Scourge of the Betrayer (35 page)

Finished, I stepped out into the antechamber that served as a common hub for Braylar’s room. And what would’ve been Lloi’s, though I suspected her body wasn’t occupying it. Again, a dunk in the ice water, awash with guilt and sadness. Vendurro was sitting stiff-backed on a stool near the door leading to the hallway. He barely acknowledged me, which reminded me that he’d lost someone more dear to him than anyone to me. Which made me feel worse still for pitying myself.

I switched my writing case from arm to arm, and not knowing what to say or how to say it, I coughed gently.

He looked up, though still not alertly, and said, “Food’s there, if you’ve got the stomach.”

There was a plate of fruit and bread on the small table next to him. I didn’t feel like eating, but my stomach rumbled, reminding me that I’d only taken a few mouthfuls of bread the previous night. I nodded my thanks and grabbed some cheese and washed it down with some ale that was only a touch better than water. I expected the food to taste like ash or bark or at least stale food, but it was wonderful.

Perhaps soldiers experienced and handled grief differently than common folk, or maybe they didn’t deal with it at all. Maybe that was the key. I felt obligated to say something to Vendurro, but I knew whatever words I summoned would be inadequate, regardless of what he was in fact experiencing.

Still, the obligation overran any qualms, and so I cleared my throat, and then again, until he looked up at me, and said the simplest thing I could think of. “Glesswik seemed like a good man.”

Vendurro nodded slowly, three times. “Bad husband, lousy father, but a good soldier and friend. None better.”

Feeling more uncomfortable than I’d imagined, I told him I was sorry.

Vendurro nearly smiled, the corners of his lips turning ever so slightly before giving up. “Can’t say I totally understand why we need a scribe so awful bad, but you’re less of a lesion than the last one, or the one before that, when it comes to it.”

I wasn’t sure if that was deserving of proper thanks or not, but it was my turn to nod, and then I asked if he’d seen Captain Killcoin.

Vendurro cocked his head towards a door. “Asked me to send you in, after you filled your belly. Best not to keep him waiting. Real black mood.”

I thanked him and moved across the chamber. I knocked, and when no one replied, knocked again. I looked back to Vendurro, but he was vacantly starting at the wall again. I opened the door and stepped inside. Braylar was sitting at a table, elbows on the edge, shoulders hunched, a tall flagon of ale and a mug in front of him, eyes red and watery. His hair, normally oiled and slicked back, was now in disarray. Bloodsounder was sitting on the table, the two chains splayed apart, and he regarded the heads as they regarded him. The horn shutters were shut behind him, and the room was bathed in a dull orange glow from the sun that shone through them. The bed didn’t appear slept in.

I apologized for disturbing him and he laughed, took another swig from his flagon and said, with the crisp, over-enunciated words of a drunkard much-skilled in his craft, “You couldn’t possibly disturb me any more than I am. Sit. Write. You were conscripted to script, yes? Your scriptorium is where you find it. Script.”

I sat and unfolded the writing case and began scribbling some notes. He rotated his fingers in the air lazily and took another drink. And belched. And continued drinking.

I sat there, feeling ill at ease. Wondering how keenly he was feeling the absence of Lloi and her ministrations, and if he was going to sink completely within himself again, or if there was now something worse in store.

Braylar finished his mug, reached to refill it from the pottery flagon, and finding that empty as well, hurled it against the opposite wall. He began to shout Vendurro’s name, but his throat pained him, and massaging it, he ordered, “Call him. Loudly. Immediately.”

I yelled and received no response and Braylar slapped the table. “Scream it, you bastard, get him in here!”

I did, and a moment later, Vendurro stepped inside. “Cap?”

Braylar rubbed his throat for a moment before pointing at the remains of the flagon in the corner. “It seems I have need of another. Preferably one that doesn’t shatter quite so readily. And holds more ale. Yes, bigger.”

After a long pause, Vendurro replied, “As you say, Cap.”

Before Vendurro could make his exit, Braylar called out, “You aren’t turning mutinous over an order for ale, I hope?”

Vendurro shook his head. “No, Cap. Not doing any such thing.”

“You hesitated, Vendurro. You aren’t a hesitator. It’s not in your nature. In fact, you could benefit from a little more reflection. But not just now.” He tipped the mug over as if to make sure it was in fact empty and not just withholding out of spite. “Explain yourself.”

Vendurro looked at me and it was my turn to shrug my shoulders.

Braylar said, “Speak freely, soldier.”

“Begging your pardon, Cap. For the hesitating and all. Just wondering if maybe you’d like me to bar the door, while you get some rest.”

“Wondering, or suggesting? I ask, Syldoon, because wondering is something a soldier is permitted, though advised against. Will the line withstand another assault? Is this the best ground to defend? Are the superior’s orders truly sound? Such thoughts naturally occur, and none but a Memoridon prevents you from pursuing them. And, clearly, I’m no Memoridon. But unsolicited suggestions to said superior—those are not only discouraged, but could considerably shorten a soldiering career. So, I ask again, do you wonder or suggest? It sounded suspiciously like a suggestion.”

“Begging your pardon again, Cap, but I wouldn’t have said nothing at all, so it would have stood at wondering, but you prompted me, so I’m thinking it’s a solicited suggestion. As it stands now, Cap.”

The scars around his mouth twitched with a too-brief smile. “Deftly done, soldier. But need I remind you—I didn’t solicit ale, I ordered it. I suggest you follow that order immediately.”

After Vendurro pulled the door shut behind him with no hesitation this time, Braylar lifted both hands and massaged his temples with the tips of his fingers. He began to reach for the mug again before stopping himself. “I should’ve suggested he bring two pitchers.”

Braylar moved one hand back and forth over a flail head, as if testing to see if it was too warm or too cold, before laying two fingertips on one of the horns and closing his eyes. After he said nothing else for some time, I feared he was already beginning to succumb to whatever had plagued him on the plains. Then he said, “You wonder—though silently, which I appreciate more than you know—what happens now, yes? Now, I drink. You are welcome to join me.”

The door opened, and Mulldoos and Hewspear entered, Mulldoos with a pronounced limp, Hewspear, noticeably stiff and careful in his movements.

Mulldoos said, “You summoned us, Cap?”

“I did. Indeed, I did. Come, sit. Be at ease. More ale is on the way.”

If they were surprised by seeing their captain drunk so early in the day, they disguised it well. Mulldoos spun a wooden chair around and crossed his arms on the back as he leaned forward.

Hewspear said, “Forgive me, Captain, but I’ll stay standing.”

Braylar turned to me. “It seems even my most loyal lieutenants are disinclined to follow my lead today.” He examined Hewspear more closely, and then clicked his tongue in his mouth. “Ahh, your injuries. I’m negligent, yes? It’s you who must do the forgiving. How do you fare, Hewspear? Truly?”

Hewspear, wheezing above a whisper, but only just, replied, “I’m alive. That’s an unexpected turn of events. As to the rest, I’m bandaged.”

Mulldoos snorted. “Until one of those ribs pricks your lungs and you start gurgling blood. Bandages do you a fat lot of good for that turn of events, huh?”

Braylar asked, “And you, Mother Mulldoos, how is your leg?”

“Nothing a little ale won’t fix.”

Hewspear started to laugh and then pulled up short. “Don’t be deceived, Captain—he hobbles like a crippled beggar woman, and complains twice as much.”

“Can’t help but wonder,” Mulldoos said, “when you rip open your lungs, will you choke on your blood or suffocate first? I’m hoping choke.”

There was a quiet knock on the door, and then a serving boy entered with two tall pitchers of ale and more mugs. He kept his eye on the floor the entire time as he set them on the table, careful not to spill. He shuffled towards the broken flagon and pulled a stained rag out of his belt, but Braylar said, “That will do. Another time.”

The boy looked at Braylar, then back down quickly. Braylar rasped, “Are you deaf and mute, boy? Get out of here before I have you whipped. In fact, I might have you whipped anyway. Get out while I think on it.”

The boy turned and practically ran out of the room, almost slamming the door shut in his haste. “Insurrection and idiocy, from all sides. Will anyone who enters this room obey me today?”

Mulldoos filled the mugs. He was about to fill mine when I shook my head. “Suit yourself, scribbler.”

Braylar raised his mug. “To the fallen.”

The other two men did the same. “The fallen.”

They all drank silently, when Braylar suddenly said, “I command men to fight. Command men to die. That’s what I do. That’s what they do. We’re soldiers. We do what must be done. That’s our sole consolation, our brief balm. What must be done. For a cause larger than ourselves. We engage our numerous enemies, on the battlements, in frozen fields, in alleys reeking of piss, in the bellies of mildewed theaters, in the weeds and dust of forsaken temples. We’re the glorious ghostmakers. Or when it suits our master’s purpose, manipulate our enemies instead, twist circumstance to our advantage, twist the long knife when we have to, assassinate. March on them in colorful columns, thunder down at them on the plains, unleash doom from afar or so close you can watch their hearts’ last push as the bleeding stops. We ensnare them in plots and schemes beyond our reckoning, because we’ve been ordered to. We’ve broken the seals and deciphered the codes and made sense of imperial commands, though we can’t fathom the greater agenda that underpins them, and we loot and steal and befriend and betray, breathing death in and out like heavy pollen on the wind. We are soldiers. We kill. We fall. Again. And again.” He lifted head and stared at the beamed ceiling. Very quietly, “And again…”

Hewspear took a step towards Braylar and whisper-wheezed, “Captain?”

Braylar raised his mug, creaky voice creakier. “To the fallen.” He gulped his ale, and after exchanging a look, Mulldoos and Hewspear did as well.

Braylar drained the entire mug and set it down, tapping the rim with a forefinger. As Mulldoos slowly refilled it, Braylar closed his eyes. “Ensure that the families receive their share of the widowcoin. That the estates are in order, fiefs or farms transferred without incident. And the bodies, of course. Take care of the bodies. Those we have still. Send their bones home, at least. We can do that much. We owe them that much, yes?”

Hewspear replied, “I’ll see to it, Captain. Everything will be accounted for.”

“Good. That’s good.”

Hewspear slowly swished the ale around in his cup, looking into it as if he might divine something useful. The silence stretched on for a bit, and he finally looked up. “And what of Lloi, Captain?”

Braylar hunched over even further. Quietly, he said, “What of her?”

Hewspear looked at Mulldoos, who simply raised his delicate eyebrows. “What shall we do with her? She isn’t a Syldoon, and no one in the Citadel has much interest in her bones.” He cast a quick glance in my direction before continuing, “What shall we do with her remains, Captain?”

“Dispose of her as you will.” When no one responded immediately, he looked up and glanced from face to face, no doubt registering the accusation and pain on mine, the sadness on Hewspear’s, and what might have been anger on Mulldoos’, though that struck me as curious. “Do you think me a callous beast, that I don’t spare more thought for her? Should I have thrown myself across her body in grief, and railed at the tragedy of it, while my own men looked on, spiteful that I’d done no such thing for the fallen Syldoon? Should I have stripped off my shirt and lashed myself for failing to protect her, to see her to a better end?” His voice was overtaxed and broke. “No. She’s gone. Dead. But unlike the others, she has nowhere to go now. No one waits for her, hopes for her return, pines. No children. No husband. No one. And now she’s no one.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “A body. Only a body. Dispose of her as you will. I’ll think no more on it.”

Hewspear’s face grew red and he leaned against the table, grunting with the effort. “Captain, she saved my life. And she did more than that for you—”

Mulldoos interjected, “It was no secret I never had any love for her or her kind. Witches and warlocks, the whole lot. Memoridon, rogue witch, same as spit to me. At least with your trained Memoridon, you know you’re dealing with a professional. Cold and inhuman, maybe, but professional, to the last. But her, and her kind? Rogues got no one to show them what to do with themselves, how to manage what they can do.” He tapped a thick finger against his temple. “You thought she crept among your bogs and sucked out your poisons. But no telling what damage she done in there, mucking around, unskilled. Might as well have been blind. Far as I know, her effort stirred up worse things hidden in the muck, damaged you more. I never wanted her among us, start to finish.

“What’s more, she had nothing else to put the thing in balance. She was a crippled, disobedient Grass Dog whore when we took her, and I never saw much to suggest she ever became other than that. But the thing of it is, Cap, no matter how much I misliked her, and I misliked her plenty, she was loyal to you like no other. She’d have thrown her life away for you ten times over ten, and again just to prove a point. And while she was a monstrous boil on my ass, there’s no denying she had grit.” He leaned forward, lifting his mug for emphasis. “What I’m getting at, Cap, is… Hew’s got the right of it. She deserves better than what you’re giving her.”

Braylar’s eyes lit with anger, and he took a long drink, but they were still hot when he lowered his mug. “I always considered you a competent battlefield butcher, but it seems you missed your calling. You should have been an orator, a priest, a courtier. Mayhap a poet like our scribbler here. Truly, some spirited and compelling rhetoric. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you put that many words together before.”