Lords of Deception

by Christopher C Fuchs

  More guards flooded in as delegates attempted to flee. Bardil and Alfrem came to Maillard’s side and the lord minister’s personal guards stood fast between them and the chaos.

  “You’re to blame for this, you pigs!” Vesamune, the Rugen ambassador, shouted at him. “It’s on your heads!”

  A guard shuffled her away from the dais as Bardil spoke.

  “You did what you could, Father.”

  “It matters not, my son. There will be war.”

  Maillard regretted the letter he would now have to write to the king, even if Erech expected or welcomed the news. Maillard was not proud of having presided over such a violent end to the alliance, nor to have his great city be remembered as its last place of assembly.

  “Thus ends the Empire Alliance,” Alfrem affirmed, and they solemnly watched the chaos unfolding.

  16. ARTHAN

  On the Road to Mordmerg, Delavon Ministry

  Midspring, 3034

  “It is my business to study the minds of kings and princes,” Serdot said. “Because of their wealth and power, they often occupy themselves with leisurely pursuits. Hunting, women, court gossip, and games. For widsemers like myself, and those that came before me in the employ of your father, we are occupied with keys, secret correspondence, night rides, and vials of sleep serum. Or more delicate matters.”

  “A spy who practices alchemy?” Arthan asked.

  “A little. Enough to fulfill my duties.”

  “Perhaps your alchemy can fulfill my belly’s desire for a beer,” Livonier jested.

  The green meadows in the valley before them were dotted with bright flowers, and the streams still swelled with winter thaw. With Livonier riding on his right and Serdot his left, Arthan felt confident in his task.

  “No time for alchemical beer if we wish to reach Mordmerg by next morning,” Serdot said.

  “What do you know of Mordmerg, Serdot?” Arthan asked. “Why is it called a free city?”

  “It lies wholly outside your father’s control, despite the inhabitants being Donovards by race,” Serdot answered. “Even the king cannot take the free cities in Donovan without provoking a war with the Almerians. Mordmerg and the rest are relics of the days before the Empire Alliance, when the early kingdoms of Pemonia broke away from the Brintilian Empire. But the Brintilians kept control of key trading hubs like Mordmerg. In time, the kingdoms of Pemonia agreed not to take the city-states, but the Almerians still garrison soldiers there to guarantee the cities’ independence. Thus, the Almerians retain influence inside our kingdoms.”

  “But the Brintilian Empire is long dead,” Arthan said. “What stops us from taking the free cities, once and for all?”

  “The Almerian Confederation is just a new incarnation of the Brintilian Empire, and the Almerian Empire before that,” Serdot said. “The names change over the centuries, but Old World politics stay the same. If we leave the free cities alone, we benefit from the trade they bring. If we storm them by force, it means war with the confederation.”

  “The Rugens did just that,” Livonier said. “But it was a costly war for them.”

  “For a long time, Donovard rulers were comfortable with the arrangement,” Serdot continued, “because the Almerians mostly stopped raiding their new kingdoms.”

  “And if the Empire Alliance falls?”

  “King Erech will almost certainly order the seizure of every Almerian possession in Donovan,” Serdot said. “Whether he has the swords and gold to do it is another matter. Some lord ministers, like your father, would probably take steps to secure the cities from unrest—such as appointing new leaders in each city-state—while granting them some autonomy.”

  “Perhaps we could prepare Mordmerg while we are there,” Arthan said.

  “I recommend we follow your father’s orders, my lord,” Livonier said. “Extract Golbane and return to Rachard. With only a company of knights with us, we should be careful not to provoke the Mordmerg folk.”

  “I agree,” Serdot said.

  Arthan turned in his saddle to look at the one hundred knights, soldiers, and mounted archers waiting on the road behind him. Then he turned back to Livonier. “Can you make sure everything is well with the men? I want a private word with Serdot.”

  “Of course, my lord.” Livonier turned his horse down the line to inspect the men.

  “You’ve been to Mordmerg?” Arthan asked.

  “Several times. Your father likes to keep an eye on the place.”

  “Back in Rachard, you mentioned Mordmerg’s troubled history. Father never talks about mother’s death. What do you know?”

  “Only what I’ve gleaned from Medoff, really. You and Rowen were only children, Bardil just an infant. Men from the free city had raided nearby towns and farmsteads before retreating behind Mordmerg’s walls. The Almerians and the alderman would not answer Maillard’s calls for justice.

  “Months later, while on the road to Austveeden, your father’s convoy was attacked, your mother killed, and Bardil nearly so. The attackers were seen returning to Mordmerg but the Almerian guards insisted it wasn’t anyone from the city. Maillard marched on Mordmerg anyway. He killed all the guards who resisted and hung fourteen men found to be responsible for the raid.

  “Then he left Mordmerg to itself again. The Almerians eventually accepted his actions, having larger disturbances to deal with on the islands. That’s the extent of what I know.”

  “Free cities…” Arthan mused.

  “Thankfully, Mordmerg is the only one in Delavon. May I speak freely, my lord?”

  “Always, Serdot.”

  “I think Medoff underestimates you. Your courage is proven despite your youth. Your skill with a blade confirms the crusader blood that runs in the veins of the Valients. As Maillard’s heir, you will rule well when your time comes.”

  “Thank you, Serdot. Father is the wisest man in the kingdom, certainly wiser than any in Eglamour. I still have much to learn from him. When the—”

  Shouting arose from the column of men behind them. Arrows flew from the nearby woods into his men. Livonier sounded the alarm.

  Arthan lowered his visor and drew his sword as Livonier led a contingent of knights toward the woods, shields up. Other knights from the column rallied around Arthan with their shields.

  “Someone doesn’t want us going to Mordmerg,” Serdot said.

  Arthan had no time to answer. Enemy footmen rushed out of the woods screaming war cries. Arthan raised his sword and called the charge. His cavalry followed behind him as the archers softened the enemy.

  They met the enemy in the meadow below the road, the full force of their downhill charge easily crashing through the footmen. Another hail of arrows from archers in the woods brought down several Racharders. Arthan’s horse took one in the neck and threw him from his saddle.

  Stunned from the fall, he looked skyward through blurred eyes. A footman raised an ax above him. Then Serdot appeared, a small crossbow in hand. Blood spurted from the man’s neck, then Serdot shoved a dagger in him. Arthan was pulled to his feet and his sword returned to him by another knight. The Rachard cavalry rallied to him as he rejoined the fight.

  The enemy was a mix of well-trained armored men alongside ragged poor folk with swords of iron and gode steel. All of them fought fiercely and appeared to outnumber the Racharders. Fear stabbed Arthan’s mind when three of his knights fell before him. Not here.

  “Cursed son of Valients!” a man cried from the wood line.

  A knight stepped into the meadow, his black hood obscuring his face. He raised his sword in challenge. Arthan squared his shoulders and waited. The enemy came to him, bringing his blade up high and slashing down at his head. He deflected each blow, then moved to strike, but the hooded knight was quick to parry.

  The enemy pressed close, forcing Arthan’s backstep. Arthan feigned losing his balance on the lumpy ground, letting his guard down. The hooded knight surged forward recklessly and Art
han dodged him, swiping at the knight’s neck, which proved unprotected under the hood. The enemy fell, motionless.

  Within a short time the leaderless attackers fled back into the woods. Livonier led the chase as Arthan stayed on the road with the wounded.

  “They knew we were coming,” Serdot said, nursing a gash on his cheek. “I didn’t recognize their lead knight, but the black hood is ominous.”

  “Brave of them to attack us this far out from Mordmerg though,” Arthan said. He was still sore from his fall but unwounded.

  “I’d say foolish. I count at least seventy of them dead.”

  “And thirty of our own knights…”

  Livonier soon rode up. “We got most of the stragglers, my lord. A few likely escaped, but…”

  “Do we have enough men to continue?”

  Livonier squinted up and down the line, surveying the men as they rested or tended to the wounded. “Thirty-two lost, and as many wounded. To approach Mordmerg with only a troop would be unwise.”

  “Perhaps it’s enough to quickly ride in and out,” Arthan said. “Golbane is depending on us. He has men, and we know they are sheltering at Alderman Hurmant’s keep. Serdot?”

  “Very risky, my lord. But there is another way. I could sneak to the central keep. If Golbane is there I’ll set a signal on the tower, or perhaps extract him myself.”

  Livonier shook his head. “If this skirmish was any indication of what awaits us at Mordmerg, we best turn back to inform the lord minister, drop the wounded, and get reinforcements.”

  “Let’s do both,” Arthan said. “If the enemy has come this far from Mordmerg, they may have their eyes on Rachard. Livonier, you hold this road in case they are planning something. Send the wounded back to Rachard with a message for reinforcements, and wait for them here. And send scouts ahead to watch for our signal. Serdot and I will infiltrate the city and either bring Golbane out or signal for your reinforcements from the roof of the keep. Be sure to have scouts watching for us, but keep your men at a distance.”

  “My lord”—Serdot hesitated—“widsemers are used to working alone. It will be dangerous.”

  Arthan saw protest in Livonier’s eyes, too.

  “Nonsense, Serdot. I’ve made my decision. Golbane is my cousin and I intend to bring him out as Father ordered. Livonier, hold the road.”

  Arthan and Serdot mounted and pushed on southward.

  17. FETZER

  Sea of Pemonia

  Midspring, 3034

  There is only one thing I can do, since I’m stuck on this ship and Captain Renaud will either soon discover my theft or have me killed. If the mysterious passengers’ secrets are so valuable, then I need to know them so I might be in a position to barter for my life…

  Fetzer made his way into the bowels of the Meurden as the sun set. He guessed the mystery passengers would be most active at night to better hide from the crew. He came to the cavernous cargo hold where the ship’s stolen goods were held, waiting for resale in Lyonseln.

  Fetzer could not see or hear anyone, but he spied three empty bedrolls behind a stack of crates. He hid himself in an overturned barrel on the other side of the crates, and there he watched and listened. The growing darkness and sway of the ship soon lulled him to sleep.

  It was a while before the creak of the floor slats by the door woke him. He kept still as a lantern was lit. He quietly sat up and peered through the space between the crates.

  There was the bulky Almerian named Bertwil he had seen with Renaud, and the slender man and woman Fetzer had seen run with Bertwil to the ship. All three were dressed as commoners and without sailor garb. They appeared to have objects under their tunics but Fetzer could not make out their shapes. All of them wore grass-stuffed moccasins that muffled their footsteps.

  Their voices were low and difficult to hear at first. When the trio settled down with their food and drink they talked more openly.

  “…remains in place,” Bertwil was saying. “Therefore, Morroy, you will link up with the islander and meet Juhl and me at the place.”

  “Easy enough,” Morroy said. Fetzer pegged him as a Calbrian.

  “Why assault the castle if we can catch him in his carriage?” the woman asked. Her accent was strange.

  “I think Master Arasemis wants to make a point, Juhl, that we can get them anywhere at any time,” Bertwil said.

  “Seems like a needless risk,” Juhl said.

  “With three of us, we can handle any of Duke Gottfried’s soldiers,” Morroy said.

  “It’s not enough to kill the pig,” Bertwil said. “We are to set fire to the castle before leaving.”

  “Easily done,” Morroy said, pulling a vial from inside his tunic.

  “Put that away,” Juhl said. “Are you trying to sink us all?”

  “Relax,” Bertwil said. “You’re trained for this. All will go well.”

  “May the pig taste the fate of Raymond!” Morroy said a bit too loudly.

  “Hush, now,” Bertwil said. “There’ll be time to celebrate after.”

  Bertwil was a cool, clever man, certainly not the brute Fetzer had pegged him to be. Morroy was a typical northern Calbrian: confident and careless. But Fetzer was still unable to place Juhl’s accent or unusual name.

  “This is the best part about being part of the Order of the Candlestone,” Morroy said. “The training is difficult by far, and the alchemy can be tedious, if not deadly. But the tasks we’re sent off on, well, killing these lordly types is what I…”

  A realization struck Fetzer. They’d spoken of Raymond’s death and now were plotting against the king’s cousin, Gottfried Avaleau. Both were lord ministers. Fetzer had never heard of Candlestone but he liked what he was hearing. A sudden hope welled up within him that his own lord minister, Sigbert of Barres Ministry, would be their next victim. He turned back to listen to them.

  “…colder heart than yours,” Morroy was saying.

  Juhl smiled. “We Lambics can endure any cold. We carry it in our heart and blood.”

  Of course, Fetzer thought. Her accent, pale face, sharp features, and squinty eyes. She was from Lambochardy, one of the coldest and southernmost places of Pemonia. Why were an Almerian, a Calbrian, and a Lambic members of an order tasked with assassinating Donovard lord ministers? Part of him wanted to walk out at once to discuss it.

  “You never told us how Arasemis recruited you,” Bertwil said to Juhl.

  “That’s right,” Morroy said. “The master never mentioned traveling to Lambochardy.”

  Fetzer watched Juhl take a bite of stew, taking her time before answering. “Not sure I can tell you.”

  “Come on, Juhl!” Morroy said. “This is our third task together. I already know Bertwil was kicked off his Almerian merchant vessel at Rilhammor. And you know that I, of course, have the pedigree of a right honorable vagabond. What’s your story?”

  “I was…How do you say? Like a princess. Is that the word? But not so high.”

  Morroy stopped chewing his stew and Bertwil’s smile vanished.

  “Princess?” the big Almerian asked.

  “Not so high,” Juhl repeated. She took another spoonful of stew. “Have you been to Lambochardy?” Both men shook their heads. “It is a difficult land. Very difficult but sacred to us. Rugen tales say the first Lambic was made of stone encased in ice, brought to life by sea spray and lightning. Our kings have always been iron fisted. The queens too. There are no councils as in Donovan or your kingdoms. It’s still so primitive.”

  “How did you meet Arasemis?”

  Fetzer felt a hand on his shoulder and jumped, tipping his barrel into the crates. He instinctively jerked the captain’s golden knife from his belt, pointing it toward his assailant. It was Greffid, who screamed out. Fetzer exhaled and lowered the knife. By then Bertwil and the others were upon them.

  They snatched the unarmed Greffid and met Fetzer’s knife with their blades. He noted a peculiar yellow shimme
r in Bertwil’s blade.

  “Get up,” Morroy told him.

  Juhl blocked any possible escape to the doorway. Fetzer did as he was told, following Bertwil and Morroy, who held fast to Greffid. Fetzer and Greffid were made to sit on the floor by the lamp while the three surrounded them. Greffid’s eyes were big as onions.

  “What are you doing down here, clerk?” Bertwil asked.

  Fetzer, knife still in hand, looked at each of them in turn. They did not seem especially threatened and he saw no reason to lie. “I saw you board the ship in secret, so I was curious. And yes, I overheard you with the captain.” From his tunic Fetzer slowly pulled the stolen letter from Bertwil to Renaud, then tossed it toward the Almerian.

  “You weren’t sent here to stop us?” Morroy asked.

  “No.” Fetzer lowered his knife as a gesture. “There was no need to order my death.”

  “Me n-neither,” Greffid stammered. “I know nothing about nothing.”

  “Quiet.” Bertwil identified the letter before crumpling it. “Clerks aren’t so foolish as you. Who are you?”

  “My name is Fetzer and I’m no one of importance. Just trying to run as far from home as possible. What you talked about appeals to me. That’s it.” Fetzer tossed the knife to the deck, hoping to convince them.

  “Search them, Morroy.”

  Morroy found nothing on Greffid. Fetzer let the Calbrian fish through his pockets, finding nothing of interest until he touched Fetzer’s journal in his breast pocket.

  “Leave it,” Fetzer said. “It is personal to me and of no threat to you.”

  Morroy plucked out the little book and turned to the pages with the freshest ink. “This fellow has been thinking about us, Bertwil.”

  “I said it was personal!”

  “Quiet,” Bertwil said, grabbing the book.

  “Your eyes are cold,” Juhl said, studying Fetzer’s face. “But you are not Lambic.”

  Fetzer glanced at her pale, beautiful face, then back to Bertwil. The big man’s brow furrowed with consideration.