Revelyn: 1st Chronicles - When the last arrow falls (23 page)

There is an old saying in Revelyn that is most often used in jest.

When least expected the coin lands on its edge.

But such a saying has its roots in truth. And so it happened for Rema. He had walked and sat, and walked some more. He’d lingered in a market, watched a shackled bear dance for a cruel master, and a juggler with little skill hissed at for failing to please. He saw a child who stole an apple from a stall, caught, and beaten badly, and two drunken oafs fighting as those around cheered at every blow, and broken tooth. The daily life of Ramos unfolding scene by scene. And then just by chance, or perhaps not, he saw three soldiers riding towards him, forcing their way down a wide but crowded street.  Rema thought little of this for there were soldiers all about, and none so far had challenged him beyond a curse to make way. But this once, he looked again at the three; unsure why, for they all wore the same tunic and there was nothing impressive in their carriage or demeanour, although one seemed familiar As they drew level, hardly a dozen paces distant, Rema noticed that the one he’d found familiar had a damaged hand, and a dark and angry manner. At that moment, this soldier chanced to look at Rema and for an instant their eyes met, and Rema knew his man. His heart jumped powerfully in his chest and it was all he could do not to turn and run, for it was the king’s man whose hand he had wounded on Gymble’s barge just a few days before. This man, he knew, of all in Ramos would in this moment be his mortal enemy. Rema did not know if he had been recognised, for he thought that this man had never seen his face, and his hat and cloak was a good disguise, but instantly an instinctive fear consumed him and he turned and hastily entered the door of a small and dusty shop, the only shop in all Revelyn which traded in old and interesting manuscripts.

Rema’s coin had by chance, landed on its edge. A most unpredictable outcome.

Rema stood with a pounding heart before a case of scrolls, and leather-bound parchments, but seeing no ancient treasures, only waiting, indeed, full expecting despite all reason the door to be flung open and feel cold steel at his back. He waited, unmoving for several long minutes before realising that he was safe, and doom was not impending. There was no pursuit. He looked around and noticed that the few customers were all standing staring at him.

‘My apologies for such an ungainly entry my friends,’ he said trying hard to think of what to say. ‘I just saw someone I would rather not talk with today. So here I am, hiding.’ He shrugged a little with embarrassment and gave a self-deprecating smile. It seemed to do the trick for no one wanted trouble, and they all, with a frown or scowl, turned back to whatever they had been doing. Rema was unwilling to return to the street right away so he lingered, idly scanning the shop and its wares. Suddenly he heard a conversation, muffled in part but clear enough to one such as Rema. The shop’s owner, from behind his untidy counter was chiding an old and pale skinned man with long grey hair and a walking stick.

‘You
Wisden
are always coming in here thinking what I have is for nothing. You might have the favour of the king, or you might not, I don’t care, but just once I’d like to sell you something without a haggling match. Now the price is the price. I’m not moving on that. Do you hear me old man?’ Rema looked over at the two. The owner had made his point, and now stood with arms folded across his chest and jaw jutting out in defiance. A pair of spectacles perched precariously on the end of a long pointy nose, whilst the set of his mouth and the pout on his lips made for an ugly but effective look.

Rema cared little. Here before him was one of the
Wisden.
It mattered not one bit that he raised his hand in anger, and swept it at the shopkeeper in open hostility, and with a loud voice, also spoke his mind.

 ‘Baa, keep you useless parchment. No one else will buy it. I’ll be back, and I’ll not be changing my offer. You’ll see! Leaning on his cane the old man hobbled testily to the door, only to find a tall stranger in a battered hat and cloak holding it open for him. They left together.

‘You did the right thing there,’ said Rema solicitously, ‘when you know the value of something always stick to your price. Must say I’m most impressed.’ The old man looked up at his companion.

‘Thank you lad, but he was right. I’m always haggling too much. It’s my nature you see. Besides it’s him I don’t like. No sense of humour. Never knows when I’m serious or not.’ At this the old man stopped and leant on his cane and laughed heartily. Rema suddenly realised two things; that it was the first laughter he’d heard in a very long time, and the old man, the
Wisden,
was not easily read. He tried a new approach.

‘With your pardon sira,’ he spoke quietly, ‘I am a visitor to this city, and I heard it said back here that you are one of the
Wisden
. I am honoured to be talking with you.  I have heard only a little of what you do, but Revelyn owes a great debt to the wise ones like yourself.’

This flattery seemed to work well enough, for the old man smiled.

‘We do our best, but are not always understood. Not enough scholars these days. Too few prepared to take the time to sift and consider deeper things.’ He nodded in agreement with himself, and started off again, with less use of his stick than before. Rema began to think it was used more for show than any infirmity. He walked beside the old man and spoke light heartedly.

‘I must admit I am surprised to see one such as yourself out and about like this. I have always assumed that the
Wisden
would be kept apart from others, kept focused on the task if you understand my awkwardness.’ He was trying hard to sound innocent and rather dull witted.

‘My boy, the stories they tell of us! You’d be surprised. There are only eight of us now, all old indeed, but we enjoy getting out of our dingy rooms and mixing with others now and then. I myself am not so keen, but take my colleague Palid, you will find him most nights having an ale at the King’s Arms. No one sits with him of course; he’s not good company. A good mind has Palid, but a little weak for the drink. Now I have a meeting with someone, who is it again... that’s right, that old fool Zelfos. Not human if you ask me...’

At the mention of the name Zelfos, several people close by glanced up fearfully, and somewhere overhead a crow squawked loudly. Rema jumped and felt the hairs on his neck stand tall. By the time he had recovered, the old man, one of the fabled
Wisden
was disappearing up a steep alley toward the White Palace which towered above them all. He was not using his walking stick at all.

*

Serenna was horrified. ‘Rema, the King’s Arms is the last place you should go. It is not like other drinking halls. It is a place for soldiers and the king’s friends. It is close by the main soldier’s barracks and is guarded by the Night Guard. What can you possibly achieve by this? She was angry too. ‘You’ve only just escaped death and capture, and that’s by keeping ahead of them, not by walking unarmed into their camp. Sylvion needs you alive. We all do. Why do this? It is madness.’

Rema was standing by the window through which he had only recently entered, just after nightfall. His half-formulated plan was desperate, and Serenna was dismayed, but he could see no other way.

 ‘I need to see the prophecy Serenna, whatever happens from now on is in some way defined by it. I cannot fight against it. I need to know it all. I can’t help Sylvion without that knowledge. Even Revelyn itself is subject to the prophecies of old. People talk about it in jest, but it’s true. My path is hard enough...has been hard enough. I need to know. If I can speak with this
Wisden
Palid, I might be able to learn some more…’ He turned and went to his cousin and held her. After a time he stood back and asked simply.

‘How do I find this place, the King’s Arms?’ But Serenna was not about to give up.

‘Did you hear what I said? The people that go there are known. You are no soldier, you are a stranger; you don’t fit in. All reasons aside, can’t you see how foolhardy this would be? Please listen to me Rema.’ Her face was wet with tears as she pleaded. ‘Rema I left you once and regretted it every day. When I heard that they had set the
Wolvers
after you I was so very scared. How you came through that, I don’t know; but no more. This
will
be the death of you.’ She slumped onto the bed and put her head in her hands. Rema felt a great sorrow for her. He went and knelt before her, and holding her hands, spoke gently.

‘Serenna remember. Remember how we grew up together. We cheated death so many times. We leapt across chasms which should never have been leapt across. We climbed mountain sides after the Orax, and wore them down. You always led me on, always laughed in the face of danger. I could never persuade you to slow down or think of what might happen. You always laughed, and I always had to follow, fearful at times that I would lose you. Now this once, you must follow me.’

Serenna looked up slowly, and saw his resolve. And she remembered.

‘There might be a way, she whispered, but it will be the end of us both if you fail.’

‘Some ends are just a beginning Serenna; tell me your plan.’

Rema was dismayed when he first saw the Night Guards outside the King’s Arms. There were two, in full battle armour and matching war swords which were clearly not ceremonial. They stood like statues, feet apart, both hands on the hilt, sword point on the ground between their legs. They were not giants, but almost, and Rema was reminded of the many frightening boyhood stories of trolls. Once common in the highlands of ancient Revelyn, they had long since disappeared, passed on to other places, out of memory, but they could hardly have been more fearsome than these creatures.

He had found the tavern easily with Serenna’s directions, and now approached as boldly as he could despite his pounding heart. He wore his cloak, which seemed to have changed in texture, for Rema noticed upon it a common Lowlander pattern in a drab colour, which he was sure, was not there before, and around his neck, hung on a purple ribbon, the bronzed and gold embossed
Guild-medallion
which belonged to Serenna’s husband Jycob Menin. Serenna had assured him that the bearer would be granted a certain amount of deference, and as the owners were not well known, but the medallions were, there was at least a reasonable chance of his surviving any initial scrutiny. But Rema knew that much depended upon his demeanour and behaviour, and right now he felt a deep fear. The words of his cousin resounded in his ears;
this will be the death of you.

Rema ignored the Guards. They did not do the same for him, but he was not challenged, and so he entered into a tavern the likes of which he had never experienced before. It was large and crowded and noisy; warm, and full of the smell of beer and ales, pipe smoke, and bawdy laughter all woven through with witty sarcasm. For the first time since he had come to Ramos he sensed no fear. It was a place which spoke of confidence and superiority. A large fire roared fiercely in a giant hearth on the far wall, between two enormous stacks of careful hewn timber logs. A few looked up as he entered, and he sensed immediately that he was out of place, but an oddity rather than a problem. He heard a faint joke or two at his expense, but within moments he was ignored. As his heart quietened and his confidence grew, he knew that he must act the part, or he would soon be discovered.

Rema walked purposefully up to a very long and heavily polished timber counter. He found himself standing before a huge man with a wide face and heavily browed forehead. He was dressed like no other publican he had ever seen, for he wore not just the customary apron, but a wonderful tunic of many colours overlaid by belts and braces, which in turn were highlighted with small cloth patches, which seemed to indicate battles and awards of past times. His arms were like oaken planks and the distance across his shoulders was about the same as the handle of a war axe. Rema reasoned that he would take no nonsense, but would deal it out with little fear of injury. The huge man squinted carefully at the newcomer, and spoke with the voice of a cave bear.

‘Welcome stranger for that you be. I have not seen you here before, and I know all who cross my threshold. I take it you would be after a drink, Mr. ....’ the publican inclined an ear and waited for a name. Rema had expected at least this much, and so began his deception. He leaned confidently on the counter with both hands ensuring that the medallion was easily seen without being too showy.

‘No sira, tonight I would like not one drink. I think two ales two start, strong mind, and not the pints, I’ll have a quiver each, and as for my name...’ Rema paused and then leaned closer as though to take the giant into a confidence; the other instinctively leaned forward as well... ‘Tonight I’ve escaped from the wife, I want no report of me to get back you see, and each day my business is full of names. Just for a night I want to be someone else, I’m sure you’ll understand.’ He drew himself up tall and smiled right into the large and ruddy face of the other. ‘So two ales to start and I’m sure I’ll be back for more; I must say this is a very impressive place you have here.’ Rema turned to survey the scene once more, hoping desperately that he had not offended the publican, for he knew that one punch from that fist would most likely send him all the way back to the Highlands.

There were mostly soldiers in the Tavern, and not the lowly foot soldiers either. This was for the elite. The uniforms were worn with style, brass burnished, belts and leather highly polished. He noticed with a start, that a group of
Wolvers
held the floor by the fire, their long and lanky features relaxed and fluid amongst the more formal stiffness of the regular officers.

‘Two ales sira.’ The voice of the publican came warmly. He turned and paid up, adding a little extra, which was well received. ‘I see you wear the
Guild-medallion
of Petros. We see a few here now and then.’ Rema was relieved that this was not an invitation to talk further, just a friendly comment, for the big man wiped his hand on the large apron and wandered off to serve elsewhere. Rema took a deep breath and with his two large quivers of ale, one in each hand, walked purposefully towards the fireplace. He had decided that it would be best to be seen; to hide away on one of the side benches, which were more privately screened, would invite whispers and rumour he could do without. He reasoned it would be better to be seen as a confident merchant who had nothing to hide, and no fear of the present company; at least that was the plan, but Rema knew he was making it up as he went.
Who knew what arrogance and prejudice lay around him, just looking to equal a score, or win a bet for a dare?