“A public death would be better,” he said. “Make the Cynt and Raydau do it.”
“Why would they do that?”
“They’re greedy. Feed it. They already sold their sons and daughters and are busily signing your accord now.”
They were, too. A line had formed. Each man searched the two sheets, found and read the part about the land, and left off reading the rest.
I looked back at the lieutenant.
“How did you get them to charge the hill that day? It took you mere moments to convince them.”
“I told Cassin you’d spotted the Cynt’s wagon bringing up their army’s pay. I told Detree that you’d bribed the battalion captains to retreat and that if he wanted any of the glory of killing Olum, he best hurry. The rest followed on.”
“Alright, smart ass, do it again. I want to see you convince these men to kill their own priests.”
He took the master sergeant by the arm and pulled him outside. I was left standing there and nearly yelled after him to get back and explain himself when he returned alone, walked past me without a word, and started coaxing the last of the Cynt and Raydau to sign their names.
I was tired and angry for more wine. I crossed back toward him and started to ask where he’d hidden my wine.
He suddenly extended the brush to me and presented the sheet for my signature.
The two sheets were quite something. I’d written too many documents over the years. My brushwork was hostile looking, but kept straight lines and edges. It read easy and looked very official. The signature space in high contrast was a ridiculous jumble of illegible scrawls and marks.
“Yours and a priest’s, and it is done,” Lieutenant Kennculli said and pushed the brush into my hand. To Haton he said, “Go find wine enough for everyone.”
I smiled at that, signed the space left bare for my name and title, and went to follow Haton.
The crash of something metallic outside caught the attention of every man. It had the note of spilling coins. The group moved as one through the doors and out to find the priests yelling at their men as much as the greencoats nearby. Between them was a line of mules that had gotten tangled. The heavy packs upon one had burst open, spilling coins in every direction.
“They’re making off with what they stole from us,” someone said.
“Kill ‘em,” someone else growled.
I was nearly trampled. Daggers came free from sleeves and boots, and the Cynt and Raydau charged across.
“Vile thieves,” one man cried, and the roar of voices and the meaty stab of their daggers carried over the protests of the priests and their men. They got neither the chance to explain nor defend themselves. Not one of them survived.
Several men moved to inspect the pack animals.
My pack animals.
It was the tithe—the little of it I had left. My mouth fell open, and I searched for the swineherd. I spotted him back by the simple square structure adjacent to the keep—the priests’ apartments. He had a priest pinned against the wall.
“Who is going to sign for them now?” someone asked while the noblemen busily decried the looting of their wealth. The line sounded terribly rehearsed.
“One of them is left. Over there,” someone shouted.
“Don’t kill him,” a dozen men all shouted at once.
The swineherd released the man, and the crowd converged. Detree, Cassin, and Olum pressed their way forward.
“He is one of the nolumari,” Olum said. “The junior man who does all the scribbling.”
The young law priest did not look nearly as scared as he should. I’d seen bought men before. He was blowing it.
“Hey,” I screamed at him. “Sing magic at us, and I’ll pour molten tin down your throat.”
Greencoat spears rushed at him, and the proper look of terror took hold.
“Wait,” he shouted. “I am just a nolumari. I’m not one of the healers. I have nothing to do with magic. I only assist with the case work and keep the books.”
Cassin and Olum gave each other a look and stepped in toward him.
“It is a good thing you caught them in the act,” Olum said. “Quite a thing. It will take a great deal of effort to write it all up correctly. Is there any assistance we can offer?”
Cassin asked, “Perhaps we could get your signature as witness to an accord first?”
It was an expensive way to kill the priests, but they were dead, all the same. I left the mess and the details to Lieutenant Kennculli.
The day should have ended there. Haton joined me on the other side of the bloody scene.
“Walk with me,” he said. I was not interested, but he had hold of a bottle. We started up the hill toward the inn. Haton made me wait a while but not long enough that I had to ask. “From my new vineyards.”
I took the offered bottle. I didn’t much care what kind of deal he’d managed. I lifted the bottle and drank. The wine was heavy, warm, and rich. It slid down my throat like an exalted smile and filled my breath with swirls of cherry, blackberry, and … “Is that vanilla? This is the same wine you served at the Creedal in Bessradi. How marvelous. I had no idea it came from the Oreol.”
He slapped me on the shoulder. “Reason to smile, yes?”
“Yes, yes it is,” I replied with a great laugh and took a long drink. My head swam. “Good wine.”
“It is,” he said. “Now let’s talk about the things you are going to do.”
48
Captain Soma O’Nropeel
The 36th of Spring, 1196
The Isle of Heg off the Oreol coast was a quiet place. Fishers plied the calm waters between her rocky beaches and the thin line of barrier islands that sheltered her. The villages there flew the occasional Cynt pennant, but their color was faded.
I let the Grace drift in and ordered the greencoats below. Ryat objected to the slow approach, but it was unneighborly to rush about and scare folk. I needed news, not a panic. I tried to forgive Ryat’s imposition. He’d been sullen since hearing Geart’s song. He’d not said it, but he had new words rolling around in his head and was impatient to sing.
We rowed lazily in toward a group of boats with nets in the water. I ordered the oars to station and waited for a hail before bothering the busy men.
“Morning,” I replied to the first small hello. “Good day for it.”
“’Tis,” was the reply.
The man in the next boat looked up at our pennant. “Eyy, you’d be one of Lord Barok’s boats, then? Were you at Osburth when the Raydau got theirs?”
“We were not,” I said, unsure of his news or his view of it.
“Well I was,” he said. “I charged up the hill behind General Mertone. A proper battle that was. You should have seen it. He rode right at the Raydau while they were sunning themselves and smashed a hole in their line singlehanded. We charged in, and the Raydau ran from us like rats. I got this nice knife off a Raydau noble that had it in his head to put a spear in me. Killed both his bodyguards to get to him.”
His fellows were all eyeing him. They’d heard the tale a time or two.
“A proper reward,” I said. “Have all the Cynt levies been sent home?”
“Us fishermen were, straight away. General Mertone had the rest marching south the same day to take Moorsmoth before the Raydau could get themselves together. He walked right in the way it sounds. Our betters are all still there deciding how to carve up the Raydau lands, last we heard. But I got paid and didn’t get killed—so what do I care?”
“Mind your net there,” I said.
The man gave a happy shout and hurried to pull up the school of mackerel that had swum into his net. The rest of the fishermen all began doing the same. “Hey-hey, boys. She brought ‘em in for us!”
“A gift from Enhedu,” I said in parting as the tidal current pushed us farther off. We exchanged waves, and I got the oars moving.
“Full sail,” I said as soon as we were clear. “Helmsman Rindsfar, best line south, if you please
.”
“Not stopping at Osburth?” Ryat asked up the companionway.
I was not in the habit of answering stupid questions.
The crew worked rotations at the oars the rest of that day and straight through the next as we stabbed toward Moorsmoth. Every man aboard took their turns—Ryat more than most. He got a break when I and the greencoats that would be going ashore turned in for eight pegs the next morning.
We found Moorsmoth the evening of the 38th. It occupied a hill and was as ugly as the two small peaks just to the north. A keep and church faced the sea, and the town’s squat buildings and streets meandered up the hill behind them. My opinion was due at least in part to the poor lighting and my mood at the prospects of navigating an unknown shore so late in the day. I could not see where we could put in.
“Up the river,” Rindsfar called. It took me a while to see the same. He was right. The town’s harbor was upriver and behind the hill.
“Bring in the sail, fresh men to the oars,” I called. “All idle hands to the rails. Call every dark shape you see and its distance in paces. We are going to try the river.”
I called the strokes, and after the turn east into the current, the splash of the oars was the only sound.
“Rock ahead, five paces to port,” said a man forward. I ordered the starboard oars to station for three strokes, and Rindsfar managed to steer us clear. We rowed around the tall stone and up through the middle of the river.
“Lights, Captain,” called down the lookout. “Just around to the left. Looks like a wide bay. You’ll see it presently.”
“Any sign of who is in charge of the town?”
He took forever to answer. He had to restrain a cheer. “Yes, ma’am. Riders on Fell Ponies in the harbor. The town is ours.”
The men pulled hard on the oar, and Rindsfar managed the turn. We tied on and I led the men ashore.
49
General Leger Mertone
A Cold, Dark Night
“Things I am going to do for you?” I asked, laughed at Haton, and handed him back his bottle. “How about you drink some wine and shut up. You’ve been a pain in the ass since we left Almidi. I’ve outgrown it.”
His face had gone white, and he fumbled the bottle. It struck the ground and shattered.
“Hey, Haton, wake up man.”
Hooves thundered over the rise of the town’s main road. A dozen men with swords bore down upon us. They leapt from the saddle, and the first slammed Haton to the ground.
I got my sword out and up as the rest surrounded us. They wore greencoats.
“Hold!” I bellowed, not sure yet if they were my men or disguised. I charged the man standing over Haton as a half dozen turned to face me.
One of them yelled, “Leger, it’s Sergeant Horace.” Behind him was a woman I did not know and that rotting priest Geart brought from Bessradi.
“Where did you come from?”
“Urnedi. The prince sent us the moment the plot was uncovered. It was Haton, General.”
“What are you talking about?”
Haton tried to sit up, and a greencoat struck him with the hilt of his sword hard enough to tear his ear. Another stomped him to the ground. The rest aimed swords and spears at him.
“Someone speak, rot you all. What did he do?”
Horace said, “He engineered the rockslide, General. He’s been trying to kill Barok since he arrived in Enhedu. He is an agent of the Hessier. Avin proved it.”
Haton looked up at me.
“Don’t let him speak,” a voice cried, and a trio collapsed upon him and jammed ready rags into his mouth. The speaker was Ryat—the rotting librarian, in the mix as though he was as trusted as Geart or Avin.
“Rot you, explain yourselves,” I shouted, shaking from my anger.
“He may be able to sing,” Ryat said.
“Don’t be a fool,” I shouted, shoved Horace aside, and hefted Haton onto his feet by his collar. His face was ashen. He could not look at me. I ripped the cloth out of his mouth as the blood from his torn ear poured over my hand.
“I am sorry, Leger,” he said.
“Sorry? Haton? What did you do?” He slumped in my grip, and I shook him. “What did you do?”
“I had no choice.”
“The Ashmari Hessier,” Sergeant Horace said. “They made Haton a thrall. He is a servant of the Shadow.”
I felt the weight of the sword on my hip. My blood pounded through my veins as the vanilla vapors of wine made my mouth water.
Betrayed … again.
It went through me like the sting of bees, and rage boiled up against the venom. “How long?” I asked him.
“Since Barok was banished to Enhedu. I …” his voice trailed off. “But it never took with you. Not like it was supposed to.”
I did not understand what I was hearing.
“Tell me everything,” I said and fixed my hand upon his broken ear and lifted him by it until he was on his tiptoes and eye to eye with me. “Tell me!”
“He is bound into the service of the Shadow,” Ryat said. “He won’t be able to say much more.”
Haton did something then. My arms grew cold, and I lost some of my nerve as though he was a Hessier.
Ryat reached a hand up toward Haton’s face and began to sing. My muscles locked tight. I went blind for a moment and felt as though my arms were swelling. There was no feeling. My forearms turned purple and puffed up like they were rotting. Tiny drops of silver liquid beaded upon my misshapen flesh. Haton’s face and neck were doing the same. The silver droplets tore their way free of us both, followed by streams of blood.
“Leger?” Horace said and stepped back.
The greencoats pointed their swords at me.
Haton clutched at his neck. “No,” he sobbed. “I will die.”
“What did you do to me?” I demanded and shook him again. My thoughts fell to the vanilla wine. “What have you been feeding me?”
“Mercury—to strengthen our hold upon you. You are a thrall. Same as me. Leger, forgive me. I was ordered to.”
“Who?” Ryat and I shouted at him.
I twisted his ear again, but he said no more. Ryat grabbed him by the hair and whispered into his ear, “Speak the name, and I will give you the mercury you need.”
Haton was dying. Whatever magic bound him, the loss of the mercury was unraveling his grip upon the world. It looked like a peaceful death.
He squirmed weakly. “Onmar.”
“Are there other thralls?” Ryat demanded.
“Darmia,” he said and began to weep. “Darmia was first … she fed me the mercury. Terrible bitch—”
I took him by the throat and drew my sword. “She did what?” I screamed.
“She made me a thrall,” he said slowly. The pain was leaving him. His eyes began to close.
I brought my sword down sharply upon the point of his shoulder, and it carved away the flesh down to his elbow. He screamed and begged for his life. I gathered him up close, instead, and set the tip of my bloodied blade upon his bellybutton. “Let the Shadow take you,” I spat and jammed the sword down through him and out his ass. I held him close while he screamed, and I twisted my sword until he died. His body fell with a wet thump onto the cold street.
I stumbled.
“Catch him,” the woman cried, and they gathered around me. “Ryat, Horace, your healing songs, now!”
I’d felt the dizziness before. I’d been in an apple orchard with Onmar ringing trees that belonged to the Yentif. We’d stopped to rest, and he’d given me something to drink. He sang to me.
I was a fool. I’d been a thrall the whole time. Had I known it?
I remembered the night of Barok’s wedding—the same tingle and dizziness. Darmia had fed me more mercury and told me to kill Barok.
I’d refused.
But then what? More mercury and more singing? Yes. Too much of it. She told me to obey Haton and help him become wealthy and powerful in Enhedu. Geart’s song after the Battle of Urn
edi had healed my body, but not my soul. I belonged to the Shadow.
“Horace, listen to me. I am a thrall. Onmar did it to me.”
“Leger, you are not a thrall,” Horace yelled. He took hold of Ryat. “I can’t find the song. Save him.”
White light blinded me. The small man’s song was a strained scream, but from it, I felt no warmth. He kept on until he collapsed across me.
Other’s clamored around me. I could not see them.
“Stop,” I said. “Save your songs and your strength. Stop and listen. This is a good thing. I would have betrayed you all. Listen to me. There was a meeting in Bessradi … they were all thralls. They came to take over Enhedu. I was to help them … anything Darmia, Haton, or Onmar asked of me. Find their names. They all signed …”
I tried to stay, but there was nothing left to hold onto.
50
Captain Soma O’Nropeel
Ryat’s song failed, and he fell. Leger looked no better for it. His eyes began to close.
Lieutenant Kennculli raced up the street with a dozen men. He took in the scene and joined me at Leger’s side.
“Soma, save him,” Bohn said.
“Stop,” Leger said. “Save your songs and your strength.” He told us when he had been made a thrall and by whom.
“You’re not dying today, Leger Mertone,” I said and tried to take hold of his soul, but it was like trying to braid water. “Leger, your soul. It’s different—like it was never finished. Forgive me. I cannot save you.”
His last held breath leaked slowly from his body.
Leger Mertone was dead.
His men crowded close, weeping and clutching at him. Except for Bohn. He looked like a cornered wolf. “Stop your mewing. We will not wet his coat like boys. We are soldiers,” he said, and the greencoats flinched back and dried their eyes. “Get him aboard your ship and get him out of here. Toss Haton in the hog pen with the priests. Tell no one what you saw here.”
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