The Dread Wyrm

by Miles Cameron

  Even de Vrailly caught the clear implication. For de Vrailly to fight Ser Gerald would make a laughing stock of the whole matter. And would be tantamount to the King declaring himself on the side of the accuser.

  It was a calculated risk. And while the King’s face clouded over, and his temper boiled, Ser Gerald’s knees shivered, and he had trouble keeping his feet, or keeping the bland indifference that would be most hurtful to the King’s Galles on his face.

  But Gerald Random had been scared many times. And he reminded himself that if he died in the lists defending the Queen, nothing about it would touch the horror of Lissen Carak and the things trying to eat him while he was alive.

  He crossed himself.

  De Rohan shrugged. “Of course, if you are afraid,” he said, but the words fell flat. Even de Vrailly looked at him as if he was some sort of worm.

  Mistress Anne nodded. “And you have a licence? From the church?” she asked in a low voice.

  The King’s face was bright red. “What licence do I need, sirrah?” His voice implied that she was a fool.

  Mistress Anne curtsied. “Saving your grace’s pardon,” she said. “My husband is a clerk.”

  The King looked at the Archbishop of Lorica.

  He glanced at his secretary. The man writhed a moment. And then whispered in his master’s ear.

  “This council is dismissed,” the archbishop said after a long look from the King.

  Strong hands gripped Random’s arms. He didn’t struggle—he knew he’d failed. Even if they didn’t send him to fight for the Queen.

  “Your grace!” he called. “These men are trying to bring down your kingdom!”

  “Silence!” shouted de Rohan. “Your audience is at an end.”

  “They lie, your grace!” Random shouted. He had a loud voice. “A fabric of lies. They have sent all your good men from court and now they ride you like a horse!”

  By his left side, one of de Rohan’s men said to the guardsmen, “Take them somewhere they can enjoy his grace’s hospitality.”

  “We are here under your grace’s safe conduct!” Random bellowed. But the King had left the chamber, and de Rohan stood by the throne.

  “Enjoy the next few hours,” de Rohan said with an easy smile. “They are my gift to you.”

  Hard hands dragged Random and Mistress Anne from the chamber, and down the first steps—past the laundry, and towards the dungeons.

  The archbishop’s secretary was always on a tight schedule, and he left the palace late, wearing a plain brown robe like a mendicant friar, and went down into the town with two of his master’s guards.

  Outside the gate was a large crowd of Harndoners.

  “Master,” whined one of his guards. “We can’t go out in that. They’ll rip us apart.”

  The learned doctor looked from one scared face to another. Since he knew—few better—what excesses these men were capable of, he was always surprised at the extremity of their cowardice.

  Nor was Maître Gris without resources of his own. He puffed out his cheeks. “Very well,” he said. “You may bravely guard the palace. I’ll go have a cup of wine.” He shoved one of them in the chest.

  The man, startled, backed up. “What the hell!”

  “Now knock me down,” Maître Gris said. “And then go back inside.”

  The man gave him a gap-toothed grin that lacked any pleasure—and hit him quite hard.

  Maître Gris lay on the cobbles until the throbbing subsided, and picked himself up. An old woman—a crone, really—used her cane to help him up, and he blessed her automatically.

  “God’s curse on them Galles,” she said.

  Maître Gris joined the crowd. He moved with it for a while, gathering comments that his master might use, and then slipped away into the city.

  The Angel Inn sat behind Sail Maker’s Lane in Waterside, just a few big buildings away from the Oar House. The inn was a fortress in miniature, with four linked buildings around a central court; balconied and walled in wood facing inward. In high summer, troops of players, minstrels, vagabonds, troubadours, mimes and acrobats would perform in the courtyard, and the inn, despite the unsavoury reputation of the neighborhood, had a fine reputation for food and for drink. Sailors and their officers frequented the place, and so did soldiers.

  Maître Gris was the only monk. But he had nowhere to change into another disguise, nor were itinerant friars so very rare in taverns. He sat at a common table for a while, listening.

  Buildings had been burned in the neighbourhood. The local men were outraged, and Maître Gris knew in half an hour that his life would be forfeit if they knew he was a Galle. He began to regret coming; their hatred was so inveterate that it sickened him, and he had to listen to an endless litany of hate.

  He was a thoughtful man. He considered the hate that his master was brewing. The wine was terrible, the beer excellent.

  “Are you by any chance looking to hire a scribe?” said a man.

  He was tall, had grey-brown hair and wore a good green wool pourpoint and a brown and green cloak. He wore an elegant black wool hood trimmed in miniver and he threw it back as he sat.

  He was not at all what Maître Gris had expected. He did not have missing teeth, nor scars, nor a squint.

  “You are…?” Maître Gris began.

  The man also wore a fine black-hilted baselard long enough to serve as a sword. “At liberty,” he said pleasantly.

  With the Oar House so close, the Angel did not run to slatterns or whores, and the man who waited on them was short, pudgy, and might have been cheerful if he had not just lost his older brother to the Galles.

  “Yer foreign,” he spat accusingly at the well-dressed newcomer.

  “I am from the Empire,” said the man. He bowed.

  “Not a fuckin’ Galle?” the boy said.

  The newcomer’s pronunciation and accent could not be hidden. “No,” he said pleasantly. “I am from the Empire.”

  The serving boy jutted his jaw. “Say somethin’ in Archaic.”

  The man spread his hands. “Kyrie Eleison,” he said. “Christos Aneste.”

  The boy made a face. “Right enough, I suppose. What can I fetch you, Master?”

  “Dark ale,” said the man in the fur-trimmed hood. He looked across the table. When the potboy was gone, he said, “You are very brave, or very stupid. Or just desperate.”

  Maître Gris frowned. “I understand that you are available,” he said.

  The man in the black hood bowed his head in assent.

  “My master,” Maître Gris said.

  “The Archbishop of Lorica,” said the other man.

  The friar rose. “I do not think…” he said.

  The other man waved at him. “You want to hire an intelligencer,” he said. “Please—I only meant to offer you my bona fides. What kind of man would I be if I did not know who you were?”

  Maître Gris regarded the man. “As a foreigner, you will not know any more than I know, here.” He leaned forward. “What is your name?”

  The imperial shook his head. “Names will not help anyone here. In a few days—a week—given some money, I can have a network of informers who can supply almost anything.” He shrugged. “It is a craft, like any other. Some men work gold. I work people.”

  The ale arrived. The imperial took a deep draught of his and smiled. “That’s a fine ale,” he said.

  “You cannot expect me to hand you money and trust you to do your work,” Maître Gris said.

  The other man gave a lopsided smile. “And yet, everything would proceed so much better if you did,” he said. “Mistrust is inefficient.”

  Maître Gris shook his head. “I want information about Lady Rebecca Almspend,” he said. “She has disappeared.”

  The man opposite him pursed his lips. “I have heard that name,” he admitted. “She was sent into voluntary exile, was she not?”

  Maître Gris nodded. “Good, I’m glad you know of her. Find her, and we will talk about money
and networks of informers.”

  He rose. The other man took another sip of his ale and shook his head. “No,” he said.

  “What, no?” the friar asked.

  “I’m sorry, but I do not work for free. Ever. I’m quite well known, in my way. I do not work for employers who distrust me, and I do not work for free.” The other man shrugged. “I will not wander the city looking for a missing noblewoman. That would be very dangerous, just now. I work through others, and that costs money.”

  Maître Gris was shocked. “And how do I know you would act properly?”

  The other man shrugged. “How do you know that a servant will light your fires every morning? Or fetch a chalice when you want to say mass? You see, I assume that you are a cleric of some sort. What possible benefit would I accrue by taking your money and running?” He shrugged. “The sum isn’t big enough for me to steal,” he said.

  “How much?” Maître Gris asked, sitting again.

  The imperial allowed himself a very small smile. “Ten ducats a week for every informer I recruit and pay. A hundred ducats a week for me. If any other services are required, I have… friends… to whom they can be contracted.” He spread his hands. “They are efficient, trustworthy, and always clean up after themselves. They are very expensive, and yet many clients find that they are much cheaper than amateurs.”

  Maître Gris shook his head. “I cannot agree to any of this.”

  The other man finished his ale and rose. “I suspected as much. I will meet you one more time—that is all. I do not make multiple meetings. It is unhealthy. If you wish to reach me again, please leave a slip of parchment with no marking on it pinned with a tack to the water gate of the palace. Do this in the morning, and I will meet you—at this very table—that night.” He shrugged. “Or someone representing me will meet you.” He frowned. “You are foolish to be out in the streets and I, frankly, do not fancy being hanged beside you.”

  Maître Gris rose again. “But—” he said.

  The other man simply walked away. He paused by the innkeeper’s bar, and said a few words—the innkeeper growled at him, that much was visible.

  The foreigner spread his hands, as if showing he was harmless. Then he sang something.

  Nothing could have been more incongruous. He sang a short song in Archaic—his voice was beautiful. Some of the men in the tavern fell silent.

  Then he went out.

  The Angel being the Angel, and the man being so well-dressed—and foreign—a pair of men with clubs followed him into the dark alley.

  He moved very quickly. They had to run to keep up with him, and when he turned into Sail Maker’s Lane, they were both breathing hard.

  And he was gone.

  Both men cursed and went back to the inn.

  Jules Kronmir jumped lightly to the ground and shook his head before walking down the hill, towards Master Pye’s yard by a circuitous route that took him the better part of the evening.

  Good Friday dawned in heavy rain and cold, as if spring was unwilling to come. The tournament was five days away, and there was a rumour in the streets of Harndon that the Prince of Occitan was a day’s ride away—indeed, that he’d halted at Bergon, the country town of North Jarsay, to spend the day on his knees.

  The same rumour said that he had a hundred lances with him. And that he’d have more, but his army was fighting the Wild in the mountains. Without him.

  “He’s comin’ for his sister,” people said.

  The King’s Guard—or rather, the sell-swords and thugs making up the King’s Guard—were seen in the markets. With most of the citizens in church, they moved to take possession of the market squares and rally points, and no one stopped them. Families leaving church, tired and sad at the end of a day of the Passion, found Guardsmen and Galles at every street corner. There were a few incidents, but even the Galles seemed quiet in the face of the day of fasting, the end of Lent, and the violence of two days before.

  Just before darkness fell, the King’s Champion rode through the streets with a hundred Gallish lances. There were Albans among them—local knights who’d seen which way the wind was blowing, and devoted King’s men. They marched a relief through the streets and changed the guards at each market square. Everywhere they went, they posted a proclamation.

  It announced the Queen’s Trial by Combat on Tuesday next.

  It attainted Ser Gerald Random for treason, and Mistress Anne Bates, and a woman called Blanche Gold, as well as Lady Rebecca Almspend and Ser Gareth Montroy, the Count of the Borders, along with Ser John Wishart, the Prior of the Order of Saint Thomas.

  And it forbade all assembly by more than four persons of either sex, for any reason, or the public bearing of arms.

  Master Pye sat in his private workroom with his lead journeymen. Duke had pulled a copy down from the market cross in the square where they had their Maypole.

  “Probably a crime to take it down,” Sam Vintner said.

  Master Pye glared. “No time for foolishness,” he said.

  The journeymen sat and fretted.

  “What do we do, Master?” Edmund asked.

  Master Pye blew out his cheeks, took off his spectacles, rubbed them on his shirt, and put them back on his nose. He stared into the darkness of Friday evening.

  “How did they do it so fast?” he asked the darkness.

  Duke raised his head. “You…” and he paused.

  They all looked at Duke. He was the only boy born in the streets. The others came from guild houses. Duke thought about things differently.

  Duke shrugged.

  Master Pye cleared his throat. “Favour us with your views, lad,” he said, and his voice was not unkind.

  Duke shrugged again. “You take it all for granted,” he said. He sounded as if he was angry—or if he might weep. “It’s bloody good, this thing we have. But you forget it’s not natural. You expect everyone to cooperate with the law. To make the law work.” Duke took a deep breath. “But all you have to do is lie. If enough people lie, all the time, then there isn’t enough truth for law to work. That’s how I see it.” He looked at his feet. “If enough men are greedy, and willing to lie to get what they want?” He raised his head and faced them. “Then it’s easy. Their way is easy. And you lot will sit here and debate. When the only real answer is to arm, go out in the streets, and fucking kill every Guardsman and every Galle on every corner until we hold the city.”

  Edmund drew in a breath in horror. He had had a bad week; the man he’d killed haunted him. It had been—so easy. Like fencing in the yard. But the real man had fallen like a carcass cut down by a butcher. But worse—bloodier…

  “See?” Duke said. “You all still think that if you do nothing, maybe it will go away.”

  “We fought!” Sam Vintner said.

  Duke jutted out his jaw. “You know, I’m not a nice boy like you. My experience is—you always have to fight. Fighting is the normal way.”

  Master Pye chewed his lip. “Duke, there’s merit in what you say. And mayhap we need a little more fire under us—by all the saints, people have been placid these few months. Wealth and good food and safety make men and women like cattle, right eno’.” He looked around at all his senior men. “But Duke—if we kill the Galles and the King’s men then we’re rebels.”

  “That’s just a word,” said Duke.

  “Not when the Galle knights come through our squares, killing our people,” Master Pye said.

  “We need the Order,” Edmund said.

  All the men there knew that the Order’s knights were somewhere. Ser Ricar no longer wore the black and pointed cross, and he’d been seen twice—once after he escorted the black man out of the city, and another time Edmund had seen him talking to a tall man in a fine black hood.

  Master Pye surprised them by shaking his head. “We can’t count on the Order to do our fighting for us,” he said. “Duke’s right, and he’s wrong.” He chewed on his lips a little while. “I’m sending all o’ you north, to Albinkirk.
It’s too late for the fair, but there’s an empty smithy there and Ser John Crayford offered it to us. You can’t stay here. You’ll fight—and die.” He shook his head. “It’s going to be awful.”

  Duke glared. “Just run away?” he asked. “And what of all the orders for the tourney?”

  Master Pye nodded. “I’ll be on the next attainder list,” he said. “And we don’t have the swords—not if every man in the whole City Muster stood against them. Three thousand Galles? Christ, boys, think on what the routiers was like.”

  “We can fight,” Edmund said. He looked at Duke, who nodded.

  “Can Ann fight? How about your sisters? Eh? Blanche? Want her to fight?” Master Pye shook his head. “Lads—either you are or you ain’t my people. You wear my livery, you eat my food. Now I’m giving an order. You pack the mint and all the armoury. And tomorrow, when I give you the word, you ride out into the city and over First Bridge.” He looked at Duke. “More than half the goods we’re working so hard to complete are for men now attainted as traitors.” He shrugged. “I’m not minded to complete the King’s harness, either.”

  Edmund wanted to cry. “But—how? I mean—won’t they stop us?”

  Master Pye shook his head. “You worry about moving four wagons over muddy roads. I’ll worry about getting you out of the city.” He waved them out in dismissal.

  In the dungeons, the Queen sat in near perfect darkness. She had one window, high in the wall of her cell, and it allowed in some light during the day. She had a bed, and wall hangings and clean linen, and excellent food.

  And very careful guards. She didn’t know any of them, despite their red surcoats. But they were cautious and courteous.

  It might have been restful, except that de Rohan came every day to examine her. He brought a dozen monks and other creatures, and they filled her cell while he asked her, unblushing, to tell her the dates her courses had run, the names of her lovers, the date on which she had lost her virginity, and a thousand other little humiliations.