Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (25 page)

Their destination was the Thoenar Central Guild Hall. 
It had been commandeered by the tournament officials for the contest’s
duration.  With the roads quickly clogging, Marik worried over their travel
time.  Shalla might know a quicker route but he was disposed to turn down
possible shortcuts, given recent history.

They waded through Thoenar.  The group traveled four
miles total distance in approximately three candlemarks.  When they arrived,
Marik’s body insisted it had spent an entire day on the road, laden with sword,
mail and pack.

The guild hall rested within sight of the wall
separating Second Ring from the Inner Circle.  It would have loomed menacingly
tall had its flanking edifices not been as impressive.

Sixty feet tall if an inch, it reached three times
that in width.  Stone steps the building’s length rose to a column row, twenty
of which were spaced along the hall’s face.  Gray marble sheeted the exterior
with carved friezes running under the roof line.

Shalla spoke to the group while they scaled the
steps.  “Because it belongs to no specific guild, the Central Guild Hall is
home to all.  Every major guild maintains a presence, conducting business among
each other and providing contacts for those wishing services.”

“Do architects have their own guild?”  The gambling
gleam illuminated Kerwin’s hopeful eyes.

“I imagine you could find contacts to them here through
others if they don’t.  However, Cartrus informed me last night that most guilds
have removed their functions to their individual guild houses for the duration
of the tournament.  I don’t know if any are still to be found inside.”

The entrance doors behind the columns were massive. 
They joined the crowd inside.  Marik thought he could feel the building’s
weight above as he passed through the giant doors.  His mind immediately placed
the entire town of Kingshome within the entrance foyer, trees and all.  Space
expanded in every direction, forward, sideways and vertically.

Several desks were clustered in the middle of the
polished wood floor.  A crowd was congregated around them.  That must be the
place they wanted.  Kerwin, Landon and Hilliard fell into the serpentine line
while the others stayed back, seeing no need to clog the queue.

His awe still undiminished, Marik studied the foyer
with a keener eye.  Couches and chairs were arranged in private groups further
back, mostly occupied by talking parties of hopeful entrants.  In the side
walls he counted twenty-two doors, each an expensive dark wood and bearing
brass plaques he could not read from such a distance.  Numerous decorative
plants were scattered everywhere and an antique mahogany desk served duty as a
watering trough.  Whoever normally cared for it would be livid when he returned
and found the rings left behind by water pitchers staining his treasure.

Landon eventually returned alone while Kerwin stood
aside with their charge.  “They have to wait for the registrar.”

“Then what was that line for?”

“Separating out the bona fide entrants from the lower
class dreamers.”

Marik sighed.  “Didn’t this contest used to be open to
everyone in Galemar?”

“Not for the last fifty tournaments or so.  The only
way for the likes of us to enter these days is to be sponsored.”

“Any particular reason that happened, other than the
nobles keeping everything for themselves?”

“Who can say?  At a guess, I’d say it’s the result
from a lack of serious warfare directed against the kingdom for so long
combined with the aristocracy’s view of everything as a sport.”

Marik found no reason to disagree.  The ones like
Hilliard were the exceptions who only proved the rule, in his experience.

A harried man who could only be a clerk jogged forward
to claim Hilliard.  The bodyguards rejoined their charge, Shalla included, and
retreated to the enormous entryway’s rear.  Six padded chair formations were
vacant.  They claimed the nearest.

“Yes, yes,” the clerk said, examining Hilliard’s papers. 
“I have a notation regarding you.  From Spirratta, yes?”

“I am fostered under Duke Tilus.”

“Indeed, yes.  I’ve already handled your
foster-mates.  They’ve been coming in for days.”  He shuffled through several
papers he had brought.  “I see you make the ninth!  The Baron Garroway’s son. 
Not many future barons with the Duke of Spirratta!”

Though the clerk obviously meant it as a compliment, a
flush rose to Hilliard’s cheeks.  Marik wondered how many other fosterlings’
fathers were ‘mere’ barons.  Had the other young fosterlings accepted him, or
had there been a gulf despite them all owning titles?

Oblivious, the clerk pressed on.  “The preliminary
paperwork has already been completed.  I must say that Seneschal Locke is
certainly on top of matters!  I can’t
tell
you how many I’ve had to deal
with who simply showed up at the desk with no prior correspondence!”

“He is a great asset to the duke.”  The four
mercenaries suppressed smiles at Hilliard’s straight face.  They remembered the
stories the young man had gifted them with on the road.

“I could wish the registrar staff were as capable! 
But to matters!”  The clerk withdrew a sheet and handed it to Hilliard.  “Here
is the event schedule for the contestants.  Opening ceremony is in nine days,
with the first event being the races the day after.  King Raymond is providing
the mounts to ensure equality.  I assure you they will all be fine stock and
manageable.

“With each event, the bottom twenty percent is
eliminated, so use your judgement during the longer trials!”  The clerk made a
fist, gesturing enthusiastically as he finished.  “You don’t need to perform
your absolute best until the sixth event, so don’t injure yourself needlessly.”

They spent the next half-mark listening to the
registrar clerk, learning where to report on which days and going over the list
of participating training facilities throughout the city.  Hilliard signed more
documents than Marik would have credited to the army payroll attendants, then
the young baron-to-be was officially a contestant.

Their clerk disappeared through one of the many doors
with the signed papers.  The group huddled while the mercenaries studied the
schedules.  People swirled inside the hall, busy with their own matters except
for the well-dressed loiterers.  These were young men for the most part.  Their
attention quickly focused on Hilliard, the obvious upper-class citizen within
their tight ranks.

Several studious moments would ensue before they
shifted attention to other groups clustered in the foyer.  Marik determined
these youngsters must be contenders as well, given to spending their time
sizing up other entrants.  He ceased noticing the sharpers until an older
gentleman stopped to great them.

“Ah!  Participating in the tournament, are you?” The
older man, dressed as exquisitely as the younger talent hawks, radiated warmth
and cheerfulness.  Frilled lace hung from his oversized cuffs, matching the
ruff around his collar.  “It’s splendid to see to see so many of the younger
generation stepping forward to take on the responsibilities of the Arm.”

Hilliard bowed.  “Thank you for your gratitude.  I am
Hilliard Garroway, and I am indeed participating.”

“How superb!  But forgive me for not introducing
myself at once!  I am Baron Santon Sestion of the Court of King Raymond
Cerella.  My son, Ferdinand, will also vie for the Arm.  See?  That is him over
there, with our registrars.”

The baron pointed to where a solidly muscled young man
sat, perhaps a year older than Hilliard’s sixteen summers.  Three clerks
fluttered in a cloud surrounding him, each shoving documents before him to sign
faster than the others could remove theirs.

“With so many contestants arriving each day, this will
be the most interesting tournament we’ve held in recent memory!”

“And not so recent memory,” growled a new voice. 
Everyone shifted to find a dour, unattractive man nearby.  His face held angles
rather than curves, and he had obviously been on his way past before pausing. 
He glared at the baron, adding, “Couldn’t resist tossing your own lot in after
Keegan declared, could you Sestion?”

“Ferdinand had long since decided to participate, I’ll
have you know.  And I was welcoming young Hilliard Garroway to the
competition.  The more the merrier, eh?”  Santon gestured at the stranger. 
“And may I present the Baron Argen Gardinnier.  I heard his son Keegan will
also be entering the field!”

Hilliard bowed to the new arrival.  “A pleasure, Baron
Gardinnier.”

If Argen felt mutual pleasure, he concealed it
masterfully.  A barely discernable nod of his head returned the honor.  His
attention diverted to the couch clusters.  Marik could not see who specifically
he gazed at, but it must be his own son registering.

Santon ignored Argen upon noticing Dietrik’s sling. 
“Your man seems a little worse for the wear.  I hope you haven’t run into
trouble.”

“I’m afraid such is the case,” Hilliard admitted.  “We
ran afoul of a street gang upon our arrival.  Fortunately, Shalla of the Faith
of the One Soul provided us with refuge during their pursuit of us.”

Shalla curtsied as best she could in her robe.  Argen
kept his silence.  He cast his narrow, nearly sneering gaze over her.  Santon
expressed his shock.  “Pursuit!  How terrible!  What a thing to happen!  I’m
afraid Thoenar hasn’t greeted you with its best face forward.  Attacking a
noble!”  His chin waggled in dismay.  “These street people are running out of
control!  Something must be done about them, yes, something.”

“We are partly to blame,” Hilliard added.  “We were
too trusting of strangers.”

“The city is full of strangers these days,” Santon
continued.  “I am sorry your man was injured first thing.”  He spoke directly
to Dietrik and the others.  “But put that behind you.  You’ll have a bounty to
help you forget such troubles over the next month!  The trials for the contestants
are the festival’s main attraction, naturally, but events and competitions for
all lower citizens will be held every day.  Prizes and wealth will be yours for
the winning!”

“Thank you,” Marik replied simply for the group,
irritated by the baron’s casual dismissal of their stature.  It contained the
clear insinuation that the nobles were merely allowing the people of Galemar to
intrude into their personal domain.

Argen departed for the couches without saying farewell
after his cold stare fell on each in Hilliard’s group, the frostiest saved for
Shalla.  The man must be an agnostic, Marik concluded, or one who nursed a deep
dislike for priests in general.  Or perhaps he was simply a woman-hater.

“I do hope you have a better time of it during the rest
of your stay in our city.  It truly is the finest in Galemar!”  With that,
Baron Sestion bowed.  He wandered off only to stop and greet a new group who
had finished with their registrars.

“A nice enough chap,” Dietrik mused.  “Though I expect
he’s judging up his son’s competition on the sly.”

“Sounds about right,” Kerwin agreed.  “Before we move
on, I’m going to ask around.  I’ll be back.”

Kerwin drifted away to study the plaques mounted on
each door.  The remaining five congregated around the mahogany desk, sipping
from cups they filled from water pitchers.  Hilliard renewed questioning Shalla
about the intricacies of her order while Landon checked the knot tying
Dietrik’s sling.  With nothing else to do, Marik leaned against the wall to
watch people pass as they waited for Kerwin to return.

*        *        *        *        *

Marik gazed in awe at the Cathedral of the Eternal
Twelve.  He wished he had not squandered the term ‘massive’ to silently
describe the Central Guild Hall.  That structure had been large, but it could
probably fit within a single wing of the cathedral.

Stretching forever, it consumed the entire side of
Temple Square, the largest square in Thoenar.  Eight major roads emptied onto
the square, with three separate fountains surrounding statuary.  Marik guessed the
centermost fountain would require three full minutes to walk completely
around.  Even the air seemed different, containing a sharp odor reminiscent of
rain-swelled pools that was not in the least unpleasant.  Standing in the
square felt like standing in an open field with flat stone underfoot rather
than hay stalks.  The party passed through the cathedral’s enormous twin entry
archways and mingled with those who had come to worship.  Roughly half the
kingdom, at Marik’s estimate.

The central interior yawned in a massive cavern. 
Marik strained his neck.  He could hardly see the ceiling despite the afternoon
sunlight streaming through the intricate stained-glass windows.  Each of the
accepted gods claimed a wing leading off from the central hall, forming a
horseshoe.  Towering stone arches decorated with intricate carvings, twelve in
all, represented each of the Eternal Twelve.  Statues representing the deity
whose temple lay beyond flanked each arch.  Six or seven carts could pass
side-by-side through the entryways.

Marik looked into the nearest wing to the left and
glimpsed two-hundred pew rows in four rows fifty.  Tapestries hung on the stone
walls, depicting saints struggling to help the less fortunate.  The wing was
astoundingly large, easily capable of holding two or three thousand worshipers
for services.