Arcane Mercenaries: Insurrection, page 2
“I’m looking for a pistol. A good flintlock,” Ez said. She jingled a heavy purse of money to emphasize her ability to pay a fair price.
The proprietor’s demeanor changed with the sound of clinking coins, and a grin etched her face. Paying customers got top service. Her eyes fell on Grant, and the grin evaporated.
“You look familiar,” she said.
Grant shrugged his shoulders and tried to sink deeper into the shadows of his cloak and blend into the merchandise.
“You’re Reece Gwydian’s boy, aren’t you?” She tugged up her glasses and peered at him. Her tone had a warning edge, and Grant’s ghosts fluttered at the corners of his awareness.
“Good afternoon, Miss Morris. It’s been a while.”
“Come closer, and let me get a look at you.”
Grant stepped next to Ez and endured the woman’s scrutiny as she checked him out through her glasses and then again without them. Ez chuckled as he stood patiently.
“You haven’t aged a day.” Disbelief muffled her voice, and she glanced toward the door. Grant checked himself before he turned to follow her look. “Don’t know if your father would be proud, but you look like his ghost walked into my shop.”
Grant smiled and removed his hat. “My friend really wants that flintlock.”
“Got your papers?” She finally pulled her gaze off Grant’s unchanging features and returned to Ez’s pleading look.
Ez raised an eyebrow and glanced at Grant. “We just got off our ship, and we got these armbands—“
“That’s warlord business.” Miss Morris waved off the plea with a scoff. “Been missing the earl for the better part of a decade. All this nonsense after StarFall.”
Those judging eyes fell back on Grant, and he didn’t know what to say. In those early days, he was a terrible man and brought no honor to his family.
“You have flintlocks?” Ez asked, returning the wandering discussion to what she cared about.
“Of course I do, love,” Miss Morris said. “Grant knows that. Sold a pair to his father some twenty years ago. But I can’t sell more if you don’t have the papers.”
“Where do we get permits?” Grant asked, saving his friend.
“You need the letter from the constable and a tax stamp from the collector,” she said. She leaned across the wooden tabletop and glanced again toward the door. “They check my weapons inventory every week and match it against the permits. Without a permission slip, I couldn’t even sell you a piece of flint.”
“Are there other arrangements we can make?” Ez tried and hefted her bag of wealth.
“For the likes of Grant’s friend? Absolutely not. You should think twice before running in that circle, love,” she said.
“Thank you, Miss Morris,” Grant said. “It’s always a pleasure doing business with you. We’ll be back with the permit.”
“Grant,” Miss Morris said, “Be careful. Megenland isn’t what you remember. I don’t know why you’re back, but you must be extra cautious.”
Grant nodded his thanks and placed his hand on Ez’s elbow to guide her out of the shop and away from the general store. He didn’t like being watched; someone had already recognized him from his early days. This was a tough start.
“We’re getting that permit, Grant,” Ez said before Grant could address his concerns. “I’m not walking around this island ruled by a warlord, hoping my mercenary boss can protect me. Besides, Morris will get us what we need.”
“It’s not a good idea to traipse into the constable’s office to grab a weapons permit.”
“You know the constable?”
“I haven’t been back since StarFall, Ez. No idea who represents the queen’s law in Torness.”
They stood on the sidewalk and watched as the wagons rumbled by, the horses’ hooves clacking against the pavement. Some cargo from ships made its way to the storefronts on Merchant Street. By late afternoon, deals would be made, and money would change hands. Captains would hire the Longshore Guild and urge them to move faster to unload the goods from the ships. Tomorrow would be a busy day on this street.
“I don’t care what you did back in those days,” Ez said, just loud enough for him to hear.
His ears turned red, and a flush warmed his cheeks as he said nothing.
“We all made choices then. Some good, some bad. They set us on a course, Grant, but that doesn’t mean we stay there. People can change, and we learn through experience to make better choices. We can shake off those shackles of our decisions and maybe even find redemption.”
Grant stared at the people of Torness making their way through the day. No one glanced at the pair, although he bet someone would stop and stare if they recognized him. He wasn’t sure he’d find forgiveness here after what he’d done.
Grant wanted to believe Ez.
“Let’s go see if we can get you that permit.”
3
CONSTABLE
A few rays of light poked through the overcast, and shafts of light illuminated the inland farms. Torness formed a thin crust of civilization along the life-giving oceanfront, but past that shell was thick green pasture, fallow fields, and herds of sheep.
Grant wanted to steer them toward the open roads and rolling farmland dotted with stone fences, but they needed to wait for their horses. Ez wouldn’t let him escape that easily, especially if she didn’t have a musket strapped to her horse’s flank or a pistol pressed against her hip.
Might as well face the inevitable. He led them back toward the dock district.
The constables in Megenland didn’t work for the earl or the town. They oversaw the law on behalf of the regent in Llynmond and had broad powers with law enforcement. The queen cared about policing the island ports without interference from the local governments and maintained her police forces there.
“Did your dad work for the queen?” Ez asked as they walked down the hills toward the harbor.
Grant didn’t want to have this discussion with Ez. One of the unspoken rules of the Arcane Mercenaries was soldiers didn’t have to discuss their past. StarFall cursed them, and Grant wanted his soldiers to know he didn’t care about what they did. People would judge his mercenaries on what they could do.
Ez stood by his side during his worst times, and he couldn’t blame her for this policy breach. They were in his hometown, surrounded by his past.
“In a fashion, yes. He was an officer in the Ismorian navy.”
“Are your parents still here?” Ez asked as gently as she could.
“I don’t know,” Grant said. “I haven’t talked to them since StarFall.”
Ez fell silent and matched his stride as they walked through the city streets. They observed the harbor pilots guiding their ship to the deepest pier from their height above the bay. It was an orchestration of small boats pulling and guiding the merchant ship into its berth.
Bribes and fines did their duty, so there was no more interest from tax collectors or customs officers. People went about their day unbothered by the ship’s arrival.
The constable’s office flanked the northern edge of the harbor and was nestled within the first floor of a four-story, round tower dating back at least two centuries. The queen’s officials could monitor harbor operations and view the town from this strategic position.
The steps to the tower were slick from sea spray, and a green hue covered the swollen wooden door. Rust etched the iron fixtures and defied the recent efforts to repaint the surfaces. A sign swung in the offshore breeze, squeaking from the effort.
Ez paused and analyzed Grant. He stared at the constable sign, creaking with each swing in the wind. Grant remembered the child who raced up these stairs to watch for his father to return. Day after day, he squinted into the sun reflected off the bay’s rippled surface.
He wasn’t that boy anymore. This was a different Torness; he didn’t know what lay inside that door.
“Was your mom from Megenland?” Ez asked, her voice only a pace away. Grant couldn’t face her.
He shook his head. “Alenann. They met on a port call, of all things. He was an officer, and she didn’t work the docks.” Why was he justifying this to Ez? “But she fell for the uniform and loved the man.”
“And they came back to Megenland.”
“He couldn’t leave the Ismorian navy. She joked there was saltwater in his veins, and his mistress was the sea. She and I spent a lot of time together. We had a floor in a house here, and we waited for him to come home.”
“There are worse childhoods, Grant. Ones without love. Parents that fight and hate their lives.”
Grant turned to stare at his friend. She had the pained look of someone fighting their ghosts and immersed in her past. Was that her childhood? He never thought to ask Ez about how she came into her powers or joined the Arcane Mercenaries.
He knew so little about her.
Grant tugged on the rusted door handle until the hinges relented to let him in. His eyes adjusted to the room lit with sputtering candlesticks and light filtering through glassed arrow slits.
Four constables played cards at a round table big enough for six. The pot was small, a penny game to pass the time through the winter months. They wore blue uniforms with white trim and brass buttons.
“I’m looking for the chief constable,” Grant said to the group, not daring to approach the card table without permission. He wasn’t familiar with the ranks on their sleeves but made an educated guess that the man with the most trim was in charge.
That one picked up his hat and fit it to his head. He stood up and adjusted his uniform, and Grant knew he was already in trouble. The deliberate show of authority didn’t mean well for the newcomer still dressed in clothes appropriate for an ocean-going ship.
“You’ve come to file a complaint?” the man said.
“No, looking for a permit,” Grant said. “We heard the chief constable has the paperwork, so we came here immediately.”
Grant thought a small gesture of submission would go a long way, but the man’s stoic features didn’t alter as he came around the table toward the mercenaries.
“A permit for?” The constable placed his hands behind his back like an officer inspecting troops. He looked down his nose at Grant and Ez.
“Firearms,” Ez said. “I was over at the general store to replace my lost items. We have ample money for the purchase, but you run a tight approval process. Everyone directs us back to you.”
“As they should, madam. As the chief law enforcement officer for Torness and the personal representative of her majesty, the Queen, I have the responsibility for all such approvals. Firearms are a tightly controlled and regulated item. As you must know.”
“I’m sorry,” Grant said. “I didn’t get your name.”
“Constable Captain Clarke.”
“Constable Captain Clarke, what is the process for the firearm purchase?” Ez asked, pressing her luck.
“We begin with a questionnaire and paperwork for determining status and need. There’s a firearms tax associated with the paperwork, and the tax collector has a special tax for the firearms stamp. You must carry the paperwork with the weapon as verification of lawful possession. All quite simple,” Constable Clarke said. The players at the table snickered.
“Then let’s begin,” Ez said.
“Are you a citizen of Ismore?” Constable Clarke asked with a bored tone.
“No,” Ez said. She surprised Grant with her blatant honesty, but she couldn’t pull off a local accent.
“I am,” Grant said. “I’m a free landowner with property near Mackay.”
“I see,” Constable Clarke said. “It’s quite illegal for you to purchase weapons for a foreigner.”
“It would be for me.”
“Very well, then. Your name, sir?”
“Grant Gwydian.”
The game at the table stopped as the constables placed their hands down. Chairs scraped across the stone floor as the three stood and turned toward the pending confrontation. Constable Captain Clarke didn’t break a sweat as he faced off against Grant Gwydian.
“Your name is very familiar. From StarFall?”
Grant’s mind raced. It had been fifteen years since he’d returned to Megenland, and he couldn’t recall this pompous official from his earlier days. Those fifteen years didn’t age him, but the rest of the world moved on. Did he know this man from somewhere?
He had a vague memory about several of the other constables. They were people from Megenland, and one was probably from Torness. But the card players would have been five or six at StarFall, so Grant couldn’t know who was in the room.
Grant nodded. “Been some time since I’ve been back.”
“Staying long?” One constable asked.
“Hard to say,” Grant said. “I’m looking for some information for a few friends. Once I get that, I don’t see myself staying long.”
“Then there’s no need for a permit,” another said. “Recommend disapproval, sir.”
Constable Clarke nodded.
“It’s quite irrelevant,” Constable Clarke said. “If you’re from Mackay, you must make your request in Liswall. There’s no one here in Torness who’ll help a Gwydian.”
Grant’s face hardened to keep his scowl from appearing. Ez stepped forward, and the three constables lined up with their constable captain. Ez hummed with arcane power, but Grant touched her elbow.
Not here. Not now.
“Thank you for your time, constable.” The corner of Grant’s mouth twitched under his thick beard.
“Terrible thing they did, Grant,” Constable Clarke said. “Church condemning your parents. Parents of vile darkness.”
Grant stared at the man silently, unable to feel his arcane abilities or rage. He felt emptiness claim his soul.
“No military honors. No marked grave. Pauper’s burial near the church.”
Grant wanted to hate the man and his smug smile. He could crush him and that fancy uniform into a gooey mess with a thought. See if the constable gloated as his bones snapped and organs smashed. One push of his arcane abilities.
His magic wouldn’t come to him.
“Run along, Grant Gwydian,” Constable Captain Clarke said.
4
MAIRI
The morning promised a thick, cold fog as the sea breeze died. Moisture hung in the air and merged with the harbor’s chilly waters. Yellow halos surrounded the lanterns hung along the major thoroughfares, marking the paths for drunken sailors celebrating their precious shore leave.
Grant and Ez picked an inexpensive inn up the hills from the piers and shared a silent meal over a wooden bowl of stew. In the off-season, they didn’t have to share the dining room with other patrons, and the staff was attentive to their needs without being intrusive. It was probably Grant’s scowl that scared them away.
Ez understood Grant’s lost look and respected his need for silence. They didn’t need to talk to fill the emptiness in Grant’s soul. Neither wished the other good night before retiring to their rooms for the evening.
Grant checked the straw pallet for unwelcome guests and got undressed. Numb fingers worked the buttons on instinct and memory rather than a conscious effort to prepare for a slumberless night. He closed his eyes because that’s what his body expected to do when he lay down at the end of a terrible day.
He didn’t remember falling asleep or resting before the first glow of morning crept through his crooked shutters. Grant dressed in clean clothes because Ez would expect him downstairs to discuss their plans.
Someone banged on his door with enough force to pound the dust from between the boards the owner called a door. The wooden bar securing Grant’s room rattled with the pressure, but no one shouted from the other side. Grant checked the dagger at his hip before moving toward the entrance.
“Open this door before I kick it open, Grant Gwydian.” Hatred energized the voice on the other side.
Grant stepped back, recognizing the voice. His arms recoiled from the effort to push the wooden lock up.
“I know you’re in there, and you better be awake.”
Grant summoned the courage to take the last step to the door and click the lock. He had precious moments to step away from the wooden planks before they exploded inward with the fury of a small woman bursting into his pathetic room.
“Mairi.” That was the only word Grant could manage from his frozen mind. Mairi was his wife’s sister.
She was upon him faster than his eyes could follow, fists pounding into his chest. Her hatred spilled over him, blows pushing him back toward the wall with each powerful impact. She growled with feral energy when his back slammed into the wall.
Grant didn’t defend himself as she expended her energy in her blows. He didn’t reach for his power to end the barrage of blows.
“That’s all you have to say? Mairi?” The woman shouted, inches away from Grant’s face. Anger contorted her features into unrecognizable fury.
Mairi was three years junior to Grant’s wife, Irwin. She had the same rust-colored hair as Irwin and had the same wild energy with strands blowing out from her braids. Fair skin and a light dusting of freckles did nothing to hide the flushed cheeks coursing with her emotions. Those brown eyes were both sad and angry at the same time.
“Need any help?” Ez said from the doorway. “Old friends?”
“Mairi, this is Esmerelda, my second in command, closest friend, and fellow mercenary.”
“Ez,” she said, entering the room. Her face was unreadable with the awkward introduction.
Mairi ignored the offered hand and turned her heated gaze back on Grant.
“You wander around Torness like a lost puppy and stay in this dump rather than check in on your family.” Fists slammed into his chest again. “Your family, Grant.”
“I’m sorry, Mairi.” That was all Grant could imagine as the blows softened, Mairi’s rage spent.
“For what?” Her spine stiffened.
“Everything,” Grant whispered.
“That’s not good enough. You can’t just come back here and say that you’re sorry. The world doesn’t work like that. Not on Megenland, not anywhere.”
