A Gathering of Fools (Vensille Saga Book 1) Read online

  “Awedom,” said Snare to the second of his three constables, “ride back to Heberon, find the Captain and tell him there is a wrecked ship in Grace Bay. Go.”

  “Find the Captain, tell him about the shipwreck. Got it, Sarge. And then what should I do?”

  Snare, still looking out over the beach, rolled his eyes in light despair.

  “Bring the Captain back here, if he wants to come. If he isn’t interested then just come back here with the cart and find me,” said Snare, “and don’t dawdle - go straight to the Captain.”

  Awedom turned his horse and trotted off back along the sands towards Heberon.

  Snare sat and thought. Six miles to Heberon and another six back. Allow an hour for Awedom to find the Captain, for a patrol to be gathered, for cart and horses to be prepared. It would be at least two hours, possibly three or four, before anyone else arrived on the scene; plenty of time to have a sniff around.

  Snare dismounted, handed the reins to Jared and walked to the first corpse. Bending down, he ran his hands through the pockets of the corpse’s coat and searched him for weapons or coins. Nothing. There were footprints - bare feet - alongside the corpse and each of the next four that he inspected, as if someone had knelt by each body in turn.

  The fifth corpse had been stripped of its trousers. Beside it Snare found, with some distaste, a discarded piece of torn and ragged cloth that might once have been a pair of trousers.

  Corpses six and seven told no tales but eight was missing its shirt and coat, unless it was the fashion now for some sailors to work the decks half naked. There were other rags on the beach and to Snare it looked like someone had stolen clothes from the corpse to replace their own tattered garments.

  The ninth corpse had bare feet and the footprints suddenly became boot prints. Snare was now sure that someone had been robbing the corpses. The boots had left a trail that led westward, up the beach and toward the low cliffs.

  The bay was sheltered and the waves were small by the time they reached the beach but the sand around the corpses was nevertheless scoured smooth, except for the boot prints left by a single man.

  “The man on the cliff,” Snare muttered to himself.

  The state of the corpses was unusual and Snare was uneasy.

  “Jared, get over here,” called Snare, waving at the trooper, who was still staring distractedly at the corpses as if worried they might lurch to their feet. Jared kicked his horse forward and came along the beach, stopping as he drew level with the sergeant. He held the reins as Snare mounted.

  “What now Sarge?”

  Snare thought for a moment, looking out to sea. There was no sign of the ship that had foundered and very little wreckage, if you didn’t count the corpses. Most of the ships travelling these waters were traders carrying grain, iron, food, wine, wool, rope, coal or any one of a thousand other things that the coastal towns might need or want. Often there were barrels, cases, casks, chests or crates washed up on the beach or floating in the bay after a merchant ship had foundered but today there were none of those things.

  Not a merchantman, then, thought Snare.

  It hadn’t been carrying troops either, if he was any judge. The corpses all looked like sailors rather than soldiers and if a troop transport had been lost there would be far more bodies. A small crew, then, but not a merchant. Pirate, perhaps?

  Snare dragged his thoughts back to the present. Footprints suggested someone else had been on the beach and, more than likely, had rifled the corpses to steal valuables and clothes. That was annoying, since picking valuables from corpses was generally seen as a perk of the Watch and Snare didn’t like the thought of sharing his prize. He jerked his horse around to point towards the low cliffs. Time to move.

  “Spint,” said Snare, “stay here, get the bodies up into the dunes where the tide can’t wash ‘em back out to sea then have a look round for anything else that might have been on that ship. Jared, you follow me. We’re gonna find the bastard that robbed these sailors and teach him a lesson about stealing from the dead.”

  Snare flicked the reins and moved off along the beach, following the footprints towards the cliff. Over the dunes they went until they reached the ravine in the cliff that the corpse-robber had used to escape from the beach.

  Snare looked at the sides of the ravine, steep and covered in thick, thorny undergrowth. He swore under his breath and turned to Jared.

  “Our man went this way but we won’t get the horses up that path. Get down, give me your reins and climb to the top of the cliffs. I’ll take the horses back down the beach and meet you up there. Don’t wander off.”

  Jared dismounted, handed over the reins of his horse and started to push his way through the brush, grumbling under his breath. Snare watched until Jared disappeared into the ravine, then he turned his horse again and trotted back east along the line of the cliffs towards the path that led to the top.

  From the cliff top path Snare could see further out to sea but there was still no sign of a ship. He was beginning to think that it was probably quite a small vessel with a small crew and that it had broken up in the bay itself. That would explain the bodies on the beach and the lack of debris, but he still had no idea what sort of ship it was or why it had been there in the first place.

  Snare rode along the clifftop path until Jared eventually came into view, lying on the grass in the sun, dozing. He woke quickly enough when Snare’s horse snorted and stamped its foot next to Jared’s head, though.

  “Get up, get mounted and let’s find this bastard quickly,” snarled Snare, “if he gets away ‘cos of you sleepin’ I’ll have your fuckin’ guts. Move!”

  Jared pulled himself to his feet and climbed, chastened, into his saddle. Snare kicked his horse and together they trotted north from the cliffs.

  The trail was obvious, even to Snare’s city-born eyes. The long grass had been pushed aside and trampled down by someone heading towards the forest. As the grass gave way to shrubs, there were more signs. The heavy footprints in the lingering mud, crushed leaves and twisted grasses spoke volumes. A man, from the size of the boots, had run this way and taken little care about the trail he was leaving. Snare wasn’t much of a tracker but he’d chased enough men to be able to follow this trail in his sleep.

  As the shrubs became forest and the trees closed in around them, the low-hanging branches forced Snare and Jared to dismount and continue on foot in file, leading their horses. The trail was still leading them almost due north and their quarry was making things easy for them, sticking to the faint path and not trying to hide where he had been.

  A little further on, they reached a small clearing with a stream and Snare stopped to examine the ground. It looked like their quarry may have paused to rest before continuing along the banks of the stream. That meant they were probably closing the gap. Snare signalled Jared and they pressed on along the bank of the stream, pushing forward as quickly as they could. The trail led them past a fresh tree stump surrounded by wood shavings and then on, deeper into the forest.

  They hadn’t gone much further when Snare caught a hint of something human in the air - the smell of unwashed tramp - rising above even the stink of sweating horse.

  “Hold up,” said Snare “we’re getting close. Smell that? Dirty wool and six-week-old sweat, if I’m any judge.”

  Snare let go of his reins and loosened his sword in its scabbard as Jared pushed forward, moving up to stand beside him. Then the bushes shuddered and a man carrying an improvised staff - probably newly cut, reasoned Snare, thinking back to the stump they had passed - stepped into view. After an hour’s pursuit across sand and through forest, Snare’s temper had frayed and he had hoped to catch more than a beggar with wild eyes, filthy beard and ripped, ill-fitting clothes.

  Snare eyed the beggar’s staff warily and moved his hand to the hilt of his sword. The beggar watched closely and raised his staff, bringing it round so that it was gripped in both hands, one end pointing toward the watchmen.

  �
��Now, don’t do nothing rash,” said Snare, hoping to calm things down, “just put the staff down and come along quietly with us.” Five years in the Watch had honed his instincts and he could almost taste the approaching violence.

  The beggar’s eyes were wild and he suddenly swayed, almost fell, then shuffled himself upright.

  “Give me your boots and your horse,” said the beggar, in an unexpectedly commanding voice. The courtly accent was almost as weird as the instruction.

  “Fuck off,” said Snare, snarling, then he saw that Jared had dropped his reins and stooped as if to remove his boots, “what the…” he muttered, staring in surprise, then suddenly he understood and his eyes snapped back to the beggar.

  “He’s a fucking Caster,” shouted Snare, yanking out his sword and keeping his eyes on the beggar, “draw your bloody sword!”

  Compelling a watchman was a desperate act, a serious offence across the Empire, and Snare was suddenly cold despite the warmth of the day.

  He dropped into a fighting stance and raised his sword. He tried to step away from his horse but the bloody thing came with him, nudging at his back, crowding him and forcing him to step again. Snare risked a glance across to Jared’s horse where an unloaded crossbow hung from a strap on the saddle, neglected and out of reach.

  The beggar took half a step forward, cool as anything, and gazed down at him. The wildness in his eyes had gone, replaced by a steady determination, and his staff bobbed gently as the beggar weighed it loosely in his hands.

  The pause was just long enough for Snare to believe the beggar might back down but then he moved, shifting his grip on the staff and surging forward with dreadful speed. Snare blocked the sudden downward strike then stumbled back to avoid a short thrust, colliding with his horse and falling as his back foot slid out from under him. His sword vanished into the bush as he scrambled to get out of range and back on his feet.

  Then Jared hurled himself forward, swinging wildly at the beggar with a sword he hardly knew how to use.

  The beggar barely moved. Feet still, he swayed out of the path of Jared’s sword then thrust hard with the staff, striking the constable square in the ribs.

  Bone snapped and Jared’s mouth opened in shock, his face suddenly white. Then the beggar struck again, a short, vicious swing that caught the watchman on the side of his head and knocked him to the ground, unconscious.

  Snare’s fingers closed on the hilt of the sword and he rolled clear of his horse. He had time to see a wild flash of movement and then his leg exploded in pain and he lost hold of the sword again.

  Snare tried to stand but collapsed back to the ground, agony shooting up his leg. The beggar just stood and watched, staff held ready. Then he relaxed and lowered the staff.

  “It’s broken,” he said, nodding at the leg, “so just lie still while I rob you.”

  “Fuck you!” was about all Snare could manage, and that through gritted teeth. He snarled at the beggar as he calmly tied Jared’s horse to a tree.

  The beggar just grinned and all Snare could do was watch as his saddlebags were emptied in front of him. They didn’t have much - a day’s rations, a couple of water skins - but the beggar took everything, loading it onto Jared’s horse. Then he scooped up both the swords, inspected them, and slid Snare’s blade into Jared’s scabbard before strapping it to his waist.

  Snare stopped rolling around and tried to ease his leg into a more comfortable position. Sweat beaded on his face and he ground his teeth against the pain.

  “It won’t help, you know,” said the beggar, as if making light conversation in a tavern, “you’ll need to get it strapped. I’ll leave you the other horse but I still want your colleague’s boots.” The beggar bent over the unconscious Jared and removed his boots.

  “Cheap and poorly made,” he said, examining the boots as he pulled them on, “you should be ashamed, issuing kit like this to a public servant.”

  “Fuck you. Who the fuck are you and what the hell are you doing here?”

  The beggar paused as he pulled on the second boot and looked at Snare. He grinned, and Snare felt suddenly uncomfortable, as if he were the butt of a joke he hadn’t known was being played.

  “I don’t mind telling you that my fortunes are looking up,” said the beggar, stamping his feet in his new boots. He grinned again.

  “Yesterday, things looked very grim and by last night they looked downright deadly. Today I have new boots, sort of, a horse, a grimy coat and food to spare.”

  He slid the stolen sword a few inches from the scabbard.

  “I have a sword as well as a staff. I’m a veritable one man fucking army!”

  He plucked the crossbows from the saddles of each horse and tossed them into the stream.

  “Can’t have you getting any ideas when I turn my back, can I?”

  The beggar leant over Jared a second time and searched him quickly, taking a dagger and a small purse, both of which he stuffed into the pockets of his coat. Snare just watched, unable to do more.

  “I could tell you my name but you’d never believe me and it would rather spoil the chase, don’t you think? Give my compliments to your commander. And don’t feel too bad; you’re probably the luckiest men alive, today.”

  Then he untied Jared’s horse, crossed the stream and walked away into the forest, heading north.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “I DON’T LIKE storms, Cranden, not one little bit. They’re bad for my schedule and bad for my town.” Administrator Nison was, by his own admission, a professional worrier. It was part of what made him so good at his job, he believed, but it also gave him sleepless nights, bad digestion and early morning bouts of extreme grumpiness.

  “Yes, sir,” said Cranden, aware that his master sometimes needed to rant at the rising sun.

  They were standing on the rooftop balcony of the town hall, looking out across the coastal town of Heberon towards the sea. Nison often stood here to survey his little realm and today he turned full circle, checking every part of the town.

  As far as Nison could tell, the town had escaped the worst of the wind and rain but still he worried. Its position between hills and at the back of a cove that formed a natural harbour seemed to have protected both the town and the few vessels that had spent the night behind the harbour walls. That spoke to the skill of the imperial surveyors and confirmed their choice of site but Nison was still uneasy.

  Trading towns were always difficult and ports were the most difficult of all. Heberon, with its trading connections via port, river and roads, was the most complex project he had worked on and he worried that parts of the plan were being pulled out of shape.

  “Damned tricky,” muttered Nison under his breath as he watched materials being prepared for the day’s work on the shipping warehouse behind the eastern wharf. Eventually, that warehouse would store the iron ingots and coal that would come down the river from the northern hills for shipment across the rest of the Empire. A decade ago, this whole area had been beyond the borders of the Empire and home only to a few farmers. The discovery of readily accessible iron ore had changed all that and now Imperial money and resources flowed into the area, transforming a tiny fishing village into a large frontier town of about a thousand residents.

  At the moment, there were maybe twice that number of transient residents and soldiers. The port and its small infantry garrison were all that upheld the Emperor’s territorial claim.

  Nison looked at the wooden palisade that surrounded the town on the landward side and then he looked west, where a stone gatehouse marked the first of the permanent defences. These defences hadn’t been tested but to Nison’s eyes they looked weak, pathetic. The troops stationed here were at the forefront of the Empire’s westward expansion but for now their job was to support the survey teams building new infrastructure and taming the local wilderness.

  Much of the effort within the town was focussed on the harbour and the river mouth where the port was being built. Government House was newly finished -
a relatively modest, three-storey fortified manor house from which the town and surroundings would be ruled - as was the somewhat larger garrison complex next door. The harbour itself was being upgraded, the original wooden wharves replaced with new stone structures.

  The palisade, its watchtowers and its gatehouses were all due for replacement once the harbour was finished. If thing went well, work would begin in the next few months.

  Stone, that was the problem. And masons. Nison hadn’t enough of either and he was juggling resources to keep everything moving. So far, that had worked well, but he knew, sooner or later, something would come unstuck.

  He grimaced and turned to look east and north, where two more teams of engineers and labourers were cutting new roads through the forests and across the hills. In a few weeks, their work would be complete and they would link the town to the rest of the Empire. Goods, people and, most importantly, soldiers, would then flow swiftly and quickly between towns and Nison would sleep more easily at night. At the moment, though, and until the roads were finished and the surrounding regions occupied, most traffic arrived by sea, carried by licensed merchant ships and protected by a squadron of the Imperial Navy, which patrolled the sea for many leagues around.

  “Do we have enough stone to complete the watchtower?”

  Cranden checked his clipboard, flicking through pages of notes.

  “No, sir, not until the next shipment arrives. That should be here next week. The masons have work to occupy them till then.”

  “Ha. And if we need to divert stocks to repair storm damage? That’ll put us further behind, I’ll wager.”

  “The Chief Surveyor is examining the works at the moment, sir. We should know more by lunchtime.”

  Nison grimaced at this, fearing the worst. To distract himself, he turned to look west where the first of the stone gatehouses had recently been completed. It stood maybe thirty yards beyond the wooden palisade, utterly useless without its adjoining walls, but a clear statement of Imperial intent. A good, stone road went straight under the gate and out to the west, ending after only a few hundred yards at the site of the half-finished watch tower, which was rising slowly on the headland. Beyond, there was only farmland and forest until you reached the villages and towns that clustered around the city of Vensille, far beyond the reach of the Emperor.