Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones

by Vox Day

  “Especially not when the alternative is a filthy Severan puppet.” Trebonius smiled. “I suppose you know he declared for the Eagles.”

  “What else?” Marcus stood. “I’m filthy from the ride this morning, and you look as if you haven’t bathed for weeks. What do you say we visit the baths and get cleaned up while you tell me about anything interesting that doesn’t involve my family in any way.”

  It took them an hour to get permission to leave the fort, obtain a new horse for Trebonius, and canter the four leagues to Gallidromum, which was a moderately sized town of around fifteen thousand inhabitants about a two day’s march from the provincial border with Cynothicus. Fortunately for them, whatever sympathies the townspeople might have had for the nearby rebellion had completely vanished with the arrival of the legion last week, and both the officers and men of the legion had been given the run of the town when off duty.

  As they rode, Trebonius brought Marcus up to date on the latest events in Amorr, which included news that the college of electors was still locked in an electoral standoff between the two rival cardinals vying for the sacred chair. In the arena, the Reds had claimed an unexpected victory in the last great gladitorial event of the season. And it seemed that one of Gaius Maecenas’s freemen, a Larini named Guiberto, had scored a triumph in the theatre with a popular comedy that poked fun at three haplessly rural Utruccans, a Caeligni, a Silarian, and a Vallyrian, each of whom happened to arrive in Amorr on the same day.

  The baths were larger and of better quality than Marcus would have dared to expect so far from Amorr. The pillars were made of granite rather than marble, and the tilework was crude and childlike in comparison with the art that decorated the Amorran baths. But, having been constructed over three natural hot thermal springs, they were a draw for invalids and tourists alike. They weren’t what one would call crowded by Amorran standards, but they were considerably more popular than any of the baths he had seen in the provinces before.

  They tied up their horses, which as branded legionary mounts were about as likely to be stolen as the legionary fort itself, and entered the complex. Entrance cost one denarius apiece, which struck Marcus as exorbitant, so he paid the balneator for Trebonius as well.

  “You don’t need to do that,” Trebonius protested, fumbling at his near-empty purse.

  “I invited you. And besides, you know perfectly well that you’re practically a pauper. You can pay for our clothes if you want.”

  “Practically?” Trebonius’s laugh was hollow. “One centurion’s medal has more silver in it than I have in the aquilifer’s chest. I wouldn’t be surprised if Castorius has more money than half the patricians in the Senate!”

  In the apodyterium, they stripped off their armor and weaponry, as well as their underlying tunics and small clothes.

  Trebonius gave the bearded capsarius two quadrans to watch their possessions, and two more to polish their mud-spattered armor. “If you steal anything, we’ll have your head,” Trebonius warned him.

  The slave only grinned and shook his head. Bath slaves were notorious for absconding with the personal items they were supposed to watch, but few were stupid enough to vanish with a legionary’s possessions. The clothing was too easily identified, and it was not the sort of crime that, if caught, a man could be commit twice.

  Being already chilled from their ride and the cool wintry air, they didn’t linger in the frigidarium, but merely jumped in the water and clambered quickly out, prompting complaints from a group of men they’d inadvertently splashed.

  Next they moved to the tepidarium, which was large, but the mosaics on the floor were crude, and Marcus found the yellow walls to be overly bright. It did not appear that the good citizens of Gallidromum went in much for contemplation. It was not the sort of place that invited it, and they were the only ones there besides the slaves armed with pots of oil. They sat on the wooden benches, amusing each other by pointing out the incompetence of the art. As they were being oiled by the unctores, Trebonius drew his attention to one particularly comical section of the mosaics, wherein what was apparently supposed to be a fearsome minotaur more closely resembled an emaciated dog with horns.

  The oiling didn’t take long, and soon they entered the caldarium, which Marcus was pleased to see was not overly crowded. The air was heavy with steam and the scent of minerals. The thermal springs produced water that was every bit as hot as the furnaces of the great Amorran baths. Perhaps even a bit hotter, Marcus thought happily as he closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation of the warmth penetrating all the way through to his very bones.

  There was no sound except for a few murmured voices, some soft splashes, and the occasional hiss as a slave poured cold water from the ladrum over someone’s head. No more cold. No more riding. No more mud. No more shouting and being shouted at. It was more than peaceful—it was glorious.

  “You lads are legion, aren’t you?”

  Someone speaking Utruccan with the atrocious northern accent heard in these parts intruded upon his blissful reverie. Marcus refused to open his eyes. Perhaps the wretch would take the hint and go away.

  “Hey, I knows an Amorran when I sees one. You can’t mistake those noses, that’s what I says. Even without your armor and all, I knows you.”

  No, he would not. Oh, by the Undefiled Mother. Marcus wished he had his sword with him. Or better yet, a centurion armed with a vine staff and a bad mood.

  Grudgingly, he opened his eyes.

  He saw about what he expected in the only now mentioned dim light of the caldarium. The voice belonged to a middle-aged provincial man, balding, no doubt possessed of an expanding paunch below the waterline, and betraying the all-too-familiar avaricious gleam of the trader in his eye. Marcus sighed. While the rest of Selenoth rightly dreaded the Amorran legions and the death and devastation that so often followed in their wake, merchants everywhere seemed to view them as huge herds of milk cows, where the milk was all but free for the taking.

  “With all due respect, sir, my colleague and I have no need for food, equipment, wine, jewelry, female companionship, or anything else you, or anyone you know, is likely to have for sale. We merely seek to worship in blessed silence at this holy altar of cleanliness. As you are no doubt a God-fearing man yourself, I bid you respect our devotions.”

  Trebonius snorted. Unfortunately, the provincial took neither offense nor the hint. Instead, he laughed, as if he and Marcus were old friends given to jesting with each other. Marcus, in response, wondered if Julianus would come to his rescue if he gave in to his impulse to strangle the annoying old man.

  “Aye, I’m a merchant, laddie, but I won’t tries to sell you nothing. I gots nothing to sell! I solds it all to a bunch of your lot not two weeks ago in Saenott.”

  Saenott? Where was Saenott? It couldn’t be too terribly far from here if the merchant had been there only two weeks before. But what legionaries could he have sold anything to, if the nearest legion was in Clusium? He sat up and turned to face the merchant.

  “Do you mean Cynothicus?”

  “Aye, that’s what you lot calls the province. Allus gots to be sticking an extra syllable or two on there, you Amorrans.”

  “I suppose we do. So, you were selling to Amorrans in Cynothicus? Were they traders, these Amorrans?”

  The man laughed again. “Traders? No, when I said you lot, I meant soldiers. You know, legion boys like you two lads.”

  “Of course, of course,” Marcus nodded affably, mainly to keep the man from noticing his suddenly intense interest. “What were you selling?”

  “Had two carts of good Cortonan wine. They took it all, they did. Got me a good price for it too! The victucustos said they was short on meat, so now I’m looking for a likely herd of cows or pigs. I figures there must be some farmers about that wouldn’t mind saving on the winter feed if they haven’t butchered yet.”

  “That sounds like a good plan,” Marcus said approvingly. “The victucustos…what legion was he with?”

 
; The merchant shrugged. “I don’t know. A legion is a legion, right?”

  “More or less,” Marcus agreed, disappointed. “But they were in Cynothicus proper?”

  “Hey, now I remembers something.” A triumphant smile lit up the balding man’s face. “They had these lightning things all over the place. A symbol, like. Do you know what I mean?”

  Marcus looked at Trebonius and could see from the expression on his face that he had been listening too. Trebonius nodded slowly. Yes, they knew exactly what he meant. But what they did not know was why Legio III, also known as Fulgetra, would be in Cynothicus. And Marcus had the distinct impression that it might have something to do with the fact that Legio III was one of the two legions belonging to House Severus and controlled by one Aulus Severus Patronus, his uncle’s chief rival in the Senate and the head of the auctares faction.

  “Back to the fort?” Trebonius asked. He too was suspicious.

  Marcus nodded. Then he turned back to the merchant. “What is your name, man?”

  “Why, Clautus of Medonis,” he answered, surprised.

  “Well, Clautus of Medonis,” Marcus told him as he reluctantly pushed himself out of the steaming water, “if ever you bring your wares to any of the Valerian legions, I guarantee you will get a very good price for them.”

  FJOTRA

  Fjotra was not the first to reach Brynjolf’s side. The mage was already there, kneeling beside him, as was a big man with a thick, black mustache and a commanding presence. Without thinking, she tried to push past him, which occasioned a collective gasp of dismay from the people around her.

  “Fjotra!” barked the comtesse from behind her in a manner that made it perfectly clear that she had made a dreadful mistake.

  But Fjotra didn’t care, she was too worried about her brother. He was conscious and groaning, and Theuderic was having some trouble preventing him from pushing himself up to a sitting position.

  “Lie back, you bloody fool—you might have broke something!” the large man told him. “Now hold still so we can get a closer look at that dagger wound. You’re lucky you didn’t land on your head, the way you fell!”

  Despite his large hands and bluff manner, the man was surprisingly gentle as he cut away the finery that surrounded the assassin’s blade and examined the wound. Even so, Brynjolf winced as the man produced a red silk cloth out of his clothing and pressed the cloth tightly against the wound.

  “Bleed on this all you like, boy,” the man said lightly and his remark was greeted by rather more amusement than Fjotra would have thought possible. He handed the dagger to the mage. “What do you say, Theuderic?”

  “I’d say he’s lucky the bastard missed the heart and lungs.” The mage sat back on his heels and examined the knife. “No poison either. But I’ll bet there is on the bolts they were carrying. They were planning to shoot you, not stab you.”

  “Will he live?” Fjotra interjected. “Please, sieur, will he die?”

  “Not from this. I’ve had worse myself.” The big man glanced up at her, initially disinterested, then did a double-take. “Who the hell are you?”

  “It’s the boy’s sister,” the mage answered before Fjotra could say anything. “They’re reaver royalty, of a sort. Your comtesse’s new pets.”

  “Damned useful pets,” the man said, staring at her. His dark eyes seeming to devour her. “I can see why she was keeping them to herself.”

  “If I’d known Brynjolf would save your life, I might have contemplated leaving him at home, your royal highness,” the comtesse said in tones so icy that Fjotra looked at her in alarm. But it was hard to tell if Roheis’s green eyes were more amused or satisfied, so Fjotra concluded she didn’t actually mean what she seemed to be implying. “Prince Brynjolf, Princess Fjotra, allow me to introduce to you his Royal Highness Charles-Phillipe, the Red Prince, Duc de Lutece, the recent victor of the Siege of Montrove, and the likely target of the two assassins you just threw off the walls, Brynjolf.”

  Fjotra gasped. She’d knocked the prince aside? She stood and tried to curtsy as she’d been trained.

  Brynjolf laughed then grimaced and gestured with his right hand. “Please no offense if I not bow, Royal Highness?”

  “I suspect my dignity will survive the insult, Prince Brynjolf. May I say it is indeed a pleasure to meet you both, particularly in light of the circumstances. Speaking of which…” He rose to his feet and bellowed to his guards. “Fouquat, tell me you got at least one of them alive!”

  “We got both, Your Highness. One of them is busted up pretty bad, I don’t think he’ll make it. The other just has a broken leg.”

  The Red Prince nodded in satisfaction and looked down at Brynjolf. “Well done, reaver prince! It looks as if I’m in your debt.” He ordered the assassins taken to the royal palace and Brynjolf taken into the Duc’s residence, born on a litter carried by his own bodyguard.

  As Fjotra and the others followed Brynjolf through the gawking crowds and into the high-arched entry to the ducal manoir, Roheis whispered into her ear.

  “Your brother is in no shape for what we’d planned. You’re going to have to do this yourself. Can you do it?”

  Fjotra winced. She’d forgotten entirely about their planned performance that evening. The thought of doing it alone in front of all these southerners frightened her nearly as much as seeing her brother fall from the wall. But if her brother could risk his life for this audience, she could risk public humiliation.

  She nodded as grimly as a warrior ready to enter his last battle.

  “I can, my lady. I must.”

  They settled Brynjolf in a bedchamber that befitted his supposedy princely status, and his wounds were being attended by two priests. The priests themselves were assisted by three young nuns attractive enough to draw a wry comment from the Red Prince as they were ushered from the room.

  The comtesse assured Fjotra that her brother was in the very best of hands. It seemed the priests were from a medicinal order that were well regarded throughout the kingdom. No sooner had they left Brynjolf’s chamber than the prince took his leave of them, as his attendants were flocking around him, bearing urgent messages from one noble or another. But he was gracious enough to kiss Fjotra’s hand, a gesture that made her feel very funny indeed. And not merely because the course hairs of his mustache tickled either.

  “Very gallant, our prince,” Theuderic said to the comtesse as he sipped from a glass from which a disconcerting blue smoke was emanating.

  “Yes, it’s remarkable how a fresh young face inspires him to new heights of courtesy,” the comtesse answered.

  Fjotra couldn’t tell if the comtesse were irritated or not. If the prince were her lover, she certainly would have been furious that he had made advances with Fjotra. But things were so different here in the south that she had no idea what to think. The prince wasn’t exactly what she would call handsome, as his face was red and fleshy, his hair was thick and black, and his teeth were big and yellow. And yet, he was not an easy man to ignore. Or forget.

  “Shall I lean on him for a royal audience tonight?”

  “You still want to do that?” Theuderic glanced at Fjotra. “Is she up to it without the brother?”

  “They’re not jongleurs, Theuderic. Yes, it would have been better with them both. But look at her: She’ll suffice to hold the king’s attention.”

  The mage laughed. “She held the prince’s, anyhow.”

  Fjotra tried not to laugh, herself, as the comtesse’s artfully placed elbow nearly made the mage spill his glass.

  It didn’t take Theuderic long to come to a decision. “Very well. It will have to be soon after the dancing begins. Neither the king nor queen will stay long past the first five dances. She is leaving for Chalaons to take the waters tomorrow. But not too soon, or you will play to an angry audience. So, let us enter now and pay our respects to the duchesse, and then we shall see what we can do.”

  The sorcerer went off to speak with the ball’s hostess, as the large h
all resounded with the sounds of the string quartet. The comtesse was speaking with the elfess, too rapidly for her to easily follow, so Fjotra watched as people danced. Although only a few couples were on the floor yet, their effortless motions made her entirely certain that she would not dance this evening. The comtesse had been kind enough to see that she’d been given lessons in the most popular dances, but Fjotra knew that she was just familiar enough with them to ensure that she would look clumsy rather than ignorant.

  The music changed twice, as did the dances, before Fjotra spotted the tall sorcerer making his way back toward them. It was clear from the resigned expression on his bearded face that the Duchesse de Meridiony had given her consent to an additional musical performance.

  The comtesse smiled up at Theuderic as he rejoined them and offered him a goblet of a sparkling wine. “Thank you, my dear magus. How did you persuade the lady?”

  Theuderic laughed and arched an eyebrow at his elven mistress. “I lied. I told her that you, my lady, wished to sing a song of ancient Merithaim. Naturally, she couldn’t resist, since not even His Majesty has ever been able to boast of an elven bard in Lutece.”

  A slow, amused smile gradually spread across the elf lady’s face. “You are incorrigible, my lord. But I suppose it is better that you amuse yourself with lies than with murders.”

  “The night is yet young.” He raised his glass to his lover. “I wouldn’t count out the possibility, seeing as we’ve already had one assassination attempt—and considering the looks that some of the Duchesse’s guests are directing at Roheis’s young reaver friend here.” He directed their attention to one large, broad-shouldered man who looked distinctly out of place in the effeminate clothing that most of the Savonner men were wearing, whose hate-filled stare was making Fjotra feel increasingly uncomfortable.