The King's Scribe: Chapter 1

Mistakes

Wick woke up.

This was entirely due to feeling like a leg had just driven into his gut. He would have been fine with it if a real leg was kicking him, though it would mean someone was attacking him at the crack of dawn in bed. No, the real issue was that nothing was there.

He convulsed out of the bed, falling to the floor and fighting to breathe. It felt almost exactly like that burly fighter’s kick to his gut, like a battering ram against a thatch door. Spots danced across his vision, and his cheek felt bruised too, though he hadn’t seen one in the mirror.

After several long moments, he gained control of his breath, buckets of sweat and misery consoling him.

“Wick! Are you alright?” Beris asked him from a bed off the other side of the room, though he couldn’t see it, the morning as early as it was.

“Yeah. Worse I think. Thought it was clearing up, but. Doesn’t seem that way.” He threw his left arm up on the bed, but weariness fought away the idea of getting into it.

The sound of rustling sheets meant Beris probably had sat up. “Brother, I implore you, let me have my father look into this. There are dozens of herbalists and loremen he could have here within the hour.”

“No, no.” He waved his hand, which his friend probably gleaned though of course he wouldn’t see it. “I impose enough on him. And that’s not what I want to ask him, anyways.”

“Yes, well…” He sighed. “You did stop fighting, though? You need to try better things.”

Beris definitely didn’t see the glare he gave him. “Yeah.” He’d fought early yesterday, and needed to again in a couple hours.

Thick as thieves and close as brothers, none of that seemed to make him understand how different it was to have no family, no sigil, and no trade. Ilcartius refused to sponsor him, too.

“I’m going to head out, clear my head.”

“Would you like me to accompany you?”

“No, no.” He struggled to his feet, breathing in pained gulps. “You need the rest, big day.”

“I… I still think my father will sponsor you. He simply…has not said it yet.”

Simply did not want to tell other noblemen that Beris Andwyn Ilcartius the Third would be accompanied by a stowaway urchin with nothing to his name but friendship. That would not change by noon.

“Yeah. Maybe so. Might be better without me though, yeah? Knights don’t want cadets dying from invisible blows.”

“It would not be better. I greatly enjoy your company. Besides, the Elixir may amend whatever ails you.”

Wick smiled, happy but pained. Sharding man was always so honest. It would not do to have him realize how much he had been thinking exactly that, though.

“Could make it worse.” Feeling about the room and finding his pants and shoes, he soon had them on.

“I have not heard of such an effect.” Beris laid back down, barely visible. “But, perhaps. Are you certain you do not require a fitting? I do not think I have ever seen you in formals.”

He stepped to the door and the latch clicked as he opened it. “I have some.” Or he would. He was willing to be sponsored. Nothing else. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”

“I will talk to my father again.”

He nodded as the glow from the hallway spilled over his face, then he was out and closed the door. It was time to go get enough money to buy formals.

At this hour, the carpet muffled his steps and few servants were there to see anyone. They looked down their noses at him when they did see him, but he felt the joke was on them; he had the king-sized bed. Well, for one last night he’d had it. More than likely when he went up to the gate tomorrow, they would paste on a thin and gloating smile, and ask if any friend in the house could vouch for him.

At last, he made it past the many doors and large final gate that stopped poor people from wandering into houses unfit for their station, and he looked across Trastaval, the shipping capital of Aerous. He smiled and stopped, the sun glowing as it came over the low horizon, at least as it seemed to him from the hill of Ilcartius Manor. A curtain of gold warmth bathed his face, and sea salt sauntered into his nostrils on the breeze, which carried crying gulls and distant shipyard sounds. He loved Trastaval.

He made his way down from the manor and hill. Large marbled stones and entire cobbled pathways separated walkway from cartway. Nobles were snobbish and more than happy to show it if he used the cartway to walk. Without many horses early in the morning, it was easy to walk in and out of the cartway without even slowing the carts down, but they looked at him like he was slapping children. He smiled back.

After a few turns he paused and removed his shoes, and untucked his shirt. His feet were well acclimated to walking bare, and none around here needed to know he had shoes or a belt.

Tracking more deliberately now, pausing at twists in the road and stopping at arbitrary storefronts, he decided after a while that no one had marked him, and he continued on.

Here, gritty noise and sparse angry shouts filled his ears while cook fires, overwhelming fish, and Ord Pine filled his nose. Ramshackle houses with shops jammed into the cracks made a dizzying, incomprehensible mess of side alleys and dead ends. Even he did not know all their corners, but he knew his.

One three story inn of a particularly unscrupulous look hung over a narrow alley; one side of the third floor had been replaced with new Ord Pine, which everyone knew never to do since the wood kept growing a bit after being cut. Still, cheaper to pay for half and tar the gaps, so it arched over the corridor like a bent, confused tree.

Wick passed casually under it, then turned and paused in front of an old, worn banner. It was here from back when this alley was a road. Now too old to properly make out what it said, the mark in the lower corner was unmistakable. No one touched anything a Scribe did, they were strange and people said they could curse things.

Wick figured they were just paid far better than people thought, as he’d seen one in the Ilcartius Manor once. Money enough was magic, he knew. No curse was required when a shipmaster was willing to sink a boat in return for enough coin. In any case, this cloth banner had remained affixed to the wall for as long as he could remember. He peeled a corner back, and jostled a brick until it came loose.

In the revealed hole, several coins and a rather homemade mask lay neatly arranged. He needed only a few more pieces. Grabbing the mask, he put everything back in place and set off.

An hour later, he had food in his stomach and was back within the maze and near the ring. In an older part of the city, an abandoned dockyard that sat on the river side became a good spot for activities less than legal. With houses, taverns, and more crammed directly against it, and the river and a street around it, getting in and out without anyone knowing was about as easy as it could get.

Once in, he donned his mask and went down into the old slipway.

“Gerrick, good to see me, yeah?”

The burly man holding a hand over some menacing object within his coat turned, and seeing him broke out in a toothy grin. He vetted entering contestants; those watching entered elsewhere.

“Wick, heh. Adding your shadow to the time as usual.”

“Aye! Not that name, man. We talked about this.” He liked Gerrick but the man was going to get him found out.

“Ah, right yeah.” He began checking him for weapons. They were strictly forbidden by combatants. “Fence, was it?”

Wick huffed. “Vince, it was Vince.”

“Ah. Maybe I call you Candle.”

He felt that even through the mask he delivered a properly scathing stare.

The man laughed. “Got money bet on you,” he said knowingly. “Ands you’re cleared.” He gestured for him to go through.

He nodded. “Guess I got to win then, yeah?”

That bet, whether it existed or not, meant he’d be fighting someone new. Hopefully, that meant this could go quick. He only needed minimum payout anyways. Regardless, it did mean his opponent knew nothing about him. He began to walk with a limp.

Noise like a cresting wave began to build as he got closer to the ring. Down the last hall, he turned, the light hit him in the face, and he smiled. The sun cast morning light through the broken roof above, and scattered across the old shipyard floor. The slipway had in one place been knocked about, bent and battered by large men with hammers, until a thirty-foot ring sat in the middle.

On the water, which lapped the slipway up until about another thirty feet from the circle, broken boats, walkways, and constant shoddy patchwork made for a bizarre, haphazard section of viewing, which more people than was wise stood on, if the water coming up to their ankles was any sign.

Situated opposite those stands, more reasonable, somewhat normal wooden tiers connected the two walls and made up the rest of the audience. It was early morning and not nearly the kind of crowd night drew, but still in a city like Trastaval there were a lot.

He could have watched the first fight, but his mind was instead adrift, thinking of Beris. Try as he might, keeping down the emotions of maybe never seeing him again proved difficult. For all his aloofness, he had few others.

Then fight was over, and he was up. He made a show of limping to the pit.

His opponent appeared to buy the limp hook line and sinker. Grinning widely, ‘Hal’ raised his hands and squared up his stance, looking eager to dart in and take advantage of his leg. The ringmaster raised a wooden branch high, preparing to strike match start. Thoughts of Beris vanished.

He was in the ring.

The other fighter’s left hand was too high. He leaned forward like a flirtatious woman, and heel planted like a tree. Despite the planted heel, his other foot jumped around like a fish out of water. Breathing didn’t match, woefully out of sync with his movement, and he didn’t look him in the eyes. You always looked in the eyes.

Wick raised his hands. To the correct height. Feet light, not jittery, head low, not too forward. He would drop the limp when it mattered. He breathed with the dance, with the fight, and he did not blink as he looked straight at the ring’s next loser.

The branch snapped down, and the fight began.

He needed this to end quick. Baiting with the limp had been a good idea, as Hal came lurching forward. The often-turned dirt scratched under foot, and the salt breeze mixed with sweat smelled like a good fight.

Fwiff-thwick, he dodged the first two blows in the pretense of a stumble on his bad leg, then delivered his own weak punch to the gut, knuckles pummeling flesh. Managing this while he pretended to limp did not make this guy’s chances good. Then he saw him wipe his hands.

Hal already had sweaty hands? Where had they found this guy? For a moment, he thought about intentionally throwing the fight. Maybe the guy really needed money, he had obviously fought vanishingly few times. But, regrettably he needed the money too, as was the case more often than not.

Hal stomped over the dust and lashed a stern right hook out. Straightening his ‘limping’ leg, and he shot to the side as it powered his body well away from the wild punch. His own left hook thwump’ed into Hal’s midsection, and the man gasped out most of his air. There were several types of trees he knew with more agility.

Hal could barely raise his hands after that, so he darted in. A clean jab to the chin and he would win the money, while leaving his opponent in solid shape for a bout later, if the lad truly did need some funds. Nighttime fights had loser’s take.

The stands groaned and yelled as he punched to win, wood creaking as men watched their money double or die. With the money, he might also have some left over if the haggling went well. Maybe–

Hot pain blossomed in his cheek as Hal flailed, nails scratching across his skin. The mask spun into darkness beyond his sight, and his heart slammed hard against his ribs. Without the mask, the stakes had shifted. Hal pressed the unexpected pause, landing a jab to his face that blurred his vision, flooding his mouth with a coppery tang.

He gritted his teeth, pulse hammering. Hal’s fist barreled towards his head. He had lost his rhythm, and new bruises to the face would be impossible to hide. He tossed his hand in front, knowing it would not stop the punch but praying it would lessen the bruise. Launching his right hand, perhaps he could still connect that left hook and end the fight.

Beris liked to call what happened next “a little battle fever”, before his father found out Wick fought, and barred them from ever returning. Only Knights who drank the Elixir had battle fever, but whatever it was, he had trouble denying that sometimes, he punched out of things that seemed hopeless.

The punch struck his hand, and did not move it a single mark. His fist snapped into Hal’s jaw with shocking force and a sickening crunch. He fell back, stiff. Shards below. That was far harder than he had intended to hit him. Cheers went up, a few men consulted their pocketed flasks in resigned irritation, and one or two hurried into the ring to check on Hal. He held his breath, relaxing only as Hal stirred, fingers flexing normally. He’d seen one guy who died after “boardin up” as they called it, and the tell was in the fingers, frozen in odd ways.

The mask. He glanced around in panic, but it was not in the ring, nor could he see anyone who appeared to have it in hand. Sharding thing cost him several coppers, and he’d have to get another one to do this, especially at night. No time for it now though. He rushed out of the ring, and ran to the doublehand to get his payout.

–

Getting clothes had irked him a bit; the kindly old man had kindly tried to tell him he was poor. It had taken showing the purchase amount for each item he tried, which had the unfortunate side effect of taking a long time. Admittedly, he looked excellent in the mirror. Shoes and socks had to come off though. It was time to run.

Into the busy streets of Trastaval he went, ducking and weaving now that it was about the noon hour. Beris’s send-off was a full shading past, and he had heard the middle-day bell while finalizing himself as actually as poor as the man had thought he was.

The affair was hosted, naturally, obviously, ostensibly, or whatever odious word Lord Ilcatius would use, by Lord Ilcartius, and was therefore lavish and would be attended by many important schmucks. Beris was off to become a Knight, of course. He found little joy in that reality, but was truly happy for his friend. Aside from some thieving they got up to in their youth, Beris Ilcartius was honorable, strong, and…well the nobles would have a third word, but his was best friend, and he delighted in knowing that was actually four words, and would therefore offend the sensibilities of them all if he ever described Beris that way in public.

Holding his shoes and socks, ducking this way and that, he rounded corners and avoided merchants and meanderers as he scrambled madly in the direction of the dockside. It was a lengthy voyage to the Knight’s Isle, and Beris would be making his way there in a comfortable private ship. Wick did not begrudge his friend this; if his father had deigned to sponsor him, he would also have gone on that same ship.

His prancing, while nimble and practiced, did have limits. He met them as he had to dodge an old lady who timbered far too slowly in the middle of the street, which put him in the path of a cart. The driver had Trastavalan wits about him though, and the horses had bridles. They passed him by with a hand’s breadth to spare. The large box atop the cart did not.

It fell, slow and tumblesome in a way that looked unfortunately heavy. Wick had little choice, given he was now fenced in by two carts, but to catch the box. To his astonishment, he did. It was no heavier than a plank of wood, and for a moment he was baffled. He couldn’t imagine what they had in it. The sound of something inside shattering gave him a small clue, and he gently set it down.

The driver, and the loading men sitting on the back gaped at him without moving. He could not share their immobility though, otherwise he would be late.

“Sorry!” Then he was off again, spinning through the streets.

–

Having just stepped out of a small store of wax and parchment, a hooded figure took notice of a youth as a large box toppled from a cart, and fell on him. At first, it seemed a tragic accident would occur, for the box was large, the youth was small, and he had nowhere to dodge.

Miraculously, disaster was avoided. The box must have had nothing in it. Less than nothing, really, for the wood alone should have dropped the boy to the patterned rock of the throughway. Perhaps, it was made of lighter things.

But, the driver and the two men on the back of the cart recovered from their shock, and stepped around the box. They regarded it like a curious puzzle, not touching it for some time. When one finally did, it seemed he was testing its weight. When at last the large and burly man put his full strength into lifting, merely one side of it rose marginally into the air. It took all three of them, and in several steps, to reposition it on the cart.

The cloaked figure stayed there, outside the door, for many minutes after that. Finally, he turned, and walked in the way one walks when they have a goal, and it brings them into uncharted places.

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The King's Scribe: Chapter 2