A Bandit Accountant
Chapter Half Dozen
Scene Three: The Attack
The light was different in the cell after dusk than it had been on the night before. Then, Denario had barely been able to see his hands in front of his face. Tonight, maybe due to a bright moon outside or maybe just a clear sky, he could make out the features of his fellow prisoner, the bars on the window in the cell door, and a moving shadow outside the door, near the food slot at the bottom. It was probably a rat looking for scraps.
“If ye keep walkin' back and forth, we'll have a first class trench by the end of the night.”
“Sorry,” Denario replied reflexively. “Sorry, I just ... sorry.”
He flopped down on the straw floor next to what he'd started to think of as his wall, the one next to the adjoining cell. The shadow outside the door skittered away.
“Can't rest, eh?” Vir said in his quiet but clear whisper. After a moment of thought, he added, “I thought ye would do math in yer head or some such.”
“Usually.” It was alarming how often the big fellow guessed Denario's thoughts and habits.
Vir scratched himself. Denario guessed that Vir liked the stool because it kept him away from the fleas that a previous prisoner had brought in. Still, there was no escape from them, not completely. Denario had accumulated a dozen little welts. Vir had one or two.
“Ye ever train yer body the way ye do yer mind?” the big man grumbled.
“Uh, no.” The idea sounded ridiculous.
“It's too late for practical use, maybe, but it'll pass the time for a while and settle ye down. I'll show ye how to get stronger over time.”
“Really?” For a moment, he felt some hope. “I have to warn you. Before I left Oggli, I paid a man to teach me basic swordsmanship. He said I was hopeless.”
“Ye can't even lift a sword, can ye?”
“No, not really. That was his point.”
“Would ye start out teaching ...” The bandit struggled to find terms for higher mathematics but apparently he didn't know any. “Teaching, uh, hard counting stuff to a man who don't know his numbers?”
“Oh no, of course not. You've got to have the right foundation before you can start to learn.”
“It's the same with a body,” concluded Vir. “Anyone's body. Ye have to get it to the point where ye can learn.”
Denario softly chuckled to himself. “Probably not my body, though.”
“Anyone's body.” Vir stood. It was like a black tower had suddenly loomed above the horizon. Denario found himself getting back to his feet.
“This is how the emperor's own troops did it, many years ago,” said Vir.
In the dim light, Denario watched a complicated manoeuvre. For an older man, Vir crouched with fluid ease. He let himself noiselessly fall to the floor. Only his palms and toes touched the ground. He sucked in his stomach. Then he gently pumped his arms so that his chest nearly touched the ground and lifted his body up again. After a few repetitions, Vir pushed himself back to his feet.
The hand gesture from Vir's wasn't clear but Denario thought he should try the same thing.
“I saw a dock worker do something like that, once.” Denario crouched. “Does it have a name?”
“It's called a 'push-up.'”
That seemed so obvious, Denario shook his head. But he'd never seen anyone do more than a few of these push-up things before. The dock worker had been showing off. From the way Vir acted, he did stuff like this every day as part of sword practice or something.
Denario fell on his face when he tried to duplicate Vir's start. But he didn't hurt his nose too badly. When he got himself on his hands and toes, he found the first push-up wasn't too bad. He figured he'd do a dozen to start with.
Doing three in a row hurt his arms and his back. On the fifth one, his left arm began to twitch like a cat's tail. By the seventh push-up, his entire body was shaking like a dog drying itself. Except, instead of feeling dry, he felt damp. He'd started to sweat.
He gave up after he failed twice on the ninth push-up.
“Don't think I've seen anyone's whole body do that,” his fellow prisoner mused.
“Ugh.” Denario had to roll onto his side before he could push himself to his feet again. Well, he thought, that must have worked off some nervous energy.
He was right. Nevertheless, it wasn't long before he found himself listening for the sounds of battle again. Those bandits had to attack tonight. But all that Denario heard were the guards in the front room of the guard house. They were making a conspicuous amount of noise but still, there were only two voices involved.
“How many of these push-up things do you need to do each day?” he asked after he stopped feeling his heartbeat through the veins in his forehead.
“How many you do depends on how strong you are.” Vir got down and did more as they waited. “My habit is forty at a time, five times each day. That keeps my arms at the ready without making me tired. But I do other things, too.”
Denario asked what other exercises there were but he didn't get an answer. The big man finished his regimen in silence. Then he sat on his chair and listened.
They listened for so long, Denario ventured another two push-ups. That did it for him, though. He relaxed as much as he could and waited for the fight to begin.
To his surprise, the cell was a bit darker when he next opened his eyes. Vir's silhouette loomed near the door. In the distance, Denario heard the sounds of metal striking metal. Someone shouted the word 'ambush' and the word seemed to be repeated. There were other angry cries, too, all of them unintelligible.
The noises, distant at first, grew louder and closer.
Someone pounded on the front door of the guard house. Denario jumped to his feet.
The banging continued. There were footsteps to the rear of the guard house, too, and a bang on that door. Denario had trouble keeping track of the noises. He thought he heard a crossbow bolt whip through the air, followed by the clank of metal against stone. The only metal on metal noises came from the front of the building. They broke off abruptly.
There seemed to be footsteps and shouts from everywhere. The front door to the guard house opened. Denario froze.
The heavy footfalls of the fighting men had receded. One side had proven victorious. Which side? Who had entered the guard house and why? Denario was afraid that he knew.
The boots grew closer. There might have been softer footfalls alongside.
The door to the jail hall slammed open.
This is it, Denario thought. At least there had been Pecunia. At least he had taken care of his apprentices. He'd done his best. He'd done his duty. He'd had a pretty good run before he died.
The intruders came running down the corridor. They were carrying a torch or a lantern. Yellow glows sprung up on the far wall. One or two prisoners shouted as men passed their cells. The rest turned silent, probably in fear of their lives. Denario shrunk into a corner. He expected Vir to grab him at any moment. He knew the big man would try to dodge the crossbow bolts.
A stranger appeared at the bars. Even in the odd light, Denario could tell the newcomer's eyes were blue. His long, narrow face looked familiar. He smiled. To Denario's surprise, he showed crooked, gapped teeth.
“Good to see you, chief,” whispered Yannick to Vir, who hadn't moved.
“How much time have we got?” His boss didn't sound grateful. He didn't seem surprised, either.
“A couple minutes.” There was a metallic rattling sound. It was followed by a hushed 'uh oh.'
“What?” said Vir.
“I've got the key,” Yannick answered. “But just this one. No one mentioned anything about a combination.”
“Don't worry.” Vir snorted. “It's not important. The math teacher here knows the combinations for all of these locks.”
Denario glanced at the big man in awe. How had he known? He stepped out of his corner.
“I never said I did,” he replied as he dared to approach the front of the cell.
“But ye do.” Vir's grin was visible in the dark.
“Yes.”
Vir stepped aside to make room for Denario to talk to Yannick. Denario nodded and moved up to the musty, old oak door.
“Hi, Yan,” he said as he looked up through the bars.
“Hello, Furtim.”
“Right.” It didn't even take a second for Denario to adjust to the fake name. He pointed to the lock or what he could see of it from his side. “This one is five, twenty, five. That's right, left, right. You have to spin the combination with the key in place. When you hear a loud click, turn the key counter-clockwise and pull down on the handle.”
Behind him, Vir chuckled.
“You really are a math teacher, aren't you?” said Yannick. He knelt to look at the numbers on the dial. Next to him, a man in chain mail held the lantern for him. Was this the guard from the north gate that Vir had mentioned? He didn't make a sound.
“I'm an accountant,” Denario corrected. Yan turned the dial slowly right, then left. His brow furrowed.
“He's a wanted man,” gruffed Vir. “This numbers fellow. Ain't that funny? He's a killer.”
Yannick stepped back as the lock clicked. The door swung open into the room. But the gap-toothed man had stopped smiling. He surveyed Denario with greater respect.
“Good man,” he said. “I've never done that.”
“It's over-rated.” Denario didn't know what else to say. “Anyway, it was me or them.”
Yannick nodded.
“He's not Raduar, then?” he said to Vir. “I was a little worried. We don't have to kill him, do we, boss?”
“Nah. He won't talk. He's got to leave town anyway.”
A delayed jolt of electricity shot down Denario's spine at the thought of these folks casually executing him.
“He might as well leave with us. In fact, I'm going to a place he can't follow, not right away. So I'm sending him with ye, Yan.”
“If you say so, sir. I've got your stuff from the evidence box.” He handed his chief a steel disk on a strap. It looked like a badge of some sort. The painting on it showed a crown crossed by two spears. The appearance was similar to the Mundredi tattoo except with better detail on the spear points, a fringe of laurel, and some Old Tongue writing around it that Denario couldn't read in the wavering light.
There were vambraces of studded leather for Vir's thick arms and greaves, too, that were meant to tie into his hard boots. Denario noticed that the vambraces bore the scars of edged weapons that must have nearly sliced apart Vir's forearms.
“Our cousin here found your sword. It wasn't with the evidence. It was sitting on the captain's desk.”
“Heh.”
The big fellow buckled on his badge. The strap went from shoulder to waist across his body. Then he tackled the rest. When he finished by tying on his scabbard and sword, he looked like an even match for Captain Eberhardt despite the lack of chain mail.
“In the evidence box,” said Denario as he turned to Yannick. “Was there an accounting bag? You saw me with it. Would you recognize it? It's brown with a yellow and red sigil on it.”
“Yep, it's still there.”
“Move,” said Vir as he started to walk through Yannick as if he weren't there. The men in front of Vir started to run.
“Keep moving,” Vir rumbled. Denario ran to keep up.
Chapter Six, Scene Four
Stories on life, death, enlightenment, zen buddhism, religion, philosophy, stoicism, meditation, daoism, kindness but not meekness, and samsara.
Sunday, April 24, 2016
Sunday, April 17, 2016
Not Even Not Zen 35: A Bandit Accountant, 6.2
A Bandit Accountant
Chapter Half Dozen
Scene Two: A Well Informed Captain
There was morning bread and soup but no Captain Eberhardt. The prisoners didn't get much talk from the guards. Vir watched the men in their armor carefully. He was looking for something but he didn't seem to find it. Denario scraped his bowl with the last chunk of bread before he handed it back.
For a few hours after breakfast, Vir slept. It was the first time Denario had witnessed the man in a relaxed state. Even unconscious, his muscles flexed. When the guards locked up another drunk, Vir woke enough to listen. He seemed to decide it was harmless and nodded off again.
Denario watched the drunk get shut in. The angle was bad but the guards mis-dialed the lock and so they let Denario watch them twice. He was pretty sure they used zero, twenty-five, zero, another default sequence.
The early afternoon passed quietly except for visits by two wives. They entered the cell hall one at a time and it looked like they paid the guards two pennies apiece for the privilege. Their men were sober and vocal. The wives complained about having to bribe the guards and the husbands complained about the food and drink. Both sides wondered why the men were still being held. Denario wondered, too. It was Captain Eberhardt who had refused to release anyone because he thought there were spies in his jail. There had been no sign of the man for half a day.
The second wife, who wore a dark green dress, pulled a green bottle from her bosom. She slipped it through the bars of her husband's cell window. Denario guessed it was wine but, he realized, it could just as easily have been a weapon or a secret message.
As she left, she slipped the guard another penny.
It wasn't until late afternoon that Captain Eberhardt made another appearance in the jail. He stormed through the door. There was a spring to his step. Denario hopped up to see him approach. He noticed a slight smile on the captain's face.
Eberhardt had changed clothes. His armor shone. His eyes still looked puffy but otherwise he seemed rested and washed.
“Math teacher!” he shouted as he saw Denario's face in the cell window. “Or is it gambler? Or thief? How are you finding our jail today?”
“Not much fun,” Denario said. Then, lest he be misunderstood, he added, “But fair. We're decently fed. Thank you.”
“Huh.” The captain hadn't expected that last part. He rocked back on his heels for a second. “You're an odd one, teacher. Well, I've got a question for you. Why did the wizard send his goat to talk with you this morning? What business have you had with him?”
Denario didn't ask where the goat was. He couldn't imagine the captain letting it in.
“I hired the Amazing Markar to send a message,” he explained. He opened his mouth again and hesitated. With a thrill of fear, he realized that he'd almost slipped up right then and admitted that he was writing to Ziegeburg. “It was a personal note.”
“Try me.”
“I borrowed something ... by accident ... and I wanted to let my friend know that I'd pay him back.”
That got a laugh. The captain slapped himself on his breastplate.
“How do you borrow something by accident?” he asked.
“I picked up my friend's leather case in a hurry. It looked like mine. But when I unpacked my saddle bags for the night, I found that I had two cases.”
“Huh. That's almost believable.”
“Any chance of letting me out today, captain?” Denario filled the slight gap in the conversation with the possibility that was most on his mind.
“No one gets out until I say so.” Eberhardt scowled and shook his head. “My informants tell me there's going to be a bandit raid on the jail tonight. They want to break someone free, I'll wager. Maybe your cell mate here. Maybe one of the three or four others we've got. Maybe you. No one leaves. Not until I get answers.”
Eberhardt stopped looking directly at Denario. From the angle of his gaze, he was studying the mountainous, half-bald prisoner at the rear of the cell. The captain must have come from visiting his informants, too, because he seemed to have a better grasp on the situation. He'd already heard the news that Vir had told his man to spread around.
“What about you, mister Badli or Baldy or whatever your name is?” said Eberhardt. “Are you expecting anyone?”
“Captain,” replied Vir, quietly, without rising from his seat “The folks comin' tonight are no friends of mine.”
“And how would you know that, I wonder?”
“Have ye talked to Hans about me?”
“No.”
There was such a long silence that Denario had time to wonder who was lying. He guessed it was the police captain. It was hard to imagine that he wouldn't grill his predecessor about this dangerous-looking fellow.
“Ye could release a few of the drunks,” murmured Vir. “Those that yer sure of. Fer their own safety.”
“So you admit there's danger? Because of you?”
“Ye could save everyone trouble by admittin' that ye've got no reason to hold me here. Yer informants have disappeared, haven't they? There's no one to speak against me. No one at all.”
Eberhardt's face went dark.
“But yer all filled with ideas of being heroic,” Vir continued. “I can tell. Ye think ye can hold off the Raduar. Maybe. Maybe ye can. But ye don't have to do it.”
“You mean I should just let you go? And what about the process of law? You were accused of attempting a robbery. And what about these armed men who came into my town? Some of those fellows have the same markings that you do.”
There was another silence. This time, Vir got an expression on his face that Denario had seen on one or two mules before.
“What would the baron say about you?” wondered the captain. “Does he know that your folks come over the mountain?”
Denario expected Vir to fly into a rage over that. He wasn't sure why. But when he looked, he saw that the big man's face held no emotion at all.
“Screw this!” shouted Eberhardt. He'd noticed the same lack of expression. He pounded his fist against the pommel of his sword. “Manfrit! Douglas!”
“Yes, sir?” Their replies came instantly. They'd been listening as closely as they could from the other end of the hall.
“Do you have courage, men?”
“Well, I ...”
“Ready to stand up to a gang? We'll take them easily, I promise. I know how to do this.” He started to wind down a little. He was thinking harder. “Anyway, we can't just let strangers roam Hogsburg in full armor.”
“Well, sir ...”
“This town needs law and order!”
“Yes, sir. One o' them got a crossbow, sir.” Douglas approached quietly for such a fat man. His voice was meek. “Fritz says he seen it.”
“We've got crossbows, too,” said Eberhardt.
“There are six or seven, all told. But there's only two or three of us here at any time, usually just one at night.”
Eberhardt laughed. It was a long, pleasant sound, full of confidence. Denario realized that Vir had been right. The captain did like heroics. In fact, he was probably the sort of man who was only comfortable when he had a clear goal and someone to fight over it.
“There are six regular officers and a dozen men who watch the gates,” said Eberhardt.
“The gate men will be at the gates.”
Eberhardt chuckled again.
“The foxes are in the henhouse now,” he replied. “I'm not worried about closing the damn doors. Come on!”
He pulled his men to him with a wave of his hand. Then he was gone.
Chapter Six, Scene Three
Chapter Half Dozen
Scene Two: A Well Informed Captain
There was morning bread and soup but no Captain Eberhardt. The prisoners didn't get much talk from the guards. Vir watched the men in their armor carefully. He was looking for something but he didn't seem to find it. Denario scraped his bowl with the last chunk of bread before he handed it back.
For a few hours after breakfast, Vir slept. It was the first time Denario had witnessed the man in a relaxed state. Even unconscious, his muscles flexed. When the guards locked up another drunk, Vir woke enough to listen. He seemed to decide it was harmless and nodded off again.
Denario watched the drunk get shut in. The angle was bad but the guards mis-dialed the lock and so they let Denario watch them twice. He was pretty sure they used zero, twenty-five, zero, another default sequence.
The early afternoon passed quietly except for visits by two wives. They entered the cell hall one at a time and it looked like they paid the guards two pennies apiece for the privilege. Their men were sober and vocal. The wives complained about having to bribe the guards and the husbands complained about the food and drink. Both sides wondered why the men were still being held. Denario wondered, too. It was Captain Eberhardt who had refused to release anyone because he thought there were spies in his jail. There had been no sign of the man for half a day.
The second wife, who wore a dark green dress, pulled a green bottle from her bosom. She slipped it through the bars of her husband's cell window. Denario guessed it was wine but, he realized, it could just as easily have been a weapon or a secret message.
As she left, she slipped the guard another penny.
It wasn't until late afternoon that Captain Eberhardt made another appearance in the jail. He stormed through the door. There was a spring to his step. Denario hopped up to see him approach. He noticed a slight smile on the captain's face.
Eberhardt had changed clothes. His armor shone. His eyes still looked puffy but otherwise he seemed rested and washed.
“Math teacher!” he shouted as he saw Denario's face in the cell window. “Or is it gambler? Or thief? How are you finding our jail today?”
“Not much fun,” Denario said. Then, lest he be misunderstood, he added, “But fair. We're decently fed. Thank you.”
“Huh.” The captain hadn't expected that last part. He rocked back on his heels for a second. “You're an odd one, teacher. Well, I've got a question for you. Why did the wizard send his goat to talk with you this morning? What business have you had with him?”
Denario didn't ask where the goat was. He couldn't imagine the captain letting it in.
“I hired the Amazing Markar to send a message,” he explained. He opened his mouth again and hesitated. With a thrill of fear, he realized that he'd almost slipped up right then and admitted that he was writing to Ziegeburg. “It was a personal note.”
“Try me.”
“I borrowed something ... by accident ... and I wanted to let my friend know that I'd pay him back.”
That got a laugh. The captain slapped himself on his breastplate.
“How do you borrow something by accident?” he asked.
“I picked up my friend's leather case in a hurry. It looked like mine. But when I unpacked my saddle bags for the night, I found that I had two cases.”
“Huh. That's almost believable.”
“Any chance of letting me out today, captain?” Denario filled the slight gap in the conversation with the possibility that was most on his mind.
“No one gets out until I say so.” Eberhardt scowled and shook his head. “My informants tell me there's going to be a bandit raid on the jail tonight. They want to break someone free, I'll wager. Maybe your cell mate here. Maybe one of the three or four others we've got. Maybe you. No one leaves. Not until I get answers.”
Eberhardt stopped looking directly at Denario. From the angle of his gaze, he was studying the mountainous, half-bald prisoner at the rear of the cell. The captain must have come from visiting his informants, too, because he seemed to have a better grasp on the situation. He'd already heard the news that Vir had told his man to spread around.
“What about you, mister Badli or Baldy or whatever your name is?” said Eberhardt. “Are you expecting anyone?”
“Captain,” replied Vir, quietly, without rising from his seat “The folks comin' tonight are no friends of mine.”
“And how would you know that, I wonder?”
“Have ye talked to Hans about me?”
“No.”
There was such a long silence that Denario had time to wonder who was lying. He guessed it was the police captain. It was hard to imagine that he wouldn't grill his predecessor about this dangerous-looking fellow.
“Ye could release a few of the drunks,” murmured Vir. “Those that yer sure of. Fer their own safety.”
“So you admit there's danger? Because of you?”
“Ye could save everyone trouble by admittin' that ye've got no reason to hold me here. Yer informants have disappeared, haven't they? There's no one to speak against me. No one at all.”
Eberhardt's face went dark.
“But yer all filled with ideas of being heroic,” Vir continued. “I can tell. Ye think ye can hold off the Raduar. Maybe. Maybe ye can. But ye don't have to do it.”
“You mean I should just let you go? And what about the process of law? You were accused of attempting a robbery. And what about these armed men who came into my town? Some of those fellows have the same markings that you do.”
There was another silence. This time, Vir got an expression on his face that Denario had seen on one or two mules before.
“What would the baron say about you?” wondered the captain. “Does he know that your folks come over the mountain?”
Denario expected Vir to fly into a rage over that. He wasn't sure why. But when he looked, he saw that the big man's face held no emotion at all.
“Screw this!” shouted Eberhardt. He'd noticed the same lack of expression. He pounded his fist against the pommel of his sword. “Manfrit! Douglas!”
“Yes, sir?” Their replies came instantly. They'd been listening as closely as they could from the other end of the hall.
“Do you have courage, men?”
“Well, I ...”
“Ready to stand up to a gang? We'll take them easily, I promise. I know how to do this.” He started to wind down a little. He was thinking harder. “Anyway, we can't just let strangers roam Hogsburg in full armor.”
“Well, sir ...”
“This town needs law and order!”
“Yes, sir. One o' them got a crossbow, sir.” Douglas approached quietly for such a fat man. His voice was meek. “Fritz says he seen it.”
“We've got crossbows, too,” said Eberhardt.
“There are six or seven, all told. But there's only two or three of us here at any time, usually just one at night.”
Eberhardt laughed. It was a long, pleasant sound, full of confidence. Denario realized that Vir had been right. The captain did like heroics. In fact, he was probably the sort of man who was only comfortable when he had a clear goal and someone to fight over it.
“There are six regular officers and a dozen men who watch the gates,” said Eberhardt.
“The gate men will be at the gates.”
Eberhardt chuckled again.
“The foxes are in the henhouse now,” he replied. “I'm not worried about closing the damn doors. Come on!”
He pulled his men to him with a wave of his hand. Then he was gone.
Chapter Six, Scene Three
Sunday, April 10, 2016
Not Zen 183: Cowardice
Arturo wandered down the aisle, a visiting priest from a rural province. He'd been accepted for service in the city diocese three weeks before. He'd arrived two days ago. His duties amounted to following an elderly, senior priest. That man took breaks and naps, so Arturo had free time. This morning, he'd decided to review the layout of the church. It was different from his previous site in details like the size of the choir stands behind the chancel. Of course, the basics were the same.
Fingers clasped behind his back, he emerged from behind the choir stands and continued his stroll. He smiled at the familiar sights. The communion table, a masterpiece carved from walnut and inlaid with lighter wood, stood where it did in every church. Likewise for the chancel railing. Only at the pulpit and lectern did the parish differences become apparent.
His fingers grazed the pulpit. Its sides had been crafted from rosy marble. Its surface was cool. Beyond, the town's wealthy masons had built a crossing floor from different shades of stone tile. At either end of the crossing lay transcepts, open rooms with domed roofs. Centuries before, the church designers had lined the rounded walls with shelves to hold sconces. The shelves remained, although the candles in the sconces seldom needed renewed. The local bishop had long since decreed upgrades to the church. The place had electricity.
Beyond the crossing, the priest saw a handful of early risers sitting in the pews. That was another difference between the small town and the city. Not only were the doors open to the public but the public came inside at all hours of the day. He still hadn't grown accustomed to it. The steady public presence robbed him of his accustomed moments of solitude.
Up the aisle strode a heavily-muscled, rough-looking man. Behind him and to either side trailed a pair of younger toughs, less well dressed. Arturo didn't want to deal with them this early in the day. He turned his back and strode to the sconces. A candle had tilted. He straightened it and looked for other errors he might fix.
"Is that gold?" In the crossing, the heavy man tucked a finger between his belt and slacks. He snorted. "Yeah, that's fuckin' gold. It's the real stuff."
Arturo nearly turned back to the church center. Surely the parishoners would hear the man and quiet him. He spared a quick glance. The heavy fellow wore an expensive-looking suit, no tie. His beady eyes focused on an imprint in the arched wall above the chancel. The carved figure at the center of the imprint had been outlined, decades ago, with gold leaf. The bold fellow had spotted it.
That was unusual. Most people never saw real gold. Maybe this one had guessed. His companions didn't seem interested.
"This trim is sandalwood." He touched the two-tone veneer of the chancel rail. "The damned stuff is illegal to import. Remember?"
"Yeah, boss." His dark-haired underling crinkled an eyebrow. "Expensive."
"Crooked town, crooked church. They must have done it in secret."
Two men in the pews had already risen and headed for the exit. Now a woman stood. She picked up her handbag. The fearful glance she gave the three men, as if they were wild animals, made Arturo realize they must have had reputations in the city.
Rather than his parishoners relieving him of a chore by quieting the newcomers, his congregation set a tone of alarm as they abandoned their seats. The men in the front third of the pews eased away from the benches, one by one, over the next minute. They sidled, tip-toed, and in one case briskly marched out to the center aisle and west to the main doors. The fresh, rich air of the city wafted over them as the doors opened and shut. The elderly ladies at the front stayed through it all. They seemed to feel they were impervious. Probably, they were. But as the only man at the front of the church, Arturo was exposed.
He decided he had to tell the men to leave. They were disturbing others. It was his job.
But when he took a step toward them, the young man to the left of the boss gave Arturo a look. It was the gleeful expression of a bully, someone who enjoys torturing others. His anticipation of a confrontation was so open and so violent that it stopped Arturo in mid-stride. He tripped. His right hand shot out to the back of the nearest pew as he steadied himself.
The others noticed Arturo only to give him a glance of contempt. It was as if they viewed the act of being a priest as unmanly.
The mobster returned to his avarice for the furnishings of the church. He strode in Arturo's direction with a smile, toward the transcept and along the border between the nave and sanctuary. His thick fingers brushed against the silk tapestry, dyed in red and gold, that hung from the front of the lectern.
"Just look at this." He laughed. He tugged on the banner, which was never allowed. "These guys took a fucking vow of poverty? Shit, should I be concerned about their vow of chastity?"
His cronies laughed. The nearest bully glared at Arturo.
"Ah, but why should I care where priests put their wankers?" the big man continued. "I'll sell them the good stuff. I'd take any of this crap in trade."
Arturo looked for an escape from the transcept wing. He could duck behind the choir stands, he supposed. As he considered how that would appear, his eye caught a movement in back of the mobsters. There was a flicker of silver over one of their shoulders, the hair of a short, older man.
"Embroidered," muttered the boss. He let the silk slip from his grasp. "But with what? Something expensive, for sure."
"Sinners!" the old man shouted. It was brother Tomasso. He raised his arms high as if he would bring them down on the shoulders of the bigger men. The three turned to face him. Arturo cringed. He couldn't bring himself to rush forward.
"Tomasso!" the big man yelled back. He opened his arms to let the frail, older man step into them. The priest did so. He stretched his arms around the big man and patted his back.
"You shouldn't envy what the church has," said Tomasso as he pushed away. "Really, now. You know better. It's a deadly sin."
"But the church has so much."
"If this place was a dump, maybe no one would come. As it is, folks in town are here all the time. You know that. They like it pretty." The thin fellow shrugged. "If the holy one above is strict about avarice, I'll go to hell. But you shouldn't take yourself there too."
The talk between the old priest and the rough-looking boss devolved into murmurs about mutual acquaintances. Apparently, the mobster had once attended church classes led by Tomasso. He must have spent a dozen years growing up in town. Now he'd returned. He was settling grudges as well as looking up old friends. Arturo wondered which category Tomasso felt into or, for that matter, the church.
"So you have come to pray for forgiveness at last?" said the older fellow. There was a distant look on his face, as if he were remembering something in the younger man's past.
"Not yet, Tomasso. Not yet."
The priest shook his head. Then, unfortunately, he spotted his visiting assistant.
"Arturo!" he called. He waved the younger priest over. "Why did you let these boys get so loud? I saw folks walking out. Men were leaving the pews!"
"I didn't mean to." Arturo took a cautious step toward his senior priest.
Tomasso waved again. Next to him, on a generous impulse, the big visitor stepped back. His bodyguards followed. That gave Arturo permission to come forward.
"You know," Tomasso grumbled as Arturo drew near, "Cowardice is a deadly sin, too."
"It's not," Arturo corrected. "It's not on the list."
"Then there's something wrong with the list." The old fellow scratched his grey head. "Sloth doesn't belong. They meant depression, you know, back when they wrote the list, back when Evagrius Ponticus started it all. Evagrius thought depression was sinful."
"Sloth leads to other evils and to failing to change evil behavior, too. Cowardice doesn't."
Tomasso gave him a long, solemn look.
He put a hand on Arturo's shoulder and said, "So tell me the other reason why you didn't approach my loud, wealthy friend to correct his sinfulness."
Fingers clasped behind his back, he emerged from behind the choir stands and continued his stroll. He smiled at the familiar sights. The communion table, a masterpiece carved from walnut and inlaid with lighter wood, stood where it did in every church. Likewise for the chancel railing. Only at the pulpit and lectern did the parish differences become apparent.
His fingers grazed the pulpit. Its sides had been crafted from rosy marble. Its surface was cool. Beyond, the town's wealthy masons had built a crossing floor from different shades of stone tile. At either end of the crossing lay transcepts, open rooms with domed roofs. Centuries before, the church designers had lined the rounded walls with shelves to hold sconces. The shelves remained, although the candles in the sconces seldom needed renewed. The local bishop had long since decreed upgrades to the church. The place had electricity.
Beyond the crossing, the priest saw a handful of early risers sitting in the pews. That was another difference between the small town and the city. Not only were the doors open to the public but the public came inside at all hours of the day. He still hadn't grown accustomed to it. The steady public presence robbed him of his accustomed moments of solitude.
Up the aisle strode a heavily-muscled, rough-looking man. Behind him and to either side trailed a pair of younger toughs, less well dressed. Arturo didn't want to deal with them this early in the day. He turned his back and strode to the sconces. A candle had tilted. He straightened it and looked for other errors he might fix.
"Is that gold?" In the crossing, the heavy man tucked a finger between his belt and slacks. He snorted. "Yeah, that's fuckin' gold. It's the real stuff."
Arturo nearly turned back to the church center. Surely the parishoners would hear the man and quiet him. He spared a quick glance. The heavy fellow wore an expensive-looking suit, no tie. His beady eyes focused on an imprint in the arched wall above the chancel. The carved figure at the center of the imprint had been outlined, decades ago, with gold leaf. The bold fellow had spotted it.
That was unusual. Most people never saw real gold. Maybe this one had guessed. His companions didn't seem interested.
"This trim is sandalwood." He touched the two-tone veneer of the chancel rail. "The damned stuff is illegal to import. Remember?"
"Yeah, boss." His dark-haired underling crinkled an eyebrow. "Expensive."
"Crooked town, crooked church. They must have done it in secret."
Two men in the pews had already risen and headed for the exit. Now a woman stood. She picked up her handbag. The fearful glance she gave the three men, as if they were wild animals, made Arturo realize they must have had reputations in the city.
Rather than his parishoners relieving him of a chore by quieting the newcomers, his congregation set a tone of alarm as they abandoned their seats. The men in the front third of the pews eased away from the benches, one by one, over the next minute. They sidled, tip-toed, and in one case briskly marched out to the center aisle and west to the main doors. The fresh, rich air of the city wafted over them as the doors opened and shut. The elderly ladies at the front stayed through it all. They seemed to feel they were impervious. Probably, they were. But as the only man at the front of the church, Arturo was exposed.
He decided he had to tell the men to leave. They were disturbing others. It was his job.
But when he took a step toward them, the young man to the left of the boss gave Arturo a look. It was the gleeful expression of a bully, someone who enjoys torturing others. His anticipation of a confrontation was so open and so violent that it stopped Arturo in mid-stride. He tripped. His right hand shot out to the back of the nearest pew as he steadied himself.
The others noticed Arturo only to give him a glance of contempt. It was as if they viewed the act of being a priest as unmanly.
The mobster returned to his avarice for the furnishings of the church. He strode in Arturo's direction with a smile, toward the transcept and along the border between the nave and sanctuary. His thick fingers brushed against the silk tapestry, dyed in red and gold, that hung from the front of the lectern.
"Just look at this." He laughed. He tugged on the banner, which was never allowed. "These guys took a fucking vow of poverty? Shit, should I be concerned about their vow of chastity?"
His cronies laughed. The nearest bully glared at Arturo.
"Ah, but why should I care where priests put their wankers?" the big man continued. "I'll sell them the good stuff. I'd take any of this crap in trade."
Arturo looked for an escape from the transcept wing. He could duck behind the choir stands, he supposed. As he considered how that would appear, his eye caught a movement in back of the mobsters. There was a flicker of silver over one of their shoulders, the hair of a short, older man.
"Embroidered," muttered the boss. He let the silk slip from his grasp. "But with what? Something expensive, for sure."
"Sinners!" the old man shouted. It was brother Tomasso. He raised his arms high as if he would bring them down on the shoulders of the bigger men. The three turned to face him. Arturo cringed. He couldn't bring himself to rush forward.
"Tomasso!" the big man yelled back. He opened his arms to let the frail, older man step into them. The priest did so. He stretched his arms around the big man and patted his back.
"You shouldn't envy what the church has," said Tomasso as he pushed away. "Really, now. You know better. It's a deadly sin."
"But the church has so much."
"If this place was a dump, maybe no one would come. As it is, folks in town are here all the time. You know that. They like it pretty." The thin fellow shrugged. "If the holy one above is strict about avarice, I'll go to hell. But you shouldn't take yourself there too."
The talk between the old priest and the rough-looking boss devolved into murmurs about mutual acquaintances. Apparently, the mobster had once attended church classes led by Tomasso. He must have spent a dozen years growing up in town. Now he'd returned. He was settling grudges as well as looking up old friends. Arturo wondered which category Tomasso felt into or, for that matter, the church.
"So you have come to pray for forgiveness at last?" said the older fellow. There was a distant look on his face, as if he were remembering something in the younger man's past.
"Not yet, Tomasso. Not yet."
The priest shook his head. Then, unfortunately, he spotted his visiting assistant.
"Arturo!" he called. He waved the younger priest over. "Why did you let these boys get so loud? I saw folks walking out. Men were leaving the pews!"
"I didn't mean to." Arturo took a cautious step toward his senior priest.
Tomasso waved again. Next to him, on a generous impulse, the big visitor stepped back. His bodyguards followed. That gave Arturo permission to come forward.
"You know," Tomasso grumbled as Arturo drew near, "Cowardice is a deadly sin, too."
"It's not," Arturo corrected. "It's not on the list."
"Then there's something wrong with the list." The old fellow scratched his grey head. "Sloth doesn't belong. They meant depression, you know, back when they wrote the list, back when Evagrius Ponticus started it all. Evagrius thought depression was sinful."
"Sloth leads to other evils and to failing to change evil behavior, too. Cowardice doesn't."
Tomasso gave him a long, solemn look.
He put a hand on Arturo's shoulder and said, "So tell me the other reason why you didn't approach my loud, wealthy friend to correct his sinfulness."
Sunday, April 3, 2016
A Nerd in a Warrior Culture - Five Chapters
A Bandit Accountant
Chapter Thirty-Two Minus Thirty-One
- Scene One, Fired
- Scene Two, Something Does Not Add Up
- Scene Three, One to the N Ponies
- Scene Four, A Tip on Poison
- Scene Five, A Desperate Game
Chapter Root Two Squared
- Scene One, Going Fourth
- Scene Two, Speak to the Point
- Scene Three, Fallen
- Scene Four, Friends Like These
- Scene Five, Another Plan
- Scene One, A Bargain Purchase
- Scene Two, New Shirts
- Scene Three, Lucky Find
- Scene Four, Lucky Miss
- Scene Five, Holy Larceny
- Scene Six, Strange Footprints
- Scene One, Deadly Aim
- Scene Two, Fair Trade
- Scene Three, Space to Breathe
- Scene Four, Familiar Words
- Scene Five, A Foolish Gamble
Chapter Full Hand
- Scene One, Arrested Developments
- Scene Two, New Locks
- Scene Three, Interview with the Butcher
Monday, March 28, 2016
Being Geek in a Warrior Culture - Fifth Chapter
A Bandit Accountant
Chapter Full Hand
Chapter Full Hand
- Scene One, Arrested Developments
- Scene Two, New Locks
- Scene Three, Interview with the Butcher
- Scene Four, Hidden Message
Sunday, March 27, 2016
Not Even Not Zen 34: A Bandit Accountant, 6.1
A Bandit Accountant
Chapter Half Dozen
Scene One: Revealing Dawn
Even after the spies finished their coded conversation and presumably wandered off or went to sleep, Denario couldn't rest. Fortunately, Vir was willing to chat about the enemy agents. He'd guessed or somehow knew in advance that they were Raduar clansmen.
“Of course they are,” he grumbled. “I've been expecting them. Don't worry.”
“Don't worry?” Denario hissed. “That isn't much better than someone from Ziegeburg. If they come in to kill you, they'll kill me, too.”
“If they're smart, they're planning to shoot me through the barred window with crossbows. But yeah, you'll probably end up dead, too.”
Denario had a sudden image of the bigger man using his body as a shield. Why wouldn't he? Denario winced as he imagined himself skewered at the beginning of the brawl.
It was a relief to talk politics. Vir wouldn't give his full name or tell Denario anything about what he did for a living but he was willing to explain the differences between Mundredi and Raduar. The Mundredi were the most royal of bandits, apparently, and the Raduar were mere upstarts. From Vir's point of view, the Raduar and the Ogglians were the aggressors against him. The Raduar kept trying to take Mundredi territory. The Ogglians kept killing ethnic Mundredi farmers in their lands.
Denario realized that this meant the Mundredi farmers were spreading somehow, maybe through marriage, into the Ogglian counties.
“Yeah, over the few generations, that's probably right,” Vir said after considerable thought. “But if they pay their taxes like anyone else and they obey Ogglian laws, is it right to kill them?”
“What? Of course not!”
The moment of silence from the large man seemed to indicate that this was a matter that he took seriously. It implied something awful on the part of the local knights, though. They must be killing farmers that talked funny or who didn't attend the right temple or church.
“Paying taxes is part of the contract between the nobility and commoners,” Denario continued. He'd heard a visiting knight describe the whole wonderful government system at the baron's cloth factory. “If a farmer pays up and his local knight accepts payment, they have an agreement. The farmer is entitled to the full protection of Ogglian laws and to the military protection of the knight. That's the way it's always been.”
Vir grunted. “Not always. But I see the point.”
“Killing a farmer or someone in his family without a reason and a trial, that breaks the contract. The baron would have to allow some sort of revenge or impose a penalty or something.”
The big man could emit a bitter laugh even in a whisper.
“Do ye really believe that?” he asked.
“I don't know,” Denario admitted. His cell mate probably couldn't see his shoulder roll in the dark. “It's what I was taught. My fiance told me that I'm not as good about people as it seemed back in Oggli. She said I don't know how things really work.”
“Huh. Yer what, sixteen?”
“Seventeen,” Denario asserted. He hated when people made that mistake.
“Hard to believe ye have a woman at all. Did ye arrange that yerself?” He seemed to hear Denario nod. “Lots of me men, that is, lots of men yer age don't. I know plenty of big, strong, handsome lads ... well, maybe not handsome, just big, strong, and young. And they ain't got no women. Not a half of them got someone. That's why they marry outside the clan or come to me, I suppose. Is she older than ye?”
“Yes. She's a widow.”
“No shame on ye, then. She's supposed to know how things work better'n ye. And then ye're nothing special in yer looks, ye know. Brains, maybe, but that don't show. The ladies usually don't care. So ye've done all right fer yerself, I think.”
“Up to now.” Denario pulled his knees up to his chest.
Vir chuckled.
“She gave me a good luck charm as I left.” He looked up at the ceiling in the darkness as he envisioned her face above him. “But I think I've mostly had bad luck.”
“Sometimes we don’t understand our own luck,” the big man replied with a sigh. “I won’t say things happen for a reason. Often, they don’t. But I’ve seen men come into fortunes, say their thanks, and lose their fortunes before they can take another breath. It happens the other way, too. One of my men, Yannick, he wants to win glory but he’s hopeless. Can't fight a lick. He cursed himself for getting ill with a fever so he couldn’t go out on border patrol.”
Denario opened his mouth to interrupt. There couldn't be two men both named Yannick nearby, could there? He wanted to implore the speaker for an explanation. But this was the first time Vir had hinted at the nature of his job. It sounded military. Denario didn't want to stop him while he was feeling expansive.
“Yan almost died, he was so ill,” continued Vir. “But if he’d gone out on that patrol, he’d have died in the ambush they met. So ... was he unlucky to fall sick and miss his chance? Or was he lucky to miss out on that chance, even though none of us knew it at the time?”
Denario smacked his dry lips. “You mean this might work out?”
“Prepare yerself fer death,” grumbled the darkest shadow in the dark. “But don't give up livin' just 'cause it's hard. We're surrounded by my friends. The two of us are in danger, yeh, especially me, but there are a lot more Mundredi clansmen and relatives in this town than the Raduar like to think about. The longer the Raduar chief waits, the worse his chances are of winning. Probably everyone they’ve got on their side has arrived by now. That’s why they’ll have to move tomorrow night.”
Not from anything Vir said but from the manner in which he said it, Denario suddenly understood that his cell mate was an important Mundredi. He was probably one of their best hired killers.
“Enough about me.” The shadow rustled. The big man settled with his back to the wall. “Ye grew up in Oggli. Never been, never wanted to go, but it might be nice to hear about the place. Might learn something.”
Denario took a few minutes to tell his cell mate about the docks in the south of Oggli, where the Complacent Sea swept up onto beaches of white rocks and sands. The fishermen had built trap nets around the docks to herd the sea bucca, a kind of magical traitor fish. If you trapped the bucca and fed them treats of smaller fish, meat, or loaves of bread, the bucca would in turn offer to guide boats to the best fishing grounds. Those were schools of rockfish, marlin, salmon, haddock, mackerel, striped bass, rays, sailfish, charr, and the different types of sea trout. Of course, they were all species of fish that preyed on the bucca or competed with them. One or two times, fishermen had been led to groups of sea crocodiles, sharks, or bishopi that the bucca wanted eliminated. Those trips could end in disaster. On the whole, though, the arrangement worked well.
“There are fresh water bucca in No Map Creek,” offered Vir. “I been there. They'll lead ye to the pike.”
“I don't remember that tributary,” said Denario. He automatically imagined the maps he'd seen of the area. The Riggli Kill had plenty of creeks and streams leading into it.
“Go on.”
“Well, when I first saw the docks, I was nine. The sailors and the dock workers thought I was funny so they answered my questions. Once, when I asked if there were whales in the Complacent, the young dock men laughed and said no. But a couple old sailors spoke up to say that there were porpoises, once. They were nearly white and of a kind only found in the Complacent, they said. You can still see skeletons of them that have been saved by noble houses.”
Denario had been made aware by Winkel that several species of large sea animals had gone extinct under the Muntabi empire. Aside from the porpoises, a special sort of giant clam had been harvested until none were left. Now there was no one in the empire who had seen a living clam larger than a man. The seamen guessed they must have been a separate species from the other large clams. One of the Giant Clam shells still adorned the chambers of Oggli Temple to Naakia. It was being used as a sofa. Denario had sat in it as he worked on the temple accounts. It had a red velvet cushion and, behind the cushion, a smooth, inner shell that was spotted brown and gold.
As he described the Complacent Sea and the city of Ogglia, Denario wondered again about Vir's accent. He could have stepped off a ship in the Paravientri dockyard.
“Oggli is rich because we weren't conquered by Muntab,” Denario said.
Vir snorted. “Never heard that one before.”
“It's true. Across from us, the city of Tar-Abli resisted the conquering armies. And the city was sacked, burned, and its people slaughtered. But that exhausted the Muntabi troops. That's why they let the King of Oggli sue for peace. We paid a tribute, the king stepped down to become the emperor's governor, and our city joined the Muntabi empire without being conquered.”
“There's no such city as Tar-Abli.”
“Because it was destroyed. The city of Angrili was founded where the previous city stood. 'Angre' means 'anchor.' The place was a shipyard first because it had a great natural harbor. Then it became the headquarters of the Inland Navy of Muntabar because the emperor didn't like his army staying in Oggli too much, where they mostly had fun and got arrested.”
“An inland navy?”
“The Complacent Sea was part of the western ocean once, the wizards say, long before there were people around. I wouldn't know about that. It's just the kind of thing wizards talk about and no one can tell them differently. But I read that the empire had to build a series of canals for its navy and merchant ships so that they could reach the oceans.”
“Where are those canals?”
“Gone. Some of the rivers they depended on changed course. You can see it in the old maps. The canals are dry now, filled with dirt. The people living next to them don't recognize them anymore.”
“And all this because ye all lost yer emperor?”
“Maybe. That was hundreds of years ago. Now the dukes and counts keep fighting their neighbors. Some of them have been conquered by highland strangers or they've split off from Muntabi and formed their own kingdoms. They don't keep large fleets, as a rule. That's why there are so many pirates.”
“What's a pirate?”
It took Denario a few minutes to explain the concept. The effort made him sleepy but it ended in laughter from his cell mate.
“Bandits, then,” Vir said. “Bandits on water.”
“Yes. Only two generations ago, the sailors say, there were no pirates on the sea.” This was leading up to the similarity in language between Vir and the sailors on the Complacent Sea. Denario felt they had to be related somehow and he'd be wiser when he figured out precisely how. “The remnants of the Imperial Navy patrolled the waters then. They sailed under the banners of the Duke of Muntar, the Duke of Ogglia, the Duke of Baggra, and the like. They didn't call themselves the Imperial Navy anymore. But they kept most of their merchant ships safe. In the end, though, they gave up. The island nations won. They sank the warships that belonged to the coastal cities. Each island controls the waters around its territory. Each island charges tribute.”
“The empire is weak.” Vir sounded sleepy, too. “The barons are weak. I know that for sure. They can't pay to keep men in arms. They try to hire mercenaries for spot trouble. Then they don't let the troops loot as much as they promised. That's fine by me. Their defectors come to my side.”
Was Vir one of those mercenaries? Denario tried to steer the conversation back towards what the big man was doing in Hogsburg but Vir would have none of it. Instead, he asked about map making and if accountants knew how to do it. He asked why the county and barony borders changed. Denario ended up describing the Duke of Ogglia, an average-looking, thin-haired man who was nearly penniless and lacked martial power. Under him, the more powerful Marquis of West Ogglia ran his court at the city center and ordered men like Winkel and Denario to survey the roads, tax the temples, organize canal repairs, and provide maps of the changing coastline.
They talked for almost an hour. Denario kept trying to figure out who Vir really was, right up until he fell asleep. Even as he dozed off, he fleetingly wondered if his cell mate ever let down his guard or showed any weaknesses, ever.
In the morning, Denario found himself suddenly conscious and aware that a conversation had begun without him. He rubbed his eyes. His cell was filled with the blue glow of pre-dawn light. Vir had left his seat, if he had ever slept on it. He'd taken position halfway to the door. On the other side of the door stood a strange young man. He was a bit shorter than average but not much. His eyes were higher than the window.
“How did you get in?” Vir had just said.
The young man bobbed his head as if he'd expected the question.
“The old captain still has some influence, sir,” he replied. He took off his floppy, wide-brimmed hat to reveal shocks of white-blonde hair. It hung down over his forehead. In the back, a patch of it poked straight up. “He took a couple brassers from me. Then he told the desk officer to let me in.”
“Good ol' Hans,” muttered Vir. “Ye know where ye stand with 'im.”
“Yes, sir. Can't trust him at all.”
“Who told you that?” The big man growled.
“You did.”
“Right.” Vir nodded at this bit of good sense.
“Anyway, I got knocked about by the guards when you got arrested. They disarmed me. I thought the Raduar man was going to kill me but Elsa stood in his way. So the guards just let me go.”
“Funny, that.”
“I'm sorry I'm not in there with you, sir.”
“Ye are?” Vir looked shocked, for an instant. But the expression fled so fast it might have been a trick of the light. “Liar. The food's not that good.”
“It's my fault. You came to town to arrange my marriage. 'Cause I have no father to speak for me.”
“Yeah, well, that's a chief's job.”
“Seems like someone else knew that, sir.”
“There are Raduar agents among our men,” Vir sighed. It took him a long time to form the rest of his reply. “I knew that. I should have sent someone ahead of us into town. Then I would have found out about the new captain. It would have changed how we went to Elsa's father.”
“How are you getting out, sir?” whispered the young man.
“Right.” Vir sounded as if he'd made a decision. His voice lowered. Denario had to read lips to follow everything he said. “Find Sergeant Alaric on Pig Treacle street, last house on the left as you approach the north gate. Tell him that you've heard that the Raduar are attacking the jail tonight.”
“They are?” said the boy, much too loudly.
Vir reached through the bars and covered the underling's mouth for a second.
“If Alaric has questions or even if he doesn't, show him the back of your neck.”
“I don't understand.” The boy shook his head, making the strands of his straw mop sway.
“I know you keep a pocket knife, Volfie. Give it to me for a moment. Then turn around and lift your hair.”
“Yes, sir.”
The boy handed pulled a knife from somewhere under his belt. He handed it over without any sign of hesitation. That's very trusting of Volfie, Denario thought. From Vir's voice, the big man had been suspicious, almost hostile, as the conversation began. Nevertheless, Volfie turned his back and held up his hair. His boss could have cut his throat through the bars, maybe, but he didn't. Instead, the Mundredi chief scratched something on the back of the boy's neck. Denario re-drew the sign in his head, mentally, as he tried to figure out what it meant.
Volfie didn't make a sound during the process, although he bled a bit.
“There.” Vir wiped the blade of the knife on his left palm. Then he pushed it, handle first, through the bars. “That's the rest of the message.”
“Don't you want to keep the blade, sir?” Volfie turned around and checked the cleaning job on the knife's edge.
“Nah. It's too small to do me any good. I'm not going to bust out of here with a pretty toy like that. Just get going. To Alaric, like I said, then to the north gate.”
“Sir.” The boy stood up straight. He tucked the knife into his belt. He saluted.
“Not here, boy,” said Vir. “Now get going.”
In a few seconds, Volfie was at the other end of the cell hall, knocking to be let out. The guard sounded like the big one in fish mail, Manfrit. He was surly and wanted a tip before he let the boy out. Apparently, the old police captain had left and taken his influence with him. But Volfie had a couple pennies and that was enough.
After the boy made it out, Vir took a deep breath. He returned to his stool. He leaned with his back to the wall, arms folded across his chest, lost in thought. Denario wanted to question him but didn't dare. He felt groggy and he remembered that his first impression of his cell mate as a brutish dim-wit had been at least half wrong.
Fortunately, his fellow captive broke the silence.
“Well, if it's Volfgang who's turned on me, we're both done for,” he told Denario.
“It's okay.” Mentally, Denario was still catching up. He had spoken before he was ready. But now he translated the name Volfgang into the nickname Volfie. Then he ventured, “But I guess that until the boy came here, you thought he might be behind it.”
“I did,” admitted Vir. “But then, well, you saw how he was. He came to help. I think he will. He's not that complicated a boy. And I know that the girl's father opposed the marriage. He must have called the Hogz-Polizei on me like Eberhardt implied. Makes sense.”
“Why the police? Why not just turn down Volfie's proposal?”
“Because the father, a cloth merchant, was apparently friends with some Raduar agents. He didn't know that, of course. He thought his friends were just other tradesmen. So he called the police like they told him. He thought that I was a bandit or something. He had no idea who I really am. Probably still doesn't.”
“Did the Raduar know who you are?” wondered Denario aloud.
“That's the funny thing. Their agents must have known but didn't tell anyone the real facts. They didn't want other folks, not even the police here in Hogsburg, to know who I am. That means the Raduar aren't sure about the new captain either. They don't know what he would do if he had the whole story.”
“So why are the Raduar trying to kill you? I mean, why you and not other Mundredi?”
Vir shrugged as if it didn't matter.
“So the girl's father has had a change of heart,” he said with a slight smile. “That's what Eberhardt said. But he didn't change because of his daughter, Elsa. Oh no. He's changed because he's learned something about his Raduar friends.”
“What?”
The big man shrugged again.
“Why is he acting so scared? Why doesn't he just ask the police for protection?”
“He thinks the Raduar have set him up. He's right. He's worried that the Mundredi clan will take revenge now. He's right about that, too.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
“But ...” Denario hesitated. He knew this might not be a smart thing to say. “But ... I don't want to be suspicious of Volfie ... but why did the girl's father let the boy go? Especially since he hated Volfie?”
“Because his oldest daughter Elsa threatened to kill herself, most like. I've heard enough from Volfie to know that she's been saying that. The father is scared she'll go through with it. He's trying to have it both ways ... stop the marriage and disgrace the boy but not actually kill him. That's the way to keep his daughter in line, see.”
“I think I understand. You said the Mundredi would take revenge. Are you going to kill him?”
“Nah. We'll just steal his daughter.”
“Kidnap her?”
“Heh. Heh, heh, heh.” Vir laughed until his eyes began to water. He slapped his thigh, which made a sound like a stick snapping against a horse's flank. “Kidnapping is for ransom. And that's fine. This is just stealing. It's what she wants.”
Denario very nearly opened his mouth to say, 'people aren't property' but he had a feeling the concept wouldn't go over. Maybe if the words came from someone else, the ox-like bandit would listen.
“How are you going to steal the daughter from him while you're here in this jail?”
His cell mate grunted and shrugged as if his temporary circumstances didn't matter.
Chapter Six, Scene Two
Chapter Half Dozen
Scene One: Revealing Dawn
Even after the spies finished their coded conversation and presumably wandered off or went to sleep, Denario couldn't rest. Fortunately, Vir was willing to chat about the enemy agents. He'd guessed or somehow knew in advance that they were Raduar clansmen.
“Of course they are,” he grumbled. “I've been expecting them. Don't worry.”
“Don't worry?” Denario hissed. “That isn't much better than someone from Ziegeburg. If they come in to kill you, they'll kill me, too.”
“If they're smart, they're planning to shoot me through the barred window with crossbows. But yeah, you'll probably end up dead, too.”
Denario had a sudden image of the bigger man using his body as a shield. Why wouldn't he? Denario winced as he imagined himself skewered at the beginning of the brawl.
It was a relief to talk politics. Vir wouldn't give his full name or tell Denario anything about what he did for a living but he was willing to explain the differences between Mundredi and Raduar. The Mundredi were the most royal of bandits, apparently, and the Raduar were mere upstarts. From Vir's point of view, the Raduar and the Ogglians were the aggressors against him. The Raduar kept trying to take Mundredi territory. The Ogglians kept killing ethnic Mundredi farmers in their lands.
Denario realized that this meant the Mundredi farmers were spreading somehow, maybe through marriage, into the Ogglian counties.
“Yeah, over the few generations, that's probably right,” Vir said after considerable thought. “But if they pay their taxes like anyone else and they obey Ogglian laws, is it right to kill them?”
“What? Of course not!”
The moment of silence from the large man seemed to indicate that this was a matter that he took seriously. It implied something awful on the part of the local knights, though. They must be killing farmers that talked funny or who didn't attend the right temple or church.
“Paying taxes is part of the contract between the nobility and commoners,” Denario continued. He'd heard a visiting knight describe the whole wonderful government system at the baron's cloth factory. “If a farmer pays up and his local knight accepts payment, they have an agreement. The farmer is entitled to the full protection of Ogglian laws and to the military protection of the knight. That's the way it's always been.”
Vir grunted. “Not always. But I see the point.”
“Killing a farmer or someone in his family without a reason and a trial, that breaks the contract. The baron would have to allow some sort of revenge or impose a penalty or something.”
The big man could emit a bitter laugh even in a whisper.
“Do ye really believe that?” he asked.
“I don't know,” Denario admitted. His cell mate probably couldn't see his shoulder roll in the dark. “It's what I was taught. My fiance told me that I'm not as good about people as it seemed back in Oggli. She said I don't know how things really work.”
“Huh. Yer what, sixteen?”
“Seventeen,” Denario asserted. He hated when people made that mistake.
“Hard to believe ye have a woman at all. Did ye arrange that yerself?” He seemed to hear Denario nod. “Lots of me men, that is, lots of men yer age don't. I know plenty of big, strong, handsome lads ... well, maybe not handsome, just big, strong, and young. And they ain't got no women. Not a half of them got someone. That's why they marry outside the clan or come to me, I suppose. Is she older than ye?”
“Yes. She's a widow.”
“No shame on ye, then. She's supposed to know how things work better'n ye. And then ye're nothing special in yer looks, ye know. Brains, maybe, but that don't show. The ladies usually don't care. So ye've done all right fer yerself, I think.”
“Up to now.” Denario pulled his knees up to his chest.
Vir chuckled.
“She gave me a good luck charm as I left.” He looked up at the ceiling in the darkness as he envisioned her face above him. “But I think I've mostly had bad luck.”
“Sometimes we don’t understand our own luck,” the big man replied with a sigh. “I won’t say things happen for a reason. Often, they don’t. But I’ve seen men come into fortunes, say their thanks, and lose their fortunes before they can take another breath. It happens the other way, too. One of my men, Yannick, he wants to win glory but he’s hopeless. Can't fight a lick. He cursed himself for getting ill with a fever so he couldn’t go out on border patrol.”
Denario opened his mouth to interrupt. There couldn't be two men both named Yannick nearby, could there? He wanted to implore the speaker for an explanation. But this was the first time Vir had hinted at the nature of his job. It sounded military. Denario didn't want to stop him while he was feeling expansive.
“Yan almost died, he was so ill,” continued Vir. “But if he’d gone out on that patrol, he’d have died in the ambush they met. So ... was he unlucky to fall sick and miss his chance? Or was he lucky to miss out on that chance, even though none of us knew it at the time?”
Denario smacked his dry lips. “You mean this might work out?”
“Prepare yerself fer death,” grumbled the darkest shadow in the dark. “But don't give up livin' just 'cause it's hard. We're surrounded by my friends. The two of us are in danger, yeh, especially me, but there are a lot more Mundredi clansmen and relatives in this town than the Raduar like to think about. The longer the Raduar chief waits, the worse his chances are of winning. Probably everyone they’ve got on their side has arrived by now. That’s why they’ll have to move tomorrow night.”
Not from anything Vir said but from the manner in which he said it, Denario suddenly understood that his cell mate was an important Mundredi. He was probably one of their best hired killers.
“Enough about me.” The shadow rustled. The big man settled with his back to the wall. “Ye grew up in Oggli. Never been, never wanted to go, but it might be nice to hear about the place. Might learn something.”
Denario took a few minutes to tell his cell mate about the docks in the south of Oggli, where the Complacent Sea swept up onto beaches of white rocks and sands. The fishermen had built trap nets around the docks to herd the sea bucca, a kind of magical traitor fish. If you trapped the bucca and fed them treats of smaller fish, meat, or loaves of bread, the bucca would in turn offer to guide boats to the best fishing grounds. Those were schools of rockfish, marlin, salmon, haddock, mackerel, striped bass, rays, sailfish, charr, and the different types of sea trout. Of course, they were all species of fish that preyed on the bucca or competed with them. One or two times, fishermen had been led to groups of sea crocodiles, sharks, or bishopi that the bucca wanted eliminated. Those trips could end in disaster. On the whole, though, the arrangement worked well.
“There are fresh water bucca in No Map Creek,” offered Vir. “I been there. They'll lead ye to the pike.”
“I don't remember that tributary,” said Denario. He automatically imagined the maps he'd seen of the area. The Riggli Kill had plenty of creeks and streams leading into it.
“Go on.”
“Well, when I first saw the docks, I was nine. The sailors and the dock workers thought I was funny so they answered my questions. Once, when I asked if there were whales in the Complacent, the young dock men laughed and said no. But a couple old sailors spoke up to say that there were porpoises, once. They were nearly white and of a kind only found in the Complacent, they said. You can still see skeletons of them that have been saved by noble houses.”
Denario had been made aware by Winkel that several species of large sea animals had gone extinct under the Muntabi empire. Aside from the porpoises, a special sort of giant clam had been harvested until none were left. Now there was no one in the empire who had seen a living clam larger than a man. The seamen guessed they must have been a separate species from the other large clams. One of the Giant Clam shells still adorned the chambers of Oggli Temple to Naakia. It was being used as a sofa. Denario had sat in it as he worked on the temple accounts. It had a red velvet cushion and, behind the cushion, a smooth, inner shell that was spotted brown and gold.
As he described the Complacent Sea and the city of Ogglia, Denario wondered again about Vir's accent. He could have stepped off a ship in the Paravientri dockyard.
“Oggli is rich because we weren't conquered by Muntab,” Denario said.
Vir snorted. “Never heard that one before.”
“It's true. Across from us, the city of Tar-Abli resisted the conquering armies. And the city was sacked, burned, and its people slaughtered. But that exhausted the Muntabi troops. That's why they let the King of Oggli sue for peace. We paid a tribute, the king stepped down to become the emperor's governor, and our city joined the Muntabi empire without being conquered.”
“There's no such city as Tar-Abli.”
“Because it was destroyed. The city of Angrili was founded where the previous city stood. 'Angre' means 'anchor.' The place was a shipyard first because it had a great natural harbor. Then it became the headquarters of the Inland Navy of Muntabar because the emperor didn't like his army staying in Oggli too much, where they mostly had fun and got arrested.”
“An inland navy?”
“The Complacent Sea was part of the western ocean once, the wizards say, long before there were people around. I wouldn't know about that. It's just the kind of thing wizards talk about and no one can tell them differently. But I read that the empire had to build a series of canals for its navy and merchant ships so that they could reach the oceans.”
“Where are those canals?”
“Gone. Some of the rivers they depended on changed course. You can see it in the old maps. The canals are dry now, filled with dirt. The people living next to them don't recognize them anymore.”
“And all this because ye all lost yer emperor?”
“Maybe. That was hundreds of years ago. Now the dukes and counts keep fighting their neighbors. Some of them have been conquered by highland strangers or they've split off from Muntabi and formed their own kingdoms. They don't keep large fleets, as a rule. That's why there are so many pirates.”
“What's a pirate?”
It took Denario a few minutes to explain the concept. The effort made him sleepy but it ended in laughter from his cell mate.
“Bandits, then,” Vir said. “Bandits on water.”
“Yes. Only two generations ago, the sailors say, there were no pirates on the sea.” This was leading up to the similarity in language between Vir and the sailors on the Complacent Sea. Denario felt they had to be related somehow and he'd be wiser when he figured out precisely how. “The remnants of the Imperial Navy patrolled the waters then. They sailed under the banners of the Duke of Muntar, the Duke of Ogglia, the Duke of Baggra, and the like. They didn't call themselves the Imperial Navy anymore. But they kept most of their merchant ships safe. In the end, though, they gave up. The island nations won. They sank the warships that belonged to the coastal cities. Each island controls the waters around its territory. Each island charges tribute.”
“The empire is weak.” Vir sounded sleepy, too. “The barons are weak. I know that for sure. They can't pay to keep men in arms. They try to hire mercenaries for spot trouble. Then they don't let the troops loot as much as they promised. That's fine by me. Their defectors come to my side.”
Was Vir one of those mercenaries? Denario tried to steer the conversation back towards what the big man was doing in Hogsburg but Vir would have none of it. Instead, he asked about map making and if accountants knew how to do it. He asked why the county and barony borders changed. Denario ended up describing the Duke of Ogglia, an average-looking, thin-haired man who was nearly penniless and lacked martial power. Under him, the more powerful Marquis of West Ogglia ran his court at the city center and ordered men like Winkel and Denario to survey the roads, tax the temples, organize canal repairs, and provide maps of the changing coastline.
They talked for almost an hour. Denario kept trying to figure out who Vir really was, right up until he fell asleep. Even as he dozed off, he fleetingly wondered if his cell mate ever let down his guard or showed any weaknesses, ever.
In the morning, Denario found himself suddenly conscious and aware that a conversation had begun without him. He rubbed his eyes. His cell was filled with the blue glow of pre-dawn light. Vir had left his seat, if he had ever slept on it. He'd taken position halfway to the door. On the other side of the door stood a strange young man. He was a bit shorter than average but not much. His eyes were higher than the window.
“How did you get in?” Vir had just said.
The young man bobbed his head as if he'd expected the question.
“The old captain still has some influence, sir,” he replied. He took off his floppy, wide-brimmed hat to reveal shocks of white-blonde hair. It hung down over his forehead. In the back, a patch of it poked straight up. “He took a couple brassers from me. Then he told the desk officer to let me in.”
“Good ol' Hans,” muttered Vir. “Ye know where ye stand with 'im.”
“Yes, sir. Can't trust him at all.”
“Who told you that?” The big man growled.
“You did.”
“Right.” Vir nodded at this bit of good sense.
“Anyway, I got knocked about by the guards when you got arrested. They disarmed me. I thought the Raduar man was going to kill me but Elsa stood in his way. So the guards just let me go.”
“Funny, that.”
“I'm sorry I'm not in there with you, sir.”
“Ye are?” Vir looked shocked, for an instant. But the expression fled so fast it might have been a trick of the light. “Liar. The food's not that good.”
“It's my fault. You came to town to arrange my marriage. 'Cause I have no father to speak for me.”
“Yeah, well, that's a chief's job.”
“Seems like someone else knew that, sir.”
“There are Raduar agents among our men,” Vir sighed. It took him a long time to form the rest of his reply. “I knew that. I should have sent someone ahead of us into town. Then I would have found out about the new captain. It would have changed how we went to Elsa's father.”
“How are you getting out, sir?” whispered the young man.
“Right.” Vir sounded as if he'd made a decision. His voice lowered. Denario had to read lips to follow everything he said. “Find Sergeant Alaric on Pig Treacle street, last house on the left as you approach the north gate. Tell him that you've heard that the Raduar are attacking the jail tonight.”
“They are?” said the boy, much too loudly.
Vir reached through the bars and covered the underling's mouth for a second.
“If Alaric has questions or even if he doesn't, show him the back of your neck.”
“I don't understand.” The boy shook his head, making the strands of his straw mop sway.
“I know you keep a pocket knife, Volfie. Give it to me for a moment. Then turn around and lift your hair.”
“Yes, sir.”
The boy handed pulled a knife from somewhere under his belt. He handed it over without any sign of hesitation. That's very trusting of Volfie, Denario thought. From Vir's voice, the big man had been suspicious, almost hostile, as the conversation began. Nevertheless, Volfie turned his back and held up his hair. His boss could have cut his throat through the bars, maybe, but he didn't. Instead, the Mundredi chief scratched something on the back of the boy's neck. Denario re-drew the sign in his head, mentally, as he tried to figure out what it meant.
Volfie didn't make a sound during the process, although he bled a bit.
“There.” Vir wiped the blade of the knife on his left palm. Then he pushed it, handle first, through the bars. “That's the rest of the message.”
“Don't you want to keep the blade, sir?” Volfie turned around and checked the cleaning job on the knife's edge.
“Nah. It's too small to do me any good. I'm not going to bust out of here with a pretty toy like that. Just get going. To Alaric, like I said, then to the north gate.”
“Sir.” The boy stood up straight. He tucked the knife into his belt. He saluted.
“Not here, boy,” said Vir. “Now get going.”
In a few seconds, Volfie was at the other end of the cell hall, knocking to be let out. The guard sounded like the big one in fish mail, Manfrit. He was surly and wanted a tip before he let the boy out. Apparently, the old police captain had left and taken his influence with him. But Volfie had a couple pennies and that was enough.
After the boy made it out, Vir took a deep breath. He returned to his stool. He leaned with his back to the wall, arms folded across his chest, lost in thought. Denario wanted to question him but didn't dare. He felt groggy and he remembered that his first impression of his cell mate as a brutish dim-wit had been at least half wrong.
Fortunately, his fellow captive broke the silence.
“Well, if it's Volfgang who's turned on me, we're both done for,” he told Denario.
“It's okay.” Mentally, Denario was still catching up. He had spoken before he was ready. But now he translated the name Volfgang into the nickname Volfie. Then he ventured, “But I guess that until the boy came here, you thought he might be behind it.”
“I did,” admitted Vir. “But then, well, you saw how he was. He came to help. I think he will. He's not that complicated a boy. And I know that the girl's father opposed the marriage. He must have called the Hogz-Polizei on me like Eberhardt implied. Makes sense.”
“Why the police? Why not just turn down Volfie's proposal?”
“Because the father, a cloth merchant, was apparently friends with some Raduar agents. He didn't know that, of course. He thought his friends were just other tradesmen. So he called the police like they told him. He thought that I was a bandit or something. He had no idea who I really am. Probably still doesn't.”
“Did the Raduar know who you are?” wondered Denario aloud.
“That's the funny thing. Their agents must have known but didn't tell anyone the real facts. They didn't want other folks, not even the police here in Hogsburg, to know who I am. That means the Raduar aren't sure about the new captain either. They don't know what he would do if he had the whole story.”
“So why are the Raduar trying to kill you? I mean, why you and not other Mundredi?”
Vir shrugged as if it didn't matter.
“So the girl's father has had a change of heart,” he said with a slight smile. “That's what Eberhardt said. But he didn't change because of his daughter, Elsa. Oh no. He's changed because he's learned something about his Raduar friends.”
“What?”
The big man shrugged again.
“Why is he acting so scared? Why doesn't he just ask the police for protection?”
“He thinks the Raduar have set him up. He's right. He's worried that the Mundredi clan will take revenge now. He's right about that, too.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
“But ...” Denario hesitated. He knew this might not be a smart thing to say. “But ... I don't want to be suspicious of Volfie ... but why did the girl's father let the boy go? Especially since he hated Volfie?”
“Because his oldest daughter Elsa threatened to kill herself, most like. I've heard enough from Volfie to know that she's been saying that. The father is scared she'll go through with it. He's trying to have it both ways ... stop the marriage and disgrace the boy but not actually kill him. That's the way to keep his daughter in line, see.”
“I think I understand. You said the Mundredi would take revenge. Are you going to kill him?”
“Nah. We'll just steal his daughter.”
“Kidnap her?”
“Heh. Heh, heh, heh.” Vir laughed until his eyes began to water. He slapped his thigh, which made a sound like a stick snapping against a horse's flank. “Kidnapping is for ransom. And that's fine. This is just stealing. It's what she wants.”
Denario very nearly opened his mouth to say, 'people aren't property' but he had a feeling the concept wouldn't go over. Maybe if the words came from someone else, the ox-like bandit would listen.
“How are you going to steal the daughter from him while you're here in this jail?”
His cell mate grunted and shrugged as if his temporary circumstances didn't matter.
Chapter Six, Scene Two
Sunday, March 20, 2016
Not Zen 182: Patriotism
"Are you leading an attack on this burrow?" she asked the lead female. "This is the home of your mate."
"This is one of my mates," the leader replied. "He is a liar. See the flag he flies." She pointed to the nearest tall, grey-and-white striped feather.
Their patriotism had started during the spring migration from sea to shore. On a hot, windy day, in response to a bird attack, the fiddler crabs organized themselves into a drove. Such droves were common enough for them, unlike their stone crab and emerald crab neighbors. Aided by a low tide and a narrow shelf of sand, the drove formed an especially tight formation. It couldn't be scattered by predators.
A pair of egrets tried. They waded in and endured cuts at their long legs in order to fling fiddler crabs away from the drove. From there, they could do as they pleased with their prey. The egrets were too mighty and too fast. The seagulls, fortunately, were not. The first one swooped in to grab a female from the edge of the crowd only to find a dozen males and as many females latching on. Together, the crabs dragged the bird to the middle of the drove. They took it the ground.
The predator became the prey. Other seagulls veered off to watch, warily.
The fiddler crabs fought a long battle. Although they did not take down another seagull during their migration, they wounded three others and chased off a pair of terns. They arrived inland around dusk, which gave them time to find or build burrows. The colony had lost fewer members than usual. Someone got the idea to celebrate.
Fiddler crabs are not usually self-sacrificing. Yet that day they had fought to protect one another. After dark, many fighters traveled from home to home, not challenging their rivals for territory or mates but waving their cheliped claws in praise. Some crabs gave gifts of feathers they had won. Others decorated their homes with their feathers.
By the next day, the feathers had become flags of pride. Crabs who had fought hard enough to win them achieved a sort of esteem. There seemed to be a promise associated with the flags - a commitment to come to the aid of the colony.
During mating season, crabs with such flags enjoyed great success. It was an impressive display of hardiness to have survived a bird attack, even more to have come away with a trophy. The flag-bearers declared themselves patriots among the fiddler crabs. Many of them spoke at length about it. They offered to come to the aid of the entire colony in future battles. A few brave, jealous souls launched attacks that season against small birds. They aimed to gain feathers to increase their status.
In a few weeks, however, a problem arose from the patriotic pride. There had been no more battles but many more promises to serve in one. Also, it was possible to attain a flag without actual service to the colony. Scraps of feather in front of a burrow became a statement of good intentions, not a tangible reminder of good deeds done.
"Too many promises were broken this morning," said the leader of the retaliation raids.
"I was near the end of the drove," the young crab replied. "I didn't see."
"If you had, you would feel the betrayal."
As the females had taken their trip along the coast to deposit eggs in the shallows that morning, an attack had come not from above but from the eastern waters. A colony of aggressive stone crabs, larger and tougher than the fiddler crabs, had lain in wait for the migration. They erupted from the surf and severed the limbs of the foremost females. The egg-layers scrambled back. A different set of females and a squad of males surged forward.
Those were the members of the colony who remembered their pledges.
Fiddler crabs had grown accustomed to defending themselves from stone crabs. They did it every year. But this attack was larger. Five giant stone crabs tore into the defenders. Several males fell to them immediately, one tossed back to a waiting family of stone crabs as a meal.
Still the defenders could have held their line had it not been for the deserters. Some fiddler crabs regarded themselves as losers in that season's mating fights, others held grudges, and many forgot their patriotism for other reasons. Fewer crabs had surged forward in defense than were needed. When another third of the contingent fled, the defensive drove cracked. The mighty stone crabs leaped into the breaches and meted twice the damage they'd ever achieved.
Among the casualties were the bravest members of the colony and the strongest, egg-carrying females, their leaders.
Afterward, the remaining fiddler crabs re-gathered their troops, deposited their eggs, and headed home. On the return trek, they plotted revenge. Those who held to their pledges felt a terrible fury toward those who had broken theirs.
"But one of your other mates didn't fight. Why do you attack the home of one crab but not the other?" the young one asked as they surrounded the burrow. "Neither came to our defense."
"One of them flew a flag promising to do so," her leader replied.
She tore down the wall of feathers in front of the home of her mate. She heard the male skittering backward, cowering inside. Another female ripped apart the fallen flags in her rage.
"We'll deal with the liar together," she promised.
"We are not the brightest or the strongest," the leader told her young companion. "Smarter animals are not as fooled, I suppose. To me, the flags stood for something noble. Real patriotism, real sacrifice for others, I admire. But this fake patriotism is worse than not coming to our defense. It claims the glory of self-sacrifice while committing the most evil selfishness. I will not abide it any longer."
"This is one of my mates," the leader replied. "He is a liar. See the flag he flies." She pointed to the nearest tall, grey-and-white striped feather.
Their patriotism had started during the spring migration from sea to shore. On a hot, windy day, in response to a bird attack, the fiddler crabs organized themselves into a drove. Such droves were common enough for them, unlike their stone crab and emerald crab neighbors. Aided by a low tide and a narrow shelf of sand, the drove formed an especially tight formation. It couldn't be scattered by predators.
A pair of egrets tried. They waded in and endured cuts at their long legs in order to fling fiddler crabs away from the drove. From there, they could do as they pleased with their prey. The egrets were too mighty and too fast. The seagulls, fortunately, were not. The first one swooped in to grab a female from the edge of the crowd only to find a dozen males and as many females latching on. Together, the crabs dragged the bird to the middle of the drove. They took it the ground.
The predator became the prey. Other seagulls veered off to watch, warily.
The fiddler crabs fought a long battle. Although they did not take down another seagull during their migration, they wounded three others and chased off a pair of terns. They arrived inland around dusk, which gave them time to find or build burrows. The colony had lost fewer members than usual. Someone got the idea to celebrate.
Fiddler crabs are not usually self-sacrificing. Yet that day they had fought to protect one another. After dark, many fighters traveled from home to home, not challenging their rivals for territory or mates but waving their cheliped claws in praise. Some crabs gave gifts of feathers they had won. Others decorated their homes with their feathers.
By the next day, the feathers had become flags of pride. Crabs who had fought hard enough to win them achieved a sort of esteem. There seemed to be a promise associated with the flags - a commitment to come to the aid of the colony.
During mating season, crabs with such flags enjoyed great success. It was an impressive display of hardiness to have survived a bird attack, even more to have come away with a trophy. The flag-bearers declared themselves patriots among the fiddler crabs. Many of them spoke at length about it. They offered to come to the aid of the entire colony in future battles. A few brave, jealous souls launched attacks that season against small birds. They aimed to gain feathers to increase their status.
In a few weeks, however, a problem arose from the patriotic pride. There had been no more battles but many more promises to serve in one. Also, it was possible to attain a flag without actual service to the colony. Scraps of feather in front of a burrow became a statement of good intentions, not a tangible reminder of good deeds done.
"Too many promises were broken this morning," said the leader of the retaliation raids.
"I was near the end of the drove," the young crab replied. "I didn't see."
"If you had, you would feel the betrayal."
As the females had taken their trip along the coast to deposit eggs in the shallows that morning, an attack had come not from above but from the eastern waters. A colony of aggressive stone crabs, larger and tougher than the fiddler crabs, had lain in wait for the migration. They erupted from the surf and severed the limbs of the foremost females. The egg-layers scrambled back. A different set of females and a squad of males surged forward.
Those were the members of the colony who remembered their pledges.
Fiddler crabs had grown accustomed to defending themselves from stone crabs. They did it every year. But this attack was larger. Five giant stone crabs tore into the defenders. Several males fell to them immediately, one tossed back to a waiting family of stone crabs as a meal.
Still the defenders could have held their line had it not been for the deserters. Some fiddler crabs regarded themselves as losers in that season's mating fights, others held grudges, and many forgot their patriotism for other reasons. Fewer crabs had surged forward in defense than were needed. When another third of the contingent fled, the defensive drove cracked. The mighty stone crabs leaped into the breaches and meted twice the damage they'd ever achieved.
Among the casualties were the bravest members of the colony and the strongest, egg-carrying females, their leaders.
Afterward, the remaining fiddler crabs re-gathered their troops, deposited their eggs, and headed home. On the return trek, they plotted revenge. Those who held to their pledges felt a terrible fury toward those who had broken theirs.
"But one of your other mates didn't fight. Why do you attack the home of one crab but not the other?" the young one asked as they surrounded the burrow. "Neither came to our defense."
"One of them flew a flag promising to do so," her leader replied.
She tore down the wall of feathers in front of the home of her mate. She heard the male skittering backward, cowering inside. Another female ripped apart the fallen flags in her rage.
"We'll deal with the liar together," she promised.
"We are not the brightest or the strongest," the leader told her young companion. "Smarter animals are not as fooled, I suppose. To me, the flags stood for something noble. Real patriotism, real sacrifice for others, I admire. But this fake patriotism is worse than not coming to our defense. It claims the glory of self-sacrifice while committing the most evil selfishness. I will not abide it any longer."
Sunday, March 13, 2016
Not Even Not Zen 33: A Bandit Accountant, 5.4
A Bandit Accountant
Chapter Full Hand
Scene Four: Hidden Message
In his darkened cell, Denario rolled back and forth, restless and poked by the straw. For years, he'd used the trick of doing quadratic equations in his head if he was having trouble falling asleep. But this time it didn't work. He couldn't concentrate on the math. He kept thinking of questions he couldn't answer.
One was the matter of his horse. He hadn't fed her this afternoon. Would the stable master take care of her? He'd seemed a bit too callous. Then there was Pecunia. He missed her so terribly he could almost smell her through the stink of the dozen men in the jail. Was she thinking of him? He remembered the look on her face when he told her about the report he'd written on Figgins. It made him doubt her faith in him.
His cell mate, Vir, seemed deadly but had more self control than Denario had first guessed. Was he really a bandit? That seemed crazy. Economically, it didn't seem possible to sustain such a life.
Denario wondered about the economics of rural life for a while, then he noticed that his back itched more than just a few pokes from the straw should account for. Did a bug do something him? The burning feeling had re-awoken him when he was starting to tire. He scratched himself anxiously for a moment.
He reflected on how lucky he was that the courier sent from Ziegeburg couldn’t identify him. It meant Mayor Figgins didn’t expect Denario to flee in this direction. But the Hogs-Poliez captain would send him off to Ziegeburg anyway. That was unlucky.
It had taken the sight of the ruined stagecoach two days ago for Denario to understand his danger. He’d crossed the Figgins brothers without realizing it. He’d signed his own death warrant with them. He’d been a fool Yet … what else could he have done? Master Winkel would have been disappointed in Denario if he’d lied or misused math. And there was an afterlife. The gods said so. People, on rare occasions, talked to the gods. Winkel somehow might know what was going on. He might understand the problems Denario faced. What would the master accountant have done in this situation?
“Oh, Melcurio.” Since he couldn’t sleep, Denario got up as quietly as he could and began to pray. He stretched out his spirit to reach the god of accounting, wherever he was. Oddly, it didn’t feel to Denario like he had to spread his thoughts too far to get that golden, tingling feel.
“I just want to do the right thing,” he murmured. “I had to save Kurt’s life. I didn’t mean to hurt those men.”
He prayed silently for a while in case Vir was awake. He didn't want anyone else to hear his conversation with Winkel. All he got back from thinking of Winkel, though, was the sense that he should stop acting helpless and start trying to solve his own problems. Winkel had always been in favor of that.
“Okay, I’ll help myself,” he promised the god and his old master. “But am I doing it right? You’ve given me signs before. I wouldn’t feel talked down to or anything if you gave me a sign again.”
At that moment, there was a knock on the wall. Denario froze. Was it the god? Melcurio had a sense of humor, the old master had said.
The knock came again, then again. It was moving down the outside wall of the jail. It didn’t sound like a god now. It was a person trying to locate someone in the jail. Was it one of the wives of the drunks? Was it another bandit searching for Vir? After all, he must have bandit friends. For a moment, Denario considered answering. It wouldn’t be hard to tap out a rhythm on the wall. It might be better to wake his cell mate, though. He leaned in Vir’s direction.
“That better not be Melcurio.” Vir grumbled before Denario could touch him. He sounded like an expert whisperer. His words were perfectly clear and yet Denario didn’t doubt that no one else could hear.
“You’re awake? Never mind, that was a stupid question.” He felt embarrassed at being caught praying. “Are you expecting someone?”
“Not like this. Ssh.” The knock came again, closer. It was only a cell or two away. “Now is the time for the man we saw earlier today to reply to his friend.”
Sure enough, there was an answering knock. It had a different rhythm from the first. It seemed to make the person outside the walls excited. A rapid response followed, far louder than anyone spying should have made.
“How did you know?” Denario kept his voice so low he was nearly mouthing the words in the dark. Vir heard him anyway. Without rising from the floor, the larger man tapped Denario on the foot to remind him to be quiet. Denario closed his mouth. Together, they listened to the knocks. In half a minute, the pattern was obvious.
Denario brushed aside handfuls of straw to expose the dirt of the floor. He knocked aside a beetle, too. Maybe he really had been bitten earlier and that had got him up to pray.
He repeated the pattern he’d heard as scratches in the dirt. The men on both sides of the wall kept making mistakes. They had to repeat themselves, which made the recording of their patterns easy to do.
“What are you scratching in the dirt?” the expert whisperer asked during a break in the action.
“Math,” mouthed Denario. “The patterns are repeating. Maybe I can figure out what they’re saying.”
Vir grunted. “Sounds crazy.”
“Let's see,” mused Denario. He rubbed his chin. He wanted to rise to the challenge. “It sounds like positional lettering, doesn't it? Bump, bump, bump means the third letter. But that 'bong' sound could be a ten in positional notation or maybe a 'five.'”
“It's a five,” said Vir. “They'll be counting in handfuls.”
“Right, then. The first sequence of tapping sounds in the Ogglia alphabet would be .... R ... X ... T ... A ... W ... R ... but that doesn't make sense. So maybe it's not positional.” Denario scraped aside more straw. It was frustrating. He felt so close. He hoped he could work it out better as he copied more of the message.
“Why would they use the Ogglia alphabet?” asked Vir.
“Oh, right. Could be the old alphabet. In that case, the first word would be ... M ... A ... D...E ...I ... T ... oh, that might be right. Maybe he made something.”
“What’s next?” grumbled Vir impatiently. Nothing seemed to surprise him.
“S … E …E … H … I … M.” Denario shook his head. With his right hand, he continued scratching things down but with his left, he read his own writing. Then he was able to keep a complete picture of the rhythms in his head. But the possible meanings of the words had started to worry him. “Maybe they’re talking about me. Maybe that fellow is from the Ziege, come to kidnap me.”
“Keep going.”
“H … E … I … S … I … N … C … O … R … N … E … R … C … E … L … L.” Denario stopped. He wasn’t tired but he found himself breathing a little too hard.
The knock rapped again. It was the same pattern the outside knocker had attempted before but botched. That let Denario collect his thoughts. He returned to writing and decoding.
“That was G … U … D … J … O … B,” he told Vir. “Now the other knocker, our man inside … D … O … W … E … H … A … V … E … N … U … F.”
“Do they have enough?” asked Vir.
“I guess that’s what they mean.” Denario had to pause from decoding to make sense of the words. “Right. It’s a question.”
They sat together in the dark for another minute and listened to the two, quiet wall knockers continue to make mistakes. The code was primitive and they still kept getting it wrong.
At this point, Denario knew their system so well that he didn’t have to write down the rhythms. He just spoke each letter as it occurred. In a little while, he didn’t need to do even that because Vir was keeping up with him. For a brute, he was awfully bright.
"Damn,” said Vir before the outside knocker finished the first word of his answer.
“Y … E … S … W … E … E … L … A … T … T … A … K … T … M … O … R … R … O … W.”
“They'll attack?” the big man asked.
Denario nodded. Then, because he was pretty sure Vir couldn’t see him even though the man could apparently hear a blade of grass bending from across a meadow, he added, “Yes, I think he meant ‘attack.’”
“And they’ll do it tomorrow. But when? Day or night?” Vir cursed softly.
They waited about a quarter of a minute for the man on the outside, who had broken off from his drumming, to finish. Maybe he had been spotted by a guard. Or maybe he'd only paused to worry about a passer-by overhearing.
“T … M … O … R … R … O … W ... N …I …H …T,” came the knock.
“Okay,” said Vir. “Nice of them to tell us. We've got some time. We'll be ready.”
Chapter Six, Scene One
Chapter Full Hand
Scene Four: Hidden Message
In his darkened cell, Denario rolled back and forth, restless and poked by the straw. For years, he'd used the trick of doing quadratic equations in his head if he was having trouble falling asleep. But this time it didn't work. He couldn't concentrate on the math. He kept thinking of questions he couldn't answer.
One was the matter of his horse. He hadn't fed her this afternoon. Would the stable master take care of her? He'd seemed a bit too callous. Then there was Pecunia. He missed her so terribly he could almost smell her through the stink of the dozen men in the jail. Was she thinking of him? He remembered the look on her face when he told her about the report he'd written on Figgins. It made him doubt her faith in him.
His cell mate, Vir, seemed deadly but had more self control than Denario had first guessed. Was he really a bandit? That seemed crazy. Economically, it didn't seem possible to sustain such a life.
Denario wondered about the economics of rural life for a while, then he noticed that his back itched more than just a few pokes from the straw should account for. Did a bug do something him? The burning feeling had re-awoken him when he was starting to tire. He scratched himself anxiously for a moment.
He reflected on how lucky he was that the courier sent from Ziegeburg couldn’t identify him. It meant Mayor Figgins didn’t expect Denario to flee in this direction. But the Hogs-Poliez captain would send him off to Ziegeburg anyway. That was unlucky.
It had taken the sight of the ruined stagecoach two days ago for Denario to understand his danger. He’d crossed the Figgins brothers without realizing it. He’d signed his own death warrant with them. He’d been a fool Yet … what else could he have done? Master Winkel would have been disappointed in Denario if he’d lied or misused math. And there was an afterlife. The gods said so. People, on rare occasions, talked to the gods. Winkel somehow might know what was going on. He might understand the problems Denario faced. What would the master accountant have done in this situation?
“Oh, Melcurio.” Since he couldn’t sleep, Denario got up as quietly as he could and began to pray. He stretched out his spirit to reach the god of accounting, wherever he was. Oddly, it didn’t feel to Denario like he had to spread his thoughts too far to get that golden, tingling feel.
“I just want to do the right thing,” he murmured. “I had to save Kurt’s life. I didn’t mean to hurt those men.”
He prayed silently for a while in case Vir was awake. He didn't want anyone else to hear his conversation with Winkel. All he got back from thinking of Winkel, though, was the sense that he should stop acting helpless and start trying to solve his own problems. Winkel had always been in favor of that.
“Okay, I’ll help myself,” he promised the god and his old master. “But am I doing it right? You’ve given me signs before. I wouldn’t feel talked down to or anything if you gave me a sign again.”
At that moment, there was a knock on the wall. Denario froze. Was it the god? Melcurio had a sense of humor, the old master had said.
The knock came again, then again. It was moving down the outside wall of the jail. It didn’t sound like a god now. It was a person trying to locate someone in the jail. Was it one of the wives of the drunks? Was it another bandit searching for Vir? After all, he must have bandit friends. For a moment, Denario considered answering. It wouldn’t be hard to tap out a rhythm on the wall. It might be better to wake his cell mate, though. He leaned in Vir’s direction.
“That better not be Melcurio.” Vir grumbled before Denario could touch him. He sounded like an expert whisperer. His words were perfectly clear and yet Denario didn’t doubt that no one else could hear.
“You’re awake? Never mind, that was a stupid question.” He felt embarrassed at being caught praying. “Are you expecting someone?”
“Not like this. Ssh.” The knock came again, closer. It was only a cell or two away. “Now is the time for the man we saw earlier today to reply to his friend.”
Sure enough, there was an answering knock. It had a different rhythm from the first. It seemed to make the person outside the walls excited. A rapid response followed, far louder than anyone spying should have made.
“How did you know?” Denario kept his voice so low he was nearly mouthing the words in the dark. Vir heard him anyway. Without rising from the floor, the larger man tapped Denario on the foot to remind him to be quiet. Denario closed his mouth. Together, they listened to the knocks. In half a minute, the pattern was obvious.
Denario brushed aside handfuls of straw to expose the dirt of the floor. He knocked aside a beetle, too. Maybe he really had been bitten earlier and that had got him up to pray.
He repeated the pattern he’d heard as scratches in the dirt. The men on both sides of the wall kept making mistakes. They had to repeat themselves, which made the recording of their patterns easy to do.
“What are you scratching in the dirt?” the expert whisperer asked during a break in the action.
“Math,” mouthed Denario. “The patterns are repeating. Maybe I can figure out what they’re saying.”
Vir grunted. “Sounds crazy.”
“Let's see,” mused Denario. He rubbed his chin. He wanted to rise to the challenge. “It sounds like positional lettering, doesn't it? Bump, bump, bump means the third letter. But that 'bong' sound could be a ten in positional notation or maybe a 'five.'”
“It's a five,” said Vir. “They'll be counting in handfuls.”
“Right, then. The first sequence of tapping sounds in the Ogglia alphabet would be .... R ... X ... T ... A ... W ... R ... but that doesn't make sense. So maybe it's not positional.” Denario scraped aside more straw. It was frustrating. He felt so close. He hoped he could work it out better as he copied more of the message.
“Why would they use the Ogglia alphabet?” asked Vir.
“Oh, right. Could be the old alphabet. In that case, the first word would be ... M ... A ... D...E ...I ... T ... oh, that might be right. Maybe he made something.”
“What’s next?” grumbled Vir impatiently. Nothing seemed to surprise him.
“S … E …E … H … I … M.” Denario shook his head. With his right hand, he continued scratching things down but with his left, he read his own writing. Then he was able to keep a complete picture of the rhythms in his head. But the possible meanings of the words had started to worry him. “Maybe they’re talking about me. Maybe that fellow is from the Ziege, come to kidnap me.”
“Keep going.”
“H … E … I … S … I … N … C … O … R … N … E … R … C … E … L … L.” Denario stopped. He wasn’t tired but he found himself breathing a little too hard.
The knock rapped again. It was the same pattern the outside knocker had attempted before but botched. That let Denario collect his thoughts. He returned to writing and decoding.
“That was G … U … D … J … O … B,” he told Vir. “Now the other knocker, our man inside … D … O … W … E … H … A … V … E … N … U … F.”
“Do they have enough?” asked Vir.
“I guess that’s what they mean.” Denario had to pause from decoding to make sense of the words. “Right. It’s a question.”
They sat together in the dark for another minute and listened to the two, quiet wall knockers continue to make mistakes. The code was primitive and they still kept getting it wrong.
At this point, Denario knew their system so well that he didn’t have to write down the rhythms. He just spoke each letter as it occurred. In a little while, he didn’t need to do even that because Vir was keeping up with him. For a brute, he was awfully bright.
"Damn,” said Vir before the outside knocker finished the first word of his answer.
“Y … E … S … W … E … E … L … A … T … T … A … K … T … M … O … R … R … O … W.”
“They'll attack?” the big man asked.
Denario nodded. Then, because he was pretty sure Vir couldn’t see him even though the man could apparently hear a blade of grass bending from across a meadow, he added, “Yes, I think he meant ‘attack.’”
“And they’ll do it tomorrow. But when? Day or night?” Vir cursed softly.
They waited about a quarter of a minute for the man on the outside, who had broken off from his drumming, to finish. Maybe he had been spotted by a guard. Or maybe he'd only paused to worry about a passer-by overhearing.
“T … M … O … R … R … O … W ... N …I …H …T,” came the knock.
“Okay,” said Vir. “Nice of them to tell us. We've got some time. We'll be ready.”
Chapter Six, Scene One
Sunday, March 6, 2016
Not Zen 181: Ideal Journey
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| Mountain Hike by Capricorn4049 via Wikimedia Commons |
A young man roamed through high mountain passes in his attempt to duplicate the journey of a famous monk. It was an arduous trip that lasted for many weeks. On some days, he found himself in danger from thirst. He begged for water at the villages he encountered.
More frustrating than the lack of food, water, and shelter were the missing landmarks he'd expected. The sights described in the monk's account no longer existed.
One day, he looked down from a high hill and saw a man pushing a cart along in a field. The fellow got his wheels stuck every few yards. He seemed in need of help. The young man waved. The cart driver waved back. And so the traveller descended into the valley below.
"Venerable fellow," he said after after establishing what language they could use, exchanging greetings, and understanding the advanced age of the farmer. "Why do you drive your cart here? I can't see your home ahead of us."
"My home is behind," replied the farmer. "This is the road over the next hill and to the village."
The traveller crouched. He studied the land with care. But his view from above had not misled him. This was a barren, uneven field, not any kind of road. If anything, this rock-strewn, shallow gully the farmer had chosen provided worse terrain for carts than the rest of the landscape.
"There are so many holes and stones this way," he said. "It's hard to believe this is the best path to the village."
"Perhaps it isn't," the old fellow admitted. "But I've used it a long time. This month, I've tried the journey twice. The cart broke down both times. Yet it's a good cart."
They both looked at the imposing mountains. If the direction the farmer had been headed was any indication, he had a long way to go around.
"This reminds me of when I was a boy," the young fellow ventured.
"Did you grow up around here?" The farmer gave him a doubtful glance.
"No. My father encountered a similar problem, though. He drove along a shortcut every morning. It had been part of a private road. The farmer who made the road was finished with it. He let the path fall into disrepair. That didn't stop my father. He kept driving on it. He took it every day for years."
"What happened?"
"One wet day, my father got stuck. He needed help to get out. I remember him wailing about the expense of the towing and the time he'd lost. My mother showed no sympathy. She kept telling him, 'This is no longer a road. You've been driving on only the idea of a road.'"
"Are you saying this is no longer a path?"
"Perhaps it's the idea of one. I think I should help you walk this cart around the mountain or to a smoother path."
For a while they strolled together through the gully, side by side. The young man stopped to lift the cart wheels out of holes twice.
"To where are you travelling?" the old man wondered after they cleared the second hole.
"I'm embarrassed to say," replied the young man.
Sunday, February 28, 2016
Not Even Not Zen 32: A Bandit Accountant, 5.3
A Bandit Accountant
Chapter Full Hand
Scene Three: Interview with the Butcher
About an hour before sunset, the fat guard Douglas appeared at the door to Denario's cell. He was tussling with someone at the same time as he was trying to turn the key and dial the combination. Denario could immediately see a flaw to the new system. The guards probably hated these locks already. You needed both hands to work them.
Douglas had to push his prisoner down onto the floor. He sat on the fellow while he cursed the fancy lock.
When he finally got the door open, Douglas half-pushed and half-rolled his man into the cell. This particular drunk reeked of wine, not ale like the first two. He had two layers of flannel clothing, which in this area made him rich. Perhaps it was the padded clothes but he didn't look hurt by the rough handling he'd gotten.
“I was just sleeping!” he protested.
“Ye were pissing on the mayor's sister's house.”
“I was?” The thought seemed to slow down the puffy-eyed fellow. He put a hand to the wall, probably to keep from falling over. “That's my aunt Berta, then. Did she send for you?”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry. I know what she's like.” The tipsy fellow sat down on one of the sleeping drunks. Then he realized that the lump wasn't a chair and moved to the side. He glanced at Denario. “Who's this, then?”
“Sorry, sir. We're full up. Crazy new captain. So I can't put you in a cell by yerself. And I can't put ye in with the one who looks like a killer. The mayor would get mighty shirty with us if ye were beaten te death.”
“Well, I'm not in favor of that either ...” the drunk continued. But the guard interrupted.
“You don't belong here.” Douglas stepped into the cell and grabbed Denario by the elbow.
“Me?” Denario tried not to grin. “You're perfectly right. I didn't ...”
“No one minds if ye're killed.” The guard dragged Denario out so fast that his heels barely touched the ground.
While the accountant staggered to keep up, his jailer took him to the corner cell. This looked like the largest of the rooms and Denario's first impression was that it might not be that bad inside there. But when Douglas started to open the door, he thought better of it. Whoever sat inside made him nervous.
“Rolph! Willi!” he called.
Only after he had gotten two other guards to come help, both with their swords drawn, did Douglas dare to open the door. Even so, despite their armor and weaponry, none of the men appeared confident.
“In you go!” shouted Douglas. He kicked Denario so hard in the buttocks that he nearly flew into the room.
Denario landed face down on the floor and was slightly surprised to find that it was covered in straw. Nice. But who in here could merit better treatment than the rich fellow they'd just arrested? The door slammed shut behind him. Denario lifted his head.
In front of him, on a stool, sat the most muscular man that Denario had ever seen. The man's head was nearly bald but he had a thick, brown mustache. Even his jaw muscles looked frightening. He had no beard but there was stubble on his jaw as if he'd gone without shaving overnight. He was dressed in a plain, linen shirt that strained to cover his barrel chest, thick pants of soft leather, boots made from the pelts of furry, gray animals and a sword belt. Naturally, he had neither scabbard nor sword. He gave the impression of being the sort of man who wrestled cows for a living or who had done so for a while until he slaughtered them all in a fit of rage. And he had, Denario noted, a tattoo of a crown crossed by spears on his left arm. It was precisely the same design that Yannick, Moritz, and Gerhardt had worn.
“Who are you?” Denario asked as he picked himself up. Then, realizing that might be construed as rudeness, he added, “I'm Denario.”
He brushed himself off. His cell mate allowed him that, at least, before rising to his feet. Then the man Denario was convinced had to wrestle some sort of livestock grabbed Denario by the right wrist. He lifted Denario off of his toes. Then, silently, his fellow inmate pushed Denario's right sleeve from the forearm to the shoulder. He switched wrists and did the same thing to the left arm, left sleeve.
“Why does everyone do this to me?” Denario wondered aloud.
For the first time, his cell mate made a sound. It was a low, soft, dangerous chuckle.
“What are ye?” he drawled. He let Denario's feet touch the floor.
“An accountant?” He hadn't meant for it to sound like a question. “Really, I am. I just didn't wear the vest or cap today.”
“Accountant, accountant,” grunted the inmate. “What's that, then?”
“It's ... numbers.” Denario ratcheted down his opinion of the cow butcher's intelligence as he sought to find a description that an uneducated man would understand. “I make sure amounts paid and amounts received are the same on either end. You know, for a large merchant partnership or for one of the barons or earls or a knight. That is, the nobles come into the picture for me if I'm lucky. I work for them sometimes.”
“Ye a tax collector?” The mountain of veins and sinews rumbled. His bloodshot eyes squinted. “'Cause I hates 'em.”
“Er, no.” Denario had often wished he were a tax collector but now he denied it with a feeling of relief. “Actually, I'm in trouble with one right now. I suppose, in a roundabout way, that's why I'm here in Hogsburg.”
“Trouble over taxes?” A grin opened at the top of the mountain. The muscles and sinews shifted as they relaxed. A moment later, the inmate sat back down on his chair. He folded his arms. “That's all right by ye, then. That's normal.”
The bloodshot eyes closed. After a long time, so long that Denario thought his cell mate must be asleep, the gravelly voice spoke again.
“What one?”
“What one of what?” replied Denario.
“What burgher meister did ye cross? 'Cause I'm going to kill Burgher Hamhock.”
“You are?” Denario believed him for a moment. This fellow seemed capable of killing without thinking much about it. Of course, it had to be an idle threat. No one in these little towns had killed anyone so prominent as a burgher in fifty years, probably.
“He says he's having a farmer friend of mine stoned but I won't have it. Bad for business. Got to pay ransom for the farmer or kill Hamhock.”
“Oh.” Denario had a hard time trying to picture what business this fellow was in. Livestock wrestling probably didn't pay much.
“So, ye didn't say.” Both bloodshot eyes opened. “Which one?”
“Burgher Figgins. Maybe you don't ...”
“Haw!” The prisoner slapped his knee. Denario felt it through the dirt floor. “That damned fool! Stole from the baron, eh?”
“Er, yes. About half the take, more or less.”
“Good, good.”
“Is he a friend of yours?” Denario asked, dreading the answer.
“Not likely. But he's Baron Ankster's man, so I'm happy to see them fighting. No, I ain't got no friends in the Ankster court. But Burgher Figgins, he got less than none.”
Since this was a logical impossibility, Denario felt compelled to point it out. He hesitated, though. His cell mate might not take to being corrected. Good old Winkel had always laughed with delight when Denario caught him in a mistake. No one else ever did that, Denario noticed.
“What do you mean, 'less than none?'”
“Wouldn't ye like to know, eh?” The prisoner suddenly looked rather sly. He folded his hands in his lap. “But it's obvious enough. The baron suspects his burghers are stealing from him. Of course they are. They always have. But it's more, now. They're trying to cut themselves free, especially out on the Zeige where they've been independent in the past. So the baron wants to catch one or two cheaters an' make an example of them.”
“But Ankster didn't hire me. The mayor of Ziegeburg did.”
“Ah.” Eyes closed, the dangerous man nodded. “That's better. Wouldn't like to think of ye working for the baron. But that's how ye did it wrong. If ye were hired by the mayor, ye were supposed to find for his brother and ye didn't. The baron probably sent his own man for the job, by the way.”
“Yes. The mayor kept telling me for weeks and weeks that the baron's accountant would come to check my work. But in mid-winter, he announced that the man was killed by bandits.”
“Yeah. From what ye say, it figures for the baron's man to have an accident along the way. For all I know, it was me who provided the accident.”
“Is that your business?”
“When I'm this far west, it sometimes could be. Usually not, though. Can't spend the time to make much money that way. And I would never work directly for Ankster or the Figgins brothers.”
“My fiance said I should have figured it out. But the math ...”
The cow butcher made a rude noise.
“What's wrong?”
“Look.” The man's voice, already low, got deeper and quieter. “It's not math. It's people. The mayor knows his brother is in trouble. So he brings in someone independent, that being ye, to prove the burgher didn't do what everyone knows he did. No one expects Baron Ankster to believe it but so what? The baron just wants his money, that's all. Troops are expensive. He's looking for a reason to avoid sending them. Of course, getting his regular tax money is the best reason.”
“And I screwed it up.”
“Yeh.” He chuckled. “The baron hates to send soldiers as far as the Ziege. Most of his troops are at Faschnaught this year. He's worried about his lands closer to home, too.”
“How do you know he won't march onto the Ziege?”
“He can't pay for a fight. And that's the part that's really about numbers. You said it's your job to do numbers, right? So ye should know.”
“Master Winkel told me about the costs of tax collection. I've never seen an incident happen, though.”
“Ye will. If you hang around here long ... without hanging, I mean ... yeh'll see.” The man had a funny accent. It sounded familiar but Denario couldn't place it right away.
Then they fell silent. Denario was glad to find that his cell mate, whether he was an ox wrestler or a butcher, could be calm. In fact, he seemed to progress beyond calm into a state of meditation that barely involved breathing. Maybe he didn't have much to think about. He looked like someone who did reacting, not planning. His arm muscles and neck muscles cast shadows in his flesh even when he was relaxed.
Finally, Denario remembered where he'd heard his cell mate's accent. The sailors at the Paraventiri dock yard in Oggli spoke like that. So did other dialect speakers from pirate nations around the Complacent Sea. A few of them traveled through Ziegeburg. Of course, maybe all bandits talked that way. Denario didn't doubt that his fellow prisoner was a bandit in the eyes of Captain Eberhardt.
Someone in a nearby cell sang to himself for a while. When the singer got tired, he hummed.
About half an hour later, after Denario had calmed down enough to wonder if his geometer tools were still safe, he heard a metallic clank from the other end of the prisoners' hall. The hall door thumped open hard. It rattled.
“That ain't just liquor. Ya smell like piss,” said a guard, probably Fritz, to the prisoner he'd brought.
Denario could hear the rustle of cheap leather uniforms, chain mail, and scabbards. Heavy boots clomped down the line of cells. There were at least three sets of footsteps, one of them as light as bare feet. The procession stopped well short of Denario's cell, though, so he knew he wouldn't get to see the new prisoner.
“Hey, ya!” someone shouted.
Suddenly, a light set of footsteps came Denario's way. He stood up as he listened. He turned toward the window on the cell door. Maybe he would be able to catch a glimpse. At his height, though, it wouldn't be easy even if the man made it this far. He took a step closer.
As he stretched on his tiptoes to see, a man's head appeared between the bars. The fellow had a a shock of brown hair and piercing blue eyes. At first, he spied Denario standing on his toes. Then he saw Denario's cell mate slumped on the stool. His eyes went wide. He grinned. It was not a kind expression.
In a second, he was gone. A guard, definitely someone larger than Fritz, grabbed the stranger by the shoulder and dragged him back down to his cell.
“Ow! Just kidding! Ow!” the man called. The guards took a few swipes at him. Then they tossed him to the floor and closed the door to his cell.
After the guards left, silence settled in along the row of cells. Even the humming from next door faded. Denario nodded off once or twice.
Eventually, men in the cells began to mutter to one another. That made Denario realize it must be time for supper. Everyone sounded on edge. The high windows in the hall, which didn't give off much light even in the middle of the day, had dimmed further. It was getting late. Denario's stomach agreed.
Some time later, a clanking noise came from beyond the end of the hall. Wheels squeaked until a cart bumped into the cell hall door, then squeaked backwards for a few feet. The clanking turned out to be pots, pans, and ladles. It was a cart of food and Denario smelled it long before it got as far as his end of the hall. With the food came Captain Eberhardt.
“Give him a bit more,” said Eberhardt to one of his men. The ladle scraped against the pot.
From the scents and sounds, dinner was bowls of lamb broth soup and loaves of bread. The bowls weren't metal, so Denario assumed they were wooden. They must be pushed through the slots at the bottom of the doors because the guards weren’t opening any cells. Denario knelt measured the slot with his hand. It was going to be a rather shallow bowl.
When they finally got to his cell, Captain Eberhardt face appeared first. He looked tired. Puffy flesh under his eyes showed that he hadn’t slept lately. He’d pulled a fresh linen shirt on over his armor but it looked like a gesture he’d made because someone had told him he should.
“Well, well. If it isn't my two favorites, both together,” he said. He gave them a sarcastic smile. In an instant, it disappeared.
A small man who had been at the gate this morning, not Fritz, grabbed a wide, wooden bowl. He concentrated on his task of ladling soup and Denario hovered near the door gratefully. He was delighted that the guard cared enough not to spill.
Behind the small man was the larger one who Denario thought he’d glimpsed when the new prisoner had arrived. He was the fellow, probably, who had yanked the prisoner back to the correct cell. His sleeves were fishmail, a bit rusty and battered, but distinctive.
“We've had a courier come in from Ziegeburg.” The captain gave Denario a suspicious gaze.
Denario’s heart sank. He tried not to let the dread he felt show on his face.
“You know what the courier said? There's a man wanted for murder over on the Ziege. He's a short man. Thin. Wears a red vest or red cap and probably still has them even if he’s found a change of clothes. He worked as an accountant but then he robbed the mayor and burgher, killed everyone on the stagecoach, and fled.”
Denario started to shout that he never did that. But he saw a gleam in the captain's weary eyes. The man was looking for an admission of guilt. He was searching for anything that might prove Denario was the one Ziegeburg wanted. And the fact that he was searching for a response meant that he had doubts. Denario still had a chance.
“That sounds terrible,” Denario finally responded. He figured that much could be said by anyone.
“We've got two strange men who fit that description,” Eberhardt continued. “And one of them is you. I hear there are a couple more in town as well although they're probably just bandits, like this fellow.”
He gave Denario's cell mate a hard glare. It wasn’t like the look he gave Denario. It was much stronger. There was a physical sense of distrust between the two large men, perhaps because the captain wasn’t sure he could take down his bandit prisoner in a fair fight. He would never have had doubts about the other prisoners.
A bowl slipped through the slot at the bottom of the door. With a glance to his cell mate for approval, Denario knelt and accepted the soup. There was no spoon. At this point, Denario was hungry enough not to care. A thin wedge of bread, almost an all-over crust, tumbled through. Denario grabbed it from the floor and backed away so his cell mate could take his food next.
While the transaction went on in silence, Denario got the sense that he should try one more time to gain his release. After all, he was innocent, in a way.
“Captain,” ventured Denario, “aren’t the short, thin bandits better suspects than I am? I know you won’t let me go right now but if I get out of here tomorrow, I won’t leave town until you’re satisfied. You must know I couldn’t rob any stagecoach.”
“Huh!” the captain snorted. “I don’t see how anyone of your description could have done what they say. But I don’t like either of you men being tricky. And both of you are. Willi! Come here.”
“Captain?” the young man’s voice came from the front of the Hogz-Poliez house. It took him a minute to trot down the hall into the cells. “You wanted me?”
“Yes. First, Willi, did you see those campfires out there yesterday all around the town?”
“No sir.” Willi shrunk back, completely out of view of the cell window. “I was on desk duty then.”
“The bandits have come to break someone out of the jail. I’ve heard that from three informants, not that I trust any of them. And the campfires appeared the day after we captured this man at the cloth merchant's house. You were at the desk then too, as I recall.”
“Yes, sir.” The lad answered in a slightly-put-upon voice. “Three days in a row.”
“We’ll teach Manfrit and Douglas to scribe, don’t worry.” The captain’s tone softened for a moment. “But I read what you wrote down. Do you remember it? Do you recall the name this man gave?”
Captain Eberhardt’s arm pointed to the heart of Denario’s cell mate.
“That one? He said he was Vert Badli, sir.”
“Badli is not a family name, Willi.”
“Sir?”
“It's a joke. He played a joke on you. And this one?” He pointed at Denario. “What name did he give?”
“Furtim Endiem, I think.”
“That's worse. That's old tongue for ... thief, I think. Is there any mother, anywhere in the world who would name her son that? I think not.”
He growled in Denario's direction.
“Didn't think I knew that, huh? Figured I was just as dumb as the other police?”
“Hey,” muttered Willi and someone behind him.
“Well, I know the old tongues, mister math teacher. And if you name yourself 'thief' here, then you can wait with the other thieves. Furtim Endiem ... is that 'thief in the day?' Thief of the gods? It doesn't matter. We'll send you and the other fellows of your description to Ziegeburg soon enough. I’d have the courier in here right now only he says he’s never seen the accountant that his mayor is looking for.”
“And now you,” said the captain. He put his hands on his hips and turned his steady gaze on Denario’s fellow inmate. “What have you done with the cloth merchant, eh?”
“Haven’t done nothin’,” answered the probable ox-wrestler.
“Then why won’t he talk to me anymore? Is he afraid for his daughter’s safety like he says? But if he is, really, he wouldn’t have let that boy go. I saw them making eyes. His daughter liked that boy. And where’s the older man who was with the merchant? He was the one who said you were going to commit a robbery. He and the merchant tipped us off. Now he’s gone missing. He had tattoos like you.”
The nearly-bald man showed no emotion as he endured the barrage of questions. He hadn’t even knelt to take his bowl of soup.
“At the time,” the captain continued, “I didn’t know there was a difference between types of bandits. I didn’t check on him. I was just so damn happy to have an informant. But I’m learning.”
As if to himself, the prisoner nodded.
“Well? What do you know?” the captain roared at him.
“You wouldn’t believe me.”
That made the captain hesitate. So it was probably true. Denario glanced back and forth between them as he slurped his soup. He had pieces of turnip and carrot in his teeth, along with flecks of lamb meat. He was trying to figure out why there seemed to be so much more going on than the words indicated. It wasn’t just two fighters sizing each other up.
“Why don’t you give me a try?” Eberhardt finally said.
“No. Can I eat now?”
The captain slumped, defeated for a moment. He was bound by his own pride and his determination to uphold law and order. He wouldn’t even threaten to beat his prisoners. The old captain might have done that, from the look of changes in the jail and the grumbles of the guards. Not this one, new to Hogsburg from the court of Sir Mekli and filled with a sense of nobility. He did things by the book. And he could read the book, all of it.
“I’ll bring you before the judge tomorrow,” Eberhardt promised.
“Uh, sir,” mumbled Willi.
“What?”
“Judge Worter is at Sir Blockhelm’s court.”
“When is he supposed to be back? Never mind. The mayor can sit in for him.”
“No one's ever asked Gunterfast to do that,” said the big man behind Willi.
“But I will,” Eberhardt promised. “Rolf, you stay here until they pass back the soup bowls. Willi, Manfrit, you come with me. I want to find out who knows this Vert Badli fellow. We’ve been set up to capture him, I think, and I need to know why some folks around here think he’s important.”
“He was friendly with our old captain, sir,” mumbled Manfrit as he lumbered away down the hall. He was the giant in the fishmail. “Leastways, I seen them talking plenty o’ times.”
“Really? Damn it.” From the sound of his lowered voice, Eberhardt realized that he shouldn’t have raised the topic in front of his prisoners. Or maybe he’d brought it up deliberately as a way to generate extra worries for the inmates. If so, the mention of the man he’d replaced had changed his mind.
Denario’s cell mate ate in silence. He finished his soup not long after Denario did and pushed his bowl through the slot obediently. The guard packed up his cart and left. On his way out, he traded happy shouts with the drunks in the other cells. He seemed to be rather a jolly jailer until he pulled the hallway door shut and turned the lock.
“The name of the man wanted for murder,” whispered Denario’s cell mate. He walked closer, so only the two of them could hear. His massive shoulder was higher than Denario’s head. “That would be Denario, now, wouldn’t it?”
Denario paled. How had his cell mate guessed?
“Ye gave yer real name when you came in. Don’t think the guard noticed, though.”
“Oh my gods.” He blinked and checked his memory. His breath caught in his chest. It was true. He'd forgotten to give his alias to this man.
A heavily muscled arm jutted out in Denario’s direction.
“Me real name is Vir,” the man whispered. He took Denario’s hand and shook it. His fingers felt like iron. “Ye’ll learn about me soon enough.”
Chapter Five, Scene Four
Chapter Full Hand
Scene Three: Interview with the Butcher
About an hour before sunset, the fat guard Douglas appeared at the door to Denario's cell. He was tussling with someone at the same time as he was trying to turn the key and dial the combination. Denario could immediately see a flaw to the new system. The guards probably hated these locks already. You needed both hands to work them.
Douglas had to push his prisoner down onto the floor. He sat on the fellow while he cursed the fancy lock.
When he finally got the door open, Douglas half-pushed and half-rolled his man into the cell. This particular drunk reeked of wine, not ale like the first two. He had two layers of flannel clothing, which in this area made him rich. Perhaps it was the padded clothes but he didn't look hurt by the rough handling he'd gotten.
“I was just sleeping!” he protested.
“Ye were pissing on the mayor's sister's house.”
“I was?” The thought seemed to slow down the puffy-eyed fellow. He put a hand to the wall, probably to keep from falling over. “That's my aunt Berta, then. Did she send for you?”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry. I know what she's like.” The tipsy fellow sat down on one of the sleeping drunks. Then he realized that the lump wasn't a chair and moved to the side. He glanced at Denario. “Who's this, then?”
“Sorry, sir. We're full up. Crazy new captain. So I can't put you in a cell by yerself. And I can't put ye in with the one who looks like a killer. The mayor would get mighty shirty with us if ye were beaten te death.”
“Well, I'm not in favor of that either ...” the drunk continued. But the guard interrupted.
“You don't belong here.” Douglas stepped into the cell and grabbed Denario by the elbow.
“Me?” Denario tried not to grin. “You're perfectly right. I didn't ...”
“No one minds if ye're killed.” The guard dragged Denario out so fast that his heels barely touched the ground.
While the accountant staggered to keep up, his jailer took him to the corner cell. This looked like the largest of the rooms and Denario's first impression was that it might not be that bad inside there. But when Douglas started to open the door, he thought better of it. Whoever sat inside made him nervous.
“Rolph! Willi!” he called.
Only after he had gotten two other guards to come help, both with their swords drawn, did Douglas dare to open the door. Even so, despite their armor and weaponry, none of the men appeared confident.
“In you go!” shouted Douglas. He kicked Denario so hard in the buttocks that he nearly flew into the room.
Denario landed face down on the floor and was slightly surprised to find that it was covered in straw. Nice. But who in here could merit better treatment than the rich fellow they'd just arrested? The door slammed shut behind him. Denario lifted his head.
In front of him, on a stool, sat the most muscular man that Denario had ever seen. The man's head was nearly bald but he had a thick, brown mustache. Even his jaw muscles looked frightening. He had no beard but there was stubble on his jaw as if he'd gone without shaving overnight. He was dressed in a plain, linen shirt that strained to cover his barrel chest, thick pants of soft leather, boots made from the pelts of furry, gray animals and a sword belt. Naturally, he had neither scabbard nor sword. He gave the impression of being the sort of man who wrestled cows for a living or who had done so for a while until he slaughtered them all in a fit of rage. And he had, Denario noted, a tattoo of a crown crossed by spears on his left arm. It was precisely the same design that Yannick, Moritz, and Gerhardt had worn.
“Who are you?” Denario asked as he picked himself up. Then, realizing that might be construed as rudeness, he added, “I'm Denario.”
He brushed himself off. His cell mate allowed him that, at least, before rising to his feet. Then the man Denario was convinced had to wrestle some sort of livestock grabbed Denario by the right wrist. He lifted Denario off of his toes. Then, silently, his fellow inmate pushed Denario's right sleeve from the forearm to the shoulder. He switched wrists and did the same thing to the left arm, left sleeve.
“Why does everyone do this to me?” Denario wondered aloud.
For the first time, his cell mate made a sound. It was a low, soft, dangerous chuckle.
“What are ye?” he drawled. He let Denario's feet touch the floor.
“An accountant?” He hadn't meant for it to sound like a question. “Really, I am. I just didn't wear the vest or cap today.”
“Accountant, accountant,” grunted the inmate. “What's that, then?”
“It's ... numbers.” Denario ratcheted down his opinion of the cow butcher's intelligence as he sought to find a description that an uneducated man would understand. “I make sure amounts paid and amounts received are the same on either end. You know, for a large merchant partnership or for one of the barons or earls or a knight. That is, the nobles come into the picture for me if I'm lucky. I work for them sometimes.”
“Ye a tax collector?” The mountain of veins and sinews rumbled. His bloodshot eyes squinted. “'Cause I hates 'em.”
“Er, no.” Denario had often wished he were a tax collector but now he denied it with a feeling of relief. “Actually, I'm in trouble with one right now. I suppose, in a roundabout way, that's why I'm here in Hogsburg.”
“Trouble over taxes?” A grin opened at the top of the mountain. The muscles and sinews shifted as they relaxed. A moment later, the inmate sat back down on his chair. He folded his arms. “That's all right by ye, then. That's normal.”
The bloodshot eyes closed. After a long time, so long that Denario thought his cell mate must be asleep, the gravelly voice spoke again.
“What one?”
“What one of what?” replied Denario.
“What burgher meister did ye cross? 'Cause I'm going to kill Burgher Hamhock.”
“You are?” Denario believed him for a moment. This fellow seemed capable of killing without thinking much about it. Of course, it had to be an idle threat. No one in these little towns had killed anyone so prominent as a burgher in fifty years, probably.
“He says he's having a farmer friend of mine stoned but I won't have it. Bad for business. Got to pay ransom for the farmer or kill Hamhock.”
“Oh.” Denario had a hard time trying to picture what business this fellow was in. Livestock wrestling probably didn't pay much.
“So, ye didn't say.” Both bloodshot eyes opened. “Which one?”
“Burgher Figgins. Maybe you don't ...”
“Haw!” The prisoner slapped his knee. Denario felt it through the dirt floor. “That damned fool! Stole from the baron, eh?”
“Er, yes. About half the take, more or less.”
“Good, good.”
“Is he a friend of yours?” Denario asked, dreading the answer.
“Not likely. But he's Baron Ankster's man, so I'm happy to see them fighting. No, I ain't got no friends in the Ankster court. But Burgher Figgins, he got less than none.”
Since this was a logical impossibility, Denario felt compelled to point it out. He hesitated, though. His cell mate might not take to being corrected. Good old Winkel had always laughed with delight when Denario caught him in a mistake. No one else ever did that, Denario noticed.
“What do you mean, 'less than none?'”
“Wouldn't ye like to know, eh?” The prisoner suddenly looked rather sly. He folded his hands in his lap. “But it's obvious enough. The baron suspects his burghers are stealing from him. Of course they are. They always have. But it's more, now. They're trying to cut themselves free, especially out on the Zeige where they've been independent in the past. So the baron wants to catch one or two cheaters an' make an example of them.”
“But Ankster didn't hire me. The mayor of Ziegeburg did.”
“Ah.” Eyes closed, the dangerous man nodded. “That's better. Wouldn't like to think of ye working for the baron. But that's how ye did it wrong. If ye were hired by the mayor, ye were supposed to find for his brother and ye didn't. The baron probably sent his own man for the job, by the way.”
“Yes. The mayor kept telling me for weeks and weeks that the baron's accountant would come to check my work. But in mid-winter, he announced that the man was killed by bandits.”
“Yeah. From what ye say, it figures for the baron's man to have an accident along the way. For all I know, it was me who provided the accident.”
“Is that your business?”
“When I'm this far west, it sometimes could be. Usually not, though. Can't spend the time to make much money that way. And I would never work directly for Ankster or the Figgins brothers.”
“My fiance said I should have figured it out. But the math ...”
The cow butcher made a rude noise.
“What's wrong?”
“Look.” The man's voice, already low, got deeper and quieter. “It's not math. It's people. The mayor knows his brother is in trouble. So he brings in someone independent, that being ye, to prove the burgher didn't do what everyone knows he did. No one expects Baron Ankster to believe it but so what? The baron just wants his money, that's all. Troops are expensive. He's looking for a reason to avoid sending them. Of course, getting his regular tax money is the best reason.”
“And I screwed it up.”
“Yeh.” He chuckled. “The baron hates to send soldiers as far as the Ziege. Most of his troops are at Faschnaught this year. He's worried about his lands closer to home, too.”
“How do you know he won't march onto the Ziege?”
“He can't pay for a fight. And that's the part that's really about numbers. You said it's your job to do numbers, right? So ye should know.”
“Master Winkel told me about the costs of tax collection. I've never seen an incident happen, though.”
“Ye will. If you hang around here long ... without hanging, I mean ... yeh'll see.” The man had a funny accent. It sounded familiar but Denario couldn't place it right away.
Then they fell silent. Denario was glad to find that his cell mate, whether he was an ox wrestler or a butcher, could be calm. In fact, he seemed to progress beyond calm into a state of meditation that barely involved breathing. Maybe he didn't have much to think about. He looked like someone who did reacting, not planning. His arm muscles and neck muscles cast shadows in his flesh even when he was relaxed.
Finally, Denario remembered where he'd heard his cell mate's accent. The sailors at the Paraventiri dock yard in Oggli spoke like that. So did other dialect speakers from pirate nations around the Complacent Sea. A few of them traveled through Ziegeburg. Of course, maybe all bandits talked that way. Denario didn't doubt that his fellow prisoner was a bandit in the eyes of Captain Eberhardt.
Someone in a nearby cell sang to himself for a while. When the singer got tired, he hummed.
About half an hour later, after Denario had calmed down enough to wonder if his geometer tools were still safe, he heard a metallic clank from the other end of the prisoners' hall. The hall door thumped open hard. It rattled.
“That ain't just liquor. Ya smell like piss,” said a guard, probably Fritz, to the prisoner he'd brought.
Denario could hear the rustle of cheap leather uniforms, chain mail, and scabbards. Heavy boots clomped down the line of cells. There were at least three sets of footsteps, one of them as light as bare feet. The procession stopped well short of Denario's cell, though, so he knew he wouldn't get to see the new prisoner.
“Hey, ya!” someone shouted.
Suddenly, a light set of footsteps came Denario's way. He stood up as he listened. He turned toward the window on the cell door. Maybe he would be able to catch a glimpse. At his height, though, it wouldn't be easy even if the man made it this far. He took a step closer.
As he stretched on his tiptoes to see, a man's head appeared between the bars. The fellow had a a shock of brown hair and piercing blue eyes. At first, he spied Denario standing on his toes. Then he saw Denario's cell mate slumped on the stool. His eyes went wide. He grinned. It was not a kind expression.
In a second, he was gone. A guard, definitely someone larger than Fritz, grabbed the stranger by the shoulder and dragged him back down to his cell.
“Ow! Just kidding! Ow!” the man called. The guards took a few swipes at him. Then they tossed him to the floor and closed the door to his cell.
After the guards left, silence settled in along the row of cells. Even the humming from next door faded. Denario nodded off once or twice.
Eventually, men in the cells began to mutter to one another. That made Denario realize it must be time for supper. Everyone sounded on edge. The high windows in the hall, which didn't give off much light even in the middle of the day, had dimmed further. It was getting late. Denario's stomach agreed.
Some time later, a clanking noise came from beyond the end of the hall. Wheels squeaked until a cart bumped into the cell hall door, then squeaked backwards for a few feet. The clanking turned out to be pots, pans, and ladles. It was a cart of food and Denario smelled it long before it got as far as his end of the hall. With the food came Captain Eberhardt.
“Give him a bit more,” said Eberhardt to one of his men. The ladle scraped against the pot.
From the scents and sounds, dinner was bowls of lamb broth soup and loaves of bread. The bowls weren't metal, so Denario assumed they were wooden. They must be pushed through the slots at the bottom of the doors because the guards weren’t opening any cells. Denario knelt measured the slot with his hand. It was going to be a rather shallow bowl.
When they finally got to his cell, Captain Eberhardt face appeared first. He looked tired. Puffy flesh under his eyes showed that he hadn’t slept lately. He’d pulled a fresh linen shirt on over his armor but it looked like a gesture he’d made because someone had told him he should.
“Well, well. If it isn't my two favorites, both together,” he said. He gave them a sarcastic smile. In an instant, it disappeared.
A small man who had been at the gate this morning, not Fritz, grabbed a wide, wooden bowl. He concentrated on his task of ladling soup and Denario hovered near the door gratefully. He was delighted that the guard cared enough not to spill.
Behind the small man was the larger one who Denario thought he’d glimpsed when the new prisoner had arrived. He was the fellow, probably, who had yanked the prisoner back to the correct cell. His sleeves were fishmail, a bit rusty and battered, but distinctive.
“We've had a courier come in from Ziegeburg.” The captain gave Denario a suspicious gaze.
Denario’s heart sank. He tried not to let the dread he felt show on his face.
“You know what the courier said? There's a man wanted for murder over on the Ziege. He's a short man. Thin. Wears a red vest or red cap and probably still has them even if he’s found a change of clothes. He worked as an accountant but then he robbed the mayor and burgher, killed everyone on the stagecoach, and fled.”
Denario started to shout that he never did that. But he saw a gleam in the captain's weary eyes. The man was looking for an admission of guilt. He was searching for anything that might prove Denario was the one Ziegeburg wanted. And the fact that he was searching for a response meant that he had doubts. Denario still had a chance.
“That sounds terrible,” Denario finally responded. He figured that much could be said by anyone.
“We've got two strange men who fit that description,” Eberhardt continued. “And one of them is you. I hear there are a couple more in town as well although they're probably just bandits, like this fellow.”
He gave Denario's cell mate a hard glare. It wasn’t like the look he gave Denario. It was much stronger. There was a physical sense of distrust between the two large men, perhaps because the captain wasn’t sure he could take down his bandit prisoner in a fair fight. He would never have had doubts about the other prisoners.
A bowl slipped through the slot at the bottom of the door. With a glance to his cell mate for approval, Denario knelt and accepted the soup. There was no spoon. At this point, Denario was hungry enough not to care. A thin wedge of bread, almost an all-over crust, tumbled through. Denario grabbed it from the floor and backed away so his cell mate could take his food next.
While the transaction went on in silence, Denario got the sense that he should try one more time to gain his release. After all, he was innocent, in a way.
“Captain,” ventured Denario, “aren’t the short, thin bandits better suspects than I am? I know you won’t let me go right now but if I get out of here tomorrow, I won’t leave town until you’re satisfied. You must know I couldn’t rob any stagecoach.”
“Huh!” the captain snorted. “I don’t see how anyone of your description could have done what they say. But I don’t like either of you men being tricky. And both of you are. Willi! Come here.”
“Captain?” the young man’s voice came from the front of the Hogz-Poliez house. It took him a minute to trot down the hall into the cells. “You wanted me?”
“Yes. First, Willi, did you see those campfires out there yesterday all around the town?”
“No sir.” Willi shrunk back, completely out of view of the cell window. “I was on desk duty then.”
“The bandits have come to break someone out of the jail. I’ve heard that from three informants, not that I trust any of them. And the campfires appeared the day after we captured this man at the cloth merchant's house. You were at the desk then too, as I recall.”
“Yes, sir.” The lad answered in a slightly-put-upon voice. “Three days in a row.”
“We’ll teach Manfrit and Douglas to scribe, don’t worry.” The captain’s tone softened for a moment. “But I read what you wrote down. Do you remember it? Do you recall the name this man gave?”
Captain Eberhardt’s arm pointed to the heart of Denario’s cell mate.
“That one? He said he was Vert Badli, sir.”
“Badli is not a family name, Willi.”
“Sir?”
“It's a joke. He played a joke on you. And this one?” He pointed at Denario. “What name did he give?”
“Furtim Endiem, I think.”
“That's worse. That's old tongue for ... thief, I think. Is there any mother, anywhere in the world who would name her son that? I think not.”
He growled in Denario's direction.
“Didn't think I knew that, huh? Figured I was just as dumb as the other police?”
“Hey,” muttered Willi and someone behind him.
“Well, I know the old tongues, mister math teacher. And if you name yourself 'thief' here, then you can wait with the other thieves. Furtim Endiem ... is that 'thief in the day?' Thief of the gods? It doesn't matter. We'll send you and the other fellows of your description to Ziegeburg soon enough. I’d have the courier in here right now only he says he’s never seen the accountant that his mayor is looking for.”
“And now you,” said the captain. He put his hands on his hips and turned his steady gaze on Denario’s fellow inmate. “What have you done with the cloth merchant, eh?”
“Haven’t done nothin’,” answered the probable ox-wrestler.
“Then why won’t he talk to me anymore? Is he afraid for his daughter’s safety like he says? But if he is, really, he wouldn’t have let that boy go. I saw them making eyes. His daughter liked that boy. And where’s the older man who was with the merchant? He was the one who said you were going to commit a robbery. He and the merchant tipped us off. Now he’s gone missing. He had tattoos like you.”
The nearly-bald man showed no emotion as he endured the barrage of questions. He hadn’t even knelt to take his bowl of soup.
“At the time,” the captain continued, “I didn’t know there was a difference between types of bandits. I didn’t check on him. I was just so damn happy to have an informant. But I’m learning.”
As if to himself, the prisoner nodded.
“Well? What do you know?” the captain roared at him.
“You wouldn’t believe me.”
That made the captain hesitate. So it was probably true. Denario glanced back and forth between them as he slurped his soup. He had pieces of turnip and carrot in his teeth, along with flecks of lamb meat. He was trying to figure out why there seemed to be so much more going on than the words indicated. It wasn’t just two fighters sizing each other up.
“Why don’t you give me a try?” Eberhardt finally said.
“No. Can I eat now?”
The captain slumped, defeated for a moment. He was bound by his own pride and his determination to uphold law and order. He wouldn’t even threaten to beat his prisoners. The old captain might have done that, from the look of changes in the jail and the grumbles of the guards. Not this one, new to Hogsburg from the court of Sir Mekli and filled with a sense of nobility. He did things by the book. And he could read the book, all of it.
“I’ll bring you before the judge tomorrow,” Eberhardt promised.
“Uh, sir,” mumbled Willi.
“What?”
“Judge Worter is at Sir Blockhelm’s court.”
“When is he supposed to be back? Never mind. The mayor can sit in for him.”
“No one's ever asked Gunterfast to do that,” said the big man behind Willi.
“But I will,” Eberhardt promised. “Rolf, you stay here until they pass back the soup bowls. Willi, Manfrit, you come with me. I want to find out who knows this Vert Badli fellow. We’ve been set up to capture him, I think, and I need to know why some folks around here think he’s important.”
“He was friendly with our old captain, sir,” mumbled Manfrit as he lumbered away down the hall. He was the giant in the fishmail. “Leastways, I seen them talking plenty o’ times.”
“Really? Damn it.” From the sound of his lowered voice, Eberhardt realized that he shouldn’t have raised the topic in front of his prisoners. Or maybe he’d brought it up deliberately as a way to generate extra worries for the inmates. If so, the mention of the man he’d replaced had changed his mind.
Denario’s cell mate ate in silence. He finished his soup not long after Denario did and pushed his bowl through the slot obediently. The guard packed up his cart and left. On his way out, he traded happy shouts with the drunks in the other cells. He seemed to be rather a jolly jailer until he pulled the hallway door shut and turned the lock.
“The name of the man wanted for murder,” whispered Denario’s cell mate. He walked closer, so only the two of them could hear. His massive shoulder was higher than Denario’s head. “That would be Denario, now, wouldn’t it?”
Denario paled. How had his cell mate guessed?
“Ye gave yer real name when you came in. Don’t think the guard noticed, though.”
“Oh my gods.” He blinked and checked his memory. His breath caught in his chest. It was true. He'd forgotten to give his alias to this man.
A heavily muscled arm jutted out in Denario’s direction.
“Me real name is Vir,” the man whispered. He took Denario’s hand and shook it. His fingers felt like iron. “Ye’ll learn about me soon enough.”
Chapter Five, Scene Four
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