Mérdmerén took out the claw from his satchel but kept it tightly clasped close to him. “How do I know you’ll give us the horses?”
“You don’t. All you can do is trust, the only thing left for people like you who don’t have many options.”
“Trust is dangerous,” he replied.
“What’s more dangerous is that you keep trying my patience. I’m giving you my word and the benefit of the doubt. If you keep on annoying me, I’ll kill you right here and keep the claw.”
“You’re a bloody witch. Is there anybody who loves you?”
“My son.”
“You have a son?”
“Don Trágalar Maximus.”
***
“Do you think the old witch’ll give us the horses?” Ságamas asked, coming out of his emotional catatonia.
They had been put into a carriage with bars like a cage. “They’re treating us as though we were a threat,” the sailor added.
“And so we are,” Mérdmerén replied. “This Trágalar is a cautious man who’s learned from others who’ve arrived before us who caused him all sorts of headaches. And apart from that, things are going from bad to worse in the Empire. Security’s failing, and politics are suffering the effects of that disintegration. There are too many opposing forces fighting in the government, and now you can add the return of an old enemy. If there isn’t a change of some kind, the Empire won’t stand up to it.”
“Shit, be careful with your words, boss. Don’t you go earning us an untimely curse, or, at least, not another one.”
The carriage continued its journey through the estate, attracting the attention of passers-by, who, this time, were silent. The castle was worthy of admiration, built of polished stone and almost white. It was merely a sample of the small empire Trágalar had inherited. His care and work in maintaining it and making it grow were visible.
Two immense iron gates opened to let the carriage through. Inside the fortress, which was also of white stone, was a red carpet stretching as far as a long staircase, which led to the upper levels. There were at least fifty guards on every corner with tight armor and their faces hidden under their helmets, their elegant halberds pointing upwards. A steward dressed in white came to the carriage door, followed by five armed soldiers.
“Open the door and let them out,” he said in an effeminate voice. The soldiers obeyed like automatons. “Take the guests to their room. Trágalar has decided that you shall share. He has ordered us to prepare a hot bath, and in the room, you will find everything necessary for your toilet. His lordship expects you at six o’clock in the dining room.”
Without hiding his scorn, the steward turned and disappeared.
The sailor was astonished. “We’re special guests, then?”
“We’re prisoners,” Mérdmerén corrected him. “They’re treating us well thanks to Hexilda. If it weren’t for her, we’d be muck on the dungeon floor by now.”
“Have you noticed all the men around Trágalar?”
“A bit. Why do you mention it?”
“Not sure. I have my suspicions about his preferences.”
Mérdmerén laughed. Now that Ságamas came to mention it, the steward who had given them instructions did show a rather odd kind of behavior, and perhaps his clothes were a little too tight.
***
“It’s impressive,” said Ságamas, who was walking around the room with his eyes wide in admiration. “It’s a room in a stone castle, but everything’s paneled in wood. I didn’t know you could do something like this.”
Mérdmerén was distrustful. He repeated to himself that they were prisoners, deluxe ones, perhaps, but when all was said and done, they were not free. There were two guards at the door.
“It’s all too showy for my taste,” he said.
“What I say is, let’s enjoy it. We’ve been roughing it for too long,” the sailor said as he stripped unceremoniously.
“What are you doing? Don’t take your clothes off in front of me!”
“Well then, don’t look!”
Mérdmerén and the guards turned away while the sailor finished stripping off his rags and immersed himself with a long sigh of pleasure in the tub of hot water that had the scent of bay leaves in its steam. His wooden leg rested on the floor. The stub was just below the knee.
“This Trágalar,” he began to say. “He might be a weird kind of guy, a son of mermaids who’s tried to kill us if you like to look at it that way, but he certainly knows how to please a guest. This is exquisite. I needed it.” The sailor placed a clean cloth over his eyes and rested his head on the edge of the tub.
“What the heck,” cried Mérdmerén, and he started to strip too.
He stepped into the water and felt that, at last, he could loosen the reins of his stress.
***
Shortly before six in the evening, servants practically dragged them out of the bath and dressed them in the ostentatious clothes they had brought.
“Don Trágalar is very sensitive to comments about the dishes served at his table,” the steward warned them as he led them to the dining room. “Call him ‘your lordship’ when you address him; he wants to be treated like a king in his domains. Do you understand? It’s all very simple.”
The interior of the castle was a jewel: paintings framed in gold-plated wood, arrangements in the finest crystal, statues and sculptures by famous artists, imported carpets, and a myriad of ornaments that reflected the candlelight as if they were precious gems.
“This way, gentlemen. When you go in, you will greet Don Trágalar and apologize for your tardiness. There is nothing that bothers Trágalar more than a lack of punctuality.”
“On the part of his prisoners, you mean,” Mérdmerén pointed out, glancing aside at the steward. “As far as your boss is concerned, we’re no more than a disgrace, human scum. If we’re here, it’s because of his mother.”
The steward was ruffled. “How did you find out? Nobody can have got hold of that information!”
“You find out the gossip by talking to the ones who do the dirty laundry,” Mérdmerén said with a defiant smile.
The steward put up with the insults and his desire to respond, but only because they had arrived at the dining room. It was a wide, spacious hall with a table in the middle and twelve chairs around it. On each side was an army of waiters dressed in black and white, waiting with platters in their hands. There was a smell of food. The travelers’ mouths watered, and like hungry dogs, they went toward the table. The sound of the steward clearing his throat reminded them of their instructions about protocol.
“Good evening, Don Trágalar. We apologize for our tardiness.”
The lord was impatient. He was drumming his fingers on the table as he drank red wine from a large goblet. “Sit down and eat.”
“Thank you,” they replied. They sat down where the servants indicated, two seats away from Don Trágalar with one on each side of the table. It was obvious that the lord did not want them too close. There was no guard to be seen, but Mérdmerén was sure that at the appropriate signal, the dining room would fill with soldiers.
“Very well, let us begin,” Trágalar announced. The servants began to move with gestures measured to the finest detail. “You have reached an agreement with Hexilda, do I understand?”
“That’s right,” Mérdmerén confirmed, swallowing a piece of a leg of lamb after barely chewing it. “I assume that’s why we’re here,” he added with his mouth full of food.
Don Trágalar grimaced with distaste. “Indeed. Hexilda is someone special in this estate. She wished you to be invited to a good meal and a good bed before you continue your journey. Tomorrow, you will find horses at the sentry box. You will be able to leave, but you will never come back to these lands. Is that understood?”
“Yes, yes,” Mérdmerén replied, wiping his mouth with his hand and taking a long swig of his wine. Ságamas smiled with amusement at the sight of his traveling companion eating so eagerly; he was doing it on pur
pose to irritate Don Trágalar.
“You said you are going to Háztatlon, I believe? To take your revenge.”
“I need to regain my lands, my family, and my position as a counselor.”
“I see,” Trágalar said, trying to hide his interest. “Cantus tried to buy off this estate many times with offensive offers. He’s a villain. I hope you achieve your purpose.”
Mérdmerén began to suspect where the conversation was heading. “Hah! What interest would a landowner like yourself have in political games? I see you don’t know much about the subject.”
Don Trágalar clenched his teeth. “My interests are no concern of yours. It’s just that I would love to see Cantus fall into misfortune, that’s all! And call me your lordship when you address me!”
“With pleasure, your majesty. Is that all? It isn’t as simple as you want to make it.” Mérdmerén picked at a piece of meat stuck in his teeth with the tip of his knife. Don Trágalar did not bother to hide the disgust the man aroused in him.
“I have been told that Cantus is the owner of one of the biggest estates in the North and that it produces everything, even coffee. Santiago de los Reyes is the name of the estate.” Don Trágalar smiled at seeing Mérdmerén suffer.
“That son of a bitch stole it from me!” Mérdmerén cried, almost getting to his feet. The waiters stopped for a moment, holding their breath.
“How interesting,” their host commented. “What would you need in order not to fail in your revenge?” he added, playing with his beard.
“Armor, reins, supplies, weapons, money, a lot of money, and the promise that I’ll have your full support when I return to the Council of Kings.”
“I don’t enjoy the political privileges you assume I do,” Don Trágalar said.
“That’s what you think, your lordship Don Trágalar, but with an estate like this, I’m sure the entire Empire knows of you. If you don’t have political power at the moment, your lordship, you could have it, and I could add to it if you support me in this mission.”
Their host was now so deeply interested that he was not even eating. “Go on.”
“As a counselor, I could grant permits to facilitate your business, your lordship. We could even become partners and unite the output of our estates!”
“How much money do you need?” The sailor and Mérdmerén looked at each other.
“Two thousand crowns.”
“That’s a fortune!”
“It’s what we need,” the sailor put in, gulping down his piece of pork. He seemed to have awakened from his nostalgia.
“All right. Two thousand crowns.”
“In addition to weapons, armor, and horses strong enough to last the journey,” Ságamas added.
“I shall give you the best of my estate, but take heed: If you disappoint me, I shall pursue you and behead you myself. In exchange for all this, I wish to expand my domains to the North and one thing more.”
“Whatever you wish, your lordship,” the sailor said unwisely.
“You take Hexilda with you.”
“What?” the two travelers cried in unison.
“Impossible!” added Mérdmerén flatly.
Don Trágalar was smiling. “It’s part of the deal. If you fail to take her with you, I shall put you in the dungeons again. All or nothing. This is my offer, gentlemen; think it over carefully.” Don Trágalar drained his goblet. “Enjoy the rest of your meal. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you. Now, I shall leave you. You have one hour to decide.”
“But Hexilda’s your mother!” Mérdmerén shouted while the lord walked away with an air of victory. Their host stopped and turned.
“That’s a lie!” he yelled. “D’you hear me? It’s a lie!”
And, like a child in a temper, he left the hall in a hurry.
Mérdmerén and Ságamas looked at each other, perplexed by Trágalar’s reaction.
Chapter XIII – Blossoming
When Orolio went back to the classroom of the chosen, he was completely exhausted. The delivery of failure notices to a hundred and sixty students who were trying to adjust to the fact that their dream had just ended was never easy for him. Every year was the same, and his nerves troubled him at the mere thought that barely twelve months later, he would have to go through the same agonies again.
When he walked into the classroom, the boys, who had been celebrating, quieted down and waited for Orolio to recover his breath. His extra weight had been taking its toll for quite some time now.
“Congratulations, boys. Not only have you passed the test, but your work these past seven months has been excellent. The Perfect Pontiff is pleased to have you as future loyal evangelizers.”
“And when are we going to meet the Perfect Pontiff?” Délegas interrupted. He had risen to his feet. “For over a year I’ve been hearing that he thinks about us, that he blesses us all over the place, that he’s pleased, but come on. When the hell are we going to meet him? I’d like him to be the one to tell us all this himself, not his lamb.”
The boy looked aggressive and defiant. His fellow students looked at him in astonishment and also in surprise that he had been chosen. Any one of the hundred and sixty rejected was a better student, and above all, a less impertinent one.
Orolio felt insulted. This kid had called him a lamb, even though it was true that he was since all the priests were lambs of the Perfect Pontiff. “The Perfect Pontiff has his procedures. He knows what he’s doing and—”
“In other words, you don’t have the slightest idea why the Perfect Pontiff doesn’t come and see us himself. Isn’t that right, little father?”
Orolio glowered at Délegas, but the pupil remained impervious as if his hide were thicker than a crocodile’s. “The Perfect Pontiff has many duties, and it’s true that as your insolent fellow student says, nobody knows the reasons why the Perfect Pontiff acts as he does. We only know that his word is divine and that we must follow it, just as the five commandments prescribe. The Perfect Pontiff has been illuminated by the Gods themselves. By the way, Délegas, today you’ll have to clean the dining room and make the beds for all your fellow students.”
Délegas’ face filled with hatred.
“At six this evening, there will be a special dinner at the Décamic Palace, with Damasio, the pontiff in charge of you all, and myself, your future teacher on the way to becoming sacristans. You’ll have more teachers, but I’ll carry almost all the weight of your instruction. My friend Délegas here hasn’t started on the right foot. Until dinner time, you’re free to do whatever you like. I’ll see you then.”
Orolio beckoned Délegas and left the classroom. Joermo, Kurlos, Ánomnos, and Argbralius gathered together.
“Délegas doesn’t fit in. His days are numbered,” Kurlos said.
“I think he can contribute more than it seems,” Joermo ventured. “He has abilities we haven’t noticed yet.”
“Oh, stop that nonsense,” Ánomnos cut in. “He’s bad-mannered and a lout. I agree with Kurlos: That wastrel ought to be expelled as soon as possible. All he’ll do is spoil our education.”
“We’ll see what happens,” Argbralius said. “For the moment, I’ll enjoy seeing him doing cleaning chores. It’ll be fun.”
The others laughed, and feeling cheerful, went on to the sports ground.
***
It was comical to see future sacristans playing in their gray cassocks. Sports and contact games were a matter of controversy in the Décamon Mayutorum. They were aware that sports were an important part of young people’s development, and for this reason, they allowed them to play with leather balls and run around the field, even though this kind of leisure activity resulted in fights and a few bruises.
Argbralius, Joermo, Ánomnos, Délegas, Kurlos, and fifteen other boys were sweating. They were playing soccer, which had become popular all over the empire. It involved sending the ball within the boundaries of a wooden frame that was protected by one player, the goalkeeper, the only one who coul
d use his hands to catch the ball.
The others could only move it with their feet, heads, or chests. In the match they were now playing, the winning team would be the first to get the ball through the goalposts ten times. The spectators made bets; the prize was no less than the much sought after snacks of bread, jam, and caramel.
Argbralius, Joermo, Ánomnos, Kurlos—as the goalkeeper—and six others were in one team. The other was made up of Délegas, Sailor, Xavier, and seven others. Xavier was their goalkeeper because of his swiftness and agility. The ball moved from one foot to the other, moving between groups, sometimes going outside the field. Délegas stole the ball from Joermo and pushed him down. Joermo got up, annoyed and unwilling to get the ball back. Ánomnos went to his defense, but Délegas feinted, crossed and uncrossed his legs and feet, tricking his rival, and kept on his way.
Argbralius shot out like a comet and, with a sweep, took the ball from Délegas. The bully, who did not even see the attack coming, was quick to turn around and pursue Argbralius. His friends shouted at him to pass the ball, that Délegas was about to catch him, but Argbralius held his own and feinted brilliantly.
“Well danced!” his friends chorused to tease Délegas, who had been tricked once again.
The big boy was red with rage. He charged once again. Argbralius dodged him again.
“Well danced!”
Neither players nor spectators wanted to miss anything of this duel. Then Argbralius kicked and the ball flew cleanly into the opposing team’s goal.
Amid cheers and shouts, the audience and the team celebrated the score, until they saw two players rolling on the ground. Délegas was on top of Argbralius, threatening to batter him with punches. The others ran over to stop the fight.
“It’s just a match, man! Let’s go on playing!”
Argbralius stood up, unscathed but wanting revenge. The teams were nine against seven, in Argbralius’ team’s favor. Délegas’ team continued the game from the center of the field. The boy, enraged, broke into a run, elbowing and kneeing everyone who crossed his path.
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