by Daniel Ford
She looked blank for a moment, and Allystaire said, “Mol. The girl I found in the Thornhurst inn, she has kin here, somewhere, aye? Adults? Go find one.” Finally, Leah nodded and trotted off.
Act of pure will not to watch that lass walk away. Allystaire scowled at himself and tried to briefly drown the thought by pouring the last half of a pitcher of wine down his throat.
Soon, a man close to Allystaire’s age, shorter and not quite as broad, was approaching his table cautiously. He had curly hair salted with grey and several days’ stubble on his cheeks; the knuckles on his large hands were scuffed and scarred, his clothing simple and oft-mended. He stood near the edge of the table and, for lack of anything better to do with them, tucked his strong hands behind his back.
“Ya sent fer me, m’lord?”
Allystaire indicated the seat across the table and stood to offer his hand to the other man. Instinctively the man took it, and Allystaire felt a strength in the grip that wasn’t unlike his own. They both sat, the man seeming more at ease.
“Are you Mol’s father, or—?”
“Uncle,” the man answered quickly.
“Uncle Tim? I heard about you,” Allystaire said with a slight, hooked smile. “Mol told me that you thought speaking to oneself was a sign of madness.”
The man grunted a laugh. “Aye, well, our Mol’s a bit of a tale-teller, I’d say.”
“She is a strong little lass.” Tim looked back at him, confused. “Willed, I mean.” Still blank. “Stubborn.”
The man shrugged, a gesture that spoke of pain in its slow caution. “If you say so, m’lord. I haven’t had the raisin’ of her. Till now, I s’pose.”
“What do you mean?”
Tim sighed, looked down at the tabletop. “Her da died when they took us. She hasn’t heard it yet, but I saw them cut his legs out from under him before they started hurlin’ torches.”
“What of her mother?”
Tim shook his head. “Hilde is dead three years’n more. Glad of it now, in a way. She didn’t live t’see this happen.”.
Allystaire sighed, lowering his head and staring, for a moment, at his curled hands on his lap. “Was it you that hid her in the cold well, then?”
Tim looked up quickly. “I didn’t see her. I was wrestlin’ wi’ one o’ them reavers when it all broke out. Lass might’ve been smart enou’ to figure it out herself. Was all confusion and blood, and then suddenly fire. Most o’ us never really knew what was happenin’.”
“How many souls in your village?” Allystaire leaned back in his chair, hardening himself for the answer.
“More’n a hundred, but closer t’that than t’two hundred.”
“How many back from the warehouse?”
“Fifty, lessen’ two. Plus Mol. Makes forty-nine of us left,” Tim said with finality.
“Was everyone else killed?”
Tim shook his head, his grey hair swiping against his head as he moved. “Some o’ the younger folk ran oft, their kinfolks yellin’ at ‘em to do so. They sent one o’their men t’track but I don’t think he e’er came back.” He smiled a bit, showing missing and crooked teeth. “Could be one o ‘our lads got ‘em.”
More likely he just decided to cut his losses, or rounded up a couple of children to sell for himself, Allystaire thought, but he smiled and nodded, rapping the tabletop with a knuckle, and said, “Good on them. Mayhap a few will be found when you return. Now, if I may ask, what of Mol?”
Tim shook his head and spread his broad hands, his wrists popping as they turned. “I can’t say. She sleeps, eats, cries some, like she’s a babe again. M’wife s’takin’ care o’her.”
Allystaire nodded. “When the girl comes round, I would like very much to speak to her, if I could.”
“Anythin’, m’lord.” The man cleared his throat and said, “Might I ask you a question, m’lord?”
Allystaire nodded encouragingly and leaned forward. “Of course, goodman.”
“Everyone’s wonderin’ it…not just when we’ll head back to Thornhurst, but…wha’ then? We rebuild, what’s it matter if reavers come again? Where will we get the money or the tools? And are…ya’ve already bought us our lives, but if…how long d’ya plan to stay?”
“I have not given it any thought,” Allystaire replied carefully, knowing it to be a lie as soon as he spoke. Stay? Stay and wait for Casamir and half a dozen men-at-arms to find me there and burn what still remains? He sighed. “Tim…Timothy?”
The man shook his head. “Timmar.”
“Timmar, then. I do not mean to mislead you; I do not plan to stay on in Thornhurst.”
Tim seemed to deflate a bit, his carefully buttressed hope melting away with a slow nod.
“I would only be in the way if I did,” Allystaire said gently. “I am no carpenter or laborer or farmer; I would be a mouth to feed, with horses that ate three times the cost of what I did. I would be of no help. He leaned forward conspiratorially, adding, “In truth, I might only attract trouble.” Suddenly uncomfortable, Allystaire stood and offered his hand; Timmar shot to his feet and took it, his grip lacking the earlier vitality. He walked away, shoulders slumped, defeated.
As he was leaving, Idgen Marte entered the taproom with a slow and measured pace. She arrived at Allystaire’s table and sat down, looking at the wall behind him as if it were miles distant.
“What? No quip? Nothing about kicking these folk while they are down?”
She looked at him and frowned. “I heard what you told him and you weren’t wrong. Better not to deceive them into thinking you’re their new lord protector now.”
“What about you? Plan to stay behind in Thornhurst while it rebuilds?”
She snorted, her face split by a sneer. “I’d sooner be a monk. At least in a cloister I might drink myself into the grave in peace and quiet.” She turned away from him again, took in a deep breath, and said, “What happened this afternoon? That priest, that choiron. There was something—”
“Power. He almost glowed with it.”
She shook her head hard enough to send her braid halfway over one shoulder. “Glow is the wrong word. He held it like you hold a hammer, ready to bludgeon aside everyone in his way. His voice weighed on my mind.” She grimaced uncomfortably and added, “That’s why I asked if you’d the lepra. Foolish, entirely, I know. I know. But I was…my mind wasn’t right.”
Allystaire nodded, his face darkening as she spoke. “When I brushed against him on the way out I felt something menacing and huge ready to perch upon me like a carrion bird that wanted a choice bit and was not prepared to wait till I died. I did not like it.”
“Does he speak for his god?” Idgen Marte’s face blanched a bit at the thought.
“I could not say. Most of the priests I have known were whoremongers, drunkards, or spendthrifts, except for the few who were all three. I knew priests of Braech and Fortune both as I grew up. They alluded to being able to call upon the powers of their gods, yet I cannot say I saw them do it.”
“I have heard tell of it; priests of the Sea Dragon who call the waves or who move the reefs down in Keersvast. And I know of Braech’s holy warriors, said to be the most fearsome foes alive. Never seen them, though,” Idgen Marte admitted. Then she raised a finger to him. “And you agreed to be Godsworn by him, you fool.”
“The baron did the same. Neither of us have the advantage. And I doubt if the choiron could be bought.” Allystaire fiddled with the edge of his plate. “And if he can, I doubt the Baron of Bend can afford him.”
Idgen Marte laughed a bit, some of the usual warmth returning to her voice, her features reviving. “True enough. What a vile little frog.”
Allystaire nodded his agreement. “How did such a frog hop to the top of this mountain of shit?”
“We may never know. I asked about somewhat, and most think he was a fearsome river pirat
e in his day. Life on land doesn’t seem to have kept him any too sharp.”
“He was,” put in a new and unexpected voice. “And he was no fool then; but now he’s rich and fat and stupid, like most whom men call lords. If I may say, m’lord.”
Allystaire and Idgen Marte had been too absorbed in their talk to notice the man who’d entered and sidled up to them. He wore no armor , but the great brown beard and the blade-backed bearing were quickly recognizable.
“You are the baron’s man. What are you doing here?” Allystaire tensed himself in the chair, ready to spring, pressing his hands to the arms. Idgen Marte had leaned forward, getting her toes under her, hand creeping toward her blade.
“I was the baron’s man. But your question set me thinking, m’lord.” He cleared his throat and said, “I’ve sold my spear for five years, but I’ve never been a reaver or a slaver. And I’d never taken their links, till now.” He swallowed, forcing his eyes to meet Allystaire’s. “Didn’t sit well, once I studied on it. I heard what you did. We all heard. And we knew the baron was thinkin’ o’ simply sendin’ men after ya till Fortune found him a lucky moment. That didn’t sit well either. I think those slavers got what was comin’ to them, and I started wondering what man I’d rather take orders from. The man who eats from reaver tribute, or the one who kills ten slavers.” He swallowed again, shrugged. “I don’t know that you’ll want me, m’lord, but if you’ll have me, I’m your man.”
Allystaire blinked, confused; Idgen Marte merely smiled triumphantly. Finally, Allystaire found a response.
“I cannot afford to pay you, Renard.”
“Y’don’t have to pay me, at least not yet. I want a chance t’feel…t’feel clean, again. Like a man ought. Give me that, it’ll be all the pay I need till we decide otherwise.” A flush rose in Renard’s bearded cheeks, like a boy caught out in mischief.
“Sit,” Allystaire said, pushing out a spare stool with one foot. “You said that you sold your spear for five years, but you have been a soldiering man for more than twice that. What did you do before you sold it?”
Renard sat stiffly and managed to raise his brown eyes to meet Allystaire’s face. “I was a soldier for Baron Delondeur.”
“Saw battle? Earned rank?”
“Bannerman First, third company, Chimera’s Spears,” Renard answered, a hint of pride creeping into his voice.
“Lord Inglaren’s men?”
“Aye.”
There was a brief silence; Idgen Marte’s eyes flitted between the two of them, watching carefully. Finally, Allystaire cleared his throat.
“You heard, earlier, my name? Who I am?”
“Aye,” Renard said.
“So we have been on opposite sides of the field, then, as it were.”
Renard shrugged. “Not my fight anymore, m’lord.”
“Not a lord anymore. Just Allystaire now, if I can make anyone understand it.” Another pause. “I do have one more question. Bannerman Firsts have to serve a term of ten years after their appointment—”
“’Twere but five when I took the gold link,” Renard said fiercely. “Proclamation came down to change it in my last year. Didn’t think it right, changing the terms o’what I agreed to without askin’ me.”
“Aye,” Allystaire said, nodding. “Still, lots of places to get lost in or out of Bend.”
“I tried t’go home. Had a farm out in the western lee of the mountains, my kin. Wasn’t there when I went back.”
Allystaire sighed and lowered his eyes. “This was how many years ago?”
“I know what you’re askin’ m’lord, and yes. It were Oyrwyn men that done it, back in that summer when you got ‘em around the mountains in the south and tried t’push north to Londray.”
“Renard, I—”
“No, m’lord, I’m not here looking for revenge. Hadn’t even thought on it. I know the men who did it hung for it. That’s enough for me.”
“I am still sorry.”
“Happens to folk like us all the time, m’lord,” Renard said with a small shrug. “Our time in the world s’like a winter’s day. Short and dark.”
Allystaire struggled for words again, but Idgen Marte said, “Welcome to the company, Renard.”
The soldier nodded and stood. “I have my gear and mount outside. I can pay my own way here.”
Allystaire spared a brief glare toward Idgen Marte, but quickly turned to Renard and recovered enough to stand and shake the other man’s hand. “I have immediate work for you. Tomorrow morning I want you”—he paused and swept a hand to indicate both warriors—“both of you, to get these folk together, get them out of the city, and start them back to Thornhurst.” Idgen Marte rose to her feet in protest, but Allystaire cut her off with a raised finger.
“No. I will go before the assize alone; if it goes badly for me there, none of you need to share the cost. Provision them and get them all out of here.” Mentally, he began totting up figures and wondering just how thin his purse had gotten.
Idgen Marte looked ready to protest further, but Allystaire added, “I will not discuss this.” He stood for a moment, watching them, then held up his hands and said, “What are you waiting for? Get to work and be quick about it.” His voice snapped with command; Renard practically leapt away.
Once the bearded man was out of earshot, Idgen Marte swung her gaze toward Allystaire and pointed a finger at him. “Story,” she said, grinning like a cat that finds herself well supplied with cream.
“What do you mean?”
“What I just heard. It’s a Cold-damned minstrel’s tale, and a song or three to boot.” Idgen Marte lingered and pushed outstretched fingers into his chest, punctuating her words. “And it better not end in that farce of a castle, fool crusader. I mean to hear more.”
Allystaire grunted with the force of each poke. “Be calm. He may make a pauper of me, but I do not think that choiron intends my death.”
Idgen Marte lowered her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t trust him. Be careful of him. Who knows how the moods of a man who worships the sea might change?”
Allystaire snorted derisively. “Where I come from, the sea is spoken of by men who want everyone else to see them as heroes, when they are drunkards too afraid to face the real difficulties of life. They look to the water to hide them and even kill them if they lack the courage to do it themselves.”
“He doesn’t come from the same place you do,” Idgen Marte warned darkly, as she turned and started to walk away, head still shaking.
“Do me one more favor, if you would. Take my animals with you. They may beggar me, but neither of those bastards—not the fat one, not the dangerous one—will have my horses.”
Idgen Marte laughed very lightly. “Nothing is stopping you from leaving, too. I’d wager you could find a way to terrify the guards at the gate into letting you past. Cold, we could just hide you in a wagon.”
Allystaire shook his head. “I am staying. I want to see this through. Wherever it goes.”
Idgen Marte nodded, and as she walked away, offered, “That’s the kind of thing a hero in a story would say.”
“Do you always need the last word?”
“Yes,” she called, just as she ducked outside.
The next few turns were a flurry of activity as the folk of Thornhurst packed and prepared. Allystaire engaged in a general policy of walking among them, nodding approvingly and doing absolutely nothing to direct them or hamper them. Renard and Idgen Marte are good sergeants, and good sergeants always run the camp, he thought to himself. And indeed the bustle was in many respects similar to moving a small warband. Less cursing and fewer whores, though.
The village folk kept looking to him for guidance; he answered each question by directing them to whichever sergeant was closer. If neither were in sight or hearing, he would simply say, “Carry on as you think best.”
He did grow a great deal poorer. By the end of settling with the innkeep, his first purse was entirely depleted and the second held but two gold links and a palmful of silver. His bag of gemmary, loose and worked, was none the lighter since he’d “bought” the village folk in the first place, but even that much distressed him.
You’re no beggar, but poorer than you were but a handful of days ago. Couldn’t you have at least spent a little of it on a woman? Thoughts of Leah leapt to his mind, but he shook them away in self-loathing and wandered back into the Sign of the Stone Wall to take a flagon of wine to his room to accompany him into sleep.
CHAPTER 12
The Assize
Shadows still hung in his room when the barred door was set rattling by a none-too-gentle fist. “Allystaire,” called Idgen Marte’s only slightly muffled voice, “get up. We’re leaving, but there’s a problem.”
He rolled out of bed, bare-chested but trousered, and quickly moved to the door to lift the bar, blinking sleep out of his eyes. “What? The frog baron decided to do us in after all?”
Idgen Marte shook her head. “No. It’s your horse, that giant grey monster. It won’t listen to anyone. Not me, not Renard. And it scared away the village folk.”