and decided that he might have been right to hide the sword. Nobody else in the room was armed and even his hair and beard were already drawing more attention than he was comfortable with.

  He ate quickly and ordered more food once the first portion was gone. As he sat he listened, soaking up the accents of the people around him. They were speaking Gheel, the language used along the river and throughout the city states, but the accent was strange, or maybe it had just drifted since he was last here.

  He sat for a while longer, finishing his beer, then he tossed coins on the table and strode out into inn’s courtyard, eating the last of the bread as he went. He stood blinking, enjoying the feel of sunlight and a full belly, as the stable boy bustled around preparing his horse.

  From the back of the horse, Marrinek could see over the heads of the people on the streets and, almost at random, he rode slowly through the town, looking for a livery stable. After twenty minutes he found one, a rough-looking place where, he hoped, they would ask few questions about either him or the horse.

  He rode into the main yard and a boy rushed forward to take the reins as he dismounted.

  “Who’s in charge?” Marrinek asked the boy.

  “That would be Mr Jenkins, sir, he’ll be in the tack room.” The boy pointed at a door on the other side of the yard. Marrinek nodded his thanks, retrieved his staff from the saddle and strolled across the yard.

  “Mr Jenkins?” he called.

  A man looked up from a bench where he was working at a saddle with a brush.

  “I have a horse to sell, in your yard. Are you interested?”

  Jenkins sucked air through his teeth.

  “Maybe, depends on the horse. Why do you want to sell it?”

  “I have no need of a horse and I can’t keep feeding the damn thing. It’s yours for a fair price, if you want it. Or I’ll take it elsewhere if you’re too busy...?”

  “I don’t buy horses from strangers, as a rule, but if you’re set on selling I’ll take a look.” He put down the brush and stepped out from behind the table, gesturing for Marrinek to lead the way back out into the yard where the horse was tied to a railing.

  Jenkins ran his eye over the mare and his hands over her legs. He lifted her feet and checked her shoes and pulled back her lips to see her teeth then stepped back, left hand cupping right elbow, chin in his right hand. He sucked more air through his teeth, whistling quietly, and looked sideways at Marrinek.

  “She’s not a young horse. Done some hard years, I’d say. And she needs re-shoeing. And feeding up. Might be kinder to just send her to the knackers but I’ll give you twelve shillings for her.”

  Marrinek snorted.

  “There’s nothing wrong with her shoes and she did fifty miles or more yesterday without any trouble. Twenty-five shillings and you’re still getting a damn good deal.”

  “I’ll give you eighteen but that’s my limit. Take it or leave it.”

  “Done. Plus five for the saddle and tack.” Now it was Jenkins who snorted.

  “Five shillings for a used Imperial saddle? Don’t make me laugh. I can’t use it or sell it. I don’t even want it on the premises in case it makes people ask where it came from, if you get my meaning.” He looked at Marrinek with raised eyebrows and it was clear that Jenkins had his suspicions about how he had come by the horse.

  “I’ll give you a shilling for the saddle ‘cos you seem like a decent bloke. I can always cut it up for parts.” Jenkins stuck out his hand and they shook.

  “Run to my box,” Jenkins said to the stable boy, “and bring me the purse.” He turned to Marrinek.

  “I don’t know who you are mister, and I don’t want to know where you’re going, but,” he lowered his voice and leant closer, “Imperials aren’t all that welcome in these parts. Best watch your back.” He stood straight as the stable boy came running back with the purse.

  Jenkins counted out nineteen shillings and dropped them into Marrinek’s upturned palm.

  “If that’s all, I’ve got people to see. Get the horse into a box, lad,” said Jenkins, heading back to his tack room.

  Marrinek pocketed the coins and walked out of the yard. He stood for a moment in the street with the satisfied air of a man newly come into money, then strolled off into the crowd. He bought a meat pie at the mouth of an alley and asked the vendor for directions to a craft supply shop.

  “Down the street a way, on the left. I reckon you’ll find what you need down there, near the town walls. Here’s your change.”

  Threading his way through amongst the shoppers and stallholders Marrinek made his way toward the town wall and a little way down the street he found the promised craft supply shop, Smyth’s. Inside, the shop was small and close with walls lined with drawers, shelves, display cases and boxes, all holding materials or tools that a craftsman might use to construct or augment a charm.

  Marrinek was looking at a display of small cut glass tiles when a man appeared behind a counter at the end of the room and cleared his throat.

  “Good afternoon sir, my name is Smyth. Is sir looking for something in particular? Perhaps sir would like to describe his requirements so that I might serve him.”

  Marrinek walked over to the counter and leant his staff against the wood, calling to mind the list he’d been preparing.

  “Sixty feet of fine copper wire and whatever copper netting you might have, six feet of iron rod, a couple of small copper ingots, a small fire charm, a dozen of the best brass and porcelain switch units and a set of simple charming tools, including the finest tool you have.”

  “Certainly sir,” said Smyth, “just give me a moment.”

  He hummed to himself as he bustled around the shop retrieving the requested items. Smyth placed a coil of copper wire on the counter and set beside it six foot-long rods of iron rod and a set of tools in a rolled leather bag. He untied the straps that closed the bag and unrolled it to display the tools.

  “We have two types of switch unit, sir,” he said, produced a display case from beneath the counter, “but it seems to me that you might be looking for higher power, more reliable units that won’t fail under stress.” Smyth raised an eyebrow and looked meaningfully, if briefly, at the materials Marrinek had ordered. It wasn’t that the making of power weapons was illegal, as such, but it was frowned upon by most charm-makers.

  Marrinek grinned.

  “Very high power, very reliable. Are these the best you have?” He picked up one of the switches and played with it, testing the spring and the action, checking the movement and the conductors.

  “Yes, sir. Properly wired, those should be sufficient for any normal requirements. A dozen, was it?” Smyth counted them out and added them to the growing pile. Then he brought from under the counter another tray, this time with a selection fire charms.

  Marrinek inspected the five tools carefully, handling each until he was satisfied with its quality. All passed his scrutiny except for the most slender of the tools, the one with the finest tip.
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  “These four are fine for my purposes but this one,” he held up the fine-tipped tool, “is too large. Do you have anything finer?”

  Smyth disappeared briefly into a back room and came back a few moments later with several more tools. He laid them out on the counter next to the fire charms.

  “These are the smallest I have, sir. Might I ask what you are trying to make? I may be able to help.”

  Marrinek examined the tools closely, ignoring Smyth’s question.

  “I’ll take that one,” he said, placing one of the tools down on the leather.

  “Very good, sir. It’s a little costlier than the others but undoubtedly an excellent tool and a fine charm in its own right.”

  Smyth rolled up the bag of tools while Marrinek ran his eye quickly over the fire charms. He took the smallest and thinnest from the tray and set it beside the roll of tools.

  “And I need some slide bars, good quality steel, if you have them.”

  Smyth nodded and hummed to himself, disappearing again into the back room. This time he returned with a box which he offered to Marrinek.

  “Yeah,” he said, rummaging through the modest selection of dials before picking out two of the larger pieces, “I’ll take these as well. And do you have platinum or iridium?”

  Smyth, who had picked up the tray of fire charms to replace it under the counter, paused to look straight at Marrinek. Then he finished replacing the tray and straightened.

  “Difficult, sir, very difficult. I can get hold of a little platinum wire but I haven’t seen iridium or had cause to handle it in years. I don’t think I’ll be able to get hold of any for many a week, sir, unless one of the river traders has some he might be persuaded to sell. These materials sell well in the cities and we see very little of them out here, I’m afraid.” He paused slightly, then added, “I have a little gold in wire or bullion, a quantity silver and as much iron, copper, zinc and nickel as you might need for any personal matter, but if sir is asking for iridium I suspect sir has a particular use in mind that won’t be satisfied by baser metals.”