CHAPTER 11
Across the city, a sleek black carriage rolled through the streets. It was wide enough to fit four passengers in its spacious quarters and took up most of the road. The driver busied himself whipping the large black elks to keep it moving faster, while on either side of the carriage hung the magistrate’s personal guard gripping leather handholds, their heavy boots resting on ivory carved niches. As the carriage rolled through the early morning, the men yelled to either side, warning pedestrians to either move or be run down like dogs.
Behind glass windows covered by purple velvet curtains embroidered in gold stitching, the owner sat coiled like a viper beneath his dark cobalt-blue robes. Magistrate Fafnir had a hawkish look about him, with sharp, angular features. His nose was large and came to a point, matching a thin, protruding chin. The centuries had not been kind and were beginning to show, with wrinkles set in deep crow’s feet around his eyes that gave them a sunken look, like his skin was too tightly stretched over his bones, yet just loose enough to hang slightly around his jowls.
Fafnir preferred not to wear a hat over his bald pate. Some whispered it was because he wanted you to have to stare at the specks of discolored skin that dotted the side of his head, to throw you off and make you uneasy. He currently wore a cunning smile, as his eyes worked like daggers over the woman with whom he was conspiring.
“Well, I certainly do agree with your disinclination, Mademoiselle,” Fafnir said, his voice like silk across satin.
Duchess Blaunchette chittered as she feigned embarrassment behind a hand fan. Her large, quivering breasts seemed as if they might spill out of her tight dress at any moment. A garment of this style would normally be quite flattering, but the oversized woman tended to wear her clothing a size or two smaller than she should, clinging to dreams of her long forgotten youth. The duchess’ face was covered with a bit too much white powder, which also caked around the folds of her neck, and she wore her hair in long brown curls that Fafnir suspected were the work of a wig.
“Oh, Magistrate, I believed you would see my point,” she said, still feigning a giggle. “After all, we can’t have just any citizen thinking they can do these things.”
“As always, milady, you are the epitome of civil society. I will see to this at once, trouble yourself with it no further,” he assured her. His hand appeared from the folds of his robes, palm face up, with his little white fingers waiting like the claw of a vulture.
The duchess cleared her throat and dropped a jingling coin purse into his grasping talons. Quickly, the tight bony fingers clamped around the bribe, and it disappeared into the folds once more while he simultaneously pulled the cord next to his head, signaling the driver to stop.
“Now then, madame, if you please, I have many affairs of the kingdom to tend to this morning,” Fafnir said, graciously gesturing to the door as it was being opened by one of his men.
The noblewoman shuffled sideways to the exit, balancing her weight on the guard’s outstretched hand so he could help her down the steps. Once outside, the duchess straightened out her dress and quickly peered back inside.
“Thank you again for your time, Magistrate. Your support to House Blaunchette will not soon be forgotten. We are in your debt once more,” she huffed, out of breath from the labor of getting out of the carriage. “After this matter has been duly settled, of course.”
“It honors my humble soul to receive such unworthy praise. I am but a servant to the kingdom, madame. By tomorrow evening, the offenders will be taken care of, and after that, none of the first levelers will dream of trying to send their little whelps to your daughter’s school again,” Fafnir cooed, tilting his nose up in the air at the mention of citizens from the lower level of Fal.
Before she could say more, the door was shut and the driver’s whip resumed working to move the carriage along toward the magistrate’s next destination.
Relieved to be out of sight, Fafnir dropped the façade, his face returning to its permanent scowl. “Off to Mill Road,” he croaked into a tiny bell-shaped metal opening that worked as a communication device to his driver. Pulling out the purse, he counted through the coins, scribbling a tally in the little worn ledger at his side.
“Rodger, step in here.”
One of the heavily armored soldiers obediently crouched through the small carriage door and sat across from him, taking up nearly the entire back seat with his muscular frame.
“After our next stop, send out word to have this family detained,” Fafnir said, handing the soldier a tiny parchment scrawled with the family’s name. “They live on the eastern first level, in the smelting district. And make sure it stays quiet this time. I do not need any more badgering from Elder Reinholt.”
The guard accepted the parchment, giving it a quick glance before tucking it away in the small pocket under his shoulder plate. “Yes sir. Would you prefer section six for their detainment?” he asked, referring to one of their quieter prisons that few knew existed. It was the perfect place to make citizens disappear.
Fafnir gave a derisive snort. “Rodger…do I need to spell it out for you? Detain them. You are dismissed.” As annoyed as it made him to explain every little detail he always found a certain amusement in the man’s devious mind.
Rodger gave a furtive nod, and slipped back out to his perch on the side of the carriage.
The matter taken care of, he let his thoughts wander to the future. With Elder Alain out of the way, there was a seat open on the Council of Twelve for the first time in over a century, and he intended to make sure it was his. To get it he would need to secure every vote he could muster up. And how easy Duchess Blaunchette’s was to buy with her meager request. Compared to some of the other promises he had made over the last few days this one was a bargain.
Fafnir had always coveted a seat, since he had turned sixty. He had eagerly awaited the day one of the Elders would be in the right position for him to swoop in and steal their leadership, sometimes daydreaming of choking one of them to death, or slipping some poison in their meal, or accidentally pushing them down a flight of stairs. He had tried and failed at several of these schemes over the years. Never in a million years would he have dreamed such an opportunity would present itself without his direct influence.
He snickered that Elder Alain had so foolishly sacrificed himself for the people of Fal. That kind of feeble-minded blind devotion to the masses was exactly the reason Fafnir needed to be on the council.
The kingdom needed a strong leader. If it had been him, he would have grabbed one of the criminals in section three and thrown them in the vorpal cocoon to fuel the weapon. Hel, maybe even two of them at the same time for good measure.
With Alain’s seat open, he was working tirelessly to secure every vote he could before the next meeting of judgment. With the exception of Elder Alain’s widow, the Lady Cassandra, and that fool Count Roberro, there was no real competition for the coveted position of power.
Lady Cassandra was the real threat. Like Fafnir, she was one of the original pilgrims of New Fal, fleeing into the core of Acadia after the Jotnar blight. She would be a formidable opponent, being widely respected by both the lower levelers and noble citizens alike. Fafnir had his work cut out for him. He was working tirelessly to drum every possible piece of additional support he could muster in the House of Aristocrats, knowing that with each House he added to his fold, not only did he gain the allegiance of the aristocrats, but also that of their entire staff of servants. If that meant keeping some dirty little lower class Falians out of the White Tower school district for Duchess Blaunchette, that was a small price to pay and nothing compared to what Fafnir would do to gain a seat on the Council.
The carriage came to a stop in front of the wood mill. While one of the soldiers headed inside, Rodger stepped to the side alley, giving orders to a group of his men who were waiting outside the building, stationed there to protect the hero from Riverbell inside.
“Get to this address post-haste and bring these
citizens to section six for processing,” Rodger ordered.
“Affirmative Captain. What are the charges?” one of the younger soldiers asked.
“No charges, no courts. This is to be a quiet one. Take them down to section six and execute them within the hour for crimes against the Kingdom.” Rodger dryly ordered the execution as if he were telling them to wash his laundry.
The soldiers bowed in compliance, leaving him to fulfill their task.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Good afternoon, how can I help you, sir?” Corbin asked the soldier who had been knocking at his door.
“Corbin Walker of Riverbell?” the man roughly inquired.
“Yes…that’s me. What can I do for you?”
“You’ll need to come with me. Your presence is required by the royal magistrate,” he ordered, stepping aside, expecting Corbin to immediately vacate the apartment.
“I’m sorry, did you say the magistrate? There must be some mistake. I have not—”
“Leave your abode immediately, citizen,” the guard forcefully ordered, brandishing a nightstick to accentuate his directive.
Not wanting to get into an altercation with a man of law, Corbin raised his hands, attempting to cool the situation by showing immediate compliance, and headed into the hallway.
“No need to get upset. I was just asking-,” he said, cut off by the man’s nightstick jabbing him hard in the spine.
“Move, citizen.”
By the time they reached the carriage, the guard had holstered his weapon and moved to open the door, ushering Corbin inside before slamming it shut behind him. Corbin was surprised to feel the vehicle already on the move, mere seconds after he entered, barreling down the street away from his temporary housing.
“Corbin Walker, it is a pleasure to meet you, young man,” Fafnir said. “I have heard a great many things from Elder Morgana.” The old man held out his ringed hand, expecting Corbin to kiss it. He was disappointed when the young man awkwardly shook it instead, but continued anyway. “There have been so many tales going around already, rumors spreading through the capitol of your bold and courageous actions to warn us of the skex attack.” Fafnir stopped speaking to pour Corbin a drink of water from a glass decanter set in the left side of the carriage. “Of course, I had hoped we would be meeting under better circumstances.”
Corbin cocked his head to the side. “Well, Magistrate, sir…I appreciate your kind words. I mean, not just appreciate, but I’m honored really. But exactly which circumstances do you mean?” Corbin was never one to beat around the bush, always preferring to get right down to brass tacks, as Elder Morgana would say.
“Why, those of your brother being arrested by the state, lad,” Fafnir slowly explained, taking care to emphasize each word and carefully gauging the man’s reaction as he spoke.
Corbin was dumbfounded. At first he could not comprehend how his brother could possibly get into trouble lying in a healer’s bed, but as Fafnir explained the previous day’s events, it all became clear.
Logan had left the healers without any warning and without being discharged, traveling through the city alone. Several eyewitnesses saw him stealing wares at the market, and he may have assaulted a young boy, who was in questionable medical condition. Apparently, some of the magistrate’s men had tried to detain Logan, since he was drunkenly wandering the streets and behaving erratically. Unfortunately, both of the lawmen in question were badly injured during the ordeal, and it had taken another group to stop his brother’s violent outburst.
How could he do something like this? Corbin felt like a fool for thinking that after all they had been through the last couple of weeks, his older brother was finally changing his tune. He should have known better. It seemed like every time he thought things were getting better, Logan pulled a new stunt to prove him wrong. He guessed some things could just never change, but to hear that Logan had gotten into a fight with lawmen was far more serious than his usual shenanigans.
Magistrate Fafnir tried to comfort Corbin, telling him not to blame himself. “Some people are never able to shake the past,” he said with feigned ignorance.
“Shake the past? In what way do you mean, sir?” Corbin asked.
“I certainly do not mean any disrespect to our late Elder Morgana, but we did advise she take the boy to a Falian councilor years ago when it all first happened.”
“Logan is always getting in trouble. It seems like no matter what we’re doing, he will find a way to slack off or pull a prank, but nothing ever as serious as this. I’m not sure a councilor could help him with that,” Corbin said doubtfully.
“A wise woman once said, ‘It’s not the branches, but the roots that define a tree’s growth.’ Surely we could have prevented all this nonsense years ago, right after your mother died,” Fafnir cooed, pretending to sip absently on his drink. He could have smiled like a wolf at puzzlement overtaking Corbin Walker. The magistrate enjoyed causing problems where none should exist. He knew very well that Elder Morgana had kept the boy in the dark over his parents’ deaths and why.
“I do not see what this has to do with my mother. Did you know her?” Corbin asked.
“It has everything to do with sweet little Melinda. If your brother had only listened to his mother and stopped trying to get her to play hide-n-seek, she would still be alive today. No one could blame poor Melinda for what happened. She was just trying to do some laundry by the river, after all, but who among us could resist the playful nature of their children?” Fafnir paused to let Corbin digest this revelation.
“I think you are mistaken, sir,” Corbin said, a pit opening in his stomach. “My mother died of a terrible sickness.”
“Aye, there’s nothing deadlier than the sickness that follows the deadly bite of a river asp,” Fafnir said.
“Are you saying my mother…she was killed by a river serpent? And you believe this was because she was playing a game with my brother?” The pit in his stomach sank further into his bowels.
Fafnir worked up a frown. “Forgive me, son. I assumed you knew, but…at your age…yes, I could see you would have been too young when it all occurred. I guess Elder Morgana never had the heart to tell you.”
“Why would she hide this from me?” Corbin’s world spun, the proverbial carpet pulled out from under his past. As he tried to make sense of Fafnir’s claims, his hands were shaking, spilling droplets of water from the glass onto his lap.
“Don’t blame Elder Morgana, dear boy. She was an amazing woman, the ilk of which we are not likely to see again.” At least Fafnir hoped not. “Most likely, she was trying to shelter you from the truth. Perhaps it was the wisest course. After Melinda died, your father certainly made no attempt to hide his feelings on the matter. Oh, how he loathed Logan, blaming him outright for her death. After he left, not able to bear being around your brother anymore, we pushed Elder Morgana again and again to have the boy speak with someone, to help him get through it all, but she always refused.”
Corbin sat slack-jawed, listening intently to this stranger’s recounting of his family’s past. “I…never knew,” he stammered in disbelief.
“Well, you were so young, I am hardly surprised,” Fafnir said, though Corbin’s thoughts were turned inward, echoes of the funeral beat back into his head. He could hear his brother mourning, could see him in his mind’s eye weeping by the casket, repeating over and over again how sorry he was.
“I hope I have not troubled your soul in my attempt to put things in perspective, dear boy. You see, I believe your brother is, in his heart, a good person, but until he lets go of causing his mother’s death and driving your father away, things are only bound to get worse. That kind of sorrow has a way of eating away at one’s soul.”
If Corbin had not been so wrapped up in his own thoughts, he may have caught the gluttonous look in Fafnir’s eyes. The magistrate found it so easy to manipulate the people of Fal that sometimes he did it just for sport.
With C
orbin Walker doubting his brother, the lies of Logan’s actions from the previous day were an easier pill to swallow.
“I appreciate your kind words, Magistrate,” Corbin said, trying to gather his composure. “Please, tell me, what will happen to Logan next?”
“I am bringing you to him and he will be placed in your charge,” Fafnir said.
“I cannot tell you what a relief that is to hear, sir,” Corbin sighed. “On my honor, this will not happen again.”
“You understand, of course, it can only be under the agreement that you get him out of the city post-haste. He is no longer welcome here. The citizens of Fal will not understand why one of their heroes has assaulted members of the watch. And I fear there are those here who would not care of his motives and will call for Logan’s execution once the news of his criminal deeds spreads.”
Fafnir could not openly exile the brothers, not after all they had done for the city, but Corbin did not need to know that. The sooner the rabble-rouser was out of his hair, the better. In less than one day Logan had taken several of the magistrate’s collectors off the streets, planted the seed of revolution in the Grey Alley merchants, and sent two watchmen to the healers. Fafnir needed to move quickly before word of this reached Lady Cassandra. If that meddling woman found out what happened the night before, she would be parading Logan around as a hero against local corruption before the week was over. Fafnir could ill afford that kind of attention right now, not when everything he had worked toward was within his grasp.
The carriage came to a jerking halt, leaving them sitting in silence. A rap on the door announced they had reached their destination.
Corbin cleared his throat and spoke up. “I understand what needs to be done, sir. You have clearly gone above the call of duty to protect him, and for that I offer you my sincerest gratitude. We shall be leaving on the morrow,” Corbin vowed.
He stepped out into the dim daylight before a low, gray stone building where the street came to a dead end. This was a section of the capitol directly attached to the massive cavern wall, providing the natural barrier needed to prevent the inmates from escaping. Three guards were already escorting Logan from the detention center. They stopped and one of them shoved him hard into the street with the butt his spear.
Logan staggered forward a few steps then looked as though he had a mind to go back and teach the guard a lesson, but before he could move to action, Corbin roughly snatched his forearm.
“Knock it off. Haven’t you caused enough trouble already?” Corbin snapped.
Logan glowered at the guards, who only laughed as they went back inside.
Logan shot his younger brother a bewildered look. “You can’t be serious. I spent all night in this hell hole and that’s how you greet me?” he growled, in no mood for his younger brother’s righteous indignation.
“Seriously, Logan, after what you did to those men, you have the nerve to complain about being in a cell for one night?” Corbin barked right back.
“What would you know of it? You should have seen the kid,” Logan tried to explain.
Corbin curled his lip back. “Save the disgusting details for someone who cares. You went too far this time. Your actions bring great shame to our village and to our family.”
Logan shook his head in disbelief, unable to meet his brother’s gaze. “Who asked you to come down here, anyhow? I was completely fine without your help.”
The magistrate had climbed out of his carriage and was now standing at their side with his hands folded. He cleared his throat, interrupting their childish bickering and demanding their attention. “That would be me, young man.”
Logan appraised him and understood several things at once. Fafnir’s bone-chilling tone told him the man expected nothing less than gratitude, and the cold look in his eyes made it clear that this was a dangerous man who would not be trifled with.
“This is Magistrate Fafnir,” Corbin said. “He has kindly agreed to release you into my custody.”
The way Corbin introduced the man, like he was some sort of royalty, disgusted Logan. Where his younger brother saw a generous benefactor, all Logan saw was a snake. “Hmmm…I see. Well, that’s great. You’re exactly the man I wanted to talk to. Do you know what your men are subjecting citizens to in there? And what about those imbeciles last night? I want to press charges against—”
His tirade was cut off when one of Fafnir’s guards came up to whisper in the magistrate’s ear and Fafnir lifted a hand to silence Logan. He listened to his man with a furrowed brow. Corbin groaned, not believing how disrespectful Logan could be toward the very man who had just come to his rescue. Once the guard was finished, Fafnir mumbled some orders and addressed them again.
“I am fully aware of the entire situation that played out last night, Logan Walker. Everything is currently being dealt with, and you are free to go.” Logan opened his mouth to speak, but Fafnir cut him off again. “Now then, gentlemen, if there is nothing further, I will take my leave. The day is young, and there are many affairs of the state to see to yet.” He turned his back to them.
Corbin let out the air in his lungs, only then realizing he had been holding his breath with worry that Logan would say the wrong thing to the great nobleman, sending himself back into the detention center. He moved to direct Logan, who was visibly agitated over being ignored, back down the street.
“Corbin, there is one other thing,” Fafnir said, halfway into the carriage.
“Yes, milord?”
“There will be a gala tonight at the House of Ciotti in honor of Fal’s victory over the skex attack. We would all be honored to have the both of you attend.”
“No, my liege, it is we who are honored by such a generous invitation,” Corbin replied, as Logan rolled his eyes.
“Excellent. My men will send the invitation to your apartment,” Fafnir said, disappearing into the carriage, which was already rolling away before the door closed.
“Oh, my liege,” Logan mocked, “you are so magnanimous. What’s with all the kissy-kissy aristocrat talk?”
Corbin ignored him. “That was odd. A minute ago he said we had to leave the city post-haste,” he said, more to himself than to Logan.
Logan looked down at the coins the magistrate’s men had secretly placed in his hand. Silver to keep his mouth shut. “Not as much as you may think, brother. It’s this place that’s odd, not that man. He fits right in around here,” he grumbled under his breath, watching the carriage roll down the road and wondering what news the guard had delivered to make the magistrate offer up the invitation.