Lords of Deception

by Christopher C Fuchs

Rodel heard the rush and splash of a river. The wheels clacked over a stone bridge as the flash and crackle of lightning struck too close. He heard the splitting of a tree. Another bolt and the horses lurched. Rodel and the others were thrown from their benches as the horses tried to turn around on the bridge. The carriage slammed into the stone bridge wall, splintering a rear wheel. The carriage reeled again and all the captives struggled to stay upright. A wrenching snap and dragging signaled that the rear axle had broken, yet still the panicked horses pulled. The jailors’ shouting faded amid the roar of the swollen river. There was a final bump, then the carriage twisted. White water sprayed inside as the carriage crashed into the river.

  Rodel and the others were tossed about as water surged through the bars. The carriage broke in half like an egg and Rodel was the first out, his jet-black hair plastered over his face and neck. He felt another prisoner latch on to his leg but he kicked him off as he struggled to swim loose of the wreck with bound hands.

  Rodel popped up to the surface. The carriage planks twisted and crunched as the horses struggled to free themselves. Everything was pulled under the churn. He gasped for breath and kicked as hard as he could toward the riverbank.

  Finally wedged between two rocks, he wiggled and elbowed his way up from the water. When he was safe on the embankment he watched what was left of the carriage break apart and sink below the rapids. There was no sign of the others until he noticed movement on the far bank. In the darkness he could not see if it was one of the jailors or one of his own. They sat panting, looking at each other.

  “Heingartmer!” yelled the survivor above the noise of the river.

  Rodel recognized the voice as Wredegar’s. But he hesitated, glancing toward the damaged bridge in the distance. He had had enough. This was his chance for true freedom. He waited for the roll of thunder to pass before yelling back. “Eglamour!”

  Wredegar nodded, then disappeared into the woods. Rodel picked himself up and walked toward the bridge. He examined his chains, the iron having rubbed his wrists raw to bleeding. He stumbled up the road, itself a brown river, and soon crossed the bridge. The axle was still there, the last remnant of the fate of the others.

  I can still run, Rodel told himself. He didn’t have to wait for Wredegar in Eglamour. He could run and be done with everyone. But he knew the Wosmoks would find him. He was almost jealous of the ones who had drowned. Their hunting days were over, and no one would be hunting them anymore either.

  Rodel was so distracted with himself that he did not notice another carriage that had stopped on the road before him. Instinctively he darted for the woods.

  “Stop!” cried a man who jumped out of the carriage.

  Rodel kept going. Then he crouched inside the wood line. He watched as a peculiar man with a bushy red beard and rich robes walked toward the woods, uncaring of the mud soaking into his fine garments. It was evident from his movements that the man was missing his right arm.

  “Come,” said the man, a Donovard. “I wish you no harm.”

  After a moment the man repeated his call in Austveede, Rugen, and Calbrian. But there was no need, as Rodel had learned Donovar as a child.

  “I saw what happened and I offer you my carriage,” continued the man. “Anyone who survives that is marked by destiny. I’ll rid you of your shackles and take you where you need to go.”

  Rodel smiled to himself. If this ignorant nobleman had an inkling of who he was, he would not so freely make the offer. Then again, most noblemen would not have bothered to stop—unless they hoped for something to gain. Rodel considered it his duty to go to Eglamour and wait for Wredegar. The Wosmoks would get suspicious if he did not show up.

  “Well?” asked the man, patiently standing in the rain.

  Rodel stepped out of the bushes. He did not have to decide now. He could use the carriage to travel to Eglamour or go his own way once and for all. Either way, he was sure he could handle this one-armed nobleman if he was trouble.

  “Good,” said the man. “You have nothing to fear. I am Count Arasemis Reimvick.”

  Rodel stopped walking when he heard the surname, reconsidering everything.

  Arasemis fished under his cloak and brought out a glass vial that glimmered in the rain. “This will remove your bonds,” he said, holding up the vial. “It’s best used out of the rain. I assure you, you’ll get no awkward questions from me. Won’t you come? I have food, wine…”

  Rodel told himself it was impossible for this man to know who he was. To meet one of the Reimvicks on the road after surviving the river could be nothing but coincidence. For once he suppressed his training and followed Arasemis into the carriage.

  “May I?” Arasemis asked, uncorking the vial. Rodel extended his shackled wrists and watched as a few drops sizzled into the iron. They crumbled away from his wrists, leaving his skin unharmed.

  “Remarkable, thank you,” Rodel said in Donovar.

  Arasemis grinned. “I detect a well-hidden Rugen accent.”

  It was not a question. Arasemis pulled bread and dried sausage from a drawer under his cushioned seat, then filled a silver goblet with wine for Rodel.

  “What are you count of?” Rodel asked.

  “Nothing, really. Not for a long time. My brothers inherited our father’s lands and titles. I spend my days engrossed in ancient books.”

  “Your brothers must be Raymond and Edmond Reimvick,” Rodel said, knowing full well the answer.

  “Correct.”

  “My condolences for Raymond…”

  “Come now, young Rugen. As a former captive you care not for Donovard noblemen. But I won’t ask you questions, as I promised. Just say where you wish to go.”

  Now that he had a chance at freedom, Rodel could think of no place in particular. Arasemis stared at him kindly, clearly aware of Rodel’s uncertainty.

  “Surely a man in your position has a destination, other than the office of the chief magistrate of Eglamour,” Arasemis said.

  “Tell me about your ancient books,” Rodel said, eager to delay his decision on a destination.

  Arasemis happily sat back in his seat. Rodel felt as if he had been led into this discussion.

  “My books are unlike any others. Rarest of the rare. Single extant copies. Dead languages. The ancients of Pemonia and their forgotten secrets. At least, forgotten by most people.”

  “What secrets?”

  “Forgive me, but that is something for me and my students alone.”

  “You teach?”

  Arasemis nodded. “The ancient ways of the original peoples of Pemonia. Their tales, migrations, alliances, weaponry, alchemy, and metallurgy. Probably not what a thief like yourself would be interested in.”

  “I’m not a thief,” Rodel said. He stopped himself before saying more.

  “I believe you.” Arasemis nodded. “Whatever you were wanted for is no concern of mine. If you have a destination in mind I shall inform my driver.”

  “Are your students the sons of Donovard nobles?”

  “Most definitely not. They are all bold youths, like yourself, who come from all kingdoms and backgrounds. Young men and women who are interested in a…special…purpose for their lives. A purpose that recognizes no borders, titles, or divine rights of kings. No wealth or poverty, only collective honor and shared fates. And a return to the original ways.”

  “Who is your benefactor for such an experiment?”

  Arasemis chuckled softly. “It is no experiment and the only benefactor is the man before you.” Arasemis cocked his head and squinted. “You are interested in my little organization.” Again, it was not a question.

  “Perhaps…”

  “The youths of the Order were at a crossroads in their lives when I found them, as you appear to be. They were searching for a different path in life, a new calling. I could be mistaken, of course, but I sense that in you.”

  Rodel nodded silently, trying to see through Arasemis’s plain spea
king. But he found no ill intent in this strange man.

  “I always keep my eyes open for others who are drawn to the things the Order is drawn to,” Arasemis continued, “wherever they come from. You would be most welcome.”

  “And if I change my mind?”

  “My driver will still take you wherever you wish to go, on one condition. You would swear an oath of silence for the things you see and hear.”

  Rodel considered all Arasemis had said. Something inside him felt an intense curiosity about the Order of which Arasemis spoke. But his training interjected, urging him to be suspicious of this man and to remember his duty in Eglamour. He went back and forth with himself but knew how it should end.

  “I must go to Eglamour.”

  “Then my driver will take you,” Arasemis said, seemingly neutral with his decision. “First he will take me home, to Thorendor Castle, just west of Bredahade, the capital of Wallevet. Then he will take you into Toulon. If you change your mind you’ll know where to find me. If not, then I expect you to keep our conversation private as thanks for my hospitality.”

  Rodel nodded. He looked out the window at the slowing rain and peeping moon. When they arrived at Thorendor he almost changed his mind but remained on his seat. As Arasemis’s attendant moved to close the carriage door he spoke up, though he was unsure why.

  “My name is Rodel. Thank you, Count Arasemis.”

  “My pleasure.” Arasemis smiled. “Remember, if you change your mind, you know where to find me. If not, my best to you.”

  14. MILISEND

  Eglamour, Toulon Ministry

  Midspring, 3034

  “Go on,” Regaume whispered. “You can do this, Thimblegloves…”

  Milisend briefly glared at him before refocusing on the door. “What if we’re caught?”

  “Then you’ll sprint away and leave me to be arrested by Tronchet’s men.” Regaume winked. “Go on, or I’ll claim the necklace for myself.”

  “First tell me what it is,” she said, peering through the keyhole of the storeroom that served as their hiding place. “We’ve gotten this far. And if I must abandon you I want to at least get the goods.”

  Regaume stifled a snicker. “I’ve trained you well. All right, then. Across the room do you see a gilded door?”

  “Yes.”

  “Behind it is the Benrollen Company’s treasury. Benrollen is Donovan’s oldest chartered merchant company and the kingdom’s best competition against the Almerian trading fleets. Benrollen is also considered the most secure holder of the nobles’ jewels and other valuables.”

  Milisend turned from the keyhole to Regaume. “But not our royal pieces.”

  “Of course not. Now, your target is a necklace made with Middlesea coral and Terving diamonds. If you can steal that, your training will be complete.”

  “Who owns the necklace?” she whispered, turning back to the keyhole.

  “The wife of one of the company’s owners just sold it to one of Duke Brugarn’s vassals.”

  “Good. But the guards won’t leave. One of them stays at the door.”

  Regaume nodded. “Use the candle, as we discussed. It’s our only option now.”

  Milisend turned away from the keyhole. “It doesn’t feel right.”

  “You’re jesting. How many jewels have you stolen over the past few years?”

  “Not that—the alchemy. It seems…dishonorable.”

  Regaume smiled. “You’re the only thief I know who cares for honor.”

  “I’m also the only royal thief you know. Listen, before Father ended sword training for his daughters, we were taught that alchemy was an old, mystical craft that was beneath the honor of knights and ladies and lords.”

  Regaume clutched his hands over his mouth to suppress another chuckle. She glared at him longer this time. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “why are you only telling me this now, when we’re inside the company?”

  “It just occurred to me.” She looked away from him and examined the storeroom shelves with feigned interest.

  “Look, alchemy is as alive today as it ever was. I’m no bard, but the tales make it plain that, while it’s fallen out of fashion with the nobles, it has always played a role in, well, everything. What can be dishonorable about that?”

  “We were never taught anything about it…”

  “Of course not. The high folk are suspicious of alchemy because they fear what a commoner could do with it. But I think it will become widespread again, and soon.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve been a thief all my life. I see more and more thieves using candle alchemy, smoke screens, and the like. And high folk, too. It used to be I’d never find an alchemy workshop in a nobleman’s home. Now, many of them secretly have one or employ an alchemist. Maybe it’s because good steel is now so common, unlike in the old days. A blade treatment can give them an advantage.”

  “Fine. So the candle, then.”

  Regaume reached into a pouch and brought out an ordinary-looking candle. “It will take care of the guards you’ve been watching. The candle alchemist I bought it from in the Borel District of Eglamour said the first few moments of burn will be ordinary. Then its colorless, tasteless vapors will leak out briefly, putting the guards to sleep for about an hour. Then it will burn normally again and we’ll be able to get the necklace.”

  “It doesn’t look like a special candle. Are you sure this is going to work?”

  “If it fails, we’ll use this one to escape.” Regaume pulled another candle from his pouch. “This one should smell like the building is on fire, causing panic.”

  “How do we start?”

  “Creep down the dark side of the room,” Regaume whispered as he took a turn at the keyhole. “Then light the candle and put it with the candles already on the table. Then come back to the storeroom and we’ll wait for them to sleep. You look beautiful in your new leathers, by the way…”

  She looked down at her black-dyed ensemble.

  “The mask and slippers are still being made,” he continued, “but you look the part enough. Get ready, Thimblegloves…”

  He carefully opened the door and she slipped by. She crept along the darker side of the long room, keeping an eye on the guards chatting by the door. She neared the table easily enough, but she hoped the alchemist’s candle would not release its vapors too soon.

  Milisend tilted the candle into the flame of one already on the table, then set it in an empty spot in the brass candelabra. She turned and headed back to the storeroom, but stopped again when she noticed a faint blue glow growing in the room. She glanced over her shoulder. Her candle had changed color and was belching up thick, black smoke.

  Milisend rushed over and blew it out. It flickered back to life. She blew it out again and again it returned, defiant. She blew and blew but it continued to spew the smoke. Then the guards came running. Regaume appeared and grabbed her, ushering her down the corridor. They left the smoke-filled room and the clamor of the guards behind them. They exited out the first-floor window through which they had come and disappeared in the nearby garden.

  “What was that, Regaume?” Milisend demanded when they were a safe distance into the surrounding company estate.

  “I’m sorry, Mili. This is the first time I’ve bought materials from the Borel slums. That candle alchemist must have sold me the wrong—”

  Milisend snatched the bundle of candles from his pouch, hurled them into the pond, and marched off in the direction of the castle, not bothering to say good night.

  15. MAILLARD

  Rachard Castle, Delavon Ministry

  Midspring, 3034

  Maillard watched the delegations carefully as he took his seat on the dais. Their faces were gloomy but quiet. Maillard was fatigued, having spent much of the night attempting last-minute private negotiations and ensuring the Rugens stayed away from the Almerian ambassador. But he found himself surprisingly hopeful. Some delegations seemed a
menable to limited concessions, which he hoped would be enough to keep everyone talking.

  Maillard sat for a moment in silence as everyone watched expectantly. It was a quiet balance, a peace that he knew could be upturned in a blink. He looked toward Medoff and Bardil and Arthan’s empty chair. Pushing Mordmerg out of his mind, he addressed the council.

  “My lords and ladies, I’m most grateful that each delegation has returned this morning. After spending many hours of the night with you I’m confident an agreement can be reached that will benefit all of us.”

  A few grumbles throughout the hall did not deter him.

  “Firstly, as noted yesterday, the Almerian Confederation has agreed to some concessions, including the loosening of shipping routes, the conditional return of selected ports, and the joint administration of selected free cities in Donovan and Austveeden.

  “Secondly, regarding the disputed islands, the Almerians have agreed to—”

  “Bugger off by sundown!” the Calbrian ambassador shouted, followed by more rumblings from the crowd.

  Maillard held up his hand and spoke louder. “The Almerians have agreed to open discussion with kingdoms having legitimate claims to allow settlements to be—”

  “I won’t hear it!” Now it was the Donovard ambassador, Meltres. “They’ll sabotage them by planting the seeds of revolt, as they’re doing now in the free cities. Nearby Mordmerg is all the proof we need.”

  “My lords, order please!”

  The Almerian delegation stood from their table and prepared to leave. Maillard called out to them but felt a tug on his arm. It was Medoff.

  “My lord, you stand before a dam that is breaking.”

  “If I won’t try, who will?”

  Before Maillard could address the crowd a scream rang out. He turned to see the delegates swarming into the middle of the room. Medoff charged in to lead the guards in breaking them apart, but it was too late. Pitchers of water, books, and other items were being hurled as weapons. Maillard stood from his chair in disbelief.

  The ambassador from Austveeden perched himself atop his table and shouted over the din. “The Empire Alliance is no more!”