Andagis nodded as the baron again began to climb. He followed his master up the stairs, torch held high to light the way.
4. SOUTH
His head hurt. His nose hurt. His shoulder hurt. With each step, each heartbeat, the pain seemed to grow. Though he had spent the better part of the morning vomiting up his meal of the night before, the Journeyman still felt every bit as horrible as he had the moment Bolivor’s fist had smashed into his face. Though he had only put down a couple of pints his constitution had been unable to the task. He was unused to drinking and, consequently, was now suffering for his lack of experience. Insult heaped itself upon injury.
The heel of his boot came down on a stone half-concealed by a tuft of grass and his ankle skewed sideways. Almost losing his balance the Journeyman staggered forward a few steps, finally catching himself with his staff. This sudden burst of movement made his head hurt that much worse. Gingerly, he raised his palm to his temple and took long, slow breaths until the pulsing ache in his skull had gone back to a dull throb. It was several moment before he realized that while stumbling he had heard an unexpected clank and rattle of metal.
Puzzled, he began to pat down his sides, his arms, his legs. A moment later he was holding a purse in one palm, trying to focus on the bulging leather. He blinked and drew a deep breath. Leaning on his staff, the Journeyman undid the drawstring that held the purse shut. When it came open the morning light showed a fistsized pile of silver. He blinked again.
This purse was not his, of that he was sure. He had not had it when he left the Capital, when he entered the Vallén, or when he had entered the keep. He was sure he would have remembered something like this. That could only mean one thing: that he had acquired it somewhere in the House of Vytás. Unfortunately, he could not recall how he might have done so.
The sudden thought that while in a drunken stupor he had nicked the money nearly brought the Journeyman to his knees. Such an impropriety, not to mention an outright crime, would mean his immediate dismissal from the guild. He would be censured, he would be stripped of his title, he would cast out, set to wander alone and penniless, he
The Journeyman drew a deep breath and quieted his racing mind. He was no thief; he never had been. Though he had made a few attempts as a boy he had been caught more times than not. Since the age of eleven he had been a courier. He knew nothing else.
Just ahead the low-hanging drift of clouds momentarily parted revealing a patch of blue sky. Sunlight winked off the pile of silver coins in the Journeyman’s hand. With one finger he poked at the metal. Where it had come from? He simply could not recall, though he was growing more certain with each passing moment that he had not stolen it.
Then it came to him, the clouds that seemed to fill his head at last parting: the Lady Cerridwyn!
Slowly, his aching mind began to piece together the conversation of the night before. At last he was fairly sure he knew why he was a purse full of silver richer.
What he now held in his outstretched palm was a finder’s fee of sorts. It was the same sort of money he had made as a child selling information. An urchin on the streets of the Capital saw much and heard even more. Now, as a Journeyman, Leonas had asked him where he might find his aunt, the Lady of House Vytás. The
LINUS DE BEVILLE
Journeyman had known and had told him. Now he found himself suddenly very well off. He let out a short laugh. After joining the guild, after having the hot iron with the image of the Ourobros pressed into his flesh, he had not thought to earn anything beyond his courier’s fees. But this…this was more money than he could expect to earn in an entire year of running messages from one end of the continent to the other. The fact that his income had now been supplemented, that he was going home a wealthy man by any measure of the word, made his heart nearly leap into his throat. He felt elated. Even the pounding in his head seemed to have lessened.
Carefully the Journeyman drew the purse closed and knotted its drawstring. Almost reverently he placed it into his bag and covered it with the few trappings knocking about inside. After that was done he raised his head, drew a deep breath, and scanned his immediate surroundings.
Behind him was a muddy stretch of road that wound its way around several pine-studded hillocks. The track disappeared into the forest only to re-emerge as it rose towards the looming edifice of Vytás Keep. The walls of the fortress were damp, the dark stone appearing almost black. Banners waved listlessly in the breeze, neither committing to outright slackness nor majestic fluttering. Behind its walls was a benefactor the Journeyman had not expected to find, but one he was glad he had.
Around him were steep hills and rocky crags, thick groves of pine and thicker stands of brambles. Dour though his surroundings may have been, the Journeyman was not perturbed. He was a rich man and ahead of him was an open road. With a smile pulling at the corners of his lips the Journeyman set his footsteps to the southeast and the Capital.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Linus de Beville does not live where he was born, but likes his adopted home nonetheless. When not earning a living he enjoys reading, walking alone through the woods, and attending heavy metal concerts. As far as his writing career is concerned, he has
contributed to the fantasy and horror anthology ‘Exterus’ and will soon publish several standalone novels. These will take place in the Weltheim, the same world inhabited by the Journeyman in Gray.
Journeyman in Gray Page 21