Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (41 page)

When the serpent passed the eastern mark then began
toward the south, both Celerity and Tru exhibited increased attention to the
working.  Both began continually performing working after working and spell
after spell, never bothering to explain what they did or why.  Neither acted
particularly pleased with whatever they learned.

Marik grew increasingly edgy. 
Fine.  If he has
come back to Galemar, he could as easily be
south
of Thoenar, right?  If
I had told the working to spin south instead of north, we would have found him
candlemarks ago!

But the last of Marik’s faint hope vanished along with
the etheric serpent when it reached its initial starting point.  With no
warning, it simply dissipated, having failed to find what it sought.

“This,” Celerity muttered, “raises all sorts of
interesting questions.”  She sounded like a person who disapproved of
interesting questions.

“Might be dead,” Tru commented without much thought to
the knife his words plunged into Marik’s heart.  “Wouldn’t show up then, would
he?”

“He’s not dead!” Marik snarled.  When the other two
looked at him, he hastily added, “Fine, so he didn’t look well when I saw him. 
But that doesn’t mean anything!  Father isn’t one to die that easily!  I must
have done the working wrong,” he exclaimed, and perked up.  “Of course I did! 
This is only my second time!  I’ll start over.”

“There’s no need,” Celerity interrupted when he made
to sit before the mirror and begin anew.  Marik rounded on her, and she
explained, “Tru is the adept at scrying, Marik.  We only thought it might be
easier to have you do it since, along with your blood, you are personally
linked with the subject.  Affinity between a subject and the scryer adds
significantly to the working’s capabilities, especially when coupled with the
affinity between the catalyst and the subject.  You seemed like the easiest
solution.  Now we will let Tru do what we pay him to do.”

“I can do things,” the magician said.  “I can find out
if he’s dead or no.  Do you have anything that belonged to him?”

“Not with me,” Marik replied bitterly.  “I doubt the
only thing I have of his would be much good to you anyway.  Tollaf said I
erased his astral signature with my own, or…I
think
he said that...”

“Oh well.  Let’s get hair cuttings before you go, anyway. 
Every bit helps.”

Marik sat still while Tru used the knife to hack off
the longer locks at his neck’s base.  At least they would no longer catch in
his mail.  He also collected as many nail cuttings as he could trim away
without shortening Marik’s fingers, but Marik starkly refused to urinate into a
bottle.

Celerity seemed intent on getting rid of him since he
had proven to be of no immediate use.  He hardly felt like staying and made no
protest.  Still, while she escorted him down to the door, Marik asked, “If you
find him, are you going to tell me?”

She had spent the short walk musing.  With a mild
smile, she said, “Yes, I will.  It will take time, undoubtedly.  Tru is good,
but scrying is tediously slow work at the best of times.  I will tell Tollaf
about whatever we discover if you’ve already returned to your band.”

“Even if you don’t find your red-eyed man?  What if
you spend the next few months searching and it turns out father doesn’t have
anything at all to do with him?”

“Then,” she replied, “I will still tell you whatever
we find.  There is no point to going through the effort and then not using the
information we gather.”

At the door, after Celerity told him the gate guards
would let him out if he followed the same path back, Marik looked at her
squarely.  In the late-afternoon sun her gray hairs blurred into their darker
neighbors, making her appear older than he thought she was.  She also looked
tired.

“Who is this man?  Why is he so important?”

He hoped she would be taken aback by the question’s
directness, except it did nothing to shake her.  Despite his clumsy effort she
answered with what sounded like the truth.  “He may not be important at all,
which will mean I have wasted a good deal of time on a dead end.  Yet it is all
the things he
might
be, or might be doing, that has me worried.  If it
turns out he is a danger, then I hope your father
isn’t
connected with
him.”  After a pause, she added as a farewell, “I truly do.”

Because then she would have to ‘deal with him’,
he suddenly realized.  If, in the end, Celerity was
ordered to attack his father, what would he do?  Try to face her down?  The
thought made him shudder.  He forced his mind to other matters.

He walked back to the gates, wondering about the
woman.  She seemed less harsh with him there at the end.  Celerity bore little
liking for him.  Marik felt certain about that.  Unlike Tollaf, she tried to
conceal it.  The brusque manner by which she treated him earlier probably
stemmed from her preoccupation with the red-eyed man and her need to see him
with her own eyes.  As that had not happened, her mind then shifted to the next
step.  Since he was no part of that, she had stopped beating him with a crop to
get him moving.

So,
he
summed up,
maybe she’s not all that terrifying.  Just intensely focused on
her duties.
  That made no change to the fact he planned to avoid her as
much as possible.

Perhaps, despite the afternoon’s lateness, Hilliard
still had yet to perform.  He worked his way through the Inner Circle’s streets
toward the festival grounds after the guards let him out.  The streets were
still strangely empty in spite of the people he could see moving about.  Most
were dressed in festive clothing and talking loudly with their compatriots. 
From what he gathered, a good number had come from today’s main event, only
returning because the particular contender they cheered for had already
finished.

With no heavy traffic to slow him he made it through
the three walls and into the Outer City in half a mark.  Once within the tents
and stalls and dirt roadways that had quickly become known as Tourney Town, his
progress slowed considerably.  After a full mark, he passed through the
northern fringe and into the track area where the horses had run the first day.

Horses were still running, though the track had been
shortened to a half-mile.  The opposite platform where the tournament officials
had watched with their glasses was surrounded by a broad oval horse run. 
Anyone who demonstrated adequate horsemanship could enter the races, which were
run every quarter-mark by the same horses the contenders had ridden.

Marik thought this contest might be worth the try,
despite being one of the few with an entrance fee.  After riding the dumbest
horse in creation around eastern Galemar for half the previous summer in all
types of weather and terrain, he thought he stood a good chance to win, at
minimum, the two silvers for second place.  Thinking of his current mount
stabled at Paddy’s, he amended the thought to,
the second dumbest horse in
creation.

When he skirted the stand’s edge, he saw that the seat
rows were filled with people watching the horses that were preparing for the
next race.  To the northwest he could see an impenetrable wall of bodies and
understood why they had decided to abandon fighting the crowds.  Too bad the
same option was unavailable for him.

He walked behind the thickest crowd swells, following
the line for half a mile to the southern ford across the Pinedock River.  In
the horse race this had been the ford where the contenders crossed the water to
follow the four mile loop that led further upstream to the northern ford. 
Today, it served as the ending point where the nobles pulled their dripping
bodies from the water.  The first eight in every ten to swim the two miles
would advance to the next trial five days hence.

He debated whether the people or the noise would be
the tougher element to deal with.  Once he judged he had reached the southern
ford, he took his life in his hands and plowed through the crowd.  Several
people expressed their indignation with this.  His toughened features and the
large sword hilt over his shoulder he occasionally allowed to thump into a
protestor’s head eventually won the day.  The cityguard maintaining the line
needed convincing that he possessed a legitimate right to enter the contestant
area.  Finally through, he searched for Dietrik.

Marik quickly found all four, as most bodyguards
departed with the body they were guarding after completing the swim.  Hilliard
must have only then finished his, to judge by the enormous towel he currently
twisted into his ear.

“Well a’day,” Dietrik exclaimed when he noticed Marik
advancing.  “You have survived the morning.  And without a singed eyebrow to
show for it.”

“I’ve had better days.  I’ll tell you about it later. 
How did it go?”

Hilliard responded.  “I very nearly lagged too far!  I
came in eighth.  I should have been practicing every day between the riding and
the swim!”

“Next is archery, right?  I think Landon can help you
with that, and Walsh will be happy to lend us his backyard.”

“That tiny area?  There cannot be thirty yards of
unobstructed space, and only ten between the back wall and the inn proper!” 
Obviously the young man had regained enough of his composure around Marik to
begin arguing points with force.

Landon shrugged when Marik asked his opinion.  “He has
a point.  I could correct an error or two by judging his stance, but there’s
little we would accomplish there.  We need a larger space.”

“Well…I suppose we can find a place.  I want to avoid
the official training facilities, though.  At worst, we could go to District
Thirty-Seven and shoot at the thugs running around the alleys from the
rooftops.”

Before anyone could reply, a vaguely familiar young
man walked over to them.  From his bearing he must be a noble, despite being
clad only in a loincloth and carrying a towel to match Hilliard’s.  Before
Marik’s mind could place him, Hilliard stiffened to face to the newcomer.

“Lord Ferdinand,” he greeted respectfully, and bowed
his head.

“Lord Hilliard,” the other young man smiled back. 
“I’m glad to see you made it through.  I was worried Padmoor and Cuert were
going to pass you there, for a moment.  I do so enjoy watching another baron
beating a pair of earls.”  He laughed openly.

Hilliard reddened.  “I’m not a baron yet.”

“Neither am I, but we will be.  Speaking of which, I’m
hosting a reception the night after tomorrow.  Strictly ‘barons only’, who are
still in the tournament after the first two trials.  Or future barons, if you
prefer,” he added when Hilliard made to protest.

Baron Sestion’s son clearly struck them as a man who
rarely accepted the word ‘no’, so Marik, still in a fatalistic mood after the
day’s emotional tides, shrugged when Hilliard glanced sideways at him.

“That sounds most inviting,” Hilliard replied to
Ferdinand, deepening to a darker shade of crimson.  “I will assuredly be
there.”

“Fantastic!  Be at our home in the Inner Circle by the
first evening bell.  Keegan said he’d rather ride the first race again, naked
and backwards on the saddle pommel, but he’ll show up!”  With a wink, he strode
away, followed by his three silent guards.

“What was that all about?” Marik asked.  “And why are
you so red?  You’re both barons.”

Hilliard jerked.  “His father is a baron of the
court
.”

“So he has a title, but no land.  Sounds like you’re
the one better off.”

“Society,” Dietrik cut in, “never follows the rules of
common sense as you and I know them.  I would say that while a baron of the
court is not landed in the traditional sense, he might wield greater political
power than a baron outside Thoenar.  Is that the truth of it?”

Hilliard nodded.

“So Baron Sestion would be equal to, say, an earl
outside the court,” Dietrik concluded.

“But so what?” Marik asked.  “I thought titles didn’t
put you off your feed.”

“They do not,” Hilliard affirmed, straightening as he
said so.  “But proper respect is due where is has been earned.”

“
If
he’s earned it,” Landon chimed.  “I won’t
comment until I learn more of the man.”

“His son seems decent enough,” Marik mused aloud.

“And an excellent swimmer as well!  Come on, Marik old
friend,” Kerwin announced jovially and threw an arm around his shoulders. 
“Let’s start back to the inn for the biggest dinner Walsh’s kitchen can
concoct.  I’ll tell you about the fabulous race you missed!  Keegan was making
a good showing, but Ferdinand was only letting him
taste
the lead before
leaving him in his wake!  I tell you, those two have some sort of rivalry
between them!  It should make the betting
very
interesting!  Once they
reached the halfway point…”

“Whose bright idea was this?”  Marik tugged at the
collar on the stiff shirt he wore, fighting to adjust the blasted thing to a
point where it would stop feeling like a noose.

“What does it matter?” responded Dietrik, probably,
Marik thought, in an effort to distract him from the fact it had been Dietrik
who insisted on purchasing new clothing.  He, too, adjusted his new pine
needle-green shirt, the tight weave doing little to conceal the peculiar bulges
of his mail beneath.  “We needed new clothing in any event.  Did you truly wish
to show up in your normal tunic?  The sweat stains under the arms look like
patches!”

“New clothing, maybe.  But how am I supposed to fight
in this?”  Marik threw an arm out sideways in a slashing motion, stopped short
when the wrist cuff’s tightened at the movement.

“With great care,” Kerwin advised while smiling
broadly.  He had dug into his packs and donned the leather vest and shirt he’d
taken to wearing when traveling the nearby towns around Kingshome.  “And you
haven’t corded your sword yet.”

“More idiocy,” Marik grumbled.  The group stopped long
enough for Marik to tie his sword’s hilt to the sheath.

“No, it is courtesy,” Hilliard challenged.  “It is a
sign of respect when visiting the house of a gentleman.  Would you bare your
blade in the house of a friend?”

“It’s asking for trouble,” Marik shot back.  People
streamed around them in the street.  “And a real friend would trust me with a
bared blade.  Remember what happened the last time we let our guard down!”

He finished the last knot before straightening. 
Hilliard asserted, “Of course I have not forgotten!  That would be a crime
worse than that which those murderers committed!”

Hilliard avoided further discussion by resuming the
march.  Marik grinned slightly at his back.  At least that much had come from
the tournament so far.  Their charge looked to have regained his old self and
no longer hesitated around him.  Young Garroway had even begun asking him to
demonstrate his sword techniques again.

The streets in the Inner Circle were crowded despite
the continuing roar from Tourney Town.  Though most stalls and contests closed
two marks after sunset, the tents would be a lively place until dawn.  Of all
the merchants profiting from the tournament for the Arm this year, Marik
suspected that the ale suppliers would earn enough to retire for life by
month’s end.

“Get a move on,” Kerwin called over his shoulder. 
“We’re already behind schedule.”

“Easy for you to say,” Marik fired in return.  “You
can actually
move
in your getup!”

“That’s the benefit to having clothing tailored to
your cut instead of purchasing leftovers the tailor had lying around his shop. 
Keep that in mind for your next visit.”

Dietrik laughed.  “But cheer up, mate!  We won’t stick
out so much tonight like ragweed in a vase of roses!”

“Why bother?  Odds are we’ll spend most of the night
shoved away in a closet with the other bodyguards.  Ten coppers says we look
like jesters next to them.”

“I’m game,” Kerwin effused.  “Even odds?”

“Shut up.”

The shirt sleeve rode up his left arm with every
slight movement.  Annoyed to the utmost, Marik flapped his arm sideways, trying
to force the fabric to loosen or stretch or, by the gods,
move
!  After a
minute of this, an empty carriage pulled to a stop beside them.

“Where you headed, sir?” the driver called down. 
“Deeper into the Circle?”

“What?”

“I can get you there within the quarter for a right
nice bonus.”

“No thanks!” Marik called back.  The last time they
took a local guide up on his offer, he had come to bitterly regret it.

“See here!  I’ve the cheapest fares of all coaches in
city!”

“Who cares?  Shove off!”  Marik quickened his step to
put an end to the discussion.

“Why’d you flag me down then?  Think I haven’t got
better things to do tonight?”

“I didn’t flag you down, and we don’t need a damned
coach!  Get going!”

The coachman hurled a scathing rejoinder after Marik,
punctuating it by lashing out with his whip when he drove past them.  It missed
Marik only by inches.  Surprised by the assault, he jumped aside…into three
women minding their own business and jostling their packages from their grips. 
He fled their screeching outrage, then furiously ignored his friends when they,
and Hilliard as well, roared with laughter.

Marik said very little during the remaining trek to
Sestion’s mansion.  Dietrik and Landon chose to speculate on the residents in
the increasingly large homes while Kerwin started a discourse with Hilliard
regarding the relationship between Ferdinand and Keegan.

He learned little from either conversation, other than
that the Gardinnier family was relatively new to the nobility.  Keegan’s
grandfather had been elevated from a commoner to a baron nearly fifty years ago
for one reason or another.

The conversation only mildly captured Marik’s
attention.  It passed the time while the street’s illumination shifted
increasingly from the sun to the iron lamps protruding from the paving stones. 
When at last they arrived at the Sestion manner, it was already half past the
first evening bell.

It was not as large as other houses Marik had seen
during his brief travels around the Inner Circle.  He felt, looking at the
mansion, that it was not due to lacking funds on the baron’s part.  Indeed, he
felt certain, without knowing precisely how, that the sole reason this building
fell short of the larger edifices was that its owner
was
only a baron,
rather than an earl or a duke.

‘Small’ would never be a word to describe the
residence before them, except perhaps by judgmental nobles.  The walls were
three stories tall with the windows on the first floor numbering twelve across
the front face.  Rather than corners above the second floor, the walls bulged
outward in circular turrets.  All the roofing tiles were a deep green to match
the Galemar banner fluttering from poles atop the streetward turrets.

Above the walls rose six massive chimneys visible from
the street.  Their brickwork was the brilliant red of fresh roses.  Many bricks
had been rotated ninety degrees before being mortared, the darker protruding
ends arranged in patterns that made Marik blink when they twisted his eyes. 
One pattern was simply diamonds atop each other, like twin lightning bolts
twining around to strike a single point.  Another sported bricks in illusional
patterns that appeared rounded, making the chimney seem to bulge despite its
rigidly straight lines.  Such an effect made him stare for long moments, amazed
that simple brick could be so stunning.

Nearly a hundred feet separated the home from the
decorative wrought-iron fencing set into a three-foot miniature brick property
wall.  Along the side of the property, the walls increased to twelve feet in
height.  Every iron inch had long ago been painted with a
copper paint
to turn the dark metal to a sickly green patina.  Within the open space grew
several trees that shaded the windows.  A carved oak table sat next to a white
marble fountain shaped like maidens supporting an urn, from which flowed a
steady gush.  The rest looked to be flower beds of colorful varieties.

“How do they get the water to come up like that?”
Marik asked when they all stopped admiring the abode.

“I haven’t a clue,” Dietrik admitted.  “Magic,
perhaps?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Instead of guards at the gate, which stood open, a man
greeted them.  His formal dress took severity to unexplored regions, making
Seneschal Locke’s attire seem casual.  But for his face, not an inch of skin
risked exposure to the air.  He unclasped his gloved hands which had been
folded before him while he stood stiff and straight.  The greeting marred not
an inch of his solemn expression.

“Good evening, sirs.  I believe you are expected?” 
His eyes flitted quickly through the five men.

“Indeed.  I am Hilliard Garroway, heir to the barony
of Stonescape, here at Lord Ferdinand Sestion’s invitation.”

“Very good, sir.  Please come with me.  I will show
you into the house.”

The reference to this mansion as a ‘house’ caused
Dietrik and Marik to meet each other’s gaze.  Fortunately, they stifled their
laughter.

Sounds of a gathering became apparent when they neared
the entrance.  The open foyer beyond the doors loomed, a space larger than what
this building should have been able to contain, by surface appearances.  Double
staircases wound upward to the second floor on either side, framed by stone
pillars serving no purpose other than to look impressive.  Between the stairs
on the ground floor, broad, double oak doors had been propped open leading to a
corridor.  Their guide led them through and stopped at the first room on the
right.  Within moments, Ferdinand Sestion appeared.

“Welcome,” he greeted Hilliard warmly.  “I am glad you
made it!  This is becoming quite a gathering!”  His face was flushed and his
eyes glittered with excitement.

“Thank you for welcoming me into your home,” Hilliard
replied in a stilted, formal tone.  Marik wondered how often he had attended
social functions with his peers before this.

“Have you met everyone yet?  Come in and do so.  Let’s
all get aquatinted while we’re in Thoenar together!”  He glanced at the mercenaries
and waved a dismissive hand.  “I’ve had the smaller parlor set aside for
escorts.  They’ll be comfortable in there.  Have you met Durskin Freecot?  His
barony is in eastern Galemar as well, but further north than Stonescape. 
That’s him over there.”

 Ferdinand placed a friendly hand between Hilliard’s
shoulder blades and steered him away.  Marik glanced beyond him into the room. 
In his mind he had been expecting a grand ball, with everyone dressed in
hundred-gold clothing and beautiful ladies dancing on a wide floor while
musicians played delicately in the corner and a thousand candles shed their
soft light across the room.  Bunk, he knew, but an image formed from both the
stories of his youth and his observing the social leeches in the king’s gardens.

Or perhaps not, he amended.  A second glance revealed
that this was a gathering composed solely of sixty or so young men, all between
sixteen and twenty-five years of age.  Some were clustered together in the
chatting groups he had observed at the opening ceremony.  Others lounged on
plush couches, leaning forward as they made their conversational point.  To a
man, they held crystal glasses filled with wine.

“Ughff,” he grunted when Dietrik suddenly elbowed him
in the ribs.

“Come on, mate.  Time to go.”

The servant waited patiently with no change in his
expression, though he exuded an impatient air all the same.  They followed him
further down the hall to a door on the left side.  This door also stood open. 
If this was supposed to be a smaller parlor room than the first, he could not
see where the space went missing.  A cynical voice in his head suggested a
drunken architect had mislabeled a ballroom on the building plans.

“You may pass the evening here,” the servant stated,
gesturing with a graceful movement of his hand.  “If you have need of anything,
please use the bellpull in the far corner, and a servant will assist you.”  His
tone made it clear that no one had better need anything.

He departed without further word.  The four were left
to fend for themselves.  Although over a hundred men already packed the parlor,
finding room was no great challenge.  Most of the furniture had been crammed
together, leaving very little floor space.  Given the mixture in furniture
sets, Marik guessed the servants had moved most of it into this room earlier in
the day to accommodate the numbers they were expecting.

They soon found the other guards closeted with them to
be friendly souls.  Kerwin lost no time at all in producing his dice and
challenging whoever felt lucky to a roll of the bones.  For the second time
that day, chairs were moved, if with a bit more enthusiasm this time.

After claiming a corner away from the massive
fireplace, Kerwin soon had a quarter of the men flocked around his game.  Marik
had seen the gambler at work many times before and elected to stay on a long
couch with Dietrik and two other men, talking about whatever topics the
conversation drifted to.  Both men, they soon learned, had participated in the
Nolier war, being among their lord’s owed tribute of fighters.  They were soon
lost in war stories, with Marik deliberately avoiding any mention of his role
in the final battle.  The gods damned song was bad enough.

Nearly a candlemark later, servants began wandering
in.  None were dressed so smartly as the man out by the gate.  Each bore a
platter laden with an endless variety of mugs or food.  The food was cold
sandwiches of light or dark bread sporting mixtures of ham, chicken, cheeses,
lettuce and tomatoes.

It was all fresh, simple, and very good.  Marik
swallowed his third while thinking he might wander down the hall to check on
Hilliard.

“I keep having this nagging feeling,” said one veteran
after Kerwin made his way from the crowd’s center, “that I know your friend.”