Scourge of the Betrayer (22 page)

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.”