Scourge of the Betrayer (23 page)

The player said, “Well then, through that door, close of curtain, as I said.”

“As you said. Good show, my friend.”

The man nodded a final time and stepped through the opposite door, closing it behind him.

Braylar walked over to the door we entered through, tested it and found it still unlocked. “How far do you trust this man, Hewspear?”

Hewspear laughed as he tested the other door, also finding it unlocked, and replied, “As far as you can trust a man who takes a small pouch of coin to do something unscrupulous.”

Braylar looked around the small room. “And do you suspect the player will play us?” He asked this as if it were an exercise in rhetoric rather than a query with our lives staked on the wager.

Hewspear opened a cabinet door or two, investigating the age-old props stored inside. “I suspect he’s a man of low cunning, most likely happy to have stumbled into some extra coin to spend on women and wine. I’m not sure what his play would be, even if he was inclined to make one. If he reported our presence to the company master now, he’d likely lose his wages for a month for failing to do so earlier.”

“Unless he’s already done it,” I volunteered.

Both men looked at me in surprise, as if they’d forgotten I was in the room with them.

Braylar tilted his head. “Continue.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “He could’ve reported it to the company master just after Hewspear first contacted him.”

Braylar nodded. “And?”

“And this could be a ruse on his part, playing the role of, well, a player. While the exit is blocked off. Guards could be assembling now.”

Braylar countered, “A playhouse doesn’t have guards, lord scribbler.”

I pressed on, “But the baron does. I assume. Don’t most of them?”

Hewspear laughed then, coins jingling in his beard. “The player would have soiled himself if he tried to approach the baron. And then he would have been whipped for wasting baronial time, and then lost a month’s wages for being a fool.”

“Maybe. But the company master might not. If the player reported this, that is. He might have some standing with the baron. Or the Player’s Guild. That is, if the player were truly worried you were up to something.”

Braylar steepled his fingers together and smiled, and without a twitch to be seen. “Very good.”

Despite the meager praise, my former fears came rushing back. I asked, “What are we up to? Why are we here?”

Hewspear interrupted this discussion, addressing the captain, “Do you think the player plays us, then?”

Braylar sat down on an old trunk and leaned against the wall. “I can’t say. It’s certainly possible. And I mislike having so few exits to consider. But we are here, are we not? We’re here to play this out tonight, regardless of what other players might be up to, and that is what we do.”

I asked again, “Why are we at a theatre with no intention of seeing a play? I don’t believe you’re an old comrade of this baron, even if you fooled the player.”

Braylar said, “And I don’t particularly care what you believe. You’re here to do one thing, and one thing only. Our intentions aren’t your concern.”

I began to protest, but Braylar silenced me with a glare, the part of generous noble altogether gone now. “Observe now. Record later. That is all.”

And so I sat down as well, waiting to observe something, becoming increasingly worried about what that might be.

⊕

M
y suspicions doubled and trebled. Was Braylar here to threaten the baron? Bribe him? Abduct him? Do him bodily harm? While the baron might consider himself a great patron of the arts and enjoy commingling with his lessers, he certainly wouldn’t come into the playhouse depths without guards. Two men, Syldoon or not, wouldn’t be a match for the baron’s household guards. Unless they hoped to surprise him, ambush him here.

The audience rumbled in the playhouse above us, stomping their feet in appreciation of the show. Braylar’s eyes were closed and he might have been sleeping. Hewspear was sitting on a stool, whittling his flute, the shavings collecting in the dust around him. I wondered if that was what assassins looked like before committing a heinous deed. Peaceful, serene?

I couldn’t believe that was what they were here for. It was too awful to really consider. But if it were true, what options did I have? Flee down the tunnel or into the players’ chambers? Shout a warning to the baron when he was on the other side of the panel? Record the crime in all its gory details, as I’d been detained to do? Each way was ruin.

Braylar mentioned that today was a shortened program, with only a small playlet preceding the longer play. The performance would be over shortly. And the players would file into the chamber, awaiting the arrival of their benefactor, and we were waiting to do… something. Something that could very likely result in our imprisonments or deaths.

I wondered if the gods would be sympathetic if I stayed to bear witness to an assassination. If I somehow survived my association with this man, I silently swore I’d escape to a cave and begin a life of hermitage. With zeal. And gratitude.

There was a thunderous roar above us. Must have been a fine performance. I wondered what part the short garish player had.

It wouldn’t be long now. My tunic was sticking to my sweaty sides.

Hewspear said, “Good man to open the playhouses up again. It’s said, and not in a stage whisper, that he did it as much to needle the nobles as please the common man, who crave diversion from the harshness of life. The nobles consider them dens of indecency, a gathering hole for whores and cutpurses and all manner of nefarious characters. Which they are, in truth. But whatever the baron’s reasons, I applaud him for it. If you’ll pardon the expression. Always did enjoy a good play, myself.” He smiled before blowing some shavings off the flute.

Braylar didn’t open his eyes, but replied just the same, “Did you happen to see Bright as Blood? Before we campaigned in Muljuria?”

Hewspear set to carving again. “No, I didn’t have the pleasure. I heard it was good, though.”

“Gripping tale of betrayal and lust.”

“I prefer the comedies, myself. Gripping tales of mistaken identity and lust. Or misjudgment and lust. Or fallacy and lust. I do like my lust, though. The lustier the better. So I probably would’ve enjoyed it, gore or no.”

It was unnerving that they could banter so easily before doing something that was, at best, dangerous, and worst, blackly criminal.

I cleared my throat and said, “Someone, please tell me why we’re in the moldy belly of a playhouse. What is our purpose here?”

After a long pause, Braylar surprised me. “You writerly folk are often guilty of a thing, I don’t know the jargon you would use to describe it, so I’ll put in it my own terms. On first inspection, the words you scribble, they’re terrain language. They exist on the surface for all to see, representing one thing or another. But there’s often another layer beneath, sometimes several, yes? This represents something else entirely, this subterranean language, and it takes a keen ear to puzzle out what is represented here. Playwrights are particularly prone to doing this, in my experience. That’s their gift. In any event, what transpires in the world of the playhouse above us just now, that’s terrainean, and evident to all. We’re subterranean. The meaning that lurks beneath.”

Braylar chuckled, as if he’d just uncorked the secret to some fantastic riddle. If Hewspear understood or shared the joke, he gave no indication, returning to his careful whittling after Braylar finished speaking. Then we heard voices. Coming closer, on the other side of the panel. Laughter. What might have been hooting. The players returning.

Hewspear stood and stretched, hands locked behind his back as he raised his arms up. Braylar stirred as well, standing and frowning at the dust and puddles. “All the baron’s patronage and not a broom to be found. Pity.”

He stepped back to the door we came in, retrieved his small knife and pulled the door open a crack, peering into the dark hallway. “If this is indeed an ambush, they’re doing a fine job of disguising it.”

Braylar looked at me and jerked a thumb towards the opposite door. “We’ll leave you in a moment. Stay just inside this door—I’ll leave it slightly ajar. Bear witness. Whatever happens.”

I found it hard to imagine that two words strung together could be imbued with such ominous overtones. Knowing I wouldn’t get an answer, certainly not one to my liking or free of ridicule, I moved to the spot he indicated, wondering a final time if “whatever happens” was something I’d deeply regret doing nothing to halt or delay. But I’d served under this man long enough now to know he didn’t look kindly upon interference to his plans, whatever they entailed. So I moved and continued doing what I was hired to do.

Braylar and Hewspear positioned themselves close to the sliding panel, listening to the pleased voices that couldn’t be too far on the other side. The Syldoon waited, time seeming to play tricks, as what couldn’t have been long felt like a nerve-tweaking eternity.

Finally, we heard the general murmuring and laughter die down as one voice rose above the others, no doubt announcing the arrival of the baron (and, though the voice could have no way of knowing it, “whatever happens”). I wondered if it was the company master speaking, and where the garish player was just then. Did he truly believe Braylar’s story? Would I have? I supposed so. For a taciturn man so gifted in bloodletting, he had the ability to be remarkably glib and charming. At least in short bursts.

Braylar and Hewspear exchanged a glance as they listened. I heard another voice. Though it seemed to be coming from the far side of the players’ chamber, and the words were indistinct, it had a richness to it, an assurance, that could only belong to one of high nobility.

I sat on the stool, straining forward, and listened as the baron slowly made his way through the room, congratulating this man and that, doling out his praise as if it were gold itself, and at each instance, rewarded by hearing purring gratitude.

It sounded like he was just on the other side of the panel. My heart was beating like a rabbit’s as I watched Braylar pull the panel open quickly. The only thing that kept me from crying out immediately was the fact that they didn’t draw their weapons first.

The Syldoon stepped through, and true to his word, Braylar left the panel slightly ajar. There were a few straw mannequins in various states of dress just in front, and it was clear from their positioning that this storage area was rarely used (and certainly not thought to be occupied). Just beyond the cluster of mannequins, the baron was touching a man on the shoulder and smiling.

The players were so enamored with their patron, and the patron with his benevolent patronage, that neither party noticed the arrival of the Syldoon. However, as I imagined, the baron didn’t come into the chamber alone or trusting his safety solely to gratitude. Four men in mail and baronial surcoats were standing just behind him, and though they were obviously not expecting any sudden arrivals from behind mannequins, they reacted fairly quickly just the same, moving forward to place their bodies between the baron and the Syldoon.

Baron Brune was a man of middle years, with eyes and hair the color of tarnished pewter, and though his face was deeply lined, there was a wryness there, the ease of someone who hadn’t taken his setbacks or failures as seriously as perhaps he ought to have. He took stock of the Syldoon. “What’s this? More theatre lovers among us?”

One of the guards stepped forward, hand on the hilt of his sword. “I’ll be taking those weapons now, boys.”

Braylar replied, “I’m afraid I can’t allow that. Assassinations are so very difficult as it is—unarmed, almost impossible.”

It took everyone a moment to react to these words, but when they did, it was chaos. My heart nearly exploded in my chest. Several players sprang out of their stools and backed away, stumbling over each other. The guards all drew their swords. The baron, surprisingly, reacted the least of all of us as his guards began moving forward, ready to cut down the Syldoon, even though they still hadn’t drawn weapons.

Braylar added, though only loud enough for the guards and baron to hear, “At least, that’s what High Priest Henlester believes we’re doing here tonight. Instead, I’d like to offer a proposition, if you would be so kind as to hear me out, my lord.”

The leader of the guards with a grayshot beard placed his sword point on Braylar’s chest. “Unbuckle those sidearms, slow as the sun, or we take them off your corpses.”

Three other guards stepped alongside him while the fifth ordered the players out of the room. The company master objected, albeit briefly, but the guard’s sword convinced him to be pliant.

Baron Brune stepped forward, his hand nowhere near his own sword, his voice still absolutely level. “I do so enjoy propositions. Almost as much as theatre. Who would’ve expected that I’d find both here tonight. But I imagine that my captain will honor his pledge to mow you down. That’s why I pay him so handsomely, after all. So, in the name of entertaining propositions delivered in unusual places, I beg you, please disarm yourselves. Or I’ll be left to wonder what two unusual dead men had meant to discuss that they’d go to such lengths to obtain my audience.”

I expected Braylar to do as bid, but as always, that was my repeated mistake. “Your captain of guards is a man of little nonsense and great violence, which I utterly respect. But if we had wanted to do you harm, we could’ve done so already.”

The captain let his sword drift underneath Braylar’s chin. “Had you tried I’d need to clean your blood off my new boots.”

Braylar replied, with exceptional calm, given the circumstances, “And do you suppose the room behind us fits only two? I imagine you’d know had you checked thoroughly. Which you clearly didn’t. You do know that most assassinations are done by the mob than lone individuals, yes? We could’ve fit a mob and a half in the bowels of this place, all waiting on the other side of that door. If we’d wished your lord harm, we would’ve visited it upon him already.” He turned back to the baron. “Regardless, I, Captain Braylar Killcoin, disarm for no man, save my Tower commander or emperor, and then, with great misgiving. I’m afraid I decline.”

The baron said, “Ahh, emperor, is it? We so rarely see Syldoon in this barony. Or this kingdom for that matter. Truly interesting. Captain Gurdinn, rehome your sword if you’d be so kind. This encounter grows more entertaining by the moment.”

Beyond a brief hesitation, Gurdinn didn’t betray any disobedience, but he seemed to dislike this order a great deal. The other guards followed his lead, though they seem confused and perhaps a little disheartened at not having the opportunity to cut would-be assassins to pieces.

The baron sat down on one of the stools vacated by a player and pointed to two others. His guards flanked him as the Syldoon sat opposite. “So, you allege that a trusted member of my council, a holy man no less, has promised what I’m hoping was considerable coin to snuff out my life at the Three Lions. An amazing tale. I would hear more details of this. I’m also interested in how two Syldoon find themselves in my province, soliciting such unsavory offers. Please. Continue.”

Braylar sat. “You can be sure, lord baron, that the Syldoon Empire receives many an unsavory offer, and so has little need to solicit any. My man,” he gestured towards Hewspear, “was approached a week ago. Someone wished to know if the Syldoon were interested in pursuing a venture of extreme… unsavoriness.”

The baron raised a finger. “I must interrupt. How, do you suspect, this… representative, knew that you were Syldoon, and how did you come to believe he represented a priest, let alone High Priest Henlester?”

Braylar looked at Hewspear who picked the story up. “There are actually a small number of us in Alespell just now. Most staying at the Grieving Dog. We haven’t announced our presence with trumpets or jugglers, my lord, but a Syldoon with a loose tongue and whore on his lap might have spilled the secret with his seed, if you take my meaning.”

The baron smiled and Hewspear continued, “Whores have looser tongues than drunken soldiers, and rumors have legs, as they say. I expect that the priests had just as good a chance of discovering us here as any, my lord. As to how I knew this was a servant of the priests, I surely didn’t. He could’ve been representing the glassblowers guild for all I knew. After hearing him out, I agreed to meet with him the next day with my answer. He set up the meet through a courier. But I had him followed. This man wasn’t a complete novice to subterfuge—he checked several times to see if he’d grown a tail, and led my man on a merry chase—but lead he did, and eventually to the temple on a hill on the west side of the city.”