Act of Will (7 page)

“Trouble in the streets by C Garrison. A rebel called Hawthorne escaped from a patrol this morning. He’s been concealed by sympathizers. Fights broke out when known rebel taverns were searched and we may have a full-scale riot on our hands in Sector Six. The high command wants no traffic in or out until the fighting is brought under control and the culprits are in custody. Close the gates.”

I closed my eyes tightly and tried not to scream with frustration.

SCENE VII

No Virtue in Almost

T
he gatehouse soldiers looked at each other and sighed. After the briefest of consultations, two troopers marched swiftly over to the stairway that would take them up to the mechanism used to close the im mense gates. I looked back to Orgos, who was maintaining his role as Cherrati merchant, slightly exasperated by the proceedings. Glancing backwards, I could see Rufus with his back to us, waving his clumsy hands about and shouting. I turned away fast enough to break my neck and stared ahead at the infantrymen that stood in the shade of the archway, their eyes glinting through the holes in their helms.

“May we proceed, Officer?” inquired Orgos smoothly.

“We’ve got trouble in another sector,” replied the guard. “We’re going to have to close the gate. Sorry, sir.”

He turned away, distracted by the sound of feet on the steps, and watched as about thirty soldiers filed down from the walls above, their shields and spears shouldered. The staircase was narrow. While the troops came down, the two men sent to close the gates had to wait at the bottom. I counted slowly to ten in my head and waited for Rufus to see me. The staircase was still jammed with descending soldiers.

“We were hoping to make Oakhill by nightfall,” I ventured carefully, “and we would really prefer not to stay here with our merchandise if there is likely to be some form of civil unrest.”

“Sorry,” the officer said without looking at us. “No one in or out.”

“Then perhaps you’d like to take another look at our wares,” I said.

Orgos gave me a hard look but I ignored him.

“No,” said the officer. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t show you the best silks,” I breezed. “We keep those well out of sight. But maybe someone of your taste would appreciate them. We have damask so soft you can barely feel it against your skin. . . .”

The officer at our side glanced at the men waiting to go up to close the gates, exhaled with slow boredom and muttered, “It’s time someone built another staircase up there. Go on,” he said, turning to us suddenly. “Go through. Quickly.”

Without further encouragement we began to move. My heart rose to my throat and I stared ahead of me, past the guards and the officer who hastily, mechanically recited the usual Empire regulations.

“If you have heavier weapons and armor you may bring them out once you are a hundred yards from the gate. Remain on the road at all times and be watchful for highwaymen. Have a successful trip, sirs,” he called as we trundled through the twenty-foot-thick arch and the heavy doors. The portcullis was lowering with a heavy metallic squealing as we emerged into the light and soft drizzle. Behind us the great gates themselves began scraping and creaking until, with a deep boom, they shut tight.

For a hundred yards or so we did not speak and then, bringing the wagon to a halt in a stone-flagged space and turning to one of the boxes between us, Orgos said, “Idiot. What were you trying to do back there? Selling clothes to Empire guards! You were asking to be arrested.”

He was smiling. I grinned and said, “I was just fleshing out the role a little. Giving it color.”

“Idiot,” he said again, but this time he laughed outright. I wanted to punch him lightly on the arm or something as a show of fellowship, but something held me back, the thought of his name dragging mine up the wanted list, perhaps. Instead I just said, “Geof -frey? You called me Geoffrey! What the pox kind of name is that?”

He gave a single bellow of laughter and opened the box. Whatever relief I was beginning to feel died as I stared at the contents: armor and weapons of the serious sort. I wasn’t being allowed to forget my comrade’s profession.

Orgos stood up and looked back to the massive yellowish walls of the city.

“I hate that place,” he remarked, fishing a coat of ring mail out of the box and pulling it over his head.

I couldn’t say much to that. I didn’t really know anywhere else, though even I could see it was a bit of a sewer.

“How come they’re saying I’m a rebel?” I asked. I was tiny bit pleased by the idea, even though I knew both that it was dangerous to be impressed by such things and that they were about as wrong as they could be.

“The Empire doesn’t like to be humiliated,” he said. “Better to be outmaneuvered by a seasoned rebel than a child actor.”

The phrase irritated me, but that feeling was squashed by something rather more weighty.

“So if they catch me now . . .” I said.

“They’ll charge you with more than being in a few plays they didn’t like.”

He gave me a shrug and a grin as he saw the effect his words had on me. “Cheer up,” he said. “You’re with us now.”

Great.

Orgos replaced the rapier in the back of the wagon and emerged wearing a pair of the long swords he had used before, scabbarded in a harness on his back so that the hilts stood vertically up from his shoulders. I would have needed both hands to wield one of those four-foot blades, but a look at his biceps and forearms told me that he would manage just fine. He reached up to their handles, crossing his arms over his chest to see that they were in the right position, and then bade me get down and come to the back of the wagon. One of the swords, the one he had had back at the inn, had a large and irregular stone set in the pommel, amber and lustrous.

“Choose a weapon,” he said. “What can you use?”

Throwing aside a few top layers of fabric, he opened a chest of armor and another two of weapons. I recalled my encouraging the Empire guards to stay and poke around the wagon a little longer. We would really have had to do some talking to explain that lot away.

I got in the back and touched some of the steel in amazed fascination. As I said earlier, I know little of weapons and I am no fighter, but just seeing this pile of purposeful and elegant arms held me spellbound. I chose.

Orgos looked at me with his mouth open and then roared with laughter, his head tipped back and his teeth showing.

“Can you even walk in that stuff?” he demanded.

I confess to having gotten a little carried away. He made me put a lot of it back. Most of it was too big for me anyway and I could hardly breathe in that helm. I could barely lift my arms and no, I couldn’t really walk. I tried a corselet of light scale and swapped the two-handed great-ax I had chosen for a short sword and small shield. It was a bit of a comedown, I suppose, but I kept looking at the way the corselet sparkled in the light and it made me feel good. Actually, the sword alone was so heavy that I soon had to put the shield away too. It was a good thing I’d put that bloody ax back. It had taken all my strength to get it out of the wagon.

The rain had just about stopped, so that was one less discomfort. I drew the sword and weighed it in my hand, imagining myself a great fighter and betting Renthrette would be impressed. Next time we had some trouble they’d see a different side to Will Hawthorne. Maybe. After a couple of minutes of me waving the sword about, Orgos told me to put it away before I maimed him. Still, a moment later I saw him smile. For the first time that day I stopped worrying and relaxed enough to enjoy the ride.

The road was good thus far, paved and cambered. But as soon as the gate house was lost to our sight in the elms and sycamores which grew around the city, we veered off to the northeast on a series of farm tracks.

Orgos sat quietly beside me, his eyes on the trail. Maybe it was the elation of escape, the satisfaction of outwitting that moron Rufus, or just the feeling that I had done right not to run crying to the Empire, but I felt slightly better disposed to him. And whatever the dangers, I was still alive, free, and touched with something I had never felt before. It had the feel of adventure and all the anticipation that comes with it. Will the Adventurer. Hawthorne the Rebel. A childish and dangerous thought, perhaps, but there you have it. Even at the time I had a pretty good idea that it wouldn’t last.

SCENE VIII

The Wheatsheaf

B
y about half past one, with the sun high and the rain gone, we caught sight of the inn set back from the road. I was glad of it, for the air was growing warm and humid despite the early showers and I was ready for the coolness of a shady room and a draught of beer. Or six.

The inn was a large two-storied affair of mottled grey stone with sills and lintels of varnished oak. The sign over the door showed a bunch of full, golden wheat stalks. Its roof was thatched brown and well shaped with two chimneys poking through, one of which released a thin curl of bluish wood smoke. It was all rather picturesque, like one of those cheap engravings that you sneer at in the Cresdon markets. The upstairs probably housed guests sheltering from those very markets.

After drawing the wagon up to the front, we dismounted and scraped the mud from our boots. Then Orgos tried the door and led me in.

Now, I was used to the smoky, stone-flagged, fleapit taprooms of the town from which we’d just escaped. Bars, to me, meant noise, raucous laughter, spilled beer, semifriendly gambling, and the occasional brawl. The Wheatsheaf, by contrast, dripped with class and a slightly embarrassed silence. It was obviously an eatery for merchants before they ventured into the cultural desolation of the Hrof wastelands or, for that matter, those of Cresdon. The floor was tiled with a glazed and patterned ceramic featuring the ears-and-leaves motif we had seen outside. Very fancy. There were windows of leaded glass all around the room, and as a result the entire chamber glowed, pleased with itself. There were tables set for dinner decorated with dainty vases of flowers. No dartboard. No pools of vomit and urine. No whores.

At the far end of the room by the cold hearth of a carved fire-place sat Mithos, Renthrette, and Garnet. They had changed out of their peasant clothes and wore light cotton fabrics which looked like they would breathe well, even under armor. The barman sent a boy with Orgos to tend to the horses as I hung my armor up with the rest and ordered a pint of best.

I took my mug, sauntered over to the table where the others sat, swinging the crossbow roguishly by its strap, and cast Renthrette an easy smile. She might as well have been wearing her armor, because it glanced off and fell in some dustless corner. I sat beside her anyway and made sure she noticed the sword I was wearing. I thought it made me look pretty sharp.

“Isn’t it a bit early to be drinking?” she said.

“Drinking?” I repeated, momentarily baffled. “This is beer.”

“It contains alcohol, doesn’t it?” she said. She had a slightly prissy attitude that annoyed me.

“Not like whiskey,” I said, shrugging. “But a bit, yeah. So?”

“You’re a child!” she said.

“I’m eighteen,” I said, straightening up. “What is it with you people?”

Mithos gave Renthrette a look.

“In the city, everyone drinks beer,” he said. “All classes, all ages. It’s their primary source of nutrition, which, given their markets and the condition of the water supply, is probably as well. It’s liquid bread.”

She wrinkled her nose at me. I framed a pointed smile and sipped my ale. It was excellent, but at three coppers a pint you would expect that.

“I still think it’s disgusting,” she said. “A child drinking—”

“Listen, lady, I’ve been working for my living since I was five,” I said. “I am not a child and haven’t been one for a long time. And how old are you, Grandma? Nineteen?”

“Twenty, actually.”

“How incredibly ancient,” I said. “I’m surprised you can still walk.”

She shrugged and looked away, her face tipped slightly up as if she was trying to ignore a bad smell. I just stared at her. I didn’t know what to say anyway. She annoyed me, was all. With an effort, I turned my attention to Mithos, who had been talking.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

He sighed pointedly and repeated the question. “How did it go?”

“How did what go?”

“Your passage out of Cresdon. Was it successful?” he concluded with a little impatience in his voice.

“No,” I said flatly, “they only let me through on the condition that I would turn you in immediately. There are two platoons of Empire troops waiting outside.” I grinned. “Only joking. Yes, it was successful. A piece of cake.”

They looked at me silently. No one laughed. In fact they didn’t seem overjoyed that I had made it out at all. There was a lengthy pause and then Orgos rejoined us. Sensing the tension around the table as he sat down, he smirked at me. Mithos looked pensively into his beer and said, “Well, Master Hawthorne, you are out of the city. We can part company here. It would take you several hours to get back to Cresdon by yourself if you wanted to inform on us, and the gates will be closed till morning anyway.”

“He helped get us out of the city,” said Orgos suddenly. “He’s a good talker. Might prove useful.”

Mithos looked thoughtfully at him, then at me. The moment felt loaded, embarrassingly so, and I was almost glad when Renthrette punctured it.

“Well, of course he’s a talker,” she said with a brittle smile. “He’s an
actor
.”

She said it the way she might say “goatherd” or “dung beetle.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“So,” said Mithos, still considering me like I was a fish that had fallen out of the sky. “Will you be going further with us?”

Garnet scowled across the table, daring me to say yes.

“Yes,” I said simply.

“Oh, for crying out loud, Mithos,” Garnet protested. “Must we carry this childish snake about with us? Why can’t we leave him here?”

“Bleeding in a ditch, no doubt,” I muttered.

“That wasn’t what I meant,” he replied testily, “though the idea has a kind of appeal.”

“Oh, I’ll bet it does,” I shot back at him. “In fact—”

“Would you shut up for a moment,” said Mithos, staring at the table. “Listen, Master Hawthorne, we don’t expect thanks for saving you from the Empire, but we don’t expect abuse either. Orgos thinks you might be useful and for that we will let you ride with us, but you will refrain from voicing your suspicions about our profession or character. Do I make myself clear?”

“Well, I don’t know about that—”

He cut me short by banging his olive-skinned hand on the table and turning his black eyes on me. He had a firm jaw and a commanding look at all times. When he wanted to he could look very dangerous to contradict.

“Crystal,” I said quickly.

“Good,” he concluded.

He picked up a board with a piece of parchment listing the dishes on offer tacked to it, consulted it, and passed it round. Now, I was used to chalkboards stating the dish of the day or, more frequently, the week, so this was an unexpected benefit. I was starving, and what was on offer was a far cry from the Eagle’s cheese pasties. The prices were outrageous, but I didn’t have any money anyway. I figured I’d eat and worry about the bill later.

While they mulled over what they wanted I took my first decent look at them.

Renthrette was taller than me, but that wouldn’t bother me if it didn’t bother her. Her hair was the color of soft straw and she wore it tied back, though I had seen it breaking around her shoulders while she was getting dressed and she had looked quite the picture. Her eyes were a cool blue flecked with grey and her mouth was slim and pink. Both had a tendency to freeze up when she looked at me, but I figured I could engineer a thaw of some kind. There was a slight peach tint to her cheeks, and her nose and chin, though both thinner than the fashion, had a strength of character to them which I could have done without.

Garnet had, it suddenly struck me, something of the look of her in his own features. I remembered a play that said that lovers came to resemble each other. Maybe there was something to it. It might explain his hostility to me, his new rival. He read the menu with a kind of studied dignity, like he was about fifty-five, looking for something cheap and wholesome. His eyes were an unnervingly deep green and his hair unremarkably brownish with a slight wave to it. He wore it short but the curl was still there. He had a peppering of beard, but I’d bet he hadn’t been shaving that much longer than I had. His skin was pale and would probably turn lobster pink given enough sun, hence the long-sleeved cotton shirt. Like the rest of them he was fit, but his arms were sinewy and thin despite their strength. I doubt there was an ounce of fat on him.

Mithos was the oldest of the group, though he could be no more than forty, a bit more than Orgos. I couldn’t say if the darkness of his skin was just tan from the sun or it was something in his blood. The blackness of his hair (long enough to flow down to his shoulders) and eyes suggested the latter. He was the tallest of the group and stood well over six feet, his physique less obviously powerful than Orgos’s, but well defined. His arms could have come off the athletic statue that stands at the entrance to the Cresdon arena. It seemed like he brooded a lot. He didn’t say much, but when he did, everyone stopped what they were doing and got out their notebooks.

“While you’re with us,” said Mithos, “the party will cover your costs.”

“What?” I said. “A party? When?”

“Give me strength,” muttered Garnet. Renthrette gently rested her hand on his forearm in a soothing gesture. So, I was right! That charmless streak of thunder and rainy weather? He didn’t deserve her.

“We are what I meant as ‘the party,’ ” Mithos explained. “The group. And so long as you are with us, we will pay.”

I didn’t need any further explanations.

“Right. Great. Er . . . thanks, I mean. Well, then, I think I’ll go for the charcoal-grilled duckling and mushrooms in garlic and black pepper sauce. Sounds good to me. And some strong blue cheese. And I’ll have another pint, or perhaps a good strong cider if they have one. We’ll worry about dessert later, yes?”

“Quite,” said Mithos dismally. Renthrette and Garnet stared at me wide-eyed and ordered the cheese, bread, and pickle salad that was here termed the “harvester’s lunch.” I hadn’t been able to afford to eat like this for months and hadn’t actually eaten like this for rather longer. I looked around the room with interest and pretended not to notice that the price of my duckling would feed three harvesters and their children. Orgos beamed again and showed his teeth. When he smiled I forgot he was a ruthless killer, which was, I suppose, a disconcerting thought.

The “cider” came in a dusty green-glass bottle that looked like it had been ignored for a very long time. I raised it to my lips, caught the acrid vapor of strong alcohol in my nostrils, and sipped. The others, including the barman, watched with horrified curiosity while Renthrette muttered darkly about how no one should be drinking whatever it was that I was drinking. It went down like warm oil and tasted like apple syrup, crushed glass, and the kick of a Hrof ostrich. This was my kind of adventure. I finished it, wondering aloud if I should continue with more of the same or a dram from that nameless, ancient keg at the back of the shelf. The innkeeper said he thought it was one of those beers made by monks in the mountains, flavored with coriander and orange. How could I resist?

The room had begun to oscillate slightly by the time the duckling arrived, but settled down once I’d got some food inside me. I couldn’t remember the last time I had so enjoyed eating. I had a sensitive palate and Mrs. Pugh’s culinary horrors had been a real strain, as I told them. Renthrette paused in her lettuce chewing and made knowing eye contact with Garnet. Orgos tried some of the duck and joined in the laudation with extravagant gestures worthy of the Cherrati tradesman he had been earlier. Garnet stoically refused to sample any of it and remarked that his cheese was “really rather good.”

“Consider it an inauguration then, Will,” said Mithos. “We can’t afford to feed you like this indefinitely.”

I tried to respond but my mouth was full. Stuffed, actually.

“Also,” he added, “this will be the last decent meal we get before Stavis, since I’d like to cover some mileage before nightfall. We’ll be under canvas most of the week.”

“Why Stavis?” I asked. I had asked before, but I felt that now that they knew I was going with them I might get an answer. Also, though it was largely due to the food and the alcohol, I was feeling better disposed to them, all things considered, and expected them to feel something similar.

“We must consult with our party leader about a job,” said Orgos.

“I thought Mithos was party leader,” I said.

“No,” said Mithos. “And keep your voice down. The party leader went ahead to Stavis to learn the details of the mission. Our leader’s identity is a closely guarded secret.”

“I need another drink,” I decided.

Garnet tutted as I motioned to the barman, pointing at a bottle on the back shelf. He stared, first at me and then at the bottles, and chose the wrong one. I nodded enthusiastically.

“And this job,” I continued, since they were being helpful. “What is it? Assassinating an Empire officer, poisoning a garrison? What?”

“It’s nothing like that,” said Mithos firmly. The others seemed to be letting him do all the talking, as if to make sure they gave nothing away that he thought wasn’t my business.