LORD TREMONDI
Pretend,
just for a moment, that you have attained your most deep-seated desire. Not the
simple, sensible one you tell your friends about, but the dream that’s so close
to your heart that even as a child you hesitated to speak it out loud. Imagine,
for example, that you had always yearned to be a Greatcoat, one of the
legendary sword-wielding magistrates who travelled from the lowliest village to
the biggest city, ensuring that any man or woman, high or low, had recourse to
the King’s Laws. A protector to many – maybe even a hero to some. You feel the
thick leather coat of office around your shoulders, the deceptively light
weight of its internal bone plates that shield you like armour and the dozens
of hidden pockets holding your tools and tricks and esoteric pills and potions.
You grip the sword at your side, knowing that as a Greatcoat you’ve been taught
to fight when needed, given the training to take on any man in single combat.
Now
imagine you have attained this dream – in spite of all the
improbabilities
laid upon the world by the ill-intentioned actions of Gods and Saints alike. So
you have become a Greatcoat – in fact, dream bigger: pretend that you’ve been
made First Cantor of the Greatcoats, with your two best friends at your side.
Now try to envision where traitor’s
blade you are, what you’re seeing, what you’re hearing, what wrong
you are fighting to right—
‘They’re
fucking again,’ Brasti said.
I
forced my eyes open and took in a bleary view of the inn’s hallway, an overly
ornate – if dirty – corridor that reminded you that the world was probably a
nice place once but had now gone to rot. Kest, Brasti and I were guarding the
hallway from the comfort of decaying chairs taken from the common room
downstairs. Opposite us was a large oak door that led to Lord Tremondi’s rented
room.
‘Let
it go, Brasti,’ I said.
He
gave me what was intended to be a withering look, though it wasn’t very
effective: Brasti’s a little too handsome for anyone’s good, including his own.
Strong cheekbones and a wide mouth clothed in a reddish-blond short beard
amplify a smile that gets him out of most of the fights he talks his way into.
His mastery of the bow gets him through the rest. But when he tries to stare
you down, it just looks like he’s pouting.
‘Let
what go, pray tell?’ he said. ‘The fact that you promised me the life of a hero
when you tricked me into joining the Greatcoats and instead I find myself
impoverished, reviled and forced to take lowly bodyguard work for travelling
merchants? Or is it the fact that we’re sitting here listening to our gracious
benefactor – and I use the term loosely since he has yet to pay us a measly
black copper – but that aside, that we’re listening to him screw some woman for
– what? The fifth time since supper? How does that fat slob even keep up? I
mean—’
‘Could
be herbs,’ Kest interrupted, stretching his muscles out again with the casual
grace of a dancer.
‘Herbs?’
Kest
nodded.
‘And
what would the so-called “greatest swordsman in the world” know about herbs?’
‘An
apothecary sold me a concoction a few years ago, supposed to keep your
sword-arm strong even when you’re half-dead. I used it fighting off half a
dozen assassins who were trying to kill a witness.’
‘And
did it work?’ I asked.
Kest
shrugged. ‘Couldn’t really tell. There were only six of them, after all, so it
wasn’t much of a test. I did have a substantial erection the whole time
though.’
A
pronounced grunt followed by moaning came from behind
the door.
‘Saints!
Can they not just stop and go to sleep?’
As
if in response, the groaning grew louder.
‘You
know what I find odd?’ Brasti went on.
‘Are
you going to stop talking at any point in the near future?’ I asked.
Brasti
ignored me. ‘I find it odd that the sound of a nobleman rutting is hardly
distinguishable from one being tortured.’
‘Spent
a lot of time torturing noblemen, have you?’
‘You
know what I mean. It’s all moans and grunts and little squeals, isn’t it? It’s
indecent.’
Kest
raised an eyebrow. ‘And what does decent rutting sound like?’
Brasti
looked up wistfully. ‘More cries of pleasure from the woman, that’s for sure.
And more talking. More, “Oh my, Brasti, that’s it, just there! Thou art so
stout of heart and of body!”’ He rolled his eyes in disgust. ‘This one sounds
like she’s knitting a sweater or cutting meat for dinner.’
‘“Stout
of heart and body”? Do women really say that kind of thing in bed?’ Kest asked.
‘Try
taking a break from practising alone with your sword all
day
and bed a woman and you’ll find out. Come on, Falcio, back me up here.’
‘It’s
possible, but it’s been so damned long I’m not sure I can remember.’
‘Yes,
of course, Saint Falcio, but surely with your wife—?’
‘Leave it,’ I said.
‘I’m
not – I mean—’
‘Don’t
make me hit you, Brasti,’ Kest said quietly.
We
sat there in silence for a minute or two as Kest glared at Brasti on my behalf
and the noises from the bedroom continued unabated.
‘I
still can’t believe he can keep going like that,’ Brasti started up again. ‘I
ask you again, Falcio, what are we doing here? Tremondi hasn’t even paid us
yet.’
I
held up my hand and wiggled my fingers. ‘Did you see his rings?’
‘Sure,’
Brasti said, ‘very big and gaudy. With a stone shaped like a wheel on top.’
‘That’s
a Lord Caravaner’s ring – which you’d know if you’d paid attention to the world
around you. It’s what they use to seal their votes when they have their annual
concord – one ring, one vote. Not every Lord Caravaner shows up for the concord
each year, so they have the option of lending their ring to another to act as
their proxy in all the major votes. Now, Brasti, how many Lords Caravaner are
there in total?’
‘Nobody
knows for sure, it’s—’
‘Twelve,’
Kest said.
‘And
how many of his fingers had one of those gaudy rings on
them?’
Brasti
stared at his own fingers. ‘I don’t know – four . . . five?’
‘Seven,’
Kest said.
‘Seven,’
I repeated.
‘So
that means he could . . . Falcio, what is it exactly that the Concord of Lords
Caravaner is going to vote on this year?’
‘Lots
of things,’ I said casually. ‘Rates of exchange, dues, trade policies. Oh, and
security.’
‘Security?’
‘Since
the Dukes killed the King, the roads have fallen into disrepair. The Dukes
won’t spend money or men, not even to defend the trade routes, and the Lords
Caravaner are losing a fortune on private security for every single trip they
take.’
‘And
we care about this why?’
I
smiled. ‘Because Tremondi’s going to propose that the Greatcoats become the
Wardens of the Road, giving us authority, respect, and a decent life in
exchange for keeping their precious cargoes out of the hands of the bandits.’
Brasti
looked wary. ‘They’d let us reassemble the Greatcoats again? So instead of
spending my life being branded a traitor and hounded from every overcrowded
city or Gods-forsaken village the length and breadth of the country, I’d get to
run around the trade routes beating up bandits – and I’d actually get paid for it?’
I
grinned. ‘And from there, we have a much better chance of fulfilling the
King’s—’
Brasti
waved a hand. ‘Please, Falcio. He’s been dead for five years. If you haven’t
found these bloody “King’s Charoites” by now – and still no one knows what they are, by the way—’
‘A
charoite is a gemstone,’ Kest said calmly.
‘Whatever.
My point is: finding these gemstones with no clue whatsoever as to where they
might be is about as likely as Kest here killing the Saint of Swords.’
‘But
I will kill
the Saint of Swords, Brasti,’ Kest said.
Brasti
sighed. ‘You’re hopeless, both of you. Anyway, even if we do find the
Charoites, what exactly are we supposed to do with them?’
‘I
don’t know,’ I answered, ‘but since the alternative is that the
Dukes
hunt down the Greatcoats one by one until we’re all dead, I’d say Tremondi’s
offer works for me.’
‘Well
then,’ Brasti said, lifting an imaginary glass in the air, ‘good on you, Lord
Tremondi. Keep up the good work in there!’
More
moaning came from the room as if in response to his toast.
‘You
know, I think Brasti may be right,’ Kest said, standing up and reaching for one
of the swords at his side.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘At
first it sounded like lovemaking, but I am beginning to think I really can’t
tell the difference between these noises and those of a man being tortured.’
I
rose carefully, but my battered chair creaked loudly as I leaned towards the
door, trying to listen. ‘They’ve stopped now, I think,’ I murmured.
Kest’s
sword let out only the barest whisper as he pulled it from its scabbard.
Brasti
put his ear to the door and shook his head. ‘No, he’s stopped, but she’s still
going. He must be asleep. But why would she keep going if—?’
‘Brasti,
move away from the door,’ I said, and threw my shoulder into it. The first try
failed, but at the second, the lock gave way. At first I couldn’t see anything
amiss in the gaudily appointed room, decorated in what the proprietor fondly
believed to be the style of a Duke’s bedroom. Clothes and discarded books were
strewn across what had once been expensive rugs but now were moth-eaten and
likely homes for vermin. The bed had dusty velvet curtains hanging from an
oaken frame.
I
had just begun to move slowly into the room when a woman stepped out from
behind those curtains. Her bare skin was smeared with blood and, though I
couldn’t see her features through the diaphanous black mask that covered her
face, I knew she was smiling. In her right hand she held a pair of large
scissors – the kind butchers use to cut meat. She extended her left hand
towards me, fist closed tight, palm to the ceiling. Then she brought it close
to her mouth and it looked as if she might blow us a kiss. Instead, she
exhaled, and blue powder billowed into the air.
‘Don’t
breathe in,’ I shouted to Kest and Brasti – but it was too late; whatever magic
was in the powder didn’t require us to inhale to do its work. The world
suddenly slowed to a halt and I felt as if I was trapped between the stuttering
ticks of an old clock. I knew Brasti was behind me, but I couldn’t turn my head
to see him. Kest was just in my sight, in the corner of my right eye, but I
could barely make him out as he struggled like a demon to break free.
The
woman tilted her head as she looked at me for a moment.
‘Lovely,’
she said softly, and walked casually, even languidly towards us, the scissors
in her hand making a rhythmic snip-snip sound.
I felt her hand on the side of my face, then she ran her fingers down the length
of my greatcoat, pushing at the leather until she could sneak her hand inside.
She placed her palm on my chest for a moment, caressing it softly before
sliding it down my stomach and below my belt.
Snip-snip.
She
stretched up on her toes and leaned her masked face close to my ear, pushing
her naked body against mine as if we were about to embrace. Snip-snip went the scissors. ‘The dust is called
“aeltheca”,’ she whispered. ‘It’s very, very expensive. I needed only a pinch
of it for the Lord Caravaner, but now you’ve made me use my entire supply.’ Her
voice was neither angry nor sad, just as if she were merely making a
dispassionate observation.
Snip-snip.
‘I’d
cut your throats out, my tatter-cloaks, but I’ve some use for you now, and the
aeltheca will keep you from remembering anything about me.’
She
stepped back and twirled theatrically.
‘Oh,
you’ll remember a naked woman in a mask – but my height, my voice, the curves
of my body, these will all slip away from you.’
She
leaned forward, placed the scissors in my left hand and closed my fingers
around them. I struggled to let them go, but my fingers wouldn’t move. I tried
as hard as I could to memorise the shape of her body, her height, the features
of her face through the mask, anything that would help me know her if I saw her
again, but the images faded even as I watched her. I tried turning the words to
describe her into rhymes that I might remember, but those too left me
instantly. I could stare right at her, but each time I blinked my eyes, the
memory was gone. The aeltheca was certainly effective.
I
hate magic.
The
woman went back to the curtained bed briefly, then returned with a small pool
of blood held carefully in the palm of her hand. She went to the wall opposite
us, dipped her finger in the blood and wrote a single word upon the wall. The
dripping word was ‘Greatcoats’.
She
came back to me once more and I felt a kiss on my cheek through the gauzy
fabric of her mask.
‘It’s
almost sad,’ she said lightly, ‘to see the King’s own Greatcoats, his legendary
travelling magistrates, brought so low; to watch you bowing and scraping to a
fat Lord Caravaner barely one step up from a common street merchant . . . Tell
me, tatter-cloak, when you sleep, do you imagine yourself still riding across
the land, sword in hand and a song on your lips as you bring justice to the
poor, wretched people trapped under the heels of capricious Dukes?’
I
tried to reply, but despite the effort, I could manage barely a tremor to my
lower lip.
The
woman brought her finger up and smeared blood on the cheek she had kissed a
moment ago. ‘Goodbye, my lovely tatter-cloak. In a few minutes, I’ll just be a
hazy memory. But don’t worry, I’ll remember you
very well indeed.’
She
turned and walked casually to the wardrobe and picked up her clothes. Then she
opened the window and, without even dressing, slipped out into the early
morning air.
We
stood there like tree stumps for a minute or so more before Brasti, who had
been furthest away from the powder, was able to move his mouth enough to say,
‘Shit.’
Kest
came out of it next, and I was last. As soon as I could move, I raced to the
window, but of course the woman was long gone.
I
went to the bed to examine the blood-soaked body of Lord Tremondi. She had gone
after him like a surgeon and had managed to keep him alive for a long time,
somehow – perhaps another property of the aeltheca. The passage of her scissors
had for ever imprinted a map of atrocity across the surface of his body.
This
wasn’t just a murder; it was a message.
‘Falcio,
look,’ Kest said, pointing at Tremondi’s hands. Three fingers remained on his
right hand; the rest were bloody stumps. The Caravaner rings were gone, and
with them, our hopes for the future.
I
heard the sounds of men coming up the stairs, the steady thumpthump of their footsteps marking them as city
guards.
‘Brasti,
bar the door.’
‘It’s
not going to hold for long, Falcio. You kind of broke it when we came in.’
‘Just
do it.’
Brasti
pushed the door back into place and Kest helped him to shove the dresser in
front of it before turning to help as I searched for anything that would link
to the woman who’d killed Tremondi.
‘Do
you think we’ll find her?’ Kest asked me as we looked down at Tremondi’s
butchered remains.
‘Not
a chance in any of the hells we’re headed for,’ I replied.
Kest
put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Through the window?’
I
sighed. ‘The window.’
Fists
were banging on the door outside. ‘Goodnight, Lord Tremondi,’ I said. ‘You
weren’t an especially good employer. You lied a lot, and never paid us when you
promised. But I guess that’s all right, since we turned out to be pretty
useless bodyguards.’
Kest
was already climbing out as the constables were beginning to force the door of
our room.
‘Hang
on,’ Brasti said. ‘Shouldn’t we – you know . . .’
‘What?’
‘You
know, take his money?’
Even
Kest looked back and raised an eyebrow at that one.
‘No,
we do not take
his money,’ I said.
‘Why
not? It’s not like he needs it.’
I
sighed again. ‘Because we’re not thieves, Brasti, we’re Greatcoats. And that
has to mean something.’
He
started making his way out of the window. ‘Yeah, it means something: it means
people hate us. It means they’re going to blame us for Tremondi’s death. It
means we’re going to hang from the noose while the mob throws rotten fruit at
our corpses shouting, “Tattercloak, tatter-cloak!” – And – oh yes it means we
also don’t have any money. But at least we still have our coats.’
He
disappeared out of the window and I climbed out after him. The constables had
just broken down the door, and when their leader saw me there with the wooden
sill digging into my chest as I eased myself out of the window, there was the
hint of a smile on his face. I knew instantly what that smile meant: he had
more men waiting for us below, and now he could rain arrows down on us while
they held us at bay with pikes.
My
name is Falcio val Mond, First Cantor of the Greatcoats, and this was only the
first of a great many bad days to come.
 |
| Photo by Pink Monkey Studio |
About the Author:
Sebastien de Castell had just finished a degree in Archaeology when he started work on his first dig. Four hours later he realized how much he actually hated archaeology and left to pursue a very focused career as a musician, ombudsman, interaction designer, fight choreographer, teacher, project manager, actor, and product strategist. His only defence against the charge of unbridled dilettantism is that he genuinely likes doing these things and that, in one way or another, each of these fields plays a role in his writing. He sternly resists the accusation of being a Renaissance Man in the hopes that more people will label him that way.
Sebastien lives in Vancouver, Canada with his lovely wife and two belligerent cats.
