“We are not an army just now, and not on campaign even if we were. We have no use for you. You were only brought here on the chance that you could do what you were accused of. Nothing more.” He started to turn away to head back to his chamber.
The look on her face—the fear, desperation, anger, all washing into each other and not quite blending—was heartbreaking. I said, “Captain? What of the Grieving Dog? Couldn’t they use an extra hand sweeping, mucking stalls, fetching water? Something? If you put in a good word…”
Braylar stopped, still not turning around. I looked over and saw hope flash across the girl’s face, snatched away as Braylar said, mostly over his shoulder. “It amuses me you think we are clerics caring for the neglected and forgotten, archivist.” The rope was free and she rubbed her wrists slowly, looking defeated and lost and truly young for the first time.
The captain sighed and said, “Still, it doesn’t pain us to inquire, now does it? Vendurro, check with Gremete. Ask on my behalf, and see if they have need of a grateful and… spirited youth. Junjee, accompany him. If the Grieving Dog will have you, you will know immediately. If not, again, you are in a huge city. Opportunity around every corner.” He failed to mention the thieves, murderers, and rapists around every corner as well. Still. She was alive, and that was something. I hoped she would find a home here, or at least a start.
Junjee wiped her face on her sleeve, wincing as it crossed her bloodied nose and split lip. Then she straightened and said, “Awful thing when strangers are kinder than kin.”
“Sadly, you are not the first to say so,” Braylar replied. Then he started toward his room. “Mulldoos, it appears you still have hunting to do, and I still have copious amounts of alcohol to consume. Let us not dawdle.” And then he disappeared in the gloom and shut the door.
The middle of the next morning, there was a rapid knock on my door. I’d already washed in the basin and dressed, recorded the latest entry, and was ready to put something in my belly anyway, so I was moving to the door when the knock was repeated and I heard Vendurro say, “Quick and quicker, if you please, Master Quills.”
Stepping out, I saw Braylar and Mulldoos seated at the table in the common room, plates of pepper sausage, honey cakes, and a bowl of sliced squash and peas in front of them. Braylar seemed no worse than he had the previous few days, but certainly no better. Mulldoos looked at me briefly, his pale eyebrows bridged by a deep wrinkle, but he said nothing.
I was about to ask Venduroo about the urgency, but Braylar was three words quicker. “Very well, Sergeant, now that our truant scribbler has joined us and we are all accounted for, you mentioned having important news.”
I had a moment to wonder if Vendurro suggested I should join the group or if the captain had sent him to fetch me. Either way, the fact that he allowed me to be included was surprising, given that he caught me pilfering, but Vendurro stopped those thoughts entirely when he said, “Yup, got something that surely passes for news, though I won’t be the one to truly deliver it. Hewspear be here short enough, and I’ll let him tell you hisself, but he sent a runner ahead. Won’t be the only one joining us to break fast.”
Something in his tone and expression said this someone was not going to be especially welcome.
Mulldoos stopped mid-chew, cheeks bulging with food, two-tined fork halfway to his mouth with another bite, and Braylar straightened in his chair, left hand instinctively dropping down to Bloodsounder. “Out with it, Sergeant—who is this unexpected guest?”
Vendurro scratched at the tuft of hair on his chin and blew out a lot of air, clearly not liking being the bearer of this news at all, but he was spared just then, as there was a knock on the door to the hall. He looked relieved when he walked over, and getting confirmation of the man on the other side, undid the lock.
Hewspear stepped through the entrance, saluting as he saw his captain. But even after he entered, Vendurro didn’t shut the door behind him. He waited, and even peered around the corner, but Hewspear said, “Our other arrival hasn’t quite arrived. Shut the door, Sergeant.”
Vendurro obeyed and Braylar said, “The suspense is utterly oppressive. Who is coming through the door next?”
Hewspear struggled with a smile, but it was weak, wobbled and fell. “Soffjian is in Alespell, Captain. She will be here shortly.”
If Braylar was shocked, he hid it well enough. His irritation, however, less so. He immediately glared at Mulldoos, who raised both hands in the air. “Don’t look at me, Cap. Had nothing to do with it.” As he slowly lowered his hands he added, “Might not be the worst turn, though. The hellcat didn’t work out. But even if she had, wouldn’t have been any kind of full on solution. And whatever I didn’t like about that half-hand whore of yours—and there was plenty, she was like a burr in my prick—she managed to fix you up as good as you got fixed. Enough to function, leastwise. But might be she mucked things up real good inside, too, so maybe Soff showing her skinny ass is—”
“A harbinger of pain, suffering, or outright disaster. And those are the best outcomes.” Braylar turned back to Hewspear. “That would explain all the uneasiness in delivering the news. Well then. That does complicate things. How much time?”
Hewspear walked over to the table and accepted a cup Mulldoos offered. “She found me in the streets two hours ago. Not all that shocking, of course. But still, unexpected. And she wasn’t keen to divulge anything. Also not shocking. I’m not sure why she didn’t strike for the Dog immediately. So, not knowing her business, I can only hazard a guess. But unless she plans on taking in the pleasantries of the Fair, I would expect her soon. As much as you can expect something of one who makes the unexpected her business.” Again, the wobbly smile, as he drained some wine and sat stiffly.
Braylar swirled the ale around in his own mug. “Very good. Well, less than good, truly. But we work with what we have, yes? And just now, I suspect we suddenly have less. Time, luck, resources, something, but less, to be sure.”
I hadn’t recalled hearing that name before. But the exchange, the tone, the way the Syldoon suddenly seemed on edge and eager for drink, in the context of other conversations, other edginess, all clicked together for me. Before thinking it through, I blurted, “She’s your sister, isn’t she? This Soffjian.”
Mulldoos clapped twice, slowly. “You might be a weasel and a cowardly horsecunt, boy, but you’re half-clever, I’ll grant you that.”
I wondered if that was designed to prompt me to try to defend myself—would that raise me in his estimation if I did, or simply give him an excuse to knock me to the floorboards and kick in my teeth? But at least he confirmed I was right. I pressed on, ignoring Mulldoos. “And she’s a Memoridon, your sister. But why is she so unwelcome? I thought the Syldoon controlled them. What reason do you have to—” I nearly said “fear” but knew that would end badly for me—“dislike her presence here so?”
Mulldoos shook his head. “Half-stupid, too.”
Braylar looked beyond irritated now, though whether that was due more to my questioning or the arrival of his sister, I couldn’t say. But before he could chastise me, Hewspear replied, “The Memoridons are controlled by the Tower Commanders. Just as the soldiers in the field are controlled by the Tower Commanders. We both answer to the same Commander. So, when the Memoridons and Syldoon operate in the same theater, they are… parallel. They have their agenda, and we have ours.”
“Problem being,” Mulldoos said, “those agendas don’t always cozy up to one another.”
“That would be perpendicular,” Hewspear offered.
“Well, the Memoridons are plaguing perpendicular then, you old goat. Only thing I know is seeing one show up’s not like to be a good thing. Cap’s got the right of it, there. They bring nothing good most days. Unless of course your superior officer got himself a peculiar cursed flail that steals memories. That thing Memoridons tend to know more about than most. Might be the only time one showing up unannounced ain’t the worst thing that could—”
&nb
sp; “Enough!” Braylar slapped the table. “She is here. We will survive her presence as best we can until she is gone. That is all. But if anyone so much as whispers another word about Soffjian being a boon, I’ll nail his tongue to a door. With or without the head. Depending on mood. Are we clear?” Everyone nodded, though Mulldoos a second slower than the rest.
I’d read that Memoridons were used to gather intelligence, interrogate, even assassinate—the books noted little else was known about them, besides the fact that they were shadowy and dealt in memory magic, all of which justifiably earned them dangerous repute. But those accounts were written by Anjurians, or Gurtagese, or the odd Ulldesian.
But given that they were controlled by the Syldoon, not the other way around, I always assumed the trepidation was felt only beyond the borders of the Empire. Even if Memoridons had some autonomy, they still answered to the same commander the soldiers did. I didn’t understand how these seasoned and generally callous and crude veterans could be so disturbed simply by one being in the same city. Even before the arrival of the captain’s sister, the mere mention of the name seemed to rankle the Syldoon unlike anything else. But clearly Braylar was in no mood for more on the topic, so I held my tongue. Which was always a wise move, especially on the heels of the nailed-to-a-door threat.
Braylar turned back to Hewspear. “Now then, Vendurro tells me you have less… troublesome news as well. What of it?”
Hewspear set his cup down. “Well, I imagine the other news changes the complexion, but I have word of Henlester.”
Braylar leaned forward. “Indeed. We have his whereabouts, then? I thought our ears in his house had been… stuffed?”
“If Dothelus or Mikkner yet live, I’ve heard nothing of it. I suspect, as you do, that the high priest has culled his household significantly. Still, we haven’t turned up their bodies, yet, so they might survive. But if so, they’ve given no word of any kind.”
Braylar’s forehead wrinkled and then he asked, “So, then, we have word from the castle?”
Hewspear nodded. “We do. Obviously not verified for a certainty. But it seems Henlester has fled the barony, and is holed up in a hunting lodge. The reports suggest it’s one of three spots. The southern portion of the Hedgeleaf Forest, or possibly further west, one of two lodges in the Forest of Deadmoss. It’s quite large.”
“Not his own lodge here in the barony then. The man is a cheat, a liar, a murderer of whores, but at least he isn’t stupid. These other lodges, they are owned by…?”
Mulldoos jumped in. “Brother priests, am I right? These righteous bastards always stand shoulder to shoulder when it comes to defying the lord of the land.”
Hewspear chuckled. “You do have such a way with words, Mulldoos. True eloquence, It’s rather inspiring, really, a poetic gust. But you do have the right of it. Both lodges belong to High Priests in their order, though in another barony.”
Mulldoos tilted his chair, balanced on the back legs. I had the dreadful urge to nudge him under the table until he fell on his ass. “See there. Brune’s a brutal bastard with an ass tighter than a peanut, but he’s the legal lord of the land, and hunting a fugitive. Those priestly pricks—”
“Live in another barony, as I noted,” Hewspear corrected. “So, if they owe allegiance to any baron, it isn’t Brune. Segwiss, was it, in the south?”
Vendurro chimed in, “Segrick, Lieutenant. Thinking it’s Segrick.”
“That’s right! Segrick. So—”
Mulldoos broke in, “Doesn’t much matter who the baron is, when brutal Brune figures out where Henfucker is holed up, I expect he won’t be too happy with the dumb sons of whores who harbored him. Point of fact, I expect Brune won’t be in the mood to care too much about borders and boundaries, neither.”
“Borders are boundaries.”
“Point being, you wrinkled old cock—”
“All cocks are wrinkled. Until they aren’t.”
“Well, you’re always wrinkled, so there’s that. But the point being, priests are making an awful error harboring one of their own, priestly disposition to slime together as they do. If Brune doesn’t take them out himself, he’ll be complaining loud and long to this Segwick, and—”
“Segrick,” Vendurro corrected.
“Bite my hairy jewels,” Mulldoos replied. “Segrick is a baron, and they have a peculiar way of sticking together, too, least when it comes to sticking it to the priests.”
Braylar had heard enough bickering. “We aren’t concerned with baronial or priestly relations or protocol just now. When is Brune moving? When he verifies the location for a certainty?”
Hewspear nodded. “If the information is accurate, I imagine so.”
“If?”
Hewspear leaned back, cringing as he moved and his ribs, sore or broken, shifted as well. “Brune might be vicious, in his pampered way, but he is also crafty. And after the incident in the theater, he knows there are eyes and ears in his house. He might believe they are Henlester’s. But if he believes they are ours—and clearly the man isn’t overly inclined to trust us just now—well, a cunning man…”
“Yes, well taken.” Braylar’s hand drifted down to one of the flail heads, intentionally or by reflex, I couldn’t say. “If he were hunting for ears and eyes, he might skip the ruse of three sites and fix on one, but as you say, he is not a fool, so anything is in play here. Send six men, one pair toward each hunting lodge. Have them hold for any sign of Brune’s scouts returning. If the news is accurate and not simply setting a trap, he would have dispatched men already to ascertain the truth of Henlester’s whereabouts. So, let’s determine for ourselves, yes?”
Hewspear drained his glass. “Very good, Captain.”
He started to rise when Mulldoos asked, “And if the crafty, cocksucking baron is baiting us? We leaving then?”
Braylar dropped the Deserter flail head he’d been holding and it clinked against its twin. “We don’t rise to the bait. As I told you the other day, we have sacrificed much to put things in motion here, and I won’t simply abandon it because the man has a suspicious mind. If he truly had damning information, we’d be strapped to tables in his cellar, not debating tactics here. So, if it is a trap and doesn’t spring, that will go some length to perhaps dimming his suspicion, or redirecting it. He is willing to believe his priests are plotting against him, which is exactly why we can’t allow Henlester to fall into his hands. He must be ours or eliminated. I hope I’ve made myself abundantly—”
There was a rapping on the door, but when no one called out from the other side, hands dropped to weapons around the room as everyone jumped up from the table, and I was equally relieved and distraught that I was unarmed. Vendurro whisked his sword out of the scabbard, Mulldoos drew his falchion, Hewspear pulled his mace off his belt and Braylar had Bloodsounder in hand.
Braylar looked at Vendurro and gestured toward the door, and then seeing me standing there, hissed to get my attention and motioned toward his chamber. I didn’t immediately understand the intent. I raised my shoulders, and his dark look somehow darkened, and he pointed to his chamber once more. It took me a moment to remember the crossbow in there, and I rushed in and after a panicked search found it and the quiver.
I fitted the devil’s claws to the thick string and worked the mechanism as quickly as I could, dropped a bolt in place, then rushed back into the common room, reminding myself to be careful not to trip and accidentally loose the thing. Even with all the training and drilling, it was a wonder soldiers didn’t accidentally kill or injure more men on their own side than they did.
But either I had taken longer preparing the crossbow than I thought or Vendurro had verified the person knocking more quickly than expected, because when I entered the common room again, he was already opening the door, though he still had his sword in hand.
Two women stepped through the doorway, as different as day and, well, dusk at least. The first was tall for a woman, taller than me and Mulldoos, and nearly on even height with
Braylar. Two other things immediately stood out about her. First, her dress and armament were exceptional. She was wearing armor—a cuirass of silver scales, not unlike what Braylar had worn in the Green Sea, though slightly less tarnished, with a scale fauld around her hips, and scale bands encircling her upper arms as well. She had a short red cape, fringed along the bottom, and trousers ending mid-calf, her lean calves bare to the dusty sandals on her feet. While the woman was thin, there was no mistaking the muscle everywhere, even without her moving overmuch. She wore her armor well.
On her left hip, she had a suroka, seemingly standard issue of the Empire, and I assumed she must have been Syldoon, but her neck was bare, unmarked by a noose or anything else. Still, it was impossible to ignore the polearm she carried, a ranseur longer than she was tall, with a red tassel beneath the head that matched the color of her short cloak. She might not have been a Syldoon soldier, but she clearly knew how to take care of herself.
But while the arms and armament were striking, her face and expression were more so. Her auburn hair hung mostly loose, though with some seemingly random braids pulling enough away from her face to reveal it in full. A narrow nose, full lips, cheeks unmarred by scars or divots or obvious blemish. By most estimations, she would have been accounted very attractive, and in some circles, a true beauty. But those same plump lips seemed disinclined for humor or anything erotic, pursed in something between distaste and an arrogant sneer. And the eyes under the thin, dark brows weren’t pools to be stared into. In fact, I got the impression that looking at her too long or attracting her attention in return would be a very bad thing. The eyes were cold, harsh, measuring. And while she didn’t share many features with her bother, and seemed far more martial than I imagined any Memoridon being, it was clear she had to be Soffjian. The eyes gave it away.
The woman who followed her into the room, however, was radically different. Short, and if not especially pudgy, pillowy with full hips, she also wore trousers that stopped short to reveal her calves, which were thick and rounded with muscle. But besides the long-bladed suroka, she had no weapons, no armor, only the modest ash-colored tunic and coat, a burnt orange sash around her waist, and a pewter badge on her breast, a running jackal.
Veil of the Deserters Page 6