The Guns of Ivrea

by Clifford Beal

  Kodoris sat back.

  “And there is no blood on his hands,” said Lavinia quietly. She turned to her sister. “The Magister is frugal with the truth.”

  Kodoris had always been unsure that he could conceal anything from the sisters for very long. But that they had seen through his lie instantly unnerved him to the point of panic. “There are some truths that can never be told—or shared,” he said, thinking fast.

  Lucinda shook her head slowly and gave him the look of an indulgent mother. “Magister, I can see into your soul from where I sit. We know what this man has seen. We know what you have seen too. And you want the greyrobe found before he can share this terrible secret with others.”

  Kodoris clenched his jaw and nodded.

  Lucinda’s eyes moved to the door. “He does not know the real reason why you seek this monk?”

  “Neither Captain Flauros nor any of his men. It is a secret shared only by the High Priest and the Nine,” replied Kodoris, seeing no further point in deceit.

  “The Nine Principals… of which you are now a part,” said Lucinda. “And of course, the greyrobe… Tarquel.”

  “No,” interjected Lavinia, placing her hand over her sister’s. “He is… Acquel.”

  Lucinda nodded. “Quite right, sister. Acquel.” She crossed her arms and leaned forward, her face that of a perfect maiden of Valdur. “Do you wish the greyrobe purged? To defend the One Faith we all serve.”

  Kodoris felt a chill to hear such brutal frankness from so beautiful a woman. “I want… I need to know who he has shared this secret with. For that reason he should be recovered to Livorna. With all due haste.”

  Lucinda nodded. “The righteous have the right, Magister. And it is we who must do the Lord’s work on this plane of existence. Let not your heart be heavy with the decision. We will help you.”

  Kodoris felt a weight lift from him. “I knew you would. You have a gift given of the Lord.”His mouth had gone completely dry. He reached for his wine. “Captain Flauros and a party of his men will accompany you both south.”

  Lucinda and Lavinia both broke into gentle smiles. “I will accompany the good captain. Lavinia will go with you to Livorna to keep you abreast on our progress.”

  Kodoris smiled awkwardly. He did not even wish to know how they would accomplish such a communication across the distances but he knew well enough it would not be by courier. He looked at them both, their composure, their knowing. And if they now knew the secret of Elded it appeared to move them not at all.

  “Are you not distressed by the nature of the secret we now share?” he asked. “Is your faith not shaken?”

  Lucinda and her sister exchanged a quizzical look. “Why should we be distressed?” said Lucinda. Her sister nodded sagely in agreement. “It is the Lord’s will that we discover such things and the Faith can survive these revelations. The lies of a saint do not change the laws of God or the Faith. The heresy will be contained.”

  Kodoris had used the sisters two years before. And then, as now, it had been to find someone. Neither the guard nor the town militia had found a trace of the thief who had stolen the golden incense burners and the great staff of the High Priest. Yet these canonesses had done it in a day, and recovered them from where they had been buried. The man had never even opened his mouth to reveal the truth. He went to the hangman with the vacant look of an imbecile.

  “Sisters, we should bring in Captain Flauros again to tell him of our plans.”

  Lucinda nodded. “Yes, I would gauge the measure of this soldier, Magister. We will be spending a great deal of time together.”

  Lavinia was running the grey hood through her hands again, staring off into the middle distance of the chamber. Lucinda touched her shoulder.

  Lavinia returned to them. “Your greyrobe found something in the tomb. Something small. Something old.” She looked directly at Kodoris. “Something rather important.”

  Kodoris froze. “Tell me. What did he find?”

  The canoness’s brow furrowed as her art endeavoured to pierce the veil of time and distance. “I think, Magister, that your young monk has found the conscience of Elded.”

  Eight

  “FIFTY SOLDI!” LIEUTENANT Poule took a step back from the wagon of the Widow Pandarus and held out the leather riding gloves he had just been given to try. “That’s practically half a gold ducat you cheating harlot!”

  Timandra shrugged. “You won’t find another pair this side of Palestro and even then not of this quality. Soft as a baby’s backside. You don’t want them then give them here.”

  Poule swore softly. “For that money they ought to be from a baby’s backside.” He dug into his belt pouch and produced a handful of silver. “Here, take it.” He thrust the coins into her hand and pushed back the large floppy brown beret that had fallen over his right ear, pheasant feathers all askew.

  Timandra laughed. “Don’t complain, Poule. It’s a fair deal and they match your hat, you peacock.”

  Poule grumbled an obscenity and then looked to either side of the wagon. “Hey now, how is our monk getting on? Any more tricks? Must be a bit unnerving for you what with that—”

  “Don’t say it. Strykar doesn’t want a word of that mentioned and you damn well know it.” She scowled at him and climbed down from her wagon.

  Poule lowered his voice. “I know, I know. It’s just so… unnatural and all.”

  “He hasn’t spoken of it and nor have I. But he’s settling in. Not half as skittish as he was two days ago.”

  Poule grinned. “And he’s up in there… with you, is he? At night and all?”

  Timandra flicked Poule’s long nose. “He stands a better chance of getting into my rack than you!”

  Poule ducked and chuckled. “Have a care, Widow! No offense meant.”

  “If truth be told, he beds down under the wagon at night. I’ve got him doing chores during the day and he seems happy enough—if a little lost in his thoughts.”

  Poule nodded. “I’m still explaining why we have a monk who doesn’t wear monk’s clothes.”

  “Just tell them I’m out of monk’s robes at the moment, and then change the subject. He’s asking me if he thinks Strykar will let him train with sword and buckler.”

  Poule roared with laughter. “You’re having me on, sister! Swordplay?”

  “You would want to learn how to swing a sword if you had the Temple guard trying to kill you. Do you think Strykar will let him have a go?”

  Poule pushed his oversized beret further back on his greasy head. “Well, it couldn’t hurt to ask. One of the sergeants could run him through some drills with the lads.” He chuckled to himself, imagining the scene. “Might even be good fun.”

  THAT AFTERNOON, TIMANDRA’S arm entwined with Acquel’s, the two wended their way through the forest of tent pegs and guy ropes, making their way to the clearing used for mustering. Pennants snapped and flapped around them as the breeze picked up. This was the last halt before Palestro and already a salt tinge lay on the muggy air.

  “Now, the captain may let you try your hand but I know him well and you’ll not be coddled, whether you’re a monk or no.” Timandra’s left hand reached over to pinch Acquel’s bicep. “And I just hope you can heft a sword and a shield.”

  “I’ve had my share of brawls. Some of them even after I became a novice.”

  She looked up at him and smiled. He was certainly still a mystery—and a disturbing one at that—but she was developing a strange admiration for this man who was willing to stand up for himself. But his request had worried her. A worry that he was intent on leaving behind his vows to the church forever. She herself felt an ache for the comfort of the Faith, something she feared she would never be able to experience again, and often did she push back one dark memory that denied her peace. It had seemed almost divine providence for Acquel to fall into their laps when he did. But if he lapsed in his own faith, what then?

  “Brawls?” she replied. “That may be true, but not with a sword I
would venture. Nor a round shield.”

  Acquel looked at her and gave her a twisted smile. “True enough, mistress. True enough. But I’ll not go like a sheep to the slaughter when the red capes next show up.”

  They reached the clearing to find a large group of soldiers gathered there. Two were squaring off against each other, armed with double-edged swords about a yard long and steel round shields that were two feet wide. A grey-bearded sergeant, in a multitude of colours and slashed velvets, swung his quarterstaff in an upward arc and struck the bottom rim of one of the soldier’s shields.

  “Get that fucking rim up to your eyes and keep it there!”

  The soldier struck the rim on the cheek of his barbute in his haste to comply. His sparring partner let out a laugh like a sneeze.

  “And why are you fucking grinning like an ape?” snarled the sergeant. “Keep that hanging guard in place or I’ll use your head as a temple bell! Now… lay on!”

  And quick as you like the opponents were trading blows, sword hilts high, snapping their wrists in an overhand motion that brought their blunted practice blades crashing down on the top rims of the other’s shield. Lieutenant Poule and Captain Strykar stood off to the side, silently watching. Poule, as per usual it seemed to Acquel, was hefting a leather jack, filled no doubt with ale.

  Timandra guided him over to the captain and Acquel gave a curt bow with his head. Strykar folded his arms over his polished breastplate and smiled.

  “So, the widow tells me you want to learn swordplay. My first question, brother monk, is why?”

  “You saw how I fared a few days ago. Next time—if there is a next time—I want to at least give myself a chance.”

  “One does not learn this craft in a day. Or even a month. And a sword and shield only do you any good when you’re actually carrying them.” Strykar leaned forward and peered around Acquel’s side. “And you don’t appear to have either.”

  Acquel drew himself up, nearly eye-to-eye with the mercenary. “I am prepared to learn and carry them like a rondelieri.”

  Strykar smiled. “But you’re not a rondelieri, Brother Acquel, nor likely to be one.”

  Acquel felt his face flush. Timandra had already receded from him, standing alone by the armourer’s wagon, leaving him to plead his case.

  “So, you’re expecting me to be your meek and mild captive holy man. At least until you’re ready to let me go.”

  Poule snickered into his jack.

  Strykar gave Acquel a look of stone. “I’m not in the business of training holy men who want to change their profession,” he replied, disdainfully. “You’re here to serve the needs of the men in their Faith, at least until I decide what to do with you. Stay with the Black Rose and you’ll be safe. There’s no need to waste my officers’ time with teaching you how to swing a sword.” He then turned to face Poule, who rapidly lowered his ale. “Finish up here with the exercises for the new men and see that the camp is readied for the night.”

  “Wait!” Acquel took a step forward. “Surely you know of the fighting monks of Lessia, in Saivona. They still sing songs about their battles in the last war. So what is the difference now?”

  Strykar turned back to Acquel. “I would say the difference is about forty years. And those left alive are now old men. You’ll have to do better than that.”

  Acquel flashed Timandra a helpless look but she could only shake her head in reply as if to say, I’ve got you this far. Acquel held out a hand. “Very well, then. If you won’t give me a sword and shield let me show you what I can do with a knife. I’ve fought with those before.”

  “You are a persistent one, I give you that,” said Strykar.

  “I’ll give him a lesson.” It was Poule. “By your leave, captain, of course.”

  Strykar shook his head and threw his hands up. “Well, you’re itching for it, aren’t you. The both of you.” He turned to the old sergeant who had just knocked one of his slower charges on their helm, bringing forth a delightful ring. “Gillani! Fetch a pair of those wooden daggers. We have a knife fight to run over here.”

  Poule was smiling broadly now as he began to unbutton his doublet. “Come now brother monk, let’s get ready to play.”

  Acquel nodded to the lieutenant and began undoing the small round wooden buttons on his own doublet. He walked over to Timandra, undoing the belt and pouch that she had lent him along with his clothes.

  “Is this really what you want?” Timandra asked. “A knife fight like a couple of alley brawlers?”

  Acquel held out the belt and pouch. “Three years ago I was an alley brawler.”

  Timandra eyed the worn brown leather pouch as if it were a poisonous toad. She knew what lay inside. She reached out and then hesitated to take it.

  “Don’t worry,” Acquel said. “I don’t have any pockets for it to appear in—unless you count my codpiece.”

  She nodded, and gingerly took the pouch in hand, still not entirely certain. Acquel then peeled off his hole-shot doublet. When he pulled his linen shirt over his head, she saw the marks of his escape from Livorna: yellowish bruises on his ribcage, welts and scratches across his arms and chest from grasping trees and thorn hedges. But she also spied two livid scars: one across Acquel’s right breast, the other at his right collarbone. The marks of blade wounds.

  “Have a care,” she said as she folded his clothes over her arm. “You might have had some experience but he’s had far more practice of late.”

  “Come, brother monk!” Poule was windmilling his arms in preparation for the fight.

  The sergeant handed two rude wooden daggers with simple cross hilts to Strykar. The captain stepped forward and handed one to each of them. “Remember, no blows to the face or neck. Anything else is fair game. First who strikes thrice is the winner. Poule, you keep your head. Understood?”

  Poule tapped the ash blade to his temple. “Understood, my captain!”

  Acquel took a few paces back and hefted his practice dagger. It was a foot long and though of wood, had a diamond cross section like a real dagger. But the point was rounded and thick. Still, enough to break a rib and most certainly hard enough to bruise. Poule was smiling broadly as he cinched up the points of his hose and tied them to the points of his codpiece so as not to have them slip during the fight. Acquel tucked the dagger under his armpit and did the same.

  He became aware that an audience of soldiers and camp followers had begun to gather. A small rivulet of sweat trickled down his side.

  The sergeant stepped forward as Strykar receded. He raised his quarterstaff and signalled for Poule to move forward. He then did the same for Acquel. Poule took his station and immediately went into a crouch, holding his dagger point down in his fist. A good defensive guard and one natural for a soldier who knew how to fistfight.

  But Acquel’s craft was far different. Fighting in the narrow streets and alleys of Livorna had taught him the thieves’ way of bladework. He gripped the dagger, point up. His stance was high and straight, his right arm along his thigh, the dagger just pointing down and touching near his knee. His left arm he held loosely at belly level. And when Poule came at him, wading in with both arms raised to chest height, he was loose, balanced, and ready to receive him.

  Acquel held his ground. Poule lashed out with a cross swipe aimed at his shoulder or left breast and Acquel lifted his left foot and pivoted back and away, Poule’s blade sailing past. As he did so, he thrust outwards and upwards with his dagger at Poule’s ribs. The lieutenant batted his wrist down before he could land the blow. They had both now turned a quarter circle, eyes locked one upon the other. Acquel moved again, right foot circling so as to strike at Poule’s back. But his shoe slid on the grass, and he lost a second. It was enough for Poule to strike. He drove his dagger down horizontally, skimming the cup of Acquel’s left shoulder and juddering off a rib above his breast. Acquel exhaled loudly with the dull pain of it and drew back to recover.

  Around him he could hear catcalls and encouragements, some for
him and some for the lieutenant. Poule licked his lips and gestured with his free hand for Acquel to come on. In a slight crouch the monk moved forward, both hands low and his torso moving side to side. Poule’s fists were up in a fighter’s stance, his dagger hand poised to lash out. Acquel stepped forward on his right, dropping his right shoulder in a feint as he switched his dagger to his left hand. As Poule moved to block Acquel’s right arm, Acquel shot out his left into Poule’s belly. Poule cried out in surprise and pain and fell back. The soldiers roared their approval. Like a wounded bear, Poule growled and ran straight at Acquel, intent on bowling him over and stabbing him as he fell on top. Acquel dropped low, both hands in front of his stomach. Poule leapt forward, off balance, dagger poised to strike as he tackled the monk. As he piled into Acquel, Acquel seized the waist of Poule’s hose and braes with his left hand, bent his knees, and rolled backwards. Poule continued overhead, tumbling, and Acquel’s dagger raked him down his chest as he did so. Both men rolled to the side and were up without pause, Poule spitting and swearing and Acquel breathing heavily.

  As laughter filled the air, Poule turned red. “Very well, brother monk! Let’s stop being gentlemen.” And he was quickly on the balls of his feet, closing the distance again. He took a swipe with the dagger—slower than normal thought Acquel—and the monk threw a block with his left wrist. But Poule had already stepped in with his left foot and sent an arcing left fist into Acquel’s stomach that left him heaving for air. As he doubled, he felt the dull pain of the dagger point in his right bicep.

  “That’s two apiece, brother monk!”

  Acquel fell back, trying hard not to be sick. He sucked in a deep breath and managed a broad smile to hide his pain. The soldiers were worked up now, crowding in and yelling for a good finish. Acquel again took his stance—not too low, torso working side to side, his dagger moving fast between hands to keep Poule guessing. Poule came on, lips drawn and teeth gritted. Acquel realised in that moment that a win for him in this circumstance might be no victory at all. Poule was bright red and glistening as he crouched. An instant later there was a flurry of blows and blocks from both men. As the lieutenant took a half step back to poise for a new attack, Acquel pivoted again off his left foot and followed up with a leap with his right. He found himself now with his belly pressing into Poule’s left side, right leg stuck between both of Poule’s and his own left arm wrapped around Poule’s dagger arm as he prepared to drive in his right into the small of Poule’s back.