by Tim Stead
“Fat chance,” Keron said. “Do you want me to come?”
“No, I’ll be fine. They just want to get it on the table at the next meeting, and I can support that. I’ll vote against it, of course.”
He left his rooms and walked up the street out of Dock Ward heading towards first bridge. Evening was draining the light from the eastern sky and the streets were busy with people going about their business. Gayne saw frowns, people hurried wherever they were bound, and he understood that. Duke Kenton’s army was coming south, and there would doubtless be a battle.
Dock Ward was always busy, but the further north he went the thinner the crowds, and by the time he crossed the bridge dusk had asserted itself and the thin trickle of citizens was mostly heading the other way.
The meeting was to take place in a tavern called the Fat Mare, a small place on the northern side of Bridge Ward. It was a place that he’d seen in passing but never visited. It didn’t have much of a reputation either way, and as he approached, he studied it for the first time. The sign was barely more than a board with a badly drawn horse painted on it, but the building itself looked sound and well cared for.
He pushed open the door and stepped into a smoky bar alive with conversation and thick with the smells of beer, sweat and cooked meat. He saw the party he was to meet at a table close to the bar and walked over. One of them, a man called Tarioc, raised an arm.
“Gayne, take a seat. You want ale?”
Tarioc was not a member of the great council, but he was a populist from before they had any power.
“Why not?” Gayne said, and they brought a cup over. Tarioc poured from a common jug, re-filling his own cup at the same time. There was one other man at the table. Gayne didn’t know him.
“So,” Tarioc said. “We helped you with your oath, now we ask for your help with this small matter.”
“You want ownership of Falini’s properties in Bridge Ward,” Gayne stated. “That’s a lot to ask.”
“And in West Ward,” the man he didn’t know said. That was unexpected. The main estate lay in West Ward. It was where the council met.
“You represent West Ward?” Gayne asked.
“I do.” The man held out a hand. “Alik Alami.”
Gayne took his hand. “But not on the council.”
“No. Different skills for different jobs, councillor. I am here to negotiate.”
“You have something to offer me?”
Alami tapped on the table with a long finger. “Much, I hope. We were impressed with your reading of the Paritti document. We will support you in its implementation if you support us. Otherwise we may find cause to object to various parts of it.”
“You’re threatening me?” Gayne asked.
“Absolutely not, councillor. But we are willing to waive our difficulties in return for your consideration.”
Gayne shook his head. “It would be against the interests of my own ward. We swore to serve ward, city and country in that order.”
“There could be other compensations for Dock Ward,” Alami said. “Your new guilds, for example. The building of a guild house, or even two, in your ward would bring prosperity.”
“The guilds, when they are formed, will make their own decisions.”
Alami smiled. “Which might be influenced by an offer of free land, or freedom from land taxes.”
“Such an offer would constitute a theft from the people of the city. All guilds should pay as any man or woman might pay.”
“But it would benefit your ward, your first loyalty.”
Gayne leaned back in his chair. This was North Ward all over again. He did not doubt that someone in West Ward would profit mightily if he agreed to it, and there was no doubt that the city as a whole would lose. Was greed so ingrained in the Afaeli soul?
“I cannot support this. The ducal properties we have seized are now owned by the people of Afael and the nation of Afael, not by any one ward or man. Their use will be decided by the council.”
Alami pulled a face. “I did not believe that you would be so rigid. The world does not work the way you seem to think it does, councillor Gayne. Deals must be done. Interests must be served.”
“The interests of the people must be served.” Gayne replied. He was beginning to feel anger now. This man was suggesting that corruption was unavoidable, that the city, the country, even the world could not function without it. “Indeed,” he added. “I will put a motion before the council to make such deals illegal, and treated as the theft they are.” He looked at Tarioc. “And you are part of this?” he asked. “You want to make deals and steal from the people?”
“I want what is best for Bridge Ward,” Tarioc said, but there was a hint of embarrassment in his voice.
“I will tell you what is best for Bridge Ward, Tarioc. It is a prosperous and fair city, a prosperous and fair nation. If I have to get Torgaris back into the council chamber to make that happen, then I shall. Do not doubt it.”
Alami stood up.
“Well, it seems that I am wasting my time here,” he said. “You will regret this, councillor.” He didn’t wait for a reply, but hurried away, out into the thickening night.
“I am sorry, Gayne,” Tarioc said. “When Alami approached me with the idea I thought it a good one. It would have given Bridge Ward a degree of independence. We could have done things with the money, good things.”
Gayne sipped at his beer. “Perhaps there is something in that,” he said. “If we have ward councils perhaps they can be given some portion of the great council’s income. They can address local problems with the money. I will think on it.”
“That would be something,” Tarioc said, brightening a little. “After all, when the nation is finally free the towns will want their own councils and their own money to spend.”
“They will. You make a good case. Perhaps I have been too bound up with the city’s particular problems. Write your thoughts down and send them to me in a letter. I will do the same and we can meet again to discuss it.”
“I will,” Tarioc said.
“And now I must go. Be careful of Alami. I doubt he has any interests at heart but his own. Do you know if he has a master?”
Tarioc shrugged. “He claims to serve the elected of West Ward. I do not know him otherwise.”
Gayne drained his cup. “Well, then, I shall look forward to your letter.” He stood and made his way across the tavern and stepped out into the cool night air. He would have to look into Alami. If the man had a master a quick word in that privileged ear might solve the problem. Otherwise he would have to deal with Alami some other way, but that was a problem for tomorrow. He was hungry and wanted to get back to Dock Ward before the Burnt Ship ran out of their evening stew. They had greatly improved the quality of their food and now he ate there most nights. It had become almost a ritual.
He had nearly reached First Bridge when he caught the sound of footsteps behind him, and the broken rhythm suggested more than one pair of boots. There was no reason that the sound should not be innocent, just another couple of citizens going about their business, but Gayne stopped and turned to face them.
The three men had clearly been following him. They stopped as soon as he turned. One of them was Alami.
“Not satisfied with the night’s work?” Gayne asked.
There was a faint noise from the direction of the bridge, and Gayne looked over his shoulder to see three more men coming from that direction.
“You should have listened, Gayne,” Alami said. “I told you you’d regret it.”
“I don’t yet,” he replied. Dragons and god-mages may sense it, but if Gayne was ever going to use his power it would be now. But what to do? He drew his own modest blade and was pleased to see that all six of his assailants drew their own. There was no doubt about it, then. They meant to kill him. To Gayne’s mind that absolved him of any consideration of fairness. “Before you… kill me, satisfy my curiosity. Who is it that you’re working for?”
�
�Why would I tell you that?” Alami said.
Gayne smiled at him. “Last wish?”
Alami spat at the ground. “This arrogant prick thinks he’s going to survive,” he told his men. “Kill him.”
Gayne waited for them to step forwards, then he snuffed them out like candles, stealing that part of them that was alive – all except Alami. As the assassins crumpled around him Gayne stepped past them and hit Alami with just enough power to knock him cold.
“This arrogant prick knows he’s going to survive,” he told the silent street. He picked up Alami and slung him over a shoulder. He would question the man later, but now he wanted to get back to his rooms. There was a little experiment he wanted to try.
Twenty minutes later he was home. Alami was trussed up like a chicken ready for market, his mouth stuffed with cloth and the cloth tied in with a rope. Mordo was fidgeting at the back of the room, but Gayne was waiting for Keron.
Alami woke up and make a hopeless attempt to break free of the ropes that bound him. Even if he could have escaped, he wouldn’t have made it as far as the door.
“Be still,” Gayne told him. “Just be thankful you’re still some use to me.”
The sentiment didn’t seem to comfort the prisoner in the slightest, but he stopped squirming. The door slammed below and heavy feet drummed on the stairs. A moment later Keron burst into the room.
“What?” the big man boomed. “The boy said it was urgent.” He caught sight of Alami. “What do you want done to him?”
“He’s for later,” Gayne said. “First I’m going to do something to you.”
Keron raised a thick eyebrow. “Will I like it?”
“Think of it like cheap wine,” Gayne said. “You might not like the taste, but it’ll still get you drunk.”
“Right. What do you want me to do?”
“Sit. I’ll do the rest.”
Keron sat and Gayne stood over him. Taking lives like he had wasn’t altogether a comfortable experience. He felt bloated, like he’d eaten too much rice. He looked across at Mordo.
“Tell me again,” he said.
Mordo sighed. “Oh, for a better student,” he muttered. “Place a hand on Keron – skin to skin. You should be feeling a warmth in your belly or chest. Push that down your arm. Use your will.”
Gayne nodded. The warmth was there, tucked under the bottom of his ribs. He put his right hand on Keron’s forehead and willed the sensation to move. To his surprise it did. He could feel a trickle worming its way up to his shoulder, like when you drink cold water and it makes itself known all the way down to your belly. But this was hot and moving up. The heat reached his shoulder and began to rush down his arm as though some invisible dam had ruptured. In seconds it was gone and Gayne felt drained. The bloated feeling was gone. He took his hand back. There was an ache in his fingers.
“Is that it?” Keron asked.
“Did you feel anything?”
“It tickled, but not in a bad way. Not like an itch.”
They looked at each other.
“Well,” Mordo said. “Do something. Pick something up.”
“What?”
“Something heavy. Something you can’t pick up,” Mordo suggested.
“That makes no sense. How can I pick up something I can’t pick up?”
“Try.”
Keron shrugged and stood up. There was a wooden chest in the corner of the room where Gayne kept some of his metalwork. It weighed about three hundred pounds. Keron bent over and picked it up.
“You’ve emptied it,” he said.
Gayne grinned. “No,” he said.
Keron put it down again and opened it. It was full of steel blanks and twists of metal, spurs and half made blades.
“Shit,” he said. He picked it up again. “That’s amazing. How long will it last?”
Mordo smiled. “About a hundred and seventy-five years,” he said. “And your strength will have doubled, or thereabouts. You may also be marginally cleverer, but probably not so much that you will notice.”
Keron couldn’t stop grinning. “I want to break something,” he said. “Can I break him?” He leered at Alami.
“No. We need him to tell us things.”
Mordo leaned forwards. Gayne didn’t see the knife in his hand until he plunged it into Keron’s shoulder. Keron shouted and took a bear-like swipe at Mordo that would have hurled him across the room, but Mordo ducked under it.
“Bastard!” Keron yelled. He took a determined step towards Mordo.
“Look at the wound,” Mordo said.
Keron glanced down, lifted his hand that was covering the injury, and stopped. There was a smear of blood on his skin, but apart from that there was no evidence that he had ever been stabbed.
“What…?”
“You are Farheim, Keron,” Mordo told him. “You can take any wound short of decapitation and know only an instant of pain. You heal as soon as the blade or arrow is withdrawn.”
Keron grinned again. “You could have said that instead of stabbing me. I still owe you a slap.”
“Words are less powerful than deeds,” Mordo said. “Now you believe what I said, do you not?”
“I do.”
Mordo turned to the trussed-up figure on the floor.
“Perhaps he will talk now, after what he has witnessed.” Mordo said.
Gayne crouched down in front of Alami. “What about it?” he asked. “Will you tell us the name of your master?”
“If he doesn’t, there are ways of making him,” Mordo said. “More subtle ways than letting Keron beat it out of him, and a lot less pleasant.”
But Alami was nodding. He was clearly terrified. Gayne drew his blade and cut the rope that held the gag. He pulled the cloth from his prisoner’s mouth.
“Duke Kenton,” he gasped. “I work for Duke Kenton.”
Gayne exchanged a look with Keron. “I never expected that,” he said. He turned back to Alami. “Tell me, what manner of man is the Duke?”
18 The Problem at High Stone
Callan Henn had watched the last contingent of northern troops ride south the previous morning. It was certain now that there was going to be a war, and that he was not going to be part of it. If they lost, he would merely be a victim of the clean-up that followed.
He went up onto the highest tower before dawn and looked down over his small domain. He’d never seen it more crowded. There were seven lords here now, including himself. He included himself even though he was the least of them. He held the smallest estates, owned the allegiance of the fewest men, but he was their host, and the title he bore was a hero’s reward, passed down to him from Tilian, the Ghost himself.
“My Lord?”
Callan turned to see his steward Dardanel. He was holding what seemed to be a small loaf, but there was a distinct smell of bacon about it.
“Breakfast, Dardanel?” he asked.
“Yes, My Lord.”
Callan took the bread and lifted up a corner. There was bacon, to be sure, but an Afaeli sausage had joined it, and there were mushrooms and fried onions in there, too. He took a bite.
“Will there be anything else, My Lord?”
Callan gestured at the new barracks buildings he’d had built in the castle courtyard.
“How long do you think we can feed this many?” he asked.
“It is more or less what we planned for,” Dardanel said. “I do not see why we should change the estimate. Eight weeks before we have to cut rations. Twelve weeks before we must send them home.”
“It should be over by then.”
“Indeed.”
“Are they up yet?”
“My Lord Toranda was looking for breakfast an hour ago, but the others have yet to stir beyond their chambers.”
“Do the men seem settled?”
“The arrangements seem to please everyone, My Lord. There have been no complaints.”
“Very well. If they ask you may tell them that I will be among them shortly to answer any q
uestions they might have.”
Dardanel left him alone with his makeshift breakfast, and Callan wedged himself in a corner of the tower and gnawed at the loaf. There were stirrings in the courtyard below. Guards changing detail at dawn, he guessed. Each lord was guarded by their own men, and each had a comfortable chamber. It meant that Callan had to move his own family up into the tower, but they had made a nest of it and were comfortable enough.
He would rather have gone to war with his men, but he did not have the talents of his illustrious ancestor. Callan was a talker. ‘Weak of arm and strong of tongue’ Honaria, his wife, said of him, and it was true enough. He was clever in the way that scholars are clever. He liked to consider all sides of a matter, to take his time, to discuss things with Dardanel before he made a decision. It meant that everything he did was deliberate and well planned, but he was no general. It made sense for him to stay here and keep people safe in his fortress.
The food finished, he wiped his hands on the stonework to take off the worst of the grease and made his way down the stairs. He put his head into their bedchamber.
“Honaria, I’m going down,” he said.
“I think Triss has a fever,” she said. “Nothing serious, but I’ll stay with her. You go.”
Triss was his eight-year-old daughter, and Callan was momentarily torn between a desire to comfort the child and his duty to the lords but, as always, he allowed Honaria to make the snap decisions for him.
“I’ll come back up when I have a moment,” he said.
The great hall, not really so great as it happened, boasted a long table that could seat twenty. It was inadequate for all the lords, ladies, children and advisors to gather at once, so Callan had suggested that they break their fast daily at their leisure, there being no set time for the meal. His kitchen staff had been less than happy, but in such times everyone had to sacrifice, and they had accepted the additional work with hardly a murmur.
At present there were two families at table. Lord and Lady Blackwood sat with their two sons, but Blackwood was having an animated discussion with Lord Yurdal. Yurdal had one teenage son, his wife having perished in childbirth. That son sat silently beside his father prodding in a bored fashion at a half-eaten sausage on his plate.