He wasn’t sure that the sell-sword could be trusted, but that didn’t much matter, because the rest of the men Jorbert had hired for this little adventure were much more likely to be bought off by his father, Lord Gern Jorbert of House Jorbert, ruler of Castle Redforest. It seemed the old bastard had a knack for making spies out of everyone. Except maybe the Flatlander, who seemed the honorable type. And how nice for him, for all the good it would do him.

  He was not so trusting as to think that this Valian fellow was dim-witted, however. The sell-sword wasn’t a young man. He judged him to have lived to see his thirtieth name-day, at least. Tall, well-muscled, long shaggy brown hair--brown eyes to match, like all Flatlander’s had--Merek Valian would have had to been quick in the mind as well as the foot and sword to survive to his age.

  Jorbert rocked up onto the balls of his feet and back down again to his boot’s soles. The Highland air rushed around him as he stood on the edge of the Godscliff. Well, not exactly on the edge. If any of these men took coin from his father, standing too close to be shoved would simply not do. He chuckled to himself, then cleared his throat when one of the hired men glanced his way. He rocked back up onto the balls of his feet.

  His father was late.

  They had arranged this a fortnight ago. As his father was traveling through the Highlands to the Flatlands already, it only made sense that Jorbert would go ahead and meet his father at the Godscliff along the way; though this arrangement was made more by him than by his father. He seemed uninterested. Preoccupied. He’d tried to get Miro, his personal slave, to tell him what he’d heard--Miro was known for having large ears and no sense of smell. Literally. Someone at one point or another decided they hadn’t liked Miro’s face and so re-arranged it by knife. Jorbert did not believe that losing his nose would have made much difference. The man was uglier than sin to begin with. But alas, upon questioning, the shifty little slave knew nothing, or refused to say what it was he did know.

  Jorbert sighed. Left out in the cold once again. He was always left out where his father was concerned. He wondered what he could have ever done? The whores, probably, he thought. Though that could not possibly be it. His brother, Lance, fucked half the girl’s of the Flatland and had never been left out of Redforest’s deliberations. Well then, I guess you’ll never know.

  “Not so,” he whispered to himself. “I’ll come around to the truth, sooner or later.”

  The hired man next to him said, “Eh?”

  “Nothing.”

  Hooves, cracking against rock. And there they were, coming round the bend, his father’s party, counting ten head of horses, plus two bannermen, flying a flag with a tree in the center, a tree with leaves the color of spilled blood, his father at the head of the group on a great white horse. Lord Gern Jorbert was a short man, with wisps of white feather’s hair on his head, dressed in a sprawling red armor--the sort fit for a King. And Jorbert just bet his father wished he was King, though of course he could never be. Nor was his family even joined with the King’s House, the way things had as of yet played out. He hoped that kept his father up nights. Or better: he hoped it haunted him in his dreams. Jorbert smiled viciously. The rest of his father’s party counted out to ten head of horses, plus two bannerman, flying a flag with a tree with leaves the color of spilled blood.

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  Jorbert glanced at his hired men, suddenly self-conscious. He’d sent Miro to go and hire the men; Miro was a known plotter, and would it be so far fetched to hire not only spies but men that might embarrass him? He didn’t know.

  One of the men next to him snuffled a great gob of snot up into his nose and spat. Jorbert watched the green goo slop across a blue-stone rock.

  Fates help me.

  His father’s horse reared up as he slowed. He signaled to the rest of his party to reign in. Jorbert saw the disgust on his father's face as he eyed the hired men, all standing around, wide-eyed at seeing a Lord up close; Jorbert guessed they'd gotten used to seeing a Master already. Ungrateful bastards. Once his father got an eye-full, he clip-clopped his way over to Jorbert, looking down on him from his war-horse steed.

  “Father,” Jorbert nodded. “I’m glad to see--”

  “Have you done your duty?”

  Jorbert took the satchel from around his neck and held it up. “I thought you might like to see it go over, yourself, just in case you had any doubt that--”

  “I have many doubts, boy. One of which is your ability to do as your told.”

  Then why AREN’T you glad to be here to see the satchel go over the Godscliff, Jorbert thought, if you’re so concerned with my jumping as high as you command me to, when you command me to.

  “Well, in that case...”

  His father said nothing, simply glared down at him from atop his horse.

  “...right,” Jorbert said. He walked over to the edge of the Godscliff, held the satchel up, nodded at his father, then flicked his wrist. The whore’s head disappeared into a gale of cold Highland wind.

  “It’s done, then,” Gern Jorbert said. Jorbert watched his father dig his heels into his steeds side and guide the horse through his rag-tag group of men. The horsemen behind him followed, the two carrying the family banners almost running him over as they past.

  “You’re welcome,” Jorbert said softly to himself. And at that moment, he almost wished he hadn’t killed the whore, nor had the sell-sword throw the litter over the Godscliff, for with the litter went all the rest of his wine.