The boy was more or less ready to give up and go back to the inn.
He turned himself about, trying to figure out the most direct way back, when he noticed a small wayhouse across the square. It was a tidy, respectable little place with a wooden landing open to the air. It was the shields that got his attention. There were a number of them hanging along the outside of the house. Most were plain, with a dragon skull and crown that was not Athairdrost’s. They belonged to some other prince, but he wasn’t sure which one.
There were other devices too. Dark mountains. Flowers under a night sky. A wreath of those same flowers twisting around a skull.
Curious, he looked over the shields and found one that was set apart from the others. It was a wine-dark red, and it had a single black flower painted on it. Perhaps a badly painted lily? Or some flower the boy didn’t know? On the shield, a motto was written in a very old language that the boy recognised as dating from a time before the rule of the four princes of Sorthe. He experienced a moment of jarring surprise. He’d never seen the language before, or at least, not in his waking life. He must have studied the script in his dreams. And now, without even knowing he could do it, he was reading the script and recollecting small fragments of its history and uses.
As he looked at the shield, thoughts turned in his mind. He wondered vaguely if the languages might have a limit? Or would he end up knowing the meanings of all written words ever put to paper?
He yawned.
Clearly, he was tired and his mind was wandering.
Still… the shield and its old script were intriguing. That there was no hint of allegiance to Sortheland was curious. It read: Wreath of Night Everlasting. Perhaps it was a family motto? Or some line of poetry? Wondering about it now, the boy decided to take a risk and go into the wayhouse. Just for a quick look, of course.
As soon as he pushed open the door he was over-swept by a wall of woodsy smoke and hot smells. The room was crowded, noisy, full of cookfire scents and the rank odour of bodies that have gone awhile without bathing. Men sat along tables eating and talking. They were all of the same folk: large, sturdily built, with bushy black or grey beards, and sharp, flinty eyes. They did not have the same caste to them as most of the other Sortheland-folk, who tended to be thinner, greyer and less healthy looking. The boy made a guess that these men were from farther off. Perhaps they were some borderland race or kingdom absorbed into the princelingdom’s control? Or maybe they were here at the behest of the older powers that were summoning troops. He took a few tentative steps into the space. Most of the men were dressed in blacks and greys with liberal use of furs. Most had a wine-red badge somewhere on their clothing, again sporting that black flower. They were as a rule, laughing, eating and carousing.
He stood unnoticed just inside the door, letting it ease shut.
There seemed little to gain here.
The boy was about to step back out onto the street, when someone gave him a shove and said, “Here, you want to make yourself useful then?”
A wooden trencher with food on it was shoved into his hands. It took a moment for the boy to understand what was happening. After all, he was dressed the same as any peasant child, but not dirty enough or starved enough to look like a beggar. A tall, sallow-faced man with a lazy eye looked down at him. “You want work or not? We’re run off our feet. You serve the tables, there’ll be a prince’s penny in it for you, and scraps to eat. No one as ever said that Batharnius Blime wasn’t fair with his help.”
The boy looked at the trencher like an idiot, then nodded. He couldn’t think of any good reason to come wandering into this place except to look for work. The house-keep would probably assume he was here to pick pockets, if he refused.
“Here now,” said Batharnius. “You answer to Kiften, alrighty then?”
He nodded.
A big lad, a couple years older than the boy, wandered over. He had a fat face and red hair, and peered down at the boy as if he were somewhere far below on the dirty floor. The lad gestured at the trencher, and then at the table, and said, “Well?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t sir me, boy. Save your sirs for Meester Blime and thems folk.” He waved a hand at the soldiers and knights. “Well? Hop to it. Why’d you go and wander in here if you not looking for work then? Hang a fraction. Are you one of ’em Moliagul’s folk-in-serving?”
He thought fast and said, “Yes. I’m one of Moliagul’s.”
“Hrm. Well, still all the same, you’d best get to it.” The lad started to lumber off, scratching his arse as he walked. He spoke over his shoulder, muttering. “Don’t matter if you don’t usually wait tables. Don’t matter if you’re usually too good and otherwise engaged for that sort of thing. We don’t have enough servers, do we? Everyone gotta pitch in. Too many run off to join the armies as drummers or whatnot. Leave us to do all the work.” He shook his head. “Drummers? What will they think of next, eh.”
He eased the trencher around in his grip. He could at least make the best of this. Do a little bit of eavesdropping… then… well, just look for a chance to sneak off.
That would be easy enough.
The boy moved food around the tables. He picked up the remnants of steamed chicken carcasses, chewed-upon roast bones of pork, and crusts of bread. He refilled mugs using an earthenware jug sloping with beer. Throughout all of this he listened carefully and he bided his time. The conversation was as uninteresting as he’d expected. Ribald jokes and gossip, nonsense friendly banter, and a bit of longing for home and hearth.
Working around the room, he eventually found himself pouring beer at what seemed to be the head table. The men here wore a better quality of armour, and their surcoats were dyed entirely that same rich wine-red hue as the shield outside. Most were marked with black flowers too. One man especially seemed to be the leader: he was big, broad-shouldered, with a pocked nose and a brow and cheeks that were as harshly cut as soggy cliffs. His beard was huge, black and bristling and his eyes had an odd sheen to them. It was as if there was a strange blueish stain to the whites. He was presently hunched over a piece of vellum with scrawls of letters upon it. The man could read it seemed, if perhaps barely. He was clearly struggling. His lips were moving as his eyes ran inchingly over the lines of indigo ink.
The boy’s gaze darted to the text as he poured beer into the man’s forgotten mug. It was the same script as on the shield outside. With shock, the boy found himself reading a missive:
Thegn of Moliagul and the Shadow Dells: Our Prince Morholt is assailed again by nightmares. White ghaists are seen nightly outside the walls of the fortress. For all my witch-arts and wardings, Athairdrost’s ghaists will not be kept out indefinitely. Athairdrost intends the murder of Morholt in order to put the child Imthestead in his place. That is now clear.
Our spies report that the assassins from the south (whom Athairdrost spoke of at the last council) are (as yet) uncaptured. They prey much on Athairdrost’s mind. So much so, that I believe him to have sent the majority of his wraith-slaves in search of these supposed assassins.
We know not who has hired these daggers, nor wherefrom, nor whence they hail, nor wherefore they desire Athairdrost dead. But that is perhaps for the best. Should these murderers find Athairdrost, Our Prince would be grateful. The Prince Athairdrost has delved too deep in the old bleak arts. He grows in power every day. I fear that soon enough, his powers will be second only to the King of the Winter Woven. Other rumours abound, but I will not write of them.
They are too dark, and too strange.
I fear that it is now too dangerous to move against Athairdrost directly. But if some ‘southern assassins’ should find a clear path to Athairdrost, that would go well with you. Athairdrost will hold court at the Blade Henge three days after the full moon. Until then, he will be at his scrying place in the woods. Seek him at the scrying pool first, as he might yet be caught unawares, and importantly, he will be without his mortal bodyguards. Allow me to be plain. If these supposed assassins fail to eventuate, then it may behoove someone in this weary world to invent some.
Yours in service,
Ingoldsthere, Appointed Seer and Lord-Protector of the Throne of Bone and Willow, and so also, the Last and Greatest Chaunt-Caller of the Anthine Vells
“Huh,” said the boy without thinking.
The man who had been reading the note immediately turned and looked at him.