by Scott Rhine
Tashi left his tackler in the ditch, doubled over. The man with the no helmet had recovered enough to try for another charge. The sheriff calmly clothes-lined him, knocking him flat on his back. Next, he looked around to see how Nigel was faring. The actor waved cheerfully and said, “We’re having a civilized debate. Keep up the good work.”
While Nigel continued talking, Tashi took the daggers from all three of the fallen men.
“We need money,” stated the last revolutionary, who had not spoken until now.
“Why?”
“For weapons and food,” the last member of the Forge insisted.
Nigel countered this thrust. “But you have excellent weapons and can make more. That’s no excuse for running around screaming like lunatics. Why do you need food? Doesn’t your country have farms?”
“Of course,” said the man with the marked throat. “But we’re too far to get supplies from them. Since no self-respecting Intagliosian is going to give us anything, we have to steal. It’s poetic.” Both robbers seemed quite pleased with the argument.
Nigel saw his opportunity and pounced. “Bad poetry. You admit that you only steal because you are in the wrong kingdom, not at home where you belong.” The Forge members struggled with this dilemma. “You claim that the men of the new empire have stolen your honor, and you turn into criminals to restore it? This is muddled thinking if ever I heard it. A poem such as this has no rhyme or reason.”
Tashi merely smiled at the reversal, standing behind his companion to show agreement. The two robbers left standing glanced at each other. “But we’re exiled, forbidden to return.”
The actor shook his head. “Your best excuse is that you don’t want to break a law? Do you believe this law is just?” Everyone agreed that it was not. “Then why do you obey it over ones you know to be right? The border isn’t well-patrolled and five fit men as you could easily slip across in the mountains. You must be afraid of someone turning you in. Intagliosians can’t tell one of your kind from another without uniforms, so you can’t be afraid of them. Are you afraid of your own people betraying you?” The two strenuously denied this idea. “Then what are you waiting for? Go home! Solve your own problems.”
During this tirade, the doubled-over man pulled himself into a ha a haoop and waddled over, holding his stomach. The man without a helmet sobbed in pain. Only their leader remained unconscious for a prolonged period. They ended up camping there to heal before heading north.
Once out of ear-shot, Tashi whispered, “You amaze me—a spy who talks robbers into moral actions.”
“Everyone wants to believe he is good,” Nigel reasoned.
The sheriff raised an eyebrow. “But you’ve turned them into rebel fighters against your own Pretender.”
The actor was unperturbed. “I fully intend to report them when we reach the next town. On open ground, they’ll be hunted down long before they reach the border.”
The sheriff was aghast. “But you said…”
“I lied, yes. But I got them to desist without shedding a drop of blood, pay us with good steel, walk into certain death, and made them think it was their idea. A good spy does that,” Nigel said with a smile.
Tashi realized how much of life was a game to this man.
****
An hour later, Tashi was still disconcerted about the ambush. He told the actor, “You may be right about a good inn. The establishment up ahead looks well-heeled and it may be our last decent rest before we finish our business at the temple. To show what a good sport I am, I’ll even pay.”
Nigel was momentarily speechless. As they approached the entrance to the sprawling road house, the actor patted him on the back and said, “For the dupe of an evil wizard, you’re not all bad. I’ll start with that drink you’re buying me. But let a professional bargain with the innkeeper. I’ll get the best room in the house and spin a fine tale that will make the proprietor happy to give us the clothes off his back.”
Tashi was weary from repeated, vague nightmares while on the road, so he agreed to let Nigel handle negotiations. The sheriff huddled in a corner, avoiding the increasingly boisterous crowd spilling out from the dining hall. Accustomed to the quiet of the road, the tumult of voices in the inn made him uncomfortable, threatening to upset the delicate equilibrium he had maintained since the Garden of Harmony.
Within moments, Nigel made good his boast. He returned to the entrance and handed Tashi the key to the poshest suite in the inn, one of only two such suites on the third floor. “They even have tubs up there.”
Tashi nodded his approval. “An excellent idea. Have the innkeeper send up someone with buckets of hot water and I’ll take my meal in the room while my bath is being filled.”
“Enjoy. I’ll take some of our savings and our fine new daggers to that gaming table over there. By morning, I’ll know all the rumors in the realm.”
Glad that his companion was happy again, the sheriff wished him luck and waved goodnight. After cleaning his gear, Tashi ate a fine meal of roast beef and potatoes hand-delivered by a thin scullery lass with long hair. He declined her generous offer of a back scrubbing and relaxed in the floral-scented water alone.
There were no tenants in the adjoining rooms, and he was far enough from the taproom not to hear the loud music. The temporary illusion of solitude was complete. The tune been humming still kept running through his mind. The hot water and silence lulled him into a light slumber. However, when sleep came, his dreams were once again gray and dreary, an endless march on a muddy highway.
In the dream, Tashi was at the head of a procession. His heart pounded loudly in his ears, mingling with the boot steps of the score of men behind him. The man to his right was whistling the familiar tune. The pace of the men behind slowed as they approached a rockfall blocking the road ahead. Their heavy wagon would never make it over the rubble. He had been in this nightmare before, or several like it. There was a sense of urgency, the importance of making the most out of every heartbeat. In the next part, he always turned to give orders. But this time, instead, he turned to the whistler. Tashi could not put a name to the sallow face, but knew that the man was no longer among the living. “What is the name of that song?” He had to know.
The gray man stared at him without emotion, but sadness crept into his voice. “The Betrayal of the Knight of Erlane.”
A wave of cold air washed over him and Tashi awoke with a start. A cold, steel blade pressed against his throat and he was now surrounded by six brightly uniformed, Imperial guardsmen. The guards allowed him to dress in his kalura but took possession of his mail shirt and Honor. Though they stared at the many tattoos on every major, spiritual nexus point on his body, no commentary passed their lips. Fortunately for Tashi, the magical amulet had never left his neck. Partly obstructed by the door frame, he saw a man in plain, merchant-class clothing hand Nigel a large sum in gold. The man wore no official badge or marking of any kind, but he commanded the guardsmen with practiced arrogance. His every movement reminded Tashi of the repulsive secret policemen he had encountered at the Great Library. Far from being uncomfortable in the presence of such an obvious bottom feeder in the stream of life, the actor collected his payment with glee.
Briefly, Tashi considered ways to kill them both before the others bludgeoned him into unconsciousness. However, his head had already been damaged too many times. One more such blow might finish him, or worse, leave him unable to speak or move. Noticing his interest, the secret policeman scuttled down the hall. He reached the obscurity of the shadows before the angry ex-mercenary could see his face.
As he passed, the sheriff had to be content to spit at the actor and say, “You’re the one with no soul, traitor.”
“I told you to listen to me. We could’ve done this the easy way,” Nigel countered. “As for my soul, the emperor’s intelligence service claimed it ages ago.
“When I break free of my bonds, I’ll take you to that promised meeting with the Traveler,” Tashi said with dead certainty
as the guards pushed him along the hall.
Lingering behind, Nigel tried to make light of the threat. “I know you’re only saying these hurtful things because you already miss me.”
The secret policeman chuckled from a distance. “Not to worry, you’ll be going with him, for a short while anyway. The Viper himself will want to debrief you at his mansion.”
Nigel turned pale. “Surely Lord Hisbet can wait a little while.”
The man in the shadows considered this for a moment. “I’m sure you’ve exaggerated this man’s abilities and underestimate my precautions. See how meekly the wolf rolls over and bares his throat when faced with a superior foe? height="0">
Nigel’s breathing began to show panic. “I don’t care how many soldiers you have around him, he’ll be after me first. Since you’ve ordered the guards to deliver the captive alive, that will be their primary concern. If this man breaks loose, my life isn’t worth a shithouse leaf.”
The arrogant voice in the hall sounded irritated by this pawn’s whining, “What made you think your life was ever worth more?”
Chapter 37 – Royal Scouts of Zanzibos
Captain Onira of the Royal Scouts and those surviving under his command staggered into the remote Zanzibosian o
utpost of Barnham. His face was lean and haggard, with eyes that had seen far too much for his years. Once dashing and all the rage at spring dances, the bachelor captain was now unshaven, his silken uniform in tatters. Still, the men at the city gate knew he was the king’s man by the way he carried himself and the gold-trimmed sword at his side. His first words removed all doubt. “I say,” he shouted to those on the city wall. “Where’s your nearest tailor?” When the guards gawked at him, he added, “To sew up the wounded.”
Within moments, a stocky craftsman wearing the sign of the candle-maker’s guild and the black stole of a master scampered out to greet him. The merchant shook his hand and said, “Thank the gods you’ve arrived; what a lucky day for us all.”
The merchant smelled of soot and sweat, and the captain wrinkled his nose. “You wouldn’t want any of the luck we’ve had the last month. I’ll need to visit your garrison immediately.” Only Onira spoke to the natives. The rest of the survivors silently followed his lead and walked in pairs, each covering the other’s back.
The candle maker helped usher the soldiers inside the city gates as quickly as possible. As the scouts moved along the narrow street that paralleled the wall, they kept one hand on their swords. Onira examined the peasants around him, noting that they were all male and carried farming implements, clubs, or a makeshift weapon of some kind. Every five paces around the wall sat a wooden bucket.
Onira decided to press his host while they were out in the open and had a chance for counterattacking. “Hello, it seems somebody has a story to tell.” When the candle maker feigned ignorance, he asked, “Why wasn’t there a swordsman here to greet us?”
“You’d have to ask the master of the port about that, sir,” said the candle maker, leading him to a nearby manor. The inside of the manor was clean and well-kept, but barren of all furnishings. The hardwood floors were polished to an absurd, amber glow, but the wrought-metal candlestick holders were all empty. There had to be a dozen elegant rooms that held nothing but an echo. “Your men can bed down here.”
“Wouldn’t the garrison make more sense?” asked Onira, puzzled by the opulence.
The candle maker seemed amused at this, but said nothing. Instead, one of the younger recruits stood at attention and asked for permission to speak.
“Corporal Shima,” said Onira. recognizing the man.
“This is the garrison, sir, or at least it was five years ago,” said the recruit.
The candle maker confirmed this and added on his way out the door, “The herbalist is a bit busy right now with all the injured, bu we’ll make a special effort to get your lads in soonest. Meanwhile, I’ll go get the boss so he can talk to you.”
“The Lord Governor?” asked Onira.
The candle maker almost sneered. “He and his family snuck out of the city in the middle of the night. The port master is the temporary head of the guild council. The guilds are the only ones keeping this city together.”
The scouts remained silent until the civilian was out of earshot. Onira wiped his lean face with his hand, “Nothing is ever easy. Shima, you’re from around here, then?”
Uneasy to be the sudden focus of attention, the recruit said, “Close by, sir.”
“Do you mind telling me what the blue blazes is going on here?” groused the captain.
Eager to please, Shima replied, “Yes, sir. I think blue blazes sums it up, sir. The smell of charred wood and the water buckets would indicate that they’re having a run-in with the fire mages. It happens from time to time, sir. That’s why the walls are stone.”
“Intaglios is growing bold. What about the governor and the garrison?”
“I couldn’t speculate, sir.”
Onira spoke softly to the corporal, “What aren’t you telling us?”
Shima shifted his weight from one foot to another, reluctant to say what he knew. There may have been another person from the region among the survivors, but nobody was volunteering right now. Eventually, his duty to his unit won out and the corporal spoke. “The governor’s been a bit of a tyrant, sir, using his troops to improve his own lot instead of enforcing the law. The people here hate his knights almost as much as they hate the fire mages.”
“Wonderful. Do you think they can tell the difference between us and the governor’s knights?” asked the scout commander.
Shima shrugged. “The guildmasters always keep their word; trade depends on it.”
“What about all those armed peasants?” asked Onira, scratching his facial stubble.
After being recognized, one of the other soldiers volunteered. “Sir, I heard a few people gossiping about us in the street. They seemed to think that our being southern knights was a good thing.”
“Not good enough,” said the captain, pounding one fist on top of another idly. “We need to find out what happened to the last garrison. Was there an insurrection? We need solid evidence, not implications. We need to sneak someone into the governor’s house and look for signs of a battle or a coup of any sort.”
“This is also the governor’s mansion, sir,” explained Shima. “He was so afraid of these people that he couldn’t sleep unless he was surrounded by armed men.”
Onira seemed offended at the idea. “Gods, if this man was such a poor governor, why didn’t anyone complain to the king and have him replaced?”
Shima stared at his feet. “They tried that, sir. The messenger was hung for treason. It seems that the governor is the king’s cousin and gives him a dozen silver every seventy collected.”
Onira grunted, “Long live the king. But it’s a sorry seat for our asses to be in. You, take half the men who have both eyes and look for anything the garrison may have left behind, any clues to what happened. You, take the rest except Shima and guard these doors. Corporal, I have a special mission for you.” The stomach of every soldier in the room sank at the lilt in the captain’s voice.
Poor Shima snapped to attention. “Sir.”
“Bring me the master of the birds. I have an urgent report to send and our messengers were all lost in the desert,” said Onira. The corporal didn’t dare ask what he was to do if the master of the birds refused. After the soldier nodded and began to take his leave, the Captain of the Scouts added, “And make it before the master of the port arrives. If we don’t meet with his approval, we won’t have the opportunity afterwards.”
Shima ran.
For thirty bits, the scouts looked in vain for a single remaining stick of furniture, or evidence of a struggle. They found neither. Onira was reduced to scavenging wooden planks from the attic floor to construct his defensive perimeter and stretchers for the injured.
Someone rapped sharply at the front door. Defenders scrambled, the door opened an
d Shima dragged in a rather disgruntled, old man wearing nightclothes. “The master of the birds, sir,” announced the corporal.
“I was taking my bloody nap!” complained the disheveled man in a nearly thread-bare robe.
“Quiet, or it’s back in the bag for you,” threatened Shima, holding up a burlap sack about half his own height.
Onira raised a hand, and led the old gentleman toward the garrison commander’s office. “That’s enough, corporal; I’ll take it from here. Were many of the birds harmed by the fire mages?” Once alone, the captain offered his guest a cup of wine.
The bird keeper seemed almost as surprised at the change in treatment as he was hard of hearing. “Eh? Yes. The entire main rookery went up in flames. But we make it a rule to always keep a few in unexpected places.”
“You are truly a wise steward, grandfather. Do you have any birds capable of making the flight to the capital?”
“Maybe one or two. But they’re for real emergencies. Why don’t you have any chairs in here?” said the old man, distracted.
“We were hoping you might shed some light on that,” said the captain in an amused tone, interlacing his fingers. “Military units often inform you of their movements.”
“That’s confidential,” said the master of the birds primly.
“So they were ordered somewhere by the crown?” guessed Onira. The old man looked pointedly out the window. “Fine. Corporal, be so good as to bring us that bag.”
“Innisport. They were all ordered to Innisport,” blurted the old man.
Onira looked surprised. “I merely wanted to search the bag for your quill and parchment. I have need of your services and assumed that the good corporal carried them here for you. As the new garrison commander, I would never dream of asking you to violate your confidences.”