A quiet uneventful day and a half passed before a rider approached, and from her stiff carriage and small pony, it was obvious from some distance that it was Lloi.
She reined up in front of us, and Braylar scowled. “I believe I ordered you to wait for us with the others, did I not?”
“Others don’t much like me waiting around with them, Captain Noose. Least, one in particular. Best for everyone if I waited on the road.”
Braylar asked, “So, have you been there at all, then? Or did you simply decide to disobey me completely?”
“Oh, I been there.” Lloi waved a fly away. “Never disobeyed you in the entirety. Not once. I let them know you was coming. Mulldoos about spit out his ale when he found out I rode ahead with you still behind. I told him I wasn’t doing nothing but following orders, and even then, only reluctant-like. He asked what held you up, and when I told him what happened out here in the grass, he scalded me something fierce. Being derelict in duty, he said. I told him again, you ordered, so there I went, and if that were dereliction of some sort, then he was a cockless wet nurse. Hewspear hadn’t been there, Mulldoos and me, we might have tussled a bit just then, but he was, Hewspear that is, so we didn’t. But Mulldoos ordered me out of his sight, told me to tell you they’ll be just behind me. So I rode back out here. And for that, I get accused of shirking this way or that too. Which, I have to say, after the abuse I suffered from that pale whoreson lieutenant of yours, ain’t no kind of balm at all.”
Braylar rolled his eyes. “If by some miracle visited upon me by a jestful spirit, I come to understand the half-reasoning and action of women, you’ll still be a murky mystery to me, Lloi of Redsoil.”
Lloi looked at me and said, “And if you can ever figure out a way of divining whether Captain Noose is paying compliment or insult, you tell me straight away, because most times, he’s talking about a foot above my head.”
“Lloi, you are an insufferable-” He stopped, and I feared he felt violence approaching again, and was somewhat shocked to discover I no longer doubted the flail’s curse at all. I didn’t understand it, but I didn’t disbelieve either. But he must’ve only heard the horses galloping towards us an instant before I did.
Lloi pulled her hat off her head. “Didn’t waste no time, did they?”
Mulldoos and Hewspear reined up first, with Vendurro and Glesswik just behind. While Mulldoos was glaring at Lloi, Vendurro whistled and said, “Never seen anybody go through wagons faster than you, Cap. Three in the last tenday? Some kind of record, that.”
Glesswik patted his horse’s neck. “Four.”
Vendurro looked over at him. “What’s that?”
“Four wagons, you dumb whoreson. Four.”
Vendurro looked ready to argue, stopped himself, and then went right ahead. “The one in Rivermost, the one we outfitted with the smuggler floor, and this one here. Who’s the dumb whoreson now?”
“Still you. Guessing Cap will be wanting to get rid of this one right quick. Be needing a fourth straight away. Ain’t that right, Cap?”
Vendurro sighed. “You can’t count wagons that don’t exist or ain’t been swapped yet. That’s foolishness. Might as well call it ten, then, or twenty, or-”
Braylar said, “We’ll be needing a fourth when we reach Alespell. That is a fact. But so long as we’re counting, I count you all dumb bastards for disobeying a direct order.”
Mulldoos rode alongside us, looking smug. “I’m a big enough man to admit when I’m wrong. And I got to say, couldn’t have been more wrong. You didn’t need us out there in the grass at all. No, not one bit. By the gods, an extra detail would’ve only slowed things down for no good plaguing reason. No danger at all out there in the grass. Can’t say what I was thinking there.”
Braylar smiled, if a little. “Very good, lieutenant, very good. Your point is well taken.”
“Not quite sure what that means. But it sure can’t be you’ll pay more heed next time every one of your men objects to a course of action. Can’t mean that, because-”
The amusement was gone. “Enough, Mulldoos.” Mulldoos seemed no less smug, but he let it go as Braylar looked at his small company. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters. Tend to your horses. We hold for the night. Then to Alespell.”
The Syldoon dismounted, all save Lloi, who decided to ride off back down the road. She never got enough of scouting or had already had too much of Mulldoos. Both seemed equally possible. Everyone launched into activities they’d clearly done thousands of times before-saddles and bridles were unfastened and dropped on the ground, helms and greaves, lamellar shirts and bazubands or bracers placed in bags to protect them from elements, horses seen to.
I helped Braylar with our normal routine, undoing the harnesses, feeding and watering the horses (we switched to flaked maize, as we were finally running low on oats, and some parsnips in strips), hobbling the horses near the wagon when we were through, brushing them, and rubbing them down with herbs that kept the worst of the biting insects at bay. When that was complete, he told me the harness leather looked dry, so my job for the remainder of the evening was to break the harness down and rub it thoroughly with neat’s-foot oil.
Vendurro offered me his saddle to lean against while I worked. I thanked him, asking why he wouldn’t need it.
He rolled up his sleeves and gave his toothy grin. “Worse jobs than oiling harness.” Then he disappeared into the wagon and returned holding a shovel, a smaller spade, and a large sack, full of something. Vendurro tried handing the spade and sack to Glesswik, who argued that he should have the shovel and no sack instead. The pair moved off several feet into the short grass, bickering.
I leaned back against Vendurro’s saddle and dipped a rag into the oil and began working it into the leather.
Hewspear was leaning against his saddle, carving away at a flute. Mulldoos was working his falchion across a whetstone in deliberate strokes, oiling as he went. Braylar was replacing some scales on his cuirass that had been damaged during the wagon attack in the Green Sea. He worked a large needle and sinew through the brass scales, connecting them to the other scales in the row and also to the leather backing.
While Glesswik and Vendurro didn’t seem to know how to do anything without running commentary about how big an ass the other was, the other Syldoon went about their tasks in relative silence, with only Hewspear humming quietly. Figuring this was as good a time as any to try to get some more information, I said, “You might’ve guessed by now, but I’m not Anjurian. So I’ve never had direct dealings with your kind before, and-”
“What kind is that?” Mulldoos asked, swiping his thick blade across the whetstone. “Can’t wait to hear this.”
I rubbed the oil into the leather a little harder. “The Syldoon, I mean. I don’t know much about you. I’ve only heard stories really.”
“About how we eat virgins? And babies?” Mulldoos laughed, clearly enjoying my discomfort.
Vendurro stopped bickering long enough to hear the exchange and added, “Or at least our mothers. Heard that a time or two.” He jammed his shovel into the ground and pushed it in deeper with his heel.
I tried again, “Well, I know you’re slave soldiers, but-”
“Then you know horseshit, scribbler.” Mulldoos shook his head, the blade running along the stone again with an unnerving “skiiiiit.”
“I thought-”
“We all been freed,” Glesswik called over, his smaller spade plunging into the earth. “Rite of manumission. Every Syldoon goes through it.”
“They make it that far, they do.” Mulldoos said.
Braylar added, “Agreed. It’s a rough tenyear indeed.”
I looked at the wrinkled leather straps, wondering if they would ever be properly saturated. “So, how does it work exactly? You were taken as slaves, and then what? What happened during the tenyear?”
Mulldoos pressed a thumb against one side of his nose and blew snot out the other. It didn’t miss me by much. “Weren’t taken. Given.” I raised an eyebrow and he continued, “Our people gave us to them, when we were children. Been a couple of centuries since the Syldoon needed to raid for slaves.”
I asked, “Why would your people do that? And what people were those exactly?”
Hewspear held his flute up to his eye and looked down its length. He shook his head, not satisfied with his work. “The hinterlands, my young friend. We all hailed from lands far from the center of the empire.”
Mulldoos laughed. “Oh gods. You wanted a history lesson, scribbler, you got the right windmill for the job. This ought to be good.”
Hewspear set the flute in his lap and ran his hand through his black and gray beard. “Before the Syldoon were the Syldoon, there was a king, hundreds of years ago, named Hulsinn, who ruled over lands far to the west of here, a country called Oliad. Oliad was surrounded by hostile, barbaric people. On all sides, sporadic warfare and trembling borders. But Hulsinn was clever-he knew attrition wouldn’t favor Oliad-every time he turned his attention to one border, another one was overrun. So, being a far-thinker, he devised a far-reaching plan. He began raiding the camps of his enemies, stealing their children in the middle of the night, and-”
“Didn’t eat any, though.” Vendurro kept digging.
“-enslaving them. But he didn’t waste them in the fields or in construction of gaudy monuments, as is often the case with slaves. No. He trained them. A decade of intense military instruction, a tenyear of constant propaganda. Brought in as boys from barbarian tribes-prideful, ill-mannered, already proficient in weapons and familiar with warfare, they were transformed into disciplined, merciless men who knew how to kill even more efficiently as part of a unit. And they were taught to hate their homeland. Each year Hulsinn enslaved more. And a decade later, when he deemed the first group battle-ready, he set them loose against his enemies, against their old families, their old people. Their enemies now. Hulsinn led them into battle himself. They fought like mad dogs. And his borders trembled no more.”
“Riveting.” Skiiiiiiiiiiit.
I considered everything Hewspear said, and then asked, “But Mulldoos said you were given as slaves. Raiding wasn’t necessary any more. I still don’t understand why parents would give up their children to their overlords so willingly.”
“Like I said,” skiiiiiiiiiit, “you know horseshit. Where you from, boy? By the coloring, I’d say Vulmyria. Maybe Urvace, am I right?”
I had no idea what my father looked like, but I’d clearly inherited the fair skin and hair from my mother anyway, which did little enough to disguise blushes of any kind. “I was born in a road inn, if you must know, but it was on the border of Vulmyria, yes.”
He stopped sharpening and laughed. “Bastard boy, I’m guessing.” I colored up worse as he continued. “Got nothing against bastards-no worse or better than most, on the whole-but uppity provincial bastards who think they know something when they know shit all… well, that’s altogether different, ain’t it? So I’m curious, where do you get off telling us what we’re about when you got no experience on the subject?”
Braylar pricked his finger and sucked at the blood before saying, “In fairness, Lieutenant, our good scholar was asking questions, not making proclamations.” He turned to me. “To a parent in the hinterlands, plagued by constant warfare with other tribes or clans, often scraping and scrapping to simply survive another day, this was an opportunity that would never occur otherwise. They hoped their sons and daughters would become rich or powerful after they were freed. And as time passed, they began to see it as an honor if their children were chosen when the recruiters made their annual visit, and from this uneasy understanding, established the tradition of holding Choosings.
“Make no mistake, the children still enter slavery of a sort-they’ll have no choices for the next ten years, and their days will be spent in obedience. But they’re also not slaves in the typical sense of the word. In many parts of this world, a slave is a creature who is choiceless, but futureless as well. They tend a field, or mine the earth, or pull the galley oar, and that is what they’ll die doing. Even the best-off of them, they clean their master’s teeth and ears, wash the dirt and shit from their smallclothes, perhaps serve as objects of pleasure, and they’ll die doing that as well. There’s no movement for a slave. They begin and end their lives in the exact same spot.
“But Syldoon slaves are different creatures. For the ten years after they’re chosen, they have neither voice nor choice, but they don’t do the same thing endlessly. Oh, they do their fair share of physical labor, mucking stables, scrubbing pots, butchering hogs, carrying wood and stone-”
“Cleaning latrines, shining officer’s boot, digging holes, always digging more holes…” Vendurro offered as he leveraged a large chunk of earth out of the ground and moved it to the side.
“But they’re also trained,” Braylar continued, “and trained and trained. They drill with every weapon imaginable. They sit in classes, learning to read and write, and later, learning new languages, military history, and tactics. Figures and sums as well, the names of the constellations, the sciences of the masters, the proper way to bandage a wound and the poultice to apply to keep it from festering. How to groom a horse and compose a sonnet. The language of blazonry and the art of sculpting and painting. In short, their education is broad, and wildly diverse.”
“But a shovel ain’t never too far away,” Glesswik added, grunting as he worked a chunk of sod out as well, making the hole larger.
“True enough,” Braylar said, needle moving again. “But several years later, after they’ve been exposed to every field of study, their teachers and instructors evaluate them and decide the direction their lives will take for the remainder of their days as Syldoon slaves. Those who show promise with mathematics will be trained as military engineers, and tacticians. Those who display a knack for riding and an affinity for horses will train as cavalry. Those with languages and a good memory for nomenclature, to diplomacy. And so on, each slave being tracked into those avenues they show the most aptitude for. Regardless of what track they take, all of them will continue with their military drilling, as all of them are ultimately soldiers, serving the soldiering class.
“Still no choices. They are well-trained and well-groomed slaves, to be sure, but slaves nonetheless. It’s only at the end of their training, a decade later, that they’ll have their first moment of autonomy. They’re freed in a grand ceremony, and upon the day of their manumission, also free to decide whether they wish to stay or go. It’s a choice that can never be undone. Whether they walk or stay, they pledge their lives to that movement forever.
“If the newly freed Syldoon stay, they’re a part of their household until they die, and swear loyalty to it above all other things. They’re bound to their household, and will serve it and no other until the end of their days. If that household flourishes, they flourish with it. Should it wilt, or be destroyed by another, their fate will be the same.”
“So,” Hewspear said, his small knife working again on the flute, “the tribes give up some of their children, because if they’re chosen by a powerful Syldoon Tower, they might very well grow to be rich and powerful. And while the Syldoon are forbidden from returning to their homelands, their generosity isn’t. Very often, some of that good fortune finds its way back to the tribe.”
Vendurro was breathing heavier as jabbed his blade into the ground. “You didn’t mention the Memoridon, Cap. Kind of important, that. That ceremony-”
Braylar said, “I believe we’ve regaled our archivist with enough of our history for now.
“Are you fine diggers nearly through? Our archivist has been pining for a fire for many days.”
Glesswik pulled up another large swath of earth. While the grass was shorter than in the Green Sea, the roots seemed just as dense; the chunks of sod were coming up in large squares and rectangles. He upended the sack he’d taken from the wagon, and dumped a number of roughly oval-shaped things onto the grass next to the hole. “Wasn’t much in the way of wood around these parts, Cap, but Lloi thought these might come in handy. Left them before riding out. You’ll have to pardon the stink though.” He began breaking open the ovals and stuffing them with tufts of dry grass.
It took me a minute to recognize Lloi’s gift for what it was. Rooter dung.
Mulldoos must have reached that conclusion at the same time and finally stopped sharpening. “By the gods, she’s an awful whore, she is. Plagues me even when she’s not plaguing here.”
Ven was taking the strips of earth they’d dug up and lining them around the perimeter of the hole, with the dirt and roots facing where the fire would be. He said, “Told you there’s worse things than working some leather over.” Then he laughed and tipped his head in Glesswik’s direction.
Gless was bent over, stuffing more of the rooter dung with grass, but he caught the gesture. “Don’t think I’m doing this alone, you skinny whoreson. Plenty of shit to go around.”
Braylar turned to me. “You shall have a bit of warmth at last, Arki. Though it’s actually a blessing no one’s had time to hunt anything. Cooking over a shitfire is several kinds of unpleasant.”
I sighed and kept after the harness, supposing that shitfire was better than no fire at all. As it turned out, that might have been a specious proposition.
We continued the last leg to Alespell in the morning, and the remainder of the journey passed without incident. We overtook a pair of men on foot that moved far off the road and into the grass to get out of our path and avoid our dust as much as possible. A short time later, we encountered a deserted village, separated from the road by some fields that once had presumably been tilled but now had grown practically wild again. Only a mossy stone wall gave some indication of its boundary. There were a few beaten and ramshackle windmills along the perimeter, one that couldn’t possibly lean any further without falling over completely. While several communities have recovered from the last plague, this obviously wasn’t one of them.
But after that, the villages were prosperous, and busy, and the closer we got to Alespell, the more crowded the road got, with traffic increasing every time we passed another small community.
Besides being more populated, I noticed the countryside was changing in other ways as well. Shorter, scrubby blades replaced the tall, thin grass, and there were more clusters of trees, too, and not all of them short and squat. The land began to roll, gently at first, and with every mile closer to Alespell, becoming hillier and hillier. Nothing too rugged, but compared to the flat vastness of the steppe, it felt like we rolled over mountains.
As we crested such a hill, I suddenly saw Alespell laid out before me, and it was surely something to widen the eyes. Rivermost was fairly large-a walled city with a teeming population, a castle, a university-and originally hailing from a hamlet, and bouncing between small cities after university, I experienced some amazement when I first arrived there. But Alespell made Rivermost seem like a tiny, provincial trading outpost by comparison.
The bulk of the city was situated along the eastern bank of the broad River Debt, with a wet moat or canal around the entire perimeter, but there was another section I assumed was added later as the city prospered, on its western bank, and again a canal had been dug around the circumference and served as a very wide moat.
Both sections had crenellated curtain walls built out of snowstone that were the hugest I’d ever seen, at least forty feet tall, and strengthened by too many semi-circular bastions and flanking towers to count. On the far eastern side of the city, an impressive castle rose up above everything else on a massive granite outcrop.
We headed towards the western gate. Before we reached it, we passed buildings on both sides of the road. To the right, a small walled compound. Braylar anticipated my inquiry. “A Hornmen stronghold. And a hospital.”
Vendurro said, “You want to stop and hoist a mug or three there, Cap? Seems you and them get on real well.”
Braylar ignored him and snapped the reins. On our left, on a small hill above the river, there was another large walled enclosure, with several copper domes visible above. Braylar said, “The Plum Temple.” I expected more, but he left it at that.
I said, “That seems to be impressive fortification for a temple.”
He raised one eyebrow as he appraised the temple and then me. “Some priests need more protection than others. If Lloi were here riding alongside, I’m sure she would be spitting in its general direction just now.”
Glesswik added, “Or barking curses in Dog.”
I looked up at the domes again, the metal a mottled green, then back to Braylar. “Why would-?”
But he’d anticipated my question. “I believe Lloi informed you that she and I met in a whorehouse, yes?”
I nodded and he said, “Well, she belonged to a silk station. One we frequented regularly, as it was en route to another barony we were operating in. While they had whores for a variety of tastes, and mine ran to the refined-”
“Leastwise, not the disfigured,” Mulldoos offered.
“You couldn’t help but notice everyone in the silk station, one time or another. Coarse or smooth, fingered or fingerless. So I’d seen Lloi, and between her demeanor, her mouth, and her other oddities, she certainly stood out. One particular occasion, I noticed an underpriest of Truth leaving her quarters. This struck me as odd.”
“That a priest would have… appetites?”
“No, priests are only men, no matter what they say. But this one was well dressed and composed, and could’ve afforded any girl there. I was curious why he chose Lloi. After he departed, I asked the whoremaster. He was reluctant at first, but plied with coin, he admitted that the underpriest had interviewed her, nothing more. I asked for more details, which called for more coin. As it turned out, the underpriest wasn’t there for himself at all.”
Hewspear had ridden close enough to hear the conversation and said, “It seemed High Priest Henlester had been acting most unpriestly.”
Braylar tilted his head. “Or exceedingly priestly, depending on what sort of clerics you consort with. The underpriest was there to broker broken flesh for his master, Henlester. Though Lloi wasn’t quite down to his standards.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant and asked for clarification, which Mulldoos provided, unfortunately. “Missing fingers only got him salivating. Seems Henlester liked his whores good and mutilated. One eye plucked out, good; both, better. Lopped off limbs, burnt faces, those got him really stiffpricked. Lloi just wasn’t damaged enough. Good thing, for him anyway. She probably would’ve bit his prick clean off.”
I tried to remove that image from my mind as quickly as possible as I said to Braylar, “But I’m still confused as to how she came to be in your company.”
He replied, “After I learned of her interview with the underpriest, I wanted to speak with her myself. The whoremaster wasn’t keen on this idea, but-” He patted Bloodsounder, “I can be quite persuasive.”
Mulldoos said, “Coin only goes so far.”
“So, having gained an audience with said stumpy, nubby whore, I began to press for her for more details about her conversation with the underpriest.”
I asked, “Why?” Braylar raised an eyebrow at the interruption and threw a scowl my way. “That is, why were you interested, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I do,” Braylar replied as we rolled past the Plum Temple. “I will tell you only this-the debaucherous High Priest was someone we were already interested in, for reasons that need not concern you just now. So, I spoke with her, and learned that she’d been close to another whore who’d recently been procured from the silk station by the underpriest. According to Lloi, the prostitutes Henlester took an interest in didn’t meet a happy end. Satisfied with the information I had, I rose to leave. But I didn’t make it to the door.”
I asked the obvious question. “Why not?”
Mulldoos interjected before Braylar could respond. “Cap forgot to mention something on the important side. He was light in the company just then. And he’d done some bloody persuading a few days prior.”
It took me a moment before piecing it together. “So, you used Bloodsounder and had no one who could… tend to you?”
Mulldoos whistled, “Came by that all on your lonesome, did you?”
“That’s correct,” Braylar said. “The effects were becoming worse. I stumbled and barely made it to the bed, my head bursting with bright lights, my stomach tearing in two. Lloi knelt next to me. I ordered her to fetch the whoremaster, but she ignored me. She looked me up and down, in that very disconcerting way she has. I’d had minor episodes before, but this was something far worse. I was paralyzed with pain, and blacked out. I don’t know how long I was out, but when I was fully aware again, the pain was gone, and Lloi was slumped in the corner, vomit on her chin. I wasn’t sure what she’d done, or how she’d done it, but I knew she had to come with me.”
“So,” I said, “You bought her. Freed her from the station.”
“I did. Immediately.”
Mulldoos must have seen the disappointment on my face. “You thinking he did it out of the sunny goodness in his heart, were you?” He laughed, shaking his head. “No whetstone in the world’ll fix that for you.” He flicked his reins and rode further ahead. Traveling with the Syldoon would surely scour away any naive or romantic notions I might have once possessed.
As we approached the first gate tower, we slowed down, and then stopped repeatedly, as all of the traffic on our side of the river funneled through two entryways, one narrow to accommodate those on foot, horse, or donkey, and another wide, for those with carts and wagons. It was midday, so there appeared to be an equal number of people leaving and entering the city, shouldering past each other, swearing about being swindled, chattering with excitement about seeing things and people from far-flung lands.
A group of musicians passed us on foot heading away from Alespell, one with two small drums on a belt at his waist, another bearing a lute on his back, one with a fiddle, and another with a long bone pipe. One member didn’t have any instruments, but the arms of Baron Brune were embroidered on his tabard, three white swans on a purple field.
I’d seen a fair crier before, but never a whole musical ensemble. I said as much, and Glesswik echoed the sentiment, though more crudely. “Scribe’s got it right there. Dirty rustics don’t give a rat’s shithole about a bunch of pretty troubadours. They come to the fair on account of three things: cheap wine, cheaper whores, and the chance to be layabouts instead of tilling some field. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Vendurro replied, “You forgot dice, weird beasts in cages, and maybe a hung thief or three, for entertainment.”
“Still don’t need songs for any of that. That’s all I’m getting at. Baron would’ve been better served with some signs tacked up with a picture of a whore’s cunt and an arrow pointing this way.”
Perhaps being raised by a loose mother with a mercenary bent made me more sensitive to the topic than most. Or it could be that soldiers were so fixated on the subject and discussed it with such vulgarity that anyone not of their ilk was offended. Either way, I wished I’d held my tongue.
We entered the first gate and crossed a wooden bridge that led over the slow-moving water. A drawbridge was down on the other side, and we entered a larger barbican in the middle of the canal. Across an open enclosure in the barbican, and onto a covered stone bridge, horseshoes and iron-rimmed wagon wheels rang loudly. While there are some small square windows in the walls, it might as well have been a cave for all the light it really afforded, and traffic nearly stopped as everyone’s eyes adjusted and people bumped and jostled.
Finally, after another gatehouse, we emerged into the western suburb of Alespell, which was itself bigger than most cities. The majority of the buildings were timber or wattle and daub, but there were a fair number constructed of snowstone as well, and these were almost universally roofed in tiles a dusky wine color. I assumed those were the homes of the wealthier burghers in the city. Mosaics appeared on the walls of wood or stone, some depicting animals, people, or recognizable objects, others more abstract patterns. But on practically every surface, there was either a single bar made of enameled squares, or two running parallel. When one bar, it was a color that seemed to alternate depending on what sector of the city you were in, and where there were two, the higher one was always purple.
Braylar said, “The single or lower bar designates districts. As to the other, you’ll quickly notice that some wild drunkard designed the layout of Alespell, which might account for the name. Streets run in every direction, crisscrossing at strange angles at every pass. The purple bar, if you happen to luck into finding it, tells you that you’re headed towards either the castle or a gate.”
Hewspear and Mulldoos had fallen back alongside us and Hewspear said, “And if you look up, you’ll note another clue that you’re on your way to meet the good baron.”
I glanced up and saw that on this street, in addition to the parallel enamel bars, there were also chains strung between the buildings on either side, and hanging from these, large copper pots filled with broad-petaled purple flowers.
Mulldoos said, “Got a real stiffprick for the purples, don’t he?”
“Bet it comes in handy though,” Vendurro added, “when you’re stumbling around drunk-blind, trying to find something to guide you.”
“That’s what we got you for.”
The western suburb seemed to be mostly residential buildings, with the occasional small temple breaking them up. Like any city, some of the construction was more in need of repair, but I noticed a walled section off another street heading south that seemed particularly blighted and crumbling. It hadn’t been whitewashed in ages, maybe ever; the snowstone had turned an ugly yellow.
I asked Braylar, “Who lives in that quarter?”
“Grass Dogs who have been… domesticated. Those are the kennels. You’ll find them in some cities on the shore of the Green Sea, but especially the larger ones like Alespell. Home to a mixture, really. Refugees from clan warfare. Families of the Dogs who smelled a finer life outside of the Sea, and entered the kingdom’s service as auxiliary soldiers.”
“It doesn’t look like the Grass Dogs are very welcome in Alespell.”
“You’re correct,” he said. “They aren’t entirely trusted. Or wanted. Which is why they’re housed in these walled alienages even lepers would find insulting. The baronies might make use of Dogs on occasion, or tolerate their presence, but they don’t encourage it.”
Hewspear, riding alongside, added, “And those that leave the Sea can never return. They’re equally reviled by their former clans and the baronial folk they live amongst. So whether here by choice or cruel necessity, it’s a most unpleasant place to be. If Lloi were among us now, you’d hear a long, clumsy diatribe about the kennels.”
We came to another gate flanked by two massive machiolated drum towers. There was another lengthy delay and it took me a moment to understand why. A pair of guards collected a fair tax from everyone approaching the gate.
Braylar handed his coins to a sweat-stained guard and then we were finally through. Passing underneath the gate, we found ourselves on another wide bridge, this time crossing the slow-moving River Debt. There were huge statues of armored men on either side of the bridge, rising high above us and looking decidedly stern, each holding a tall staff with a standard fixed on top, snapping in the breeze. Every major fiefdom in the kingdom seemed to be represented.
I overheard Hewspear and Mulldoos arguing and leaned forward to make out the conversation. “No place is impregnable,” Mulldoos said, “that’s all I’m saying. It could be done.”
“Very little is impossible, it’s true. But I’ve yet to hear how you would accomplish this impressive feat of siegecraft. Please, do explain.”
“Like I said, no direct assault. Too costly.”
“Agreed. And you would have no luck mining, the river is too deep.”
“True enough. Maybe not the canal, though, round the other side.”
“Perhaps not-I haven’t measured it,” Hewspear said. “But I suspect the architect took that into account. Let’s assume it’s sufficiently deep to prohibit tunneling. What does that leave you? Certainly not starvation. No besieging force could hope to outlast the stores here, or provisions brought up river, or-”
Mulldoos shook his head. “What dumb horsecunt of a besieger is going to let a flatboat of grain glide in unmolested? Not me.”
“Surely not. You’re as clever a horsecunt as they come. But you’ve also seen the silos and warehouses here-do you suspect they’re merely for show?”
“Listen, you wrinkled goat, I’m telling you…”
They rode ahead, and I noticed the numerous stalls on either side of the bridge, situated between the statues. Some were larger than others, but most were wooden-framed with canvas sides and tops. At every one, a merchants called out his wares… hairpins of ivory, brooches of brass, and badges of the finest pewter; plaque belts both simple and wildly adorned by precious stones and metals; pattens made from a variety of wood; aromatic fruit, both common and alien; charred meats, boiled eggs, and ruddy-looking cheeses; dice allegedly carved from the tusks of creatures so rare they haven’t even appeared in bestiaries yet; hoods of every color managed by dye; brass braziers and tooled chests; leather bottles, costrels, and tankards; weak ale and watery wine to fill them, despite the threat of wandering guildmasters and inspectors who would confiscate such swill.
Guards were stationed at several spots along the bridge to keep traffic moving and discourage theft. I suspected they were having trouble with both. When we finally left the Bridge of Heroes, it was a relief, though Alespell proper was no less crowded.
We approached an open plaza, and it was obvious people from every station and kingdom milled about, as the myriad of languages and dress was overwhelming. Peasants in undyed homespun walked next to Hornmen and fieflords with rich coats and long tunics trimmed with ermine, marten, fox, and squirrel, all mingling casually in the one place that it was natural for forty days a year. On foot, on horse, on donkey, here to sell a hen, buy a fabulous bolt of silk, cajole, bargain, gamble, accuse, drink, and gawk.
While there were a staggering number of stalls around the perimeter of the plaza, most larger than those on the bridge, there were also a few permanent structures. The moneychangers’ hall was on the opposite side, bustling as expected, and the spice halls were there as well, the merchants who occupied them guarded by their own private contingents of armed men. Everywhere you looked, smelled, or listened, there was a chaotic jumble of sensations. A man chasing a runaway goose nearly got run over by our wagon. A boy with a dead gull tied to a string ran between horses’ hooves, two scrawny cats hot on his heels. Men and women carried bawling children on their shoulders to keep them out of the press of humanity, and there was the pervasive stench of sweat and closeness, as many of the fairgoers had obviously not visited the renowned Alespell baths. Sheep bleated in apparent protest as they were driven around a gurgling fountain in the center of the plaza. Gulls wheeled overheard, looking to dive should any food hit the ground that wasn’t immediately swallowed up by the dogs skulking between stalls. Hot pie carts were ubiquitous, and the smells of meat and crumbly crust were nearly as powerful as the vendors’ cries.
Left to my own devices, I would have wandered the plazas and marketplaces for days on end, observing my fill, but we turned down a smaller street before I had a chance to even begin to take it all in. I was disappointed, but there were still a dozen days left of the fair, so I was sure I’d get my opportunity soon enough.
With three- and four-story buildings everywhere, crowded so close they practically blocked out the sky, and the streets turning every direction, it really was a warren. I doubted the enamel bars would do much good in guiding me if I was on my own and lost.
It was nearly dusk when we stopped in front of a three-story inn. A large hanging sign had been newly painted, no doubt for the Great Fair: a pair of legs, with a dog laying across the boots with its head down.
Braylar said, “The Grieving Dog. Granted, it doesn’t have the cantankerous innkeep, bashful wench, or horrible ale of the Three Casks, but it will have to do.”
We headed down a small alley, and when we rounded a corner I saw a stable yard much like the Three Casks’, though bigger, patrolled by a number of grooms and stable boys. As Braylar jumped down and the others dismounted, there was a swarm of activity-coins passing hands, grooms taking reins, quick questions exchanged, boys running to the wagon to begin unloading supplies.
Finally, real civilization again.
After I gathered my case, supplies, and meager belongings and climbed off the wagon, Braylar told Glesswik and Vendurro, “See to it that the package makes its way to my room. Then tell the rest of the men I’ve returned. We’ll be back in action shortly.”
Vendurro started to salute but Glesswik hit him in the arm and they disappeared behind the wagon, cursing each other.
Thunder rumbled close, as if a giant hopped across the rooftops, and I instinctively began to cover my writing case and supplies. A moment later, the first tentative drops of rain began to fall. Hewspear pointed to an entrance to the Grieving Dog. “Shelter, sweet shelter.”
Inside, the layout was similar to a thousand other inns across the land, though all of the furniture and trappings were of finer quality. There was a large tapestry hanging above the bar that depicted women in various states of undress stomping grapes in a huge basin.
There was a woman behind the bar as well as above it, though she didn’t look the type to cavort among grapes. Braylar leaned in close and said, “There are many who curse the plague, but women who survived aren’t among them. There are far more jobs than men can do.”
She was on the pillowy side, but still comely, even in her middle years. I wondered if it was a father or husband who died and left her the inn. As we approached, she recognized Braylar. “Welcome back, my lord. Your suite is the same as you left it. Minus that tray of bones. I took care to have those removed.” This came out as a warm rebuke, as from a slightly exasperated but bemused mother.
“You ought to take more care with your patron’s possessions, Gremete. Who’s to say I didn’t have a particular fondness for those bones? Perhaps I’d even been pining for them.”
“You can do almost anything you like under my roof, so long as you don’t attract vermin.”
Mulldoos said, “You should have thought of that before you let us in the door.”
She inspected the rim of a mug. “So long as you don’t multiply.” Then she looked up. “Your men have the keys. I’ve ordered some hot water for baths I’m awful hopeful you’ll take. And someone will be by to see you get something with new bones in it.” There was a brief smile and she returned to work.
I followed the group up some stairs. At the top, we headed down a hall and Braylar knocked on a door. A moment later, the lock was undone and we entered a fairly large common room that had four doors in it, leading to separate sleeping quarters. Vendurro shut the door behind us and handed Braylar some keys.
Braylar pointed me towards a door. “That room is yours. Lloi has been here already, so there should be a tub in there waiting for you, as Gremete said. Food will follow. After that you, Hew, and I have a visit with… an old friend.”
He didn’t volunteer any more information, and I resisted the urge to ask, knowing it would only lead to frustration. I entered my room, and there was a wooden tub as promised, water still steaming, next to a bed and table.
Setting my supplies down, I heard some laughter outside and walked over to the window. My room overlooked a large courtyard that shared a wall with the stable yard, and it was filled with dozens of oak trees, under which were a multitude of long tables, many still occupied by carousers largely protected from the rain.
There was more laughter and some singing. It wouldn’t be the quietest room, but after our long trek through the empty steppe, it felt good to be in a crowded city again.
After a long soak, I headed towards the common quarters. The smell of food hit me even before I opened my door. The Syldoon were sitting around the table, plates laden with roast grouse, thick cheese, dark bread, and pitchers of ale.
I took a seat on a bench between Vendurro and Glesswik. Hewspear, Vendurro, and Mulldoos were arguing about who made the finest helmets, Glesswik had so much food in his mouth he couldn’t have spoken to anyone, and Braylar was silent.
The grouse smelled so good my fingers were shaking as I filled my plate. It seemed like months ago that I’d last eaten a proper meal.
After sampling some of everything, and washing it down with ale four times as good as what the Canker served in Rivermost, I waited until there was a good break in the conversation before asking Braylar about something that I’d been wondering about for some time. My chances of being bludgeoned to death were likely smaller since returning from the grassland. “At the Three Casks, when that Hornman tried to run you through, you dodged it without seeing what was coming. I thought at the time you must have heard the sword clear the scabbard, or maybe caught a glimpse of something, or maybe even just been lucky, But that wasn’t it, was it? You felt something then, too, didn’t you? Just like you did before the Hornmen appeared in the steppe.”
Vendurro hit me in the arm with the back of his hand. “Told you there was something unnatural-like going on with that wicked flail, didn’t I? Well, I didn’t really, because Mulldoos was near enough to cutting my throat for even hinting at it. Couldn’t say much at all. But now you see what I meant, don’t you? I been riding with the Cap for some time before anyone thought to share anything about it with me. Lot longer than you. Count yourself lucky. Or unlucky. Depending on how you count. But don’t look to me for help on that score. I can’t even count wagons, can I Gless?” He laughed, and I found myself doing the same. And it felt good. Surprisingly good.
Hewspear nodded his approval as he pulled some blackened skin off his grouse. “You picked a sharp one, Captain.”
Braylar only gave the briefest of twitch-smiles, but that was confirmation enough.
I continued, “You obviously got a warning of sorts in the grass, before those other Hornmen came to rob us. You knew how many there would be, and that they meant us harm. But I’m still confused about something. Back at the Casks, you woke me, and said you knew something was coming. Violence. You knew violence was coming. And assumed it would involve you. But it didn’t. Could you, or someone,” I looked at the other Syldoon, “please explain that?”
No one else jumped into the fray so Braylar finally drank and cleared his throat. “The warnings… they’re like dreams, sometimes only slivers of dreams. A fleeting image, a half-felt feeling. My stomach will suddenly churn, my skin will grow hot. Sometimes I’ll taste blood in my mouth where there is none, or hear a scream when no sound has been uttered. Sometimes I’ll smell the shit that soils a man’s hosen as he dies, or feel the rush of an arrow past my cheek when none was shot. Phantom images, sensations. Such was the case at the Casks. I saw a pool of blood on that very table, though who it belonged to, I couldn’t say.
“Other times, more rarely, everything coalesces-image, sound, all the senses, and it becomes clear what I’m seeing is a memory, before it’s made, a memory from someone immersed in this violence. Me, someone else, someone who dies, someone who lives. And if this… advance memory is sharp enough, it sometimes serves as a warning. These flashes of violence I see before they occur, they’ve saved my life several times, and on occasion, my entire company as well.”
Hewspear raised a mug of ale in toast. “Truer words never spoken.”
“But they can be suspect too,” Braylar added. “There have been times I felt sure something was going to play out a certain way, and was proven wrong, almost to my ruin. But if you consult your notes rather than your memory, you’ll find that that night at the Three Casks, I didn’t say we were the targets, or that we were involved at all. I feared as much. Wide difference. But even when I believe I know what will happen for certes, I’ll rarely say as much. Because the warnings deceive. Just as they deceived me that night.”
I thought about that as I nibbled at some cheese-it was crumbly, with red veins that hinted at some obscure spice, and actually much better than I would’ve expected. Washing it down, I asked Braylar, “When the soldier rode past and threw the spear at you. You stayed on the bench, didn’t move or dodge, until it was almost too late. It was amazing, really. Was that another instance Bloodsounder gave you warning?”
Braylar’s mouth curved ever so slightly. “Do you find it so hard to believe that I possess some modicum of unassisted martial prowess?”
The Syldoon laughed, and I said, “But that isn’t really an answer.”
Vendurro wiped some grease off his chin with the back of his hand. “Like to be the only kind you get. Best get used to it.”
Braylar’s smile grew a touch, though was no less enigmatic, as he chose not to elaborate. I tried a different tack, “I’ve been thinking about something else that came up at the Casks. Mulldoos said your emperor insisted you have a chronicler. And in the grass, Captain Killcoin told me that I wasn’t the first.”
Mulldoos tore off some meat and laughed. “Waited until you had him in the middle of nowhere for the big reveal, eh, Cap? You’re a cruel and clever bastard, you are.”
I ignored him. “Why exactly was it mandated? Make no mistake, I’m grateful to have the work, but I’m wondering why your company needs an official account.”
No one responded right away. Everyone looked at Braylar for a cue or permission. He nodded at Hewspear who said, “The empire is made up of countless factions, large and small. And we are always conspiring against each other. So every emperor knows that it’s not a question of if a coup will happen, but when.”
Mulldoos burped. “Jumpy as cats, our emperors.’”
Hewspear continued, “So Emperor Cynead decided to institute the policy that there must be a record of each company’s activities. Especially those so far from home.” He indicated the room with a wave of his hand.
“And let me guess. Your faction-your Tower-they’re not huge supporters of Emperor Cynead.”
Hewspear tapped the side of his nose with a long finger. “Our Tower supported the previous emperor, Thumarr. Now deposed these five years. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say we bear more scrutiny than most.”
I weighed all that for a moment and then said, “So he orders an accounting, but he trusts men he doesn’t trust at all to keep a faithful account? I could record whatever Captain Killcoin told me to record. Who’s to say it’s accurate at all? Again, I’m glad to have a patron, and payment, but why wouldn’t the emperor appoint his own chronicler to ensure the auditing was faithful?”
Mulldoos shook his head as he threw a bone on his plate. “There’s that dull edge again.”
I didn’t understand.
Rooting around in his ear with a greasy finger, Glesswik volunteered, “He did.”
I still didn’t understand.
Hewspear added, “The first chronicler was appointed, Arki.”
At last things fell into place, like tumblers in a lock, but that just brought up more questions. The kind that made my stomach twist. “The first one, the appointed one-”
Mulldoos drew a finger across his throat and laughed like it was the funniest gesture in the world, and I continued, fumbling the words, “If you head home, if you’re recalled, and me with you, won’t the emperor, that is, he’ll know your chronicler… he’ll know I wasn’t the one he assigned, won’t he?”
Mulldoos shrugged. “Wasn’t all that hard finding two stringy scribblers that looked alike. Three was a bit tougher-you’re a touch shorter than the rest, with a bigger nose-but…” He shrugged his shoulders.
My position seemed even more precarious than it had even a few moments ago, and seeing that expression on my face, Hewspear said, “It was a clerk who did the actual appointing. Several years ago now. Clerks change. Records get lost. Time passes. And-”
“And,” Braylar interrupted, “we haven’t been recalled in any event. We still have much to accomplish in this region. Do your job. Do it well. The rest will take care of itself. We start now.” He rose and said, “You and Hewspear accompany me. The rest of you can do what you like with your hours. Drink, dice, what have you. Only don’t tussle with the city watch, don’t draw attention to yourself, and don’t spill any blood.”
Vendurro shook his head, “So, lock ourselves in our rooms is what you’re saying?”
“The next few days are critical to our success here. Best remember that.” He and Hewspear started towards the door and I stuffed some bread in my mouth, took a final swallow of beer, and hurried to follow. We headed down the stairs and made our way through the crowd on the lower floor of the Grieving Dog. Lloi, as usual, was off doing something at the behest of Braylar.
We stepped out into the rain. If we were anywhere but Alespell during the Great Fair, it would’ve convinced most travelers to stay indoors, as it was coming down as hard and fast as nails. But the main thoroughfare was almost as crowded as the inn, and would probably become even more congested until curfew was finally called throughout the fortified city.
Braylar pulled his scarf tighter around his neck and, looking up at the sky, said, “Bad night for crossbows.”
“Bad night for crossbows,” Hewspear agreed, pulling his hood up.
I pulled my hands into my sleeves and said, “Bad night for almost anything, except sitting in front of a fire with some mulled wine. Why aren’t we doing that?” The pair ignored me as they pressed through the people in front of us.
The baron’s castle was vaguely visible against the night sky, but lanterns and a few lit windows along its towers and walls created fuzzy halos of light as it sat high on the hill above the city, like some great hunching beast or god.
Though none of Braylar’s retinue had said anything explicitly that led me to believe we were up to evil deeds this night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a great deal left unsaid that would confirm my suspicions. I asked, not for the first time, “Why do you need me for this, exactly?”
Braylar replied, “Because I ordered you, exactly. You have done little enough to really earn your keep thus far. You really begin tonight. Observe. And when we are through, record.”
Several times I was very nearly swallowed up by the multitudes as we walked along, but Hewspear stopped Braylar and allowed me to catch up, which must have irked him to no end, but Braylar never stopped long enough to scold me or pierce me with one of his looks.
We turned down several narrower streets as we wound our way through the city, and it was such an incredible maze that if I had to find my way back to the inn, no amount of enameled bars would help.
Every street was filled with the requisite jugglers, charlatans, and doomsayers, but the crowds thinned as we got farther from Wide Street, if only a little. After an infinity of turns, we stopped briefly in front of a building. There were several scrawny boys and girls hawking fruit near the doors, which were presently shut, and a large group waiting to enter. I was about to ask Hewspear what we were doing there when I saw the sign hanging from a broken hinge between two torches: three lion heads in dire need of new paint. A playhouse, then. In some ways, this wasn’t overly surprising-of low repute among the nobility and high repute among the lower denizens of any city, this seemed as likely a destination as any for my companions, though I was still in the dark about what their purpose might be.
Braylar guided us around the side of the building and down an alley that led to the rear. It was so narrow I could’ve touched the walls on either side without stretching, and it took several moments for my eyes to adjust as we stumbled over unseen debris.
We stopped in front of a small door, and Braylar knocked four times. It swung out quickly, and Braylar had to step back to avoid being hit. A short man in garish clothes peered out at us, likely having even more trouble seeing than we did. He addressed Hewspear, “Took you long enough. I was near to locking it.” He glanced at Braylar and me, and then back to Braylar. “This your master, then?”
Braylar took a step forward. “Indeed. And you must be the player my man spoke so highly of.”
The player didn’t look like a man spoken of highly very often, but he seemed immune to the praise as he cast a glance down the alley and then spoke to Hewspear, “You said nothing about three. Just your master. Didn’t even know if you were coming back, but even so, that makes two. Nothing said about three.”
Braylar held out a small pouch filled with coins. “I hope that doesn’t trouble you overmuch. While I’m sure this playhouse is above suspicion, a man can’t be too careful. I am, after all, entering in rather unorthodox fashion. I wish only to remain safe.”
The player reached out to take the pouch before Braylar considered withdrawing it. “Makes me nervous is all.”
Braylar smiled. “You’ll find it a bit sweeter than expected, for your trouble and nerves.”
The man gave the pouch a quick toss before slipping it in his tunic. “Trouble and nerves is right. Anyone finds out it was me that let you in, anyone at-”
“As I said, sweeter than agreed upon. Lead us in out of the rain, please.” Though this was phrased as a request, the tone made it clear it was an order and one to be delayed at peril.
The player let us through the door without another word. He closed it behind us and snapped a large rusty lock shut, mumbling as he did, “Big risk, big risk. Ought not to be doing this at all, but-”
As he was turning to face us he nearly touched noses with Braylar who had moved next to him. “Are you balking at our agreement, player?”
The short man took a step back into the locked door and looked at Hewspear and me, as if we might rescue him, and seeing no help there, replied, “No, no, course not. You paid. Extra, you say. No need to even count it. If I was filled with a little reluctance, I might, you see, but I didn’t. None at all. No need. But, it’s just…”
He trailed off as Braylar took a small step forward. “Yes?”
“If the baron were to find out it were me that let you in, it-”
“Concern yourself only with your lines, my friend. The baron will be overjoyed at the surprise, you can be sure. Now then…” He clapped the actor on the shoulder and moved out of his way.
The player stepped past him quickly. “As you say, as you say…” and led us down a hallway, vaguely lit by a horn lantern hanging at the end.
We followed the actor to a set of stairs and down into the bowels of the theatre, the lantern now bobbing from his hand. At the bottom, he guided us through a few more passageways, and we followed him to another door. The sound of the key in the lock was obscenely loud in the silence, and the lantern jiggled in his other hand as he struggled to fit the key and work the mechanism. Finally, the gearworks turned and he pushed the door open on rusty hinges.
The player hung the lantern on a hook on the wall. We were in a small supply room filled with dusty props and cabinets of all sizes. On the opposite side was another door, the paint of ages mostly peeled and gone.
Still clearly uneasy, the player pointed at the other door. “Close of curtain, we’ll be in there. The baron likes to see us in our masks and finery and such, so he comes down right away, just as I said. A real man of the arts, he is. We wouldn’t even be here, if it weren’t for his charity.”
Braylar smiled, and it appeared to be genuine and warm. But I suspected the player had no idea what skilled company he was in just then. “I, too, wish to offer my patronage, and you’ll find me only slightly less generous. I have no baronage, it’s true, but the fair has been most kind to me this year, and your company will be rewarded, as promised.”
The man nodded. “Sure then you don’t want to watch with the rest? Good show tonight, good show. Or you can come in now, meet some of the other players if-”
“I’ll have a seat tomorrow. Tonight, I want only to be reunited with my good friend. It’s been too long. And I do so want to see his face when I step out to greet him.”
The player said, “Well then, through that door, close of curtain, as I said.”
“As you said. Good show, my friend.”
The man nodded a final time and stepped through the opposite door, closing it behind him.
Braylar walked over to the door we entered through, tested it and found it still unlocked. “How far do you trust this man, Hewspear?”
Hewspear laughed as he tested the other door, also finding it unlocked, and replied, “As far as you can trust a man who takes a small pouch of coin to do something unscrupulous.”
Braylar looked around the small room. “And do you suspect the player will play us?” He asked this as if it were an exercise in rhetoric rather than a query with our lives staked on the wager.
Hewspear opened a cabinet door or two, investigating the age-old props stored inside. “I suspect he’s a man of low cunning, most likely happy to have stumbled into some extra coin to spend on women and wine. I’m not sure what his play would be, even if he was inclined to make one. If he reported our presence to the company master now, he’d likely lose his wages for a month for failing to do so earlier.”
“Unless he’s already done it,” I volunteered.
Both men looked at me in surprise, as if they’d forgotten I was in the room with them.
Braylar tilted his head. “Continue.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “He could’ve reported it to the company master just after Hewspear first contacted him.”
Braylar nodded. “And?”
“And this could be a ruse on his part, playing the role of, well, a player. While the exit is blocked off. Guards could be assembling now.”
Braylar countered, “A playhouse doesn’t have guards, lord scribbler.”
I pressed on, “But the baron does. I assume. Don’t most of them?”
Hewspear laughed then, coins jingling in his beard. “The player would have soiled himself if he tried to approach the baron. And then he would have been whipped for wasting baronial time, and then lost a month’s wages for being a fool.”
“Maybe. But the company master might not. If the player reported this, that is. He might have some standing with the baron. Or the Player’s Guild. That is, if the player were truly worried you were up to something.”
Braylar steepled his fingers together and smiled, and without a twitch to be seen. “Very good.”
Despite the meager praise, my former fears came rushing back. I asked, “What are we up to? Why are we here?”
Hewspear interrupted this discussion, addressing the captain, “Do you think the player plays us, then?”
Braylar sat down on an old trunk and leaned against the wall. “I can’t say. It’s certainly possible. And I mislike having so few exits to consider. But we are here, are we not? We’re here to play this out tonight, regardless of what other players might be up to, and that is what we do.”
I asked again, “Why are we at a theatre with no intention of seeing a play? I don’t believe you’re an old comrade of this baron, even if you fooled the player.”
Braylar said, “And I don’t particularly care what you believe. You’re here to do one thing, and one thing only. Our intentions aren’t your concern.”
I began to protest, but Braylar silenced me with a glare, the part of generous noble altogether gone now. “Observe now. Record later. That is all.”
And so I sat down as well, waiting to observe something, becoming increasingly worried about what that might be.