by Tom Lloyd
Sir Pardel directed Calath’s attention next to his wife, a plump and rosy woman, before finally introducing his daughter Meranna. She held out a spotlessly white gloved hand for the marshal to kiss, keeping it high so he hardly needed to stoop, and bestowed a dazzling smile.
Calath’s tongue caught for an instant, but then managed to murmur ‘My Lady,’ to which he received a nod and slight curtsey. Meranna looked up to Derran suddenly, her face coming alight.
‘Magistrate Derran, Marshal Calath must be the academic you spoke of over dinner a few weeks past.’
Calath felt a sudden heat rise from under his collar, but Meranna’s face betrayed no mocking. As Derran beamed and nodded Calath realised she was simply interested to meet a man of learning; something he considered fortunate in the company of dashing young knights and soldiers.
‘I know Derran’s sarcasm too well to take that as any great compliment, but I do admit to being an academic,’ said Calath with as wide a smile as he could.
‘Nonsense, ah, sir,’ Meranna countered, belatedly remembering she addressed a titled man. ‘The magistrate was good enough to lend me some of your works; I confess to more mathematical interests myself, but what I did understand I found truly impressive. Your descriptions and analysis of the Age of Darkness were truly illuminating.’
Calath managed not to blush, but his eyes dropped to inspect the floor of a moment. ‘One of my more respectable works. Unfortunately my recent research has been of a rather less salubrious nature and several of my peers do not seem to agree with its validity.’
Sir Pardel gave a bark of laughter and clapped a gloved hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘He’s got her going now, Adim. Let’s see to our horses before growing something intellectual ourselves! By your leave Marshal Calath, Magistrate …’
Both men nodded and Sir Pardel touched his wife on the arm, before giving Meranna an amused smile. The two soldiers and unmen marched down the steps to the garden where a gaggle of grooms loitered. One jumped up as they approached and gestured for them to following him to their horses, the three men sharing a joke that sent laughter echoing around the garden.
‘I’m afraid my father’s interests differ somewhat from my own,’ explained Meranna, though not in apology.
‘I’m sorry …’
‘No, not at all. He doesn’t mind academic talk; it’s simply that he doesn’t understand it. He’s actually been very encouraging to my studies, for all that my uncle disapproves.’
There was an edge to her voice then, not bitter for her expression was too proud for that, but noticeable enough to draw a reproachful glance from her mother. Before the conversation could continue though, Alscap’s servant appeared at the back of the room to announce in a loud and clear voice that the hunt was about to commence. Those who were riding, mainly men but one or two young ladies among them, went with calls of wager down onto the lawns and followed the grooms away.
Calath didn’t move, letting the flow of people stream past to either claim their horse or find a good vantage of the fields to the rear. Clearly the hunt was going to start off in the woods to the right, with the intention to drive any quarry out into the miles of fields behind and make any kill in view of the Hall. The terrace afforded a good vista and Calath’s companions moved slightly away from the terrace wall as others vied for the best view.
As a group they edged towards the open doorway, lingering outside as the room beyond emptied also. From there he saw the scarred man of the Kingsguard have his sleeve tugged by Alscap’s servant, back from the stables. He turned an ear in that direction to catch the man’s words, realising from the man’s face that the calamity was not yet resolved.
‘Sir Chatos, Count Alscap requests that you lead the hunt,’ said the servant in a hushed voice. The last few nobles to leave paid them no attention, but still the servant leaned towards the knight in a conspiratorial manner. Sir Chatos gave him a questioning look, but seeing his anxiety declined to pursue it.
‘Of course. Will the count be joining us later?’
‘He fears not, but hopes that his business will be concluded before you return.’ The knight nodded, shrugged and straightened up to take in the people milling about the terrace.
‘Very good, I shall of course do as the count requests. If he requires anything else of me, he need but ask.’
The servant bowed and Sir Chatos strode off to make his way down to his horse. For a moment the servant stared after the veteran and then he hurried over to Calath, avoiding the marshal’s gaze as he did so. The servant cleared his throat audibly and Calath realised that it was Derran he sought, but Calath’s interest was no less diminished, perhaps increased now that the magistrate’s attention was required.
‘Magistrate Derran, my lord requests that you come with me to deal with a rather delicate matter.’
Derran stared down at the man, irritation clouding his face. ‘Matter? What matter?’
The servant looked uneasily at Derran’s three companions, his hands clasped tightly as they had been on the doorstep. Lady Pardel immediately took hold of her daughter’s resisting hand, giving Meranna a sharp look before excusing them both from the marshal’s presence.
Meranna stood her ground for a second, as intrigued as Calath, before a tug on the arm overcame her resolution. Calath stared after her, enchanted by the beautiful young lady who had actually read his work for pleasure. Even with her mother dragging her backwards, Meranna had a grace that distinguished her from the crowd of nobility. He was too old to believe in love at first sight, but he felt that he knew his own mind well enough to recognise a kindred spirit. The servant gave Calath an unhappy look.
‘It is, ah, a matter of an extremely unusual nature, and not something the count wishes to be discussed in company,’ he suggested with pleading eyes.
Derran dismissed his fears with a wave of the hand and adopted his inquisitorial tone of voice. ‘Nonsense! If it’s truly that unusual then I insist on Calath’s presence, his expertise in the unusual outstrips my own.’
The servant opened his mouth to argue, but caught Derran’s expression and thought the better of it.
‘Very well sir, please follow me.’
Leaving the cheerful spirits behind, Calath and Derran retraced their steps through the Hall and out the front door again. The servant could hardly stand the pace imposed by the marshal’s malformed leg. He darted forward to open doors, rushed through then scampered back to silently hurry his charges. If it hadn’t been for the plain distress upon his face the man would have resembled a spaniel running back and forth, leaping up to catch their attention then off scouting the path ahead.
If anything, Derran took exception to this anxiety and forced even his friend Calath to wait for him. While his nature was wonderfully calm in a social capacity, the magistrate was known for his ‘impatience with impatience’, as Derran laughingly termed it. The man believed matters happened in their own time and haste for haste’s sake was unnatural. One of his favourite sayings was that no man hurries the tide, a reversal of the common phrase that was so typical of the large magistrate.
Their goal, unsurprisingly, was the stable block where Count Alscap had disappeared toward. The building was large, even for a mansion the size of Alscap Hall, and Calath guessed the count was a man who bred, presumably for racing since he wasn’t from a military family.
It had two wings, the nearer of which seemed to house the grooms and stablehands from the upper story windows. One man remained outside, a pitchfork clasped threateningly in both hands until he recognised the servant. Still he eyed the newcomers with suspicion, but it was fear that dominated the youth’s face. Nervously pushing back a sandy mop of hair, the boy shifted from one foot to the other and stole glances at the door he stood beside even as he watched the newcomers. Whatever lay within, it had obviously proved too unsettling and he had been ordered to remain without; a command he seemed more than happy to obey from the way his eyes widened as the servant reached for the door.
/> The clouds had gathered somewhat since their arrival. The sun no longer gave the thin layer of snow a sparkle and the temperature had remained low. Though it was only a hundred yards to the stable block, Calath’s slow progress meant he was a little chilled by the time they arrived there.
Alscap’s servant laid a hand on the door, thumb hovering over the crude latch while he steeled himself. Calath could only wonder what sort of horror lay within that men were afraid to even look at it. With a deep breath the servant pushed on and in. The scrape of a chair greeted him, but no words as Derran and Calath watched the gloomy space before them. The pair exchanged a glance, Calath noting the terror on the face of the young stablehand while Derran merely shrugged and marched on in. With a last glance up to the sun struggling vainly through the clouds, Calath followed suit.
The room was unremarkable, clearly used for storing harnesses, saddles and feed. The entire building was of young wood and Calath immediately noticed the pungent odour of unfinished ash mingling with leather polish, but it was the poise of every man there that really struck him. They had joined five men. Count Alscap was the only one seated, feigning a relaxed pose though his hand was kept on his sword hilt, three grooms stood with pitchforks tightly gripped, all of which were levelled toward the fifth man who sat curled in a ball in the far corner. The three grooms and their employer looked as ready to kill as to flee for their lives. For what reason Calath could not say, but clearly there was more to the dirty bundle of a man he could see.
As he inspected the room more closely Calath realised there were traces of blood on the floor and, as the prisoner raised his head to see the arrivals, the marshal could see his nose and lip were badly swollen and cut.
‘Marshal Calath, I’m sorry but you cannot remain. This is a matter of the utmost secrecy, by order of the king,’ protested Alscap as soon as he saw Calath, his voice wavering uncertainly.
‘In that case,’ replied Derran before his friend could speak, ‘Calath is better suited to this gathering than I. The king has no need of a magistrate.’
This is a matter of the law, but I cannot have all and sundry knowing what has come to pass here. The king would be furious.’
‘Then again I say this is Calath’s affair also,’ continued Derran. ‘He is known to the king and his word trusted by him.’
Calath almost corrected his friend, who was not fully aware of his relationship to the king, before realising that Derran had, in his exaggeration, hit upon the truth. Whatever was going on here it reeked of the sort of dangerous mystery that King Emin so delighted in. When four armed men showed such fear of another, Calath felt sure the king would want to hear events from a known perspective.
While Calath was ignorant of the king’s motives, he knew the man encouraged a variety of clandestine activities and pursuits within his private gentleman’s club in Narkang. There he brought together a variety of men and women of disparate and rare skills. Mages, artificers and artisans rubbed shoulders with the men of trade who could fund and utilise their work, while others were pure academics as Calath was, but his explorations of theology and daemonology were not unusual in the debates they sparked there.
‘Trusted by the king?’ Alscap looked doubtful, being a man whose associations with King Emin were long and well-known. He studied the academic through narrowed eyes, but then suddenly his face brightened as an idea came to him.
‘Then perhaps sir, if I’d taken Emin up on his offer of a gentleman’s club membership, we would have met.’
The count’s face was sharp with suspicion as he studied Calath’s reaction to his words. Derran looked on, bemused but ignored.
‘I fear not. The king is not a member of my club, nor any that I’m aware, and I’m sure that a man of your wealth and standing would suit grander surroundings than the Di Senego Club.’
Calath’s voice was soft and assured as he presented what he knew would be the correct answer. Derran’s confusion was increased when Alscap nodded in response.
‘Well, that’s unfortunate, but if you’re a personal friend of the king you may of course remain. Kote, bring up those chairs for my guests.’
The servant glanced nervously at the ignored man in the corner, creeping around the table to retrieve the chairs, but never letting his gaze leave the curled-up figure.
Once the pair had eased themselves into a seat, carefully facing the prisoner as the mood in the room affected both, Alscap pinched the bridge of his large nose and began.
‘The reason I brought you here, Magistrate, was to make this official and legal. The secrecy I think is justified. Certainly we don’t want this man brought before your court, but he admits his guilt so I do not believe that will prove necessary.’
‘But what crime is he charged with?’ demanded Derran, his legal persona taking charge.
‘Well, in short; he comes from Thistledell.’
Calath sat and stared; numb with shock as that simple, innocent word echoed around the room. The grooms flinched and stared fixedly at the ground, knuckles white around the pitchforks. Derran half rose from his seat, mouth flopped open as the thick wattle of flesh beneath his chin shook. Of all the crimes Calath had imagined, this was furthest from his mind. His eyes darted to the motionless figure on the floor as he fought the urge to jump to his feet and flee.
Thistledell.
The name wasn’t spoken these days. The ideas it conjured were too horrific and most tried to forget about it. The fear was propagated by the fact that no one knew what had happened there. The few former inhabitants Calath had heard of had been totally insane when they had been caught, but their rantings had confirmed that something terrible had taken place.
All the rest of the Land knew was that the tax collector for the local suzerain had travelled there as part of his annual rounds – to find the village gone. Signs pointing the way there had been destroyed; the buildings torn down and burned, the crops left in fields returning to the wild. Every remaining vestige of life had been erased; even the charred timbers had been buried.
There had been simply nothing left, barely a trace that a village ever stood in that place and it had been clear it was a deliberate effort. The tax collector had sent a messenger back to the nearest town after ordering his guards to investigate the freshly turned earth. It was then they had found the blackened bones.
‘W … who is he?’ stammered Derran, rapidly collecting his thoughts while Calath still floundered.
‘His name, well the name he gave us, is Fynn. He’s been working here as a groom for almost six months now.’
‘You’ve been employing him?’ asked the magistrate in horror.
‘I know, but he kept himself to himself and worked hard. The head groom had no reason to complain.’
Alscap said the words through a daze, as if repeating by rote something he could hardly believe. The tales had painted those who left Thistledell alive as monsters; capable only of violence and profane destruction. To have one in your employ, no doubt sometimes under the same roof as your children … Alscap looked nauseous, small beads of sweat appearing on his ashen brow.
‘Why the secrecy?’ asked Calath, at last finding his voice though it trembled through every word. ‘Why not bring him before the court?’
Alscap gaped at the marshal, a flush of red returning to his cheeks. ‘And have to tell my daughter that this man has been allowed into the same house as her newborn? That aside, I breed some of the finest stallion hunters in the country? Who would buy them now? Who would want their horses to be stud from one tended by a man of Thistledell? Half my staff would leave my service overnight! How many of my guests would return after today?’
Derran raised a hand to calm the count whose face had flushed red with rage. ‘I understand. You’re right, of course. This can be a very simple matter if he admits his guilt.’
Calath made a puzzled sound at that so Derran leaned towards him to explain, his eyes never leaving Fynn.
‘No one knows what actually happened ther
e, other than it was of the basest level. The king decided it was best to simply issue a private decree to all magistrates that coming from Thistledell was a capital offence. Technically he should be brought before me in the morning, but if he admits his guilt we can hang him and dispose of the body without allowing this to taint Alscap’s household.’
‘Hang him? Now? Here? Do you plan to just bury the body in the woods like a murderer? This cannot be the king’s intention!’ protested Calath.
Derran turned to face his friend, his expression sober and deadly serious. ‘It is mere expediency, and as for the legality or intention, you yourself know the king. The law is his will, nothing more for all that he has codified it. You can’t tell me he would deal with this openly?’
Calath stared in fearful wonder at his friend’s tone, before realising he was right. The king would have no qualms about a swift and silent death; no doubt the Brotherhood had done exactly that many times, in the public interest of course.
It was the way of the world – a world Calath was part of for all his remote life, and a world he owed his privileged position to. The order brought to their nation was due to the careful, and at time merciless, hand of their king. Without that deft touch they would still be living in feuding principalities and his peaceful academic life would be nothing more than a dream.
‘I … you’re right, I apologise.’
Derran kept his gaze for another moment, but then lowered his eyes, slightly embarrassed at his own actions.
‘As do I, but I hope you will forgive my tone under these circumstances. Now Count Alscap, for this to be as it should I must hear the man’s own admission.’
The count nodded and gestured to one of his grooms. The man, keeping a safe distance, reached out with the blunt handle of his pitchfork and carefully nudged the prone figure. The man calling himself Fynn jerked at the unexpected touch, but when ordered to rise, didn’t move. A second prod encouraged the man, groaning and wheezing softly, to push himself up and sit up against the wall.