by C. M. Lind
Nico smiled. “He’s waiting for you on the steps.”
“Thanks, Nico.” Saemund gently clasped the boys shoulder, and Nico’s frame perked up like a freshly watered flower.
* * *
Saemund had never seen Conyers before, but, luckily, Ulrich’s journals gave him all he needed to know. His passages would offhandedly comment on the man’s face. That his chinstrap of a beard was pointed with so much wax that it looked like a hairy chin talon. That Conyers’ hair looked like faded straw with greying strands of dead grass. That his clothing was always spotless and new—and that Ulrich had never seen the man wear the same outfit twice.
Such a man was indeed waiting on the steps of the temple, off to the side as to not bother anyone coming and going. His back was turned to Saemund, and he appeared to be inspecting the pale pink peonies that, on that day, filled the brass urns that lined the steps. Yesterday it was peonies as well, but they were such a dark purple that they were nearly black. Saemund preferred them over the pink—there was something about not knowing their color that attracted him. From afar they were black, but, up close, they were purple. Both perceptions were equally truthful to Saemund.
Saemund walked right up behind Conyers with his hands clasped together over his stomach—much like he had seen the other priests do when walking about… looking pious, he mused.
“Conyers,” Saemund confidently announced his presence. “To what do I owe the visit?”
Conyers turned to him, his hands on his hips, a slight smile welcoming Saemund. The backside of his doublet was made of black silk, but, as he turned, the darkness went bright, as the front of the man’s doublet was lined with yellow stripes. Saemund got the image of a large bumblebee hovering around the flowers, and he made no attempt to hide his amusement.
Conyers paid his amusement no mind. “Walk with me.” Conyers nodded down the steps.
Saemund looked down where Conyers had motioned. Many people were in the street below, all of them buzzing about their simple existence. “Couldn’t hurt.”
Conyers took the first step, and Saemund followed with his hands still clasped in front of him.
The people seemed, at least to Saemund, to part for the two as they walked down to the street. Perhaps it was their presence: two men walking with purpose in their stride. Or perhaps it was simply how Conyers dressed, for only a man who was rich would choose to dress in such a ridiculous manner, and the poor never wished to be under the uncaring boots of the rich.
Only after the two men had cleared the last step did Conyers speak. “My boy tells me you have visited our little bird recently. Tell me how she is.”
So the boy from Turmont’s was Conyers’. Saemund had guessed as much, but he still liked to have his suspicions (no matter how confident he was in them) undeniably confirmed. He thought how best to answer the man, taking a few moments to glance at the last of the flowers upon the very last step behind the two men. “She is as she is,” he said slowly but surely.
They each stopped at the side of the road as a small child, too young to understand the etiquette of the streets, hauled two baskets of day old bread right where they were walking. One heavy basket drooped precariously in his hands, while the other was strapped to his back, and its bottom nearly dragged along the street.
Conyers chuckled. It was hearty, and his yellow stripes shifted with each laugh, catching Saemund’s eye. “I suppose that is a fair answer!” He gave a friendly slap to Saemund on the shoulder.
Saemund faintly cringed at the touch, but he smiled at Conyers.
Conyers’ stripes settled as the last laugh flew from him, and his face, and voice, turned serious. “Truly though, I beg you to tell me more. I’m afraid she is quite upset with me at the moment, and the silence is frightening. She is like my own sister, and I worry for her.”
Saemund raised an eyebrow. “She has not told me of the silence between you.”
“That is not surprising.” Conyers sighed. “It seems the things she chooses not to say could fill a library.”
“That could be true of anyone,” the observation slipped from Saemund as he thought it.
Conyers smirked, half-amused by the priest, but his eyes flickered up and down, as if inspecting the man in front of him. “That is true, I suppose.” He opened his mouth, as if to say more, but shut it as a pushy flower vender insisted on rolling his cart straight at Saemund (who had to step out of the way and, subsequently, out of earshot of Conyers).
No doubt the vendor was heading further down the street, thought Saemund, where the temple to Aesa resided. People frequently spent what little money they had on flowers to lay at the altar of the mother of man and crops.
What a waste.
Saemund stepped back to an annoyed looking Conyers after the cart passed, and the two continued their gait as if they had never been interrupted.
“But I worry about her.” Conyers clasped his hands behind him as the two walked. “Her silence I can tolerate to a certain extent...but Aimee's I cannot. She has sent me no word of the girl.”
“I see,” said Saemund, only after Conyers had paused in his speech.
Conyers shifted his hands behind him, and a few more moments of silence transpired. “It seems the coin I send is no longer of interest to Aimee.”
“I see,” repeated Saemund. Inside, he wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the man. Here was a man that was used to being the puppet master, but he had failed. Money was a poor substitute for real strings. The bindings of gold were easily cut by all manner of human emotions, it seemed to Saemund, such as strange ideals of loyalty, guilt, and love.
“Have you spoken with Aimee at all, Ulrich?” Conyers’ hands moved in front of him, crossed over his chest. His eyes darted to the side, where a scantily clad woman was bending over, fetching a dropped bread roll from the ground. Conyers’ eyes were fixed on her puckering, fat lips, which blew the dirt off with one blow before she returned it to her basket.
Saemund smiled. How simple humans always were to him. “None more than usual.”
Conyers’ eyes left the maiden and returned to the road in front of them. “When you saw her, did she tell you anything?”
Saemund shook his head.
“Of course she didn't.” Conyers sighed.
“What about your boy? Does he no longer send you word?” Saemund thought that maybe the boy could have proven useful to him if the woman remained... uncooperative.
“No.” Conyers said resolutely, crushing Saemund's line of thought in an instant. “Aimee has been tight-lipped. And Vitoria? She has deceived him enough. He won't even speak to her anymore, I'm afraid.”
Saemund's face scrunched in feigned disbelief. “Deceived?”
“Yes. Her petulant, sullen silence I can forgive, but her lying to my boy?” He shook his head.
“Hmmm,” said Saemund.
“What?” Conyers turned his head to glance at Saemund.
“I was just thinking that perhaps,” mused Saemund carelessly, “she had good cause for such deception?”
Conyers took Saemund's bait hungrily, and he stopped mid-stride. His face contorted as his body tensed, and his eyes locked onto Saemund's. Conyers' stepped in front of who he thought was a simple priest, halting Saemund.
“That's bullshit!” he snapped louder than he had meant to, but the people around them paid no heed. Out of all the words spoken by those around them, bullshit did not even venture into the particularly foul. Regardless, Conyers lowered his voice. “She killed my brother recklessly and unnecessarily. She had my permission to kill him, but she was specifically told to wait until after she had finished—” he stopped mid-sentence, removing his hands from Saemund.
“And that public display she made was just superfluous. All it got her were wanted posters on every street.” He scoffed. “Is that what she wanted?” He pointed to a nearby wall of public notices.
Saemund's eyes followed Conyers' hand, but, as far as he could see, there were no pictures of her.
Saemund thought about the man's words, but he was not sure of their sincerity or their insincerity. His movements and voice seemed completely in control, and Saemund was uncannily reminded of himself by the man’s demeanor. “If she worries you so, then go speak with her—not me.”
“She is angry with me, and she will not speak with me. She feels wronged by me somehow, and I do not know why. I seem to only anger her the more I try.”
Saemund's eyes flickered for a moment. The similarity had ended between the two with a quick realization, for, unlike Saemund, Conyers’ words betrayed what he truly and only thought of: himself.
Not only was the man an egocentric, pompous ass, like most humans were in Saemund’s experience, but he was the most inert, passive master he had ever seen. “Are you not her master?” the acrimonious words darted from his mouth without care. Of everything he read of the journal, Conyers was always referred to as the woman's keeper, and many times the priest had gathered that there was more to their relationship then he'd ever know. At first the priest thought they were lovers, perhaps his own insecure jealously had made the ludicrous connection, but then the priest pondered if they were cousins, before he began to feel that the man was really her teacher in some way—her master as Saemund would put it.
“I do not like that word, Ulrich.” Conyers glared. “I suppose she told you more than I had thought. But master? Not quite. More like an instructor or a mentor.” He seemed appalled by the idea.
“Then simply go fetch her.” The staged self-pitying pleading of Conyers was wearing thin on Saemund. He could not ever feel pity for an undeserving master.
“It's not so simple, Ulrich.”
“Perhaps you should explain better then.”
Conyers glared again. “You know, I could never really understand you, Ulrich. You seem too lovely and peaceful, but look at you, always dabbling with things that would be better left alone. Do you enjoy it? The danger of it all?” He paused, lowering his voice. “Or perhaps it is Vitoria that you enjoy so? Do you prod and pry on her behalf or your own foolish curiosity?”
Saemund smirked. “Now who's prying?”
Conyers did not enjoy the joke. “If it is for Vitoria, then I will ask you to speak to her. I can return, and you can tell me what you learn. She is not well, and she needs my help to guide her—to watch out for her. If you care at all, you'll surely understand that I know what is best for her.”
“I see,” said Saemund.
“I know you think you know her so well, Ulrich, but you do not. You do not know her at all. And perhaps you think you love her? You don't. You don't want to love her. She has a habit on turning on those who love her. They either end up dead or cut from her life without pause—all on her whim.”
“Such as you?” Saemund’s question was uttered as more of a statement over Conyers’ words, which did not pause at the quiet interruption.
“And she does not love you. She never will, and she never has. She is incapable of such things, and, if you believe there is any warmth between you, then you have been expertly deceived by the girl.”
Saemund glared at the man, and there was the slightest, imperceptible twitch of his brow.
“She is dangerous, Ulrich. You do not want to handle her alone, I guarantee you.”
“What is it you tasked her with doing? What is so important to you? What are you plotting?” None of the humans were talking. No one was giving him any information, and his assignment was becoming all the more infuriating having to suffer the suspicious, two-faced fools of Queensport.
“You've always fluttered about the question but never have you asked. Suddenly find your courage?”
Saemund smiled, showing his ghostly, white teeth. “You want something from me; I want something from you.”
“Why are the answers so important to you now, priest?”
“You do not get to know why.” Another human without answers or true cause to give them. “You should be familiar with that feeling.”
Conyers face was rigid and flinty save for the slight tic in his left eye. “Go to her and speak. Bring me back what I need to know. If she tells you about her work then you will know about it. But you will not hear a whisper from me.”
Saemund stepped up to Conyers so their faces were no more than an inch away, and he lowered his voice so that no one else could overhear. “I will speak to her.”
Conyers smiled and his body seemed to ease. “I'm happy to hear you see reason.”
“Yes. I do. You have helped clarify a lot for me. For instance, I now know what a pathetic, absurd, weak, powerless human you are. That you are nothing but an impotent, aspirant master. It is you who should be serving her, not the other way around.”
The smile went tight, and his left eye twitched again.
“After I finish speaking with her, I promise she will never talk to you again.” Saemund pulled away from Conyers, flicking a stray bug from the man's black, silken sleeve with a smile.
“This is a foolish game you are playing, Ulrich. You do not want to anger me.”
Saemund scrunched his brow and slacked his jaw in mocked realization. “Why, I think I do!”
“Fine. Be that way, priest.” Conyers turned his back and began to walk away.
“And, Conyers, please do not think to do anything stupid regarding my safety. It would be a shame for me to suddenly disappear right after I confide in Vitoria how you threatened me.”
Conyers stopped mid-stride, turning his head slightly over his shoulder. His left eye twitched.
Saemund was in no way worried about his own safety, and he did not hide it in his voice. “She would really hate you then, wouldn’t she? Perhaps enough to pay you visit? Take you out to the street for a surprise midnight constitutional?” Saemund chuckled and turned back towards the temple. He threw a hand up in farewell to Conyers. “Have a lovely day, Master Conyers.”
Chapter 33
“You’re getting a bit better,” said Soli.
Randolph chuckled. The two were walking down the halls to her quarters, delightfully pecking at each other the whole way after a particularly exerting bout in the yard that morn. “Only a bit? Perhaps I am simply getting better at letting you win, sweetheart?”
Soli’s grin was obscured by the chain of her helm. “No,” she insisted playfully, “I’m sure you’re just getting a bit better. You do have a lot to learn still though. Luckily, you have an expert teacher.”
“Ah,” he said, drawing out the h with comedic affect. “I suppose this is the part where I relent to your need for superiority.”
She scoffed. “I sincerely hope not, Randolph. I’d thought you for a real fighter, not a servile bootlicker!”
A bit of pink flushed over his cheeks. He quickly turned his head away, as if suddenly fascinated by the beige wall, but Soli saw his crimson cheeks before he could turn.
“Nope,” he said to the wall as the two turned left, “just a man who—”
Irene and Lilane were standing outside of Soli’s door, looking most impatient. Lilane’s back was turned to the pair, but Soli could see that her arms were crossed. Irene’s dour face turned lively as she made eye contact with Soli.
“There she is!” Irene exclaimed, clapping her hands to exaggerate her feigned joy. “See, Lilane? This is the woman that will be attending lunch.”
Lilane turned herself as little as possible, so that Soli could only see the edge of her face. The old woman scoffed; her voice had a dry crackle to it. “I can smell her from here.”
Irene nervously laughed. “She is an active woman from what I hear. Nothing a simple bath will not fix.”
Randolph turned his head to Soli’s ear and whispered. “You supp
osed to be somewhere?”
Even with the helm, she lightly caught the warmth on his breath on the skin of her neck, causing a few hairs to rise. “Jae’s insisting on lunch.”
“Seems a bit early for lunch.”
Soli turned her head to his. “Agreed,” she whispered back, with a slight shake of her head. Soli knew it was impolite to whisper in front of others, but, lately, she was beginning to feel that manners could be damned when dealing with the people of the Reinout estate.
“Soli, time to get ready!” said Irene, who appeared to have completely ignored the two’s whispered exchange.
Randolph and Soli turned their faces back down the hall, where the two women were. “Of course,” relented Soli, giving one last glance to Randolph before walking towards the two. Randolph smiled and gave her a wink as she left him, and the back of his hand bumped into hers as she walked away.
“Don’t worry, Irene,” said Randolph. “She’ll be a lady again in no time.”
Irene’s mouth opened, but it was Lilane who spoke, silencing her. “Not enough time in the world to turn that brute into a lady.”
Irene’s mouth mashed shut, pushing her lips into thin lines of bright red.
Soli’s pace slowed at Lilane’s comment. Lilane reminded her of the stories of hag-like witches who lived in the bogs. They thought themselves extraordinary creatures, and they would mask themselves in magic to lure others closer—but the moment you were close enough to snatch? They would turn into their true selves: baggy, translucent skin covered with cool, grey-blue veins, thin breasts whose nipples dragged into the muddy water of the bogs, nasty, decaying breath from the scavenged critters they would eat, and an entitled, childish temper that would explode at the faintest slight.
“Irene,” Lilane trudged by the woman, “make sure she’s deloused, but, even then, still keep her away from my Jae. We must make sure he does not catch her lice.”
Irene turned her pressed lips into a monstrously stressed smile. “Of course,” she whispered through pressed lips, but Soli could still easily hear her.