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351 M.E.
Everyone knew the war was lost. The unofficial truce was almost a year old now, but not everyone was ready to stop fighting. Lord Broderick’s orders to William had been quite simple: “Find out whether they’re planning another attack.” The Immani were subtle and devious, and they might well decide to restart the war against Loshadnarod for their own inscrutable reasons.
That part of the mission would be simple enough. William knew Terminium. He knew the taverns and inns where the senior centurions went to share an amphora of wine and complain about their superiors. If the proconsul or Emperor Tullius or blasted Legate Faustinus were planning anything new, William would probably find out about it within a few days of arriving in the city.
No, that wasn’t the part of the mission that occupied William’s thoughts as he rode north through Newshire, up the Styrung Pass, and over the windswept Cruedruan plateau. He was thinking about the last thing Lord Broderick had said, right before William left, as a quiet aside.
“By the way, see if anyone up there knows about the king’s condition.”
“Sir?” William almost never questioned orders, but this one had seemed to require some explanation. “Not even the queen knows, my lord. I don’t believe his majesty has even told Princess Elwyn. Why would the Immani....?”
“One never knows what certain people up there might know. I’m curious what they think comes after Edgar.”
“After.” William nodded. “I see, sir. Very good.”
All the way up to Terminium, William pondered that word, “After.” Was King Edgar sicker than anyone realized? All William had heard was that someone in the king’s household (paid generously by Lord Broderick) had reported that the king was having trouble with his digestion. To the queen and the royal children, it seemed as if Edgar was a bit more ill-tempered than usual, a bit less inclined to leave the privacy of his apartment. And since he was a grumpy homebody to begin with, almost no one else had noticed much difference.
But was it more than that? Could the king be dying?
“What comes after Edgar?” A very good question, and one that William knew Lord Broderick had strong opinions about.
Earstien willing, that was all far in the future, though.
Three days before the Summer Solstice, William rode into Terminium. The nights up on the plateau could be bitterly cold, even at this time of year. But the days were hot and dry and dusty. William could see the heat rippling off the cobblestones and the tile roofs. The bleached marble steps of the big temples hurt to look at in the bright sunlight. William would have bet he could fry an egg on one of those steps. Not the kind of weather one associated with Terminium, but very useful weather, all the same. A hot, dusty day meant hot, dusty soldiers drinking to slake their thirst.
He took a room at a small inn near the forum, right in the shadow of some pagan temple. William couldn’t remember if the temple honored Fulmenius or Sophia, but he did know a lot of military officers and civil servants liked to drink in the common room of this inn, because it was close to the government buildings and offered generous credit. It was also close to most of the other best watering holes in town—the one preferred by noncommissioned officers, the one favored by Myrcians serving in the legions, and so on.
For the next two days, William wandered between these various establishments. He drank very little (although Gwen would have said he still drank too much), but he spent Lord Broderick’s money generously on other men’s drinks. William wasn’t very good at talking to people. But over the years, he had taught himself the skill of listening.
Over an expensive amphora of Thessalian red, a foppish young patrician officer told William all about the horses he had bought in anticipation of the autumn hunting season. Granted, the young fool probably wasn’t privy to all the Empire’s darkest secrets. But he genuinely did seem to believe that he and his army unit would be in the city for the remainder of the year.
A centurion on the cusp of middle age confessed that he was thinking about retiring in October and buying a cattle ranch outside the city. He wanted to get married, too, and knew a widowed barmaid who would probably say “yes.” William knew that if the army were planning on launching a campaign soon, the centurion wouldn’t be allowed to retire. It wouldn’t even be an option for him.
In a wine shop near the eastern gate, a local farmer lamented the falling prices of pork, beef, and grain. The fine weather had produced a bumper crop, driving down the prices of everything. Of course, if the army were preparing for a major assault on Loshadnarod, the commissary department would be buying up tons and tons of food, packing the meat away in salt and storing the grain in the big granaries at the legionary camp. Prices would be rising, not falling.
As for Lord Broderick’s second question—the one about King Edgar—answers were harder to come by. Most of the lower-ranking soldiers barely knew the name of the King of Myrcia, let alone his medical condition. The patrician officers and bureaucrats knew only what their friends and relations in Myrcia wrote to them.
Some other fellows in Terminium might know, if anyone did. They worked for army intelligence—a violent, cold-hearted, and thoroughly corrupt bunch. William had worked with some of them before. He might try a little bribe and see what he could learn. Or maybe ask the question simply and directly to see their reaction. Lord Broderick hadn’t authorized him to reveal what they suspected about King Edgar’s health. But then, Lord Broderick hadn’t explicitly forbidden him from revealing it, either.
A little before noon, the day after the Solstice, William stood at the end of an alley, shaded from the sun by an arcade as he scanned the sunbaked forum. He was trying to decide which of his disreputable spy acquaintances he might approach first, when he felt the tiniest tug at his left trousers pocket. Instantly alert, he raised his left hand to scratch his chin. His pocket went almost completely slack—a crucial error, as he felt the fabric shift. Quick as lightning, he shot his hand down and grasped a tiny, rock-hard wrist.
As he turned, a bony knee in grubby gray cotton shot upward, aiming for his balls. He swatted it away with his other hand, though. The little figure whose arm he held turned into a mass of writhing fury, kicking and punching. Long, dirty blonde hair shook loose from a ragged ponytail, nearly covering a pair of bright, angry green eyes. The urchin jumped up, planted both bare feet against his left hip, and pushed off hard. She succeeded in breaking his grip, but she fell straight back and landed with an alarming “crack” on the ground.
She was still wincing and fighting to get her breath back when William picked her up by the back of her tattered old dress. For all her desperate strength, she was not very big. A few inches short of five feet, and hardly an ounce of fat anywhere on her.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he asked, in his best street Immani.
In an instant, the girl’s expression turned sweet and winsome. She batted her eyelashes. “I noticed you were from out of town, sir,” she said in Myrcian. “I wanted to offer my services as a guide.” Her accent was almost perfect.
“Horseshit,” he said, switching to Myrcian. “You were trying to pick my pocket.”
She tilted her head, and her hair fell back, revealing collarbones that stood out painfully. “I was trying to alert you to the dangers of wandering around the forum, sir. You should keep an eye out. There are lots of thieves in this area.”
The sheer gall of the girl. There was something in her expression that put William in mind of Gwen—the same kind of stubbornness. A look that said, “I understand your rules, and I completely reject them, thank you very much.” William couldn’t help but crack a smile as he released his grip on her.
“You should be careful, too,” he said, reaching under his shirt to pull out his purse—which he never kept in his trouser pockets. “There are desperate characters around here. Hired swords and spies.” He took out a silver penny and flipped it to her.
She caught it easily in the air. “Is that what you do, sir? Are you some sort of secret agent?”
“And what if I am?”
“Then you’re not very good at it.” She giggled, winked at him, and ran off down the alley.
Feeling he had experienced enough local color for one day, William headed across the forum to the proconsul’s palace. He knew an older prefect who worked there and commanded some of the Empire’s spies in Loshadnarod. The fellow was out, which wasn’t a surprise, because he tended to spend more time spying on other government offices than he did on the enemy. William tried a few seedy taverns near the northern gate, where some of the prefect’s more notorious agents liked to drink. But he couldn’t find those men, either.
“Perhaps I have done enough for now,” he thought. He went back to the forum and the market, where he bought a little toy horse for Robby and a pair of amber earrings for Gwen. Then he returned to his inn. If he was quick, he could write up a brief progress report for Lord Gramiren and send it off that very afternoon with one of the regular messengers from the Myrcian consulate.
As soon as he entered his room, however, he sensed something was wrong. He knew exactly how the room had looked when he left, and things were out of place. Kneeling by the bed, he measured the distance between the headboard and his saddlebags. He had placed them exactly four fingers apart that morning. Now they were closer. Saddlebags didn’t get up and move on their own.
He took out his writing set and found it had been tampered with, as well. The thin sheets of Sahasran rice paper he used for writing secret coded messages had been unrolled and crammed back into their narrow lead tube awkwardly. A beginner’s mistake.
After putting everything back exactly as it had been, he opened the little window in the room. Then he went down to the common room, found the innkeeper, and loudly announced that he would be having supper at a friend’s estate outside of town, so he wouldn’t be back until very late. He couldn’t tell if there was anyone listening in, but surely someone had been.
With that taken care of, he left the inn by the front door and walked around the neighborhood a little until he was sure no one was following him. Then he went back to the inn, climbed up the outside to his window, and settled down in a dark corner of his room, half-covered by a spare blanket.
He didn’t have long to wait. Measuring by the shifting angle of the shadows in the room, he guessed maybe twenty minutes passed before he heard the metallic rattle of something in the lock. A few light scrapes and clicks at first. Then more insistent tapping and jabbing. Then a few muffled oaths in a high voice.
Clearly a beginner at the trade.
The rattling went on for some time. He almost took pity on the poor bastard and unlocked the door himself. Finally, though, the tumblers clicked and turned, and the door swung quietly open.
The figure that entered was covered in a long cloak that scraped the floorboards, but William instantly recognized the thin, bony form and the way she moved in her bare feet. She was the pickpocket girl from the forum.
Silently, as she knelt and opened his saddlebags, he set aside the blanket, stood up, and slid along the wall behind her. Then he slammed the door as hard as he could, making the bedside lamp rattle and setting the dusty curtains swinging.
The girl fell over and scrambled backwards, eyes wide with terror. She bumped against the bed and grabbed desperately around her, pulling down a pillow and holding it over her chest like a shield. William bit his lip to stop from laughing.
“So, you’re not just a thief,” he said.
“I’m a lot of things,” she said. “I used to work caravans. I’ve traveled all over.”
“What’s your name?”
“Millie.” She was a good liar, but not as good as she thought she was.
“No, it’s not.”
She tried a tentative smile. “Fine, then. I’m Vittoria.”
“Vittoria who?”
“Vittoria Go-fuck-yourself!” She leapt to her feet and made a dash for the door, but he stopped her.
“Who’s paying you to follow me and look through my bags?”
“No one. I thought you looked like the sort of stupid foreigner who would be easy to rip off.”
“Did you?” William bent low, eyes narrowed, and looked her straight in the eye with his very grimmest expression. “Is that really what you think I look like?”
She gave a tiny shudder and turned away. “Um...no.” Her voice lost all its bravado. “What...what are you going to do to me now?”
For a few more seconds, he glared at her, letting her think the worst. Then he said, “Nothing. I only want you to leave me alone. Unless....”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you’d like to earn a shilling. Tell me who sent you, and it’s yours.”
“I don’t know.” She picked at a threadbare patch in her sleeve. “I’d rather not.”
“When did you last eat? And I don’t mean some crust of bread you scrounged somewhere. I mean a real meal.”
She didn’t answer. Maybe she didn’t even remember anymore. But he could see the gnawing hunger in her eyes. He took her downstairs and ordered a bowl of stew, some eggs, a few pickles, and a half-pint of ale for her. The innkeeper grumbled quite a bit at first, calling Vittoria “a little gutter rat” and telling William how she had been “haunting the neighborhood all spring, stealing from the tourists.”
“Fine, whatever,” said William, giving the innkeeper the same look that had made the girl quail. It had much the same effect on the man. “I’m buying her lunch. Call me eccentric.”
The girl attacked the meal like a vulture descending on a fresh carcass. She practically buried her face in the stew. She used her hands more than the spoon or fork, and then she licked her fingers clean with great relish. William watched her, half amused, half appalled.
“Where are your parents?” he asked. As he spoke, he thought of Gwen and little Robby, back in Formacaster.
“Dead,” she said. “Or at least my mother is. I’ve never met my father.” She looked up at him with wide, sad eyes. Her lip quivered slightly. She might have been telling the truth, but she was milking it for all it was worth.
“And who paid you to break into my room?”
“Nobody.” She finished the last of the ale and held out the mug. “Can I have some more, please, sir?”
When he stood and went over to the bar, she bolted straight across the common room and out the door, just as he had expected.
He had no trouble following her. She wasn’t a real, trained spy. She was exactly what she seemed to be—an orphan and a runaway and a pickpocket. Nothing more. A few times, she stopped to look behind her, but William had little difficulty blending back into the shadows or ducking into doorways. She didn’t know how the game was played yet. At best, she might have some experience dodging fat old constables after stealing an apple from a fruit cart. She had never been chased by someone like William.
So, she wasn’t a real spy. Not that William had seriously considered that she might be. She couldn’t have been older than 10 or 11. But someone had recruited her and asked her to spy on William. Someone careless and a bit stupid. Someone who didn’t care what happened to a grimy, half-starved street urchin.
She crossed the Via Horatia and skirted the edge of the grain market. Outside the Avecellus Theater, she slowed down a bit to scan the big, colored posters on display. Then she crossed the Via Panelia and went down a narrow street by one of the city’s larger coaching inns. Behind the big, busy stables, there was a dead-end alley, half-choked with weeds, broken crates, and old barrels. The girl had made a kind of nest for herself there, with some boards and old canvas stretched over the top for a roof. Probably comfortable enough in the summer, but it would be deathly cold in the winter.
William slipped into the shadows across the alley, pulled his cloak tight around himself, and didn’t move a muscle as the hours went by. The heat was almost unbearable, but he didn’t lift a finger, not even when the sweat ran down into his eyes and burned.
Finally, late in the afternoon, the girl emerged from her little den. She stretched, practiced throwing punches and kicks at an imaginary opponent, and then tried to tame her unruly, dark blonde hair with a broken comb. When she had it slightly untangled, she tied it back with a bit of twine and headed back out to the streets through a different little alleyway.
She headed northward, skipping past the Procellus Bank and some of the big merchant houses, where the doormen all glowered at her. After crossing the Via Restalta and the Via Amoralia, she arrived at a grimy, run-down old tavern called the “Rotam Contritum,” or the “Broken Wheel.” William knew the place well. He had been there earlier that very day, in fact, because it was one of the places frequented by the least reputable agents of army intelligence.
She went in, and before he could decide whether to follow her or not, she came out a side door into a narrow, crooked alley, followed by a tall, slope-shouldered young man. He had pimples and greasy hair, and he wore fashionable clothes that were slightly too big for him. William knew the fellow at once. His name was Baltus, and he’d been an optio or a signifer in the legions before he’d gotten drunk one too many times on duty and found himself slipping down the ladder, rung by rung.
Someday, somebody might reform Immani military intelligence and make it something to be respected and feared. But before they could do that, they would need to get rid of all the Baltuses in the service—the sleazy, sticky-fingered creeps whose only talent was finding other people to do their dirty work.
William slid noiselessly into the shadows of a half-broken decorative archway and listened.
“Well, did you find any letters on him?” Baltus asked. His voice was high and strained. It always made him sound as if he were whining about something.
“No,” said Vittoria. “He didn’t have anything.”
There was a sharp smack, and the girl reeled backward, clutching her cheek. “Go back and keep looking,” snarled Baltus. “Keep looking, or I’ll take you straight to the constables. That’s the deal, remember? That’s what you get for trying to steal my purse, you little shit.”
William let out a silent sigh. The girl really did need to work on her pickpocketing if she wanted to make a living as a thief.
Still rubbing her cheek, Vittoria turned back to Baltus, eyes bright with anger. “He’s alright, you know. He bought me lunch.”
That was a big mistake; the girl should have known better than to mention that. William winced in sympathy even before he heard the punch and the sound of a small body hitting the ground hard. There was a tiny whimper of pain, and then another smack.
“Get out of here,” said Baltus, half out of breath already, as if he’d been fighting someone his own size.
By the sound of the desperate scrambling, it took Vittoria a few tries to get on her feet again. Then she sprinted out of the alley, eyes bright with tears, clutching her side and limping slightly.
William waited until she had disappeared down the street before he stepped out of his hiding place. Baltus had his back turned and seemed to be trying to find his flints so he could light his pipe.
“I swear, this is the last straw,” Baltus muttered. “I should take her to the slave market. I really should. Stupid little shit. She’s going to be the death of me.”
“Indeed she is,” said William, drawing his knife.
He took his time. There was no rush. Once he’d broken all of Baltus’s fingers and gagged the man with his own money purse, there wasn’t much chance of calling for help or fighting back. Baltus insisted on trying to talk, though. He thought there might be some vital secret he could trade for his life. William did nothing to disabuse him of this idea, and in this way, he learned a great deal that would please Lord Broderick. That was a nice little bonus—an “unexpected blessing,” as Gwen might call it. But in the end, William slit Baltus’s throat and dumped his body down the city sewers.
He took the dead man’s money purse, though. Not for himself, of course. He went back to the little trash-filled alley where Vittoria lived. She wasn’t there. For all he knew, she was trying to break into his room again at that very moment. Well, let her try. She needed the practice at picking locks.
After a quick search of the girl’s little warren among the boxes and barrels, he found a hidden alcove where she had her broken comb and some other little treasures, like a thimble, a tiny carving of a camel, and some spools of thread. He left Baltus’s money there, covered the alcove again, and left.
He spent the rest of the day in the market and at the theater in order to give her time to search his room in peace. She wouldn’t find anything, but that was alright, because there would be no one to pay her if she did. At least she would never have to deal with Baltus again.
She would have to be satisfied with a minor victory. That would be good practice for the girl, too, because in William’s experience, those were the only victories you could ever count on.