“Hey, that ain’t true.”
Mareth mopped his plate with the bread and took a long draught of the ale. He was beginning to feel human again. Like he could talk without heaving over his shoes or sounding like a dull-witted idiot.
“Excuse me, sirs. I hope you don’t mind me interrupting. My name is Mareth. Some call me Mareth of the Melody, perhaps you’ve heard of me? No? Well, I did overhear you talking while I was eating my meal. Are either of you obvious men of means going to take part in this selection of the new protector?”
“Yes, I am,” said Dark Skin. “I’ve wanted to have a say in this country of mine since I was a boy. I’ve worked hard every day, but never thought to have this chance.”
“I say bullshit again,” said Blond Beard to his friend, then he switched his attention to the bard. “Begging your pardon, Mareth, for the bluntness of my words. You may not know the price of admission to vote is one thousand crowns.” Blond Beard turned back to his fellow merchant. “As I said, that has to be all of your worth. At least your liquid capital. And you’re really going to hand it over to the palace?”
“Aye, I am. In fact, I already did. They give it back to you after the election, you know, and who’s safer than the crown, or whatever they’re going to call it now. Anyway, it was the wizard who I gave it to. I got to meet him in person and shake his hand.” Dark Skin shook his head in slight disbelief at the memory. “And look, I got my demon. It’s in my bag. You want to see it?”
Dark Skin reached into the leather satchel, taking out a pink creature and placing it on the shiny wooden bar. Mareth and Blond Beard leaned in to get a good look. Five inches of naked strangeness, with smooth, unblemished skin, a tuft of shocking yellow hair on the top of its head, and tiny fangs sticking out over its lower lip.
“It’s a pyxie,” said the merchant. The creature scurried over to his tankard of ale, and using the handle as a step, climbed up the side of the mug to take a drink of the contents.
Mareth couldn’t conceal his surprise at the little demon. He had heard the wizard was using them for the election, but he thought it was a joke, or a case of too many people twisting a story as it passed along. “How does it work?” Mareth asked.
“When I’ve made my mind up, I tell the pyxie, and then he’ll disappear back to the palace. And, apparently, on the solstice, all the pyxies get together and tally up the votes. Probably with some kind of magical chalkboard.”
“Truly remarkable, sir,” said Mareth.
The dark-skinned merchant clearly enjoyed the attention. “Yes, indeed. These are remarkable times,” said Dark Skin.
Blond Beard looked as if he was chewing on a wasp, likely considering how he, too, was going to be able to scrape the coin together for his own little pink demon.
“And apologies if you think I was eavesdropping, but did I happen to hear you know Lord Hoxteth personally? And you’ll be voting for him? As I mentioned, I’m a bard of some renown, and I intend to document this fabled time in our realm’s history through song and poem, and you, dear sir, could be part of the story.”
Now it was time for the merchant to lean in. He had been enjoying showing off to his friend and the rest of the bar, and he visibly salivated at the thought of being in a famous song.
“What’s your name, good sir,” asked Mareth, “and can I enlist your help?”
“I am Master Gonal. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said reaching over and shaking Mareth’s hand. “What help are you thinking? I do believe it’s very important to support the arts. However are we to have a history if not for our stories and songs? And the citizens of the realm far from Kingshold, they need to have confidence in this process, too. They won’t get that from the message delivered by the criers, that’s for sure. Everyone knows they’re just the mouthpiece. No, sir. It requires people like your good self to tell the real story. So, what can I do to help?”
“It’s such a small thing. Very slight for one such as yourself, I’m sure.” Mareth smiled and patted his new friend on the shoulder. He’d always been good at making friends. “I’d like to meet with Lord Hoxteth.”
Mareth stared at the ceiling of his room. Damp stained the whitewashed plaster, and the paint hung from the walls like an old crone’s skin. He gave little mind to his surroundings, though. Mareth had lived much better in the past, but also in worse circumstances, too. He considered the rest of last night, putting the pieces back together that were causing him to lie awake in bed. There was the merchant Gonal. And then the blonde girl…
His memory was imperfect, but Mareth recalled Gonal buying him more ale while they talked about the merchant’s childhood in the city, growing up as an only son to a tailor in the Middle. Not rich, but not struggling for food like many in the city, until the day his father died from the pox. His mother ran the business then, and probably did a better job than his father, but it left Gonal with a lot of time to himself.
That was when he discovered a young merchant working his way up from a single stall in the market to owning many stalls, to then securing his own warehouse after winning a month’s rent at the card table. That was Hoxteth, of course, the canny lord treasurer getting a foothold in life via his wits and ability to count cards.
Gonal said he shadowed the young Hoxteth, whining for work and taking any errands he was given, until, one day, he was taken onboard as an apprentice bookkeeper. Mareth struggled to remember the exact details of what happened next, but there was definitely some falling-out. It was something like the senior bookkeeper had been dipping into the cash deposits and hiding it in the books, small amounts, difficult to find. But Hoxteth reviewed the details himself, and so, one day, some of Hoxteth’s hired guards brought Gonal into the office and questioned him. The merchant actually cried into his mug as he had told the story to Mareth.
Gonal had been so ashamed when he was fired and told to leave, with a scolding that he should have noticed the theft himself ringing in his ears. But an unsigned letter came a week later, informing him of an opportunity to buy a delivery of wool from upland and deliver it to a crew from Pyrfew—not strictly legal at the time, but Gonal took his opportunity, borrowing the seed capital from his mother. Gonal swore blind the letter had to have come from Hoxteth, and it had started him on his way.
A month after being fired, Gonal learnt the bookkeeper had never been seen again, he hadn’t reported to the office, and he hadn’t been seen by his neighbors. Mareth wondered whether he had been tipped off and fled, or if Hoxteth had taken care of business in another way. Hoxteth wouldn’t be the first merchant to know how to take care of business permanently.
The stories of how Hoxteth and Gonal had made their way in the city were good backstory for Mareth. He did not yet know how these details could be crafted into the telling, but it was always better to have more material to call on.
Gonal had left him around midnight, but he had secured the promise to meet this very day, so they could see Hoxteth together. Mareth remembered there was even some talk about Gonal being his patron. The merchant had settled his account for the evening and even some days past, which Mareth greatly appreciated, but he knew he could aim higher than a cloth merchant.
He had left his reputable family behind to join the Bard’s College, and he needed to be mindful of his reputation. However, Mareth prided himself on not being a man to take advantage of another, and so, he resolved to talk to him once Gonal had followed through on his introduction. Of course, Mareth would still include him in the tale, which would be payment enough.
Once Gonal had left, he recalled singing songs again for the common room crowd. Eventually, it became the reserve of the usual faces, and they had called his name, patting him on the back and asking for more. He had made them laugh with the tale of Old Edward’s Finger and some had cried with The Shipwife’s Lament. There must have been other songs, too, but he struggled to recall them as the tankards of ale had accumulated.
But one thing did stand out. At the end of one song, as he
had raised his head from his mandolin, he had seen a beautiful vision. A young woman with blonde hair and eyes as green as the meadows of his home. Her name was Penny or Petra or Ponna.
Her name was not the important thing to Mareth at that moment. It was that he was lying there alone. He remembered her appearing somewhat smitten with him. And he had heard from some women in the past that he sang as a siren would, attracting women to the rocks of his bed. Mareth also considered himself to be quite handsome, though he might have lost some of the luster of youth he once had. So, why was he on his lonesome?
He had many things to think about.
A girl and the thrill of the chase.
A story to be written.
Who knew purpose traveled in pairs?
Chapter 6
Uncertain Return
The ship had been making good speed since they’d broken through the storm two nights past, the Arz Sea now giving way to the Grey Sound and the entrance to the port of Kingshold, sheltered in the bluffs of the Mount Tiston. Motega would usually be ecstatic about time onboard ship almost coming to an end, his stomach having only just recovered from the tempestuous crossing. He was born to run, preferring solid ground beneath his feet to wooden decking, and so, usually, he would be the one lining up at the railing with a pack on his back.
But coming back to Kingshold created mixed feelings for him, feelings he knew were to some extent mirrored in his companions.
Motega wore brown leather traveling trousers and a hooded jerkin over a rough cotton shirt, with well-worn leather boots on his feet. Under his open jerkin was a bandolier of slim knives and pouches across his chest, but he wore his hood up to hide his skin. His complexion was mixed. Some would call it piebald, as most of his skin was a ghostly white with brown patches that, on his face, resembled the wings of a bird, and it attracted attention. His black hair hidden under the hood was cut short, no longer down to the middle of his back since that last escapade of theirs back in Carlburg.
Motega had not been back to Kingshold for ten years, even though it had been home for some time for him and his sister before then. His sister fit in at Kingshold, but he knew it wasn’t the place for him. He was supposed to wander, and a few small adventures in the city hadn’t taken away the need to be free.
At the time, he had warred with himself about what to do because it had only been him and his sister for most of his life. And so, it had been difficult to make a break and a separate life for himself. So difficult, he maybe didn’t say goodbye to her before leaving.
“There it is. Looks even bigger than when we left. How can they pile more shit into that space?” said a man who had walked up behind Motega. He wasn’t much taller than Motega, but he was nearly twice as wide. That was Florian: friend, veteran of three wars and more than twenty battles, many as a mercenary, and famous for the two mismatched long swords strapped to his back (famous at least if you moved in the right circles). Florian was ready to get off the ship, chainmail hauberk over leather trousers with grey traveling cloak fastened around his neck by a small silver pin. He dumped his pack on the deck.
Coming up behind him was a tall, athletic, dark-skinned man, traveling cloak worn over close-tailored cotton clothes. Motega knew Trypp didn’t like to have any excess weight or fabric get in the way, especially in his line of work. Trypp always thought the coin spent on a good tailor was an investment worth making; he was one of the best extractors on the whole continent.
“There’s always room, Florian. Look to the starboard side. New shanties outside the Curtain Wall stretch nearly a mile now, and the wall is probably still not finished. More people come all the time to Kingshold to get their share of the cream, not knowing it turned sour long ago…” Trypp shaded his eyes. “Do you see? It looks like the flags over the customs’ house are at half-mast. You think the king is dead?”
“By pox or poison?” added Florian, chuckling. “You know, I believe you’re right. Mot, what do you see?”
Motega’s eyes rolled up into the back of his head. His vision was weak over distances, the result of a curse from a sorcerer when he was a child. But of the three of them, he still had the best eyes, because perched on the crow’s nest at the top of the mast was a small peregrine falcon, his spirit animal.
Only once a generation would a spirit animal select one of Motega’s tribe, and when his tribe was destroyed, and he had been separated from his homelands, he thought that dream of one day being selected had died, too. The falcon was not a traditional bird for his tribe, but it was native to Edland, and for reasons he had yet to discover, one of his tribe’s spirits had traveled across the ocean to be with him. With practice and concentration, Motega could see with the falcon’s eyes as if he was inside its tiny skull, and so, he focused the sharp predator’s eyes on the dockside.
Trypp was right. The flag over the customs house was at half-mast. The docks were crowded with people, too, many of them in groups. The falcon glided on the winds. Its eyes shifted further into the city where a conspiracy of ravens clustered in the air, attempting to land on something, but being waved off by someone with a spear. Heads on spikes. Traitors or assassins, more than likely, if the king was dead.
Motega’s eyes returned to normal, and he looked at his friends, his surrogate family since he had left his sister. “You’re right, something funny is going on. There are a lot of people dockside. Not sure if that’s going to be helpful for us or not. Let’s be careful. Keep it quiet.” Motega paused, thoughtful, his friends not interrupting the silence. “Or we could just turn ’round and get out of here. Are you both still sure about this?”
Florian nodded. He was no nonsense. They had already given this much thought, and he wasn’t one for turning back. Motega couldn’t imagine a more solid and dependable friend.
Trypp had the most to consider in coming back to Kingshold; he had been born in the city, but was raised by an Order orphanage until he left at the age of eight to escape the beatings. Months spent on the streets, surviving by his wits, would be followed by more beatings when he was inevitably recaptured, only for the cycle to repeat itself. And then at the age of fourteen, he was accepted to join the school for the Hollow Syndicate, the most exclusive assassins group in the Jeweled Continent.
He took to the quiet work killers need to do, the skulking in shadows and the scaling of walls, but the killing part was tough for him. Especially as the customer chose the target, and the customer was always right even when it was obvious they were wrong.
Unfortunately, nobody got to quit the school. Winnowing happened via the dagger or the poison bottle, not by students going back home and talking about what they had learnt. So Trypp had to fake his death before the first winnowing.
Back on the streets, he eventually made connections with the Twilight Exiles, Kingshold’s band of thieves, burglars, muggers, extortionists and all-around shady characters. Trypp’s unique skills were put to good use.
But all of that changed when he met Florian and Motega. Trypp had been caught for the first time in his career, by Motega and Florian, while he tried to sneak into the home of Motega’s sister. Somehow, he had talked his way out of being handed over to the authorities. As Motega remembered it, it was quite likely he had relented simply out of boredom. Having the chance to personally find out who had requested the job seemed like much more fun at the time.
Unfortunately, the Twilight Father, the leader of the ‘family’, did not think the three of them infiltrating his safe house to be quite so amusing.
Motega knew Trypp was considering all of this. He felt he could almost read the minds of his friends now. That was what made them such a good team. And so, when Trypp nodded his confirmation and gave a big smile to his companions, Motega felt they’d all come to terms with it being good to be home, no matter the consequences or how short this sojourn might be.
“Good,” said Motega. “I’ll get my stuff together. Let’s see what insanity we have to look forward to.”
The harbor was wall
-to-wall with people. Many ships had arrived around the same time, the storm of a few days past being a leveler in their arrival times. Motega and his companions had bid farewell to the captain of their ship—a salt-weathered woman out of Redpool, who had been lined up by their contact here in Kingshold—and then they walked down the gangplank to join the throng on the quayside.
Per, as Motega referred to his spirit animal, took flight from the ship and circled above the crowds in the direction of where the threesome wanted to head. Motega kept his hood around his head, and Florian took his arm while they walked. With his face hidden and his friend guiding him, he was able to use the eyes of his spirit animal to scout ahead.
Various parties in the city always watched the docks well, and even though Motega had not been in Kingshold for many years, many of the usual signs of those lookouts were the same, especially for the ones less experienced.
So, the three men walked through the crowd, avoiding the spotters that were, in turn, spotted. Of course, Motega was most concerned about the ones who were more professional in their line of work, but new enough where he wouldn’t be able to recognize them by sight.
Florian carried two packs, the larger bag on his back being the one that had accompanied him across many leagues and full of the tools of their trade. The second bag he held in the hand that was not guiding Motega; a leather case carrying the fruits of their recent labors.
All three of them liked to think of themselves as adventurers. Some weeks would entail hunting down lost treasure in a faraway catacomb; other weeks, it might be helping villagers with a particular monster problem they might be having; and then, of course, other weeks, it might be an extraction job commissioned by a wealthy individual.
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