32. Sidelines

“Having questioned the merit of killing rebellious Chiefs like Halar, Magar stared at me quizzically, and then remarked, ‘You are distressed, Izzig.’

‘Yes,’ I warily agreed. ‘I—’

‘Do not be,’ suggested the young shaman. ‘If Zalak believes you are against him, you will be locked away like The Small King. Similarly, you will fare poorly if Zalak loses his throne. As will I,’ he pointedly added. ‘Eventually, everyone will be under a single rule, and all will be at peace. Those who die now ensure the survival of our future kin.’

He stared at me with his large, shining eyes. But I looked to the earth at my bony feet.

‘Not just distressed,’ added Magar without inflection. ‘Wrathful and vengeful. These thoughts will not serve you well, Izzig. Everything is in a delicate balance. I cannot afford for you to upset that balance. Not when we are closer than we have ever been.’

‘What is it that you and Zalak are planning?’ I demanded.

‘Zalak is unimportant, Izzig. They all are. All that matters is that you and I prevail.’

‘I am ready to die.’

Magar’s youthful green features scrunched as if in pain. ‘That is not true, Izzig. Not entirely, at least. Everything will be better soon. You must have faith.’

‘How?’ I snapped. ‘Tell me your plan if I am so important.’

‘Soon,’ said Magar. ‘For now, it is better that you spend some time alone.’

I might have argued, but the sound of scrabbling from a nearby tunnel distracted the both of us, and then a small goblin ran scampering towards the well wrought passages of Agrak’s old throne room.

Magar contemplatively hummed. ‘That is an unfortunate complication.’”

Sybille sat beside young Thrand and opposite her father. Luta smiled at Gudmund’s side and they all resided within the marble boundaries of a square garden, each seated at a grey table of cold stone. Bushes remained evergreen around them, rising from the earth or from squat pots, while flowers had shriveled to bleak leaves.

Sybille listened and nodded and varied her mumbling affirmations. She smiled when she heard laughter, frowned when the others did, nodded quite severely at times and readily at others. She started to listen in earnest as she nibbled at honey and biscuits only to realised that Luta was still speaking on plans for their wedding, for both weddings.

“Bard’s Circle,” Sybille’s clear voice cut into a conversation and left the table in confused silence.

“What was that?” Young Thrand asked.

Sybille could see his kindly concern, though she did note Luta’s smile slipped and rose anew more hollow. “I hear that there’s a deal of performances and the like made at the Bard’s Circle. I read about it in the library. I wondered if you would all like to go.”

Gudmund’s smirk was tight as if he doubted her delivery.

“We usually go quite often,” Luta replied, “but with the Crooked Teeth… well, our father sees no need to take the risk. Perhaps when the weddings are done and all that is taken care of…”

“Oh,” Sybille managed to fake disappointment easily enough. “Of course. I had no idea the Crooked Teeth had such a hold on the stone city.” She frowned at her father. “Should you be traveling about during the daylight hours?”

Gudmund shrugged. “I’m not too worried about death.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say,” Luta chided, squeezing his wrist.

“Luta is overly concerned,” Young Thrand assured. “If you wish to go then I will take you. I’m sure your father is equally happy to take the slight risk. I’m sure our own father would be happy to attend as well.”

“I was never one for performances,” Gudmund admitted, “but I was always one for fighting. So I’ll go for the risk alone.”

“I think this is a bad idea,” Luta said. “We’ve all our lives to go the Bard’s Circle.”

Sybille saw the wry glint in her father’s tired eyes and wondered if the sentiment wasn’t more than optimistic.

***

Jarl Thrand’s cane clacked as he strode into the small garden where his two youngest children sat facing an array of half-eaten meals and scattered plates. “Well…?”

Atsurr rattled in step until he stopped behind.

“It was as you said, father,” Luta answered, smiling up from her chair. “They wished to visit the Bard’s Circle.”

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Young Thrand seemed less pleased. “I made mention that you would be keen to go. But I am not yet convinced that an invitation—that could have been made at any time or any place—is a firm sign of planned treachery.”

“Bless Ilma for your soft heart,” Jarl Thrand replied without warmth. “Be sure that the topic does not get lost when you see her next. It has been a long while since I’ve visited the Bard’s Circle and I do tire of the snake’s hissing in my nest.”

Young Thrand glanced at his serpentine signet ring.

“Gods help you if you mean to correct my words.” The Jarl of Timilir rested heavily on his black cane. “You will still get to marry the girl if that is your fear. You might even find her more warm and compliant when her life hangs in the balance. Rest assured that this is merely a test, a trap within a trap, and it may be that I am ill-founded in my suspicions.” He raised a hand to halt reply from his guard. “Atsurr would disagree, most fervently, of course, and he will ensure that no harm comes to either one of us.”

“I do not trust them,” Luta said. “You should be less blind, brother.”

Young Thrand scoffed. “I would rather be blind then have my eyes wide for a twisted plot that would explain away the simple fact that Gudmund has rebuffed your efforts to bed him. That Sybille finds you no more likable.”

Luta’s answering laugh was bitter and cold. “You almost say that as if Sybille shows you any semblance of warmth.”

“Why should she?” he angrily demanded. “She has lost her brothers. She has lost her town and all those she cared for. Not even a winter go. Do you really think she wakes each morning as you do, desperate to be married? Do you think she cares what I think of her? You may find this difficult to fathom, sister, but the loss of Thorfinn crippled me,” he added. “So I actually understand what it is to suffer the death of a brother. To grieve.” He scowled. “The whole world is not full of simpering idiots like you.”

Jarl Thrand cleared his throat. “I have things to attend. As I said, I look forward to visiting the Bard’s Circle. Make sure that the plan does not change. You will both fare equally poorly if either one of you disappoints me.”

***

Engli and Alrik sat in the back room of Sifa’s Tavern. The shutters lay shut and locked despite the warm weather and the daylight hour.

Sifa was there as well, sat so that she had the door on her left, Alrik opposite, and Engli to her right. The two young men were waiting for her to speak and, as they did, busied themselves with reading missives or notes on scraps of papers.

The delicate flame of an ornate lantern painted stone walls to a hue of bronze.

Sifa’s aged face tightened. “Is neither one of you going to speak?”

Engli and Alrik traded glances, looked to Sifa, then returned to their reading.

“This is my tavern. I allow you to stay here. I want to know what happened to Afi, Afi, and Afi. And I want to know what it is you have planned.”

“Hjorvarth put—”

“Hjorvarth was carted down the streets like a caged animal. He was covered in filth and shit and now he’s trapped in the slave mines of Timilir. How foolish do you think I am? He wasn’t sent here by Brolli. He came here looking for Alf and found you about to get your throat cut. So he told a lie and we all happened to believe him.”

Engli’s visage was one of discomfit. “Hjorvarth doesn’t lie.”

Sifa scowled. “And who are you exactly?”

“He’s the man that killed Afi, Afi, and Afi,” Alrik answered. “As to what we’re doing… you’ve hardly proved yourself trustworthy,” he chided. “As to Hjorvarth… he gave me his word that he would be back. I don’t know why he wanted to visit the slave mines, but I have heard mention that the kobold attacks have started to slow. So maybe he’s the one behind that.”

“So Brolli’s busy, Broknar knows where, and Hjorvarth’s decided he wants to come visit to solve the miner’s troubles?” Sifa doubtfully asked. “Is that part of Brolli’s plan, or is that just a personal quest?”

Alrik upturned his palms. “I don’t think anyone ever accused Hjorvarth of being clever. I don’t know what he’s doing, and I don’t know what he’s planning. All I know is that I trust the man’s word.”

Sifa’s keen eyes narrowed. “So he’s going to kill my children, then? If I decide that Brolli’s dead and gone and you two ought to join him?”

Alrik smiled. “He admitted to me that, that was a lie. Hjorvarth is not a child killer. He simply thought it would be the best way to keep you out of harm.” He shrugged. “What else was he going to do? Appeal to your good nature?” he asked in mock. “Can’t appeal to a thing that isn’t, Sifa. Now… I’m not in your way. I’m busy with what I’m doing. If you want to lead the Black Hands towards some other thing, you go on ahead. I’d just remind you that Afi, Afi and Afi were all still happy and healthy before they went after me.”

“You two have it handled?” Sifa asked. “This… whatever it is you’re doing?”

“Almost sounds like you want to help,” Engli mentioned.

“How do I want to help if I don’t know what it is?”

“Swear me some oaths,” Alrik suggested. “And I’ll tell you all there is to know.”

“I swear by Eluna, weaver of secrets, that I won’t repeat the words spoken.”

“Do you swear by Ilma, against your children’s lives, that you won’t try to stab us in the back?” Alrik asked.

Sifa’s weathered face grew hard. She offered a slow nod. “I swear by Ilma.”

“Right, then,” Alrik said with a sigh. “Myself and Engli were held captive by the Crooked Teeth, along with Ragni and Ruby—Afi, Afi, and Afi—Gudmund of Horvorr and two members of his guard. During the meeting, Young Afi got vocal and threatening and the Crooked Teeth killed the three of them. In the end, Gudmund offered to pay them to murder Jarl Thrand and we were invited to participate in the plot. So… now me and Engli are trying to decide on the best way to betray the Crooked Teeth when this is all done. And, because Joyto hates me, Ruby and Ragni have opted for open defiance of the plot. I hear she’s now playing as an escort and following Thrand around wherever he goes.”

Sifa remained still and silent.

“Regret asking?” Alrik ventured. “The latest news is that Thrand’s agreed to go to the Bard’s Circle at the end of this season. We’ll be aiming to abduct him there, and then deliver him into Jarl Gudmund’s hands.”

“So you’ve thrown in with mad men to help in a plot that will see this city drowned in blood?” Sifa asked in disbelief.

“Only if all goes wrong,” said Engli brightly. “Could be that the Gem Cutters and the Crooked Teeth are slaughtered, along with Thrand. Gudmund taking the stone city would leave the Black Hands without enemies and in good favour.”

Sifa slowly nodded. “And does Brolli, if he really is alive, know about all this?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Alrik answered. “Hjorvarth was the last to speak with him. But I’m damn sure that the man was loyal when it came to his brother. And we all know that he hated Jarl Thrand. This seems to me to be a plan that sits close to his cold heart.”