Conrad jolted awake, feeling a touch on his chest. He threw fur from his leg, reaching for a sword. His breaths short and shallow, he looked around for whoever woke him. He'd acted in moments, as though surrounded by enemies. It felt instinctual to swing his sword at even the idea of danger, like a new addition to his muscle memory.
"Watch where you swing that," Biter said, standing smugly in the doorway. "You'll cut yourself."
Conrad's hands loosened their grip on his sword. "Knock first."
"I did. Twice. Get up, we've somewhere to be."
"Yeah, bed," Conrad pointed to the window with his blade. "It's still dark outside!"
Biter eyes widened. He strolled over to the window. "Oh, come off it," he said. "It's light enough to be moving. Get dressed."
Conrad grumbled but did as he was told. He pulled on boots sticky with sweat, pressed armoured plates to his forearms, chest, and thighs. New, the armour felt stiff at first. It needed breaking in.
Looking back and forth, Conrad couldn't find the final piece to his set.
"Helmet," he said. "Where's the helmet?"
"Don't need one, do you?" Biter asked. "Only going for a little walk."
"It's regulation. You only get away with not wearing one because people are scared of you."
"Well then let's make them scared of you. Come on, no need for a helmet."
Biter left the room, thumping his way down the stairs without a care for anyone who might still be sleeping.
"That's not-" Conrad muttered. "People aren't scared because you don't wear a helmet. Arsehole."
Conrad hurried after the bald man into the open air. The sun hadn't risen yet, though the skies were not entirely dark. There was just enough of a pale grey light for a man to see. The air was bitter, cold. Slicing winds cut under Conrad's clothes. He leaned forwards, crossing his arms to tuck his hands and sword under his armpits. His back ached with the cold, always had, even as a boy. It made him feel like an old man.
"You alright princess?" Biter asked. "Need me to carry your sword?"
Conrad kicked wildly at Biter's shins, forgetting the armour protecting them and regretting the kick a moment later.
"Where are we going?" Conrad asked. "I thought we were getting Arten tonight?"
"Got to see a man about him first. One of the fellas in the Third. He'll know where Arten is."
"I thought you said you knew?"
"I do," Biter said. He pointed at his belly. "He does."
It would be rather pointless to recount the whirlwind of insults and curses Conrad threw at Biter in that moment. All that needs to be known is that it was quite a while before Conrad took another breath. Biter had often relied on his stomach to give information to his comrades. He referred to his belly as though it was a mystic with the power to see the future, or the truth of any event, which annoyed Conrad and Arten greatly.
"You calmed down?"
"Moron," Conrad panted. "Imbecile. We would've committed treason because of your lardy gut."
"Oi," Biter said. "No. I would have always done this. Always done it proper, we're going to go find this lad now, give him a rude awakening and get what we want. Alright?"
"Alright," Conrad huffed, just hoping to be out of the cold soon enough.
They arrived shortly at one of the many pubs in Quenasses. As expected, it was a dingy place. Outside, it looked as pretty as any other building of the city. Quaint, small, it made a man feel as if he were stepping into a family cottage. That was, until he stepped into it.
A cacophony of voices, each competing to be the loudest in the room blasted the last remainders of drowsiness from Conrad. Men were shouting, laughing over each other so that even the people at the same table couldn't hear a word. The air was hot and humid, like a bath house, only without the implied cleanliness. It reminded Conrad of his last night with Biter and Arten, only now he was even less drunk.
It seemed always that places like these were the only ones that survived a siege. Too ugly to be ransacked, just lucky enough to avoid a cannon ball, they'd withstand even Atoth's will. Conrad pondered if this place – The Wagging Tail, he thought it was called – had been nice, or at least nicer, before the Drevonish came. They were the majority of customers now, having likely driven off any decent people that were left. Brutish, riled up by a victory, though the sweetness of that victory was dying down now.
"Phwoar," Biter said, wincing. "Smell that?"
"Hmm," Conrad nodded. "You'd think these lads would've gone to bed by now."
Biter pointed to a table in the far corner of the free house. Somehow, in some miracle display, three men had managed to fall asleep in this ruckus. Their heads propped up either by an awkward arm or well-placed mug.
"You know," Conrad said. "As much as I'd love to hate this."
"You can't help but admire it?"
"In a strange way, yes. In this noise, I wouldn't even shut my eyes."
Biter hovered his finger over the sleeping trio. "I know. Pick one for me, would ya? I can't decide between Fatlip and Drooler."
"Drooler," Conrad said.
"That was fast."
"I'd like to be back in bed soon, Biter."
Biter shrugged his shoulders, nodded, and walked over to the table of sleeping beauties. Like a dancer he weaved his way among the jostling crowds in the free house. Agile, unseen, he grabbed the one he'd called Drooler by the elbow, swiftly removing the support for Drooler's head, which smacked into the table below.
"Uh-Oi," Drooler said, barely realising where he was before being snatched away by the stronger, awake Biter. A skinny, ugly fellow, Drooler was missing two front teeth, allowing saliva to pour from his mouth as he slept.
The one Biter called Fatlip reared his head at Drooler's weak protest. "Whateryoudoingthere?"
"Investigating blasphemy," Biter said, with authority enough to impersonate the Patriarch.
"Yeah," snorted Fatlip. "Right."
Biter rid himself of the conversation with the best social feature he had. He punched Fatlip in the side of the head. Like a bee's sting, it hit quick, and would likely cause some swelling.
The protests multiplied after that display. Biter picked up Drooler on his shoulders and walked out, gesturing for Conrad to follow. Jeers and shouts followed them, but no man would dare do anything more. As drunk as they were, no one forgot Biter's face, and even if they were sober, no man wanted his throat bitten out.
"That was a bit much," Conrad said, following after Biter. "Don't you think?"
"No," Biter replied. "I'd bet I outrank every fucker in that place."
Conrad shook his head. It seemed Biter didn't quite understand just because he was Captain, that did not mean he could get away with whatever he wanted.
The streets of Quenasses were just about coming to life as they walked a mostly unconscious Drooler back to what had been the guards' barracks. Well, alive as they could be. Neighbours opened their windows, greeting each other in a language Conrad had never bothered to learn. They rubbed the sleep from their eyes and prepared for their days. Normality would never return to this place. They could try and paint over the cracks, do as they used to, but it wouldn't change what had happened. Drevonish men would roam the streets, slowly infecting this city with their clothes, their mannerisms, their language. Soon enough, unless by some miracle it was recaptured, the only memories of Quenasses would exist in the paint on its walls. Conrad had never stayed with a city he'd helped take like this. He'd never seen what happened after. It was a tad depressing, truth be told.
None of Biter's men batted an eye as he strolled in, a man over his shoulders and Conrad trailing behind. The bald man didn't act as if this was out of the ordinary either. While he held Drooler, he greeted his lads, taking bites of some of their breakfasts and swigs of their drinks. He would've forgotten Drooler entirely were it not for Conrad reminding him of the drunkard.
"Oh yeah," Biter said, slapping Drooler with his free arm. "Right boys, I'll be off. If you hear screaming, just talk louder."
Biter's lads mumbled a response. They weren't morning people it seemed, though their reply was good enough for the bald man. He carried Drooler up the stairs to Conrad's room, throwing him down into the creaking chair. Conrad didn't protest to the using of his space. Not that he could protest anyway, he'd only been gifted the room perhaps twelve hours ago. He just hoped Drooler would not throw up. Conrad couldn't stand the stench of vomit. It had an infective effect on him, causing him to vomit at the mere sound of another's retching.
As soon as he hit the chair, Drooler returned to sleeping, letting his head fall back in a position that looked horrible on the neck.
"Oi," Biter said.
Drooler didn't stir.
"Oi!" Biter shouted.
No response.
Biter took off one of his gloves before slapping it forcefully over Drooler's head.
"Ow," Drooler groaned like a toddler. "What was that for?"
Biter hit the man over and over until he was awake enough to hold up a hand to protect himself.
"Awake now?" Biter asked.
Drooler nodded.
"Good. A lad joined your company a couple of weeks ago now. Big fella. About this tall. Good looking. Name of Arten."
Drooler looked puzzled for a moment, before bursting into a giggling fit. "Oh yeah. Crazy one, him."
Biter placed a firm hand on the back of Drooler's chair, another on his chin. "This is a warning. I'm a very good friend of this 'crazy one'. Speak of him like that again; like you're taking the piss, and I'll squeeze your balls so hard they pop."
"We'd like to know where he is," Conrad interjected. "He's been missing for a bit."
"I'm not surprised," Drooler said. "Way he was talking, he bound to get nicked."
"Nicked?" Biter asked, more to affirm his own suspicions than anything else. "So, he's been taken in? By who?"
Drooler licked his lips, a satisfied grin crept across his face as he saw Biter's concern. "Don't think am at liberty to say, sir."
Biter's eyes flashed with fury. Conrad caught him by the elbow before he could raise a hand against Drooler.
"Don't be a fool," Conrad whispered. "This is what he wants. You hit him; he reports it. Plenty of people saw you drag him out of that pub. He has to return unharmed."
"Or not at all," Biter mumbled.
"Pack it in," Conrad said. "He's not worth it."
Biter nodded, then turned again to Drooler. "We may wear the same uniform boy. We might wield the same sword, but know that I outrank you."
"You seem quite caught up about that," Drooler sneered. "It's just a title."
"Oh, not just as a Captain. In age, in experience, in strength, I outrank you. With a blade, I outrank you. With women, I outrank you. As a man, I outrank you. So," he leaned in closely to Drooler's face, letting his breath kiss the man's cheek. "You're going to be a good little soldier, and answer my questions now."
Conrad had never seen Biter quite so serious, so quietly angry. He held his superiority over Drooler the way a nobleman would, looking upon him as a man would look upon an insect he was about to tread on. From the look in his eye, Biter barely saw Drooler as a person now, more just a source of information.
"Now," Biter continued. "Let's try again. Who took our mate, when did they take him, and where did they take him?"
"P-Pale Boys," stuttered Drooler. "They grabbed him from the pub, right out in front of all of us, told us he was a heretic, but didn't say where he was going."
Conrad cursed under his breath. He'd all but known it was those zealots that would've taken Arten, though he so wished it would've been anyone else. The Pale Boys were serious business. A cabal of ex-heretics, moulded by others of their like to be the perfect devotees to Atoth and his chosen. The Patriarch trusted them like no other, only allowing Pale Boys within his personal guard. A wild, fanatical presence on and off the battlefield, no one disturbed Pale Boy business. They had the authority of the Patriarch, and through him, the authority of Atoth. If Arten was with them, and if they'd charged him with heresy, there'd be no getting him back without treason, and there wasn't much time before he joined their ranks.
Biter and Conrad shared an uneasy look.
"You're sure it was them that took him?" Biter asked.
Drooler nodded. "Who else would deal with a blasphemer? They wore their usual stuff as well. Red robes, stuffed into plain black pieces of armour. On their hands though, and a bit on their neck I saw the skin. Like milk it was, or a corpse. Disgusting stuff."
Biter huffed, rubbing his hand forcefully over his bald head. It was as if he were trying to squeeze out a thought, an idea, anything that would help.
"You know it's just what happens," Drooler said. "Should've kept his mad mouth shut."
Conrad couldn't stop Biter this time. He didn't want to. With all his weight behind the blow, Biter booted Drooler in the chest, knocking him to the floor. Winded, gasping for air and unable to get back up again, Drooler looked and sounded like a dying horse.
Ignoring their wheezing captive, Biter turned to Conrad. "Shit one, this."
"And we're talking about?"
"Arten. Pale Boys and that. This whole mess. We've not got much time."
"What do you mean? If they've got him, they'll be on their way to the Hollow Chapel. That's all the way back home."
"No, that's just a myth," said Biter. "Keeps the image of them all as pure, uniform. They'll break minds anywhere, so long as there's enough space. Need a place where you won't be bothered to make a lad's mind to mush then mould it into something else."
Biter rubbed his head again. There was something he clearly wasn't telling Conrad, something worth holding back, something he knew Conrad wouldn't like.
"So, under the Bastille then?" Conrad asked.
Biter nodded. "Guess my belly was right anyway." He laughed awkwardly.
"I didn't think I'd be committing treason within a day of returning to the army," Conrad said.
"I'd like to tell you that you can leave if you like," Biter said. "But you can't. I need you here mate."
Conrad rubbed his chest instinctively, his hand passing over where the arrows had punched into him not long ago.
"You know me," he smiled. "I was always looking for a way out of this army. It's the uniform mostly. Green's just not my colour."
Biter smiled, clapping Conrad on the back. "That's a good lad."
"So, what's the plan?"
"Ah, we'll make it up as we go," said Biter.
*
"And then," said Lady Bruillant. "Meredith pulled so hard on the lead she nearly took me with her. Bullish thing she can be, it's why I let Thean take her most days."
She traced a dark, thin finger across Robert's bare chest. With the lightest of touches, the finger weaved its way among amber hair, down hard muscle towards his stomach. Robert felt the touch; it tickled somewhat, though he did not react to it. He did not even look at the lady as she spoke, instead he looked away, enamoured with the wall.
He was bored, to put it simply. Bruillant was a fair enough woman. She had a large nose and mouth, though it suited her face. Long and thin, with pretty eyes, there were plenty worse that Robert had been with. Young, too, she was. Though at twenty, perhaps she was too young for Robert now.
Smite me down, Robert thought. I am getting old.
He turned to Bruillant, meeting her broad grin with one of his own. He'd never even thought he might be too old for a woman before; he'd barely noticed turning thirty, though even that was a long time ago now.
Then again, it wasn't as if he could stop seeing Bruillant, listening to the never-ending tales of her dogs and their irreverent 'naughtiness.' There was a purpose here besides sharing a bed with a married woman. At this point, that was rarely a benefit; all it served to do was make Robert sick of himself.
Save that for when the job is done, he told himself, placing two fingers under Bruillant's chin before kissing her softly. Her hand reached down again at the kiss, traversing below his stomach, grabbing hold of his cock. The grip was much too hard, Robert grunted and pulled away.
"Is something the matter?" Bruillant asked. She reached again, only for Robert to catch her hand.
"Merely tired, my dear. Perhaps you could tell me more of Meredith. She sounds wonderful."
"Oh, she is," Bruillant stressed. "Fabulous, she is, as I'm sure you can tell from her portrait." She gestured to the wall, on which hung a huge painting of three large dogs. Two had the blocky heads and heavy frames of mastiffs, while the third was a slender being, with gangly limbs and a long snout. Fine blonde hair curled from every inch of its body.
"Gorgeous, all three," Robert lied. He'd never liked dogs. All that yapping was too much on his ears. "I should very much like to meet them one day."
"Oh, you should. It pains me so to be away from them, while Thean fights in this bloody war."
At her own mention of her husband, Lady Bruillant looked away for a moment. She chewed on her thumb at the nail. Robert watched her think, preparing his own response to what he knew she'd say. He'd heard this plea from many noblewomen. Over many years, he'd had plenty of practise in turning them down without breaking their hearts. It was such a good performance he'd often wondered if he could've been an actor in another life.
Bruillant turned her neck swiftly, looking again at Robert.
"Come with me," she beseeched. "We'll take some money, run out to Dolpon, where the land is rich, and the sun doesn't set. My father, he's a known man there. He'd support us, hide us away."
Here we go again, Robert thought as he clasped his hands around hers. Tears were formed in her eyes as he looked at her. His face was morphed into a combination of sadness, regret, and deep want, all in one masterful package. Even without a mirror, he knew his expression was perfect.
"My dear," he said, in a voice barely louder than a whisper. "You know how I feel about you. You know there is no river I would not cross, no mountain I would not climb."
"But you will not do this for me," she sniffled.
Robert threw his head back. "You are asking of me to choose between my love of my country and my love of you. That is not a decision that can be taken lightly. Until this war is done, I cannot turn my back on the Patriarch. My honour would not allow it."
"Of course, it is my burden and my folly to love a man of valour."
Robert almost burst out laughing as he heard that. He barely hid a snicker.
"Though," Bruillant continued. "Thean does say the war is over, does he not?"
"The High Council will convene soon," Robert replied. "I have heard, whether we will seek peace I do not know. For some the war ends not even then."
"He said if the war isn't over by next week, he's taking his men back home."
Robert sat up, ridding his face of his faux sadness. He might gain something in this visit after all. "Does he now?"
Bruillant nodded. "That brutish pig! He doesn't have a shred of love for his country. He's in this war for land and money only."
"He wouldn't go against the Patriarch though," Robert said. "Surely not."
"I wouldn't put anything past that man, he has made my life such suffering."
Oh, calm yourself, Robert thought. He bought you those dogs you so adore.
She caressed his face with a sad sigh. "Oh Rob. Will this, will we, ever become normal?"
"Probably not," Robert said. He moved away from her gentle touch, throwing on his jacket and trousers. "But isn't that what makes it exciting?"
Lady Bruillant didn't give him an answer. He hadn't given her time to. With a quick excuse and a quicker escape, he was out of her clutches, stepping into the crisp cool air of another autumn day. As dim as it was, the light still caught him off guard.
After a few hours, spent with whatever woman he was seeing in a given day, daylight seemed a foreign concept. They'd always keep the curtains closed, mostly for the ladies' security. Everyone knew of Robert's supposed adultery, though none were ever brave enough to accost him for it. It was a reputation, he supposed, one he'd gained before he began sleeping with noblemen's wives on the orders of his wife, before he'd even been old enough to consider the concept. For the women, the curtains remained closed so that they could keep believing no one knew, so that they could hold their heads high in the street. It didn't work of course. Word spread like butter on bread in Drevon's court. When doors were closed, whispers echoed for hours on end, detailing every secret a person could think was private was set free into the knowledgeable world.
Since Anne had stepped into her position on the High Council, the backstabbing, politicking and rumour mill had only grown. With Robert at her hand, she could know anything about any nobleman. His next moves, his loyalty, how good he was in bed, all from Robert's time spent with their wives. Any and every detail she stuffed into those black books of hers, keeping an eye on those who needed it, and rewarding those who didn't. It was both awesome and terrifying; the amount of information that woman had in her angry little head. Robert was merely glad he was on her side. Though it was a hateful life, there were worse fates in the world.
Robert tied his hair back to let the wind wash over his face. It was sweaty work, being the lover to so many, especially when so few put effort into said loving. There were few women he'd met who knew how to do more than just lie there and endure sex. Not that Robert could blame them; that was what they were trained to do. By their fathers, their husbands, the pigs. Would it really end humanity for a woman to know how to get on top?
He waited there for a moment, just outside the house the Bruillant's were using as a temporary home. A man would arrive soon enough, to hear Robert's report of his time with the Lady. What he'd learned, if he'd learned anything at all. Most of these meetings brought back nothing of note; they were part of what Robert had come to call the 'building phase.' The time where a lady would take him to bed but not share anything more than her body. She'd adore his looks but did not believe she knew him. It took time to cultivate those relationships, make a lady believe she knew Robert Wisser, only so he could steal her secrets.
"What news?" asked an old, husky voice. Robert jumped at the noise. He'd seen no man approach, heard no footsteps, and yet nearly attached to his right shoulder was the old man in red robes he'd accosted at the Bastille. The alleged Head of the Sommeliers.
"You're not one of the usuals," Robert replied.
"No," the robed man bowed, holding out both arms as is custom of Vovequians. "Germain Vulg. A pleasure." It was a grim name; one Robert was sure he'd soon forget. It was likely a fake one too.
"Sir Robert Wisser, as I'm sure you know."
"Your wife told me just so, yes," sneered Vulg. He was an odd-looking man. He had what could only be described as an oblong head, the hair of which had all but retreated past his forehead. Around his chin and cheeks was a long, scraggly beard, brown in colour and scruffy in nature. His eyes, nose and mouth were perhaps the oddest of all his features. They appeared more as a cat's than as a man's. Eyes yellow and glowing, a flat, feline nose and a mouth of pointed teeth that flashed in his smile.
"I volunteered for this task," Vulg continued. "To see to your affairs. Quite literally, as it were. I was in need of the air."
Robert sighed.
"Have I offended you Sir?"
"Oh, if only you were so lucky. No, Germain, you haven't offended me. You are one of many in a long list who've jibed my work, believe it to be little more than informed adultery."
Germain's smile retreated. "My boy, you are privy to my line of work, yes, as I am to yours. Let me tell you I make no judgement. Information is information, and we are the only ones who understand it is a more valuable resource than gold in this day and age."
Robert nodded. He wasn't convinced by this man, not in the slightest, yet he didn't want any more confrontation. Making an enemy of this man would no doubt lead to further verbal lashings from Anne.
"Though," Germain said. "The more human side to me does indeed pity your wife. A lovely woman, sacrificing so much for this arrangement."
"I'm not exactly happy with it either."
"No, but you do get the benefits."
Robert huffed once more. He decided to cut the fat of this conversation and get on with what he needed to say. "Thean of Grapemarsh is a liability. If the war doesn't end soon, he plans to pack up and head back to Drevon. Pass that on to my dearest wife and be on your way."
"Oh, I will, and thank you very much."
Vulg didn't move. He kept his watchful eyes on Robert, as if he was waiting for him to say something.
"What else?" Robert asked.
"Something has come to my knowledge, something I thought would be of interest to you, the ever-gallant knight."
"I don't do knightly things. Not anymore."
"Well, this isn't too knightly either. Don't take it too seriously, though do listen."
"For Atoth's sake spit it out!"
"Journey down to the catacombs of the Bastille tonight," Vulg said in a low voice. "I believe you'll be rather intrigued by what you find."
With that, the old prune scurried off, his slippers scuffing against the stone streets beneath. Robert didn't get a chance to say anything else. Frankly, he didn't want to. As much as Anne may see the brilliance of this man and the spies he commanded, Robert saw nothing of the sort. If this Germain Vulg was an example for the rest of the feared Sommeliers, Robert had no idea how they had gained their reputation in the first place.
He turned and began to walk back towards the Bastille. The sun was getting low, and he'd rather be locked up safe inside than out in the streets when another night of revelry began. There were times where Robert could enjoy the drinking, the gaiety of it all, but lately he found himself more and more frustrated by the overbearing loudness. Screaming for the sake of screaming, cheers for nothing every few seconds. When you weren't as drunk as everyone around you, it became clear how pathetic it all was. Especially when the drunks would get a hold of him. They all wanted to be Robert's best friend, and yet none of their behaviour could ever persuade him into being so.
Though he was heading to the Bastille anyway, Robert wasn't sure he would take the advice of the strange Germain. He shuddered at the thought of heading into those catacombs. Aside from the centuries-old bodies of Quenasses' noblemen, the Pale Boys had taken to it rather fondly, dwelling like rats beneath the Bastille's grounds until they found a new convert, or the Patriarch had need of them.
The Pale Boys had always unnerved Robert. He disliked how they acted. Given privileges from the Patriarch second only to higher ranking officials, they had egos unbound, doing mostly as they pleased. He disliked how people confused their strange, milk white skin with the grey of his mother's people, thinking that those crazed barbarians were the citizens of Uttoll. Most of all though, Robert disliked their passion, their true devotion. To Robert, any man willing to give his life for something was a fool, but the Pale Boys were glad to be fools. On the battlefield, he'd seen them keep fighting with great holes in their chests and missing limbs. He'd seen them throw away their lives to spare the Patriarch from minor inconveniences. Though it had been manufactured, the fervour the Pale Boys showed was unlike any other, and it was equally idiotic and terrifying.
Despite his fear, curiosity kept Robert's mind on the Bastille, on the catacombs beneath. Perhaps he would pay those madmen a visit. What was the worst that could happen? He was the greatest swordsman alive, husband to the most powerful woman in Drevon. They were just a bunch of maniacs.