Kingmaker

Prologue Orzan Province, the far south of the Kistrill Empire. The 29th year of the reign of Willard III, High King of Kistrill and, by the grace of Quam, Emperor of the Forty Crowns. Tennea slung a short, straight, sword over her shoulder to hang on her right hip, then tucked a knife into a belt sheath at the small of her back. She pulled a long linen duster over her muslin tunic and buttoned it down to the waist to conceal the blades, then slipped a slender dagger into a wrist sheath under the left sleeve of the duster. Finally, she lifted her long skirt just high enough to slide a fourth blade into a scabbard cleverly built into her right riding boot. “Holy Quam,” Lieutenant Coltan muttered. “How many people do you intend to stab?” Tennea paused before answering, watching the sun slide towards the hazy green mountains. There was an hour or so until dusk, she judged. Just enough time to find out what she needed before the real work of the night. “I intend to crack some skulls and bust up some rum dives,” she replied. “Stabbing, though? That depends on who resists. And how hard. Are you ready, Sergeant Workman?” She turned to her oldest provost soldier. “Yes, Ma’am.” Workman nodded. Lieutenant Coltan looked nervous. “Are you sure it’s a good idea, just the two of you going into town?” Tennea gave the lad a sharp glance. “Hunter may be in that dirt-hole, Lieutenant. We’re not going to spook him by barging into town with a whole company of cavalry. Don’t worry about Workman and me, just wait for the alarm trigger.” Coltan raised an eyebrow, so she repeated, “Don’t worry. The alarm will work. You’ll feel a tug. Just follow it. Probably to the nearest tavern. Wait for the second alarm, and then come in hard and fast. Understand?” Coltan nodded. Tennea crammed a broad-brimmed straw hat over her thick orange-ochre hair and nodded at Workman. The sergeant was also plainly dressed in raw muslin trousers and tunic, but he openly wore a long, heavy, dagger on his left hip. With his weapon, and with the brutal arrow scar that marked his left cheek from mouth to ear, and with an ugly scowl to match the scar, Workman wasn’t likely to have much trouble with casual thieves or rowdies. Tennea led the way out of the banana grove where the cavalry company was bivouacked. She strode into Orange Grove Town, taking the air of a noblewoman out for a stroll, with Workman trailing behind like a slab of hired muscle. They could have saved the acting. The streets were nearly deserted. The town square was sunbaked, dusty, and empty but for a few market stalls. The sellers were all women, locals, short folk with leaf-green skin and violet hair. They all wore the same sort of clothes Tennea had seen on her way through Orzan province so far, white cotton blouses with bright embroidery at the neckline and hem and on the bodice. Their cotton skirts fell only to the knee, scandalously short for the halls and sitting rooms of the northern heartland of the Kistrill Empire, but admittedly appropriate for the heat of Orzan. Tennea saw stalls sparsely stocked with vegetables, sugar cane, fruit, colorful thread, or bolts of home-woven muslin, but no buyers. The vendors gave Workman suspicious looks, but they warmed quickly to Tennea. She smiled and chatted, trying to match the vendors’ patois – snatches of Imperial interspersed with bursts of rapid local pidgin. She overpaid for a pair of mangoes in one stall and a foot-long slice of cane in another, and before long they were chatting away with her. It took her less than half an hour to find out what she needed: the mayor of Orange Grove was a lazy crook; the shrine to Quam on Creek Street was crumbling and hadn’t had a priest in years; the roughest tavern in town was a rum-dive called The Filthy Bucket, and it was down on Tanner Street where no one decent ever went. The sun was dipping behind the mountains as Tennea touched the brim of her hat and bade the market vendors good evening. She strolled down to Creek Street to the shrine. It was wrapped in evening shadows, under the shade of a spreading coulcut tree. It was simple, a ten-foot square, brick-paved floor under a weathered timber canopy. The paving bricks were buckled, or cracked, or missing, and the whole was overgrown with weeds. A brick alcove for votives stood empty next to a simple stone altar. “A pity to see Quam so neglected,” Tennea said. Workman nodded beside her. “We should pray,” she said. Workman shuffled his feet and bowed his head. Tennea prayed. “Quam, Emperor of Heaven. You put the Forty Crowns of Kistrill on the head of your servant, our Emperor Willard. Give me strength, O Quam, to defend your chosen ruler and bring your glory back to this forsaken province. And give me the wisdom and strength to bring Hunter to justice.” She paused, clenched her fists, then breathed deeply and finished. “Soon.” With her invocation complete, they set out to find The Filthy Bucket. It wasn’t hard. Tanner Street reeked like every other Tanner Street in the Empire, reeked of blood, offal, and urine. In Orange Grove a whiff of mud and rotting fish wafted up from the river to add a distinctive local bouquet. The tavern itself was a ramshackle affair, walls of loosely woven wicker and a sagging roof of palm fronds, all held up by a few slender poles. It was still quiet, the evening crowd just starting to trickle in. Across the street and two-score yards further on, a woman under a mango tree was cooking a huge pot of stew beans and chicken over an open fire and selling supper by the bowl to a little crowd. Tennea strolled to the open-air eatery and ordered a bowl for herself and Workman. They ignored the other customers and settled down with their backs to the mango tree. They ate slowly, watching the door of The Filthy Bucket. As dusk thickened and night closed over the town a parade of men came out of the shadows and began to fill the tavern. A racket of scratching and thumping that was supposed to be music started up. Singing and cheering mingled with shouted jokes and bursts of hilarity, and by the time they finished their supper the tavern sounded like the site of a perpetual riot. By and by, the woman packed up her cookpot and went into her nearby hovel. Tennea tilted back her hat and waited even longer, watching the stars come out and wheel in the sky until another hour had passed. She wanted the drinking to be well underway before she arrived. Finally, she stood and Workman followed her over and into The Filthy Bucket. Tennea shouldered her way through a crowd and slapped a gold coin on the counter in front of a harried barmaid. The barmaid was young, pretty, with a white blouse similar to that of the woman selling beans, but the neckline was so deep it nearly fell off her green shoulders. She took a look at the coin, looked back at Tennea, and her mouth fell open. “Your best for me, and a couple of rounds for the house,” Tennea shouted over the terrible music. “And a table by ourselves. That one.” She pointed at a corner table where a group of men sat drinking and throwing bones. “Yes, M’Lady!” the barmaid shouted back. She reached under the counter and produced a pair of dusty, unglazed mugs, and poured a double shot of rum from a jug that looked like every other jug on the shelf. She came around the counter, beckoning Tennea and fluttering her lashes at Workman, and led them through the crowd to the table. “M’Lady wants this table,” she hollered at the men. “And she don’t want company. But she’s buying the house a round, so move.” The men glared at her, and at Tennea. Tennea smiled. Workman glowered. “Move it!” the barmaid ordered. “She’s paying in gold, so I guess she gets whatever she wants, don’t she?” The men vacated the table, trying to decide if they should give Tennea the evil eye for taking their spot or thank her for buying them drinks. Tennea and Workman sat, backs to the wall, and cradled their dusty mugs. Now and again Tennea raised hers to her lips, pretended to drink, then lowered it untasted. Mostly she watched the tavern. On the far side of the taproom, thankfully mostly hidden by a throng of watchers, several women took turns performing lascivious dances to the rhythm of the music. The middle of the tavern was full of tables where men and women sat and drank. Some were dining on skewers of pungent roasted meat, others threw bones or played twigs and stones, and the whole crowd laughed and sang and argued at full throat. There were at least fifty men in the place. More than half were locals, greenies, but there were plenty of brownies too. Big men, brown-skinned like Tennea and Workman, with shocks of ochre or flaxen hair. Most of the men, brown and green alike, were scarred. Many of them were missing body parts: ears, fingers, eyes, arms, or legs. All of them looked up at the barmaid with delight as she moved around, splashing fresh rum into their cups, and pointing over to the corner where Tennea sat, her words swallowed by the din but her lips always mouthing the word, “M’Lady.” Some of the men nodded gratefully. Others glared with suspicion. None of them came over. Tennea watched the room for an hour. It got louder, and hotter, and smellier. A fight broke out, fists flew, but the only blood was from a broken nose. Before things came to blades a big muscular brownie with a couple of nasty scars knocked some heads together and broke things up. Tennea watched the man more closely. He moved around the tavern, getting nods of respect, but not really stopping to chat for long. A man with power if not friends. A bouncer of sorts, but more than that a man who would know everyone’s business. The man she wanted to talk to. Tennea slid her hand into the pocket of her duster where she kept her alarm trigger. It was a little cube of wood with a hinge on the side. The hollow top of the cube flipped open to expose a knob. She pushed the knob with her thumb, then closed the lid again. The barmaid came back, smiled, and leaned close. “M’Lady want anything else?” “Buy the house another round,” Tennea said, keeping her eye on the room. She flipped the barmaid another gold coin. “Make it a double. I want everyone to have a good time.” The barmaid shrugged and scampered off to make another round of the tavern, sloshing rum and pointing at Tennea. She waited another hour and waved the barmaid over again. She came in a hurry, expecting and getting a third coin. She made a third round, and this time, besides the smiling nods, Tennea got the results she wanted. The bouncer came out of the crowd and helped himself to a seat across from Tennea. He nodded briefly at her, then at Workman, giving the barest respect. Up close, Tennea saw he was wearing an old army tunic, the blue so faded it was nearly white. The man’s scars were from an ax. There was a dent an inch under his eye where the ax had gouged into the bone. His ochre hair had a bare streak, too, a heavy scar from temple to crown. “You’re throwing around a lot of gold,” the man observed. His Imperial was clean, unaccented. “You trying to get your throat cut? “Oh, dear, no,” Tennea said with exaggerated concern. “Then quit drawing attention to yourself,” the man growled, ignoring her tone. “You could get knifed for a silver sun in here. A nice lady like you…could get worse than knifed. Even with the hired blade sitting here.” He nodded at Workman. “I feel safe enough.” Tennea smiled. The man frowned. “What the hell are you doing here, anyway?” he asked. “I’m looking for my brother,” Tennea said. “He’s a sociable chap. I thought that if I bought a few rounds, perhaps he would hear about the festivities and make an appearance.” “A brother, huh?” “And Workman’s old army pal,” Tennea explained. The bouncer darted his eyes towards Workman. “You wore the blue, did you?” Workman sipped his rum, nodded, and replied, “Didn’t we all? Sixth Cavalry. Fought at Rockharbor, Olben’s Stretch, Gory Creek.” The bouncer stared hard, then nodded. “I heard of Gory Creek. Hell of a fight, they say.” Workman nodded back. “Well,” the bouncer said, “lot of old army lads down in Orzan. Nice change of climate after ten years in the north.” “My brother, Hunter,” Tennea cut into the old army talk. “Tall, good looking, but odd. Years ago, took to wearing a monk’s robe, though he doesn’t act much the part.” “Heh! Your brother been a bad boy, eh?” The bouncer let out a big laugh. “Oh, you don’t know the half of it.” Tennea laughed back. “Well, I spent enough years wearing the blue, and I been down here for the better part of a year, but I don’t know nobody like that.” “He’s got a friend,” she said, “by the name of Chekwe.” The bouncer shook his head. “A greenie,” Workman put in. “Small, even for them.” “A greenie? I doubt I’d know him. This province is crawling with them, and I sure can’t tell ‘em apart.” “You’d know this one,” Tennea said. “He likes to drink, and he likes to fight. But he never liked helmets. Lots of facial scars. A real mess.” The bouncer’s eyes darted to the side for just a fraction of a heartbeat, then he looked back at Tennea and shrugged. “Never heard of him.” He lied. His eyes darted again. “What do you want with them, anyway?” “Well,” Tennea said, putting on the voice of the sweet noblewoman. “My brother and his little friend are deserters, and I’ve come to see them hang.” She pulled a provost marshal’s badge from her right pocket and slammed it on the table. The man stared for a heartbeat at the bronze badge. The sigil of the Imperial falcon clutched a sword in one talon and a rod and shackles in the other, and its staring bronze eye bored up into the bouncer’s face. The bouncer looked from the badge to Tennea, eyes wide with confusion. She could read his thoughts, like a hundred men she’d arrested before. A woman? With a marshal’s badge? What…? “Show me your discharge tile!” Tennea barked. “What the Quamdamn business do you…?” The bouncer recoiled. “Arresting deserters is my business,” Tennea snarled, then thundered across the tavern, “Tennea of Grenvell, provost inspector! Everyone on your knees, now!” Fear, then rage, flashed across the man’s face as he turned to call for help. Sergeant Workman came out of his seat like a bull, ramming the table into the bouncer’s chest, shoving him backward to tumble off his bench and onto the floor. Tennea flipped the table, so it crashed on top of the man, then she jumped on it pin him. As she jumped, she whipped her sword from under her duster. There was a terrific grunt from beneath her, and in front of her a bedlam of shouts of fear. Provost marshal! Run! Get out! Two men, braver or drunker than the rest, lurched towards Tennea. The first had a leather-wrapped jack, and he took a clumsy swing at Tennea’s head. Sergeant Workman intercepted the man by driving seventeen inches of dagger steel between the man’s ribs. Tennea handled the other brute, a slow-moving drunk. He came driving with a knife, his arm outstretched and reaching. Tennea grabbed the wrist, yanked the man forward and across her body, kicked him hard in the knee, and as the man buckled, she flattened him by slamming the pommel of her sword on the back of his head. Four heartbeats and the fight was over. Most of The Filthy Bucket’s patrons left through the back wall. The wicker walls burst under the stampede and the whole structure shook as one determined drunk knocked out a support pole in his haste. A few of the more drunken men stayed put, sitting and staring in shock or simply flopping on the floor in surrender. “Everyone on your knees,” Tennea ordered. “Backs to me. Shirts off.” They knelt and began to obey the order to strip. Tennea stepped back, flipped the table off the fallen bouncer, and pointed her sword at his throat. “You too. On your knees, and shirt off.” The bouncer struggled to his knees, pulled his tunic over his head, and wadded it against his bleeding nose. Tennea stepped back again and looked at the man’s muscular back. He had a regimental brand on his right shoulder blade indicating he’d been mustered into the 84th Pike. Every properly discharged man had a tile, stamped with an Imperial seal, and most men kept the tile on a string or chain around their neck for moments just like this. The bouncer had no tile. The other drunks bared their backs too. The same tale was told on their green skin. Mustering brands, but no discharge tiles. “Deserters. You’re all under arrest,” Tennea spat. She called over to the barmaids and the innkeeper, who stood silent and agog. “Get some rope, or good string. Help the sergeant tie these traitors up.” “My wall!” the innkeeper groused, waving at the shattered wall and the chaos of overturned tables and broken mugs. “Have you reported to the governor that most of your custom is from deserters?” Tennea snapped. The innkeeper’s face turned a very light shade of green and he kept his mouth closed. “I thought not,” Tennea said. “Count yourself blessed that I don’t arrest you too. As for the rest of you,” she waved her sword at the kneeling deserters, “I’ll choose whether you hang or rejoin the regiments. And the way I choose will be determined by who talks first, who talks the most, and who tells the truth. Now. You.” She put the tip of her sword under the bouncer’s ear and pressed just hard enough to make the man shrink away. The fellow’s eyes bulged, and he began to sweat. “I heard something,” he stammered. “Don’t know if it’s true. Maybe just a story. I swear to Quam.” “Talk.” “The greenie you mentioned. There’s a story going ‘round that some mad greenie killed a bunch of provincial troops down in Nezpot. A fair fight, but he butchered them so fast it might as well have been murder. Sword and ax, fast as an adder. Bloody as hell, and uglier. Scarred face, they say.” “When? Why?” The deserter swallowed. “Months ago? Who knows? The provincials are all rotten, so nobody cared. No, everybody was glad.” “Glad? Glad that Imperial officers were murdered?” Tennea leaned on the sword a little and the bouncer shrank back further. “Your pardon, Ma’am. Quam’s mercy. You asked for the truth.” “Fine. What then? Was he apprehended?” “No, Ma’am. Fled south, so says one story. Another says he went out to Fourhen, but there’s a small Imperial garrison there. Deserters steer clear of Fourhen.” “What about my brother? The fake monk?” “Never heard of him, Ma’am. I swear to Quam.” Tennea gave a soft sigh and stepped back. The bouncer drew a deep breath. “Ma’am!” a shout interrupted from behind Tennea. Lieutenant Coltan raced through the entrance, saber drawn, with two troopers on his heels. The three came up short, wide-eyed and panting, scanning the room for enemies. “You’re safe,” the young officer blurted. Tennea turned her head and gave Coltan a thin smile. “You’re late.” Lieutenant Coltan blinked. He glanced from prisoners to the bloodstained floor to the innkeeper and back to Tennea. “No Ma’am, we bagged a score or more out back. Are you safe? Wait, Quam! Is that Hunter?” “I’m fine, and no, it’s not Hunter. Now get these prisoners down to the town jail. It’s on the square. You’ll probably have to roust the mayor out of bed.” “You heard the Inspector,” Coltan said to his troopers. “Brewer, go get Sergeant Allayn and a guard detail.” He grabbed the kneeling bouncer and hauled him to his feet. The scarred man looked at Tennea with wide eyes. “I talked,” he blurted. “You said I wouldn’t hang if I talked.” “I’m not here to hang you,” Tennea sighed. “You’ll go back to the regiments.” “But your brother? You’re really going to hang your brother for desertion?” Tennea squinted at him and curled her lip before snarling, “Desertion is only the beginning of my brother’s crimes.”