The Larion Senators

WELLHAM RIDGE

Wellham Ridge, while playing host to the largest infantry battalion along the northern Blackstones, was a comparatively small town. Mud streets, most quite narrow, intersected in a muck-and-sludge cobweb separating the residential outskirts from the commercial centre. One cobblestone street, an avenue running west from the common towards the river, delineated the town’s lone affluent district, where half-timbered stone buildings with slate roofs, flower gardens and well-pruned trees lined the thoroughfare. Most housed businesses – mining and assay offices, a textile shop, a dairy, a grain wholesaler – and there were several prosperous-looking inns catering to merchants, officers of the occupation army, and the few wealthy travellers still moving in or out of Orindale. Much of Wellham Ridge, including its one cobblestone boulevard, lay in a great flood plain spilling north from Meyers’ Vale. It was a damp region, especially here along the river, and the Twinmoons had been hard on the town, judging by the sinking, cracking and sagging foundations, even amongst the most expensive properties.

Fine horses, leather tack and livery polished despite the season, clip-clopped along the street, while pedestrians walked on wooden walkways on either side of the cobbled road. The sun was out. It hadn’t made more than a cursory appearance in days and Garec sat on the wooden sidewalk enjoying the relative warmth. Steven and Brand had gone inside to secure lodgings for the night. Garec, content to wait, turned his face to the sky, closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the moment’s grace.

‘Tired?’ Kellin stepped in front of him, blocking the light.

Garec opened his eyes. ‘You’re in my sun.’

‘Sorry,’ she said and stepped aside.

‘No, I’m not too tired. I’m just enjoying the heat.’ He gestured towards the worn planks next to him. ‘There’s plenty; have a seat.’

Kellin shrugged off her cloak and folded it into a square cushion. Sitting as close as their packs allowed, she reached over, hesitated, her outstretched hand hanging in the space between them, and finally placed it gently between his shoulder blades.

Garec turned his thoughts inwards, trying to focus his mind’s eye on the place where her fingers came in contact with the heavy folds of his cloak. He found them, five tiny spots, islands of gentle pressure. The sun on his face and Kellin’s hand resting softly on his back: this was the best he had felt in Twinmoons.

‘You should do that more often,’ he said, unconcerned that he might blush in the face of the gods.

‘I’m not doing anything.’ Kellin didn’t remove her hand.

‘You have no idea.’

‘It’s been a hard road for you.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘I can’t imagine it’s been easy for you, either.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ Kellin pressed harder, wanting him to feel her touch. ‘You’re a legend in Falkan; did you know that?’

‘It’s nonsense,’ Garec said.

‘You’re the greatest bowman in Eldarn.’

‘I’m inhuman; I hate myself for it. I regret every shaft I’ve ever fired, every one.’ He leaned into her, trying to slip his shoulder under her arm.

‘Hopefully, we’ll soon see an end to all this.’ She didn’t sound convinced, but it was something to divert the conversation from Garec’s self-loathing.

‘We?’

His response surprised her. Kellin wrapped her arm around him, resting her chin on his shoulder and whispered, ‘You know what I meant… I meant we, as in we, us, Eldarn will soon see an end to this struggle.’ She nibbled his ear; it was simply too close to leave alone.

‘Oh, that “we”. That’s disappointing. I like the other “we” better.’ Garec turned his head far enough to kiss her. Her mouth was soft, moist and sweet. He might have stayed there, sitting in the sun, tasting those lips for the rest of the Twinmoon, had they not been interrupted by a throaty, guttural cough behind them.

‘Ahem.’ Brand coughed again, louder this time.

Kellin pulled back. ‘Brand,’ she said as she stood up, retrieved her cloak and cast it over one arm. ‘You have the timing of a summer snowstorm.’

The stony-faced partisan leader wasn’t amused. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a summer snowstorm, Kellin, and I might say the same about you two.’

Garec cleared his throat, and swallowed a muffled, ‘Sorry, Brand.’

Kellin was not about to back down. ‘Well if you ever took the time to-’

Garec took her hand, interrupting her, and asked, ‘Did you get rooms?’

‘Yes, Steven’s carrying more silver than a Grayslip prince. He could buy the building, never mind rent a couple of rooms.’

Garec chuckled. ‘He stole it in Estrad. It must have been someone’s life savings.’

‘We’ll live well while we’re here,’ Brand said. ‘He’s still in there, talking with the cook about dinner. I think he’s hoping for something elaborate that just isn’t going to happen in a Wellham Ridge kitchen, no matter how expensive the lodgings.’

‘Maybe he wants to celebrate,’ Garec said.

‘Celebrate?’ Kellin asked. ‘What have we got to celebrate?’

‘You don’t know how far Steven came to fight Nerak. He deserves a night off.’

‘Well, he’s not going to get one,’ Brand said. ‘Every day we drag our feet is another day that Gita and the Resistance remain an easy target outside Traver’s Notch. We need to contact Stalwick to move the battalion south and to engage the forces at Capehill. Who knows what Mark has done? He might have sent word to Orindale. Half the occupation forces in Falkan could be marching on Traver’s Notch right now.’

Garec shrugged. He didn’t want to seem callous, but there was little they could do without Gilmour. Steven could attempt to contact Stalwick, but there was no telling the foreign sorcerer would be successful. ‘How much time do you figure we have?’

‘Riding day and night, a tough cavalry messenger could be in the Notch in fifteen days, even less to Capehill.’

‘That leaves us… what, six? Seven?’

‘About that,’ Brand said, ‘but that assumes Gita can get her men moving at a moment’s notice. It takes a while to get an infantry battalion going, especially during this Twinmoon. And they’ll be vulnerable on their way into Capehill. If it’s snowing up there, it could take them another five, maybe six days to get that far southeast.’

‘That’s a long time to be exposed.’ Kellin licked her lip absentmindedly, hoping to taste Garec’s memory. ‘Can Steven do it?’

‘Who knows?’ Brand said with a shrug, ‘but he’s agreed to try tonight, once things have quieted down. He’ll need to concentrate, but he doesn’t really know what he’s looking for.’

‘Sometimes the magic seems to show him what to do.’ Garec tried to sound reassuring.

‘Let’s hope.’

A Malakasian soldier, walking alone, paused to look them over, then he turned and hurried towards the centre of town and the grassy common. He stopped several times to look back. The soldier’s odd behaviour and sudden haste worried Garec.

‘Demonpiss, we shouldn’t have stood around out here,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘We should have kept our wits- it’s this rutting sunshine.’

‘Why?’ Kellin said. ‘Who knows us? None of these soldiers have ever seen us before.’

‘We don’t know that,’ Garec said, ‘and we don’t know what Mark is capable of. Maybe he implanted our images in the minds of every soldier from here to Pellia.’

‘I’ll take care of it,’ Brand said.

‘We’ll all go,’ Garec said. ‘Brand, take the north side of the street. Kellin, you stroll down the other side. I’ll go behind those buildings on the south side. He’s got to be heading for the barracks, but if he realises we’re following him he’ll turn south and try to find the rest of his company.’ Garec looked towards the inn, hoping Steven would appear, but there was no time to waste. They’d have to trust that he would wait in the front room. ‘Everyone armed?’

Kellin felt unobtrusively beneath her cloak and nodded. ‘Where’s your bow?’ she asked.

‘In the stable with the horses.’

‘Why, for rutting sake? You can carry it here; this isn’t Orindale.’

‘I didn’t want to be recognised,’ Garec replied. ‘I’ve got my knife, though.’

‘All right, let’s go. Try to get him cornered someplace out of sight. If you can’t, and you have to hit him in the open, make it quick and deadly. Keep moving; don’t stop to admire your work. Use the crowds to get away. We’ll meet back here in half an aven.’ Brand started towards the common.

Kellin and Garec exchanged a glance before following. They agreed – without needing to speak – to retrieve what they had momentarily lost after the day’s business had been completed.

The soldier they followed was short, a little on the chubby side, and slow. He hurried to the end of the cobblestoned street and turned south towards the barracks. He checked several times, hoping to find one of the partisan criminals trailing him, but even with no one in sight he didn’t slow down; these partisans were famous for their cunning, especially the Ronan bowman – the Bringer of Death. He smirked at the stories of Garec Haile actually disappearing, before reappearing in a blinding flash and firing arrows more quickly than anyone in the five lands. Garec was a ghost.

Still, the Malakasian smiled, enjoying the first sun Wellham Ridge had seen in days. He crossed a muddy street, his boots making comical slurping sounds in the muck, stepped onto the opposite walkway, slipped between two buildings and down an alley behind a row of businesses near the encampment. He ignored the handful of soldiers he passed… they might have saved his life; even against the Bringer of Death there would be some safety in sheer numbers.

Kellin followed, using the crowds as cover. She watched the pudgy soldier cross a dirt street and disappear into an alley. Rutting stupid bastard, she thought. Maybe he’ll pull a knife and stab himself too.

She was curious about why he’d ignored a group of fellow soldiers. She pulled her hood up and looked down at her boots as she hurried past them. Several of the men watched her go by, but there was nothing suspicious in their glances; they were young soldiers with an aven or two of free time and they’d watch any attractive woman.

In the alley, Kellin saw the solider exit the opposite end and turn west, right to Garec. She didn’t want Garec to have another murder on his conscience if it was at all possible, so she speeded up a little, hoping to catch the Malakasian – she thought he might see Garec, understand that he had been cornered and flee back towards the alley.

Kellin looked back only once; she didn’t know where Brand had gone but assumed he was nearby, perhaps one alleyway further east.

As she turned the corner, she drew her knife, just in case the chubby fellow attacked suddenly. Several paces further on, Kellin knew something had gone wrong.

Garec walked towards her. There was no way the soldier could have slipped past him. He looked at Kellin and shrugged.

‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘He was here, coming this way. I didn’t lose sight of him for more than two breaths. You didn’t see him?’

‘No.’ Garec searched the street in the opposite direction, worried that perhaps the stout little fellow had somehow secreted himself inside a building, or maybe behind a stack of crates. ‘I didn’t see anyone. Are you sure he came this way?’

Kellin nodded. As she turned, Brand was there, his knife drawn as he came at a slow jog around a muddy bend.

‘What is this?’ Brand said, too loudly, unconcerned that he might be overheard. ‘Kellin, didn’t you have him?’

‘I did,’ she said.

‘It appears you didn’t.’

‘Brand, I am telling you, he was right in front of me-’

‘Maybe if you’d have had your heads on straight, the two of you, you wouldn’t have lost him.’

Kellin’s face reddened. ‘You know, Brand, you can keep your-’

Garec interrupted the fight. ‘We didn’t lose anyone, Brand; he’s right here. He must have some magic, a cloaking spell or something. Maybe he slipped by me, but he can’t have simply disappeared.’

‘Mark could.’ Kellin’s words stopped them dead. For a moment, nothing happened; no one moved.

Finally, Garec drew his knife and motioned for the others to come closer. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘stay together, watch your wrists. Cry out, even if you get an itch on your wrist.’

They moved together, standing back to back, knives drawn, waiting. They all leaped noticeably when the soldier cried from above, ‘"Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame.” ‘Tis a Greek invocation, to call fools into a circle. As You Like It. That was always my favourite; the dramas were so god-rutting serious, everyone dying all over the stage. The comedies really were his best works.’ The Malakasian soldier was leaning out of an upper-level window, his cherubic face flushed with amusement.

‘Mark, you dog-rutter, you’re not going to fool us this time.’ Brand’s voice was a growl; he couldn’t care less whether Steven’s friend lived or not. ‘Why don’t you come down and I’ll gut you right here in the street?’

‘Wrong guess, Brand. It’s me.’ The soldier held out his hands. With his sleeves rolled up, he turned his arms over, exposing his wrists. There were no wounds on them.

‘It’s a trick,’ Kellin said. ‘How do we know it’s you?’

‘Because I led you here instead of killing you in front of that inn, because I sneaked up here instead of engaging you in a secluded back street where I could easily have killed you all, because I have no injuries to my wrists, and because I am happy to answer whatever question it is that I’m sure you’ve encouraged Garec to dream up to ensure it really is me and not some incarnation of Mark Jenkins.’ The soldier smiled at them and asked, ‘May I come down now?’

‘Not yet,’ Garec warned. ‘Why did you lead us here?’

‘Because it would not have done any of us any good to be seen chatting amiably on the side of the busiest street in Wellham Ridge. I made certain you saw me, made certain you thought I was heading towards the barracks and then made certain I found a place quiet enough for us to talk. If I had been able to secure a decent outfit before running into you, I’d have approached you on the street and encouraged you to quiz me all day, but instead – and preferably, I might add – I ran into you soon after arriving. I will find a decent change of clothing before dinner tonight, especially if you plan to eat in that tavern, because I’m quite sure it will be much better than the fare they’ll be serving at the barracks.’

‘Why not wait for Steven?’

‘That wasn’t my choice; you did that.’

‘Why don’t you have a wound on your wrist? If you’re really Gilmour in there, why don’t you have the hole in your arm?’

‘Because, Garec, and I wish you would credit me with a touch more consideration than you apparently do, I am a Larion Senator, and Larion Senators do not kill people to find a host. Mark is disguised as a Malakasian officer; I’m guessing the major who led that battalion into the forest looking for the table, because she is the ranking officer here in Wellham Ridge, and because she is the only officer who did not remove her gloves the entire time they were on their forced march. She pushed her troops too hard, too many nights following too many days of marching through snow and several died. I think many were sick before they left Wellham Ridge in the first place. This fellow was certainly in poor health. He was left behind by his squad, and I waited around for a few days for him to begin his journey to the Northern Forest. I’ve been on foot ever since, coming here as quickly as my short, chubby little legs could carry me.’

‘Why did you abandon the fisherman’s body?’ Garec had sheathed his knife; he wanted desperately to believe that Gilmour had found them again.

‘I retreated inside myself,’ the soldier began. He considered his words for a moment, then went on, ‘Yes, I think that’s the best way to put it: I hid inside Caddoc Weston’s body, running further and further into the recesses of his mind until the adder poison had spread so thoroughly throughout his system that I had to flee. Those snakes were not from this world – they weren’t from Steven’s world either – so my guess is that Mark called them from the spell table, like Nerak used to summon the almor, calling them from the fringe worlds, the Fold’s margins, what Steven might call Hell. If I had been given all day to prepare, I might have generated some spell to neutralise their venom, but they came at me so quickly, I had nothing, nothing but hope.’

‘What did you say?’ Kellin asked the solider.

‘Nothing but hope. It seems to be a recent habit of mine, saving myself from hopelessness by having no resources left but hope. But I’m not complaining; I am a hopeful person. I always have been.’

Kellin nudged Garec in the ribs. ‘Ask him.’

Garec had heard enough as well. ‘Tell me, whoever you are, when I turned one hundred and fifty Twinmoons, Brynne and Sallax had a party for me at Greentree Tavern. It was simultaneously a great day and a wretched day. Why?’

The soldier looked down from the second-floor window. Staring at Garec, he hoisted himself over the windowsill and dropped gently into the mud beside the partisans. Kellin and Brand flinched; Garec remained frozen in place.

Garec felt unnerved having a stranger gaze at him with such ardent emotion. He blinked hard, then asked the red-cheeked Malakasian, ‘Well?’

‘It was a great day, Garec, because so many of your friends and family were there to usher you into real adulthood – Sallax, Versen, Brynne, Namont, Jerond, Mika, oh, and so many more. We drank and revelled and carried on, and it was wonderful. There was music and beer, great food and dancing. We played absurd drinking games and sang bawdy songs. It was one of the best parties I have ever been to, because your friends and family loved you, and you knew it. You had grown up so quickly, done so much killing, dealt in so much death, that having you turn one hundred and fifty Twinmoons amongst friends was as much a celebration for them as it was for you.’

‘But-’

Gilmour held up a hand to stop Garec. ‘It was all perfect – but there was one wrinkle, wasn’t there?’

‘Tell us, Gilmour.’ Garec surprised himself when he used his old friend’s name, but he shook his head; the test wasn’t over yet.

‘Capina.’

Garec swallowed hard.

‘Capina was an easy target, Garec. I’m sorry. It’s been almost fifty Twinmoons and I’ve never told you that. I am truly sorry. I cannot think of that day without feeling embarrassment, both for myself and for Versen, Sallax, Brynne, all of us.’

‘My true friends,’ Garec said.

‘No one loves you like we do.’

‘But-’ Garec was looking down at his boots now.

‘But she did, didn’t she?’

Garec didn’t respond.

‘We were drunk, all of us, me included, and I don’t know why, it just happened. We had known you so well, for so long, it felt like we could get away with it, because you knew how much we cared about you, how much we valued your friendship.’ The Malakasian soldier approached slowly, stopping just a few paces in front of them. ‘She broke it off that night, didn’t she?’

Garec nodded.

‘And although you joked about it then, and you still joke about it now, I think you were heartbroken. I know she was. We were merciless. It was embarrassing, and by the time I realised how personally she was taking our jibes, the damage had been done. We left her feeling that she would never be one of us, no matter how much she loved you, and that is tragic, Garec, because she was good for you. You would have been happy with her, instead of…’

‘Instead of what?’

‘Instead of being miserable with us. You could have settled down, moved back to the farm and had four children by now. Instead, you became-’

‘The Bringer of Death.’

‘Sallax never should have started that.’ Gilmour took Garec in his arms. ‘He had no idea what he was saying, and someday, Garec, when this business is through, I’ll tell you why.’

‘You know something I don’t know, Gilmour?’

‘I know a great many things, yes, and one of them is how sorry I am about that night. We don’t get many chances at love, not real chances, anyway. We allow plenty of emotions to masquerade as love, but most are just interlopers, busybody intruders playing with us.’ Gilmour leaned in close to Garec’s ear and whispered, ‘And what hurts most about that night is the fact that you don’t believe you’ve ever been anything but a killer, and you lost your chance at a normal life when Capina disappeared. But I know better. From where I’m standing, Garec, you’ve never been a killer. Someday, you’ll understand.’

‘I hope so,’ Garec whispered.

‘You will.’

‘We have to contact Stalwick.’

Gilmour released him, wiped his sleeve across his face and looked at Brand and Kellin. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘let’s find me some clothes. I am a deserter, after all.’

‘You’re dead,’ Kellin clarified.

Gilmour laughed. ‘True, but the Malakasian Army is known for its strict adherence to policy. Even dead, I’ll draw all manner of disagreeable attention if I stay in this uniform. We’ll find me some clothes, meet Steven and contact Stalwick.’

‘Good,’ Brand said, relief evident in his voice. He mentally tallied the days left for Gita and the Resistance forces to escape Traver’s Notch.

‘What about the spell table?’ Garec asked.

‘It left Wellham Ridge this morning, on a barge bound for Orindale.’

‘Why? Where’s he taking it?’

‘From what I can gather, Mark is bound for Pellia; there’s a northern Twinmoon coming, and the tides should be high enough for him to run up the Ravenian Sea and through the archipelago.’

‘Why Pellia?’ Kellin asked.

‘He’s heading for Welstar Palace,’ Garec said.

Gilmour nodded.