Dark Tide: Book Five of the Phantom Badgers
Page 39
As the jostling lines of ragged down refugees edged towards the distribution point the mercenaries mopped away sweat and watched for signs of trouble, the market-square’s air thick with the odor of seldom-washed bodies and humming with the low roar of a thousand conversations. A tapping finger on his shoulder drew his attention to Bridget, who made a circling gesture with one long finger. Rolf nodded and pointed out two Badgers at random from the front rank before setting out to circle the square while Kroh headed out in the opposite direction with two more mercenaries.
Once away from the formation the half-Orc tucked the riot-staff into the back of his belt and pulled a hammer-handle bound with wire from his boot-top, the short cudgel being more useful in individual combat than the longer staff; his two companions followed suit.
The trio edged and shouldered their way through the press, ignoring the insults and caustic comments that were a fixture these days. The citizens of the city had grown hostile to their guardians as the siege dragged on, accusing them of corruption, cowardice, and incompetence for allowing the Hand to reach the city. Rolf ignored everything and moved carefully through the press, keeping his eyes moving, arms held ready and relaxed, reacting instantly to the touch of any hand upon his person; early in the siege the populace had learned that to place their hands on a soldier was a sure way to get a swift thumping.
A flurry of movement near an alley-mouth caught the Corporal’s attention; using his armored bulk he plowed through the crowd at very near a normal pace, his small detail following in his wake. Just inside the alley he found a young woman on the ground, clutching a bundle with both hands while she kicked madly at her assailants. Three street toughs, young men not quite twenty dressed in fine doublets and expensive hose, were trying to get the bundle away from her, one man hopping about to avoid the flailing feet while the other two systematically pried the woman’s hands from her precious package. The woman was shouting for help and the toughs were likewise yelling for her to hand over the rations she had just received, but the words were lost in the ear-numbing babble of the crowd.
Either the trio hadn’t bothered with a look-out or the sentry had ran at the sign of the brass gorgets the three Badgers wore, for Rolf was able to enter the alley before the thugs took notice of him. The hopping tough turned to confront the new-comer, only to double up in agony as the big Badger slammed the narrow head of his cudgel into the area of the man’s left kidney. Stepping nimbly over the woman Rolf slammed the iron-bound rim of his shield into one attacker’s face as the man rose and followed the strike with a powerful downward blow onto the other thug’s head, the second robber having been slower to react. Booting the first thug in the crotch as he lay in the filthy dirt of the alley clutching his face, the Corporal checked to see that his men had the hopping tough under control (in fact, they were kicking him with considerable enthusiasm), and then reached down to help the young woman to her feet.
“Are you all right?” he bellowed over the background noise.
“Yes,” she barked back, checking the contents of her bundle, which he could see contained a clay water jug, four small loaves of bread, and a block of cheese. “Thanks to you.”
“Glad to help,” he shrugged uncomfortably and motioned for his men to quit playing ‘Stomp the Alley Bandit’ and get down to business, which meant stripping the three toughs of all their valuables.
“They were charging alley-tax,” the woman explained, trying to brush the dirt from her clothing. “Two loaves and a bit of fun, but I’m not payin’.” She glared defiantly at Rolf. “I’m an honest woman, I am; my husband was killed by bandits on the way here, leavin’ me with three kids and nothing else, but I’ll not...” her face creased and she turned away, shoulders shaking.
Rolf batted at the air helplessly, unsure whether to pat her shoulder or not. “It’s all right, it...what?” The senior of his two men tapped him on the shoulder.
“He’s dead,” the Badger indicated the thug Rolf had hit on the head. “And this is what they had.”
The trio’s belongings consisted of three swords, eight knives and daggers, some cheap jewelry, a fair quantity of money, and twenty-eight loaves of bread. “Drag the dead one out to the square and give the other two a solid beating.” Rolf turned back to the woman, who had composed herself, the tears having cut clean streaks across her grimy cheeks. “Here, these’re for your trouble.” He handed the woman a fistful of ducat pieces and a half-dozen loaves of bread. “For your kids.”
The woman didn’t hesitate, tucking the money and bread away in a flash. Standing on tiptoe, she kissed the Corporal’s hairless cheek and scurried away down the alley.
Rubbing his cheek, the Badger strolled bemusedly out into the square, where he waited for his men to tire of kicking the two unconscious thugs. It was still a hot day in a smelly city, but somehow the world seemed a much better place.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The garden was small, just a tiny walled enclosure not much bigger than a inn’s common room, with a tiny fountain and a half-dozen pear trees, but the grass was thick and well-watered (the Hand’s pollution of the river might make the water unsafe to drink, but it didn’t impair its value to plants), and the trees lovingly pruned. The walls were covered with ivy to keep their artificial nature from disturbing the peacefulness of the place, and while the hum of the over-crowded city could not be kept out, it was at least muted a bit. The twenty-fourth of Banteil was another cloudless, hot summer day, but the shade, grass, and fountain’s tinkling water conspired to make the place seem cooler than the day actually was.
Starr, clad in the pretty dress she had purchased in Apartia, was reclining on a blanket laid out in the shade of one of the trees, listening to Halabarian play the harp. The two had taken to meeting regularly in the garden, which was owned by some confederate of the minstrel’s, at least as regularly as their busy schedules would allow. The little Badger still led her section in night-ambushes each evening, and the minstrel-turned-liaison-officer spent innumerable hours closeted with the Duchy’s highest ranking officers. By unspoken agreement neither Threll spoke of their work, keeping the conversations light. Inside the ivy-covered walls they courted in the slow, time-honored manner of their long-lived people, a process that would have caused the most vigilant maiden-aunt chaperon to doze off with boredom. A languid afternoon could be passed with nothing more than a few sentences spoken between songs, poems, and music, with Starr holding her own in all but the latter, having no real training in musical instruments.
Slow and stately their interaction might be, but the little Threll’s companions were not slow to notice that the peaked look to their Corporal’s face had faded away, and that there was a spring in her step and a glow in her eyes that hadn’t been there before Halabarian made his reappearance in the Company’s operations. A few jokes and gibes were voiced, but on the whole the Company was glad to see a spark of happiness in their ranks.
Across the city that afternoon another couple were spending time together in a regular and covert encounter, but the similarities ended there. A week before the walls of the locked chamber in the Badger’s tower had been paneled in white pine planks fitted and sanded so as to make a smooth, seamless wall-covering. Upon this surface was inked the spidery lay-out of the Hand’s intelligence apparatus, neat blocks of names with ruler-straight lines indicating how the path of authority and responsibility ran. Colored symbols indicated the duties, known and guessed, of each cell, while others indicated rank or other factors. Sandpaper was used to remove outdated or erroneous entries, and more accurate or up-to-date data inked in. With good lamps burning the best in oil, the walls fairly glowed, allowing the pair to take in the accumulated data at a single glance.
Elonia leaned against the door, sipping a glass of wine, while Arian sat on the desk’s top. They met regularly, two people with nothing in common save expertise and shared dangers, too different in outlook and values to be close friends but sharing a large measure of professional respect.
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“We’re close,” Elonia broke the silence that had stretched since they had entered the last bits of intelligence. “Maybe even at the heart of it.”
“Maybe,” the monk shrugged tiredly. “There comes a point when you have to quit gathering information and act; the key to success is judging when you’ve reached that point.”
“True. But are we there yet?”
“I think so: I believe that ‘A’s’ primary headquarters is here,” Arian tapped the address inked on the wall. “Which will be the point where he is best defended and least alert. That would be the place to strike, since if we’re correct it will be the site where he can most reliably be placed, and where we can gather information from captured documents should we miss him.”
The Seeress studied the walls. “We’ll need to confirm some things, focus upon this headquarters, and lay detailed plans, and for the sake of secrecy that’ll have to be done by you and I.”
“Unfortunately,” the monk nodded. “Say a week? We had better let Durek know so he can prepare.”
“One week, more or less,” Elonia mused. “Seems a shame, we did all this work and then poof, and a couple hours it all becomes meaningless trivia.”
“Just so long as a group of Hand agents become carrion at the same time,” Arian observed, drawing a pen and paper to him. “Now, how shall we work the surveillance of the headquarters?”
The Regent was thumbing through a portfolio when Lady Eithne came into his office, preceded and followed by pairs of Lifeguards. After a careful examination of the room the four warriors stepped back into the outer office, leaving the black-clad girl behind.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” Lord Regent Chaton tossed the portfolio onto the cluttered surface of his desk. “Pardon me if I don’t rise, but I’m too tired for formalities.”
“What is going on, Uncle Bernian?” the young woman demanded.
“We’re under siege and living in desperate times,” the stocky man observed mildly. “Can you be more specific?”
“A Lord Protector dies under suspicious circumstances and twenty wealthy Lifeguards leave the city on a ship bound for Arturia. Is that sufficiently specific?”
Chaton sighed and rubbed his face, the heavy seal ring on his finger catching the lamp-light. “There is a reason they use the term ‘ship of state’ when they speak of nations,” he observed. “And like a captain of a ship the ruler of a nation has to place the safety of the vessel as a whole above any individual passenger or item of cargo. I ordered men to do what had to be done, and they carried out their orders. Some acted out of loyalty to the state, and some had to be paid. I’m not proud of what has been done in my name, but when they appointed me Regent I swore an oath to hold the Duchy intact until the rightful heir assumed her place on the Ducal throne.”
“To include assassination?”
“To include matricide, patricide, sodomy, arson, extortion, and any other act that becomes necessary.” Chaton fixed her with world-weary eyes. “In a few weeks, less than two months in fact, a High Priest will lay the tiara upon your delicate brow and I will be plain old Bernian Chaton again, Lord Chancellor if you wish, or a common citizen if you do not. Then you will have to make the decisions and steer your ship of state through uncharted and very hostile waters, and perhaps you’ll do a better job than I. But what you should remember when you are at the helm is that Chaton kept the hull intact until you assumed the command.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Nor do I, but sometimes things have to be done. There are tens of thousands within our walls, the bulk of your populace. Should this city fall few would live long and none would ever be free again. What was done, was done for a reason, and it worked. Your marriage will likely be arranged, there is no real choice in the matter, but it will be decided by yourself, not forced upon the state by ultimatum. Nor will I, while Regent, allow any faction within this city work against the greater good. If assassination is the only method to accomplish this, than all I can say in my defense is that it was not I who forced the Regent into a corner, nor that the victims were not warned.”
The girl’s chin rose. “There will be no more such actions.”
“While I am Regent, I rule,” Chaton met her gaze squarely. “When you assume your lawful inheritance on your seventeenth birthday you shall rule, and may legally send me to the block for what I have done and may yet do, but until that day I shall serve the Duchy as best I can using whatever tools I have at my disposal.”
The girl scowled, but nodded. “You are right, you rule. For now. But starting now I am your shadow; I want to know everything that you do, everything that you learn.”
“An excellent idea,” the Regent nodded. “All the better to prepare yourself for the happy day when you assume the throne.”
“Good.” She tried to maintain the imperious look, but it quickly faded. “And quit saying that my coronation will be a happy day, Uncle. I find no joy in it.”
“I was referring to myself,” the Regent smiled sadly. “That’s the day I stop being the Regent.”
“All right, that’s enough for a while, maybe the day,” Jothan gasped, sweat streaming down his face. Duna grunted her agreement and staggered over to the table where a jug of ale was cooling within a wrapping of wet cloth. The two had begun meeting every couple days to spar with practice swords in the large ground-level room that made up the base of the tower, beginning in the late afternoon after Duna had given up on sleep in the airless tower, and continuing for several hours as the two worked with sword and shield, daggers, and bare-handed fighting, finishing up with the throwing axe.
The two were gulping ale and telling each other how hot it was when the door to the outside opened, causing Jothan to hastily duck behind a rack of practice swords and axes; the interpreter might be a Phantom Badger, but his existence was still a closely guarded secret. A pale Janna entered, followed closely by a grim-faced Arian.
“Janna!” Duna shouted, clapping her hands and sending her mug flying. “It’s great to see you! How are you?”
“Mended,” the Serjeant hugged the dark scout, then stepped away, flexing her left arm. “I’m still a bit stiff and weak, but a week or so of sword drill will put that to rights.”
“It’s great that you’re back, things just haven't been the same while you were gone,” Duna’s smile threatened to reach her ears as she called Jothan over and introduced him.
“It’s good to see you, Duna, but I’ve got to report to Durek,” Janna slapped the smaller woman on the shoulder. “We’ll catch up later.”
“There’s a solemn lass,” Jothan observed after the two Serjeants went upstairs.
“She’s always been iron-faced, although part of that is the scar, she can’t move her face normally. The axe that wounded her had been Void-blessed in some fashion that prevented the use of the Healing Arts. It nearly killed her, I’m told.”
“Arian looked like he was on his way to a funeral, rather than a man who’s getting his bed-mate back,” the interpreter pointed out. “Is something up?”
“That I don’t know,” Duna frowned thoughtfully. “You’re right, Arian was definitely grim. Perhaps something has come up.”
“Something in the siege, or in the Company?”
“The Company,” Duna said with certainty. “Janna likes to fight; nothing in the campaign could set her face like that, save a surrender.”
“Both of you quitting?” Durek roared. “My two best Serjeants pulling out like home-sick villagers on their first campaign? This is insane.”
“I’m not going back to Oramere in the middle of a campaign,” Janna snapped.
“You nearly died,” The Captain shook his head. “Again. The Healers say that they have seen few get so close to death and still return. You’ve lost at least twenty pounds, you look like you are half-dead, and the fight coming is going to be the worst we have seen in a long time. Don’t try to tell me you’ll sit it out.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“I am fully healed.”
“Yes, you are. Not fully recovered, though. Other Badgers are securing our home-are they shirking? We have shed a lot of blood defending that place-I’m not sending you to sip tea and bake crumpets.”
“You’ll need me here.”
“I need ten of you here, but such is life.” Seeing the look in her eyes, the Captain changed tack. “All right, what about two month’s detached duty here in the city?
“Doing what?”
“Bodyguard to the future Duchess. She has asked for you, and since it already nearly killed you, you can’t claim its not worth doing.”
Arian laid a hand on her arm, and Janna closed her mouth without replying. She looked at the monk for a long moment, then nodded grimly.
Durek suspended Company operations on the thirty-second of the month to celebrate Janna’s return. That evening Henri was able to prove his competence as quartermaster by serving out a credible banquet of food and drink, including an entire roast pig. Janna was awarded the Ruby Claw for her rescue of the child in the Goblin base raid, and again for her defense of Lady Eithne, her third and fourth such awards; Duna received the same for her rescue of the captives in the Goblin base raid. Both Henri and Axel received Opal Claws, Henri for his leadership in the Great Fallow and Axel for his during the command of the fodder wagons. Henri and Bulldog each received Honor Roll entries for their actions in the Amphitheater fight.