by Welcome Cole
Mal looked to the source. The question came from a Vaemyd expatriate sitting around the table corner immediately at Lucifeus’s left elbow. She was tall and svelte with short-cropped hair dyed black as coal, and ears pierced with enough metal to forge a knife. Dressed with an aversion to sleeves, much like her long abandoned people, she wore an armless buckskin leather jerkin studded most seriously in black rivets. Her bare, tattooed arms were gnarled with as much muscle as any man could ever want. Called Tree by her friends, she’d committed her loyalty and friendship to him and his brother a long, long time ago, back when they still lorded over the seas aboard the Laughing Molly. Under their liege, she commanded the hordes of Vaemysh renegades who’d joined the Freehold these past years. She was one of only a finger-count of crew that Mal trusted unconditionally.
Treggel stared at her like there was no correct answer to the question. Mal knew he was probably right.
“Are you deaf?” Tree barked at him, “I asked how many scouts you had with you. You can cipher numbers, can’t you?”
“Twe... uh, tw-twenty, ma’am.”
“And how many warriors were you facing?”
“Uh… I ain’t absolutely sure. I reckon they was about forty count, ma’am.”
“Forty. You’re sure? Forty? Or could it have been thirty? Or twenty? Or maybe five? Or maybe there were only those three miserable prisoners you dragged back to us?”
Treg gave Mal a look like he was one more scowl away from fainting. Mal understood his pain. Tree intimidated everyone. Still, he nodded him back toward her as encouragement to continue.
Treg licked at dry lips, wrenched his hat again, then looked back at Tree as ordered. His expression betrayed the fact that it took all the strength he had to do so. “Well, I weren’t in charge of the party or nothing, ye know. I’d just be—”
“Did you count them up yourself or not?” Tree demanded.
“Count them up?” The scout gave his hat another twist. “I don’t know what you—”
Tree slammed the table hard enough to send everyone into a jump. “It’s a simple enough question even for a half-wit like you! Did you count the trespassers’ numbers yourself or did you not?”
The man shot another terrified look at Mal.
“It’s all right, Treg,” Mal said calmly, “Just answer her.”
Treg held Mal’s eyes for a bit longer, licked again at his dirty lips. “Don’t reckon I spend much time counting in the field, ma’am. Too busy watching me backside, if ye take the meaning.”
A murmur of laughter rippled through the room.
“Then how in the Nine do you know there were forty?” Tree asked.
Shrugging, Treggel said, “Don’t rightly know. Must’ve heard someone say so. I’m a pretty good listener.”
The entire table erupted in laughter, with the exception of Esoria who sat midway down the table on Mal’s right. She simply beamed her irritation out for all to share. Mal knew she was enduring Tree’s treatment of the man with little patience. Essie was the fort’s conscience, maybe even its heart.
Tree sent Mal a look of disgust, which most people would find hard to decipher since she always looked disgusted to one degree or another. “What’re we to make of this idiot’s assessment?” she asked, stabbing a finger out at Treg, “He says there were twenty of our crew against forty Vaemysh scouts, but admits he wasn’t even counting. Hells to help us, I doubt he can even count to forty without borrowing another set of fingers and toes.”
Laughter again murmured through the officers, though one look from Mal efficiently smothered it. Treggel’s tricorn hat continued paying the price of his embarrassment.
“Thank you, Treg,” Mal told the man, “You’ve done well. See Quartermaster Guen outside and tell him I’ve authorized you a voucher for an extra week’s pay, due upon receipt.”
With that, Treggel saluted his thanks and fled the room like the hounds of hell chased him. Mal was sure he was less grateful for the extra pay than the permission to escape the council.
“I find myself agreeing with Tree,” said a cloaked man sitting at Mal’s right elbow and directly across the table from the Vaemyd.
He was a large, heavyset man wearing an ornate silver mask cast in rich detail to human likeness, complete with smile lines and the feathery details of a moustache. It wrapped his face, chin, cheeks, and brow like a helmet’s visor in the tradition of the reclusive Mendophians. A satiny black hood and cloak with elaborate red needlework shrouded all remaining details of the man beneath. Except for his voice, his gender would be indecipherable in passing. The only evidence of flesh visible on the man was in the deep red eyes staring out through the mask. The sclera and iris were the color of fresh blood and seamless save for the dark pinpoints of pupils.
“How do you mean, Wilc?” Mal asked him.
The Mendoph drummed his tightly gloved fingers on the table. Those insufferable red eyes stared at Mal for an interminable time, though the man said nothing.
The Mendophians generally annoyed the devil out of Mal. Their preposterous obsession for physical secrecy was one thing, but they couldn’t make the decision to fart until they’d sorted through every possible outcome for having done so. It was aggravating to the ninth! Even after a decade as ship’s counselor, Wilc’s Mendophian personality continued to aggravate him.
“Today, Wilc?” Mal said in exasperation, “Maybe in the next minute or so, if it’s not an inconvenience?”
Wilc turned his eerie red eyes toward Tree. “To my surmise, this common man cannot be taken seriously. He rides into town bearing the burden of three living Vaemysh warriors bound effectively in ropes. He claims to have undergone an ambush orchestrated by said Vaemyn nationals whilst in these very Neutral Outerlands. Why was he the only survivor, we’re forced to ponder? Is this common man’s prowess as a scout so notorious that we may be inclined to naturally accept his claims of so accomplished and breathtaking a feat? And to have succeeded in this most virtuous of endeavors without so much as the burden of a single wound whilst the greater count in his company perished? Nay, I fear the truth is cloaked far too deeply within the robes of his words to take his braggadocio at face value.”
Lucifeus lifted his crystal wine glass and leaned back in his chair. His eyes drifted from Wilc to Tree, then circled slowly around the rest of the table. “I dare suppose this summary of Wilc and Tree’s positions meet the approval of you all? That Treg is exaggerating his claims for some purpose unbeknownst to us?”
A tentative murmur of agreement to the statement whispered through the room.
Lucifeus lifted his glass and wagged a finger at them all. “Gods’ hooks,” he said seriously, “In that case, I find myself damned disappointed in each and every one of you. I fear you’ve grievously underestimated this man. Treg has intervened on my behalf more times than I care to recount. Why, one evening in particular comes now leaping to mind. I was accosted by a drunken lout at the Slippery Pig in Notown. Treg, having taken great offense at seeing his Captain insulted so, mediated with the offensive brute and his clan. In less than three minutes, he’d killed or maimed seven rogues, one of which was a Baeldonian smuggler of considerable mass. The act allowed me to complete my beverage in safety and comfort.”
Tree snorted.
Lucifeus’s eyes narrowed toward her. “Find that amusing, do we?”
“We do,” Tree said angrily, “He’d damned well better be able to take on seven drunks in defense of his Captain if he wants to serve with this crew, I don’t care if they’re all earthbound demons. But capturing three Vaemysh warriors in the field after losing nearly his entire company to the onslaught of enemies twice his numbers? Unlikely, at best. Vaemyn nationals are not easily taken alive.”
“With most men, I’d agree with you,” Lucifeus said, “But if only one scout were to survive a skirmish such as he describes, my money would most certainly be on Treg. Simply because he’s unable to scratch out the semblance of a name doesn’t mean he lacks credibility. Why
, the man’s a flaming sword in the heat of battle, this I know to be truth. I’ve seen it demonstrated, and the demonstration repeated. Wouldn’t you agree, Malevolus?”
Mal bristled at the use of his full name in public. “Aye,” he said, glaring at his brother, “Much as I hate to admit it. His numbers may not be accurate, but I doubt they’re much exaggerated. At any rate, it’s a moot argument. Luce and I are in agreement regarding the reliability of his story. We’ve three warriors in the brig supporting it.”
“Two,” Lucifeus said as he took a sip of his red wine.
Mal looked at him. “What?”
Lucifeus leaned his chair back on two legs and dabbed his mouth with the frilly cuff foaming from his coat sleeve. “Sink me, we had three,” he said, smiling, “We now have two, yes? Unless you’re counting the poor wretch Hoot hoisted yesterday morning?”
Mal considered the implications of giving the fool’s chair a little push. Instead, he grudgingly yielded to the higher road and returned to the council. “Treg was smart enough to bring captives back to us. He has the instincts of a savage and the fortitude of a Baeldon. He’s no astronomer, and apparently has more than a little trouble counting, but he’s loyal to a fault. I agree with Luce. We’ve no cause to doubt his word.”
There was a moment of silent consideration and a few nods of support from the lesser officers lining the walls around the table.
“Ah, for love’s loss! The mouse be bravely threatening lion, yet said drama be savored by his heart alone.”
The room’s faces turned collectively to the source of the voice, a man sitting at the corner directly down the table from Mal and diagonally across from Tree. He was an ebony skinned man with an explosion of red hair that settled over his shoulders like fireworks gone amiss, and a face stitched with the fine, exotic tattoos so favored by his kind. Dressed fully in rubbed green leathers, he boasted a wide black belt lined with dozens of short, but razor-sharp knives. He was a Watcher, and the leader of a whisper of their secretive clan. They were roving mercenaries who claimed neither country nor king, and who held no regard for borders. But most important to Mal, they were wonderfully stealthy smugglers with psychic powers of persuasion that could convince a monarch to sign over his daughter in exchange for a suckling pig.
“Go on, Freer,” Mal said, “Make your point.”
“A bastard savage swings a lonely pirouette atop Fark’s Tree, does it not? Yet our precious time ye merrily spend discoursing the merits of squab and his ciphering talents, or lack thereabouts.”
“Again,” Mal pressed, “Make the damned point. If you have one.”
“With respect yielded short of being asked, I’m confident I already have.” Freer’s eyes swept down the table, moving from one face to the next. “Precise numbers of warriors? What matters ten? Twenty? Forty? The numbers matter less in proving told tale than in stroking your own cocks at sorry Mister Treggel’s expense. I assert once again, we’ve a bloody invader hanging atop Fark’s Tree! And even had we not, when last was a Vaemysh national dressed full in battle regalia observed in yon Nolands? In ten years of the Freehold, pray when?”
No one answered.
He turned his attention down the table to Tree. Smiling warmly, he said, “Tell us true, love. When last has a professional combatant of your aboriginal persuasion been observed loitering about these merry Nolands?”
“Aboriginal?” Tree barked.
“A Vaemysh warrior, my dear. A national, not to cut too fine a point on it.”
“I abandoned that race long ago, Freer! What the hell would I know about their goings about? Unless you’re trying to imply something?”
“Imply something? Mother love me, never! But no less truth sleeps in statement than to say that ye yourself monitor savage goings on in and about our dear territory far more closely, nay with more dutiful purpose, than any other among us.”
“To my knowledge,” Tree said, glowering, “There’s never been an incursion of warriors. Not that we haven’t had our share of Vaemysh spies skulking about as civilians these past years. Those we catch end up doing the hempen dance atop Fark’s Tree. Very few, if any, escape.”
Freer didn’t release her gaze. “I stand here today, beholden to no lord, and I ask ye true, love: what count parties of trackers have misplaced themselves or been bloody misplaced by factions unknown these past weeks?”
Tree’s brow slumped. “I resent that, you prick.”
“The leaf finds no offense when coaxed from mother oak on autumn wind. And no bloody offense is intended by said gale. I simply follow me dear Captain’s orders and cast out a truth cloaked in a point.”
“Wait,” Lucifeus said, looking at Tree, “What the devil is he talking about?”
Tree didn’t respond, but only continued scowling at Freer.
“Is this true?” Mal asked her, “You’ve had trackers go missing? When? How many?”
Tree crossed her bare, gnarled arms, and sank back in her chair.
Lucifeus slammed the table hard enough to splash his wine. “Tree! Answer the question!”
“Twelve!” she snapped at him, “Not a scout more. And I’ll slice the fet’t’chaes off anyone who says otherwise.” She sent a daring look sailing through the room in punctuation of her challenge.
“Truth half-dressed leaves a lie half naked,” Freer said, smiling, “What number currently overdue keeps you awake at night counting, me dear?”
Tree looked ready to dive across the table at the Watcher. “You son of a bitch,” she whispered through her teeth, “I swear to gods, I’ll have your—”
“Answer the damned question, Tree!” Mal said.
“I don’t answer to that son-of—”
“No! You answer to me! Now why the hell didn’t we know about this?”
Tree sank back into her chair. Her eyes were a storm. “I’m looking into it,” she growled, “They haven’t absconded, if that’s what you’re thinking. They’re overdue, that’s all. It happens.”
“Twelve trackers?” Mal said seriously, “Twelve Vaemysh trackers?”
“I said it happens!”
“Understand that no one’s accusing you of anything,” Mal said, speaking more carefully now, “We trust you unconditionally. But you damned well should’ve followed protocol. We should’ve been informed after the first party went lost, and you damned well know that.”
Tree stared at him in brooding silence.
Mal couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her looking so ill at ease. Despite her frequent and emotional denouncements of her people, they were still her people. She knew their history and understood their legends. She’d even once been a hero among them, the result of a particularly famous battle that occurred in the days before she abandoned them. The unbelievable news of Vaemysh warriors in their territory must have thrown her faith in her troops, and maybe herself, fully on end. Her scouts weren’t just missing. Her scouts had been taken, a revelation he was confident had only occurred to her since the arrival of the captives.
He dropped back in his chair and took a deep breath. “Twelve scouts,” he said as calmly as he could manage, “You’ve lost or misplaced twelve of your scouts.”
“It seems Tree’s woes walk not alone, but gather in bloody mob,” Freer said suddenly.
The table looked to him.
“Hellsteeth, Freer!” Mal barked at him, “Can you just once speak in straight standard? What in the Nine are you talking about now?”
“Covering the groin of the half-dressed truth, I expect,” he said, looking directly at Mal, “Seems it may be I’ve misplaced nine of me own scouts as well.”
Mal couldn’t make sense of the words. “Nine? Nine? You lost nine Watchers?”
“Aye. Nine scouts gone without so much as a warm wave or hearty smile.”
Mal couldn’t make the words work. It was like being told the sun was falling. Both Vaemysh trackers and the Watchers were the finest scouts on the face of Calevia. For one of them to misplace a member w
as nearly beyond belief. But both of them?
He looked from Freer to Tree. “And did either of you plan to inform us of this little misstep any time soon?”
“The words land sour on me tongue,” Freer said, “Seen me nary a single scout misplaced in a lifetime of running them. Hear me true, not a single doughty one. Sent recons out a’sniffing after them two days past they tardiness. Had I no good fortune to procure them by week’s end, drunk, dead, or otherwise frivolously engaged, I vowed with deepest conviction to be wrapping upon ye door that very day, as the Lordess Calina be me witness. I know dear Tree’d be embracing same sad truth.”
Mal shoved a sarcastic smile at him. “Well, we’re surely grateful for that little courtesy, aren’t we, Luce?”
“Aye, Mal,” Lucifeus said, “That would’ve been a real kindness on your part, Freer. We’re in love with the sentiment.”
Mal identified the rope lust in his brother’s eyes and quickly intervened. Though he knew Lucifeus valued Freer and Tree far too highly to harm them, that these two among their officers were more family than crew, the truth was that more than one favored officer had danced to his delight on a mismanaged impulse of rope-lust in years distant past.
“So, what’s your assessment, then?” Mal asked them, “Give us the bad news.”
“Aye, Captains mine,” Freer said, “By first thought, we’d measured it merely spirits of season infecting said troops with ill-gotten state of jolly, if ye catch me drift. I mean to say, what with the Festival of Trees a mere—”
Mal slapped the table. “Get to the cursed point already!”
Freer nodded. “Aye, sir. With shit washed clean of skull by arrival of said prisoners, seems I’d be inclined to think more gravely upon it. Given recent revelation delivered by arithmetically illiterate Treggle, I’d be apt to conclude the lost souls shan’t be returning soon, least not with spirit yet squatting in bloody flesh.”
“I would most certainly be inclined to agree!” Luce said. He was clearly angry enough to spit fire.
Freer shrugged and hiked his wine glass, saying, “My dearest Captains, it’s not as if the truth skulks beyond our reach, jh’ven? Even now, I’ve the worried trail beset upon by two score scouts. And ye may dress, season, and dine on me liver if these replacement scouts won’t be keeping warier eyes over they shoulder than woe begotten brethren.”