War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy

by D. S. Halyard

  The farmer had Lanae place her hands on both sides of the block, then with two well-placed blows split the two links closest to the manacles on her wrists, apologizing all the while for not being able to remove them as well. “Don’t have a key nor a file, I’m sorry to say, Madam King’s Eye. I reckon the blacksmith can take them off of you in town, but I sure don’t know how I could manage it with just the things I have here.” Once the chains had been struck off, Lanae was able to get into Arrol’s daughter’s pale green dress, and in the basket she found a pair of green slippers to match them, tucked beneath a large loaf of bread and a hot meat pie. She greedily ate all of it, washing it down with a jug of fresh milk. Although Jahaksi had kept her reasonably well fed, she hadn’t eaten in nearly two days, and nothing as good as this.

  “I have been away, master Felder.” She said, once she could talk again. “I don’t know what’s been going on. You said there was a war?”

  “Ah, ‘tis a long time you’ve been away then, not to know of that.” He nodded grimly. “Aye, it’s a war. Another Aulig war they’re saying, and much worse than the last one. Every band from the Redwater to the North Islands in it, and Northcraven under siege and all. They’ve had a muster right here in Nevermind, if you can believe it, and every man able to carry a spear or a sword gone north to fight the black haired devils. They’ll be having need of you king’s eyes, I reckon, and glad to have Sentinel back.”

  Lanae raised her eyebrows. “You know Sentinel’s name?”

  Arrol Felder laughed. “Why, of course I do. And you’re Lanae Brookhouse, sure enough. I’m surprised you don’t figure on my knowing it. Talking about the king’s eyes, well, that’s what us common folk do to pass the time. I’ve seen your picture and Sentinel and Shroud, Wraith and Wing and Sky, I know all about the king’s eyes. You’re truly famous, especially now you’ve gone missing. Why, you should hear the rumors folks have said.”

  “Rumors?” Lanae grew uneasy and her voice was sharp.

  “Aye, lots of rumors. Word is that some of the guardians was killed at an eagle way station, and you done away with and Sentinel kilt and all. There’s them that says you run off with a tanner down Zoric way, not me, mind, I never said nothing like that. That’s just nasty talk probably started by some jealous housemistress.” He added, looking slightly embarrassed.

  “There’s others says you was took by Auligs and that’s what the war is about, for of course the king can’t abide none of his eagles being took. Why down to Nevermind there’s a different rumor from everybody you meet, not that I put much stock in that kind of thing, but I’ve got ears on the sides of my head, don’t I? I can’t very well go about not hearing things.”

  “No, I suppose you can’t.” Lanae replied patiently. “Well, the truth is I was taken, and Sentinel, too. We only just now escaped, and I have to get him to the eagle’s landing in Nevermind right away. But I thank you for your kindness Arrol Felder, and I promise you the Lord Mayor will hear from me how helpful you have been.”

  “Aye, took by the Auligs of course. Well, let us do this, Lanae Brookhouse.” The farmer continued before she could correct him. “There’s them as says you should ought to be in trouble for letting Sentinel get took.” Lanae could feel her face turning crimson. “Now, on the other hand there’s most of us folk who know you are a good girl, and never had nothing done to you nor to Sentinel that was your fault. T’was them damned Auligs for certain sure. The Lord Mayor, well, I don’t know what he thinks, but I know the man. He’s a just man by all rights, and he’s a father himself.

  “Let’s you just set here a bit, and I’ll have the missus come and visit with you. Meanwhiles, I’ll head into town and run my mouth a bit to them as I know will mean you nothing but good. I’ll let them know that I’ve recovered you, and you are at my farm getting over being took by the Auligs. Give me an hour and I’ll have half the town awaiting for you to come to the eagle’s landing, and we’ll give you a nice welcome. Once the Lord Mayor sees all us folks celebrating your safe return, he’ll for certain come out on the right side of things, then you won’t have to worry about no rumors nor trouble over this here.”

  Although Lanae was not certain that Felder’s plan would work, she was certain that he could run his mouth. She made a wry grin. “So that you know, Master Felder, it wasn’t Auligs that captured me, it was some people called the Brizaki.”

  His head came up sharply and his eyes narrowed. “I’m glad of you telling me that, Lanae Brookhouse, certain sure I am. Better it was Auligs, to my mind, and that’s what I’ll be telling the folks in town. There’s some as keep their ears in the wind and knows what Brizaki are, especially hereabouts with a lot of sailors and suchlike, but there’s some as listen to the church and don’t believe there’s no such thing as a Brizaki, you understand me? I don’t know what them as lives way over on the eastern rim of the Tolrissan Sea would want with you or any king’s eye, but I do know that if you go throwing that name around, that name what I ain’t gonna say again but that starts with a “b”, you’re going to run afoul of the church for certain sure.”

  “But the men who took me were Brizaki.” She explained. “I need to tell the king.”

  “Listen to me, Lanae, and hear me clear.” Felder said. “As a youngling I went a sailing, like any likely lad in Nevermind, and I went a long ways. Clear to eastern Tolrissa we sailed. I know all about them cat-eyed soldiers and their ships, and their calling lightning and witchery. But that there is a sailor’s thing. If the church folk hear talk of that kind of thing you’ll be hauled before an inquisitor. By the time that fellow’s done with you, you’ll have confessed to all kinds of things you never done, and they’ll drown you or tie you to a stake for burning. I tell you this is certain true.

  “Lucky for you, although it sure ain’t lucky for them as lives by the Redwater, we got a war going on, and all the Auligs in the north in on it. So it was Auligs who took you, understand? It don’t make no difference to the king who took you in truth, I don’t reckon, but it could mean life or death to you. Please tell me you understand.”

  Lanae nodded numbly.

  “If them folks ask you about what kind of Auligs it was, just tell them they had white painted faces. That describes about half of the far north bands, and that will be enough detail to likely satisfy them. Anything else they asks, you just allow as how you was locked up and all you ever saw was the inside of your cell. That’s likely true enough, isn’t it?

  “Yes. For most of the time.” Lanae admitted.

  “There you go.” Then he smiled. “I sure am glad it was me who found you first, Lanae Brookhouse. You’d a been in some kind of trouble being honest as you are. I hope you learn how to be a better liar in this here land of the Holy Church of Lio, or you just won’t make it very far.”

  Chapter 41: Jecha on the Chiam Road

  The high-wheeled wagon rocked from pothole to pothole, jarring Jecha as she stared unblinkingly at the fiery crescent of the rising sun. She was sitting beside the teamster, a lanky, dark-haired baby from family Verone who was no more than nineteen summers old. His name was Jakol and he had curly hair and a thin moustache, and he cut quite a figure with the young girls when the Entreddi danced. Theirs was the lead wagon, and Jecha had displaced the Verone family’s seer to ride beside Jakol and watch the sunrise on the way to the city of Chiam.

  Six wagons trailed behind them, ten riders strung out alongside them and thirty cows and sheep trailed behind. Family Verone, with fifty Entreddi altogether, was one of the larger and more prosperous of the gypsy families. They were the fifth family Jecha had traveled with since the destruction of family Haila, and in each caravan she joined, their reaction to her story of that destruction had been the same. First shock, with the women crying and the men’s faces turning pale, then anger and shouting and threats, and finally the cold calculation that vengeance must be taken in Marten’s name. It was only the third reaction that interested Jecha, for she truly meant to be avenged.

 
; The Entreddi were an ancient people, older even than the Auligs, a people who could trace their ancestors through long and ancient bloodlines back to the very first days of Marten’s rise, thousands upon thousands of years ago. They had been trading the long roads of Marten’s Land before it was called by that name, before that name became Mortentia, and through the long march of ages since. All of that time they had survived, not only here but in other places, and not because they were stronger than their enemies; certainly not because they were wiser, but because their enemies had a habit of disappearing. Despite the fact that it had been many years since the Entreddi even had enemies, they remembered their heritage.

  The Entreddi were the knife in your bed and the poison in your breakfast, the Thorissans had said, back when Thorissa was a nation, and even Thimenians had feared to raid their wagons. Thorissa had been far away across the sea, and Thimenia also, but not beyond the reach of what the Entreddi called justice.

  Jecha had rolled the bones and read the waters and consulted the stars, embers and leaves, and her wisdom was ancient and well-practiced. Everything she saw and put her hand to gave her a part of the story. Each bit and piece and relic told her things. She knew who her enemies were. She knew why the seeker had come. She knew the heedless contempt that had led to the reckless and needless murder of family Haila, an ancient family of whom she was the sole surviving member. There were certainly things she didn’t know and needed to, but she intended to find them out.

  Jecha was old and wise, but she was not so wise that she couldn’t hate. Indeed, her hatred was a poison in her veins that she allowed to fester, willfully insinuating it into the veins of every Entreddi she encountered. Her enemy would feel her wrath wherever the Entreddi traveled, and they traveled very, very far. Even today she journeyed to find a man in Chiam who would feel that hate.

  The wagon rolled on and rocked side to side and she stared at the rising sun, feeding her hatred with memories of dead children.

  The road to Chiam was long and dreary, and sad and dark lay the villages to either side. At the entrance to each village was a ten man gibbet, and each gibbet bore no less than three hanging men, women or children and sometimes every rope bore it’s dark fruit. When family Verone stopped in the villages to trade the peasants dared not approach the wagons, and even the freemen and merchants did so furtively, with many a backward glance to ensure that the horsemen of Duke D’Tarman were not there to arrest them for imagined crimes.

  From time to time they passed the Duke’s men, grim-faced horsemen in red and black armor decorated with silver skulls with red stars for eyes. When they did so the Entreddi bowed and knuckled their foreheads, careful to avoid looking at the spears of the soldiers, for these were often deliberately left unclean so that the bloodstains could be seen on them clearly.

  This was Dunwater Duchy. The darkest and most dangerous of the Mortentian dominions, for Duke D’Tarman was a firm believer in ruling by fear. The taxes were exorbitant, and the despair of the common people was palpable. Dunwater prison rivaled the Blackhill in its terror, if not in its capacity. The difference was that if you were sentenced to the Blackhill there was some hope that when your time was done you might be released. Dunwater prison was an end without a new beginning.

  The nobles in Dunwater fared much better than commoners, and Jecha’s band passed two house carriages, to whom the Entreddi were required to yield the road. The first carriage was little more than a silver banded caisson with a pair of high wicker couches in which two finely dressed young ladies giggled in the morning light, attended to by their servants and escorted by house guards. The horses were sleek and swift looking. Their coachman bowed somberly at Jakol while he directed the Verone wagons off of the road.

  The second carriage was a much less sporting affair, a black lacquered high-sided box with curtained windows and a team of eight heavy dray horses. Family Verone was quick to clear the road as soon as this wagon came into view, for it bore the D’Tarman crest, and by the time it reached them the Entreddi were bowing, hats off on the side of the road. It might have been the Duke himself or it might have been nothing more than his lowest civil servant, but in Dunwater you did not gamble in such matters. Even freemen had been flogged here for failing to bow.

  The gypsies treaded lightly on this road, for though they were largely exempt from the kinds of punishments meted out to the commoners of Dunwater, such exemptions could be precarious.

  The sun was high when they drew within sight of the walls of Chiam, and Jakol turned their wagon down an infrequently used road and drove another mile, leading Family Verone to a wide, tree-lined square where they could set up a trading fair and camp. The men were swift to bring out low tables and put their wares on display, for trading should be good here.

  Jecha was offered a cushioned chair befitting her station and sat regally in the warm sunlight, watching everything. One of the family ratters sat in her lap, occasionally deigning to permit Jecha to stroke it between the ears while it purred. Her thoughts were not on the fair, however, and she was impatient for darkness to come. Dunwater trading disgusted Jecha anyway, for the highborn demanded the right to come first, buying the best goods, then their servants, and it would be two or three hours before the common folk were given a chance to trade here. By then the choice goods would be gone, and they would be dickering over used pots, wooden needles and other items of lesser quality.

  Yes, family Verone would make a good deal of silver here, but the people who most needed their trade would be denied it. She inwardly mocked herself for thinking such softhearted thoughts.

  Fat Farthya, the white-haired Verone family storyteller, was sulking alone on his white tasseled stool. In front of him stood two rows of empty benches. He was forbidden from telling his best stories in Dunwater, the old stories of King Marten and the legends from the Age of Dragons, and he could make little silver repeating the dry and moralistic church fables that were allowed. Dunwater folk had to suffer through such stories from their autocratic priests, and they weren’t going to pay to hear them repeated. He was also forbidden from spreading the news of the world outside of Dunwater, for the Count of Chiam reserved that right for himself.

  No, Jecha mused, trading in Dunwater was not fun at all, and she did not envy family Verone. Family Haila’s road had gone through the Whitewood on a great circle that ended all the way in Northcraven, then followed the coastline all the way down to Zoric. Along the way it passed through much friendlier places than this. But now family Haila was dead and Northcraven was on fire, by all accounts, so perhaps there were no safe roads anymore.

  Still, the Entreddi must do what they had always done, and trust in the Gods to keep them safe on Marten’s roads. Also they must have justice, for no hand had dared to strike down an entire family in many long lives of men, and such a thing had to be answered. Yes, be he king or godling or both, the slayer must be brought to account.

  The gentry came first, poor bargainers who paid asking or offered such low starting sums as to be insulting. This was dangerous trade, if lucrative, but Jecha soon saw that the Verones treated the highborn with exactly the right combination of servility and deference to avoid causing offense while avoiding being cheated or bullied out of their profits.

  To her amusement Jecha saw that the brothers Kaleeth, twins called Yeg and Derry, were doing a fine trade at a table near the entrance of the fair, selling dolls. They were handsome lads, identical with sweet faces and brown eyes made seemingly larger by long and thick dark eyelashes.

  Girls flocked to their table, drawn as much by their handsome smiling faces and an easy stream of flattering talk as by the dolls, but the Kaleeths were so pretty and inoffensive in their manner that the men with the girls could hardly object. Indeed, the boys charmed the men as much as they did the girls, with songs and laughter and flattery. Jecha smiled. The boys weren’t part of family Verone. She had sent for them herself, all the way to Remic, and they had ridden through the nights to be here.

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nbsp; They sold a lot of dolls, pretty and complicated things with painted porcelain faces and elaborate gowns bought from a crafter in Bolter who specialized in their making. The trade in dolls alone would more than pay the cost of the fair, but it would not be until nightfall that the Kaleeths would begin their real work.

  Once the nobles departed, servants took their turn, bargaining shrewdly for household goods that were necessary to the running of the nobles’ estates. Finally the freemen and peasants came, to glumly stare at empty tables picked clean of the few good things they might have been able to afford.

  When the last disappointed freeman left, the Entreddi packed up their few remaining goods, put away the tables and began cooking dinner. The Count’s exchequer arrived to collect his share of the day’s take and the fee for the use of the fairgrounds. The sun was on the western horizon and the last of the children had been put to bed when Jecha finally pushed the cat off of her lap and stood, her back aching from the long sitting. She rubbed her back absently and walked to a solitary table where the Kaleeth twins waited.

  The two “boys” waited with smiles on their faces. Inwardly Jecha smiled, for they were hardly boys, having been born on the same day some twenty-nine years earlier. When she sat they stood, bowing respectfully.

  “Good evening Seeress.” Yeg’s tone was respectful.

  “Good evening Yeg.” She replied, as much out of courtesy as to let them know she was one of the few who could tell them apart. “Are you ready for your task?”

  “We are ready.” Derry replied. “All is prepared.”