He dismissed the Right-Guardsman and began to re-fasten the clasps on his vest. Best not keep the lord waiting if he could avoid it.
・
Lord Perrile’s carriage was still on the road when Gallord-Smit arrived; he wondered if the lord had changed his mind and intended visiting the barracks tonight, or had other plans. He further wondered if those plans might involve him; Lord Perrile enjoyed exercising his authority over Lordsguard officers by requesting impromptu services, often of a type that did not properly fall into their areas of responsibility. The lord had once, to Gallord-Smit’s particular irritation, left orders for him to travel to a small village beyond the city outskirts simply to acquire a new tournament shield for his son, who dabbled in fencing with the rapier. Gallord-Smit should have been permitted to send one of his soldiers to perform the duty, but Lord Perrile had left town before Gallord-Smit could inform him of such. Since he couldn’t delegate responsibility for the task without informing the lord, Gallord-Smit had had no choice but to go himself. He was certain that the lord had done it in this way intentionally.
After enduring an extended entry greeting performed by the warder at Lord Perrile’s apartments (a formality which was not really needed with no one around to witness it, but which Lord Perrile insisted on), Gallord-Smit made his way up a long, winding stone staircase to the second floor. Another warder was already holding a large, arched door open for him to pass through, which Gallord-Smit did with a nod of thanks in the guard’s direction. No soldier enjoyed acting as personal warder to a lord, but it was an important part of the advancement process, one that even he himself had been forced to endure (with a different lord, thankfully).
Lord Perrile was in the room, sitting in a high-backed leather chair reading a book (or at least making the pretense; Lord Perrile was known to concern himself with appearances, even in dealing with military men). He stood when Gallord-Smit entered, particularly generous in the presence of a mere Front-Captain; evidently he was very pleased, indeed.
The lord was a tall man with sloped shoulders and long arms; he glided across the room more than walked. A firm-faced yet attractive man, he had recently changed the style of his greying hair—still showing some of the original black, but not much—to a short bowl cut. The moustache he sported, short and thin compared to Gallord-Smit’s, was nonetheless oiled and styled to precision. Gallord-Smit wondered if the lord had his aides perform the duty of styling it; he wouldn’t put it past the man.
“Smitty, it pleases this man to lay eyes upon you,” the lord said as he offered a wrist to be taken. The gesture was generally reserved for good friends, which they certainly were not, but Gallord-Smit accepted it with a smile, as he did the use of Lord Perrile’s nickname for him, which he didn’t like at all.
“Benevolence, it agrees with me greatly to see you well. Peaceful eve,” he added, with a bow as they unclasped wrists.
“And to you,” the lord said, already turning to sit back at his chair. He motioning for Gallord-Smit to take another, similar chair, which the old soldier did.
“Benevolence, before you begin, I must share unfortunate news,” Gallord-Smit said quickly.
“Is that so? Well, best see it done then,” the lord replied, with a hand motion to command that Gallord-Smit continue.
“It regards the young Somrian man, Benevolence. It turns out that he has extremely poor relations with his father, and cannot be expected to influence him at all. In fact,” he went on, aware that he was treading narrowly across the line separating fact from opinion, “he explained the reasoning behind their estranged relationship in detail to me, and I cannot help but agree that his presence may well be a detriment, should he join us in meeting with Commander-General Sherzi.”
The lord pondered for a long moment, chewing his lower lip. “Unfortunate,” he said finally. “Of course I trust your judgement in this matter, Front-Captain. Nevertheless, I think he should join us on the trip. Even should he not be visually present, he could still be of use as an advisor in dealing with his father.”
Gallord-Smit ignored the inference, that the boy could be made to eavesdrop on the negotiations and give inside advice on the Commander-General’s tactics. Such behavior, while considered dishonorable among military officers, was not unheard of when dealing with lords. Gallord-Smit often wondered how many wars could be averted by having military officers attend negotiations instead of lords, to ensure that the appropriate level of respect was shown to the other party.
“I asked the young man if he would attend us as an advisor, in anticipation of your desire, Benevolence. I hope I did not overstep my bounds . . ?”
Lord Perrile shook his head and waved his hand in dismissal. “And?”
“He declined, Benevolence.” Gallord-Smit pursed his lips to express disappointment, though he truly did not wish to place the boy in such an awkward position, after hearing his unfortunate tale.
Lord Perrile replied precisely as Gallord-Smit had expected. “So simply order him to attend. As you well know, Smitty, Lord’s Law is clear in that a resident is a citizen with all the rights and responsibilities therein. And,” he added somewhat triumphantly, “the boy has lived in Benn’s Harbour for far longer than a moon, earning a living the entire time, has he not?”
“True, Benevolence,” Gallord-Smit answered smoothly. “However, I would suggest that it would unwise to command him in this manner. His bitterness concerning his father is quite intense, involving the death of his sister. Placing such a demand upon him may well make his advice unreliable.”
“If you are suggesting he would intentionally mislead me, you should advise him in turn that doing so would constitute treason, and result in execution,” Lord Perrile said coldly.
Gallord-Smit nodded. “Indeed, he likely would be aware of this, considering his background, Benevolence. I do not believe this concern would hamper him, but rather, he might mislead you in ways we could not identify. It is simply, in my humble opinion, an unwise gamble without his willing cooperation,” he concluded carefully.
Lord Perrile’s eyes narrowed as he listened to Gallord-Smit words. He continued to study the Front-Captain for a moment after he finished. At last, he nodded.
“Again, I respect your views greatly, my old friend. And so I will abide by your advice. Leave the boy out of it, for now. But let me append that statement with another,” he said slowly, leaning forward to fixedly gaze at Gallord-Smit. “If our negotiations fail and we end up at war, that boy will be drafted as a wartime advisor, and he will cooperate to the best of his ability, or be put to the stake.”
Gallord-Smit nodded quickly. “Of course, Benevolence.”
10 CONVERGENCE
Half the evening had passed since the Proselyte’s visit. With a new sense of fortitude, Sayri had been practicing the meditative techniques he had taught her, in the hope that it would allow her to access the inner voice more often. So far it hadn’t made a difference, but Sayri was feeling driven now; she didn’t know what the future had in store for her—perhaps she had no future at all—but somehow the inner voice had become a focus—no; a need. She was aware that it may well be desperation that drove her so, but she didn’t care. At least she was no longer caught up in the throes of anguish. It was better to be positive about something!
She heard the latch being drawn, and the door to her cell opened; a warder stepped to the side, and Sayri saw another man standing before the door. His uniform suggested to her that he was a high ranking officer; certainly more important than the Right-Guardsman who had arrested her and brought her here. She also deduced his higher rank from the way he held himself; he stood straight, but casually so, with his hands clasped behind his back as though he feared nothing. His scalp was completely shaved, which Sayri generally found unattractive, but the shape of his head presented a blockish strength that suited him. He also sported a large moustache, popular among the military and officials in Benn’s Harbour. It was heavy and twisted downward, lending him a solemn air.
“Peaceful eve, young lady,” he said with a slight bow. His voice was smooth and he spoke gently, but somehow it carried well.
“Peaceful eve, young man,” Sayri replied with a curtsey. She had been granted little grace from her jailers, and though she was apprehensive of his reasons for being there, she appreciatively returned the gesture.
“I am Front-Captain Pilaeos Gallord-Smit,” he added with another bow, this one slightly deeper. “Might I accept the honour of addressing you by your given name?”
“Of course, Front-Captain,” Sayri said, slightly abashed by his etiquette. He, after all, outranked her socially by a substantial gap, and was not required to address her so.
“A kindness. Sayri, I am here to escort you to be judged by Lord Perrile,” he said, then he paused, no doubt expecting a reaction.
Sayri chose not to display one. Since meeting with the Proselyte, she had been mentally preparing herself for this. If the inner voice chose to guide her, she would open herself to it; if not, she would face her coming fate with courage and grace. She had had enough of being a terror-stricken little girl; if she was to go to her death, she had decided, it was time to do so as a woman.
The Front-Captain showed no reaction to her calm, though it must have surprised him; he simply nodded and stepped to the side, motioning for her to exit the cell, which she did.
The guard fell in behind her, though Gallord-Smit did not command him to do so. The trip was short and uneventful, passing down a short hallway and up a flight of stone stairs. Beyond the heavy iron-bound door at its summit, she was led through a large gallery made entirely of stone blocks, with vertical shafts and ribbed arches towering overhead supported by columns wider than a man’s outstretched arms.
The gallery was decorated every ten paces or so with stone statues of warriors, all men, of varying ages. Sayri wasn’t a student of history, having learned only the stories and legends that her parents knew to teach, but the weaponry and armor types seemed to be quite ancient.
When the Front-Captain stopped to face a large archway, Sayri suddenly became self-conscious about her appearance. She had been brought a wash basin every evening, and had cleaned herself, despite the lack of curtains for the window (though since she had no lamp in her cell, she doubted any men outside would have seen much if they had been standing right before it). But she had been given no soap for her hair, which had devolved into short, straggly, black cords, and her clothes . . . they didn’t stink, but that was about all she could say for them. She made an attempt to smooth her dress down, and pulled her hair back behind her ears as she turned to face the direction the Front-Captain was looking.
“Lord Perrile, I have brought the prisoner for your examination,” Gallord-Smit said formally.
Sayri could see into the room, and gaped; it was a sitting room of a sort of extraordinary luxury she had never looked upon. A lush red rug covered the floor, embroidered intricately, which was so thick it seemed impossible to clean under. The walls were covered with books; more than she had imagined existed. At first they seemed to be floating, but then she saw thin shelves holding them; the wood must have been very strong. There were three chairs in the room, all made of leather and the colour of blood, one much larger than the others, which looked comfortable enough to sleep on.
The unfathomable luxury of the room before her was such that she stood gawking at it for ten seconds before her attention snapped to the man standing in the room as he spoke.
“I would seem the young lady has an eye for fine artifice,” he said. Now that her attention was drawn, she saw that he was tall and grey-haired, with a small mustache and intense eyes. His clothing was also of a type such as she had never witnessed, save for brief glances inside passing carriages on the streets on the city. The black vest he wore had a dull sheen to it, and the fabric was unrecognizable; his billowing pants appeared to be made of some sort of extremely fine cloth that she did not know.
Not knowing what to do, and certainly not about to speak, Sayri curtseyed deeply.
“This is Sayri of Vollori and Davoy, born in the Lower Valley. She stands accused of murder, in the case of the reeve of that land, a lordsman. Kneel, girl,” he said, glancing back at her.
Surprised by the suddenly harsh tone of his voice, Sayri lapsed for a moment, blinking. She felt a hand on her shoulder—the guardsman who had followed her—pressing downward. She fell to her knees, eyes downcast.
The lord spoke quickly, without any attempt at formality; if anything, Sayri imagined he sounded impatient. “Did you kill my man, Sayri of Davoy?”
Without looking up, Sayri answered. “Yes, lord.”
“Have you anything further to say, having admitted to this crime?” She heard his footsteps now; he was approaching her. After a moment, Sayri saw his shoes; they were finely polished leather with argent buckles, curving to a slightly raised point directly facing her, as if accusingly.
Sayri’s heart caught in her throat; despite her intent to stay calm and focused, memories of that night filled her again, and she struggled to maintain control of eyes that threatened to tear. “He raped me, lord,” she said. It sounded so . . . simple.
He had raped her. She, Sayri, had been raped. It was simply act, one that any man might have done. What was she, that such a thing could be done to her?
“Yes, I imagined that might have been the case,” Lord Perrile said, standing over her now. “I’m so very sorry to hear of your suffering, child. If you had not killed him, I would have seen him punished, I assure you. He certainly would have seen a dock in pay.”
Sayri’s eyes involuntarily drifted up to his face, only an arms reach from hers, now. A dock in pay? “He was the reeve for my family,” she muttered nonsensically, too stunned to think clearly.
“Yes, you’re quite right,” the lord said, stroking his moustache. “That will mean a loss of income as I seek out a new man for his post. And with your loss as well, the farm’s production will likely drop. Especially considering the poor winter. Did your family survive, do you know?”
Sayri stared at him. What was he talking about? “He—he was the village reeve,” she said again. She didn’t comprehend what he was talking about. Had he asked if her family survived? How would she know that, hiding in Benn’s Harbour for a year? Wouldn’t he know, being the lord of that land?
“No matter; now he is dead, by your hand,” the lord was saying. “Traditionally that would mean a death sentence, being that he was a lordsman, and you a vassal.”
“A vassal,” Sayri said; she had thought it as a question, but it came out a statement.
Lord Perrile nodded, then turned to pace away from her, his hands clasped behind his back. Sayri noticed that he wore a ring on one of his fingers, quite large and gold in colour. She had heard that lords wore rings used to mark letters with their seal, but she had never seen one, or even a marked seal. She wondered how many coins it would take to buy a ring like that. A hundred? A thousand?
“Front-Captain, how much do you imagine so stunning a young creature as this would bring in the slave markets?” he asked, turning to Gallord-Smit.
“I wouldn’t know, Benevolence,” Gallord-Smit replied somewhat cautiously. “I do not attend such auctions.”
Slavery was officially against the law in the Lords’ Lands, but slave markets operated on the fringes of all the larger cities. The lords were unmotivated to shut down the trade, since it presented substantial profit for them in export tax, all slaves being shipped to other lands. Only criminals were ever sold as slaves; most were passed to the slave merchants by lords in lieu of execution, to recoup lost income.
“A hundred at least, or more, if we clean up her face,” Lord Perrile said. “See to it, Smitty.”
“Benevolence?”
The lord stood in the centre of the luxurious sitting room, frowning at Gallord-Smit. “Have her auctioned at the market, and bring me the proceeds. Are you satisfied with that duty, Front-Captain?”
Gallord-Smi
t gritted his teeth. “As is your desire, Benevolence.” He turned on his heel and left the room.
Sayri remained kneeling on the cold stone floor until the guard lifted her to her feet, then allowed him to guide her down the hallway after the Front-Captain.
She was numb.
・
The Front-Captain led Sayri and her accompanying guard back to her cell. The door was still open, so Sayri walked in without being told. She still felt detached. She was to be sold into slavery? She had never heard of such a thing, had believed it only occurred in barbarian lands, perhaps only beyond the White River. Surely not in the lands ruled by the Lord’s Council . . ? She felt like she had been transported to a different world, one where the rules she had always lived by didn’t exist.
“Young lady . . . I must ask you if you have any last requests,” Gallord-Smit said ruefully.
“Last requests?” Sayri asked, shaking her head in confusion.
“To send word, or see someone, perhaps?” he suggested, his voice gentle and rasping. The door to her cell was still open, and he was standing in the doorway, as if reluctant to close it.
“I had imagined that courtesy would only be offered if scheduled for execution,” Sayri whispered absently.
“Yes, but . . . you would be unlikely to see any of them again. Word to your family, perhaps? I could send it myself,” he offered.
“My family?” Sayri repeated. No . . . it would only cause them pain. “No, Front-Captain,” she said, speaking more firmly. “That would be unkind, to have a warder deliver such a message to them.” She shook her head. “No, no last requests.”
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 11