Hungerblade

Part Fourteen: A Series Of Exchanges

Hemwold followed Jacques through Isabelle’s domus, as he moved calmly from the atrium into the kitchen. “Even now that you’ve lost, you still think you’re smart, don’t you?” A blast of rancid breath accompanied the troll’s muttered words. “I’ll show you how you weren’t smart at all.”

“Is that so?” said Jacques, bending down to dislodge a loose tile from the kitchen floor. He snatched up a glittering item. Hemwold reached for it. Jacques held fast, nodding in the direction of his sword. “Your employer gets this when Isabelle is safely returned.”

Gardien moved back to the domus’ atrium, where Wigandus waited, with his other guardsmen. “I have it. Let’s go.”

Hemwold grinned at the frightened servants. “Clean this place up while we’re gone. Somebody made a mess of it.”

Wigandus seemed to regard his chief bully with mild disapproval, but said nothing, beckoning Jacques and his other guards down the domus steps and onto the street.

They wended their way through the city in silence. Jacques listened to the shouts of food-sellers, the cries of vendors, and the chatter of drinkers sitting on wine shop patios. A noisy procession celebrating an obscure eastern god disgorged itself from a tiny temple, into an avenue already choked with workers and shoppers. Upon Jacques’ arrival just a few days ago, these streets had seemed ominous, heavy with a sense of sinister watchfulness. Now they seemed, if not quite innocent, dangerously oblivious. If Nero’s forces burst through the city’s poorly defended gates, the unruly clamor of commerce would give way first to terrified shrieks and then to hideous groans of the wounded and dying. To raise a mercenary army of the necessary size, Wigandus would have hired all manner of brigands, deserters, and malcontents. No matter how forcefully they were commanded, only a fraction of them would obey their orders once inside the walls. Indiscriminate looting and slaughter would inevitably result. Wigandus clearly considered this an acceptable prospect, given the precious folio of arcane secrets he stood to receive in return for his finance of the motley force. This did not chill Jacques’ blood nearly so much as the thought that he might be right.

After several hours of travel, Nero’s country palazzo loomed on the horizon. It lay on a promontory overlooking a crystal lake, both of which had been conjured into being by a team of magicians at the apex of the Empire’s golden era. Wigandus again grew talkative, as if energized by the sight of it.

“Now that you are resigned to our plan, messenger, it occurs to me that it would be in your interests to play a greater part in it.”

“It occurs to you?”

“When I present Emperor Guntram with the grimoires, he will ask what you did to help. I will put in a positive word for you, overlooking your earlier heel-dragging, if redeem yourself now.”

“And what form would that redemption take?”

“You will wield that sword, which as I understand is property of our Empire, at the head of our army. You’ll cut down the coup plotters and anyone who stands in your way. This is your final chance to mantle yourself in glory, and to stave off what will otherwise be a devastating blow to your reputation.”

“Thanks for the offer,” said Jacques, flatly.

“What does that mean?”

“I remain undecided.”

The road to the estate skirted the lake, which was shielded by an honor guard of poplar trees. It reached the terminus of its curve and then grew sharply steeper, leading to the plateau on which the palazzo rested. Its fortress walls, made of limestone and marble, ornamented with exotic stone, formed a near-square. Except for the back wall facing the cliff, each was surmounted by six watchtowers. On closer inspection, Jacques noted all but the two towers nearest the main gate were unmanned. Though the palace was large enough to bivouac a large force, mercenaries were camped outside its walls. Either the Emperor did not trust Wigandus’ mercenaries well enough to let them inside his palace, or it had fallen into disrepair during the plagues and was still largely uninhabitable.

Jacques counted approximately a hundred and fifty men. A few sparred; others sharpened their blades. Most gathered around cookfires, threw dice, or roamed sulkily in search of diversion. Several dozen men had gathered around a well; they’d captured a writhing animal, perhaps a fox or badger, and stuck it in a sack. Now they were dunking it in the water and wagering on how long it would take to drown. The mercenaries were mostly of Romari and Doturi stock; among the latter, most wore the distinctive leather cowls favored by Visigi mountain men. Also among the company’s human cohort were dark-browed Onogurs, fur-hatted Russkans, and mustachioed Castilians. Outcasts from the inhuman peoples were also present. A trio of Imouha fey held themselves at a haughty remove, brandishing soul-stealer staffs. Rancorous Thuleans hunched their squat bodies over a roasting boar, tearing loose chunks of barely-cooked meat. Spatters of grease clung to their thick pelts. Jacques even spied sun-hardened desert raiders from across the Medrano Sea.

The mercenaries paid no heed to Wigandus as he arrived, neither greeting or challenging their paymaster. He ordered Berchtold to run ahead to alert the Emperor of their arrival.

“Where’s Isabelle?” Jacques asked.

“In the Emperor’s entourage. You don’t think I’d expose one of our empire’s loveliest representatives to this riff-raff, do you? They’ll send her out with a trustworthy guard detail, you can give me the locus, and then we can discuss your further role in the suppression of this disgraceful coup.”

Wigandus ushered Jacques into a large tent, which had been erected on a wooden platform. Inside it were arranged a divan and several cushioned stools, in addition to a pantry box, a wardrobe, and a trio of chests.

Jacques took the seat offered him. “Nero hasn’t offered you a spot in the imperial apartments?”

The merchant prince wrinkled his nose. “I found them surprisingly damp and drafty, and so relocated here. This palace has not been used for centuries. Besides, it is best to keep an eye on the men, who are not, shall we say, born to discipline.”

“You have no seasoned commanders?”

“With that damnable geas, which prevents Nero from issuing even the slightest command to any serving officer, it has been difficult. We have a few retired tribunes, but they were accustomed to the ready obedience of Romari troops, and have had only passing success with this lot.” Wigandus indicated the mercenaries with a distracted wave of his hand. “The bulk of our force, disbursed among the populace, awaits our signal.” He reached into the pantry box to offer Jacques a plate of olives. “Here is another area where you can redeem yourself. With the geas lifted, Nero will wish to act hastily. Understandable, given the maddening constraints Circe’s magic has placed him under. But I think that, once he can again call on his legions, he should wait until he can bring a few to the capital. We have enough men to round up the rebel senators, but if the people of Romulus back the traitors instead of their rightful emperor, we may be pushed back. The sight of a legion at the gates could certainly prompt them to resist. The emperor knows you by reputation and for some reason respects you. Assist me by convincing him to wait.”

Jacques chewed noncommittally on the flesh of an olive.

Berchtold appeared at the tent’s entrance, prompting Wigandus to briskly clap his hands together. “Let us complete the exchange at least.”

Berchtold shook his head. “He wants to do it himself.”

“What?”

“He is coming, himself, with the woman, to take the thing from the messenger. Himself.”

“No, he must not,” Wigandus said.

“He is. He is coming,” said Berchtold.

Jacques stepped past Wigandus through the tent flap. Nero’s arrival was heralded by a troop of eunuchs, blaring elongated trumpets. Standard bearers held aloft his purple banner, which bore the emblem of the imperial eagle. Nero sprawled on a couch on a gilded litter, carried aloft by four sweating cyclopean giants. At the couch’s foot, Isabelle crouched, her hands and feet bound by lengths of silk rope. Jacques searched for signs of mistreatment, but saw none. She was gripping tight to the platform’s edge, her concern that the giants might tip the litter evident in her posture.

The giants knelt in response to Nero’s command, placing the litter on the roadway. Eunuchs scampered forth to unroll a length of purple carpet, upon which he deigned to walk. “I see the two of you have come to an accord,” he said.

Wigandus shot Jacques a look pregnant with significance. Gardien ignored it, stepping forward to bow to the Emperor, as protocol demanded.

“You have something for me,” Nero said, “but first it pleases me to know how you managed to slip it from the fingers of that accursed witch.” The Emperor’s movements still showed the tics and twitches that Jacques now understood to be symptomatic of the geas. This time, however, they were overlaid by a predatory exuberance.

“It’s an unseemly story, Your Imperial Majesty.”

Nero’s teeth were tiny and sharp. “Sully my ears, then.”

“As you perhaps have heard . . .” Jacques became aware that Isabelle was staring a hole in his doublet.

Nero chuckled. “You prudish Doturi. You act as Romari do, but are ashamed to speak of it.”

“Then you know the beginning of the story, Your Imperial Highness. Circe and I had an, ah, yes. Well . . . And although I was . . . distracted, not to mention intoxicated, I couldn’t help but notice that she removed all of her jewelry but this one small piece, which fit on her ankle. So I, ah, liberated it, in case it was the locus I was seeking. When she and the other Senators imprisoned me in hopes of recovering it, I knew my guess had been right.”

Nero held out his hand for it. “I will take it from you now.” He was, Jacques noticed, carefully phrasing his words to avoid making any formal requests of him. Instead, he spoke by inference, or as if Gardien had already agreed to everything, circumventing the terms of the geas.

“There are ritualists standing by, waiting to undo its magic?”

“You have asked more than enough questions in my city, Gardien. Quit now, while I am still favorably disposed toward you.”

Jacques executed a second bow, shallower than the first. “You’re right, Your Imperial Majesty. I’m sure you’ll understand if I ask to observe a simple formality during the exchange. My emperor is a stickler for that sort of thing, as doubtless you are, too . . .”

“What is it, messenger?”

“Isabelle must be well out of harm’s way—past, let’s say, the range of a very strong bowman—before I hand you the locus.”

Nero let the request hang in the air for a long, uncomfortable moment. When he spoke, he faltered, hampered by the geas. Finally he spit out an indirect response: “Although a weak leader might interpret this request as a sign of distrust, I choose to honor it, as a gesture of regard for Emperor Guntram.” He waved to a pair of servants. “Release the woman,” he instructed.

They shuffled up to cut Isabelle free of her bonds. Isabelle shook the ropes loose, poised her shoulders, and moved at a slow and dignified pace away from her captors. By now Wigandus’ mercenaries had gathered around Jacques and the emperor, forming a loose ring of armed men. They parted to make way for her as she left the encampment. She reached the road and continued walking. When she was nearly out of sight, Jacques reached into his doublet and withdrew an anklet, consisting of a curved shell of gold on a delicate chain.

He dropped it into Nero’s outstretched palm.

The Emperor clasped his fingers tightly around it. “Are you so sure, Doturi, that your emperor will applaud you for turning this over? Many empires would value such a piece of leverage far more highly than they would life of a single junior diplomat.”

Jacques clasped his hands behind his back and bit down on his upper lip. “When Guntram wants to see the selfish thing done, there is someone else he sends.”

Nero smiled. “How amusing. And when he sends you, what does he want done?”

“The right thing. And you know the problem what?” Jacques leaned in and whispered into the emperor’s ear. “I’m not always sure what that is.” He withdrew before the emperor could take offense at his proximity. Jacques bowed again. “May I take my leave now, Your Imperial Majesty?”

“Go, Doturi. I, too, have much to do today.”

Jacques turned and, in his curious stork-like gait, moved toward Isabelle, who stood waiting for him at a bend in the sloping road.

Hemwold ran to catch up with him, a dark object slung over his meaty shoulder. Wigandus called after Hemwold. Although Jacques couldn’t make out what the merchant was saying, the frantic, protesting note in his voice was unmistakable. Jacques stopped. Wigandus’ cries grew angrier; Jacques heard the phrase “you fool!” The merchant ordered nearby mercenaries to intercept the troll, but few of them reacted at all, and then only to take hesitant steps toward the monstrous brigand.

The object Hemwold carried was a sack, large enough to hold a small person. “I told you you weren’t smart!” he bellowed at Jacques, his face a twitching contradiction of both fury and glee. “I told you I was going to show you!” Hemwold dropped the bundle at Jacques’ feet. Bobbing down, he tugged deftly at its opening.

The sack held the corpse of the urchin, Giovanna. Flakes of dried blood marred the paleness of her face. The girl’s head had been bashed in.

“You protected the woman,” Hemwold exulted, “but you forgot all about the girl you sent to spy on us.”

Jacques recoiled. He hadn’t sent Giovanna anywhere. Instantly he understood what had happened. She’d gone off on her own, reckoning there’d be more gold for her if she got him more information about Wigandus’ movements.

“This was your idea?” Jacques asked.

Hemwold, as if realizing a terrible error, took a step back. “Of course, this is what you do to spies.” Frantically, he pointed back at the merchant. “Wigandus told me . . .”

Finally, Jacques knew the right thing to do.

He reached for his belt and slowly drew Hungerblade from its scabbard.

To be concluded . . .