“We do not ‘gossip’,” countered Brindig. “We are members of the Watch. We accumulate and dispense information.”
“Look, Sorial, I hate to get all professional, but there’s a couple of questions we needs to ask you. Routine things. You up to it?”
Sorial nodded, wondering what they could possibly be interested in since the thief was dead.
“Did you notice anything odd about your attacker?”
“He didn’t belong in the stable. He wore a gentleman’s cloak and a peasant’s breeches and boots. The horse didn’t trust him and I knew he didn’t work for Mr. Wickharm.”
“Did you recognize the man? Had you seen him before, or someone like him?”
Sorial shrugged. “Thieves, you mean? A few but never with a gun. I nearly pissed in my breeches when I saw that. Don’t think he’s been around before though it’s tough to say with all the people who go in and out of here.”
“It’s the pistol that disturbs us,” said Brindig. “We don’t see a lot of common thugs with them. Normally the weapon of wealthy ex-adventurers like your innkeeper. But since you were attacked, seven people have been shot dead within the city limits. Most were disreputable rogues loitering in back alleys where people sometimes end up face down, but two respectable merchants have been killed as well.”
“We’re concerned it could be part of a pattern - maybe a new gang in possession of pistols has moved into Vantok. We examined the body of the man who attacked you and couldn’t find any distinguishing marks or indications where he came from. We hoped you might have seen him before,” said Darrin. “Think hard.”
Sorial shook his head, although he couldn’t be sure. What if the man had been lurking around the stable, waiting for an opportunity? And if it was a gang, might they try again?
As if reading his mind, Darrin said, “We don’t think they’ll target this inn a second time but, in case, we’ll keep a closer watch.”
“We also advise that you be more vigilant than usual. These are dangerous times,” said Brindig. Those words again: dangerous times. “But you know that.”
“We don’t mean to frighten you,” said Darrin, noting Sorial’s unsettled expression. “We just want to prepare you.” Changing the subject, he added, “We understand you’re about to become a rich young man.”
“I am?” That was news to Sorial. Welcome news, if true.
“There’s been talk of a reward for saving Wickharm’s horse from the thief.”
“Oh, that. One of the barmaids told me. She also said Warburm took it as payment for my using one of his rooms for three days and on account of my not being able to work in the stable.”
“Skinflint,” muttered Darrin. “When you’re of age, leave this place. Come and join the Watch. They pay good wages, provide you with a warm place to sleep, and give you a day to your own every week.”
“Until then, keep your eyes and ears open, and let us know if you see or hear anything,” said Brindig. With that, the guards departed, leaving Sorial alone in the dark with a host of uneasy thoughts, most focused on how dangerous the times had become and whether there might be worse ahead.
That evening, Warburm arrived in the company of the healer, who changed Sorial’s bandages and pronounced him fit to return to work.
Warburm considered. “Because you be a good worker and don’t give me no trouble, I’m going to let you spend one more night inside. But as of sunrise tomorrow, I expect you back at your post. Visnisk’s complaining be getting on my nerves and some of the customers don’t like his attitude. Yesterday, one of my regulars, a spice trader from up north, went to get his horse and found Visnisk rutting with a whore up in your loft. Clambered down with his breeches off, saddled the horse, then went right back up there. We all need a good fuck now and again, but that lad needs to wait till he be off duty.” On his way out, he announced, “You got another visitor.” To Sorial’s surprise, his mother entered.
Kara bet Lamanar would have been a great beauty had circumstances favored her with a less harsh life. Even as things were, her natural grace and loveliness shone through the tarnish. Physically, she bore the characteristics of her Syrene heritage. She was short in stature, a full handspan under five feet, with a slim build. Her long, unstyled hair was jet-black and, despite her age of nearly five decades, there were no traces of gray or white. Her features were delicate - the kind a sculptor might delight in replicating. But there was a hardness to her ebony eyes that bespoke of a lifetime’s tribulations and her skin had been darkened to umber by long hours spent in the fields of Sorial’s father’s farm.
Throughout his life, Sorial and his mother had experienced an uneven relationship, although it was more harmonious than the one between the boy and his father, Lamanar. Sorial’s memories of the time spent living with his parents were hazy and neither Kara nor Lamanar had answered basic questions about his family, such as whether he had brothers or sisters. They were equally mute to queries about their pasts. His father told him such things didn’t concern him. His mother said he would learn the answers when he needed them, whatever that meant.
While Lamanar tended his fields throughout the year except during the coldest, darkest parts of Winter, Kara worked many jobs. During the busy Planting and Harvest seasons, she helped her husband on the farm. In between, she would do other things, including working in the market as a whore. In Syre, prostitution was considered to be an honorable profession. This gave Sorial cause to wonder whether Lamanar was his true father - something that would explain the man’s coldness toward him. Sorial had taken to visiting his mother when his father was unlikely to be around. Encounters between them were often unpleasant.
Had Kara’s desire been the only consideration, Sorial would have lived on the farm and worked beside her and Lamanar in the fields. That was not to be. As a result, she saw her son only on those occasions when he visited the farm. In any given year, that might be three or four times, comprising a handful of hours. They were like strangers, their conversations forced and filled with uncomfortable silences. Sorial had tried his best to reconnect with her, and he knew she was desperate to build a lasting bond, but circumstances were against them. After those awkward encounters, he sometimes wondered if a clean break might be best for all involved. He was sure Lamanar would agree.
“Sorial… are you all right? I didn’t hear about the attack until today or I would have come sooner.”
He was surprised she had learned about the incident at all; knifings of stableboys typically didn’t reach the town criers’ lips nor did such news filter through the city’s most effective way of transmitting information: word-of-mouth. If a noblewoman muddied the hem of her dress, the gossip would spread like wildfire, but there was considerably less interest in the misfortunes of peasants.
“It still hurts, but I’m getting better. The healer says I can go back to work tomorrow.”
“I wish…” she began. Sorial thought he saw tears pooling in her eyes but he couldn’t be sure in the gloom. There was no doubt that her voice caught. “I asked your father if he would consider buying out your final years here. He’s getting old and it's becoming more difficult for him to work the land by himself. You could make a difference. You like farming. You’re good with the earth. I remember that was true even when you were little, always covered in mud and dirt.”
“What did he say?” Sorial didn’t know how to feel about the prospect of returning to live at home. The stable was familiar; the farm wasn’t. And there was no thrill about the possibility of living with Kara and Lamanar, although it was something his mother obviously wanted. Still, he couldn’t deny there was something appealing about the idea of farming. Sunshine and bright skies. The smell of dirt. The feel of it between his fingers. No more being trapped within the confines of a stable. From now on, he knew he would be wary of every customer he didn’t know. There would be no such worries on a farm, where visitors were few and far between.
“He’ll consider it.” By her tone, Sorial could tel
l it was unlikely. “Maybe in a few years, when you’ve come of age, you could return to live with us.”
Sorial reflected that maybe this was a long-held fantasy of his mother’s - someday, when he was old enough to make his own decisions, he would come back. It wasn’t in his future plans as of now, nor would it likely ever be. But he wasn’t going to tell Kara that. There was no need, especially not here and now.
“Warburm is a fair master and the work ain’t too hard. I’ll be fine,” he said.
She took his hand in hers and pressed it to her cheek. He could feel the wetness. Very softly, she said, “I would ask the gods to protect you if there were any gods left to do the protecting.”
Sorial’s blood turned to ice. Those words, so similar to what the priest had said… He pulled back his hand and tried to read her expression, but the darkness of the room defeated him.
She bent to kiss him on his uninjured cheek. “Be careful. Trust no one but yourself. The world is changing.”
“Mama, don’t be sad.” He could think of nothing else to say. If it wasn’t what she wanted to hear, he could do no better.
At the doorway on her way out, she stopped for a moment. “I love you, Sorial. Visit as soon as you’re able.” Then she was gone.
* * *
When Sorial relieved Visnisk before dawn the next morning, the older boy expressed a combination of relief and annoyance. The stable was in a deplorable condition. Visnisk wasn’t as fastidious as Sorial and several days of his sole stewardship had put the place in an unacceptable state with mice roaming boldly and clumps of dung obvious amidst the straw. Sorial wondered what his bedding looked like up in the loft, especially if that’s where Visnisk had been entertaining his whore.
After watching the sun rise, Sorial got to work and it took him most of the morning to right Visnisk’s wrongs. With the horses watered and fed, the rodents chased away, and the hay cleaned and turned, Sorial sat on a bale of straw to take a deserved break. That was when the visitors arrived.
There were three of them - a man dressed in finery, riding as grand a horse as Sorial had ever seen; a brutish looking fellow who was obviously a hired guardian; and, mounted on a pony, a well-dressed girl perhaps two years younger than Sorial. The stableboy surmised their likes had rarely if ever been seen at The Wayfarer’s Comfort.
“Young man,” said the rich stranger, dismounting from his animal, “Is your master a man named Warburm?”
“Aye, sir. That he is.”
“Then this is the right place. Would you care for my horse and my daughter’s pony?”
Without a word, Sorial went about his business, leading the steed to one of the empty stalls and the smaller animal to another.
“Alicia, you must stay here with Vagrum. This inn is no place for one such as you.”
“I don’t want to!” demanded the girl, her voice midway between a shout and a screech. “It smells. And he’s dirty.” She pointed accusingly at Sorial who had the good manners not to look in her direction, although his teeth clenched involuntarily at the insult.
“You will do as you’re told.” A note of steel entered her father’s tone. “Vagrum, see that she obeys and no harm comes to her.” Turning to Sorial, he added, “Boy, if there’s any trouble, run to the inn and inform me immediately. Vagrum can handle most problems, but these are uncertain days.” So saying, he disappeared out the stable door, heading for the inn’s common room.
One thought occurred to Sorial at that moment: Who was Warburm that he was attracting such visitors?
As he cared for the horse and pony, he was able to steal enough glances at the newcomers to form pictures of them.
Vagrum was a mountain of a man. His bare arms and legs were thick with corded muscles, although his midsection, covered by a garment made from animal skins, showed the telltale bulge of a sizeable gut - a frequent consequence of middle age in fighting men. His pate was shaved and oiled, but salt-and-pepper hair sprouted unevenly on his upper lip and chin. His face was a mass of crisscrossed scars, including one that had rendered his left eye useless. His nose, broken more than once, was misshapen. His right ear had no lobe and part of the top had been cut (or bitten) off. A worn scabbard belted at his waist contained a short sword and a sheath at the top of his right boot held a dagger. Sorial considered that if he was going to hire someone as a protector, Vagrum would be an excellent choice. Just one look at him would dissuade all but the bravest (or most foolish) of assailants.
Sorial guessed Alicia to have seen ten or eleven Summers, although she was small for her age. Dressed in a fine dark green riding outfit, she was the picture of a noble’s daughter. Her braided hair was the color of spun gold and her pale features showed signs that she would develop into a woman of uncommon beauty. Her green eyes sparkled with mischief but her lips were pursed in an expression of ill-contained distaste. She stood frozen in one spot as if afraid that moving might cause her soft leather boots to come into contact with something unpleasant.
“You can sit on one of those bales, if it please you, miss.” Sorial gestured in the direction of where he had been resting when she and her father arrived.
Alicia started, surprised to be addressed by a stableboy. “Are you speaking to me?” Her tone was affronted. She glanced at Vagrum as if expecting him to do something. He remained unmoving and seemingly unconcerned, his expression impassive. He might have been a statue, although Sorial recognized he would act with lightning speed if he perceived a threat to his charge’s safety.
“Aye, miss. The straw is clean.”
“You will not speak to me unless I speak to you. Haven’t you ever been taught how to act in the presence of ladies?” Her tone was aggrieved.
“No cause for that, miss. There ain’t many ladies as come here. Those that do ain’t so particular about where they sit or step or how I talk to ’em.” Sorial believed he caught the beginnings of a smile crinkling Vagrum’s features when he said that, but it might have been his imagination.
Alicia appeared scandalized but said nothing more. Sorial went back to caring for the horse and pony before moving to other chores. He was aware of Alicia and Vagrum’s continued presence but paid them no heed. Although he had been repeatedly warned to be watchful, he didn’t think he had anything to fear from these two. Strangers they might be, but not of the dangerous kind. If anything, Vagrum made him feel more secure. The big man’s presence would be enough to deter most troublemakers.
After nearly an hour, Alicia spoke to him. “Are you sure these are clean?” She indicated the bales.
“They are, miss. I was sitting on them myself before you came.” It didn’t occur to Sorial that she might not consider that an endorsement.
With a show of profound distaste, Alicia lowered herself to sit on one. His work for the moment done, Sorial joined her, although flopping down on a different bale. Vagrum glanced at him but did nothing more.
“Do you think my father will be long?” asked the girl.
Sorial blinked. Was she talking to him? He had no idea and told her so.
“This Warburm, your master, what does he do?”
“He’s the innkeeper. He owns this.”
Alicia frowned. “I’m not a dullard. I know that. What else does he do? My father wouldn’t come here to visit an innkeeper. There are many more refined establishments in Vantok, places where he would not have to come incognito and where I would be welcomed in the common room rather than left in the stable.”
That crystallized Sorial’s earlier musing that there might be something going on at The Wayfarer’s Comfort he was unaware of. He would need to ask Annie about it later. She knew everything that went on here, and if she didn’t know, she had ways of finding out. “I don’t know. Ain’t my concern. My duties are to clean the stalls and care for the animals, and that’s what I do.”
“This is what you do? All day?”
“And most nights. I sleep up there.” Sorial gestured to the loft.
Alicia was aghast. Her brigh
t eyes went wide with a mixture of surprise and horror. “You live in here??”
Sorial nodded, unable to understand her reaction.
She turned to her guardian. “Vagrum, did you hear that? He lives here. This is his home!” Her tone urged him to contradict the circumstances of Sorial’s life, as if such a thing as living and working in a stable was an affront to humanity.
“Aye, Milady. I heard. ’Tis true of many such as him. Better’n living on the streets. ’Tis cleaner and warmer and he may got no choice till he comes of age.”
Sorial sensed a knowingness in Vagrum’s words. The big man was of Sorial’s class and perhaps had once been in a similar situation.
For a while, Alicia seemed to be at a loss for words. Finally, she turned to Sorial and said, “I’m sorry.”
He was surprised. “For what?”
“For this.” Her gesture encompassed the stable. “No one should be forced to live like this. When I’m grown, I will make it right for all boys like you.”
Sorial was amused but didn’t show it, knowing that in her own misguided way she was being sincere. Her naïveté wasn’t her fault; her sheltered upbringing was to blame, as it was with many boys and girls of her class. “But this is the way it is, miss. ’Tis always been like this. I don’t think anyone can change it.”
“My husband will be a great man. He’ll change it.” The words were spoken with such certainty that Sorial was tempted to believe her. Then, suddenly, she let out a high pitched shriek and fled behind Vagrum.
“What is it, Milady?” demanded the man, his body tensing for action. Sorial had risen to his feet and was scanning the inside of the stable for signs of danger.
“A mouse! I saw a mouse!”
Sorial breathed a sigh of relief and resumed his seat. Vagrum relaxed and was visibly struggling to hold back a smile.
The Last Whisper of the Gods Page 3