Act of Will (24 page)

SCENE XXXV

The Hopetown Road

B
y nine o’clock we had gathered the party and were making for Hopetown. They were right about that portcullis. It was still closing almost ten minutes after we’d gone through it. Of course, you could see for miles from the walls and towers, so there was no danger of an army catching them with their pants down.

The dangers of the road notwithstanding, I was glad to leave Ironwall, with its self-important duke and its blood-drinking inhabitants. A couple of times I spoke to Mithos about that night, but he didn’t seem to want to talk about it. After a while, neither did I. We had our clue and I chose to forget how we’d got it.

We traveled incognito, you might say, most of our armor concealed by voluminous cloaks and hoods. Orgos, being the most easily recognizable in these uncosmopolitan parts, rode inside the wagon with me. I sat at the tailgate, cradled my crossbow in my lap, and prayed I wouldn’t have to use it.

I didn’t. We’ll never know if some scout of the raiders watched from the distant hills and decided we weren’t worth attacking, but that suited me. We reached Hopetown shortly after sundown, rented rooms at the Bricklayer’s Arms under the name of Morgan, and unloaded crates of iron and copperware that we had hurriedly purchased in Ironwall. We dined on fat-basted potatoes and roast pork with lots of bristly crackling. Garnet and Renthrette had a salad.

“Tell us a story, Will,” said Mithos, his eyes closed and his head back.

Orgos caught my eye and nodded. I thought of something suited to my audience, took a long breath, and began:

“Unto the court of Sardis came a knight,

Whose name the scribes of legend have set down

As Helthor, mightiest soldier of the line

Whose gleaming sword full many a man has slain.

He longed to lead proud Sardis into war

And vanquish cities with its valiant host,

As if he meant to torch the universe,

Or grind its stars to powder ’neath his heel.”

And so it went on. It lasted close to an hour and they were silent throughout. At the end, when Helthor finally gets his just deserts and the stage (it was my own adaptation of an old play) is strewn with bodies, there was a long, satisfied pause. Garnet, who had listened with great attentiveness asked, “And how did Helthor’s child rule Sardis?”

I gave him a long, silent look. There was something in his voice that said he thought the story was true, like I had known this mythical psychopath personally. I knew he was neither joking nor stupid, but this was one of his curious blind spots. Renthrette tried to give me a hostile look but she looked faintly confused. I had to say something to Garnet, but the question was all wrong. The story was over and Helthor’s son ceased to exist as soon as I concluded the epilogue. The son was closure, the restoration of order and promise of better things to come, nothing more. I answered him carefully.

“He lived long and happily, ruled his country well, and was accounted a great king and a good man.”

Garnet watched me thoughtfully for a moment. Everyone was silent.

“Good,” he said simply. And I suppose it was. Hadn’t I said all tales were true once told? They form a kind of reality, even if it’s one we can’t live in.

Having said that, of course, reality—my reality—had gotten rather odd of late. Aside from the horrors of being an adventurer, whatever that was supposed to be, I was still struggling with some key details that didn’t fit my pragmatic worldview. First there was Orgos’s sword and Lisha’s spear. Then there was the raiders’ ability to appear and disappear without leaving the slightest trace.

I started with Orgos.

“Are you ready to hear the answer this time?” he said.

I nodded. It was a lie, but I didn’t actually say anything, so it was only kind of a lie, right?

“The sword is an artifact of power,” he said. “It was a gift from Arthen of Snowcrag. I believe he found it, though he never said where. You’ve heard of such things, surely?”

“In stories,” I sneered, and then stopped myself and said simply, “Yes.”

“The stories are true,” he said, equally simply. “The artifacts are rare, most of them are very old, and most people who have one either don’t recognize what it is or don’t know how to use it, but they are real.”

“And you have one,” I said.

“And know how to use it,” he replied. It wasn’t a boast, just a statement of fact.

“And Lisha’s?” I ventured.

He gave me a quick look. He didn’t know I’d seen it.

“Yes,” he said. “Lisha has one too. Its power is a little different from mine, more versatile. I don’t know all it can do.”

“Are there any others I should know about?” I asked, trying not to sound snide. “I mean, if Renthrette has a magic bottle opener or something . . .”

“We have no others,” he said.

“How do they work?” I asked. “I mean, I know . . .
magic,
and all,” I said, trying not to sound like an idiot, though saying that word with a straight face made you sound like an idiot all by itself, “but how, exactly?”

“The crystal is what gives the artifact its power and character,” said Orgos, “though using it requires something of the wielder as well.”

“Like what?”

“It depends on the artifact, though they all need tremendous mental focus and a sense of purpose from anyone trying to use them.”

“So I couldn’t use it,” I said, grinning.

“No,” he answered. “I can use mine, that’s all. I couldn’t use Lisha’s if I tried, and I doubt she could use mine. They are very . . .
individual
items. Mine requires a total faith in the righteousness of my cause.”

“Naturally,” I said.

“You wanted to know about it,” he said, a tad defensive.

“Let me try.”

I was kidding, really, but he drew it and passed it to me without a second thought. I took it and felt its weight in my hand. Then I stood up, threw back my shoulders, and held the sword above my head. I shut my eyes and focused. Nothing happened.

“Is there a magic word or something?” I said, squinting at Orgos with one eye.

“No magic word,” he said, smiling.

I shut my eyes and concentrated as hard as I could for about a minute; then I gave it back to him.

“I think it’s broken,” I said.

He grinned and sheathed it.

And did I believe any of it? I’m really not sure. I had seen things I couldn’t explain. This explained them. Kind of. I remembered how the sight of the sea had alarmed me in Stavis because it had shown me how out of my element I was. I wasn’t sure what “my element” meant anymore, especially since the Empire had shut the theatres down and tried to string me up as a rebel, but magic swords? Come on. If they didn’t exist, I was screwed, because my life depended on people who thought they did, and if they did exist, I was screwed, because . . . well, just because. How could I even live in a world where the words “magic sword” weren’t a kind of joke?

It was as if Mithos had been listening in on my thoughts and had devised a way to make me feel that, if I wasn’t exactly in my element, I could at least function usefully. The innkeeper, he said, had told us where we could get permits for the market. Since it was close by, he said we should take a pitch-covered torch and go right away.

It was late by the time we reached the office, but light showed under the door, so Mithos knocked loudly, then turned to me and whispered, “Take over, Will.”

“What?” I gasped, caught off-guard.

“Do what you do,” he said. “Talk.”

“It’s after eleven o’clock!” shouted a voice inside. “Come back tomorrow.”

I waited for a second, but Mithos just shrank into the shadows and stood there in silence.

“Er . . . open up,” I ventured, knocking louder, “we need to see you now.”

“Why?” demanded the voice, irritably. There was movement inside and I heard a woman giggle.

“We need to check your records from the Saturday market.”

“You can’t, they’re not public property. You need a warrant, or something. Can’t see them. Good night.”

Mithos tapped me on the arm with Duke Raymon’s seal. Ignoring it, my face pressed to the door, I spoke again, my voice officious. “I’m from the inspection office. Come on, come on. I haven’t got all night. I have to have the documents updated by tomorrow morning.” Mithos’s tap with the seal became more insistent.

“You’d better have all the proper papers,” said the voice inside, “or I’m not showing you anything.”

“I just want a look at one day’s entries,” I said, trying to sound official. “Though I could go back to the duke, get the paperwork which is so dear to your heart, and proceed to check every single market permit you have issued this year to make sure that number agrees precisely with your total commission.” There was a sudden silence and I knew I had the old chiseler. If this was anything like Cresdon, he would be issuing fake permits to account for the income he made from bribes. “Just show me the ledger and I’ll take care of the paperwork,” I concluded. “No questions asked.”

There followed muffled curses, a pensive silence, and then the sound of a couple of bolts being snapped back. Mithos, after one last poke with the seal I wasn’t going to use, stepped out of sight.

A middle-aged man with a potbelly, a robe thrown around him and belted with cord, stuck his head round the door.

“Is this really necessary?”

“Just get the ledger, will you, sir?” I said in the bored and superior tone of the petty bureaucrat. “It won’t take but a second, and you’ll still be employed in the morning. There now,” I added with the sarcastic condescension I had heard from Empire patrols a thousand times, “won’t that be nice?”

“I live here, you know,” said the man. “It’s not just an office. It’s my home. No privacy.”

“I’m deeply moved,” I said.

“What do you need?” muttered the man, resignedly.

“Market permits applicable to last Saturday,” I said, starting to follow him through the doorway. Potbelly turned on me with quick embarrassment, shielding the room’s interior and its sniggering inhabitant with his body.

“Just wait there, if you please,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “I’ll bring you what you want. Last Saturday? Right.”

He shuffled off, whispering to his girlfriend or whore, who was hissing like a bag of vipers. He clumped around and returned to the doorway’s rectangle of light with a heavy ledger in his hands.

“Can I use your table, or something?” I asked, taking the book brusquely.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” said the man, awkwardly shifting his feet. “Someone not paying market taxes?” he added to fill the silence.

“Among other things,” said I, without looking up. “Thank you for your assistance. Have a good evening.”

I heard the woman giggle again as the door closed and figured that he would.

I joined the others in the shadows outside.

“There were five parties registered under the name of Joseph on Saturday,” I said as soon as we were out of earshot, “but only three of them were six-man groups. We have addresses for all of them.”

“Are you going to explain that little performance?” asked Mithos.

“What’s to explain?” I said innocently.

“We have the seal! We don’t need to take chances with stories!”

“Well, don’t ask me to do the talking, then!” I said, stopping and facing him. “If you don’t like what I do, don’t ask for my help. This is what I do,” I said. “It’s my thing, my oeuvre, my . . .
element.
And besides, what happened to keeping a low profile? Flashing that seal around is as close to shouting ‘here we are’ as makes no difference.”

Mithos glanced at Lisha and then back at me. “You’re right,” he said, “my apologies. And you could memorize the addresses, just by glancing at them?” he asked.

“Well, yes,” I said.

“Impressive,” said Mithos.

“Hardly,” I answered as we headed back to the inn. “Try learning the lines for the female lead of a new play two days before you open. That’s impressive.”

SCENE XXXVI

Investigations

W
e spent the morning staring at a map marked with the location of each raider attack. Right in the middle, just on the Greycoast side of the Shale border, was the mark of a small castle.

“What’s that?” said Lisha.

“I’ll find out,” said Mithos. “The raiders must have an operations base in the area. Maybe that’s it.”

“Track down the three Joseph addresses,” said Lisha to Orgos. “See if any of them looks big enough to house troops or stolen property.”

The Hopetown marketplace was a very different kettle of fish from the one in Ironwall: professional hard selling everywhere you looked. You could have bought anything you wanted there, and a lot of stuff you didn’t. The stall keepers shouted, intimidated, and just plain lied to make a sale, gracelessly thrusting coins into a chest before the customers could change their minds. The barefaced economics of it all just wasn’t my style. I was glad to see Orgos strolling over to speak to me.

“We have found all three of the ‘Joseph’ houses,” he said. “Renthrette and Garnet have spent the morning checking out the addresses and they think one of them is empty. We’re going now.”

“You mean, breaking in?”

“Yes. Just to look around.”

“You’re sure it’s empty?”

“Positive.”

“And we’ll be in absolutely no danger?”

“None at all.”

“I’m your man.”

Mithos told us to be very careful, and made some not wholly complimentary remarks about my being wiry and thus well suited to housebreaking. I don’t think he believed I hadn’t done it before.

The house belonging to Mr. Brineth Joseph was in a poor suburb of town. It was made of timbers that had warped and splintered away from their rusty nails like the scales on a rotting fish. By now it would probably have been cheaper to torch the place and start over. We found a downstairs window unlocked and clambered in; not exactly maximum security, but then, as we quickly discovered, there was bugger-all worth stealing.

There were two bedrooms upstairs and a little kitchen-bakery on the ground floor. They obviously sold bread in the market. The furniture was basic, and the clothes were few and threadbare. Several of the interior doors were missing, probably burned when the weather turned cold.

“Palatial,” I muttered. “If they are bandits, they’re really bad at it.”

Orgos picked up a tiny pair of boy’s shoes whose heels were worn to nothing. He just looked at them and said nothing. I sighed, a little irritated that these people’s poverty should take the edge off our adventure. The bakery was clean but poorly stocked, and the flour was coarse and cut with chalk in fine old Cresdon style. There was no sign of anything remotely suspicious.

“Ah, the thrifty lower classes,” I said sardonically as we slipped out. “Salt of the earth.”

“Don’t make light of poverty,” said Orgos. “It kills more than the raiders ever will.”

“Really?” I said. “How interesting. Having been destitute most of my life I never would have known that.”

Orgos didn’t reply. Sentimental idiot.

Mithos was pleased with our report.

“Well, we can cross that one off the list,” he said.

We would have to watch the other two houses closely. I suggested breaking in by night, but this was generally considered an extraordinarily bad idea, even by my standards.

“So we just sit around and wait?” I said.

“Until we get a better lead,” said Mithos.

And, right on cue, we got a better lead. Orgos burst into Lisha’s room, where the rest of us had gathered, and tossed a curved knife on the bed.

“Look at that,” he exclaimed. “Familiar?”

“Not to me,” I muttered, wondering why I felt a thrill of alarm whenever Orgos got excited about weapons.

“It’s kind of like the scyax that we looked at,” said Garnet, picking it up and holding it up to the light.

“The same steel,” said Orgos triumphantly. “The same workmanship.”

“Where did you get it?” asked Lisha.

“I was stocking our weapons chest in the marketplace and came upon a stall that sold nothing but this stuff. The stall keeper was reluctant to tell me where he got his material, but I persuaded him. He is supplied exclusively by a weapons dealer known locally as the Razor. He pays certain traders in town well above the average for the best ores and sells his exclusive wares to whoever can afford them.”

We were about to ask more when Mithos came in hurriedly. He pointed to the center of the map again.

“That building in the middle of the map?” he said. “It’s a keep. A fortification belonging to one Eric Thurlhelm, known as the Razor.”

We were dining in the same tavern we’d been at since we reached Hopetown. Renthrette was watching one of the Joseph houses and Orgos had returned to the market for supplies, but I was eating steak and kidney pie and swilling it down with a dark, mellow beer, half bitter, half mild. Mithos took a forkful of steak and told me what he knew.

“I spoke to a garrison officer,” he said. “Thurlhelm, the Razor, moved here from Thrusia shortly after it fell to the Empire. He is rich. He pays his taxes and keeps himself to himself. The duke doesn’t ask about his past operations, where he gets his money from, or how he amuses himself at present. The keep is larger than his requirements, since he lives alone save for a few friends, various female companions, and a sizable staff of servants. He has a resident defense unit of about thirty men. I think it’s time we checked him out—cautiously. The Razor runs his house as he pleases and we can expect rough justice from him if we get on his nerves. We can also expect trouble from the duke, who won’t want to lose the tax revenue unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“What a prince,” I said, dark memories of the scaffold in Iron-wall haunting me briefly.

“Quite.”

“Has anybody given any thought,” I said, figuring it was time we addressed this, “to how the raiders are able to get from wherever they are to the site of an attack without anybody seeing them and without . . .”

Mithos was staring across the room, oblivious to me. By the empty fireplace a man was sitting at a table. He had his back to us but his head was turned slightly in the way people do when they are trying to listen in on someone else’s conversation. Mithos was motionless except for his left hand, which was moving silently for the small crossbow on the floor by my chair.

I watched in confusion as he pulled the weapon onto his lap and cocked it with one deft motion, his eyes still fixed on the stranger. Then he opened his left palm and extended it towards me.

“What?” I murmured.

“A bolt,” he breathed, barely audibly.

I reached behind me uncertainly, took hold of the feathered end of a quarrel, and drew it out of the bag. But my eyes were on Mithos and as I passed it to him, another one slid out and clattered to the stone floor.

Suddenly the man leapt to his feet and spun around, raising a pair of small crossbows, one in each hand and pointed directly at us. His eyes were dark and cold, his mouth set, and I knew that he meant to kill us.

Mithos turned the table over, sending the crockery crashing to the ground and pulling me down behind it with him. There was a slight swish and one bolt cracked into the tabletop as the other slammed into the wall behind us. I felt the wind in my hair as it passed.

Mithos dived to the right, rolled once, and aimed the crossbow. Our would-be assassin had fled. Mithos went after him, but the streets were a maze. He could have gone anywhere.

Or he could have just vanished like the raiders always did, even when they were dead.

Mithos returned, breathing hard, and plucked the crossbow bolt from the tabletop. It was flighted with crimson feathers.