Andrew Hartley - Act of Will

The Empire had come from the northern mountains of Aeloria, financed by the precious stones mined in their homeland. They had clad their legions in white, their pennants, banners, and cloaks over-laid with the blue diamond motif. So had they acquired their name: the Diamond Empire, wealthy, cold, hard, sharp, and smugly eternal. They had crushed the lands that bordered Aeloria and pushed south to the kingdom of Thrusia. We had fallen hard and taken the edge off the Diamond’s advance for a while. Then greed set their eyes across the virtual desert plains of the Hrof wastes-a land drier than Thrusian grain whiskey or the wit of an Empire centurion-to Stavis in the east, a sickeningly prosperous port. They extended a thin finger of their force, unable to feed and water a more smothering movement in so harsh a region, took Stavis, and held it. The Hrof remained a wild place to this day, and you’d need a rollicking good reason to cross it. There was little Empire presence on the road, though the bandits, scorpions, and vultures had their own plans for you. If you make it to Stavis, you are back in proper Empire territory, but once you get through the town and head east, you are free. That might be the rollicking good reason I needed.

They probably had another.

“What is your mission?” I asked.

“That’s our business,” Mithos answered quietly, but with a deliberation I was not supposed to question.

“Thanks a lot,” I snapped. “So you expect me to go trekking across the bloody Hrof with you, knowing that the trip is going to be an absolute swine, and you won’t even say where we’re going! That’s great, that is. Your name has been all over this town for months, years! But because you did me an unrequested favor and saved me from the bloody Empire, putting me right on top of its wanted list in the process, you expect me to go picnicking with you in the desert, even though it wouldn’t surprise me if you put a dagger in my spine to save water. I’d be safer doing a week in the stocks.”

“People die in the stocks,” Garnet hissed, his green eyes flashing. I think he rather liked the idea. He was right, of course. The worthy townsfolk couldn’t always be trusted to throw no more than fruit and veg at whoever was chained in the marketplace.

I went on nonetheless. “At least I wouldn’t be looking over my shoulder to see whether you thugs were about to. ”

Garnet got up. His fist was clenched round the haft of a large and mean-looking battle-ax, so I shut up quickly. He came for me anyway, grabbing a handful of dress just below my chin in a pale, strong hand and hoisting me against the wall. His eyes burned hard as emeralds and he placed the cold iron of the ax bit to my cheek. I half stood, half hung, and silently tried not to urinate. I could feel his heart racing and see the whiteness of his knuckles where they grasped the ax handle, and I braced myself for what would come next. In the end he just released me suddenly and, as I crumpled, said, “Find your own way out of Cresdon then, worm.”

That put a different complexion on things.

“Sorry,” I muttered. “Stressful day, you know?”

I tried a cautious smile. Whatever I thought of them, I believed they might be able to get me out, something I couldn’t do by myself.

“Can I do anything to help?” I tried.

“Unlikely,” said the girl.

“Can you do a Cherrat accent?” said Mithos.

“Who? Me? Are you joking?”

“No. Can you do it?”

“A little, I think,” I said, doubtful as to what part this new madness was to play in my escape.

“Let’s hear it,” said Mithos calmly, leading us back into their room.

They checked on the innkeeper and began getting their things together, then started changing clothes. The girl turned her back first so I could see nothing worth speaking of. I caught Garnet’s eye and leered towards Renthrette, hoping for a little manly understanding, but he looked murderously back. I stopped looking at her and stared disconsolately at the floor. God, what a mess.

“Sell me this shirt,” continued Mithos.

“What?”

“Pretend you are a Cherrati merchant and-”

“Oh, I see. Well, er. ” I faltered, quickly deciding that to behave like a lunatic in the company of lunatics was only reasonable. I started talking, hunching up my shoulders as I had seen the extravagant Cherratis doing in the marketplace at weekends. I was quite good at things like this, worthless though they were. I tilted my head and spoke through my nose. “You! Yes, you. Did you ever see quality like this? Feel that sleeve. That’s quality, my friend. The finest. what?”

“Silk,” he prompted.

“The finest silk you’ll put your unworthy hands on this side of the great river. Purchased at great expense from the hill tribes of the North and embroidered by the twelve virgin priestesses of Cherrath-waite. And would I ask twelve silver pieces of you? No sir, not twelve. Not ten. A mere eight silver pieces. What, you cheapskate, will you ruin me? All right, all right, I’ll take seven. ”

Shortly, Mithos smiled and told me to stop. “You have a talent, my friend,” he said. “Perhaps we’ll find a use for you yet. Now get rid of that dress and put the shirt on. And the trousers and boots. You’ll probably need a belt with those. There’s one in that box. Can you shoot a crossbow?”

“Kind of,” I answered. “So long as you don’t expect me to hit anything with it.”

“Take this,” he said. He handed me a whimsical little crossbow, one of the light, one-handed kind which was legal within the city. It probably wouldn’t do much damage to anyone in armor but it was a lovely piece of work: polished russet wood inlaid with silver. It was exactly what a Cherrati would carry.

Orgos was to ride with me in a wagon full of “borrowed” trade goods whose origin I dreaded to consider. He looked good too, I must say. There are more blacks native to Cherrat than to these parts, so he didn’t look at all out of place in his dark leather and crimson silks. He girded on a rapier (another weapon deemed legal because it wouldn’t penetrate the plate cuirass of an Empire soldier), and completed the picture with a plumed cap.

When Renthrette turned I was disappointed to note that she was dressed in the drab, coarse, and shapeless fabrics of a peasant. She gave me a blank look and turned away. I obviously wasn’t making much of an impression. She made light of a crate I could barely have lifted and my vague interest took another hit. This was unfortunate, since it was only my focus on her that was stopping me from thinking about all the terrible things I probably should have been thinking about, like where I was, who I was with, what I was doing, who was most likely to kill me, and whether they would do it this afternoon or sometime later in the week.

Orgos checked the ropes binding the innkeeper and the soldiers, all of whom were awake and frightened-looking in ways I would not have believed possible from Empire troops, and then ushered me out, heaving a box onto his shoulder and bidding me take the last bag. When only a couple of crates were left, Mithos led us into the corridor and spoke quickly. “Master Hawthorne, do as Orgos says. Speak only when you have to. I don’t want you being chased across rooftops again. There is an inn called the Wheatsheaf about a mile along the Stavis road. We will meet there, hopefully, for lunch. If we are not all together by nightfall, those who have arrived should head for Stavis at dawn tomorrow. Orgos, you take the wagon through the southwestern gate. And Will?” he said, bending down to my level and speaking carefully into my face. “Don’t even consider turning us in. If you do and they don’t have you up on the scaffold with us, burning your entrails in front of your dying eyes, I’ll make sure someone from our side does something similar. It may be less public, but it would probably feel about the same. Good luck.”