Scourge of the Betrayer ba-1 Read online

Braylar ignored the interruption. “You might try to win him over, but do so at your peril. The tall laconic one is Vatinios of Stoneoak, called Hewspear. You have an equal chance to earn his affection or contempt. Hewspear handles logistics. Which, admittedly, has proven an easier task since our company has been winnowed down to handle more… subtle affairs. And Mulldoos maintains the discipline and readiness of our small band. Both advise me on matters of strategy.”

  Mulldoos said, “Which you promptly ignore.”

  “The perks of being captain. And as you two have obviously surmised, this is our new resident scribe, Arkamondos.”

  Hewspear nodded. Mulldoos didn’t. I took a seat on a bench and Braylar addressed his lieutenants. “Are we ready to move, then?”

  Mulldoos leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Sounds logistical to me.”

  Hewspear said, “We’ve only been awaiting your arrival, Captain. Did you…” He paused, eyes flicking to me for the briefest instant before returning to Braylar, “accomplish all you hoped to on your journey?”

  “I did, indeed. Vendurro and Glesswik are securing our new cargo. See to it they do a good job.” He gave Mulldoos a pointed look. “That encompasses logistics and discipline. We’ll be down shortly.”

  Mulldoos stood, rolled his head around on his monstrous neck, and Hewspear followed him out.

  Braylar sat on the bed, wood groaning as the ropes under the mattress were pulled tight. I wasn’t quite sure what to do, so sat waiting. He folded his arms behind his head and looked over at me. “You have your quills and parchment, yes?”

  I nodded and he said, freighted heavy with irony, “I’m not certain I should like you, Arkamondos-you’re too impertinent by half-but I can’t seem to help myself. Still, we should reestablish something here. I didn’t solicit you because you’re the most sublime scribe, and I didn’t hire you because you’re the most lyrical; the bargain was struck because you reputedly miss nothing. It’s said you’re perceptive and quick. I want you to get it all, and you claim you can do this thing. So… miss nothing. Record everything. No matter how contrary or nonsensical it might seem to you at the time. Digressions, tangents, observations. All of it. But you aren’t to pollute it with poetry. This is our bargain. This is our understanding. You’ve been hired to record everything. So get out your pens and ink and record what you will of our meeting today.”

  He closed his eyes and fell asleep faster than I believed possible, even before I had even gathered my writing supplies. And some time later, when my quill finished scratching across the page, linking and inking my brief account together, his eyes opened back up and he immediately sat upright. “Very good. And with that, Arki, my young scribe, we should quit and fill our bellies with the local fare, such as it is. Tomorrow, we continue on the road.”

  I looked at him, probably blinked stupidly a few times, and then asked, “The road?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “Leave. Trek. Depart. Journey rather than sojourney. Tomorrow after breaking fast.”

  “But… but you didn’t say anything about this. Our contract-”

  “You’re right. I didn’t. I also disclosed no information about where our interviews would be conducted. You assumed, I assume, they’d take place in Rivermost. How unfortunate. But if you’ve been misled, you’re at least partially to blame for not asking more astute questions. You’re wifeless and childless, yes? With few friends, I imagine.”

  Harsh, but I didn’t protest as he continued, “Whatever it is you think you leave behind, consider what you stand to gain: while you’ll be paid well enough for your services, I can give you something much grander than coin. Fame. Fame for having been the archivist of an amazing tale. I could’ve chosen any scribe to record this, but I chose you. Among many. And you’ll have the rarest of opportunities to record something exceptional firsthand. For now, I’ll tell you this much. All empires crumble. All borders change. All kingdoms die. Where I’m taking you, you’ll witness the death of a body politic, the expiration of a way of life, the redrawing of a map. Something singular and priceless. So put away your bleak looks and let’s eat some of Hobbins’ slop. My belly grumbles.”

  The captain had chosen well, even if his tone and phrasing were on the hurtful side. Whatever reticence I had about leaving Rivermost, he was spot on-I had no family, or none that had claimed me as such for years, and no friendships of any lasting duration. The promise of being part of something larger than my life-which, admittedly, up to this point hadn’t exactly been consequential or noteworthy-was exciting, even if my involvement was restricted to observing and recording. At least it would presumably be something worth setting to parchment for once. And there was no denying the draw to that. If I had to scribble down another ledger report or the history of one more self-satisfied grain merchant, I might jab a quill in my eye.

  Captain Killcoin started towards the door. This discussion was clearly at an end, so I stowed my supplies and started after him.

  I was in a daze as I followed my new patron down the stairs. I’d been in Rivermost for some time, and I fully expected that if I ever left, it would be because I’d run out of work, not because I was accompanying a Syldoon commander on a mysterious assignment. After all, no one accompanied them anywhere on purpose if they could help it. And yet there I was, trailing behind one. He had his scarf tight around the tattoo again-clearly, he was cloaking his origins. But part of me wanted to yell to everyone in the inn, “I’m traveling with the Syldoon!”

  I’d been around soldiers on a few occasions, on rare instances as a boy at the Noisy Jackal when I was actually allowed in the common room, and occasionally in my travels since, but I’d never had cause to really share their company-violence always seemed to be both the question and the answer with their kind, which made me decidedly nervous. And given that my nerves were delicate enough as it was, I avoided them whenever possible.

  What’s more, the Syldoon were no ordinary soldiers. The prospect of spending a long period of time working with this man and his company was equally exciting and discomfiting. Exciting, because it was a unique opportunity-even if he wasn’t especially forthcoming about the particulars, it was clear we would be on a venture of some import. And what better way to establish myself as a chronicler worth following than by following a patron who intended great things?

  Discomfiting, because he was a Syldoon, after all. While I wasn’t a native Anjurian and didn’t have any direct experience with the Syldoon, the tales of their atrocities and treachery were well known. I suspected they were exaggerated, as these things usually are, growing more horrifying with each retelling. But there must have been some truth there, too. And even a little of it was enough to cause pause. A lot of pause, really.

  My mother always said that Syldoon were best to be avoided, and if that failed, placated. Of course, despite serving at the Jackal on one of the busiest highways in Vulmyria, she never traveled farther than five miles from the hovel she was born in, so it’s unlikely she had first- or even secondhand knowledge of their kind. And no one would have accused her of being brilliant, even on the handful of things she had experience with.

  Still, while her wisdom had been suspect about most things, the Syldoon were regarded by practically everyone with fear, hatred, or at least hot suspicion. Even if she only parroted what she heard, my mother probably stumbled onto the truth with that single warning. But here I was, the newest member of a Syldoon retinue, willing rather than conscripted. It was difficult to believe.

  I almost wished she could have seen me now.

  While chronicling the staid sagas of grain merchants and overstuffed burghers was undeniably tedious, it was at least safe. There was next to no chance of any physical danger to myself. But that was also the problem-it was so incredibly… safe. The “death of a body politic” might have been something best recorded from far away or well after the fact. In fact, I was certain of it. But the chance to witness something of real historical significance unfolding before me, to attach my n
ame as scribe, to perhaps achieve some measure of fame because of it… there was no denying the draw-it was loaded with intoxicating possibility.

  Most chroniclers led the life I had-penning away the vastly uninteresting details of men, or occasionally women, of no lasting significance. Tales flat and turgid, dusty and without meaning except to close family or sycophantic friends. Maybe not even them. At least with those from the middle or lower castes. And even those archivists with noble benefactors often secretly complained that nothing really ever happened.

  But now, for reasons I didn’t really understand, I’d secured the patronage of a Syldoon commander. And not one in his dotage relating glories from days gone, but one promising adventure, action, consequence. Perhaps it wasn’t wise of me to accept so quickly. Perhaps I should have deliberated, weighed the draw against the potential drawbacks more carefully, judiciously…

  But reservations or not, the choice was made. If it proved too dangerous down the road, I would simply extricate myself from the arrangement. I wasn’t doing anything that couldn’t be undone. I hoped.

  Though the inn was crowded with the expected miners, masons, river sailors, and the most meager fieflords, it wasn’t especially large, so even in the low light of oil lamps, spotting Mulldoos and Hewspear wasn’t difficult. They were at a long table next to the empty fireplace, along with Vendurro and Glesswik. I didn’t expect Lloi to join us, but she was there as well.

  As we walked towards them, Braylar’s flail rattled and clinked at his side, and more than one patron looked up to see the source of the noise, though most returned to their conversations quickly enough, it being too dark to make out the Deserters on the end of the chains. The one exception was the table of Hornmen we passed. Another weapon in the room always earned more than a cursory glance from them, no matter what the weapon looked like. Especially when the owner was heading towards a table where every occupant was armed. Mulldoos a falchion, Hewspear a flanged mace, Vendurro and Glesswik swords, and Lloi a sword as well, though curved and shorter, in the fashion of the Grass Dogs. And each member of Braylar’s retinue also had a mug in hand. Ale and armament. Yes, soldiers did make me nervous.

  Braylar took a seat alongside Hewspear, and while there was an opening near Mulldoos, I thought it prudent to choose one between Vendurro and Lloi. As Hobbins promised, Syrie was there almost immediately. She dropped off four mugs of ale with the Hornmen and made her way to us. It was obvious she was her father’s daughter. She had the same height and angles, with just enough womanly cushion to pad the straight lines. Her arms were bare, shoulders rounded with small muscles from a lifetime of carrying trays. Luckily, her nose must have come from her mother.

  She set her tray down on the table and tucked a strand of hair behind an ear. “You two look thirsty enough, am I right? What can I get you?” She smiled, and while she wasn’t the kind of girl to immediately excite the loins, I could see someone forgetting she was forgettable, especially if she kept smiling like that. I wondered if my mother had ever had a smile that did the same; if so, she never used it on me.

  Braylar said, “We are thirsty indeed, lass. What would you suggest?”

  “Going to a different inn. But seeing as you’re here, I’d say the ruddy ale. It’s no good, but better than anything else the Canker brews.”

  I asked, “Who is the Canker?”

  She tilted her head back toward her father. “Called on account of his cheery disposition. So, two ruddy ales then?”

  Braylar nodded. I nearly asked if they had any casks of wine, but I doubted someone lovingly called Canker knew how to discern good grapes from bad. I inquired after cider, which elicited a laugh from Mulldoos, but Syrie’s smile never wavered. “It’s as thick as oil, and half as tasty, but it’s there if you’ll have it.”

  I opted for the ale.

  Braylar asked, “Is the fare as fine as the drink? If so, I don’t think we could miss an opportunity to sample some.”

  “The Canker cooks as well as he brews, true enough. But tonight my brother’s in back, and he’s a fair hand. We’re serving some capon brewet or civet of hare. The ale compliments neither, so you can’t go wrong.”

  “Then some of both, yes?”

  “Both it is. Back soon enough.” She headed into the kitchen, skirts swishing.

  Mulldoos bit off the corner of his thumbnail and spit it onto the floor, glaring at me the whole time. “Bad enough we got to deal with your dog at the table, but now your scribbler, too? Almost enough to put me off my drink.”

  Hewspear laughed. “The largest army assembled would fail in the attempt. I doubt very much a crippled girl and a reedy scribe are up to the task.”

  Lloi leaned over to me. “Don’t take no offense, bookmaster. The boar’s got no love for man nor beast, so you’re in fulsome company.”

  I wasn’t sure if she intended Mulldoos to hear, but he clearly did. “Your savage folk should have cut the tongue in place of the fingers, done us all a favor.”

  Lloi was about to respond when Braylar held his hand up. Syrie arrived with our mugs and set them on the table. “You’re free to spend your money as you please, but if you’ll be drinking for long, I’d recommend the pitchers. Cheaper on the whole. The Canker would just as soon I served empty mugs and charged twice as much, but that won’t stop me from speaking my piece.”

  Braylar replied, “Honesty, integrity, and beauty, all in one girl.”

  The prettying smile again. “You repay my truth with lies, but I can’t fault you for the exchange.” She winked and moved off to another table.

  After taking another swig, Braylar wrinkled his nose. “It might actually be worth paying twice as much for an empty mug.”

  I took a drink, and the ale was like bitter silt. Ruddy indeed. But that didn’t stop Vendurro-he tipped his mug up as if it contained the finest elixir on earth, then elbowed me in the ribs. “Guessing you never had cause to ride with the likes of us before, huh?”

  I nodded and he said, “The bloodletting, well, that will tweak your dreams some, until you stop noticing. And the cursing and farting, no shortage of that, and that’s no kind of pleasant to deal with. But the hardest thing to get used to is ale that tastes like it came straight from a donkey’s cock. But that’s soldier swill, son. So best get accustomed.” He wiped some foam off his lip and said, “Guessing, too, you haven’t seen Cap put that nasty flail of his to good use yet then either?”

  Hewspear flashed him a look brimming with warning and wrath, but Mulldoos went one better. “Best shut your hole right quick. Son.”

  Vendurro held his hands up, supplicant. “Easy, easy. I wasn’t going to go on about the… unnatural bit. Just talking about the captain and his flail spinning bloody circles around someone, is all. That’s all I was getting at. No need to go hostile.” He looked at Glesswik. “Remember Vortnall, Gless? Remember that?” He rapped on the table. “That was some kind of something, eh?”

  “Graymoor.”

  “What?”

  “Wasn’t Vortnall at all, but Graymoor.”

  Vendurro was drunkenly dubious. “You sure?”

  “Graymoor.”

  “Huh. Could have sworn it was Vortnall.” He elbowed me again. “We were at a tavern-good one, too, with some of the plumpest barmaids you ever seen-and the captain there, well, he took to his drink like a man dying of thirst. Drank his share and mine and yours and more besides. Our rooms were all at an inn, other quarter of the city.” Vendurro stopped, looked at Glesswik. “You sure it was Graymoor? Vortnall had those really narrow streets, and I seem to recall-”

  Glesswik hit him on the arm and almost sent him off the bench. “Tell the bloody story.”

  “Whoreson.” Vendurro steadied himself and laughed. “So, we all left to go back to the inn, all save the captain. Mulldoos and Hewspear, the rest too, they were already there, bunking down. Mulldoos here, he sees me come into the inn, charges up to me, saying, ‘Where’s the captain?’ I say, ‘Drinking, I’m thinking.’ Mulldoos,
getting real angry like he does, says, ‘You left the captain alone? Drinking? Go fetch him.’ I protest that the good captain wasn’t one to be fetched by the likes of me, nor no man, when it came to it. But Mulldoos spins me around by the shoulders and kicks my backside, saying, ‘Go fetch him or spend the next tenday digging latrines.’ Now, seeing as how we were in a city, I almost asked if he got permission from the mayor for those new latrines, but I kept that to myself.”

  Glesswik burped and added, “Good thing, too. You’d still be digging them.”

  “True enough. So off I went. But I wasn’t about to go fetch the captain by my lonesome, so I pull Glesswik with me. It was late then, after curfew, and the streets were mostly deserted. Watch should have been out patrolling, but if they were, we saw no sign. We round a corner, getting near the tavern, and not too far ahead of us, we see four street toughs barring the captain’s way. Now, not sure how it is where you’re from, but in Graymoor and most cities like them in these parts, the street toughs like to arm themselves with lash balls. Long piece of leather, one end looped around the wrist, the other tied to a weight of some sort. Sometimes iron in the shape of an egg, sometimes a small bag full of lead pellets, sometimes a little stone wheel, like a tiny millstone. Quick, quiet, easy to hide, and more than capable of cracking a bone or three. Handy in a street fight, not handy for much else.

  “Now, these toughs, they drop their lash balls, practically in unison, like they been practicing the move for effect half their years, thinking they got themselves an easy mark, lone man staggering. The captain, though, he starts to laughing, looking at the weights and the leather lashes, laughing like they popped daisies out of their sleeves. Hand on his knee to steady himself, he’s laughing so hard. Then he straightens and says something we can’t hear. Gless and me, we start sprinting, but before we even make it halfway there to help, the captain rips that wicked flail off his belt. Flips the handle up with one hand, snatches it out of the air with the other. Most nights, he does that smoother than silk, but that night, he caught it on the belt hook some.