He straightened proudly, jutting his chin out and declaring, “I am Nikomedes.”
There was another brief, yet pointed delay before the Hold Mistress almost imperceptibly leaned forward, “That is not the proper reply to my query, guardsman. Your lineage is required for the official record,” she said, gesturing to a scribe who worked furiously with quill and scroll at a nearby podium.
At this, he felt all eyes bear down on him, but he refused to wilt as he said, “I understand, Hold Mistress, but I cannot state my lineage as I have none which rightfully can be claimed.”
“Even bastards know their mothers,” he heard a deep, yet somehow silky-sounding voice call out from the right side of the room, and he turned to see an overly well-dressed man with feathers, furs, and brightly-colored sashes adorning his armor. He stood amid no fewer than a score of warriors positioned near the dais on Protector Hypatios Nykator’s side of the dais, and Nikomedes had the distinct impression that he knew who this man was. “Come, boy,” the man said in a singsong voice, “let us hear her name so we can be done with this and break for the midday meal.”
Nikomedes felt himself flush with anger, but before he could reply he heard the voice of the man beside the Hold Mistress.
“Silence, Kallistos!” Hypatios Nykator boomed, and if Nikomedes thought the Great Hall had been silent when the Hold Mistress spoke, he could have heard a single drop of water splash against the stones as even breathing was briefly suspended as his voice echoed throughout the corridors outside the hall. “You will show proper respect while in this hall or you will find yourself excused from these proceedings—along with any future events of a similar nature.”
Kallistos flourished his cape, bowing deeply in what was obviously mock sincerity, “My apologies, Protector.”
But Nykator did not seem to mind the apparent lack of sincerity on his subordinate’s part, as he turned his focus to Nikomedes and gave him an appraising eye. “If you mean to disrespect your Hold Mistress by withholding the information she requests,” he said in a warning tone, “then I will deal with that disrespect personally. Is that your intention, boy?”
Nikomedes felt his hands begin to ball into fists at his sides at being talked down to by Argos’ Protector, but he forced them to relax almost as quickly as they had begun to tighten.
“I meant no disrespect,” Nikomedes said, meeting the Hold Mistress’s gaze for several seconds before bowing his head, “I simply have no lineage which I am allowed to declare within these halls, or for any official record.”
“A disowned bastard, then?” Kallistos asked incredulously, causing a stir of whispers among the crowd which seemed more amused than scandalized.
“Where are your records?” the Hold Mistress asked, her light tone belying the inflexible command conveyed by her words.
Nikomedes produced the pouch Kephus had given him, having reviewed the documents within prior to the occasion and finding them to be in order. He knew they were to be given to the scribe at the podium, but Kephus had made clear that he should show himself to be less intelligent than he is, but not comically so for obvious reasons.
A Hold Mistress often sought for the perfect balance in prospective Protectors, seeking the fine line which lay between a sound tactical mind and one which was not so sharp that it was a threat to her own machinations—especially for a first Protector, since she could then more easily remove him from the post if his mind was not the equal of her own.
So he proffered the documents toward the Hold Mistress, causing a chorus of sniggers to sweep through the hall.
She gestured with her long, slender hand to the scribe, who shuffled over and collected the documents before examining them in some detail. After nearly a minute, he nodded in satisfaction before coming to the last document where his eyes went wide.
“If it pleases the Hold Mistress?” he said, indicating that he would like to approach and show her the document in question.
She gestured for him to approach, and he did so before holding the rolled up scroll before her eyes, which scanned it quickly as she read the entirety of its contents. Her eyebrows lifted for a fraction of a second, likely in surprise, before her face resumed its courtly mask and she gestured for the scribe to return to his post.
“Nikomedes,” she said, tilting her head slightly and causing a stir of confusion among the crowd at her choosing to address him thus—a stir which quickly quieted as she continued, “the Hold owes you a debt of gratitude for your actions five days hence.” She gestured gently to the rear of the room, prompting the crowd to part as a middle-aged woman approached.
Standing beside the woman was the young girl, Olympia, who Nikomedes had found among the rocks overlooking the site of the massacre. Cradled in her arms was an infant boy who was fast asleep in swaddling clothes. All three of them were dressed in mourning attire, and they moved to stand beside Nikomedes.
The Hold Mistress said, “State your names for the record, please, good lady.”
“I am Euphemia,” the woman replied before first gesturing to the girl standing beside her, “and this is my niece, Olympia, while the babe in my arms is my nephew, who remains unnamed.”
“Why does he bear no name?” the Hold Mistress asked, but even though it was a perfunctory question—asked only for the good of those who did not know Nikomedes’ purpose for standing before them, which could not have numbered many in the hall given how quickly gossip spreads among such crowds—Nikomedes heard something approaching genuine concern in Polymnia Zosime’s voice when she asked it.
“It is our family’s custom,” Euphemia explained, “to await the first full moon before bestowing a name on a newborn babe.”
“But the moon has come and gone two nights hence,” Hold Mistress Zosime said patiently, and Euphemia nodded.
“His mother and father were slain on the northwestern road by bandits,” she said, causing Olympia’s lip to quiver but, to the little girl’s credit, she made no sound as she stood before her Hold Mistress.
The Hold Mistress nodded slowly as she turned her attention to Olympia, “Do you know the man who stands beside you, Olympia?”
The little girl looked up at Nikomedes and gave him a wan smile before returning her gaze to Hold Mistress Polymnia Zosime and nodding confidently. “He found me in the rocks after the bad men hurt my family.”
“Thank you, Olympia,” Hold Mistress Zosime said before turning to Euphemia and saying, “you are dismissed if you wish to leave.”
“Thank you, Hold Mistress,” Euphemia replied with a deep curtsy before backing away several steps and leading Olympia from the Great Hall.
“Guardsman Vasikus,” the Hold Mistress said, “step forward.”
Vasikus did as bidden, making his way from the back of the hall to stand beside—and slightly behind—Nikomedes. “I am Vasikus, Hold Mistress,” he declared with a respectful bow that likely caused him no small amount of pain, due to the wounds he still bore from the fight.
“You are guardsman Nikomedes’ immediate superior, are you not?” she asked with a slightly arched eyebrow.
“I am,” he replied.
“Tell us of the day in question,” the Hold Mistress urged.
Vasikus drew a deep breath before saying in a clear, carrying tone, “Guardsman Nikomedes, who has been assigned to my patrol unit for six months, found the little girl near the site where her family was massacred and their family’s property stolen by the bandits who fell upon them.” He paused to take another breath, and Nikomedes felt strangely happy to find that the older man seemed even more nervous than he did. “I sent two of our six off for reinforcements and left another with the little girl, while the rest of us scouted ahead. Just before dusk, we caught up with the raiders and Nikomedes suggested a bold plan for ambushing the raiders and reclaiming the carts and wagons they had stolen.”
A few whispers circulated upon hearing that Nikomedes had thought of the plan, and though he did not avert his eyes from the Hold Mistress, he thoug
ht he could feel the First Daughter’s appraising eye on him as Vasikus continued.
“The plan began perfectly,” Vasikus explained, coming to the part which Nikomedes knew the other man was none too pleased with, “but just before we rained down javelins and arrows on the trapped bandits, and after subduing their perimeter scouts, Nikomedes broke rank and made his way to the wagons—”
“Insubordination stems from weak leadership,” Nykator scoffed, cutting Vasikus off with unmasked contempt. Only a brain-dead fool would fail to recognize that his tone was directed at Kastor Kephus more than at Vasikus, and Nikomedes’ eyes flicked back and forth between the Protector and guard commander for a moment. “You are too soft on your recruits, Kephus,” Nykator chided, wagging a reprimanding finger in Kastor Kephus’ direction.
A chorus of snickers could be heard among Nykator’s top men, but Kephus made no attempt to reply, or even look in Nykator’s direction. It was as though he had not even heard the burly man’s deep, rumbling rebuke.
“Continue,” the Hold Mistress commanded icily after sparing a fleeting glance in her Protector’s direction.
“As I said,” Vasikus resumed, his brow lowered angrily at being interrupted, “he made for the wagons, and went straight at their leader.”
Even Nykator’s interest seemed piqued at this latest bit, and Nikomedes felt the crowd seemingly swell toward him as their combined attention consolidated on him once again.
“I was too busy fighting my own battles to pay him any heed after he engaged the leader,” Vasikus said sourly, wincing as he shifted his weight nervously, “but when I looked up from my own portion of the fight, I saw he had slain the leader and taken his weapon—along with a small satchel which he had secured against his chest.”
“Is his story true thus far, guardsman Nikomedes?” the Hold Mistress asked pointedly.
Nikomedes nodded, feeling himself flush once again as he said, “It is, Hold Mistress.”
“What was in the satchel?” Hold Mistress Polymnia Zosime asked, and once again it was a question to which the assemblage knew the answer, but Nikomedes knew she had asked it solely to hear him give the answer.
“The babe which Euphemia carried in her arms, Hold Mistress, and took from the Great Hall moments ago,” Nikomedes replied, his face turning red for reasons he did not understand.
Sounds of approval filled the hall for several seconds, but pointedly absent from the crowd which made them were Nykator’s men and the Protector himself.
“How did you find the babe?” the Hold Mistress pressed, and for a brief moment he read some unspoken message in her eyes, but he could not determine what it was. It was clear, however, that she was more invested in his reply than he had believed possible prior to entering the Great Hall.
Nikomedes considered his reply for a moment before deciding to answer with the unvarnished truth. “I remembered what the little girl, Olympia, said about the recent birth of her brother when I first spoke with her,” he explained, “and it is well-known that bandits often take young children and rear them as their own.” He shook his head solemnly, “There was no newborn child among those at the massacre, so I thought…”
He trailed off, actually at a loss for words as his mind briefly seized up.
“You thought?” Nykator pressed irritably. “Spit it out, boy; my belly aches.”
Nikomedes stiffened, finally finding the words he had sought and saying, “I would not allow him to be taken by the bandits or be slain by our javelins.” He shook his head as he met the Protector’s smoldering gaze with a piercing one of his own, “I could not abandon an orphaned child to either fate. I became a guardsman to uphold our way of life and protect the innocent…is there anything more innocent than a newborn babe?” he asked with more than a hint of challenge in his voice.
Louder sounds of approval came from throughout the room, and Nikomedes broke his gaze from that of the Protector’s to see a short-lived look of satisfaction on the Hold Mistress’s face.
“A fine tale and an even finer sentiment,” she said approvingly before turning pointedly to her First Daughter, “do you not agree, Adonia?”
Nikomedes met the First Daughter’s gaze once again, but the cold look on her face as she regarded him for a lengthy moment of silence doused his short-lived elation at having apparently pleased the Hold Mistress with his reply.
“It is, indeed, a tale of great bravery and valor which we have just heard,” the icy-eyed Adonia Akantha Zosime said with a sniff before adding, “but it is also one of foolish recklessness. The winds of fortune are fickle by nature; how many similar tales have been slain in their wombs by an unlucky turn befalling the would-be hero at an inopportune moment?”
Nikomedes could not stop his fists from balling at his sides at her rebuke, but he bit his tongue as the Hold Mistress sighed lightly and said, “My daughter is, as always, overly critical. However,” she allowed, “there is a grain of truth to her critique.”
“Pardon me, Hold Mistress,” Nikomedes said with deference, waiting for her to indicate he could continue before turning to Adonia, the First Daughter. “A warrior who relies on luck is a fool,” he said, fighting to keep his voice level and calm as he met her icy, disdainful gaze, “only through diligent preparation can battles be won with any measure of confidence in victory.”
Her lips twisted into a haughty smirk as she said, “Spoken like a true warrior…one against whom the winds of fortune have yet to shift.”
He was about to retort when Kastor Kephus stepped forward pointedly. “Upon further investigation of the scene,” he said, directing his attention to the Hold Mistress, “we have identified the leader of the bandits. With your permission, Hold Mistress, I would like to present evidence from the scene which will leave no question as to his identity.”
The Hold Mistress nodded, “Bring forth your evidence, Kastor Kephus.”
Even though this was his first time in the Great Hall, or among its usual denizens, even Nikomedes could feel the tension between the trio of Hold Mistress, her Protector, and the commander of the citadel guard, Kastor Kephus.
A pair of guardsmen entered the hall and made their way to the dais. One bore the Spirewood spear which Nikomedes had taken from the bandit leader, and the other bore a box which Nikomedes already knew contained the head of that same bandit leader.
“This spear,” Kephus said, taking the weapon and showing it to the crowd by raising it high above his head, “is well-known to most of you, is it not?”
Grunts of affirmation came from the assemblage, and Nikomedes could see Nykator’s eyes begin to burn with more intensity than they had done previously.
Ignoring him, Kephus held the spear out for the Hold Mistress to see from her perch atop the pedestal. She nodded, “It is indeed known to us—as is its bearer, who fled our measured justice after committing a vile act against one of our citizens.”
“Then it may please the Hold Mistress,” Kephus said, giving the spear back to the guardsman who had borne it into the chamber, “to know that guardsman Nikomedes has unwittingly dealt some portion of that justice.”
“Nonsense,” Nykator scoffed, making a show of shaking his head and chuckling, “Kyrillos is long gone from these lands. And even if he remained, escaping the Hold’s vengeance,” he said, turning a skeptical—but not quite disbelieving—eye toward Nikomedes, “no mere guardsman could defeat him while he bore that spear.”
Kephus moved purposefully toward the guardsman who bore the box, which he took and proffered before asking, “If it pleases the Hold Mistress?”
She nodded, gesturing for him to approach, and Kastor Kephus bore the box up the steps until coming to a stop before her and kneeling. She removed the lid and her implacable mask never wavered as she looked intently at its contents. “It is indeed Kyrillos,” she said appreciatively, causing even her First Daughter to perk up for a moment as the previously muted and controlled waves of sentiment from the crowd reached a new level.
Several
of them actually cheered as she gestured for Kephus to show the box’s contents to her Protector. Nykator gave it a cursory glance before nodding silently and fixing Kephus with a stony glare before the guard commander turned and made his way down the steps.
But the building excitement in the room was dampened by a wave of the Hold Mistress’ hand, and after the din had subsided she met Nikomedes’ eyes and said in her light, airy voice, “You have done us a great service in this matter, guardsman Nikomedes, unwittingly or not. The Hold is satisfied that justice has finally been dispensed in this matter,” she said, placing the slightest emphasis on the word ‘finally’ as she sliced a brief look in her Protector’s direction, “and must compensate you for your valiant efforts.”
He was surprised at this particular turn of events, and saw Kephus give him a brief smile as he turned to resume his position at his side.
“The bounty which had stood on Kyrillos’ head,” the Hold Mistress began, “was—“
“Pardon me, Hold Mistress,” Nikomedes said, lowering his head in respectful deference, “but I cannot accept compensation.”
Incredulous sounds came from the crowd, but Nikomedes ignored them as he felt the cold weight of the Hold Mistress’ gaze upon him.
“I am honored to have served the Hold,” he explained, “and since I was merely fulfilling my duties as a guardsman of your holdings, it would be inappropriate for me to accept rewards above and beyond the generosity you have already bestowed upon me.”
“Of what generosity do you refer?” she asked with narrowed eyes.
Nikomedes felt himself flush once again as he replied, “By allowing me to call Argos my home; by billeting me in the guardsmen’s barracks and granting me, and the other guardsmen, our monthly stipend; and by permitting me to strike down the enemies of all which we hold dear.”
The Hold Mistress’ narrowed eyes flitted across his features for a moment before she asked, “And what do we hold dear?”
The Forge of Men Page 25