Mercy's Trial

by Sever Bronny

  Augum took his palm off the spine and the man greedily snatched it up, doing the same when Augum placed another one on the table. He inspected the coins, even biting them. Then he smiled toothily. “What’s this here king’s name of yours, anyhow?”

  “King Rupert Southguard,” Bridget replied.

  “Not no more,” the man wheezed, cackling.

  “What do you mean?”

  He nodded at the herald. “Read for yourself. Pleasure doing business with you fine young folks.” He pretended to remove a cap from his greasy hair.

  “Good day, sir,” Bridget said, and she and Augum left.

  “We’ll find a quiet spot to check the herald,” Augum said as they strode through the muddy street.

  A woman who had been watching them approach stepped into their path. She wore a filthy black-and-white servant garb and carried a baby in a bundle of soiled rags. “M’lord, m’lady, is you healers? Me baby’s sick, real sick and—” She glanced about and dropped her voice. “—and those Path prayers ain’t be doin’ nothin’.”

  Bridget’s face melted at the sight of the baby, whose face was riddled with sores. “I am sorry, but we cannot help you,” she uttered in a broken voice.

  The woman’s lower lip trembled. “I fear the cough, m’lady—”

  “You there!” snapped a white-robed Path Disciple, striding up to them. He was younger than the woman, almost as young as Augum and Bridget—and he carried a switch. “Where’s your man, huh?” he barked at the woman. “Where’s your man?” He had the rough accent of someone from Blackhaven, perhaps the Stone Quarter, or even the Shanties.

  “He ain’t well,” the woman gibbered, walking backward.

  The man raised his switch to whip her, but Augum flicked his wrist and the switch slipped from his hand, causing him to swipe air and allowing the woman to escape.

  The Path Disciple frowned at the switch and picked it up, before noticing Augum and Bridget trying to walk away.

  “You there! Halt, strangers!” He strode up to them, glancing them over with fervent eyes. “Warlocks.” His eyes went to Burden’s Edge on Augum’s hip. “Have you accepted The Path as the one and true path?”

  “Yes, sir,” Bridget lied with bowed head. “We have.”

  Augum kept his face blank and his rage simmering as low as possible. This was no time to play hero.

  The young man, whose pate was freshly shaved, slid the tip of the switch along their chests. “Your bones and blood, when distilled and purified, bestow great luck and fortune. Pray that the Unnameables keep you on The Path, else you will find your permits confiscated.” He drew the switch across Bridget’s cheek. When she did not react, he let it drop and made a shooing motion with it. “On your way, witches.” As they hurried off, he warded himself with a prayer and a well-practiced skyward gesture.

  Bridget strode with clenched fists, knuckles white. Neither said a word, nor did they need to. The only way to save the townspeople was to save the kingdom and force the Canterrans out.

  Shopkeepers heckled them as they passed.

  “Braised spring beans, green pea pottage, and buknade for the goodly-dressed young ’uns!”

  “Knives and farming implements and all sorts of irons at a bargain, fine sir and lady, only coppers apiece!”

  “Spit-roasted pork dipped in syrup!”

  The last one made Augum and Bridget stop in their tracks, mouths salivating, anger quenched by their hunger for real food.

  “How much?” Augum asked, approaching the stall.

  “Three castles apiece,” said a fat man who looked much like a hog himself.

  “Done.” Augum drew out six copper coins and almost floated them over out of habit before realizing that would break the rules, so he placed them on the counter instead. The man took them without a word and set to carving two slices of pork from a pig on a spit, slowly rotated by a grubby-cheeked girl who looked to be around eight years old. Her eyes magnified when she saw their clothing, making Augum feel like he was an imperious noble crashing in on the peasant life. He did not like the feeling much at all, and missed his Arinthia, although he recognized he occasionally felt the same way there too—sometimes even in his own castle.

  The man pierced the roasted pork steaks on two sticks and dipped them in a steaming vat that hung over a fire. Then he wrapped them in linen rags and thrust them forth. “M’lord, m’lady,” and flashed them a surprisingly kind smile.

  “Thank you, sir,” Augum said, taking both and handing one to Bridget.

  The man glanced furtively about before whispering, “You look like Solian warlocks. Mighty rare round these parts these days. If one of you be healers, you can make some pretty coin here under the table.”

  “Unfortunately neither of us can heal,” Augum replied.

  “Shame.” The man leaned forward. “Heard the Canterrans tried wiping you all out. Got you all bundled up in that academy of yours or whatnot.”

  Augum flipped a hand in a Well, what can you do about these kinds of things? manner, not wanting to converse.

  “I hear you. They ain’t been too harsh to us Ordinaries.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “But you do hear stories of people up and disappearing. Mostly got a problem with the women.”

  Just then his grubby-cheeked daughter tottered over, holding out a carved wooden horse to Bridget. “Want to play horsey with me?”

  “Uh, sorry, we’re a bit busy—”

  “You’re very pretty,” the child blurted at Bridget. “Are you a princess?”

  Bridget melted. “You are so adorable! Does your horse have a name?”

  “Her name is Leera because her hair is black like a raven,” the child said in a loud voice. “She’s a hero horse, like one of the three famous—”

  The man shot to her and turned her around as Augum and Bridget tried not to smile too broadly. “All right, hush now, sweetie, you go on and get back to playin’.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Children and their musings,” the man muttered upon returning, chortling nervously and looking to see if anyone had overheard. Satisfied, he turned to watch her gallop the horse about on his filthy floor. “Like I says, they mostly got a problem with the women,” he continued in a whisper. “Ain’t allowed about without no male chaperone, ain’t allowed to learn the written word, ain’t allowed in no school, ain’t allowed near no male occupation, got to keep gazes low before the white robes, marriages got to have a tithe and be overseen by The Path, and so on.” He shook his head. “Real shame. And that’s just the rules for women. You break any of their Path rules and they send you to the mines. I swear some of them rules are meant to be broken so they get free slaves.”

  You’re right about that, Augum thought.

  The man smacked his lips and turned a discerning eye to Augum. “But better than what the rumors were saying, that they wanted to, you know—” He drew a line across his neck. “All of us. Everyone. All at once. But ain’t nothin’ come of it yet, so I guess things ain’t all that bad.”

  Bridget turned away to avoid breaking down. Augum glanced at the daughter. A quarter million lives. “And I hope that nothing does.” Especially if we have anything to say about it. He held up the pork. “Thank you for these.”

  Just as they began striding off, the man called, “Pardon, m’lady, but is you betrothed, I have a good and loyal son who—”

  “Yes!” Bridget blurted without turning. When they were clear of the stall, she gave a tremulous sigh. “My heart hurts. My heart really, really hurts …”

  “I know. I know …” Yet Augum was amazed. The Ordinaries had endured mind games, absurd rules, wars not of their making, and yet they somehow persevered. There was heroism in that perseverance, in that fortitude, in that ruggedness. For once, he looked forward to giving back with proata mentora, particularly after this war, when they would be able to spend even more time giving back to the communities.

  They walked in thoughtful silence as they nibbled on the pork meat. />
  “Gods, it’s been forever since I’ve tasted something this good,” Augum said, trying not to eat too fast and not caring at all that his hands were getting sticky from the divine maple syrup.

  “This is so good I think I need to sit down,” Bridget said.

  “It’d give us a chance to read the herald too.”

  They entered the town square in search of a bench and saw that the brother who had left with their portraits was arguing with a warlock in overseer garb swaying like a tree in a gale.

  “I told you I ain’t in no shape to ’port!” the drunk warlock shouted.

  “Then sleep it off!” the brother yelled back. “This here’s constabulary business and you is going to do your damn duty!”

  “Yes, sir!” the drunken warlock said mockingly, snatching the parchment. Then he tried to weave his way back into the Crooked Oak Tavern just behind, only for the brother to snatch the man by the collar and start half dragging half walking him away, muttering angrily about taking him to bed.

  “A stroke of luck,” Augum said. “Buys us time at least.” He contemplated stealing the portrait drawings but realized that would only raise suspicions, and it wasn’t like they couldn’t redraw their faces. Besides, his group planned to be on the water by the time the drawings made it to someone consequential.

  A large group of people crowded around a small stage. Augum initially assumed it was some sort of public auction, until he spotted the same young Path Disciple slip up on stage. He started sermonizing about how The Path could save them from their barbaric souls, the audience bobbing their heads in rapt attention. He pointed to the gray sky. “The Canterrans bring salvation to us with their winged goddess, which some of you have glimpsed with your own eyes, for she patrols the skies watching out for us all.”

  Augum and Bridget didn’t want to listen to more of The Path’s cultish and manipulative nonsense. They turned their backs on the stage, eventually finding a rough bench on the opposite side of the town square, beside a seed and flour stall. They sat down to finish their syrupy pork slices, but couldn’t touch the herald with sticky fingers. This time, without prompting, it was Bridget who licked her fingers clean first.

  Augum, noticing how red-faced she was about it, only said, “Leera would be proud,” and savored licking his fingers clean. Unnameables the warm maple syrup tasted good. Really, really good.

  And then, just as they were about to finally read the herald, a hunched man wearing nothing but filthy rags limped over to them. He had hair like a floor mop and a huge boil on his forehead.

  “M’lord, m’lady,” he wheezed, bowing respectfully. “Might I beg thee for alms, perhaps a wee castle? I’m down on my luck.” He was missing all of his teeth, causing his lower jaw to snap up to his nose.

  Augum recalled one of the edicts of the Sacred Chivalric Code of the Arcaner: Thou shall give succor to widows and orphans and beggars. He withdrew the pouch of coins and searched about for a castle, but only found spines and crowns. Figuring that he hadn’t had a chance to conduct any proata mentora in some time, he withdrew a spine and handed it over.

  The man received the silver coin—ten times the value of a copper castle—with both hands, which began shaking. He opened his mouth to speak and instead a stutter came out. “Eh … eh … eh …”

  “You’re welcome,” Augum replied. Part of him wanted to ask the man questions about the town, but that would reduce the encounter to a mere financial transaction and demean the spirit of the code, so he refrained.

  The man dropped to his knees and placed his forehead to the ground while searching out Augum’s feet with his grubby hands, gibbering, “M’lord, my gratitude knows no bounds. Path be good to me for I do not deserve such a gift.”

  People were starting to stare and so Bridget reached out to help the man back up. “There is no need for that, sir,” she said. “Please, rise to your feet and walk with dignity.”

  “Oh, but dignity has fled this poor soul a long, long time ago, m’lady,” the man replied, keeping his gaze on Bridget’s feet, not daring to meet her eyes. “Once, my fair lady, I was a minstrel and a poet and a herald. I was a good man, until the Legion took me daughters from me and I fell prey to the drink. M’lord and m’lady are kind and gentle and gracious, and m’lady is as beautiful as spring rain. May she walk unmolested in this hovel. I pray The Path watch over you both.” He kept bowing as he retreated, mumbling, “Path watch over you for many a year, Path watch over you until the sun shines no more.”

  Augum and Bridget watched the man hobble off, still holding the precious silver coin in both hands. Augum was conscious of eyes on them as shopkeepers, passersby, even a couple rough Canterran soldiers—swordsmen by the looks of them—all stared in their direction.

  “I hope we can save our poor kingdom from the Canterran plague,” Bridget whispered.

  “Me too …” Augum withdrew the herald, took a deep breath, and opened it up. He quietly read the headline first. “ ‘King Rupert Southguard Abdicates the Throne,’ ” and exchanged a look with Bridget. Truth be told, he had feared the man would be deposed in some ruthless manner. He held the herald between him and Bridget and the pair skimmed the parchment, voicing aloud the important parts.

  “ ‘…To be succeeded by Countess Cressa Stanson Von Edgeworth,’ ” Bridget read under her breath, shaking her head, “ ‘who will be appointed the title of Regent of the Kingdom of Solia until such time as her niece, Katrina Von Edgeworth Southguard, daughter of King Rupert Southguard, marries His Royal Highness Prince Darby Sepherin. The prince is currently being held hostage in the traitorous Academy of Arcane Arts alongside the Countess’s husband, Count Vintus Von Edgeworth.’ ”

  As Bridget rubbed her eyes in tired frustration, Augum took up the reading. “ ‘The Von Edgeworths, who have been proving themselves to be fiercely loyal to the Solian cause,’—” He couldn’t help but scoff at that remark, for the Von Edgeworths championed the Canterran cause first and foremost, and their own greedy natures second, if not the other way around. ‘—“promise to bring a new age of piety and prosperity to wretched Solia. The kingdom, having been nearly destroyed by the murderous Lord of the Legion, now suffers under a plague of heresy and corruption, brought on by none other than the Lord of the Legion’s own treacherous son, Augum Arinthian Stone.’ ” Now it was Augum’s turn to rub his eyes in frustration. So Gavinius was not lying, they were indeed smearing his good name and blaming him for all the kingdom’s troubles.

  “ ‘Arcaners are in fact breeders of corruption,’ ” Bridget continued reading, “ ‘outright outlaws and blasphemous heretics. By demanding the good people of Solia bend a knee to their outdated laws, they breed corruption, encourage vigilante acts, and reject the holy teachings of The Path. All Arcaners must therefore be reviled in every corner of the kingdom and looked upon as the charlatans that they are. As such, the Lord High Steward, on behalf of the High Council, has issued an official proclamation denouncing Arcaners as traitorous heretics to be captured and hung at the gates of the Black Castle for all to see. All books, songs, poems and stories depicting Arcaners in a positive light are hereby banned, the offenders subject to the rack.’ ”

  There was more, but both of them stopped reading, the wind having been taken from their sails.

  “They’re villainizing us,” Bridget said, staring at nothing. “Trying to turn the people against us.”

  Augum stood and dusted himself off. “Yeah, well, they tried villainizing us in the war too. They failed then and they’ll fail now.” He reached out. “Come on, we’ve got work to do.”

  She took his hand and allowed him to haul her up, then the pair went off to the wharf.

  The Smell of Tar

  The alley leading to the tavern hid unsavory characters, from lonesome shadowy men drinking from tankards, to women in ill-clad clothing leering at Augum and remarking how well-dressed he was, to men whistling at Bridget.

  “How much is she, m’lord?” one particularly large and greas
y man asked with a toothy cackle.

  “Mind that foul tongue, sir,” Augum sniped back.

  “Oh, ‘sir,’ is it? I be a lordling knight now. Let me see that fancy coat, boy—” The man began to follow only for another oafish colleague to stick out a hairy arm, hissing, “Don’t—he’s a ’lock. Both of ’em are.”

  “Path you say he’s a ’lock. He ain’t no ’lock. He’s a boy lordling.”

  “Look at ’em right close. I says they is ’locks and I knows ’locks when I sees ’em. You keep up an’ that boy there’ll boil you in broth and feed it to his witch lass.”

  The two men studied Augum and Bridget, who kept the same pace. Augum glared back, almost taunting them to try something.

  “Path, you is right,” the first man said in a spooked voice, “only a ’lock stares back like that,” and the pair retreated to the shadows.

  Augum returned to watching the alley like a hawk, his reflexes feeling sharp and lethal.

  A figure with a rattle stepped forth from the shadows and Bridget snatched the rattle like a trained soldier, only to realize the figure was an old homeless woman with milk-white skin and hair—a Henawa outcast. She wore a slew of animal hides and necklaces made of bones.

  “Death walks with young legs tonight,” she sang in a cursed whisper. “I can smell it on your robes on this evil full moon. Evil, I says. Evil …” Her hand extended, revealing calloused fingers with long, broken nails. Those fingers curled, beckoning at Bridget, who returned the rattle.

  “Excuse us,” Bridget hastily said, and gathered her coat close as she and Augum hurried by.

  The woman shook the rattle, voice a near song as it rose in pitch and strength. “There death walks with young faces stretched on young bones fit in young shoes, and like smoke on a distant shore, all who trespass shall burn and scream in the terror they wield like a whip.”

  “Shut your hole, Henawa witch!” another woman shouted.

  “I curse you to hell!” the Henawa woman replied, hobbling after her, and the pair soon descended into an argument.