Vesteal 01 – 01 – Ghost in the Yew

by Blake Hausladen

  The bowyer went a bit whiter but slowly nodded. “Thank you, yes. There is something between the practicing and the doing we are not very good at yet.”

  “Do not trouble yourself about it,” I said and turned my horse south. “Oh, and so you know, I will be taking my meals in the castle from now on. Please let Fana know I have chosen her to replace me as the manor’s representative at the town meetings.”

  He looked up from the wash of red as the men dunked the saddle into the river. “Oh. Oh, yes. That would be fine.”

  Feeling the victory, I almost told him I had stopped taking the mangor root and that he should plan to hide me away when I was with child but decided Barok had best be the first to hear it.

  51

  Colonel Leger Mertone

  The Afternoon of the 7th

  Our second destination in Bessradi was an avenue of restaurants between the river wharfs and the markets of the Grand Mhedhil. I stopped at each and gave the owner a jar of apples but learned that a product that came from Prince Barok’s lands was of little interest. Their reaction was no surprise, nor their wild tales of his banishment. I invented my own version of events from select facts and retold it many times. The taste of the apples did not hurt my credibility.

  We began to collect dark looks, though, so we moved on to a different row of eateries—one I knew better anyway.

  It was good to see the Creedal again—the wide, welcoming building centermost along the longest and straightest avenue in Bessradi. North of it and up into the slow arc of the east branch of the river was the city’s heart: the palace, chancellery, estates, and barracks. Around it was the rest—a hundred neighborhoods as varied as the color of Yentif garbage.

  The Creedal’s moniker, two large wooden hands pressed together in prayer, hung from a heavy black chain by its thumbs. I had made the spot my haunt because of it—the name of the place as brazen as the politician who owned it. The Grand Renewal, for all its supposed bluster in the provinces, cared very little for goings on at the capital.

  Gern found a spot across the street to park the wagon, and I made my way across with a jar under one arm.

  The tavern would never buy many apples, but Haton knew everyone at the capital who might—it was the argument I’d given Gern anyway. My real reason was personal, but when I stood before the entrance, I was no longer sure if I was ready.

  Gern eyed me from the wagon, so I stepped inside, hoping that no one would hand me a glass of wine.

  I made it two steps into the place before I saw her. She stood before me, a host instead of a barmaid.

  “Welcome. A table for the evening meal or just a seat at the bar?”

  “Hello, Darmia.”

  She cocked her head first one way and then the other. Her brightest smile lit the room and she looked close to tears. “Leger? Leger. What happened to you?” Her recognition had been my greatest hope, but her sudden joy simply overwhelmed me. My knees almost gave way.

  She did her best to compose herself and looked down at the jar. “What are you selling?”

  I laughed and hurriedly slapped away a tear of my own. “No. I am an alsman now. I just wanted to stop in while I was at the capital and leave a gift for you and Haton. Is he around?”

  “An alsman. That’s marvelous. When did that happen?”

  Her bright smile made me weak. I would have asked for a seat at the bar but for fear of it. The stool that had been mine was occupied. I felt a bit of jealous anger.

  “I was appointed to the position right about the time I disappeared.”

  “Let me take that,” she said and snatched the jar. “Haton is at a meeting. He is chairman of the guildmaster’s association now. Come, have a seat.”

  Before I could protest, she had a hold of my hand and towed me in toward the solid cedar bar. The touch of her hand and the wiggle of her hips had me entranced. She sat us down on a pair of stools and motioned over the woman at the other end of the bar.

  “Sis, look who finally turned up.”

  “Who?” came the sideways reply of the busy bartender before she moved to join us.

  “Evela, this is Alsman Leger Mertone. Leger, this is my sister Evela.”

  Evela looked much like her sister, though not quite as friendly or tall, her hair a bit curled and brown instead of cropped and red. She took hold of an empty glass and a bottle of wine.

  “I was convinced she had made you up,” she said as she moved to pour. I tried to say I did not want the wine. The words would not come out.

  “Oh, sis, none of that for Leger. He’s an alsman now.”

  “I thought that’s what I heard you say. No wonder you vanished. Which prince do you serve?”

  I stared at the empty glass and almost snatched the bottle from her hand.

  “Come on.” Darmia swatted my arm. “Tell us.”

  Her words managed to pull my eyes away, and I said, “Barok.”

  “Barok?” Darmia said with a bit of revulsion. “The murderer?”

  “How much has the rumor grown?” I asked with a chuckle, glad I’d had opportunities to practice my candor for the topic.

  “Rumor?” Evela questioned as she grabbed from behind the bar a thin metal stick necessary to open the ceramic jar. She set it into the slot along the top and, like someone who had done it a million times, slapped the tool and popped off the hot-sealed lid. Darmia got a look inside, smiled, and retrieved a pair of spoons.

  “You do not think it’s true do you? What are they saying now? How many people was he supposed to have killed?”

  “Everyone knows. Nineteen.”

  I laughed. “When I first heard the rumor, it was five.”

  “He didn’t do it? How do you know?”

  “Well, for starters, the first woman he was supposed to have killed, I see every day.”

  “Then what did happen?”

  “The day before Barok left to become Arilas of Enhedu, one of his grooms tried to take advantage of Arilas Bendent’s daughter. Barok and one of his guardsmen tried to stop the man, but in the struggle that followed, the groom, the guard, and the most unfortunate girl were killed. To satisfy the arilas, Vall banished Barok, but the prince killed no one.”

  “I had no idea,” Darmia said. “The story of his rampage through the palace has been talked about since last fall. I suppose no one could be that good with a sword.”

  “Oh that part is true, which is probably how the rumor got started.”

  “He is no match for you, though, is he?” Darmia smirked.

  “I wish I could brag otherwise, but it would not even be a contest. I would be dead before it began.”

  “Not bad,” Evela said. My timing had gotten better—the reaction was always the same, and it cheered me. Our apples would have value if the buyer did not know who was selling.

  Darmia enjoyed another spoonful and cocked her head at me again. It was so good to see her do that. “You are selling apples, aren’t you, Alsman Leger?”

  “Not today, but come this fall we hope to be in the markets.”

  “Really?” Darmia said. “Where did you say these came from again?”

  “Enhedu.”

  “Is that the pointy little rock up on the north coast?” Darmia asked.

  “It is a little more than a rock and, actually, quite a beautiful place. You should come and visit me sometime.”

  I could not believe I had said it. My heart almost stopped. I looked into her eyes. She blushed, but I could not understand why. I had never seen her do that before.

  “Could I? I would love to, Leger.”

  A group of men entered the tavern, and Darmia was forced to excuse herself to seat them. My heart hammered away inside my chest. Evela poured glasses of wine that a serving girl snatched on her way toward the new patrons—regulars apparently, though I did not know them.

  I watched the glasses go while Evela said, “Becoming an alsman must have been a big change for you.”

  Still distracted by the luscious red, I only manage
d a small nod.

  “You broke her heart, you know.”

  I was not sure I had heard her right. “Pardon?”

  “She thought you’d drunk yourself to death, the way you disappeared. None of the other guardsmen would say what had happened to you, nor would your boorish captain. Frankly, I was glad you were gone when I got here. She waited two years for you to get up the courage, but all you did was drink and then vanish. She has been pining after you ever since.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “Apparently. Alsmanship hard work then?”

  “Every day.”

  “I did not know that they couldn’t drink,” she said with a healthy layer of sarcasm. I had no response. She added smartly, “How long has it been?”

  “Since I arrived at Enhedu.”

  “Truth?”

  “Truth.”

  “Then maybe she and I will make that visit, alsman. Perhaps after the Exaltier’s birthday, when business is slow. If you can make it until then, I might even change my mind about you.”

  I felt her hate then, like Chaukai arrows aimed at a Hemari breast. All the words I had prepared for Darmia were useless.

  “You’ll see me before then,” was all I could manage.

  “How so?”

  “Like I said, apples.”

  “An alsman delivering apples?”

  “They’re very good apples.”

  She scoffed, and Darmia returned, only to have several more people enter.

  “Stay. Eat,” Darmia insisted.

  “It pains me to say it, but I’m sorry, I cannot.”

  Evela added, “You’ll see him this fall.”

  “That would be wonderful. We could make the trip back with you if it’s late enough in the season—if your invitation was sincere.”

  “I’d like nothing more.”

  Darmia beamed at me again, and when I stood, she gave me such a hug and kiss that I swooned. She turned to welcome the new patrons. I plunked myself back down on the stool, grinning like an idiot. Evela’s face was dark. I abandoned my smile.

  “Have you ever met a drunk who stopped drinking?” I managed to ask.

  “Not yet.”

  I extended my hand toward her. “Well you have now.”

  She shook it after a moment. “We’ll see.”

  I waved goodbye to Darmia and made my way back toward Gern and the wagon. I tried to count the number of days between then and the apple harvest. Ninety days until the second half of Barok’s stipend arrived, another thirty until the harvest, give or take.

  Gern moved around to the back of the wagon and put his hand on my shoulder. “The men gathered behind us have been eyeing me for some time.”

  I scratched my armpit. “How many?”

  “An even dozen. They were four for a while and used to be on the other side of the street. They are walking up on us now.”

  I was angry I had not spotted them. I took a deep breath and heard the men move up on us. Gern was ready—his long spear already in hand. I adjusted my sword, and we turned.

  The group was not what I expected. They were large men, perhaps laborers. One was taller than the rest and solid. I would have bet large sums the men were soldiers out of uniform. They bore no mark or emblem that would tell me who had sent them. Each wore a simple sword or trudgeon. The streets were crowded, which made it hard for us to ride away and easy for them to disappear. The sun was bright, and the smell of the gutter rose from the grate between us. Gern was on my right.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” I greeted them and said to their leader, “Why are you out of uniform?”

  That made him pause. “How do you know us?” the leader demanded.

  “You got the wrong mark this time. We’re getting paid out of the same purse you are.”

  “Don’t try running any games on me. You’re who we’re after.”

  I’d had enough of Bessradi.

  “You’ll be sucking each other’s cocks in a second if you don’t push off.”

  The man went redder than I had hoped and fumbled for his sword. His thugs were not prepared for the quick action and none had their feet set well. Mine were and my sword was up and deep into his chest before he had found a good grip on his blade. Gern’s long spear came down and pierced another man’s breast as I yanked my sword free.

  “Pivot right,” I ordered Gern as I shoved his spear. The dying man on the other end toppled hard into another, and the pair went down at the feet of half the group.

  People in the street began to scream and run, but the sound blurred in my head. My muscles were well ahead of my thoughts.

  Gern yanked his spear free, and we circled around the fallen to attack the disorganized men on the right side of the melee. I struck one blade to the ground, parried a second, and thrust into the disarmed man’s chest. The arched strike of Gern’s spear impaled the man I had parried. The spear was set at a very high angle, Gern’s hands well above his head. I was proud of him then when he brought his forward arm down sharply and levered the screaming man off his feet and right.

  The eight that remained cursed and jostled but rose and spread themselves out. They pressed us toward the entrance to the Creedal. I had hoped they would quit and run. They had been paid well, or more likely, were dreaming of how much they might have if they got my alsman’s case out of the wagon’s strongbox. Too late to tell them it was empty.

  “What goes on here?” I heard someone yell. I glanced once and saw four men push their way through the fleeing crowd. It was the barkeep himself.

  “Haton, it is Leger.”

  I did not have a chance to see if they moved to help us. Several attacked, and I parried madly. One man rushed after his thrust, his shoulder aimed at my hips. The tackle would have been my death if not for our constant move to the right. The man crashed to the ground just in front of the Creedal’s heavy doors.

  “Put up your swords,” I heard Haton’s deep voice boom, and our attackers slowed when he and his fellows stepped up on our right. The barkeep and his friends had only the knives from their belts but our two had become six.

  “Who dares bloody the street in front of my place,” he bellowed.

  One of the thugs hacked up something from his throat and spit it at Haton. The barkeep’s famous demeanor disintegrated, and he let fly a curse and charged the man. I brought my sword back and charged as well. Gern’s spearhead rushed straight into the throat of the man at the center. Haton and his fellows collided with the trio of men to his right. The odds were much worse on my side of our hasty line. Four met my charge, including the enraged brute that had missed me with his tackle. I brought my sword around onto a pair of theirs and showed the thickest of them what a tackle was supposed to look like. His body left the ground when my shoulder met the middle of his chest, and I ploughed him into the road. His head smacked the stone, and he went limp. I rolled off and brought my blade around as I spun up onto one knee. The three I had rushed past had turned. One let out a sharp cry as they rushed me, and the screamer collided with the second. The sword of the third stabbed straight at my face, and I was forced to bring mine up and pull my head around its hilt to avoid the solid thrust. The man did not overextend but, instead, continued his feet forward and thrust again, this time low beneath my out-of-place guard.

  Memories of the taste of blood and steel were in my mouth as I pitched my body out of the way, shoulder blades first into the road. My left shoulder and then chest pressed against the stone as I continued to roll. My sword was on the wrong side of my body. I could hear the man inhale as he brought back his blade. He was going to kill me.

  I heard my heart beat.

  Dirt tumbled away from my heavy breath. The storm of debris included a small breadcrumb and one tiny green bead. All of the stones in the road were about the same shape and made of the same tan rock. I counted seven that were cracked, and all were dotted with blood. I could smell the dung of horses and the stink from the gutter. My head came around, and I saw the sword that woul
d kill me. It was a good stroke. The man’s wrist and elbow were in good form as his steel started toward my face.

  I heard my heart beat.

  His shoulders and hips turned nicely, and I was glad for the man’s skill. My death would be quick. He had a knowing smile upon his face. The mole above his lip sprouted three black hairs. Then I saw a glint on his shoulder and then a shaft of wood. The man’s body moved forward more than it should have, and his blade struck the stone before my nose. The metal clank was a clap of thunder, and bits of stone struck my face.

  I heard my heart beat.

  His body tumbled to the ground, and the man screamed once before Gern’s quick spear stabbed him a second time.

  I scrambled up from the bloody street. Gern’s expression was calm, his nostrils wide. The wild look in his eyes I had seen a thousand times before. He was in the slow place I had just returned from.

  He swung his spear around, and I turned to follow his action.

  The last of our assailants was on the far side of the street. He had taken hold of Haton and had the edge of his sword pressed against his throat. Gern’s ferocious spear had somehow claimed the rest. Haton’s companions and the man yelled at each other.

  Gern leveled his weapon straight at the last man, took three running steps, and savagely stabbed his spear straight into his right eye—just as he had done a thousand times at camp. The dead man’s sword fell, and his body twitched and tumbled backward. Gern yanked his weapon free as the dead weight fell.

  The yelling stopped, and another breath moved into my lungs. I spun around. All that was left were the six of us. The people who fled in both directions were jammed solid at the next intersections unable to make good their escape. Their shouts and cries for the guard were loud. One of Haton’s fellows was cut but already had a cloth pressed against his bleeding forearm.

  Haton stepped toward Gern and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “You saved me. Tell me your name.”

  I stepped in and put my hand on his other shoulder. His eyes were still wild, and he stared at the last man he had put down. Blood fell in heavy drops from the tip of his spear.