Akiniwazisaga: The Inheritance Thieves

by M. D. Boncher

  “So there is our choice. We try to finish our mission. It will be another month or more before we can get you to your coronation. If we run now… a fortnight at best speed,” the kaptein said and shrugged.

  “The Visedronning is strong,” Leif assured. “Do not think her less than able. The Statsraad would have to convene to cause any real threat to her control.”

  Leif stopped tapping his fingers, looked at the assembled officers. He made his choice.

  “We shall go on as planned, wary of anything out of the ordinary, and listen for news at every landing to try and verify this truth. Double the watches. If we come across someone civilized who speaks Skaerslinger, we must endeavor to learn what those words mean. Make ready to set sail for Kynligrspiel at any moment as our failsafe. If you feel we have no choice but to run for safety, do so.”

  “Father Hanssen, I expect you to be praying for protection and any wisdom the Lord God may decide to share with us about that warning. We need to know.”

  “I leave the details to you, Kaptein. Beyond that, we shall act cautiously and do our duty as a last act of service to…” the words caught in his mouth. He could not speak the rest.

  “Jah, my Tign,” the officers shouted as Leif departed for the privacy of his chambers.

  29. A City Robed In Black

  A sullen and dreary rain began shortly before nightfall as Urban and Aske took the packet steamknarr to Dyrrvatn Kastali. The winds were calm, the air thick and cloying with summer heat as their ship cautiously kept to her schedule up the western shore of Lake Ishkode. They stopped several times at small ports, offloading scant cargo and a few passengers while bringing on precious little. Then, with a few sad chirps of the whistle, they were off again. Both men took hammock berths in the passenger compartment which was no more than a cargo hold converted for people to sleep, like in a flop house. The hammocks were strung three high between beams and contained room for sixty people, but on this passage no more than a few dozen ever shared the compartment. Several others sat on deck with lashed cargo that never made it below decks. Conversations were few, and the mood aboard was apathetic, with an undercurrent of worry over when Gregor’s Crown would be passed on.

  By dawn, the fog had given way to steady rain. A bleak sky promised this soaking would continue without reprieve. The ship crossed the Dyrrvatn to the Toinnsjokanalen where she was due to end her run.

  “At least it is warm,” Urban observed as he stepped off at the steamknarr’s depot.

  Aske only nodded in reply, his focus was on the small ticket clark’s office. Stevedores were angrily shoving the disorganized cargo off the ship and into the freight house, launching profanities at slow moving passengers who stood in their way. Black bunting was being placed over the ticket window, and those wearing baldrics or aettir sashes also wore black ornaments or bands. With a subtle gesture Aske alerted Urban to a few boys assisting their master in hanging the black cloth.

  “Odd,” Urban mused and walked toward the trio.

  “Pardon us, herr, but what is the meaning of the black bunting?”

  The man did not bother turning around to answer.

  “By order of our Tign, the Visedronning Marianne Ostensdottir Alvisaettir, Dyrrvatn Kastali, all citizens are required to dress and decorate for mourning due to the untimely death of Visekonge Gregor Vidarsson Sveinnaettir, God bless his soul.” The laborer’s voice was raspy from strong drink, and even the boys smelled of intoxication. The younger boy’s eyes were red from more than drink, while the older looked back with a hollow stare.

  “When did this happen?” Urban gasped.

  “A few days ago. I do not know for sure. We got the public order last night. If you are Sveinnaettir or one of their retainers, you best be donning all black as soon as possible. Our liege is dead.”

  This did not bode well for Urban and Aske as it was sure to interfere with the investigation. The coroner’s office or court would surely be preoccupied.

  “When is the Tronerving’s coronation?” Urban asked, still in shock.

  “No one can say,” the man replied. “He is away and no one knows how long it will take for him to return. Official word from the Kronapalasset is that he will be back in a week or two.”

  With more bunting secured, the man climbed down off the ladder, and the trio walked on to the next window and repeated the task.

  “Greithr, and thank you, herr,” Urban said motioning to Aske. The pair walked away and toward the street. A few carts for hire remained, their drivers on the lookout for a fare.

  “This does not help us,” Aske said.

  “No, definitely not,” Urban replied scanning around the steamknarr dock, contemplating what to do next.

  “Will this change our plans?” Aske said.

  “Probably. Perhaps we can find an innkeeper who will allow us to pay for the week or month, ensuring room and board till we can get access to the coroner’s office. The funeral and the coronation will delay everything for they will be dealing with lots of legal and political wrangling. I no longer know how long it will take to conduct our inquest.” Urban began walking to the street to hire a driver.

  “Why not?”

  “If the Tronerving is not crowned soon, there will be… disagreements as to who does have the right to possess the Crown. Disagreements of these sorts tend to bring about much skullduggery, kill many people and cause wars.”

  They came up to a tall two-wheeled cart. The driver wore oilskins and a wide brimmed hat to keep the rain off. His two caribou looked to be in good shape but sick of the rain. It would be a wet ride for there was no canopy. A row of bench seats went down either side, and a small locked box was bolted under the driver’s seat. Urban looked up at the man.

  “Good morning, herr,” Urban said with a pleasant chirp to his voice. “Are you for hire?”

  “Wherever you need to go, Father,” the driver said with a bitter expression under his hat’s broad brim.

  “Do you know of a good innkeeper near the Domkyrkje who takes long term guests? Something off the boulevard,” Urban inquired.

  “Jah, I know of some places. What sort of lodging you be needing?”

  “Clean, with good beds and food, with private rooms. Nothing fancy or putting on airs,” Urban said, deciding to treat them a little to the finer things the city could offer.

  “I have a place in mind. There is a sauna and laundry behind it,” the driver said. “I have heard the stable is comfortable, too.” This was directed at Aske, with a weak smile. The men stowed their meager belongings and climbed aboard the open cart.

  The ride from the steamknarr to the inn was surreal. The merchants and barkers were less raucous, and the drover’s carts trundled through the streets as if mourning had physical weight. Children argued and fought in the courtyards and the tight side streets between the city’s boulevards. Windows were being draped with black cloth and bunting instead of the normal colorful heraldry. As they reached the Domkyrkjeplassen, the cathedral’s carillon began to ring a long funerary toll.

  “I have never been here before. Is that in memorial for the Visekonge’s passing?” Urban asked.

  “Jah. Every hour, the carillon plays that. No one has heard it since the passing of Visekonge Vidar about a generation ago,” the driver said.

  “What did the Visekonge die of?” Aske questioned.

  “There has been no proclamation from the Statsraad,” replied the driver. “Best I can make out was he had an accident on his way to the Summarpalasset. There was nothing could be done to save him, God rest his soul.”

  “Is he returned for the funeral?”

  “Not yet. Rest assured, you will know when he does. This city will be abuzz, and not the way you want it.” The driver’s prediction sent a chill up Urban’s back.

  The carriage turned off the wide boulevards now passing through the thin lanes till they came to a tidy neighborhood of clergy and laity.

  “Here we are, Truartorg. A lot of Kyrkjaguard live here, so this
is a quiet neighborhood. I expect you may be early enough to get a room for a good price,” the driver said.

  True to his word, the neighborhood was cleaner than most of what they had seen. Vagrants and beggars did not seem to be taking hold of the corners and alleys while the little square was surrounded by what normally would have been cheery shops. A small fountain and statue of Saint Anjar stood in the middle of the pleasant scene. The Blessath Borth Inn’s front wall was decorated with a large mosaic meant to look like the last supper, and a well manicured green copper awning provided a place to eat and drink protected from the elements. The inn’s serving wenches and boys were setting out tables, wrapping everything they thought appropriate in black.

  The carriage came to a stop out front, and the driver put his palm out.

  “How much?” Aske said.

  “Six pennings,” the driver replied, looking into Aske’s eyes, though he did not hold the gaze.

  “Six? For that short of a ride?” Urban grunted. More from surprise than from pulling their bags off the cart.

  The driver shrugged his shoulder. Aske gave a subtle shake of his head.

  “Five then. Clergy and all,” the driver reconsidered.

  Aske took out his purse and put seven copper pennings in the man’s hand, gently closing his fingers for him, the driver looked up with surprise.

  “We will need you tomorrow morning. Remember that,” Aske said, locking eyes with him. The driver’s mouth hung open, then it snapped shut and he gave a slow nod, unsure whether to smile or not. It was plain he was not used to Skaerslinger. The money clattered into his cash box under the seat, and he drove off without waiting for another fare.

  “That was a little odd,” Urban said.

  “Not for me.” Aske picked up his bags where Urban had left them.

  They walked up to a man as he was putting out more chairs. A few locals were taking their breakfast on the covered porch, watching them as they came up.

  “Good morning. Are you the innkeeper?” Urban inquired.

  “Good morning. No, but how may we serve you, Father?” The servant wiped his hands on his apron. The waiter had a tall frame that likely was once much more fit but now seemed to suffer through years of neglect and light service, for the flesh drooped on his bones.

  “We need a room for a few week’s stay, possibly a month. Can you accommodate us?” Urban’s request did not trouble the man.

  “Of course, Father. We would be happy to rent to you. We have special rates for clergy. Do you have any specific needs?”

  “Something simple, two beds. A window would be nice. Full board and laundry as well.”

  “Two beds? Forgive me, herre, your thrall must sleep in the stable,” the servant said. “He will be given the customary thrall’s fare unless you would prefer a servant’s board? That would be no trouble.” To Urban’s ears, the statement reeked of condescension.

  “He is not my thrall, nor my servant,” Urban said, his posture stiffening.

  The servant cocked his head just a little, like a puppy hearing a new noise.

  “He is my partner in enterprise,” Urban elaborated crisply adding, “and friend.”

  The servant paled a little. His disgust was too great to hide.

  “Urban,” Aske said in a low voice.

  “Please forgive me, Father. I did not realize.” The man’s fleshy chins quivered. “Unfortunately, I do not have a say in the matter. Orders from my herre. All servants and thralls stay in the stables.”

  “Did you not hear me? He is a friend and partner. Not a servant.” Urban’s voice was flat and dangerous.

  “Urban,” Aske again tried to get the priest’s attention.

  “Shall I fetch the innkeeper, Father?” the servant’s tone clipped and officious.

  “I should say so,” Urban snapped at the man.

  “One moment, Father.” The title was tacked on with the sort of polite snipe a well-bred servant was expert in, but from this man, it sounded churlish.

  “Urban,” Aske said, demanding his attention, noticing the subtle glances from servant and guest alike.

  “What?” the priest almost shouted. He was ready to lecture the innkeeper for his tacky rules. Aske’s sad face surprised him, and the fury drained out of his spirit.

  “There is no need for this. I will find lodging elsewhere,” Aske declared.

  “But that insufferable man insulted-”

  Aske cut him off with a shake of his head.

  “No. You took insult. I did not,” he said. Once again, it was that calm bloodless tone that drained the fight out of Urban, leaving him confused.

  “I do not understand. How could you? You are a leader of men.”

  “His ignorance takes nothing from me,” Aske confirmed.

  “He should respect you!” Urban blustered.

  “He should,” Aske agreed then considered the angry priest a moment. “Do you know why you are angry?”

  “What? I…” Urban realized he had no understanding why the inn’s rules rankled him so much and sat down at one of the tables. “No. I do not.”

  “You want to save me. To prove a point,” Aske explained. “I do not need saving.” Aske let his words sink in for a moment. Urban started, disgusted with himself. “I do not blame you. In your heart, you see me as your inferior. Most of my blood are your enemy, and your instinct sees me as a threat. Most paleflesh have this problem. I forgive them for it. Now, let me handle my own affairs.”

  Urban slumped in the chair and rubbed his eyes. Shame burning his cheeks as it became clear. Ever since that first day he saw Aske in the Tavern Off the Pier, he had been looking to right that wrong. To fight the petty cruelty he saw and prove his morality… his superiority. But was that the only reason? Did he really see Aske as an inferior needing to be saved? Did he really believe Aske could not fight that battle?

  “Remember, I am your friend. A friend who cannot stay here with you. Do not worry, for I will find someplace else which will take me in.”

  “But this is unfair,” Urban groused, looking up at the big red-skinned man, painfully aware of his physical differences, angered even more that he noticed them.

  “Life is not fair. Even more so for us Skaerslinger. This is the price we pay for being free men in your nation. Free of the manitou that claim my bloodline.”

  Urban’s emotions were boiling over in a disorderly froth. He was unready to look at his own soul in this manner, and he felt helpless.

  “Those from other lands who were brought here as thralls, even if they are free now, pay the same price as I do. They are not equal in the eyes of pure Forsamling blood. It may not be easy for you to see, but it is there.”

  “You want me to take the room,” Urban said, disgusted with the new view of himself.

  “Jah,” Aske said and shouldered his baggage. “This is not a worthy fight for you, or me.”

  “Greithr. If you insist,” Urban said, flipping a hand up in a helpless gesture.

  “I do not. This is what must be,” Aske responded. Urban felt great compassion in those words. He would need them, for tonight his prayers would be very difficult as he considered what had been exposed in his heart.

  “Let us meet at the Domkyrkje after lunch. We can discuss more regarding how to find our mysterious aettir and also get a feel for the city,” Urban suggested.

  “Until then.” Aske gave a nod and walked off to find lodgings that would take him for who he was.

  30. A Grief Interrupted, an Absolution Denied

  In low murmuring throngs and by the thousands, the Forsamling came to Dyrrvatn Kastali to pay their respects to their Tign, Gregor Vidarsson Sveinnaettir, Visekonge of the Akiniwazi Union. The city was swaddled in black and blanketed in flowers as the Union mourned together. Gregor was lain in state before the altar, in a closed casket, a silver effigy sleeping on top of the sealed lid. Priests stood watch around the clock defending his mortal remains from the manitou who would take any opportunity to create mischief and t
error. Psalmists mourned in continual chants.

  The Cardinal of Akiniwazi readied to preside over the funeral while the finishing touches of the pyre were constructed. All the jarls and most of the Hird peerage had arrived. Several wealthy landowners and merchants were in attendance as well. A longboat had been pulled onto the beach of Faellgallenvatr, filled with oil, incense and biers of kindling, ready to burn, like Visekonges of yore. Outside the Kronapalasset a vigil had grown, multitudes praying for the Lord’s peace and strength to come upon the Visedronning.

  They were prayers in vain for peace could not find her. The chattering voices and angry demands of a court in chaos tore at the crumbling dynasty. They pestered her without ceasing. She tried to isolate herself and think, but even her chambers gave no refuge. She fled from the bed once shared with Gregor, unable to withstand the reminder of his absence. Sleep was no longer her boon companion. It skulked around the edges of her consciousness, refusing to embrace her and grant the escape so desired. She hung in a netherworld of grief, unaware of what swirled about her. She should have eaten days ago but could not bring herself to do so. The Visedronning began wandering the halls of the palace like a manitou, seeking a place to rest.

  She discovered herself sitting alone in the dark before the chapel pulpit. For the first time since returning to Dyrrvatn Kastali, a moment of solitude was found. Was she even Visedronning anymore, she wondered? By the strictest sense, probably not. Only Grevinne Marianne Ostensdottir Alvisaettir, daughter of a faithful retainer from Manitouland remained. What would become of her? She did not know. It was enough that the chamberlain, minister of the exchequer and minister of the wardrobe protected her as if she were Greg-.

  She crushed the thought.

  As long as she did not think his name, there was a chance it had not happened. She might only be waiting for him to come see her.

  “My Tign?” a woman’s voice beckoned from behind Marianne. “I did not know you were here.”