by Damien Lake
This year, each full squad had marched on spring’s first day, nearly every one heading west to Tullainia’s border. Contracts from the border barons had poured in continuously all winter. The western lords were concerned about the turmoil broiling up next door.
Whatever transpired in Tullainia was Tullainia’s problem, as Marik saw it. Enough occupied him already without borrowing troubles from another kingdom. Tollaf had ceased hunting his head but the old man compensated by taking a tight rein over Marik’s life since the destruction of his precious mirror. Most of his days were spent practicing what little magecraft he knew without end, leaving him scant time to get in any sword training.
If Tollaf spared him from working his talent, it was only because he buried his apprentice inside Natalie’s diary pages, demanding that Marik uncover his error. Marik had become relatively inured to Natalie’s lifestyle through excessive exposure, though her particularly lurid descriptions of an original technique she had created still brought a flush to his cheeks.
Sloan tracked him down one day and curtly ordered, “Command building. Let’s go.”
Marik gladly followed his new sergeant to the summons he’d anticipated for eightdays. He entered the command building for the second time in his life.
Its foyer differed little from the other official buildings in the town, except coin had been spent to make it look more grandiose. The ever-present countertop still separated the room. There were two hallways on the entrance side, respectively leading west and east. Sloan turned into the east hallway.
Potted plants livened the corridor. The walls were lined with dark wood paneling behind leafy stalks. Carved molding covered the corners where wall met floor and ceiling. The hallway dead-ended after only a short distance except for two doors in the north wall.
They stopped at the far one. Sloan entered after a single hard rap. Inside, Fraser and Kineta waited, each sitting on expensive stuffed couches. Sloan dropped into a separate chair, equally as comfortable, yet it could have been a cold boulder on a mountaintop for all he noticed.
The couches and chairs were arranged around three sides of a knee-high table. Crystal bottles sparkling with sunset-colored liquor occupied a glass-doored cabinet with shelves built into the upper half for several books. All in all, this must be a waiting room for prospective contractors.
Uncertain of his place, Marik glanced to Fraser, who nodded at the seats. None faced the room’s rear. Sloan had claimed the one chair on his end. He dropped beside Fraser, deciding that sitting next to Kineta on her short couch might risk misinterpretation. Besides, her less than friendly mood could clearly be seen.
No one spoke in the short silence before the door burst open. Janus entered holding a small stack of papers and a canvas sack. He wasted no time in greetings or politeness, instead cutting straight to the point.
“You three,” he began, sweeping in everyone except Fraser with a hard stare, “are all headed to Spirratta. You each have a charge you’ve been assigned to guard during the tournament. There’s not much you need to know except that you better keep your charge alive. If he dies, and you didn’t, you’ll wish you had.”
Neither of the sergeants spoke, so Marik voiced the question on his mind. They must already have been informed about any relevant information as yet unknown to him. “What about the ‘not much’ part do we need to know?”
Janus directed the full force of his irritation on the only non-officer in the room. “You’re a guard, not a bloody tactician, boy! Follow your orders when you get them. This is hardly duty that calls for a brain, which is why you’re the head of your group. If you are attacked, fight them off or get your own skin between the blade and your charge! You better fall before he does!”
Marik kept his mouth shut after that. Whatever Janus claimed, Torrance had told him differently. You have started building a reputation. As your reputation increases, so does the band’s. And if you sour your reputation, ours too will suffer. It is only a four-man detail, but as you are the one best known among the nobles you will be mixing with, you must act as its head. Perhaps your reputation among them will grow no further than it has, but you must behave under the expectation that it will.
Janus continued. “You are each in charge of your group. That means if anything goes wrong, it’s your head on the pike. Here are your contracts. Always keep it on your person. Read it until you know it inside and out.”
He divided the paper stack into thirds and handed them to the team leaders. Marik read his name as well as Dietrik’s, Landon’s and Kerwin’s. Janus’ admonishment kicked loose memories of trouble that had occurred between the Ninth’s previous lieutenant, Earnell, and the spoiled son of Baron Dornory, Balfourth. The advice was sound. By the time they reached Spirratta, he would be able to recite the contract word for word.
Janus reached into the sack to withdraw three small pouches to which were tied pocket-sized books filled with blank pages. He declared while handing them out, “Here’s your traveling expenses. Keep a log of every copper you spend, because I’ll be checking them when you return. There’s enough coin for the round trip to Thoenar, plus extra emergency funds. If you spend more than that, it comes out of your own wages. Don’t expect a reimbursement unless you have a damned good reason, and proof!”
Kineta asked, “When are we supposed to leave?”
“Whenever you care to,” Janus snorted. “Your mounts are in the stables. You can draw them whenever you want. But I’d suggest you leave tomorrow.”
The old man had suffered them long enough and left the door open behind him. Marik peeked inside his bag to discover a small fortune in silver.
Kineta rose facing Sloan, balled fists on hips. “We’ll ride together for the city. The roads are full of refugees.”
Sloan shrugged his shoulders to indicate that the issue was of no importance to him. Silent as ever, he also left.
“What about you, lieutenant?” Marik asked.
“Since the squad’s not going out as a whole, what’s left of it anyway, I don’t need to go out with it. I have plenty of work around here to see to.”
Which sounded like an important way of saying he would be relaxing all summer, Marik thought. He addressed Kineta. “Uh, I’m Marik. I’d like to ride out along with you and Sergeant Sloan.”
She nodded. “I’ve seen you around. Heard a few things too.”
He hesitated, momentarily worried about exactly what she might have heard. “What time are you planning to leave?”
“Why wait? Dawn suits me fine.”
“All right. See you at the stables then.” Marik left her to a discussion with Fraser. While he returned to the Tower, he fantasized about what he could say to the chief mage now that he was no longer imprisoned under his jurisdiction. At the top of the stairs he yanked his mind back into reality. He knew what he wanted to do, but he also knew what he ought to do. Sighing mightily, he opened the door. Tollaf remained exactly as he had been when he’d left.
The old man buried his nose in a book of his own, if one less ostentatious than Natalie’s. Whatever he researched he kept the knowledge from his student. This intense project had consumed most of his waking candlemarks since the failed scrying attempt.
“Hey, old man!”
“What do you want?” The normal irritation was dulled under a weary tone.
“I’m heading out tomorrow to Spirratta on a contract. I want to take that book with me to study.”
Tollaf slowly spun on his stool, his fuzzy eyebrows creeping up his forehead like escaping caterpillars. He stuck his little finger in one ear and rotated it dramatically. “Old age is finally catching up to me. My hearing’s finally failing. I know I misheard whatever you said.”
Marik was not in the mood. “Just answer me!”
The chief mage regained his irascible wind. “You live especially for this, don’t you?”
“For what?”
“I spend my entire life fighting to get you to study your lessons, and the only ti
me you actually want to is when there’s no way in the hells I’ll let you!”
“Now what are you foaming at the mouth about?”
“Your answer is ‘no’. You are not taking that tome out of Kingshome, let alone to Spirratta!”
“Thoenar.”
“I don’t care where! You haven’t the faintest idea what that tome is worth, let alone how difficult it was to obtain!”
“I can be trusted! That mirror wasn’t my fault!”
“I don’t give two apple cores about that!” Tollaf shouted, surprising Marik. “I’m talking about an irreplaceable treasure! The knowledge in those pages goes beyond value! If you want to study it so bad, then stay in town this summer.”
“Torrance already assigned me.”
Tollaf nearly spit. “And I still want to know why he did that! You were supposed to spend this season studying.”
“Will you stop with that! You’ll never make me put down my blade.”
“It’s a crutch! You’ll never master your power if you keep thinking like a muscle-bound dunderhead!”
“I give up! Keep your moldy old book, since it means so much to you. Maybe you can figure out what happened during the scrye!”
Out of temper, Marik stalked from the Tower. As much as he hated Tollaf’s overbearing manner, he had hoped to spend the road time figuring out why the mirror had exploded. Whenever Tollaf forced him to the task, he wasted half his mental energy fuming. He always worked much better when the master of his actions was himself.
But he had to prepare for tomorrow. He began a mental list of all the things he needed to pack. Also, he needed to tell the others, then…
Chapter 05
Men and women ran frantically without direction, shouting, gesturing and commanding others in frenzied voices. If anyone accomplished anything, Colbey saw no evidence of it. Jabberzian; a city in panic, every citizen concerned more for his own skin than his kingdom’s welfare. This teeming chaos resulted from people dodging conscription while striving to appear helpful.
Colbey had visited this eastern Tullainia city during his first summer with the Kings. His familiarity allowed him to find his way well enough. He also knew the city’s normal routine, which the current bustle made a mockery of.
A formal wall had never enclosed the city. In the last several months the Tullainians had undertaken a massive effort to construct a perimeter defense. The manual labor mostly came from soldiers and prisoner work gangs, resulting in a barrier nearly as hodgepodge as the men constructing it. Very little of the wall was stone. Building supplies were limited on short notice, especially in the quantities needed to surround the vast city. Primarily, stout wood walls packed in-between with dirt, rocks, rubble, or whatever else the builders could find would be their defense. Several stretches were only massive earthwork mounds thirty feet in height.
Inside the eclectic walls, Colbey encountered atmospheres of opposing extremes. People burned away their energy, frantic to accomplish the impossible, succeeding in very little due to their inefficiency and nonexistent coordination. Others were silent, contemplating the gallows, or hovering over ale, awaiting the end with fatalistic acceptance.
In the streets the scout saw few who failed to fit one or the other category. Several men carrying lumber atop their shoulders rushed past a drunk crouched in the dirt. To judge from the vagrant’s clothing, he had not been one to sit amongst garbage and detritus for long.
Shops were still open, conducting business as though nothing were amiss. The only prosperous ones were the taverns and food markets. Colbey’s feet brought him down a shady street toward his fourth tavern of the day.
He had visited these establishments during his last visit, though under different objectives. Whereas before he had fished for information about the unknown assailants responsible for destroying his people, this time he sought to learn how to be Tullainian.
Colbey had abandoned gathering any further information from these frightened fools. Most eyewitnesses had already fled east across the border, or north up through the narrow non-desert stretches of Perrisan. Still shocked and terrified, they had provided him with details that the people living here in the east could never believe, much less fabricate. He credited the locals’ uselessness to three factors.
Foremost was the lack of firsthand experience on the part of the eastern Tullainians. Though confronted with fleeing survivors from their own kingdom, most were simply unable to fathom the true terror. Yes, they were building their defenses and sharpening their swords, but they still harbored illusions regarding the threat facing them.
Secondly, their inability to see past the monsters. As far as the Tullainians believed, the threat they faced existed wholly within the inhuman creatures that had devastated so many western towns. Thus, none peered beyond to see what drove the monsters, or who stood behind them.
This was reinforced by the third reason. The High-Lord Faylin-dow. How much the man actually knew, Colbey could only guess, yet the lord took advantage of the situation to smear his longtime rival, Markis-gune. Word had spread that the menace emanated from Kallied, the city where Markis-gune held sway. Faylin-dow declaimed loud and long, putting forth his belief that these monsters originated from evil magical experiments funded by his opposite high-lord. Experiments gone hideously awry, allowing the creatures to escape and wreck havoc across the surrounding land.
In a panic, many Tullainian aristocrats gave his words credence. Colbey doubted Faylin-dow would have long to wallow in the satisfaction of his rival’s downfall. The high-lord should have been focusing his attention on his city’s defenses. Perhaps then they might stand a chance of lasting into a second day.
The location of his enemy’s apparent base of operations was the only new intelligence gleaned from these outlanders. His next destination set, he forced himself to delay leaving for Kallied until preparations were complete. Tullainians wandering the western regions would be in peril enough, but a foreigner would arouse particular interest. To that end, he needed to become a Tullainian for all apparent purposes.
A task inadequately suited to him. Darkening his skin tones to eastern Tullainia’s rich brown would be easy enough. It was pretending to be other than what he was that ran counter to Colbey’s nature. Partly this stemmed from his strong-willed personality, which dictated he never live his life to suit others. Emulating Galemarans, on the few occasions he bothered to attempt it, never seemed worth the trouble.
Yet he headed into the dragon’s cave, to steal a whisker as the deadly beast slept. He needed a disguise to keep his enemy’s eyes from focusing on him. A disguise surpassing his clothing and the overstuffed pack strapped to his back.
Shortly after crossing the border he had happened upon an old tinker. The man had died only marks before, succumbing to heart failure while attempting to flee on foot with his belongings. His physical needs at an end, Colbey buried the old man in the mountains, then took his shabby clothing and pack filled with tools of the tinker’s trade.
They served him well in Jabberzian’s streets. Bodies rushed past without second glances until he entered the next tavern. The taproom was filled to capacity, many of the customers forced to stand while they drank. Serving men and boys weaved through the crowd holding six or eight tankards in each hand. Around their waists were small gaping purses, easy targets for coins dropped directly in by patrons while the server juggled tankard handles.
No one left their possessions by the door, Colbey noted with satisfaction. His sword was strapped to his back, hidden by the tinker’s pack. The hilt protruded over his left shoulder, disguised by a cloth remnant dangling from the pack’s flap. Drawing it would require an additional second and he hoped it would not be time he needed. Soldiers were rounding up every fighting man in the area so concealing his blade had become necessary.
When no seats cleared, he waded through the room to a corner on the bar’s far end. This afforded him a view of the room when unblocked by people walking past. A tall stool beside
him vacated. Immediately a new man filled the perch. Colbey glanced sideways at the man, unshaven and with a sour reek about him, noticing he failed to ask what the kitchen might have available. Instead, the derelict scattered a handful of coppers on the bar top. The barman slid three from the pile without comment and left a brimming ale in their place which the fragrant man dove straight into.
Colbey wanted to sneer, but checked his instinctive reaction. For all intents he worked as a spy. Acting the part of another, as ill-suited as he might be for it, was merely a matter of control. Self-control had always been a point of pride with him. He retrained his natural expressions. There were greater considerations than a lout drinking his life away.
If he calmed his mind he could still faintly hear the voices of his slaughtered people, ever present, echoing as from far away. He felt their dead gazes hover at his neck’s nape, a physical, if feathery, weight. Until he found the murderers who had butchered them, they would remain with him. Whether in silent support or cold accusation, only time would reveal.
He shifted his gaze to study those outlanders populating the taproom. Unconscious mannerisms, that was what he wanted. Close observation quickly marked traits he had noted in earlier taverns. Unlike Galemarans who immediately placed their weight against the chair back, Tullainians tended to sit straighter. Most sported a firm posture, their spines avoiding contact with the chairs. When one did, he immediately shifted so he leaned forward slightly. The only patrons who slumped in their seats were those who had obviously consumed enough ale for one night.
Another common trait these Tullainians shared dealt with their elbows. Galemarans, slouched in their seats, rested their elbows on a chair’s armrest, assuming it had any, gesturing while leaning weight on them, except most would refrain from placing their elbows on the table. The Tullainians huddled closer to their tankards to speak privately, their entire forearms laying on the table surface.