Joel Shepherd - Tracato

The matter with Sofy troubled him too. He did not like how Sir Elias had treated her, yet Elias was old family, while Sofy was very new. He thought that he certainly must love her, because she was so very pretty and full of warmth, and so fascinating in her foreign ways and exotic accent. Yet truly, his father was right-an event like this could only serve to show her her place, among the Larosans. He had to make her see that she must abandon her old world entirely, if she were to be truly happy in the new. And he did wish her to be happy, very much so. He would make love to her tonight, he decided, and apologise to her not in words, but in the warmth of his kisses and the lust of his loins. He would make clear to her all that she had to gain, and for so little a sacrifice, indeed, in what she would leave behind.

A man came running, a rattle of armour between the tents, interrupting Balthaar’s thoughts. Balthaar stopped, not recognising the young man but noting that he seemed pale and alarmed. Something had happened.

“Your Highness. Best that you come and see.”

Not far away, a farmhouse had been consumed by the sea of tents, and appropriated for noble use. Torches and lanterns now clustered about one wall near some bushes, where a pair of newly headless bodies lay. Both were knights, in chain and family colours.

“Sir Diarmond and Sir Felesh,” said a man-at-arms, grimly. “Sir Elias found them. No one heard or saw a thing.”

Balthaar stared at the bodies. The wounds were clean and swiftly made, the mark of an expert swordsman. “Elias, you say?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“And where is Sir Elias now?”

“Under guard, by your leave, Your Highness. These two are his friends, I figured whoever did it might be after Sir Elias next.”

“Soldier, your name?”

“Sarno, Your Highness. Alaine Sarno.”

“You’re Tournean?”

“I am, Highness.”

“I shall pass on a commendation to your lord, Alaine Sarno.”

“I thank you, Your Highness.” The man bowed low.

Balthaar strode back to his tent, as the crowd about the bodies continued to gather. Sir Diarmond and Sir Felesh…they had been with Sir Elias in Sofy’s tent this afternoon. They had taken liberties with that pagan Isfayen girl…could that be it? Surely even the mad, bloodcrazed Lenays would not go to such lengths to avenge the honour of a fool like her? Besides, honourable combat was the preferred Lenay method. But yet another duel, in the midst of this deteriorating relationship between Lenays and Bacosh men, would be surely refused by the Lenay king. Certainly his father the regent would refuse it, as was his right, in his camp. Perhaps the murderers knew that. Or perhaps, when a Lenay was angry enough, proper form ceased to matter.

He pushed through the tent flaps. There was not a maid in sight, only a small table on which dinner could perhaps have been served. Sofy sat in a comfortable chair, a book on her lap, lit by a lantern on another table between two glowing coal braziers. She looked up at him, serenely.

“Dear husband, is something the matter?”

“Where is your Isfayen maid tonight, dearest?”

“She’s not my maid. She is back with her Isfayen family in the Army of Lenayin, I believe. Why do you wonder?”

“Two of Sir Elias’s friends are dead,” said Balthaar. “You met them earlier this afternoon. Their heads are missing.”

“Oh,” said Sofy. She resumed reading her book. “The Isfayen have not played lagand with real heads for years. I hear there will be a game tomorrow, though. Would you like to go and see?”

ERROLLYN ENTERED THE RESH’ULAN , and surveyed the scene. There were serrin present, gathered about the lower stage, which stood alone before rows of amphitheatre seating and surrounded by a small moat. The serrin were asking questions of a man who sat at the centre of the stage, his wrists manacled together.

It was Reynold Hein.

Errollyn walked gingerly down the steps. He no longer hurt like he once did, but efforts to rebuild his strength met resistance from bruised flesh and strained muscle. Lesthen stood by the moat, speaking at length, his long white hair spilling on blue, formal robes. He saw Errollyn and pointed serrin to face him, without breaking sentence. Two serrin rose to confront him, expressions apologetic but firm. Errollyn abandoned his first plan, to draw his blade and strike off Reynold’s head. And he was in no physical condition yet to charge past his people, and execute their prisoner.

Aisha emerged from the group, took his arm, and guided him to a bench. Errollyn counted nearly thirty serrin present, many of the Mahl’rhen’s most prominent remaining names among them.

“It’s a formal etoth’teyen, ” he muttered to Aisha as Lesthen droned on, and the two serrin who had opposed him returned to their seats, but kept a careful eye upon him. “Why does he warrant the formalities?”

“It’s the way, Errollyn,” Aisha told him. Her words lacked conviction. Errollyn was not entirely certain why she was still in Tracato. Rhillian had gone, and taken the Steel with her. Aisha had remained, ostensibly because she was Rhillian’s trusted lieutenant and would carry out her preferences, and make certain that the new peace with the feudalists would hold. Also, Errollyn knew, she’d been keeping an eye on him. But others could have performed either task as well.

“It’s not the way,” Errollyn retorted. “We have no way for this, we only use our formalities and debates because that’s all we have.”

“Well the human courts can’t take him,” Aisha said. “We’re all there is for law and order in Tracato right now.”

“Maybe we always were,” said Errollyn.

He stared at Reynold, hoping that certain peasant superstitions were true, and the weight of a hateful stare alone could bring misfortune upon a person. Reynold did not look particularly troubled. He sat serenely, with excellent posture, and listened to Lesthen’s droning-in Saalsi, too, for Reynold spoke excellent Saalsi, like any Nasi-Keth scholar. This was not a man who expected to die, not even given what he’d done. Reynold was a persuasive talker, and could think just like a serrin-round and round in circles. It had taken some time for Errollyn to ride here, after he’d heard, from out on the practice fields. This session had surely been progressing for more than an hour so far.

“Where was he caught?” Errollyn asked. Lesthen was talking about the philosophy of Mereshin, who had been dead fifteen hundred years. Gods help them all.

“Elisse,” said Aisha. “Some Civid Sein went that way, amongst the villages we liberated in the south. They were talking revolution.”

“What did the peasants say?”

“They expressed a preference for bread,” Aisha said drily. “Several heard of a reward and alerted the talmaad .”

“They’ll eat well on that reward,” said Errollyn. “Reynold finally achieves something for the poor.” Aisha gave him a faint smile, and put a hand on his arm.

Lesthen’s recital on the life of Mereshin moved into the phase of Mereshin’s realisations on usden’ehrl , the acceptance of loss, and the uselessness of vengeance. Errollyn wondered if all the serrinim were mad, that he were the only one to find the whole scene utterly preposterous.

“I interrupt,” came a new voice, and Lesthen paused. Not the only one, then. Across the stage, Kiel rose to his feet. “My apologies for the indelicate rupture,” Kiel continued, in florid Saalsi, “yet my point is pressing, and none too far removed. This man has done us a great crime and he should die. If none disagree, and I feel the point is indisputable among reasonable serrin, then we should proceed with the obvious resolution and return to more important matters.”