by Robert Beers
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sobret Cremer, secretary, seneschal and one time childhood caregiver to Alford the twenty-third, Emperor of the Southern lands, balanced the golden chafing dish upon his fingertips as he swept into the royal dining alcove with his liege's mid-morning repast.
“Your lunch, My Lord.”
Alford looked up at Cremer's lined face framed by the mane of white hair that he kept pulled back and held with a silver clasp. The clasp had been a gift from Alford when the heir to the throne was but a child.
“You know my name, Cremer. Why don't you use it?” Alford took the dish from his old friend.
“It would not be proper, My Lord.” Cremer's tone spoke volumes on the subject of court propriety.
Alford scowled, but it was not at the taste of his lunch. The chops were done perfectly, enhanced to a turn with the sautéed mushrooms and slivered carrots. The smell was delicious.
“I don't care about what's proper. You practically raised me, dammit! Besides, who's going to see you bend a little in this place?” The alcove was on the third floor of the palace, just below the edge of the dome, and in an area that was nearly deserted at midday. Golden light bathed the dining table, filtering through a layer of lace curtains swaying across the beveled glass of the panes.
Cremer remained unbent. “I was your father's friend, My Lord, and I was proud to be so. All the days I knew him, I never called him by his first name. It wasn't proper. As fond as I am of you, in spite of the number of times I changed your nappies, my Lord, it would not be proper now.”
Alford retreated under his secretary's onslaught of court manners. “Very well, very well. I give. You can go now, and leave me to my meager repast.”
Cremer turned and left the Emperor to his lunch. The term meager repast formed on his lips in a silent statement of irony.
Alford's placesetting gleamed in the rich golden hue of the metal it was made from. The chafing dish that held the chops matched the set in color and in price. The crystal goblet that held his wine was worth the price of the average cottage in Access; the bottle of wine, their land.
He cut another bite off one of the chops and washed it down with a sip of the wine. As was typical of the man, the superlative flavor of the dish was wasted on him. Other than its ability to fill him up, he cared little for what went into its preparation.
Alford was bored. The Empire essentially ran itself, and had done so as long as he could remember. His father had a bit of excitement several years before he was born, when the late Duke of Grisham tried to involve himself in some palace intrigue. Alford's father had exposed the scheme during a summit meeting with a number of visiting dignitaries. The man never recovered from the embarrassment.
He sighed deeply and cut another bite of chop. Why couldn't something exciting happen in his life?
* * * *
Hypatia gazed across the table with half-lidded eyes at the most fascinating man she'd met since her father had dragged her to this dreary place. She had begun to despair of having any fun at all in Grisham. Most of the men her father placed her in front of were either old enough to be her father, or so foppishly affected as to be ludicrous.
One of the surest forms of non-surgical castration was giggling at the clumsy advances of a would-be suitor. She had seen it happen many times since moving here. One evening in particular, Father's harvest Ball, if she remembered aright, she was sure she could hear the sorry little things hitting the ballroom floor like rain. Old men and boys. Not one of them was worth the time it took her to put on her perfume.
McCabe, on the other hand, was neither an old man nor a boy. He moved with a cat-like grace that made her thighs itch. He seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say, and what he said sent warm shivers all the way down her spine.
“No, I am quite sure you are the most beautiful woman in Grisham.” McCabe sipped from his wineglass. “I've seen the others, and the comparison really isn't fair.”
“You've seen all the women in Grisham?” She emphasized the word all. He waved a hand dismissively. “Those of the court, of course. The peasants don't matter.”
Hypatia giggled. His sense of humor was so worldly. During their conversation, he'd told her of some of the places he'd been to, Verkuyl; where duels are nearly a way of saying hello. Longpointe, where the fishermen bring in lobsters almost half the size of their boats, and Angbar, the magik island, where his life had been lost and gained back again.
All she had ever seen in her eighteen years were the courts of Ort and Grisham. Her fertile mind drew pictures for her of his heroism as he told his stories.
She decided to take the great leap and fortified herself with a long sip of wine. “Do you ... do you think we might be able to meet somewhere ... more private?”
McCabe leaned his elbows on the table, being careful not to smudge the sable velvet of his evening coat. His smile was calculated to be both sincere and seductive. “Why, whatever do you mean, my dear?”
Her eyelids dropped even further, and she looked at him through her long black lashes. “I would suppose a man such as you would have no trouble guessing my meaning.”
His smile broadened. “A man ... such as me?”
Hypatia blushed with the brazenness of her thoughts. Was it the wine? Or was it McCabe's presence?
She felt a hand touch her knee and then travel up her leg.
McCabe nodded at her as his hand was placed back onto the table. “I believe we understand each other.” She hadn't flinched at his touch. A very good sign.
Her answering smile was only a shade off feral. By Labad, she was a brazen one.
“Yes.” She said. “I believe we do.”
* * * *
“There are the gates of Grisham, my boy. All in all, I'd say we've made good time.” Milward leaned on his staff and looked at the city spread below them.
Grisham sat on a series of three low hills below the highland where Adam and Milward stood. The city overlooked a narrow throat of water that led into a bay large enough to be an inland sea. The tops of the city's buildings were being stroked by wisps of the retreating morning's fog.
A grouping of buildings sat upon the highest of Grisham's hills surrounded by a thick parapet adorned wall.
Adam pointed to the grouping. “Is that the library? It's huge!”
Milward smiled to himself. The idea of Grisham's Ducal family housing the library was a fine bit of high humor. “No, that's the Ducal Enclave. The center structure with the towers? That's the palace. The others around it are barracks, warehouses, workshops and so on.”
“Why do they have such a thick wall?”
“The city started on that hill, oh ... about six thousand years ago. The wall was proof against roving bands of bandits and the occasional pirate ship that docked at the village growing on the headland.”
“The villagers were composed mostly of retired sailors, fishermen and those whose shops catered to the whims and desires of the men coming off the boats.”
Adam looked back at the way they'd come. He didn't consider six weeks of walking to be making good time, as Milward called it. He would have preferred a horse, but the time spent practicing had been well worth it. He could now control a couple of dozen stones while carrying on a conversation with the old Wizard.
Looking back at Grisham, he asked, “what about the city on the hill? Who lived there?”
Milward shook his head. “I don't know. The records say next to nothing on that subject. The folk of the village were the ones that prospered. Vice always has a market and they learned that lesson well. Be careful inside those gates, Adam. Grisham will bleed you dry, if you let it. Anything a man can think of can be had there, plus a few things men didn't. It is a rowdy, licentious, murderous city, and damn proud of it.”
Adam shifted his stance and placed his hand on the hilt of the sword. “I can take care of myself.”
The old Wizard looked at him, resting his chin upon the hands on his staff. “I suppose you ca
n, physically, but Grisham goes after a man's soul. How prepared are you to defend that?”
Adam blinked. He had no answer for Milward's query. Since his last successful practice on the road to Grisham, his confidence level had been high. He even believed he could handle multiple opponents with relative ease with either magik or sword. The safety of his soul had never entered into the picture.
“Not a simple question, is it?” Milward grinned at him.
Adam shook his head ruefully. “No, it isn't. How am I supposed to protect something about me I can't even see?”
Milward held up a forefinger. “Ah, therein lies a question only Bardoc can answer. But so far, he hasn't returned any of my messages. Seriously though, being yourself and doing what you know to be right, in spite of whomever you offend doing so, this is the best course you can take. Knowing what I now know of you, those who would be offended by an action you believe is right are no friends of yours in the first place.”
Adam stood silently for a long moment, and then he readjusted his pack. “Well, I suppose the only thing to do is make our way through Grisham, and keep our eyes and ears open.”
Milward snorted. As much as he loved the Library, he distrusted the city that sat across it even more.
They turned from the edge of the down slope, and stepped back onto the path that led down to Labad's Highway and on into Grisham.
The Highway stretched from Grisham in the north to Orbis in the south, with Ort being the central hub. From the chasm bridge spanning the Ort river, an eastern arm extended to the university city of Labad. Its paving stones were made of massive slabs of speckled granite with mica flecks scattered through the matrix that glinted when struck by the morning sun.
Even after more than a thousand years of abuse by cart wheels, hooves, sun, wind, hail and rain, the slabs held, still joined together so precisely that few blades of grass found room to grow between them. Milward's staff tapped out a rhythm that followed them as they walked the last mile to the city gates. From just beyond the point where they entered the highway, they walked a gauntlet of stall-based businesses whose owners implored, screamed and pleaded for the two travelers to stop and sample their wares or service.
“Who are all these people?” Adam asked, as he pushed aside a vender of fetishes who had tried to block their way as they approached the open city gates.
Milward sent another overeager merchant back to his stall with a glare. “Entrepreneurs who either can't or won't pay the taxes and license fees necessary to own a shop inside the city's walls. They actually do a rather brisk business, because the city's laws are only enforced inside.”
Adam looked around at the grouping of stalls that lined the highway. They were uniformly haphazard in their construction, thrown together with whatever materials could be found at hand.
He shook his head, disappointing the comely harlot that had beckoned at him. “So they get potential customers both coming and going.”
“That they do. Come, we need to present ourselves to the gate guards.” Milward drew him on with a hand at his elbow.
The guards saw their approach and straightened out of their at-ease slouch.
Milward stopped before the taller of the two, and began to introduce himself when he was struck with an agonizing wave of nausea and angina. He gasped with the pain and fell forward, clutching at his heart. The headache began as he hit the ground. That was when he groaned and vomited over the guard's boots.
Adam dropped to the old Wizard's side and looked up at the guards. They stood there helplessly. Neither of them had any training or experience to deal with a dying old man.
He fumbled through the writhing Wizard's pouches, shouting at the guards as he searched. “Bring me water and something to cradle his head, now!”
The young lord's tone brooked no disobedience. The guards pushed through the gathered crowd to fetch the items.
Milward vomited again, but all that came up was bile and phlegm. The “Ooh!” from the crowd sounded disappointed.
Adam found what he was looking for, and cradled Milward's head. “Don't worry. It's going to be all right, I've got them getting water for the potion.”
Milward tried to understand what was being said to him through the waves of nausea and pain. The blood pounded in his ears, making it difficult to hear words. “What ... potion...?”
Adam looked at the vials. “Aleth and Willit. AH! Here's the water.”
The two guards forced their way back through the crowd to where Adam knelt with Milward. The shorter of the two handed him a small bucket of water. The other held a gray, lumpy pillow.
“Got ‘em from th’ barracks ... m'lord.” The shorter said around a tired looking dog end.
Adam took the water and motioned to the taller guard. “Good. Put the pillow behind his head while I mix the potion.”
The shorter one made a sign as if warding off evil. “Potion m'lord?”
Adam didn't have time for superstition. “Medicine, then. Herbs that will make him feel better. Get me a cup. Now!”
His bellow spurred the fellow into action and he ran to find a cup.
Adam looked down at Milward. The old Wizard was pasty white with pain and his tongue, stuck between his teeth, was gray. Spasms passed through his body as another groan was released. The veins in his temples stood out like twine pasted onto the skin.
The guard reappeared with a battered tin cup. “It all we got, m'lord.” His hand shook as he offered it to Adam.
Adam took the cup. “It'll do.” He dipped the cup into the bucket. The water was clean, at least. He opened the two vials and poured their contents into the cup. The crowd closed in to see what he was doing.
He sensed the pressure from the crowd and something else as well. It felt dirty ... and dangerous, and it was above them, high in the sky.
“Make them back away.” He said out to the guards and pointed to the crowd. They began to do so, with ruthless efficiency. This, at least, was something they knew how to do.
Adam brought the cup up to Milward's lips and tipped some of the potion in. Milward swallowed a bit of the bitter mixture and lay back.
The Aleth started working on the spasms immediately, and Milward managed to pull Adam closer to him with a shaking hand. “More,” he whispered when Adam's ear came close.
He brought the cup to the old Wizard's lips again and poured the remainder of the potion down his throat.
Milward choked and made a face at the foul, bitter taste. “Faughhh! That's awful. But it seems to be doing the trick on most of it.”
“What happened to you?” Adam put the cup onto the stone of the gateway entrance.
Milward held his head in his hands. “I'm not rightly sure. One moment I was getting ready to introduce us and find an appropriate inn for our lodging tonight, and the next...” He indicated his prone position with a cross wave of his hands. “Well ... you know.” He winced as another wave of pain washed through his head.
Adam felt that presence again, and looked up, but saw nothing but fleecy puffs of cloud in a blue sky. He turned back to Milward. “We've got to get you to a bed.”
He called out to the guards as he helped Milward to his feet. “The closest inn, a good one. Where is it?”
The short one left off pummeling a beggar with his staff, and pointed to a cobblestoned street that curved its way up a hill. Steps lined the street, acting as sort of a sidewalk. The buildings along its path looked to be well cared for, with most of them having two or three stories, the top two of which poked out over the street. The roofs were primarily thatch, but a few showed the glow of red tile where the sun struck them.
“Yonder up Mulligan row, past where Turnberry crosses it. That be where Granny Bullton's place lie. She keeps a good table, she does, an’ th’ best brown ale this side o’ th’ Palace. She'll do yer Da right by her.”
Adam pressed a coin into the guard's hand. “Thank you, I'm obliged to your kindness.”
The guard looked down at the coin, an
d his eyes bulged when he saw the buttery yellow of its color. “Anytime, yer grace!” he called, as Adam led Milward in the direction of the inn. “Anytime at all!”
Adam called back, “I'll remember that. Split it with your friend.”
The shorter guard, chagrined, looked at the taller one, who smiled back at him, holding out his hand.
Milward was able, with the help of his staff and Adam, to make his way, albeit slowly, up the steps of Mulligan Row.
Unlike the way approaching the city gates, Mulligan's row was composed mainly of crafters more interested in fulfilling their commissions than in pulling unwilling shoppers off the street. A few peddlers asked politely if they were interested in seeing the latest and greatest of something, but the sight of Milward's ashen face caused the requests to be half-hearted, at best.
They passed a bakery just before the intersection of Mulligan and Turnberry that filled the street with the scent of fresh loaves in the oven. A few urchins had their noses pressed to the front window, hungrily coveting the goods on the other side.
Adam saw the sign of the inn extending out over the sidewalk. Its oval shape was enclosed in a wrought iron frame ornamented with curling flourishes. It sported a painting of a rampant stag superimposed over a flagon of ale. The amount of fading in the paint spoke of the sign's age.
A careworn old man held the door for Adam and then began trudging up Turnberry after closing it. A woman, even older, bustled out from behind a counter at their entrance.
She held her hands to her cheeks at the sight of Milward. “Oh, mercy me! What's happened to the poor dear?”
Milward weakly waved the innkeeper away. “Get away, old woman. I'm not as frail as all that, yet. Just show me to a bed and I'll mend nicely.”
The old woman, Granny Bullton, fluttered around them, as Adam helped Milward up the stairs to the second floor. Their rooms, as she'd said, were the third and fourth ones on the right, down the hall. The window coverings were clean cotton prints that matched the thick comforters on the beds.
Milward sank into his with a sigh of relief, and Adam gave him another draught of the Aleth and Willit potion. He then left him to his rest.