by Sever Bronny
“You do not get to question the heir to the empire. I do the questioning here. You will regret ever crossing us. You will regret your blasphemy against The Path. And you will regret kidnapping my little brother. He was a boy, I am a man, a man who is going to inherit an empire. You are still a boy. I will show you what a man does to stupid little boys who get in the way. Your disobedience is your kingdom’s disobedience, and it will not be forgotten. We will turn the kingdom against you, something that has already begun. Now turn yourself in and I promise you that the Canterran courts will be fair and just.”
Augum’s bubbling rage boiled over. “Somehow I doubt that very much, not that I intend on submitting to mouth-breathing brutes like you.”
“You dare insult me, you impudent little earthworm? WHERE ARE YOU!”
“I am looking right at you, eager for another chance to choke you out,” Augum spat, and as the man absolutely roared a spittle-filled reply, he quenched the orb with the silentium, knuckles white.
Bridget curled her long cinnamon hair behind one ear before doing the same to the other. “He sounds like a cruel man, but I am not sure belittling him was constructive. You let him get to you.”
“He just …” Augum shook his head angrily.
“I know, but he underestimates you, and he underestimates us. He thinks you’re a boy, but you turned into a man at the age of sixteen, and arguably before that when you vanquished the Lord of the Legion.”
“When we vanquished the Lord of the Legion,” Augum corrected. And tomorrow he turned seventeen.
She acknowledged his point with a nod and the pair took to walking again.
“I should have tried to manipulate him into giving up more information,” Augum noted after a while. “I bet you he would have coughed something up, like how he knows so much about Arcaners.”
“Remember that Emperor Sepherin is a devout student of history. It wouldn’t surprise me if he dug up an Arcaner codex from somewhere and studied it cover to cover. Besides, maybe we can try again later.”
Augum raised an eyebrow at her. He had been sure she would have said something like how risky it was to contact the enemy in the first place, or that it was better not to contact them at all.
“You’re looking at me funny,” Bridget noted. “What is it?”
“Nothing, you’re just …”
“I’m what?”
“Have I told you lately how proud I am of you, how proud I am that you’re my Sister-in-war?”
“Oh, hush already.”
“No, I mean it. Lee and I both are. You’re getting more mature, wiser, smarter, braver—heck, even funnier. I think it really began when we were rushing the enemy underneath the academy, and we all heard you shout a declaration of war against the Canterrans.” He shook his head in wonder. “I swear that turned the tide for everyone.”
Bridget turned her face away. “I’m … I’m honored that you think so. It … it means a lot.” She looked back at him. “And you’re no slouch yourself. You’re turning into a true leader. The way they look at you has changed, and you’re getting confident in your ability to lead. It is a thing to behold. Did you not see what Cry was writing?”
“He’s just describing the quest and Esha.”
“I stole a peek. He wrote at length about you, about how you’re filling ancient ancestral shoes—”
“Stop! I mean, don’t fill my head. It’s too big as is.”
“I’m just saying I could never do what you’re doing, I’m too … practical.”
“Nonsense. If you can be Queen of the Pot, you can be Queen of the Kingdom.”
She guffawed at that. “Augum Arinthian Stone, the things that come into your crazy head …”
“And I’m just saying—” He painted the foggy sky with a hand. “—imagine Queen Bridget Abigail Burns, ruler of Solia—”
“Ugh, will you stop! You’re just being ridiculous. You know what I want—”
“Yes, yes, a farm, a school, a husband, a gaggle of kids, and—”
“—a big ol’ bushy dog,” the pair finished in tandem, grinning at each other.
Then she sighed and nodded at the road. “We’ve got quite a walk before Crimson Tooth. I suggest we come up with a plan.”
“Agreed. We need a story to hide behind to get past the town gates. I’ve already got a few ideas on that front …”
Crimson Tooth
A couple hours later the road took them through ridged snowy fields that disappeared into the mist, indicating they were close to town. The farmland was surrounded by a wooden fence and smelled faintly of manure and damp earth.
“Someone’s on the road ahead,” Augum whispered, and he and Bridget tensed as a pair of stubby peasant women emerged from the mist, bronzed faces creased heavily from seasons spent toiling under the sun. They carried baskets covered in linen and kept their eyes low as they passed, each muttering the same prayer, “Path ward me soul from the darkness o’ the witch.”
The pair exchanged a look as they left the women behind.
Bridget cleared her throat. “Hey, if, uh, if we do find a particularly unscrupulous Canterran here, I think we should risk it.”
“Risk taking him with us?”
“Yeah. But it would have to be a really evil one.”
“Would save us a scroll at least. We’d have to do it at the end though.” He grinned at her. “Now you’re starting to think like a leader.”
Her cheeks flared but she did not argue.
Before long the old crenellated stone walls of Crimson Tooth loomed out from the mist like a rotting shipwreck.
“Not very friendly looking,” Augum noted as they trundled along the muddy cart tracks on the road. “Something tells me this is one of those towns that fears warlocks.”
“Agreed,” Bridget replied. “We’re way too far from the cities for my own comfort. And we should have figured out a way to dress like the locals.”
“We’d be given away by our city accents and then branded as spies or something.”
“Good point. Let’s stick to the plan.”
The plan was simple—they would act as unsavory travelers with a bad reputation who wanted to keep a low profile, but get in with the brigands so that they could acquire black nettle poison, and pay someone to steal a tankard of mead. The black nettle was to settle an old grudge in Blackhaven, which would explain their city accents. It was a risky plan, but they figured they could play the strong and silent types. The only hitch would be their robes—people would instantly know they were warlocks. When that happened, they would pretend to be Canterran supporters.
“Path bless you,” said a fur-clad old man with a cleft chin as he passed out of town.
“Path bless you too,” Bridget growled.
Augum tried not to crack up. “You, uh, don’t have to lower your voice like that.”
“Was it too much?”
“A little. Let’s try not to speak too much in any case.” He raised his hood. “And let’s put our hoods up. We’ll appear more unsavory.”
“Agreed,” and Bridget raised her hood as well.
They approached an open wooden gate strapped with iron and studded with the kinds of spears heads were meant to be mounted upon. Two filthy-faced ruffians in ragged furs loitered nearby, having likely been denied entry.
“Announce your presence!” called one of several burly guards from the top of the crenellated wall.
“Just two weary travelers lookin’ for some grub!” Augum called back, knowing he’d have to be conscious of his way of speaking as well.
“Where abouts you from?”
“Blackhaven.”
“You lookin’ like locks.”
“Er … what?”
The guard exchanged an irritated look with a cohort. “I says you look like ’locks! Warlocks!”
Augum wanted to slap his face for being thick. “We are! Need the services of the town.”
“What sorts o’ services?”
“A tavern!” Bri
dget called. “Ale. Bread. A night at the inn.” They theorized it was good to pretend to stay overnight.
“Right, but you gots to report to the constabulary first.”
“Where’s that?”
“First house in,” and the guard waved them by.
Augum and Bridget strode toward the imposing gate.
“Pretty thang,” cooed one of the swaying drunks. He had crooked teeth, held a near-empty bottle of wine, and was eyeing Bridget with a lecherous gaze.
The second man, who sat with his head hanging between his knees, heaved a shaggy head up and squinted. “Is a walkin’ princess doll,” he slurred.
Bridget flashed them a hard glare from within her hood.
The first man whistled appreciatively as he swayed. “Path bless me, she got a bite on her. I says I likes ’er.”
“She too high and good for your rotten hind,” the second replied, wheezing with laughter. “’Sides, look at the other one. He’d hex you into a coma faster than you could belch.”
Augum and Bridget paid them no more mind as they strode past, having dealt with far deadlier opponents than a pair of drunks.
The town was dense with crooked wood-and-plaster buildings that rose three stories, overhanging the muddy street. The bottom floors were shops, their shutters open for the day. Shopkeepers wearing soiled woolen garments sat or stood behind grubby counters, hawking meager wares to the few that wandered by. The town stank of a mix of chickens and rotten fruit and manure and hay.
Bridget pressed a hand to her nose, only to realize it didn’t look very tough, and so bore the awful stench with a rather dignified manner that countered the hoodlums they were trying to portray. Though after what the drunks had said, Augum was having second thoughts about the whole portraying-themselves-as-unsavory idea in the first place.
“Would the missus like some herring for her man?” a craggy-faced middle-aged woman called out in a shrill voice. She placed her hands on her counter and leaned out. “How’s about cod? Pike? Flounder? I says you is rich enough for salmon, I says. Tuna even. Too bad we ain’t got none tuna though,” and she cackled, revealing a few missing teeth.
The pair ignored the woman and went to the constabulary while she complained that they deemed themselves “too high and mighty for me lowly fish.” They knocked on a battered door before entering, lowering their hoods as they stepped onto filthy planks.
The place stank of a dung smoke candle and had the plain look of a peasant household. There were two hearths on opposites sides, with a long counter in the center. Two men sat behind it, their feet kicked up on rickety chairs. Both were middle-aged and wore soiled turquoise Canterran overseer robes. One was reading an Antioc Herald while picking rotten teeth with a fingernail. The other was trying to scratch his back with a stick. They were both greasy-haired and had the same round faces and dull eyes—brothers, likely. Seeing the herald made Augum long for news of their poor kingdom.
The one with the herald lowered it and snorted at the other. “They knocked,” he said, still picking at his teeth. “Who knocks on a constabulary?”
“City folk by the looks of ’em. And ’locks too.”
“They lost?”
“We’re not lost,” Augum said.
The back-scratcher grimaced as he reached further. “Your turn to draw.”
“I drew last.”
“Aye, but I emptied the slop. You draw, Path damn you.”
“Don’t you blaspheme me ears, you cursed vagrant.”
“Shut your hole and do your job, you rat-eatin’ fool.”
The first man sucked through his teeth in irritation while still picking them, a noise he was rather adept at for it sounded almost like a horse call. He slapped his herald onto the counter, kicked his feet off the chair in irritation, and stood up, heaving a big old sigh.
“Flash ’em.”
Augum and Bridget flashed eight rings of lightning and earth and the man’s brows traveled so far up his forehead his eyes bulged. He smacked his brother with the back of his hand, then smacked him again after failing to get his attention.
“What!”
“Eight.”
“Eight what?”
“Eight rings, fool.”
The itchy brother stopped scratching a moment, looked Augum and Bridget over from head to foot, then scowled at his brother. “So sign ’em in and draw ’em already! Idiot. They obviously have a permit and ain’t goin’ to do nothin’.”
The first man scowled back at his brother before retrieving a stained parchment. He dug out a mangled seagull quill, licked the nib with an ink-stained tongue, and dipped it into a broken bottle bottom that acted as an inkwell.
“Name?”
“Timothy McGoyle,” Augum replied, proud that they had thought this part through. And luckily these overseers didn’t know that in order to uncover them as Arcaners they simply had to ask to see their shields, which would have revealed the Arcaner crest and motto.
The man nodded his greasy head at Bridget.
“Savannah McGoyle.”
“Brother and sister?”
“Yes,” the pair replied awkwardly.
“Bro … ther … a-und … sis … tur,” the man slowly said, painstakingly writing everything down in an unpracticed hand. “8th … light … o … ning … a-und … urth.” He nodded, satisfied with himself. “And what be the nature of your visit?”
“Ale, bread, a night’s rest at the inn,” Augum replied.
The man slowly wrote that down too. “And which constabulary did you sign up with?”
The pair gawked.
The man looked up, annoyed. “Which constabulary did you register them rings with so that we can verify you have a permit to be outs and abouts in this here land of ours.” He guffawed and his brother joined in, muttering, “They sure ain’t as smart as they think they be up in them cities.”
“Oh, Blackhaven constabulary,” Bridget said.
“All right, well you understand we has to check and all that, right? Make sure you ain’t no vagrants. All ’locks get checked.”
Augum and Bridget nodded. They no longer had as much time as they had hoped, but checking anything would take time as it required teleportation.
The man bit his tongue and began carefully drawing their faces, repeatedly looking up and down. Augum and Bridget tensed as they watched the drawing slowly take shape, and exchanged a fleeting look when it turned out to be surprisingly accurate. Augum began to wonder just how much time they had before this parchment found its way to Blackhaven. Tying the pair up would hardly work either as it wouldn’t take the town long to figure out what was going on, and they likely needed at least an hour here, perhaps more.
The man finally stared at Bridget while licking his lips in a crude manner. “You, uh … married, Ms. McGoyle?”
“Betrothed to a Canterran lord,” Bridget blurted. “A 14th degree warlock commander.”
The man’s face fell. “I ain’t competin’ with no lordling commander. ’Specially no 14th degree ’lock.” He slipped the drawing off the counter and slapped it into his brother’s chest. “Find Jasper and have it ’ported off, would ya?”
The brother finally ceased scratching his back and snatched the parchment. “I tell you the damn fool’s probably drunk as a skunk,” and shuffled out a back entrance that opened to a muddy pen full of clucking chickens.
“Keep your hoods down and hands off that there blade. And no arcanery in town, you understand, Mistur McGoyle? You understand Missus soon-to-be-wedded-to-a-fancy-lordling-commander McGoyle?”
“We understand,” Augum said. And now came the gamble. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a pouch of coins Bridget had given him for this very occasion. “We, uh, need a little information.”
The man’s eyes lit up as Augum jingled the pouch. “What sort of information?”
“We need to, uh, settle an old score and we need a certain … something.” Gods help him he was terrible at playing the villain.
&nb
sp; The man leaned closer over the counter. “What sort o’ something?”
It was Bridget who leaned closer now, whispering, “Nettle.”
The man eyed her, then the pouch, and smiled. “What sort o’ nettle?”
“Black nettle.”
The man smiled deviously. “Mighty wicked of you. Wicked indeed.” His mouth traveled to and fro as he pondered the question. “A crown says I might know who you need to talk to.”
“I can find out for a few coppers,” Augum countered, pretending to turn his back, knowing enough about the seedy life that if the man got a crown right away it’d turn the two of them into hunted marks.
“Aye, aye, a spine then, son. You is young so I ain’t need to take advantage. A spine’ll do.”
Augum dug into the pouch and drew out a spine—slang for a silver coin that depicted the Solian pine on one side. He slapped it on the counter, but held his palm over it when the man reached out.
“Aye, I sees how you swagger, young man. Well, her name is Vada Chan. Black cap by the wharf.”
Augum was unfamiliar with the term but didn’t want to look stupid asking. Luckily, Bridget seemed to know what he was referring to.
“A pirate,” she said.
“Aye. A stinkin’ pirate.”
Augum and Bridget exchanged a brief look, wondering if this pirate could take them to Moonhook Isle.
“Where’s the tavern?” Augum pressed, hand still over the spine.
“Which kind you need? You gots the Crooked Maple Inn and Tavern, The Crooked Oak Inn and Tavern, and you have the Pig and Spit, which be only a tavern, though I suspect that one will be below m’lady’s station. And the Maple and Oak is enemies, so you gots to choose one over the other, and don’t go crossin’ lines.”
“Pig and Spit will do fine,” Bridget said, raising her chin.
“M’lady is bold indeed. But then an 8th can be, eh? Pig and Spit’s by the water.”
“You can have another spine if we can have that herald,” Augum said, nodding at the grubby parchment. “We’re short of news, having been on the road a while.”
The man slid the parchment over. “I knows a bargain when I hears one.”