by Jeff Wilson
“It won’t do letting you succumb to a chill,” Ivor muttered, eyeing Edryd’s wet clothing with concern as they finished stacking the most recent collection next to the other ceramic jars that they had previously unloaded inside the warehouse. “I’ll have to finish by myself if you give out,” he complained.
“A bit of damp isn’t going to do me in,” Edryd said dismissively. “I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t look fine. You look terrible, if I’m to be truthful about it,” Ivor disagreed, showing real concern. Edryd had been getting weaker and slower on each successive trip, and there was definitely something wrong with him. “I can find you something,” Ivor said in a hushed tone, motioning to Edryd to indicate that he should follow him.
Ivor led the way through a maze of stacked crates, deep into the back of the building. Reaching the area he was searching for, Ivor took a quick look around before taking out a thick heavy knife which he used to pry open a crate made of pine slats. Stored inside of the container, were long canvas coats, stained a deep dark color from being treated in a mixture of oil and pitch that was used for waterproofing.
Edryd removed one of the coats and tried it on. It was tight, so he dug through the crate looking for something bigger, but gave up when he discovered that they all appeared to be roughly the same. The cloth was durable and stiff, and the length matched his height well enough, trailing down to about an inch below the top of his boots. The coat produced a strong unavoidable odor from the waterproofing, concentrated by having been packed in a crate with the other coats, but it felt comfortable enough to Edryd if he left it loose and didn’t try to tie it shut. It would do well enough for now, and he was very glad to have it.
Satisfied as well, Ivor led them back to the cart, and he and Edryd began pulling it towards the front of the building. “Won’t the guards notice?” Edryd asked as they approached the entrance to the warehouse.
“No, and they wouldn’t care if they did,” Ivor said. Edryd was not so sure, but he was not about to go and return what he had taken, so he didn’t say anything else. “Just the same, don’t go out of your way to draw any attention as we leave,” Ivor said, hedging just a little, while not actually retreating from his earlier assurances.
The two men made their way back without incident, and were nearly done clearing out the remainder of the first of the two cellars when a group of men arrived. There were four of them. The leader of the group was Deneg, the man who had hired Edryd. Edryd had never seen the man standing right beside Deneg, but he recognized the two men in the back as guards from the warehouse.
“Your service is no longer needed,” Deneg said once he was sure he had their attention. It was a reasonable assumption that he was speaking only to Edryd.
Edryd almost offered up an apology for taking the coat, but Ivor shot him a look and took the opportunity to intervene. “I need his help to finish this,” Ivor complained.
“Don’t get involved, Ivor,” Deneg warned. “Best if you get back to your work.”
Realizing this was not about the coat, Edryd decided against demanding an explanation. He wasn’t much interested in continuing the work anyway. “Give me a day’s wage, and I will be on my way,” he said.
Deneg, looking relieved, began to reach into his coat for a coin, but the man beside him placed a hand on his wrist and stopped him. “He won’t need payment,” the man said firmly. Edryd noticed the man was wearing a black woolen coat, cut in a familiar design. Things were becoming clear.
Realizing that he would cause Ivor trouble if he remained, without avoiding it himself, Edryd apologized to his partner for leaving him to finish on his own. Offering an insincere farewell to the men confronting him, Edryd tried to remain calm as he turned away from the group and made his way back into the heart of town. Seoras obviously had sent men out after him. They were not forcing him to go back, but they were not about to let him leave the island either. It would do him no good to contact any of the other harbormasters. If they hadn’t been informed already, they soon would be, and would know not to offer him any help.
The afternoon’s efforts had not been entirely wasted though. Edryd hadn’t received payment for the partial day of work, but he was walking away with a coat that would have cost him a week’s worth of wages. Whatever small satisfaction Edryd felt as a result of this victory, it departed quickly enough when he began to focus on a growing list of problems. Most immediate among them were finding a place to stay and securing some provisions.
Shelter would have to be his first priority. The day had grown warmer, and he now had a coat, but he felt even colder than he had this morning, and gentle tremors circulated throughout his body whenever he stopped to rest. Edryd suddenly remembered the set of keys Greven had given to him a few days earlier, which could be used to gain access to the home back behind the inn.
As he transferred these keys from his belt into a pocket in his new coat, Edryd began to seriously consider the property which Greven had made available. It would be a place to shelter for the night, but he was already long overdue on his promise to return the keys. He could also assume that Seoras, who had gone through his belongings and had certainly seen the keys, would know what they were as well as who had given them to him. There were more than a few abandoned buildings in this city. It would be better to make use of one of those for the night. Determined to return the keys as soon as possible and be done with them, Edryd hurried on and quickly arrived at the Broken Oath.
There was a regular exchange of people entering and exiting the inn, and Edryd didn’t attract particular notice from any of the patrons as he made his way inside. The inn was crowded in comparison to his previous visit, but still far from full, and he had no trouble finding a free spot on a bench at an almost empty table. Greven was busy with the evening crowd, so Edryd decided to settle in and relax. He could wait until people began to leave before disrupting the already overstretched innkeeper.
Pieces of conversations filtered through to Edryd’s ears from groups at nearby tables. A great deal of the talk centered on happenings to the west in Nar Edor. One rather animated fellow in particular was managing to out-compete the volume from the rest of the room. “The noble houses are in chaos over the succession of House Edorin,” the man pronounced excitedly. “When Duke Edorin died, his young grandsons fought. Intending to remove a rival claim, the oldest one, Aisen, lured the younger brother, Beonen, into his grandfather’s crypt and secured the doors behind them.”
“Trapping him, along with the oldest son from each of the major families sworn to House Edorin, with no way to escape,” someone else said, adding a detail the original speaker had overlooked.
“It doesn’t seem likely,” argued a woman who was sitting across the table from the speaker. “A weak plan on Aisen’s part I should think, luring a group of trained swordsmen into a confined space where he would be outnumbered by them.” Everyone knew that Edoric nobles were obsessed with dueling, so no one challenged the point that the men in the crypt would all have been skilled swordsmen.
“I heard it differently,” someone else chimed in, apparently in agreement with the woman who had just spoken. “It was Beonen, the younger son, who ambushed Aisen with help from those houses who wanted to see Beonen win the succession.” Everyone other than the original speaker, who still believed he had the right of it, agreed that this made more sense.
“Depending on who you believe, there are conflicting versions as to who plotted against whom,” the man admitted. “But there is no disagreement about how it ended. Aisen killed every last one of them. When the slaughter was over, Aisen, making no effort to hide what he had done, pushed the doors open, and with total indifference marched straight through the gathered mourners who were there to pay their respects to the duke.”
“Aisen’s once golden armor was coated red with blood from head to toe, and they all shook in fear as he forced them to move aside to let him pass,” the woman added, eager to supply what seemed like an exaggerated detai
l to a story that continued to grow with each retelling.
“That is why they have taken to calling him the Blood Prince,” someone else said excitedly.
Apparently, everyone already knew the story; they were simply repeating popular arguments regarding the particulars in the sequence of events. Edryd’s attentions were distracted away when he was bumped by an unkempt stranger who was in the process of sitting down beside Edryd at the table. The man looked thoroughly inebriated, and he smelled even more convincingly the part of an inveterate drunk, but Edryd suspected it was an act, or at least mostly one.
As the rather large man settled onto the bench, his hand skimmed deftly in and out of the leather money pouch attached to Edryd’s belt. It was a quick, much practiced maneuver that might have gone unnoticed if Edryd had not been expecting it. He grabbed the man’s arm and forced it up onto the table. Frightened at having been caught, the disheveled man stuttered a momentary protest before smoothly easing back into his drunken pretense. Fortunately for Edryd, as well as for the would-be thief, the pouch had been empty, so nothing had been taken.
“You targeted an empty coin purse,” Edryd said, letting go of the man’s arm as he locked his eyes on the startled pickpocket, “or this would be a less pleasant conversation than the one we are now having. I’m sure you’ll understand, though, if I ask that you find yourself another seat.” Muttering nervous apologies, the man turned and quickly fled the establishment. Edryd sat back and began to listen again. He had lost all sense of who was who among the group, but he managed to catch back up to their conversation after a few moments.
“It will be an open war before long,” the man at the next table emphasized in serious tones. “The King has refused Aisen’s claim to succession and he is raising an army to capture him and confiscate his land and property.”
“The Sigil Corps have gathered ranks and they are defending Aisen’s claim,” the woman said. “They outnumber the king’s army for the moment. Until that reverses nothing is likely to happen.”
“What of Aisen then? Where is the Blood Prince in all of this with House Edorin’s warriors?” asked one of the other men at the table.
The original speaker, still loud and aggressive, gave an answer. “That’s just it, no one knows. Not out killing more family members at least, not that he has any left. For three weeks no one has seen him, and nobody seems to know more than what I have already told you. The popular speculation circulating in Nar Edor is that the Blood Prince left to raise an army of Rendish raiding parties and that he intends to conquer all of Nar Edor.”
“That doesn’t even make the least bit of sense,” argued an older man with sharp eyes. “Aisen’s father was Aedan Elduryn. He killed Beodred and broke our alliance twenty years ago, forcefully expelling us from Nar Edor, along with every single man woman or child in that land who, like ourselves, could be called a Rend. None of our warriors would look too kindly on his son. Where would Aisen be able to recruit? Not Seridor and certainly not here in An Innis. I can’t imagine it.”
“The Ossians?” suggested another man doubtfully. “Aedan Elduryn was an Ossian after all. They would have a vested interest in supporting his son, and they are going to want to protect their control over Edoric trade goods and their position of influence over the other League states.”
“I’m sure they would eagerly fund an army, but those self-satisfied moralists could hardly raise one.”
The group all agreed on that last point and no one gave any credence to the idea that Aisen would, or even could, recruit any sort of useful Rendish support. But because of his descent from an Ossian father, everyone in Nar Edor probably thought Aisen a part of some Rendish plot to conquer their country, so the idea that he was raising a Rendish army would have made sense to them at least. King Eivendr, the monarch of Nar Edor, certainly wouldn’t be doing anything to discourage belief in that notion among his people. The more men who believed such things, the easier it would be to gain the support he needed to take control of House Edorin.
The conversation continued, but yielded little additional information. The Sigil Corps controlled the defenses of the Port Citadel on Aisen’s behalf, and the king’s army had not yet grown to the point where it was ready to start a confrontation. As things stood, Edoric exports were severely diminished, but there was still a steady stream of ships from Ossian League states supplying the region around the country’s only major port, which was presently controlled by House Edorin and the Sigil Corps.
Listening in on other groups, Edryd gathered bits and pieces of more local news, which all confirmed that An Innis was in crisis. Cargo carrying vessels leaving An Innis were getting hit by Ascomanni from a base somewhere to the south. Ships coming in or out of An Innis did so late at night hoping to slip past. Commerce had slowed to a point where you could be forgiven if you thought it had stopped entirely.
Mostly this was all news that Edryd had already learned from Ivor, but he did learn why the raiders were called Ash Men. If you believed such things, as many in An Innis apparently did, the Ascomanni were sickened. As a direct consequence of living near the ruins on the mainland, they were caught in a spell which condemned them to wander in an existence somewhere between life and death. This condition granted inhuman powers and left them deathly grey in appearance. It was no wonder that ships were no longer calling here. Add such stories of death and disease into the risk of being attacked by raiding parties, and An Innis was going to be a port you avoided.
The symmetry was not lost on Edryd. An economy built around raiding merchant ships travelling to or from Nar Edor was now being destroyed by a group of raiders that were in turn attacking the ships of An Innis. It was an example of the inherent risk that came with choosing to employ such tactics against an enemy. Success is often brief and short-lived, and inevitably, methods used to good effect against others are just as easily imitated and turned back upon those who first employed them. Those who live by the sword are not immune to dying by the same and should be prepared to defend against it.
As the evening hours progressed, people began making their way out of the establishment. There were still several fragmenting groups distributed unevenly at several of the tables, but Greven was nowhere to be seen. In fact, he hadn’t popped out of the kitchen for some time. Looking around at the other groups, one person stood out. Flanked on either side by guards who were wearing tightly fitted blue coats, a graceful woman, wearing a beautiful high-collared green dress made of fine silk, stood up near the other end of the hearth hall. She was of a different class entirely, and looked completely out of place amongst the people in the inn. At first, Edryd failed to register that she was headed in his direction. A moment later she sat down, settling in tightly beside him with her hips and shoulders making contact against his own. The two guards remained standing behind her, arms crossed behind their backs.
Edryd had rarely felt less certain of himself. He was at a loss as to what he should do. Rather stupidly, he continued to stare straight across the table at nothing in particular, as if he could pretend that he had not noticed the woman. He might have gone on doing so, but she reached out and lightly touched him on the arm with a soft hand. Edryd’s eyes were pulled towards the contact. There was no jewelry on her smooth fingers or her pale thin wrist, but the fabric of her delicately embroidered clothing was evidence enough to suggest extraordinary wealth.
“You would be Edryd?” she asked him.
Edryd turned to look at her face for the first time. She did not look Edoric or Rendish. Her skin was not dark enough for either. Her deep brown hair had been made up in an elaborate pattern that left a few curling strands of loose hair over her brow, falling down past beautiful hazel eyes. Her pale face was a mask of practiced adoration, and looked as though it had never once been subjected to the indignity of unfiltered sunlight. She had at first appeared fully mature, an illusion brought about by the modest but flattering style of clothing and her formal hairstyle, but now that he was seeing her up close,
this woman was plainly still a young girl. She could not possibly be more than fifteen years old.
Though many of them were trying to hide it, most of the eyes in the room were looking in Edryd’s direction. Less circumspect individuals, of whom there were quite a few, openly leered at the girl, cautious of the two guards and resentful towards Edryd for what they felt was his good fortune.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are,” Edryd said.
“My name is Lineue,” she answered. “Esivh Rhol has invited you to accompany me and visit him at his home.”
Edryd knew by now the sort of business interests that Esivh Rhol trafficked in, so he also now knew what he should have guessed long before. Lineue was one of the women owned by Esivh Rhol, who were sold out of the palace built upon the mountainous peak at the top of An Innis. Conservative by upbringing, in the typical fashion of his homeland, Edryd was repelled by the inappropriate nature of what was implied in the offer that she was delivering to him.
“You like an older woman,” she said upon seeing his reaction. There was a look of relief on her face.
Her guess was correct as far as it went, but this accounted for only part of his discomfort. He was about to say that he preferred a woman who wasn’t someone’s property, but thought better of it.
“You will forgive me for being impolite,” Edryd said, “but please tell the Ard Ri that I have no interest in his invitation.”
Lineue’s guards both shifted in their stances behind her, reacting to the stern tone Edryd had used, and feeling surprised by his refusal. Lineue took it more evenly, though it was plain to Edryd that she was also troubled by his response. She might have been relieved at his disinterest with her personally, but his complete rejection of Esivh Rhol’s invitation was a problem for her, representing a failure for which she would not be forgiven.