The False Martyr (23 page)

“
Yes, my lord. My father
was the stable master, my mother a baker, sir.”

“
Then you at least know
how to act around your betters, how to keep a civil tongue, and
stay out of the way?”

Cary almost choked. He
certainly knew how to act around his betters, but he was an
explorer at his core. The palace of his youth had been a warren of
servants’ passages, hidden nooks, and secret doors. He had known
and used them all. His favorite part of being a courier was all the
places he could visit. He could explore them all, learn their
secrets, find the perfect girl to bed, and be gone before any of
the trouble he’d started made it back to him. How was he supposed
to suppress that when the greatest prize he could imagine was there
before him. He could already feel the growing urge to learn every
secret of the massive structure and the people inside. “As you say,
my lord,” he said.

“
Good. Though our
negotiations will be with the men, the women could scupper the
entire thing. Morg women are not like the ones you know, Cary.
Unlike in the South, Morg women own all property. When they join a
man, he comes to live in the woman’s lodge, becomes a member of
that lodge, is allowed to stay only at the pleasure of the women.
That is how men end up in the South. If they do not find mates or
displease the ones they have, they are cast out. If we displease
the women here, our negotiations will be over no matter how much
gold we bring. We’ll be lucky to leave with our lives.” The
ambassador fell silent as they approached Ivak.

Cary could not help but
feel swelling anticipation as he watched the lodge looming before
him and considered all the mysteries contained inside. Certainly he
understood the critical nature of their mission, of the dangers
that threatened his home and the hope that the Morgs represented in
protecting them from those dangers. If only that were enough to
keep his curiosity in check.

“
I leave you,” Ivak said
as the ambassador reached his side.

“
But surely you will
provide an invitation?”

“
I have no need to enter
Torswauk” was his only reply. He turned and started back up the
hill, leaving the ambassador lolling.

The noble gathered himself
quickly and motioned his entourage forward, taking the lead as they
followed a worn track toward a simple double door. Outside the
door, a cluster of men waited. Dressed in furs, leather, and
roughly woven wool, they did not seem to be guarding the doors as
much as congregating before them. From the distance, they looked
small next to the huge building that stretched almost as far as the
eye could see to either side, but in truth, they were a hand higher
than the tallest of the rangers, two hands higher than diminutive
Cary and twice his weight. Their only weapons appeared to be the
long knives tucked in their belts, but Carey had little doubt that
those would be more than enough if the need arose.

“
Hold,” the oldest of the
men called when they were fifty paces from the door. He strode
toward them. Cary tried not to stare at the long scar running down
his face, the sealed socket where his right eye should have been,
the deformed mash that was his nose, the long split in his lips. He
was a generation older than the men that surrounded him, gray hair
pulled back into a single, long braid, black beard falling to his
chest heavily accented with white, but those were the only signs of
his age. He looked, if anything, stronger and more certain than the
young warriors that accompanied him. “This is the mighty Torswauk
Lodge, the bear of the north. By what right do you bring your
stinking southern horses here?”

“
The right of gold,”
Ambassador Chulters answered formally. He reached to the side of
his horse and produced a leather bag. It jingled as he held it out.
“We come to negotiate the hire of your lodge.”

The scarred Morg laughed,
a terrifying rumble. His fellows did not join him. “You could not
hire Inuvik for that,” he bellowed well louder than necessary and
laughed again, clearly meaning to play with the man who had
escorted them. “You stand before the mightiest lodge in all the
Fells, just as the mountain bear is the greatest of animals. Those
who hire Torswauk, hire the mightiest warriors in the world. The
price is beyond you.” He began to turn.

“
The entire wealth of
Liandria,” Ambassador Chulters supplied quickly. “The sum of our
treasury follows. This is but a token to show our intent. We ask
for a gathering of all the lodges for we seek to hire the entire
nation of the Morgs.”

The Morg looked back over
his shoulder but did not turn. “The entire wealth of Liandria?” he
asked thoughtful. “Is that more than the entire wealth of the
Empire?” He walked to the door. “I suppose we will find out,” he
said as he walked through.

Ambassador Chulters sat in
his saddle as if struck by an arrow and just now realizing it. The
bag of gold sank to his side. “How can they be here
already?”

“
I’ll take the bag,” a
Morg of Cary’s age approached and relieved the ambassador of his
burden. “You are welcome as guests of Torswauk Lodge. Leave your
horses. They will not go far. Inside you may join the men in their
halls.”

With that, the Morg took
the bag and walked back to the door. Ambassador Chulters, Cary, and
the soldiers slowly, stiffly dismounted and tended to their horses.
The Morgs returned to their lodge. They did not even leave the door
open.

#

It was dark inside the
lodge, the air thick with smoke and the scent of burning oil so
that the water in Cary’s eyes blurred what little light filled the
space. The sun had been almost down by the time they had removed
the saddles and bridles from their horses, gathered their things,
and entered the lodge – not that Cary could see any windows to
light the space if there were sun to shine through them. From what
his blurring eyes could tell, they were in a gigantic cloakroom.
Cloaks and furs hung on pegs or on racks placed in rows throughout
the space. Furs seemed to dominate the back of the room, hung so
thickly as to make the racks appear to be some enormous beast. On
the closer racks hung lighter woolen cloaks, leather vests, and
hats. For the warmer weather, Cary supposed. Beyond the racks, near
an opposite door were benches, brushes, and buckets of water. The
room was otherwise empty. No one waited to greet them – no guide,
or dignitaries, or guards, or anything but an empty room full of
coats.

“
Remove your cloaks and
hats,” Ambassador Chulters ordered from near the opposite door. The
remainder of the party remained back by the door to the outside as
if still considering an escape from this strange world. The
ambassador removed his fine, lamb’s wool riding cloak and hung it
on a peg – the garment was worth a month’s wages to the soldiers
and they could not help but ogle. “I have no idea what to do with
the saddles.” He looked around then pointed. “Pile them in the
corner. I can’t imagine that anyone would have any use for them.
Keep your bags and the rest of the supplies with you. Do not set
them down until we find a place for them.”

Cary followed the soldiers
to a far corner but did not add his saddle to the stack of his
fellows. He waited until the others had returned to the main
walkway then snuck to the back and shoved his saddle under a great
triangular rack. He arranged the hanging furs to conceal it. That
saddle was his very life. It had been custom made to his small
frame by one of the finest leather workers in Lianne, had cost him
dearly, and been worth every copper shim. He had ridden thousands
of miles on it, and it was conformed to him in every possible way.
He’d give up his ears before he’d give up that saddle.

When he felt that his
saddle was as secure as it could be, Cary strode back through the
racks toward the others, removing his cloak and pulling off the doe
skin jacket he wore under it. He placed his gloves carefully in the
pockets and hid them both under a worn boiled-leather smock that
looked like it had been hanging in the same place for years. He
shivered and longed to put the coat back on. The room was cold. A
chill had arrived with the sun’s departure such that Cary had been
anxious to get inside the lodge and near a fire, but this room
seemed only to amplify rather than dispel the cool of the
evening.

“
We just leave our cloaks
here?” the sergeant asked holding the garment as if it would have
to be pried from him. Cary had noticed it before. Though not nearly
as fine as the ambassador’s it was well made and embroidered with
his initials and the image of a fox with a crown that marked him as
a member of the King’s Rangers. “My wife embroidered this for me.
She’ll kill me if I lose it.” The other men looked at their own
cloaks. Being that they were not part of the standard uniform, they
had purchased them themselves and all seemed wont to risk them to a
common cloakroom even though a fraction of the furs at the back
could have paid their salaries for a lifetime.

“
Then you had best hope
that a Morg does not want it,” the ambassador answered. “But given
that it wouldn’t likely fall to his knees, I’d guess you are safe.”
He sat on one of the benches and began scrubbing at his boots with
a brush, dipping it in the water and scouring. “You’ll need to
remove your hats as well. And make sure your boots are
clean.”

The men looked at one
another then imitated Cary, finding places under other garment for
their cloaks and hats. With a contained chuckle, Cary wondered how
many of them would remember where the cloaks were when they went to
retrieve them. Peering down at his boots, he lifted his saddle bags
from the floor and carried them to the bench. The other soldiers
soon joined him, grumbling and complaining as they scrubbed at
their boots.

Their attention was drawn
to the ambassador as he took a deep breath. “I probably should have
told you all this earlier, but I didn’t want to say anything with
one of the Morgs around.” He paused and looked at the men to ensure
he had their attention. “Before we go any farther, you should know
that the Morgs have no sense of property. Everything within the
lodge is owned by everyone in the lodge – or if you really want to
be specific, the women. Everything here is communal. Meals are
served and eaten together. You sleep wherever you can find a bed.
The gold I brought should have purchased us a ‘guest’s allowance’.
You should feel free to eat what is offered – that is all that will
be available. We will seek quarters near each other, but they are
not guaranteed. This time of year, the men are typically away, so
there should be plenty of space. But keep in mind, you own nothing
here. Things cannot be denied you as long as they are in your
possession, but if you set down your sword, don’t expect it to be
there when you return and don’t expect to get it back from the man
who took it until he is done with it. Understood?”

The soldiers grumbled but
eventually nodded. “Good,” the ambassador continued. “A final
thing, the men and women are entirely separate in Morg culture.
Their portions of the lodge are segregated except for a few common
rooms where they are allowed to mingle. You will not go into any of
these common rooms. You will not see or speak to any Morg women. As
far as you are concerned, there is no such thing as Morg women.
They literally do not exist. Do you understand?”

Again, the men grumbled
but agreed, especially after the berating they had received coming
down the hill. “Good. Then we shall proceed. I think it is best
that we stay together, find some food and then our beds. Nothing
more for tonight. In the morning, we can determine what we are up
against. Remember, you are on a diplomatic mission. Your actions
represent Liandria and your King. Our only chance of keeping our
homes from the invaders and the Imperial tyrants is to hire the
Morgs. You are being entrusted with the very fate of our nation.
Keep that in mind at all times and in everything you do. That is
all.”

“
A question, my lord?”
Cary asked the ambassador, meeting him next to the door that would
lead to the rest of the lodge. He carried his saddle bags over his
shoulders with his few other worldly possessions, wondering what a
Morg would do with any of them.

“
What is it?” the
ambassador replied absently.

“
How’d ya know all that,
sir? I didn’t think anyone was ever allowed in a Morg
lodge.”

“
My father led the Morg
negotiations during the Second War of Pindarian Succession,”
Ambassador Chulters answered proudly. “He died a few years ago, but
I have read his journals and am sure his wisdom will guide us.”
Cary was not so sure. Liandria lost the Second War Pindarian
Succession when they lost the negotiations to hire the
Morgs.

When all the boots were
clean and everyone was gathered, Ambassador Chulters led them
through the door into a room the size of an actual
cloakroom.

“
Weapons,” a voice called
from the shadows to their side. The ambassador nearly jumped from
his skin. Cary had to catch him to keep him from falling backward.
An ancient Morg obscured in the shadows to their side chuckled and
held out an enormous, wrinkled hand. As he stepped forward, Cary
saw him in the light of the small fire that burned in a brazier to
his side. His hair and beard were entirely white, face sagging into
wrinkles between them, mouth nearly toothless. He was still big,
but withered and bent by age. Behind him, was an open door beyond
which were racks laden with glimmering steel edges. “Weapons,” the
man called again.