Jeff Salyards - Scourge of the Betrayer

Mulldoos spit in the dirt. “Going on record-this idea stinks worse than a dead leper whore.”

“So noted. We’ll meet up in five days time at the Grieving Dog.”

Mulldoos looked ready to argue or spit some more, but spun his horse in a circle instead and spurred it off to the street. Vendurro and Glesswik followed. Hewspear rode over to the bench and looked at Braylar. “You know it pains me to say it, but Mulldoos might have the right of it on this point. Traveling with a scribe and crippled girl for protection isn’t especially safe.” He lowered his voice. “Not with the cargo you carry.”

Captain Killcoin watched the others head out of the yard. “I value your input, Lieutenant, as always. Now safe journeys to you as well. Five days time.” He nodded, and Hewspear did the same, though with a small smile playing on his lips.

After Hewspear rode off, Braylar looked down at me and arched a dark eyebrow. “You don’t look particularly well rested.”

I replied, “It wasn’t the most restful night.”

“At least your belly is full, yes?”

I said, “It was fine, if you like a little peas and grain with your oil.”

“There’s a basket of plums behind your seat. They’re a very nice plum color, although not having tried one I can’t vouch for their taste. Beside the basket there’s some dried goatmeat, and beside the goat, flasks of coppery water and watery wine. They’re indistinguishable. Flasks and taste.”

Balancing my satchel as best I could, I climbed up into the back of the wagon and made my way inside. I wasn’t certain how long our journey was going to be, but if the supplies were any indication, it was meant to last half of forever. There was what passed for a narrow path between miscellaneous boxes, barrels, buckets, sacks of grain, and a large chest. Hanging from a variety of hooks, large and small, were copper pots, a shovel and a hand axe, as well as several curious bunches of dried herbs and plants that smelled of mint and lemons. I wondered if they were for cooking or keeping insects at bay.

I set my satchel and bedroll alongside a barrel and was about to settle down when the wagon started forward and I nearly fell on my face. I regained my balance, moved to the front, pulled the flap aside, and took my seat alongside him, just as we came to a stop again. Syrie’s brother Martiss was standing below us and Braylar said, “You kept your face intact. You must have done something right.”

The boy patted the flank of one of the harnessed horses. “That one tethered, nasty as could be, just like you said, but after a time she and me worked something out. Others were easy enough.”

Braylar opened his pouch. “You can be sure I’ve looked them over, nose to tail, and true to your word, the care appears to have been exemplary.”

The boy wasn’t quite sure what to do with that, but when Braylar tossed him two coins instead of the promised one, his face lit up. “You’re a fair dealer, by my account. I’ll tell anybody that asks, too, maybe a few that don’t.”

“And I’ll be sure to tell anyone that travels this way, a stay at the Three Casks will involve bad food, bad drink, and good horse care.” Braylar flicked the reins and we were off.

I noticed a package alongside Braylar, wrapped in felt. He saw me eyeing it and said, “It’s a gift.” And when I didn’t respond, or move, he added, “For you. Meaning, you should open it.”

I picked the package up, finding it surprisingly heavy, and slipped the small cords off the cloth and unwrapped the object. I didn’t have a particular thing in mind, but what I found would have exceeded even the greediest expectations. It was a large brass box, inlaid with fantastic scenes of silver and niello. On the top, two horsemen carrying crossbows and a pack of hounds bringing down a huge stag. On one side panel, a unicorn lying down, legs folded serenely beneath it, and on the other, a gryphon at rest in much the same position, with its wings down across its back and a large collar around its neck. The box (or case, as it turned out to be) was a metalsmithing masterwork of exquisite and elaborate detail, the likes of which I’d seen only in the inventories of some of the highest of nobles who had interviewed (but never retained) me.

I tried thanking Braylar, but he interrupted me before I said two words. “Do you know what this is?”

After examining the case again, I said, “No. I can’t say that I do.”

He pointed to finely worked clasp on the front. “Open it. Your gratitude should double.”

Freeing the clasp, I lifted the lid. There were several small holes along the upper right side, perfect for holding sharpened quills. Below those were two rectangular openings with small hinged lids, one for sand and another for a container of ink. Alongside the small compartments for ink, a polished smooth writing surface flashed in the sun, with a small lip running along the bottom to keep pages from sliding off. Then I saw the small clasps on the inside of the lid, designed to hold any finished pages as they dried. I turned back to Braylar again, but he indicated that my inspection wasn’t complete. Turning the brass box around, I noticed the gryphon panel was actually a cleverly disguised drawer that held extra sheets of vellum, some quills, and a small knife for keeping them sharp.

I also noticed two knobby legs that popped out from the rear of the pen and parchment case that enabled the whole station to sit at a slight incline, perfect for writing. Braylar had been wrong-my gratitude more than doubled. The generosity was almost appalling. I said, “Thank you, Captain Killcoin. But this is much too fine.”

“You’re not wrong,” he replied. “It’s a lordly gift so I expect you to perform well enough to warrant its gifting. Fill it with whatever supplies you need.”

Having thanked him again, and retrieved the necessary supplies, I reclaimed my seat at the front of the wagon. I was fiddling with the case, trying to set it on my legs to eliminate as much movement as possible, when Braylar said, “Perhaps I’ve not thought of everything, but what is the category just beneath everything? That’s what I’ve thought of.”

He handed me a thin board and I set it under my writing case. I was sure I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank him again, so I did, and then set to recording.

Braylar took us out of the alley and into the traffic on the thoroughfare. Even with the board, it wasn’t like writing on a secure table or desk. The quill tip made countless unseemly scratches with every small bump and shift of the wagon, skipping across the page in small jumps as of its own volition.

I noticed that Lloi had ridden off as well. “I thought you said she’d be accompanying us.”

Braylar replied, “She won’t ride with us. Or seldom enough to count as a passenger. As you can see, Rivermost is crowded, even at this early hour. She moves among those strangers, looking for any that might show any… unusual interest in my passing. If it sounds as if I have a good many enemies, you can be sure there are a good many reasons. So, if you happen to see her ride past, don’t hail her, don’t address her, and do your best to pretend that you haven’t noticed her at all. Do you understand?”

I nodded, not understanding. We rode down narrow dirt streets, the stone and timber keep shouldered against the river to the east, looming behind us, its tall towers stark in the new morning light. Even at that early hour, the city was awake. Odors were everywhere: fish and a heavy mud smell from the river, urine a sharp undernote, excrement sometimes mingling with the mud, bread baking, horses, the poor and unwashed. Shops opening, small wagons of apples and oranges rolled out by sleepy merchants, awnings raised, tables of furs and spices and ceramic pots and bolts of cloth set up. Hammers striking steel in smithies. A courier ran by in a crisp court tunic, a cylindrical pack of summons and missives bouncing on his back. Three feral cats darted between boots and hooves, their fur matted and muddy. Guards leaned lazily against the walls, waiting for their shift to end. A heavy wagon pulled by a team of tired-looking oxen rolled by, creaking with its burden of barreled ale. The last patrons left whorehouses and returned to their work, caravan guards, miners, magistrates.