Chapter 31|Brisacea
“Your Highness, might we have leave to walk around the city?” Hair, flanked by Bull and Edrin, stood on the opposite side of the table, eyes wide with excitement.
Lerryn sometimes forgot that even a city of moderate size, like Brisacea, was far beyond the realm of these country boys’ experience.
“You may, but do not wander far, and be back here before sunset. I don’t want to have to go looking for you.” He fished into his belt pouch and withdrew a few coins. He inspected them, culling the golds, and handing the rest to Hair. “Enough to enjoy yourself, but not enough to get into too much trouble, I suppose.”
“Thank you, Highness!” Hair exclaimed, bowing. Bull and Edrin murmured their agreement, and made awkward bows. They turned and hurried toward the door. Pedric Karst, who had been sitting nearby with his feet propped on a table, stood and made to follow them.
“Not you, Master Karst.” Lerryn gritted his teeth as Karst turned, his ordinarily sour expression now curdled. “Have you forgotten the last city we visited?”
“It wasn’t my fault,” Karst complained, folding his hands across his chest. “He provoked me. I was only protecting my honor.”
Lerryn did not bother to reply. They had discussed the matter on the evening in question, and he was not interested in repeating the lesson. Until the boy demonstrated that he could conduct himself as a proper guest, Lerryn would not chance letting him roam. He stood, pushing his chair back, drained the last dregs of his wine, and fixed Karst with a broad smile that he knew would infuriate the lad to no end.
“You will be coming with me. Did you leave your sword with the steward, as I instructed?” Karst nodded, still frowning. “Very well.” Lerryn stepped out the door and stepped out onto the street.
Foot traffic was light this morning, and the city was devoid of beggars, one of the details of Diyonan life that Lerryn appreciated. The morning sun sparkled on the white paving stones flecked with bits of gray, and shone on the solidly-constructed shops and homes, all set well back from the road and at a comfortable distance apart. Uniformly built from the same white as that with which the street was paved, all of Brisacea seemed to shine against the verdant backdrop of the valley in which the city nestled.
Most of the structures were topped by roof gardens, where people conducted business over glasses of rich Diyonan port, or sat enjoying the unseasonably cool summer morning. Several people raised hands or glasses as they passed by. Lerryn nodded and smiled in return. Walking at his side, Karst kept his gaze on the ground in front of him.
“I understand why people hate me,” the young man suddenly said. “I have a strong sense of pride, and I give and take offense easily. I don’t suppose any of you would understand how it feels to be raised by a pig farmer. No matter how high my father’s station rises, he will always be a pig farmer in the eyes of the nobility. I traveled so far to be a part of your tournament in hopes that no one would know anything about me. I wanted to advance on my own merit without anyone knowing from whence I had come.”
Lerryn felt a slight pang of guilt, knowing that he was the one who had brought the Karst family’s livelihood to light. That fact notwithstanding, he would not permit the youth to wallow in self pity.
“Do you know that you are more than a pig farmer?”
“I suppose,” Karst said, still looking down.
“You suppose,” Lerryn echoed. “I advise you to stop trying to convince everyone else what you are and are not. Instead, try convincing yourself.”
Karst cast a sideways glance at him. “I am not certain I understand.”
Lerryn clapped a hand on the lad’s shoulder as they walked. “When you truly know your own value, it will no longer matter what anyone else thinks of you. Remember that.” Karst had no reply, and they continued on in silence until they arrived at their destination.
They proceeded along a narrow stone walk lined with short evergreen shrubs. A houseman stood outside the front door holding a ceremonial spear. He was dressed in traditional Diyonan fashion. His shirt, tunic and hose were white. Over this he wore a red surcote with his house symbol, a cluster of yellow grapes, emblazoned on the chest. The surcote, which looked to Lerryn like nothing more than a blanket with a hole cut in the center for the head, hung to the man’s knees and was belted with a twist of gold rope. The guard greeted him with an expectant look.
“Lerryn of Galdora to see the master of the house, if you please.” He handed his invitation to the guard, who held it aloft, letting it unroll only far enough for him to see his lord’s signature and seal. “He received my request last evening, and was gracious enough to reply almost immediately.”
“I shall announce you at once.” The man frowned. “Forgive me, but how shall I announce you. I do not know your title.”
“Forgive me,” Lerryn answered, deciding to have a bit of fun with the fellow. “You may announce me as ‘Sir’ if you so desire. ‘Lerryn Van Altman, First Prince of the Sword to His Highness, King Allar of Galdora’ is such a mouthful.” Karst snickered as the man’s face blanched. Lerryn smiled to put the man at ease.
“Very well, Your Highness,” he whispered, his voice suddenly hoarse, before turning and opening the front door. Clearing his throat, he straightened, and pounded the butt of his spear on the ground three times. “Sir Lerryn of Galdora to see the master,” he called out.
In the span of two heartbeats, Antonn appeared from behind the door. The wizened little man was garbed much like his guard, save for his surcote which was white. He smiled an easy smile, his teeth were as white as his closely-cropped hair, and shone against his leathery skin. He raised his clenched fists to his chin, bowed, and rapped his knuckles together three times.
Lerryn returned the gesture, bringing his knuckles together twice, all the while inwardly bemoaning the Diyonan’s overvaluing of ritual. As he stood, he turned and gestured to Karst, who stepped forward and perfectly imitated the ritual greeting. Realizing he had not instructed Karst on how to properly greet someone, he flashed three fingers at the youth, who thankfully understood, and rapped his knuckles three times. He should have taught the boy. Too much wine early in the day, Xaver would have said.
“Ministrar Antonn, may I present Master Pedric Karst, son of the Duke of Kurnsbur.”
“I bid you both welcome,” Antonn said, smiling. For such an old man, he still had a fine set of straight, white teeth. “My wine is your wine. My bread is your bread.”
“May your vintage be as fine as your hospitality,” Lerryn responded.
“Do come in.” Antonn led them down a narrow hallway to a winding iron staircase at the back of the house. They mounted the stairs and climbed to a small room with a finely-wrought door of iron and glass set in one wall, which opened onto the roof garden. A flower-lined walkway led to a small table laden with wine and bread, and surrounded by chairs of woven reed, lined with red cushions. Beyond the flowers on either side were a variety of vegetable plants, ornamental shrubs, and small fruit trees, planted with an eye to aesthetics rather than practicality.
Antonn motioned for his guests to sit. He then broke the bread, giving a large piece to each of them. “Heart and life,” he intoned, and took a bite.
“Heart and life,” Lerryn replied slowly, giving Karst the opportunity to join in. He took a bite of the bread. It was typical Diyonan: chewy, with herbs sprinkled into the flour to give it a unique, almost minty flavor. Waiting for Antonn to take the first sip, he raised his glass and took a drink of the orange-tinted drink, schooling himself not to drain the cup. Diyonus might be a mere shade of what she had once been, but her vineyards still produced the finest wine in Gameryah.
“You honor my house with your presence, Your Highness,” Antonn said. “I must confess my surprise both at your presence in our city, and that you wanted to see me. How may I be of service?”
“I asked about, as we traveled,” Lerryn said, “as to whom I might go to hear old stories. It is my understanding th
at you are Diyonus’ foremost collector of ancient lore.”
“Foremost in the western region, perhaps,” Antonn replied. He neither smiled nor attempted to look abashed. It was the simple truth. “I cannot help you with anything that has happened over the course of the last twenty-five or so imperators. Prior to that, perhaps I can. Is there a particular story you are seeking?”
“The Silver Serpent.” If the name affected Antonn in any meaningful way, he did not show it. “I am familiar with the basic story of its crafting and use. The prophecies are also well-known to me. What I would like to know is if there are any stories of what happened to the serpent after the Ice King was defeated.”
“An odd request,” Antonn said. He took another drink before answering. “As I recall, most of the stories tell of it being secreted away in a city called Murantha, somewhere in the mountains west of Lothan.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and his eyes lost focus as he gazed upward.
From where he sat, Lerryn could look directly across the table and out across the city. It was truly a picturesque scene, the sparkling white buildings and shining roads set in a series of progressively smaller circles, glowing bright among the verdant hills. At Brisacea’s center stood a monument to Rantor, god of the sun. The once-magnificent statue, as tall as ten men, now showed signs of its age. His body was pockmarked with gaps where stone had fallen away, and the stone was discolored due to the ravages of time. The spikes radiating from his head, symbolizing sunbeams, were broken and eroded. In his left hand he held a bowl from which a reluctant flame smoked and sputtered. Standing in the midst of beautifully tended lawn and ringed by late blooming flowers, he looked more like a beggar than the chief deity of a proud nation.
“He once inspired awe and reverence,” Antonn said, following Lerryn’s line of sight. “It is said that he glowed as if plated with gold, and neither scratch nor stain marred his surface for generations.”
“I am told he was made and maintained by magic. But now sorcery wanes, and magic fails as often as it succeeds.” Larris said, remembering what Xaver had told him many times. “That, of course, is another conversation entirely.”
“Sorcery and magic,” Antonn replied, shaking his head, “are little more than legend, I fear. As to your question, there is one story that comes to mind as something that might be of use to you. I mention it only because I have heard so many versions of it, each only slightly different than the next, that I believe there must be some truth to it.
“It seems to have its roots around the time of the reign of Imperator Buratell, the second woman to guide the Council of the Nine. By our calendar, that would place it about four-hundred.”
“Forgive me Ministrar,” Karst interjected in a surprisingly respectful tone. “I am not familiar with your calendar. What does the date mean?”
“You may call me Antonn, Master Karst, and there is naught to forgive. Our nation was once ruled by a series of self-styled noblemen, who ruled by force of arms rather than wisdom. After the revolution, the Council of the Nine was formed, and an imperator selected to lead them. A new calendar was created, counting forward from the date of the founding of the new government. Each summer marks a new year. It is now, by our calendar, the year seven-hundred sixteen.”
“Thank you.” Karst returned to his wine.
“The story is of a Malgog clan chief who vanished as a young man, returning six years later with a talisman he claimed to have found in the mountains. He carried it into the next battle, and his clan was victorious. Under his guidance, his clan prospered, and eventually came to adopt the image of the talisman as their clan symbol: a serpent. The clan chief died an old man, and took the serpent with him to his grave. Admittedly, the story does not call it the Silver Serpent, but the coincidence is intriguing.”
Larris thought it was more than coincidence. It is the prophecy. The star guided me to this place so that I might hear this story. “Can you tell me where to find this particular clan?”
“Certainly. In fact, it is not far. Only a few days ride from here.” He pushed back from the table, stood, and smoothed his surcote. “If you will excuse me, I will prepare a map for you.” He bowed slightly, and took his leave.
“So they don’t do the thing with their fists when they leave a place?” Karst asked.
“Strictly a greeting.” He drained his glass, enjoying the rich flavor. “You understood the knuckles?”
“I assume it reflects social standing. The lower your rank, the more times you pound your fists together.”
Lerryn nodded, pleased at the way Karst had presented himself thus far. His spirits were lifted by the new light that had been shed on the mystery. Perhaps this was the clue they had been searching for.
“The wine is excellent as well. I have had Diyonan wine only twice before, and neither were this good. And the color is unusual as well. What gives it the orange tint?”
“Movanan Orange,” Lerryn replied. “It is only produced in one valley in central Diyonus. Its making is a closely guarded secret. Some believe that it has something to do with the soil in which the grapes are grown.” He chuckled. “My father claims that they let their vats rust. Of course, he has little taste for wine.” He wondered if Karst would ask where Lerryn had gotten his taste for wine, but Antonn chose that moment to return.
“I believe this will be of help to you,” he said, proffering a rolled parchment. “Of course, given the situation in Lothan, there is no telling if the village remains.” He shrugged, nothing more to say.
“Please accept my heartfelt thanks for your assistance,” Lerryn said. He imagined he felt a tingle as his fingers closed around the map. “I am sure this will be of great assistance. I regret I must take now leave of your hospitality.”
“You have been a blessing to my house, Highness. Allow me to show you out, and we shall say our goodbyes.”
The late morning sun shone brightly on the freshly-painted picture of a golden goblet and bunch of grapes hanging in front of The Vintner’s Cup. As they approached the front steps, Larris took Karst by the elbow and pulled him past their inn. Continuing his unusually good behavior, the boy kept his mouth shut until they had passed on by.
“What is it?” he whispered, keeping his eyes to the fore.
“Two men, one on either side of the porch. Both were outside Antonn’s house when we left. Also, another man has been following us the entire time. I know you don’t have your sword, but do you have a knife?”
“In my boot. I can use it too.” Karst did not sound the least bit afraid. In fact, there was an eagerness in his voice that reminded Lerryn all too much of his own youth. “Do you think there are more?”
“I would be surprised if there is not at least one more waiting somewhere ahead of us.” His battle instinct took over, and he formulated a semblance of a plan. “How well can you throw that knife of yours? The truth, now.”
“Very well. Just give me a target.” Once I’ve lost my knife, though, I don’t know how much use I’ll be to you.”
“I’ll give you mine.” Hastily, keeping watch for any threat that might be coming from in front of them, he outlined his plan, if it could be called that. Karst whispered that he understood.
Up ahead, two men leaned against a cart laden with vegetables. To the untrained eye, they might appear inconspicuous. Lerryn noticed any number of things wrong, though: spotless cloaks, clean hands, fine boots, not to mention the poorly-concealed sword under the first man’s cape. He cleared his throat, the signal to begin.
Karst pretended to stumble. He dropped to one knee, rubbing his ankle. Without warning, he slipped the knife from his boot, whirled, and slung it at the fellow Larris had described; a broad shouldered man with curly blond hair and a mustache that reached almost to his ears. Taken completely by surprise, the man stopped short, the hilt of Karst’s knife blossoming in his throat. Lerryn handed his heavy belt knife to the young man, as they sprinted back the way they had come.
The men
he had seen lounging on the porch of the Vintner’s Cup had followed as well, and they both struggled to free their swords. Lerryn made a beeline for the one on the right, while Karst dashed directly toward the other. His target had just raised his sword to strike when Lerryn leapt into the air. Drawing his knees to his chest and twisting to his left, he kicked out. His right foot drove hard into the man’s throat, his left taking him full in the chest. The fellow made a gurgling shriek as he tumbled backward.
Lerryn fell headfirst, rolling on his forearms and springing to his feet behind the second assailant, whom Karst had distracted by circling, knife drawn, just out of sword reach. Foregoing style, Lerryn stepped up behind the man and drove a vicious kick between his legs. As the fellow crumpled to the ground, Karst relieved him of his sword and his life in short order. Lerryn took up the other man’s sword, and turned to face what he hoped would be the final two assailants, the men who had been lounging by the produce cart.
The brigands were almost upon them. The one on the left was a short, thick fellow with trunk-like arms and a scar running from above his left ear down to the corner of his mouth. The sun glinted off of his shaven head. He raised his sword high above his head as he charged in. Lerryn ducked inside his downstroke and ran him through the gut. The goon’s eyes went wide, and he made a gurgling sound as his sword dropped from his limp fingers. As life faded from his eyes, Lerryn put his foot on the dying man’s chest and pushed him off of his sword.
He turned to see Karst driving the other attacker back. He was obviously the superior swordsman, and he was toying with the fellow. Blood ran freely from cuts on the assailant’s forearms, cheek, chest, and thigh.
“Finish him!” Larris shouted. Karst’s eyes tightened, the only indication he had heard. A feint high, a slash low, and it was over. The last of the attackers lay in the roadway, entrails spilling from a gaping wound in his midsection.
“Will there be a constable coming after us?” Karst asked, kneeling to wipe the sword on the man’s cloak.
“Diyonus has a city watch,” Lerryn replied, scanning the crowd for potential threats. Fortunately, the few who had not already scattered were studiously ignoring the scene. “If I do not miss my guess, they will allow enough time to just miss catching us.” He stood and indicated with a jerk of his head that Karst should follow him. They set off at a quick jog back to The Vintner’s Cup.
Arriving at the inn, he was surprised as he entered the door, to see Xaver sitting at a table in the common room, a full cup of wine before him. The far end of the common room, the one closest to the fireplace, was crowded with a cluster of morning patrons who did not wish to sit near Lerryn’s vizier. Before Lerryn could speak, he stood and moved in close.
“I see there is no need to inform you that someone is after us.” He glanced down at Lerryn’s blood-spattered tunic. “Two armed men were waiting in our room. I was able to summon enough power to quickly disable them. The only useful information I could draw from them was the name Antonn.”
“He moves fast. We left his home not long ago, and were waylaid in the street.” A question gnawed at the back of his mind. “Two men were waiting on the porch here. I noticed them right away. How is it that you were unaware of them?”
“I don’t know what you’re implying, Highness, but I resent your tone. As I was dealing with the intruders, the boys arrived. I instructed them to load everything on the horses while I did my delving. I must have been upstairs when you passed by, as I have only been in the common room a few minutes.”
“Not implying, just asking,” Lerryn said with a sigh. He snatched up Xaver’s wine cup and drained it in three large swallows. Even cheap Diyonusan wine was palatable. “I’ll settle with the innkeeper, and we’ll go. I hope he will be discreet after we leave.”
“I have dealt with the innkeeper.” Xaver forced a smile. “No worries there.”
Lerryn’s stomach went cold. “He was an innocent. What did you do?”
“I paid him, Lerryn. Paid him well, and promised to remember him on our next visit.” He shook his head. “Truly, I do not understand your paranoia.”
“Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that a friendly little old scholar just sent assassins after me. I mean to have some answers.”
Antonn’s house guard was visibly taken aback by Lerryn’s reappearance. He hesitated before taking a tentative step forward, holding his spear diagonally across his chest, attempting to bar the way. Without breaking stride, Lerryn batted the sword down and punched the fellow hard in the jaw. He fell to the ground with a surprised grunt, clutching his face, his spear clattering to the ground. Lerryn kicked the door open and stalked inside.
“It was locked?” Xaver asked, glancing at the shattered door facing.
“I have no idea.” He looked around for Antonn. The man had broken bread with him! It was unforgivable. Toward the far end of the hall that bisected the first floor of the house, a servant poked his head out of a doorway. Blanching at the sight of six armed strangers stalking toward him, he jerked his head back and slammed the door.
“Bull. Edrin.” Lerryn motioned toward the door. Bull hooked the short-handled warhammer he had been learning to use back onto his belt and hurried down the hall. Edrin, looking uncomfortable with his bow strapped onto his back instead of in his hand, followed close behind, a broad-bladed hunting knife clenched in a white-knuckled grip.
“Do you think there are more guards, highness?” Hair asked, with neither eagerness nor trepidation in his voice.
“Not likely.” Between himself, Karst, and Xaver, he suspected Antonn’s personal security force had been utterly demolished. He heard footfalls and a crash behind a door to his left. He tried it and found it unlocked. He pushed through, dimly aware of the others following behind him.
It was a private office. A small table with quill, ink and parchment sat in the center of the room. A padded chair similar to those on the roof garden lay upended behind it. Directly across the room, a small, half-filled bookshelf sat beneath a tall, narrow window. The sash was closed. Someone was still inside. He took in the details as he surveyed the space. Paintings of landscapes, mostly vineyards and pastoral scenes, were hung head-high at precise intervals around the room. Finding the room empty, he came to the obvious conclusion.
Turning back to the door through which they had entered, which now stood almost flush against the inner wall, he leapt forward and threw his shoulder into it with all his might. The impact stung his shoulder, but the surprised cry of pain from behind the door was more than satisfying.
Antonn stumbled out, falling to his knees on the hard, tile floor. He pressed his hands against his side, probably clutching a broken rib or two. Blood dripped from his nose and mouth, staining the golden grapes on his surcote. Karst pushed past Lerryn, grabbed the man by the forehead, hooking his fingers into his eye sockets, and yanked his head back to expose his throat.
“Karst! You’ve killed enough today. Let him be.” He paused for effect. “For now.” Karst hesitated for two heartbeats before letting go. Sheathing his sword, he stepped back to stand next to Hair, arms folded across his chest, his ever-present pout firmly in place.
“I’ll tell you nothing,” Antonn said through swelling lips. “The watch will be here soon, and they’ll take you to the nearest garrison. You will wish…”
Lerryn smacked him with an open palm to the ear, cutting the ministrar off in mid-sentence. “Xaver, can you persuade this gentleman to answer my questions?” Antonn made a sound like a stuck pig, and scrabbled on all fours toward the window. Without looking down at the man, Lerryn stamped down on his right hand, eliciting a higher-pitched squeal. “Gentlemen, will you please hold our friend, here?” Karst and Hair hauled Antonn to his feet, and bent his arms behind him, arching his back so that his stomach thrust forward.
Xaver moved to stand in front of Antonn. He placed his hands on the man’s temples and began muttering in a deep, choppy voice. It was Colquahil, the language of th
e Gods. It sounded like someone being punched repeatedly in the gut. With each throaty exhalation, the room seemed to grow warmer. Antonn’s face turned deathly white, and his knees shook. Gradually, his eyes turned glassy, until there seemed a coating of ice across his vision. He stared blindly back at Xaver, panting and trembling.
“You may ask your questions now, Highness.” Xaver continued to hold Antonn’s head. “But do not take too long. Twice in one day is as much as I can manage.”
“Why did you send your guards after us?” Lerryn asked, beginning with the obvious.
“You seek the Silver Serpent.” Antonn’s voice was a loud whisper, without inflection. “It is best if you die.”
“But you don’t believe in sorcery or magic,” Lerryn protested, dimly aware of the irony of the statement given Antonn’s present circumstances. “Why would it matter to you?”
“Does not matter. The Lothan’s believe in it. Cannot have them united. The barbarians might turn their attentions on us if they were ever to stop fighting one another. Must do what is best for the realm.”
“How many men did you send after us, and how many more have you told?” Escape would be difficult if there were others sounding the alarm as they spoke.
There was a brief pause before Antonn answered. “I sent seven of my household guard after you. Kevrann remained at the door. The other two have liberty today. I told no one else of you and your dealings. I did not think it necessary.” A string of spittle, tinted pink by blood, hung from the corner of his mouth.
Lerryn was grateful that Antonn’s force had been neutralized. He would have to kill the man, of course, and probably the rest of the household staff. He could not have the Diyonusan army tailing him back into Lothan, and murdering a ministrar would do just that.
Edrin appeared in the doorway. “Highness, we rounded up the household staff and closed them up in a room across the hall. Bull is guarding the door.”
Lerryn nodded, not turning away from Antonn. “The story you told me, and the map you gave me. Are they false?”
“No,” Antonn’s voice carried a slight touch of insistence despite Xaver’s delving. “I saw no point in lying to you. My guard would have recovered the map from you when they killed you.”
“Highness, you must hurry.” Xaver’s voice had lost much of its serenity. “I cannot do this much longer.”
“I am finished with him.” He drew his sword, and placed it against Antonn’s chest. No point in making a bigger mess than necessary. Xaver released the man, and he went limp in the two young men’s grip.
“Do not kill him,” Hair protested. “Tie him up. Tie them all up and lock them in the cellar. We can get away before they are discovered.”
“Don’t listen to him, Highness,” Karst snapped. “He does not have the stomach for killing like we do. Get out of here, Hair. I don’t need your help to hold him. He’s near-unconscious anyway.”
“Let a man face me with sword in hand and I have plenty of stomach, but this is not right. He is an old, unarmed man.” His voice softened. “Please, Highness,” he entreated, “I beg you, do not do this.”
Lerryn paused. Killing Antonn was the practical thing to do. He did not relish the idea of chancing the man getting word to the local army detachment before they could see their way clear of the border. But Hair was correct. Running an old man through was distasteful at best. Also, the fact that Karst thought the man should be killed made the idea that much less appealing. He needed to act. Indecisiveness was the death of a commander.
“It does not matter anymore,” Xaver said, stepping forward. He pulled up one of Antonn’s eyelids and examining his pupil. “I could not control the delving. I was tired from earlier, and I was careless with my incantation.”
“What are you saying?” Lerryn asked, his sword still pressed to Antonn’s chest.
“In simple terms, the part of his mind that is aware is permanently detached from his body. He will remain in this state until his body expires. I apologize for my failing.” His clinically detached tone did not convey any sense of regret.
“Very well,” Lerryn said, sheathing his sword. “Hair, you and Karst take him down to the cellar. Edrin, you and Bull take the others down there as well, and tie them up. Our innkeeper can send someone to ‘discover’ them in three days.”
“Won’t they send someone after us then?” Karst asked, glowering over the missed opportunity to kill Antonn. “Will three days be enough time?”
“I don’t think you need to concern yourself about it. They don’t know where we are going, and Antonn certainly won’t be telling them anything. Be about your business quickly. I mean to ride within the hour.”