by James Evans
Everyone was listening now. Nobody had entered the labyrinth of Lankdon Gate and returned in at least fifty years, as far as anyone knew, possibly longer. A document purporting to offer a route to the vaults was by far the most valuable thing they’d found so far.
Farwen gave the map a jaundiced glance and snorted.
“If it’s real. What are the chances of finding a genuine treasure map in an abandoned town that’s been searched a hundred times before?”
“I don’t see there’s any need to take that tone, Farwen,” said Ediaf, evidently put out that someone was doubting the provenance of his discovery, “you can see just by looking at it that its old.”
“Old, maybe, but so what? You’re old and you can’t lead us to the vaults; why should we think this map can?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Thaurid, trying to be reasonable, “all we have to do is persuade someone that it’s genuine and take their money. Easy.”
That sparked an argument. Ediaf said it was their duty to take valuable antiquities back to the university in Vensille and Farwen countered that the map was valuable only if it was genuine, which she doubted. Thaurid stuck to his belief that a sale would be easy given the value rumoured to be held in the vaults and Ediaf expressed his horror at the awful materialism of his younger colleagues.
Gendra and Theap, mere employees on this expedition, just looked at each other then went back to their chores to wait for the argument to die down.
Eventually Gwilath grew bored of the discussion and spoke over them all.
“None of this matters because we’re not going to sell it and we’re not going to put it in a museum.” That shut them all up and they turned to look at him.
“Farwen's right that it’s worthless if it’s a fake; Thaurid is right that we could probably sell it even if it is a fake; Ediaf’s smoking something if he thinks we’re just going to stick it in a museum.” Farwen and Thaurid sniggered a little, Ediaf glared angrily at Gwilath and started to open his mouth to object.
“No,” said Gwilath, holding up his hand, “don’t argue. We’re going on. We’ll head north and find Lankdon Gate, enter the labyrinth and, using the map, find the vault. We’ll take home as much of the treasure as we can carry then go back for more with a larger, better funded, party next season We’ll be rich and famous and we’ll never need to work again.”
Silence greeted this, broken only when Gendra started laughing. They all turned to look at him and that just made him laugh harder. Nobody said anything while they waited for him to calm down.
“Your faces when Gwilath suggested going to Lankdon Gate.”
Gwilath grabbed the bottle from the table and took another swig. He grimaced and set it back down by the map.
“Early start tomorrow. It’ll be hard work trekking through the forest, harder than it has been so far because not so many people travel that way.”
“And none come back!” said Thaurid, cutting to what he felt was the heart of the debate, “Look, we’ve got the map and the books,” he pointed at the small pile of books Ediaf had found with the maps, “let’s just go home and use what we have to raise funds for a bigger expedition. The Duke will bite, you know he will, and we can come back next year, in the spring, when the weather is better and we’re properly supplied.”
Gwilath curled his lip.
“Are you scared, old friend?” he asked.
“No, not scared, but…”
“But you want to go home? But you don’t like being out here in the forest? But you miss the city? Boo hoo. You may be ready to head home with an old map and a handful of worthless books but I’m not. We press on together or you go home, alone. Which will it be?”
More silence and this time nobody laughed. Thaurid looked at Farwen and Ediaf but there was no help there. The late-night discussions about solving the riddle of the Disaster had driven them to this point but it was a fantasy that Thaurid found he no longer wished to pursue. He desperately wanted to go home but the thought of trekking scores of miles alone filled him with dread. He hated himself for caving in to Gwilath - again - but he just couldn’t face the alternative.
“On,” said Thaurid, his voice quiet with fear and frustration and resignation.
Gwilath grinned, triumphant, and slapped Thaurid on the shoulder, all smiles now that he had what he wanted.
“Great, that’s settled, then. Early start tomorrow, time to turn in.”
He picked up his kit and made his way over to the corner of the room that he and Farwen had staked out for themselves. Thaurid glared after his friend and seethed but he knew when he was beaten.
CHAPTER TWENTY
NEWS IN VENSILLE travelled quickly, spreading across the city as market gossip, elaborated stories, overheard conversations or even, sometimes, deliberate report. Sooner or later, any news that was worthy of the name reached the ears of Lord Pieter Mantior, Duke Rhenveldt’s personal secretary. From his study in his family home, Stant House, or his private apartment in the Palace of Sails where he was currently working, Mantior reviewed reports from contacts and agents across the Dukedom and from correspondents further afield.
Today he was working his way through a tedious set of reports on the agricultural development of the western Imperial provinces, sent by a merchant in Esterengel whose ambitions included a position within Vensille’s court. Mantior’s mind wandered onto other subjects as he tried for the third time to read a torturously constructed paragraph about the coming apple harvest and the possible impact on the availability and cost of cider. A reduced wheat harvest might have been interesting but apples? Mantior couldn’t bring himself to care and could see no threat to Vensille.
He set the report aside and moved on to a transcript from a secret meeting of the guild of charm makers. The major concerns seemed to be about the ongoing difficulties of procuring gold and tungsten for use in private commissions. Mantior smiled; his agents had been stockpiling the metals for some months and the price had risen steadily as supply had tightened. The Duke’s auction of new mining rights in the closely regulated hills thirty miles north of the city should fetch a good premium when they were announced in a few weeks’ time. The news that some amongst the charm-makers were looking for illicit sources of metal from across the ocean was less welcome but not wholly surprising. Mantior made a note to investigate further. Neither smuggling nor the commission of smugglers was going to be tolerated if it threatened the Duke’s revenues.
The third document was an estimate of the cost of extending the city walls to encircle the slums that had grown up outside the eastern walls. The costs themselves didn’t interest Mantior - the treasury would handle that aspect of the project - but extending the walls involved clearing a large area of the slums, demolishing parts of the existing walls and redistributing parcels of land from the squatters currently living on them to the Duke’s supporters and friends. The project was complex and risky but the rewards would be significant.
The document contained several things that worried Mantior and he made notes in green ink as he read. The increased risk of crime from people displaced by the slum clearance would need to be addressed by the Watch. Then he reached a brief paragraph describing how part of the old wall would be removed before the new had been built and he frowned. Weakening the city’s defences, even if it allowed the stone to be reused and kept down costs, was not going to work. Green ink flowed as Mantior, aware that the city was already monitored by Imperial agents, struck out much of the offending paragraph and added some detailed instructions.
The Treasurer would complain about the expense, of course, but he would complain a whole lot more if the city suddenly had to fund an army to fend off an invading neighbour, tempted by the appearance of a breach in the otherwise excellent city walls. Mantior shook his head at the short-sighted naivety of the planners, even though they were likely ignorant of Imperial activities and ambitions.
The final report in his pile was a description of a disturbance late the previous nigh
t at the Snarling Goat. An incident that had claimed the lives of four of the North End gang, including one of the senior lieutenants, was unusual. Mantior frowned. This level of violence hadn’t been seen in recent years and there was nothing in the report to explain how it had come about. Adding in the fight from earlier in the day, rumours of which had reached Mantior late the previous evening, and it seemed that the North Enders had lost five men in just a few hours. Strange, although there was nothing that linked the two incidents.
Mantior examined the coded signature on the bottom of the report. It was from a source at Trike’s, one close to the leadership and always reliable in the past. He re-read the report then decided that maybe he should be paying a closer eye to the activities of the North Enders. It would not do for them to get too cocky and to restart the anarchic conflicts he thought had been decisively ended a few years ago. He made a mental note to tighten the screw on Fangfoss to remind him where his loyalties, and his best interests, lay.
As he stared out of the window onto the private gardens at the Palace of Sails, Mantior’s thoughts drifted to the grim period a few years before when he and his Watch officers had acted to stem the rising violence amongst the gangs. The trigger had been the murder of a well-connected and talented merchant, assassinated by members of the Flank Side gang as punishment for unpaid “protection” money, or so it had seemed at the time. The subsequent collapse of the Flank Siders, under direct and unrelenting pressure from the Watch, was something of a victory and had brought a measure of peace to the city but Mantior had subsequently wondered whether the death had, in fact, been ordered by the Flank Siders.
It had been almost eight years since the clampdown and the city had prospered in the relative security that had followed. The largest of the remaining gangs, the North End gang, was involved in a variety of activities too numerous to mention but as long as they threatened neither the peace of the streets nor the safety of the talented, Mantior was happy to allow them continue. In a very real sense, their existence acted as a buffer preventing other, less agreeable, organisations from seizing their niche.
Mantior dragged himself back to the present and forced himself to review the list of supplicants to be presented to the Duke. By tradition, anyone living within the Duke’s lands could petition for an audience to plead for justice or aid or favour. In practice, most of the cases were heard by the Duke’s Chancellor, a man not known for his sympathetic outlook but able nonetheless to handle cases quickly and efficiently. That thought brought forth another frown from Mantior. The Duke’s Chancellor, capable though he might be, did not always deliver the judicial outcomes that Mantior, and the Duke, preferred.
Mantior went back to the lists, searching for a few straightforward cases for the Duke to hear. His criteria were simple; he wanted easily resolved stories that would play well to the public gallery. Honest peasants toiling through adversity, bereaved wives desperate for help raising their broods, destitute traders laid low by the villainous actions of their competitors. Anything, in short, that could showcase the Duke’s legendary generosity and greatness of spirit, building his image in the eyes of his people and cementing his position as grand protector of the realm.
That was the plan, at least. It worked best when the case was relatively simple and the Duke could cut decisively through the argument to punish or compensate or reward. Today’s list was the usual mix of disgruntled tenants, defrauded traders and unhappy spouses but nothing interesting or politically useful. There was little enough to keep the Chancellor busy and nothing at all worth bothering the Duke about.
Mantior dropped the list back on the pile and strode to the window. The gardens of the palace, laid out to form a map of the city, were peaceful in the midday sun, bees floating around the blossoms doing... Mantior paused. What did bees do? And why did they spend so much time buzzing at flowers? Then he shook his head and cleared his frown. What did he care for the activity of insects? He walked back to his desk, checking the rings on his fingers as he went, and picked up the report on Imperial agriculture.
The paragraphs on cider production were no more interesting the fourth time around so he tossed the report into the filing tray and collected his cane from its place near the door. After a last look around the room to check that he had everything he needed, Mantior opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. He closed the door behind him and pressed one of his rings into an indent in the lock. A brief focus of power through the ring and the lock closed, securing the room. Then, cane swinging, he walked down the corridor and made his way through the building to the Duke’s private courtyard.
Today the Duke, wearing a fencing jacket, helmet and padded gloves, was practicing the Ethrani short sword. It was a style of fighting that Mantior didn’t really like. To him, it seemed to involve a good deal of flamboyance and noise for precious little effect. Using two blades, one long and slender for fast lunges and stabbing attacks, the other short and curved for parrying and occasional off-hand ripostes, seemed excessive.
The Ethrani instructor, brought across the ocean at great expense specifically to demonstrate this obscure art, parried the Duke’s long sword, catching the blade in the guard of his short sword. He twisted his wrist, trapping the Duke’s blade, and deftly landed the point of his own blunted long sword on the arm of the Duke.
“Two to Master Lojacono,” announced the adjudicating guard officer, as the two men stepped apart, “salute, and resume.”
The Duke swept forward, feet dancing, reaching around with his long sword. Lojacono parried and riposted, keeping his right foot forward and his short sword in a high guard. Back and forth they went, each looking for an opening that would allow a direct strike with the long sword or a capture and disarm with the short sword. Both men were sweating as the bout dragged on. It was clear that Lojacono was a master swordsman, highly accomplished in his speciality and fast on his feet. The Duke’s lack of experience in this particular form was showing but his long practice with many other styles of fighting was helping him to push Lojacono.
Eventually, though, Lojacono’s evident skill prevailed and he trapped the Duke’s long sword again, flipping his wrist to lock the blade harmlessly to one side. He reached over to poke the Duke in the chest, his long sword deftly avoiding the Duke’s wild attempts to parry with his own short sword.
“Three to Master Lojacono, who wins the bout, three points to one.”
The Duke stepped back and saluted, sheathing his swords.
“Well fought, Master Lojacono, well fought. I thought I had you for a moment, in that last point, but then you trapped my sword again.”
“Thank you, your grace. Your improvement over the last few days has been remarkable. With a little more training, I think I would be very hard pressed indeed to resist your attacks.”
“Pish, Master Lojacono, but it is kind of you to say so.”
Mantior caught the Duke’s eye.
“But I can see that affairs of state are calling. Until tomorrow, Master Lojacono.”
The fencing master bowed and the Duke waved him away, taking a flannel from a tray held by a serving boy to wipe his face and brow. He tossed the flannel away and walked over to where Mantior stood, shielding his eyes from the sun.
“Well fought, your Grace. You almost had him in that last point. He’s very quick.”
The Duke looked around then laughed.
“Ha. Yes, he is extremely good,” said the Duke, stepping closer and lowering his voice, “but he’s quicker when he practices with my officers and quicker still if he hasn’t been out all night whoring and drinking.”
Rhenveldt stepped back and spoke in a more normal voice.
“And what brings you out of your den today, Pieter. Good news, I trust?”
“Apart from the joy of watching you lose a bout to an imported fencing master?” said Mantior, grinning. He had known the Duke a long time and was well aware of exactly how far he could push their relationship in private.
“I thought a
walk in the gardens might help me to reach a decision about how to deal with the North End gang,” he said finally, returning to business.
The Duke turned to walk along the path, away from the fencing ground and toward the open gardens at the centre of the palace. Mantior followed.
“I thought you were happy with the way things were going? That the current ‘arrangement’ with the gangs was working for everyone. Are you worried that this might not be the case?”
“Yes, I was happy,” said Mantior, “and yes, I’m now worried. The North Enders suffered an unusual spate of deaths yesterday, which may suggest something has been brewing unseen and is now coming to a head. At the very least, I’m going to tighten my grip a little, have my informants squeezed to see what squeaks. I’d prefer not to lose the current setup, if we can preserve it, but all things pass in time.”
“Hmm. Well. Do what needs to be done, Pieter, as usual. I’m still happy for the current arrangement to continue - it seems to deliver a reasonable degree of security - but I won’t let things slide. It’s just not good for business and, ultimately, that isn’t good for any of us. Keep me informed.”
They reached the end of the short gardens and turned to retrace their steps, heading back to the fencing ground.
“I will do that, your Grace. And if it looks like things might spiral out of control I’ll let some blood and break some skulls. Well, I’ll arrange for blood to be let; obviously I wouldn’t want to do the actual bloodletting myself, nasty business, too much risk of actual bodily harm.”
“Pieter, you’re waffling. Stop it.” The Duke stopped walking so that he could watch Lojacono fencing with the guard officer who had been keeping score. The officer was truly awful and Lojacono was scoring point after point, hardly making an effort.