                
Hungerblade
Part Two: The Important Assignments
Are Always Vague
“Jacques Gardien, grand messenger to the
Empire!” announced Cynewulf von Walberg, sergeant-at-arms of the Imperial Guard.
His bellowing voice had been trained to fill an entire ballroom, and he took no
care to modulate it for smaller chambers. The sergeant punctuated his cry with
two stamps from the haft of his halberd. This was in turn followed by a cornet
blast from his herald, a small man with a large mustache, clad in a uniform of
sapphire brocade.
Gardien eased into the room, positioning
himself so that his scabbarded sword faced away from the Emperor. Guntram stood
on a pedestal, contemplating an easel, on which rested a canvas half again his
height. A young lady of the court, whose name Jacques would be able to recall if
only he were a more diligent gossip, lay several feet away. She lounged impishly
on a divan, clad only in a few shimmers of diaphanous fabric. Guntram, charcoal
in hand, was attempting to capture the ineluctable curve of her hips as they
sloped toward her porcelain midriff. A bandy-legged man, his fine garments
protected by a paint-spattered smock, hovered nearby, whispering instructions:
“No, Your Imperial Majesty. You must not see the line. You must feel the
line.” Guntram jabbed the charcoal stick at his art tutor in a gesture of
dismissive annoyance, then paced to a side table covered with maps and
documents. A mournful functionary pointed a finger at a piece of parchment; the
Emperor read it briefly, scratched out a line here and there, and affixed his
signature to it. The functionary then finished it with a drop of red wax and a
press of the Imperial Doturi seal—a solar emblem emitting waves of enveloping
light, the symbol of Reason Radiant. Guntram returned to his sketching.
Even while signing documents or practicing
one of his many artistic pursuits, Guntram moved with a bantam’s strut. Though
currently attired in a simple linen shirt and golden leggings, he carried
himself as if balancing a heavy crown on his head. Guntram’s fine features, once
considered pretty and callow, were aging into a mask of forbidding confidence.
The Emperor’s most off-putting physical quality, at least in Jacques’ opinion,
was the chameleonic changeability of his eyes. Depending on the light, they
might appear to be blue, hazel, green, or the silver of a polished rapier.
Jacques remained still, hands clasped in
front of him, until Guntram deigned to acknowledge him. He had, as a matter of
idle curiosity, fallen into the habit of counting the seconds between his
entrance to an audience, and the moment when Guntram pretended to have noticed
him. This was one esoteric coded signal among many to consider when fulfilling
his missions.
Among the secrets behind the rapid success
of the Doturi since the plague ended was in the freedom it granted its roving
legates. Though known as simply as messengers, Jacques and his six senior
colleagues enjoyed considerable leeway in negotiating treaties, establishing
foreign policies—even in declaring the occasional minor war. One could not risk
the hides of ordinary state officials by asking them to travel the continent’s
broken and bandit-infested roads. Hazardous times called for more adventurously
capable corps of diplomats, such as one entrusted to carry the legendarily
bloodthirsty Hungerblade.
Jacques had long ago learned, the
most important assignments were always vague. His challenge in these meetings
was, as always, two-fold: to read the parameters of his task in the pauses and
evasions of the Emperor’s discourse, and to protect him from his own impetuous
curiosity regarding Jacques’ dangerous enchanted weapon.
“The rest of you, out,” Guntram commanded.
Artist and bureaucrat glided through the main door with quick and shuffling
efficiency. Guntram’s model slipped on a silken robe, itself embroidered with
the seal of Reason Radiant, and eased through a secret door into an inner
chamber.
Guntram bounded from his platform to
encircle Gardien in a vigorous bear hug. In the repertoire of His Majesty’s
emotional displays, aggression and affection were not always well-delineated. He
released Jacques, then feinted, grinning broadly, for the hilt of his sword.
Jacques grabbed his wrist, and deployed his
best and humblest stutter. “Your Imperial Majesty...”
Guntram reddened, turned steely, then
barked out a belly laugh, striding to a sideboard. He poured two goblets of
purplish red wine, handing one to Jacques. Jacques swirled it to release the
bouquet, breathed it in, then tasted. A fine vemien, though a touch pushy.
Jacques guessed at the region. “Monsen?”
The Emperor smiled broadly. “Sireau. I knew
I could fool you. Delightful, no?”
Jacques nodded.
“Let me test you on another question. The
North Coast League. What comes to mind?”
“One of our major mercantile leagues,”
Gardien replied.
“The largest, in fact,” Guntram corrected.
“I did not even know that.”
“My dealings with them have been
peripheral at best. They control the trade routes along the Albearic. Skirmish
occasionally with Thulean raiders.”
“Well they’re perhaps tired of freezing
seas and ship-to-ship combat with musky dwarves. They hope to expand their
sphere southwards. Very much southwards. One of their grandees, name of
Wigandus, has developed some contacts for himself among the Romari. I don’t need
to tell you how profitable an alliance with them would be—or how costly a war.”
Jacques took a careful sip of his wine.
“You speak Wigandus’ name with skepticism.”
“Don’t mistake me. We need the mercantile
leagues. As a fish breathes water, an empire survives through the inhalation and
exhalation of money. Whether this particular league warrants our favor or a
subtle squeezing on behalf of its competitors, is a fact to be determined. And
this Wigandus, he seems to sweat butter. Yet if his claims of Romari connections
prove their worth, we are capable of tolerating no end of coarseness. That
sword. Surely if you withdraw it merely for the purposes of examination . . .“
Jacques raised his goblet. “To your
admirable persistence, my liege. Which I am nonetheless duty-bound to rebuff.”
The Emperor stepped closer. “There must be
some way of suspending the curse, just long enough to . . .”
Gardien shook his head. “If I remove it
from its scabbard, with only two of us here, one of us will die. I assure you,
Your Imperial Majesty, that either result would cast a pall on the rest of my
day. Perhaps this fine vintage has inflated my self- importance, but . . .”
Guntram turned his back on him. Despite his
lofty station, he was not above a little regal pouting. “But what?”
“Under normal circumstances, wouldn’t a
preliminary trade mission warrant the services of a less senior messenger?”
“Wigandus requested a member of the Seven.
He implied that anything less than that would constitute a snub of the entire
North Coast League. Perhaps he reckons that your presence will smooth his way as
he seeks trading partners—think of yourself as a walking and talking Imperial
seal of approval.” The Emperor prowled over to the sideboard in search of figs.
“Yet . . .”
Guntram tested a knife for sharpness and
plunged it into the heart of a juicy fig. “Yet I acquiesce to his demand in
hopes that you will attend to a second mission, one more suited to your
particular qualifications.” He cut the fig in two and paused to eat the red
interiors of each half.
“I heard a funny story while out in the
world,” said Jacques. “That the Romari Emperor, Nero, has been defanged by his
Senate, and that a power struggle now ensues there.”
“Pesky things, legislatures. I don’t know
how the Romari have lasted for so many centuries by allowing them. Oh yes, I
do—by continually deposing and killing their Emperors.” He wiped his mouth and
fingers with a square of bleached linen, then came toward Jacques. “Say you wish
to cut a rope in two. If you draw the sword for that purpose, surely—“
Jacques clapped his hand over Hungerblade’s
hilt. “It will still kill someone. So I always use a knife for cutting rope.”
Guntram circled him. “Perhaps you need to
will it more strongly to heed your commands.”
“It doesn’t work that way, my liege. So the
mission—am I be right in thinking that my real task is to see which senatorial
faction holds the upper hand in Roma?”
“That would be the start of it.”
“And, if necessary and possible, to tilt
the balance of power in a direction favorable to Dotur?”
Guntram seemed to nod. “There are others of
the Seven available, Jacques, but it’s your way of seeing the world I seek here.
Understand?”
Jacques didn’t, but figured that he would,
eventually. Important missions and their vague instructions . . .
The Emperor continued: “Upon arrival in
Romulus, you will meet with our messenger stationed there, Isabelle Darras. You
know her?”
He did indeed know her, as the Emperor was
unquestionably aware. Isabelle had been something of a protégé.
Guntram lunged suddenly for the blade.
Jacques executed a perfect turn, catching the Emperor by the arm and folding it
behind his back. His Majesty was in no pain, but would be if he resisted, even
slightly.
“Thank you, my liege,” said Jacques, “For
so skillfully testing my judgment.”
The Emperor broke into a schoolboy grin.
“And your reflexes,” he added.
“And my reflexes,” agreed Jacques Gardien.
* * *
After a week’s travel, Jacques reached the
town of Hreiburg, which sat on the southern spur of the Riba River, just above
the much-feared Iron Wood. He stood on a wooden pier, watching as crates of
provisions were loaded onto the Geistschritter, one of the empire’s
coveted self-propelled barges. Although his upcoming journey down the Riba would
not be his first on one of these conveyances, his awe at their magical ingenuity
remained undimmed. A small cabal of ritualists recharged the engines every
morning, allowing the barge to move up and down river with equal ease. There was
no need for any type of fuel; however, the cabins of the ritualists took almost
as much space. Over thirty feet long and constructed of bronze and
alchemically-treated pine, the barge’s prow bore the solar emblem of Reason
Radiant, rendered as an imposing shield of brass. Behind it streamed an array of
colorful banners, in turn marking the barge’s allegiance to the empire, the
local duchy, the enchanters who built it, and finally the transportation
syndicate that commissioned and operated it. Sculpted nymphs and cherubs capered
on the prow and side rails. Its engines, located at the stern,
were encased in the forms of gleeful gargoyles. In their glinting eyes
registered the Doturi hunger for wealth and territory. Jacques spied three
obvious enchantments, but he was sure the most deadly ones worked into the
barge’s design and embellishments would be hidden to the unaided eye.
Behind him, Jacques heard the hocking sound
of a man pointedly clearing his voice. He turned, glanced down, and beheld a
portly gentleman bedecked in the fur-lined hat and voluminous cloak of the
northern Visigi provinces. His wide face and bulging eyes lent his features an
unfortunate amphibian quality.
“Jacques Gardien?” he said, bowing in
greeting. He pronounced the surname with three syllables.
The messenger bowed in turn. “And you must
be Wigandus.”
“Yes, yes. I am most glad to see you. And
nervous of this next leg of the journey. The näcken, they alarm me. Spirit
creatures, hah? Have you ever encountered them? Ordinary bandits are one matter,
but ghosts!”
Jacques realized that the man was
accustomed to speaking continuously, and that, if he was to answer any of the
questions posed to him, it was his job to interrupt.
“I have not met the näcken. But I’ll
venture that most things described as ghosts turn out to be more solid than
that.”
Wigandus trundled down the pier to more
closely watch the dockside crane loading his trunks and crates. Two stevedores
road atop the extensive traveling possessions, mutely testifying to the strength
of the magical crane. “I thank you, and the North Coast League thanks you, for
your interest in our dealings. Mere commercial arrangements are, I’m sure, a
bore to you, compared to your usual perambulations and adventures and such. I’ve
heard such exciting tales of your exploits, Jacques Gardien.”
“They’re all exaggerations.” Jacques’ pesky
forelock fell down to annoy him. He batted it back in place, only to have it
fall down again.
Behind him, Jacques heard a sharp intake of
breath. He turned to see two familiar figures standing by the pier.
Wigandus clapped his hands together in a
gesture of summoning. “Monsieur Gardien—or is it Lord Gardien?—allow me to
introduce my bodyguards, Hemwold and Berchtold.”
Wigandus had employed the two brigands
who’d tried to waylay Jacques on the road to Lichtstadt.
To be continued...
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