Jeff Salyards - Veil of the Deserters

I shook my head, wondering how long Braylar could maintain himself with drunken stupors. And what it would mean if he couldn’t. Would Hewspear take command? Mulldoos? I shuddered at the second thought. “He’s thorny and issuing orders, so I’d say he’s doing as well as can be expected, given the circumstance.”

Vendurro accepted that, or at least appeared to. I wasn’t so sure.

I returned to my room, marveling that things could change so radically, so swiftly. Yesterday, we were foiling the efforts of what I thought was an assassin-bent cleric and losing the one member of the company who could manage the captain’s affliction or curse or whatever it was, and today, I discovered that not only was very little of what I believed true, but when the lies were lifted and replaced with truth, even that was suspect. Lies upon lies. And the baron was either ensnared or ensnaring us, and I’d seen a Hornman who could potentially end every scheme in play here, and quite possibly, our lives as well, and I missed my chance-or neglected to use it-to report what I’d witnessed. It was a lot to take in. With my head spinning, I got out my pen and ink and writing desk. After bringing the account current, I considered heading back down to the Fair while I still had opportunity. With dusk at its duskiest, and lantern light filling the spaces the weak and tentative sun no longer reached, Fairgoers were trying to eke out every last bit of joy or debauchery or forgetting or whatever it was they had hoped to find in Alespell before curfew was called. But I had no idea what that rattled and bruised Hornman might do-had he reported sighting me to his superiors? Probably not, in all reality, or he’d face the lash for not reporting it sooner. But if he was frightened enough? Was he in his barracks, or his own room, running through all the possibilities, just like me?

For a mad moment, I considered leaving the Grieving Dog, not to disappear in the currents of the shifting crowd of Fairgoers, but to head to the Hornmen barracks. I thought somehow if I could just speak to the young soldier, I might be able to… what? Remind him of the oath he made when he was so terrified he nearly pissed down his leg? Surely that wouldn’t result in him turning me over to his superiors on the spot.

No, it would have been utter foolishness to leave the Dog just then, even if I wasn’t so stupid as to try to find the solider. Any moment I could have been picked up for questioning by the Hornmen if the boy had already reported me. They had purview of the road and waterways, allegedly protecting Anjurian travelers (though as the captain and I found out, just as often preying on them) and collecting taxes, but their jurisdiction got muddy elsewhere. Beholden only to the king, the Hornmen were generally beyond the scope of barons and burghers on travel routes, but did they have the right to question me, execute me, particularly while I was in one of the largest cities in the kingdom? There were plenty of instances when Hornmen and the barons disagreed about who had authority over inns, especially those in cities, and jurisprudence was divided.

The dead Hornmen in the grass might give them the most legitimate claim to hang us, but even if the Hornmen chose to turn me over to Baron Brune, that would likely end up with me strapped down on one of his tables in the depths of the castle, howling out despair as I was mutilated or torn, the horrible stench of vinegar stinging my eyes and nose as I cried out and told all I knew, hoping only for it all to end.

No, leaving the inn was a horrible choice now. Though staying might not prove much better.

And while I had sputtered out most of my scallops and ale and should have been starving, my stomach refused to sit still, so there was no reason to even head downstairs to the main floor of the Grieving Dog. While the idea of finding a corner to hide in had some appeal, watching the patrons come and go and argue and dice and maybe even sing-yes, a song would be nice, even croaky and slurred by the drunkest lout in the establishment-I suddenly had little motivation to do anything except lay back in my bed and stare at the rafters.

Which I did for far shorter than expected before falling into a thankfully dreamless sleep and waking up to a new day and the sound of voices in the common quarter outside my room. It sounded as if Hewspear had returned. I got up to join them, stopped at the door wondering if Mull-doos was there as well, and then swore at myself. It didn’t matter if he was-if I was going to seclude myself in my room, it would be my choice, not because I was afraid of a bully with a big blade.

I stepped out. Captain Killcoin and Vendurro were sitting in chairs and Hewspear was leaning against a support beam, stiff and favoring the side with the wounded ribs. Vendurro stopped mid-sentence when he saw me, then continued, “Told me to tell you he was following up on some rumors, be back by nightfall. Told me you were the luckiest son of a whore he ever met. Begging your pardon, Cap, just relaying.”

Braylar had washed a bit, changed tunics, and oiled his hair back to appear somewhat presentable, but he still had an obvious pallor and his eyes were shot through and rimmed in red. He took a slow swallow of his ale and said, “Well, even thin rumor is better than none at all. And you, Hew, what do you have to report?”

Hewspear glanced at me briefly and replied, “I found someone to transport Lloi back to the steppe. There is a group of pilgrims leaving on the morrow.”

Braylar slammed his mug down and laughed, though it pained him to do so as he lifted his hand to his throat. “Pilgrims have a queer fixation with the steppe this time of year. I do hope they have a guard or two. Not that anyone would be interested in thieving a dead body.” He lifted the mug and stopped before it reached his lips. “One of them wasn’t a large woman in a large hat, by any chance.”

I held my breath but Hewspear shook his head, coins jingling in his beard. That was good. One bad coincidence was already one too many.

Braylar took a long drink and the group was silent for a moment. I joined the two Syldoon at the table and pulled out a chair. Braylar took another swig, doing his best to drown his demons in drink, and gestured at the pitcher and a mug.

I accepted it and filled my mug as Vendurro said, “Remember, in Rivermost, we were talking about worst ways to go out? Well, I forgot one. We all did, as it happens. Just remembered it, in fact. Though can’t for the life of me figure out what made me think of it.”

“Oh?” Braylar asked, not sounding especially interested, but happy to entertain any distraction just now.

Vendurro replied, “Yup. Wheldon. Remember that poor bastard?”

Hewspear groaned. “Sadly, yes.”

Vendurro looked at me, and while his heart didn’t seem to be entirely in it, he spun the tale. “Well, Wheldon was always bellyaching about a bellyache. Wheldon the Whiner we all called him. Not a day didn’t go by when he didn’t tell one of us about his sore bloated belly, leaky shits, weird cramps and the like. Not one plaguing day. Might have been the first thing he ever says to me. ‘Name’s Wheldon. I near shit myself today.’

“This went on the whole time I knew him. And right up until his last. We got in a scrape on the western border, some hill tribes. What were they called? The Masukas? Marlukas? Something like that?”

No one seemed to remember, or inclined to correct him if he was wrong.

“Gless would have remembered. Always had a keen mind for that sort of stupid detail.” He waved the thought off and continued. “Anyway, we drove those bastards back up into their caves, away from the good people they were murdering in that valley. Not many casualties, that I recall. But Wheldon took a mighty crack to the back of the head. Stone axe, I think. Felled him in one blow. Split that skull square down the middle.”