Hungerblade

Part Eleven: Links and Chains

                Jacques awoke to an insistent poking sensation in his ribcage. An odd smell, reminiscent of mint and rancid barley, invaded his sinuses. He blinked open his bleary eyes; the chamber where he found himself, and its inhabitants, defined themselves slowly, as his drugged mind returned grudgingly to operation.

                It was cold, that was the first thing. Second, he hurt. The sources of pain were several: his head throbbed and the sockets of his arms burned. Then he realized why: he hung suspended, in chains. Tentatively, he tested the ground beneath him. His toes only brushed it; the shackles and, thus, the sockets of his arms supported his weight. The surface of the ground was uneven and strewn with gravel.

                Third, it was dim. Fourth, it was damp. His cell, he intuited, was situated underground. Its gray, diffuse light led him to conclude that it was daytime. Behind his captors, he saw a wooden door. Weak light spilled through its rectangular frame.

                Fifth, his captors were here with him. One of them—it was Circe—stood by a censer, wafting incense at him. This was the source of the mint and sour barley smells, and, Jacques guessed, the agent countering the poison and wresting him back to consciousness. The second was Orientius, who was responsible for the poking—he held a broom handle and jabbed it into Jacques from a concerned distance. Standing behind the two of them was the third member of the senatorial triumvirate, Julius Laminus.

                The sword! Jacques looked for the sword.

                It leaned, safely in its scabbard, against the set of stone steps leading up to the door. He could only hope that it had stayed in its sheath throughout his involuntary sleep. Jacques wanted to ask, to make sure that none of them had been stupid enough to draw it, that no blood had been spilled. But, even with a self-propelled war carriage thundering about on the inside of his skull, he was not quite stupid enough to blurt that out. If his captors had staved off temptation this long, there was no reason to remind them of it.

                “Wake up,” Orientius tartly commanded.

                “Uhh . . .” Jacques managed.

                “Wake up!”

                Jacques thought he saw a vestige of concern on Circe’s face. Then again, it could as easily be a performance. She would play the sympathetic interrogator, he guessed, softening the others’ threats and demands.

                Circe swept up to knock the stick away from his ribs, then turned to viciously slap him. “Now you will answer our questions.”So much for the sympathetic interrogation.

                The force of her blow had set him in motion, like a pendulum. “Ow. That hurt, Circe. You should pose some questions before you start slapping. I might even answer them.”

                “Is he an idiot or is it a pretense?” Laminus growled.

                A feline grin surfaced on Orientius’ well-fed face. “He was smart enough to let you win that duel, Julius. So be sure that it is entirely a masquerade. But the mummery stops here, doesn’t it, messenger?” He moved around Circe and punctuated the query with another jab of the broom handle.

                “Ouch. As I said, I’m ready to start answering as soon as you start asking.”

                “We know that Wigandus acts as Nero’s cat’s-paw,” said Orientius. “So tell us why Guntram has decided to intervene against us.”

                “You have two points in there. The first one is probably true and I’m curious to know how you found it out. The second, you’ll be glad to hear, is utter nonsense. So, can you let me down? I give more articulate answers when I’m not passing out.”

                Circe blew more incense at him. “You’ll stay conscious so long as you’re breathing this.” Jacques wondered what would happen when she removed the incense, but decided not to ask.

                “That reminds me. Someday I’d like to find out how you poisoned me with wine you also drank.”

                “I’m sure you would,” she said.

                In fact, Jacques did not particularly care. It would be some enchantment or alchemical antidote. The details of magic bored him. But he knew the question would annoy the others.

                Julius Laminus pushed himself past the others. “We know Wigandus works with Nero, because we have spies in the palace. We have intercepted communications.”

                “I’d like to see those, because I’m also trying to figure out what Wigandus and Nero are up to.” Jacques subtly tested the shackles. There was no way to slip free.

                “What kind of fools do you take us for?” Spittle flew from Laminus’ lips. “You are here to vouch on Guntram’s behalf for Wigandus. What Wigandus does, he does at Dotur’s behest!”

                “I see. You’re making the classic conspirator’s mistake.”

                “What is that?” asked Circe. Jacques turned to face her, keeping an eye on the enraged Laminus.

                “Assuming that everyone has the same information you do. Not surprising, given that you live here in Romulus, where every second person is a spy and everyone knows what everyone else is doing. Believe it or not, we in Dotur, many dangerous leagues away from you I should point out, lack that sort of window into your affairs. When Guntram sent me down here, all he knew is that the political winds might be in some way shifting. I didn’t learn the scope of Nero’s distress until I met him.” Circe eyed him critically, then turned away when his regarded her with the same hard stare. He turned toward Laminus.

                Confusion and anger battled each other across Laminus’ hawkish face. “We have letters from Nero’s minions to Wigandus’, offering him rewards in return for Dotur’s help.”

                “In that case, I understand why you’ve strung me up here and forgive you for the rough treatment.”

                Laminus punched him in the stomach. “You expect us to believe that Wigandus acts alone?”

                Jacques groaned. Despite his predicament, he was losing patience. “And Wigandus, he speaks for the Emperor? He has the power to make treaties, offer terms?” Laminus raised a fist to strike again, but Orientius waved the broomstick and Jacques continued. “Who can speak for the Emperor in Romulus, Wigandus or me?” Circe turned back, realizing Jacques point before he made it.

                “Wigandus only promised the support of his guild,” she said. “He implied the cooperation of the Emperor, but did not express it directly.”

                “But you wanted to believe it was a grand conspiracy, so you jumped, incorrectly, and attributed Wigandus with powers only a messenger posses.” Jacques sighed. “Will you let me down now? I’m not the bad guy.”

                Orientius dropped the broomstick and Laminus punched him in the ribs, although not as hard as the first time. Jacques swayed slightly on the chains.

“You know what Wigandus seeks, don’t you?”

                Laminus seemed confused by the question.

                “He wants our rituals,” said Orientius. Clearly what he thought he knew upon entering the cell was now in question. “He came to me this morning to see if I’d sell them to him.”

                “When were you going to tell us that?” Laminus snapped.

                Jacques spun slowly on his chain. “Wigandus is a presumptuous man. Maybe that’s a trait you know something about, Laminus. Although you’ve not met him, let me assure you Emperor Guntram is a very smart man. He knew that there was nothing Wigandus was going to be able to do to acquire any Romari rituals. His hope was simply to establish better trading relations. Wigandus had other ideas, using the trade agreements as the means to get something else – the rituals. The theory I was working on, before, you know, all this unpleasantness, was that Wigandus realized Nero’s plight and seized the opportunity to make himself useful. He breaks, or circumvents, the geas in return for the secrets of the Serracum or bridge building; perhaps both. He thought if he struck this bargain with Nero that I would go along with it, as naturally as flowers follow rain.”

                “And why wouldn’t you?” Orientius asked. “Your emperor would love to be able to build bridges, instead of hauling goods across rivers on those ridiculous winches of yours. Any leader would kill for our secrets of magnetism.”

                Jacques looked at Orientius as if he were an idiot.

                “Wigandus does not intend to share those secrets with his Emperor,” volunteered Circe. Jacques nodded as she continued. “His guild prospers directly, and the Doturi prosper indirectly from his stolen knowledge.”

                Orientius broke the broomstick with a harsh snap that echoed through the room. “Bah! The question remains. Guild or emperor, it does not matter. If Wigandus succeeds, the Doturi prosper at our expense. Why wouldn’t he help the merchant if the plan is about to succeed?” He threw the remains on the floor, punctuating the question. Circe tapped her lip, but did not speak.

                “That’s an even tougher question now that you’ve drugged and tortured me. Because before this happened, I was thinking that Roma was better off with the three of you in charge. My only concern was getting Wigandus out of Romulus without causing an international incident.”

                The three senators traded uncertain glances. Jacques tried to find a purchase on the floor, but it remained agonizingly out of reach. “I doubt you have had the experience, but believe me when I say hanging from the ceiling is extremely unpleasant. Perhaps now you can let me down?”

                Circe broke the silence. “If you are trying to stop Wigandus, as you claim, then you’ll tell us where it is.”

                Jacques looked at her in complete surprise. “Where what is?”

                “The locus,” Laminus shouted.

                “Locus?”

                “Don’t play ignorant!” Laminus seemed ready to strike him again. “We know you spoke to Ermanno de Abano, and that he told you that for this sort of magic, a ritual object is required, to hold and fix the magic.”

                “So you have hexed Nero. At first I thought you were making him do something, but my present thinking is that you’re stopping him from taking action. He can’t issue decrees, or give orders to any officers of the state. That would have to include the legions, too, wouldn’t it?”

                Now it was Orientius turn to make Jacques feel like an idiot. “Of course.”

                “It took me a while to realize why he couldn’t reveal his condition to me, but I’m a diplomat of another sovereign court. That would make any discussions with me, beyond the mere ceremonial, a matter of statecraft—and also forbidden by the geas.”

                “An excellent guess, Jacques,” said Circe.

                “Hmm. At any rate . . . With Nero stuck in his magically maintained cage, the path remains open for the three of you to rule the Empire.”

                Circe took Laminus aside for a duet of harshly whispered words. During this time, Orientius’ nervously divided his attention between trying to eavesdrop on them, and watching Jacques in case he attempted an escape.

                Laminus remained at the back of the cell, while Circe came forward to continue the questioning. “Where is the locus?” Jacques ignored her.

                “So that leaves the question of why you didn’t just destroy the locus to begin with,” Jacques mused. “That would have left the magic in place permanently. Why keep it, risking the eventuality that, well, let’s say, mysterious persons unknown could take it from you?”

                Now both Orientius and Julius Laminus silently fumed, while Circe fought to retain composure.

                “Great gilded stars,” said Jacques, comprehension dawning.

                 “Jacques, where did you hide it?” There was a pleading look in Circe’s eyes.

                Gardien continued to ignore her, musing out loud. “You kept it, didn’t you? These two thought it destroyed, but you kept it. Pulled some sleight of hand after the ritual, did you? And now I’m here because you’ve had to tell the locus still exists.” Jacques whistled. “That couldn’t have been a pleasant admission.”

                All three of them glowered at him. He’d overplayed his hand—he was accusing her of duplicity, and the two men of falling for it. That the deduction was correct only made it worse.

                “Where is it?” Circe demanded.

                “What makes you think I have it?” Jacques asked.

                Circe stiffened. “You know full well.”

                “I’m sorry, you’ve confused me again. It must be the drugs and all the hitting and jabbing.”

                Orientius shoved her aside. “You took it during your first . . . liaison with her at her fête.”

                “You three don’t like each other very much, do you? I guess that’s why she kept the locus, to have something to hold over you and Laminus. If either of you, together or separately, tries to move her out of your triumvirate, she can threaten to restore Nero’s freedom. It would take her a matter of hours to gather her magicians and use the locus to undo the ritual that keeps him in check. By retaining the locus, she keeps your uneasy alliance in place. Although I suppose you need her more than she needs you.”

                Orientius looked for the remains of the broom, finding the remains of the handle on the floor at Jacques’ feet. He cracked Jacques left knee. “She is scarcely the only indispensable one. Our program would be nothing without our public works projects, which I control.”

                “Of the three of us, only I receive any degree of public adulation,” snarled Laminus.

                “That explains it, then,” said Jacques when he got his breath back. His knee radiated pain, but he didn’t think it was permanently damaged. Orientius was displaying hidden skills and seemed ready to display more. Jacques decided to revise his tone. “The two of you have ongoing sources of influence, whereas Circe, once she completes the ritual and dismantles the locus, becomes dispensable. Little wonder, then, that she felt the need to keep it.” Jacques smiled. “It’s as my mother told me: there’s always a good explanation for everything.”

                “If you find yourself so amusing,” said Laminus, as he moved toward Hungerblade, “find the humor in this: if we were unhappy to find Circe still in control of the locus, imagine our response to the discovery that it is in the hands of an insolent outlander.” He picked up the sheathed weapon.

                “Of course, if I had this locus, I’d have made arrangements to have something bad happen to it if I were to disappear,” Jacques bluffed. “Bad for you, I mean.”

                Julius Laminus wrapped his hand around the blade’s ornate hilt.

                “Also,” Jacques bluffed again, “I wouldn’t count on your getting the result you expect, if you draw that sword in my presence.”

                “Ah, your legendary sword.” Laminus turned it over in his hands. “You are its sworn custodian, are you not? What value is the locus to you, compared to this?” He turned to address Circe. “I have no more patience for this. Let him swing for a while, and contemplate what he is without his magic sword. Soon he will beg us to make the trade.” He strode toward Jacques. “But don’t take too long deciding. After I’ve tested it, I may decide that I too value the sword over Circe’s golden gewgaw.”

                He headed for the stairs.

                “Laminus listen to me,” said Jacques. “You do not want to take that.”

                “But I do want to take it, Doturi. It is a sword, and I am a swordsman.”

                “That’s what they all say,” Jacques said under his breath. Only Circe was close enough to hear him.

                “Pathetic, isn’t he?” Laminus addressed Orientius, who seemed bored by the whole exchange. His mind continued to race toward the conclusion of the current problem. He could not be distracted, even by an enchantment as powerful as Hungerblade.

                “You’re the magician, Circe. You tell him,” pleaded Jacques

                Circe held out her palms in a gesture of impatient surrender. Laminus was beyond her help. The senator walked up the steps.

                Jacques called after him. “If you heed only one piece of advice for the rest of your life, Laminus, hear this: leave it in its scabbard.”

                “I am no child, to be warned and coddled.” Laminus opened the wooden door. Light flooded into the cell through the exposed opening, turning Laminus into a silhouette. He paused for a mocking salute and then departed, sword in hand.

                To be continued . . .

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