S
Sir Basil
Guest
Rhisiart found himself twitching at the white-haired magus' comments. The way that the man had phrased his words just settled queasily in the guard-captain's stomach. It was either the magus' words or the egg from this morning's meal had been contaminated. He found himself strangely comforted by the notion of succumbing to a prolonged death from infection and disease. Perhaps Griffith would sit at his side, and wipe the sweat from his brow as he shook and dreamt fever-dream nightmares. Perhaps the ghost of his father would be the one who came to him in the night, the one who strangled out his death-rattle. And that would be that - the end of a long line of Aneurin Guard-Captains. He shook the thought from his head, a subtle shaking of his head from side to side, the slight bounce of his curls from side to side. The magus didn't know what he was talking about. It was plain enough to see. Rhisiart didn't introduce the waterways, where water flowed in the caverns of his landlocked city, for the fear that the enemy had moved through them - it seemed unlikely that the rotting and mutated would be able to navigate the winding corridors without trouble. Even if they did, they would emerge from the waterways into the crowded slums of the city- somebody was sure to see them. No, Rhisiart had brought up the waterways because if worse came to worse, he did not want to be cutoff from the rest of the world, doomed to a starving, suffocation. The waterways and caverns emptied out into sinkholes in the hills, and to wet-caverns in the surrounding wood. They were well hidden, if not well guarded. His great-grandfather, Egil Aneurin, had been the last of the Guard-Captains that had actually utilized the waterways as a means for moving his guardforce. Rhisiart's father would not touch them.
Perhaps that was because of the new prevelance of the Merchant's Guild and their thugs. They moved through the waterways, cutting shady operations in the Undercity. Not too long ago, Rhisiart had broken up rings of the Merchant's Guild less scrupulous providers - it had been a boyhood act of heroics that in retrospect Rhisiart only felt remorse for. His father had beat him bloody when he had come with the head of a slaver. Rhisiart remembered the day well. He had been in his prime - hair had been kept, smile proud. He was certain that this action would earn the approval of his father. He slung the slaver's head by the long, rust-coloured beard, onto the very desk that now occupied space in Rhisiart's office, the same desk that they were all clustered around. The blood had stained his father's documents. Geraint had looked up from his accounts, as a red-smear dribbled down the number of rations he needed to allocate, the number of beds that were available in his barracks. His eyes had never looked colder to Rhisiart. It was then that he realized that he had made a terrible mistake. His father was not happy. Geraint stood up from the desk, and pushed in his chair neatly. Rhisiart never understood how his father always managed to make the movement of pushing in a chair threatening, but in retrospect, it could have been because it was perfectly silent. Everything about Geraint carried with it an aura of fatalistic calm. It was so quiet, but so damning at the same time. Geraint's cold eyes flickered over Rhisiart's face. "Did you do this because you hoped there would be songs sung of you?" His words were ice. The head dripped quietly on the desk, the metronome of blood hitting hardwood measuring the syllables of his father's words. Rhisiart felt his face flush. He had blushed then too - in shame. In embarrassment. In fear. His father slipped from around the desk, trailing his fingers in the sticky mess that Rhisiart had deposited on his table. "There are tales of me, Rhisiart. I did not seek them out. I did my duty - and no more." He rubbed the side of his thumb against the slaver's severed neck. It was a lover's caress, with more tenderness and care than Rhisiart had ever seen his father show him, or his sisters. Mayhaps he had treated his mother like that. "Your amusements are yours. But your amusement has cost us our relations with the Merchant's Guild." His voice turned brittle then, like hard old iron. "Take off your shirt and face the wall."
Then came the lashes. There were thirty. Ten for bravado, ten for ignorance, ten for negligence. He had bleed for a week afterwards, and then the wounds had turned to welts, and then they had turned to scars. Now, they were faded white lines along his back that only Griffith ever touched. His lover had asked him how he had earned them - a scuffle with thieves and brigands? Maybe an exotic animal had gotten loose in the market? Rhisiart dared not answer then. The memory ebbed away in his head, a faint pulsing in his temples. He rubbed his eyes weakly, and then pressed the palm of his hand against the side of his desk. He opened a drawer, and inside were any folds and scraps of parchments - some of them were receipts, others were orders. He was looking for a map, however. Without taking his eyes off of the white-haired Magus - Orin? - he groped blindly in the drawer until his fingers closed around a particularly old piece of vellum. He closed his hand around the rolled bit of paper, and rose from the chair with the shifting of brocade and cloth, his expression carefully neutral. He set the piece of vellum across his desk - a desk that still bore stains from where a slaver's head had once been. The map depicted many spiraling and labyrinthine passages, each labelled with a corresponding section of the town in a red-ink overlay. The handwriting was spindly - rather than being wood-block printed or done by a professional scribe, this map was handmade. Certain tunnels were filled in solidly - with a note that this portion of the Undercity had collapsed in on itself, and certain others were crossed out entirely with no explaination whatsoever. This was the map of Egil Aneurin - Rhisiart's great-grandfather.
"The guild and I are at odds." Rhisiart said, his tone quiet and measured just as his father had taught him. A quiet land, with quiet people and a quiet lord. That was how you ruled. "They have largely been driven to the Undercity - the guild keeps to themselves, these days." He brushed a hand against the surface of the map, "However, this," He tapped a section of the map, "May aid us in procuring another, or at least provide us with a place to begin scouting." He cleared his throat, lowering himself back down into his chair. The chair squeaked loudly as he sat down. He cringed, slightly, and his next words came out muttered, "I'll send some men down."
Perhaps that was because of the new prevelance of the Merchant's Guild and their thugs. They moved through the waterways, cutting shady operations in the Undercity. Not too long ago, Rhisiart had broken up rings of the Merchant's Guild less scrupulous providers - it had been a boyhood act of heroics that in retrospect Rhisiart only felt remorse for. His father had beat him bloody when he had come with the head of a slaver. Rhisiart remembered the day well. He had been in his prime - hair had been kept, smile proud. He was certain that this action would earn the approval of his father. He slung the slaver's head by the long, rust-coloured beard, onto the very desk that now occupied space in Rhisiart's office, the same desk that they were all clustered around. The blood had stained his father's documents. Geraint had looked up from his accounts, as a red-smear dribbled down the number of rations he needed to allocate, the number of beds that were available in his barracks. His eyes had never looked colder to Rhisiart. It was then that he realized that he had made a terrible mistake. His father was not happy. Geraint stood up from the desk, and pushed in his chair neatly. Rhisiart never understood how his father always managed to make the movement of pushing in a chair threatening, but in retrospect, it could have been because it was perfectly silent. Everything about Geraint carried with it an aura of fatalistic calm. It was so quiet, but so damning at the same time. Geraint's cold eyes flickered over Rhisiart's face. "Did you do this because you hoped there would be songs sung of you?" His words were ice. The head dripped quietly on the desk, the metronome of blood hitting hardwood measuring the syllables of his father's words. Rhisiart felt his face flush. He had blushed then too - in shame. In embarrassment. In fear. His father slipped from around the desk, trailing his fingers in the sticky mess that Rhisiart had deposited on his table. "There are tales of me, Rhisiart. I did not seek them out. I did my duty - and no more." He rubbed the side of his thumb against the slaver's severed neck. It was a lover's caress, with more tenderness and care than Rhisiart had ever seen his father show him, or his sisters. Mayhaps he had treated his mother like that. "Your amusements are yours. But your amusement has cost us our relations with the Merchant's Guild." His voice turned brittle then, like hard old iron. "Take off your shirt and face the wall."
Then came the lashes. There were thirty. Ten for bravado, ten for ignorance, ten for negligence. He had bleed for a week afterwards, and then the wounds had turned to welts, and then they had turned to scars. Now, they were faded white lines along his back that only Griffith ever touched. His lover had asked him how he had earned them - a scuffle with thieves and brigands? Maybe an exotic animal had gotten loose in the market? Rhisiart dared not answer then. The memory ebbed away in his head, a faint pulsing in his temples. He rubbed his eyes weakly, and then pressed the palm of his hand against the side of his desk. He opened a drawer, and inside were any folds and scraps of parchments - some of them were receipts, others were orders. He was looking for a map, however. Without taking his eyes off of the white-haired Magus - Orin? - he groped blindly in the drawer until his fingers closed around a particularly old piece of vellum. He closed his hand around the rolled bit of paper, and rose from the chair with the shifting of brocade and cloth, his expression carefully neutral. He set the piece of vellum across his desk - a desk that still bore stains from where a slaver's head had once been. The map depicted many spiraling and labyrinthine passages, each labelled with a corresponding section of the town in a red-ink overlay. The handwriting was spindly - rather than being wood-block printed or done by a professional scribe, this map was handmade. Certain tunnels were filled in solidly - with a note that this portion of the Undercity had collapsed in on itself, and certain others were crossed out entirely with no explaination whatsoever. This was the map of Egil Aneurin - Rhisiart's great-grandfather.
"The guild and I are at odds." Rhisiart said, his tone quiet and measured just as his father had taught him. A quiet land, with quiet people and a quiet lord. That was how you ruled. "They have largely been driven to the Undercity - the guild keeps to themselves, these days." He brushed a hand against the surface of the map, "However, this," He tapped a section of the map, "May aid us in procuring another, or at least provide us with a place to begin scouting." He cleared his throat, lowering himself back down into his chair. The chair squeaked loudly as he sat down. He cringed, slightly, and his next words came out muttered, "I'll send some men down."
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