A Gathering of Fools

by James Evans

  From behind the long curtain stepped the tall figure of Lady Mirelle.

  “The description might match the man I met at Trike’s. Fangfoss introduced him as his new partner. Difficult to say how dangerous he might be.” That Bay was certainly very dangerous Mirelle kept to herself; an opinion like that wasn’t something she wanted to voice to the Duke’s secretary.

  Mantior glared at her, almost as if he knew that she was holding back.

  “Did you know about the Lighthouse?”

  “No,” said Mirelle, after a momentary pause to school her face to a look of bland disinterest.

  “Why the hell not?” asked Mantior angrily, “It’s your job to know things like this and I don’t like getting news from Astiland,” he added as Mirelle bristled at the insults, “get to the bottom of it, find out who this ‘Lord Bay’ really is.”

  “Yes, my lord,” nodded Mirelle, grinding her teeth at the unjust criticism.

  “And find out if he really is an agent or just some villain who’s working his way up the food chain. Is he a provocateur? Could this be the start of a move by the Empire?”

  Lady Mirelle frowned slightly.

  “Maybe, my lord, but who can say? As far as we know, the Empire’s interest lies far to the east but it’s only a matter of time before they come knocking.” Another dangerous opinion, albeit one shared by the Duke.

  Mantior grunted. Invasion, revolt, betrayal; these were the Duke’s driving fears and with good reason. The Empire’s expansion over the last few decades under their current Emperor had made all the coastal city states and the northern kingdoms more than a little nervous.

  “What if Astiland’s right? Would the Empire send just one man? Do we have evidence they’re preparing to invade?” asked Lady Mirelle.

  Mantior leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

  “Evidence? Precious little,” said Mantior, ticking off the points on his fingers as he spoke, “our agents report that the troops of the western province are scattered across the territory or engaged in minor peace-keeping exercises. The Empire’s main armies are on their extreme south-east borders fighting their way further away from us. Naval activity is essentially unchanged with no real action except against smugglers and pirates.”

  “So if they’re planning an invasion it’s the quietest build-up ever.”

  “Not that it’s any of your concern,” said Mantior, his patience wearing thin, “but no, we don’t think they plan to invade any time soon. Forget about invasion unless Astiland finds evidence or until you unearth something damaging about Lord Bay.”

  Mirelle nodded, frustrated to be denied a potentially fruitful line of enquiry.

  “Fine, I’ll talk to Fangfoss and find out how he’s getting on with his new friend.”

  “Good. You do that. And get to the bottom of this news about the Lighthouse. I don’t want anyone spoiling the peace, Mirelle. Find out what’s going on, get your agents in line and get on top of the situation.”

  She flicked a cold smile at him and left without another word.

  An hour later Mirelle was on the other side of the river looking for the Flank Siders. She had changed into a practical loose-fitting dress that hid her defensive charms without impeding her freedom of movement or calling attention to her rank. She strolled confidently through the crowded streets until she reached the ale house from which the Flank Siders managed their operation.

  She ducked into the gloomy interior of the common room and was surprised to find it emptier than normal. Usually busy by early afternoon, today there was almost nobody around. She chose a table near the back wall and grabbed a barmaid as soon as one appeared.

  “Best ale, bread and a word with Wiens, if he’s still sober.”

  The barmaid grimaced.

  “Wiens ain’t around no more,” she said, “but I’ll bring your ale.”

  The barmaid hurried off to the back room leaving Mirelle alone. A few moments later she was back to place ale and bread on the table. Before she could leave Mirelle grabbed her arm.

  “What did you mean about Wiens? Where is he?”

  The barmaid yanked her arm free.

  “Gone. Dead, maybe. I don’t know.” The door opened behind her and the barmaid looked round.

  “Ask ‘im where Wiens is,” she said, clearly scared. She almost ran from the room as a tall thin figure emerged from the back room and walked across to sit opposite Mirelle.

  “Chickie,” said Mirelle, surprised to find an enforcer from the North End in the heart of the Flank Siders’ territory, “you’re a very long way from home. I was planning to see Fangfoss later today but if he’s here maybe I can see him now.”

  “M’lady,” said Chickie, bowing his head, “Fangfoss’ll be at Trike’s - you know he doesn’t like to leave, leastways not while the Watch are abroad. What can I do for you?”

  “Where’s Wiens?”

  “Gone,” said Chickie, grinning, and pulling out a chair so that he could sit at Mirelle’s table, “he and a few of his boys decided they had other opportunities to pursue, if you get my meaning. I believe he’s gone downriver.”

  “Downriver? And will he be coming back?”

  Chickie hesitated and his grin became a little sickly.

  “I honestly don’t see how he could, m’lady. And he couldn’t come back here anyway, ‘cos I’ve moved my stuff in and I rather like it.”

  “Uh huh.” Mirelle looked around at the common room. The room itself hadn’t changed but all the familiar faces were gone. She shuddered, sensing that something wasn’t right.

  “Why are you here, Chickie? Why aren’t you lurking over the other side of the river where it’s safe and easy?”

  “Can’t sit around waiting for the business to grow, m’lady, need to drive it forward. Seize the initiative, you might say.”

  “The ‘initiative’? What the fuck does that mean?” She stared at Chickie as he grinned at her and suddenly she had a bad feeling that she knew what was going on.

  “If I go to the Lighthouse, who will I find sitting in Artas’s seat? Artas?”

  Chickie shook his head slowly as he drew patterns in the spilt beer on the table.

  “Miss Gauward is running things now, m’lady, all neat and tidy, couple of my boys up there to keep her company.”

  “And with Fangfoss’s leash around her neck, no doubt,” muttered Mirelle, “who’s yanking him around, I wonder?”

  Chickie said nothing and the silence lengthened.

  “They always pay their tariff, up at the Lighthouse, but down here it was Wiens. I guess you’ll be paying me now instead, right Chickie? You’re late and nobody likes an overdue debt.”

  Chickie spread his arms apologetically.

  “All one gang now, m’lady, all North Enders. Fangfoss is your man for tariff payment.”

  Chickie leant forward, checking that they were not overhead.

  “Between you and me, I think Bay has other ideas about paying tariffs but maybe you can persuade him to be generous, maybe make a contribution to the city’s orphanage,” he said, sitting back again and raising a glass in mock salute, “good luck.”

  Mirelle sat for a few moments, looking at Chickie with narrowed eyes, then she stood up.

  “Honesty is all good and well, Chickie, but I can’t see this going down well. Not well at all.” Then she turned and walked out of the common room.

  Chickie waited a few more moments, just to make sure she wasn’t coming back, then he let out a deep breath and leant forward, resting his head on his hands for a few moments.

  “Bugger,” he said, under his breath, before standing and walking onto the street.

  Mirelle was standing with her fists on her hips looking down the street towards the river. As Chickie approached she turned back to face him, moving forward to stand right in front of him. She reached up and grasped his chin, turning his head then holding it so that he couldn’t look away.

  “I want the money, Chickie,” she hissed, “I�
��ll give you another chance, because I’m nice like that, but don’t let me down again. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  She released his chin and patted him gently on the cheek, then smiled at him before walking off down the street, back toward the bridge.

  At Trike’s, Mirelle walked straight in through the front door and climbed the staircase to the gallery. She didn’t bother knocking at Fangfoss’s door, partly because she wasn’t in the mood but mostly because she just didn’t care if she upset him by barging into some private gathering. Fangfoss, though, was alone, playing with a deck of cards and drinking wine. He waved at her as she came in.

  “Good day, m’lady,” he said, his voice slightly slurred, “let me pour you a drink.” He grabbed the bottle by the neck and sloshed a generous portion toward, and mostly into, an empty glass.

  “Whoops,” he said, wiping at the spilt wine with his sleeve and giggling.

  Mirelle sat down opposite him and took a sip from the glass.

  “Where’s the money, Fangfoss?”

  Fangfoss, still mopping at the table, swung his head round and looked at her.

  “Money? What money is that, m’lady?”

  “You’re late, Fangfoss, and I’ve just seen Chickie over at Wiens’ place and he’s late as well. What the hell’s going on?”

  He smiled the smile of the seriously drunk and waggled a finger at her.

  “Everything’s changing, Mirelle. Talk to Bay.”

  “Bay? This new partner you’ve acquired? You want me to talk to Bay about my money?”

  Fangfoss smiled at her again and spread his arms wide.

  “He’s got all the money. Talk to Bay, or kill him; those are the only options.”

  Mirelle looked at him, disgusted, as he filled his glass and took a deep drink.

  “I won’t forget this, Fangfoss.” She stood to leave and he saluted her with his glass.

  “Thanks for comin’ round, stay for a drink next time, yes?”

  Later that evening Mirelle was back at the Duke’s palace, waiting for an audience. She had changed her clothes again and was now the elegant lady of the court, a noblewoman waiting upon her Duke. Eventually the door to the Duke’s private study opened and Mantior beckoned her to come in.

  “Ah, Lady Mirelle, please take a seat,” said the Duke, who was sitting by the fireplace with a cup of coffee, “let me pour you a cup of this excellent coffee while you tell me all about the latest intrigues in my city.”

  Mirelle looked at Mantior, who shrugged, then took the seat next to the Duke and accepted the small cup of black coffee. It was hot and sweet and thick, a fashionable local version of the thinner Imperial drink that had recently fallen from favour with the Duke and his court; Mirelle hated it but she sipped it anyway.

  “A single Imperial, your grace, who may be an agent of the Emperor or could just be a former soldier thrown free from their never-ending wars. It seems he’s destroyed the Flank Siders, taken control of the Lighthouse and shaken up the North Enders. The Watch are worried.”

  “Just one man? You’re sure?” The Duke looked at Mantior, who nodded and said, “So it would seem.”

  “Well, I’m not sure we need to worry too much about a single man, do we? Maybe have a word with the Imperial Ambassador, find out who he is. If he’s going to be difficult then just get rid of him; I can’t imagine anyone will care that much, eh?”

  “And his activities with the gangs?” asked Mirelle, “Should we take any action there?”

  Mantior shifted in his seat.

  “It hardly seems necessary at the moment. I’ll talk to the Ambassador.”

  “That’s settled then. Now, I have a reception to dress for. Good evening.” The Duke stood quickly, bowed slightly to Lady Mirelle and left.

  Mirelle put down the coffee cup.

  “Bloody stuff,” she muttered, “I don’t think I’ll ever acquire a taste for it. The gangs aren’t paying their tariffs. Apparently I need to speak to Bay.”

  “Hmm,” said Mantior, finishing his coffee, “I find myself growing accustomed to the coffee. It has a certain elegance. Forget the gangs. Keep an eye on this Bay, let me know if he does anything noteworthy. If all he does is shake up the gangs then I can live with it and, in time, we’ll find a way to fold him into the arrangement.”

  “And if we can’t? If he resists?”

  Mantior spread his arms.

  “The beauty of the violent solution is that it’s always there, ever patient, ready to be used at a moment’s notice,” he said, standing up and smoothing his robes.

  “And in the meantime, let’s try to find a use for our Imperial friend, eh? Get their Ambassador to drop in for a visit; maybe he’ll be able to shed some light on the situation.”

  It was two days later that the Imperial ambassador, Lord Asigori, found his way to the palace for an audience with the Duke. They had met many times over the course of Asigori’s time in Vensille and there was a degree of respect between the two men even though they were, in almost every way, very different.

  Asigori stood patiently in the Duke’s gardens watching him fence with his current favourite, the Ethrani sword master Lojacono. The bout seemed to be going the Duke’s way but a sudden burst of aggression and speed from Lojacono gave him the point and the match.

  “Three to two that time, Master Lojacono,” said the Duke, and it was clear that he was frustrated to have lost the match, “but I think tomorrow I will beat you.” He pulled off the mask and tossed it to an attendant then removed his fencing jacket.

  “Possibly, your Grace, although your wrists are still too stiff and your footwork today was a little slow. That aside, an excellent bout.”

  The Duke raised an eyebrow at the criticism but said nothing. He sheathed his swords and walked over to where Lord Asigori was standing.

  “My commiserations, your Grace,” said Asigori in his deep and strangely accented voice, “I hope my arrival didn’t distract you?”

  The Duke laughed.

  “Hah. No, I hadn’t even noticed you were there until I took off the mask. Pity, I could have used a good excuse. Walk with me, Lord Asigori.”

  The Duke turned and led the way along the gravel path into the garden, leaving behind his attendants and guards.

  “It seems that one of your citizens has been causing a little trouble in the city,” said the Duke casually, picking fibres from his shirt.

  “An Imperial citizen? I can only apologise, your Grace. Do you have a name?”

  “He styles himself ‘Lord Bay’, although nobody knows if he really is a nobleman.”

  “Lord Bay? Your Grace is teasing me, surely.”

  The Duke frowned.

  “No, I don’t think so. ‘Lord Bay’ is the name he has been using. It seems he may have killed five people, although nobody seems to really know, and possibly more.”

  Now it was Asigori’s turn to frown.

  “‘Bay’ was the name used by a notorious traitor, your Grace, but he is rotting in prison awaiting transportation to an Imperial prison where he will doubtless spend the rest of his life. His name is infamous and no Imperial citizen would use it, not even as a joke, for fear of the taint. I’m afraid your man can’t be an Imperial citizen; maybe a fugitive from the northern kingdoms or someone from the south affecting an Imperial accent?”

  “Maybe,” said the Duke doubtfully.

  They walked a little further in silence.

  “You are sure that your man is still in prison?” asked the Duke eventually, “He couldn’t have escaped?”

  Asigori laughed, a deep booming laugh.

  “Oh yes, your Grace, you don’t need to worry about that. Nobody escapes from an Imperial prison.”

  “Yes, well. Your confidence is reassuring, Ambassador, but that leaves us with a mystery. Who is this ‘Bay’ and why is he here? Never mind, Mantior will sniff out the details. I’m sure we’ll know more within a few days. Now, let us talk of bandits and borders and other tedious affairs of state.”
/>   CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  KRANT SLEPT WELL for several hours as the drugged wine numbed his body and chased away the pain. As the drugs wore off in the small hours, the pain from his broken ribs grew steadily until every breath was difficult. Comfort ebbed quickly away until any movement provoked a sharp stabbing pain that defeated all attempts at sleep. The rest of the night was spent in dull agony, his brief periods of sleep punctuated by nightmares about dark alleyways peopled with toothless thugs inexplicably sporting large holes in their chests.

  By dawn the pain was unbearable and Krant was finding it difficult to breathe. A sudden bout of coughing brought blood to his lips and tears to his eyes and he struggled to hold back the screams he hadn’t the breath to make. The pain was so great that he couldn’t sit up so he just lay there, eyes closed, breathing shallowly. When he next opened his eyes Gavelis was standing over him, a concerned look on his face.

  “I think we need to get you some help, sir,” he said, “so I’m heading out into the town to find a doctor. I shouldn’t be long - the innkeeper has given me directions - so just lie still and don’t try to get up or walk around.” Krant boggled at the idea of standing in his current condition but drawing breath to speak sent sharp pains through his chest and all he could do was flap wordlessly at Gavelis with his hand.

  Gavelis nodded to him, concern showing on his face, then slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him as he went. Krant heard him clatter down the stairs then a door banged and the inn was quiet, the only sounds coming from the slowly awakening street. He lay still, listening to people on the street, to the creak of the inn’s walls, to his own laboured breathing. Was that a hint of bubbles he could hear from his chest? He closed his eyes again, trying to shut out the pain and breathing as little as he could.

  Later - an hour, maybe? - his eyes snapped open when he heard footsteps on the stairs and the murmur of low voices. He must have dozed off, he decided, but now he was awake and a sudden cough almost caused him to blackout as pain shot through his chest. He gasped, but that was painful as well.