Mask of Swords (11 page)

“Prosperous-looking place,” said Mazael, looking at the stone walls and the tiled roof. 

“It’s a rare merchant who can go broke selling liquor, my lord,” said Timothy.

“Don’t call me ‘my lord’,” said Mazael. “We’re trying to be inconspicuous.” 

“Yes…ah, sir,” said Timothy. 

“Remember, we are mercenaries come for the melee,” said Mazael. “Adalar, Wesson, Timothy. Do the talking if necessary. Romaria. Have you seen any more spiders?”

Her eyes were fixed upon the inn. “Not yet. No sign of magic, either.” 

“Then let’s go have a drink or two,” said Mazael. “Talk to people, listen to rumors…and see if we find any more of these spiders.” 

“The liege lord of the Grim Marches attempting to walk unnoticed into at tavern,” said Adalar, adjusting the baldric that held his sword. “This ought to be interesting.” 

“You two look positively villainous,” said Romaria. “I would fear being robbed, were I not with Mazael.” 

Adalar snorted. “The man who tried to rob you would rather quickly regret it, I imagine.”

Romaria’s eyes danced. “I certainly hope so.”

“Adalar,” said Mazael. “Lead the way.” 

Adalar nodded, tugged at his baldric once more, and led the way to the inn.

The common room was different than most inns Mazael had seen. Instead of rows of tables and benches facing a bar, the room had been constructed around a crackling firepit. A cylindrical shaft had been constructed through the top floors of the inn, allowing the smoke to escape and the patrons of the common room to keep breathing. The benches and tables faced the firepit, and the entire arrangement reminded Mazael of the halls Tervingi headmen preferred to build. Men, mostly Tervingi but some Marcher-born, sat at the tables and drank. Maids came and went through the kitchen doors on the far end of the common room, and a dais occupied the wall before the firepit. Likely in the evening it would be occupied by a Tervingi loresinger, recounting the legendary deeds of Tervingar in his war of rebellion against the wizards of the Dark Elderborn. 

Mazael glanced at Romaria, and she shook her head. No spider-infested men were in the room. 

“Aye, lads, what will it be?” said a gaunt middle-aged Tervingi woman in an apron. “My name’s Grulda, and this is my house. We’ve enough beer and food to fill you up, but you’ll mind your manners, and you’ll not touch one of my girls without paying first.” She nodded at the door, where two hulking men in leather jerkins stood. “Else my friends and I will have words with you.” 

“Just beer and food for my men,” said Adalar, waving a hand at the others. 

“Also, a plate of fried mushrooms, please,” said Timothy. 

“Fair enough,” said Grulda, leading them to one of the tables. “You aren’t from around here, are you?”

“Not quite,” said Adalar. “I was born here, went west to Knightcastle when I was younger. Fought in the wars, then came back home to fight in the melee.” 

“Just as well,” said Grulda. She snapped her fingers and told one of the maids to get food and beer, the younger woman disappearing into the kitchens. “We need strong backs and sharp swords here. Lots of opportunity for a bold young man to make a name for himself.” 

“Aye,” said Adalar. “We were attacked on the road here. Skuldari tribesmen from the western mountains.”

“Skuldari?” said Grulda. “They never come down from their mountains, least not that I’ve heard.” 

“They were riding giant spiders, too,” said Adalar, his grim, tired expression never wavering. “Like horses. Damnedest thing I ever saw. Split one of the things in two myself.”

Grulda scoffed. “You should not lie to an old woman. Are not knights supposed to be chivalrous and truthful?”

“I’m not a knight,” said Adalar. 

“Bah, you wear steel and fight with a sword, is that not what a knight is?” said Grulda. Evidently the innkeeper was not clear upon the ranks of nobility of the Grim Marches. “Spiders! Heh. Such outlandish tales. Perhaps if you stand upon my stage and tell your tale, you will earn a coin or too.”

Adalar stared at her for a long moment, but a flicker of a smile came over his face. “If I do, will our supper be free?”

Grulda snorted. “Absolutely not. You can afford steel armor for yourself, you can afford to pay for your own damn bread and beer.” She walked off, still chortling to herself. “Spiders.”

“The Tervingi do have their own unique charm, don’t they?” said Adalar once she was out of earshot.

“They favor plain speech,” said Mazael. “Given how many people try to lie to a lord, it’s refreshing.”

To his surprise, Adalar laughed. “Gods know that is true. Many of the original lords and knights of Mastaria were slain, first when the Dominiars were broken and then when Caraster went on his rampages. So I constantly have to judge boundary disputes…gods! The way they lie for an extra acre or two of pastureland. I could stand some plain speech.”  

One of the Tervingi serving maids returned with a platter of food and clay cups of beer. She was only a few years older than Adalar, with blond hair and flashing blue eyes, and she smiled at Adalar as she set down the platter. Adalar nodded to her, but did not return the smile before reaching for a cup. Perhaps Adalar simply needed a woman in his bed to take his mind off the horrors he had seen. On the other hand, Adalar had inherited his father’s sense of moral rectitude, and disapproved of knights and nobles taking mistresses. He had disapproved of Mazael’s affair with Morebeth Galbraith, though given that Morebeth had planned to use Mazael as a weapon against the Old Demon, the boy had been right. 

Mazael pushed the thought aside. What was done was done. He was married to Romaria, the Old Demon was dead, and Morebeth’s spirit had saved him in Cythraul Urdvul. There were more immediate problems. Though as he remembered the words of the valgast wizard at Gray Pillar, perhaps the Old Demon’s dead hand was still against them. 

“The Tervingi are blunt,” said Timothy, reached for the fried mushrooms, “but one hopes the peace with them will last.”

“You fear more war?” said Wesson.

“Perhaps,” said Timothy. He ate a mushroom and sighed in contentment. “It is simply the nature of man to form tribes and nations and make war, and the Tervingi have very different customs from the Marcher folk. The lords and knights have court wizards, but the Tervingi fear wizards and allow only the magic of the Guardian. The Marcher folk have nobles and vassals, while the Tervingi have headmen and thains. The Marcher folk pray to the three gods of the Amathavian church, and the Tervingi revere their ancestors and the gods of the Elderborn. There are so many reasons for war, and now that we do not have a common enemy like the runedead and the Justiciars, I fear that petty quarrels may turn to battle.” 

“We shall see,” said Mazael. The Tervingi and the folk of the Grim Marches would live in peace if he had any say in the matter.

The door to the Iron River opened, and a Tervingi man strode inside. He was about thirty, tall and strong with a close-cropped beard and long yellow hair, his blue eyes glaring beneath bristling eyebrows. He wore chain mail and carried a heavy broadsword at his belt, marking him as a swordthain of one headman or another. The man crossed the room, placed an order with a maid, and then settled at a table in the corner, as far from the firepit as he could manage.

“Him,” said Romaria quietly, watching the man from the corner of her eye. “He has a spider in him. I can see its dark magic.” 

“Anyone recognize him?” said Mazael, but none of the others had. He wished he had been able to bring Arnulf. The dour headman was prominent among the Tervingi, and he knew most of the thains. On the other hand, his very prominence meant he was easily recognizable, and his presence might have scared off the spider-infested Tervingi. “Adalar. When Grulda comes by again, ask her if she knows who that swordthain is.” He thought for a moment. “Tell her that you were hired to carry a message to Toric son of Torvmund, and you think it might be him.”

“Very well,” said Adalar. He turned in his bench. “Holdmistress?”

Grulda stopped with a snort. “You know something of the Tervingi, lad, but I’m no holdmistress.”

“That man in the corner, the swordthain who just came inside,” said Adalar. “Is that Toric son of Torvmund? I was hired at the Northwater inn to carry a letter to him.”

“Him?” said Grulda. “No, Toric’s the headman at Gray Pillar, in the foothills of the mountains. He might come to town for the hrould’s melee. No, the fellow in the corner is Agaric, a swordthain of the headman Earnachar son of Balnachar.”

Mazael kept his face expressionless. Had these spiders infected Earnachar’s followers? Or had Earnachar himself made some sort of pact with dark powers? Earnachar was ambitious, but Tervingi to the core, and Mazael could not imagine him associating with anyone wielding magic. 

“Very well,” said Adalar. “I shall seek Toric in the camps, then. My thanks.”

“If you’re looking for work,” said Grulda, “you could do worse than to talk with that hard-hearted bastard Agaric.”

“That hardly sounds like a ringing recommendation,” said Adalar. 

“It isn’t,” said Grulda. “I don’t like him. But he pays on time. He’s rented out my cellar for the last month. He’s hiring mercenaries for something or another Earnachar wants to do.”

That definitely caught Mazael’s attention. Why the devil was Earnachar hiring mercenaries? 

“I shall speak to him, then,” said Adalar. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” said Grulda. “And if you want my advice, boy, once you speak to Agaric you should go to the Blood Rose House by the northern gate. You look wound up tighter than a catapult at a siege.”

“I’ll…do that,” said Adalar. 

Mazael started to laugh, made himself stop. Grulda winked at him, hesitated for just a moment as if she recognized him, then shook her head and walked away. 

“What’s the Blood Rose House?” said Adalar. 

“The one licensed brothel in Cravenlock Town,” said Mazael. 

Adalar frowned. “You have a licensed brothel in Cravenlock Town? That is immoral…”

“Probably,” said Mazael. “If I didn’t, I would have five unlicensed ones I couldn’t tax. With this many caravans coming through, we’d have trouble if the town didn’t have a brothel.” He shrugged. “A lord’s task is to defend his people, but part of that task means keeping order. I fear that keeping order sometimes means that there are no good choices, only degrees of prudence.” He rapped the table with his knuckles. “Speaking of which, let’s go ask our new friend Agaric for jobs. Take the lead, Adalar. Tell him you are a landless knight from Knightreach, and that you are looking for gold and adventure.”

“Why don’t you talk to him?” said Adalar. “I’m…not very good at lying.”

“He might well recognize me,” said Mazael, “if I talk to him.”

“True,” said Adalar. “Very well. Let’s get this over with.”

“Unless,” said Wesson, “you need to visit the Blood Rose House first. To unwind your siege engine.”

Timothy and Romaria both laughed.

“Do shut up,” said Adalar. His face reddened as Wesson snickered. “Ah…I mean you, Sir Wesson. Not Lady Romaria. A knight does not speak to a lady that way.” 

“Oh, I’ve heard much worse,” said Romaria. 

“Let’s go speak to a swordthain,” said Mazael. “He’s Tervingi, so you can be as blunt as you want.” 

They rose to their feet and crossed the room. Agaric’s eyes lifted from his drink and flicked over them as they approached. Mazael kept his face blank and closed, wondering if Agaric would recognize him or Romaria. Yet the Tervingi swordthain’s expression showed no sign of recognition. 

“You’re Agaric?” said Adalar. 

“Aye,” said Agaric, taking a drink of his beer. “What do you want? I don’t gamble, if you’ve a mind to play at dice. Slavery is forbidden in the Grim Marches, so you’re not here to sell me the woman.” His eyes flicked over Romaria. “Though if she wants to slip off to a room for an hour, I wouldn’t object.”

Adalar started to scowl, but Romaria only offered a lazy smile in answer. “You couldn’t afford me.” 

“Fine,” said Agaric, dismissing her. “What do you want?”

“Work,” said Adalar. “I hear you’re hiring men.”

Agaric smirked. “If you want to dig me a privy trench and scrub my floors, proceed. I’ll even let you do it for free.” 

“I heard something else,” said Adalar. “You need to hire swords.” 

“Perhaps,” said Agaric. “Who are you, and why would you be interested?”

“I’m a knight,” said Adalar. “My older brother inherited my father’s lands, so I’m off to make my fortune in the world.”

“My headman is Earnachar son of Balnachar,” said Agaric, “and he is a mighty man among the sons of Tervingar, and he intends to rise higher yet. He may have a use for skilled fighters in the days ahead.” He glanced over Agaric’s shoulder. “Who are these other men with you?”

“My retainers, all skilled swordsmen,” said Adalar. “One of their wives. Even she is competent with a bow, if necessary.” 

“Very well,” said Agaric, getting to his feet. “A short test, then. To see if you are worthy of entering Earnachar’s service.” 

“A test?” said Adalar. “What kind of test?” 

“To see if you are worthy,” said Agaric. “Are you craven, landless knight, or are you a bold man? A man worthy to fight alongside the Tervingi?” 

Adalar glanced back at the others, and Mazael gave him a curt nod. He wanted to see how this played out, and he wanted to know why the Earnachar was hiring mercenaries. If Earnachar planned to make trouble, better to nip any potential rebellion in the bud. For that matter, if Earnachar was tied up with this business about the valgasts and the Skuldari and their spiders, Mazael wanted to know about it. 

But more immediately, he wanted to know how the spider-infested Agaric had gotten a spider inside himself.

“As you wish, then,” said Adalar, turning back to the swordthain. “Lead on.” 

Agaric walked across the room, and Mazael and the others followed. The swordthain strode to a narrow door next to the kitchen entrance, produced a heavy key, and then unlocked it. Beyond Mazael saw a set of narrow stairs descending into the cellar, a dry, dusty smell coming to his nostrils.