Briardark, p.27
Briardark, page 27
Magda turned around and sheathed her sword. She set her hands on her hips and threw back her head in an effort to look defiant. Inside, though, she felt as if a bunch of mice were running around her guts. However hard she worked, however independent she thought herself, the displeasure of her father made her feel like a guilty little girl caught swiping fruit from the larder.
Ottokar Hausler stamped his way across his shop, each step a little heavier than the last. He used his left hand to brush away the belts and scabbards that hung from the beams. The right did not so much as sway as he walked, locked in place at his side. A dark glove covered the right hand, and the sleeve of his doublet covered almost all of the rest. There was only a little patch behind the wrist that was uncovered, revealing a flash of silver.
‘You have to concentrate,’ Ottokar said. His face was full, just on the verge of becoming flabby. The sharp nose was tinged red and the cheeks were flushed. There was still a keenness in his eyes, but it was dulled by the sheen of liquor. The sound of swordplay could still rouse him from his cups.
Magda swept a stray lock of night-black hair from her face and matched her father’s judgemental stare. She pointed to the stuffed target dummy she had disembowelled, sand still running from it onto the floor. Unlike her father’s, the glove she wore was to better her grip on a sword, not hide an infirmity. ‘My technique improves every day,’ she proclaimed. ‘I’m faster and more accurate–’
Ottokar waved aside her boast. ‘Skill is not enough,’ he said. ‘Discipline! Discipline is the key. You can be fast as lightning, precise as a viper, but still be an amateur with the sword.’ He came a few steps closer and then stamped his foot down on the pedal that controlled the target dummy.
Magda whipped around, and the blade leapt from its scabbard and ripped across the throat of the sackcloth dummy. More sand rained down on the floor. She started to turn back to her father. Only then did she realise he had stamped on the pedal a second time. The dummy was swinging around, a wooden sword in each of its eight arms. There was no time for her to dart in and strike, and no chance to parry all of the enemy swords. She jumped back and crashed to the floor.
‘Never let down your guard,’ Ottokar warned.
‘My blade crossed its throat,’ Magda countered. ‘If it had been a man, he would be dead.’ She rose to her feet and started brushing dust from her breeches.
Ottokar shook his head. ‘Some men take more killing than others, and the dead do not stay as dead as they should be.’ He sighed and gave her a studious look. ‘I would think that your paramour would have told you something about those kinds of things.’
It was one barb too many for Magda. Perhaps he was justified in criticising her ability with the sword, but he had no authority to speak about anything else she did. Ottokar had forfeited that right a long time ago.
‘You surprise me, father. You condescended to take an interest in me.’ Magda recovered her sword from the floor and swept it through the empty air. ‘Aside from what I can do with this.’
The sharp words caused Ottokar to look away. He glanced across his workshop, at the swords hanging on the walls and resting in barrels. The forge and the anvil, the ingots of bronze and iron and steel that he would shape into weapons. In one corner, each perched on its own stand, were elegant blades crafted in another time, weapons Ottokar would not allow anyone to buy. They had to be earned, bestowed on those the swordsmith felt were worthy of them. Guilt gnawed at Magda when she reflected that she was one of the few to have been given one of those swords.
‘This is my world,’ Ottokar said. ‘This is the only place where I am any good to anyone.’ He reached over with his left hand and gripped the lifeless hulk that had replaced his right. The motion caused anger to swell within his daughter.
‘Spare me the melancholy,’ Magda snapped. ‘You lost your arm in a duel, not your life.’
Ottokar looked at her, his eyes glittering with emotion. ‘Were they not the same thing?’
‘Only for someone who cares only about swords,’ Magda retorted.
‘You were too young to remember…’
‘Yes, I was too young to know who you were before you lost your arm. That’s an excuse I have heard many times, father. I weary of hearing it.’ Magda slammed the sword back into its sheath and marched towards the shop’s exit. ‘Do one thing for me,’ she said as she passed Ottokar. ‘Wait until I’ve left before you crawl back into the bottle.’
Magda could hear her father stamping his way across the workshop while she climbed the stairs that led up to the family’s home above the business. Briefly she thought about going back and apologising for her harsh words. She discarded the idea. She didn’t have anything to apologise for.
She brushed aside the strings of polished tin that curtained off the entranceway and stepped into the little courtyard beyond. Water bubbled from the bronze fountain that loomed over the little pool in the middle of the area. Imitation trees with fronds of painted electrum cast shade over the courtyard. Stone benches were scattered about in the shadows. A few marble-coloured birds flittered about, tweeting at each other with shrill cries. They scattered as Magda walked towards the curtained doorways at the far end of the courtyard.
A strong smell of boiling stew struck her nose as she stepped into a long common room. Magda looked towards the doorway leading into the kitchen. She could hear the sound of plates and bowls being moved around. A moment later her mother emerged from behind the curtain of tin strings.
Inge Hausler was not quite twenty years older than Magda, but age had touched her so softly that they might pass for sisters. She was not quite as trim and fit as her daughter, her long legs lacking the corded muscles of her child’s, her arms devoid of the strength that characterised the swordswoman. But her face had that same classic loveliness – big blue eyes and high cheek bones, a soft snip of a nose and lush full lips. Inge kept her raven tresses loose and wild, a dark cascade that spilled down her shoulders and across her breast. Magda preferred to keep her own hair tied back so that it would not be in the way, but her mother seemed to delight in the disordered abandon of her own. She was often trying to get Magda to follow her example.
Inge smiled. ‘Sounds like practice is over for today.’ She wiped her hands on the apron she wore over her jade-coloured dress. She arched an eyebrow when she noted Magda’s demeanour. ‘I take it you two had words again. The miserable sot should know better when to keep his tongue in a bottle.’
As angry as she was, Magda took offence at the disparagement of her father. Even if her mother was voicing her own thoughts of only a moment before. ‘He means well,’ she said. ‘It’s hard on him. A swordsmith with only one arm. He has to leave most of the work to his apprentice and put his stamp on blades he feels are beneath his quality. That can’t be easy for him.’
‘Ottokar never chose anything that was easy,’ Inge said acidly. ‘Always had to keep proving himself. Never knew when something was good enough. Could never be satisfied to leave things as they were.’ She shook her head and gave Magda an excited look. ‘You’ll never guess what happened today. A messenger came from Count Wulfsige von Koeterberg!’
Magda gave her mother a puzzled stare. ‘The count? What could he want with us?’
Inge bristled at the incredulous tone. She puffed herself out, taking on the arrogant air she always adopted whenever someone questioned her status. ‘I’ll have you know that we’ve been invited to dinner at Mhurghast Castle. All of us are to be Count Wulfsige’s guests.’ She tossed her head back, the long raven tresses sweeping around her like the waves of some black ocean. ‘There was a time when I was courted by the count’s son. If things had turned out differently, you might have been a nobleman’s daughter instead of a drunkard’s.’
‘But why does the count wish to entertain us?’ Magda pressed. ‘I don’t understand.’
Inge frowned and stepped back into the kitchen. A moment later she came out with a thin sheet of copper, upon which had been etched the invitation. Affixed to the bottom of the metal page was the wax seal of von Koeterberg, a castle flanked by lightning bolts. ‘Here, since you seem to think I am making things up.’
Magda read the invitation. It was just as her mother said, but that only raised more questions. ‘But why?’
‘When good things happen, accept them,’ Inge advised her. ‘Count Wulfsige is one of the wealthiest men in Ravensbach. Can you imagine the spread he’ll have!’ She glanced back at the kitchen and frowned. ‘At least for one night there won’t be squab stew and beans. We’ll eat like ladies and lords should.’
‘The invitation only says to bring the family,’ Magda said, reading the page. ‘There’s no mention of how many. Do you think it would be all right to ask Klueger to come?’
Inge sighed in exasperation. ‘That man is beneath you,’ she said. ‘You’re a beautiful girl. You can do much better than him.’
Colour rushed into Magda’s cheeks. First the old argument with her father, now the ongoing one with her mother. ‘I don’t care about better. I love Klueger.’
‘Love.’ Inge tutted and shook her head. ‘How long do you think that will last? The man’s prospects are limited. What kind of advancement does he have with those Sigmarite priests?’ She looked at the room around them and frowned. ‘Even the best of them couldn’t afford this. You’d be stepping down, not up.’
‘We aren’t having this discussion,’ Magda stated.
‘I’m only looking out for what is best for you,’ Inge replied. ‘You’re still young. You could have any man you turned your attention to. I don’t want you to waste your opportunities the way I did.’
Magda’s hands curled into fists at her sides. Before she could think, the words were spoken. ‘I’m not sure you wasted any opportunity, mother.’
Inge’s eyes went wide with shock. She snatched the invitation from Magda’s hand with such force that it sliced her palm. ‘The messenger said to bring my family,’ she said as she turned and walked back into the kitchen. ‘That man is not part of my family, and he never will be.’
Magda stared after her mother as the tin strings fell back into place. She truly regretted the horrible thing she had said. She knew her mother loved her deeply and was only trying to do what she thought was best. The problem was that what was smart wasn’t always what was right. Magda trusted her feelings more than her mother’s strategising.
Blood dripped from the cut on Magda’s hand. She glanced down at it and the now ruined glove. More than her injury, she was thinking about the invitation.
They never did decide why Count Wulfsige should ask them to dinner at the castle.
Bruno Walkenhorst was rummaging in the old iron chest. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d even opened it. Was it ten years ago, or only five? It had been a long time, in any event. So long that as he shifted the contents around, the old cloaks and threadbare hats, he started to wonder if what he was looking for was even there. Maybe he’d got rid of it some time back. It was possible his wife had thrown it out. She had always been avid about getting rid of what she termed clutter.
Bruno paused in his rummaging. A maudlin look fell across his weather-bitten face. Kirsa. It was seven years since she’d died… No, if he was going to be honest with himself, he had to face it. Kirsa had been murdered, stabbed by men who mistook her for him in the dark. Bruno had paid back that debt of blood, but it did little to ease the pain of her loss. After all these years, just thinking about her made his heart feel like a slab of ice.
He’d quit the business after that. It was ironic that he still thought of it as his ‘real’ business, even though he had been legitimate ever since Kirsa’s death. Bruno couldn’t quite think of himself as a merchant, a humble seller of whatever goods he could secure at a discount. He still thought of it as a front for the merchandise he’d once smuggled into Ravensbach or the stolen goods he’d fenced for thieves and burglars. Unhealthy people to know, smugglers and thieves, but then, they weren’t always that way. Not at the start.
A flash of gold at the bottom of the box caused Bruno to search faster. He pushed aside the accumulated bric-a-brac and uncovered what he’d been looking for. He lifted the tunic out of the box and unfolded it. The once vibrant blue had faded considerably over the years, but the brass buttons and golden braid were still as smart as the first day he’d worn it. He held the coat against his chest and tried to estimate how it would fit. There might be some trouble getting it buttoned up, but that was to be expected after almost twenty years.
So many years. So much time since he’d been the dashing young captain in the Freeguild. Bruno had led men into the wilds of Chamon, pushing back against the savagery that threatened Ravensbach. They had battled orruks and beastkin, grot raiders and human barbarians. Whatever the enemy, the Ravensbach Freeguild had marched forth to send them back into the wastelands. It was by their efforts that the city had been able to expand, to establish new mines and farms, maintain the trade routes that allowed it to flourish.
Bruno sifted through the box and withdrew the cocked hat that accompanied the jacket. Stark white once, it had darkened to a musty grey. The brilliant plume that had been pinned to its side was only a tattered memory now, a raw quill with a few frayed specks of feather. He smiled as he remembered all the trouble the plumes had given him. They became so worn out that he always had to keep a few replacements with him on campaign. He groped around the box until his hand came upon a little bronze case. Lifting it out, he snapped it open and was rewarded with the sight of a long red feather. He’d be able to replace that shabby veteran after all.
‘Father, are you up there?’
The voice came from the apartment below. Bruno gathered up his mementos of the past and started down from the attic. The iron ladder trembled as he stepped down its rungs.
Waiting below was a young man with sandy-brown hair and a muscular build. His tunic was rough leather, his belt made from the scaly skin of a copper-throat. His breeches were a dun colour, woven from the tough fibres of the webweed. It was the boots, however, that drew Bruno’s attention. They were high and stiff, rising almost to the knees, made of ox hide and stained a dark black. Except, of course, for those spots that were spattered with dun-coloured mud.
‘You’ve been out with that gang again,’ Bruno grumbled as he stepped down into the apartment. The common room was large enough, and appointed in a lavish if outdated style. He’d always done his best to indulge Kirsa, but he’d seen no reason to indulge himself when she was gone. As for their son… Bruno wondered if he’d indulged the boy too much.
‘That gang, as you call them, are my friends,’ the youth said, annoyance in his voice.
‘Bernger, having the wrong friends is worse than no friends at all,’ Bruno said. ‘You have to recognise when they’ve gone bad, so that you don’t go bad too.’
‘There’s nothing–’
Bruno cut him off. ‘How much did you steal this time? And from who?’ He scowled and walked over to the copper-faced liquor cabinet. ‘Never mind. I know you won’t tell me anyway. You’re young enough to still believe in honour among thieves.’ He poured himself a glass of brandy.
‘It isn’t as bad as you always think,’ Bernger explained. ‘We only take from those who deserve to be robbed.’
Bruno sank back in a chair, the coat and hat sprawled across his lap. He stared up at his son. ‘That’s how it always is. How it always starts. Someone you don’t like has too much, so you take it from him. Somebody you feel is cruel or unjust happens to be rich, so you steal some of it.’
‘I understand you got your start when you stole provisions from the Freeguild,’ Bernger reminded his father.
‘You must’ve been speaking with Romauld,’ Bruno said. ‘Maybe Markolf. I’m surprised you’ve been chatting with their sort. But then I suppose you need someone to fence your goods.’
Bernger frowned at the disdain in his father’s eyes. ‘Are those stories wrong?’ he challenged.
Bruno took a slow sip of brandy. ‘No,’ he confessed. ‘That’s how it started. Romauld, Markolf…’ He paused, not wanting to speak the names of the men who had murdered Bruno’s mother. ‘A few others. We took bread and meat from the storehouse. There was a famine in Ravensbach. The only people who had enough to fill their bellies were the nobles and the soldiers. That wasn’t right, so we decided to redistribute the food among our families and friends.’ He again paused, and gave Bernger a hard look. ‘That’s how it starts. Noble ideas and good intentions. But it doesn’t stay that way. You toss aside honour for necessity. Then the next time you need even less reason to steal. So it goes on and on, until you’re right down in the gutter with the rats.’
‘It isn’t like that,’ Bernger objected. ‘We only take–’
‘From bad people, I know,’ Bruno interjected. ‘And one day, all it’ll need to make someone bad is simply that they have something you want.’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘Better than you imagine.’ Bruno gulped down the rest of the brandy. ‘I see so much of myself in you, it’s almost painful. Don’t make the same mistakes I made, boy. Keep your head high and your hands clean.’
Bernger shook his head. ‘I need to make my own way. I want to make something for myself. I don’t want to just hang around like a vulture waiting for my inheritance. You’ve given me a lot, done everything you could for me, but I’ve got to do something for myself. I’ve got to do it on my own.’
‘By stealing?’
‘That’s how you got your start,’ Bernger retorted.
It took some time for Bruno to reply. It wasn’t anger that kept him silent. It was guilt and shame and pain and regret, all melded into one sickening sensation. ‘I did it wrong,’ he finally said. ‘I tried to find a shortcut, but there are no shortcuts. Everything has its price. Some prices are too dire, but you don’t always know what you’re paying until it’s too late.’
