The Fireborn Road

2. The Captain Returns

2

THE CAPTAIN RETURNS

Iona let Sir Samuel kiss her hand, compliment her combs and babble on, using long words to say it was a shame they were leaving so early. Beside her, Derek was trying to work out how to bow low without dropping the cutlery he was smuggling in his sleeve. Suddenly, a disturbance by the door caught his eye. A tall man in the livery of the Amroth Temple had burst into the room and was gabbling to two Albion officers, one of whom was of such high rank that Derek didn't recognise his insignia. His guildmaster's sense for trouble told him this was not just an ordinary message. The flushed countenance of the messenger, the intense concentration of the two officers and the hurried manner in which they were all speaking and gesticulating gave a sense of urgency and excitement. Unable to stop himself, Derek sidled towards them, training his tracker's hearing onto the garbled exchange. Within seconds he was rewarded with three words that intrigued him beyond what he had initially imagined: “Freemonte,” “here” and “Temple”. By now, the three men were attracting quite a bit of attention, not just from an earwigging adventurer. The buzz was starting to flutter across the end of the room. William Freemonte was the very pinnacle of social intrigue and his name had caught the prying ears of many a skilful socialite. Soon most of the room who weren't dancing were talking about the return of William Freemonte.

Discussing Captain William Freemonte was not a new pastime among the Albion elite. When news of his wife's death had first reached Albion there had been some very cruel comments made about him. It was widely known that he was a disgraced soldier, sent down for insubordination. It was also widely known that he had only recently married Josephine de Beaujolais and that he was significantly older than her. It could not be disputed that he had wed his wife and then almost immediately taken her to war and let her get killed. At best it seemed callous, at worst it had been perceived as calculating and devious. Dark and disturbing rumours that he had some kind of hold over her family had faded when he failed to return to claim any inheritance.

Fearing for his reputation when he did eventually return and wary of idle gossip, Iona had convinced Anthony Devlin-Smythe, himself a veteran both of Freetown and the Albion Court, to help her control the rumours and disseminate the facts. They had, very subtly, let a few influential people know the truth: that William had cradled Josephine as she died, unable to save her from the poisoned blade she had taken for him. The romance of it had won over the silly women of the court. Fat countesses, who in the summer had swilled gin at garden parties and mused that he must have his nasty common claws into the family were now, in the winter, swooning with palpitating excitement at the thought of his return.

Iona and Anthony had been very thorough in their defence of Freemonte. They had only omitted one salient yet repulsive fact: Josephine was a high-ranking Frisian sleeper agent and she had died wearing the uniform of a Red Army officer. It was not lying; Iona had convinced Anthony. The world had eyes on the Freetown fields and rumour would break soon enough without the ignominy of explanation. When Freemonte returned, she had reassured Anthony, he would not want the whispering or the false sympathy that it would garner if they portrayed him as the betrayed victim of an evil empire – better the tragic widower of a heroic woman. That, she knew, was going to be hard enough.

The first Iona knew of the news that he was back was a rough hand on her wrist as, throwing etiquette to the wall, Derek grabbed her and shouted

“He's back, in Aberddu, Freemonte's back.” Speechless, Iona gaped at him and then recoiled, grasping at the situation with both hands.

“Excuse me, your excellency,” she said with as much grace as she could manage before taking Derek by the sleeve and leading him towards the reception hall.

“My chaise, quickly!” she barked at a footman who replied

“Of course ma'am right away,” and disappeared through a side door. Then, as if by magic, another uniformed flunky appeared and began to put Derek into his cape before he had realised what was going on. In less than a minute, the first footman reappeared and escorted the now be-cloaked pair to the front door, bowed low and pulled a cord. This set off an impressive array of pulleys and counterweights and the massive front door swung open to reveal Iona's chaise and four smart greys waiting for them, not a servant in sight. If they hadn't been in such a rush, Derek would probably have been so impressed by this display of incredible efficiency that he would have asked how it was done. As it was he paused only to shake hands with the footman, who returned the shake with a look of utter confusion.

“It would be quicker on foot,” he said, tentatively, as Iona levered herself into the driver's seat. “Lime Bridge is closed to carriages at this time of night because of the Docklands curfew, we'd have to go all the way around to Runyon.”

“You can walk if you like,” said Iona tersely, settling herself in her seat, “wearing stays, a starch petticoat and these shoes, but I'm not.” Derek shrugged and swung himself onto the cart and let her drive on. Even if they had fitted, he didn't think those shoes would have suited him.

In spite of the late hour, Temple square was crowded when they arrived. The Death Temple were holding a midnight congregational meditation which had spilled out of the building onto the main thoroughfare and Iona was forced to swerve hard when it became clear that the kneeling participants were too enraptured to move out of her way. Not to be outdone, the Life Temple were holding paladin prayers with the sanctuary doors open. The plain, monotonic, chanting echoed out into the night, clashing with the Death meditations.

Derek vaulted down from the chaise before Iona had been able to pull to a stop in front of the Amroth Temple. He hit the ground running and sprinted up the steps towards the impressive doorway. Before he could reach the wrought-iron filigree work gates, he was halted by a guard with a halberd who blocked his path. Brought up short in his tracks, he stumbled and almost lost his balance, grabbing at the halberd to steady himself. It was unusual for the entrance of the Temple to be blocked. Charity was a big part of life for this most honourable of religions, and usually everyone was welcome in the outer sanctum at any time of day or night.

However, tonight security was tight. Derek was still answering the guard's questions when Iona jumped down onto the cobblestones. It wasn't in usually his nature to demand the privileges of guild rank, but in his present state of agitated desperation, he was losing patience with the triviality of the questions. As Iona reached the top of the stairs, she heard Derek say haughtily,

“Well I'm the Guildmaster of an important city guild and you are wasting my time.”

At this the guard capitulated and let Derek pass. Nettled, he turned his attention to Iona and brought the halberd down in front of her instead. Derek didn't stop to argue the case for Iona, she was more than capable of fighting her own battles. He slipped through the wicket panel in the filigree screen and into the dim candlelight of the outer sanctum. He could hear Iona's shrill petulant tone cutting through the night as he disappeared into the Temple. By the sound of it, the luckless guard was getting a first-class ear-bending from an uncomfortable and humiliated Iona who was fed up with her corsetry. Derek would certainly be impressed if the guard lasted more than a few minutes.

Once inside, it was all he could do to stop himself breaking into a trot, aware that it would be considered disrespectful. Instead he waddled as fast as he could, like a man in desperate search of a privy. He was scanning faces for anyone he recognised amongst the crowd milling around the gateways to the inner sanctum. There were a few that seemed familiar, but not enough for him to race up to them now and demand access.

There was a distinct lack of white-robed acolytes. The only one he could find was a pasty-faced squat little man with a nervous twitch. Derek felt a twinge of guilt as he practised the full breadth of Guildmasterly pomp on him and demanded an audience with Freemonte in no uncertain terms. City guilds carried enough legal weight in Aberddu that the acolyte was sent scuttling through the gate into the inner sanctum and out of sight.

Only vaguely aware of the ruckus continuing outside, Derek bounced nervously on his heels as he waited for the acolyte to return. He could hear Iona yelling at the top of her lungs and he was wondering if he ought to go outside to referee, when the quivering acolyte returned with a prayer book held so tightly in his hands that his knuckles were almost blue.

Derek could see that it was gently vibrating.

“Um,” he said as an opening segue “Er, um,” he continued.

Derek, normally a very personable and sympathetic man, trembled with impatience.

“Yes?” he demanded as he tried to thrust his hands into his non-existent pockets and ended up awkwardly stroking his silk-covered thighs.

“Well, er,” spluttered the acolyte, “the thing is, the thing about Captain Freemonte is…”

Derek could barely hear him over high-pitched screaming sound and yelps of pain. He was only partially listening by the time the poor man choked out the end of his sentence.

“… the thing is that Captain… well, ex-Captain technically… Freemonte is um in seclusion and he's not seeing anybody.”

“Right,” said Derek in response, “excuse me, I'll be back in a moment.” Iona had graduated from vociferous to threatening, and he didn't fancy having to bail her from any sort of custody.

Pink in the face, she had tried every gambit she could think of to get past them, but it seemed that neither her rank in the Adventurers Guild, her Albion title nor her standing in the City itself was enough for a night-shift guard who had already been riled by one hoity-toity big knob with delusions of rank and silly breeches berating him. Her credentials may have been impeccable but with such a well-known face, she couldn't deny one very important thing: she was one of the most high-profile Kesoth followers in the City.

Amroth was the God of Honour, and valour and shiny breastplates and Kesoth was the diametric opposite – the balance of power, the God of treachery, betrayal, winning at all cost and sneaking about with a fancy dagger. The Gods, their Temples and followers traditionally despised one another as anathema to their faiths and lifestyles. They co-existed side by side in the Temple Square under a fragile and bitter cease-fire - more as a result of City law than any diplomatic relations. Though the threat of punishment under the law prevented the followers of the Temples from physically harming each other within city walls and the heavy gaze of the militia at least, they never missed an opportunity to importune, obstruct or embarrass one another. Holding a bellowing woman in full evening dress on the Temple steps in front of the slowly dispersing crowd from the Death Temple certainly classed as all three.

Elor sighed as he walked out of the Life Temple and into the chilly night. He normally tried to avoid acts of religious observance because he found the unshakeable righteousness of the deeply faithful slightly disturbing but tonight he'd found himself unable to avoid one. He paused for a moment by one of the four towering marble statues that guarded the door of the temple and rubbed his knees. The constant genuflection of the Paladin Prayers had taken its toll on his ageing joints. He looked up and met the solemn gaze of the effigy looking down on him. The exquisitely craved face seemed somehow sad, as though it was weary of watching the tiny mortals that scuttled about living and dying in her sight.

He had to admit it was a beautiful piece of sculpture, if sculpture was the right word for it. It was said that the Four Faces of the Goddess had stood outside the Life Temple as long as there had been a Life Temple in the Temple Square of Aberddu. Legend had it that they had been placed there and imbued by the Goddess herself. It was well-known that their expressions changed depending on who or what they were looking at. Looking down on him the Crone seemed melancholic and tired.

Elor had a lot on his mind as he stood on the Temple steps, contemplating which way he should go back to the Guild District at this time of night. He couldn't believe how much Saran had changed since he had last seen her. She had returned from Frisia lean and withdrawn. He had been used to her plump rosy face and sparkling eyes, but now she was hollow-cheeked and sallow. She wouldn't look him in the eye even though she had said she was pleased to see him. He was just contemplating the wisdom of crossing the Brightling Bridge on foot at this time of night when his attention was drawn by a shrill shrieking from across the square.

Looking up he saw a familiar figure on the Amroth Temple steps, arms flailing as two of the Temple guards tried valiantly to arrest her. Elor couldn't imagine what in the world Iona was doing outside the Amroth Temple under arrest and wearing a purple and black lace ball gown but he was curious enough to find out.

Derek arrived at Iona's side at about the same time as Elor, who had jogged across the square in spite of his aching knees just as one of the unfortunate guards tried to slap some cuffs on Iona. They were both just in time to see Iona driving the heel of her court shoe firmly into his knee joint. He bent and squealed in pain, his comrade was already lying prostrate on the steps, blood gushing from his nose. Derek took his friend by the wrist, and said firmly,

“Come on, Iona, it's time we went home.” Iona opened her mouth to retort but he continued, “We can't see Freemonte anyway, he's in seclusion. Good evening, Elor, care for a nightcap?”

With that, he swept past the bleeding guards and somewhat bemused wizard, towing the furious duchess by the wrist swiftly back to Iona's chaise.