by Shel, Mike
Auric presented the order from Ulwen, signed by the queen and marked by a red wax seal of the armed griffin rampant, symbol of House Reges and the empire, which were one and the same. Oxula was clearly awed when he received the order and broke the seal with the reverence one reserves for holy things. He studied carefully and closely with his one nearsighted eye, ragged eyebrows raising more than once as the nature of the command made itself clear.
“You’re t’speak with the prisoner called Ush’oul, and then have your pick o’ the dungeons, three down here to act in th’ service of the queen herself,” the man said in summary when he had finished his study of the document. Despite the peasant accent, his voice didn’t match the brutish appearance: it was a soft tenor suited for a clerk rather than a rough keeper of criminals and traitors. “Unusual, if you don’ mind me sayin’ so…Sir Auric, is it?”
“I am the man, and yes, it’s an unusual directive,” Auric agreed. “Nonetheless, we would be most obliged if you would take us to the Aerican.”
Oxula looked at Auric with that single eye and gave him a curt nod, then reached for a trio of lanterns hung on iron hooks set in the wall of his neat office. A squat, ancient wooden table and rickety chair were the only pieces of furniture in the room. He tapped a fat finger on a book that lay at the edge of the table. “We’ll want to take this with us, so I can tell ya who yer lookin’ at in the cells. By Marcator’s fist, I dunno how yer gonna pick yer three men, or even what yer lookin’ for. Most of the folks down here aren’t worth an imp’s fart. Maybe if’n you tol’ me what you was lookin’ for, I could help out.”
“We’ll worry about that later, Mr. Oxula,” said Auric, making sure to keep his tone deferential. “For now, let’s have a chat with the foreigner.”
Oxula frowned at Auric’s deflection, then turned his attention to lighting the lanterns. He uttered a curse when he found each needed refilling. “Now that I mention it, my jailers aren’t worth an imp’s fart either.” He excused himself to hunt down oil.
“What are we looking for down here, Sir Auric?” asked Kennah, inspecting the quality of one of the lanterns. The three of them had conversed on the walk from palace to Citadel and back again, asking themselves variations of the same question: how would they choose who would accompany them on this fool’s errand? Pressing prisoners into service was common enough for the Royal Navy in times of need, especially when the Azkayans prowled the sea that bore their name. But the army was loath to employ such persons as soldiers, and the League was even more discriminating. Hiring vetted mercenaries for expeditions in the Barrowlands was dicey enough. Indeed, the last mercenary Auric had hired turned out to be an agent of chaos, a devotee of the very god he was now charged with seeking and slaying. How more likely were they to saddle themselves with some clever miscreants who would smile and say the right words in exchange for their freedom, then cut their throats in the dark?
Upon his return, Oxula lit the lanterns with a taper. “The dungeons’re lit with witch light, milords, but they’re all overdue for magical goosin’, so to speak. Afraid we’ll need these lamps to guide us. Flagstones’re loose in places too, so I recommend ya watch yer step, les’ ya wanna take a nasty tumble.” He handed a flickering lantern to Agnes and another to Kennah, taking the third for himself, then patted the oversized ring of keys at his hip for reassurance. With a nod and grunt, he turned for the door again. “Sir Auric, sir, pick up my book for us, wouldja please?”
The warden led them down a hall to a broad, ill-lit stair that seemed to descend into a dark abyss. It ended at last in a nondescript brick chamber lined with narrow gated corridors, some heading off into the darkness, others with more steps leading deeper into the dungeons. A few youthful jailers, none older than thirteen by Auric’s estimation, were gathered in a circle on the floor at the far end of the room, immersed in a game involving dice and marbles. All of them leapt to attention when Oxula appeared, sending marbles, dice, and a few copper pennies scattering across the age-worn stone floor.
“Oh, has Her Majesty emptied her dungeons wi’out tellin’ me?” growled Oxula, his tenor transformed into rumbling bass. “Have ya no duties to perform? Perhaps ya layabouts would like t’assume residence in some o’ our empty cells instead o’ seein’ to the meager responsibilities unwisely entrusted to ya!”
Three young boys and a girl stood in an obsequious line now, desperately avoiding eye contact with Oxula while trying not to look as though they were avoiding eye contact with Oxula. The warden put his hands on his hips and shook his head with disgust. “These are my pathetic charges, m’lords, these four an’ seven others, whom I presume are shirkin’ their duties elsewhere, no doubt. Ghallo Jailer, ya waste o’ skin! Take this lamp from me and lead the way to your ill-tended wing o’ Her Majesty’s dungeons!”
One of the boys, a pale, thin scrap of a lad with wide-set eyes and hair black as a starless night, jerked into motion, skittering over to Oxula and taking the proffered lantern, sparing Auric and his companions a wary glance along the way. The warden lifted a hand as if readying to cuff the boy across the face. The lad recoiled, but the warden held back the blow. “Bah! Ya’ll jess be whimperin’ endless if I bloody yer mouth. Lead us on and be quick about it, b’fore I change my mind!” The lad scurried to one of the iron gates and undid the latch, swinging it open into the room on creaking hinges. With a furtive glance back, he began his descent of the stone staircase beyond. Auric and the others followed.
The steps ended at a junction with three wider corridors. “Where is it we’re takin’ these folks, Oxula, sir?” squeaked Ghallo, holding up a lantern so that it illuminated his face. Red blemishes were beginning to bloom on his skin, the bane of many an adolescent, though otherwise the lad looked no older than ten.
“To the Aerican, boy, an’ be quick about it!”
Ghallo’s eyes grew large and his mouth formed a circle, giving him the look of a startled barn owl. His stare went to Agnes, then to Auric, with something like religious awe. He surprised Auric with a question. “Sir, is that girl your daughter?”
“She is, son,” said Auric with a smile. “What gave it away?” He tapped his nose playfully. Agnes let out a laugh.
“Then who’s he?” asked the boy, lifting his lantern in Kennah’s direction.
“Boy, what’re you doin’ askin’ questions o’ yer betters? Get us to the Aerican or I’ll have Mella th’ truth-speaker relieve ya o’ a few strips o’ skin!”
Auric was warmed by the kindness in Agnes’s voice when she responded, ignoring the warden’s hyperbolic threat. “That’s Sir Kennah Rolenwy, Ghallo. He’s a knight of the realm, charged by the queen with secret duties. You play your part now and lead us to this man who calls himself Ush’oul, if you please.” The boy nodded with a slight bow, a kind of devout wonder in the gesture, as though she were a temple icon. He turned down the corridor to the left of the stone stairway.
The hall, about eight feet wide and illuminated faintly by a light with no apparent source—the witch light Oxula spoke of—was lined with heavy oak doors bound with black iron, a small window with three bars at eye level for each. They were staggered so that one didn’t face another across the corridor. As they passed by, some of their occupants pressed their gaunt and dirty faces to the barred windows, offering pleadings or profanities. One spat and caught Oxula on a pockmarked cheek. Not even bothering with an unkind word for the insult’s author, the warden maintained his pace with a frown, wiping the saliva away with a shrug.
The air was stale and stank of unwashed bodies, and a sense of despair floated with it. Auric kept his eyes on the back of young Ghallo’s head rather than exchange glances with the desperate souls housed in this hopeless place. He thought he caught something bright scrawled on the stone floor they passed over at one point, but a sudden bloodcurdling scream from a nearby inmate jerked his attention away. When he looked back, there was nothing. This unpleasant sojourn brought to
memory Syraeics he had known who fell afoul of the Crown somehow and found themselves imprisoned here. He could recall no more than two or three agents who were sent to the dungeons during the course of his career; it was a mercifully rare thing. After all, they were trained to exercise extraordinary caution when interacting with the royal court. But the nature of the transgressions was usually minor, the punishments arbitrary. The worst instance involved a swordsman named Nobert, who was in the novitiate two years ahead of Auric. Nobert found himself a resident of one of these cells when the queen’s accountants accused him of “cheating the throne.” Not a single penny’s worth of treasure was withheld from the haul Nobert and his companions brought in from some Sea Lord’s cave in eastern Warwede. Rather, he had taken a few of the prettier gems before the queen’s representatives could choose from the lot for themselves. Four years. Four years the man had lived down here, away from the light of the sun, fed flavorless fare barely sufficient to keep one alive. The quivering wretch who emerged from these dungeons hardly resembled the Syraeic brother Auric had once known.
He looked back at Agnes and Kennah. Kennah looked grimmer than usual, following Auric’s example of keeping his eyes fixed on the jailer boy. Agnes’s eyes met his. She grimaced and shook her head. The two of them shared an unspoken moment of revulsion at their surroundings. It was preferable to imagine that every occupant of every cell in this dour prison deserved his or her fate, rather than consider how arbitrary and unfair life was. He had been a witness to it over and over: being in the wrong place at the wrong time, made a scapegoat or an example, or driven to crime out of desperation. What would have happened to him had the League refused to take him in when he presented his scrawny self to them all those years ago? Would he have ended his days scratching obscenities in the bricks of a cell, pale and filthy like these wretches? Doubtless many scoundrels called this place home and merited every terrible thing that happened to them, perhaps more. But it was impossible to believe all had received an equal measure of justice, despite Marcator’s promise.
That was an impious thought, Auric thought. Had one overheard it, a priest of the god would insist Auric recite the Prayer of Balance and Right Conduct a dozen or more times in penance, or read passages from the Book of the Law before the god’s altar for hours on end. But as he grew older, Auric found his heart increasingly amenable to impious thoughts.
Their little procession stopped. Ghallo stood next to a cell door identical to the others save for a single symbol written on the wood in a phosphorescent white chalk: it was Djao script, the letter called ute, corresponding to the Hanifaxan letter U. Agnes put a finger to it to see if any rubbed off.
“Ute,” she said. “For Ush’oul?”
“I didn’t see any other doors marked in this manner,” said Auric to Oxula, pointing to the inscribed symbol.
The warden squinted at the door, screwing up his ugly face. “Forgive me, m’lord, but I don’ see no markin’. I see some scratches on the wood, but that ain’t special.”
“You don’t see a white symbol written on this door? Right here?” Auric touched the mark with a finger. His finger came away clean.
“Not sure if yer havin’ a joke at my expense, m’lord, but I don’ think it’s funny.”
Auric turned to Ghallo. “Boy, do you see anything written here?” The lad shook his head.
“It’s a Djao ute, all right,” confirmed Kennah.
More supernatural nonsense, thought Auric. “If you would please open the cell door, Mr. Oxula, I would appreciate it.”
“I’m sorry, milord,” answered Oxula, head tilted up, looking down his brutalized nose as though speaking from a perch of authority, “but yer order don’ say nothin’ of openin’ cell doors. Ya’ll have to have yer talk with the wogget with that door between ya.”
Looking angry, Ghallo cleared his throat and spoke, his voice cracking. “You oughtn’t call him that, sir.” His words were shaky, but sincere. “It ain’t kind.”
Oxula looked at the lad as though a donkey had stood at the lectern of the Blue Cathedral and preached a sermon. He gave Ghallo a withering glare. “Boy,” he growled, boiling, “I’ll call the man wogget or Prince of All Aericum if I like, an’ ya’ll make no comment either way! I know ya been lis’nin to the old man tell ya stories here and I let it happen so long as ya did yer duties. But if ya think I’ll let ya back sass me, yer about to get th’ grandfather beating o’ yer short life!”
The lad looked chastened and bowed his head a bit, but spoke a few more words of feeble defiance. “It jus’ ain’t kind, is all.”
Auric wondered when last the concept of kindness was even mentioned in this dismal place. He looked at Ghallo, pale-skinned, big eyes in their orbits, thinking how ill-suited the boy was to this profession for which he was chosen. Abandoned and found on the streets or sold to the Jailers’ Guild by a heartless parent, it didn’t matter. This would be his life, far from the light of the sun. His liberation from this prison would require a minor miracle, the same miracle prayed for a million times by its pitiful denizens. Auric was certain that if he rebuked the warden’s abuse of the boy, it would only magnify whatever trouble the lad was in. So he held his reproof. It was best to turn his mind to the queer business at hand.
“Warden, I wonder if I might ask you for a bit of privacy. What we speak of isn’t meant for every ear.” Auric glanced at the boy and Oxula seemed to take this as some subtle, shared confidence. The warden nodded with an air of self-important understanding and grabbed Ghallo by the shoulder.
“Let’s give these Syraeics some space, boy. Some matters are best dealt with outta a jailer’s earshot. We’ll be back in a short while, m’lord.” He took the ledger from Auric and walked with the boy back the way they had come, their lamp’s light fading as they turned the corner fifty feet distant, Ghallo glancing over his shoulder with a look of worry on his earnest face.
“Telling him stories,” said Kennah, giving his beard a tug. “I wonder what stories he’ll tell us.”
Auric frowned and turned towards the barred window, peering in. Only the faintest light penetrated the darkness within and he could see nothing but a ragged wall of fitted stones and some straw strewn on the floor. He motioned for the bearded man to bring his lantern closer, but it helped only a little, illuminating some scratches of graffiti on the stonework.
“You come to speak with me now,” said a deep voice from the darkness, “with many questions. I warn you, I can provide answers for only a few now, Auric Manteo.”
Szaa’da’shaela, sheathed at Auric’s side, trembled for a moment, then was quiet. In that same instance, his heart skipped a beat. A scowl crept onto his face. “I’m growing weary of the supernatural nonsense surrounding me these days, sir,” he said, teeth gritted. “You know my name, perhaps those of the ones with me.”
“Agnes, your daughter, but the bearded man, I don’t know his name. I do sense his restlessness and uncertainty.” Kennah grumbled something.
“Then you know our purpose here as well,” Auric continued. “Could you come into the light so that I might look upon the one to whom I speak?”
“Of course, that was impolite of me.” The man who walked into the dim light was immensely old but moved without the infirmity of age. His skin was a deep brown, like others from the south whom Auric had seen. The once-fine linen robe he wore was soiled, no doubt from his grimy accommodations. His face was round and wrinkled, and his broad nose flat. His full lips wore a slight smile, though Auric couldn’t decide if it connoted arrogance or kindness. The old man reached up to scratch at the scalp beneath thick white hair, tightly curled. “I’m afraid I have lice. This place crawls with them. Best attend to yourselves after you leave. I will stand back during our conversation to circumvent a bold one making a grand leap for new lodgings.”
Auric was at a loss for words, suddenly unsure what to ask the man who called himself Ush’oul. It was the
old man who resumed their conversation. “Yes, I know your purpose. The queen has placed upon you a daunting task and will allow you three souls from these dungeons to accompany you. Fear not, I have chosen for you. You will find those suitable for the purpose in the places I have marked.”
“The ute on your door?” asked Agnes.
“Something like that. You’ll recognize them when you see them.”
“How did you manage to mark them from your cell, sir?”
“One must be resourceful and clever under such circumstances, Agnes Manteo.”
Auric at last found his tongue. “Who are you?”
“The name you were told disturbs you.”
“Ush’oul. It was what a thing I slew in the Barrowlands called the Djao sword I bear.”
“Yes. We are both known by that name. And we are acquainted.”
“You’re acquainted with my sword?”
“Aye.”
Auric realized he had asked the wrong question. “What are you?”
“Oh, that is more complicated, but it has the same answer. Before we speak further, go find the three who will join you. Each linger in this wing of your queen’s dungeons and will serve you well. Come back to me when the big bearded one can no longer attend with you.”
“What do you have against Sir Kennah?” interjected Agnes. Kennah grumbled something again, still sensitive about his new title.
“Nothing, Agnes, saint to be. You will know the time of which I speak. Forgive my riddles. When one is steeped in divination and prophecy one should choose his words with more care. The fact is, if the proponents of those divinations are made aware of events and destinies too early, it often makes a mess of things.”
Auric banged a palm against the cell door, giving Agnes and Kennah a start. “Enough! We’ll look for your goddamned marks and decide if we’ll take those they point to. But when I return, by the golden locks of Lalu, I want answers that make sense! I’ll not be a pawn in some game, Ush’oul!”