Ordination

by Daniel Ford

  “He seems like a veteran. What is he doing here?” Allystaire wondered aloud quietly.

  “Probably the best wages in town,” Idgen Marte guessed with a shrug. She paused a moment, then added with the slightest smirk, “Castellan of Wind’s Jaw, eh?” Her timing didn’t leave him a moment to respond, for by then the guardsman was on his way back, having handed the horses over to a groom.

  “Follow me, m’lord.”

  He led them to the building Allystaire assumed to be the castle keep, though it was naught but a two-storey wooden house looming at the far end of the courtyard. The only defense it boasted were two more guards and a row of useless iron spikes upon the roof. He and Idgen Marte both looked ahead resolutely, fearing that to exchange a glance would prompt a collapse into laughter, but they made it across the few dozen yards with little difficulty, and soon they were handed off to another guard and ushered into a parlor. A liveried servant, in blue and white with the same crude badge upon his chest as the guards, scurried off to fetch the Baron of Bend.

  Allystaire and Idgen Marte were left to cool their heels in the room that was empty, save for a lone guard. A few trophies hung on the wall—a mounted shark, naval banners, and the like. Allystaire focused on the guard that watched them; like the first, he had an air of competence, moved easily in his heavy hauberk and coif, and carried his spear and wore his sword with casual ease.

  After a few moments had passed, the servant returned and with an unctuous gesture, indicated that they follow him. Their boots clattered up a short staircase to a large hall with a sizable fireplace at one end, dominated by a long, rough, wood table. The latter was set with a bounty of crystal and silver—but Allystaire quickly realized that set was the wrong word; the stuff was heaped and piled without organization. Captain’s decanters with flat, wide bottoms sat next to delicate long-stemmed glasses; plates rose in poorly stacked towers a foot or more above the table surface; and silver spoons and knives lay in tarnished heaps.

  “Pathetic, eh? What many of the local captains pay me in tribute. Technically the value is acceptable but there aren’t enough folk of quality about to use it all.” The voice, over-smooth and careful, came from behind them, and Allystaire and Idgen Marte turned to find themselves faced with Baron Tallenhaft Windspar I of Bend, all five feet and twenty-odd stone of him. Flanked by a pair of his poorly liveried guardsmen, he waddled towards them from one of the room’s many doorways.

  He wore, even in the summer heat, a crushed velvet doublet of deep blue with yellowing lace at the cuffs; it was meant to be loose on a taller man, and instead, it strained to hold in his stomach. His pale yellow hose looked ready to burst at the seams and spill milk that had been left in the sun for a week, and his fringe of browning hair ringed a pate from which sweat streamed in heavy rivulets. Still, there was a suggestion of forgotten strength about his neck and shoulders, and his wrists had a warrior’s thickness.

  “Lord Baron,” Allystaire intoned, deeply and slowly, inclining his shoulders—but not his neck or eyes—in a bow that was barely acceptable. Idgen Marte did much the same, but slightly deeper, as befitting a servant. “I have come to discuss this complaint as per my letter. And the possibility of an assize.”

  “Straight to business with you then, Sir Allystaire? Would you like a bit of refreshment? Stay for lunch perhaps?” The baron’s tone leaned toward obsequious and a bit whinging.

  “Perhaps there could be pleasantries later. For the moment, business lies between us.” Allystaire paused, drawing himself a little straighter as he spoke. He waited to let the implied threat sink in; when there was no visible reaction from the baron, he added, “I would see it resolved.” Another pause. “Peacefully.”

  The baron sighed and walked into the room, sinking heavily into a cushioned chair at the heaped-up table. “If you must, Sir Allystaire. But I insist on hearing about Wind’s Jaw Keep and Oyrwyn. How exciting!”

  A rapacious manchild brooding and fuming in an ugly stone tomb is about the size of it, your corpulence, he thought, but said, “Perhaps, my lord. For now, if there is to be an assize, there are many things that I, as a landed knight and lord, have a right to know.” Had a right.

  “A landed knight and lord, you say? Yet you announced yourself to my guard as lately Castellan of Wind’s Jaw Keep.” The baron’s fat, sweaty face peered closely at Allystaire, his deepset eyes suddenly shrewd. “Could it be that, like so many other residents of my fair city-state, you’ve found the caress of Fortune to be less than pleasant? I do wonder if you’re a landed knight at all, Sir Allystaire. Wind’s Jaw and Barony Oyrwyn are far from here indeed. A week’s journey on fresh mounts just to the foothills. Could be a long time till we got word of your rights, if I chose to send word to my fellow baron.”

  Allystaire barely suppressed a snort at the thought. “Neither of us have that much time, my lord, though I will tell you the truth; I no longer bear office or position. Whether I still have land, I do not know, for no decree stripping me of it has reached my ears.” Behind him, Idgen Marte fidgeted, very slightly, rocking on one ankle.

  “Coldbourne Moor, I believe you told my guard, and Coldbourne Hall. An ancestral manse?”

  “A peat bog guarded over by an overbuilt hunting lodge, my lord.”

  “A what?”

  “A peat bog.”

  “What in the name of the Sea Dragon is that?”

  “A marsh. A fetid, waterlogged mix of soil and dead plants.”

  The baron tilted his head quizzically; the gesture reminded Allystaire of nothing so much as a small, fat, stupid dog. “And people live in such a place?”

  Allystaire allowed himself a small smile. “Not if they can help it, my lord.”

  Snorting, the baron shook his head and slowly levered himself to his feet, exhaling heavily. “Peasants ought to be happier with their lot in life. No hard decisions to make, no expenses, no pirates to fight…”

  With a surge of anger, Allystaire took half a step forward, his arms tensing for violence, but his left arm twinged in pain, and Idgen Marte cleared her throat pointedly. He stopped, set his hands firmly on his belt, and said, “My lord, may we discuss an assize?”

  “Yes, we bloody well may.” Spittle gathered at the corner of the baron’s mouth as his voice leapt suddenly into a full-throated roar. “You owe me weight or you owe me chattels.”

  Forcing a deliberate calm into his voice and concealing a cold so deep it seared his veins, Allystaire said evenly, “Slavery is outlawed in every barony, my lord. It has been for some time.” As if the peasantry isn’t practically enslaved already?

  “I don’t give a bowl of beggar’s piss what’s outlawed where! I take duties on all goods in and out of my barony and I mean to have it for that chattel!” The baron calmed his own voice and continued. “Perhaps you can pay a simple blood price, eh? My messenger told me you had a fine destrier, a lordly animal; I do fancy a new mount.” His deep-set dark eyes glittered with avarice as his hands rubbed together like a child’s.

  “As I informed your servant, none of my animals are for sale.”

  “I decide what is and is not for sale here! You are in my keep!”

  Allystaire’s hand, unbidden and unchecked, suddenly crashed down on the tabletop, sending plates rattling. One chunky glass fell off the edge and thunked to the ground, but did not break. “Cease to give me orders, my lord! I am not your vassal. I could have slipped through your gates but I did not, for I intend to make restitution if it is decided I owe it. Decided by a neutral magistrate. That is what your letter suggested and what I came here to negotiate in good faith.”

  “Oh you’ll make restitution! You’ll bloody well pay!” The baron had worked himself into a lather and had to tumble back into the chair he’d recently vacated, which groaned precariously beneath him. To one of the guards, he wheezed, “Fetch the priest.”

  The guard nodded, murmured, “Yes m’
lord,” and stomped off, jingling.

  Allystaire turned to Idgen Marte and mouthed priest? She shrugged. The guard returned quite swiftly, followed by a man of impressive height, who was broad-shouldered, though skinny. He had a thick and well-salted beard and a head of grey hair to match, but above an aquiline nose sat sparkling sea-green eyes. He wore a fine, dark blue robe trimmed with seal-skin, and around his neck sat a heavy silver chain; from it hung a heavy amulet also wrought in silver, of a horned and serpentine face atop swelling waves encrusted with sapphires. He fairly crackled with unspent energy.

  “My Lord Baron of Bend,” the man intoned in a deep, resonant voice, inclining his head and shoulders. “Sir Allystaire. Goodmen and woman,” he added, looking to each in turn and inclining his head, though each less deeply than the last, till the acknowledgement of Idgen Marte was barely more than a nod. “I am Symod, Choiron of the Church of Lord Braech the Sea Dragon, Braech Wave-Father and Storm-Maker, Braech the Master of Accords and Mover of the World.”

  His voice an instrument of precise command, Symod’s words rolled out and filled the room, as one hand rose to stroke his heavy silver amulet. When the words had sunk into the walls and the floor, he went on. “I understand there is a dispute over goods of value and that one party feels deprived; likewise that said goods were stolen by means of ambush and murder.”

  “That is but one side of the story, Choiron,” Allystaire said; he forced himself to meet the tall priest’s gaze. Usually meeting a man eye for eye was no difficulty, even one who, like Symod, stood half a head taller than he, but something about this priest seemed to beat the eye away. The baron, his guards, and Idgen Marte turned away.

  Nevertheless, Allystaire looked on steadily.

  “Such is always the case, Sir Allystaire,” Symod rumbled. “And should you and our gracious host both consent to my terms I will hear both sides at the assize.”

  “Then what are your terms, priest? I’d like this done and my duties paid by dinner,” chuffed the baron.

  Allystaire remained silent, his face set as close to a dicer’s blank as his rage would allow, and watched the priest. Some part of him felt as though he could not help but watch the priest, that his eye was drawn to the man and the aura of power that coruscated, just the other side of visible, around him.

  The corners of Symod’s mouth lifted at the baron in the tiniest ghost of a smile. “These things take time, my lord.” His voice gave an impression of vast depths and frightful volume without resorting to either. “I should say tomorrow at the earliest.”

  “Tomorrow will suit me well,” Allystaire offered, casually. No reason not to get on his good side.

  “For me as well,” the baron sniffed. “So long as you bloody well remember who’s the Baron in this city!”

  The blue-robed priest’s smile widened very faintly but did not reach his eyes. Allystaire knew the expression well; he wore it often himself.

  “I certainly could not forget, my lord,” the priest practically purred. “But you have not yet heard my terms.”

  “The day is hot and the glass pours. Pray, do not keep us in suspense any longer,” Allystaire snapped, a little more loudly than he had intended. The baron snickered in surprise; the priest of Braech turned the full weight of his gaze down upon Allystaire.

  “The Father of Waves makes haste only when it suits him,” Symod said; throughout the entire conversation his hand had not stopped stroking his amulet. “And when he does, ships are ruined, and men lost. Do not attempt to get in his way.”

  Loves to hear the sound of his own voice, this one, Allystaire thought.

  “Out with it! ‘Tis nearly luncheon and all this talk has worked up a powerful hunger in me!” the baron shouted. “And the cook just bought a good pork shoulder,” the baron added, licking his lips childishly and staring for a moment into the middle distance.

  Symod’s words snapped his attention back. “I will require the both of you to be Godsworn for the following terms: that you will answer my questions honestly; that you will abide by the judgment the Sea Dragon, in his ageless Wisdom, leads me to; that neither of you will seek vengeance upon the other for an unfavorable outcome.”

  “I will be sworn if it will bring an end to this,” Allystaire quickly answered.

  “The sooner I am paid the better. On with it!”

  “You will Swear tomorrow before the assize. As will any who give testimony. We will begin at the onset of the High Tide after midday, when the Sea Dragon’s strength is waxing fullest. Be here promptly.” The last three words sent a tingling jolt through the room.

  “I shall.” Allystaire bit off his words without swallowing his contempt and stormed out of the room, Idgen Marte close behind. He brushed briefly against the choiron and felt an intense surge of power. He would have described it like a powerful spark hitting his skin, but there was no pain and no tingle, just a heavy looming presence pressing upon his mind, weighing down on him. It vanished quickly, but the shadow remained, and wrote its presence upon his face.

  Still in the room, Baron Windspar sputtered something about propriety, gasping for air as he pushed himself to his feet; neither Allystaire nor Idgen Marte bothered to look back. They quickly departed the ridiculous townhouse “keep” and were several steps across the courtyard before either spoke.

  “Was that your idea of mannered?” Idgen Marte remarked, as dirt from the sun-beaten ground blossomed with each footstep.

  “I showed him every possible courtesy. I used his title and I respected his authority while demonstrating that it did not reach to me.”

  “I suppose so.” Suddenly Idgen Marte stopped, looking intently at him, her eyes narrowed in concentration. She pointed uncertainly to his right boot, the heel of which had just stomped into the dirt as he turned to face her. “Shouldn’t your foot hurt?”

  “What?” Allystaire looked down to it, then back to her, confused, distracted.

  “You took a crossbow bolt across that foot less than two days ago, and yet you walk on it as if it pains you not at all.”

  Allystaire lifted his foot, shook it speculatively, and shrugged. “I heal fast,” he offered uncertainly.

  Idgen Marte took an unconscious half step away. “You haven’t the lepra, have you? I once saw a man in a troupe of freaks with that; they said he felt no pain and would cut and burn himself for money…”

  Allystaire’s eyes narrowed, his lips pressed into a flat line. “Be sensible. Had I any disease, surely you would have seen it when tending my wounds.” He tried a laugh, found it weak, but continued. “Believe me, I feel pain.” He rolled his left shoulder and grimaced convincingly, secretly surprised at how little it hurt.

  Idgen Marte seemed mollified, and she sighed, nodding and avoiding his eyes. They collected their animals in silence, mounted, and were out the gate and over the bridge in a few moments. As they passed the guards, Allystaire stopped and wheeled his destrier, pointing at the guard who had escorted them in before.

  “You there. Answer me a question, if you would.”

  “I am at your service, m’lord,” the guard replied with a curt nod.

  Allystaire folded his hands on the pommel of his saddle and leaned forward. “You seem to know your business; your armor is clean, your weapons well kept and I daresay sharp. You have done a bit or two of real work, been blooded, or I am no judge of armed men. Why in the name of Fortune are you serving here?”

  The man thought a moment, fighting, for duty’s sake, a smile that started to form on his lips. “I ask myself that same question every day, m’lord.”

  “And your answer to yourself?”

  “Haven’t got one better than that I need the silver, m’lord,” the man admitted, with a frown and a rattling shrug.

  “For what?”

  He shrugged heavily. “Beer. Food. The odd woman, I s’pose.”

  “What is your name, guard
sman?”

  “Renard, m’lord.”

  “Renard, you can do better. I daresay you have done in the past.” He sighed faintly and nodded, as if confirming something to himself. Then he turned his horse and rode for the Sign of the Stone Wall.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, Allystaire sat brooding at a table set near the hearth, turning over in his mind the events of the morning. In the stifling, drenching heat of the day, no fire was laid, and no breeze came up through the opened windows of the inn.

  Godsworn, eh? Lovely dead-end you’ve fought your way into now. “Even my own thoughts mock me,” Allystaire said. A few of the folk bustling around the inn, Thornhurst folk who were sweeping, hauling, carrying, and dusting, turned to look at him when he spoke, but all quickly returned to their tasks. Food, mostly cheese and bread, as well as a small pitcher of wine, sat half finished in front of him.

  “Can I fetch you anythin’, m’lord?” A timid voice floated in from a few feet away. Allystaire looked up and quickly caught sight of a carefully displayed bosom, bent toward him, and a round-cheeked face surrounded by honeyed hair. He quickly looked away, shaking his head.

  “No, Leah. I have my mid-day meal, thank you.” The girl glided away, but Allystaire swore he could feel her eyes upon him. He thought a moment, then waved a hand to call her over; he was careful to look her in the eye. “Upon second thought…I would like to speak to one of Mol’s kin. A parent? Uncle?”