Scourge of the Betrayer (2 page)

The captain unwound his scarf and it was immediately clear why he wanted a guard—the Syldonian black rope tattoo around his neck was on prominent display. When he pulled his tunic over his head, there was perhaps another reason for privacy as well. His torso was an overworked map of scars of all kinds, long and pale, short and puckered. Having already made the mistake of staring too long once today, I quickly looked back to the door.

Being only a chronicler, and never to rich patrons, I wasn’t accustomed to perfumed soap or copper tubs—it was usually the public baths for me, and often the end of the line to get in—but at least I’d never had to resort to a barrel. I wondered why a Syldonian captain opted to stay in such an establishment; surely, he could have afforded the finer stuff. If anything, they were known for being ostentatious and extravagant; even if he was clearly trying to hide his affiliations, he still could have roomed at a place with a proper tub, copper or not. It was curious.

As I watched the water blacken, I also wondered what he’d been doing in the days since our interview—he looked to have taken to the road, and ridden it hard—but opted to hold my tongue on that count as well. The captain didn’t seem the kind of man to tolerate intrusive questions. Or even nonintrusive ones for that matter.

When he finished scrubbing and rinsing, he dressed and led me back to the room. As we entered, I was surprised to see two people waiting for us. I assumed they were Syldoon as well, though they both had small hoods covering their necks and inked nooses around them.

One was standing, leaning against a support beam, his dark skin barely contrasting with the wood behind him. He was incredibly tall and not lean, and he looked over at me, his upper lip bare above a multi-braided beard that tumbled down his chest, and regarded me coolly for a moment. Then he tilted his head and gave me a long, slow nod that, if not openly warm or welcoming, was at the very least cordial. I’m not sure, but a small smile seemed to be playing on his lips. Compared to the other two men clothed in muted, earthy colors and modest cut, his outfit was nearly outlandish. His trousers, striped black and white, wouldn’t have drawn undue attention on their own, but they fed into leather riding boots folded over above his knees that were almost impossibly red. His hood, bright red as well, was noteworthy for the elaborate dags like broken teeth all along its edge, and the extreme length of the tail that was looped through his belt behind him. The flanged mace hanging on his hip was also overly ornate for something designed to bludgeon someone to death.

The other man was seated and equally well-armed—a trait common to all Syldoon, no doubt, even when battle doesn’t seem imminent—with a nasty-looking falchion on his hip. He apparently had been speaking, and acknowledged my interruption with an expression normally reserved for hated enemies or piles of manure. He had close-cropped hair, so blonde it was nearly white, pale skin, and judging by his frame—wide and thick with muscle—I assumed he was Mulldoos. Everything about him looked hard, except for thin eyebrows that would’ve been more at home on a petite woman. He turned to Braylar and said something in a tongue I didn’t understand.

Braylar replied, “In Anjurian, if you would. No need to be rude.”

His eyes narrowed as he looked me over again, then he said to his comrade, “What do you figure? Longer or shorter? I’m going with shorter.”

The other man saw my puzzled expression and laughed. “I wager this one outdistances them by a fair amount. I have a good feeling.”

Braylar looked at me and said, “You might have deduced as much already, but these are my two lieutenants. The pale boar is Mulldoos Smallwash. He doesn’t believe we have need of a chronicler, but—”

Mulldoos broke in, “The Emperor mandates we need one, we need one. Thing I object to is the choice. I still say we could use a Syldoon. Retired, injured maybe—”

Braylar ignored the interruption. “You might try to win him over, but do so at your peril. The tall laconic one is Vatinios of Stoneoak, called Hewspear. You have an equal chance to earn his affection or contempt. Hewspear handles logistics. Which, admittedly, has proven an easier task since our company has been winnowed down to handle more… subtle affairs. And Mulldoos maintains the discipline and readiness of our small band. Both advise me on matters of strategy.”

Mulldoos said, “Which you promptly ignore.”

“The perks of being captain. And as you two have obviously surmised, this is our new resident scribe, Arkamondos.”

Hewspear nodded. Mulldoos didn’t. I took a seat on a bench and Braylar addressed his lieutenants. “Are we ready to move, then?”

Mulldoos leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Sounds logistical to me.”

Hewspear said, “We’ve only been awaiting your arrival, Captain. Did you…” He paused, eyes flicking to me for the briefest instant before returning to Braylar, “accomplish all you hoped to on your journey?”

“I did, indeed. Vendurro and Glesswik are securing our new cargo. See to it they do a good job.” He gave Mulldoos a pointed look. “That encompasses logistics and discipline. We’ll be down shortly.”

Mulldoos stood, rolled his head around on his monstrous neck, and Hewspear followed him out.

Braylar sat on the bed, wood groaning as the ropes under the mattress were pulled tight. I wasn’t quite sure what to do, so sat waiting. He folded his arms behind his head and looked over at me. “You have your quills and parchment, yes?”

I nodded and he said, freighted heavy with irony, “I’m not certain I should like you, Arkamondos—you’re too impertinent by half—but I can’t seem to help myself. Still, we should reestablish something here. I didn’t solicit you because you’re the most sublime scribe, and I didn’t hire you because you’re the most lyrical; the bargain was struck because you reputedly miss nothing. It’s said you’re perceptive and quick. I want you to get it all, and you claim you can do this thing. So… miss nothing. Record everything. No matter how contrary or nonsensical it might seem to you at the time. Digressions, tangents, observations. All of it. But you aren’t to pollute it with poetry. This is our bargain. This is our understanding. You’ve been hired to record everything. So get out your pens and ink and record what you will of our meeting today.”

He closed his eyes and fell asleep faster than I believed possible, even before I had even gathered my writing supplies. And some time later, when my quill finished scratching across the page, linking and inking my brief account together, his eyes opened back up and he immediately sat upright. “Very good. And with that, Arki, my young scribe, we should quit and fill our bellies with the local fare, such as it is. Tomorrow, we continue on the road.”

I looked at him, probably blinked stupidly a few times, and then asked, “The road?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Leave. Trek. Depart. Journey rather than sojourney. Tomorrow after breaking fast.”

“But… but you didn’t say anything about this. Our contract—”

“You’re right. I didn’t. I also disclosed no information about where our interviews would be conducted. You assumed, I assume, they’d take place in Rivermost. How unfortunate. But if you’ve been misled, you’re at least partially to blame for not asking more astute questions. You’re wifeless and childless, yes? With few friends, I imagine.”

Harsh, but I didn’t protest as he continued, “Whatever it is you think you leave behind, consider what you stand to gain: while you’ll be paid well enough for your services, I can give you something much grander than coin. Fame. Fame for having been the archivist of an amazing tale. I could’ve chosen any scribe to record this, but I chose you. Among many. And you’ll have the rarest of opportunities to record something exceptional firsthand. For now, I’ll tell you this much. All empires crumble. All borders change. All kingdoms die. Where I’m taking you, you’ll witness the death of a body politic, the expiration of a way of life, the redrawing of a map. Something singular and priceless. So put away your bleak looks and let’s eat some of Hobbins’ slop. My belly grumbles.”

The captain had chosen well, even if his tone and phrasing were on the hurtful side. Whatever reticence I had about leaving Rivermost, he was spot on—I had no family, or none that had claimed me as such for years, and no friendships of any lasting duration. The promise of being part of something larger than my life—which, admittedly, up to this point hadn’t exactly been consequential or noteworthy—was exciting, even if my involvement was restricted to observing and recording. At least it would presumably be something worth setting to parchment for once. And there was no denying the draw to that. If I had to scribble down another ledger report or the history of one more self-satisfied grain merchant, I might jab a quill in my eye.

Captain Killcoin started towards the door. This discussion was clearly at an end, so I stowed my supplies and started after him.

⊕

I was in a daze as I followed my new patron down the stairs. I’d been in Rivermost for some time, and I fully expected that if I ever left, it would be because I’d run out of work, not because I was accompanying a Syldoon commander on a mysterious assignment. After all, no one accompanied them anywhere on purpose if they could help it. And yet there I was, trailing behind one. He had his scarf tight around the tattoo again—clearly, he was cloaking his origins. But part of me wanted to yell to everyone in the inn, “I’m traveling with the Syldoon!”

I’d been around soldiers on a few occasions, on rare instances as a boy at the Noisy Jackal when I was actually allowed in the common room, and occasionally in my travels since, but I’d never had cause to really share their company—violence always seemed to be both the question and the answer with their kind, which made me decidedly nervous. And given that my nerves were delicate enough as it was, I avoided them whenever possible.

What’s more, the Syldoon were no ordinary soldiers. The prospect of spending a long period of time working with this man and his company was equally exciting and discomfiting. Exciting, because it was a unique opportunity—even if he wasn’t especially forthcoming about the particulars, it was clear we would be on a venture of some import. And what better way to establish myself as a chronicler worth following than by following a patron who intended great things?

Discomfiting, because he was a Syldoon, after all. While I wasn’t a native Anjurian and didn’t have any direct experience with the Syldoon, the tales of their atrocities and treachery were well known. I suspected they were exaggerated, as these things usually are, growing more horrifying with each retelling. But there must have been some truth there, too. And even a little of it was enough to cause pause. A lot of pause, really.

My mother always said that Syldoon were best to be avoided, and if that failed, placated. Of course, despite serving at the Jackal on one of the busiest highways in Vulmyria, she never traveled farther than five miles from the hovel she was born in, so it’s unlikely she had first- or even secondhand knowledge of their kind. And no one would have accused her of being brilliant, even on the handful of things she had experience with.

Still, while her wisdom had been suspect about most things, the Syldoon were regarded by practically everyone with fear, hatred, or at least hot suspicion. Even if she only parroted what she heard, my mother probably stumbled onto the truth with that single warning. But here I was, the newest member of a Syldoon retinue, willing rather than conscripted. It was difficult to believe.

I almost wished she could have seen me now.

While chronicling the staid sagas of grain merchants and overstuffed burghers was undeniably tedious, it was at least safe. There was next to no chance of any physical danger to myself. But that was also the problem—it was so incredibly… safe. The “death of a body politic” might have been something best recorded from far away or well after the fact. In fact, I was certain of it. But the chance to witness something of real historical significance unfolding before me, to attach my name as scribe, to perhaps achieve some measure of fame because of it… there was no denying the draw—it was loaded with intoxicating possibility.

Most chroniclers led the life I had—penning away the vastly uninteresting details of men, or occasionally women, of no lasting significance. Tales flat and turgid, dusty and without meaning except to close family or sycophantic friends. Maybe not even them. At least with those from the middle or lower castes. And even those archivists with noble benefactors often secretly complained that nothing really ever happened.

But now, for reasons I didn’t really understand, I’d secured the patronage of a Syldoon commander. And not one in his dotage relating glories from days gone, but one promising adventure, action, consequence. Perhaps it wasn’t wise of me to accept so quickly. Perhaps I should have deliberated, weighed the draw against the potential drawbacks more carefully, judiciously…

But reservations or not, the choice was made. If it proved too dangerous down the road, I would simply extricate myself from the arrangement. I wasn’t doing anything that couldn’t be undone. I hoped.

Though the inn was crowded with the expected miners, masons, river sailors, and the most meager fieflords, it wasn’t especially large, so even in the low light of oil lamps, spotting Mulldoos and Hewspear wasn’t difficult. They were at a long table next to the empty fireplace, along with Vendurro and Glesswik. I didn’t expect Lloi to join us, but she was there as well.

As we walked towards them, Braylar’s flail rattled and clinked at his side, and more than one patron looked up to see the source of the noise, though most returned to their conversations quickly enough, it being too dark to make out the Deserters on the end of the chains. The one exception was the table of Hornmen we passed. Another weapon in the room always earned more than a cursory glance from them, no matter what the weapon looked like. Especially when the owner was heading towards a table where every occupant was armed. Mulldoos a falchion, Hewspear a flanged mace, Vendurro and Glesswik swords, and Lloi a sword as well, though curved and shorter, in the fashion of the Grass Dogs. And each member of Braylar’s retinue also had a mug in hand. Ale and armament. Yes, soldiers did make me nervous.