by Remi Michaud
He tried to contact Kurin, tried sending out his thoughts so that he could talk to the old man, but to no avail. Either the man was ignoring him, or his own injuries had left him without the necessary concentration to accomplish the admittedly difficult feat. So he resigned himself to walking. One foot in front, then the other, until a call from Lieutenant Higgens caused Gaven to haul back on the tether as if Jurel was a misbehaving dog that had to be forcibly heeled.
His tent and cot were unceremoniously thrown to the ground in front him and shackled as he was, it took him until long after the sun was just a memory to get it set up. Foregoing the rickety cot frame, he pulled the thin palette into the corner and curled up for sleep. Someone brought him food, well a gray slop that might at least provide sustenance, but he could not even look at it.
That was how he spent his last days on the road: weary, bleary and aching from injuries that he could barely remember sustaining mingling with the fresher ones brought on by savage beatings—beatings that Gaven was not in too much of a hurry to put a stop to. On the morning of the third day, they crested a rise, and there before him, sprawling from the river to the forest far north and west, lay the greatest city in the world: Threimes.
It took his breath away. It left him stunned, and even wrapped in all his aches and exhaustion like a thick, sodden, woolen cloak, he could not help but gawk in wonder. Never in his wildest imaginings could he believe that something so vast existed. It was no wonder that Threimes City was so widely storied. It was no wonder that this city was acclaimed throughout the kingdom as the greatest city in existence.
In the center of the city and against the river, dozens of gleaming white towers rose capped in gold or bronze or slate, some fat and some so slender they seemed they must wilt under their own weight. Fanned around those spires were great palaces glittering in the pale light and even from this distance, Jurel could see valleys of green between the palaces: the play areas of the rich and powerful, tended to perfection by hordes of gardeners even at that time of year. Beyond those lay the lesser palaces of the merchant princes. Alone, any one of those would have seemed impossibly grand. Beside the houses of the nobility, they seemed small. Then came a mile's worth of stone and wood, brick and plaster. Buildings of all colors, most identifiable, some alien, were situated along streets that looked haphazard, a worm's maze of alleys and cobbles designed to confound would-be invaders. There was only one route that bucked that trend. From the southern gate, that they approached, right through the towering center of what had to be the royal compound and all the way to the north gate, there was a boulevard that ran straight as an arrow, that could have accommodated fifty mounted men abreast, lined with oak trees and cobbled with a silver stone that shone in the light. Around all this immense grandeur, a wall—Jurel estimated it at thirty or forty feet in height and perhaps half as thick—surrounded the entire city, maybe ten miles in length. Unimaginable! Every hundred paces or so, a turret rose from that wall, giving archers a nearly unassailable vantage from which to decimate anyone stupid enough to approach under arms.
They passed first through the outer city, a grubby conglomeration of huts and mud, that smelled of rotting wood and rotting food, churned mud and unwashed bodies that surrounded the wall like a country girl's skirt: the homes and hovels of the peasants. Muddy streets crowded by farmers and millers and laborers slowed their progress, though the peasantry was quick enough to move aside when they spotted the glint of armor and the tabards of black on crimson.
Twice, Jurel was jostled by street urchins who begged for alms even as they tried to pick his pockets and Gaven had to threaten them away with a rough voice and gauntleted fists.
He was almost too stunned to watch where he was going. Nothing, but nothing, could have prepared him for this. Even this shanty town, this outskirt, was huge, larger than any human habitation he had ever seen. Merris Town itself was no more than a sliver of wood to this forest of hovels and shacks and shops.
He heard merchants pawning their wares (the best in the world, of course) and he heard whores promising the best night of anyone's life for two coppers or three. He had never seen a whore as far as he could remember and it seemed to him that these were trying to rectify that grim injustice. A few tattered bits of lace less and he would see all of these women. Blushing he kept his eyes averted and he heard bawdy cackles and lewd suggestions when he did so. Underlying it all was a deep thrum, a hum like a bee hive that proclaimed that this city was alive and teeming with souls.
They barely paused when they reached the south gate that led into the city proper. Some ambitious soldier called out a less than heart-felt, “Who goes there?” but when Captain Salma tersely announced her name, soldiers wearing the golden lion on purple that was the king's standard leapt out of her way with hasty bows and hastier apologies.
Underneath the wall, Jurel revised his previous estimates. Not twenty feet thick. Thirty, maybe forty. And make that sixty feet high. He felt like he was in a cave. He could see light at the far end, an arched portal that led into the city proper but here, under the wall, everything was dark and every sound echoed eerily, hard and hollow. It gave him chills.
As soon as he stepped out from that man made cavern, he fell to his knees. He could not help it. It was all so...unreal. The broad avenue, paved in what he could now see was in fact silver, bore straight ahead through the heart of the city, wide enough that he could have played a game of kickball with his friends from the farm using each curb as an end of their field. Down the center, an aisle of greenest grass—even though it was still too early in the year for grass—and gargantuan oaks broke the road in half. On either side of the broad way, buildings rose, four, five and six stories, so it was as though they walked down the center of a wide ravine.
This road was sparsely populated. If he looked left or right, beyond the edges of the road, he could see people milling like ants, filling the side streets, but on this road, only the occasional troop of guardsmen walked and only the occasional highly adorned carriage bearing the crest of one noble family or another made their way. Even though he could hear the sounds of the city, a thunderous rumble that permeated the air and vibrated his bones, somehow on this road, all was quiet, calm.
Gaven, seeing Jurel's bewilderment, spoke to him for the first time in hours, spoke civilly to him for the first time in days.
“Very few people are allowed on the Kingsway,” he explained. “Only those who hold a writ from the king or the Grand Prelate are allowed to use this road.”
Understanding did not bring sense.
“But why? This is the main road through the city, right?”
“You see the buildings that line both sides?” Gaven gestured left and right. “They're the king's warehouses. Armories, foodstuffs, even pleasure palaces reserved for special guests. If you wish, think of all this as an extension of the king's own palace.”
They continued along the majestic road and up ahead, near the center of the city, Jurel began to make out another wall that cut across the road. Above the wall stood the highest spire he had ever seen, so high its golden cap seemed to graze the bottoms of the clouds.
“That's the king's palace,” Gaven grunted.
And then the walls of the ravine fell away. Directly ahead, across a huge square populated with marble fountains and ivory statues, Jurel could see the king's palace more clearly. Or at least, he could see the wall of the king's palace more clearly. A thousand paces it ran from end to end on the other side of the square and thirty paces high or more and all Jurel could see still was that slender finger of alabaster reaching to the heavens.
“This is where the nobility have their homes,” Gaven murmured as though anything louder would be an affront.
Along the edges of the square, more walls rose, though none so magnificent as the king's. Behind the walls, he could make out trees and behind the wrought gates of iron or silver or gold depending on the wealth and power of the owners, he could see outlines of palaces, glass glinting
like jewels, and more spires.
“There's an ongoing competition by the noble houses,” Gaven informed him. “They all try to build the highest tower. The only condition is that no tower may be taller than the king's. Some have tried to disobey that condition. They found that the king was most efficient in reminding them.”
“How?” Jurel had to know.
“It wasn't just the towers that lost their heads,” Gaven replied with a grim smile.
“Oh.”
Sickened, Jurel turned away and avoided looking at any more towers.
Halfway through the square, the remainder of the platoon angled right and their destination became apparent. A temple, easily the largest single building Jurel had ever seen (for he had not glimpsed the king's palace behind its walls and behind acres of woodland, gardens, and outbuildings) loomed high overhead. There was no wall around the temple; each flanking wing with its hundreds of windows and carvings rambling outward from behind the main temple were visible through stands of trees. He supposed that without walls, it was supposed to appear inviting to one and all, noble or peasant. Yet, it had a forbidding quality to it as if it looked down its nose at the population. A dozen snow white steps rose to the covered portico in which the main double doors stood closed, wide enough for ten men to cross without touching. The granite walls were as smooth as glass except for a row of gargoyles carved halfway up. Above the doors, the temple soared. A tall stain-glass window that depicted Gaorla, surrounded by His holy light, blessing the people dominated the front over the polished doors, and above that, the roof peaked with a slender spire rising even further on either side. Flying buttresses ran from the eaves to swoop elegantly to the ground far below.
Captain Salma led her platoon through a great courtyard and around the far side of the left wing where a smaller, far more humble door stood. The soldiers dismounted and grooms came scurrying out of nowhere to whisk the mounts away for food, water, and a good brushing. Salma motioned to Gaven and to another guard, this one with Kurin's leash, and she rapped at the pitted wooden door that blocked their further progress.
A small slide at eye level, flush with the door and almost hidden, shot open with a chock! and a pair of surly eyes stared out.
“Who is it, then?” a muffled voice came through the door, as surly as the disembodied eyes indicated.
“Captain Salma, Commander of the Second Grayson platoon arriving with prisoners,” she barked.
The slot snapped shut. A hesitation, a mere beating of his heart, and there came the sound of iron grating, chains dangling, a spring bolt sliding. The door opened into a gloomy hallway of stone and Jurel was shoved forward.
This was obviously an entrance for servants. The stone floor was pitted and uneven, the walls were bare and caked with ages old soot spewed up from the torches that lined the walls, spaced far apart, flickering, but not enough so that the hallway was well lit. Instead, it was as though they proceeded from island to island as they wended their way along countless hallways, around countless corners and down countless stairs.
A worm of fear began to inch its way into Jurel's mind, replacing the exhausted wonder as they progressed farther and farther in, farther and farther down. They had taken so many twists and turns that Jurel felt he could surely wander here for the rest of his days without ever seeing the outside world again. The worm of fear wriggled, turned into a snake.
They passed door after door, some gray and pitted with age, falling from their rusted iron hinges, others new and lacquered and solidly bolted to black straps of iron. They reached a door after who knew how long, and again Salma knocked.
Jurel glanced over at Kurin and the old man tried to reassure him with a smile. The smile was weak, barely more than a tremor of pursed white lips, and definitely did not convey much in the way of reassurance.
When this latest door was opened and Jurel was ushered through what appeared to be a small office, to descend yet another flight of stairs, the mood changed drastically. Where before the walls had been bare, rough but utilitarian, now the walls were ancient, and lines of mold, like black lichen draped them. The forlorn dripping of water echoed hollowly in the distance. The faint hiss of a single torch did nothing to alleviate the darkness.
Panic began to replace fear as they continued ever downward splashing through fetid puddles, seemingly toward the deepest pit in the underworld. Jurel began to get the feeling that was exactly where they were being led.
They came to a cross in the hallways and the group split into two, one leading Jurel and the other, leading Kurin. As they continued, Jurel thought he heard Kurin's voice, “Be strong my boy!” but he did not know if it was out loud or if the old man had flung the thought. Or perhaps it was no more than the imagination, spurred to a frantic gallop, of a petrified man grasping at straws.
They stopped in front of a low yet still imposing wooden door. A key rattled, and the door swung ponderously open with a resounding creak. In the light of a single torch carried by Salma, he saw a bare closet—he had no other word for it—that might allow him to stretch out flat, but only just. In one corner, a cracked clay pot sat in a puddle of some dark liquid. Jurel did not want to think about it. There was a pile of brown stuff that Jurel assumed had at one time been straw, and a tattered gray rag lay in a heap on top—his bed? Jurel cringed when the smell of piss and decay hit him like a wall of corpses.
Faint black trails marred the walls, like claw marks, and it took a moment for Jurel to realize that was exactly what he was looking at. Made by the previous tenant. Or the one before, perhaps. Someone had tried to dig their way through the stone walls. Someone had likely torn their nails off and worn their fingers to the bone.
A gruff voice behind him spoke out jovially, “Welcome home. I hope you enjoy our many comforts.”
With rough laughter ringing in his ears, a heavy boot caught him low in the back and propelled him forward. He crashed against the wall at the same time he heard the door shut. Spinning, he reached for the door just in time to hear the heavy iron bolt slide home with a clank that seemed to resonate with a frightening finality that rang like the bells of doom.
All was darkness.
He slumped down to the cold stone floor of his cell. He wept.
Chapter 57
Even though it was a cool autumn day, the chamber was hot and stuffy. Wood paneling, stained a deep, rich brown, like chocolate, surrounded the room. Where that ended, halfway up the wall, polished gray stone rose to the ceiling. When Gaven entered through the double doors, he walked down the center of the room on a dark red carpet the color of wine, reminiscent of congealing blood, between a dozen rows of benches, all of them filled with the cold, disapproving eyes of Soldiers of God. Some, he recognized from his own platoon, like Lieutenant Higgens and Captain Salma. Private Gershan was there, as surly as ever, and Private Dax snoozed with his head resting against his chest. Most of the rest, he did not recognize. Probably just sight-seers out to watch a Soldier drummed out of the corps, he thought bitterly. Or hung.
He passed through a narrow gate set in a low wall that separated the spectators from the participants and he approached the box on his left. Ahead of him, a tribunal of five senior officers sat behind a long table and watched his approach without expression. Over their heads hung portraits of some of the greatest leaders the Soldiers of God had ever had. There was General Malden, and General Griffen. He saw Colonel Hartness and General Tanthes. They all seemed to glare at him, convinced of his guilt. In the center, one more portrait hung, bigger than the rest by a long shot, of Grand Prelate Maten. His eyes were sad, as though whoever stood in Gaven's spot had to bear their master's disappointment in them.
He was dressed in his best uniform. His spotless, snow-white cape flowed like an icefall from his shoulders and his tabard was so diligently ironed that its black cross on red almost gleamed like armor. He wore no armor and for that he was excruciatingly grateful. He stood ramrod straight in the box reserved for those who had been charged with some
crime or other and he felt like he was one of those malformed unfortunates that were so popular in the traveling circuses and carnivals sprinkled across the land. Like the one his father had taken him to when he was a child. The one where he had watched the beast-man, for that was the most imaginative name his young mind had been able to conjure up, growling and prowling in his cage. All matted fur and hunched shoulders, the beast-man had terrified onlookers when he leapt at the bars in vain attempts to break free. He had shrieked in mock terror himself when the creature had reared up and roared his displeasure at the young man who threw a rotting apple core at him. The only difference between that box and this one, really, was the absence of bars on his.
He kept his eyes locked on the wall behind the row of seated officers and waited. He blinked the sweat from his eyes as discreetly as he could manage. He fought with fingers that seemed to no longer belong to him to keep them still at his sides. They would not move far anyway. Not with the heavy shackles that bound them.
This was the second time he stood in the box since they had arrived a week ago. The first was two days ago when the charges of gross negligence causing death were read to him. Evidence had been presented, and testimony had been heard. All of it quite damning. He would be lucky to escape with no more than a dishonorable discharge; he would be lucky to escape with his head.
Today was his day to present his defense and though he had spent his days in his cell—thankfully not a cell deep in the dungeon, but one reserved for those awaiting trial, a cell that had a window and regular meals—thinking long and hard on what he would say, he only had one option. He was guilty. He knew that. He could only hope that these men and women would see the depths of his remorse and would show clemency.