by SL Figuhr
The former guide trudged in a line of other men in the pre-dawn darkness. He had managed some sleep, and now, his new life would begin. The townsperson in charge led his group past what had been the main street. It had sustained the heaviest damage from the fire; not a single building remained, only ashes and cracked stone or concrete.
Wooden shovels, rakes, hoes and other tools were passed out from the back of a wagon. Each small knot of people spread out to begin work. Wood too charred to be reused was tossed in one of the wagons, and what could be saved for reuse in another to be sorted elsewhere. Stone or concrete was stacked in piles for the stonemasons to inspect later on. As the sky lightened, Franz was pulled away from stacking stone and told to inspect the remaining buildings near the fire’s path. A prominent townsperson accompanied him along with a slave carrying a bucket of paint and a brush.
Franz took his time with his inspection, to the disgust of the man with him. "I will not rush,” he told the town official. “If I overlook even the smallest detail, it could cause problems later on. Problems which would cost more time and coin and mayhap lives.”
“You’re not in charge of rebuilding, just of telling us if the main supports are still stable and can be used again. The owner will decide what he wants to do with the remains.”
Franz sighed—these Macinas townspeople were so arrogant and impatient. “I will tell you now, it doesn’t meet your requirements and should be torn down.” Franz pointed out why, the slave marked the building, and they moved on.
At midday, a group of women came by with food and drink. Franz, the townsman and the slave used a slab of charred wood as a table. It was no surprise most of the buildings in this section couldn’t be saved—they had been near the central path of the fire.
The man made a face. “The king’s favorite-of-the-month will have some in the forests, cutting wood, others will be sorting what we salvage, and some shall be trained to provide support for the army under the earl’s command.”
He probed gently. “This person have any experience?” “So she claims,” the man flatly stated.
“She is foreign,” the official explained to Franz, which made the man before him narrow his eyes a bit in suspicion. The townsman motioned for the other two men to start working again.
By the time dusk was falling, the former guide and soldier was pleased with the job he had done so far. The more buildings he inspected, the faster he got at identifying which could be reused, and which needed to be torn down.
The merchant and Raina shook hands after the successful completion of negotiating a price for her wool. It wasn’t what she had hoped for, but she knew it was the best she was likely to get given the town’s economic condition. Her thoughts turned to what she could do next, and if she wished to stay here. Raina took the oxen and cart back to the area outside the palace walls, unhitching and picketing the beasts. She began carefully exploring the town, mindful of the overheard conversations of kidnappings and people being illegally sold into slavery. She refused to go down the street of bordellos and whorehouses. Her violations were still fresh in her mind, both the ones received months ago and the recent. No matter what happened, she would never sell her body, even if it meant starvation or death.
She was good with numbers and enjoyed negotiating. Maybe she could convince a merchant to take her on as a bookkeeper? At least until she figured out what she really wanted to do and had the funds saved up. With this strategy in mind, Raina began another round of the town. Her initial optimism waned after an hour or two. Those who could use her services hadn’t the funds; those who could afford didn’t need them.
Raina collected her brother, who had been playing with other children on the muddy banks of the river. He didn’t want to leave, but she ignored his tantrums and hauled him across the bridge. He was filthy, tired and hungry. She knew how precious their coins were; still, she stopped at the Silver Thorn and paid for a hot meal for them both, and a bath. She continued her quest for work, little brother in tow.
The palace had long lines of dispossessed people, many who were quick to set newcomers straight on which line a person needed to be in. Raina watched in envy as those who were lucky to score spots inside the palace walls went to the food lines. She shuffled forward, Hilel content for the moment to watch the bustle. Finally, it was her turn.
The woman raised her brows. The young woman felt her cheeks flame in embarrassment as the noble made no attempts to smother her laughs.
The lady inclined her head graciously. “I am the Baroness Rothsbury. You may call me Lady Lily. I was unaware we had an earl by that name.”
“Pardon, your ladyship, we are not from here, and we no longer have use of our title. We are just simple folk now, looking for work and a place to stay. We have oxen and a cart.”
“What is your name?” Lady Lily asked.
“Raina,” the young woman replied.
“Is it true, what you say?”
“Yes, my lady. We are exiles now, our parents dead, their title, lands, and wealth stolen. There was much upheaval in our country. I thought it better to leave and make my way in the world than become a bond slave to another.” Raina replied with some heat, shocked she could still feel anger over those events.
“Ah.” There seems to be a lot of that going around, first the duchess and now these two. “We do have need of oxen and a wagon, but it is not the type of work for a young woman. Nor do we have anything we could utilize your noble upbringing for. Unless . . .”
“I know my numbers; my father had excellent tutors for me. I was allowed to learn things other noble daughters couldn’t. I can negotiate, I can read and write.” Raina rushed on, seeing the baroness open her mouth to offer something she wouldn’t like. “I can lease the oxen and cart to His Majesty for use in rebuilding. I offer my services as a bookkeeper. I know how to run a manor, knowledge not so different from keeping track of what you do here.”
The young woman felt her opportunity slipping away. She made one last desperate bid, “But do you have enough overseers to make sure they do not cheat the crown? Let me prove myself. Give me a set of books I can audit. A set which won’t upset the balance already in place, and can be easily gone over by the royal bookkeeper.”
The baroness sighed, her bosom heaving, a crease between her brows. “I will ask around. It is the best I can do. Now, as to the oxen and cart you say you have?”
Chapter Twenty-One
S laves cowered against walls, trying to avoid being noticed by the enraged young man destroying his rooms. That damn foreign woman! It had only been three days since the tour of the ruined town, and already she had organized groups, appointed leaders, even gotten the other nobles to help! Where once before no one dared do anything without clearing it with him, now they ran panting like dogs in heat after the bitch. In one move, she had decimated his power base. He had no influence with the new sheriff or his men. Yet. Thus, no way to use them to frighten the population into submission. She had also managed to place all the merchants out of his clutches.
“Master, this man is a copyist with the royal tax collector, and he has some . . . interesting information.” Nicky snatched the papers from the slave.
He flipped through them, a tax for the rebuilding of the sheriff’s office, one for the rebuilding of the town, a credit to any noble or merchant who donated services or goods to the sheriff and the town. A reduction in taxes to any townspeople who rebuilt their shops. It was ridiculous and unheard of! He knew the damn king would not have thought of this on his own. Nicky would have blamed the bleeding-heart earl, who had managed to worm his way onto some committee or other, but it seemed more the work of that damn woman. He ground his teeth together. It was not worth the aggravation for a dukedom when the woman refused to listen to him. She had even managed to suspend her lessons on proper behavior from the countess.
Calm, I must remain calm.“It came from His Majesty, signed and sealed. He said to see they were enacted at once . . .” The man trailed off at
the vicious look from the advisor.
“Get out of my sight!" Nicky yelled. When the man stood gaping, he screamed, “I said, get out!” He grabbed a cup with his free right hand and flung it.
“How dare the bitch think she can advise the king? I am the royal advisor! I am the only one! She needs to be brought to heel! I won’t have her sneaking behind my back. How dare she think she can do a better job than me? She will rue the day she crossed my path!”
Still DiJinn spoke not a word. Nicky paced, muttering to himself, scowling. Each year, he felt a little more of his powers slipping away. Soon he would be just like the rest of the sorry rabble cluttering up the pathetic mudball planet. He could never be ordinary again. It took what little remained to him just to stay as he was. If he unleashed his power to accomplish more deeds, he would use it up. Nicky would go back to being a weak, powerless twelve year old.
“I will go see my prisoner. He has something belonging to me he ought not to have. But that damn duchess—if I let this go on much longer, she’ll soon have passed a whole new tax code!”
Indecision was not like him. He stopped by a table, picked up a cup of wine, downed it. “Everyone is against me, and I’m surrounded by idiots!” He paced and drank, muttering some more. “DiJinn, we have calls to make. The dungeon first, the frigid bitch, and lastly the foreign whore.”
The years of unchallenged power had caused him to forget some of the very first lessons his master had taught him. He had been stupid, sloppy, complacent. Well, it was all going to change. Nicky turned to his demon. “Come. You want fed, I’ll feed you.”
The advisor stood glaring as the guard unlocked the heavy wood door leading down into the dungeon. He should have taken care of this when the sheriff was first brought down. But he noticed the palace slaves taking more interest in his movements than usual and clenched his hands in their leather gloves. This had to be because of the bitch’s influence on the king. Once the door was open, a cold, noxious air escaped. The two slaves shivered, gripping the poles holding the lanterns more tightly and cautiously started down the steep stone steps. Torches burned in brackets at intervals along the long hallway. The space at the foot of the stairs was open, receiving light and air from small openings set high in the walls. A rickety wooden table with chairs around it was in the space behind. To the far right, a tripod-mounted brazier had been set up, on which the dungeon guards could cook the gruel for the prisoners and at which they could warm themselves. One of the men, noticing whom their guest was, nudged the others. They all made low bows.
“Certainly, my lord. At once, my lord.” The man bowed and went to a board holding a variety of keys. He picked one off and taking a torch up, lit it from the fire pit, motioning to the small party.
Nicky was quite pleased with the remodeled dungeons. Extra room meant more scum could be shown the error of their ways, and he was able to secrete another work chamber in the confines. Heavy iron-banded wood doors barred each level, with a separate key for each lock, something else the advisor had insisted on.
No chance for a mass breakout, or some silly peasant trying to storm the dungeons and free a family member.The air got colder, the smell worse as they went down a level. The torch bearers gagged continuously at the mix of unwashed bodies, rotting flesh and food, urine, and feces. The floor was slimy, puddles scattered about. The guard stopped halfway down the hall at another wood door. A small metal grill was at eye level, a moveable flap near the bottom. Nicky’s slave hummed faintly, his eyes gleaming in the dark. The guard avoided his gaze and with shaking hands tried to unlock the door. After several fumbling tries, the lock disengaged.
“I’ll . . . I’ll . . . be . . . be outside, should you need me, my lord,” the guard gasped out. He didn’t like being so near Nicky and his slave. He could have sworn the slave was actually happy to be visiting.
Nicky curtly commanded one of the slaves with a lantern to precede him, striking the slave when he hesitated. The slave yelped in pain and hurried inside. There was a groan from the figure curled up on the filthy, moldering straw as he tried to shield his sensitive eyes from the light. The slave’s tremors caused the lantern to bounce around on the end of the pole.
Nicky struck the slave once more to hold the light still before he turned back to the figure as the slave hurried to comply. “Jake.” The cold tone was cruel.
The figure whimpered, forcing its eyes open. Nicky could feel Jake’s despair and misery. The sheriff, never a very clean man to begin with, was black with filth. Old blood, sweat, dirt, puke—all covered festering wounds. His leather armor had been taken from him, but he still retained his pants. Nicky could see they had dark streaks on them, front and back, stiff patches from where he had soiled himself during the torture. He was shirtless, his once muscular body starved, flabby chest and stomach showing burn marks and green pus dripping. A string of bruises around his throat, large scabby patches of missing hair on his head. Nicky enjoyed the look of recognition when it finally came.
Jake’s eyes widened farther; gurgling frantically, he reached forward trying to grab the boots of the young man with broken fingers. He was still trying to speak through a jaw nearly swollen shut, pleading with gestures.
“At least one thing has gone right: you are unable to tell anyone not under my control who commands you. Good.” An evil smile split the boy’s lips.
The man before him shook his head from side to side frantically, clutching tighter at the young man’s boots as Jake’s gurgles became more insistent.
“Do you realize what your stupidity and incompetence has cost me?” Nicky hissed. The young man stepped back, using his booted foot to kick the older man in the chest. Jake screamed, clutching at the new pain.
“You should have told me about those three merchant men and the damn foreign woman sooner! You messed up the raid by the bandits and the burning of the nobles’ dwellings! You can forget about getting out.”
Nicky walked out of the small, filthy cell. He ignored the sheriff’s efforts to crawl after him. The slave holding the light scrambled to keep up, barely making it out the door before the advisor slammed it shut.
“Wait,” he murmured to his demon. “I’ll have him brought to the chamber, and you can enjoy your feeding while I see to other matters.” A bit louder, he said to the man accompanying them, “Where’s the head questioner? I need to speak with him.”
The guard all but dropped the keys as he was relocking the door. “Uh, um, he-he’s down in his chambers with one of the other lawmen, my lord. Shall I escort you back to the waiting area and have him brought to you?”
The guard gulped audibly; visiting the head questioner at work was expressly forbidden by the king’s orders. He had tried to tell the nobleman before him once, and he still had the scars from the beating.
Another heavy iron-banded door needed opening. His hands shook so much from cold and fright that it took him several minutes to undo the lock. The temperature dropped several more degrees as they continued down well-worn stone stairs, breath fogging the air. Water could be heard dripping from the ceiling, seen trickling down the slimy moldcovered walls and pooling on the sub-basement floor, wherein floated bits and pieces of unidentifiable things. Small stone islands appeared in the wavering torchlight, off to either side. Each one had a metal grate covering the top. Only Nicky and his slave seemed unaffected by the atrociously pervasive reek of advanced decay. The rest of the members coughed and gagged, adding their vomit to the sloshing soup.
The small party waded along the hall, flames wavering as they passed through strong currents of icy air flowing down from vents near the ceiling. Yet another stone island appeared in the uncertain light. It was just big enough for the group to stand on. The guard pounded heavily on the iron-banded door blocking the passageway, waited a moment, pounded again. The sound of sliding wood and a face peering out suspiciously before shutting the peephole had the guard letting off. A few moments later, the door opened inward, and the group walked inside.
A large stone room, barely lit from smoking torches and huge braziers, greeted them. The head questioner made an elaborate bow to the elegantly dressed young man.
It was a viewing platform encircled by a low balustrade and set with chairs, reached by a half-flight of stairs. The slaves tried not to look at what else was in the room. Two hulking, bald, heavily scarred men fed more wood into a brazier nearby. They turned mean, glittering eyes on the small party.
“Of course. If you would please follow me?” He led the way past the men and a human wreck on the rack deeper into the gloom to a door hidden in shadows at one side of the platform. Once inside the small office, the head questioner turned with an inquiring look.
“Very well, actually. Better than I had hoped for, of course. Per your instructions, I have not started on the physical torture yet. The plant matter—hallucinogens? as you call them—work quite well to make him see what is not there. May I hope you are here to change your orders, master?” the man groveled.
“Not yet. Has anyone come asking for him?” Nicky demanded. “No, my master, no one. Do you expect someone?” he inquired
Why does the young man seem so unhappy with the news?“Perhaps. You will send word to me immediately if anyone does, and detain them without explanation.” Nicky instructed, receiving a bow in return. “Those two outside, they do their job well?”
“Just the standard torture, my master. I doubt you would like what he confesses to as he names you as the source of all his misfortunes. His struggles excite Don and Jon. It’s a shame he cannot write, or I could have him sign a confession,” the man continued.