The First Blade of Ostia (20 page)

B
ryn’s hands
were cold as he waited to get called in to the judicial arena. He’d been shown around the Palace of Justice earlier. Unlike the open-air duelling arenas, the judicial one was indoors. It was similar to the salons in the Academy, but without the mirrors lining the walls. There was a gallery where the magistrate sat watching to ensure everything was conducted in full accordance with the law, with two bailiffs on the floor to carry out his instructions.

One of them opened the door to Bryn.

‘We’re ready for you, Banneret.’

Bryn nodded, stood and walked out into the salon. He was greeted by a musty smell. It was simply the hallmark of a poorly ventilated room, but it made him think of death. His sword was still sheathed, a plain, army issue hilt mounted on a light duelling blade. It was sturdy and functional, but there were no concessions to style or artistry. He felt sinister in his completely black duelling clothes, but they fit well and were practical. No matter how many positives he tried to cling to, he felt as though a dark cloud loomed low over his head.

A moment later a man was led into the salon from a different door. Bryn was surprised. Short, overweight and with a flushed, nervous face, he was as unlikely a candidate for trial by combat as Bryn could imagine. He would have had as good a chance of surviving the headsman’s block, and Bryn doubted he had held a sword in his life.

As well as making an unlikely looking swordsman, he didn’t look like a criminal. If anything, he bore the appearance of a serial victim.

‘For the crime of defrauding the taxes of the county of Lloedale, you are sentenced to trial by combat. If you are successful, this court will deem you as having satisfied justice and you will be released,’ the magistrate said.

The man nodded eagerly, as though still entertaining the notion that this was a possibility. He had started sweating heavily.

‘Banneret, are you ready to carry out the requirements of justice as prescribed by His Grace, the Duke of Ostia?’

Bryn nodded. ‘I stand ready to do the Duke’s bidding, Magistrate.’ It was the formal response required. He drew his sword. He had an uneasy feeling—this was an execution and bore no resemblance to a duel—but he’d known what he was getting himself into when he signed the warrant. Now was not the time for second thoughts.

One of the bailiffs undid the manacles binding the accused’s hands, and handed him a sword. Bryn’s suspicion was confirmed from the way he took it, allowing the point to drop as soon as he took the weight. He put his second hand on it and raised the blade, which betrayed the shaking in his hands. He looked utterly pathetic.

The bailiffs stepped back, leaving Bryn to be about his job. He reminded himself that the man was a criminal, there because he had broken the law. He had stolen from the state, and by corollary from Bryn and his family. He had no idea what drove that short, sweaty, pathetic little man to do what he did, but the prospect of killing him affronted Bryn’s sense of honour in every way imaginable.

‘Begin.’

Bryn felt his stomach twist with disgust, but at least he could be merciful about it. Bryn thrust. In one movement he knocked the man’s blade out of the way and ran him through the heart. He pulled his blade free, turned and walked back to the waiting room. Judicial Duellist was not the job for him.

B
ryn used
the mundane task of cleaning and oiling the blade of his sword—he found it difficult to think of it as anything other than an executioner’s blade—to take his mind off what he had just done.

There was a knock at the door and the magistrate entered. ‘That was very well done, Banneret. I’ve not seen anyone dispatch an accused as efficiently, although he admittedly wasn’t the most challenging of defendants. You Bannerets of the Blue really are a class above. The precision of that thrust. First class. You’ll be in demand here as soon as the other magistrates hear about it.’

Bryn grunted in appreciation but said nothing. He had to sign a new warrant for every trial—they were specific to each accused. There was no way he would sign another one or fight another duel like that, even if it meant starving in the street. In choosing never to do it again, Bryn knew he was finally acknowledging that he had exhausted the potential for work in Ostenheim.

A
lack
of work within the city did not mean Bryn’s search there ended. Many jobs that would take him out of the city were recruited for there. The guilds regularly hired in this fashion, and Bryn hoped that he would find something that way. They hired swordsmen to escort transport wagons, work that was said to be dull, and would take him away from the city for long periods, but paid well.

As with all things in Ostenheim, Crossways was the place to begin his search. The square was filled with market stalls, and those for every other type of business imaginable. Like businesses tended to cluster together, and one section—tucked away in the shade of one of the arcades lining the square—was given over to mercenary companies looking to hire swordsmen, thugs, brawlers; anyone who could hold a weapon. There were wars all over the world at any given time, large and small. There was almost always trouble in the Free Principalities of Auracia to the south and there was the recent eruption of hostility with Ruripathia to the north, which had escalated far beyond a punitive border raid. If he felt the need to go farther afield to escape the spectre of his duel with Amero, he was sure there was fighting that needed doing elsewhere too.

The difficulty was going to be finding something that was acceptable to him; what he wanted, and what wanted him had so far run contrary. His name was dirt, and he had no desire to make it worse by signing on with the type of mercenary company that gave all the others a bad name.

Every young swordsman had heard tales of the duplicity and avarice of mercenary companies, raping, pillaging and cheating their way from war to war. There were as many stories of heroism, sacrifice and honour, but they were told with less frequency. Heroic tales were usually reserved for soldiers in the regiments of some great lord. After what he had already been through, he felt he could do with more of the latter than the former.

The companies’ recruiters set themselves out with little stalls—usually no more than a table draped with a banner in the colours of the company. Their colours were often gaudy eyesores that were an ostentatious attempt at a statement by their leader that his company was superior to any of the others. Most of the stalls were manned by maimed men, a missing arm here, a missing eye there, missing teeth almost everywhere. It was not a positive advertisement for the work, but Bryn realised it showed that they made an effort to look after their comrades who could no longer fight.

Years of training imbued one with a bearing and physique that were as strong a sign of one’s profession as carrying a notice stating the same. Bryn sought out the men with this soldierly look, rather than those bearing the hallmarks of thieves, murderers and rapists pretending to be something they were not.

The companies were always hungry to fill out their recruiting quotas, and Bryn began to attract attention as soon as he walked into the arcade where they gathered.

‘Sign on with the Company of the White Cockerel, friend,’ called one, a fellow with a tatty looking patch over one eye.

The name wasn’t particularly attractive to Bryn, so he shook his head and continued.

‘Bonuses and a share of any plunder. Join the Band of Bladesmen,’ another implored. He had the appearance of a recent resident in the city gaol, and the only type of blade he looked familiar with was a stiletto. Not someone Bryn had any interest in marching with. Whoever had chosen the name had a decent sense of alliteration, but nothing else of positive note. Bryn shook his head again and moved on.

They were all the same; gaudy, flamboyant and exactly what sprung to mind when Bryn cast his thoughts back to the stories of mercenary bands laying waste to entire swathes of countryside and putting villagers to the sword over a chicken or sack of vegetables.

Finally he passed by one that made no effort at all to attract his attention, which piqued his curiosity.

‘What are you hiring for?’

‘Escort work.’

That was all he said; the recruiter went back to a close inspection of something he had just picked out of his nose, behaving as though Bryn were not standing there watching him.

‘Escort work for what?’

The man looked up at Bryn, not pleased by the disturbance to what he clearly found to be a fascinating study. ‘Supply wagons to the army up North.’

‘What’s the pay?’

The man seemed surprised that the questioning had gone any farther than the disclosure of the fact that the work was watching over supplies being pulled slowly northward. He sat up and leaned forward, showing interest for the first time.

‘You a banneret?’

‘I am,’ Bryn said.

‘Fourteen florins a day. Round trip takes about forty days.’ He stopped at that point. The pay wasn’t bad for the work, but unlike the other recruiters this man didn’t have the luxury of being able to add in the promise of booty, which could be substantial. Bryn expected that most potential recruits walked away at this point, if they had not done so already.

Forty days out of the city with decent pay was an attractive proposition. All he wanted was enough to be able to keep the bailiffs from his mother’s door, and his belly full until his reputation had been sufficiently weathered to make him palatable for a regular commission. One trip might be sufficient for the tarnish to wear off his name.

‘When do the wagons leave?’

‘Every few days. There’s a train leaving tomorrow and we’re still short on numbers. The Duke isn’t providing enough men; that’s why the guilds have chosen to take on extra at their own expense. They don’t get paid for the wagons they send, only the ones that arrive. You interested?’

‘I am,’ Bryn said.

‘Sign the ledger then, and you’ll be a proud member of the Guilds’ Company.’

‘
Y
ou’re getting better
at this,’ Amero said, as he felt the cold flush through his limbs and ease the fatigue, aches and stiffness.

‘Practice,’ the old man said. ‘And you’re the only person I work for now. Don’t need anything else, and there’s no point drawing attention to myself for no reason.’

Amero nodded. It was wise advice indeed, advice it occurred to him he should take heed of. His profile in the city was growing by the day. While there were still relatively few who could match his face to his name, that number was growing with each match he fought. It was only a matter of time before someone spotted him on his way to this daily appointment, and it wouldn’t be long before they discovered what it was for. That would be the end of it all. Disgrace would follow. He had to prevent that from happening, but there was only one way he could see doing that.

He had only ever gone to the mage to help him get up to the standard required to prosper in the arena in as short a time as possible. He was there now. He was the one who did all the hard work. The skill was all his. Now that he had reached and surpassed that level, did he really need to continue seeing the mage? Was it worth the risk, when he knew he was better than any of his peers? He didn’t need to work that hard any longer to maintain what he had acquired.

There was only one obvious answer. The risk was too great, and the benefits were no longer enough. The old man always slumped into his seat, exhausted after their session. Amero looked at him as he sat there, expecting Amero to leave the payment and go without another word. He didn’t expect Amero’s dagger in his eye. Amero held it firmly as the old man’s body twitched several times before eventually remaining still.

B
ryn walked
to the depot to report for work with a sense of purpose, the travelling bag slung over his shoulder containing, he hoped, all that he would need for the trip. He had spent the previous evening with his mother and sister, and while they weren’t happy about him having to leave the city they realised it was the only option for all of them.

Bryn was confident that he was leaving them with more than enough money to get by. There was the money left over from the duel, his pay for the judicial work and an upfront payment of a quarter of his wage for the escort work. It wasn’t a fortune but it meant there was enough in reserve to pay any bailiffs that came knocking on their door. Bryn didn’t think there was any risk of that, however. Amero had already achieved all he wanted from taking over the debt; he had no reason to press it farther. In all likelihood, he had already written it off. It was too insignificant for him to waste any more time on it, just as Bryn was. He felt his temper flare when he thought of it, but forced it down. Amero didn’t care; the anger only ate away at Bryn.

With each familiar sight, sound and smell, Bryn felt a tumultuous mix of emotion, hate, betrayal, disappointment, heartbreak and shame. There were also the remnants of Amero’s hate campaign to contend with. Occasionally someone recognised him and felt it their responsibility to let him know what everyone thought of him. With luck, that would have subsided by the time he got home. He wondered which unfortunate would next fall foul of Amero’s meteoric rise.

As bad as all of that made him feel, it wasn’t the worst part. It was the shame that was the most difficult to bear. It was hard to put the blame for all of his miseries on Amero. He bore a great part of the responsibility himself. Pride, ambition, stupidity. He couldn’t blame anyone else for that.

The depot was a hive of activity when Bryn arrived. Gangs of men hauled sacks and crates from the warehouses and loaded them onto the waiting wagons. The guilds that had the contract to supply the army made a fortune doing it but, as the recruiter had pointed out, they were only paid for the wagons that arrived. They wanted to ensure every single one that left the city reached the army intact.

Bryn made his presence known and was directed to speak with the escort’s captain, a banneret called Deverardo.

As he wandered around looking, he had to dodge between the teams of brutish looking oxen that were being led out of the depot and hitched to the wagons, four to a team. The wagons themselves were flatbeds, loaded high with whatever it was they were carrying and then covered with grey oilskins and strapped down securely. Despite the early hour, the depot was buzzing with the energy of the final preparations for departure.

Eventually Bryn came to a group of men, one of whom had a rapier strapped to his ample waist.

‘Banneret Deverardo?’

‘Yes?’ he said.

Deverardo was not at all what Bryn expected. Usually a banneret still actively employed needed to maintain a certain physical competence. Deverardo had given up any effort in this regard some time before. He looked as though he liberally helped himself to the provisions on the wagons as they travelled north.

‘Banneret of the Blue Pendollo,’ Bryn said.

‘Ah, excellent. I’ve been expecting you. The rest of the lads are former soldiers for the most part, know their stuff, but it’s nice to have another banneret along. Have you done this type of work before?’

‘No, first time,’ Bryn said.

‘That’s not a problem; there’s not much to it really. The bandits tend to stay clear when they can see armed escorts… Wait, Pendollo you say?’

Bryn nodded.

‘Well, I’ve heard the name and more besides, but I don’t judge a man until I’ve known him a while. I know the duelling promoters like to spice things up a little for the crowd, so do right by me and I’ll do right by you.’

‘I appreciate that,’ Bryn said. ‘You won’t have any problems with me.’

‘Good. We leave in twenty minutes. You can take your pick of the riding horses over there. The guilds kit us out pretty well—want to make sure their wagons arrive—so most of them are decent beasts. If there’s anything else you need, talk to one of the guild commissaries, they’ll sort you out.’

Bryn nodded and went to look at the horses. Despite his poor physique, Deverardo seemed to be a decent man.

T
he horses were much
as Deverardo had said. None were outstanding, but they were all healthy and reliable looking. He chose one and led it back toward where Deverardo was in discussion with one of the wagon drivers. Bryn was relieved by Deverardo’s reaction to his name. He hoped the other men were either similarly open-minded, or better yet, completely ignorant of it.

Up until meeting Deverardo, Bryn had a nagging fear in the back of his head that he would be stuck for forty days taking the orders of a man with a preformed opinion. With that in mind, he could forgive corpulence, incompetence or pretty much anything else. Perhaps he should follow Deverardo’s example and not prejudge someone. Not maintaining a fighting physique didn’t necessarily speak of anything other than a fondness for food and a job that placed him in no danger.

The guilds were well practised at getting the supply wagons underway; as the recruiter had mentioned they sent them out every few days. A hungry army is an unhappy one and the contracts were far too lucrative for the guilds to risk losing them to a rival. They made sure that the supply was regular and reliable. Bryn had barely chosen his horse and stowed his belongings on one of the wagons when Deverardo gave the order to move off. The air filled with the shouts of the wagon drivers, the cracks of their whips and the creaking groans of the wagons’ axles. It was exciting, the start of a new adventure, and the chance to leave the misery of the past months behind him. Was it hoping too much that it would all be forgotten when he returned?

W
hat Deverardo had said was
fresh in Bryn’s mind, and he was determined to prove his worth. He did his best to appear alert and vigilant—even with the city only barely out of sight, the roads grew dangerous—but it was difficult. The monotony of the task wore away at him, and even the excitement of a new experience and the best of intentions could not keep him focussed for more than a few hours.

It did not appear that he was the only one. Several wagons ahead, Deverardo lounged back reading a book. It had not occurred to Bryn to bring one and he was rapidly beginning to regret the oversight. Each time he allowed his mind to drift, Amero appeared. Bryn focussed on the horizon. The journey would be a difficult one if he was plagued by unwelcome thoughts.