Benjamin Tate - Well of Sorrows

Tom let his hand drop, felt the hollowness in his chest expand, but forced it back. He searched those gathered here and near the wagons behind for Arten.

And Walter.

He found them a short distance away. They stood at the edge of the basin as well, Walter staring at the blue waters below. Jackson, the Company assistant, sat in the grass to one side, a wide, flat satchel spread out on the ground before him, weights holding the exposed papers down. Tom had seen him with the satchel open during every break, diligently writing notes, but he hadn’t asked what he was doing. Walter and his escort hadn’t really interacted with the rest of the wagon train much at all, and after what Walter had done to Colin, after the riot those from Lean-to had caused on the docks and the hangings that followed, Tom had taken that as a blessing from Diermani.

But that would have to change. If they were going to start a town together, they needed to at least speak to each other. No matter how distasteful Tom might find it.

Sam followed him as he made his way to the small group. Arten saw him approach. “It appears that Cutter was right,” he said. “We’ll have to make a choice, either north or south.”

“There’s a third option,” Tom said. “We could simply set up Haven here.”

“No,” Walter said flatly.

Both Tom and Arten shifted, the Armory guardsman frowning.

“Why not?” Sam asked, defensively. “We’d have water, and the land to either side certainly seems arable. We could set up near where the water spills out of the basin. We’d be protected from the worst of the wind from the plains by the Bluff, sheltered from the storms, and we’d have plenty of stone to quarry for the buildings from the cliffs.”

Arten nodded as Sam spoke, eyes fixed on the surrounding land. “He’s right.”

Walter shot him a resentful glare. “No. It won’t work. It’s not far enough away.”

“What do you mean?” Tom asked.

“The new town-”

“Haven,” Sam interrupted, voice tight.

Walter’s eyes narrowed, but he continued, “ Haven needs to be far enough from Portstown that the Carrente Family can lay claim to the largest amount of land possible. We’re not even two weeks away from Portstown by wagon, which means we’re at most a week away on horseback, five days at a hard ride or with a second horse. That’s not far enough.”

Tom pressed his lips together, surprised. He’d thought Walter had said no simply to spite them, to take out some of the resentment he felt at being forced to come.

Arten caught his eye, one eyebrow raised. “He’s got a point. Sartori and Daverren didn’t send us out here simply to settle.”

Tom squinted as he considered Arten, then Walter. “Then what do you suggest?”

Walter didn’t answer, brow creasing as he hesitated. He’d clearly expected more of an argument. The hesitation made him seem his age-fifteen. “From what you claim that squatter said, the Bluff gets higher to the south. We should probably head north then. If we can cut farther inland, that would be best for the Carrente Family’s claim-and the Company-but if not, perhaps we can get a significant portion of land between Portstown and its northern sister port of Rendell.”

Tom considered, watching Walter, seeing the arrogant youthfulness in his face, the anger that simmered just beneath the surface, the resentment. But he saw something else as well, an eagerness, hidden beneath all of the darker emotions. For the first time, he wondered what it had been like in Portstown for Walter, to be Sartori’s second son-a bastard son-with so much of Sartori’s attention on Sedric, on the town itself.

Tom nodded. “I agree. Shall we rest here for a while longer, before we head north along the Bluff?”

Walter frowned, suspicion darkening his expression. Tom wondered how often Sartori had asked his son for an opinion, thought the answer might have been never.

Walter finally said, “Very well. Jackson needs to finish filling in his maps anyway.”

Tom ignored the touch of arrogance that colored Walter’s voice and glanced toward Jackson, bent over his sheaf of papers. “I’ll spread the word,” he said, then motioned for Sam to follow him as he left.

“Walter’s not as stupid as he looks,” Sam said, as soon as they were out of the Proprietor’s son’s hearing.

Tom shook his head. “No, he isn’t. I don’t think his father listened to him at all. I don’t think he paid any attention to him.”

“Perhaps he won’t be that bad as Proprietor of Haven.”

“Don’t forget, he was the one who got Colin arrested, who got him placed in the locks,” Tom said sharply. “He’s the one who sent my son home bruised and beaten more times than I can count. And everyone in this wagon train knows that. They won’t forget.”

“You’re the one who asked him what he thought, what he wanted to do.”

Tom glanced back toward Walter. “I know. He’s an arrogant bastard, but there’s some potential there.”

“Just be careful mentioning that potential around Colin,” Sam said, with a significant look.

Tom frowned. “Tell everyone to stock up on water here. We’re heading north.”

“It’s not as high as it was at the Falls,” a voice said gruffly.

Tom turned from his scrutiny of the Bluff to see Arten coming up from behind. The commander came on foot, his horse given over to one of the other guardsmen. And he’d abandoned the formal armor he’d worn as the wagon train headed out. His shirt and breeches were still cut better and made with finer cloth than anything those from Lean-to had, but it was better suited to the heat and the rough conditions of travel.

He’d also let his beard grow. Trimmed and perfect, it made his face sharper, more angular. And darker. Tom suddenly realized that Arten hadn’t originated from Trent. His features were more southern, from the Hadrian region or the Archipelago.

Tom nodded in greeting as Arten drew up beside him, wiping the sweat from his face with one large hand. “Is Walter calling a break?”

Arten shook his head. “No, we’re still moving. But I saw you up here, alone for once. I thought I’d join you.”

Tom smiled wryly. “If Sam isn’t following me around, then it’s my wife, or Colin. Or someone else from Lean-to with a problem they need resolved.”

“One of the pitfalls of leadership,” Arten said. “It’s why I’ve remained in the Armory. The Family assumed it was a fleeting passion of mine, that I’d grow tired of it and return to them and the Court.”

Tom’s eyes widened in surprise. “You’re a member of the Court?”

Arten smiled. “I could be. I was. But I never developed a taste for it. They sent me to the Armory, hoping I’d come to my senses. When I didn’t return to the Family as expected, they had the Armory send me to Trent. When that didn’t bring me scurrying back, they sent me to Portstown. They figured I’d break under the sheer depravity of it all. Much to their horror, I enjoyed it.” He caught Tom’s gaze. “There’s no pretense here. Or there wasn’t, under Sartori’s father’s hand. Sartori himself…” He shook his head regretfully.

“You could have returned to Andover once Sartori took over.” Arten didn’t respond at first; he stared out over the plains at the wagons trundling along through the grass. He was silent long enough that Tom began to worry that he’d offended the Armory captain in some way. But then: “I haven’t returned to Andover for a different reason.”

“The Feud?”

Arten turned toward him, his eyes hard and guarded. “Do you know what the Feud is about?”

“The Rose.”

Arten grunted. “And do you know what the Rose is?”

When Tom shook his head, he continued, looking back toward the plains again as he spoke. “A little over twenty years ago, a trade caravan owned by the Taranto Family traveling south through the Borangi Desert stumbled across some ruins once buried in the sands, exposed by the sandstorms that plague the desert. Inside one of the buildings, they found the Rose.” He paused, but continued a moment later. “No one knew what it was, but those in the caravan, and those of the Taranto Family who came afterward to see it, knew that it contained power. More power than anything any of the Hands of Diermani wield. Godlike power, although exactly what that power was they didn’t know. But the Family members returned to Taranto lands, told the Doms, who kept the discovery hidden for nearly twelve years.