Fitch took up his ledger and pen, and jotted notes as Haste repeated the phrase over and over. Then the hallucinating fat man fell silent and became nearly motionless for several minutes. At last, with considerable lack of coordination, he pulled the mask away from his face.
Kale helped the sweaty oaf cross the room to the massive leather chair behind his desk.
Once sitting, Haste put shaky pen to paper.
"Bringing destruction?" Fitch asked. His eyes flashed with the passion of a religious zealot as he squeezed the senfen. The gold of the pendant lit his narrow, beady-eyed face from below.
"Quiet, idiot! Let him concentrate," said Kale.
"Never more lost…" Haste mumbled again. He drew shapes and wrote impressions, filling pages with shaky scribbles. He stopped and turned his gaze to the flame of a candle on his desk.
Rubbing his temples, he said, "Some things will make any man fearful. The death of a loved one. The destruction of his home. The erasure of all he has worked and fought for."
Haste paused, as if watching the candle flicker as he breathed on it. "A traveler is coming to Stagwater. He is marked by a chain about him. I saw a crown of five horns, likely metaphorical. He must not be allowed to enter our gates."
Haste noticed the recorder still rolling and gestured for Fitch to switch it off.
"When?" Kale asked.
"Soon. I saw the intruder trying to baffle our plans. Vigilance!
We
must stay in control of Stagwater.
We
know how to best take care of it." Haste dabbed sweat off his forehead and blew his nose.
Haste truly believed
he
was Stagwater's future. Kale could have laughed at the idiotic notion.
"If we act swiftly," Haste said, "we can rid ourselves of this problem before the situation worsens. I believe the intruder will arrive from the west. Someone must take my dispatch to the western watchtower. Instruct the guardsmen that this traveler must not be allowed entry." Haste lifted a glass of water with his shaking hand and drained it, spilling just a bit down his chest. "Send the stranger north. Bewitch him if necessary. That should be the end of our little problem. Even so, we will double the guard, including the riverside. I could not decipher exactly how this man would work his mischief, only that trouble trots at his heels. This weed will not take root. I prefer bloody hands to ruined plans."
"Give me the dispatch," said Kale. He had better things to do, but he didn't want Fitch involved in martial matters.
Haste rubbed his eyes and spoke again, "Steel Jacks can't know about this. This does not concern them, and we don't need their meddling."
Kale rolled his eyes. Who knew better than he did to keep Steel Jacks in the dark? Haste had only risen to Chief Magistrate through clever slogans and deep pockets, not effective leadership. Kale's days of taking the fat man's orders would be over soon enough. He rose to leave.
Fitch looked down at his senfen. "The death of a loved one? The destruction of your home?" he asked. "Which did you see?" He fanned Haste's face with his ledger.
Kale could have slapped the sycophant.
Haste's florid skin grew a shade paler. "My friend," said Haste, "I saw it all."
Kale stomped up the tight spiraling staircase within the western tower. The sound of his feet on the metal steps usually pleased him, but his ears still rang with the sound of Haste and Fitch sniveling at each other. He emerged from the stairwell and found the black-and-red-clad guardsmen laughing as they looked through their telescopes.
"To work!" barked Kale. The men's eyes grew wide as they snapped to attention and gave him a stiff salute. Kale thought he detected a slight tremble in the hand of the shorter of the two. He'd never admit it, but he quite enjoyed watching peons cringe and tremble. "Who's commanding this shift? I have a security dispatch. High priority."
Captain Rorid, a man with tired eyes and gray hair at his temples, stepped forward and accepted the written orders.
Kale watched him read. His lip twitched impatiently.
"A horned traveler wearing a chain?" asked Rorid, with a half-smile on his lips as he looked up from the paper. "We have one of those right out there." He offered Kale his telescope.
Kale looked through the eyepiece and saw a ragged, dirty drifter. The bum yanked furiously at a chain stuck in the tree above him. The stranger alternated his yanking with pacing and apparent shouting at the tree. Kale could
just
make out the horns jutting from his hat.
Kale looked back and forth from the drifter to the chuckling guard captain. His hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at his side. A potentially dangerous interloper stood not far from the city, and these guardsmen
would
take matters seriously.
"Send him north," Kale snapped, casting a final glance at the stranger. He stomped off to tell Haste the news.
Captain Tulliss Rorid waited until Kale disappeared down the stairs.
"Priole, you could stand to learn a bit about 'guided compliance'. You and I are going to investigate…. But I'm too close to my pension to be scrappin' it up this late in the day. You'll be in charge of that if it comes up."
"Sure," said Priole. The youth's face lit up at the prospect of a brawl. Though strong and well-trained, he'd seldom been in a real dust up. His face bore no scars.
"From the look of him, he shouldn't be too hard to deal with." Rorid stretched, twisting his back left and right.
"But if he
has
to be dealt with, I'm happy to do it." Guardsman Kletter Priole had no need for stretches. Tall and well-muscled, Priole represented the prototypical guardsman, whose youthful vigor kept him ready for action at any moment. If only he had more respect for the chain of command.
"Listen," Rorid said, "orders are that if he attacks, we can arrest him. That's
only
if he attacks. We aren't the only ones who watch the horizon. We have enough problems with the Steel Jacks. Who knows? He could be one of theirs. We bewitch him and send him north, then we're clean of anything that happens to the bastard."
It had been years since Rorid had last bewitched someone. The idea of robbing another's free will sat poorly with him. Truthfully, he was a bit rusty when it came to conjury, but those were his orders, and Captain Tulliss Rorid always followed orders. Most importantly, he wanted Priole to witness him carrying out orders he didn't agree with — one of many lessons this kid needed to learn.
One eager for combat, the other for diplomacy with a bit of bewitchment, Rorid and Priole left the guard tower and mounted their wargoats. Off they went to meet the man of so much interest to their superiors.
"Chained up to this old, dead tree… I'm chained up to this old, dead tree… Ain't nobody comin' gonna rescue me… I'm chained up to this old, dead tree," Chuggie sang. He kept the beat with kicks to the tree trunk. "It's because o' some bastard bee… that I'm pris'ner of this goddamn tree… Revenge'll be mine if it's the last sight I see… Let's get revenge on that bastard bee!" he barked. He would have continued, but east of his position a couple specks had come out of the city. The specks, certainly men, were moving his way.
He felt sure they were coming to investigate him. A mile or two away, approaching steadily – he guessed he had less than half an hour before they rode out the entire distance, climbed the rocky hill, and started in on him.
Trees and scrub dotted the landscape between. Here a creek, there a ridge. Stepped fields, all harvested by this time of year, formed concentric crescents about Stagwater. And the road zigzagged through it all, bellying under Chuggie and off into the dry, old forest at his back. That road appeared unused, unwanted, neglected. Chuggie felt sympathy for it. He knew exactly how it felt.
Mag Mell was a big world. The Mag was all one continent that looked like a hand gripping a ball. God's hand, some said. Chuggie preferred the rolling waves of the Mell, and not only because he liked water. There are not so many people to meet at sea.
He sat against the tree, watching the men approach. He scratched his chin, although it did not itch. These men would have questions for him. Wherever he went, they always asked the same questions.
Who are you? Where are you coming from? Where are you going? What is your business? What are you carrying?
"Who am I?" Chuggie mused. "I'm walkin' drought that'll drink the river dry by mornin' an' everything else by tomorrow night! But, also, my name's Chuggie, and I'm what you might call a travelin' man."
"Where do I come from? Well, that's a tricky question. I guess I was created along with the world, grown like wheat in the primordial mud beside my brother and sisters. Most recently, I come from a cave far, far to the north. Been layin' real low for the last few decades, or however long it was. Why've I been layin' low? Because I fit in like a crow among kittens. Folks tend to give me a hard time wherever I go."
"Where am I going? Glad you asked me that, friend. I'm headin' south and east, as far as can be got before winter. I've had enough of bein' cold, y'see."
"My business there? Well, I thought I'd buy me a boat. See, that's all I really want. Jus' buy me a boat and sail it on the sea."
"Carrying? I got this whole bag of fine merchandise here. Let me jus' spread this out, and you can take a look. Let me know when you see somethin' you gotta have. You boys are helping me get untangled from this tree, so I'm gonna cut you all kinds o' deals. Special prices on my best gear."
He conversed with himself in this way until the men were within earshot. Then he got to his feet, brushed himself off, and gave a few more tugs on the chain.
The two guardsmen leaned forward on their goats as they neared the hilltop. Heavy straps harnessed the animals' heads, pulling their chins down toward their chests and preventing the long goat horns from stabbing a rider in the face. They also tilted the head forward in a pose Rorid found to be quite noble.
The ride from town had been thankfully quiet. Rorid found Priole difficult to tolerate one on one. The young man expressed his unwillingness to learn at every opportunity. He got on Rorid's nerves and gave the impression Rorid's feeling was mutual.
"Let me do the talking," Rorid said in a low voice. "I'll let you do the punching if punching needs done."
"Fine, sir." Priole smirked and squeezed his hands into fists.
"Stay to my left and a couple steps back."
"I know, sir."
"If he swings at me, you mind how I dodge. Can't both be getting knocked over by a single blow."
"Yes, sir, I know."
Rorid took note of Priole's defiant, patronizing tone. The rookie needed an attitude adjustment.
Close to the top of the hill they dismounted. A short ways off, the stranger staggered and waved at them. He looked either drunk or crazy, probably both. Rorid walked in front brandishing nothing but the gloves he'd taken off. In his right palm he hid the compass he planned to use to bewitch the stranger. Priole, just behind and to the left, rested a hand on the hilt of his hooksword.
"Hello, sirs," called the drunk. "Come to help me out of my predicament, have you?"
"What is your name, stranger?" Rorid stopped several feet away from the slurring outlander.
"Well, I'm Norchug Mot Losiat. They just call me Chuggie, though."
Rorid lifted the hand with the compass to his mouth, pretended to cough into it, and repeated, "Norchug Mot Losiat." The compass buzzed in his hand. This would be easier than he thought, but it didn't seem entirely
right
.
"Aw, jus' call me Chuggie."
"Where are you headed, Mr. Mot Losiat?" Rorid looked at the anchor and the chain.
"Headed southeast. Tryin' to get as far that way as I can before the cold winter."
"So, Stagwater isn't your destination?" Rorid pointed a thumb toward the city.
"Jus' passin' through. Thought maybe I'd get me a pair o' new boots in your fine town there," Chuggie said.
"Where are you coming from?" Rorid took a step forward.
"I came down from the northwest. Gettin' too damn cold up there. Figured it was time for a change o' climate. An' here we are. So whaddya say you boys —."
"What's in that bag there?" Rorid stepped closer. Was this guy really up to something, or just a sad luck drunk?
Priole circled out to the side, ready to fight at the drop of a hat.
"You know, I'm glad you asked me that. Let me just spread this stuff out." Chuggie went about emptying the bag, smoothing it on the ground, and arranging the junk on top of it. "We got some fine merchandise here, boys! You see something you like, you say so. I'll give you a good price on everything you see. Young fella, you scamper up this tree an' get that chain loose, you can have your pick o' the lot."
"Crazy drunk," Priole said to his captain.
"Eh?" Chuggie turned. "Come on now, hey? You guys look like you have an eye for quality. You ever seen —."
"Listen!" Rorid interrupted. "We don't want any of this shit. Pack it up. Start walking north. Give Stagwater a wide berth when you resume east. Then, when you're sure she's well behind you, go wherever you want."
"Why don't I just go straight through town an' out the other side? Maybe leave a little commerce in my wake?"
"Because we have all the drunken vagrants we need." Rorid pointed a frustrated finger at Chuggie.
"Hmm. How 'bout if I pay you fellas off, eh? Take another look at the inventory." Chuggie flourished his arm over his merchandise.
"We won't be bribed with garbage. If you approach our city, it'll be in chains." Rorid eyeballed the spread out junk, looking for weapons. He didn't see anything dangerous. It was all just sad.
"Right… so why don't I just go south here? Seems quickest, right?" Chuggie wiggled his fingers in a walking gesture toward the south.