by Luke Webster
“I’d say… lucky bastards. You know the drill though, I can’t let anyone in or out during off-peak times without checking what’s in the hold.”
“Make an exception,” Damian’s guard called back with a serious smile. It sparked suspicion, the young watchman taking a renewed interest in the carriage.
“Rules is rules,” Jimmy could be heard saying. “You know what they’d do to me if someone got snuck out of the citadel and I was on watch.”
“You know what Gehrig will do to you if this wine man don’t get back soon with another cask?”
There was a pause of thought as a response.
“Nah, I’ve got to do it,” he decided. “Just make it quick and he can go.”
A pouch was revealed from under the driver’s cloak.
“I’m in a real hurry,” said the mysterious driver, tossing the bag to Jimmy’s feet, the coins rattling inside.
“What the fuck’s going on here,” Jimmy recoiled, aware of the setup. He arched around, trying to unpin the cold musket from his belt. It was a mistake, a bolt flared out from under the driver’s coat hitting Jimmy’s chest and passing clean through. At first the guards didn’t comprehend, raising their own muskets and pulling the triggers, the weapons frozen in the icy morning cold, failing to discharge. Jimmy stared at them with confused eyes, a small round dent in his plate. As he fell, face slamming into the cobblestones, the two citadel guards recoiled. The crossbow bolt had sucked out a loin of meat through the rear of the plate, dragging the tissue with it as it buried in a stone wall behind.
“Open the gate,” the driver commanded them in an emotionless voice. They complied, operating the spoke wheel that turned a chain, dragging the doors inward. The carriage left, leaving the two guards to clean up.
After spending more than two weeks locked in a cell Fredrick’s entire being was twitching with impatience. The trip dragged on, the casks bouncing in the back of the wagon as the wheels skipped over the roads of Ironwood’s wealthy quarters. They were stopped at a gate, guards letting them pass with the taste of coin, a smuggling merchant no concern of theirs.
Fredrick lost track of the twists and turns, confused to their whereabouts in the city. He breathed in relief when they stopped. The cask lid cracked off, a light sky showing a flash of dawn. Justin stepped out of his casket with a pale face and rickety legs, his woolen leggings stained with urine.
“Was yours half full of wine?” Fredrick laughed in good spirits. He stopped to admire the view, taking time to breathe in the subtle scent of pine that hung over the estate. “Where are we?”
“A well to do merchant by the name of Grammon Retcleft has agreed to smuggle you out of the city,” Justin told him, suppressing vomit. “He is a pleasure of a man… hardworking and wise. You might get a chance to meet him.”
Fredrick hoped so, he wanted to express his thanks as much as possible.
“This is a grand estate,” Fredrick remarked, impressed by the sight of trees in the barren valley.
“He is very wealthy… and well connected. He knows your father.”
Fredrick smiled again at the news. His father was alive, a miracle in his mind.
“We go inside,” their guide informed them, leaving the fake wine carriage in the hands of a stumbling stable boy. Fredrick followed inside without a care, taking little notice of the expensive wooden skirting that decked the manor’s lobby. Subtle incense hung in the air, a fresh start to a better life.
“The master will see you,” the nameless man told them. Fredrick and Justin were surprised, expecting the man of wealth to lie in bed at the earliest hour. They strode up carpeted stairs, the thick wool dampening their tread.
“May I bathe first?” Fredrick asked, conscious of the stink that clung to him.
“Later. I’m under orders to bring you straight away. The master is anxious to see you in the flesh.”
“More like our hired thug here wants to get paid as soon as he can,” Justin whispered to Fredrick, staying behind the menacing figure.
They entered a chamber set with an Oak desk and bookcase, adorned with minimal distractions. A man stood by a fireplace set to the side of the room, staring into the spitting pine fire.
“Master Retcleft,” Justin smiled. “I present you Fredrick Themmond, son of Andrew Themmond.”
The portly man raised his head, examining the boy with piercing eyes. He did not smile.
“Master Retcleft?” Fredrick asked.
“You have me mistaken child,” he answered, stepping forward. “My name is Geoffrey Goldshore.”
36
Bitter scowls etched the faces of the Creators and Wrathman as Pilus stood to vote. As head priest it was his duty to speak on behalf of Aea-Baeni. The coup had run as planned, the Singers had voted against their established alliance with the intention of forming a new coalition. Pilus cherished the moment, standing before the council as the newest member with the deciding vote. Callis sat by his side stone-faced.
“What vote does Aea-Baeni take, Brother?” Gaius Ipsum smiled, expecting victory.
“The Beastmen have chosen their path,” Pilus answered. “We vote to support the inauguration and placement of Sir James Pierce to warden of the state.”
Gaius’ mouth hung agape, as did many of the plotters. There was collective relief from the coalition, expecting to be toppled. They had lost one ally only to join with another.
“Then it has been decided. Lord Pierce, under sponsor of the regent’s council and support of El-Manati by a vote of five to four, shall be granted warden.” Isheal Esum, Ihn priest of Ide-Beldnae, stated.
The chamber fell into an echo of buzzing voices and accusing glances. The two heads of Aea-Baeni sat, accepting the glares and returning sly smiles.
“You have made too many enemies tonight,” Gaius whispered as he passed, the betrayed knight furious.
“It comes with power,” Callis recalled. The chambers emptied, leaving the faction leaders of the Creators and Wrathmen behind. They chatted amongst themselves, plying their thoughts together and structuring reason. Callis watched them approach and smiled a greeting.
“Brothers, it seems you have thwarted an embarrassing coup,” Isheal announced, offering a warm hand.
“We played our advantage,” Callis agreed.
“Some warning would have been appreciated,” grumbled Tyrus Esum. As a priest of Ea-Minae he disliked Aea-Baeni most of all.
“It was not possible,” Callis lied. “As a meakling faction we were not told till tonight about the plan. We had little chance to offer anything up.”
“You acted stern enough though,” Rigulus Ipsum commented, Tyrus’ counterpart.
“We acted like Beastmen,” Pilus interjected. “It is in our nature to seek advantage for ourselves.”
“And that has served us,” Isheal agreed.
“Are we to take these men into our cloister?” asked Tyrus.
“The singers have no chorus left. The howls of the beast will replace their music.”
“The beast does not howl,” spat Tyrus.
“It will for us, as long as there is power in the alliance.”
“Brother Isheal is correct. The beast seeks to hunt as a pact,” Callis agreed.
“The beast is treacherous,” Tyrus grumbled his skepticism.
Pilus barked at the comment, staring down the fat belted priest.
“Brother Tyrus, as a craftsman surely you believe that all terrors can be trained?”
“Take no heed of our vocal friend,” Isheal soothed. “Brother Tyrus rightly feels vulnerable. As so many do, he is acting out his primal urges as a means of defence. Sensibility and time will sooth.”
“I must admit that I expected less anger from a Craftsman and more from a Wrathman.” smiled Pilus.
“Young brother, not everything is so clear in these ashen days. I wish to welcome you to the fold on behalf of Ide-Beldnae,” Isheal responded.
“And of Ea-Minae,” Rigulus continued. “Despite your unexpect
ed forging it is a welcome change. After nine years even the sweetest singer’s voice will grate.”
“Then I would toast to change,” Callis declared, holding out his drink.
Tyrus left before his companions could take cups, leaving three elders to bond with the new alliance. They spoke of changes and plans, of a crippled regency and burgeoning nobility. The leaders explained their support for Pierce, arguing that as a military man and known drunk he would be easy to manipulate. The church wanted more influence in foreign affairs, not only as a means of spreading faith but as a way of increasing recruits.
“The Imperial Empire has long been founded in stark religious tradition,” Iulis noted, Isheal’s other. “Ea-Manati has never been more than an interesting footnote in their own mess of complicated gods and temples. Yet this kingdom that foams in the west is not so secure in its beliefs. They are a people dedicated to personal gain and wealth over traditionalist ways.”
“The barbarians would sell their gods at the right price,” Callis agreed, thinking back to the few documentaries he had read on the Kingdom. “You plan to fill the ranks with them?”
“Only certain ranks. What good would it be of us to bring in recruits if they simply filter into other factions?”
“Importing these men is not the challenge. Convincing them to form their factions early is. Under church law, factions cannot advertise their province with the aim of filling the ranks. It is a choice made during the inauguration, years after their initiation.”
“But there are no laws against the regent advertising to foreigners,” Callis understood, a light head from the heavy wine. “Then why the wait till now?”
“Circumstance and timing. Few barbarians would willingly come to our treacherous door without the thought of profit first. We have sent many missionaries into the Kingdom with the aim of provoking lust for wealth, walking under the guise of Ea-Manati, but it is not enough. The regents command foreign law. If this Pierce can be convinced to pay for each immigrant prepared to swear an oath to Ea-Minae or Ide-Beldnae… or Aea-Baeni, then we can swell our ranks.”
“And then?” Callis could formulate his own ideas, but wanted to hear them from the source.
“Then we grow strong,” Isheal frowned. Callis did not probe further, knowing it was not yet warranted. “You should feel honoured to be let into the pact at this late hour. It has been many years in the making.”
“Yet the Singers were prepared to pull out of the deal.”
“They felt marginalized,” Iulis admitted. “A mistake that will not be repeated. Perhaps the Beast is a more fitting figure in this alliance either way.”
“It is,” Pilus stated without an emotion on his face.
37
“Idiot boy,” growled Freeman, storming in red-faced, his beard contorted with snarling lips. “You have given the Themmond child to the Goldshores.”
Damian looked up from his plate, stunned by his teacher’s entrance.
“Excuse me?” He stuttered, dropping a silver fork beside a half-eaten chicken breast.
“The boy… Fredrick. He’s in the hands of his accusers now, and it’s thanks to you.”
Damian could not believe it, he stuttered, trying to deny the truth.
“That’s impossible,” he cried.
“You helped lead the child out of the citadel. Do you not understand that he was being led by a Goldshore agent?”
“His father…” Damian began.
“His father is a skun corpse lying in the forests of Northane Proper. You have been fooled.”
Damian could not believe him, standing to face the old man. He tried to pass, to seek the news from someone else. An arm barred his way, bony fingers coiling around his slender arm. Freeman looked down on the boy.
“Your friend is bound to the noble’s court now, there is no stopping that.”
“But the law stated…”
“That he would be tried while under our provision. We have lost him, thanks to you.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Then believe the council if you must. They gather now in the chambers.” He swung up his arm, letting the Damian through and following at his own pace.
The councilors noted Damian’s presence with surprise.
“Here he is now,” Damon whispered to Stephen, watching the young boy approach. “Welcome lord. What do we owe the honour?”
“Master says that Freddy is with the Goldshores, is this true?”
“It is,” grumbled Stephen in a foul mood. “And I hear that you were instrumental in his capture.”
“It was foolish not to consult with us first,” berated Clarissa, showing no respect for the young lord.
“This is illegal,” Damian protested, ignoring the complaints. “He must be brought back immediately.”
“He is under the noble’s provision now,” continued Clarissa. “The law favours the possessor.”
“But the court’s had favoured the regency,” he continued.
“The regent’s court favoured the regency,” Damon jumped in. “And he is no longer under that code.”
“Then we must launch an appeal.”
“We could,” stated Freeman, walking up behind the child. “But he would be executed before any decision could be sought. The two courts work independently of each other, an appeal does not guarantee a halt to the execution process.”
Damian gulped, his eyes welling.
“Then what do we do?”
“Nothing,” stated the old man, rounding the table and sitting in his leather chair. “There is nothing we can do for him… not within reason. The council will not risk the regency over the head of a spoilt foreigner.”
“Send a troop of men to take him back.”
Several councilors chuckled.
“And start a war with the nobles?” Damon asked.
“I command you to,” Damian ordered with his most authoritarian voice.
“There are many factors at work here young sir,” Stephen cut in. “Attacking the Goldshore house would be a fast way of bonding the families. Before you know it their troops would swarm the castle and quickly depose of all they see fit. The council is here to make decisions in the absence of your father, or a replacement. Until then we are the regency.”
“There is little that can be done for your friend now. If he is fated to join his father in the afterworld then it shall happen as such,” struck in Damon with a dry tongue
“It is hard to lose close friends,” Maria interjected. “The council sympathizes for you but our hands can not be played on this matter. Mourn your friend and carry on.”
Damian looked at each in turn, disappointed by their lack of support. He turned without word, pushing past the guards and descending deep into the castle.
Damian rushed through the barracks, searching for Bryce. He found him asleep in a bunk, resting from a nightwatch.
“Wake up,” Damian sputtered through tears.
Seeing the distress, Bryce bolted upright, scrambling for a weapon in his groggy state. “What is it?” He mumbled.
“It’s Fredrick. The nobles have him.”
Bryce swore at the news, pulling over his guard’s tunic.
“We need to get him back,” Damian said.
The soldier looked down at the pitiful child.
“What can we do?” he asked.
“Do we not have agents too?”
Bryce shook his head.
“They’re expensive. You know how the regency is kept in line. There is no money in the treasury for that type of thing.”
“There must be someone we can turn to?”
Bryce looked the child up and down, measuring him.
“Perhaps, though they are undesirable,” he whispered, taking care of those sleeping close by.
“Who’s they?” Damian looked hopeful.
“Your father once sent me on an errand. There are those in the city who can achieve things that are out of our reach. They might offer you a favour but they
would expect something in return.”
“Such as?”
“I couldn’t say. They might see it in their advantage to help you, but it wouldn’t be free.”
“If it saves Freddy it would be worth it.”
Bryce breathed hard, aware of the danger.
“Get a carriage ready and meet me in the stable.”
Damian looked like a tiny child in the high backed Imperial-styled throne. He sat with nervous fingers as Gerard Jacobmann lit an elaborate black pipe, thick plumes of smoke swirling up.
“I must admit, it is a rare thing to have one such as yourself visit,” Gerard smiled, waving out a coal and flint lighter. “Usually my patrons rely on emissaries,” he noted, eyeing Bryce standing behind the child.
“Sir Steward wished on your presence personally,” the soldier informed, aware that Gerard disliked high society in his house, the arrival open to prying eyes.
“I am sure. And what would our young lord ask of someone lowborn?”
Damian shuffled and tried to sit upright.
“I beg a favour of you,” he offered, unsure how to broach the delicate matter. Gerard remained silent, prompting Damian to continue. “Within the citadel a foreigner was held prisoner awaiting trial. He was my friend and under my father’s protection.”
“I know this story,” Gerard butted in.
“He is no longer our captive,” Damian continued.
“He has been taken from you, and you want him back, Gerard said. “But human theft is a trade that I seldom deal in, nor would I expect cheap coin in return.”
“I have little wealth,” Damian admitted.
Gerard sucked on his pipe, inhaling the acrid smoke.
“Leave us,” he ordered Bryce.
The soldier hesitated for a moment, not wanting to see Damian trapped alone, but he knew his place. Gerard waited until the guard was gone, leaving him alone with Damian, before continuing.
“Do not put such faith in soldiers, no matter how noble,” advised the old man. “They say that you have older sisters.”
“Two.”
“So you are a long stretch from the regent’s seat.”
“No,” Damian blurted. “My father wished to raise me as heir.”