Kingshold

by D P Woolliscroft

  “They lurk within a week’s march of Redsmoke, new bastions under construction. I believe they’ll swallow the city-states of the green desert in the next five years. Meanwhile, they are plundering your home, Neenahwi, at our rear. If this were a battlefield, then we’d be caught in a classic pincer. And let me tell you, this is a battlefield. It may take longer to move the pieces, but your father understands this.”

  “So, what do you propose we do?”

  “We need to go on the front foot to have a proper defense, just as I taught you when we fenced. We need a bulwark to protect Edland. We have to secure Redsmoke for a generation, create a new border here,” he said, pointing to a line five hundred miles south of where Pyrfew forces were today. “And here, we need to bring the Sapphire Sea cities into the realm. We cannot afford to lose them and their shipyards and trade routes to Llewdon.”

  Neenahwi was stunned, processing what her uncle was telling her. “You can’t be serious. This is ten years of war! It took every professional soldier we had to retake Redsmoke. For this, you’d have to muster every able-bodied man and woman in the land!”

  “We can supplement the professionals with mercenaries, but, yes, that’s right.”

  “And here,” Neenahwi said, pointing at the Emerald Sea. “How are you thinking of bringing these cities into Edland? Sending them a friendly invitation?”

  “That’s what we would try first, but they, too, are likely worried about their independence. If necessary, we can choke their trade routes. We own the Arz Sea still. Our navy is the largest. An embargo will soon have them change their minds if they decide to hold out.”

  “That would be after thousands of people had starved, Uncle! This isn’t a game.”

  “I agree this isn’t a game.” He looked at her forlornly.

  Only now did she see the deep sadness in his eyes, the joy he shared with her and her brother gone. Was it simply old age or something else?

  “This next generation is going to be a dark one, girl. I worry for my grandchildren and the world they’ll inherit. Commitment is going to win this war.”

  Holding in a deep breath, and then slowly letting it out, Neenahwi regarded the man she considered to be family and finally shook her head. She moved close, kissed him on the cheek, and whispered, “Uncle, I love you, and you’re a great field tactician. But I hope, for all that is good in the world, you’re wrong about what needs to be done…”

  “Good afternoon, Lady Neenahwi. I’m sorry to keep you waiting. We’ve had a full day of hearings today, and let me tell you, the hangman will be busy next week.” Lord Fiske, head judge of the realm and still Law Guild master (who better to argue away any potential conflict of interest?), sat behind a long, dark oak desk in his private chambers at the House of Scales.

  He was dressed formally with a high, starched collar that was tradition for judges, and bushy, white-whiskered mutton chops reached down his cheeks. On his nose, a small pair of spectacles were perched that Neenahwi suspected he used to look down on those in front of him.

  Two clerks were in attendance, but they busied themselves at separate tables. “I got your message, and I don’t typically meet with potential voters during the day, I’ll have you know, but I made an exception for you. Unlike some others with responsibilities granted by the realm, I think it’s important to work when it’s time to work. I’m sure you agree.”

  “Well, Lord Fiske, I appreciate you making the exception.” Neenahwi smiled and bowed her head in thanks. “And I do agree with you. I was recently thinking about how it was time to go to work. As your time is precious, I’d like to know why I should vote for you.”

  “Of course, my lady. At least I know you aren’t here to try to make some deal, eh? Some of the offers I’ve heard!” The judge tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a cracked bark. “Look, I’ve been an arbiter of the king’s law for thirty years and, yes, I know it’s not the king’s law anymore, but an old dog takes a long time to learn new tricks. I’ve passed down judgment on nobles and commoners alike. Who better to make the right decisions for our country than me?

  “We need to do more to root out those less savory elements of our society. Why should criminal families be tolerated? Why is murder allowed? The Hollow Syndicate operates with impunity just because their services are expensive? I believe if people are honest with each other, then they’ll be happy.”

  “And what do you think of overseas concerns, Lord Fiske?” asked Neenahwi.

  “I say leave them to it, my lady! We need to focus inward to Edland. Get our own house in order and be a beacon to other countries. Pyrfew doesn’t care to conquer Edland anymore. It’s occupied with the Wild Continent, and let them have it as far as I’m concerned.”

  As the attention turned to talk of Pyrfew, Neenahwi noticed from the corner of her eye that one of the clerks looked up. He was a human chameleon, blending in with his surroundings because nothing was interesting for the eye to notice. She turned her attention back to Fiske. “How do you intend to stop this crime wave, as you see it? Are you going to be increasing the city guard and the local marshals?”

  “Oh no. Trust me, they’re in the middle of all of this corruption. If I add more guards, all I’ll do is add more expense. What we need is for the people to come forward with intelligence. They know what’s happening and who the miscreants are. We’ll pay for information that leads to convictions.”

  Something was bothering Neenahwi, and it wasn’t the blathering of this old fool. Paying for rats, indeed. No, something was nibbling at the corner of her mind.

  She focused her third eye.

  Someone was trying to probe her mind, a magic user, and they must be in this room with her; one had to see his target to be able to infiltrate someone’s thoughts. This person wasn’t skilled enough to penetrate the protections Neenahwi had built over many years of study and vigilant reinforcement, and she could sense that foreign attention darting around trying to look for a weak point.

  Fool. Don’t they know who I am? I came here announced.

  As the grizzly bear to the salmon, she swatted at the intruding presence with a flick of her mind.

  Wallpaper man slipped off his chair to the floor in a faint.

  “Of course, we’ll need to expand the work camps. Harold! Wake up, boy!” shouted Fiske as he noticed his man hit the floor.

  “I think he’s fainted, my lord. Maybe his collar is too tight?” asked Neenahwi in mock concern.

  “Too much gin last night more like.” Fiske pushed his chair back and walked around the desk heading for Harold the clerk, but then remembered himself and strode over, hand extended to Neenahwi. “I’m dreadfully sorry, Lady Neenahwi. I’m going to have to attend to this lazy boy. Thank you very much for coming. I greatly enjoyed our conversation. Remember, order equals safety when you come to cast your vote, eh?”

  Easing into the hot bath, Neenahwi let the scalding water relieve the tension from her muscles. The cat jumped in from the open window and began to prowl around the bedchamber, looking for a good place to curl up. Tuft didn’t like water, so stayed clear of the bathtub and any potential overspill that might occur.

  “Ah, Tuft, there you are. We have both had a long day patrolling our territory, I see.”

  Meow.

  “Yes, I met with them all. And what a sorry state they are. I’m troubled. They’re all flawed. Uncle Uthridge I have a relationship with, but his worldview troubled me most. He may be right about what is necessary, but I pray he’s not.”

  Meow.

  “Eden is a self-centered bastard. If he wins, I’m leaving, too. And don’t worry, you can come with me. The other two are irrelevant at this moment. I don’t know how they’ll appeal to more than a handful of other nobles. But should I choose one to align with and make them into something possible?”

  Meow.

  “I know you’re a cat, Tuft. You don’t have to tell me. I guess there’s only one person I can talk to.”

  Chapter 18

&
nbsp; Demoncrazy

  Florian opened the door to the Royal Oak, Motega walking in behind him, carrying the limp body of the girl they had just saved. She had slipped into unconsciousness after asking them to bring her to the inn, which was their destination in any case.

  The common room was busy with customers, enjoying dinner and a quiet drink. Their entrance was unremarked until a voice called out, “Alana!” and then everyone turned to see what was going on. A blonde-haired girl ran through the tables. Another man followed her with his hand on his sword. And the landlady of the inn stepped out from behind the bar, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “What have you done to her!” screamed the blonde girl.

  “Put down the girl, sir,” said the man who came to the blonde girl’s side, his sword now halfway out of its sheath.

  “Hey, hey, hey!” said Motega. “We’re the ones helping here. If it weren’t for us, she’d be smeared on the cobblestones of the Lance.”

  “She’s going to be fine,” said Florian, stepping forward and reminding the man and the girl he was considerably bigger than both of them. And he had two swords. “She took a bit of a beating and now she needs somewhere to lie down. We can help get her cleaned up.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen; we can take care of it.” The landlady had threaded her way through the common room tables, calm as you like, having seen much worse than this in her line of business. “If you could bring Alana this way, then we’ll see to her.”

  Motega muttered minor thanks for calm heads and stepped out from behind Florian to follow the innkeeper up the stairs and to an unoccupied private room. It was a simple chamber with a feather bed, washbasin, and a chest, lacking windows, but with hooks on the walls for the hanging of clothes. Motega lowered Alana to the bed and stepped back. Her eyes opened weakly and took a moment to focus.

  “Petra. Jules. I guess I should have just stayed here after all.” She gave a weak smile. “They saved me. It was Win. He was waiting for me…”

  “Hush,” said the landlady. “Let’s take a look at you, and then you can tell us the story.” She turned and faced Motega and his friends. “Thank you for your help tonight. I can handle it from here. You’re staying in room twelve, correct? Please ask the serving girl downstairs for any food and drink you may like. And then I’d like to talk to you later, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yes, ma’am, and thank you,” said Motega.

  “And, Mareth, you can go, too. Petra and I will handle it from here. We’re getting to be quite experienced nurses,” she said. “You make sure these gentlemen are looked after.”

  The landlady ushered the men out of the room and closed the door behind them.

  “I’m sorry if I was hasty there at the front door. I’m Mareth,” he said, reaching out to shake hands with Motega and his friends. “That girl is the sister of Petra, who’s dear to me. And Alana is quite exceptional in her own right. Would you join me at my table?”

  “No problem, Mareth. We understand how it’s easy to jump to conclusions in these situations. I’m Trypp; this here is Motega, who carried the girl home, and the walking wall there is Florian.”

  “Well met. Come, let me get you an ale for your efforts.” Mareth led them back down to the common room and a table at the back big enough for six. He called over the serving girl and ordered ale for his guests, along with plates of the roast pork and potatoes and a cup of unfermented apple cider for himself. Mareth noticed the look he got from Florian at his order. “I’m trying to cut down on the ale. And the wine. And the brandy. Good to take a break every now and again.”

  “I agree. I haven’t had a drink since breakfast,” said Florian, his deep laugh matching his deep voice.

  “So, Mareth,” said Motega, “what’s going on? Do you know this Win character?”

  “It’s a long story. Are you sure you want to hear it?” Motega and Florian nodded as they took a drink from the tankards set down before them. Trypp didn’t respond, just focused on his beer. Motega knew he believed business was private unless there was a contract involved.

  Mareth recounted how he’d wanted to chronicle what happened after the king had been killed, but found himself working for Hoxteth, initially as a way to be involved in the process and to get a unique angle, but when he saw Eden enter the city, his mindset had shifted.

  The traditional crop of nobles wouldn’t help the vast majority in Edland. It would only happen with someone who had grown up like everyone else, and so, he helped to create a buzz about Hoxteth’s candidature throughout the city. And then, when Hoxteth was murdered, he was despondent at the realization that the monied people of the city would ensure the status quo.

  But Petra and Jules convinced him they could collectively do something, and so, that evening, they had met with district supervisors and guild masters, and they had decided to try to bring a voice to the everyday people of Kingshold.

  As Mareth told his tale, Motega found himself being sucked in. By his ancestors, this man could tell a story. Like the shaman in his old tribe, he felt magic weaving in his voice, he was sure of it. When the bard had mentioned the death of Hoxteth, Motega made certain not to look at his comrades, but he could sense them shifting slightly in their seats.

  “Thanks for the tale, friend, and thank you for the meal,” said Florian between mouthfuls. “It’s delicious.”

  “This whole place has gone demon-crazy,” said Trypp, rolling his eyes. “Now, we have commoners and thieves all wanting to get their hands on a pyxie.”

  “There’s something contagious about this change in power. Is it crazy or is this a breath of fresh air? I don’t know.” Motega turned from his friend to address Mareth. “And so, this Win guy was one of the supervisors? Why would he attack the girl when it sounded like everyone agrees with her idea?”

  “I don’t kno—”

  “Because he’s a spy.” Jules had walked up unnoticed behind Mareth. “Alana is going to be fine, by the way. Some big bruises that’ll only go bluer, and a few cuts and scratches. But she’ll be fine. She intends to go to work tomorrow, but for now, Petra is trying to get her just to relax and go to sleep.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. But a spy! Who for?” asked Mareth.

  “It doesn’t matter. Another candidate? A noble? The government? We don’t want him blabbing to his boss or poisoning the well with the other supervisors.” Jules pulled a chair and sat at the table, leaning in conspiratorially and looking at Trypp, Motega, and Florian in turn. “You gentlemen look like you’re men of certain diverse talents. I’ve noticed the odd times of your comings and goings, but, of course, that’s none of my business. You know our business now, though. And I don’t like people who beat up on young women. Would you be willing to do some work for us tonight? I’ll clear your tab, and you can stay here as long as you like if you can stop Win from blabbing. And give him a little lesson in manners.”

  Trypp nodded along as she spoke. “Just to be clear, you’re not asking us to kill him?” he asked.

  “Not as a first choice. Is that easier for you?” asked Jules.

  “Well, it can be much cleaner if we’re talking about killing someone. We know we have met our customer’s expectations when the body stops breathing; things in between tend to be shades of grey. But it also usually costs a lot more than our tab is likely to be.” Trypp looked at Motega, and then Florian. They both gave little nods. Trypp reached over to shake Jules’s hand. “We’ll do it.”

  Motega walked south from the Fourwells area with Florian and Trypp flanking him. The streets were quiet. It was the time of the early morning where most everyone was in bed, but too soon for the serious drinkers in the taverns to be stumbling home.

  Win had been exactly where Jules had said he would be. Lying in bed in his own house without a care in the world, evidently able to sleep peacefully shortly after beating a defenseless girl.

  Nice man, that Win.

  Trypp had popped open the lock to the back of the house with no fuss. Motega had co
vered his mouth, while Florian readied the gag. From there, it was all a quiet game of whispers making it clear about what was acceptable behavior and what wasn’t, and strongly suggesting he pass the baton as supervisor to someone else who’d be able to talk.

  He looked confused at that point, but when Florian punched him with one of his brass knuckles and broke his jaw, everything became a little clearer.

  Trypp then pointed out that, though he might not be talking for a couple of moons, he could still write. Which was true. So Motega broke his thumbs using an ax handle.

  And now they were walking back to the inn, but going the long way. No point in being too obvious.

  “So, are we going to do it?” asked Florian.

  “Do what?” said Trypp.

  “Yes, I think we will,” said Motega, looking at Florian.

  “Do. What?” repeated Trypp, looking at his two friends.

  “Well, we’re going to go back to the inn now, tell them we did the job with minimum fuss—” said Florian.

  “—and while we’ve been gone, they’ll have been talking about how they need to be ready for anything with what they’re trying to do—” interjected Motega.

  “—and how they’re going to piss important people off. And so, they’re going to ask us to work with them through the election,” finished Florian.

  “What? You were both thinking that? How do you do that?” asked Trypp, incredulous. “And wait a minute, you said yes to this, Mot? And what do you think, Flor?”

  “I say yes, too.”

  “I’m repeating myself now, but what?” Trypp stopped dead, and so, Motega did likewise. This was the response he’d expected. He’d been through this dance before with his friend. “They don’t have any money, you know, or not a lot of it, so why should we help them?”