Jeff Salyards - Scourge of the Betrayer

Mulldoos tore off some meat and laughed. “Waited until you had him in the middle of nowhere for the big reveal, eh, Cap? You’re a cruel and clever bastard, you are.”

I ignored him. “Why exactly was it mandated? Make no mistake, I’m grateful to have the work, but I’m wondering why your company needs an official account.”

No one responded right away. Everyone looked at Braylar for a cue or permission. He nodded at Hewspear who said, “The empire is made up of countless factions, large and small. And we are always conspiring against each other. So every emperor knows that it’s not a question of if a coup will happen, but when.”

Mulldoos burped. “Jumpy as cats, our emperors.’”

Hewspear continued, “So Emperor Cynead decided to institute the policy that there must be a record of each company’s activities. Especially those so far from home.” He indicated the room with a wave of his hand.

“And let me guess. Your faction-your Tower-they’re not huge supporters of Emperor Cynead.”

Hewspear tapped the side of his nose with a long finger. “Our Tower supported the previous emperor, Thumarr. Now deposed these five years. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say we bear more scrutiny than most.”

I weighed all that for a moment and then said, “So he orders an accounting, but he trusts men he doesn’t trust at all to keep a faithful account? I could record whatever Captain Killcoin told me to record. Who’s to say it’s accurate at all? Again, I’m glad to have a patron, and payment, but why wouldn’t the emperor appoint his own chronicler to ensure the auditing was faithful?”

Mulldoos shook his head as he threw a bone on his plate. “There’s that dull edge again.”

I didn’t understand.

Rooting around in his ear with a greasy finger, Glesswik volunteered, “He did.”

I still didn’t understand.

Hewspear added, “The first chronicler was appointed, Arki.”

At last things fell into place, like tumblers in a lock, but that just brought up more questions. The kind that made my stomach twist. “The first one, the appointed one-”

Mulldoos drew a finger across his throat and laughed like it was the funniest gesture in the world, and I continued, fumbling the words, “If you head home, if you’re recalled, and me with you, won’t the emperor, that is, he’ll know your chronicler… he’ll know I wasn’t the one he assigned, won’t he?”

Mulldoos shrugged. “Wasn’t all that hard finding two stringy scribblers that looked alike. Three was a bit tougher-you’re a touch shorter than the rest, with a bigger nose-but…” He shrugged his shoulders.

My position seemed even more precarious than it had even a few moments ago, and seeing that expression on my face, Hewspear said, “It was a clerk who did the actual appointing. Several years ago now. Clerks change. Records get lost. Time passes. And-”

“And,” Braylar interrupted, “we haven’t been recalled in any event. We still have much to accomplish in this region. Do your job. Do it well. The rest will take care of itself. We start now.” He rose and said, “You and Hewspear accompany me. The rest of you can do what you like with your hours. Drink, dice, what have you. Only don’t tussle with the city watch, don’t draw attention to yourself, and don’t spill any blood.”

Vendurro shook his head, “So, lock ourselves in our rooms is what you’re saying?”

“The next few days are critical to our success here. Best remember that.” He and Hewspear started towards the door and I stuffed some bread in my mouth, took a final swallow of beer, and hurried to follow. We headed down the stairs and made our way through the crowd on the lower floor of the Grieving Dog. Lloi, as usual, was off doing something at the behest of Braylar.

We stepped out into the rain. If we were anywhere but Alespell during the Great Fair, it would’ve convinced most travelers to stay indoors, as it was coming down as hard and fast as nails. But the main thoroughfare was almost as crowded as the inn, and would probably become even more congested until curfew was finally called throughout the fortified city.

Braylar pulled his scarf tighter around his neck and, looking up at the sky, said, “Bad night for crossbows.”

“Bad night for crossbows,” Hewspear agreed, pulling his hood up.

I pulled my hands into my sleeves and said, “Bad night for almost anything, except sitting in front of a fire with some mulled wine. Why aren’t we doing that?” The pair ignored me as they pressed through the people in front of us.

The baron’s castle was vaguely visible against the night sky, but lanterns and a few lit windows along its towers and walls created fuzzy halos of light as it sat high on the hill above the city, like some great hunching beast or god.

Though none of Braylar’s retinue had said anything explicitly that led me to believe we were up to evil deeds this night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a great deal left unsaid that would confirm my suspicions. I asked, not for the first time, “Why do you need me for this, exactly?”

Braylar replied, “Because I ordered you, exactly. You have done little enough to really earn your keep thus far. You really begin tonight. Observe. And when we are through, record.”

Several times I was very nearly swallowed up by the multitudes as we walked along, but Hewspear stopped Braylar and allowed me to catch up, which must have irked him to no end, but Braylar never stopped long enough to scold me or pierce me with one of his looks.

We turned down several narrower streets as we wound our way through the city, and it was such an incredible maze that if I had to find my way back to the inn, no amount of enameled bars would help.

Every street was filled with the requisite jugglers, charlatans, and doomsayers, but the crowds thinned as we got farther from Wide Street, if only a little. After an infinity of turns, we stopped briefly in front of a building. There were several scrawny boys and girls hawking fruit near the doors, which were presently shut, and a large group waiting to enter. I was about to ask Hewspear what we were doing there when I saw the sign hanging from a broken hinge between two torches: three lion heads in dire need of new paint. A playhouse, then. In some ways, this wasn’t overly surprising-of low repute among the nobility and high repute among the lower denizens of any city, this seemed as likely a destination as any for my companions, though I was still in the dark about what their purpose might be.

Braylar guided us around the side of the building and down an alley that led to the rear. It was so narrow I could’ve touched the walls on either side without stretching, and it took several moments for my eyes to adjust as we stumbled over unseen debris.

We stopped in front of a small door, and Braylar knocked four times. It swung out quickly, and Braylar had to step back to avoid being hit. A short man in garish clothes peered out at us, likely having even more trouble seeing than we did. He addressed Hewspear, “Took you long enough. I was near to locking it.” He glanced at Braylar and me, and then back to Braylar. “This your master, then?”

Braylar took a step forward. “Indeed. And you must be the player my man spoke so highly of.”

The player didn’t look like a man spoken of highly very often, but he seemed immune to the praise as he cast a glance down the alley and then spoke to Hewspear, “You said nothing about three. Just your master. Didn’t even know if you were coming back, but even so, that makes two. Nothing said about three.”

Braylar held out a small pouch filled with coins. “I hope that doesn’t trouble you overmuch. While I’m sure this playhouse is above suspicion, a man can’t be too careful. I am, after all, entering in rather unorthodox fashion. I wish only to remain safe.”