The Patrimony

13

Tim had refused to await the Zahrtohgahn’s return. Leaving Ahl, Giliahna, Mairee and the apprentice physician to look out for each other, he had stalked out, snarling, “If the bitch wants blood, I’ll give her blood, though she may not like the color of the stuff I shed.” He prowled the corridors and rooms of his dead father’s hall, looking for prey.

Once divested of his porridge-caked clothing, Father Skahbros had not redressed himself, rather he had wrapped his pudgy body in a bath sheet, gathered up fresh clothing and padded down to the bath chambers in the north wing. And that was where his coldly raging nemesis found him … and dealt with him.

Tim paced back down the old, familiar hallway, his left hand on the well-worn basket hilt of his heavy broadsword. Through the pantries, into the winter kitchen. A burly cook—a kath’ahrohs by the cast of his dark-olive skin, black eyes and hair—gripping a big, greasy knife made at first to bar the passage of this apparent northern barbarian mercenary in patched boots and stained clothing. That was before he drew close enough to see that the stains were bright-red splashes of fresh blood, and to be chilled to his very marrow by the icy, murderous rage shining from those slitted blue eyes.

When he did not find Sir Geros in his cottage, Tim paused only long enough to tuck an antique but nicely balanced francisca—one of the old warrior’s wall decorations—into his belt, then he headed directly across the rear courtyard to the stables. A row of paddocks adjoined the larger box-stalls, and in one of these he could see a pale-gray, black-maned-and-tailed bulk that could be none save Steelsheen, his own warhorse. Alerted by the familiar sound of Tim’s tread, the huge stallion turned from the manger of fragrant cloverhay and moved to the whitewashed bars. When Tim was close enough to recognize by sight, the horse whickered a greeting, stamping and nodding his scarred head in anticipation of a fondling.

As the man hugged and patted the pale cheeks, rubbing up and down the narrow stripe of glossy black hairs that bisected the animal’s face, Steelsheen almost purred. But then the stallion scented the fresh, human blood, recalled the clank of Tim’s weapons.

“Steelsheen was tired, my brother, but he is well rested now. Will we fight soon?” The horse mindspoke eagerly, unconsciously pawing at the earth of the paddock with one shod hoof.

“I may have to fight,” replied Tim. “But it will be afoot, my brother. Are there any warhorses in this place beside you and Redhoney?”

Steelsheen snorted derisively. “There is one who thinks it is such, a gelding, one Tahkoos, but it really is only a sexless hunter of furry beasts and little tuskless pigs. At the bite of blade or point, such a creature would likely buck off its rider and run away. A war-trained stallion is pastured nearby, but he is old, his two-leg brother is dead and no one now rides him.”

“Yes,” replied Tim, “he must be—must have been—my sire’s warhorse. Have you or Redhoney had trouble here?”

Steelsheen gave another derisive snort. “Only mares and geldings are within this place and all are frightened of me … of Redhoney, too, for all that she is only a mare.” He tossed his raven mane. “The two-legs fear us, too, all save the one called Tahmahs. He respects us but no reek of fear is on him.”

Tim reflected that he did not blame the other horses and the stable hands one damn bit. A fully trained warhorse was as dangerous as a stud bull, more dangerous, really, because of the added intelligence. No horse of merely average intelligence ever received full war training, which was one reason why they were so expensive and so treasured by their purchasers. Another reason was their unswerving loyally to the one man they considered a brother—warhorses had been known to stand, riderless, over the body of a dead or wounded rider and fight with teeth and flailing hooves until aid came or they were themselves slain.

“Whatever happens,” he admonished the big horse, “you and Redhoney are to allow no man to mount you save me or my brother, Geros. Understood?”

“But what of our brother, Rai?” queried the gray.

“Our brother, Rai, is gone to Wind,” answered Tim, soberly. “Tell Redhoney that I already have taken a partial vengeance for his killing, and I shortly will take the rest.”

Tim found Master Tahmahs in a tackroom-cum-office. Only his silver-shot black hair stamped the horse master as having any trace of Ehleen blood. Otherwise, he might have been a clansman fresh from the Sea of Grass, with his wiry, slender build, fair skin and bright-blue eyes. He was industriously softening a new bridle when Tim entered. He glanced up, saw the visitor and the blood-splashed clothing and smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“It’s started then, my lord Tim? Good! How many dead so far?”

“Two,” answered Tim shortly. “My sergeant, murdered by arrow poison and that thrice-damned outlaw priest the bitch was harboring—though he may not be dead yet. I doubt that he is; belly wounds don’t kill quickly.”

The horse master nodded. “But there’re no wounds so agonizing. Yet I’ve heard no screams from the gelded bastard.”

Tim laughed coldly. “Nor will you, not from him. I sliced out most of his treasonous tongue.”

Tahmahs chuckled. “That will put a burr under her saddle for sure, my lord. I think she dotes on that priest damned near as much as on her tongue sister or on that sad excuse of a man, Myron. But what will my lord have of me?”

“Please pardon my asking, but ten years is a long time away. Are you trained to arms, Master Tahmahs?”

Tahmahs grinned. “Twenty years a Confederation dragoon, my lord.”

“Then I need you here at the hall,” said Tim. “Is there a good rider among your men, one you can trust in all things?”

Tahmahs replied, “My youngest son, Divros. He is not yet fourteen or he would, like his brothers, be gone up to Goohm to enlist, but he is as big as me and near as strong and a better rider than I ever was.”

“Call him here,” snapped Tim, impatient to find Geros and start the action.

When the strapping boy stood before him, the young captain asked, “Divros, is your loyalty to me or to my father’s widow?”

Tahmahs snorted. “No need to question that, my lord Tim. Four years ago that precious pair, Lord Myron and his bum boy, found Divros alone and tried to strip and bugger him by force. Of course my lad fought, but what could a nine-year-old do against two lads near as big as I am? It was a near thing and they’d have had their unnatural way with him, had not your brother, Behrl, happened along and beaten Myron bloody and sobbing. So, you need have no doubts as to where the loyalties of me and mine lie.”

“Very well, Divros, which is the fastest, strongest horse in the stables?” demanded Tim.

The boy did not hesitate. “Lord Myron’s roan hunter, Tahkoos, my lord.”

“Have you ever ridden him, Divros?”

The boy smiled. “Oh, yes, my lord. He says he likes me better than Lord Myron.”

Tim nodded again. “Good. Saddle him and ride to Morguhn Hall, or until you find my half-brother, Arhkeethoheeks Bili of Morguhn. Here,” with effort, he wrenched the ruby ring from his finger, “hang this on a thong about your neck, under your shirt; show it only to Bili, as proof that you come from me.”

“Tell the arhkeethoheeks that matters here have progressed faster than we had thought or planned for. Tell him to send my company to me at the gallop. Tell him to alert the High Lords that far more than had been suspected is afoot here in Vawn. Tell him that real rebellion is probable unless we strike quickly and drastically. Warn him to not, under any circumstances, impart aught of this to Prince Zenos. Can you remember it all, boy?”

When the lad could repeat the various parts of the message to his satisfaction, Tim sent him off to saddle the gelding and turned back to Tahmahs.

“Do you have any weapons in the stables?”

Tahmahs nodded soberly. “Yes, my lord, Sir Geros secreted a nice little store in my keeping.”

“Then arm your son with at least a dirk and a spear; bow and saber, too, if he knows how to use them. No sense in burdening him and his mount with armor or target though. His job is to get to Lord Bili, not to stand and fight.”

“Immediately Divros is on the road, turn all the other horses into the pasture. Not mine, though—I don’t want him fighting with your king stallion. You might put Redhoney, the mare, in with Steelsheen. They wont harm each other, and as she has just lost her brother, she might be comforted by being nearer to a familiar horse.”

“When you’re done with that, round up Sergeant Mahrtuhn and his dragoons. They, you and any of your men you feel are loyal to me are to take as many weapons as you can carry, all the food you can find and at least one skin of water per man and come to the thoheeks’ suite. If anyone—anyone!—gets in your way, you have my leave to cut him down. Understood, Master Tahmahs?”

Tim and Geros found just what the young captain had suspected in the cellar armory—the racks and chests and cupboards were all nearly empty of weapons and armor.

“But, my l … but, Tim, there be no place in this hall that such quantities of arms could have been hidden without me knowing of it from the few loyal ones, and that quickly.”

“Just so,” agreed Tim. Then he asked, “How long since you’ve been in any of the hall villages?”

“A month, at least, Tim, maybe two. It’s Tonos, the majordomo’s, part to deal with the villagers, him and the head cook, Myron’s bum boy, Gaios.”

“I caught that castrated goat of an Ehleen priest in the bath chamber and hung him up on a beam with his wrists lashed behind him while we … ahh, conversed. He told me some very interesting things. One of them is that for the last half-year, Mehleena’s agents have been hiring bandits and gutter-scrapings from all over the Principate of Karaleenos, bringing them into this duchy surreptitiously and billeting them in the hall villages, at least a hundred of them that the priest knew of.”

Geros looked stunned. “But why, Tim? She had no idea you were still alive until you rode in this morning.”

Tim chuckled. “She knows the Sanderz Kindred have precious little liking for her and even less for Myron. Had I not come back, if they had chosen one of their own number to be chief of Sanderz, she was going to turn her pack loose against all the Sanderz Kindred, noble or not, and depend upon her cousin, Prince Zenos, to save her hide with Brother Bili and the High Lords by claiming that the Kindred had been in armed revolt against their rightful lord. She might have gotten away with her infamy, but …” He shrugged meaningfully.

“So, you can bet your boots that all the arms, save only those you squirreled away and the pitiful remnants in this room, are now on the backs or in the hands of her private army of rebel ruffians, down in the hall villages. Which fact, incidentally, answers any doubts you might have entertained about where Tonos’ loyalty lies. He’s Mehleena’s and no mistake!”

Sir Geros’ brow wrinkled. “But … but what if you had not come back and if the Kindred had chosen Myron to be chief?”

“Yes, I posed that question, too. The good priest required a bit more persuasion before he’d give me an answer, but after I’d dislocated one of his shoulders, he became much more talkative. If Myron had been elected and confirmed, Mehleena and her banditti would bide their time. It seems that there is a widespread conspiracy afoot in Karaleenos, Geros. The priest was certain that some very high personages—possibly even Zenos himself—are involved. When this pack had gained enough strength, they were to rise up in every duchy, county, baronetcy, city, town and village, slaughter the Kindred and declare an independent Kingdom of Karaleenos.”

“Madness!” declared Sir Geros, vehemently. “Utter insanity! In a frontier duchy, say, such a scheme might even work out … for a little while. But here, in the very heart of the Confederation, it’s doomed from the start. Kehnooryos Ehlahs abuts the whole northern border of Karaleenos and the Ahrmehnee Stahn the whole western. To the south, lie the Associated Duchies, and to the east is the sea, commanded by the Confederation Fleet. So who, what idiot, could think such a plan would last any longer than it took word to reach Kehnooryos Atheenahs?”

Tim shrugged. “Present company excepted, of course, what Ehleen ever thought with his head rather than his emotions? Well, there’s damn-all here for us. They left only junk. Get back to your house and arm yourself. I’ll be in the thoheeks’ suite with the others.”

“But, Tim, would it not be better for us to make our stand down here in the magazines? We’d have no shortage of either water or food here.”

The young captain growled, “No, by Sun and Wind, I’ll not be driven into a hole in the ground! This is my hall, Geros, and by my steel, I’ll hold it. Father had the central portion built for just such a contingency as this. With the doors to the wings locked and barred, it can be held by a small force against anyone not willing to burn down the whole place … and, grasping as the bitch is, I don’t think Mehleena would see the hall in ashes, even if it meant my death.”

The horror-laden screams of a maid brought Majordomo Tonos and a hastily sent servant brought the Lady Mehleena to the bath chamber.

The soft, white, womanish body of the priest hung by to bloody, swollen wrists from the central beam. The shoulders had become disjointed and the flesh about them was hideously discolored. A wide pool of blood was beneath the dangling feet, with more dripping from the toes. The hilt of a boot dagger stood out from the lower belly, just a few inches above the stump of the castrate’s penis. The mouth continued to dribble blood down the chin and onto the chest, and to give vent to a low, continuous whining, gurgling moan. The empty eye sockets had almost ceased to bleed.

When, at last, Mehleena had stopped her screaming, raving tantrum, Tonos approached her. “Mistress? My lady … ? May I kill Father Skahbros? It were the kindest thing anyone now can do for him. He is in great pain and dying … but he could live longer without a mercy thrust.”

Her fat face twisted with rage. “You softheaded fool! We don’t have time for him now. To hell with him! Send a galloper down to the villages and call out the Crusaders or all will be lost for us here.” With that, she slammed the door to the bath chamber and stamped off up the hallway.

When the thin blade was into Neeka’s chest a little past half its length, Master Fahreed sliced from side to side, to damage the woman’s heart fully and so speed her death. Then he wiped the blade on her shift and stepped back. He did not mean to leave until she had ceased to breathe.

Neeka had just started her last year of the indenture when Master Lokos’ merry, plump wife, Yris, died of a fever then raging through Esmithpolisport. Hardly was she decently interred than the master himself was borne home dead from a meeting of the Heritage Council, whereat he had suddenly clutched at his chest and collapsed, expiring before he could be carried to a physician.

Koominon had the corpse borne to what had been Lokos’ bedchamber, locked himself in with it and hastily performed in private those last rites that were forbidden in public, while Neeka summoned the servants to wash and dress their master’s body. It seemed to Neeka that fully half the inhabitants of Esmithpolisport attended the public eulogy to Master Lokos Prahseenos; even the thoheeks, Dahnuhld Esmith of Esmith—who hated the salt sea and almost never came to the port which produced so much of his revenue—sat with the other notables and speakers on the podium and said a few, halting words in praise of Lokos, whom he had never met personally. At least three-quarters of the attendees joined the procession that bore the cypress-wood casket to the necropolis and saw it placed between those of his two wives in the splendid mausoleum of pale-green Theesispolis limestone, with its entrance flanked by two fluted columns of white, purple-veined marble from the Associated Duchies, far to the south and west.

So far as Judge Gahbros, the executor of Lokos’ sizable estate, or anyone else knew, the late master had no living relative, so inquiries for the closest relatives of his two dead wives were sent far and wide. In the meanwhile, Koominon kept the house as orderly as ever he had for Lokos and Neeka managed the shop with all that that entailed and continued the training of the apprentices. At length, two months after Lokos’ demise, Judge Gahbros came calling just after the dinner hour one evening.

Once he was seated and had sipped at the wine, he said, mock-chidingly, “Koominon, I told you to come to me for any funds needed to maintain poor Lokos’ establishments, yet you have not come in two moons’ time.”

Koominon smiled. “There has been no need to do so, Lord Gahbros. Our little Mistress Neeka has done so well at the shop that not only have the profits been sufficient to pay all the household expenses and salaries, but to pay as well the full expenses of the shop and to put by a few thrahkmehee beside.”

Neeka blushed furiously and both the men laughed. The judge reached across and patted her small hand. “Child, do not be embarrassed at honest and well-earned praise. All the [unclear] and professional community is full of your praises these days. You are proving a true credit to Master Lokos’ memory. If the man who is journeying here from Linstahkpolis has a grain of sense, he’ll keep you on as his manager and trainer until you’ve put by enough to buy his shop or to set up your own.”

Koominon asked, “Then you’ve located an heir, my lord?”

The jurist nodded. “The only son of Yris’ elder sister. A merchant, he is, one Pawl Froh, now resident in Linstahkpolis.”

Koominon sighed. “A Kindred barbarian?”

“Yes,” agreed Gahbros. “Half, anyway. His sire was a mercenary badly wounded in the Great Rebellion, who settled down with his loot in the Confederation, rather than returning to the Middle Kingdoms. He had three sons by Yris’ sister, the other two went a-warring and are now dead. This man is in his late twenties and is, I understand, a middling successful dealer in hides, horns and tallow, raw wool, horsehair, bristles and suchlike.”

Koominon shook his head slowly. “Hides? Bristles? What could such a man know of the craft of an apothecary?”

“Precisely,” smiled the Judge. “He’ll be needing a good manager to run the business … and who better than Neeka, eh?”

But Koominon was clearly unconvinced. He looked deeply disturbed.

Three weeks later, Pawl Froh appeared, and when Judge Gahbros brought the heir to the establishment that had been Master Lokos’, he looked as grim and worried as Koominon. It was easy to see why this third son of the retired Freefighter had not gone a-warring with his two elder brothers—no army or condotta would accept a hunchbacked cripple.

When the judge introduced Froh to Neeka, she tried hard to conceal her immediate dislike of the sharp-faced, shaggy-haired little man, with his scummy-toothed leer and his way of looking at her that made her skin crawl.

Froh’s normal speaking voice was a whining rasp, and he never ceased to rub together his grubby, ink-blotched hands. He seemed a little awed by the tall, dignified jurist and so waited until he had finished glorifying Neeka’s management of what was the most prosperous small shop in all Esmithpolisport.

With a wave at the apprentices, he whined, “What fer do you need four shop boys? I only got the two, and my place’s a whole lot bigger nor thisun.”

Before Neeka could frame an answer, the judge said, “They are not shop boys, Master Froh, they are apprentice apothecaries. Master Lokos turned out at least half the best apothecaries in the Principalities of the Three Karaleenosee, and Mistress Neeka is finishing these boys for him.”

Froh loudly sniffed his dripping nose, then wiped the back of one hand across it. “They be mighty damn well fed for mere apprentices; heh, ol’ Lokos, he musta been gittin’ inta his secon’ chilliood. But I’ll see to the stoppin’ of thet, and damn fast, too.”

The judge frowned. “Master Froh, you should know that this duchy has laws dictating the decent and humane treatment of apprentices and resident journeymen, such as Mistress Neeka, here. I have the honor to be the senior jurist for Esmithpolisport and I see to it that abuses of the apprentice laws are handled most harshly.”

“Oh, your worship, please don’t misunderstand this humble businessman,” whined Froh, bobbing up and down in little, short hows and wringing his dirty hands. “We have such laws on the books in Linstahkpolis, too, and ain’t no man but would say Pawl Froh heeds to the very letter of ‘em.”

Neeka felt a cold chill of apprehension. Master Lokos had never fretted that craft masters of other trades laughed at him, he had treated his apprentices like his own sons and daughters, rather than doing for them only that which the law commanded.

While one of the boys raced back to the residence to fetch Koominon into the shop and while the heir nosed about the storerooms and workrooms, the judge drew Neeka aside and spoke in low tones. “Child, this creature is not what any of us expected. He is crude, vulgar, avaricious, a miser and, I doubt me not, more than a little dishonest; in the three hours we have been together, I have not heard him say a single good thing about anyone, living or dead.”

“He seems to have the distorted opinion that ‘apprentice’ is but a synonym for ‘slave.’ Such is not the case, of course. As apprentices, you and the boys have all the rights and protections of any other sub-citizen of the Confederation. He, Froh, is a sub-citizen, himself; he showed me a copy of a letter proclaiming him a citizen of the Baronetcy of Awstburk, whence came his late father. He chortled and crowed that such subterfuge prevented the Thoheeks of Linstahk levying taxes on anything besides his profits.”

“He is not a good man, Neeka. I’m telling you now, and I’ll be telling Koominon later, should he offer abuse to anyone in this shop or the house, I am to be immediately notified. He may feel himself secure in this windfall, but he is not. Mistress Yris had other sisters and they, too, had children and I shall remain in charge of poor Lokos’ estate until …”

He broke off, perforce, as Pawl Froh limped back into the main room of the shop, bringing back with him his perpetual sniffle and a reek of unwashed flesh that overpowered even the clean scents of the herbs and spices.

The riding mules were the first to be sold, then the two little asses Master Lokos had used to bear the panniers of herbs and roots from his fields beyond the city and from his frequent expeditions in search of those plants which could not be cultivated and needs must be gathered from streams and forests.

“Master Froh,” she asked, “without an ass, how can I and the apprentices bring back the herbs we need from the woodlands and our fields?”

He looked up from the tally sheets, whining annoyedly, “Their backs look strong enough to bear a few pounds of roots a few miles.”

“But when we harvest the fields next year—” Neeka began, only to be rudely cut off.

“Don’t chew worry none ‘bout thet, sweetie pie, ain’t no more fiel’s. I done sold ‘em. Got me a dang good figger for ‘em, too.”

When he had sold the feed and hay and had discharged the groom for whom there was no longer any use, Froh had the quarters of the apprentices transferred to the draughty stable loft, but all the beds and other furniture was ordered left behind. Then he commenced letting the beds by the week to sailors and wagoners, who often caroused far into the night, robbing the servants on the floor below and adjoining neighbors, alike, of sleep. But Froh seemed not to care, so long as silver and gold coins continued to amass in the iron chest he kept chained to his bedroom wall.

Then, unexpectedly, Judge Gahbros was called to Danyuhlzpolis to sit on a special, three-judge panel convened by Arhkeethoheeks Hari Danyuhlz III of Danyuhlz to hear an important case. Twenty-four hours after the jurist’s departure, Froh sold the indenture contracts of the two newest apprentices to a Middle Kingdoms merchant bound back to Harzburk.

Again, Neeka confronted her new master. This time, she was coldly furious, frantic for the safety of the little boys she had come to love like younger brothers. “Surely you must know, Master Froh, that the moment that merchant’s wagon crosses from the Principate of Kuhmbuhluhn into the Kingdom of Harzburk, those children will cease being contracted apprentices and become true slaves for the rest of their lives! How? How in God’s name could you do such a thing? It … its inhuman!”

He did not even look up from his tally sheets. “I be master here, missy, don’ you go a-lectrin’ to me, heanh? I made me a fine profit offn them two contrac’s, and there’s two less moufs to be fed to boot. What all thet fine, upstanding merchant does oncet he’s out’n this dang Confedrashun’s tween him and his burk lord. But us burkers is honest folks. We ain’t all borned liars and rebels like you friggin’ Ehleenee is. Now, gitchore purty ass out’n here and let me be!”

After Tilda, one of the servant girls, was raped in her bed by a drunken sailor who had wandered down from above, all the servants demanded that Master Froh afford them protection from the depredations and petty thefts of his roomers, “answer” was to fire them, en masse. Then he moved more roomers into the vacated chambers of what had been the servants’ quarters. He would have fired Koominon, as well, save that that worthy produced a properly drawn and witnessed contract guaranteeing him employment as majordomo and chef by Master Lokos or his assigns for a period of thirty years, and there still were more than eight years to go.

Thereafter, Neeka seldom saw the remaining two apprentices, as Froh saw to it that the boys stayed busy doing the work of the fired servants. Consequently, Neeka’s workload in shop and workrooms trebled and, shortly, she began to feel and show the strain. She had to exercise more and more self-control to keep from snapping at customers. It became harder and harder to force her dead-tired body to do the compounding and distilling the proper, time- and energy-consuming way and not allow herself to succumb to the temptation of dangerous shortcuts and half measures.

Which was probably why she forgot to throw the big iron bolt on her chamber door that one night. She fought her way up from the depths of a sound sleep, trying to recall what noise had awakened her. There was only the merest ghost of a shuffling, scraping sound in her room, though on the two floors above, the usual carousing was still in progress.

Then she became aware of the smell, that sickening stink of a filthy human body. Then Froh sniffled. A cold hand touched her face and, before she could even gasp, clamped down over her mouth. The coverlet was suddenly ripped from off her, then his dirty, misshapen body was pinning her down, his foul breath nauseating her.