Kingshold

by D P Woolliscroft

  From his vantage point, Mareth could see small groups of cutpurses roaming the crowd, but it was slim pickings for likely targets, like vultures descending on the victims of starvation. Across the street stood a priest of Arloth declaring blasphemy for the temerity of having the people choose a ruler, calling out at the top of his lungs, that it was the responsibility of the gods.

  The sound of horns blowing a fanfare came from the direction of the Excise Gate. Mareth squinted to see to the end of the road, just making out the beginning of the procession coming into the city.

  White horses led the way, their riders flying the emblem of Eden, crossed swords over a sheaf of wheat on a burgundy background. Behind the vanguard were a handful of knights on horseback, one of them a giant of a man, all wearing shining plate armor. Following them were ten ranks of household guard marching in formation.

  It seemed like Eden had arrived with a small army, the crowds going wild as they approached. Following the house guards was a single figure on horseback, wearing ceremonial armor of silver and gold with burgundy inlays, and then another group of infantry behind.

  So that was Eden, keeping all of the attention on himself. Got to love his style. He knows everyone likes a military procession.

  Drummers beat the rhythm of the march, booted feet meeting the tempo, and the sound reverberated down the street. The cheers from the crowd had increased steadily, but then it changed. Cries of welcome giving way to shouts and even some screams. Mareth could see the crowd moving backward and forward like a pumping heart, calls for help from those trapped by the shove of the crowd.

  As the procession reached halfway down the road, he could make out people on either side of Eden throwing small objects that glinted silver into the crowd. It caused the throng to scramble at the ground and grab at their neighbor’s hands. Scuffles broke out, and children nearest the street were getting pushed out in front of the procession, and then pushed back by Eden’s guards.

  Mareth could hear chants of “Eden’s Silver” from below. Was that fool throwing silver coins into the crowd? The people below certainly thought so as, all of a sudden, the group that lined the street in front of the procession broke from their waiting positions and rushed toward the mounted knights, afraid all the silver would be gone by the time Eden reached them.

  A shouted command went up from the group of guards, and they stepped forward to create a perimeter around their Lord and the mounted knights. Shields up, swords drawn. From the front, and then from all sides, people smashed into the shields and looked to push their owners down to the ground. The guards struck at the crowds with sword hilts or the flat of their blades, but some used the sharp edge, and the real screams began. People at the mercy of the guards’ impenetrable wall were shoved continually forward by people at the back of the group, themselves safe from harm but desperate for the silver coins.

  “Oh my, I’m glad I didn’t go down there,” said the old lady standing next to Dolph and looking out the window. “These things never end well, you know. My nan always said, ‘Change is a demon with a smiling face.’”

  Mareth looked at Dolph. “We should do something.”

  “There’s nothing we can do, Bard,” said Dolph. “And I’m not paid to be a hero.”

  Mareth was about to declaim the absence of the city guard when a regiment approached from the Outer Wall end of the Farm Road, dressed in chainmail and leather and holding long wooden sticks. The crowd were now trapped between Eden’s men and the city guard, who began cracking skulls and dragging citizens away. Some men and a few women tried to stand their ground and trade punches, perhaps laying a city guard out on the ground, but then they’d be tackled on multiple sides and dragged away kicking and struggling.

  Beneath their window, Mareth saw a group of children trying to avoid the chaos: a teenage girl corralling younger children and stopping them from scrabbling on the ground.

  “We have to help them!” Mareth cried and moved for the door, suddenly relieved to be doing something, even though he was running into a riot.

  Dolph grabbed at his jerkin and pulled him back, but Mareth turned and drove his fist into his minder’s stomach. Mareth caught Dolph by surprise, who released his grip but, in truth, his stomach had been as hard as unflinching stone, and Mareth’s hand throbbed.

  “Come back here, you arse!” called Dolph to Mareth’s retreating form. “You’ll get yourself killed. Or arrested!”

  Mareth dashed down the three flights of stairs, hearing the hammering of Dolph’s steps behind him as he made it out of the front door and into the street. The noise assaulted him immediately: cries of pain, horses stomping, the bash and the thud of sticks and shields on flesh. The crowd had scattered. Most who could, ran for safety, but some were still trying to get at Eden or find the silver on the ground. Mareth turned on the spot, taking it all in, and he saw the children who initially attracted his attention as Dolph burst out on the street.

  “Children!” Mareth called, attracting their attention. “Quickly, come into the house.” He ushered five children of varying ages toward the door. Dolph stepped toward him, arm back, and fist clenched.

  “Duck!” shouted Dolph.

  Mareth threw himself out of the way as Dolph planted his leather-gauntleted fist right into the nose of a city guard who’d been approaching from behind. His nose smeared across his face, and he fell to the ground with a clatter. They both rushed into the tenement house behind the children, barred the door, and pushed everyone up the stairs and back to the old lady’s room.

  “Thanks, Dolph,” said Mareth. Getting brained by a guard’s cudgel would have definitely impacted his new work arrangement.

  “Look here,” said Dolph, his finger pointing in his ward’s face. “I did it because it’s my job. I’m not going to hit you because that’s my job, too. But you got one lucky punch. Now, remember I’m a man with skills very much in demand, and given enough incentive, I can find another job. And then I don’t have certain restrictions. Get it?”

  “Er, alright. Got it,” said Mareth.

  The old lady clucked around the children, making sure they didn’t have any more severe wounds than a few bumps and scrapes. Mareth stepped away from his angry minder. He thought a little distance between them might be wise, so he went over to inspect the children, too.

  “Do you know them?” he asked the old lady.

  “Yes. These were Maggie-from-around-the-corner’s kids. Look at ’em. All different dads. But she died a couple of months back. A bad customer done it.” The old lady turned to address the oldest child. “Where you been, girl?”

  “We didn’t have nowhere to go, Agnes. Been living in the alleys. But now we’ve got silver, we’ll be able to get our old place back and eat something warm!” Tears were in her eyes, but a broad smile brightened her face as she raised her hand to show the silver coins they’d picked up off the street.

  But something was wrong. Many of the coins had bent in half from her tight grip. Mareth reached over and took one from her hand to examine it.

  “I’m sorry, child. These aren’t silvers,” said Mareth bitterly. “They have Eden’s face stamped on them for starters. And then this looks like tin, not silver. That’s why it bent so easily. Eden wasn’t giving away money; he was giving out fucking souvenirs!”

  The following evening, Mareth was at The Griffon’s Beak, an inn in The Upper Circle. It wasn’t a place he typically frequented. He found that this place—and more generally, the other inns and taverns in the most well-to-do area of Kingshold—lacked the character and the characters he’d find elsewhere, not to mention the ability for him to drink on credit. Also, there was a distinct lack of women in these particular establishments. Mareth was dressed in new finery that Dolph had picked up from the tailors, part of his package from Lord Hoxteth to make sure he looked the part.

  Mareth had been up late writing, and with hardly any ale, too, which he had been proud of. Seeing how the people had been treated earlier that day, and the ne
eds of those children in particular, had both saddened and inspired him. He’d left a few silvers behind with Agnes in the hopes she’d give a home to the orphans for at least a time, but he knew something bigger had to be done to make a real impact.

  And so, for the first time in a long time, he really worked, through the night, until he was proud of something.

  Then he slept most of the day.

  By the time he arrived at the Griffon’s Beak with his Dolph-shaped shadow in tow, he was freshly bathed and had only just broken fast.

  On arrival, he met with the landlord of the establishment to discuss proceedings. Their resident minstrel, a man by the name of Carney, whom Mareth was aware of by reputation, had come down with illness two nights before. And so, the landlord was grateful to Mareth for being able to stand in. Fortunate timing.

  At eight o’clock, Mareth was to start playing, and the landlord would tell him when to call it a night, usually around midnight when most of the well-to-do merchants or lordlings had drifted off home to bed. He began with some of the classical fair, walking around the common room to get a feel for the crowd. Mostly small groups, Mareth could tell many of the younger men were unmarried and probably ate most meals at the Griffon, but there were also groups of older gentlemen with whiskers, who were more serious in their drinking.

  After the classics, he moved onto comic verses as the drink did its work on the customers, and their voices rose to join in when they knew the words. Mareth was carefully gauging the audience. He wanted to be able to time it perfectly.

  And so, when he felt he had the attention of most in the room, he banged his mandolin with the flat of his hand. The room grew silent as all eyes became fixed on him.

  “My lords, gentlemen. It’s a pleasure to play for you this evening.” There was a strong round of applause, and Mareth knew he had them before he started. “We live in changing times, and it’s the solemn duty of the Bard to document history. And so, my next piece is a new song. You’ll be able to tell your family and friends you were here. This song is called, The Fable of the Tin Man.

  He won the day with curse and smoke,

  let the ego of the man work,

  its wicked revenge on his-self,

  and he came along to sweep it up.

  E-den, E-den,

  Free-er of Pool.

  He reaped the reward of the king’s gift,

  taxes he levied on all you do buy,

  lines his pocket with gold,

  and he comes along to sweep it up.

  E-den, E-den,

  taxman for you

  The king is gone and his income may, too

  disappear, and so, with his criers,

  he announces his return to Kingshold,

  so he can sweep it up.

  E-den, E-den,

  Player of fools

  He rode through the tax gate

  with his army around,

  cheering crowds plucking silver from the air,

  and sweeping it up off the ground.

  E-den, E-den,

  spreader of coin.

  But this was no silver, it was only tin,

  tin for cracked heads and crushed children,

  tin for the realm and tin for you, too,

  so, he can sweep you all up.

  Tin-man, Tin-man,

  protector of none.

  Chapter 12

  Twilight Exiles

  It was incredible how from city to city, country to country, that resident groups of thieves and ne’er-do-wells always ended up living in the sewers. Or, at least in some long-forgotten buried part of the city, one usually accessed via sewers. If someone were to build a new city, would they have to put in secret tunnels so thieves could hang out there?

  Those were the thoughts that kept Motega’s mind off the smell of piss, shit, and rotten matter as they followed the little thief who had finally introduced himself as “Gneef.” Of course, the broken nose was messing with his enunciation, so it could be his name was Keith or Leif, but the three of them found it more fun to keep calling him Gneef.

  They could easily have walked away from Gneef when he told them Sharavin, current mother and leader of the Twilight Exiles, wanted to see them, but there would be no escaping for long unless they got out of town. And that wasn’t in the cards right now. It seemed like there was excitement and potentially some coin to be had in this election. So best to get it out of the way and see how Trypp could talk his way out of trouble this time.

  Now, if Gneef had said Father Silas had wanted to see them, then they might well have just turned around, packed their bags, and headed back to the docks. Back before he had earned the “Father” honorific, they called him Psycho Silas, and it was right on the nose. But life at the top of a pyramid of cutthroats and purse-snatchers is a shaky one; not many reached grey hair.

  So far, their journey had been through a pie shop run by a man called Dibbler, his basement leading to a passage that led into one of the underground sewers that ran the length of the Inner Farm Road from under the market square to the Green Gate. They were wide round tunnels, open at the apex of the arch along the length of the sewer. If anyone stood underneath, he could see fifty feet up to the street above.

  Of course, if that person stood underneath, he was likely to get a bucket of shit on his face.

  Gneef walked ahead with a lantern he’d taken from the pieman’s basement. Even though some light filtered down from above and even without Per’s eyes (he had stayed above ground), Motega noticed at least three lookouts hidden in the shadows. After a few hundred yards, six big heavies came to meet Gneef. Enforcer types who made sure everyone paid their debts or the kind to make sure no one tried anything while being escorted to a secret criminal hideout.

  Motega wasn’t worried about these six. They were big men, but he doubted they were used to fighting someone armed. The three of them might get a scratch or two, but they shouldn’t be a problem if there needed to be a scrap.

  Trypp had been babbling to Gneef during the walk, and now he was trying to talk to the thugs, too, making some joke or other about where they bought their matching clubs. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Trypp was nervous.

  Florian and Motega walked along in silence, Florian in front, posture alert and hands near two knives he kept at his belt. They turned into a new tunnel off the main sewer line that thankfully became dry quickly, and then descended along a long slope to an iron reinforced oak door. This looked familiar to Motega now, though it had been more than ten years ago the three of them had broken into this place to find out who had commissioned Trypp to steal his sister’s journals.

  After they entered through the door, the interior looked much like any other house of reasonable stature in the city; it was just a few hundred feet underground and so lacked any windows; instead, painted scenes of bucolic landscapes adorned the walls. Though this wasn’t the only Twilight Exile safe house in the city, it was the grandest and the oldest, many others being little more than disposable hovels. This organization of thieves was equivalent to a lesser guild in wealth and influence. It put food in the mouth of many an urchin, and made good coin for a few at the top, but they rarely held those places for long.

  They walked down the hallway and past the offices where, last time he had been here, Motega had discovered surprisingly good records of the Exile’s activity. As yet, no one had tried to relieve them of their weapons.

  Another door led them into a large, circular, two-tiered meeting room, and it was evident why they’d been allowed to keep their weapons. They wouldn’t be any use.

  Twenty family members, each armed with crossbows, spread around the balcony encircling the room and ensuring every angle was covered. The bar on the outside of the door through which they had entered fell into place with a thud.

  “Trypp. You’re looking well, for someone who should be dead.” The woman on the balcony in front of them was striking: long curly hair held loosely behind her head with features sharp as a fox. She w
ore a tight-fitting waistcoat over a shirt of silk, her empty hands rested on the railing. She stared intently at Trypp.

  “Hello, Sharavin,” said Trypp, “you look…well, too.”

  “Life as Mother suits me,” said Sharavin, raising her hands in the air to include the other grim-looking adult thieves around the room, “and it’s been good for the children, too.”

  “What happened to Silas?” asked Trypp.

  “Father Silas was becoming…inconsistent. For example, why he didn’t kill you and your two friends when you were captured is confusing to me as Mother.”

  Trypp couldn’t hold her gaze any longer. “You asked him yourself to spare my life, banish me instead…” he mumbled.

  “Yes, I did! And you didn’t even come and say goodbye!” She was leaning on the balcony railing now, looking like she could vault it at any moment. “I would have gone with you, but you slipped into the night before I could find you. Oh, I’ve heard about you since then. Some excellent jobs, I must say. But I thought you’d have more sense than to come back here.”

  Motega realized they were in more trouble now than he’d anticipated. Trypp and Sharavin had been together. Not only had he betrayed the family, but also the Mother. Trypp’s not going to be able to talk himself out of this one.