by Louis Emery
“Ah, who am I kidding. You’re a Cylarnti, like me. Of course you would know that.” A slight smirk gleamed in the moonglow. “Where did you train? From your moves, I’d assume Prestonpan Isles.”
“Hilontera.”
“That so?” she laughed. “For me, it was Monterim. Master Ildonarya. He’s dead now. Heard of him?”
Gav nodded. He heard of a great many masters from his mentor. A good Cylarnti learned of these things.
“This is neither here nor there,” Gav said, giving her a cold stare. “I need to know the information you have on the missing lords. And don’t think I’ll believe Konteran generals haven’t given a Cylarnti like yourself anything. I know who they confide in.”
Veela walked along the back of her cell, sliding her hand across the branch bars as if they were some kind of instrument waiting to be plucked. She turned back to Gav and matched his own stance and posture. “What say you to settling this the ancient way? Your men didn’t give me a chance to finish what we started.”
It was Gav’s turn to chuckle.
“But in all seriousness,” Veela said, changing her tone. “Let’s make it tomorrow at dawn. In the middle of camp. Before everyone wakes. No weapons. Just you and me in the artful way. You win, I’ll give you something. I win, I get to be in prisoner exchange.”
Gav paused. Far off the ocean roared against bedrock. “Not going to happen.”
Leaning against the cell walls, Veela released the breath she’d been holding and said, “Well… it was worth a try.” She walked to the corner and sat back down. “You know, I’m surprised a Cylarnti like you hasn’t resigned his commission.”
“And why would I do that?”
“What do you mean, why? Don’t you see what the Backlands have done under Greenvale’s rule?” Her eyes widened, then narrowed at Gav’s passivity. “Who was your master?”
“Yentay. As I said, in Hilontera.”
“Ah yes, Master Yentay of Hilontera. And is your master alive?”
“He died years ago of old age. His heart gave out. A natural thing when an elder.”
“Not so natural as you’d think. I don’t know if you are aware of this, but my master died two years ago. And so did five others who mentored my comrades in the art.”
“The masters are dying off,” Gav conceded. “The art has been dwindling of late—the old high-sorcerers are no longer around to create new ones with their ancient blade-spells. This is just the fate of time.”
“It is said the masters are supposed to live in their mid-hundreds,” Veela noted, “thanks to the endowment of the spell-blade’s mark.”
“So it is said.”
“And yet you fail to notice the trend?” Veela said, puffing in agitation. “You’re so enamored with your king, kingdom and duty, you fail to see its fallacies.”
“You think the Backlands have something to do with the masters’ deaths?”
“Oh, I know for certain they have everything to do with their deaths.” Veela stared, daring Gav to counter.
“That’s Redwoodian propaganda, something passed along in rebel proclamations.”
Veela snickered, shaking her head. “You don’t see. It makes perfect sense. The masters were going to encourage their trainees to join the rebellion, to subvert the machinations of a corrupt empire the Backland kingdom is becoming. Look—” she pointed toward the guards outside. “Just look at the letters I carried. Your guards took them off me. But they will show. They are letters I’ve received from my fellow Cylarnti, stating how their masters died mysteriously days before gathering their students for important meetings.”
Gav shook his head. True, the Cylarnti masters—many of them moving to the Prestonpan Isles to start their schools—had reason to support island autonomy, but their first and foremost loyalty was to the Backlands. Their beginnings were fully supported by the crown treasury, namely to help recruit warriors in service to the mother kingdom. “I’m sure these scribblings are of your fellow Cylarnti soldiers in the uprising,” Gav said.
“Undoubtedly. Though there is one from Em Regis, from a fellow trainee who left well before the deaths—murders—started occurring year after year. It was all building up. The Backlands caught word of the masters’ feelings, and instead of mediation and diplomacy they chose poison and assassination. A betrayal to the art’s alliance with the crown, and a betrayal to all the students!”
Gav couldn’t believe these ramblings. While it’s true some of the masters may have been in support of the uprising, the Cylarnti ways encouraged communication and peaceful measures first. Surely, there would’ve been deliberations before violent protest. To top it off, Master Yentay and all masters that died in recent years—and all remaining masters for that matter—were elderly men and women, some more youthful than others. But the truth about people this old was that they died. A fact of life. And another was that this whole story struck him as the perfect diversion for Veela to use to divert her captor from his objective.
“I’ll have a look at those letters,” Gav replied, “and in time consult my superiors. But the fact is, you have information that I need. Now, you have options…” He stepped closer to her, hands on his hips. “Give me what I want and I’ll make sure you aren’t executed by hanging. If you cooperate, I’ll have you shipped to work at Em Regis warehouses along with others of your kind. I can’t do prisoner exchange. The Lord-general won’t allow that for a person of your caliber. But, if you give me half-truths I will make sure you serve aboard the prison ships, and we all know what awaits inside. If endless work hours, filth, scurvy, and green fever don’t appeal to you, then I suggest you give me accurate knowledge so you can live out the war in the capitol, on land and in relative comfort.”
Veela’s mouth slackened then clenched. She rubbed her face, shuddering either from exhaustion or fear or both. “It looks like I’ve no choice. I’ve served my island these past two years. Fought in many engagements. Seen my generals killed in battle and on the executioner’s block. Seen my leaders coerced into switching sides.” She shook her head, hair falling over glazed eyes, sparkling in the pale light streaming in from above night clouds. “I’ll not go to those ships. Do I have your word, that if I give you what I know, I’ll be sent to the warehouses—not the gibbet or death ships?”
“You have my word.” Gav placed a fist to his left shoulder and slid it down over his breast in Cylarnti salute.
Veela performed a microcosm of Gav’s gesture, sighing. “So be the fates,” she whispered. Then louder, “Hannery and Appleton are in Hyanti, held up at a safehouse near the city square. Their keepers are the Batter Brothers, a rebellious guild known for their affinity for violence, when it comes to loyalists.”
“Is it safe to enter the city?”
“Not unless you think two-thousand Konteran soldiers are ‘safe’.”
“And where’s this wing stationed and who’s their leader?”
“The army is stationed at the northern end of the city, though they have guard towers watching all sides on the outskirts. They’re commanded by General Levus Strout, the horned panther.”
Gav had heard about the man and that he lived up to his nickname, tending to punch jagged holes into his enemies no matter how large their number or how few were his. This was not going to be easy, Gav thought. Hopefully, by the time his force arrived near the city, General Byers’s army would link up with him.
“And what about the road to Hyanti?” Gav asked. “Are other contingents like yours in the way?”
“A few scattered divisions of several hundred men, but I don’t know where exactly. My troops got separated from them, and I was ordered to stay in the southwest.”
“Any heavy cavalry on the way?”
“No. All horses are with the main armies. We are an island force, limited in our resources. Infantry is our main line of defense.”
Satisfied, Gav turned his gaze toward camp. Only a few low fires remained lit, and darkness crept around tents and sleeping soldiers. �
�I’ll see to it, once we get near Hyanti, that I fulfill our terms. In the meantime, you and your comrades will be treated in the best manner considering the circumstances.”
Veela clenched her teeth, stifling what Gav thought was a yawn.
“That’s all for tonight,” he said. “Get some sleep. We will be on the move in a day or two.”
She put her head down on her folded knees, making no reply.
Gav spun around and walked out the cell, collecting the confiscated letters from the guards at the front.
21
Their first stop had been at the Lastingly home, a small manor at the heart of the city, where Sho and Abera were greeted by an unhelpful servant. Sho expected to be directed to Lord Staverly’s keep, but instead the rude valet, dressed in immaculate livery, had no knowledge of his master’s whereabouts. Fortunately, Bastion’s attractive and well-mannered wife overheard from the hallway and assisted them. Her husband was not working in matters of kingdom security that morning, but visited one of the few men-only social guilds in city: Ryerson Hall. Sho thanked Lady Lastingly for the information, assuring her it involved her husband’s work with the duke.
Ryerson Hall stood dour and imposing on Straneford Avenue in the heart of Quinlander. Statues of indigenous horned panthers sat atop marble pillars surrounding the entrance, with its many stairs leading up to grand finely-carved oaken doors. A gilt cupola topped the limestone building, reflecting sunlight at certain hours throughout the day as if to remind the populace that male elites from all over the island met here to make agendas affecting the commoners. Sho scoffed at the gaudy façade as she climbed the stairway and walked through the antechamber with Abera by her side.
Upon entering they were greeted by a scowling doorman who held out his hand as if it were the final preventative action toward unwanted guests. He wore a breastplate and sword that looked to be more for show than actual use.
“Excuse me, ladies,” his voice drew out like a royal proclamation. “You realize where you are?”
“Yes, we do,” Sho said. “A men’s social guild that will have to permit ladies entry for today.”
“I’m sorry, madam. We cannot allow that. This is a private guild with private members and guild rules.”
“And what about the King’s rules?” Sho said, showing her parchment with the stamp of Royal Asker.
“I see,” the man looked at the paper, eyebrows slightly raised. “Usually when inquiries of this nature are made, we are given advance notice from the Lord Sheriff. And typically…” he paused to look them up and down, “men are sent so as to not cause upset.”
“Well, these are upsetting times are they not?” Sho wanted to shove the man into the second door of the antechamber. Perhaps that would grant them entry.
“Hmm,” he said, looking back down at her asker’s seal. Mouthing the words quietly to himself.
“Look,” Abera interrupted him. “Our time is valuable. So if you don’t speed things up, I’ll have you thrown in the stockades for obstruction.”
Sho looked to her assistant with a tilt of her eyebrow.
The man’s scowl softened and he straightened. “Apologies, milady. It’s just my duties require me to be… thorough. Right this way.”
He opened the door, calling to a servant waiting at the side of the large vestibule. The doorman turned back to them. “And who are you here to see?”
“Bastion Lastingly,” Sho said.
“Ah, very good,” The man said, as the servant whispered in his ear. “They are in the gaming rooms.”
The doorman snapped an order, and the servant stepped forward, stiff-backed. “If you will follow me, please.”
Walking through the corridors of Ryerson Hall, Sho noticed its many private rooms for varied purposes. In one, vast collections of books lined extensive shelving of rosewood and mahogany, a library large enough for the reading of its hundred members. In another, comfort settees and lounge chairs spread out amongst vast swirls of smoke filtering out toward the many-opened windows that faced the alleyway, choking those who happened to pass by the pipe room when crowded. Rounding a corner, they came to the northeast edge of the vast building where gentlemen placed bets in the gaming room.
Pipe smoke permeated the space, albeit to a lighter degree than the pipe room. On entering Abera said, “A bit thicker than the stuff you use.”
“Just a tad,” Sho said.
The large room was sparsely populated with mostly well-dressed young and middle-aged men, wearing sharply-trimmed tailoring with laced velvet coats and ruffled undershirts. Some of those who wished to flaunt their wealth and fashion wore elaborate doublets with paisleys and diamond patterns. Scarfs, jabots, and amulets adorned thin and thick necks, while plumed puffed-up berets and feathered roundhats sat straight atop sober gamblers and askew on more indulging sort. A few ancient looking gentlemen intermixed with the younger crowd. One of them stared at his cards and dice as if his cap were weighing him down toward the table. He flipped through his cards, ignoring the newly appeared ladies, intent either on his hand or the strain of staying awake.
They passed two tables of gaming gentlemen, all of who looked on perplexedly. One of them seemed about to protest their arrival to the servant, but withheld his misgivings. The servant lead them toward the back of the room and gestured to a table in the corner by the window, indicating the man they sought, and left in haste. Bastion sat with another gentleman and the two seemed to ignore a half-finished card game, and instead sat in interlocution as they smoked and sipped on wine. A ray of light shined in from outside, giving the vicinity a hazy mid-morning glow.
“Sir Lastingly?” Sho said, approaching.
Bastion looked up, amusement showing on his face. “Yes?” He drew out the word as if it were a mild inconvenience to be disturbed.
Unlike the others in the room, he did not show alarm at visitation from the fairer sex. He wore a velvet navy blue doublet with light blue trim and the same color trousers. His light-brown hair and youthful face betrayed the fact he was past his thirties. Across from him sat a gentleman with greying black hair showing beneath his billowy cap. He wore intricately-patterned silk gloves in assertive display of fashion. The man also held a look of mild interest at both Sho and Abera.
“I am Shoshana Riesley, and this is Abera Moxton. We are royal askers from Em Regis and were wondering if you wouldn’t mind speaking with us on urgent matters?”
“Urgent matters?” Bastion said, concern marking his visage. “My, oh, my. I’m familiar with all that. By all means, please take a seat.” He gestured to the empty chairs at the table.
As Sho and Abera made their way to sit, Bastion introduced his companion. “My friend here is Jaster Montogue.” Jaster bowed slightly, and Sho returned the compliment, realizing she was now in the company of two of the three sorcerers in the city.
“He and I share a profession, and are good friends,” Bastion continued. “And you can speak confidently in his presence, for he is known for discretion.”
“Actually, I’m here to speak to you both,” Sho said, glancing at Abera who took out her quill and parchment.
“Ah, what a coincidence,” Jaster chimed in. “Also remarkable is the fact there are three sorcerers sitting at this very table. Quite the rarity in the Isles, wouldn’t you say?” He looked to his friend across the table, while taking a puff on his pipe.
“Yes,” Bastion said. “I, too, felt your presence when you walked closer to our table. Such gifts we acquire in our line of work. Tell me, Lady Riesley, why does a sorceress choose the role of asker for the Backlands? And what branch are you? It’s either War Council, Commerce Guild, or Defense… ah, yes, I’m guessing Defense Guild.”
“Very good, sir,” Sho said, impressed. “While at the Academy, I always had a knack for solving puzzles and finding things out. Its seems those traits are best suited to inquisitive work. Add sorcery to that, and well, you know, it makes for an easy duology.”
Bastion’s face grew serious,
“I should say so.” He sipped his wine, smacking his lip with a refined click. “Now,” he looked over to Jaster, then back to Sho, “how can we help you?”
“We’re looking into murders of Monterish lords. Five have been killed in the past three months. Well, four killed for sure, the fifth having been missing for two months—though we suspect his body was dumped somewhere hidden. We’ve reason to believe, contrary to our earlier thinking, that a sorcerer is involved.” Here, both Bastion’s and Jaster’s brows rose.
Before they could interject, she continued. “I’m not here to direct any blame or accusations, gentlemen. I’m merely here to gather what, if any, information I can. As you are aware, sorcerers tend to seek each other out from time to time, and I’m asking if any rogue or affiliated practitioners of the art have visited you two in the past months. Is there anything you can tell me? Any odd things you’ve heard from fellow members of the Order on the island?”
Jaster spoke first, while Bastion seemed to be considering the past months’ history. “I thank you, Asker Riesley, for your candor. I will be honest with you, and so will Bastion, who, as you know, is working closely with Lord Staverly in what is a period of re-stabilization, after the divide of rebel and loyal factions within the city.” He paused and sat straighter in his chair. “I need not clarify, but I will. I am a staunch loyalist and have heard of these killings of our poor lords. It saddens me some rebel assassin is perpetrating these heinous acts after the fact that his is a losing cause. I have not made contact with any other spellcasters, beside my friend here and old Thungerd, another of our Order, who has retired from the arts. Of course, I’ve no idea what Penelope is up to these days.”
“I’m sorry,” Sho asked, not familiar with the name. “Who’s that you say?”
“Penelope Kameera,” Jaster said, leaning forward, his chair creaking. One of the four resident sorcerers in the city, well, five if you count your newly-arrived self. She’s a gifted practitioner, but her and I don’t converse. We don’t see eye to eye on many things and, frankly, I do not like to be near her.”