by Dora Machado
Hato’s long face took on the bovine expression of his last victim. She had been the worst, mostly because Hato had conspired to bring her to him when he was drunk. Intoxicated with grief, despair, rage, and great quantities of sweet Laonian wine, Bren had loathed her from the start, hated everything about her, her looks, her overly sweet scent, her stupidity, the way she babbled uselessly when she spoke, the fact that she knew what he was the minute she saw the raw scar on his face.
He was beyond the darkness by then, beyond drunkenness and madness. He’d had no compassion for her. She had cried and begged. She had even tried to kill him a time or two. Regretfully, he had survived to swiftly murder her. He had treated her almost as badly as fate had treated him, callously, thoughtlessly, brutally. She had died cursing a cursed man.
The women plagued his nightmares. Those ghastly faces haunted his dreams and every day of his cursed existence with no respite in sight. He wondered if his brothers had felt the same way. Had they found any solace at the end?
In contrast, it was a sweet voice that whispered in his ears. “Hush, my lord, don’t cry.” A cool touch eased the heat in his skin. “You’ll get better. You’ll see. You’ll get well.”
It was the worst of his options, to get better, to keep living. He wanted to beg her to kill him, to save herself, to avenge the others with a quick thrust to the heart and end it all. But his lips wouldn’t work and his will faltered when she held him, as if he had a right to be cared for, as if his life was important for more than just righting his house’s doomed legacy.
Laonia, he wanted to beg. Let me be free of myself.
Instead, he got better. The pain subsided. The nightmares relented. And one day he woke up in the strangest place.
Chapter Twenty-nine
DISGUISED IN A COMMON CLOAK, HATO waited impatiently in the dark alleyway behind the tavern. A single, sputtering torch burned by the back door. A mangy mongrel was Hato’s only companion at the moment. The sorry beast was probably responsible for the stench of piss scenting the crumbling stoop where he sat. Anxious for a handout, the pitiful creature thumped a scrawny tail every time he met its watery eyes. Hato took a deep breath, willing his impatience to ease.
They had found no traces of Bren anywhere. Hato had followed every lead, visited every town along the Nerpes, inquired in every stead and village within fifty leagues, but to no avail. His lord was nowhere to be found.
The Twenty were looking ragged. The unit’s morale was at a new low. Hato could tell their hope was waning. Tempers were short. Fights flared often. How much longer could the Twenty endure the wait’s enormous pressure?
The tavern’s back door swung open, releasing a burst of rancorous laughter into the silent night. A drunk staggered along the alleyway. He was by himself, so he wasn’t Hato’s man. As he stumbled past, he threw a coin at Hato’s feet. “Here, old tramp, get yourself a drink.”
How low had he fallen?
The mutt sniffed the coin, licking the salt from the tarnished copper. Hato found himself resenting his lord Edmund for the millionth time. What did you do, Edmund? How did you bring such a terrible curse upon yourself, your sons, and Laonia?
He remembered the time following Edmund’s sudden death. Hato and his newly minted network had investigated all possible causes that could have led someone to conjure the virulent curse against his lord and his house, including scorned lovers, rival highborn, crossed foes, greedy friends, debtors, lenders, resentful vassals, vengeful husbands, aggrieved citizens, all of whom Edmund collected in high quantities. Everything and everybody had been an object of scrutiny. Back then, Hato had believed that if he understood who had conjured the curse and why, his lords might be able to beat it.
If only it would have been that simple.
Hato had called on Teos’s expertise to conduct an exhaustive inquiry, not just on Laonian suspects, but on ruling highborn, especially Riva, Hato’s first and strongest suspect. Teos had sent a delegation. They had journeyed far and wide to question every possible suspect with their infallible methods. Who had the skills to conjure such an abomination? Who had the coin to command such lethal power? Who had the will to defy Teos’s proscriptions?
The land had long been cleansed of the odd and the powerful. Teos’s prohibition had ensured that anybody with knowledge of curses would never speak of such things again. Riva’s persecutions had killed anyone with the talent or the desire to understand a curse as well. It was no wonder that Teos’s inquiries yielded no real suspect.
The Chosen’s study of Edmund’s curse had no better results. The curse included both a clause of silence and a curse of curses, frightening the scholars with a powerful spell of contagion. Word got around. Nobody wanted to call a curse on their lives by meddling with Edmund’s virulent curse. Instead, Teos’s scholars ended their inquiries with uncommon haste, retreating from Laonia like rats fleeing before the floods.
The analogy was particularly pertinent. The floods that afflicted Laonia in the year of Edmund’s death were an unprecedented catastrophe. Edmund’s oldest son, Ethan, spent the last year of his life fighting the deluge. He was a warrior at heart, but death caught him by surprise on the anniversary of his father’s demise.
Ethan’s death revealed the ironic twist conjured into the devious curse. In order to understand the true meaning of a curse, the cursed had to endure the ague’s madness. Only while in the madness could a cursed subject correctly interpret the curse’s provisions. Without the madness, the words in a curse were easy to misconstrue, a bunch of sentences mischievously assembled to deceive, confuse and misdirect.
As Ethan went into the ague’s madness, his deteriorating mind was able to grasp the meaning of Edmund’s curse. Gaining clarity from losing his wits, Ethan told Hato and his brothers how to stop the floods punishing Laonia and what to do next. Then he died, leaving Robert, Harald, Bren and Hato to carry on the fight to defeat the curse.
The mongrel’s ears perked up in expectation when Hato spoke aloud. “Edmund, my friend, you’ve really done it this time. You screwed your kids, Laonia, all of us.”
Following Ethan’s revelations, Robert—Edmund’s second son—swore in the original Twenty. With that action, he stopped the floods but broadened the curse’s misery. He spent the last two years of his life scouring his father’s library alongside Hato. It was Robert who found the riddle and it was Robert, who in his death madness unleashed the hunt, the test, and the trial, confirming once and for all not just the curse’s foul legacy, but Hato’s despicable part in the horrible production.
The tavern’s back door swung open again. Hato’s knee smarted as he rose to his feet, recognizing the brawny shadows of Cirillo and Petrus, flanking the cowering man they dragged along. The scrawny fellow reminded Hato of the wretched dog cowering at his feet. Sensing trouble, the whimpering pup crept away into the darkness.
“You might be able to outrun an old man,” Hato said, “but outfox me? I don’t think so.”
“I wasn’t running, my lord.” The man stammered. “I was just quenching my thirst—”
“You were spending my money, money you haven’t earned yet.”
“I went to the dungeons, my lord. I spoke to my cousin, I swear!”
“We know you did.”
The man shuddered visibly. “You had me watched?”
Hato flashed his best chilling smile. “Bribery is seldom an act of trust.”
“Your man’s not there,” the man said. “I swear by my mother’s life, he’s not in Riva’s dungeon.”
“What about the secret dungeon?” Hato said. “Did you ask your cousin, the prison warden, if he had tortured a man such as the one I described to you?”
“He hasn’t, my lord. He would’ve remembered a scarred face such as the one you seek.”
“If I find out you’ve told me lies ….”
The man’s eyes widened in terror. “There’s something else, my lord, but you’ve got to spare me. I did your bidding. You can’t hold me respons
ible for bad news.”
“Petrus here has been known to crush a man’s gullet with his bare hands.” Hato stared at his nails. “My man Cirillo prefers to skin his prey alive.”
“It’s not my fault, my lord. I was just carrying out your orders—”
Hato clutched the man’s chin and brought his face close to his. “Speak the truth or hold your silence … for good.”
“He’s dead.” The man spat. “My cousin heard the rumor from some of the Lord Orell’s men, who were celebrating their victory. Your lord is done and dead.”
* * *
The men of the Twenty were waiting for Hato when he arrived at the barn where they had taken refuge for the night. Cirillo had run ahead with the news. Somber faces turned to Hato, hoping to hear something different. Hato wanted to point out how convenient the Lord of Laonia’s death would be for Riva, how the king would be wise to have his men spread such news throughout the kingdom and abroad. But Hato’s voice wilted in his throat. He knew how the men felt—hopeless, because they had heard the news they had been dreading; old and pained like his gouty bones.
Old Petrus unsheathed his sword and, placing it gently on the ground, took a knee before Hato. The sound of metal deserting scabbards rang like a somber song in the barn. Nineteen men dropped their swords at Hato’s feet. From young Clio to Cirillo, one by one, all of the men knelt. Hato felt ancient. For the first time in his life, he wanted to cry his old man’s tears.
“What’s this?” Severo said, entering the barn with his horse in tow after days on the road. “What’s happening?”
“It’s my lord.” Clio sniffed. “He’s dead.”
“Dead?” Severo’s dark complexion turned ashen. “How? When?”
“Word is he drowned almost two weeks ago,” Cirillo said.
“Two weeks ago?”
“It must have been right around the time we found his chest plates by the mire,” Clio said. “Our lord’s dead. Laonia’s dead.”
“He can’t be dead,” Severo said.
“It’s difficult to believe,” Hato said, “but we have our duty—”
“He can’t be dead,” Severo repeated. “Your reports said he died two weeks ago. Right?”
“Yes?”
“I have reports that my lord was seen at the thirteenth temple a week ago.”
Hato caught his breath. “Are those reports credible?”
“I heard it straight from the garrison,” Severo said. “Then I also spoke to a group of Ascended traveling from the thirteenth temple to Teos only hours ago. They swore they spoke the truth.”
New breath entered Hato’s lungs.
“Perhaps King Riva planted those rumors,” Petrus said, “to deceive us, to conceal his intentions towards Laonia.”
“It’s possible,” Hato said. “We’re going to need to sort out these reports properly. Get up, all of you. Sheathe your swords. We’ve got work to do.”
“There’s something else, my lord,” Severo said. “I wasn’t sure what to make of it, so I thought it best to bring it to your attention.”
“What is it?”
Severo cracked opened one of the barn’s doors to reveal a most curious sight. “Him.”
Chapter Thirty
THERE WERE SOME ADVANTAGES TO BEING a cursed man, Bren realized when he opened his eyes. Even the strangest of places were plausible when you were the blight of your line. So were the weirdest of people. Even the oddest occurrences were most likely probable—if not real—when you were the last of a cursed line.
He lay on a cot amidst shelves loaded with casks and barrels, towering above him in orderly rows. He got dizzy just looking. There were little casks, big barrels, jugs and jars, tall, long, flat, round, all labeled with tiny letters that taunted his eyes. A number of smaller bottles and strange preparations lined up on a makeshift counter in the corner. A million smells tickled his nose, some familiar, some unknown.
He spotted his cloak and sword laying on one of the larger barrels in the corner. Next to it, a man sat on a stool in total stillness. He was an old, shriveled, sinewy, little sliver of a man, thinner than a reed and no taller than a child. His face was as dark and shrunken as a dry prune and his head was topped by a tuft of curly white hair.
“Who by the Twins are you?” Bren asked.
The joyless flash of crooked teeth must have been the little man’s version of a smile. “There’s good in darkness. There’s truth in lies. I’m Carfu. She bid me to stay with you.”
“You mean Lusielle? She brought me here?”
“She brought you here, all right, not heeding our advice.” The man spoke with a thick accent. “She fixed you for many days. Ashes from Chirpus she used, and blue salt from Mauta; dry leaves of the acanticus tree and toasted seeds from the Brethin’s seaweed. She infused the Atina rose in oil with pink pepper and dressed your wounds with her special blends. No one else can work the remedies like our mistress.”
“Where’s she now?”
“If I understood any of what she said, she went to fetch your wares.” He made no effort to hide his antipathy for Bren. “I told her not to go. It’s dangerous out there. But she’s a willful child. She’s always been so.”
It was a lot to absorb. Bren’s mind whirled into slow, painful action. “You’re not from around here. Have you known Lusielle since she was young?”
“We hail from the lands beyond the Wilds. I served her mother. To her credit, Lusielle could have sold us when the inn burned, but she wouldn’t.”
“She would’ve sold herself before she sold a person.”
Carfu’s brows climbed on his narrow forehead. “So you do know her. She married that son of a whore instead. We don’t like him.”
“We?”
“My brother and I. He’s not here at the moment. He’s running an errand for the mistress. We discussed you. You are one of those Twin-loving highborn thugs, aren’t you? Stay away from our mistress. You shouldn’t be here.”
“I see that you and you mistress share an unshakable affection for us highborn.” Bren knew better than to argue the point. “If you loathe highborn so much, why did you and your brother allow me to stay here?”
“She asked and we couldn’t refuse her. Not her. Every place is dangerous for our mistress right now.”
As if Bren didn’t know. “Where are we?”
“You’re in Bovair, in a warehouse, the mistress’s idea. Before he married her, the master lost many of his products to the weather and the long transports. But the mistress, she counseled the master to purchase warehouses at the river ports, to ensure the merchandise’s proper storage and quick distribution. The foul master likes his money. The mistress, she made it for him.”
By the turd of the gods. He was in Aponte Rummins’s warehouse! Had Lusielle taken leave of her senses? Did she know the risk she was running?
Carfu read the concern on his face. “The master is not due for a few days yet, but rumors fly like pigeons. The mistress shouldn’t be out and about. But she is. Because of you.”
“I have to find her.” Bren tried to get up, ignoring his body’s weakness and the pull of the stitches on his back. But it was the sudden blow he took to the head that had him seeing white flashes.
“The mistress said not to let you out of that cot.” The little man wielded a hefty club between his hands. “It’s nothing to me if I break your proud lord’s head, but by her orders, you’re staying there.”
“You didn’t have to clobber me!” Bren rubbed his throbbing head. “I want to help her.”
“You think you can help?” Carfu said. “Well, you don’t help. The mistress works. The mistress helps. But who helps her? Nobody but Carfu and Elfu will help her.”
“If you care about her so much, how come you stayed with her beastly husband to work in his warehouse when he turned her over to the magistrate?”
The man’s scowl revealed that Bren had scored a low blow. “Elfu and I, we found out about the trouble when it was too late. The warehouse
was far from the mistress. She placed us here, so we wouldn’t make trouble with the master. The way he treats her. It wasn’t right.”
Bren found himself in the odd position of agreeing with the strange little man and equally angry. “Why didn’t you leave?”
“We wouldn’t think of it while the mistress was married to him. After she was taken, we had few options. My brother and I, we don’t have another place to go. Nobody hires us, on account that we’re foreigners. We heard she had escaped. We thought maybe she would come back for us. And she did.” He smiled, a blood-chilling grimace on his ugly face.
Enough talk. Bren wasn’t going to be held back by this sliver of a man who favored his club over his words. He was going to find Lusielle before Aponte Rummins or Orell’s men caught up with her. He planted his bare feet on the cold floor.
“Perhaps if I break your knees …” Carfu said.
Bren caught the club, threw it away and lunged toward his sword. He didn’t get far. The little man was on him like an owl on a mouse, locking his claws around Bren’s throat. The full shock of Carfu’s feet landed on his chest. Still weak from his ordeal, Bren tumbled back onto the cot under an avalanche of compact muscle and hard bone.
It struck Bren that wherever Carfu hailed from, people were small of size but huge in strength. As long as Bren remained in the cot, Carfu’s grip relented, but if he tried to bolt, the little man was on him like a rabid skunk. For all his grit, he could have been one of his Twenty.
“Stop!” Lusielle cried, running down one of the long, narrow aisles. “Carfu, get off him. He’s hurt, remember? I told you. He’s wounded!”
“You told me to keep him in the cot.”
“I didn’t tell you to hurt him.” Lusielle tried to disentangle the men from each other, succeeding only at adding her person to the growing pile of people straining the cot. “Let go,” she said to Bren. “Carfu won’t relent unless you do.”
It took all of his self control to release the little man. That and the subversive punch Carfu managed to land on his wounded side, which left Bren reeling. Lusielle pushed Carfu off the cot, scolding him for his lack of consideration. Bren just lay there, catching his breath, clutching the blanket, staring at the flashing lights.