The Invisible Chains - Part 1: Bonds of Hate (Dark Tales of Randamor the Recluse)

by Andrew Ashling

  “Do the Gronnicks have difficulty in honoring their financial obligations?”

  “Not until recently. But since the last harvest things went downhill. They have had to dip into their reserves for months to make the payments on time because not enough money is coming in. Even with their son Bortram sending most of his pay home.”

  “They had a bad harvest?”

  “No, not at all. In fact, you could call it an abundant one. But so was everybody else's. Ormidon is their main area of distribution, and produce was overflowing the market in such quantities that prices plummeted. They barely broke even. As far as we can estimate, at the going rate their financial reserves will be depleted in about three to four months. At that time the firm will foreclosure. For them it's a golden opportunity. Twenty eight years ago the land wasn't developed and now it is. They received payments all those years and in a few months they will own the land and be able to sell it for at least seven times what it was worth initially.”

  “No wonder banks get rich. I should tell this to my friend Merrick, but he probably would be mad at me for thinking him capable of such highway robbery.”

  “Merrick, My Lady?”

  “Never mind. An acquaintance of mine.”

  “Is it really necessary for both of us to be here, Landemere?” Obyann grumbled. “I'm freezing my ass off.”

  “Since it's the first one, I thought it best we welcomed him together. Besides the others aren't arriving for another week, so it will be just the three of us until then. Better to start off on the right foot,” Arranulf answered. “We could go wait in the sentinel house, if you want. I'm sure the guards won't mind. Or we could wait in the antechamber of the tower.”

  They were standing on the inner court yard, wearing their brand new uniforms. Black boots, gray pants, dark red tunics with the dragon crest above their hearts and matching, fur lined mantles.

  As luck would have it their wait was a short one. A wagon, driven by an ancient servant, entered the gates. A young man descended, looked doubtfully at his surroundings and sighed resignedly. His face was longish, with big gray eyes that gave him the look of a puppy whose food bowl has just been snatched away from him, and a sensitive mouth that seemed permanently about to quiver. The effect was reinforced by his lank, brown hair that fell upon his shoulders and his small, slender stature.

  “They're sending us children, Landemere,” Obyann said. “Just look at him. He's twelve if he is day. We're not head pages, we're baby sitters.”

  “He does seem a bit on the small side, doesn't he?” Arranulf assented. “Come, let's go and greet him.”

  They went over to the wagon.

  “Hi, I'm Arranulf, and this young man with the cheerful look on his face is Obyann. We are the head pages. Welcome at Lorseth.”

  Obyann snorted loudly.

  “I am Radyamirodyahendo of Eldorn,” the boy said morosely.

  “Kid, what I just heard was Ra-blah-blah-blah-o,” Obyann said.

  “Oh, nobody can remember that. Everybody calls me Rahendo.”

  He turned to the servant who was taking a chest from the wagon.

  “Tell Alanda, Volunda, Tyrenda, Chulonda and Berninda that I already miss them.”

  “Now, you take care of yourself, young master,” the servant said before mounting the driver's seat.

  It seemed for a moment Rahendo would start crying, when he saw the cart make a turn and driving out of the gates.

  “Who were all those women you already miss?” Arranulf asked, in an honest effort to cheer up the little guy. “Your girlfriends, I bet.”

  “My sisters. I have five older sisters.”

  “By the Gods, I suppose we should be glad you didn't arrive in a dress then,” Obyann quipped.

  Rahendo gave him a dirty, sorrowful look.

  “You're mean,” he said accusingly, pointing at him with his right hand, which had a ring on each finger, the thumb included.

  “Yes, he is. Yes, he is,” Arranulf laughed. “He is our local meany. But his bark is worse than his bite.”

  Obyann snorted. Arranulf laid his hand on Rahendo's shoulder.

  “Come, we must go notify the administration that you have arrived. Then we will help you carry your chest to the page's barracks. After that we go to the seamsters to have you measured for your uniform. I couldn't help noticing that you seem to like rings, by the way.”

  “Oh, these?” Rahendo said spreading the fingers of his right hand and waving them in Arranulf's face. For the first time he smiled. “My sisters all wanted to give me a go away present. They didn't tell each other, and by accident they all happened to buy me a ring. I couldn't disappoint them, of course. We had them fitted for each finger so that I can wear them all at the same time.”

  “And at the same hand?”

  “Oh yes, there would be endless discussions why I wore certain rings on my left hand and some on my right hand. Besides, I told all of them that they are my favorite sister.”

  “All of them? What if they talk to each other? Wouldn't you be in big trouble if they found out?”

  “No, I also said to each of them that I said to all of them that they are my favorite, so as not to make the others jealous, but that they are really my favorite. See?”

  “Hm. I think so.”

  “So, this one on my thumb is from Alanda, the oldest, and then Volunda, Tyrenda, and Chulonda. The one from Berninda, the youngest, I wear on my pinky.”

  “You're so lucky you haven't got eleven sisters.” Obyann laughed out loud at his own dubious witticism.

  The two others gave him a blank stare.

  “You're mean,” Rahendo stated again, accusingly, pointing a ringed finger at him and giving him a gloomy look.

  “Yes, he is. Yes, he is,” Arranulf bellowed. “He is the meanest meanie there ever was. He is the king of Meanland.”

  “Cut it out, you two. By the Gods, can't you take a joke, kid?” Obyann grumbled. “I'm surrounded by simpletons. By the nine horns of Zardok, you make that mean lowlife Ruldo look like a genius, and he's too stupid to find his own ass in broad daylight with both his hands.”

  Hemarchidas had arrived in the early afternoon of the second of January at Ormidon. He had left most of his men in an inn at the outskirts of the city. He had also left the horses there, and with only two companions he entered the capital on foot. He made his way directly to Anaxantis's notary.

  After having explained his problem, the notary sent an underling to the Public Records. He returned in less than an hour with all the information Hemarchidas had asked for. Never having been one to let matters linger, he then immediately went to the offices of the moneylenders. Before he left he gave the notary a small piece of parchment with names he wanted to have investigated. Anaxantis hadn't asked for this, but Hemarchidas saw no reason to waste this chance to make sure there were no other weak points in their little circle.

  “So this is what is going to happen,” Hemarchidas said. “You are going to write a polite letter to Bortram Gronnick senior, explaining that due to a clerical error he has been paying slightly more than he should have, all these years. In fact, his loan is by now more than paid in full, and you will return the sum of two moltar twenty four sarth to him. I am authorized to give the bank of the prince instructions to pay you the outstanding debt in full, and the two moltar twenty four sarth, immediately. His royal highness wants this done promptly and very discreetly.”

  “This is all highly irregular, my dear sir,” Burd Nordill, the head of Nordill, Nordill and Haven, moneylenders, said.

  “Yes, I understand that. Look at it this way. Do you really want his royal highness to take an interest in your firm? By the way, have you heard what happened in Landemere?”

  Yes, Nordill had heard what had happened in Landemere, and no, he didn't wish this royal hoodlum to take an interest in him, nor in his firm. His lips laboriously curled into something vaguely resembling a weak smile.

  “Nordill, Nordill and Haven will be all too glad
to be of service to his royal highness of course. If you would be so kind as to return tomorrow. Meanwhile I'll have everything prepared.”

  “Thank you kindly, master Nordill, but when I said that his royal highness wants this done promptly, I meant as in now, immediately, this very instant. I trust this is no inconvenience to you?”

  “Eh, no, no,” Nordill hastily said. “I'm sorry, I didn't realize the urgency of the matter. Please, make yourself comfortable while I give instructions to my people to draft the necessary documents.”

  It was already dark when Hemarchidas left the offices of Nordill, Nordill and Haven, moneylenders. Burd Nordill sighed. This damned business had taken a few hours, and now there was nothing else for it than to finish the work he had been planning to do that afternoon.

  He had been at it for about an hour, when he heard some strange noises. He was under the impression that by now all his people had left for the night, and he should be alone in the house. Obviously that wasn't the case.

  He was about to go and look who was still at work this late, when the door opened and three men, clad in black and with scarfs wound around their head, that left only their eyes free under their hoods, entered his study. Two of them forcefully pushed him back in his chair.

  “Master Nordill,” the third one, somewhat stockier than the others, said, “I've come to talk to you about a certain farmer in Great Tracthon, to who your firm lent some money twenty eight years ago.”

  To his surprise, Burd Nordill recognized the voice as that of a woman. Who had ever heard of women burglars? But, then again, this weren't just ordinary burglars.

  “You're the second party that's interested in that particular transaction,” he said trembling.

  “The second party? Explain, man. Quickly,” the woman said, brandishing a knife under his nose.

  Burd Nordill explained in short, stilted sentences what had happened that afternoon. The woman seemed to ponder his words.

  “And you are certain that this man was sent by prince Anaxantis? Not the king?”

  “No, no, I swear. I'm certain. He had the documents to prove it. From the prince, from his bankers...”

  “You are not confusing the name with that of one of the other princes. Prince Tenaxos for example?”

  “No, lady, no. The man reminded me of what happened in Landemere and said I didn't want the prince to take an interest in me or my firm. And I agreed with him. Wholeheartedly.”

  Again the woman remained silent, this time for quite a while.

  “What is to keep you from reneging on this agreement,” she finally asked.

  “Everything. The man has taken all the documents with him, including the one that has to be registered at the offices of the Public Records. Which he will undoubtedly do himself, first thing tomorrow. Another parchment, duly signed and sealed, and a cash amount of two moltar twenty four sarth, will be delivered tomorrow by special courier at the farm of the Gronnicks. I wouldn't be surprised if he were to do that himself as well. I swear, there is nothing I can do about this anymore.”

  For the third time the woman fell silent. Burd Nordill looked at her anxiously.

  “Can we take the risk?” Sobrathi thought. “Anaxantis has evidently seen the danger and taken action. Emelasuntha is going to be so proud of him. But master Nordill was just a little bit too forthcoming. What if Tenax's agents smell a rat and come to interrogate him? Or if he starts blabbering all by himself. He could come to regret his decision and try to reverse it, no matter how much he is protesting to the contrary now.”

  “This must be your lucky day, master Nordill,” Sobrathi said after a long silence. “It seems you are going to see the sun rise once again. It would of course be best that you forgot all about our friendly little chat.”

  “Lady, as far as I am concerned this business is finished for once and all time, never to be mentioned again,” he replied, his voice relieved, but still a little shaky.

  She made a sign and one of the two men who stood behind him planted a knife in the banker's heart.

  There was just enough time for a surprised look to appear on his face.

  “Torch the place and let's get out of here,” Sobrathi said evenly.

  “You're saying that the land is mine and fully paid for?” Bortram Gronnick senior asked unbelievingly.

  “Oh, yes, and this document is the proof. A clerical error, you see. Happens more than you would think. You have been paying too much all these years. You have the profound apologies of Nordill, Nordill and Haven. I also have the deed of your land here. Might I suggest that you take good care of both documents?”

  Hemarchidas handed Gronnick both documents and a small purse.

  “The amount you overpaid. Two moltar and twenty four sarth.”

  The farmer looked at him in disbelief.

  “This is by far the best news I have got in years,” he said. “I'll give the documents for safe keeping to our notary, right this afternoon. Oh, and I must go and visit the scribe at the village and dictate a letter to tell my oldest son the good news. He serves in the Army of the North, you know. Is making a career for himself too, I gather. He has been sending most of his pay to help us, these last months. I can't thank you enough, sir.”

  “No thanks necessary. I'm only the messenger,” Hemarchidas answered.

  By late afternoon he was back at the offices of the prince's notary.

  “Something very strange happened this night,” the notary said in a noncommittal voice. “It seems the offices of Nordill, Nordill and Haven burned down. The charred remains of Burd Nordill were found among the still smoking debris. Quite a coincidence, wouldn't you say?”

  Hemarchidas paled.

  “Nothing to do with me, honestly,” he said.

  “No, of course not, nor was I implying anything of the sort. You will remind the prince that I am his highness's humble and loyal servant, won't you?” It sounded a bit sarcastic. “Just to make sure.”

  “I most certainly will,” Hemarchidas replied uncomfortably and confused.

  “Well then, the other persons you asked me to investigate. You'll be happy to learn that about your good self and your friend, master Lethoras Demaxos, nothing is known in the official records. As far as they are concerned you don't exist. I suspect that is exactly how you like it. The other two, well... Master Tomar Parmingh is a bright legal mind and should have been someone important by now. However he seems to be a royal pain in the backside, and he is now stationed in the Northern Marches. Buried there, I should have said, together with his once promising career. That's what you get for antagonizing your superiors with such trifles as the truth. Especially when you insist on throwing it into their face. Both his parents are dead, and until some ten months ago he was supporting his younger brother, Landar Parmingh, at that time eighteen years old. That is, until he disappeared.”

  “What do you mean, disappeared?”

  “Exactly that. One morning he was still there, and then when master Tomar returned home that evening, he wasn't anymore. The records show that he went to the city guards the next day to report that his little brother went missing. Not much was made of it. After all the young man was eighteen and could have left for any number of reasons.”

  “And he was never found?”

  “No, and neither did he return. Went up in thin air, you might say.“

  The notary waited a few moments, in case his guest had some additional questions.

  “Then sir Iftang Busskal,” he continued, when there came none. “Only son and heir of sir Maldar Busskal, hereditary knight. The family was elevated to the baronetcy under the previous dynasty, but failed to pay the enrollment until now. Sir Maldar and sir Iftang are barely on speaking terms. The quite extensive estate of the family is gradually diminishing as Sir Maldar finds it necessary, from time to time, to sell plots of lands to remain liquid. Since about a decade his debts are so important that foreclosure is around the corner. Yet every time he seems to manage to come up with just enough money
to prevent that from happening. Nobody is really sure where it is coming from however, and the sales of land barely pay for sir Maldar's irresponsible life style.”

  “Isn't he a bit young to be a general already?,” Hemarchidas asked.

  “No, not really. Granted, he is a bit green, but he is not that young. He is in his thirties and his command is a very minor one. Two hundred and fifty men, if I am correct. In a regular army, a unit like that would be commanded by a first captain. He only got the rank because the Army of the North is so tiny, and everybody else who came into consideration for the commission declined as fast and forcefully as they could. For sir Iftang the distance it put between him and his father was just another benefit.”

  “I see,” Hemarchidas said.

  “In other words, I managed to eliminate one vulnerability, but it appears there are two others. We must find out what exactly happened to Tomar's little brother and what is the mysterious source of money of the Busskals.”

  “About the two Cheridonians we could find nothing,” the Master of the House said to Sobrathi. “That's mainly because the Cheridoni tribe isn't subject to Ximerion. Officially they're guests of the crown, an independent people, that has a valley in permanent loan as long as they abide by the treaty. Neither Hemarchidas Landrastis, nor Lethoras Demaxos made any waves before they befriended the prince. So, literally nothing is known about them.”

  “Damn,” Sobrathi said, “we can't infiltrate the Cheridoni tribe, but then again it's highly unlikely that they would be very vulnerable if they never before left their tribal surroundings.”

  “I would tend to agree, my lady. However, the same can not be said about the others. First general Iftang Busskal. Ancient, but minor nobility. If they would be prepared to pay the fee for the enrollment, they could claim a baronetcy. But that's just it, they won't because they can't. The House is in dire financial straits, due to unwise investments and a spendthrift sir Busskal senior. They have sold several tracts of land but that is barely sufficient to keep the creditors at bay. He is in his early thirties, and he is the sole inheritor of what in all likelihood will be nothing but debts.”