As a man of lust but of soul as well, his father had brought home many strange children – bastards of foreign mothers. Though his wife had always scolded him for that, the woman had never brought herself to do harm to those children. And she took care of them, even if they weren’t her own. Once they had grown old enough to talk, Tobias found that they weren’t so strange, after all. Contrary to what his natural brothers had said of their bastard kin. Then again, they never much liked me either.
But from such humble beginnings, the seeds of envy grew into outright malice when time came to split the family legacy. Nobody cried for their parents, for everyone was concerned about the morrow’s food and the morrow’s roof. His own kindred had conspired to rob him of his fair share. In stark consequence, Tobias Findley showed no mercy or less devious a purpose. With wit and means he had his full-blooded kindred put to death. My brothers, he mused. Upstart fiends and thieves.
As for his older sisters, who had sided against him as well, Tobias had them sold off to a brothel in Greytown. The Highwaters were good patrons of such establishments, and they paid a fair price for the flesh of his young sisters. The coin and the rest of the inheritance, Tobias had split with his bastard siblings. According to the teachings of the Faith, that house which allowed kinslayers to live unperturbed and impenitent... were destined to suffer the wrath of the Father and Moons. So he left them for good, as he sailed to Bentar in search of a new life, one of adventure and opportunity.
There in the Lowlands, in Bentar and under its protection from all things clerical, Tobias had joined the Lupar warband. A renowned mercenary company formed by a lordling, a tough man, but honest and fair. Whenever the bentari lords had their skirmishes along the border with the hallifexians, they enrolled the services of many sellsword companies. Having dedicated himself to this trade of martial exercise, violence in exchange for money... Tobias had made a lot of corpses and much coin. A former silks trader turned mercenary; and I also acquired then a new trade, that of smuggler.
And that was how Tobias Findley came to earn his wealth; by dodging customs officers, by selling everything… from liquor to jade, from plain cloth to silks, from sugar to tears of the poppy, from bronze to ivory. And that wealth he had spent on buying himself a title, holdings, and some land. “Huh, poor choice that was,” he said with melancholy, remembering the many things from his past. “But now it’s time for wit, and plot, and action. And I have suffered enough this marriage. I’ve suffered enough my lady wife, whose barren womb I’ve been cursed with; on top of her constant whining about every trifle life has to offer.”
Life as a married man did not suit the lord of Stoneweed at all. At first, he couldn’t tell if all women were as irritating as his wife, lady Clara. But as the years went by, he came to know the truth. Not all of them were as bad as she was. Though Tobias wasn’t a man of vice, least of all lust, he found himself in need of a paramour from time to time. Well mayhaps paramour is not the right word for them. But whores can pretend to love, just as vassals can pretend to serve.
The guests arrived later that evening, and Tobias welcomed them in his modest hall. The lords he entertained were three – Claudius Shellburn of Green Arbor, Jason Deluvier of Bridgeford, and Daniel Beckett of Gravewood. He had spent far from lavish on food and drink. Truth be told, Tobias was somewhere between a man of excess and a man of modest livings. The times when he truly admired the attribute of temperance, however, were those in which he saw the vile gluttony of others. Still, his court was frugal not out of virtue, but out of poverty.
“My lords,” Tobias said after the small feast, full of smile and brow arched, “you’re probably wondering why it is I called you to the humblest of halls. And I will answer.” He pulled out a dirk and started cleaning his nails. Grease and soil were beneath them. The martial and cunning burden placed upon him by Erasmus Verwick required of him dirty hands... Literally. “What is Stoneweed?” He asked, hinting a silent musing in his tone.
“Not much of a fasthold,” said lord Deluvier with a smirk on his face.
“Aye, that’s true. It’s a trifle of a holding. Too few acres of land made up of more rock than earth. And what do I have? Two scarcely populated villages, thanks to that damned civil war; and half of them are filled with lazy drunkards – ”
“You have a silver mine, though,” lord Shellburn intervened.
“Aye, so I do. A mine that’s been emptied of the precious metal for more than a decade. Now, the money it makes barely covers its maintenance. And what’s to say of my levies? Only three hundred able-bodied men, and that’s a rounded figure. Everyone likes to round numbers up, instead of spelling out the real count. I guess it’s too much of an effort to say two hundred and eighty-six men.” Tobias finished cleaning the nails of his left hand, then moved to the other.
“Is this going to take much longer?” Beckett said in a sour voice. “This secrecy of yours is getting quite tiresome, Findley. Even your lovely wife has passed out in her chair, it seems… The woman would be better off sleeping in bed, yes? After all, politics is not for the ears of women.”
Tobias looked at her, his wife. Lady Clara was sound asleep – head tilted to the right, and her long black hair covered part of her face. “Mind her not, my guests. She sleeps thus for I slipped something in her wine-cup… something to make her rest.”
Lords Deluvier, Beckett, and Shellburn frowned at him and exchanged queer glances. Tobias had only two nails left to clean, so he continued with his plan. “They say about me, that I’m no true nobleman. That I’ve bought my title, and thus, am unworthy to be called an equal. That’s why they call me the lord of rocks, is it not? Mayhaps the name of my fasthold has something to do with it. But still, it’s not as if someone who’s born into wealth and holdings is more deserving than the one who earns them.”
Tobias was able to say such things for his guests were not all that highborn to begin with; but they were aristocrats, to be sure – unlike him. However, the lords of Green Arbor, Gravewood, and Bridgeford weren’t that orthodox with tradition. Tobias’ words were a mixture of frustration, truth, anger, and wickedness. His purpose, sanctioned by his liege lord. And of course, he liked to hear himself speak. Thus, the performance continued – a fine silver tongue and wit raised humans above beasts.
“Indeed, I bought my miserable title; but rest assured, I toiled much to earn every penny. Every penny which I spent for it.” He had only one nail left to clean, his right thumb. “The reason I called you three gentlemen… is to discuss a most dishonorable deed; most dishonorable, but vital for the Empire’s future and our own.” Tobias set his dirk on the table; and studied his finger nails in the light of candles to make sure they were cleaned properly. He had done a fine job.
“Enough with this banter, my lord of rocks,” Deluvier said with annoyance. “Tell us while we are still capable of hearing.” The other two guests nodded in agreement.
“Very well, gentlemen.” Tobias gave them a thin smile. “The imperial chancellor has enlightened me with regard to excellent and rare opportunities. He promises rich lands and worthwhile holdings for us to squeeze. Think on it... livestock and peasants, wheat and vineyards, forges and mills, forest rights, and new incomes. He offers gold, and swords, and good horses. All need we do is rebel against the Sun Throne.”
“You’re mad,” said Deluvier, eyes wide and frowning. “Either you’re lying… but… And even if our liege lord would wish such a thing of us. It would be suicide. We’d be alone against all of the Empire.”
“Oh, be at ease, my lord of Bridgeford,” Tobias said with an innocent frown. “We won’t be standing alone in treachery. The emperor’s brother will be leading us against the capital, and all those who would stand against his claim. Soronius Mero has the backing of the harpoolian noble houses. However, this is not yet written in stone. Our liege desires to know that when and if the time comes, we – his humble and obedient vassals – shall choose to answer the call of Findar’s Keep, and not that of Castle
Spire.”
Tobias pushed himself to his feet, grabbed his sword hilt and pulled out the blade. He loomed it over his sleeping-drugged wife. All three lords got up in an instant, and cursed at him to sheathe his blade and explain the mad gesture. After this, they’ll understand what I’m saying. “Watch carefully now, good lords. In order to gain anything, one must first sacrifice... And the traveler’s first step begins the journey.”
He grabbed his wife by the hair, and pulled her over the table. She felt like a corpse already. Before Deluvier and Beckett could flank him, Tobias collapsed the longsword over Clara’s neck. My lovely wife... The steel over meat and bone gave out a short crackle and another sound, moist and soft. And the white table-cloth drank her blood. All three men froze in place, lack of understanding and disgust upon their features. A natural reaction in the face of senseless murder; Tobias knew. But it is not senseless; it serves purpose – mine own and that of my liege.
Only lord Deluvier had managed to unsheathe his sword.
“Most dishonorable, yes, to be sure.” Tobias found himself saying then, breaking the strange silence. “But what our warden promises… well, he promises a great many – to me, to you.” Tobias pointed to each of them. “And you, and you. Promises are dust in the wind; but sometimes winds blow in one’s favor.”
“Demons beneath us, Findley! You’re mad!” Beckett shouted, his voice almost trembling. “You’ve drugged your wife and you’ve slain her in cold blood. You were sure to have us here as witnesses. But why show us this? Why murder the woman here and now, before our very eyes?”
“The Dagans will have your head for this!” Exclaimed Deluvier, forcing a shallow indignation in his tone.
The dog-headed serpent picked up on such frail acting; duplicity being an art – and him being its master. He chuckled at his guests, then signalled for his servants to enter. They took his wife’s corpse, and he gave them the bloody longsword to clean as well. After a short moment of silence, the lord of Stoneweed spoke again...
“Do you, fine gentlemen, believe in hell?” No answer came. Tobias didn’t require any. “Some believe that the path of sin leads to damnation, and the path of virtue to paradise. I, however, don’t think as such. I think something else. I think that any soul – rotten or pure – gets the same reward. A good sleep, forever calm, forever long, dreamless sleep... So why live our lives in fear of damnation and shame? The world is here before us, a finite string of moments. And we cower in superstition. Why? Because we’re fools; because we don’t see the possible, the attainable. One needs only to reach, grasp, and pull back. It is that simple.”
Tobias gave each of them a measuring look; then resumed his seat and invited the three lords to do the same; and for Deluvier to return his sword to its scabbard. His guests agreed to his wish without further protest.
“Why I killed my lovely wife? It’s quite simple. She had no wealth, and did not provide me with any children. I only took her for the honor of joining into a family with an old name. From the standpoint of their finances, the Dagans are of a minor influence. They gladly offered Clara to me in return for a so-called modest bride price. But the lord chancellor’s proposal set my mind straight. And I require a new spouse of a family… more bent to my newly adopted politics.” Findley’s smile was devoid of actual mirth.
“The Dagans,” he continued, “have such a history of loyalism. And a divorce is so hard to obtain when you’ve no money left to bribe the Patriarch. Oh, how I despise the sanctity of marriage.” At that, him and his guests grinned. “Thus, my lords, death was the only choice that fitted the small size of my purse, or rather, blade. Now it seems I’ll have to remarry… You fine noblemen each have a daughter, true?”
All three men gave a weak nod. They were his now, he knew. Tobias could see it in their eyes. Hungry eyes. Promises of wealth and power would sway any mind; but what truly swayed him was the challenge of it all, the intrigue, to balance life and death between oaths of fealty and vows of treason... Gods bless he who made the first sword, and he who first killed with it. Tobias felt proud, and wicked, and liberated from his annoying and barren spouse. Liberated from a more than imperfect mesalliance. Free to embrace the uncertainty of the future, and challenge it head-on.
“I will not let prodigal considerations rule my next marriage. So I will choose beauty over wealth in settlement. It would be the proper gesture and symbol of our friendship, of our historic parts that we will play in the best interest of the Empire and our own. Who among you three has the most beautiful daughter? I suppose the one with the most beautiful wife.” Tobias chuckled.
“My spouse is ugly,” said Beckett.
“So is mine,” echoed Deluvier; and both men laughed.
That left the lord of Green Arbor; and Shellburn agreed. No words, just a nod, and the sparkle of his eyes. With everything made clear to them, the dangers and profits that came with treason – they renewed their cups and drank to the future.
The lord of Stoneweed conquered three of his betters that evening with only a magical promise and a bloody spectacle. He had swayed only a few men to lord Verwick’s cause; but they in turn would sway others – and those others would sway many more. The cure for pride was the correct balance between fear and veneration. The fear of inaction, the veneration of possibility; awe itself. A wisdom Tobias Findley had mastered, the guilty mixture of reverence and dread. A self-taught discipline born out of ambition and necessity – he truly believed in it.
That was why he had made the dog-headed serpent his sigil, the animal red against a field of jade. And his words of creed... Fear banish thy pride.
Chapter XIII: The Sister And The Sword
“You’re mad, Drakanes.” The Sister Superior of Bernn’s temple of the Twins had given Drakanes and Pollova all the respite for meditation and seclusion before the battle’s start. The dreary air inside the holy edifice seemed to lend strength to the sister of Greengrove, the strength of discouragement. “You’re madness will be the death of you.”
Drakanes, however, chose to draw her strength from the old tales of history, from their wisdom. “Pollova, please be quiet so I can think. I find your tone of voice distracting.” Without any gesture or words of protest, but only a curious frown of misunderstanding, Drakanes received her wish. The sister of Greengrove agreed to keep silent. That’s better. Now, where was I?
Centuries ago, the warden of the Westlands, Edmund Blackway first of his name, had discovered a plot against his rule organized by his vassals. Whether the charges of treason had been false or true, it was of little matter. Lord Blackway had banished them from the Westlands, and those who had refused his mercy had decided to rebel. After the banners had been called, the first levies that reached the gates of Rogfort to answer the call of their liege had been the most humble of knights.
Pious men of lower birth and small lands, yet… they protected the weak, the cripples, the lepers, the destitute. And worked to raise food, cloth, and coin for their well-being. These men wore black cloaks and black armor – a symbol of humility and a retreat from the world of opulence and pride. The war in the west ensued without any interference from the other realms, not even from the emperor. As such, the lord of Rogfort was able to bring the strongholds of his enemies to ruin.
With all the traitorous lords banished or killed – their holdings and incomes had passed to those loyal men who had sided with their liege, and not with the plotters and rebels. After the victory, the sable warhorse had only landed knights serving as vassals, and below their rank were the grand burghers. To honor those men who had first answered his call to arms – those humble, pious, and valiant souls – the liege lord decreed that all the realm’s knights would wear their cloaks and armor black. The Westlands had no need of other lords, save for the rule of house Blackway. Thus, they became known as the black knights of Rogfort.
The end of that reflection was met with a long heavy sigh from sister Pollova.
Since she didn’t possess a sword, armor, an
d proper clothing for a fight, Drakanes had asked the grand burgher to give her time to prepare. After all, the gods would decide life and death this day. No one had complained of it, save for priest Harlam. And when he had voiced out loud his protests, a couple of rotten tomatoes launched from the rabble got him good. One hit the priest in the face, right between the eyes, and another got him in the ear. So far, Drakanes had played well this game of wits. But this round seemed to be the end of her winning streak. And the time of the trial was close at hand.
“Gods help us all. What are you going to do?”
As she stared into Pollova’s eyes, Drakanes saw only one thing... faithlessness. She doubts my sanity; but I will prove her wrong. I’ll prove them all wrong. “Would you have me retreat from the trial? And assent to the grand burgher’s injustice?”
“Well, of course! You’re fighting against a man, a swordsman. He’s not even a true knight, but a hedge knight. They know and practice nothing of chivalry. Why are you willing to die for this Jon Gallard? For this stranger?”
“I’m not willing to die for anyone, sister,” she replied in a sharp tone. “I’m not willing to die; but I am going to fight for this man’s justice, for his life.” Drakanes sighed.
Pollova and her were standing in front of the temple’s altar, before the bass-relief of the Three. The sun was made of gold, the crescent moons of silver, and the earth-flat made of copper. No candle was lit, and the grey light from the windows seemed to empower the gloom. The paintings and icons on the temple walls seemed fleeting – images of theological import and revelation. But those depicted scenes were tragic, not glorious. The saints had been made holy through much ordeal and suffering.
Not through easy deeds, Drakanes reminded herself.
“I swear I don’t understand you,” Pollova said exhausted. “Yes, it’s an injustice. The priest, the three proctors, grand burgher Wholeheart… But this is madness. You’re going to die, and then so will Jon Gallard. You’re a sister of the Matriarchal order, Drakanes. Not a man, not a warrior. The servants of the Twin Mothers are strangers to violence. Let’s leave now and forget this business.” Pollova’s words did make sense, but there was something she didn’t know.
An Empire Of Traitors (Of Hate And Laughter Book 1) Page 16