Red He Wept

by David Samuels

Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

part 4

Soon after daybreak, I started my search with the shadiest apothecary this side of the city. Farris Lintel, self-styled alchemist extraordinaire, gave a bad name to the rest of our profession. I hated to imagine winding up in his shoes, peddling hair tonics and fertility ointment and whatever “longevity barms” were.

Maybe I misread that particular label. After all, the shelf of vials looked fuzzy from my place on the wooden sidewalk.

“You want what?” Lintel leaned over the counter, bringing his gaunt face out of the gloom and into the sunlit street.

“A look at your ledgers, that’s all.” Any mention of ruby sap could set tongues wagging. I wasn’t about to trust sensitive information to someone allergic to eye contact. To that end, I added, “The infirmary is taking stock for requisition purposes.”

“Oh, come now, Moralt.” He combed a hand through his ash-blond curls and glanced pointedly at my troublesome hairline. “If you want a free vial of my hair tonic, you only need to ask.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Shouldn’t you have a permit?”

“Not under martial law,” I said. “Code 28-I grants standing armies permission to search and seize supplies from any city it occupies.” Perhaps not the craftiest name for a code, coming from a twenty-eight-year-old infirmarian.

He squinted at the countertop as if to decrypt truth from the pattern of warped grain and knotholes. We stood in silence as a pair of children sprinted down the street with broomsticks between their legs, playacting cavalry on the charge. Watching them go, Lintel said, “I wish I could show you the ledger. The thing is, it’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Burnt up in an accident the other day. I was experimenting with a new retort, and, well, you know how it is.”

Next to the shelves, a door sealed the workshop from my view. I sniffed the air for ash and smelled Lintel’s wintergreen cologne instead.

“Be that as it may,” I said, “I can’t return to camp without a full inventory of your goods. So if you don’t mind unlocking the door to your workshop?”

Lintel tugged at his dark red collar. “Here’s an idea. I know my stock by heart. Let me write it out for you.” He pulled a pencil from behind his ear and found a leaflet from somewhere under the counter. Jotting hurriedly, he spoke over my protests, “I have about two hogsheads of autumnwine, thirty bellweights of... Hey, stop that!”

I snatched the leaflet and ripped it apart. “Either let me inside, or I’ll return with soldiers.”

“NO!” His shout awoke a refugee in the alley behind me.

Shocked by his vehemence, I wondered why mention of soldiers should strike fear in his soul. Then I recalled last night’s intruder. How, after overhearing our talk of ruby sap, the spy had vanished in the company of soldiers.

“You didn’t burn your ledgers,” I said slowly. “A soldier seized them from you.” Someone who wanted to track down the source before we did. My words sped up as I said, “Tell me his name. What he looked like.”

“I can’t!”

“Why not?” I looked at the door and leaned over the counter. “Is he listening to us right now?”

More silence from Lintel as he side-eyed the door. The city’s basilica tolled the hour while a bugle announced morning drills in the encampment. Then, when I least expected it, Lintel whirled around and rushed for the workshop.

“Oh, no you don’t.” I tried to slide sideways over the counter but lost my balance. On falling, I clamped onto the doorknob in time to keep it from slamming shut. Talk about falling on your feet.

No signs of soldiers or scorch marks in the next room. Only an alchemist on his last leg. I tackled Lintel into one of the angled tables that cluttered the tiny workshop. Glass shattered on impact, releasing some furry specimen inside. Or so it felt, before I rose to my knees and realized it was a wig.

“Don’t tell anyone. I beg of you.” The bald alchemist brought his fists together and shook them in the air. “If people find out my hair tonics don’t work, it’ll ruin me.”

Petty as it sounds, I took comfort in the fact that Lintel was balder than I was. Maybe the gods had a sense of justice after all.

“Your secret is safe with me.” I climbed to my feet and offered a hand to help him do likewise. My grip squeezed tighter after he stood up. “So long as you answer me truthfully. Who took the ledgerbook?”

“I already told you! I can’t—”

“You can and you will!”

“I don’t know his name!” sputtered Lintel. “Only that he had a birthmark on his face. Said he was acting on the reverent marshal’s orders! Had a sealed order and everything! Not like I could say no to that.” He yanked his arm from my shock-numbed fingers.

“Marshal...” I muttered. “As in Luthos?”

“Don’t let him know I tipped you off. His man threatened to raise my wig on a flagpole if I said a word.”

Betrayed by my own cousin. I should’ve guessed. Last night’s spy — a soldier, not a specter — must’ve reported Arabelle’s words to Luthos. Luthos, who saw the miracle as a rallying banner for his men. The same man who’d put a deadline on Arabelle’s investigation, perhaps in fear of what she might uncover. Could he be the one behind the deception? Or worse, a cultist? I hated to think he’d stoop to demonology to overcome our foes, but anything was possible.

“Well?” demanded Lintel in a tone I didn’t appreciate. “You won’t tell him, will you?”

“No promises,” I said, more to keep him on his toes than anything else. Maybe the city deserved to know the truth about this charlatan. But first, I had to shed light on the shadow that loomed over us all.

* * *

Only two days ago I worried about having too little faith. As I strode deeper into the encampment, I realized there was such a thing as too much thereof.

With demons and cultists on my mind, the army’s fervor took on a darker cast. Fresh tattoos of Divine Galvin’s tears shone bright red on dusty cheeks. A patrol marched past me — chanting in lockstep — beating their chests like a column of flagellants. Underlying it all was a tight-strung tension, as if the city was one false prophet away from implosion.

Past the flap to the command tent, I found Luthos brooding over a map table. Ivory figurines represented the troops from opposing sides. Unless I was mistaken, they were game pieces from a terrisboard. We’d only played the game twice in our youth. Both times he’d cheated, and he refused to continue after my first victory. If this was our third round, the stakes could be no higher.

“Look who’s back.” He straightened up and coiled both arms behind the backplate of his cuirass. “Where’s your mother hen?”

“Have some respect,” I said. “Her name is Arabelle.” With daylight burning, I hadn’t the time to hunt her down. Besides, this conversation was best held between blood.

I took a deep breath. The air stank of metal, oil, and menace. “You’ve been busy, Luthos.”

“Marshals always are.”

“Especially a marshal who’s struggling to cover his tracks.”

Flatly, he said, “I don’t follow.”

“Why so desperate to obstruct Arabelle’s investigation? Could it be that you have something to hide? Involvement in fabricating the miracle, perhaps?”

He scoffed over the clink of his pauldrons. “You can’t possibly believe I snuck into the square late at night and, what? Painted up the statue?”

“More likely one of your shavetails did the dirty work.”

“You want the truth?” He planted both fists on the table. “It wasn’t me who staged the miracle, but I would gladly give a medal to the person who did. Look around you, Morty. Spirits have never been higher. This miracle — deception, whatever it is — has sparked hope within the hearts of my men.”

“Sparks become flames when left unchecked.”

“Oh, piss off.”

“Not until you give me the ledgers.”

The porcelain veneer of his face cracked in a snarl. “Who squealed? Was it Blue Elayne?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Ah, but it does.” Unseen hooks pulled his lips in an ear-lifting grin. Once, as a child, I tried to join him and his friends in a snowball fight. I ended up lashed to a signpost while they used me for target practice. Through it all, Luthos wore the same grin as he did now. I would’ve preferred a basilisk’s glare over that particular smile.

Warily, I watched him approach a rack of swords behind the table. His fingers trailed their grips and pommels, as if deciding which blade was best for slicing my belly open. “You should stick to medicine, Morty; it’s safer.”

I had to gulp down my dread before I could say, “You’re many things, Luthos, but a kinslayer isn’t one of them.”

“Of course not. Like you said: I have men to do my dirty work.”

On his last word, the flap of the tent whipped open. I bumped against the map table as I spun around. Daylight outlined a pair of bulky silhouettes with enough muscle to smash my limbs into bonemeal.

But neither of the soldiers spared a glance for me. The bearded sergeant frogmarched his redheaded subordinate around the table. Bruises overlapped the freckles on the younger soldier’s face. Only the older one offered a four-fingered salute to Luthos, while the redhead stared sullenly at the hard-packed earth.

“At rest, Sergeant Bülar,” said Luthos. “Can’t this wait? I’ve got bigger matters to settle than some drunken brawl.”

“Sorry t’say the charges are more grievous than that, Lord Marshal.” The sergeant shook the redhead by the collar. “Private Gaston was rallying a group of striplings to force the gatehouse open.”

Luthos snatched a fistful of Gaston’s undershirt. “Are you out of your mind?”

“I should ask you the same question!” The lad’s tunic tore as he craned his head back to meet my tall cousin’s eyes. “How can you let us wither behind these walls when Divine Galvin wants us to strike? His tears were a sign, I tell you! He came to me in a dream last night and told me as much! Either we go on the offensive, or we lose his blessing!”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and shook my forehead. “Exactly as I feared.”

“Not a word from you!” Luthos released Gaston to point a gauntleted finger at me. Anyone else might’ve quailed before that scowl. But me, I knew a thing or two about my cousin’s habits. Like how he only sucked in his cheeks when he was worried, gnawing them like others gnaw fingernails. Perhaps now he’d listen to reason.

To the sergeant, Luthos said, “String him up in front of the gatehouse. That’ll set an example for anyone else with bright ideas.”

“Wait.” The three of them turned to me with varying degrees of hostility, as if I’d heckled the final act of their stage play. Knowing better than to question Luthos in front of his men, I stepped beside him and whispered, “Arabelle will want to question him.”

In all honesty, I doubted Gaston was responsible for faking the tears. More likely he was a symptom of the disease rather than an underlying cause. Still, I didn’t want to risk losing any more suspects after the fiasco at Oldchapel.

Through gritted teeth, Luthos growled, “How many times must I remind you that I’m the commander here?”

“If you stretch his neck,” I whispered, “you’ll make a martyr out of a madman. A beacon for disgruntled soldiers, as if the tears hadn’t galvanized them already. The foundations of your authority are crumbling, Luthos. Not even the best general can countermand the belief of fanatics. Can’t you see that?”

And he could, if those uptilted brows were any indication. Turning to the sergeant, he said, “Lock him up in the detainment ward. Discreetly, mind you. We don’t want word spreading about any divine orders to attack.”

After a four-fingered salute, the sergeant shoved Gaston out of the tent.

“Now that we have an understanding,” I said into the silence, “can you show me the ledgers?”

“You always were a pest, you know that?” Luthos used the steel toe of his sabaton to nudge an oak chest out from under the maptable.

I dropped to my knees and swung the lid open. As a devoted scholar, I cringed at how carelessly the ledgers had been stored. Some lay facedown with their covers outflung like the limbs of fallen soldiers.

“I already checked them all,” said Luthos. “The only merchant who stocks ruby sap is Blue Elayne by the docks. Beyond that,” he sneered, “good luck.”

I took Blue Elayne’s ledger and unwound the plait of leather from its cover. About fifty pages in, I found the entry for ruby sap. That’s when I understood the catch. On the upside, there was only one buyer in the past month. Downside being that the buyer’s name was shortened to the initials. UQ, read the compact line of chicken scratch.

Offhand I couldn’t recall anyone with a surname starting with Q. “You never thought to question Elayne?”

“I had enough trouble getting her to cough up that ledgerbook.” The lines of his scowl softened as he glanced at the game pieces on the table. “That crone is tougher than Dame Hilda.”

Dame Hilda. Our old governess. Memories of boyhood antics plucked a smirk from my lips. “Remember the time we convinced her that the manor was haunted?”

“Or when your pet mouse broke loose?” Although his eyes remained on the game piece, there was no denying the grin on his stubbled face. As boys we’d found a common enemy in our governess. Now, as men, we faced a greater foe. Only this time, the lives of thousands depended on us.

* * *

Proceed to part 5...

Copyright © 2021 by David Samuels

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