Hrabhill’s eyes seemed to inflate. He slammed the pitcher and basket on a side table and stomped towards the boy. “You speak back to your elders?” With a calloused dirty hand, he slapped the boy as hard as he could. Hrabhall yelped and crumbled to the floor. “Manners you learnt from the bastard boy?” The old man kicked the fifteen-year-old in his stomach. “Traamis’s heir? Over my dead body until you find the sense Hrash gave a mule.” He lifted the boy up by his hair, then backhanded him. “Get out of my sight, lest I find my pickaxe.”
“Yes, Grandfather.” Hrabhall pinched his bloody nose and scurried from the bedroom.
“What were you talking to my grandson about that he cried like a coward on the headsman’s block?”
Denhall answered first, “We wanted to better understand the night your son’s wedbrother was attacked. Hrabhall clarified some points.”
“Hrabhall knows nothing; he’s fifteen, and I can’t even get him to think about wedding some lass — he’s so devout, he’s scared of a marriage bed. And he spends too much time with that bastard boy, Fenhall’s son.”
Falhill did not want to antagonize the miner. “Did you say that young Hrabhall is Traamis’s heir? Are you planning on your grandson to inherit Traamis’s position?”
Hrabhill ambled to Traamis’s side. “The grazers whisper in the temple that Hrabhall is Traamis’s heir. If I hear it, I silence it just as quick. The high cleric yet lives, and will enjoy a long life. And even if the boy’s my own blood, I wouldn’t let him inherit any semblance of influence. He’s as weak as water.”
Denhall furrowed his brow. “Hrabhall helped our investigation with his account of things.”
“Talk to me, and I’ll tell you what you need to know, so you can get out of my house.”
“We’ll leave you and Cleric Traamis alone after you recount your memory of the evening.”
“I had trouble hearing the struggle downstairs over my grandson’s weeping. But soon I rushed down to the front door where I found Traamis bleeding out. The door slammed on my way down. Hrabhall was right behind me. I had him run and fetch the physician. The physician returned while Sharanhall ran to tell Kraek and Laebm, and Laebm stood guard with Primhill, and I believe Primhill told you, Falhill. And Denhall, you were nowhere to be found, until the next morning. But that’s my standpoint. Any other questions, congressers?”
“You said your grandson wept loudly?” Denhall inquired. “He did not mention it.”
“Why would he?” Hrabhill shot back. “There is a vacuum where his manhood should hang, yes, but that does not mean he has no shame. Why would he tell you? My grandson wept in Traamis’s bedroom, as I recall, whilst Traamis must have prayed downstairs. I suspect the assassin did not expect anybody to be in the kitchen, which empties onto the street. But Traamis awaited just inside the front door. Perhaps that’s why he still lives — he surprised the attacker.”
Falhill tried to look mean. “Did Traamis spend many nights in the kitchen?”
“My grandson often disturbed the high cleric’s slumber with thoughts of demons and sinfulness. Young Hrabhall’s mind is troubled, but he calmed when in Traamis’s room.” He pointed to a pair of small gray wool cushions next to Falhill’s feet. “That’s where he’d kneel.” He grunted. “You can’t blame Traamis for wanting a night away from the boy — always whining about witches and warning of evil. Thinks the man’s a prophet, that boy does.”
Knowing the miner desired their absence, Falhill bowed his head. “Hrash be with you.”
“And with you.”
An unabashed atheist, Denhall respectfully refrained from the blessings. He led the way out the door. Falhill followed, careful to make no eye contact with the old miner. Falhill hoped that only he heard the miner grumble under his breath, “Denhall the Debauched indeed.”
Outside Traamis’s bedroom, Balyrnhall stood guard. Apprentice Balyrnhall’s elder brother was Congresser Yrnhill the younger — though they did not treat one another as brothers. Balyrnhall apprenticed with Soldier Kraekhill. This is one of Kraek’s creatures. Falhill and Denhall nodded to the young soldier-in-training, and Balyrnhall nodded in return.
Once out of the two-storied house, Soldier Rudfynhill saluted the two men. “Congressers.” Falhill had not grown accustomed to a dedicated soldier protecting him and addressing him by his stately title.
“Soldier,” Falhill said, unsure how to show the appropriate respect and gratitude while also maintaining an air of authority. Besides, Falhill did not know if he should refer to Rudfynhill by his sobriquet, Slumswain.
Six years back, for the birth of Crown Prince Yaangdhill’s fourth son, the Unholy King — his wits not yet lost — had thrown a river tourney on the Duimwater. When a nobleman put on a river tourney, the bridge jousts always drew larger crowds than the muddy melees, the drowning duels, or even the warship volleys.
On a slim bridge under the shadow of Yaangd’s palace, famed warriors rode sinewy destriers and queer colorful mares, armed with tourney lance and throwing anchor. Balgarganthill unhorsed Bartemhill. Needimhill knocked Balgarganthill off the thin bridge. Yaangdhill the younger unseated Kraekhill and Counsel Balnithall, but his uncle’s vibrant zorse scared Yaangdhill’s warhorse right off the bridge.
Crown Prince Yaangdhill the Twisted set aside his normal greatsword for a throwing anchor and knocked down his wedbrother Uandemhill, sending the crown prince it to the finals. Yaangdhill typically wielded an oversized greatsword with one hand, so his right arm bulged with muscle while his left arm was gnarled from birth.
Against Prince Yaangdhill in the final match was Soldier Rudfynhill, an unknown foot soldier who the commoners rallied behind. All Rudfynhill could afford was an oversized chestnut pony. All the same, Rudfynhill unhorsed Theulhill, Balduim, and Henly the Horselord. Rudfynhill won the commoners’ hearts and lanced his way to the final round.
Much to the crown prince’s dismay, the onlookers chanted, “Slumswain! Slumswain!” The crowd had named him their champion though Rudfynhill understandably disliked the name.
Perhaps the well-meaning sobriquet got to him. The crown prince swung his throwing anchor into the pony’s temple and crushed its head in. Slumswain tumbled into the Duimwater, and Prince Yaangdhill the Twisted claimed the winner’s purse. The commoners jeered when the High Prophet crowned Yaangdhill with the seaweed crown.
Falhill stood amid the multitude, cheering on Rudfynhill. “Slumswain!” he had shouted. Back then, Falhill served as a royal scribe — one among a hundred, spending every day recording the conversations and actions of congressers and the king’s court. Now, he rose higher than he ever thought possible. High enough that the beloved Slumswain swore his sword to protect Falhill.
“Rudfynhill,” he decided to name the soldier, “did you know Apprentice Balyrnhall is posted upstairs protecting Traamis?”
“No, Congresser, but I did know it was General Laebm’s intention to guard the cleric at all times.”
“What do you know about Balyrnhall?”
“He turned seventeen on the voyage north, Congresser. He has apprenticed for Soldier Kraekhill for nigh on two years.” Rudfynhill saw Falhill wanted more than dry facts. “He has no solid prospects for marriage though he has a known taste for women. He and his older brother, who sits the congress with you, do not get along because… Well, I won’t sully your honor with alehouse gossip.”
“Do you trust your fellow soldiers? Kraekhill and his apprentice?”
“Of course. Or, rather, yes, Congresser.”
“Don’t be so stiff, Slumswain.” Falhill’s cheeks turned red, but Rudfynhill hardly flinched. “You answered well. It will help our investigation.” Denhall shot him a wry smile, and the three of them strode south.
Dozens lined the cobblestone streets. Some ignored the two congressers. Some stared in ire. The streets themselves ended in a sudden jumble of dirt and stone. There, Congresser Balgray’s brawny wedbrother knelt beside the end of the cobblestone, hammer in hand. “Good morning,
Congressers,” Baljiridhall said with a feeble grin.
“Good morning, Laborer,” Denhall returned, and Falhill bent his head to the man, who continued to carve the cobblestone into the colony’s main avenue.
Down the next alley, a husband and wife labored with their two children on a smaller street of cobblestone. “Nudntryhill,” Denhall informed Falhill. “That’s his wife and son. And his nephew, whose family rots in the Unholy King’s dungeons. I knew them in Eangd — not well, but we knew each other’s names. The wife is a seamstress, but—”
“But just now, we need more laborers and masons than we do silk women and needle threaders.”
“Exactly.”
They continued to the very shore, where sat the colony’s only temple. Across the wall which faced the land, Falhill could make out what had been vandalism, but Cleric Sharanhall scrubbed away at the defacement. Young Gaerhall reached as high as he could, but he provided little help cleaning away the vulgarities.
“Cleric,” Falhill shouted from far off, “has someone painted on the temple’s wall?” Falhill did not want Denhall to speak to the holy men if he could help it. “Who would do this?”
Sharanhall lived a few years fewer than Falhill or Denhall. He had made a name for himself when he pretended to be a False Priest and escaped the capital with Drea Drysword and the little queen Jeufyn. “There aren’t many heretics in the colony. Wouldn’t take a week to question every atheist in Hrashhill.” Sharanhall stood shorter than Denhall — no sinew under his skin — but the feeble cleric gave Denhall the Debauched a look to curdle milk. “If the congress sought the support of the faith, there are dozens of grazers we could set to task.”
Denhall glowered. “You and young Gaerhall have scrubbed meticulously. I can’t make out what the vandals scrawled.”
“They cursed Traamis and Hrash with words unfit for a boy’s ear.” Sharanhall looked to the boy Gaerhall, hard at work scouring the sandstone of blemish. “Undoubtedly a group of young hoodlums. But if there is any chance the culprits had something to do with the attempt on our high cleric, I demand we investigate.”
Falhill squinted his eyes, curious. “We want to know more about Traamis’s last day before he was attacked.”
Cleric Sharanhall informed the two congressers how Traamis had spent that day helping construct the birch temple and praying for its swift erection. “With Drea sick, many believed Traamis would be named congresser. But he did not like to speak on the matter. I tried to press him, but he rebuked me — told me he had already sent Yrnhill to represent the faith’s interests, a prospect he didn’t relish in the first place. But the people wanted Traamis represented.”
Falhill asked, “You are close with Drea, correct?”
“Yes, he’s like a grandfather to me. Probably why I’m not on the congress.” He let out a mirthless chuckle, but Traamis’s apprentice Gaerhall grimaced. “My allegiance is to Hrash before all else. My friendship with the congresser should not affect my path through life. I hear the Drysword’s getting better?”
“Better every day, Cleric.”
“His grandson Dreahall is about my age. I visit him every few days, with some baked apples. Dreahall has no idea how to cook. He needs a wife, and fast.”
Denhall smiled falsely. “Did anyone threaten Traamis that day? Or on the voyage north?”
“Well, surely Falhill here told you about Hunter Fenhall making a scene that day. Lecherous atheist.” Sharanhall’s eyes shot open. “Oh! No offense, Congresser.”
Denhall stared. “Go on.”
“Hunter Fenhall pushed me to the ground and threatened me — threatened all the clerics, just for being holy men. Atheists think of the temple as some sort of extension of the Unholy King. But we’re not. Of course we’re not! That’s why we’re on this shore and not in Old Coast.”
“Do you think Hunter Fenhall could have done this?”
“I didn’t think anyone could have done this. But Fenhall is a hothead, an atheist, and an adulterer — so you know he’s got bad blood. His oldest son knows how to use a sword. Look into both of them!”
“His oldest son died fighting a False Priest—”
Falhill grabbed Denhall’s arm. “We’re doing all we can to find Traamis’s attempted killer.” He squeezed the boy Gaerhall’s shoulder. “We’ll keep this colony safe.” But Falhill’s words rang false in his own ears, causing his skin to crawl. They said their farewells and headed for Hunter Fenhall’s hovel.
“They were both with me all night.”
“Can anybody substantiate?”
The large woman scoffed. “You don’t believe me?”
Denhall smirked. “We have to answer to the congress. If we don’t ask these questions, it’ll be Kraek knocking down your door and holding a sword to your neck. We just want to be thorough as well as polite.”
Hraghedeen crossed her arms to cover her deep cleavage. The top of her wool dress stretched at the seams. The big woman had blocked the entrance to the cramped hovel. “All eight of us spent that evening together. Eight includes Rudlaarhill’s wife. They make a habit of eating with us. Family is important to us.”
Falhill had to stop from making a snide comment. If it means so much to you, why don’t you marry Fenhall? he could have asked. How can you live in the same hovel with the living examples of Fenhall’s lechery?
But Denhall — an atheist like Hraghedeen and her “family” — continued to speak for the both of them. “Do you know of anyone who would want to do Traamis harm?”
One of Fenhall’s bastards, the little girl Rudfalhedeen, appeared behind Hraghedeen. “Mother? Is Traamis the True dead yet?”
She picked up the nine-year-old girl that had not come from her own loins, though an adoration for the girl shone in her eyes. “No, the cleric is getting better, I hear.” Her motherly grin curdled when she looked back to Falhill. “I’m sorry. We can’t help you.” She shut the rickety door in their faces.
Falhill and Denhall asked Fenhall’s closest neighbors if any of them remembered anything strange about that night — any doors opening and closing around midnight. No one could recall any such circumstance. The last door Falhill knocked on opened immediately, and inside stood Jeulzannabalhadn. But most men call me Zan, Falhill remembered.
Zan had donned a silver-blue sheet to cover herself. The morning sun reached for the noon sky, but this young lady had obviously remained in a state of undress since waking up. “Congresser Falhill? Isn’t it a bit bright outside for a rendezvous?”
“Good morning. Congresser Denhall and I are conducting a investigation into who attempted an assassination on Cleric Traamis. Did you hear any odd sounds that night around midnight?”
“The night Traamis the True was attacked — that was three night ago, the twenty-seventh night under the Dog’s Moon, if I recall. My hovel was one of the first to have walls and a rooftop. Hardly a week since we landed, and only a hundred families have actual shelter. I was so pleased to see how many strapping men explicitly helped build my home. Childless widow that I am, you can’t imagine how grateful I was.”
“Jeulzannabalhadn.” That is a mouthful. “Zan, did you hear anything that night?”
“You’re worried about Fenhall, aren’t you? I heard what happened. And not from gossipy wives either — I hear all sorts of stories from nice men. Men don’t embellish like women do. Fenhall tried to attack some clerics earlier that day.”
“I’m not going to say who we are investigating.”
“What stories I could hear from you.” Zan retreated inside her roomy hovel. “Would you like some tea? Herbalist Glaadhedeen found a patch of old green tea leaves yesterday, and her soon-to-be husband gifted some to me.”
Falhill’s cheeks turned hot red, and he cracked his knuckles. “I’m comfortable out here.”
“Come inside, Congresser.”
“I can only imagine what my wife would say if she heard I entered the home of a beautiful, young, barely clad widow.”
“No
one will say a word.”
“I must be going, if you have nothing else to offer.” He turned to go.
Zan grabbed his arm, and Falhill averted his gaze. “Look, I tend to keep an eye on things outside my hovel. I don’t like men to stand on my doorstep for very long, so I keep my ear to the window. And I’m something of a bat when it comes to my sleep schedule. I was awake around that time, and I can tell you the names of every man who walked within view of my hovel.” Falhill looked back at the nineteen-year-old. Her bedsheet rippled in the breeze, revealing her bare leg all the way up to her midriff. Nothing too indecent showed, but her bare skin felt smooth under his gaze. Zan grinned, and Falhill coughed. “Hunter Fenhall never left his hovel, nor any of his kin. Drea’s grandson and the simpleton Rudrud were all that came by this way. And another man, whose name I will keep confidential — only to say he scurried here straight from his hovel and returned there when he left.”
“Are you willing to stake a man’s life on your witness?”
“I like you, Congresser. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Whenever you’re ready to ask for it.” She tiptoed backwards into her hovel. “Close the door when you’re finished.” She threw the silver-blue sheet across the room, and Falhill slammed the door.
“Everything alright?” Denhall asked, headed towards Zan’s hovel. “Everyone I asked couldn’t help. Is this Zan’s?” He stepped onto the wooden portico and elbowed Falhill. “You wanted to talk to the widow yourself, huh?”
“Nothing like that.” Falhill caught his breath. Denhall the Debauched. Of course Denhall knew of Zan’s openness. A young, handsome bachelor with no piety. “I’d prefer to never speak with her again. She has no respect for the sanctity of matrimony. To hear her tell it, she invites half the husbands in Hrashhill into her hovel every night.”
“We landed six days ago. She wouldn’t be walking straight if—”
“Please, I don’t want to talk about the widow Zan.”
“Are you worried about your wife? When was the last time you and Falhadn were intimate?”
The Heirs of History: A Nation From Nothing Page 8