by J. L. Doty
JACK SAT IN the ugly little tavern and nursed his beer unhappily. The place was an armpit: mud floor, crude tables, low ceiling. Sooty smoke from a low fire in the hearth cast a gray haze through dim light shed by sputtering, greasy tapers. The beer was black, bitter, filled with grit and bits of sour grain. The room stank, the tapers stank, and the patrons stank even more. This whole mission stinks, Jack thought.
A young man, dressed better than the locals, sat near the hearth plucking at a small lute and singing a song or two. He wasn’t bad, though why he had picked an armpit like this to play for food and lodging was anyone’s guess.
Jack had learned long ago that a good place to start was the local tavern in a small town or village. Drift into town, buy a couple beers, spend no more than one night then move on. In a pre-industrial, pre-literacy environment, the local tavern was often the gathering place where word-of-mouth spread the latest news. It would not draw suspicion for a traveler to inquire about the road ahead, and that could lead to further conversation and further information.
And no one really cared if a traveler from a distant place exhibited a bit of an accent. It bothered Jack, and the entire crew of SSS-047, that the population hadn’t expanded to cover the entire continent. There should be other large cities with other small villages surrounding them.
He had started out six days ago about two hundred kilometers west of Parthan, the main city. He had chosen a fairly remote locale, bought a horse from a local farmer, then bargained to spend the night in his barn as part of the deal. He had been working his way slowly toward Parthan ever since. With the assistance of his implants, and several days on the road to practice, his command of the language, idioms and customs had reached a point where he could pass freely among the locals.
The economy was primarily medieval agrarian, with hints of a religious mythos, unlanded serfs toiling in the fields, a moderate middle class of craftspeople and merchants, and a structured nobility headed by an absolute monarch: King Deland. He’d encountered a bit of odd and fantastic folklore which included the divine right of kings, and belief that the nobility were possessed of unusual powers, but nothing that didn’t fit with typical medieval superstition. Everyone believed that Deland had been king for centuries, and always would be. There were no references to previous kings, but it was probably the custom among the nobility that a new king always took the name Deland, which would help them foster the myth that he was immortal. However, there were no stories of power struggles between the local nobility, no assassinations among the aristocracy, no struggles to overthrow the king, no history of wars. It appeared that the Parthan nobility was incredibly stable, quite passive, and obedient to their king. Something didn’t add up.
Jack stood and crossed the room to the low bar along one wall. The innkeeper standing behind it glanced his way as he approached. Jack dropped a crude, copper coin on the bar to pay for his beer. “How is the road east?” he asked.
Jack had chosen his appearance carefully. The quality of his clothing put him well above the level of the peasantry, somewhere in the mid to lower echelons of the middle class, clearly neither poor nor wealthy, and not an obvious target for bandits. The sword he carried and the dagger at his side were unadorned but obviously functional, and better than that of a common soldier. He appeared to be a professional soldier who made a reasonably good living at it. Again, not a good target for bandits.
“Had some bandit trouble,” the innkeeper said. He blew his nose into a bar towel, then used it to wipe the bar as he appraised Jack carefully. “Probably not trouble for the likes of you. And Duke Roebar’s been making it tough on ’em anyway. Keep going east and you’ll run into his castle in a couple of days.”
The young entertainer leaned on the bar next to Jack. “Two days ride on a good horse, four if you’re walking.”
Jack looked the fellow over carefully: handsome, dressed in decent leather, clearly not a local. “And you are?” Jack asked.
The young man stepped back from the bar and bowed dramatically. “Tomasa, a bard, at your service.” He straightened and smiled. “I too am traveling east, stranger. Perhaps we can travel together, safety in numbers, that sort of thing.”
That was exactly what Jack had been hoping for. “How do I know you’re not a bandit yourself?”
The innkeeper grumbled. “He ain’t no bandit. Ain’t much of a bard neither.”
Jack really didn’t have anything to worry about. With the modern weapons hidden in his clothing he could protect himself against an army of medieval bandits. And this was exactly what he needed; with a friend and traveling companion he could learn more in a few weeks than he could in months questing about on his own. And entertainers were almost always welcome.
Jack nodded and said, “Well, Tomasa, I’m Jakaboe.”
He had decided to coopt the name of the farmer from whom he’d purchased the horse. It could be dangerous to simply make up a name. If it didn’t sound right to the local ear, it might produce a tiny spark of suspicion that could eventually grow to dangerous proportions.
He slapped Tomasa on the back. “Let’s be on our way, young bard.”
••••
Tomasa’s possessions appeared to be limited to a small backpack and the lute in a hard wooden case. Since he didn’t have a horse, Jack kept his at an easy pace that allowed the young bard to walk comfortably beside him. It was a sunny, spring day, with just a slight chill in the air to remind them winter had only recently departed. “What do you do besides sing?” Jack asked.
Tomasa skipped ahead a few paces, then turned and walked backward to face Jack. “I recite poetry, relate stories of love or tragedy, or both. I also bring news of portentous events from one village to the next.”
“Sing me a song, if you will.”
Tomasa laughed, turned forward, stayed ahead of Jack and called over his shoulder. “I’ve a right bawdy one, perfect for two traveling men.” He hummed a few notes, then sang a tale of three couples that involved disguises, unwitting incest, and an abundance of laughable, sexual misconduct. He had a nice baritone.
When Tomasa finished the song he explained enthusiastically, “I hope to find patronage with Duke Roebar. Who knows? Someday I might catch the ear of the king and be granted favour.”
Jack had heard the term favour several times now. It seemed to be some special status granted to favored nobles and bestowed only by the king.
Tomasa asked, “And from where do you hale, soldier?”
Jack had prepared his story carefully. “I grew up in the Westerlands, though my father was from somewhere near Parthan. Learned to soldier, made a decent living as a pack-train guard working for local traders. Decided it was time to see where my family came from.”
The Westerlands were a wilderness region five hundred kilometers west with none of the structured nobility that ruled closer to Parthan. Most assumed it was populated by barbarians of some sort, and coming from there would allow Jack to be ignorant of many local customs, and to have a bit of a strange accent.
“So you’re going to Parthan?”
Jack shrugged. “Probably. Eventually. I’ll make a bargain with you, bard. Keep me entertained while we travel, and I’ll buy you a horse in the next village.”
A bawdy tale such as the one Tomasa had just sung, which employed incest as a device for derisive humor, told Jack that incest was not accepted, possibly not tolerated. He could learn much from songs and stories.
“A bargain well struck,” Tomasa said. “But a bit overly generous, I would say.” His voice held a note of suspicion.
Jack shook his head. “You don’t get to keep the horse. When we part ways, I’ll sell it and recover my money. And we’ll get there a lot faster.”
“Fair enough,” the young bard said.
The tavern in the next village was better than the last: better food, better beer, same lice, same stink. Jack inquired of the innkeeper where he might buy a horse, and the fellow gave him directions to a farm near the villag
e. A couple of rough looking fellows seated at a nearby table seemed to pay a little too much attention to the innkeeper’s instructions.
Tomasa played and sang for their food and two places to sleep on the floor by the hearth. The two rough looking fellows hunched over their beers and muttered quiet whispers between them. They repeatedly stole glances at Jack, tried not to be obvious about it but failed sadly. As Jack and Tomasa wrapped themselves in their blankets and settled down for the night, the two men departed.
Jack switched on his relay, contacted SSS-047 and sub-vocalized into his implants, “I think I’m going to have some trouble on the road tomorrow. When we leave this tavern, hold a close orbit overhead and make sure I don’t get any surprises.”
“Will do, Jack.”
The next morning Jack and Tomasa headed for the farmer the innkeeper had recommended. Jack kept his relay on so he could communicate with SSS-047, and they’d gone about a kilometer when his implants came to life.
“Jack, we’ve picked up five thermal signatures about two hundred meters ahead of you. Just past the sharp turn to the left ahead of you they’re waiting off the side of the road, three on the left, two on the right.”
Jack sub-vocalized, “Got it. Thanks.”
“What?” Tomasa asked.
“Just talking to myself.”
Jack waited until they were about fifty meters short of the turn in the road, then abruptly dismounted in front of Tomasa. The young man opened his mouth to speak, but Jack lifted a finger to his lips, leaned close and whispered, “I think we’ve got trouble ahead. The fellows from the tavern last night, I think they’d like to own my horse and the money I was going to use to buy yours.”
Tomasa’s eyes widened.
“Take my horse,” Jack said. “Keep him quiet and wait by the side of the road here.”
Tomasa nodded.
Jack drew his sword, then slipped into the forest. Once out of sight of Tomasa he activated the stealth filaments woven into his clothing, and the visual distortion field in his collar. He wasn’t exactly invisible, but with the bright sun overhead casting a kaleidoscope of shadows and colors through the forest, he might as well have been. The stealth filaments also provided acoustic damping. He couldn’t carelessly trudge through the undergrowth, but as long as he moved with caution, the filaments all but eliminated what little sound he did make. With prompting from SSS-047 it was a trivial exercise to sneak up on the three thugs hidden in the undergrowth on the left side of the road. Two sat on the ground tossing dice, while one knelt behind a tall bush watching the road.
“Where is they?” one of the three snarled in a half whisper. “Thought you said they’d be coming this way.”
“They will,” one of his companions said. “They will. We heard ’em last night, plain and simple.”
Jack crept up behind the three as they argued. At moments like this he always felt a twinge of guilt. A piece of him wanted to call out, give them some warning and make a fair fight of it. But then three against one wouldn’t be a fair fight, so he’d have to revert to some of the more powerful weapons he carried, which also wouldn’t be a fair fight. In any case, his mission required him to survive so he could report back to his superiors, and the deaths of a few bandits were not considered an intervention.
Jack chose the one not participating in the argument, one of the two seated on the ground. He thrust his sword into the man’s back and through his heart. The fellow emitted a soft grunt and looked down at his chest as Jack withdrew his sword.
Jack stepped out of the cover of the undergrowth and moved quickly. The two arguing didn’t realize anything was wrong until Jack’s sword sprouted from the chest of one. The other’s eyes widened at the foot of steel protruding from his companion. He didn’t have time to react before Jack withdrew his sword from the one and thrust it through the eye of the other.
Jack examined the three bodies carefully: no distance weapons like bows and arrows, just crude, short swords and knives. Jack picked up two short swords, started clanging them together and shouting, creating a racket like that of a pitched battle. He continued that for about ten seconds, then let silence fall. Nothing happened for several seconds, then the two bandits on the other side of the road emerged slowly from the underbrush to investigate. Jack switched off the stealth filaments in his clothing and stepped out onto the road to face them, his bloody sword visible to both.
“So,” Jack said. “You think to rob an honest man of his possessions?” He crouched into a fighting stance. “Come. Join your dead companions.”
The two looked at him for a moment, then turned and ran.
Jack returned to the three dead men, put a few slashes in their arms and legs. If someone chose to investigate it needed to look like a fight had actually taken place.
When Jack returned down the road to Tomasa, the young man asked with amazement, “How did you know they were there?”
Jack shrugged, explained it away with, “I’ve been a hunter and tracker all my life. When there’s a predator in the brush the forest takes on a different sound.”
••••
Once Tomasa had a horse they made better time and two days later approached Duke Roebar’s castle, though castle wasn’t the right word for it. The structure was more like that of an elegant manor house, with open grounds and other buildings enclosed by a low wall a little taller than a man seated on a horse. Outside the wall were orchards and fields. It was defensible against small groups of bandits and thieves, but certainly not against a besieging army. It confirmed what they had observed from orbit and what Jack had learned recently. This King Deland’s dukes were unusually, conspicuously loyal and obedient.
Two guards stood at the main gate, alert but not wary. Jack and Tomasa didn’t look like trouble, an appearance Jack had long ago learned to adopt, and one that came natural to Tomasa. “Identify yourself and state your business,” the older of the two guards demanded casually.
Tomasa dismounted, faced them and bowed with a flourish. “I am Tomasa, a wandering bard.” He indicated Jack with an expansive wave of his hand. “And this is Jakaboe, my traveling companion, and a soldier recently come from the Westerlands. I hope to audition before His Grace, perhaps gain his favor. And Jakaboe intends to continue on to Parthan.”
The old guard nodded. “His Grace does like to audition bards.” He looked to Jack. “And you, His Grace might like to have news of the Westerlands.”
Jack had spent ten days scouting the Westerlands in stealth armor so he wouldn’t be ignorant of his alleged home. “I’ll be happy to assist His Grace in any way he wishes.”
“Good,” the guard said. “I’ll pass the word on, and until you’re called you can camp in the apple groves, but no closer than a hundred paces from the wall, and no stealing any apples.”
5
Nothing Adds Up
THE NEXT MORNING the duke and his lady summoned Tomasa to demonstrate his skills. Jack waited in their small camp, seated at their campfire. When Tomasa finally emerged from the main gate of the castle, he covered the intervening distance in a rush. “Good news, Jack,” Tomasa said excitedly. “Lady Gethany thoroughly enjoyed my audition and has invited me to join their retinue when she and Duke Roebar go to Parthan for the king’s favour.”
“Excellent!” Jack said. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“Yes, yes. And you’re to report to Captain Sellis. He’ll be questioning you about the Westerlands. And about the bandits.”
Jack left Tomasa at their camp, seated by the fire strumming on his lute and attempting to compose a special song for Lady Gethany. The young man had trouble containing his excitement.
Sellis kept him waiting for a bit, though not long. He was a man of average height, with the extra girth of middle age settling about his waist. They met in his office and he was somewhat abrupt, but polite and businesslike. His questions centered on whether there were any local warlords in the Westerlands beginning to accumulate large forces. And he qu
estioned Jack on the bandits he’d killed, wanted descriptions of the two who got away. Jack was able to reassure him on the matter of the Westerlands, gave him a brief description of a fictitious fight with the three bandits, and did his best to describe the other two. It was near the conclusion of their questioning that Roebar showed up, though not to see Jack.
“Captain,” Roebar said as he walked into the room unannounced.
“Your Grace,” Sellis said, standing.
Jack followed suit and Roebar glanced at him briefly, then ignored him. Roebar appeared trim, healthy, in his early fifties, clearly a man past his prime but still vigorous, which was unusual for a man of his age in a medieval culture. He related some instructions about their upcoming trip to Parthan, and as he did so a much older man, bent with age, stepped into the room.
The old fellow greeted Roebar with, “Grandfather.”
Roebar smiled. “Grandson, how are you today?”
The grandson wiped his rheumy eyes. “Some days age wears heavily on me, grandfather.”
Roebar the grandfather was clearly his grandson’s junior by a couple of decades. Jack worked hard to not show any surprise.
As Roebar turned to leave he hesitated, turned back and looked Jack over appraisingly. To Sellis he said, “Is this the man that rids my roads of brigands?”
Sellis said, “He is, Your Grace.”
He looked at Jack a bit skeptically. “Three against one?”
Jack shrugged. “I had the element of surprise, Your Grace. And they were not trained fighting men, merely thugs with crude weapons.”
Roebar nodded and considered Jack further. “Nevertheless, you have my thanks.”
As he left the room he said to Sellis, “Pay him a small bounty. And give him a job if he wants one.”
Jack accepted a job as a guard under Sellis’s command for the trip to Parthan. As part of a large party he wouldn’t have to kill any more bandits.
When he returned to their camp he asked Tomasa about the discrepancy between the apparent ages of Roebar and his grandson. The bard looked at him as one does when a child asks a stupid question. “Obviously, the duke and his lady have the king’s favour, and his grandson does not.”