Ordination Read online

  Allystaire waved away her words. “No. Her people,” he said, pointing with his chin toward Mol, who sat on the bed watching silently. He turned his eyes to her for a moment, narrowed his lips and swung a hand toward the table full of food; she quickly darted over and generously doused a piece of fresh bread with honey. “Her village was attacked and her people were taken. We followed them here.”

  Idgen Marte set down her tea. She tilted her head and studied Allystaire for a few moments. “Then are you a lord? A knight? These your liege’s people?”

  Allystaire snorted and took another huge bite of ham and bread. He’d barely swallowed when he answered, “Look around you. We are a handful of days from Londray itself, not far from other Delondeur keeps, and this place lives under its own laws. Would any barony liege lord send a man-at-arms, much less a knight, to track down a few peasants?”

  Idgen Marte shrugged. “Still, it doesn’t make sense. These folk are under your protection, then?”

  Allystaire reached for more fried bread. “They are now. And they are here, or at least I think as much. We were but two days behind the slavers, three at the worst; I doubt they have been sold yet. I mean to find and free them.”

  “D’ya mean to just cut your way in?” She sounded incredulous.

  “I am not a subtle man.”

  “That shortcoming seems like to get you killed.”

  Allystaire smiled slightly. “I do not mean to die today.”

  Mol had settled down cross-legged next to the table. Allystaire lowered his eyes pointedly toward her, and Idgen Marte followed his gaze. He said, “There are things in my saddlebags you can sell, if it comes to that. Valuables.” The swordswoman chuckled, but she nodded, and he saw an answering promise in her wide brown eyes.

  He poured himself a mug of tea, drained it in a go, and set it back down. “I guess I will be off then.”

  Allystaire was pulling the bar from the door when Idgen Marte called him back, a curious note in her voice.

  “How valuable?” She stood and walked over to him, every movement an economy of grace.

  “Can you at least wait till I am dead?”

  Idgen Marte’s hand darted out lightning-quick and cuffed his ear.

  It stung, but Allystaire knew it wasn’t nearly as hard as she could’ve hit. He rubbed his ear gently and shook his head ruefully, hiding his admiration. He’d known few warriors who could cuff his ear by surprise.

  “I’m no thief, you daft crusader. What I meant was…” And she smiled widely, revealing surprisingly white teeth, “valuable enough to buy a whole cargo of slaves?”

  * * *

  Decked out in more steel than was probably necessary, Allystaire found himself rattling the locked gate of the large warehouse on the Street of Sashes until he thought the poorly built, rattletrap business might fall down on him. It was still a few turns from midday, but the late summer sun was out in full force and had burned away the morning mist. This close to the quays, the stench of salt and fish was pervasive, and the air clung wetly to his armor-and-leather-clad body.

  He was just about to switch from rattling to banging with the haft of his hammer, when the doors beyond the gate swung open and a dirty, leather-clad man with long knives on either side of his belt stuck out his pale, bleary-eyed face.

  “Freeze off,” he bleated.

  “I want to inspect some merchandise,” Allystaire called back, pitching his voice just loudly enough to carry. “And I am ready to pay for the privilege.” He stuck two gloved fingers inside the curve of his cuirass and tugged out a purse, shaking it to set the links inside jingling.

  The man blinked a few times and spat a thick, brownish gob to the ground. “I’ll talk to the cap’n. Wait.”

  “Every moment I wait means a lower price for the doorman. Hurry.”

  The man simply grunted and stumped off, coughing as he went.

  “Is it always too early for civility in this rathole?” Allystaire shook his head as he murmured aloud. He rolled his shoulders, turned his wrists, shuffled his feet, and checked to see how easily the hammer moved against its loop.

  Soon the doorman was back, with a taller man who was cleaner and better armed. The newcomer wore a brigantine coat, the steel scales sewn onto a backing of leather dyed a dark, rich green. On his belt was a sword slimmer than the one on Allystaire’s back, but of a similar length. The hilt worn smooth. Pommel’s clean. Every bit of metal on him shines. Dangerous.

  “What is it you’re after?” The ‘cap’n,’ if that’s who he was, affected a leaned-back swagger, and his voice dripped with contempt. Maybe not, Allystaire amended his silent assessment. Never known a dangerous man to care that much for his pose.

  “As I said, inspect merchandise. Maybe make an early offer,” Allystaire answered quietly. “Can it hurt to let me in?”

  With an exaggeratedly small shrug, the captain turned away. “He gets half a turn of the small glass. Let him in.”

  The doorman, or Hacker, as Allystaire was already labeling him for all his coughing and spitting, trundled out to the gate and produced a long key. He fit it carefully into the crude lock that held the gate shut and held his hand out, even while turning his head to launch another gobbet of spit.

  Allystaire produced his purse, dug inside it till he found two greening copper links, and flicked them directly toward the most recent gobbet, enjoying a twinge of satisfaction when the two joined rings landed with a moist plop. He walked on unconcerned.

  Then the smell of the interior hit him; it was a raw human stench that mixed unwashed body odor with the heavy stink of shit, the tang of dried urine, and an almost palpable aura of fear. The interior was built like a barn, and smack in the middle of it was a cage of crude iron-fitted wood nearly as tall as the ceiling. Two large, box-like wagons, their coverings down to reveal similar constructions, sat to either side. Thin, poorly constructed walls led to anterooms and chambers in both the front and back, but the doors allowed a clear view into the center of the room. The stark reality of just how little these men needed to do to conceal their slaving was driven home.

  If it’s off the street, it isn’t happening. That’s the plain truth of it.

  And the cage was full. Of people. Of misery. Stuffed into a space too small to contain them, a few dozen men and women sat and laid about, defeated and broken.

  Poorly fed, likely beaten, and in utter despair, they were the folk of Thornhurst, Mol’s kith and kin, he was sure. Most of the men, especially the younger, sported bruised faces. There were fewer younger men than old, and more older women than he would have expected.

  Such anger rose in Allystaire’s chest and throat that he very nearly drew his hammer to hurl at the nearest sleeping guard. He forced himself to calm, to patience, swallowing the anger like sour beer. And like sour beer, it roiled in his stomach.

  “Well, you’ve not got much more time.” The Captain leaned against the edge of the cage, arms crossed over his chest. “We’ll be selling tonight, but you can have a few minutes to examine the cattle. What are you after buying?”

  “Oarsmen.” Setting his jaw, Allystaire strode over to the cage and began circling it; he spent far more time looking through the bars, avoiding the dead-eyed gazes of the prisoners within, and taking stock of the men that dozed or sat about. Besides the Captain and Hacker, he saw at least a half-dozen more, all armed. He counted two crossbows and, with both a professional regard and a sinking recognition, realized that they were posted in opposite corners of the room. Most of the men looked hard, their weapons well cared for. He also saw a few coiled whips hanging from swordbelts.

  Still, he had to make a show of inspecting the people he supposedly meant to buy. But all he saw were grown men, women past their youth, and a few young men. “Where are the young women, the children?”

  “Gonna strap the boys and girls to oars, then?”

  Ally
staire snorted, and hated himself when the answer came easily. “Even chained to an oar, a man might earn a reward, no? My liege lord’s soldiers have needs and who better to service them?”

  “A man who thinks ahead, then. Good. Looking to buy in bulk, then?”

  Peering into the cage, forcing himself to look into the huddled bundles of misery packed into it, Allystaire mustered a shallow nod. “Perhaps. Any that cannot row or whore will have to come cheap.” The folk gathered in there refused to hear any of his words; they clutched one another, turned their beaten faces away, or stared into the middle distance. He looked away, his stomach boiling over with his choked-down rage.

  “The older women, those who’ve born children, they’re of no use for you, aye?”

  Allystaire was taken aback by the question, and shrugged. “Farm wives come strong. Mayhap some of them could do double duty aboard ship, aye? Take me to see the women. The younger women,” he added, leaning forward and leering slightly.

  The Captain smiled and waved a hand as he pushed away from the cage; Allystaire followed him. One quick strike into the base of his spine and he’s down. His anger, the miserable faces of the caged folk, and now his own advice—all things he simply, for now, ignored. Patience wins more battles than it loses so long as it never becomes cowardice.

  Beyond the big central room were several smaller antechambers, separated with flimsy wooden walls, the doorways covered by ragged blankets. The Captain led him to one such room, inside of which slumped a half-dozen young women; they were less bruised and cleaner than those in the central cage, with no ropes or chains holding them in place.

  As if he knew the first question he was likely to be asked, the Captain immediately said, “If one of these tries to do a runner, balks at her work, we kill one of the older folk in the cage. They haven’t tested us since the first night.” He waved a hand at the younger women, who all had turned their faces from him the moment he entered the room. “This lot are all broken. You can have one for a silver link. Two for a silver and three copper.” The man winked at Allystaire, a leering smile cracking his sneering, stubbled face. “Not t’keep, of course. Just to test. You’re a soldier yourself, after all. Unless you’re interested in something more expensive?”

  Allystaire made a show of looking at the captives—bony, strong farm girls whose eyes wouldn’t meet his. Not sure I could stand it if they did. “More expensive?”

  “Aye. A few of them, real choice. Maidens. Planning to have a special auction for them, couple of nights from now. And ya know,” he stepped closer, sensing camaraderie, “just because you want to keep one a maiden for a few days more doesn’t mean she can’t be taught what else she’s good for, eh? Cost considerable more than these culls, though.”

  It was only by picturing, with a craftsman’s attention to the details, what this sneering reaver’s face would look like after a few of his best hammer blows that Allystaire was able to summon a smile. “It just so happens my lord has a weakness for, as you say, maidens. And one of his sons for boys. He had not thought to find such luck in Bend, but if I bring him back a new string to break it would do me no harm at all. I will have the lot: maids, culls, oarsmen, hags for the scullery if need be. Let us talk price.”

  “Gonna have to be a lot of gold for this,” the man said, slowly shaking his head in hesitation. “Won’t be much discount, if any.”

  “How do you feel about gemmary? Loose stones?” From underneath his breastplate, Allystaire produced a leather purse that bulged oddly. He pried the opening loose with two fingers and reached in. When he pulled his hand out, three items nestled in his palm: a heavy silver band, big enough to fit a man’s thumb, with a sapphire set in the middle that was almost crude in its size and rough cut; a much larger carnelian with a woman’s likeness engraved in fine detail upon it; and a gold ring, smaller than the other, but with chips of ruby circling a brilliantly deep red garnet.

  Allystaire saw greed fire the Captain’s eyes; though it was quickly suppressed, he knew he’d won.

  * * *

  “Cost me two rings, a handful of gold links and the deepest blue piece of unworked lapis I have ever seen,” Allystaire declared, as he re-entered the room where Idgen Marte and Mol awaited him; a deck of cards were spread out on the table as the former apparently was teaching the latter a game. “But I bought your folk. When we can clear the city at nightfall, they will be free. Bastards would not deliver until dark.”

  Idgen Marte smiled coolly at him. “See? Wasn’t that easier than playing ‘storm the wall’ and getting feathered for your trouble?”

  Allystaire laughed, but his heart wasn’t quite in it, so the sound fell flat and tinny. “I suppose.” He turned to Mol, expecting a smile, but she threw a withering glare at him before turning away and storming off to the bed, her feet stamping violently against the floorboards.

  “Is beggaring myself to free your people not enough?” For the first time since he had pulled the child from the cold well in her family’s shattered inn, a note of real anger crept into Allystaire’s voice.

  Mol whirled on him, angry tears streaking her face. “You paid them! It’s what they wanted! What they did worked and they’ll just do it again. You liar. Oathbreaker!”

  Allystaire stood stock still as Mol’s angry words stung him. She’s right, you know. You just financed their next expedition. He wetted his lips with his tongue, and finally said, in a smaller voice than he imagined himself to be capable of using, “You are right.” Then, firmer, but still softly, “I will see to it.”

  Ignoring Idgen Marte’s stunned and almost palpable silence, he turned for the door and clattered back down the stairs, tossing two considerably lightened purses onto the small table as he left.

  The swordswoman looked from the open door to the defiant girl with her tear-streaked cheeks, and sighed. “Fool,” she murmured.

  CHAPTER 8

  Pain Can Wait

  Neither a woodsman nor a thief, Allystaire lacked the subtlety or the grace required for genuine stealth.

  But of patience, he had some store. And it was patience that served him as he skulked in the alleys that viewed the wide, crude gate that protected the slavers. “If I can lay siege to the Harlach and Delondeur towers at Standing Guard Pass with three hundred men, I can besiege this place with only myself,” he said to himself, for perhaps the dozenth time that afternoon. Midday had fulfilled the morning’s promise of heat, and the air still hung like rain that was falling only halfway to the ground; inside his layers of metal and leather, he steamed.

  Deep inside, though, he was cold. The roiling stomach of his earlier venture into the den was gone—now, he was calm, blue eyes fixed on the gate, occasionally moving to a different alley, or going inside one of the many taverns to sit, order wine, stare out the window, and not move. Once, he left his watch to find a common well and pay a copper link for a bucket. When he had poured as much warm, dirt-flavored water into his mouth as he could swallow, he emptied the rest directly over his face, where it ran down his neck and soaked the quilted tunic he wore beneath the cuirass.

  Occasionally, men left the warehouse; he saw the Captain leave at least once, and many others besides. In total he counted thirteen different men that left the building and returned laden with supplies. Casks of ale, rope, chain, nails, tools, mended armor and clothing, sharpened weapons, baskets of bolts, large burlap sacks sewn tightly around salt-crusted sides of beef, and so on.

  Already planning the next trip. And I freezing paid for it. Another word flitted over his brain, in Mol’s sob-wracked voice: Oathbreaker.

  The past few days played out in his mind again. Mol’s tears. Her hand pressing his, warning him against hiring Nyndstir. Her constant questions. The stench of burnt flesh that hung over Thornhurst. The angry ravens. The impossibility of having heard Mol’s voice from across the green while she lay hidden in the cold well.

  That one kept comi
ng back, but then again, his ears had always been sharp. When a man’s senses are primed, they grow sharper. You know this.

  Given his habitual muttering and the way his gloved hand kept returning to the hammer, passing folk gave him a wide berth.

  A smarter man would’ve followed them as they left and killed them one, two at a time, his thoughts offered, as the summer sun finally, mercifully, started to give way to sooty darkness.

  Where were you three turns ago, he countered himself.

  Finally, he judged it close enough to the time that his delivery was promised. A quick glance told him the street was empty enough. Onlookers might come running, eventually. But for now, he might as well be alone with the slavers in pitch darkness. With heavy strides, he crossed the street and started rattling the plain shield on his left arm against the gate.

  Soon enough, Hacker opened it up and met him with a broad, brown-toothed smile that was soon interrupted by coughing.

  “Yer cargo’s nearly ready, Lordship,” he finally puffed out. “Never seen the cap’n so pleased with hisself. Bonus shares for e’ry man. Ahh, if only work came so easy every day, eh?” The man pattered on as he came to unlock the gate. The instant he turned around, Allystaire slipped the hammer out of its ring. For a moment, he pressed his fist against the black iron head, feeling its weight against his curled hand. Then he turned the head toward the ground and let most of the haft slip from his grip until he was holding it at the end, the head reaching past his knee.