Kingshelm (Renegade Druid Cycle Book 1) (14 page)

Barryn nodded slowly. “What is your clan?”

“I was born to Clan Red Bear,” she said. “I will say no more, for my secrets are between me and the gods.”
 

“You look like a Caeldrynn shield maiden,” Barryn said, “but you sound like you were born in the Empire.”
 

“It took me years to master this effete, civilized accent,” Tethys said. “But now I dream in it—and so will you. Barryn, your service to me will, until further notice, be spent with a private tutor until you can write and speak like a Mergovan. You will also escort Jasmine in her errands around the city. I want you to learn it street by street, alley by alley. Know the cobblestone patterns of each ward, their smells. Know when the streets are crowded and when the city sleeps. This is my charge to you.”

“Lady Tethys, I am honored that you place so much trust in me—but why me?”

“Because I sense a weakness in you for strong women,” she said. “I’ve found it’s a common flaw among great men of the Caeldrynn, but especially for druids. I am confident that you will do your best for me. And Dub told me your story. Your best, he says, is quite impressive.”
     

“To those uninitiated to the workings of Imperial governance,” said Mithrandrates, “it would appear that the several provinces of the Mergovan Empire will enjoy a year of peace.”

The Emperor leaned on the stone parapet of the Citadel’s highest balcony and stared down at the sprawling capital below. Garon stood by him at a respectful distance; farther away, two armored Imperial guards kept the open doorway into the Emperor’s chambers.
 

Earlier that day, Mithrandrates had presided over the annual Private Council locked securely within the heart of the Citadel. It was the real reason for the festivities, the games, the days of revelry. The Imperial budget was set behind those ironbound doors (and summarily ignored as needed), guilds and new towns had their charters ratified and, most tellingly for all involved, the dukes and duchesses mimed the annual ritual of ratifying the Ancient Accord of Peace. The wording remained unchanged year to year. The provinces resolved to swear brotherhood and to uphold the common defense amongst themselves. Those provinces who voted in favor of the resolution signaled their intent to sit out any squabbles that might erupt in the coming year; those who voted against often had troops on the march before the ballot was even cast. This year, to the Emperor’s mild surprise, the vote upholding the resolution was unanimous.
Brynn and Relfast need more time to prepare for their little war than I thought. Or they are needlessly timid this year
, the Mithrandrates thought.
 

“Perhaps it will indeed be a peaceful year, Emperor,” the Black Rod said and stepped closer. “Or perhaps the governors will be emboldened by the Emperor’s—unorthodox—decision and utterly disregard the Accord.”

The Emperor shifted his hands on the stone railing and leaned forward to squint at the setting sun. Shadows lengthened in the alleys and warrens below, and the venerable battlements of the capital city glowed a ruddy hue where the last of the day’s light struck them. The Council had surprised the Emperor with their vote, but he returned the favor with compounded interest. “Resolution 23, Regarding the Deployment of the Imperial Army Within the Boundaries of a Province and the Several Provinces,” it was innocuously titled. The document, in one fell stroke, ceded veto power over the Emperor’s authority to deploy more than one legion at a time into the provinces. It was as shocking as it was unexpected—the dukes and duchesses of the Council were dumbfounded even as they voted for it. And Mithrandrates had kept the resolution secret even from Garon.
   

“You do not approve of Resolution 23?” he asked.

“It is not my place to second guess the Emperor,” Garon said. “His judgements, and those of the Council, are wise and are the guiding light of our Empire.”

“Only a simpering, deceitful worm would say such words and mean them.”

“And you would not have such a man as your Black Rod,” Garon said.
 

“No, I would not.”
 

“Emperor, your father sent the legions to quell the Crimson Rebellion. You led them yourself to their most decisive victories in nearly a century. Emperor Harmandis sent the legions forth, as did Trajan, as did Ghaeris, as did Darylgathe. Emperor Mandarak was crushing rebels even in the smoldering ruins of the last Chaos Moon. Look at the buffoons who rule your provinces! The legions will need to march again in our lifetime,” Garon said.
 

Mithrandrates turned and favored him with a gentle smile, but his eyes were cold. “Will a meaningless vote stop the legions marching if I order them afield?”
 

Garon breathed deeply. “A few years ago? No. Today? I cannot say. We teach the young officers in our military academies to obey the Emperor but uphold the ideals of Empire. And many of them take the will of the Council seriously. I fear the academies are teaching them too well.”

“Agreed. And if the governors are taking the will of the Council as seriously as our young officers do, there is no reason to send the legions into their little provinces in the first place,” Mithrandrates said. “And I can relax and enjoy the immeasurable wealth and carnal delights that are supposedly owed the Emperor. But the governors squabble amongst themselves and needlessly slaughter productive citizens of the Mergovan Empire for foolish vanity. When the need arises, and it will, the legions will march when I call.”

Mithrandrates dismissed Garon and went into his chamber. A dark-haired beauty waited for him, reclining on a mass of sumptuous cushions. Her diaphanous gown was open in the front.
 

“Shall we make love, my Emperor? Or do you instead need a good flogging upon the chessboard this night?” she asked.
 

Mithrandrates poured a cup of wine and handed it to her. “Chess, Lady Madeline. I need to remember that I can, in fact, be outmaneuvered. Hubris is particularly deadly in the Citadel.”

She smiled and rose from the cushions. “Good. I have interesting tidings to share while you scowl at the board.”

Barryn rose before the sun one sabbath to go to the temple. He had taken Dub’s advice and sat patiently through the boring sermons every week so he could walk among the trees and meditate in the prayer gardens of the great walled temple. “Silent prayer and contemplation” he had learned to call it. He was really praying to his ancestors and the spirits of the wood. Barryn was too afraid to pray to the gods, especially Mahurin and Ashara. They might, after all, hear him and suddenly turn their attention upon him.

Barryn visited the jakes, washed up and gathered a few copper crowns for his offering before leaving the House of Portia. His coin purse jingled merrily at his side as he left the gates of the great manor and wound his way down the now familiar maze of streets toward the Gold Merchants’ Bridge.
 

As Barryn turned a corner, a cloaked man smelling of ale, man stink and pipe smoke bumped into him.

“Eh, oy, ah, many pardons, eh. I dunna see like how I used to, what?” the man slurred.
 

“Sorry…” Barryn stopped his apology cold when he felt a slight tug at his side. He swept his hand down and felt his purse missing. Barryn wheeled away from the stinking man and bolted after the sound of quickening footsteps down another alley. He ran the thief down and tackled him in the alley.
 

“That’s my temple offering, you goat fucker!” Barryn raged, slipping into his thick heathen accent.
 

The accomplice, a wiry man with a scraggly goatee, elbowed Barryn in the jaw and scrambled to his feet.

Barryn found a broken pave stone and, rising to one knee, hurled the missile at the fleeing man. The stone cracked into the back of his skull, and he dropped in mid-stride.
 

“You little shit!” hissed the stinking man, who was now behind Barryn and devoid of his drunken slur. Barryn turned, and the thug was on him, a dagger clenched pointing downward in his left fist.
 

The next moments were a blur of steel and furious kicks that felt like an eternity to Barryn. He slammed the robber to the ground with him, then simultaneously clenched a handful of greasy beard with his right hand and pinioned the dagger with his forearm. Barryn hammered the man with his weaker left hand as they both kicked and scrabbled in the mucky alley.
 

A voice thundered behind them.
 

“Stop! City Watch!” A swift kick knocked Barryn off his attacker. The robber laid where he was, dazed by the heathen boy’s pummeling. “What is this? Speak!”

Barryn obeyed. Two men with drawn swords stood before him. They were clad in maille and helm, and the winged horse of Brynn was embroidered on their tabards.
 

The young heathen panted and tried to control his accent. “I was on my way to temple, and these two robbed me,” he said, weakly pointing first to the stinking man and then to the wiry man a few yards down the alley. His right forearm began to throb, and he felt the warm wetness of blood as it dribbled on his skin.
 

“Who do you belong to?” the taller watchman asked.

“Lady Tethys of the House of Portia,” Barryn said.
 

The shorter one scoffed and kicked the dagger away from the stinking robber’s limp hand. “You need to go to temple if you labor in that den of iniquity. Did you choose to serve in the fortress of harlots, or are you under bond?”

“Bond,” the heathen boy said, then pointed again to the wiry man. “My papers are in my purse, along with seven copper crowns for my offering. He has them.”

The shorter guardsman walked over to the limp form and found the purse. He rifled through it, felt the wax seal of Lady Tethys on Barryn’s papers, then walked back to the heathen boy. He tossed Barryn the purse. “Stand up, lad, and step out of the alley. The fight isn’t finished.”

The taller watchman cleared his throat. “Sojak, I should sound the horn. Mahurin can watch His own.”

“Mahurin sends us forth to do His will, Jesse,” Sojak said. He turned to the now stirring robber. “Stand, you dog. Stand! Puke it out. Puke. Empty your guts. Now STAND!”

The stinking robber meekly obeyed. “Begging your pardon, good sirs, I were just…”

“You were robbing a boy on his way to cleanse his soul at the Holy House of Mahurin. An attack on the least of Mahurin’s children is an attack on Him!” Sojak said.
 

“Sojak, let’s bind him and his comrade and sound the horn,” Jesse said. “Then we’ll get the boy to the guardhouse so we can bind his wounds.”

“The wounds of the flesh are as nothing next to the wounds of the soul, Jesse. And temporal justice is nothing if we are not just before Mahurin,” Sojak said.
 

“Fine. Fuck it. Do it. The kid’s bleeding here,” Jesse said. “I won’t shed any tears over these turds.”

“Please, good sirs!” the mugger began to sob.

“What I do, I will do quickly,” Sojak said. “In the name of Mahurin!” Sojak stepped into a swift cut from over his right shoulder. His sword flashed in the early morning light and buried itself in the robber’s head with a
crunch
. Sojak followed up with another vicious cut before the hapless crook hit the ground. He walked to the wiry accomplice and flipped him onto his back, then placed the pave stone that had felled him into his limp hand. Sojak then dispatched the man with a quick stab to the gut.
 

“Would he have held on to the rock after you ran him through?” Jesse asked.
 

“Good point,” Sojak said. He turned around nudged the pave stone out of the corpse’s hand with the toe of his boot. “Sound the horn, Jesse.”

Jesse and another city watchman held Barryn down on a bench in the guardhouse of the Gold Merchants’ Bridge while Sojak washed the cuts on the boy’s arm with grain spirits. Flaming spears of pain brought silent tears to Barryn’s eyes, and his nose filled with snot.
 

“Ach! Fuck me running!” he hissed. The two guards holding him down laughed softly and tightened their grip.

Sojak paused and wagged a finger in Barryn’s face. “You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head on the Sabbath. Mahurin saved you from those sinners when He sent us down that alley. Jesse and me don’t usually patrol that far. The least you can do is not foul Mahurin’s holy day with your filthy language.”
 

Barryn nodded, and Sojak continued his work. Barryn tried to keep his mind on anything but what was happening to his savaged arm. When they had entered the guard house, the city watchmen had removed their helms and Barryn could see their features clearly in the lamplit room. Jesse and the other guard had full heads of hair, Jesse’s shoulder-length and streaked with gray. Both had trimmed beards. Sojak, by contrast, was clean-shaven with close-cropped hair.

“Were you an Imperial soldier?” Barryn asked, trying the knowledge he had gained during his tutoring in the past weeks. The two holding him down laughed out loud, and Sojak stopped again and glared at Barryn.
 

“No, lad. He’s a Knob Head,” Jesse said. “A Son of Mahurin. They are especially faithful.” He finished with an air of seriousness that Barryn thought could have been genuine or sarcastic—but he could not tell which.
 

Sojak finished washing the slashes in Barryn’s arm and produced a needle and thread. “This will hurt like the hellfire the apostates will suffer.” He looked up at Jesse. “Keep jabbering with him while I do this.”
 

“Don’t worry lad, you’re in good hands,” Jesse said. “Me and Sojak were mercenaries together once upon a time. He was better at combat medicine than a lot of the surgeons. He could have been one himself, but he didn’t want to be no officer. You’ll mend just fine.”