No simple mortal man could truly know the mind of the gods. But Gallard was right about one thing – the hedge knight could have ended her life. Could have won the trial in favor of his master if he had not delayed with his boasting, with his evil pride… Such reflections, of course, were of little comfort so long as they remained in Bernn. And through whispers, Drakanes shared her worries.
“Jon, you must leave this place. The grand burgher will not accept such a public humiliation. Mayhaps not this day, even not on the morrow; but some day he will kill you. After the rabble forgets your name, he will grow bold. When that day comes, you should be far away from Bernn – far away from the Westlands, if I were you.”
The man nodded, wordless in his understanding. His features, though tired, spoke only of wonder and respect. He had just escaped a cruel and odious injustice, no one could blame the craftsman for his moment of laxity.
“Promise me you’ll leave this place as soon as you can.”
“I promise, good sister Drakanes.”
He kissed her softly on the cheek, and embraced her as a parent would embrace his most beloved daughter. Drakanes embraced him as well – as if she had known him for a lifetime. Such warm and honest sensation was strange, indeed. The ancient wisdoms claimed that a good society was that in which the people obeyed the magistrates. And in which the magistrates obeyed the law. Such righteous words they were, but all too alien for the easily corrupted heart.
Sister Pollova embraced and kissed her as well; promising to share her tale with everyone she knew in Greengrove. With the sisters of the cloth, with the smallfolk, and with all travelers. “Minstrels will sing of your deeds, I have every faith in that.”
Thomas Dolsey and smith Aaron both allowed Drakanes to keep her battle attire – the mail hauberk, the boots and breeches, the longsword, all but the sunflower surcoat. One of the local physicians proved to be generous as well, offering a cup of special brew to relieve her senses from pain... the tears of the poppy. She accepted and drank with thirst. A wheel cart was made ready by the smallfolk to return their champion to the High Temple. The brave Drakanes, a shieldmaiden in her own right... the champion of Bernn.
Chapter XIV: Birus
He awoke in bed. A red satin sheet covered him from waste down. The air inside the room was filled with perfume – an exotic scent he did not know. Though pleasure establishments harbored numerous smells, none were more enticing than those inside Adara’s Palace. Beside him, a slender hand moved across his chest, caressing him gently. Her finger stopped at his right nipple, making circles, while she kissed the other. Those soft lips of hers were playful still.
“I have to go,” Birus whispered. “I’ve a melee contest to see to.”
Between her kisses, Adara frowned. “You’d rather go watch men boasting and prancing around with swords and shields, instead of lying here with me? Why do men forsake women just to go play with toys, as if they were still children?”
“My sweet, you know what affections I have for you.” Birus kissed her on the brow. “If the world were different, I’d marry you in an instant. But alas, the world is cruel; it doesn’t understand love. It only cares for three things… the clergy cares for piety – ”
“As if,” Adara cut him off. “It cares only about appearances; most of the clergymen are sophists, charlatans, and some are even more hedonistic than any layman.”
“True it is. Nevertheless, indulge me. The clergy cares for piety. The nobility cares for prestige. And everybody cares for coin.” They both laughed and kissed. Her lips were so soft, and her tongue moist and sweet. Adara moved her hand down to find his cock. Before she could, Birus stayed her grasp. “I truly have to go, my dear. There are other matters which require my absolute attention, outside the melee.”
“By other matters you mean other women.” Frowning, she turned to the other side and pulled the sheet over herself.
“No, of course not. By matters I mean a lord’s matters... I cannot discuss them with anyone. All I can say is that they regard affairs of stewardship... politics.”
“Since when did you become so secretive, Birus?” Adara asked with narrowed eyes.
He grinned and said, “Since your name contradicted the validity of your maidenhood. Always.” Birus laughed, then dodged away from the pillow she threw at him.
“Leave!” Throwing another pillow in his direction, she got up and made for the drawer to find a dress. “Just because I’m the matron of a pleasure house, doesn’t mean I’m heartless. Mayhaps whores have shit for pride and dignity, but I am no whore. I sleep with whomever I choose; and I don’t do it for coin.” Adara said it with a temper, as she rummaged through all the clothes until finally deciding on a robe she liked.
“Come, my sweet,” Birus said while lacing his breeches. “You know I know that. You do it to learn news, and… of course, for pleasure.”
“Well so do you. You came to me seeking answers for your questions; as well as to fondle my breasts, my lips to kiss, and my cunt to caress and enter.”
“Guilty here I stand; which reminds me… I’ve left out a couple of things I needed to ask.”
“Well, you can ask someone else then,” she said almost scornfully. “I’m not your tool to use as you please.”
“Of course, you’re not,” he replied – fastening the buttons of his doublet. “If you’ll recall, I am no ordinary lord. I could have easily chosen a wife by now… one of the most beautiful highborn ladies of all the realm’s courts. But I didn’t. Let those nobles with daughters to marry compete for my hand, especially regarding the dowry.” Birus chuckled, then drew closer to the woman – putting his arms around her. “This whole time I’ve been in the capital, my bed remained empty. I came to you, no one else.” Birus drew in a breath of her scented hair; it smelled of jasmine. Then kissed her neck. “You are the sole creature of my affections, Adara. Now, I beg you… I must know some things.”
“Go ahead and ask,” she whispered, as his hands gently fondled her breasts.
“The noblemen who frequent your palace, did any of them in their moments of pleasure or drunkenness confess to a plot concerning the realm? Mayhaps concerning the Imperial Crown itself?”
“You asked me that before, Birus, when you arrived. I told you… I heard no such rumor among the clients of my girls.”
“Just wanted to make sure I heard you right,” he replied softly, while squeezing a nipple between his fingers. Mayhaps I can get an answer for this. “Did you receive any request for your girls to travel to their patron’s abodes? Perchance more than one girl? Several? To the same place?” Birus moved a hand past her navel, and into her small-clothes.
“As a matter of fact, I did send three of my girls to a villa somewhere near Springwood. Lord Jean-Maria Valdez paid handsomely and provided his own means of travel – a coach. This was about ah…” She gasped as his fingers slid up and down, playing between her lips.
“When was that?” He whispered in her ear.
“Ahem… it was… a month ago, Birus… ah…”
As he was kissing her behind the ear, his mind worked with possibilities. Any meeting held in secret can be interpreted as a conspiracy, or a simple and innocent confidence. But nothing is truly kept secret. Plotters require food, drink, and women, whores... It was a good guess as any to suspect Valdez, the lord of Griffin Height, of plotting to aid the exile in overthrowing Hagyai Rovines. He was the most powerful of the southern lords. And the emperor’s marriage was devoid of any strength. But he would need true evidence. All he had now was suspicion. At the melee, I will seek out the man and have a talk with him – see if I can pull his tongue.
“Oh, Birus, please take me one more time before you go.”
Adara wasn’t a young woman, and neither old. But she was all a woman ought to be – good hips, good thighs, soft of skin, wicked of smile and voice, clever minded, and skilled in the arts of pleasure. Birus did as she asked; he wanted it also. He pulled up her skirts and took her there and then, over
the drawer.
Afterwards, Birus woke up his three household knights who had accompanied him. The three bodyguards were each dizzy from wine and spent seed. No man with coin in his pocket could resist the services of a pleasure house. And to keep them in wait and aching of loins was both cruel and useless; for a swordsman with pain in his balls made for a poor bodyguard. Adara’s servants brought them food and lemon water. And after they were done eating, they left the brothel and made haste for the melee grounds.
Such brisk tournaments often took possession of the nearest town – in this case, Sun’s Helm, an entire city. The young bloods flocked by their thousands, alongside armorers, haberdashers, usurers, storytellers, soothsayers, and corpse whisperers. Since the emperor had annulled the Inquisition, such mystics and charlatans were a common sight amongst the rabble. Entertainers of every sort found easy patronage. Forges were busy, feasts were long and loud – spiced with rapes, brawls, and ransom games. Such events kept honest folk working, brought coin into their pockets. Inside the tournaments, fortunes were made and lost at the point of lance and sword. And many injuries occurred as well, some of them often fatal.
When Birus Mandon reached the event, the crowds were already placing their bets.
“A hundred silvers on sir Jason of Strongbrass,” a man shouted; while another one said, “A hundred sovereigns on sir Sebastien of Tritholn.” And another asked, “What are the odds for sirs Ryker Willborrow and Osmord of Bernn?”
From the busy street, Birus saw the spymaster, lady Ambrielle, holding the arm of a southern lord, Marcus Krasus of Heart’s Gift. The two souls were talking in the balcony facing the pavilions. Of what, who could say? This is my chance to have a word with this elusive lady. And as he strode between the crowds towards his goal, a hand landed on his shoulder.
“Look, my friends; the son of Birus the kinslayer is interested in the wagers.”
The man chuckled in a crude manner. So did the guards around him, eastlanders bearing the sigil of their lord upon their surcoats – three bloodstained daggers crossed upon a white plate. Birus knew the scum, it was the lord of Ironmoat… Maynard Tychos. Who else possessed such a scornful grin, small eyes, and beautiful golden head with long curls, and dimples that women seemed to love so much? Though, for the love of the gods, Birus couldn’t understand why that was. What allure dimples brought to a man or woman’s face that so appeased the average beholder?
“Plan on making a wager, Mandon?”
“No, my lord. I spend my money on things that matter, not trifles.”
“Shame,” Tychos replied in a snide tone. “There’s good coin to be made if you have a good eye for picking fights. Tell me, my lord of Rivermark, how do the ghosts of your siblings fare?”
At such impudence, the hawk scowled. “Tread carefully with your tone and words, Maynard; else this rabble will have part of an unexpected melee to bet on.”
“Big words, Mandon. But is your sword as sharp as your tongue?”
“There’s only one way to find out,” he said in a low voice, then drew his longsword in a heartbeat, so did his household knights. Tychos and his men responded in kind. And the crowds retreated, forming a circle around them. The small-minded plebs were muttering for a fight… Or rather a show, Birus mused.
“No point in making others fight in our quarrels, Mandon. Tell your guards to sheathe their swords, and I’ll do the same. Let’s have a proper duel. Man to man.”
They both did just that. Birus attacked first; Tychos caught the swing, and the metal dance began. Steel fought against steel. The blades clashed and shrieked, their combined motion far away from being one of grace. But it was deadly, nonetheless. They were almost the same age, but Tychos was lesser in size and in strength. He wasn’t faster either, only a reckless fool filled with spite. Birus, on the other hand, trained much and hard regularly. After seeing the many battles in the company of his father during the civil war – he had only one goal in mind. To become strong, fast on his feet, skilled with the sword, great and long. And to channel instinct and focus in every hack and slash of his blade.
As Birus drove the enemy back with every cut, high and low, he had only a fraction of time to decide to stop… or to continue… to finish it once and for all. Before he could make that choice, Tychos, overwhelmed by the relentless attacks, left his front exposed. His chest was opened for the end blow. Birus committed to the opportunity, the impulse to draw blood pressing him to act. And just before the longsword would cut through boiled leather and flesh, the lightning storm’s blade intervened between them; sparing Maynard Tychos from… “A well deserved death,” Birus voiced the thought, as he retreated the longsword from Sima Dragan’s blade.
“There’s no need for bloodshed, my lord Mandon,” Castle Spire’s master at arms said not unkindly. “You’ve proved yourself as the better swordsman.” Sima looked to Tychos. The man’s face was red with anger, but his eyes betrayed fear. “My lord of Ironmoat, I suggest you return the steel to its scabbard and go about your business. If both of you men still want to fight; then I suggest you enter the lists, and do it on the melee grounds with blunt weapons.” Sima’s tone was both stern and cautious. “The emperor,” he continued, “would not like the celebrations of his son’s betrothal to be overshadowed by lordly feuds.”
Tychos did return his sword to the scabbard; but not without uttering a few contemptuous words and a threat or two. “You were fortunate for now, Mandon,” his voice was hurried and full of anger. “But next time, you’ll live to regret it. From this day forward, you may consider me your satan.”
Birus did not reply to that. The wretch wasn’t worth it. Instead, he faintly bowed his head in acknowledgement and gave him a cold stare to remember.
“Get out of my path!” Tychos shouted at the crowds, as he shouldered his way through them. His bodyguards followed suit, elbowing the people left and right to make way for their enraged master.
“Nothing more to see here, good people… besides me, of course.” Sima laughed and so did the crowds around them. He was well known and liked in all of Sun’s Helm, especially by the smallfolk. And if the master at arms was vain, it was all for spectacle.
Birus sheathed his blade, and turned a smiling face towards the man. Sima Dragan then invited the lord of Rivermark into his pavilion for a cup of wine and words.
Birus looked to the balcony, but failed to spot the lady spymaster. Damnation, he cursed to himself. I’ve missed the bloody woman. The hawk sighed, then turned to the master at arms. “I could certainly use a drink after that quarrel.” And I could certainly use words. Dragan might be able to shed some light upon my inquiry. Considering his station, the man ought to know rumors and whispers. And so he went with him.
Birus left his guards outside the pavilion – so him and the master at arms could have their talk. Sima Dragan poured two cups of what he claimed was sweet white, but it tasted rather sour. Birus made no sign to complain of it, though. Instead, he swallowed the drink; and they began to talk.
“So how did it start out there, my lord?”
“Maynard Tychos was exceeding the bounds of good manners. His grudge against my house, though, goes back a few years. But it’s a dull affair. I’ll tell it to you some other time.”
“As my lord wishes,” replied Sima in a slightly amused tone. “The man had quite the temper, though. And I recommend you change your fighting style. Mine weren’t the only pair of eyes that saw you out there. Not all those in the crowds were smallfolk. Few are quick enough to read and learn an opponent’s weaknesses there and then, on the spot; and use them to their advantage. And I am one of those few.” Sima Dragan smiled.
“How do you think the lightning storm managed to stay undefeated for four years straight? Luck or unnatural fighting prowess? Ha…” Sima forced out a laugh. “I did it through constant observation, measuring, and planning for each of my opponents. For instance, this one that I will be fighting soon enough – oh, what’s his name?” He scratched his head, trying
to recall. “I never forget a face, but names… names are a different matter.”
“Sir Sebastien of Tritholn,” Birus replied in a slow voice, trying to remind himself of where Tritholn was actually situated in the Westlands. He failed to remember.
“Ah, yes. That’s the man. I’ve seen him fight sir Toddrick the Tall, and oddly enough he won – despite the broad frame of his opponent.”
“Size isn’t everything,” said Birus – placing his empty cup on the table, and signalling that he had had enough to drink.
“Yes, indeed, my lord. The bigger they are, the harder they fall… but equally true is that the bigger they are, the harder they hit. Sir Sebastien is pretty swift and strong on his feet. I haven’t seen him with his legs bare, but I think he has prominent calves. That would explain his sturdy defence mustered against sir Toddrick’s impressive height and strong blows. Very disappointing the calf muscle.” Sima reached down with a hand to feel his own. “You can climb all the hills you want, and stand on your toes with bags filled with rocks – and you won’t be able to make them much bigger. You are either born with big calves, or you are not.”
Birus had enough of this discussion; so he tried to move it into a more useful direction. “Sir Dragan, do you recall seeing lord Valdez in any particular company of men, lords, knights, or women?”
At that question, the master at arms narrowed his eyes and scratched his head. “By particular company, my lord means?”
“I mean uncanny... a group that follows him about more often than not.”
“No. No, I don’t recall.”
“Try harder, my good sir. You yourself claimed to be good with faces.”
“There are many fools amongst the courtiers. But for every ten idiots, there’s at least one cunning soul who’s ambitious. I don’t remember lord Valdez in such mysterious company, though. I only saw him at the emperor’s feast. He talked with a few of the courtesans and with Claudius Shellburn the younger, the heir to Green Arbor. That’s all – ”
An Empire Of Traitors (Of Hate And Laughter Book 1) Page 18