Tears of Liscor, page 41
part #9 of The Wandering Inn Series
“Selys, Olesm, I didn’t realize you were outside.”
Yvlon nodded at the two of them. Revi just kept smiling. It was quite eerie compared to her usual scowl. Olesm blinked. Selys folded her arms.
“What’s going on? I thought you two were meeting Grandmother on adventuring business.”
“We were. Just a casual update for Liscor’s guild.”
Revi pointed back to the door. Selys rolled her eyes.
“In that case, why did she throw her spear at you? Don’t lie—I recognize that thump.”
Yvlon and Revi exchanged a quick glance. The armored woman was the first to answer.
“Your grandmother’s insane, Selys. She could have hit us!”
“Only if you really made her mad. Sounds like she was trying for it anyways. What happened?”
“Well…we drew the short straws, so we had to meet her.”
Revi and Yvlon exchanged glances. They didn’t seem too displeased despite their brush with death. Selys frowned.
“About what?”
Yvlon coughed, and Revi shrugged. The two looked too happy. Olesm narrowed his eyes. Selys made a displeased hissing sound.
“Just tell me, would you? You told my grandmother—she’ll tell me.”
“Oh, but we didn’t tell her—”
“Shush!”
Revi nudged Yvlon. The Stitch-Woman smiled at Selys.
“We can’t give out details, Selys. But you know how adventurers have to report income to the Adventurer’s Guild?”
Both Selys and Olesm nodded. Adventurers generally owed ten percent of everything they made to the guild. Normally, that was pre-deducted in cases of requests, but when adventurers found treasure in dungeons, they were required to pay a tax on what they earned, both to the Adventurer’s Guild and the city if the dungeon was on their lands. Olesm knew Selys would have to fill out a myriad of forms after the Raskghar’s treasure had been divided up.
“Everyone knows that. What, did your groups find some more treasure in the dungeon? If you did, you’ll have to pay up just like everyone.”
The two adventurers grinned giddily. Now, Olesm was seriously beginning to be weirded out. He took a step behind Selys as Revi replied.
“Oh, we know. And normally, we’d have to disclose everything. But, ah, not this time. We were just stopping by to let Guildmistress Tekshia know that our teams—that is, Griffon Hunt, the Halfseekers, and the Horns of Hammerad—received a huge amount of income. And we’re not paying for any of it. She was just testing us with truth spells.”
“What? But you have to pay! Grandmother wouldn’t let you two off unless—that’s illegal!”
Selys stared at Revi and Yvlon. Again, the adventurers shook their heads.
“Not if it’s a gift. Gifts aren’t taxable under the Adventurer Guild’s laws. And it just so happens that we got a huge ‘gift’ of treasure the Raskghar left behind. So it’s all ours and we don’t owe the guild a copper coin.”
Revi smirked. Olesm raised a hand timidly.
“But that’s just a technicality. If it was in the dungeon, it’s still acquired loot. You can’t just claim it’s a gift to be exempt. If you found it—”
“But that’s the thing. We didn’t find it, so it wasn’t adventurers’ loot. We got it from the Goblins. They had all the treasure. All of it.”
“The Redfang Goblins did? But they’re adventurers too!”
Selys looked astounded. Revi’s smile only grew wider as she shook her head.
“That’s what we thought. But guess what? Apparently, Erin told us that they were made a team yesterday. Funny thing, that. I thought they were supposed to be regular adventurers already, but it sounds like someone confused the paperwork so they wouldn’t have to give the Goblins any of the treasure we got.”
Olesm blanched as Selys shot him a quizzical glance. He remembered that discussion with Ilvriss and Zevara. They’d fudged the paperwork so that the Redfang Goblins would be exempt from the lottery.
“T-that, how do you know that?”
“Oh, we don’t care. And they don’t either. But that means they were just random…Goblins until yesterday. And they gave us all the treasure three days ago. So…guess what?”
Revi assured Olesm. She was still smiling. Slowly, Olesm began to put the pieces together. He paled.
“You don’t mean—”
“That’s right! Your Guildmistress nearly strangled us, but we checked the law, and we’re in the clear. She can’t claim that’s dungeon treasure, not if the Goblins had it first and they weren’t adventurers. So all of this is a private donation by individuals unaffiliated with the Adventurer’s Guild or Liscor to us. Which means we owe you nothing.”
Olesm’s jaw dropped. He didn’t know how much Revi was talking about, but the huge grin the Stitch-Woman wore and the pleased expression on Yvlon’s face told him everything. Selys stared at Revi as well. The [Summoner] wore the evilest, smuggest smile Olesm had seen on any face, Human, Drake, or otherwise.
“And Grandmother let you live?”
“She nearly got us with that spear. But we’re in the clear. If she wants to argue, she can try, but we don’t have to tell you what we got. We’ve done our duty by disclosing the rough amount, and we’ve been checked under truth spell. Now we owe you nothing. See you!”
Revi waved at the two Drakes and then practically bounced down the corridor. She was actually singing to herself. Yvlon smiled and paused before following her.
“Sorry, but that’s how it is. It’s…good seeing you two. Keep it a secret, okay?”
She followed Revi. The two Drakes stared as Yvlon and Revi walked down the stairs. Slowly, Selys looked at Olesm.
“Grandmother’s going to have a heart attack. If I walk in that room, she’s going to be dead—or about to blow her scales off.”
“And Wall Lord Ilvriss and the Council will have my tail.”
Olesm groaned. He was putting the pieces together now. The Redfang Goblins—or rather, the Cave Goblins must have known about the Raskghar’s treasure stash! Of course they wouldn’t have kept it in their mobile camps! And Revi was exactly right—it wasn’t taxable! By preventing the Redfang Goblins from earning their reward, Liscor had just lost…
The [Strategist] was about to smack his head repeatedly into a wall when he noticed Selys smiling. He looked suspiciously at her.
“What’re you happy about? This is a disaster!”
Selys smirked in a pretty good replica of Revi’s expression.
“For Liscor and the guild, probably. But did you forget? I’ve been leasing the Heartflame Breastplate to the Halfseekers. Under our agreement, I get 30% of whatever the Halfseekers make. It’s no scales off my tail.”
Olesm’s jaw dropped. He opened his mouth to protest, but Selys just opened the door to Tekshia’s office. She called in cheerfully.
“Hi, Grandma! Lower your spear, it’s just me. The adventurers are gone. Bad news, huh? I’ve got more! Ilvriss finally gave us the lottery results, and there’s going to be a fight! Oh, and Olesm is here with a question for you. He’s one of the people who helped make it so the Redfang Goblins got registered at the wrong time, by the way. Olesm?”
She waved at Olesm. The [Strategist] felt his scales go white. He stared at Selys as he heard a guttural hissing sound coming from inside the office. He wavered at the door, and then he slapped himself and focused. He had to know about the rains. He stepped inside—
Below the office, the adventurers who weren’t Revi and Yvlon were sitting together, glaring at each other and speculating about why they looked so happy. They looked up as one as they heard a shout of terror. They saw Olesm Swifttail dash downstairs, crash, roll, and spring to his feet and run out of the Guild’s doors. He was pursued a moment later by an angry old Drake holding a barbed spear.
Olesm ran frantically and felt Tekshia’s spear graze his shoulder. He ducked and ran faster as the old Drake hurled obscenities at his back. He resolved not to go near the Adventurer’s Guild for a month. As Olesm ran, he felt the immediate, temporary fear of Tekshia’s wrath subside and a truer, deeper panic set in. Because in between the Guildmistress’ fury and his flight, he’d learned what he needed to know.
The rains would stop any day now. And when they did—
Well, Liscor would still be safe. In theory. But now, Olesm was worried. He ran straight towards the Watch Barracks to find Zevara. And to warn her of an impending brawl at the Adventurer’s Guild.
——
Lord Yitton Byres had lived for over fifty-three years. He did not consider himself a humble man, but he did consider himself somewhat practical. And he did not think of himself as a good man, a failing often found in genuinely good men. Or realists. But he had lived as honorably as he could for over five decades and faced more than his fair share of monsters despite never having taken up arms as a [Knight].
He thought he had faced enough beasts and creatures of evil in his life. But the night after Tremborag had fallen, Yitton Byres found himself pouring an uncharacteristic first, second, and third cup of wine to steady his nerves. Yitton tossed down the third cup of the strongest and cheapest wine he’d been able to buy from the [Quartermaster]. It didn’t help.
He could still smell the burning flesh. He could still hear Tremborag’s howl, a sound that hadn’t ceased even when they tore open his chest and cut him to the bone. Yitton closed his eyes. The Great Chieftain of the Mountain had not died, though he had been speared through the heart, though they had torn him practically to shreds.
“Dead gods. I thought I’d seen the last of such monsters in the Second Antinium War. How many more beasts like that roam the earth? Hidden in mountains? Underground?”
His blood chilled at the thought. And it grew colder still to think of one of his offspring, Ylawes, for instance, facing a beast like that alone. Six Gold-rank adventurers had died or been maimed in the battle. Six. Yitton was proud of his son and ranked the Silver Swords highly even among the continent’s Gold-rank teams. But Tremborag was a monster worthy of a Named Adventurer.
“Why didn’t Arcsinger bring him down? She didn’t fight. If she had—no, Veltras had his reasons. And perhaps he would have killed her.”
That was a troubling thought. Yitton hadn’t ever laid eyes on the last Goblin King; he’d fought to protect his home and faced off against a Goblin Chieftain and even laid eyes on a Goblin Lord, but he had not seen the Goblin King. As far as he was concerned, though, Tremborag had been every bit as terrifying as a Goblin Lord.
“Silver and steel. I should [Message] Ylawes. I haven’t seen him in too long. And Yvlon—where is she? Ylawes swore he’d bring her back, but I’ve not heard word from him or her. Are they—”
Yitton was pouring himself another cup when he heard a knock at his tent’s flap. He turned.
“Enter.”
Lord Erill, one of the richer [Lords] and newly come to his nobility, pushed himself through the tent. His expression was a mirror of Yitton’s own; pale, somber. For a camp that had just brought down a Goblin Chieftain, the mood was terribly quiet. Yitton rose at once, although he found himself stumbling slightly as the effects of the alcohol hit him. He was not a strong drinker.
“Lord Erill, greetings.”
“Yitton.”
Erill nodded to him. It was not a slight since Yitton had requested the informality, but the patriarch of the Byres house couldn’t help but use the man’s title. Far too many other [Ladies] and [Lords] tended to slight Lord Erill, and Yitton abhorred that kind of disrespect. At the moment, however, Erill shivered as if he’d like nothing more than to be a [Merchant] a thousand miles from here. He looked at Yitton, opened his mouth, and then spotted the pitcher of wine.
“What’s that you’ve got there, Yitton? Wine?”
“Yes. Cheap stuff, though. I’d offer you a drink, but it’s practically vinegar.”
“I’d drink that if I could forget today. Will you offer me a glass?”
“Of course.”
Yitton poured Erill a full cup, and after a moment of thought, did the same for himself. Erill drank his cup as fast as Yitton. Some of the color ran back into his face.
“Dead gods.”
“I warned you.”
The other man shook his head.
“No, crude is what I need. I could use another cup, in fact. Thank you. I still can’t unsee that monster. I’m no [Warrior], Yitton. I’m not ashamed to say that I’m still terrified of that beast, headless or not.”
“You’re not the only one.”
Yitton gulped down his wine. He shook his head briskly, feeling the liquid warm him from within. Erill breathed out slowly.
“To think it took that long to bring him down. When we had archers and mages and—I thought he was done for when Tyrion ran him through with a lance, didn’t you? But he survived that. Are they truly heartless, those Goblins? Or did he have several hearts, like some monsters?”
He looked quizzically at Yitton. The older [Lord] shook his head. He nearly poured himself a fifth cup and then stopped himself. He still had to ride tomorrow.
“No. He was dead the moment Veltras struck him. We just didn’t believe it. And he tore us to pieces before we had the sense to leave him alone.”
“True.”
The two men stood in silence for a while. That was the irony of it. The soldiers had assaulted Tremborag relentlessly, attacking him from all sides, and they had paid the price in blood. But when they’d drawn back, the Great Chieftain had seemed to lose track of them. He’d just…walked away. Northwards. Towards his mountain. And stopped.
“It doesn’t feel like a victory.”
“No. I think we underestimated this Tremborag. It was worth the price to see him fall, but I can’t call this a triumph. A necessity perhaps, but…no, not a victory.”
Yitton shook his head. Erill nodded. He tilted his cup up, realized it was empty, and set it on Yitton’s plain table. It was cheap wood; Yitton hadn’t brought a bag of holding with him, and so his furnishings were part of the camp’s supply.
“You live simply, Yitton. I’d offer you a spare tent of mine if I thought you’d take it. But I’ll spare such pleasant negotiations for another night. Right now, I’m remembering why I came here.”
“Not to poison yourself on my wine?”
Erill almost smiled.
“I didn’t think you had a sense of humor, Byres. No. We’re to meet Lord Tyrion for a late-night repast. I should have gotten you right away, but I got distracted.”
“Lord Tyrion wants us?”
Yitton was surprised. He set down his cup and strode towards the tent flaps. Then he checked himself.
“I’m filthy.”
“He won’t mind. We should be there soonest. And I’ve got a Wand of [Cleansing] somewhere on me—I’ll find it as we walk. Come on; if I can’t drink in your tent, I suppose we’d better meet him.”
“By we, do you mean you and I? Or a gathering of all the nobility?”
Yitton followed Erill out of the tent. The camp was busy as always; torches and [Light] spells clearly illuminated the area for patrolling sentries. But there were more people out tonight than usual; Yitton saw more than a few men and women in the shared camp for officers and the nobility drinking and sticking together. He understood the urge.
“Not just us, no.”
Lord Erill walked briskly ahead of Yitton, rummaging in a bag of holding at his side. He turned back and glanced at Yitton.
“Two of our peers have been invited to this very select gathering. Any ideas who they might be?”
Yitton didn’t have to think.
“Gralton and Lady Ieka.”
“Correct. The same group that went to so boldly challenge Tyrion to his face. He’s summoned us and apparently has a surprise in store. It’s a smart move; I doubt the other nobility will whine more than usual since it’s we four.”
“They won’t? But I’m not—I could understand Tyrion’s mistake, but me?”
Yitton was baffled. He wasn’t an important noble! House Byres probably earned in a year what Erill’s estates could make in a month. No, a week! And Yitton was hardly as accomplished a [Lord] as, say, Pellmia. But Erill just laughed.
“Think on it, Yitton! We’re the best representatives to see whatever Tyrion’s cooked up! Can’t you understand why?”
“I’m afraid not. Kindly illuminate me.”
Erill shrugged. He found his wand at last and tossed it at Yitton. The [Lord] carefully ran the wand down his smudged and muddy tunic, blinking as he saw the wrinkles and stains vanish and the mud slough off. That was a lot of money just to enchant an entire wand to clean clothes. He carefully handed it back to Erill. The [Lord] flicked it into his bag of holding and responded.
“Each one of us is important in our own way. Tyrion could have invited two dozen nobles or all of us, but he’s chosen to have an intimate gathering. Less chance of interruptions I suspect, and he has our measure.”
“Go on. Why we four especially?”
“You don’t see it? Gralton’s an excellent fighter and leader, in his own way. He might be a hothead and smell like wet dogs, but he can evaluate good strategy when he sees it. Lady Ieka is both a [Mage] and one of the most powerful [Ladies] I know. My money commands authority, if not respect.”
“And my estates are neither large nor powerful or influential. Where do I fit in this gathering?”
Erill smiled. It wasn’t the charming smile that Yitton had seen him using in public. Instead, Erill’s true smile looked sardonic. Not at Yitton, but the world in general.
“Why, you’re the honest one, Yitton. Every secret gathering needs at least one honest man. Who would they trust if not you? Gralton? Ieka? Me? Or take Tyrion at his word? No, but they’d trust Yitton Byres.”
That paused Yitton, but only for a second. He strode forwards to catch up with Erill.
“I see. I don’t consider myself particularly trustworthy, though. And if it’s honorable Tyrion wants, he would be better served by a [Knight].”
“Spoken like a trustworthy, honorable sort. Besides, Tyrion seems to like you. Honorable men must not be something he encounters every day. A shame he couldn’t find an honorable woman while he was at it, but I suppose you can’t have everything. Come, Yitton, you understand my point.”
