The Ancient

SIX

Keys to Debtor’s Prison

The settlement on the mouth of the river where it spilled into the Gulf of Corona was called Palmaristown. It seemed to Bransen, Cadayle, and Callen that this was really two distinct cities and not one. Indeed, a solid wooden fence ran the length of the town, separating the ramshackle hovels in the region of the docks and the great river from the larger and more comfortable homes of the town’s eastern section. That secure fence surrounded the inner town completely, with an open gate accepting the southern road from Delaval and a second one in the northeast, running inland just south of the gulf.

Guards walked their stations along a parapet built within that fence, with most concentrated in the west, looking out over the town’s poor section and the bustling docks.

And they were indeed bustling, Bransen and his companions noted as they neared the southern gate. Ferries moved continually across the wide river, and so many sailing ships, including many of Laird Delaval’s warships, were in port that several had to be moored out from the fully occupied wharves. Teams of dirty men moved to and fro, heavy ropes out behind them as they hauled skids laden with supplies, or thick trunks of trees brought in from across the river to the west, the region appropriately known as the Timberlane.

Drivers cracked whips on the heels of those poor laborers. The trio of visitors at the gate watched in astonished horror as one man fell to the docks beneath the weight of a heavy punch. He hit the ground, and the dockmaster began kicking him and stomping on him, despite his pleas, and none of the other laborers dared do anything more than look on.

“You haven’t the stomach for it, then?” one of the guards at the gate asked the trio, obviously noting their horrified expressions. He looked at Bransen mostly, who moved without the soul stone this day in full Stork disguise. The guard crinkled his face at the sight and turned his stare to Cadayle. A rather lewd smile spread across his face.

“My husband,” Cadayle said, stepping near to Bransen and taking his arm with her own. “Wounded in the war in the land south of Delaval.”

“Fighting for?” the guard prompted. Across from him a pair of other sentries took note of the conversation and watched with sudden interest. They looked at Doully the donkey, too, particularly at the bulging saddlebags slung over her back.

“Laird Delaval, of course,” Cadayle replied. “We are of Pryd Town, and Laird Prydae threw in with Delaval against Ethelbert, as has his successor, Laird Delaval’s own nephew.”

“Welcome, then,” said the first. “You have nothing the Abellican monks cannot fix?”

“I… I… I,” Bransen stammered and stuttered and drooled, and the sentry winced in obvious disgust.

“None have helped,” Cadayle interjected. “Though many have tried. Perhaps here we will find our answers.”

“Father Malskinner is mighty with the stones,” one of the guards to the side remarked.

“Come through, then, and find your way,” the first said, and waved the trio and their donkey through. “And don’t you worry,” he said to Bransen as the man staggered by him. “Those fools down there under the whip were brought from Ethelbert’s lines.”

“They are prisoners?” Callen asked with surprise.

“Until they die from their efforts, aye,” the guard explained. He didn’t seem bothered in the least by that eventuality. He glanced down at the docks and the bedraggled slaves. “I lost my brother in a ship fight in the gulf. I’d go down there and put the sword to the lot of them if it was my choice to make. But I’ll take my satisfaction in knowing that these fools are helping Laird Delaval put an end to Ethelbert’s claims. Every log they bring in from across the river, every crate of food or weapons sailing up from Delaval Town, works against the Beast of Entel. When Ethelbert falls, and fall he will, I’ll take my satisfaction in knowing that Palmaristown played her part in his demise!”

“I only wish that my husband had not been so badly wounded that he might still aid in the effort,” Cadayle said.

“Could be that his wife would offer comfort to guards loyal to Delaval,” one of the pair across the way remarked, and his companion chuckled.

Cadayle took care to keep her response muted, neither too insulting in rebuff nor too accepting of the slight that it could coax the man on in his carnal quest. She clutched Bransen’s arm tighter and led him through the gate, Callen and Doully coming up behind them.

Of all the towns they had traveled through none possessed the energy of Palmaristown. The city was not on the front lines of the fighting like so many of the settlements from Pryd to Delaval, and few wounded came through. Yet, Palmaristown remained in the very center of it all, for through here came many of Laird Delaval’s soldiers, boarding ships to be carried across the Gulf of Corona to the distant eastern reaches known as the Mantis Arm. Here in Palmaristown the war was very real but very distant, an exciting event to be discussed in every tavern and on every street corner but without the torn bodies and missing limbs that cast the pall of harsh reality.

That sanitized reality reflected in the eagerness and excitement of the townsfolk. As word spread down the lanes before the trio many salutes and bows came at Bransen from afar.

They secured a tavern room quite easily, offered at half the normal price to the wounded soldier, and set out to find a stable and buyer for Doully, for the old donkey had seen too much of the road. Whispers preceded them, however, and before they even had the time to walk from the inn to the hitching post to retrieve Doully, they were met by a smiling young Abellican monk.

“Greetings, my friends,” he said lightheartedly-so much so that Callen and Cadayle exchanged suspicious looks, for they were hardly used to helpful and cheery Abellicans.

“I am told that this poor man here has suffered terribly in service to Laird Delaval, may Blessed Abelle guide him to kingship,” the monk went on.

“He was wounded south of Delaval against the men of Ethelbert, yes,” Callen said, the hesitation in her voice reflecting her growing trepidation that Cadayle’s lie was soon to be uncovered.

“I am Brother Fatuus of the Chapel of Precious Memories,” the monk explained with a respectful bow. “Father Malskinner bade me to come forth and find this hero who walks among us, and to offer-” He paused and reached into a belt pouch, producing a quartet of gray soul stones.

“You would bestow healing to my poor son-in-law?” Callen asked, nodding appreciatively and coming forth to take Bransen’s arm. “His wounds are grievous.”

“As I see,” said Fatuus. He turned a bit to the side and leaned forward in an attempt to view Bransen’s back. “From the manner of his walk, I mean, as I have not witnessed any wound as of yet.”

“The wound itself is long healed,” Cadayle answered. “But the damage remains.”

“A spear?”

“No.”

“Sword?”

“No,” Cadayle answered, and the monk crinkled his face with clear suspicion.

“Dagger?” he asked.

“A club,” Cadayle decided. “He was smashed across the back, he told me, and he’s had little control of his legs and feet since. And even his voice is lost to us, stuttering as he does.”

The monk nodded and put on a pensive pose, as if he had any understanding at all.

Cadayle looked to her mother, who bit back a snicker.

“May I?” Brother Fatuus asked, extending his hand and the soul stones.

“Please, Brother,” said Cadayle. She kissed Bransen’s cheek and stepped away.

Fatuus began chanting to Blessed Abelle for guidance and strength. He closed his hand over the gemstones and gripped them so tightly that his knuckles whitened. He put his other hand up to Bransen’s forehead and began to channel the soothing power of the gemstones into the wounded young man.

Bransen closed his eyes and steadied immediately, basking in the warmth of the wonderful enchantment. This monk was strong, he recognized immediately- more so than any of the brothers at Chapel Pryd. The healing energy flowed pure and direct, and Bransen felt as if he had his own stone strapped across his forehead. Using his Jhesta Tu training, Bransen opened up to the sensation and even dared hope, albeit fleetingly, that Brother Fatuus might offer some permanent benefit.

Bransen knew in his heart, though, that it would not be so.

A few heartbeats later, Fatuus relented and removed his warm and trembling palm.

Bransen opened his eyes, looked the man in the eye and said, “Than… Th… Th… Tha… k you.” And he smiled and nodded, standing straighter, for indeed he felt much better (although he knew already it would be a very temporary sensation).

Cadayle came back to his side and said, “It is a fine thing you did this day,” breaking Fatuus from his apparent trance.

He blinked repeatedly as he looked at the woman and her husband. “The wound is… is profound,” he said.

“As many of your brethren have told us,” said Cadayle. She looked at Bransen, and her smile came wide and sincere. “You performed very well, Brother. I have not seen him so straight since before the wound.”

Already, though, Bransen began to bend, a bit of drool dripping from his mouth.

“It will not hold,” Fatuus observed, and Cadayle offered a shrug and a forgiving smile in response.

“You must bring him to the Chapel of Precious Memories,” Fatuus insisted. “I will beg Father Malskinner to allow others to participate. Our combined powers will lengthen the healing, I am certain.”

“Of course,” said Cadayle.

“Before Parvespers tomorrow,” Fatuus bade them, referring to the ceremony of twilight. “We will be out all the day offering our services to the brave men on the docks.”

“The slaves of war?” Cadayle asked. “Indeed, we saw them at their labors, being beaten like dogs.”

“The filth of Ethelbert?” Fatuus replied, his eyes wide with horror. “Nay, not them, surely! Nay, nay,good lady, I speak of the privateers.” As he finished he pointed to a pair of ships moored out in the open river to the north of the wharves, and sailing under no flag at all, none that Cadayle could see, at least.

“Privateers?”

“Free men,” Fatuus explained. “Beholden to neither Ethelbert nor good Laird Delaval. They have sailed in at the behest of Laird Panlamaris the Bold, leader of Palmaristown, who seeks to enlist them in the united effort against foul Ethelbert and his swarthy minions.”

“To bribe them, you mean,” Cadayle reasoned.

“They will be compensated in coin, yes,” said Fatuus. “And through the work of the Brothers of the Chapel of Precious Memories. God-given magic to heal their blistered feet and the many wounds brought back from weeks of toil at sea. It is the least we can offer to goodly Laird Delaval in his struggles against the Southern filth that is Laird Ethelbert.”

Cadayle turned her look to Bransen, who, even through his Stork visage, wore a mischievous smirk. They were both well aware, after all, that the southeastern Abellican chapels served Ethelbert as these in the west and north served Delaval-and all in harmony and pragmatism.

Callen had barely closed the door to the room the three rented at a Palmaristown inn when Bransen grabbed up his gemstone and strapped it to his forehead under his black silken mask.

“Privateers,” he said, not a hint of the Stork in his strong and steady voice. “Mercenaries.”

“What are you thinking?” asked Callen.

“My guess is that my husband has decided that our load of booty is too dangerous to keep saddlebagged over poor old Doully,” Cadayle replied, and Bransen nodded.

“I had thought to spread the wealth to the commonfolk about the region but feared that some of the jewels would be recognized,” Bransen explained. “I’ve no desire to bring that pain to anyone-the same pain that both of you felt at the hands of Laird Prydae when I passed the stolen necklace to Cadayle.”

“You need not remind me of that,” Callen assured him. “Did I not bid you to throw the stolen coins and jewels into the river and be done with them?”

“And now I intend to do something along those very lines.”

“By taking the treasures to the privateers and bidding them to double-cross Laird Delaval,” Callen reasoned. “So you’d throw in with Ethelbert?”

“I care not if they all kill each other,” said Bransen. “But there is a delicious irony in using that fool Yeslnik’s treasures to buy off Laird Delaval’s intended allies.”

“As delicious as the Stork becoming a hero of the land against the interests of the lairds?” Cadayle asked. Bransen stopped putting on his black shirt and stared hard at her.

Cadayle merely shrugged, though, and offered him a warm smile. Her statement had been blunt, of course, but she, and perhaps she alone, had earned the right to talk to him in such a manner and many times over. Bransen could never be wounded by Cadayle’s honest reference to the Stork, since Cadayle alone had stood by him before the creation of the Highwayman, when he had found the gemstone magic to allow him to free himself of the crippling bonds of his physical infirmities.

Bransen finished dressing in the black outfit his mother had brought from Behr, finishing by tying the torn strip of fabric over the distinctive birthmark on his one bare arm.

Bransen took up the fabulous sword, holding it reverently before his eyes as he studied the intricate vine and flower designs etched into its gleaming blade. The weapon had no equal north of the Belt-and-Buckle Mountains, and few swords even of the Jhesta Tu mystics in Behr could match its quality. Staring at the marvelous blade, Bransen was reminded that he would one day go there, to the Walk of Clouds, to learn from the masters.

He slid the sword into its sheath and slung it across his back, then took up the saddlebags full of Yeslnik’s treasure and tossed them over his shoulder. He moved to the room’s small window and peeked around the heavy curtain, considering the setting sun.

“The privateer captains might be ashore,” Cadayle said.

“I will find them,” Bransen promised, and Cadayle and Callen nodded, neither about to doubt this man who had delivered them from a life of misery beneath the boot of Laird Prydae.

He went out in the dark of night, hand-walking down the side of the two-story inn so fluidly that anyone looking on would have thought he was using a ladder.

The Highwayman didn’t need a ladder.

He didn’t bother with the bustle he heard emanating from the many taverns along the wall separating the two city levels, reasoning that if the privateer captains were in one of those establishments, they would return to their ships in any case.

He found the docks nearly deserted, with only a couple of slaves swabbing the planks halfheartedly, and with no dockmasters to put whips to their backs. Bransen paid them little heed as he moved through the shadows along the wharves to the smaller docks and the tiny boats. He secured one without incident and floated out from the wharf, gently paddling as the current caught him and dragged him along. That current took him toward the moored privateers, for the tide was receding in the gulf, which meant that he merely needed his oars to steer the craft, and not noisily row it.

He kept glancing back over his shoulders, locating the dark silhouette of a mast protruding into the night sky, and appropriately angled his oars, drifting slowly, slowly, and in no hurry whatsoever. He brought the rowboat up against a mooring line and tied it off there, then gathered up his bags and, with a quick check to ensure that his precious sword remained secure in its sheath, the Highwayman began his climb.

A few moments later he came over the rail, silent as death, dark as night, and carefully paced about the deck, seeking sentries and the general lay of the ship. He’d never before been on a ship and had never even seen one up close. It took a lot of his concentration to resist losing himself in the experience, for truly this craft was a work of art, so sleek and beautiful and ultimately functional. He studied the many ropes, climbing and disappearing into the mass of rigging. Many generations of sailors had perfected this design one rope at a time, he understood immediately, recognizing in general fashion the evolution that had led from simple, single-mast boats to this intricate and wondrous threesail design.

He found a raised cabin aft and quickly discerned, from the shouting within, that the man inside carried great authority, and was likely the captain of the vessel himself.

Or herself, Bransen realized as he sidled up to a small window beside the forward-facing door and peeked in.

She stormed about a decorated desk, a rolled parchment in hand, a red bandanna tight about her head, with dark brown tresses flowing out behind and halfway down her back. She wore a puffy white blouse gathered about her slim waist and unbuttoned far enough down to be quite revealing with her every sudden turn. Black breeches and high boots completed her outfit, along with a dirk on her right hip, a curved sword on her left. She was not an unattractive woman, surely, and carried about her an aura of competence and danger.

He had come in late in her tirade, and she seemed too upset to speak in complete sentences, apparently, but it wasn’t hard for the Highwayman to fathom the gist of her rant: the nature of the deal offered by Laird Panlamaris, representative of Laird Delaval.

“Five months o’ sailing!” she cried. “Five! And feedin’ a full crew and a hundred hungry soldiers to boot. And that through a gulf full o’ powries! E’er ye seen a powrie, boy? Nasty little redcap hungry to open yer belly and tug out yer guts! Might that he’ll eat ’em right there while ye’re watch…”

She stopped and stared, mouth agape.

“Do go on,” the Highwayman bade. “I admit that my own experiences with the wretched powries are rather limited, but from what I’ve seen, I’ll not contra…”

The woman drew out her sword and leaped for him, thrusting for his throat.

But his own sword appeared in his hand, as fast as a blink, and he easily and gently guided her stabbing blade aside so that it poked into the jamb of the open door. She kept coming, and reached for her dirk, but there, too, he beat her to the quick, and the sailor grasped at an empty sheath!

The Highwayman held her stolen dagger up before her astonished eyes. He edged the privateer back at the point of her own dirk.

“Good lady, you have no fight with me,” he said, and he flipped the dagger, catching it by its tip and presenting it back to the sailor.

She stared at him for many heartbeats before grabbing the presented hilt and yanking the dirk back from the intruder. She presented both her blades in a defensive stance as she continued to size up the stranger, clearly unsettled.

The Highwayman calmly replaced his sword in its sheath across his back, and the privateer seemed all the more frazzled.

“Who ye be?” she demanded.

“An independent rogue,” he replied. “Much akin to yourself, I would expect.”

“Ye’re to lead with insults?”

“Hardly, milady. I hold my head with pride and would expect no less from you and the worthy sailors of these fine ships-ships flying under the flag of neither Ethelbert nor Delaval.”

“We’re in Palmaristown, which has thrown in with Laird Delaval.”

“No doubt because Laird Delaval has shown the deeper pockets.”

The woman tilted her head back and narrowed her eyes.

“Or because you believe that he will win out in the end and see a brighter future for those who do not oppose him,” the Highwayman bluntly added. “In either event, I salute you. I hold nothing but respect for any who can thrive in these dark times. I hope you will come to see me equally worthy of your respect.” As he finished, he pulled the saddlebags off his shoulder and tossed them at the privateer’s feet.

The woman glanced down at them, but immediately lifted her gaze back to the surprising man in the black mask.

He shrugged.

The woman hooked her saber under the flap of the nearest bag and with a deft flick of her wrist, severed the tie and pulled open the flap in a single, fluid movement. A few coins rolled out, and several jewels showed, and despite her best efforts, the woman’s eyes flashed with obvious interest.

“If you came to bargain, what a fool ye be to lay out the ante openly, and with yerself surrounded by potential enemies,” she said.

Again he shrugged, so confidently, and the smile showing under his black mask clearly said that he believed he could rather easily retrieve his treasure.

“What army serves ye?” the woman demanded.

“I am independent, and I offer no threat to accompany my gift to you, good lady. I came here to present you with these coins and jewels, stolen from the castle of the Laird of Delaval himself.”

The woman glanced at her crewman, who, throughout this entire ordeal, hadn’t even moved. Nor did he notice his captain’s look, fixated as he was on the marvelous and surprising intruder.

“You would be wise to keep them hidden while you remain on the river, or even in the gulf,” the Highwayman said. “Delaval has sent word far and wide to find these, no doubt.”

“Ye mean to push the burden o’ them onto me?”

“If you do not want them, lady…”

“I said no such thing.”

The Highwayman smiled wider.

“And what’re ye asking in return for this… gift?”

“Nothing,” he replied. “They are indeed a burden to me, as I remain in Delaval’s lands.”

“You would have us sail you to the reaches of Laird Ethelbert?”

The Highwayman paused, and almost agreed to that, thinking that he could then get around the spurs of the Belt-and-Buckle and into the famed city of Jacintha, in Behr, which would allow him an open road to the Walk of Clouds. Black wings of doubt fluttered up all about him, though, forcing him to admit to himself, yet again, that he was not ready for that ultimate journey.

“At another time, perhaps,” he said. “I have business remaining here, though I do hope to reach Entel and beyond, all the way to Behr, in the near future. Should we meet again when my business is complete, I would beg of you to consider providing such passage.”

“And for now?” the woman asked, looking down at the open satchel.

“I would beg you to hoist your sails and be gone from this place.”

The woman looked at him suspiciously. “Ye be an agent of Ethelbert indeed, then.”

“Independent,” the Highwayman reiterated. “Truly so. I care for neither of the feuding lairds, nor for any of their lackey lessers. If all the nobles of all of Honce are murdered in their sleep tomorrow, I will raise a glass in celebration. But of now, it is Laird Delaval who has most aggravated me, and it does me pleasure indeed to stick pins into his sides, first by robbing his treasury, and then…”

“By buying off three ships he has employed for his efforts,” the privateer reasoned.

The Highwayman shrugged. “The treasure is an offer of truce from another independent. Perhaps a prepayment for services needed some time hence. But I hold you to nothing at all. I come in salute-better that one such as you possess the coins and jewels than have me bury them in a hole. How should I ever live with myself if these treasures find their way into the hands of an innocent and oblivious peasant, who is then hanged by Delaval’s people for possessing them? Here, I know, they are in competent hands of men and women wise enough to keep them safe and secret. So yes, I beg you to relieve me of my burden.”

The privateer looked down at the bags again, licking her lips as she imagined the treasures within. If the hints showing on the open edge were any indication, she knew that this might well be the most profitable day of her life. With a sigh, she slid her weapons away and lifted her eyes to regard the Highwayman.

But he was already gone from her cabin.

It is an amazing transformation,” Callen said early the next morning. Bransen had just awakened and was still rubbing the sleep from his eyes when Callen walked through the door of their rented room. Beside him on the small bed Cadayle hardly stirred other than to bury her face in her pillow against the intrusion of daylight.

“I did not know that you had been here before,” Bransen replied, his voice steady, for he had slept with the soul stone firmly strapped in place on his forehead.

“Of course I have not,” said Callen. “I’m only echoing the words of the townsfolk. Palmaristown has seen a great shift in the last few months. No Samhaists remain in the city, and there are few in the surrounding countryside by all accounts. And even the people here fast abandon the ways of the Ancient Ones.”

“The Abellicans have the gemstones and the favor of the lairds across all of Honce,” Bransen said.

“But the change is coming more quickly here than elsewhere-even than in Delaval itself from what I could see. I had no such expectation, since Palmaristown is on the border of the wilderness. Across the river is land untouched by the Abellicans by all accounts.”

“And land unwanted by the Samhaists, likely,” Bransen reasoned.

“Or perhaps the Samhaists are out there, just across the river, watching and biding their time.”

Bransen shrugged, as he hardly cared. As he studied Callen more carefully, though, he recognized that she was more than a little unsettled by the sweeping changes, which surprised him given her unpleasant history with the brutal Samhaists.

“Perhaps the world will become a better place as the Samhaists recede into the shadows,” he offered. “Not that I expect much better from the Abellicans.”

“If they’re not killing people it will be an improvement,” Callen said, and Bransen smiled at her, glad that his words had apparently eased her troubled soul. He sympathized, and understood her inner turmoil, for indeed the changes sweeping the land were vast and profound, and Bransen recognized that few of the people had come to terms with them as of yet. Looking at it all from a removed point of view, it was more amusing than unsettling. He figured he really couldn’t lose, for anything would be better than the present state!

“Did your tryst go well?” Callen asked.

“I believe it did.”

“Those ships are from Bergenbel, the one holding south of the gulf that hasn’t thrown in for either Ethelbert or Delaval. Both sides value that port, I am told, and so they pay dearly for the services of the privateers who have taken up the mercenary cause.”

“Each believes that to be the path toward securing the holding, likely.”

Callen nodded her agreement with the assessment.

“Then my visit with the flagship captain last night might prove more irritating to Delaval than I intended,” Bransen said, his smile wide.

That smile grew all the wider later in the day when the trio started out of town. On a hill on the northeastern section they watched the Bergenbel privateers raise their sails and glide away from Palmaristown, heading north toward the open waters of the Gulf of Corona. At a nearby smithy, where they sold old Doully (for they could not bear to force the aching donkey to continue the journey), they found confirmation that the departure of the ships was the talk of the town, with many whispering that it would prove a harbinger for disaster.

“Ethelbert’s bought them,” explained the blacksmith, a hulking giant of a man with a red face and hair black and matted. “Word’s out that they might have been spies from the dog, come here to survey Palmaristown’s defenses.”

“You are expecting an attack?” Cadayle asked.

“Preparing for it,” the smith replied. “Who’s to know what the dog Ethelbert will do? King Delaval’s got him squeezed to the Mirianic.”

They let it go at that, with Cadayle handing Bransen, in Stork guise, over to Callen and saying her farewells to Doully. They were some distance from the smithy, on an open stretch of ground reserved for visiting caravans, before any of them dared broach the subject.

“Just as you had hoped,” Cadayle said.

Bransen grabbed the soul stone in his pouch and clutched it tightly. “If there were only a way for me to let Delaval know that it was the idiot Yeslnik’s coin that bought off his privateers, my satisfaction would be complete.”

“It’s early in the day,” said Callen. “You will think of something.”

That brought a shared laugh from the three, but Bransen cut his short, and stuttered it and twisted it around, when he noted the approach of a city guardsman. With help from his two companions, the Stork staggered out through Palmaristown’s northeastern gate, and down the open road toward Chapel Abelle, the seat of Abellican power.

A strange and unexpected feeling washed over Bransen at that moment. Suddenly it seemed real to him, this search for Brother Bran Dynard, his father-no, not his father, he decided, for that honor remained with Garibond. To this point, Bransen had considered this journey north a diversion as much as anything else, a delay against facing the hard truth of his road south. He had latched on to the idea of finding his father as much so that he wouldn’t yet have to face the Jhesta Tu mystics and their answers (or more pointedly, their possible lack of answers) as out of any real desire to find and know the man who had sired him.

Now, though, with the road straight and clear before him and the last real city left behind, the idea of finding Brother Dynard suddenly seemed very real-and Bransen wasn’t even sure what that meant. Would the man acknowledge him? Would the man crush him tight in a hug and be overcome with joy that his son had found him?

Did Bransen even want that? What might such a joyful reunion mean to the memory of his beloved Garibond?

So many questions swirled in Bransen’s thoughts the moment that road came clear to him, the moment the idea of finding Brother Dynard became real to him. Questions of how he might react to the man, of how the man might react to him, and most of all, as time and wobbly steps passed, of why.

Why hadn’t Brother Dynard returned for him?

Callen had many times called Bran Dynard a good man; Bransen could only hope that the answer to his most pressing question would bear that out.

Brother Honig Brisebolis rambled through the streets of the lower city, huffing and puffing and warning everyone to get out of his way. Wide-eyed and obviously in great distress as he was, few would pause to argue those commands from the three-hundred-pound rotund monk. Nor did the guards at the city’s higher, closed gate hesitate at the monk’s approach, rushing to swing wide one of those double doors to let the important Brother Honig ramble through without slowing.

Honig did pause just past the gates, however, as he stood on the crossroad. To the right, the south, lay the road that would bring him to Laird Panlamaris’s palace, while the left road led straight to the square before the Chapel of Precious Memories. Honig’s news would prove important, critical even, to both Laird Panlamaris and Father Malskinner.

“Laird Panlamaris might swiftly dispatch warships to intercept,” he said aloud, trying to sort through his jumbled thoughts.

He turned left anyway, realizing that his first duties were to the Church and not the laird. He gathered up a head of steam, gasping for breath but not daring to slow.

“What is it, Brother Honig?” Father Malskinner bade him a few moments later when he burst into the man’s spacious private chambers.

Honig tried to answer, but couldn’t find his voice for his gasping, and wound up leaning on the father’s desk for support.

“Did you meet with Captain Shivanne?”

Brother Honig nodded emphatically, but still couldn’t quite reach his voice.

“Brother Honig?”

“They raise sail!” he blurted at last.

A perplexed Father Malskinner stared at him for a moment before rising from his desk and moving to a window that overlooked the river. As soon as he glanced out, he saw the truth of it, as all three privateers had their sails up and engaged. The father turned fast on Honig. “What is the meaning?”

“Shivanne makes for the gulf and beyond,” he said.

“But Laird Delaval’s soldiers and supplies have not even yet arrived.”

Honig shook his head. “She will not wait. She laughed at my protests!”

“Laughed?”

“She was paid, Father. Well paid. ‘A better offer,’ she said.”

“Ethelbert? Here?”

Again Honig wagged his head in the negative. “Captain Shivanne teased and would not say, other than to assure me that it was not Ethelbert, nor any agent of the foul Laird of Entel. A privateer, she called him, this man who brought her a treasure beyond Laird Delaval’s offerings.”

Malskinner stared at him pensively. “A third party in the mix of this war?” It sounded even more improbable-to both of them-as he spoke the words aloud.

“A thorn, more likely,” Brother Honig said. “She said he wore a mask and suit of black, exotic material.”

Malskinner’s eyes went wide.

“She said that he moved as a shadow, and worked his blade with the skill of a master. A most magnificent blade, she assured me. A blade unlike any she had ever seen, and one, she promised, that would lay low a laird or would-be king.”

“The man from Pryd Holding,” Malskinner said with a nod of recognition. He moved swiftly for the shelving behind his desk, where he kept all the correspondences of the last months. In a matter of moments, he held the ones that had filtered up from Pryd Town, and the related messages sent out by Prince Yeslnik of Delaval, warning of a most notorious and dangerous figure known as the Highwayman.

Malskinner drew a deep breath as he read the last of those notes, the one informing him that Laird Prydae had been killed by this desperate fellow, who had then set out on the open road, destination unknown.

Flipping through some of the back parchments, the father of the Chapel of Precious Memories found the letter of detail sent by Brother Reandu on behalf of Father Jerak of Chapel Pryd.

“Bransen Garibond,” he said to Honig as he digested the letter. He looked at the portly brother. “Of Pryd Town. It is rumored that he was connected to Brother Dynard and an exotic woman of Behr.”

“Dynard?” Brother Honig echoed, shrugging and shaking his head.

“An insignificant brother,” Malskinner explained. “He traveled to Behr and was there corrupted by the seductive ways of the beastly barbarians. Father Jerak properly dispatched him to Chapel Abelle, to see if his soul could be salvaged.”

“Yes, yes,” Honig said. “Killed on the road, if I recall.”

“That was the rumor. I know not if Chapel Abelle ever confirmed it or not.”

“We must tell Laird Panlamaris of this.”

“At once,” Father Malskinner agreed. “Have him send word far and wide to beware of this creature.” He glanced back at the note. “And tell them to look for a damaged and small man.”

“Damaged?”

Malskinner shrugged as he read through the description of Bransen, of his storklike gait and his drooling and stuttering. “An alter ego, a disguise of weakness, it would seem,” he said.

“Your pardon, Father,” came a voice from the doorway. Father Malskinner looked over to see Brother Fatuus poking his head in. “I could not help but overhear.”

“Come in, Brother Fatuus,” Father Malskinner said. “We are discussing a potential problem that has come to Palmaristown. You have noticed the privateers lifting their sails to the wind?”

“That is why I have come, Father. What did I hear regarding a disguise?”

Father Malskinner bade him approach, and handed over the letter of detail from Brother Reandu.

“Go to Laird Panlamaris,” Malskinner ordered Honig. “Tell him everything and warn him to alert his guards to this storklike person.”

“I have seen him,” Fatuus said suddenly, and both of his brethren spun about to regard him as he stood there, mouth agape, holding Reandu’s letter. “This man, Bransen. I saw him only yesterday. I tended him with a soul stone, though to little effect, and bade him come to us this very night before Parvespers.”

“The creature described in that letter?”

“Perfectly described. He was named as a hero of the war, and so I went to him generously, as per your commandments on this regard.”

Father Malskinner leaned back, then sat on the edge of his desk and nodded slowly. “It is true, then. The Highwayman has come to Palmaristown.”

“The Highwayman?”

“A rogue of unusual talent and troublesome ways, it would seem,” Malskinner explained. “It was he who paid the privateers to sail from us, by their own admission.”

“Why would they divulge such information?” asked Brother Fatuus.

“Captain Shivanne freely told me,” Honig interjected. “I went out to her this morning, as arranged, to tend to her crew. They were already readying for sail, and when I inquired, she told me. Indeed, I would say that she was rather proud of her gain-proud enough to rattle a bag of coins and jewels before me, and to tell me of her unexpected benefactor.”

“Let us hope that this Bransen, this Highwayman, feels secure enough in his disguise to take you up on your offer of appearing before us,” Malskinner said to Fatuus. “If so, we will take him quickly and with as little excitement as possible.”

“Brother Reandu, speaking for Father Jerak of Chapel Pryd, takes pains to find kind words for this rogue,” Fatuus said as he perused the remainder of the long letter.

“Laird Delaval would not likely see things in that manner,” said Malskinner, and he waved Honig away. “Nor will Laird Panlamaris, who will face the wrath of Laird Delaval for allowing the ships of Bergenbel to sail unladen with Delaval’s men and supplies. Find this man if he remains within Palmaristown, and if he does not, find out where he went. Perhaps if we offer him to Laird Panlamaris, that he might offer him to Laird Delaval, our failures will be forgiven.”

Bransen didn’t show up at the Chapel of Precious Memories before Parvespers that night, of course, and indeed, word came back to Father Malskinner even before the twilight ceremony that the man and his two female companions had exited the city through the northern gate, on the road to the central highlands.

Where lay Chapel Abelle.

The next morning, Brother Fatuus rode out that same gate, spurring his horse to the east with all speed to deliver Father Malskinner’s warning to the brothers of Chapel Abelle.

So hasty was Fatuus’s ride that he didn’t stop to inquire about the curious Highwayman at the scattered farmhouses he passed, and so it was on his second morning out that as he rode hard down the lane past a small barn, three sets of eyes stared out at him.

“The one who tried to heal you with the gemstones,” Cadayle said.

“He rides as if powries are chasing him,” Callen added.

“Powries? Or the Highwayman?” asked Bransen.