Chapter 17: Interviews

Chapter 17: Interviews

Ber, Day 11 of Melia

Winking Moons

Year 602

Regarding corks and stoppers: these materials must be carefully considered by the serious brewer.  Various organic and synthetic constructions are available, but it is possible for ingredients in the potion to react negatively to the makeup of the stopper. In some cases, the brews can become compromised or even dangerous to use.

——The Brewer’s Practice, 2nd Edition, University of Gradl Press

She hardly knew what to say to the chancellor.

Why did she want to attend Craestor?

Evin glanced toward Tadyath in a blind panic, but he merely smiled benignly at her and offered no help. Colin’s eyes were fixed on her. Slowly, she began.

“I—my situation is a little unusual.”

“Take your time,” Colin said congenially.

Evin nodded. “I grew up in Liminey, south of here,” she said. “I’m a brewer by trade.”

“So I hear.”

Evin nodded. “I had some training from my former master; she ran the city’s premier shop,” she explained. “But I’m self-taught as well. My letters are not excellent, but I can read a little.”

She ignored the slight darkening of Colin’s face and pushed on, her voice trembling a little.

“And I like to keep track what I’m working on, even if that means drawing pictures and diagrams. It was my desire to go into the profession as I got older, perhaps taking over the shop when Stacia—when my employer—retired.”

Retired. Was that what Stacia had done?

Colin was nodding. “What kinds of things do you know how to make?” he asked.

“I can make just about anything if I have the recipe.”

The Chancellor’s eyebrows rose in curiosity. “Really?”

“Yes,” Evin assured him. “I sometimes made batches of ready-to-drink brews and sold them to my sister. She kept a display for me at her inn. You know—pain easers, comfort brews, things that travelers like to buy when they’re in a new city.”

“You made full batches by yourself? At your age? How much have you sold?”

“Oh, lots,” she said, unable to quantify her earnings. “I didn’t keep a record,” she added sheepishly. “Most of it went to pay my rent at the boarding house or to buy food. And drinks.”

Colin watched her carefully as she spoke.

“It was a good apprenticeship,” Evin continued, giving Tadyath a quick glance, “Stacia gave us more responsibility, I think, than other masters might have. But it gave me a good understanding of the trade. Solo brewing was just something I decided to do. I might not have if... ” she hesitated. “...If I didn’t need the money so badly.”

Colin regarded her, and Tadyath looked on impassively. The two men were very still.

“Then something happened to our shop and Stacia left town,” said Evin. “And I... no longer have family in Liminey.” She said this last part through a sudden swell of emotion. It felt so strange to admit it out loud.

“I heard what happened,” Colin said gently, and the kindness in his face nearly sent her over the edge. “You’ve been through some terrible things. I’m so sorry.”

There was a slight pause.

Evin felt great relief not to have to explain any more about the incident, but still feared she might dissolve into tears right here in the library. Whatever the outcome of her application, she didn’t want to recall an emotional outburst as integral and strove valiantly to work around the tragedy in conversation.

She continued, saying, “Tadyath noticed me some time ago, and thought my work...” she quested for the right words. “I think he thought my work was—was worth something. And he wanted me to train up. I can’t say that I fully understand, but I appreciate his help and attention…” she trailed off, struck by how much he’d done for her.

Colin shifted slightly in his chair. “He’s a good man, admittedly,” and Tadyath smiled at this. “But I still want to know why you want to study here.”

She thought. “It’s tasteless, I suppose, to say that I’ve nothing better to do.”

“Yes, that would be tasteless,” said Colin, and his face was a mask. She couldn’t tell if he was serious, and she flushed slightly, her nerves lurching forward into her throat.

“I think if I’m honest,” she forged on, “I believe it’s my next step.”

“Your next step? To what?”

“To becoming whatever it is I’m going to turn out to be. I love the work, but I’m not perfect. I need to know more. I want to know more. I’ve heard that this is arguably the best place on the continent to study, and that your faculty is excellent. I want…” she struggled. “I want to be here. I want to belong here.”

Colin nodded. “Can you afford the tuition?”

“No,” Evin told him honestly.

The big man sighed. “Of course you can’t. “The talented ones never can.”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Tadyath mentioned scholarship opportunities,” Evin offered hesitantly. “If they exist, I want to apply for everything. Any assistance you have.”

Colin considered, then nodded. “We have several aptitude tests you can take. And you’d need to pass certain prerequisites for admittance anyway. I’ll be honest, Miss Sacande. Craestor needs students like you. Let’s see what we can do to help you afford this.”

* * *

Craix breathed a sigh of satisfaction. She’d had a good morning so far, and now she was leaving civilisation far behind her—something she was always happy to do.

Underfoot, the abundance of old leaves and dead sticks cracked merrily, and the wind whooshed in the thick forest canopy overhead.

She tilted her head to one side and then to the other, cracking her neck loudly. She put her arms up toward the sky and tensed her long fingers, feeling the stretch in her slight, bony shoulders.

Craix had left the others in Craestor earlier that day for an engagement in town and then headed due west, prepared to sleep outside if she needed to. The comfort of the beds at the Red Dove had been nice, to be sure. But too many days in a highly populated area tended to grate on her after a while. She wanted to go trapping. She wanted to fish. She needed to be sunburned, windburned, wet, cold, sweaty. She wanted to taste mud and dirt. It was these visceral feelings that woke her up, made her feel human. If Craix can find pleasure of any kind, her father had used to say, she should take it. Never apologize. Do what makes you feel happy.

It wasn’t bad advice, and she followed it when she could.

The shadows were getting longer, and she’d left developed countryside behind a few bells ago. Now was a good time to set a game trap and look for likely clearings in which she could make camp.

She found a good spot in no time. The copse was small, but it was situated on a tall bluff that would allow her a good view of strangers who might happen to come too close. In addition, the area was heavily wooded, and the clearing had remarkably good cover. Now, she thought. To work.

The first thing she did was build up a reserve of firewood; tinder, kindling, and fatter sticks. These she piled at the foot of one of the larger trees toward the center of the clearing.

Craix glanced up. Two or three of the trees had low-hanging limbs that would be easy to scrabble up in case of an emergency.

Then she began to rummage through her woodpile. She inspected each piece thoroughly for potential and then sorted them into two piles. When she was done, she shoved one pile back to the foot of the tree, and the other she placed lovingly beside herself. She drew her sharp hunting knife.

She made a few nicks and shaved the ends of several pieces. She trimmed, and sliced, and clucked her tongue in concentration. When she was satisfied, she climbed to her feet, groaning at the tightness in her lower back from the constant walking followed by inactivity.

A quick trip outside of her protective little copse yielded a few good places to set her trap.

First, she made sure that a young sapling with plenty of give to its branches stood nearby.

Then she cleared a little patch in the forest floor, pushing the dead leaves and rocks aside to reveal soft, dark, springy earth. She took two of her whittled pieces, thick, sturdy sticks that formed lopsided Vs, and pounded them each down into the earth with the flat of her knife parallel to each other. She left the little pointed ends hovering just above the ground.

Then she took hold of the sapling and, after testing its strength, she bent it slowly, slowly toward the earth. From her pack, she drew a piece of string, which she cut and affixed to the branch. Then, pulling the branch down once more until she’d reached the desired tension, she placed her thumb to mark the string.

The pin was next. Craix had cut down a small but compact stick until it was the size of her little finger. Where she’d marked the string, she wrapped it around this pin-sized stick and tied it in a slender knot.

One of the medium-sized sticks was tucked up underneath the notches in the two buried pieces. Craix tested the fit, then grunted her approval. With nothing to keep it there, it slipped back down into the spongy dirt.

She had also prepared a young, green branch and had shaved the ends. This she laid down and used it to measure from the center of her apparatus to its other end. Where it stopped, she pounded one more big, fat stick down into the earth.

Now, she needed another piece of string. Once cut, Craix created a tiny loop at one end, then threaded the other end through to fashion a sort of lasso. Without pulling it all the way through on itself, she tied the loose end to the pin, securing it fast.

For bait, she tore up some stale pieces of bread and laid them down in the dirt. She frowned thoughtfully, and then added a few nuts she’d foraged some time ago. They were beginning to whither slightly, but were still rich in colour, and smelled right.

Now, for assembly.

She gentled tucked the medium stick back up under the two arms of the buried pieces, and then placed the pin precariously underneath this one.

In between the pin and the other fat, buried piece, she balanced the thin branch with the shaved ends. Carefully, she allowed the thin, green branch to bear the weight of its cohorts, and her eyes narrowed as she watched it bend slightly. Would it hold this way? She waited to see if it would snap. Nothing. She could continue.

Underneath the tension rod, the pieces of bread and nuts gleamed temptingly.

Delicately, Craix picked up the lasso affixed to the pin and laid it out over the offerings, neatly framing the rod. Any creature deciding to sample the treats would upset the rod and trigger the sapling, which would fly up into the air, tightening the noose. She spread some stray leaves back around the apparatus, camouflaging it as best she could.

Slowly, Craix backed away from the trap. It was a good one. She’d seem some of them snap as soon as their creators finished setting them, wasting time and energy, and—of course—failing to produce dinner.

On the way back to her camp, Craix found a grassy patch of roadweed and silently rejoiced.

She knelt to harvest several stalks, careful not to bruise the greens, which made a pleasant salad. She also made sure to pull up the roots as well, which could be boiled to make a strong tea. Craix always left some of her discoveries growing where she’d found them so they could continue to reproduce and remain available for the next traveler. It was selfish to try to claim it all, unless she was that hungry.

If everyone took only what they needed, no one would want for anything, echoed her father’s voice in her head.

Once she’d reached her camp, Craix built up her fire, but didn’t light it yet.

Instead, she settled with her back to a tree and drew out a pair of silver shins. The coins glinted in her fingers, and she sighed gratefully as she played with them. Even if her trap yielded nothing, she’d have greens for dinner. Her camp was cozy and stood little chance of detection.

She was away. It was quiet. And she was in control.

Craix balled up one of her fists and placed one of the eccats flat in the hollow of her thumb, forefinger and palm. She left plenty of room in the rest of her hand for the sound to resonate. With her other hand, she held the other coin firmly between her thumb and forefinger. Then, rhythmically, she tap tap tapped! the edge of one coin against the surface of the other.

Come now… I’m tiny, she thought sneakily, and plunged the thought out into the woods as though other animals could hear her consciousness. I’m female. I have a full, furry tail. I’ve found a pile of nuts, and I’m cracking them—cracking them—

She continued to tap the coins together until she dozed off, lulled by the swishing sounds of the woodland canopy and the tantalizing thought of a juicy squirrel for dinner.

* * *

Beynon had never enjoyed the feel of Daitak Keep corridors at night. The way the sconces cast light made eerie shadows on the cobbled walls, and the buttresses blanketing the high ceilings far away moved constantly, stirred by some unseen breeze.

Tonight was no exception.

His shoes clipped tightly on the inlaid stone floors. It was difficult to move quickly; the wound on his back hadn’t yet healed. He could feel the stiffness of the skin pulling unnaturally. With a nasty feeling of dread, he glanced back and forth from one liveried guard to the other. After the assault, Beynon wondered if he’d ever be able to trust a servant in the keep again. Probably not, he mourned.

But the three men arrived at the large bolted doors quickly, where two other guards kept watch.

“Evening,” one of his escorts said to the air. All five of them nodded to each other and the two dungeon guards moved to unfasten the heavy bolt from the immense double doors.

Beynon hadn’t paid a visit to his dungeon in years. He tried not to be involved in matters of detainees—that was what his people were for. He knew cognitively that many a prisoner had starved or been tortured to death down there. But what did people expect? He hardly imprisoned people for no reason! And he certainly didn’t exact justice all by himself.

A part of his mind wondered if in addition to encountering his attacker, he might find something else. Another soul he had banished long ago might still be living down there… but he dismissed the thought. It had been years. Nearly a decade! There was no chance the man had survived.

“Ready, Imperial Highness?” one of the guards queried. “We two will escort you, and Dax and Ycune will stay here. The door will remain unlocked until our return.”

“Very good,” Beynon said without betraying any emotion.

The one called Dax provided a lit torch for the party. There was some shuffling, and then they were all met and ready.

One of his men went behind him, one before, and together they all ducked into the dark coolness of the shadowed corridor.

It was clean, at least—no standing water, cobwebs… but it was so cold. How could it be so cold already, with the landing still in sight?

The three men continued to descend in silence.

At one point the guard in front coughed a little, and the sound echoed cavernously off of the high stone walls.

Beynon thought he saw a bat sleeping in one of the dark corners, it’s tiny leathery body deathly still.

Suddenly, a chill sweat broke out on his arms. The small, warm puddle of light provided by the guttering torch did nothing in actuality to keep him safe. This could be a ploy, another assassination attempt. These four could be working together to subdue him, and who knew what was actually waiting for him in the dungeon proper?

His breath came a little faster.

The stairs were steep. All they had to do was hurl him down them and he’d break his spine or crack open his head, or…

“Watch your step, Your Imperial Highness,” one of them said to him suddenly, and where Beynon expected to take another step, the floor rose up and staid him. They had reached the bottom.

“Thank you,” he said gently.

Stupid, he upbraided himself. You’re fine.

He thought he heard one of them respond, but it turned out to be an echoey moan from somewhere in the back of the compound.

Then, the stench hit him. He nearly gagged. It was… powerful. Human excrement, mostly, but piss too. And vomit, and… the stale scent of blood, like dried carrion, laced it all.

There were more torches down here. The room was a large rectangular shape with barred cells breaking off of the main hall. There were a few barrels and baskets of provisions stacked up against the walls. The whole effect was so dreary, so cold… it was ridiculous. Here he was, the emperor of the free world—standing in a remote, disgusting dungeon. He should have had Talebot brought up to him. Beynon made a mental note not to put himself through this again. It was, on the whole, unpleasant.

He took a breath through the fabric on his tunic sleeve and then followed his guards down through the room. He did his best not to look to the side—but noticed too much in spite of himself.

There. That was some sort of pile that might have been a person. It moved and he jumped. “Your Highness,” it croaked. “Please…”

He kept moving.

Many of the inhabitants were silent, asleep or dead he could not tell.

One madman flung himself suddenly at the bars, screaming a haunted laugh at the group. Beynon flinched and shied away. One of his guards kicked at the caged man, who laughed the harder, rattling and worrying at his bars.

“Here,” he heard a voice call, and it was Corbin coming to greet them. Solid, staunch constable Corbin. The man rose from his current position just outside the far stall.

Beynon now held his sleeve up to his mouth, unwilling to let it drop away.

“Your Imperial Highness,” the big man said with a bow.

Bryn gave him a nod, and Corbin barked a little laugh.

“Damnable, isn’t it?” he asked conversationally. “Here. I’ve been using these,” and he handed the emperor a little piece of parki fruit studded with cloves. The scent of it was heady, clean, citrusy, and somehow woody at the same time. He took it, feeling the prick of the tiny cloves against his fingers.

He took his arm cautiously away and inhaled a little of the air around the fruit. It dispelled enough of the stench that Beynon found he could concentrate on what was passing at the time.

“Thank you, Corbin,” he muttered. “Remind me to have you bring prisoners up to me in the future. This is uncomfortable and inconvenient.”

The other man bowed graciously again. “I understand, Imperial Highness. It’s just that—well, this man’s broken his legs.”

You’ve broken them, you mean.

“Then carry him up next time,” Beynon snapped.

There was a stunned silence, and then, “Understood, Imperial Highness,” Corbin replied quietly.

With a sort of cosmic paroxysm, something launched itself at him. Beynon nearly staggered with the force of it and could hardly tell what it was that caused him to stiffen his legs to brace against the cold stone floor. Whatever it was, it came with a rush of emotion. Still. Cold, and evil. And it came from the cell just behind Corbin.

“What was that?” he asked breathlessly—quietly, so that only the constable could hear.

“What?” Corbin returned.

Beynon glanced at his guards but they stood wordlessly by, clearly unaffected.

Straightening his back and taking a small draw from the parki, he approached the set of bars.

Inside, Talebot sat against the far wall, completely still, grinning at him.

It was hard to believe that this was the same young man who had posed as a guard just a few nights ago and attempted to murder the emperor. This man was a husk, impossibly caked with grime, and had lost weight from his face somehow. New creases stood out on his skin, and he looked pale and sick.

Beynon noticed a few scattered piles of vomit on the floor of the cell, then glanced back at Talebot. Dried, sticky blood clung to the man in deep shades of tarry black and scarlet. They had broken all of his fingers.

Beynon decided not to question the prisoner about whatever psychic attack he’d just thrown. There was more power in ignoring it all. He felt, rather than saw, Corbin join him at the mouth of the cell.

“What has he told you?” Beynon asked.

Talebot gave him a sinister laugh.

“The wretch told us he didn’t act alone,” Corbin muttered.

“Not alone!” Talebot echoed feverishly.

“There’s a group,” the constable continued. “The Celare. In opposition to the empire. That’s what we know.”

Beynon chewed his lip. “Celare?”

“Protect the Celare, protect your own,” sang Talebot nonsensically. “Praise and honor to the great Daepkarra. Daepkarra who saves us!”

“Where?” Beynon demanded of the constable. “Where does the group convene?”

Corbin stayed silent, watching the imprisoned man.

“Where?” repeated Beynon more insistently.

Talebot leaned forward to glare straight into Beynon’s eyes. “Everywhere,” he whispered. “There are so many of us. Too many. And we will not be silenced.”

The emperor turned to his constable. “I did not come here to be threatened by my own prisoner,” he spat. “It’s absurd. He has no power over his own life, even. What else has he said?”

“He gave us a name,” Corbin answered. “Bane. Emerick Bane.”

He snorted in disgust. “That means nothing to me.”

“Oh, it will,” promised Talebot.

“Shut up!” roared Beynon, kicking the bars of the cage so hard it jarred his own teeth.

But the man only laughed by way of response. “Mark the coming of Daeptarra,” he said softly. “I am only one man, but more come after me. You will fall, little emperor. Ask your bride; she knows.”

His blood ran cold, but Beynon maintained composure. “Who is Daepkarra?” he asked.

This time Talebot’s eyes fairly glowed. His voice was hoarse, probably from hours of screaming, singing, whatever it was he did down here. “Ah, you feel him as well? The great god, the true god? He speaks to all—one only has to listen. Feel him now… feel the spirit tugging at you, and accept!”

“I’ve heard enough,” Beynon said, turning away. “Break all of his toes as well. And then kill him. One cannot attempt to murder an emperor and live.”

Corbin nodded, then fell into step with the guard. As the small group of men turned to mount the stairs once more, Beynon’s eyes chanced to light on the cell adjacent to Talebot’s.

The pair of light blue eyes watching him from there were hollowed and haunted.

So he lived. Fine.

From the very back of the dungeon hall, he heard Talebot pounding against the bars of his cell, probably kicking them with his feet. The sound was eerie. One, two. Three. Four, and five. Then, the pounding stopped, and the haunted sound of the man singing to himself ushered them back up the stairs.

When they were all safely back in the hall at Daitak Keep and the dungeon doors were bolted behind them, Beynon turned to Corbin. “Thank you,” he said. “Obviously, pursue those leads—the Celare and Emerick Bane. See if you can get anything else out of him, then finish him off. A creature like that should not be suffered to live.”

“As you wish, Imperial Highness,” Corbin replied with a bow.

Beynon felt a nasty little chill at the courtesy. This man tortured prisoners in his dungeon to obtain information. He also waited on the emperor and participated in social and political activities. It was the pleasant countenance, Beynon supposed, that was so incongruous to him.

And speaking of incongruous.

He made a mental note to tread very carefully with Alisia. He did not like Talebot’s allusion to her, and though he’d be a fool to take everything the man said as the Pantheon’s very truth, he’d also be a fool to discount it all.

As Beynon made his way back to his quarters later that night, he was careful not to think about that pair of blue eyes he’d encountered down in the dungeon.

The man had made his choice. This was the consequence. Beynon had nothing more to do with it.

It was quieter in the keep now. The guests that had flooded the Capital for the Hunt were all filtering out slowly—sobering up, Beynon knew, then packing, and then leaving in a great flood of horses and carriages. He regretted not taking an active part this year, and cursed the wound on his back that had kept him inside.

He dreamed that night of his mother. And of how he’d lost his ear.