Brute

by Kim Fielding

  “WHY can’t I go with you?” Warin whined. “You let me go when we were looking for Itan—”

  “I had no choice,” Aric interrupted gruffly, although he was secretly pleased that the boy remembered the dead beggar’s name. Perhaps it brought Itan some peace, knowing he wasn’t forgotten.

  “But I’m bored! And Alys keeps sending me on wedding errands, double-checking stuff that’s already set.”

  “I think she’s a little nervous about it.”

  “Why? She’s already spending every spare minute with darling Cearl. All she has to do now is mumble a few words.”

  Aric ruffled the boy’s red hair. “She’s still going to love you just as much, you know.”

  “She’s going to leave the palace. It’s our home, Brute!” Warin kicked at a stone, sending it skittering across the courtyard.

  “Have you settled what’s going to happen to you?”

  “No.” Warin scowled, and then brightened. “Can I live with you? I’ll be good! I’ll—”

  Aric put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “No, Warin. You can’t. I’m not fit to be responsible for you.”

  “I can be responsible for myself. I’m not a little kid!”

  “No, you’re not. But you can’t stay with me. The prisoner has nightmares, remember?”

  Warin nodded slightly and looked up at him. “Are they really, really bad? Do they scare you?”

  Aric hunched down so he could look the boy in the eyes. “They terrify me,” he answered honestly. Then he stood up straight and mussed Warin’s hair again. “Go find something to do. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  Warin pouted and muttered, and then he stomped away.

  It was a fine day for a walk in any case. Aric wore the cloak he’d bought after giving his first one to the beggar, but by the time he’d left the palace gates and descended the gentle hill to the piers, he felt warm and thirsty. He was considering removing the cloak and tucking it under his arm, but its royal colors lent him at least a bit of respectability. People still stared, and some even jeered, but most only tilted their heads and, most likely, wondered on what business the ugly giant served the crown. As he passed the statue of Lokad, he gave its base a friendly little pat, and he looked across the mouth of the river at the matching statue of Lorad. Both stone giants looked more resolute than ever.

  Aric had come down to the docks with Warin five or six times in the past. The boy loved to watch all the activity: the sailors in their exotic clothes and with their strange languages, the boxes and bags of cargo being carried on or hauled off the great ships. There were taverns nearby as well, rough places for rough men, and male and female whores often strutted around. Aric steered well clear of them when he was with Warin, but today he entered a tavern that seemed maybe slightly more reputable than the others.

  It was midafternoon, but the place was already crowded. The smell reminded him of the White Dragon—sour ale and bad food—and the faces weren’t any friendlier. But Aric had found confidence somewhere in the past year, and he didn’t slink to the back, hiding like a shameful secret. Instead he sat at a sticky table in the middle and caught the landlord’s eye. “A pint,” Aric said.

  The landlord grunted something back and retreated behind the bar. He returned a few moments later with a tankard, the suds sloshing over the rim. “Half,” he said as he slammed the cup onto the table.

  Aric had a copper ready for him. He put it in the landlord’s outstretched hand. “Bring me another when this one’s gone.”

  He’d become spoiled, drinking the palace ale. This stuff was watery and bitter. Just like Cecil Gedding’s, Aric thought with a smile.

  “What’s so funny?”

  Compared to anyone but Aric, the man who’d lumbered over to confront him would be huge. He had wild, greasy hair, a dark beard that didn’t look especially clean, and a scar—more impressive than any of Aric’s—bisecting his right cheek. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, revealing tufts of dark hair on his chest. His trousers were oddly shaped and were cinched around his waist with a length of rope. He looked like he might eat small children for breakfast.

  Aric gave him an easy grin. “Just an old memory.”

  “Shouldn’t be smiling at yourself. Folks’ll think you’re touched in the head.” The man narrowed his eyes. “Maybe you are touched in the head. You don’t look too bright. Where’d you steal that cloak?”

  “The cloak is mine. I’m not a thief. I’m not a lunatic either.”

  “What are you then?”

  Aric lifted his tankard. “Just thirsty.”

  “I’m thirsty too.”

  “Then why don’t you join me and I’ll buy you a pint?”

  The man’s frown gave way to a snaggletoothed grin, and he plopped into the chair opposite Aric. “I don’t see many as are bigger’n me. Bet I could take you in a fight.”

  “Wouldn’t be a fair fight,” Aric replied, waving his stump. “And I’m here to drink, not to brawl.”

  “’M just sayin’.”

  Aric waved at the landlord, pointed to his new companion, and held up a single finger. When the landlord brought another tankard to the table, the bearded man chortled happily. “Ran out of coins afore I ran out of shore leave. ’S a damned shame.” He took a large swig and then belched.

  “You’re a sailor then?”

  “Course I’m a fucking sailor. Why else would I be in this rathole? Ship out tomorrow morning. ’S all right. I fucked all the good whores here already. And some of the bad ones.” He guffawed at his own joke and took another swallow.

  “Where will you sail to?”

  The man scratched his head thoughtfully. “Dunno. Cap’n owns the ship outright, takes her wherever he wants. He was talking ’bout heading east, off to Neritinia. The women are ugly as shit—almost as ugly as you—but they got some mighty fine liquor. Drink that stuff and you won’t stand steady for a week. Won’t care what the women look like, neither. You ever been?”

  “I’ve never been anywhere.”

  “Don’t know how you can stand it, glued to one place like a fucking barnacle on a rock. Me, I been everywhere, and I never stay nowhere for long. When I die they can throw my fucking carcass overboard and I’ll keep on traveling in the fishes’ bellies.” More hearty laughter and another long drink. His tankard was almost empty already.

  Aric waved another copper at the landlord. “Have you ever been to Racinas?” he asked as nonchalantly as possible.

  “Course I been to Racinas. ’Bout a hundred goddamn times.” He turned his head and spat on the floor. “Nothing to see up there ’cept for lots of fucking trees and sheep. Oh, but them girls are pretty enough.”

  “How long does it take to get there from here?”

  The sailor shrugged. “Five, six days. Depends on the winds and currents. You just hug the coastline the whole way. I like the deep water routes better myself.”

  The landlord brought two fresh tankards and took the copper. Aric had drunk very little of his first cup of ale, so he just kept one of the new ones in front of him and pushed the other across the table. His new friend took it with a jaunty little salute.

  “Are there a lot of boats that go from Tellomer to Racinas?” asked Aric.

  “Yeah, sure. ’S one almost every day.” The sailor waved in the general direction of the door and the piers. “Jus’ take a look at berths twelve and thirteen. Always a squat little tub anchored at one or both of ’em, offloading all that fucking wool and then filling up with all the shit they need up north.” He snorted. “You ask me, you can keep your gods-damned wool and your stupid trees. Kayindo is where I like to go. Always warm there, and the girls go around half nekid. They got beaches with sand like fine sugar.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “Bet your fucking ass it’s nice. If I was to stick anywhere, Kayindo’d be it.” With that pronouncement, the man gulped his second pint of ale.

  Aric figured he’d heard enough by then, but the sailor had turned garrulo
us. Even without the inducement of more drink, he remained at Aric’s table for another hour or so, spinning unlikely yarns about women he’d fucked in places Aric had never heard of. The man didn’t seem to expect Aric to contribute more than a nod to the conversation now and then, so Aric sipped at his ale and nodded, and reminded himself: berths twelve and thirteen.

  ARIC hadn’t actually eaten anything at the dockside tavern, and although it was too early for dinner, he found himself hungry when he left the sailor’s company. He wandered back in the general direction of the palace, stopping to buy grilled meat on a stick from a vendor’s cart. The meat was good, even if he couldn’t quite identify what sort of animal it had been—and wasn’t sure he really wanted to know.

  Stomach momentarily satisfied, he found himself on a street lined with modest shops that sold clothing and fabric and household goods. New goods, but nothing fancy. They were the sort of wares that servants might buy, or simple businessmen like Cearl. Aric hoped to find something nice to give to Cearl and Alys as a gift, but he’d never bought anyone a gift before and had no idea where to begin. Should he get them something practical for their new home, like a pot—or something decorative and a little frivolous, like baskets dyed fantastic colors? He meandered up and down the street for a while, perusing the goods, ignoring the shopkeepers’ distrustful stares.

  He somehow found himself in a store that sold men’s clothing. There would be nothing for the bride and groom there, and Aric didn’t need anything for himself. Even if he did, it was unlikely that he’d find anything to fit him. But then his eyes fell on a shirt of woven red and blue cotton, and he knew exactly who that shirt would fit. Those trousers as well—the soft-looking ones in light brown. And the lightweight coat with the oversized hood, which would be good for late-season chills or spring downpours. Or in case the sea winds blew.

  Aric ended up buying two shirts, the trousers, the coat, two breechclouts, and two pairs of woolen socks.

  The parcel felt ridiculous tucked under his arm. He was an idiot to be purchasing such things. His plans would never succeed, and Gray would never wear them. And yet the solidity of the items felt good, just like the weight of the silver he’d gotten from the exchequer three days earlier. Something real, not just idle daydreams.

  He turned up the street in the direction of the palace but didn’t get very far before he passed a middle-aged man and woman selling items from the back of a wagon. Most of their inventory consisted of brightly embroidered curtains, probably crafted by the woman herself. Even now she was sitting on a stool and stitching cheery blue flowers. Aric paused to consider the curtains, thinking that they might make a suitable gift. But then he saw what was tucked up against one side of the wagon, near where the man was standing and chewing on a twig. A group of small stone figures.

  “Carve ’em myself,” the man said.

  “What are they for?”

  The man made a face, and then, speaking slowly as if to a stupid child, he said, “They’re gods and goddesses and such. They protect folks’ homes.”

  Two of the statues were taller than the others and almost identical to each other. Aric recognized them and smiled. “How much for Lorad and Lokad?”

  “Like those two, do you? Figures.” The man chuckled and chewed on his stick as he thought. “Thirty coppers for the pair.”

  It was a lot of money, but Aric handed over the coins without complaint, then waited while the man wrapped them in some rough sacking. “It’s always good to have a giant or two looking after you,” the man said as he handed over the heavy parcel.

  Aric hurried back to the palace. It was nearly dinnertime, and he’d need to drop his purchases off at the Brown Tower before fetching his and Gray’s meals. Not only didn’t he want Alys getting nosy about the contents, but juggling the parcels plus the dinner pails would be a bit too much for his single hand.

  The guard at the tower door was a mousy little man with a bald head. Aric didn’t know his name. Because the guards feared standing so close to the prisoner for very long—a superstitious dread that nobody seemed to question—they were kept on duty for only a few weeks at a time. Aric supposed the task must have been exceptionally boring as well, save for the rush of adrenaline that came with a new dream message.

  “What’s that?” the guard asked, narrowing his eyes at the items in Aric’s arms.

  “Mine. What do you care?”

  “Don’t. Just being friendly. Oh, and you got new clothes.”

  Aric froze. “What?”

  “New clothes. King gives ’em to all the guards and staff every spring. ’T’s not fair, really—yours take twice as much fabric as anyone else’s.” He shrugged. “They were delivered this afternoon.”

  Aric’s heart began to beat so fast that he was sure the guard must see it hammering away in his chest, and the blood roaring in his ears was nearly loud enough to deafen him. He tried to keep his voice even. “Someone… someone brought clothes to my chambers?”

  The guard laughed. “Nah. Too scared to go near the witch, she was. I put ’em right inside the door here. You’ll see ’em when you go in.”

  With the rush of relief, Aric’s legs nearly gave out. “Uh, thanks,” he managed to mumble, then squeezed inside before the guard had the door fully open. Sure enough, a pile of fabric was folded on top of a large wooden chest. With some difficulty, he managed to scoop up the new clothes before proceeding down the corridor.

  “You’ve been out in the c-city,” Gray said with a smile as soon as Aric entered the room. “Where did you go?” He liked to hear about Aric’s mundane daily adventures. Not much of a surprise, given his very limited life.

  “I picked up a few things. Gifts.” He didn’t mention that some of the gifts were for Gray; that information could wait. “And I guess new clothes were brought for me today.” He set everything down on the bed, which he hadn’t slept in for months.

  “The king is g-generous,” said Gray emotionlessly.

  Aric could only sigh. “Yes, to a fortunate few.” Gray’s clothing was still wrapped and tied in a neat bundle, and Aric decided to keep it that way for now. He tucked the bundle into a dresser drawer. Then he examined the clothes he’d been brought: four new shirts and two pairs of trousers, in addition to breechclouts and socks and handkerchiefs. All as finely made as usual, and obviously sewn just for him. He thought of how he must have looked when he first appeared at the palace, with his monstrous face and oversized body and shabby clothes and bare feet. His face and body remained the same, but now at least he could cover himself well, and he was almost in love with his wonderful boots. Yes, the royal family had been very generous to him indeed.

  He put his new trousers away. But as he went to do the same with the shirts, something tumbled to the floor, landing on the stone with a clink. He bent curiously to pick it up.

  It was a small iron key.

  Chapter 18

  PLAIN and black and insignificant, it weighed very little and looked tiny, cradled in his enormous palm.

  “Aric? Aric, is something wr-wrong?”

  Aric didn’t answer his lover. His throat wouldn’t work. Instead he walked slowly into the cell and stood very near to Gray, who reached for him at once. “G-gods, Aric, what is it?”

  “Can I… can I see your arm? Please?” His voice sounded odd to his own ears. A little strangled and too high-pitched.

  It was a mark of Gray’s trust in him that, although Gray’s face was drawn in a frown, he immediately held out his right arm. Aric just looked at it for a moment. Although Gray’s arm was steady, Aric was trembling. So it was with some difficulty that he positioned the key properly between thumb and forefinger, slipped the end of it into the tiny hole in the manacle, and twisted.

  The lock opened with a click.

  “A-a-a-aric?” Now Gray’s hand was shaking too. “Wh-wh-wh-wh— Fuck!”

  “A key. There was a key.” He couldn’t stop staring at Gray’s wrist, where the metal cuff had opened, revealing a strip o
f extremely pale skin. It was odd, really. He’d become so intimate with the other man’s body, and yet there were a few small parts of it he’d not yet seen. He wanted to press his lips to that tiny span of flesh.

  But Gray was stroking that strip of skin with his own fingertips, and then—ever so carefully—touching the key, which still protruded from the lock. He began to breathe very hard, noisy in the close confines of the cell. “How?” he managed to rasp without a stutter.

  “I have no idea. It just…. I was putting my new clothing away, and it fell. Someone must have put it there.”

  Someone. But who? Surely not the mousy little guard. The tailor wouldn’t have had access to the key, nor any reason to hand it over. Perhaps it was the person who had delivered the clothing, or maybe…. Aric’s head was whirling too much for him to think straight. He hadn’t any idea where the key came from. And he didn’t know what its appearance signified.

  He was interrupted in his thoughts by the decisive snap of metal. Gray had pushed the manacle closed again and turned the key, and now was holding it out. “T-take this and throw it d-down the well,” he commanded, although his voice wavered.

  “No! Gray, it’s the key!”

  “It’s d-disaster waiting to happen.”

  “But now we can get the chains off,” Aric protested, stating the obvious. He’d been thinking for weeks about how he was going to accomplish that. He’d envisioned all sorts of wild scenarios in which he took Captain Jaun hostage and demanded the key, or through casual conversation learned where the key was kept so he could sneak in and steal it. Even in his imagination, those scenarios had seemed more than unlikely, and he hadn’t come up with anything better. But now he didn’t have to.

  “And then wh-what, Aric? It’s still impossible. We’d only g-get caught and then… gods, if I l-lost you….”