The Empire Stone

by Chris Bunch

  “Are you suggesting a bribe?”

  “Certainly not,” Peirol said indignantly. “Merely to clarify what my intent is. Of course it’s blasphemous to suggest anyone make an image of the Invisible Gods here — unlike some of the heathenous nations I’ve passed through — which is admirably sophisticated. But wouldn’t it be possible to suggest the glory of these beings by, say, taking crystal, or even a large stone, if one were presented to me? Cut it properly, so it gathers the light. Then put a bit of magic within and let the fires burst forth, as if from nowhere.

  “Hang this in a temple, and it would be glorious, even more so than glass stained in brilliant colors, such as I’ve seen in your tabernacles. If I meditated on such an object, I think I would become closer to the gods I worship, hence more religious, and Restormel would be glorified. That’s but an example of what I propose.”

  Damyan considered. “If High Priest Warleggen approves — and your idea brings other thoughts to me — ”

  “Which,” Peirol interrupted, “I’d be pleased to hear if you choose to share them, and hopefully we could arrange for such a project to become financially possible.”

  “No,” the monk said, “no, I was wrong in thinking you capable of evil, as was the erring soul who mentioned you to us. There’s no stink of heresy or of dangerous matters here. Go your way, Peirol, and I hope you succeed, for the idea of having such a fiery symbol in one of our order’s churches, or in a cloister, sounds most wonderful.”

  Peirol escorted them out, came back, wiping his forehead. “Take the store,” he told the clerk.

  “Yes, sir. Might I ask where you’re going?”

  “To that tavern that serves triple-distilled brandy, to meditate on which bastard jeweler might’ve tried to doom me.”

  • • •

  He spent time with Ossetia, found out more about the Men of Lysyth. He asked what temporal authority they had, beyond determining real from false god-discoverers. Ossetia told him that their power was almost total, with their ability to know what was right for Restormel and their authority to detect and punish those who would do it harm.

  “I assume there are provisions for denouncing an evil man or woman to the order?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Then the miscreant is taken in hand by your order,” Peirol said, “and brought to trial?”

  “After he’s questioned, and confesses.”

  “What means are used to gain such a confession?”

  “I know little of that, being hardly more than a novice in the ways of Lysyth. There are special members who dedicate their lives to uncovering the truth, and I know they use prayer, contemplation, and, in the most extreme cases, physical force.”

  “Torture?”

  Ossetia nodded reluctantly.

  “I assume the informer is rewarded?”

  “Yes, with a share of the guilty one’s goods, after he’s punished by the fire, or in minor cases with a term of imprisonment. His property, by the way, is always seized, and added to the glory of Lysyth and Restormel.”

  “Ah,” Peirol said. “What’s to prevent false accusation from, say, jealousy?”

  “If the accused survives our … investigation without making a confession and without further evidence,” Ossetia said, “then he is in turn rewarded with the goods of his accuser. But that happens but seldom.”

  “I would expect so.”

  • • •

  A few days later Peirol passed a small apothecary’s shop and noted the door was sealed, with two ornately carved beams nailed into the door frame. Between them was a brown parchment:

  THIS ESTABLISHMENT

  HAS BEEN SEIZED

  AS THE LAW ORDERS

  BY THE MEN OF LYSYTH

  ITS OWNER HAS BEEN TRIED

  CONDEMNED AND EXECUTED

  AND ALL HIS WORKS ARE FORFEIT

  ALL PRAISE THE GODS OF RESTORMEL

  He was the only one who stopped. All others hurried past, looking studiously elsewhere.

  • • •

  Peirol bought a small, very fast sailboat that could be crewed by one man. He also paid for sailing lessons, and spent an hour a day tacking back and forth in the tidal pool until it wouldn’t be completely suicidal for him to use it. He carved a secret compartment in the back of a hatch, hid gold and gems there, and hired a man to sail it from Restormel east to a small fishing village known for its honesty. More gold went for dry provisions, casked water, and to have the boat dragged out of the water on rollers.

  Peirol would rather have hidden a fast horse somewhere, but that would have left him across the straits from the way home. At least the boat, like the rope ladder, made him feel less trapped.

  He also refilled his tiny knee-pouch with gems and strapped it on.

  • • •

  Baroness Sereng’s friends and acquaintances flocked to his shop, and Peirol was hard-pressed to have a new creation to amaze them. He was forced to take another building in a poorer district, hire half a dozen artisans to do the cruder work, and even, most quietly, buy acceptable finished works from smaller craftsmen.

  He’d listen to the gossip from these rich customers, laugh heartily or pretend pleasant shock, sympathize with their troubles rather than suggesting that being found wearing the same gown as another wasn’t the end of the world, and offer solutions to their travails without ever sounding authoritarian. Baroness Sereng came in frequently, always alone, flirted, selected her latest piece of jewelry, and left in a short time. If she was a vampire, Peirol was unblooded, and slightly regretted it.

  Peirol now knew a great deal about Restormel, about the real workings of its rulers: how the king had died in a fall from his palace’s battlements, leaving no heir. A child, the king’s distant cousin, had been chosen by the nobility of Restormel to take the throne. While he grew, the throne would be held by a Dowager Custodian. That child had died of a sudden sickness. Another, even more distant relative, only five years old — Proclus — had been recently selected. Until he reached his majority, all agreed it would be wise for the Dowager Jeritza to continue. Jeritza ruled Restormel and the island of the same name through the army and an array of officials, all owing their appointment to her court. The Men of Lysyth were thought to be the most honest of her advisers, stealing not as individuals but as an entire order. All this was very interesting, and Peirol wondered where the next heir-apparent would come from when Proclus had his own accident.

  He noticed that when he brought up the Brown Men, very little was forthcoming. Even more interesting, when he mentioned the Empire Stone, he got one of three reactions: blankness; a very rapid change of subject; or, two or three times, a polite, low-voiced request to ask no more on that matter. The people who gave him the latter response were highly regarded at court, and one was the Baroness Sereng. He wasn’t sure how he could pressure her into telling what she knew, or what she thought she knew.

  • • •

  The man could have posed for a sculpture as a great hero or a warrior god. He was almost twice Peirol’s size, wearing soldier’s garb in silk and the softest leathers, gold-trimmed. But his sword and dagger, even though they were lavishly engraved, looked well used.

  “Dwarf,” he growled, “I think you’ve been trying to seduce my wife.”

  18

  OF MARRIAGES AND SECRETS

  Peirol could guess who the bruiser might be but was hardly stupid enough to fan the flame by greeting him by name. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You damned well should! Trying to make love to my wife behind my back!”

  Peirol heard a choking from his clerk, imagined the sexual position, tried to keep from laughing himself. “Might I ask your name, sir?”

  “Don’t be cute, you — you less than a man!”

  “I rather resent that remark,” Peirol said. “Such behavior can, in certain places, provoke a challenge. Please identify yourself, if you would. Only a blackguard or a scoundrel refuses such a request.”

  “I am, a
s you damned well know, Baron Agar.”

  “Under different circumstances, I would be pleased to meet you. Your wife, the noble baroness, has done great good helping me be part of Restormel’s society.”

  “So you admit it?”

  “I admit nothing, Baron Agar,” Peirol said. “And I have a suggestion. Let us go, you and I, and find a wizard. Let us put up, say, five thousand gold coins each, and hire him to sniff my sins out. Surely a great city like Restormel has a magician capable of such snoopery. Let whichever one of us is wrong forfeit what he put up to a charity to be named by the other, less the wizard’s fee.

  “Further let whichever one of us is wrong placard Restormel, with an admission of that calumny, and if there’s a further penalty due, according to the customs and laws of Restormel, let him surrender himself to the proper authorities for judgment. Is that not a better plan than you storming about, maligning a great and noble lady? I think it is you, rather than me, who is going behind someone’s back.”

  Agar stepped back, anger visibly leaking away like water from a shattered vase. Peirol waited, while the idea ran through the baron. “You,” Agar said weakly, “would be willing to — ah, but you’re a magician yourself, capable of blocking another wizard.”

  “Don’t be an ass,” Peirol said. “If I were, wouldn’t I have cast a spell when I first laid eyes on the lady, turning you, say, into a kitchen spider to be cast into the fire? Or perhaps a spell of withering, so your fine talents on the athletic field — and perhaps in the bedroom — disappear?”

  Agar whitened. “No, I guess, I mean, yes, if you were a magician, you’d do something like that, I guess.”

  “But I’m not and I haven’t,” Peirol agreed. “Now, shall we go in search of a sorcerer?”

  Agar hesitated. “Perhaps, well, no, I wouldn’t … I must think on this!” He stormed back out. Peirol watched him gallop away, four retainers at his heels, then went upstairs and made sure his rope ladder was ready.

  • • •

  The next day Sereng came in, her usual bright, flirtatious self. Evidently Agar had said nothing to her, or she was excellent at dissembling. As usual, she turned back a piece of jewelry, selected another, giggled, and said she’d see Peirol in a week, for there was a big masked ball approaching, and he might want her to show off something very special.

  Peirol said, as a matter of fact, he would like for her to return the very next day; he had something in mind, but it was quite unusual and must have her approval before he went to the expense of fabricating it. Her eyes widened, and she quickly agreed.

  After Sereng left, Peirol hurried out of a side entrance, jumped onto the saddle of the horse he’d tied there, and followed her, wearing a drab cloak with a cowl. Her carriage went through winding streets, away from the waterfront into a working district. It stopped in front of a large two-story stone building, which was a little shabby. Sereng got out and went inside, and the carriage left. Peirol tied his horse, started into the building, then listened to the sound of thumps, clangs, and shouts from inside.

  He remembered what Ossetia had told him of her tastes, went to the rear of the building, and waited. In about ten minutes his patience was rewarded, and he followed Sereng to her eventual destination. He was just a little bit shocked.

  Peirol returned to the stone building and went inside with a small bag of coins. When he came out, the bag was empty and his questions were answered. Thoughtfully, he returned to his shop and prepared for the morrow.

  • • •

  When the baroness came in, bubbly and curious, he suggested she might accompany him to the tavern around the corner. Sereng lifted an eyebrow coquettishly. “La, sir.”

  “La indeed,” Peirol said. “For what I propose for you might be best said over a glass of wine.”

  “I am,” Sereng said, “a married woman, as I’m sure you remember.”

  “Oh, I do, I do,” Peirol said, and his voice was a little more grim than he liked.

  The tavern help had been well bribed before to pay no attention to Peirol or his guests, and a small, closed booth in the back waited. Peirol had made sure Agar wasn’t doing something imbecilic like following Sereng. He ordered wine for her, a brandy for himself.

  “Now,” Sereng said, “what is this bauble that’s so unique as to be presented in this romantic secrecy, as if we were a boy and girl about to become lovers?”

  “The bauble for next week, milady,” Peirol said, “is yet unmade. The bauble I propose to discuss is your reputation.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “And well you should,” Peirol said, holding back anger. “Although you are lovely and charming, and have done well for me in some regards, I’m not happy with you at the moment, not happy at all. I despise the way you’ve used me as a cloak for your — shall we say, recreational? — habits.”

  “What does that mean?” Sereng hissed nicely.

  “I am not much interested in who you futter,” Peirol said tiredly, “nor whether they’re male or female, nor if you like to do it in threesomes. But I do not like it when your husband, who’s far too big, angry, and well armed for me to feel comfortable around, boils in and accuses me of being your lover.”

  “How dare you?” Sereng was half on her feet. Peirol thought she was enjoying this drama.

  “Sit down, baroness,” he said, still calmly. “And if you waste that wine by throwing it in my face, I’ll spank you. Now, sit down. Good. Drink this brandy. Suddenly you look a bit shaken. So we may avoid various hysterics you might have in mind, let me tell you that I followed you yesterday afternoon to a certain gymnasium in a laborers’ district. I went to the rear and had the pleasure of seeing you leave with a man and a woman about your age, both of extremely athletic build, to a nearby inn, which has large bedrooms for rent. You were not below stairs in the tap room when I chanced looking in. I made inquiries.

  “You may be pleased that the inn would not tell me how many times you’d visited their establishment, nor who your guests might have been. However, the gymnasium, once a bit of money had changed hands, was more than willing to tell me about your habits. Forgive me for embarrassing you, but did you know you’re known there as ‘The Workout Queen?’

  “Yes, I thought you’d like the brandy. A moment, and I’ll get another for you.”

  When Peirol returned, he found Sereng experimenting with tears. “What … what do you wish me to do? I’ll do anything to keep my husband … or anyone else … from knowing … even though there’s been some dreadful mistake, and there must be someone in Restormel who looks just like me.”

  “No doubt,” Peirol said.

  “What do you want from me?” Sereng took a deep breath, put on another mood, licked her lips. “I can show you things that will make you very happy.”

  “You, my love,” Peirol said gently, “are indeed going to make me happy. But not how you think.”

  “You want money instead of — you want money?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Then what?”

  “I just want you to find out what you can, as quickly and quietly as possible, about the Empire Stone.”

  • • •

  Ossetia, very upset, came the next day and took Peirol out, away from the inn. “Because I owe you my life,” he said, “I’ll give you this warning. You’ve been denounced to the Order of Lysyth. I went to certain officials, as did my father, and we told them of your virtues, and how you’d been a good friend not only to us but to the Order. I think, at least for the moment, without further evidence, you won’t be arrested.”

  “Who denounced me?”

  Ossetia shook his head. “That is forbidden.”

  “At least you can say whether it was a man or a woman.”

  “A … a man.” Ossetia said reluctantly. Peirol gave a name. Ossetia nodded.

  “Thank you for the warning,” Peirol said. “And thank your father for the character witness.”

  “What are you going to do? I know — I’m
sure — you’re innocent. I’ll … we’ll do anything we can to help you escape, if you decide to flee.”

  “Being innocent, I see no reason to run,” Peirol said. “However, I think I should deal with this immediately, and see the matter is permanently closed.”

  “How?”

  “First, I’ll visit my local sorcerer.”

  Peirol made a small object of wax, took it to the magician who ensorcelled his gems, and had a small spell cast. The magician thought the idea was very funny. Peirol decided, if it worked, he would as well.

  • • •

  Baron Agar slunk into his shop minutes after Peirol opened it the next day. Peirol sent his clerk out for a tray of sweetmeats, told him to take his time in coming back. “Yes, baron?”

  “How could you?” Agar sounded broken. “You said … you were no magician.”

  “Perhaps I lied,” Peirol said. “I certainly could deny knowing what the hells you’re going on about. But a better question is, How could you go to the Men of Lysyth with a lie? Have you no honor, sir? Have you no morals? Have you no decency?”

  Agar reddened, started to snarl something, stopped himself.

  “I told you,” Peirol said, “I am not sleeping with your wife. I offered to have a magician prove it. Instead of believing me, or challenging me like a man does, you slunk behind my back like a scoundrel.” Agar said nothing. “That is why, perhaps, a certain small wax image arrived at your door, in a box that had a spell on it so only you could open it with no witnesses present. When you opened that box, I assume you might have been shocked at the … indecency of what was inside.

  “I would guess you might have been further shocked when it smoked, flamed like a tiny candle, and vanished. Did you feel a part of your body shrink at the same time? Become limp, sagging, like it belonged to an ancient? Did you attempt to make it behave otherwise, to make it stand like a proud soldier, only to fail? Did you test yourself with your charming wife?