A sellswords will, p.23
A Sellsword's Will, page 23
part #5 of Seven Virtues Series
“I could not say for certain, Master, but I do not believe him to be a noble. He spoke little, but his accent and bearing mark him as a commoner. He is a large man, well-built, and I believe him to be a fighter or warrior, perhaps.”
“Interesting. Very well, Caldwell. Write a letter back for this man to take to his master saying that I am most interested in hearing more of what he has to say. Tell him that we will pay him whatever sum you think sufficient—enough to guarantee his interest, but not so much that he finds the offer too good to be true.”
Caldwell bowed his head. “Of course, Master.”
When Caldwell had left, Kevlane turned back to the creature Savrin who had not moved. The mage grinned. “It seems, dear Savrin, that your skills will be put to the test even sooner than I had hoped.”
Chapter
Twenty-Six
Caleb stood on the walls of Perennia gazing out at the encampments of the Galian and Cardayum armies. Thousands of tents covered the fields around the castle. Hundreds of torches and campfires blazed in the early night. From atop the wall, the men and women who moved around those campfires looked like little more than ants. Fifteen thousand, he thought. Fifteen thousand at the least.
Yes, the Virtue of Intelligence said, that is an accurate assessment.
Below, soldiers of three armies sat around campfires laughing and talking while others, Caleb saw, sat by themselves. Each preparing for the coming days in his own way, each knowing where the road he took would most likely lead. Pain and failure and, eventually, death. “I wish I could do more for them,” he muttered, wiping at an icy tear that had wound its way down his cheek.
You do not think of “them” as you say, the Virtue answered, but of the boy.
“Michael. Yes,” Caleb admitted. “I think of him. He has no one left, Palendesh. No one save Gryle and myself. I want to help, to keep him safe.” He paused, swallowing a lump in his throat before continuing. “But I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know what else I can do.”
You have done plenty, young one, the Virtue said. You’ve done all that can be done. Because of your creations, the army will stand a better chance of success. Because of you, many men will live.
“Only to die a day later, or perhaps a week,” Caleb said, shaking his head. “It is too much, Palendesh. It’s too big. I want to help them, to save them, but I can’t. I’m only a kid, only a dim-witted idiot who—”
None of that, the Virtue snapped, anger seeping into his normally relaxed, contemplative tone. You are not dim-witted. Now, do you feel that you’ve done everything you can do?
Caleb nodded slowly. “Yes.”
And do you believe that your being here, freezing through your clothes, instead of down there with the others laughing and sitting next to a warm campfire, will help anyone?
Caleb frowned. “No…”
Then, the Virtue said, if you ask me, it doesn’t seem like a very intelligent thing to do.
“You think I should go down,” Caleb accused. “You think I should party with the rest of them.”
Yes.
“Why?” Caleb demanded, wiping furiously at his tears. “What’s the point? We’ll all be dead soon, anyway. They’ll all be dead.”
Yes, the Virtue agreed, sooner or later Salen takes his due—he always has. Even one such as Boyce Kevlane shall not live forever, for it is the nature of things to wither and fade. But don’t you see, young Caleb? A man cannot guess when Salen’s hand will reach out and take him, any more than he can guess the weather.
Caleb frowned at that. “But with wind conditions, and the level of moisture in the air, you can get a fairly g—”
Very well, the Virtue said, sighing, perhaps the weather is a poor example, but I am a scholar not a poet. The point is, happiness is not a destination, young Caleb. It is a decision we make each day, each moment of our lives. You can stay up here alone all night, if you like. You might let the hours pass and refuse your place amidst the celebration that goes on below, but what good will come of it? In the end, you will have missed a chance to experience some small bit of joy, however fleeting. And you will be poorer for it. They will be poorer for it.
“Celebration?” Caleb said bitterly, “What is there to celebrate?”
Life, young Caleb. It is the only thing ever worth celebrating. You are correct that we do not know what tomorrow will bring, but that has ever been true. You can no more change what is to come than you can change the position of the sun in the sky. But you can choose how you meet it, and you can choose, no matter when or the manner of its ending, how you live your life.
Caleb sighed, but he nodded at the Virtue’s words. “Very well. I will go down.”
“Caleb? Is that you?”
The youth turned and saw a man he didn’t recognize approaching from further down the battlements. “Yes?”
“I need you to come with me, lad. There’s a problem with some of the orders you requested from the smiths, and they’ve some questions.”
“They’re working still?” Caleb said, frowning, “Tonight? I had thought everyone took a day off for the party.”
The man grunted, shrugging. “Don’t ask me, young sir. I only know what I’ve been told, and the smith sent me here to get you.”
Caleb’s frown grew deeper. “What smith?”
The man laughed, rubbing his head sheepishly. “What smith, you ask?” He shook his head as if in thought. “Who can say? All the bastards look the same, you ask me. Anyway, I’ll show you to him, and you can settle whatever questions you might have.”
Once, only a few months after Caleb’s mother had left him at the inn in Baresh, Caleb had been wiping up some spilled ale from the hardwood floors. Nearby, a table of three guardsmen sat, talking. One was recounting the events of the day, as he had only just come off shift, describing how they had arrested a man for thievery. The guard explained that the man had none of the stolen merchandise—jewels, mostly—on him when they found him, but they’d known he was the culprit just the same.
They’d known, he said, because when they’d questioned the man about it, he displayed several signs which indicated deceit. Signs such as repeating questions when asked—a common attempt to buy time to formulate a response—fidgeting, and being needlessly vague, avoiding specifics. A half-heard conversation he’d paid little attention to at the time, but one that, thanks to his bond with Palendesh, he could recall in perfect detail. He studied the stranger in front of him, watched him shift from foot to foot. Normally, he would have taken it as no more than simple impatience, but the man had asked his own question back to him, had he not? And not even being able to remember the name of the smith who’d sent him…
“You’re lying,” Caleb said, a warm feeling of achievement rushing through him.
“What?” the man said, surprised. “Why would I lie about that, young sir?”
Caleb frowned, taking a step back. He didn’t need to look behind him to know that the stairs were six paces away, nor did he need to consider it to know that it would take him two seconds to reach them, three if he was careful, an allowance for the cobbles beneath his feet, slick from a freezing drizzle earlier in the evening. The man stood four paces away. It would be close, but Caleb thought he could make it to the stairs with a second, perhaps two to spare. Still, he needed to buy himself a little more time. “Very well,” he said, “I thank you for coming, I only need to—”
He turned around and ran mid-sentence, buying himself another second or two as the man unconsciously waited for the youth’s next words.
“Hey!” the man yelled. Caleb could hear the stranger’s footsteps on the stone walkway behind him, but he did not turn to look. Instead, his attention was focused on staying in the center of the walkway where the most foot traffic had been, the patrolling guards doing much to thaw the accumulated ice. He heard the man behind him, close now, and Caleb spun, lashing his hand out as if he were throwing something. The man flinched on reflex, as Caleb had expected, veering to the side of the walkway. He let out a shout of surprise as his foot caught a patch of ice, and Caleb saw the man’s legs fly out from under him as he crashed to the walkway on his back.
Well done, Caleb! Palendesh exclaimed. Now hurry, before he gets up.
And Caleb did exactly that, turning and starting down the stairs. He scanned the battlements for some of the patrolling guards, but without much hope. He knew that in another five minutes, the guards patrolling the section of the wall on which he stood would make it back around to this side. For now, though, their sight of this small section of wall would be obscured as they approached the corner tower. This told Caleb a few things, but the most important for now was that the man who had accosted him had known the guard’s patrol path, knew that it took them a total of thirteen minutes to make their rounds, and that only during this one-to-two minute span would this section of wall be out of their view.
His mind raced as he flew down the stairs, approaching the bottom. A planned, well-coordinated attack, that much was obvious. And, Caleb realized with a chill as he stepped off the stairs that it was likely the man wasn’t acting alone. A tell-tale sound came from behind him, and Caleb spun, but not in time to dodge the dagger hilt that slammed into his head, knocking him unconscious.
The man stared down at the boy crumpled on the ground, shaking his head. “Slippery little bastard, ain’t you?” he said, sliding the dagger back into his belt. He knelt, checking to make sure the boy still had a pulse. Grunting with satisfaction, he rose, and a moment later his companion descended the steps.
The man held his hand against a bloody wound on his forehead, his face twisted in anger and pain. “Fucking little bastard nearly killed me. I damn near busted my head wide open.”
“It would serve you right,” the first said. “He is only a child, after all.”
The wounded man hocked and spat, drawing his own dagger from the sheath at his side. “I say we gut the little fucker here, get it done with.”
“And I say you should worry more about getting a bandage on that wound than killing children,” the first said. “Anyway, you know the boss’s orders.”
The other man grunted, “I know ‘em well enough, but the boss ain’t the one with the knot on his head the size of a fucking apple either, is he?”
The first man studied him for a moment, his hand coming to rest on the handle of his own dagger. “Are you saying we should ignore the boss’s orders?”
The anger faded from the wounded man’s face as he met the eyes of his companion, noted where his hand lay. Finally, he sheathed his own blade. “’Course not. I was just pissed off, is all. Come on—I’ll get his legs.”
***
Gryle set the empty glass down on the ground with the exaggerated care of a man who’d drunk more than his limit. He opened his mouth to yawn and before he could stop it a mighty belch came out. He clamped his hand over his mouth, his face heating in shame and embarrassment, but the soldiers with him only laughed, one reaching over and clapping him on the back. “Better out than in, chamberlain,” one said, “that’s what my mother always told me.”
“Yeah,” another said, grinning, “it’s what his wife always tells him too.”
The men gathered around the campfire erupted in laughter, and the first man shook his head, grinning. “My wife ain’t never said such a thing, and you wouldn’t have heard it even if she had.”
“Of course he did!” another exclaimed, “Probably after crawling under the bed when you got home.”
Another chorus of laughter, and Gryle realized to his surprise that he was having a good time. He hadn’t intended to come to the party tonight, had meant only to spend the time in the room he and Michael used, the one the boy had once shared with Beth. The room still smelled of her, still felt of her, as if some part of the old, kind-hearted woman still lingered after she herself had gone. The boy had been sleeping for some time, and Gryle had been sitting at the small table drinking tea, comforted by what felt like Beth’s presence in the room, when May walked in. Or stormed in, rather. The club owner, he’d found, rarely walked anywhere, but she stormed often enough.
She’d taken him outside in the hall, and invited him to join the night’s revelry. “Invited,” of course, meaning that she gave him a powerful enough tongue lashing that he did not doubt he’d be sore in the morning, telling him he needed to get on with the business of living, that he couldn’t hide away in a room for the rest of his life. Gryle tried to explain that he hadn’t been hiding. The only problem was that, of course, he had been, and they both knew it. Desperate and running out of reasons, he explained that he could not leave the boy alone, not with all that had happened in the city. That was when May produced the soldier, Bastion, as if she were some magician pulling a magic trick.
“Oh, I could not go,” Gryle said, “not and leave Bastion suffering in my stead.”
The young giant only grinned. “No suffering at all, chamberlain. The truth is, you’d be doin’ me a favor. I like the little lad—all the soldiers do. Besides, I did drinking enough for three men last night, and I’m middling sure another such would kill me.”
And so Gryle came, making his way through the city gate to the camps where the soldiers of the three armies talked and laughed and, of course, drank. That most of all. He’d intended to find some quiet campfire to spend a few hours in retrospection and remembrance. Instead, he’d barely just sat down when a group of six soldiers—the six still sitting gathered around him, listening intently now as one of their number told a hardly credible story about the time he’d slept with five women in the same night—came up and sat down beside him.
They all seemed to know him by name, though Gryle was sure he’d never met any of them before, and it wasn’t until one started telling the story of Gryle hitting several men with a church pew that the chamberlain realized that news of his exploits in Galia—such as they were—had traveled through the army. They had laughed and guffawed at that but, so far at least, none of them had asked him to lift them up or toss them into the air, so that was something. Though he suspected it was only a matter of time.
Still, the truth was, despite himself and his own misgivings about coming tonight, he was happy. He was also hopelessly drunk. Drunker than he had ever been, certainly, as his tutors had taught him long ago that a civilized man should never drink to excess. Tonight, though, it seemed that the moment his tin mug was empty, it was miraculously filled with ale once more. Oh, he’d drank to excess alright, and then he had drank past it to a place where the figures of the men before him blurred indistinctly, and his head felt as if it had been stuffed with wool, his thoughts muddy, unclear, and always vaguely humorous.
“Forgive me,” he said, rising uncertainly and swaying on his feet until another man reached over from his place by the fire to steady him. “Thank you for that,” Gryle said, nodding his head, “I think I must excuse myself for a moment. The ale…” He lost the thread of what he’d been about to say, so instead he only waved his hand vaguely.
“Sure,” one man said, “closest privy’s that way.” He pointed, and Gryle studied the outstretched finger with blinking eyes as if it were some puzzle he was trying to solve. Then he stumbled off in the direction, he hoped, that the man had indicated.
“Gryle, you’ll come back though, aye?” another called. “I want to hear more about those fellas you hit with that pew!”
“Count me in for that story as well,” another said.
“Ah, let ‘em go,” a third said, “he’ll be back soon enough. Just needs to drain the wax from his candle’s all.”
“Yeah, or take a shit.”
“Hey, speaking of shit, have any of you poor souls caught sight of Palar’s new wife?”
There was a chorus of laughter at that, and Gryle found that he was grinning as he stumbled his way into the darkness, his hands out before him as if he were blind. He’d been walking for ten minutes, winding his way between campfires, waving as his name was called in greeting, yet he still wasn’t any closer to finding the privy when a man walked up out of the darkness, stepping into his path.
“Gryle,” the man said, grinning wide, “I heard you was around. Thought I’d seek you out; it’s the least I can do to buy an ale for the man who saved Queen Isabelle from that assassin!”
The man pushed a mug of ale toward him, and Gryle took it out of reflex. “Wasn’t me…” he managed, “was…in Avarest. Aaron…”
“Aye,” the man laughed. “Oh, we’ve heard stories of you well enough, chamberlain, ain’t no need to be modest. Now please, have a drink, on me.”
Gryle meant to tell the man that he’d had his share and then some, meant to find some polite way to decline, but the next thing he knew he was turning the cup up, its contents pouring down his mouth. There was a strange taste to the ale, and he wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic—even in his drunken state, he felt some small amount of horror as he realized what he’d done. “Tastes…little funny,” he said.
“Oh sure it does,” the man said, nodding, “that’s the part that gets you drunk.”
Gryle nodded thoughtfully at that. “Makes…sense,” he said. “Now, sorry. Got to…go. Need to…” He took two stumbling steps, feeling as if he weren’t in control of his own body. He opened his mouth to finish what he’d been about to say, but he realized he couldn’t remember what he needed to do. Something that had seemed important at the time, surely, and he stood, swaying dangerously, as he considered it. He was still considering it when whatever it was in the beer hit him, and he collapsed to the ground without a sound.
The man’s smile vanished in an instant, and he glanced around him. People everywhere, but no one paying too much attention or raising an alarm, and why should they? It was a party, after all, and the fat man would be far from the only one who wound up on the ground drunk. In fact, he had a mind to be one of those bastards himself. But first, he had a job to do. He motioned to the shadows of a nearby tent, and a man stepped toward him, shooting his own looks around the camp as he approached.
