Swordmage

TWENTY

1 Tarsakh, the Year of the Ageless One

The creaking of a wagon’s wheels and the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves on cobblestones brought Geran back to a painful consciousness. He was lying in damp straw in a dark, swaying wagon, bound hand and foot. His calf burned where the bolt had struck him, his forehead felt hot and sticky and throbbed in agony, and the whole right side of his jaw ached abominably. Gingerly he ran his tongue over his teeth and found one of his molars was deeply split; loose bits of tooth were adrift in his mouth. He spat blood and debris out on the straw of the wagon and groaned despite himself.

“Good, you ain’t dead,” a deep, gravelly voice said from somewhere behind him. “I wouldn’t thrash ’round too much if I were you. ’Twon’t do you no good, it’ll hurt like blazes, and I’ll beat you senseless again if you’re makin’ me to.”

“Where am I?” Geran rasped. It hurt to talk. “On your way t’ that tawdry ten-silver festhall they call Council Hall. We’ll be there soon enough. I understand your accommodations are waitin’ for you.” The speaker laughed dryly.

Geran rolled slowly to one side and glanced up at his captor. The fellow was a black-bearded dwarf in heavy armor. He sat on a bench in the back of the wagon, watching Geran. He had a clay pipe clenched in his mouth and held a short-handled cudgel capped with an ugly lead shot in his lap. “Who are you?” the swordmage asked.

“Kendurkkel Ironthane, master o’ the Icehammer Company. Pleased t’ make your acquaintance, m’lord-’specially since you’ve earned me a very fine bonus this morning.” The dwarf’s pipe bobbed as he grinned under his thick beard, but his eyes remained neutral and wary. “I heard y’know a thing or two about magic, so don’t be givin’ me reason t’ think you might be trying t’ cast a spell, or I’ll have t’ put you t’ sleep with me little persuader, here. Besides, you’re in mage shackles, so there ain’t no point in even trying.”

Geran didn’t know if he would’ve been inclined to try a spell with Kendurkkel sitting over him with the ugly little mace in his hand, but the mage shackles settled it. He decided he’d test them later to be sure, but if the dwarf wasn’t lying, then he wouldn’t get far. Mage shackles were enchanted with negation spells that simply absorbed any magic a captive tried to summon before it could be shaped into even the simplest spell. “What happened to my friend?” he asked.

“The halfling? Well, nobody offered me a bounty on him, so I left ’im in the street. He fought like a wildcat till me wizard struck him senseless with that purple ray he used to knock the sand out o’ you.” The dwarf shrugged. “I suppose I should’ve brought him along just on speculation, if you will, but frankly I don’t like the smell o’ this whole business, and I figured I’d be wiser t’ stick t’ the contract I was certain of.”

The wagon hit a sharp bump, and Geran winced as his head pounded in protest. He felt nauseated, and his limbs felt as weak as thin straws… likely the aftereffects of the blow to the head that had knocked him down. “I don’t suppose I can offer you a better deal than your bounty to let me go, can I?”

“No, that’d be unprofessional. I’ve got me reputation to think of.”

“What if I told you that the council mercenaries intend to hold me for murder because I killed a man in a fair duel? Or that they’re angry with me because I’m interfering with their plans to intimidate and extort half the folk in town? Would that make a difference?”

The dwarf chewed on the stem of his pipe and thought for a moment. “No, can’t say that it would,” he said. “I’ve found it don’t pay t’ worry too much about what folks say when they’re in your sort o’ predicament. Most o’ the time they’re lying, but if they did be tellin’ the truth, well, then, I’d feel just awful ’bout collectin’ the gold what’s on their heads. Better t’ assume they’re all lying. I sleep better that way. Well, look, here we are.”

Geran caught a glimpse of heavy wooden beams carved in fantastic shapes high overhead through the small, barred window in the wagon’s door. Then Kendurkkel knelt down beside him and pulled a heavy leather hood over his head and face. “Mind your manners a little bit longer, and I’ll make sure I take off the hood when we get t’ your cell,” the dwarf said.

The inside of the hood was lightless, dank, and hard to breathe through. Geran heard the wagon door swing open, and then several hands seized him by the arms and hauled him out. He tried to get his feet under him as best he could, but his knees were still quite weak, and his legs didn’t work as well as they should have; he was half-carried along by the unseen men around him. They took him down a flight of steps, through several doors, down another flight of steps, and finally through another door. Geran tried to think of some way to escape, but even if he hadn’t been sick and dizzy from the beating, he doubted that he could have managed much with magic-impeding shackles on his hands and a heavy leather hood to blind him. Several men seized him closely then, and his shackles were removed briefly, readjusted, and then snapped back into place. Only after that did the hood come off his face.

The dwarf stepped back, rolling the hood in his hands. “He’s all yours,” he rasped. “The Icehammers be done with this.”

“A fine piece of work, Captain Kendurkkel.” Sergen Hulmaster stood outside Geran’s cell, dressed in a resplendent, pleated coat of deep blue embroidered with gold thread. He wore a large gold medallion around his neck-a symbol of office, or so Geran guessed. Several of the Council Watch stood nearby in their browned cuirasses. “Thanks to your diligence, this murderer will soon face justice for his crimes.”

The dwarf glanced at Geran. “That’s your business,” he said. “You know where t’ find me if you’re needing the Ice-hammers for anything else, Lord Sergen. I go.” He withdrew, his heavy tread scuffing the stone floor.

The swordmage looked down at his shackles; they’d been moved around in front of his body and tethered to an iron ring set in the floor of the cell, so he could move around a little bit. There was a plain pallet of straw in one corner of the cell, a chamber pot in the other, and a flickering lantern in the hallway outside. “Your Merchant Council has a dungeon, Sergen?” he asked.

“The Council Watch, actually,” his stepcousin replied. “It’s less than three years old and seems to me to be a much better place than you deserve. If I had my way, you’d be thrown into the darkest, foulest oubliette I could find.”

“Your generosity overwhelms me.”

“Sarcasm ill becomes you, Geran. If it helps you at all, you can take comfort in the fact that you’ll be given a speedy trial before a special commission of the Merchant Council. I expect they’ll quickly condemn you to hang, so the quality of your accommodations won’t trouble you for long.”

Geran took a deep breath and silently promised himself that he would not give Sergen the satisfaction of angering him… or frightening him, for that matter. In truth, he felt too miserable to muster much of a retort. “You’ve given yourself the power to try people who displease you and to order executions? Uncle Grigor’s a patient man, but I think he might object, Sergen.”

“The laws of concession, Geran. Members of foreign legations are protected from crimes of person or property. You killed Anfel Urdinger in the sight of dozens of people, so House Veruna’s entitled to demand your arrest and trial under Mulman law.”

“I doubt the harmach will see it that way.”

Sergen snorted. “Well, as you are currently in council custody, it doesn’t really matter how he sees things, does it?” He sketched a mocking half-bow and straightened with an evil smile on his face. “Now, I’m a very busy man, and I have much to do. I’m sure that your case will be disposed of in good order. Until later, dear cousin.”

Geran tried to think of a stinging reply but failed. He watched Sergen strut off, and then he allowed his knees to fail him and slumped to the dismal little pallet. After a time he drifted off into darkness again, even though he knew he shouldn’t let himself fall asleep after a sharp blow to the skull. He felt as though he were plummeting down and down every time he closed his eyes, and yet he was so weary that he could not keep them open any longer.

When he finally woke again, his eyes felt as if they were full of grit, and his tooth was a bright rock of white agony in the side of his mouth. But his head didn’t hurt quite so much, and he was actually hungry instead of nauseated. His jailors had provided him with a bowl of porridge, a jug of water, and a half-loaf of tough black bread. Geran ate gingerly, careful to do his chewing on the left side of his mouth. After that, he pushed himself to his feet and paced around his cell as best he could with the fetters on his wrists and ankles. It was actually a good-sized chamber, about nine feet wide and fourteen long, made of carefully fitted stone-most likely rubble from the ring of ruins surrounding Hulburg. Most newer buildings in the town were built on stones taken from the wreckage of the older city. He wished he had a window, even one at the bottom of a window-well, so that he could at least know whether it was dark or light outside. Unfortunately, the Council Watch hadn’t seen the need to provide their cells with that sort of amenity.

“I suppose I’ve seen worse,” he muttered. Once, early in his travels with the Company of the Dragon Shield, Geran had been imprisoned in the dungeons of the lord of Impiltur for a few days. That experience was one he didn’t like to recall. This cell was hardly comfortable, but at least it was clean, and the food they’d set out for him was not crawling with vermin.

He spent some time examining the possibilities for escape. If he could somehow get free of the mage shackles, his magic would be extremely useful in that regard. He still had the word of minor teleportation fixed in his mind, so it would be simple enough to exit the cell. However, he had to be able to see the place he attempted to reach with the spell. All he could see from inside his cell was the corridor immediately beyond the bars, and he was certain he could hear at least one or two more heavy doors between him and freedom. Of course, there was the problem of the guards too. They were armed, and he wasn’t. He might be able to surprise one and get his sword away from him, especially if they didn’t realize that he was out of his cell…

Or perhaps that was exactly what Sergen was hoping he would try, so that he could be conveniently killed while trying to escape.

“Damnation,” Geran growled to himself. He sat down in the middle of his chains. That was just the sort of suspicious notion that would have crossed Hamil’s mind in this situation. Of course, the halfling could have gotten out of the manacles any time he liked, squeezed through the cell bars, and likely walked out right under the guards’ noses without them ever realizing he’d gone. Be patient, the swordmage told himself. Harmach Grigor must be trying to secure my release. Attempting to escape might make that more difficult for the harmach.

Geran used the water in his jug to wash the dried and crusted blood from his wounded forehead, wincing as he did so. There was a knot that felt like a goose’s egg about three inches above his right eye, and it did not feel much better when he finished. Eventually he grew tired again and fell asleep.

When he woke again, more black bread and porridge had been set out for him, along with a fresh jug of water. He ate and drank again, and decided to see what it would take to get out of the mage shackles. The easiest approach would have been to try to abrade or snap the chain securing the rune-carved bands to the ring in the cell floor, but that would still leave the shackles around his wrists and stop him from using his magic. No, he would have to get his hands out of the manacles. Geran didn’t see how he could do that without breaking every bone in his hand first, and even then he might not be able to do it. That left cutting through the bands or pulling the rivets apart. Mostly to occupy himself he spent several hours trying to pry open the manacles, to little effect other than making his fingers sore with the effort.

He slept and ate again and resolved to try to abrade one of the chain links by the floor ring into a tool he could use to work on the mage shackles. But before he got very far, he heard the outer door creak open and the sounds of approaching footsteps. Brighter lanternlight flickered in the corridor. Awkwardly he climbed to his feet. Whatever was coming, he’d meet it standing and face forward.

“All right, here he is.” One of the Council Watch soldiers came into view, holding a lantern. To Geran’s surprise, Kara and Mirya followed, with several more Watch soldiers behind them. “Don’t pass anything to the prisoner, or we’ll have to search both o’ you.”

Kara frowned in annoyance but let the warning pass without protest. “Hello, Geran,” she said. “Are you well? How are they treating you?”

“Well enough,” Geran answered. “The fellows who captured me were none too gentle, but the council men have left me alone. They’re feeding me a couple of times a day. I’ve had worse. Is Hamil all right?”

“Yes, he’s waiting outside.” Kara kept her voice neutral, but her brilliant eyes blazed with anger. “He wasn’t allowed in here, since the Council Watch fears that he would try to break you out.”

“I’m surprised they allowed you to visit me.”

“They’d no liking for the notion,” Mirya said. She wore a plain blue dress with a white shawl and had her hair gathered in a single long braid down her back. Geran noticed that the bruise on her face had almost completely faded. “Two days now I’ve been trying to get in to see you.”

“That might not have been very wise, Mirya,” Geran said quietly.

Mirya crossed her arms in front of her body like a battlement, her face set in a stern scowl. “Oh, I’m not in any danger right now, Geran Hulmaster. Half of Hulburg’s taken up for me, thanks to your way of teaching foreign brigands to think better of wrecking Erstenwold’s. It seems the Verunas have no wish to stir up more trouble on my account-at least for now.” She looked over at the nearest Watch soldier and angrily asked, “Why is he chained up? There’s no call for treating him like that!”

“Lord Sergen’s orders, mistress,” the Watch guard said. “He’s known to study elf magic, so the Keeper of Duties instructed us to keep him in mage shackles. We can’t risk him using magic to escape.”

“Lord Sergen’s got a generous definition of his own authority,” Kara muttered. She fixed her bright gaze on the guards. “Give us some privacy. On my honor as a Hulmaster, we’ll do nothing but speak with him.”

The Council Watch soldiers shifted uncomfortably and looked at each other. “We’ll allow you some leeway, Lady Kara,” the first one said. “But keep away from the bars, or you’ll have to leave.” The guards moved out of Geran’s sight down the hallway, but he could tell from Mirya’s glance that they were not very far off.

“This may sound awful, but-what day is it?” Geran asked.

“It’s the fourth of Tarsakh,” Mirya answered. “Early in the morning, in case you couldn’t tell.”

Geran glanced down the hallway and couldn’t see the guards. He lowered his voice a little. “Did Durnan Osting get the Spearmeet companies to take to the streets?”

“No, but apparently Hamil did. He went down to the Troll and Tankard and spoke on your behalf.” Kara put on a studied frown of disapproval. “Now I’ve got six or seven vigilante bands roaming all over town, shadowing every foreign armsman they see and picking fights. There was an ugly brawl late last night in the Tailings-twoscore Spearmeet under one of Osting’s sons rousted out a gang of Crimson Chains and beat them senseless. Several people were badly hurt. It’s only a matter of time before this turns to killing, Geran. You’ve got no idea what you’ve started.”

“Perhaps,” Geran admitted. “But I certainly won’t shed a tear if the Chainsmen discover that Hulburg isn’t to their liking anymore. Are the Spearmeet really doing that much more than you would if you had a couple of hundred more Shieldsworn?”

Kara grimaced. “Well, if I had that many Shieldsworn, of course I’d be able to keep the harmach’s laws in the city without any call for the Council Watch. But the Spearmeet musters aren’t Shieldsworn.”

“They’re not the Spearmeet, Kara,” Mirya said. “Only the harmach himself can call out the Spearmeet, you know. It’s the Moonshields you’re speaking of, and they’re just Hulburgans who choose to associate with other like-minded folk and make sure to step in if they see someone in need.” She allowed herself a sly smile. “If most Moonshields happen to be Hulburgans who also belong to the Spearmeet, well, that’s just a coincidence.”

“Moonshields?” Geran asked.

“Well, I think the official name is something like the League of Good and Loyal Defenders of Hulburg and Protectors of the Moonsea Coast, but Hamil suggested that we ought to find something to serve as a nickname.” Mirya reached into a pocket hidden in her skirt and drew out a small emblem-a plain silver shield-shape with a blue crescent moon painted on it. “Some of the storekeepers are painting this device on their doors and signboards to let everyone know where their loyalties lie.”

“You too, Mirya?” said Kara.

“After word of Geran’s arrest got around town, Durnan Osting begged me to come to the Troll and Tankard and speak,” Mirya answered. “These are my friends, my kin, and my neighbors, Kara. What else can we do? The Council Watch works for the foreigners. Who’s to keep the law in Hulburg if we don’t stand up now?”

“Speaking of my arrest, Kara,” said Geran, “Sergen claims that he’ll arrange a special council session to try me for murder under Mulmaster’s laws. I never studied much of the harmach’s laws, but I seem to remember that the harmach himself has to hear high crimes like murder. How is it that the Merchant Council can hold me?”

Kara fell silent for a long moment, and her mouth tightened. “That’s currently under dispute,” she said.

“Under dispute? What’s there to dispute? If I’m accused of murder-and I shouldn’t be, since Urdinger struck at me first and it was a fair fight after that-then it’s a matter for the harmach. I’m not so arrogant as to think that Hulmasters are above the law, but I don’t understand why the harmach’s allowing the Merchant Council to usurp his authority.”

“The Verunas have found several so-called witnesses who say you rendered Urdinger helpless with an evil charm, then cut his throat,” Mirya said. “I’m sorry to say it, Geran, but there’s more than a few folk-most of whom ought to know better-who find themselves wondering whether you killed Urdinger in self-defense or murdered him.”

“That’s a damned lie,” Geran growled. “Does anyone believe them?”

Kara lowered her voice again. “I doubt it, Geran, but the Merchant Council refuses to surrender you. They claim it’s a charge of murder and that they’re entitled to try you under Mulmaster’s laws.”

Geran was speechless for a moment. “You mean to say that the council has decided to set aside the harmach’s law and use their own instead?”

His cousin simply met his eyes. “As I said, we dispute that.”

“Who rules in Hulburg, Kara? The harmach or the Merchant Council? It can’t be both.”

“I know it, Geran. For what it’s worth, the council doesn’t seem ready to proceed with their trial yet. Perhaps Sergen realizes that he’d give the harmach no choice if he keeps on his course. We’re doing what we can.” Kara sighed. “I’m afraid I must go. I haven’t heard from several of my scouts in Thar yet, and I fear that the Bloody Skulls have something to do with it.”

Geran took a deep breath and shifted in his chains. The idea of arranging his own freedom was growing in its appeal; he didn’t know much about Mulmaster’s laws, but he doubted they would favor his account of events. “I’m sorry, Kara. I shouldn’t have spoken in anger.”

Kara gave him a small smile. “I understand, Geran.” Then she left, her mail coat jingling with her steps.

Mirya lingered a moment longer.

“It’s on my account that you’re in that cage, Geran, and that’s wrong,” she said. “If I’d found some other way to deal with the Verunas-”

“It might not have mattered, Mirya, because I likely would’ve killed Urdinger on Jarad’s account instead.” He looked down at his chains and bared his teeth in a grim smile. “I know it won’t bring back your brother, but I can’t say that I’m sorry that Anfel Urdinger’s dead.”

She looked away from him, and her shoulders fell a little. “Justice for Jarad wouldn’t be worth your life. If it turns out that you’ve come back to Hulburg after all these years only to-well, I couldn’t live with myself. Not after what I did to you.” Her face softened for a moment, and Geran glimpsed the girl he’d known more than ten years ago-shy, tender, and kind, haunted by a strange and distant sadness he’d never quite understood.

“Mirya, I don’t know what you think you did to me,” he finally said. He never would have guessed that she’d have the strength to keep Erstenwold’s in business, to hold her own against competitors like House Veruna, and to raise her daughter at the same time. Her life hadn’t been easy in the years that he’d been away, and she’d found true iron in herself to meet its challenges. “I’m the one who left. It was my decision. I never meant to hurt you.”

“It’s not what you think,” she said. She stepped closer and set her hand on the bars of the cell. “I-”

“Mistress Erstenwold, step away from the cell,” the council armsman said sharply. The man hurried forward with a frown. “And you need to be leaving, anyway. I’ve given you a good long time to talk, and the last thing I need’s trouble for it.”

Geran looked through the bars at Mirya. “Don’t worry about me,” he told her. “Watch out for yourself, Mirya. Keep Selsha safe, and stay close to home. I’ve got a feeling that Kara might be right about the troubles heading our way.”

She held up her hand in parting and hurried away. The Watch guards saw her out, and the heavy iron door leading to the dungeon clanged shut behind them. Geran let out a deep breath and sank to the floor amid his chains.