Kingshold

by D P Woolliscroft

  And was it their fault they were good at that latter category of work and had become particularly well known for it?

  The threesome walked through the docks and up the incline of Ships Row past the warehouses housing the trading goods of the merchants who called Kingshold home. Porters pushed carts; a drayman led a wagon with spices and fabrics brought from other corners of the continent; laborers sweated in the summer air moving crates and barrels, all contents destined for shops in the city or back onto other ships bound for foreign ports.

  As they walked, they saw crowds of citizens gathered around town criers, listening to the news, but they steered clear. City guard were thin on the ground, and a chaotic air only intensified as they entered the market square, skirting the outside of it to lead them toward the beginning of Market Street.

  “Stop, thief!”

  Motega switched his attention back to his own eyes and saw a well-dressed merchant ahead call out in their direction. A small figure zigged and zagged between the townspeople, pursued by armed men who must be the merchant’s bodyguards. A boy clutching a purse and a small knife ran past them toward the crowds of the market, the heavy footfalls of the three bodyguards getting louder as they approached the three companions.

  A woman pushing a cart of roasted nuts made an obstruction of herself to two of the guards, who slammed into the vendor, causing her wares to scatter to the filthy floor. The lead guard avoided the cart, turned to see what had happened to his colleagues, and not looking where he was going, ran headfirst into Florian.

  Trypp had once described Florian as a small movable mountain and, unsurprisingly, the guard came up much the worse for the collision, bouncing off the fighter and sprawling on the floor.

  “You! Ox! Why didn’t you stop that urchin? Or at least move your lumbering carcass out of the way!” It was the same voice that had called moments earlier, a sweaty well-dressed balding man who had been jogging behind his guards.

  “Good sir, are you referring to my friend as an ox? That does not appear either friendly or wise,” said Trypp, looking the merchant in the eye and speaking for the three of them. “I also don’t see what your business has anything to do with our business. We’re just passing through.”

  “Of course, that’s what you’d say. You’re probably in cahoots with the little shit, much like that woman. Men, grab her. We’ll take her to the city guard, and we’ll see what they have to say.”

  The merchant’s guards picked the woman off the street, and as she squirmed to escape their grasp, one punched her in the stomach, while another grabbed her hair.

  Motega sighed. He knew his friends. Trypp would wince, but walk by the scene, knowing they’d agreed to keep a low profile. Florian was different. Merciless in a fight, but a good soul at heart, and even though it could be problematic, Motega loved him for it. That goodness rubbed off on him.

  Florian stepped forward. “Leave her be, sir, or you’ll regret it.” Motega flipped his cloak over his shoulders to free his war axes holstered at his waist. Trypp took a step backward and melted into the crowd that had begun to gather around the disturbance.

  “Oh, now you want to be involved, do you?” said the lead bodyguard, a big bastard who wouldn’t have looked out of place standing at the door to one of the dockside grog taverns. “Well, fuck you. We have numbers on you, and the guard will be here any minute.”

  Florian looked at Motega and nodded a little to the right. Florian took one step forward and, with his left hand, drove his fist into the chin of the guard who had punched the nut vendor. Still gripping the leather case in his other hand, unwilling to put down their prize, he kicked the lead guard in his jewels, and the man fell to the ground, eyes bulging.

  Motega grabbed one war ax and threw it at the guard holding onto the woman’s hair. Handle spinning over the blade, blade over handle until the steel-shod grip struck the guard in the face, nose exploding. He staggered back, hands to his face.

  The woman was free, and without waiting to thank her saviors (or pick up her nuts), she pulled up the hem of her rough-spun dress and ran for it.

  Trypp stepped up behind the merchant with a cloth in hand and set it to the rich man’s face. The fat man attempted to struggle, but before the count of three, Trypp had gently laid him out on the floor, still breathing but unconscious.

  So much for an inconspicuous entrance, thought Motega. He retrieved his ax, hung it back in the loop on his belt and looked at his friends. “Split! You know where to meet. Two hours.”

  “I assume, gentleman, as you are here, you have the books?” Artur Danweazel, the proprietor of the store Motega, Trypp, and Florian had come to with their package, peered over his glasses as he spoke. Florian stepped forward and put the case on the counter.

  “Artur, when have you ever known us not to get a job done?” asked Trypp. “But why the cryptic message about meeting here instead of Redpool? We didn’t know you had a place here, too.”

  “Young man, I have establishments in a good many cities, which you don’t need to know about, as it’s none of your concern.”

  Artur was probably in his early fifties, grey hair around his temples, and feathering at his eyebrows (which were waxed to a point). His eyes were a bright silver grey; his complexion olive brown, with lines around his eyes and on his forehead from his characteristic frown. Which he had been doing since they arrived, until he took a deep breath and visibly relaxed a little.

  “Sorry, I don’t like people prying. But you gents are the right kind of trustworthy, and by that, I mean I have a lot of secrets you’d rather not be told, and you have the good sense not to ask. But, by the by, I spend every summer here in Kingshold. I find it to be better for my temperament, what with it being less hot and humid than Redpool. But we’ve all walked into some messed-up situation right now.”

  “What has been happen—”

  “I’ll tell you afterward, but right now, let’s look at the goods.” Artur opened the laces on the bag and took out, one by one, three books and placed them on the counter. “The Sexomnicon, all three volumes in their original bindings, and none of the pages are stuck together. Excellent!”

  “So, those books are just what they look like? A bunch of dirty hand-drawn pictures?” Trypp leaned over while the old shopkeeper leafed carefully through the pages. “There aren’t any magic spells or treasure maps hidden in the pictures?”

  “This collection of etchings by Runeau is exceedingly rare and is a quite sought-after set by a particular kind of collector. One with a finer taste in all things, shall we say. So yes, for once, this item does not possess any magical power or intrigue.”

  “Well, fuck me. I guess the coin is the same no matter what. Hey, Motty,” Trypp turned to look at Motega with a toothy grin, “so you lost your hair all for a few books of lovely arses! Does it make you feel any better?”

  Motega didn’t feel better for this. His hair hadn’t been cut once in his life until this particular escapade had given him the option of losing his hair or his head.

  The job had gone perfectly all the way up to the point where they were making their escape with the books. And then his hair, which he had always worn the traditional way of his tribe—a long ponytail with a series of ties along its length to keep it contained—got caught on the window frame as they were leaping from the study of the mark’s house to the rooftops across the street.

  Motega had jumped from the window like Florian and Trypp, but while they had made it to the rooftops, their planned escape route, he had come crashing back into the wall of the building they were attempting to leave. His hair caught above him, and no matter how much he wriggled, it would not release. Motega had hung there for what seemed like minutes, trying to work out what to do—his comrades already disappearing across the rooftops—and knowing he couldn’t risk calling out and potentially drawing attention to himself.

  For a Wolfclaw clan member, the hair was a physical manifestation of the ability and honor of the warrior, but as Motega hun
g there, pain in his scalp, he realized he wasn’t a warrior anymore. He was a thief. And so, with tears in his eyes that had little to do with physical pain, he had pulled a dagger from his belt and cut his hair just above his scalp.

  The three-story drop from the window had also done little to improve his mood. And so, Trypp bringing it up again and tying his dishonor to the theft of a few dirty pictures stuck in his craw.

  The rabbit-punch into the kidneys of Trypp, who doubled over and onto his knees, helped to cheer him a little.

  “Now, now, gentlemen. No brawling in my establishment, please. Here’s your payment as agreed.” Artur handed a coin purse to Florian, and then went on. “So, as I was saying before about this messed-up situation…” Artur explained how the king had been murdered by his own wizard and how the same wizard had called an end to the monarchy. No more kings or queens. Instead, there would now be an election for a new lord protector.

  “I’m going to be heading to the palace to sign up and get my pyxie just as soon as I have passed on those books you brought me. I think I know who I’ll be voting for: Lord Uthridge. Yes, he’s a general, so probably not the smartest at running a country, but he has two things going for him. One, he won’t be able to go five minutes in charge without some war, and war is always an opportunity to make profit. And second, he hates Hoxteth almost as much as I do. That jumped-up little pumpkin peddler.”

  Motega and Florian exchanged looks. Talk of the wizard and Uthridge had brought back memories for the pair of them, but Artur wasn’t the only one who wanted to keep some secrets.

  Artur paid no mind to the reaction of the two men remaining standing in his shop. “I assume you gentlemen are now unemployed and looking for work?”

  Trypp pulled himself off the floor, using the counter for leverage, and gave Motega an evil stare, before nodding to Artur. “Depends on the job, as always. But I’m listening, at least as long as I don’t start puking…”

  “There are no rules in this election. All that matters is getting the people who can afford to cast a vote to be on your side. Many people are siding with those they’ve had relationships with for all of their lives, while others are going where there’s an opportunity to make money.

  “Hoxteth is getting more joy from the traditional lords and ladies of court than I expected, and it’s all because he’s offering them a slice of the action if he’s in charge. However, there are rumors that back in the last war with Pyrfew, Hoxteth was running both weapons and intelligence to their demons. If we had evidence to prove it, then that would really put the turd in the bath, so to speak. That’s where you guys come in. What do you think?”

  “Sounds reasonable,” said Trypp. “So, we have to figure out if there’s any evidence and then acquire it. How much?”

  “Five hundred crowns. But you’ve only got ten days to get it done or the deal’s off. Time is of the essence, gentlemen.”

  Some hours later, Motega, Florian, and Trypp exited the shop after gathering as much intelligence about their new mark as they could from Artur.

  They were on a quiet cobbled street, known for the curiosity shops that had clustered together like mismatched birds huddling for warmth. Per had been resting on the top of the chimney at Artur’s store, and Motega’s mind sought that of the bird as he walked out. As he feared, there had been a small succession of individuals who had been watching the door they had entered this morning, all hidden in the same spot in shadows across the street.

  Motega nudged Trypp and indicated the spy’s direction with a glance, the dark man understanding without words. The threesome walked out onto the narrow street, not paying any mind to the hiding spot of the spy until they were upon it. Motega switched directions quickly and made a grab for where he expected the man to be. He missed. A small, agile figure ducked under his lunge and dove through Trypp’s legs, looking likely to make a daring escape.

  Except Florian was waiting for him.

  In particular, Florian’s fist was waiting for his nose. Blood burst down the weaselly man’s face as he fell on his arse, tears welling in his eyes. Florian picked him up and pushed him against the wall, feet dangling in the air. Trypp approached and lifted the spy’s left hand, revealing the tattooed crescent moon in his palm matching his own. The Twilight Exile mark.

  “I have a mind to dump you in the sea. I don’t like being spied on,” said Motega, coming up close to the man’s face. “What do you want?”

  “Don’t hurt me,” stammered the man, blood and snot streaked across his chin. “I’m just following orders. It’s Mother Sharavin. She wants to see all three of you. Now, she says.”

  Chapter 7

  Time To Stop Procrastinating

  “Good morning, Lord Chancellor. I trust you slept well,” said a young man, back rod straight with greased hair in a side parting and dressed all in black. Hoskin yawned as he looked up from his largely untouched breakfast.

  “Percival, you know perfectly well I have not been sleeping. You come and bring me various tinctures and draughts during the night, and still I can’t sleep for long.” It had been three days since Hoskin had declared the election following the wizard’s instruction, and so, it had been three days he had been responsible for the realm.

  He had previously thought of himself as being the person who ran the country, but it had never occurred to him how rare it was for him to make the final decision. The pressure of being the one who was responsible had hit him on leaving the privy council meeting, when people came to ask him what they should do about important matters, like what to do with the body of the former king and queen (dispose of quietly in the palace grounds), the guild of shipwrights asking if the funding for Admiral Uthridge’s new flagship was approved (no), and a request from the Ambassador of Pyrfew to meet to discuss the status of Redpool given the change in rulership (definitely need to avoid this meeting…).

  And then, since that day and those quick-fire decisions, he had been unable to sleep. Questions came one after another, and as the days passed, he was deferring more and more decisions, until last night when the wizard paid him a visit in the library.

  It was a strange meeting with Jyuth because it seemed like the wizard was trying to be positive and encouraging.

  In fact, he said Hoskin should trust in himself to make better decisions than the old king would have made. Now, that conversation had not helped his sleep last night, but it had encouraged him to face up to his life for the next twenty-something days and address some of these meetings he had been procrastinating.

  The past few days, Hoskin had been trying to catch up on writing the histories of the last five years, and he had been enjoying himself for the first in a long time. Now, there was a glimmer of hope this election would bring a new leader, and a new chancellor, and then he could do something else with his life.

  “I’m sorry, sir. It’s a matter of habit. Would you care to know the latest about the election?” Chancellor Hoskin nodded, so Percival continued. “There are now a total of seven individuals who have nominated themselves to be candidates: Lord Eden, Sir Penshead, Lord Hoxteth, Lord Uthridge, Lady Kingsley, Lord Fiske, and Lady Orlan.”

  “Good grief, Percival, that is a strange group, and no mistake, one of them is so dimwitted I’m not sure he can put his trousers on without help, and another believes herself to be so smart she can’t converse with anyone outside of the university. And Fiske is quite dull. Can you imagine having a judge as lord protector? We would have more rules saying what we can and can’t do than people would be able to keep straight.”

  Hoskin shook his head. At least he had not been foolish enough to add his own name to the list. “And what did the tax rolls tell you about how many individuals in the country could be involved in this election?”

  “Well, sir, my estimate is a maximum of one hundred and fifty-two, all being individuals who own their property and would have the funds to meet the wizard’s deposit. So far, there have been thirty-nine voters who have paid the price of admis
sion.”

  “So, thirty-nine thousand gold crowns are just sitting around in the palace? Please ask Captain Grimes to triple the guard. Don’t bother asking Beneval; he’ll forget it after five minutes, the senile old boot. We’re going to have every thief in the Jeweled Continent coming to town to see if they can crack open this egg. It’s not like we’re a bank with a vault. People are forever coming in and out of the palace. Where is Jyuth putting all the gold?”

  “It’s actually in his rooms, sir. He had a few large chests brought a few days ago to collect the coin. Maybe that’s the safest place in the palace, sir? The wizard scares most people. But I’ll pass the message onto Captain Grimes. Are you ready for the day ahead?”

  “I’m not so sure,” said Hoskin, pushing back his plate of unfinished sausages. “But there’s no point hiding anymore. Where do we start?”

  “Firstly, my lord, may I introduce the Duke of Northfield.” Percival opened the door to his office, stepping in, and announcing his first visitor.

  Hoskin stood out of politeness for the old man who walked uneasily into the meeting room, even though right now he technically outranked him, Regent of Edland to a minor Duke of Pienza. It was impressive this old man had moved so fast, it being two days sail from Pienza to Kingshold, but the sight of his young bride at the door explained everything. It takes a particular ambition to marry an old fart like this and to put up with however many years he had left to get his Northfield holdings, and having a chance to be a queen was obviously too good an opportunity to pass up.

  “Your Grace, how lovely of you to visit at this time of year. Would you care for tea?”

  “Yes, certainly, Chancellor.” The duke collapsed onto the cushioned armchair across from Hoskin with a sigh. “I heard something had happened to my nephew, and I, of course, rushed as fast as possible to see what I could do to assist. And now I hear he’s dead. Is this true? Can I see his body?”