Jeff Salyards - Scourge of the Betrayer

Once again, I found the ground shifting beneath my feet. I should’ve been used to it, sharing this man’s company, but I never seemed to learn. Mulldoos said something, and Hewspear responded, but I was too stunned to pay much attention.

Braylar said, “The alleged assassination attempt, that was something conjured solely for the baron’s benefit.”

I floundered. “I don’t understand. The underpriest requested the meeting. He showed up with payment. Didn’t he?”

“True. He bore a satchel with gold,” Braylar replied. “Very incriminating, yes? But the underpriest wasn’t there to pay us for doing anything. Quite the opposite. It was a blackmail payoff. At least, he was there with the pretense of paying us. Until the earth belched out guards, and our traps were simultaneously sprung. Then, all illusion was dispelled.”

“What was he allegedly paying you to keep secret, if not assassination dealings? His treatment of prostitutes?”

Braylar replied “While his depraved taste for disfigured whores alone might have been worthy of blackmail, we decided to keep digging. And so we waited until one of our own had penetrated the inner sanctum of his temple and discovered that, as suspected, his transgressions didn’t end there.”

Hewspear jumped in, “He’s been engaged in some very creative bookkeeping.”

I waited for clarification and Mulldoos added, “Hadn’t been paying his liege what he ought.”

“And when we sent word we would expose him unless he paid dearly, he laid his trap while we laid ours. Blackmail was the ruse to draw out an agent of the high priest. Assassination was the ruse to draw out agents of the baron.”

Mulldoos filled his mug again. “Still, it was a close thing, Cap. That Gurdinn, if he’d come down to the temple with us, he-”

“Couldn’t,” Braylar corrected. “He couldn’t accompany us. Not so long as there was a chance we were telling the truth. Much as it galled him, he had to wait and watch, see how events transpired in the ruins. And while he suspects us of being capable of telling naught but lies-rightly, as it turns out-what he saw confirmed our tale. So you see, Mulldoos, while Captain Gurdinn will likely report grave misgivings about how things transpired or orders I gave, he can’t say with any truth-and whatever else his faults, I suspect he’s freighted with an abundance of cold honesty-he can’t say that he witnessed anything to confirm suspicions that we were deceiving them at all. In fact, things could hardly have conspired better to give substance to our story.

“While I severely underestimated Henlester, the fact the underpriest came with a satchel of coins and planted an ambush of his own goes some distance to proving that the high priest was exceptionally guilty of something, and we have already supplied a likely enough reason. And as Brune demonstrated at the Three Casks, the baron sees treachery everywhere, and is willing to alienate his fieflords and even Hornmen to root it out. That, coupled with the fact that the one man at the temple who might have stood a chance of dispelling our little illusion was struck down in the brush…” Braylar raised his mug. “We sustained losses, but circumstances also worked to our favor. Now-”

Vendurro swung the door open, and called in. “Bruneboy come by.” He walked over and handed the captain a scroll. “Got a summons, Cap.”

Braylar sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He pulled Bloodsounder off the table with an awful scraping and clinking and secured it to his belt, then rose slowly. “Well. That was earlier than expected. Still… I can’t very well refuse an opportunity for a social call, can I?”

Mulldoos stood and said, “We’ll be coming with, Cap.”

Hewspear added, “It would be a shame to pass up baronial hospitality. Rude even.”

Braylar looked at his two lieutenants long and hard. “Perhaps you should stay. There’s a chance this won’t turn out well.”

Mulldoos shrugged. “Things always turn to shit, sooner or later. We’re coming.”

“Very good.” Braylar turned to me. I expected he would offer me the same reprieve, and given what I just learned, I would’ve been sorely tempted to accept, but he didn’t. “To the baron’s castle then.”

We passed Vendurro in the common room, and Braylar ordered him to remain at the inn. As we left the Grieving Dog, the streets were already bustling with fairgoers. Between the mud from the previous day’s rain and the horse and dog feces, it was impossible to keep my shoes clean, so I gave up trying. I fell in behind the Syldoon, and with Mulldoos at the point cursing and glaring, the throng parted for the most part, with him only occasionally shouldering someone to the side. We moved away from the plazas and main thoroughfare as quickly as possible, and the crowds thinned as we took side streets toward the castle. Up on its hill, it was impossible to miss, even if it disappeared behind a building for a moment.

The route was circuitous, as no two streets ran parallel for very long, and few among them were truly straight, but we finally cleared the last residences and found ourselves at the hill’s base. Now, that close and with no obstructions, the hill seemed much higher than it had from the other side of Alespell.

We approached the first gate, which was flanked by two large towers on each side. I looked up and guards in purple and gray livery looked down. While the tall wooden doors of the gate were flung open, there were guards milling at the entrance, and one with bloodshot eyes walked over. After a drawn-out yawn, he said, “State your business.”

Braylar handed over the scroll. “Late festivities?”

The guard ignored him, unrolled the scroll, scanned it and handed it back. “On your way then.”

We passed through and began the slow ascent around the perimeter of the hill. The road was narrow, and it wound its way up, slowly spiraling. There were three more gates, each identical to the first with their flanking towers, and the scroll got us through them without incident. The muscles in my legs began to burn. I craned my neck and looked up at the walls and towers of the castle above as we walked. Wood hoardings jutted out, and with all the shutters and arrow loops, it was a gallery that could easily rain death down. I couldn’t make out guards, but I’m sure they were up there, looking down on our small group as we sweated our way up the hill. Probably joking about what they would like to drop on our heads.

Mulldoos saw me and nearly read my mind, saying, “The bastard who built this place knew his business. Tough enough to clear the city walls, but anybody assaulting the castle would be in for a heap load of hurt. Arrows, stones, boiling piss. Real bad day, assaulting this place.” He looked at Hewspear, who was struggling to breathe. “You going to make it, old goat?”

Face pale, Hew nodded and kept plodding up the hill. Mulldoos said, “Good, ’cause I ain’t carrying you. A bone pops your lung, you’re just going to have to sit and wheeze to death.” He limped after.

We finally reached the castle’s outer curtain wall. Where most of Alespell was constructed of snowstone that fairly glowed with the slightest hint of sun, the baron’s castle was built of a charcoal gray stone that seemed to absorb light. I wiped my brow, tried to regulate my breathing, and looked over my shoulder at the city laid out far below us. Even the green copper domes seemed far away. All those people milling in the plazas and marketplaces, caught in the flow of commerce, haggling, laughing, dizzy with the oddities and entertainments of the Great Fair, absorbed in wonder and drunk on cheap wine and ale. For one day at least, their troubles and pains forgotten. And all of them oblivious to the halls of power above them. A life could be snuffed out on this hill and they’d never know, probably never care. My breathing didn’t slow down, and not just because of the exertion of the climb.