Jeff Salyards - Scourge of the Betrayer

“Possible? No. It’s true. I don’t want my goods inspected. But that’s only because of their extreme paucity. It hasn’t been a good year. A good stretch longer than that, truth be known. Ten years ago, I had five wagons, all outfitted with drivers and guards. Five years ago, three, outfitted with my reluctant brothers and their lazy sons. This year, as the last of my fortunes deserted me, my family did as well. So I’m left to shepherd myself and depend on the good fortune of meeting protectors in the wilderness, rather than brigands and nomads. So you’re correct, I’m reluctant to show my small goods, but please, if you would shame a broken man further, inspect as you must. It won’t take you long. You’ll find nothing objectionable.”

Braylar told these lies with complete ease and conviction. It was really quite impressive.

Hornman Urlin shaded his eyes against the setting sun and surveyed the wagon again. “And this pauperish cargo of yours of no objectionable nature, what is it then?”

No hesitation. “Quills. Parchment. Inks. A fine stylus or two.”

Urlin laughed, monstrous mustache shaking like a tree bough overburdened with snow. “Quills, is it?”

“Clerics and lawyers are a pestilence on this world, but they do have their uses. A wise man would avoid their company altogether, it’s true, but a man of commerce, a merchant with a strong stomach, he might find a way to work their company to his benefit.”

Hornman Urlin continued to laugh. This seemed like a clever stratagem on Braylar’s part-he claimed to possess goods unlikely to interest a Hornman and his crew, and even those Hornmen who could read and write enjoyed making sport of those who make it their professions. “Fleecing the fleecers? I salute you. But five wagons? That’s what you said, wasn’t it? Five? And guards? For quills?”

Braylar continued to lie as easily as he breathed. “Clerics and lawyers are notorious for clutching their coins with iron fingers, but they’re also vain. And I carry nothing but the finest materials. Even in my depleted state, I refuse to sell unworthy merchandise. For quality, rare quality, the clerics and lawyers paid, and paid dearly. I did well enough to warrant the wagons as my reputation increased, and the guards were necessary to protect my wares. If a merchant loses his goods, he loses everything. But now, well… the plague claims men from all walks, but the last outbreak struck clerics and lawyers with particular ferocity. Perhaps the gods have a sense of humor after all, eh?

“But it’s been years now, and their ranks have been slow to recover. I tell myself that it’s only a matter of time, that more fleecers will be called to their duty soon enough. But until then, I load and unload my single wagon, dream of lost riches, and struggle on. I couldn’t afford a crippled guard in my state. I can barely afford the food to carry me between Fairs. I-” Braylar lifted a hand. “Pray forgive me, good Hornman. I don’t seek your pity. The life of a merchant is hard, and I’m reduced, it’s true, but I carry great hope to the Great Fair. And again, I’m far luckier to have met a Hornman, rather than a nomad or brigand, so forgive me for prattling on. I’m sure even in this wilderness, you have pressing duties.”

If Hornman Urlin’s face was any indication, he didn’t register this deference as feigned, and seemed to enjoy receiving it. “You do me great honor, merchant Thutro. But what I do is duty, duty alone. We see a wagon having wandered far from the road, we investigate. Sorry to hear of your troubles, but duty is duty.”

“Yes, of course. I’m glad to hear that some still take their posts seriously. I thank fortune that I met you. I wish you well, and pray that you continue to protect the innocent, and punish those deserving of it.”

“I pray likewise. But I’m thinking I’ll still need to inspect those wares of yours, innocent though they might be. Man can’t do half of a duty and be done, now can he?”

Braylar paused, and when he responded again, the deference was sliding free. “No, of course. Duty must be fulfilled in total, or not at all. But I’m curious about something, Hornman Urine.”

This wasn’t going to end well.

The Hornman straightened in the saddle, face coloring. “That’s Urlin, merchant. Hornman Urlin.”

Braylar didn’t acknowledge the correction. “Your order is charged with protecting the weary travelers of the world on the well-worn tracks they trod, correct? That, and taxing them egregiously at toll stations, to pay for your noble efforts. But first and foremost, patrolling the road, yes?”

The Hornman nodded curtly. “You hit the mark, merchant. Though I’m misliking your tone. I suggest you rein it in some.”

In Braylarian fashion, he did the opposite. “Therein lies the curiosity, you see. You correctly point out that I’m far from the road, but the same charge could be leveled at you. It strikes me as peculiar that Hornmen would be compelled to ride so far from it. Quite peculiar.

“The road is your lifeblood. In fact, it seems to me that there’s only one reason you might have drifted from the road you’re sworn to protect.”

Hornman Urlin’s patience was drying up. “Two ways of going about this, merchant. You step down off that rig, meekly, let us conduct our business, and we’ll be on our way. Or you keep on crowing like you are, and my men haul you down, beat you bloody, and everything else happens exactly the same. Either way, you’re coming down now. Only decision you need to make is how.”

Braylar paid no heed at all. “It seems very likely, in fact, that the reason you slipped so far from your assigned stretch of highway and all the witnesses that travel on it is you seek to engage in something nefarious. In fact, I suspect you want to inspect my supplies not because you suspect them of being contraband, but because you’re inclined to engage in some criminal activity yourself. Yes, it seems very likely you’re thinking of lightening my load. And to that I say, I wouldn’t hand over a wooden penny to a brigand, but I’d at least respect his honesty in the attempt. But you and yours… you’re a perversion of your purpose.”

The Hornman drew his sword slowly. “You got some mouth on you, merchant. You get down off that wagon, real quiet, maybe I let you live. Maybe even leave you a horse. But you keep flapping your tongue, I’m going to cut it out, cut you down, and do a little more cutting just for the sheer pleasure of it.”

Braylar pulled the blanket off his lap and leveled the crossbow at the Hornman. “Granted, this isn’t a siege bow spanned by a windlass, but it’s powerful enough to get the job done. The question isn’t whether the bolt will kill you, but which organ I plunk and how long you lay dying. At this range, I can pick and choose. Do you have a preference?”

We were doomed.

I grabbed the quiver of bolts.

The leader appraised the crossbow, then the owner, looking at Braylar as if seeing him for the first time. He tried to smile, but it was clearly forced. “It’s one on six, merchant. You’ll die.”

Braylar nodded slowly. “That’s likely true, but you’ll beat me to the afterlife, Urine. You could ride off, and we both could live. But I’m guessing you won’t do that.”

The three soldiers I saw looked at the leader, shifting the grip on their spears, uncertainty on their faces. I couldn’t see the rest, but I’m guessing they shared the same look. The leader licked his lower lip, overlarge mustache jiggling above the pink tip of his tongue, and he seemed to waiver a moment as well, and then, eyes still on Braylar, he jerked his head to the side. I heard horses moving as his men began to close in. The leader pointed his sword at Braylar. “You lower the bolter right now. Do it and-”