by Ulff Lehmann
“Is there more?” Kildanor prodded.
“He became upset when people were treated unfairly. I mean he almost took it personally.”
“You changed tense a moment earlier, saying he is adamant about justice. What did you mean?”
“Listen, we may not be friends anymore, but if there is something I know about brothers-in-arms it’s that we have each other’s back, all the time.” Kerral spoke with such finality he knew the conversation was over.
“Thank you for your time, general,” he said with a brief nod, and then turned and headed back to Dawntreader.
Near Old Bridge, he had to wait as a crew of engineers maneuvered a bulky slingthrower down Trade Road. The pause gave him the opportunity to ponder what he had learned about Drangar. As Kerral, his best source so far, had pointed out, aside from the mercenary’s ferocity in battle and his miraculous survival of many engagements where he had charged the wall and succeeded, there were few indications that Ralgon knew about his abilities. The general hadn’t told him everything; the dismissal was indicator enough. Yet, with the city under siege there certainly were more important things to worry about.
The correction in tense, however, was something not as easily dismissed. “Was. No, is,” Kildanor muttered. When had Kerral last seen his former comrade? And what had caused this insight. Ralgon seemed fairly straightforward, but he hadn’t spent that much time with him. His stay in the dungeon had been brief if one discounted the time he was beyond sanity. He had been a member of the watch, and from what the other constables had said after the Cherkont Butchery, he had been firm in his belief of right and wrong even then. Why else would they have dismissed him as a suspect in the killing? His choice of profession back then appeared to have been driven by the same thirst for justice.
Finally, the slingthrower was off the bridge and the ammunition wagons that followed only occupied a third of the space. The oxen lumbered past, pulling carts loaded with massive rocks. A few of the carters recognized him, bobbed their heads in greeting, he nodded back. It was far too cold to exchange well-meant flatteries. He knew it, the drovers knew it, and a few moments later he was off the slightly trembling bridge.
Ealisaid! He had forgotten about her. Now that the Wizardess sprang back into his mind, he also recalled she had been imprisoned with Ralgon. “They must have spoken,” he mused, almost snarling at not remembering this information earlier. A sleepless yesterday had turned into today, and it seemed there was no end in sight.
CHAPTER 12
The past days were a blur, and after being told everything he had done since his return to Dunthiochagh, Jesgar could hardly blame anyone for shunning him. He sat alone in his den, the cozy second story room that had been his since he was young. Ben had been furious with him when he had come home late last night, utterly drunk. Now, with a Sword-Warden downstairs speaking with his brother, he had more time to reflect. He barely remembered what had transpired, and only recalled the heated argument of a few nights ago and his angry trek to the Tankard. After that everything was blank.
Earlier today he had been summoned to the Palace, and Baron Duasonh had given him an earful. He had spied on someone the Baron considered a guest. This deed alone he could hardly imagine. Then he had gone and betrayed this guest to a person he didn’t even know. That Duasonh’s guest was the second victim of the Cherkont Street butcher truly troubled him. He had been the first inside the house back then. Now that he thought about it, the memory of that warm summer night two years ago surged up. For months afterward, his sleep had been haunted by images of the slaughterhouse that was the main room. It had taken him even more months to push the memories away. The living corpse, or whatever the man was, had been the one living with the butchered victim. Rumor had it that he had done the deed himself. Not that it mattered. As he thought about the bloodied furniture and body pieces, the sick feeling he thought had gone resurfaced.
How had the stranger made him spy on this Ralgon person? By himself he would not have betrayed the Baron’s will, he and everyone else knew that. The question, however, remained.
Yes, he had, in his unique way, alerted the watch, and had done his part to catch the murderer. Somewhere deep inside, he realized he had well and truly wanted to see the one responsible for this hideous crime punished. Maybe the hooded man whom everyone was talking about had used his thirst for revenge against him. It certainly was a possibility, and now he had to prove he was still valuable to Duasonh.
There was a knock on the door, and the Sword-Warden entered, Ben trailing in his wake. “Yes?” Jesgar asked, briefly glancing at the pair.
“You are to come with me to the Palace, boy,” the older warrior stated. “If you resist…”
“I won’t resist,” he interrupted and stood. To Ben he said, “I’m sorry if I caused you trouble.”
Before his brother could reply, the Warden said, “The trouble you caused has nothing to do with your family, boy. There are far more influential people interested in seeing you pay for your idiocy.” The man stepped aside and pointed at the stairs. “Let’s go.”
As he passed Bennath, Jesgar said, “Sorry.” He wanted to say more, but his brother’s look of disappointment kept him silent. At the bottom of the steps stood Maire; she still wore her leather apron. Her eyes pierced him, two grim green beacons in a face that looked like sooty mask partitioned by sweat. She didn’t say a word.
He felt like a disappointment to all of them. At the door he cast another look back at Maire and his brother, his big arms around her shoulders, and it seemed as if he truly might never see them again. He donned his coat, was about to open the door, when his sister-in-law dashed forward, holding his eyes with her gaze.
“What made you do it?” she asked, choking back tears.
A sigh escaped his lips; he didn’t know and had already said so repeatedly. There was one thing he hadn’t told anyone yet. Taking a deep breath, he looked at each of them, first Ben, then the Warden, and finally Maire. “Two years ago, I stumbled onto the Cherkont Slaughterhouse. In a way, I alerted the watch, but they never caught the killer. I pushed the memory aside, thinking I’d never be able to do anything about it. Then, when I came back with the Riders, this man must have hinted at Ralgon being the murderer. At least that’s my guess now. Why he chose me, I know not.”
Ben frowned, the Warden scowled, but Maire leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Be honest, and I’m certain no harm will come to you.”
His brother merely grunted, shook his head and turned away. “Don’t mind him,” Maire whispered with a wink.
“All right, Garinad,” the Warden growled, “Let’s go.”
Off they went. His mare stood saddled next to the warrior’s horse. “Haven’t forgotten how to ride, have you?” the soldier asked as he swung onto his horse’s back.
Jesgar caught the derisive snort before it fully formed, and said, “No, sir.” Then he was in the saddle.
Nightlife had changed in the city. Every corner had constables standing at the ready. The southern wall was bustling with activity, even at this time of day. Lanterns flickered brightly onto the streets, and from the taverns they passed off-duty warriors who loudly complained about the prices for ale yet paid nonetheless. Beer was at a premium, and many a publican had realized the hard way, namely by way of smashed furniture, that the extortionate price of a leaf per pint was far too much. Even at a quarter-leaf getting drunk had become a luxury.
As their horses cantered into Dunth Street, with fog drifting again over the nearby banks, a band of Bows marched past them, heading for the eastern gate. The Warden gave a brief nod to their warleader, and then drove his steed on, glancing back to assure he was following.
They passed the bridge to Miller’s Strip. A few masons were still busy rigging the construction with easy-to-remove wedges so the entire thing would come crashing into the river with only a tug at either end. How the same could be done to Old Bridge, Jesgar had no idea.
He noticed as they crossed
Old Bridge that the stalls and booths on top of the bridge were still standing, at least some of them were. Already the paths were less obstructed, and some engineers had erected a bunch of tall, pike-like fences that were most likely supposed to be pulled across to hold back possible attackers. The fences, for lack of a better term, were lost in fog as they reached the moat.
“Ho!” the Sword-Warden said in a loud voice.
“Who goes there?” was the muffled reply from the gatehouse.
“It’s me Aubin. Get the bridge down!”
“Password?”
Sword-Warden Aubin grumbled, “If the bloody city was overrun I’d not be the only one waiting at the moat, idiot. Get the bloody bridge down!”
“I have my orders,” the guard replied. “And if you’re who you claim to be, you know the bleeding password!”
“All right,” Aubin said. “Sparrow, it is!”
In reply, the drawbridge creaked downward. The rising fog muffled the sounds. Jesgar followed the Warden’s example and dismounted, leading the mare across, only to stop short at the lowered portcullis.
“Oh, bugger this!” Aubin grumbled.
“Now the other one,” someone ordered; her voice barely audible through the mist.
To Jesgar the Warden muttered, “Bleeding security was lax for so many years and now they want passwords just to get to the jacks!”
“I have a good dozen crossbows pointed your way, moron,” the guard-woman hissed. “The second word now or you both’ll be pincushions!”
“All right, woman, relax!” the Warden snapped. Then, in a much quieter voice, he said, “Amber. Now let us pass, it’s bloody cold!”
The portcullis creaked upward. Uttering “finally” Aubin entered the barbican. Jesgar followed. He had been this way a few times by now and was familiar with the Palace layout. There was a creaking as the outer portcullis was lowered again, and the inner pulled up.
Even in the outer bailey the fogbanks covered everything beyond a score of yards or so. “Stay close to me,” the Warden muttered, his voice near and yet distant.
“I know the way,” he retorted.
“Sure, but do you know the word?” There was an amused snort. “I doubt you do.” He didn’t and walked close to the warrior. “Besides,” Aubin continued, “it wouldn’t look good for me, and most certainly not for you, if you were to appear before the Baron without me.”
Jesgar’s sigh created its own cone of fog.
The mist had a profound effect on his mood, more so than the longwinded speech Ben had given him earlier. What would Baron Duasonh do? How could he justify his actions? He couldn’t. Scales, he wasn’t responsible for what had happened. He’d been drugged, manipulated but how could he prove that?
“Pass…” a man said from inside the gatehouse in front.
“Bloodthorn,” Warden Aubin interrupted. “Now open the damn thing, it’s cold!”
Jesgar couldn’t be sure, but it sounded as if Aubin wasn’t as gruff as he had been back home. Maybe they all were having a good laugh on his account? The portcullis creaked up and down, then the other. Finally, they stood before the gate that led into the keep.
“Culann!” Aubin barked.
“Yes, sir!” a voice answered.
“Get your ass over here and take care of the horses,” the Warden ordered. “You know the way to the audience chamber, boy, eh?” the Warden asked him. “If you don’t, ask one of the lads inside; Lord Duasonh is expecting you.”
“That’s it?” he asked, astonished.
“Want a pat on the back?”
“Uh,” he stammered.
“Didn’t think so. Was supposed to get you here, my job’s done, now bugger off, all right?”
“Uh… yes…”
“Yes, sir, if you please,” Aubin grinned. “Now get going, the Baron don’t like stragglers!”
“Yes, sir,” Jesgar said smartly as he rushed off.
The audience chamber was dimly lit, and he could barely see the walls. Shadows of cloth and hints of weaponry and armor were all he could see to his left and right, behind massive pillars. Some flickering torches were held in sconces, giving the room an eerie feel.
At the far end, illuminated by a trio of lanterns, stood a table, surrounded by half a dozen chairs, its broad side facing the entrance. Jesgar halted as the door was closed behind him. He waited, unsure of what to do.
“Is that him?” a woman, her voice rheumy with age, asked.
“Aye,” a man—the Baron—replied.
“The Chosen cleared him of all suspicion, yet you want me to see if there is any duplicity in his words?” another man inquired.
So that’s what this was about.
“He might not have been master of his senses, but Úistan Cahill wants the damages repaired,” Baron Duasonh said.
“So? This is your creature, your responsibility.”
“Upholder,” Duasonh said, “I want to determine if he has been under the influence the entire time so that I don’t have to pay for the damages.”
This was about repairs and replacing destroyed property? He couldn’t believe it. All this pomp just to have them find out he knew nothing about the past few days.
“Hah!” the Upholder said. “Well then, step forward young Garinad.” Jesgar did as asked, took a few tentative paces toward the table, and then paused. “Closer, lad, I need to see your mug.” Again, he complied. “Ah, that’s better.”
Now he saw the three people sitting around the table clearly. At the center, as expected, Baron Duasonh, to his right an elderly man in the garb of Lliania, and to his left a bent, wrinkly woman in the priestly robes of Traghnalach, who must have bribed a whole army of Deathmasks just to escape the inevitable.
“Garinad, this is Upholder Coimharrin, and this is Librarian Megan,” the Baron introduced the two. “I need you to tell us all you remember of the events following your departure from Lord Nerran’s Riders.”
So he did. His tale was short, and at the end he wasn’t sure whether his audience was satisfied. He finished by saying, “I assume this mage managed to control me through the lingering feeling of helplessness still inside of me, even after two years.”
“Two years after what, lad?” Coimharrin inquired.
Swallowing, Jesgar said, “The Cherkont Massacre, sir.”
“What’s that got to do with him controlling you?” the Librarian asked.
“Well, I tried to push my revulsion at the slaughter away, but some part of me always wanted to find the killer and bring him to justice.” This was as much as he had ever spoken of the event. He hated talking about that night in Cherkont.
“What do you mean?” Duasonh said, leaning forward.
“I… I was the first at the scene of the crime, milord,” he said hesitantly.
“Elaborate,” the Baron commanded.
“You know of my past, milord?” He waited a moment, and then continued, “That night, I was in a house perusing the library. Some other man broke into the place, so I smashed a window to alert the watch and took off. I evaded a whole bunch of patrols and finally hid in a house up in Cherkont Street. Its door was open, and when I had the time to look around, I discovered the crime scene. I smashed another window, got out, and ran.” He swallowed. “I didn’t sleep for days.”
“None of those who saw that place did, son,” the Baron said. Was that appreciation in the noble’s eyes?
“I always wanted to get the killer,” Jesgar added.
“Understandably so,” Upholder Coimharrin said. “I see you’ve done your own bit of thinking there, lad, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
Turning to the Baron, the Upholder stated, “There’s no deception in him, none that I can tell at least. Telling whether somebody speaks the truth is tricky business, milord.”
Baron Duasonh rubbed his face with both hands and said, “I know, Upholder, you told me the same when you told me Ralgon was innocent.”
“Yes, but the intricacies of the human mind ar
e quite a marvel. The lad here might only think he knows nothing…”
“I take your word for it,” Duasonh interrupted. He took a deep breath and glanced at the Librarian. “Can he do it?”
“I heard others of our temple speak highly of this boy, quick on the uptake and all,” Megan of Traghnalach said. She gave Jesgar a predatory smile. “Aye, he can do it.”
“Do what?” he blurted out.
“You’ll speak when spoken to,” Duasonh retorted.
“He’ll need to work on his manners,” Coimharrin muttered. “Manners are always important.”
Smirking, Duasonh shook his head.
What were they talking about? His manners were fine! Then he recalled the conversation he and Kildanor had had when he had been locked up in the palace dungeon. Gods, what was he to learn now?
The Upholder caught his eye with a wink. “You wanted to be a spy, lad, now you’ll become one.”
Was the priest still in his head?
“Oh, sorry,” the old man muttered, pouring himself a glass of water.
“Hmm?” the Baron asked.
“Oh, nothing, just forgot something.”
Arching an eyebrow, Duasonh looked from priest to him and back again. “Nothing,” Jesgar said, shaking his head.
“Well, be that as it may, these two worthy clerics have agreed to tutor you in customs, laws, and dialects,” the Baron said, making his greatest worry come true: he had to learn noble nonsense.
“Dialects, milord?” he inquired.
“Sure, those from the north may speak the same tongue as we do, but their inflection is somewhat different. When you infiltrate the court at Herascor you will have to pass as one of them. This means you need to speak like the Chanastardhians do, know about their customs, laws, history.”
“Don’t forget table manners,” Librarian Megan said.
“To quote a dear friend of mine,” the Baron added with a nod. “Stop being so damn ignorant!”
“Hear, hear,” Coimharrin added.