Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) (34 page)

Still rubbing his knee, Latius asked, “So what do you think happened?”

“I’m at a loss,” sighed Cero, crouching to study the same dirt he had already looked at a half-dozen times. He nodded at a series of markings in the dirt. “There was a struggle. Two or three men and either an older child or woman. That much is clear.” Turning a bit, he pointed to the oddest thing he had seen in the wilderness since coming to Smithshill. “But those? They shouldn’t be here.”

“And you are sure those are from a bear’s paws?”

“I am from the Northlands, Latius. I am quite familiar with the markings of bears.”

“As am I,” said Latius. He pointed to the massive set of prints. “Yet I have never seen any that size, have you?”

With a slow, wondering shake of his head, Cero muttered, “No, I have not.” He could have stood on one foot in the center footpad and not disturbed the print at all.

“So, then,” sighed Latius. “What do we do?”

Cero glanced up to his fellow Tracker, curious. “What do you mean, ‘what do we do?’”

Latius nodded at the bear tracks. “Do we report this?”

Standing tall, Cero glared at Latius and said, “Of course we report this.”

“No one will believe us, Cero. A bear? Here?”

Indicating the tracks, Cero asked, “Do you see something different?”

“Oh, no, those are bear tracks. Giant, massive bear tracks. The problem is they are the only ones. Did the beast fall from the sky and then grow wings and fly away? We will be mocked.”

Cero pressed his lips together, disappointed in his partner. “Do you deny the strength of the disturbance?

Latius frowned and dropped his head. “No.”

“Then you know we can’t let this go unreported.”

Looking up, Latius asked, “Do you think Oliver will request a Gray Cloak?”

“Perhaps, but the nearest one I know of is in Redstone. This is up to us.”

Latius murmured, “I suppose you’re right.” He was staring at the tracks again, a worried frown on his face.

Cero began to head back to the tree line, careful to avoid scuffing the tracks.

“Let’s go, Latius. We have a mage to hunt.”

17
^th
of the Turn of Sutri

Alpert swept into the council chamber and breathed a sigh of relief, the cool air within a welcome change from the blistering heat outside. Channels under certain rooms of the Regent’s House carried water siphoned from Lake Hawthorne before it made its way over the falls. The constant flow kept the white granite floor cool and, in turn, the air refreshing compared to the summer heat.

When Duke Everett had granted him the regency here, he had been grateful at first. Years of keeping the man’s awful secrets had finally been rewarded. He had arrived in the middle of a mild winter and, for five turns, had enjoyed his assignment. Then summer had come and nearly cooked him. The son of a baron, Alpert had grown up in the far western region of the duchy, in mountains where temperatures never approached the broiling heat outside.

He glanced down to ensure his outfit was clean and presentable, and gave a satisfied nod. There was no need to check his hair. He kept it cut so short that it was not possible for it to be mussed.

Six seats encircled the round table in the room’s center, three of which were occupied by council members already here and waiting.

Cato Wadham—a fat, pig-faced man here representing the interests of the Smithshill Merchants Guild—had a hand in every trading interest within the city. Any new business venture required his approval, and he was not above accepting bribes to grant it. A bright green shirt with puffed sleeves covered his substantial girth, littered with crumbs from the pastry Cato was stuffing into his voluminous mouth. The fat merchant nodded a silent greeting to the regent, which only sent more crumbs tumbling down the man’s two chins.

Fighting a grimace, Alpert nodded back and took his seat.

An empty chair rested on Cato’s right, awaiting a yet-to-arrive council member. Next to the vacant seat and directly across from Alpert was a man wearing a cobalt blue shirt with long sleeves that flared at the end, clearly last season’s fashion. Councilman Jalano Maison, a slender man with a carefully trimmed black beard and bald head, was the sole Fallsbottom representative on the council and its most ineffective member. He could be easily swayed on any issue, often taking the side of the last person to speak.

Jalano offered a quiet, “Good morning, my Lord.”

Alpert wordlessly grunted back.

Next to Jalano sat Curate Lynea Whyte, here to speak for the interests of the holy orders. Lynea was a beautiful, shapely woman with long, auburn hair flowing over her low-cut, hunter-green robes—the garb of the Order of Chalchalu. Alpert had been pursuing her since his arrival in Smithshill, but she had turned aside every one of his advances. He offered her a smile, but Lynea did not return the favor, apparently believing that her even stare sufficed as a greeting.

Sighing, Alpert eyed the doorway, silently urging the other two council members to show soon, and rested his head against the back of his chair.

The wooden chair in which he sat was slightly larger than the others and the only indication of Alpert’s rank over the rest of the council. Tradition dictated that only the duke could sit at the head of a table during the conduction of official duchy business. As a result, there were few non-round tables in any government building outside of the duchy capital of Redstone. There was one here, used only when Duke Everett was in Smithshill, a rare occurrence.

Alpert was relieved when the two remaining members of the council finally arrived. Watching Cato eat was making him ill.

Head Constable Oliver Goodwell swept into the room, bringing a rush of the accursed warm air with him. The man’s long, thick black hair was combed perfectly in place and a neatly trimmed, symmetrical beard lined his cheeks and chin. As he sat, he raised a hand to check his coif.

Captain Edmund deCobb marched in wearing the full regalia of the Red Sentinels. Three diamonds embroidered in white thread adorned both shoulders of his black tabard.

As soon as the captain had taken his seat, Alpert ordered the clerk to shut the chamber door and started the meeting by uttering the traditional opening phrase.

“On today, Thirday the seventeenth of the Turn of Sutri in the year 4999 after the Locking, the Council of Smithshill convenes on behalf of our Lord Duke Everett to apply his law, dispense his justice, and see to the prosperity of his lands.”

The words came out without emotion or thought, recited more for the sake of the clerk in the corner tasked with recording the proceedings and not because he felt that it was important to say.

“First order of council is to address any of the open issues left unresolved from last week’s meeting. Does anyone have something he or she needs wishes to address?”

Jalano sat forward as if he meant to speak but stopped when Alpert glared at him. Alpert had no interest in rehashing last week’s mendacities. Jalano frowned and reclined in his chair.

Nodding, Alpert said, “Nothing then? Excellent. On to this week’s items.”

For the next few hours, the council discussed routine issues. Disputes between business owners. Reports on minor criminal activity. Preparations for the Leisure Time festivals. Alpert paid attention when he had to, and let his mind wander when he did not.

Throughout the meeting, Alpert noticed that the Head Constable appeared on edge. He frowned, guessing that man had something significant to report. He hoped whatever it was would not be something that would ruin the rest of his day.

Once civic business was complete, Alpert turned to the Head Constable. “You seem anxious, Oliver. What’s wrong?”

The Constable hesitated a moment before answering. “There was an event, my Lord. Two evenings ago.”

Alpert’s ears perked up. An actual report of magic use was rare. “Go on.”

“Yes, my Lord. Close to sunset, two of my Trackers were in Fallsbottom when they sensed the use of a large—very large—amount of magic south of the city. They traced the disturbance to a clearing near the cliff where they found signs of a struggle. And tracks leading into the forest.”

Oliver stopped talking and shifted in his chair, reaching up to run a hand over his beard.

After a few moments of silence, Alpert prompted, “And did they follow the tracks?”

“Yes. At least as far as they could.”

“What does that mean?”

Oliver dropped his gaze to the table top and muttered, “They, ah…ahem, they lost the trail, my Lord.”

Cato laughed aloud.

“Hah! The great Trackers finally have something to track and they lose the trail! Wondrous!”

The regent ignored Cato’s outburst, never taking his eyes from the Constable.

“
Both
Trackers lost the trail?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“That’s disappointing, Oliver.”

“Agreed, my Lord. I do apologize.”

“Keep your apologies and bring me the mage.”

“Mages, my Lord. We believe there may be more than one. The tracks belonged to three or four people, one of them quite large.” He paused again, rubbed his chin again, and added with some reluctance, “And a bear. Larger than a horse, they insist.”

Cato guffawed louder, shaking like a bowl of Year’s End pudding. The merchant and Constable had never much liked one another.

Silencing the merchant with a sharp look, Alpert turned back to Oliver and said, “That’s impossible. The nearest breed of bear is in the eastern Southlands.”

“And those are rather smallish,” said Lynea. “No bigger than a cow.”

Still chuckling—and jiggling—Cato said, “It seems your Trackers are out of practice, Oliver.”

The Constable glared at the merchant and snapped, “If they say there was a bear, there was a blasted bear. If anything, the fact that a giant bear appeared in the valley only to disappear into thin air lends credence to the fact that magic was used.”

“I agree with Oliver,” said Lynea.

“As do I,” muttered Alpert. Glaring at the Constable, he asked, “Why did it take you two days to bring this to my attention?”

“My Trackers insisted they could find the trail of magic if given time. I gave them yesterday to search the valley but they came back with nothing. My deepest apologies, my Lord.”

Captain deCobb cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention.

“My Lord? Something I was going to bring to your attention today that might be pertinent to this topic. One of the western patrols returned this morning and related something rather disturbing. With your leave, I would like to bring my Master Sergeant in to report. He saw these things firsthand.”

Nodding impatiently, Alpert said, “Of course, Captain.”

Captain deCobb stood and moved to the oaken door. Opening it, he stepped aside and admitted a tall man with a Southlander-style beard and dark brown hair pulled back into a single bunch. The captain returned to his chair while the sergeant moved to stand beside Jalano. The contrast between the soldier and the Fallsbottom representative was stark. An aura of capability radiated from the soldier while the weak-willed Jalano slouched in his seat. It was like putting the sun next to a new moon. No one would look at the moon. No one could even see it.

Captain deCobb said, “My Lord, this is Master Sergeant Trell. Sergeant, tell the regent what you told me.”

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant. Turning to Alpert, the man took a deep breath, composing himself, and began speaking.

“My Lord, ten days ago, my men and I left the city to patrol the road and run through some training. As is routine, we talk to travelers along the way in order to assess the safety of the area. In the evening of the fourth day, one of my corporals stopped a young man heading east and brought him to my attention. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary with him. I, in fact, judged him an upright citizen. After talking with him briefly, I sent him on his way.”

Sergeant Trell paused a moment, gathering his thoughts.

“The following afternoon, our patrol passed a turn off with a sign pointing the way to Yellow Mud. It reminded me of the young man from the previous night as he had given his name as Jak Isaac of Yellow Mud. Continuing down the Southern Road, we came across an eastbound train of porters claiming the road ahead was washed out as though a large flood had swept through the area.”

Alpert said, “There’s been no rain for over three weeks.”

The sergeant nodded, saying, “I had the same thought, my Lord. Urging the patrol ahead, we found the stretch of road the porters were talking about. It appeared as if there had indeed been a flood. My men and I tracked the path north, through the hills. After a time, we began to…” He paused a moment, a dark shadow passing over his face. With a tiny sigh, he continued, saying, “We began to find bodies, my Lord, bloated and scavenged by birds and animals. The smell was awful. They had been dead for a few days, just sitting out in the sun.”

Albert glanced around the table and noticed that both Cato and Jalano had turned a sickly shade of gray.

The sergeant pressed on, saying, “Eventually, we came across what I assumed had been a small village, only none of the buildings was left standing. There were, however, more bodies. After a while, I stopped counting, but I estimate there to have been over two hundred dead.”

Alpert exclaimed, “Two hundred!?”

“Yes, my Lord. Perhaps more.”

“Bless the gods,” muttered Lynea.

“The path of downed trees continued north into the hills. The men I sent to follow it reported the gash went all the way to Lake Hawthorne. I pulled out my field map to determine where we were. There was no doubt, my Lord. We stood in the ruins of Yellow Mud.”

Alpert was about to point out something when Cato beat him to it.

“That’s where the young man from the road said he was from,” said the fat merchantman. “He didn’t mention what had happened to his home?”

“No, sir. He did not.”

Alpert noticed the Head Constable with his head down, staring at the table, looking even more uncomfortable than before.

“Oliver? You look ill.”