Jeff Salyards - Veil of the Deserters

I’d only read about such a transfer, as old King Xefron had reigned for at least forty years, long enough to outlast the war with the Syldoon and negotiate a truce, but not long enough to ensure his heir would inherit a stable kingdom or had the prowess and acuity to manage it. Were the robes and whatnot ancient? Surely they wouldn’t want a new monarch to appear in public with tattered vestments, yellowed and threadbare. Hardly an inspiring image. But then again, maybe that was part of the ceremony, the cloth that so many ancestors had worn, ugly as it might have been, signifying that a legitimate succession was occurring. But just how old were they? Who had been the first to wear them? They must have been in a vastly different style and cut from the current royal fashion.

Before I’d thought it through, I found myself kneeling before the container, casting a quick look back at Braylar’s unmoving form before pulling the canvas back.

A lock. Of course there was a lock. I nearly sat back down on the bench, but my curiosity was fully roused now. While a large part of me knew doing anything else was pure foolishness, I really wanted to see the vestments, just once. I would probably never have another opportunity like this. And I told myself I already knew what was inside, so there was no harm in taking a quick peek at the contents. So I walked over to the clothes, found Braylar’s belts and pouches, and picked out the one that I was sure contained the long key.

I was breathing fast as I fit the key into the lock. The tumblers were well oiled, but still clicked loudly enough I worried Vendurro must have heard. But he was doubtless trying to put his grief in the ground, and surely I’d hear voices if anyone else returned.

With the lock undone, I lifted the lid, which was less well oiled, and creaked loudly. Even in the dim light, it took only a moment to realize that there weren’t clothes inside at all. Not a one, not a stitch. Instead, there were countless scrolls of various sizes, some large and bound by tiny chains, others smaller and secured by leather cords, or a few with silk ribbons, and there were several cracked leather tubes that I assumed contained still more. Some scrolls had thick wooden rollers on each end, and even those had distinct differences, a few being plain and simple, others with elaborate designs carved into wood that seemed stained various colors. Some scrolls appeared to be papyrus, others thicker parchment that looked so old I feared to even breathe too close lest they crumble into dust. There were clay and waxed tablets in the container as well.

I’d been breathing fast before, but now I stopped altogether. These looked to have been gathered from a number of places, and spanned the ages. What was this?

“I hadn’t realized the Fair was canceled today. Pity.”

I dropped the lip and it slammed shut on my fingers. It was all I could do not to howl in pain.

With his voice unused for hours, it was even more coarse and raspy, but there was no mistaking the fact that Captain Killcoin was indeed awake, and not swept under the currents of stolen memories.

I pulled my fingers clear, stood up, and turned to face him. I felt like a child again, caught by my mother stealing a coin from her small purse. The blood rushed to my face, and I heard my heart pounding in my ears, both from hot embarrassment, fear, and also anger from having been deceived again. “There are no royal vestments.”

Braylar was sitting up in bed and it was difficult to read his expression in that light. How he had moved so quietly, especially without rattling the chains of the flail, was a mystery. He set Bloodsounder on the bed and clapped three times, slowly. “Oh, deftly done, Arki. Truly. Caught literally red-handed-I hope it leaves a deep bruise, by the way-and you have the gall to lay an implied accusation at my feet. Very nice redirection. There might be hope for you yet.”

Shame, fear, and anger coiled tighter. With my voice as controlled as I could make it to mask all three, I asked, “Do you ever tell the truth?”

He laughed then, followed immediately by a cough. “As seldom as I can manage, and only when other recourses are exhausted. Or as it suits my purpose. Which is rare enough, but noteworthy.”

“But why? Why the story about stealing robes? Why did you tell me anything at all?”

Braylar rose slowly, and it was obvious now that his stupor was due to ale, as he teetered just slightly. He must have managed to keep some down without vomiting. “I have a question of my own, more pressing as it happens-where are the flagons? I don’t recall sending them away. Is this your doing, because you will have more to answer for that heinous crime than the transgression of opening a locked box. Oh. Yes. I will take the key back now. Just after you snap the lock shut again.”

I did as he bade and walked toward him slowly, feeling unsteady on my feet as well. Fear seemed the only strand left now.

“Come now, I’m not some brutish Grass Dog to cut off half your hand. Frankly, I’m so utterly stunned at your initiative of late-or utterly drunk at last, I’m not entirely certain-that I find myself more amused than enraged. But I can’t promise how long that shall last.” He snapped his finger. “The key.”

I handed it to him, happy he let me take my hand and fingers back whole and unbroken.

Braylar said, “As to your query, I wanted to see if word about stolen vestments started circulating, or if you carried the tale yourself to unwholesome ears.”

“So it was a test? A trap?”

“Oh, yes. A testy trap.”

“You had me followed then?”

“Well, it would not have been much of a test if I couldn’t monitor the outcome, now would it?”

I stood there, stunned, wondering if my tail had seen the young Hornman, or my reaction to him, anyway. “And?” I asked, slowly, quietly.

“Well, if you had run to the good baron, you can be sure this conversation would have a much different tenor. I had hoped you would prove yourself leal, and you have. Well, until you broke into my things, that is.”

I looked back at the chest, barely trusting my voice. “What are these documents then?”

He dropped the key into his pouch and closed it. “My permissive mood is passing. Leave me. Now. And send in more ale. Immediately.”

While I had countless other burning questions, I knew I’d used up as much goodwill as the captain was likely to offer. And while I’d come into the room initially to tell him about the Hornman, that suddenly seemed the worst idea I’d ever come up with.

I turned to go, and Braylar rasped, “Oh, and the next time you filch something from me, young scribe, you can be sure I will batter you to the floor, kick your ribs in, and spit on your wailing face. If I am feeling permissive. And worse if I am not. Are we clear?”

Yes, now was not the time for admissions of any kind. It appeared Mulldoos had been right about this being my lucky day. Without turning around, I nodded and left the captain in his dim chamber as fast as my feet could carry me.

Vendurro watched as I shut the captain’s door behind me. “No bloodstains. Guessing he didn’t break nothing neither, or you hid your screaming real good.” He was spinning his long dagger or short sword-I could never decide which-on the table in front of him.

I figured the best chance of saying nothing damning was to say as little as possible and shift the focus quickly. “What is that?” I asked, pointing at the blade. “I mean, it’s a weapon, but is it technically a dagger or a short sword? It looks like it could be either.”

Vendurro stopped spinning the blade. “Called a suroka. Never much thought about it. Just know how to stab people with it.”

“Well, then. Suroka. I learned something new. Anyway, the captain was none too pleased about his missing ale. He asked for you to order some up. Immediately, was the word he used, I believe. Emphatically is the word I’d add.” Vendurro got off his stool, though the very action seemed to deflate him again. He turned to leave, then stopped. “Was Cap looking OK? I mean, of course he weren’t, not really. Seen him battle this thing before we found Lloi. Whole lot of ugly. But how is he faring, truly? Is it bad, yet?”