Veil of the Deserters

by Jeff Salyards

  I called out his name again, and still no response, physical or otherwise. It appeared he had sunk into his depths again, and this time without Lloi to rescue him. I sat down heavily on a bench against the wall, not worried that it scraped loudly when I did. Captain Killcoin didn’t stir at all.

  In the Green Sea, he said each time was a little different, that it was impossible to gauge his response to the stolen memories that must have been flooding into him now. Perhaps this condition was temporary. I was reluctant to head back to the common room to tell Vendurro—certainly he’d seen his captain laid low like this before, so it wouldn’t come as a shock, but I doubted it would be welcome news either.

  But from my experience in the steppe, it was unlikely I was going to do any good sitting there. I had no skills to assist him, and my presence surely wasn’t any kind of relief, even if he felt it at all. So I sat there, unsure what to do. I waited for a while, my anxiety growing by the moment, especially as I had little enough to distract myself with. Braylar’s room was small enough, and little had changed since we left it earlier in the day. Someone, no doubt a terrified boy or girl, had swept up the mess and removed the remnants of the ale, probably at Vendurro’s behest. Besides some chests and clothes on top of them, and the table and chairs near the bed, the only other object in the room was the long container we’d lugged and stowed away for so many days, the same that the captain appeared determined to protect at all costs.

  Looking at it, I still wondered at the whole business. Even given the Anjurians’ superstitious nature and how much stock they put in ceremony and pomp, it still seemed decidedly peculiar the absence of royal vestments would be alarming enough to cause uproar or upheaval of any kind. Obviously the Syldoon had several schemes in play in this region, and the stolen vestments weren’t central to their machinations. Their play on Baron Brune and High Priest Henlester proved that, and for all I knew, other games were being played as well.

  But it still struck me as odd that they would go to such lengths to steal and transport something that was peripheral (at best) to their major plans here, especially since I doubted such maneuvering was going to prove all that fruitful, and I’m sure the Syldoon soldiers in their charge must have shared those doubts. The Boy King’s reign was off to a rocky start, given that his regent was hardly loved, and there was such contentious blood between the young monarch and so many of his barons, something inherited from the king so recently buried. Perhaps those inclined to be critical could point to the missing trappings and robes as one more sign that the boy wasn’t fit to rule, or that his reign would only end in calamity. But while I was hardly an expert on court politics, that still seemed somewhat shaky to me. Even with all the importance attached to the rituals of ascension.

  Perhaps you simply had to be Anjurian to appreciate the finer points. Perhaps some missing robes were enough to undermine an already rickety transition of power and title. Who could say?

  I’d only read about such a transfer, as old King Xefron had reigned for at least forty years, long enough to outlast the war with the Syldoon and negotiate a truce, but not long enough to ensure his heir would inherit a stable kingdom or had the prowess and acuity to manage it. Were the robes and whatnot ancient? Surely they wouldn’t want a new monarch to appear in public with tattered vestments, yellowed and threadbare. Hardly an inspiring image. But then again, maybe that was part of the ceremony, the cloth that so many ancestors had worn, ugly as it might have been, signifying that a legitimate succession was occurring. But just how old were they? Who had been the first to wear them? They must have been in a vastly different style and cut from the current royal fashion.

  Before I’d thought it through, I found myself kneeling before the container, casting a quick look back at Braylar’s unmoving form before pulling the canvas back.

  A lock. Of course there was a lock. I nearly sat back down on the bench, but my curiosity was fully roused now. While a large part of me knew doing anything else was pure foolishness, I really wanted to see the vestments, just once. I would probably never have another opportunity like this. And I told myself I already knew what was inside, so there was no harm in taking a quick peek at the contents. So I walked over to the clothes, found Braylar’s belts and pouches, and picked out the one that I was sure contained the long key.

  I was breathing fast as I fit the key into the lock. The tumblers were well oiled, but still clicked loudly enough I worried Vendurro must have heard. But he was doubtless trying to put his grief in the ground, and surely I’d hear voices if anyone else returned.

  With the lock undone, I lifted the lid, which was less well oiled, and creaked loudly. Even in the dim light, it took only a moment to realize that there weren’t clothes inside at all. Not a one, not a stitch. Instead, there were countless scrolls of various sizes, some large and bound by tiny chains, others smaller and secured by leather cords, or a few with silk ribbons, and there were several cracked leather tubes that I assumed contained still more. Some scrolls had thick wooden rollers on each end, and even those had distinct differences, a few being plain and simple, others with elaborate designs carved into wood that seemed stained various colors. Some scrolls appeared to be papyrus, others thicker parchment that looked so old I feared to even breathe too close lest they crumble into dust. There were clay and waxed tablets in the container as well.

  I’d been breathing fast before, but now I stopped altogether. These looked to have been gathered from a number of places, and spanned the ages. What was this?

  “I hadn’t realized the Fair was canceled today. Pity.”

  I dropped the lip and it slammed shut on my fingers. It was all I could do not to howl in pain.

  With his voice unused for hours, it was even more coarse and raspy, but there was no mistaking the fact that Captain Killcoin was indeed awake, and not swept under the currents of stolen memories.

  I pulled my fingers clear, stood up, and turned to face him. I felt like a child again, caught by my mother stealing a coin from her small purse. The blood rushed to my face, and I heard my heart pounding in my ears, both from hot embarrassment, fear, and also anger from having been deceived again. “There are no royal vestments.”

  Braylar was sitting up in bed and it was difficult to read his expression in that light. How he had moved so quietly, especially without rattling the chains of the flail, was a mystery. He set Bloodsounder on the bed and clapped three times, slowly. “Oh, deftly done, Arki. Truly. Caught literally red-handed—I hope it leaves a deep bruise, by the way—and you have the gall to lay an implied accusation at my feet. Very nice redirection. There might be hope for you yet.”

  Shame, fear, and anger coiled tighter. With my voice as controlled as I could make it to mask all three, I asked, “Do you ever tell the truth?”

  He laughed then, followed immediately by a cough. “As seldom as I can manage, and only when other recourses are exhausted. Or as it suits my purpose. Which is rare enough, but noteworthy.”

  “But why? Why the story about stealing robes? Why did you tell me anything at all?”

  Braylar rose slowly, and it was obvious now that his stupor was due to ale, as he teetered just slightly. He must have managed to keep some down without vomiting. “I have a question of my own, more pressing as it happens—where are the flagons? I don’t recall sending them away. Is this your doing, because you will have more to answer for that heinous crime than the transgression of opening a locked box. Oh. Yes. I will take the key back now. Just after you snap the lock shut again.”

  I did as he bade and walked toward him slowly, feeling unsteady on my feet as well. Fear seemed the only strand left now.

  “Come now, I’m not some brutish Grass Dog to cut off half your hand. Frankly, I’m so utterly stunned at your initiative of late—or utterly drunk at last, I’m not entirely certain—that I find myself more amused than enraged. But I can’t promise how long that shall last.” He snapped his finger. “The key.”

  I handed it to him, happy h
e let me take my hand and fingers back whole and unbroken.

  Braylar said, “As to your query, I wanted to see if word about stolen vestments started circulating, or if you carried the tale yourself to unwholesome ears.”

  “So it was a test? A trap?”

  “Oh, yes. A testy trap.”

  “You had me followed then?”

  “Well, it would not have been much of a test if I couldn’t monitor the outcome, now would it?”

  I stood there, stunned, wondering if my tail had seen the young Hornman, or my reaction to him, anyway. “And?” I asked, slowly, quietly.

  “Well, if you had run to the good baron, you can be sure this conversation would have a much different tenor. I had hoped you would prove yourself leal, and you have. Well, until you broke into my things, that is.”

  I looked back at the chest, barely trusting my voice. “What are these documents then?”

  He dropped the key into his pouch and closed it. “My permissive mood is passing. Leave me. Now. And send in more ale. Immediately.”

  While I had countless other burning questions, I knew I’d used up as much goodwill as the captain was likely to offer. And while I’d come into the room initially to tell him about the Hornman, that suddenly seemed the worst idea I’d ever come up with.

  I turned to go, and Braylar rasped, “Oh, and the next time you filch something from me, young scribe, you can be sure I will batter you to the floor, kick your ribs in, and spit on your wailing face. If I am feeling permissive. And worse if I am not. Are we clear?”

  Yes, now was not the time for admissions of any kind. It appeared Mulldoos had been right about this being my lucky day. Without turning around, I nodded and left the captain in his dim chamber as fast as my feet could carry me.

  Vendurro watched as I shut the captain’s door behind me. “No bloodstains. Guessing he didn’t break nothing neither, or you hid your screaming real good.” He was spinning his long dagger or short sword—I could never decide which—on the table in front of him.

  I figured the best chance of saying nothing damning was to say as little as possible and shift the focus quickly. “What is that?” I asked, pointing at the blade. “I mean, it’s a weapon, but is it technically a dagger or a short sword? It looks like it could be either.”

  Vendurro stopped spinning the blade. “Called a suroka. Never much thought about it. Just know how to stab people with it.”

  “Well, then. Suroka. I learned something new. Anyway, the captain was none too pleased about his missing ale. He asked for you to order some up. Immediately, was the word he used, I believe. Emphatically is the word I’d add.” Vendurro got off his stool, though the very action seemed to deflate him again. He turned to leave, then stopped. “Was Cap looking OK? I mean, of course he weren’t, not really. Seen him battle this thing before we found Lloi. Whole lot of ugly. But how is he faring, truly? Is it bad, yet?”

  I shook my head, wondering how long Braylar could maintain himself with drunken stupors. And what it would mean if he couldn’t. Would Hewspear take command? Mulldoos? I shuddered at the second thought. “He’s thorny and issuing orders, so I’d say he’s doing as well as can be expected, given the circumstance.”

  Vendurro accepted that, or at least appeared to. I wasn’t so sure.

  I returned to my room, marveling that things could change so radically, so swiftly. Yesterday, we were foiling the efforts of what I thought was an assassin-bent cleric and losing the one member of the company who could manage the captain’s affliction or curse or whatever it was, and today, I discovered that not only was very little of what I believed true, but when the lies were lifted and replaced with truth, even that was suspect. Lies upon lies. And the baron was either ensnared or ensnaring us, and I’d seen a Hornman who could potentially end every scheme in play here, and quite possibly, our lives as well, and I missed my chance—or neglected to use it—to report what I’d witnessed. It was a lot to take in. With my head spinning, I got out my pen and ink and writing desk. After bringing the account current, I considered heading back down to the Fair while I still had opportunity. With dusk at its duskiest, and lantern light filling the spaces the weak and tentative sun no longer reached, Fairgoers were trying to eke out every last bit of joy or debauchery or forgetting or whatever it was they had hoped to find in Alespell before curfew was called. But I had no idea what that rattled and bruised Hornman might do—had he reported sighting me to his superiors? Probably not, in all reality, or he’d face the lash for not reporting it sooner. But if he was frightened enough? Was he in his barracks, or his own room, running through all the possibilities, just like me?

  For a mad moment, I considered leaving the Grieving Dog, not to disappear in the currents of the shifting crowd of Fairgoers, but to head to the Hornmen barracks. I thought somehow if I could just speak to the young soldier, I might be able to… what? Remind him of the oath he made when he was so terrified he nearly pissed down his leg? Surely that wouldn’t result in him turning me over to his superiors on the spot.

  No, it would have been utter foolishness to leave the Dog just then, even if I wasn’t so stupid as to try to find the solider. Any moment I could have been picked up for questioning by the Hornmen if the boy had already reported me. They had purview of the road and waterways, allegedly protecting Anjurian travelers (though as the captain and I found out, just as often preying on them) and collecting taxes, but their jurisdiction got muddy elsewhere. Beholden only to the king, the Hornmen were generally beyond the scope of barons and burghers on travel routes, but did they have the right to question me, execute me, particularly while I was in one of the largest cities in the kingdom? There were plenty of instances when Hornmen and the barons disagreed about who had authority over inns, especially those in cities, and jurisprudence was divided.

  The dead Hornmen in the grass might give them the most legitimate claim to hang us, but even if the Hornmen chose to turn me over to Baron Brune, that would likely end up with me strapped down on one of his tables in the depths of the castle, howling out despair as I was mutilated or torn, the horrible stench of vinegar stinging my eyes and nose as I cried out and told all I knew, hoping only for it all to end.

  No, leaving the inn was a horrible choice now. Though staying might not prove much better.

  And while I had sputtered out most of my scallops and ale and should have been starving, my stomach refused to sit still, so there was no reason to even head downstairs to the main floor of the Grieving Dog. While the idea of finding a corner to hide in had some appeal, watching the patrons come and go and argue and dice and maybe even sing—yes, a song would be nice, even croaky and slurred by the drunkest lout in the establishment—I suddenly had little motivation to do anything except lay back in my bed and stare at the rafters.

  Which I did for far shorter than expected before falling into a thankfully dreamless sleep and waking up to a new day and the sound of voices in the common quarter outside my room. It sounded as if Hewspear had returned. I got up to join them, stopped at the door wondering if Mull-doos was there as well, and then swore at myself. It didn’t matter if he was—if I was going to seclude myself in my room, it would be my choice, not because I was afraid of a bully with a big blade.

  I stepped out. Captain Killcoin and Vendurro were sitting in chairs and Hewspear was leaning against a support beam, stiff and favoring the side with the wounded ribs. Vendurro stopped mid-sentence when he saw me, then continued, “Told me to tell you he was following up on some rumors, be back by nightfall. Told me you were the luckiest son of a whore he ever met. Begging your pardon, Cap, just relaying.”

  Braylar had washed a bit, changed tunics, and oiled his hair back to appear somewhat presentable, but he still had an obvious pallor and his eyes were shot through and rimmed in red. He took a slow swallow of his ale and said, “Well, even thin rumor is better than none at all. And you, Hew, what do you have to report?”

  Hewspear glanced at me briefly and replied, “I found some
one to transport Lloi back to the steppe. There is a group of pilgrims leaving on the morrow.”

  Braylar slammed his mug down and laughed, though it pained him to do so as he lifted his hand to his throat. “Pilgrims have a queer fixation with the steppe this time of year. I do hope they have a guard or two. Not that anyone would be interested in thieving a dead body.” He lifted the mug and stopped before it reached his lips. “One of them wasn’t a large woman in a large hat, by any chance.”

  I held my breath but Hewspear shook his head, coins jingling in his beard. That was good. One bad coincidence was already one too many.

  Braylar took a long drink and the group was silent for a moment. I joined the two Syldoon at the table and pulled out a chair. Braylar took another swig, doing his best to drown his demons in drink, and gestured at the pitcher and a mug.

  I accepted it and filled my mug as Vendurro said, “Remember, in Rivermost, we were talking about worst ways to go out? Well, I forgot one. We all did, as it happens. Just remembered it, in fact. Though can’t for the life of me figure out what made me think of it.”

  “Oh?” Braylar asked, not sounding especially interested, but happy to entertain any distraction just now.

  Vendurro replied, “Yup. Wheldon. Remember that poor bastard?”

  Hewspear groaned. “Sadly, yes.”

  Vendurro looked at me, and while his heart didn’t seem to be entirely in it, he spun the tale. “Well, Wheldon was always bellyaching about a bellyache. Wheldon the Whiner we all called him. Not a day didn’t go by when he didn’t tell one of us about his sore bloated belly, leaky shits, weird cramps and the like. Not one plaguing day. Might have been the first thing he ever says to me. ‘Name’s Wheldon. I near shit myself today.’

  “This went on the whole time I knew him. And right up until his last. We got in a scrape on the western border, some hill tribes. What were they called? The Masukas? Marlukas? Something like that?”