Valkwitch (The Valkwitch Saga Book 1) (17 page)

Tyrissa lingered in the patchwork shade of a
mature maple tree and stared down the staid, boxlike guildhall across the
street. Two long banners hung from the building’s three story roof and rippled
gently in the riftwinds, splashes of color against an otherwise stately façade.
The banners, bright red fields fringed with a red and white checkerboard pattern
and bearing a stylized white spear point at the center, claimed this particular
hall for Kadrich’s Cadre. The Cadre was one of a few Khalan security guilds
descended from the mercenary companies of old and, hopefully, Tyrissa’s
employer for the near future.

She followed Liran’s directions to the letter
this time and had some time to kill before heading inside. It had taken some
effort to suppress the urge to wander, especially toward the unique and
tantalizing spires that rose above the rooftops to the south. Her explorations
of Khalanheim hadn’t yet reached this side of the city and, from what she could
see in the immediate area, she wasn’t missing much. The Cadre’s hall was but
one among many in this district, though its stonework showed the cracks and
weathering of a long history. This part of the city (dubbed Guildhall,
naturally) was all business and administration, where the legions of
well-dressed clerks, bankers, and organizers worked behind the scenes to help
turn the gears of Khalanheim’s economy. Here the streets were more often
composed of tightly placed bricks of smoothed granite instead of the common
cobblestones of the rest of the city with all their buildup of dirt and straw
and worse between the stones. The trees, or rather, the mere presence of trees,
were the highlight of the area. This road, the Avenue of the Compact, was split
in two by a long line of well-manicured trees, their branches shrouding the
roadway with a vibrant autumnal canopy. It was a nice change, as much of the
city was bereft of nature.

Tyrissa took another few moments in the shelter
of the maple tree. A few months ago, she would have considered this opportunity
precisely in line with what she wanted: To live a more adventurous life, be it
in a security guild, or a band of adventurers, or reclaiming the title Ranger
of the Morgwood. A life spent protecting people and places, of seeing more of
the world. She knew all along that they were largely fantasies, so it was
surprising how
true
they ended up being. She had seen much of the world
beyond Morgale already, and she stood before the headquarters of a storied
mercenary guild as an applicant. Of course, what she imagined never felt so
formal.
She passed a large, brown envelope from one hand to the other. It contained
a short stack of papers and application forms that she and Liran had poured over
last night.
That
had been an arduous process of the minutest details,
many of which were answered with ‘None’ or ‘Not Applicable’.

Her expectations had changed in an instant, robbing
her of those dreams and replacing them with an alternate version twisted by
uncertainty and hesitation.

Hesitant. That’s something I’ve never been.

Tyrissa sighed with a mix of resolve and
resignation, left the tree’s shade, and crossed the street to the short flight
of stairs that lead up to the double doors of the Cadre’s guildhall. She knew
she was ignoring the weight in the back of her mind. Ignoring the Pact. Each
step felt like putting on a mask, one that allowed her to pretend to pursue a different
life. She tried not to feel bitter about the fact that that life was so very
recently her imagined ideal.

The formality only escalated once inside. A
receptionist, thrilled by the prospect of another female applicant to the
Cadre’s security corps, cheerfully accepted Tyrissa’s paperwork. She was then
directed to a small sitting area, the walls hung with more of the Cadre’s
banners, where five other applicants waited. They were all were men, of course,
but equally fresh faced, the eldest with no more than three or four years on
her. Tyrissa could feel the nervous energy coming off of each of them as she
chose an empty chair. She figured she should share that anxiety, but found
herself feeling calm, as if she had banished all doubt the moment she walked
through the front doors.

Beyond a few acknowledging nods or murmured
greetings, there was no small talk among the six of them. They sat in silence,
caught a perpetual loop of sizing each other up while waiting for each name to
be called into the nearby room for the interview. The five men all wore what
Tyrissa assumed was typical formal Khalan men’s garb: long coats that split
below the waist, the fabric dyed subdued colors that she would have called
faded if not for their pristine condition. Each looked to be well-muscled
beneath their coats, and their hands looked calloused from countless hours of
training. For her part, Tyrissa looked every inch the country girl fresh off
the wagon or, in this case, the mastodon. Tyrissa turned her head to sniff at her
shoulder, checking one last time that she did indeed wash the beast’s resilient
smell out of her clothes. ‘You’re a blank slate’ Liran said repeatedly while
they went through the paperwork and strategized over her application. ‘You have
none of the innate prejudices that come from living in Khalanheim. You don’t
know the whole song and dance, the minutia and etiquette. That’s your best
asset.’ To put it less kindly: ignorance was her chief virtue.

One by one, her fellow applicants were called
into the interview room by an older man with the commanding voice and softening
lines of a retired veteran. After about ten minutes each applicant left looking
alternatively buoyed or crestfallen by their performance. Their mood correlated
directly with how long the Cadre veteran spoke to them in the hallway.

Tyrissa’s turn came last. Within the interview
room was a tribunal of two: the veteran and another man with the distinct and yet
unassuming look of a career office worker. As promised, they bombarded her with
questions on her past, her skills, and her associations. The last was the
majority of the interview, the questions probing after her time on Khalan
North’s caravan and how closely she followed her brother’s business. All the
while, a young woman listened from a chair next to a second entrance to the
room, watching intently but never interrupting the proceedings. As the
questions dwindled to an end, it was that third observer who escorted Tyrissa
out and introduced herself.

“Jesca van Rild,” she said, hand extended. Jesca
was shorter than Tyrissa by a head, with chin length brown hair, a lithe
physique and a finely featured face that Tyrissa would consider out of place in
security guild. They shook, Tyrissa noting the expected lack of softness in her
hand.

“I’m in charge of the Cadre’s female complement,”
she said with a smooth confidence that counterbalanced Tyrissa’s surprise at
Jesca being in some position of authority. She looked barely older than any of
the applicants that were in this sitting room.

“Tyrissa Jorensen. Pleased to meet you,” Tyrissa
managed to get out, trying to remember Liran’s advice on post-interview
etiquette.

“Sorry for the grilling they had to give you in
there,” Jesca said.

“I was a little worried by how often they asked
about my brother and Khalan North.” Overall, Tyrissa felt it wasn’t so bad.
Through her virtue of ignorance, she coasted through most of their questions on
account of having no history in the city. She was thankful that she never paid
too much attention to Liran’s professional affairs or the organization and
cargo of the
North Wind
caravan.

“If having a family member in a Prime were
grounds for refusal, we wouldn’t have any members at all. Follow me. I’ll give
you a quick tour.”

Jesca led her through hallways with aged wood
floors of long planks that creaked at every third step. Tapestries, banners,
and shields lined the walls between doors, most bearing variations of the
Cadre’s spear point emblem and always colored red and white.

“The Cadre has a reputation to uphold,” Jesca
said, trailing a hand fondly across the face of a passing shield, “We try to be
very selective with new recruits.”

“Have to keep the rabble out, after all,” Tyrissa
said.

“Exactly. Let the Talons pick through those
sorts. We don’t accept former members of a Prime’s security detail, criminals,
people with too strong conflicting interests, and so on. And Pactbound,
obviously,” she added with a short laugh.

“Obviously,” Tyrissa agreed, if perhaps too
quickly. Being Pactbound wasn’t mentioned in any of the paperwork or
questioning. Thinking back through all of the stories, most Pactbound were
obvious by appearance alone. The Elemental Powers’ blessings usually came with
physical side effects, like shifts in eye and skin color or more otherworldly effects
like a constant trail of smoke or scaled skin. Though Tsellien had looked
normal, Tyrissa checked herself every few days for any sign of such changes. She
had found nothing so far.

Soon they were back in the grand entry hall that
Tyrissa only got a brief glimpse of before being directed away to the sitting
area. Jesca weaved through the rows of display cases that contained memorabilia
and trophies, each object looking like it had a story to tell.

“These days we’re up to nearly five hundred full
members, plus support staff. I’d say half are here in Khalanheim, with the rest
split between our secondary chapterhouses in Rilderdam and Delmora.” She paused
in front glass case containing a trio of old swords, the hilts worn from age
but the blades still polished to the point of shining. “You’re not from around
here, so I bet this is all a little strange to you. Morgale, right?”

“Yeah. For a mercenary company it’s all very
civilized and formal.”

Jesca briefly frowned at that. “Mercenary is
something of a dirty word around here. We prefer ‘Security Service’ or
something similar.
Mercenary
implies transience and unreliability, and
we are neither. Yes, we originated as a mercenary company but we’ve been based
in Khalanheim since shortly after the Rift opened and our founder Kadrich had a
strict stance on fulfilling contacts to the letter and maintaining a sterling
reputation.”

“The Rilder War,” Tyrissa said. There had been
only one story about Kadrich’s Cadre in
Men like Griffins
, one of the
books she read on the caravan. The Rilder War was a long, slow conflict between
two varying alliances of old Khalan states, and the Cadre was hired by the
losing side. Yet they held to their contract where any other mercenary company
would have fled, harrying the advance of the enemy army for weeks in the
waterlogged lands along the Rilder River. They only quit the field when word
arrived that the war had ended behind their backs, their employers conquered by
a surprise attack. The company’s reputation only grew from there and has
remained pristine ever since.

“Exactly,” Jesca said, turning towards the wide
stairway at the rear of the entry all. Tyrissa followed, though wished they
would linger among the display cases.

“That reputation is the center of our guild
identity. Especially these days with the Primes and the Khalan states and
exchanging open conflict for social and commercial intrigue. The ability to trust
draws business better than anything. Most of our contracts are bodyguard work
or on-site security.”

“But not all?”

“Hey, I get it,” Jesca said with an understanding
smile. “Where’s the sense of adventure? We all have to go through a little
disillusionment at first. I’ll be honest with you: The vast majority of
contracts are right here in the city, and most field missions are merchant
escort jobs, usually overland caravans to Delmora or on the rivers and canals
to Rilderdam. But not
every
contract. We like to think we’ve pushed back
the wilderness, that we’ve tamed the threats. But guilds like us still get to
see the wilder stuff.”

“I crossed the Vordeum Wastes,” Tyrissa said. “I
have some idea what’s out there.”

Jesca nodded. “Right. We have a handful of
veterans who specialize in Elemental jobs, and they’re occasionally contracted
out to hunt down whatever new creature the Hithian ruins or Vordeum spat out.
Those are always the talk of the hall for weeks afterward, so there’s still
that air of adventure around here, even our last griffin hunt was a century
ago.”

“And which do you prefer, Jesca?”

“I’m a city girl,” she said with a laugh, “I’ll
take thieves in the night over some magick-born monster any day.”

Jesca had led her to a balcony that overlooked
the rear of the building. The guildhall formed three sides around a central
courtyard of packed dirt and gravel. The yard was mostly empty with only a pair
of Cadre members squaring off against dummies of straw that lined one side,
their footwork throwing up small clouds of dust. A broad gate and wrought iron
fence enclosed the grounds, the fence sculpted like a wall of spears.

“This is the training yard,” Jesca said. “Come
back tomorrow morning and be ready for a fight.”

“Now
that
is much more my style,” Tyrissa
said with relish. “So is that all? I’m hired?” As soon as the words were out
Tyrissa began to dimly remember Liran’s specifically mentioned that kind of
misstep.

Jesca covered a faint look of surprise with a
smile. “Not quite yet, but you have good timing,” she said. “We’re running the
group trials for potential recruits tomorrow. If today was the modern formality,
tomorrow is the martial tradition.”

Tyrissa entered the Cadre’s training yard through
the open gate at the center of the wall of false spears. Gathered on one side
of the yard were around twenty other recruits, and Tyrissa spotted three other
applicants from yesterday among them. She took her place in line, their group
standing opposite to a row of full Cadre members, half in shirtsleeves, half
bare-chested and all with small touches of red and white: a wrist band here, a
tattoo there. Most held wooden training swords, the false blades smeared with
black dust. Scattered through the yard were short wooden troughs filled with
more of the black powder. Though the Cadre’s guildhall sheltered the yard on
three sides, riftwind gusts would still sneak in and stir up small black puffs
of dust from the troughs.