The Grey Bastards: A Novel (The Lot Lands)

by Jonathan French

  The tallest! It had to be the tallest tower. Obvious maybe, but Jackal could not imagine a powerful man dwelling in less. A humble wizard sounded as likely as a peaceful orc.

  Jackal cracked the door and peered out into the yard. Silver light pooled in the bailey save where the shadows lay thickest beneath the walls. Fiery globs denoted torches along the battlements, some slowly moving, revealing the paths of sentries. The tallest tower was not immediately apparent. The central keep was largest, but the drum tower on the northeast corner of the fortress equaled it in height. The keep would be foolhardy. Bermudo was probably within, plowing the ass of some poor stableboy.

  And then Jackal knew where to go.

  He waited from the safety of the doorway, watching the pattern of the sentries for an opening. Before he felt comfortable venturing out, footsteps and a cough from the stairs above forced him to action. He slipped out into the yard, leaving the door slightly ajar lest the noise of it latching alert whomever was coming down the tower. He walked briskly across the yard, neither running nor creeping. Hopefully, from the wall he would look like a man crossing the bailey with genuine purpose, unless the watcher’s eyes were particularly keen and noticed a shirtless, long-haired half-orc. He made it to the barracks without challenge and ducked into the shadows, trying not to think about the scores of men sleeping just beyond the wall he now used to conceal himself. Keeping low, he hurried beneath the windows, skirting the long side of the building until he reached the corner. The stables lay not fifty steps away, across an alarmingly bright stretch of yard.

  Hells, was every damned star in the sky favoring that one cursed swath of dust?

  He took his time watching the patrols on the battlements and, when he deemed it safe, made a run for it, hoping some sleepless soldier wasn’t looking out from the barracks at that particular instant.

  Skidding under the eaves of the stables, he stopped and listened. No cries were raised, no pounding of pursuing boots, just the occasional snort of a horse from the dozens of stalls beyond the chest-high stone enclosure. Columns supported the roof, allowing the wind to thread through the stables, relieving and carrying the strong odors of the steeds. Jackal remained outside, slinking along the wall until he found the wooden double gate. A wicket was set within it, allowing men to come and go without the need to swing the gates open. Fortunately, it was unbarred.

  Jackal breathed easier once he was enveloped by the pungent darkness. Except it wasn’t completely dark. A flicker of light outlined the closed door of the tack room to the right. The castile employed more than a dozen stableboys and Jackal could hear their soft snores in the hayloft above. One, however, was clearly working in the tack room, as none would have been foolish enough to leave a lit lamp unattended. As Jackal eased the door open, he hoped he was right about which individual was up so late.

  The boy sat on the floor, barefoot, intent on repairing a bridle. He did not look up as Jackal entered the room, his head cocked far to the side as he squinted at his work. Like all the stableboys, his hair was shaved close to the scalp, to deter lice, but a white crescent of bald skin outlined a deep depression above his right ear. His mouth hung open slightly, his tongue making regular appearances, coinciding with the erratic tics of his face.

  About seven years ago, Muro had been born to one of Sancho’s whores. She died of some affliction passed to her by the cock of a Guabic merchant before the boy was weaned. Four years later, it was the mule of another merchant that kicked Muro while he was playing in the brothel yard. The lad had never been the same. Ignacio took him off Sancho’s hands and brought him to live at the castile. Jackal had only seem him twice since, once when the hoof helped escort a caravan of goods to the castile and again when Delia brought him back to the brothel to nurse him through an illness that the garrison’s horsemaster kept ignoring.

  The boy looked up slowly as Jackal squatted down across from him. His eyes were slightly unaligned and blinked hard.

  “I am to finish,” Muro said, the words slow and dully pitched. He immediately turned his attention back to the bridle. He fussed dutifully at the leather, trying to braid the browband. It was a task that required nimble fingers, the work of an hour for someone of skill. This poor boy had neither, but had spent hells knew how long struggling until he was now half a finger’s length from finished.

  “Finish this?” Jackal asked, pointing to the bridle.

  Muro gave a glacial nod. “Master tolds I am to finish before sleep.”

  Jackal breathed out hard through his nostrils and looked over his shoulder at the tack-room door. Perhaps he needed to go find where “Master” sleeps.

  “Can I help you with it?” Jackal asked, turning back to the boy.

  Muro held the bridle out. “Yes, thank you, please.”

  “Muro,” Jackal said gently as he began threading the thongs, “do you remember me?”

  “Noh.”

  “I’m Oats’s friend.”

  Muro’s slack jaw stretched up into a gleeful smile. “Bears and Moundtans.”

  Jackal sniggered. “That’s right. Bears and Mountains.”

  Oats had spent more time at the brothel during the boy’s convalescence than in the previous years put together. When Muro was finally strong enough to get out of bed, the two had played together for days and Oats had taught him every game he knew, then began inventing new ones. The big thrice was set on bringing the boy back to Winsome, but the Claymaster refused, saying the orphanage was only for mongrel children who might one day serve the hoof, not simpleton frails. If ever Oats might have thrown his axe, it was that day. He didn’t, but his commitment to Jackal’s bid for the chief seat became iron.

  “Muro? Can you answer a question for me?”

  The boy, still smiling with the memory of riding on Oats’s shoulders, nodded.

  “Where does the wizard live?”

  It took a moment for the words to sink in, but when they did, the smile melted away.

  “Noh.”

  “Is that a scary question?”

  Muro nodded, shrinking back a little.

  “I am sorry,” Jackal told him gently. “I did not know. Do you think you can tell me anyway? It will be a secret between us.”

  “Noh.”

  The boy was shaking his head now, growing agitated. Worried he would begin to scream, Jackal held up his hands in a calming gesture.

  “Muro, it’s fine. You don’t have to tell me. I’m sorry.”

  This eased the boy’s distress and he settled. Jackal said nothing more, quickly finishing the bridle. Handing it back, he gave Muro a wink.

  “Go on now. Get some sleep.”

  Muro stood and hung the bridle up with measured deliberateness. He passed Jackal without further acknowledgment and left the tack room. Tarrying only long enough to liberate a gelding knife from the racks, Jackal snuck from the room. This was folly. He would make for the sally port and escape, perhaps catch up with Delia and ensure she found a safe refuge. As he approached the stable gates, he noticed the wicket door was slightly open. Certain he had closed it earlier, Jackal proceeded cautiously, purloined knives in hand.

  Glancing through the opening, he found Muro standing just outside. Tucking his blades away, Jackal hissed to get his attention. He needed to coax the boy back inside before he drew attention, but Muro only turned his head, regarded him for an instant, then looked back out across the yard. Slowly, his hand came up and he pointed. Stepping out to stand beside him, Jackal followed the direction of the stableboy’s finger.

  The eastern tower. The smallest tower.

  Smiling, Jackal placed a grateful hand on Muro’s head. “Brave boy. Get to bed now.”

  Muro returned to the stable and Jackal began working his way to the tower.

  Chapter 26

  There were no guards.

  No one was posted near the doors of the
small tower, nor were any of the sentries patrolling the nearby battlements. This made Jackal uneasy. He did not want to be seen, but the lack of protection around the tower bespoke of an inhabitant who needed none. Jackal was about to slip into the chambers of the most dangerous frail in Ul-wundulas. He wondered if he would be able to get a word out before serpents burst from his gut or his eyes turned into flesh-eating beetles.

  “Move slow, talk fast,” Jackal whispered to himself and went inside.

  Stone steps snaked upward, unbroken by landings. Jackal took them up to the door of the garret. Breathing in, he did what he never dreamed might be his last living act.

  He knocked.

  There came the immediate sounds of movement from within. A clatter of unknown objects striking the floor was followed by a voice, the words indiscernible. The muttering beyond the door continued, but Jackal stood fast, expecting to die in agony as soon as the wizard finished what was likely an incantation. The words soon faded out. Jackal found he was still breathing. He could still hear movement, and then a low moan. Gripping the handle, Jackal slowly admitted himself into the room.

  All attempts at silence were immediately snuffed as the smell assaulted his nostrils, forcing him to gag and cough. Old food, excrement, and unwashed feet bedded down in the air, an orgy of foul odors. Burying his nose in the crook of his elbow, Jackal surveyed the garret.

  The furnishings were lost in warrens of damp parchment and swollen, moldy tomes. Several rats played about the piles, slinking from stacks of scrolls to plates of ancient food, their droppings ornamenting everything. A gaunt figure wandered aimlessly amidst the reeking detritus, shuffling in chaotic patterns between the largest heap and the vermin-laden nest of linens that must have served him as a bed. Beyond, the only window not obscured by refuse was barely able to admit the moonlight, its leaded glass made murky with thick films of filth.

  The figure made an erratic turn, casting a crooked-neck look in Jackal’s direction.

  Removing his arm from his face, Jackal suffered the stench so he could speak.

  “I must speak with you.”

  The figure made one last circuit before deciding to approach. It was an old man, clad in nothing but an open robe. Beneath, his body was wasted. Hard lines of rib roofed a ghastly potbelly. His old cods, more balls than shaft, swung pathetically between arrow-thin legs that quivered as he drew near.

  “Another five hundred are required,” the wretch proclaimed in a dusty voice.

  Jackal could not help taking a step back as the wizard came closer. His eyes were rheumy and wild, the thin wisp of beard clinging to his quivering chin was crusted with dried food.

  “I gave you a command,” the old man complained.

  A reedy arm crawled out from the crevasse of the filthy robe’s voluminous sleeve and attempted to cuff Jackal. Reacting instinctually, he swatted the limb away. Still, the senile old fool kept coming, pawing and snatching with his skeletal hands until he managed to grasp Jackal’s wrist. He stretched his vulture’s neck up, his mouth agape and stinking of a corpse’s asshole.

  “You are no slave,” he creaked.

  “No,” Jackal told him, “I am not.”

  The wizard’s nostrils tightened, as if he were sniffing, and his eyes darted to and fro, crawling over Jackal’s entire body.

  “There is power in you,” the man declared, and his mouth quavered into a nearly toothless smile of delight. “You are he! The Bastard!”

  The wizard produced a look of triumphant realization, but his madness quickly snatched it away. His confused frown returned and he released Jackal, turning back into his miserable den. He ran a hand over his bald, flaking pate.

  “Another five hundred, you ash-colored animal!” the wizard cried, whirling unsteadily to thrust a finger at Jackal. “Do it now, or you will be one of them!”

  His patience fleeing along with his caution, Jackal took an aggressive step and seized the frail by his robe.

  “I thought we agreed I was no slave,” he growled.

  The flicker of recognition returned as the wizard cowed. “It’s you!”

  “It’s me,” Jackal reminded him roughly. “The Bastard.”

  How this loon-brained skeleton knew him was a puzzle, but he supposed even demented wizards had ways. A wheezing laugh escaped from between the grey gums of the old man.

  “Oh, but the queen will piss herself,” the wizard gloated. “That the debaucheries of her uncle would manifest to haunt her as your magnificent person is delicious. A mongrel and a bastard, yet yours remains the better claim! Oh, it is sweet.”

  The wizard’s right shoulder was revolving strangely. Jackal looked down to find the madman stroking his desiccated cock. With a disgusted shove, he sent the creep sprawling back on his vile mattress. While the coot continued to fondle his limp flesh, rasping laughter, Jackal mulled over his ramblings.

  Bastard, he had said, but had not meant one of the hoof. No, he meant a natural child, some royal frail’s half-blood by-blow. Hells, the man’s brain was porridge.

  “I need to know about a wizard,” Jackal snarled down at the creature beneath him.

  The old man ceased abusing himself, his laughter dying instantly. He rose, his quick yet labored movements reminding Jackal of an insect with broken legs that refuses to die.

  “I am he,” the wizard groveled. “Forgive me. I am Abzul, Communer of the Circle of Ul-zuwaqa, Strangler of the White She-Demon.”

  “I noticed,” Jackal said, trying to avoid the fawning hands. “But you are not who I meant, coffin-dodger. I speak of a half-orc wizard, fresh to the Lots.”

  “Half-orcs,” Abzul spat, “yes, many and more are required. If the high-born won’t part with them for fair coin, take them! And kill one of the household. We will see what the noble families value more, their mongrel slaves or their wives and children. In this, we have the king’s own blessing.”

  This forgotten old conjurer was useless. He was swimming in the past again, spewing nonsense at phantoms. Small wonder he was kept secret. He was just another lie, as capable of defending the castile as the hoofs were of protecting the Lots. Jackal gave him room as he fretted and paced.

  Abzul suddenly shrieked at him. “Why do you stand there? Get to it! Use the survivors and the fresh arrivals. There is not time for separate crucibles. Five hundred more are required. Fill the cages!”

  Jackal stiffened. Ignoring the raging old man, he looked around slowly, at the rats scavenging about the chamber.

  Rats.

  Cages.

  “You,” Jackal accused, taking a step toward Abzul. “You were one of them. You created the plague.”

  Pride bubbled past the wizard’s befuddlement. “I did. An arduous working. Summoners. Communers. Vivamancers. Alchemists. Abjurers. All wisdoms were required. Oh, if we had but been allowed to complete…”

  Abzul trailed off, his tongue running rapidly over his lower lip.

  Overcome with loathing, Jackal snarled and seized the sorcerer by the throat.

  “I think you’ve lived long enough, maggot.”

  Abzul’s eyes popped and ceased their rolling to stare at Jackal’s wrathful face. Whimpering, the wizard’s knees buckled, but Jackal held him upright by the neck.

  “I…am no threat to you,” the wizard coughed out.

  Jackal squeezed down further. “No, you are not.”

  “Truly,” Abzul begged through his stifled airway, “there…is none who could challenge you, my lord…Ultani.”

  Jackal’s spine went rigid. “What did you call me?”

  He released Abzul, allowing him to drop. Cringing, the wizard held up a staying hand.

  “Forgive me, I should not have used your name!”

  “No, say it. The name. Say it!”

  The old man’s hands clenched together as he raised his arms imploringly. “I did
not mean to offend—”

  “Fucking say it!”

  “Uhad Ul-badir Taruk Ultani!”

  Slowly, Jackal’s hands came up and rested in his dirty hair.

  “Hells overburdened,” he hissed.

  He had come here to gather information about Crafty, not be mistaken for him by this addle-brained lecher.

  “I will help you come into your kingdom, my lord!” Abzul declared. “I remain of use!”

  The old wizard was starting to get loud, and though Jackal suspected mad ravings from this tower were common, he did not need some servant investigating the noise. Someone was still feeding this buzzard, though dropping a plate and hurrying away seemed to be the practice.

  “Enough, Abzul,” Jackal said, seeing his chance. “I will not harm you. You are of use. That is why I am here. I wish to know all that you do about me.”

  “Nothing, my lord,” the old man baldly lied, shaking his head.

  “You needn’t fear,” Jackal cajoled, “I know who my allies are, Abzul. It is my enemies I seek.”

  “Treasonous dogs! That is what they will be, my lord, when you sit your throne. Not I! I have waited here for you. I returned to Ul-wundulas when the others would not, to await your arrival. From your birth, I have waited.”

  “The throne of Hispartha,” Jackal said lightly, carefully watching Abzul’s reaction. “Do you think I can seize it?”

  “It is yours to take, my lord. Your whore aunt and her pederast husband are pretenders to your grandfather’s crown. I renounced their court in protest over your father’s execution after he returned from exile, all the while making them believe I valorously returned to the Lots to help keep watch on the filthy soot-sk—…on the half-breeds, who are graced to count you as one of them!”

  Jackal’s jaw clenched. Abzul was a shit liar. He was trying to save his own skin from whatever danger he believed he faced. There wasn’t enough courage left to hold allegiances, to Hispartha or any other. The prisons of his decrepit body and unhinged mind laid claim to all his loyalty. Still, fear had him locked in some semblance of clarity.