Ragged Heroes Page 3

  It had been his father’s key, once. Though used to very different purpose.

  He drew it forth with something akin to reverence and slid it in the lock. A deft turn, a loud click, and the door swung inward. The old man pocketed the key, gave a nervous glance backward, then stepped inside.

  The courtyard's broad paving stones were laid down like the surface of a chessboard, tufts of emerald grass growing between each gray slab. An isolated, triangular pocket, captured between the exterior wall’s mighty height, the palace’s own wall, and a third, lower inner wall that separated the courtyard from the palace grounds beyond.

  The old man clicked the iron door shut behind him and let out a long, shuddery breath. His shoulders relaxed, his chin rose, and he reached up to remove his hat and wipe at his brow, though it was devoid of sweat.

  Safety.

  He was, he knew, perhaps the only citizen of Caerleon who would use that word when confronted by the objects before him.

  There were a dozen of them arrayed across the courtyard. As usual, three had congregated beside the old maple tree in the corner, standing beneath its whispery boughs and small, crimson leaves.

  The one he thought of as ‘Hugo’ crouched before the pond, gazing silently at the fish that moved within its depths. Ingot lay on his back, hands resting on his barrel chest, staring up at the sky. The rest had drifted to stand facing the corners of the courtyard. The old man placed his hat firmly on his head once more. A bad sign, that. A very bad sign.

  “Good morning,” he said, setting his valise on the small table just within the black door. There was no response. He unbuckled his valise and laid it open, revealing the tools of his trade. First, of course, a general brushing. He removed the largest instrument within, a long-handled brush with iron bristles, and stepped up to Hugo.

  Even crouching, the golem was as tall as the old man. Stylized so that he appeared more a work of art than a real person, Hugo was massively broad across the shoulders, which were further accentuated by slabs of stone-like armor. Geometric patterns were carved into his substance, and there was an air of simplicity to him, a certain wounded melancholy to which the old man could so readily relate.

  “Good morning, Hugo,” said the old man, voice soft. “How are we doing today?” As he spoke, the old man examined the golem. Hugo's fists were plastered with dust and dried blood. Flecks of gore ran up his forearms and were sprayed across his chest and head.

  Hugo remained still, gazing deep into the water. There were three ornamental fish contained within; their installation had been the old man’s idea and had worked wonders for soothing the golems.

  “I know, I know,” said the old man, taking the brush to Hugo’s broad shoulder. “An unquiet night. I believe I heard you at one point. No, no need to apologize. I understand. But still, the din. And screams.” The old man paused, biting his lower lip. Hugo’s broad, almost simian face betrayed no expression. No indication that he heard.

  “Yes, well.” The old man gave himself a shake. “Of course, you know better than I. But come. A new day, a new sun. Time to brush away the past.”

  The old man set to work. It seemed all twelve golems had been sent forth into the city last night, which meant a long morning of scrubbing and washing. The old man didn’t mind, however; there was peace to be found in the work, pleasure to be found in removing the first traces of moss, the ingrained dirt, the drying blood. The great iron brush rasped over Hugo’s frame, bristles digging into the patterning, and soon the old man felt the tension that hung over the golem begin to dissipate.

  Nonsense, of course. The exarch had told him as much.

  After Hugo, the old man moved to Ingot, who stood up to facilitate his cleaning. Ingot was the smallest of the twelve, and the eldest. His features were barely humanoid, his shape rotund, his limbs almost crude in comparison to his brothers. Yet he was the old man’s favorite, and in some undefinable way the most cheerful of the twelve.

  “Ingot,” said the old man, moving up to examine the golem. Chips had been cut into his shoulders and forearms. They must have been serious blows to have so damaged the old golem. An ax, perhaps? No, a hammer. Blood was drying on Ingot’s hands and arms, and when Ingot opened his great ribs, flexing them out like the fingers of a hand, the old man saw a mass of clotted blood and hair contained within his chest cavity over his rune box where somebody had been crushed the night before.

  The old man sighed. “Quite a night.”

  Ingot’s expression was immobile, but was that sorrow the old man felt from him? Chagrin? Remorse?

  “No, no. Not your fault, of course.” He patted Ingot’s arm. “We’re all just doing what we’re told. No matter. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  The morning passed slowly. After the brushing came the endless buckets of water which sluiced off dirt and dust, blood and pieces of bone. Then came the mixing of the vinegar, alinthe and water into a powerful acid that ate into the more stubborn stains. The golems drifted closer till they were huddled around him, making it easier for him to wash and scrub and pick and floss.

  When he was done, they moved slowly to stand in the slice of sunlight now reaching the courtyard floor. As one they turned to stare up at the sun, acid dripping from their limbs and running down their faces like tears.

  The old man sighed and sat on a stone bench to eat his lunch, a simple sandwich of cheese, dry bread, and a thinly sliced pickle. His shoulders and back ached, his clothing was sprinkled with water, and sweat clung to his face in a thin veil. Still, the golems were clean. They gleamed in the sunlight, from Ingot’s dark brown to massive Oligaunt’s alabaster.

  The palace door opened and guards marched into the courtyard with clockwork precision. A dozen of them, eyes scouring the corners, hands clenched on the hafts of their pikes. Brilliant crimson surcoats over black chainmail, white plumes rising from their helms.

  The old man rose quickly to his feet, dropping his sandwich in his valise and dusting off his lap. Then he began the process of lowering himself to his knees, taking his time so that the exarch could command him to stop and save him the effort.

  “On your feet, Tomas,” said the exarch, striding down the corridor formed by his guards and out into the courtyard. “On your feet. How many times do I have to tell you?”

  “Yes, my lord.” The old man straightened his knees and stood, resisting the urge to place a hand on the small of his back. A wave of dizziness passed through him.

  “Now. How are they? Presentable?” The exarch made a gesture and the dozen golems turned to face him, stepping into a line so that they might be more efficiently examined.

  “I have done my best,” said the old man, lowering himself onto the stool.

  “Hmm,” said the exarch. He walked down the line, peering at the golems, their faces, their fists. “Hmm.”

  “Ingot took some damage, however. Fists, forearms, a blow to the back. Penelope’s left knee is giving her problems. Someone tried very hard to remove Riri’s head. All of them are nicked and scuffed.”

  The exarch stopped before Ingot and pulled his glove off. He extended his hand. The old man swayed to one side to better witness the magic. These days, it no longer awed him; he just loved to see his charges being healed.

  The cuts and cracks filled in, smoothed over, and after a few moments Ingot stood as hale as the day he’d been made. The exarch gave a grim nod and moved on to Penelope. Five minutes later, he was done.

  “My lord,” said the old man. “If I may be so bold.”

  The exarch turned to consider him, an angular eyebrow rising. “Be careful, Tomas. Boldness is not a quality I need in my caretakers.”

  The old man swallowed. “Yes, I understand. But I speak out only in concern for the golems. They were in the corners once again when I arrived. Facing the walls.”

  The exarch’s expression hardened.

  “It’s the first time they have stood that way since we installed the fish pool,” said the old man hurriedly. “I know–”
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br />   “You know?” The exarch didn’t raise his voice, but still he cut the old man off as if he’d shouted. “Careful, Tomas.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The old man looked down, struggling to find the right words. “I was simply going to suggest perhaps that we find a new means of soothing them. A pet, perhaps.”

  “A pet.” Not a question. The exarch reached up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. “They are golems, Tomas. My own creations. I am their father, as much as biological systems can be mapped onto living stone, and you speak to me of pets? They do not live. They do not feel. They are but extensions of my own power.”

  “And yet,” said the old man, visibly shaking now. He was going too far. “Before the pond, you spoke of… you mentioned they were growing stubborn. And after?”

  The exarch looked away, impatient, a band of muscle appearing and disappearing over the corner of his jaw.

  “Just a few cats,” said the old man. “I think they would do very well. I can bring them myself, if you desire. A good friend of mine has a litter she is looking to give away. I know the golems are but stone, I know I’m projecting onto them, but – but –”

  “Very well.” The exarch cut off the old man with a wave of his hand. “Bring as many cats as you like. I have an entire city to run. I will not waste my time quibbling with you over felines.”

  The old man bowed his head.

  The exarch turned back to the palace door, paused, and turned to Tomas. “You are useful, Tomas. I appreciate your diligence. I don’t even mind your extra-curricular activities. But do not allow your imagination to make of my golems more than what they are: executioners of my will. Am I understood?”

  The old man bowed his head again. “Yes, my lord. Of course.”

  The exarch waited a moment, then strode back into the palace, his guards folding in behind him. A moment later, the door closed and the courtyard grew still.

  The old man looked down at his hands and then clasped them together. Realizing he had to be brave, he forced a smile as he looked up at the line of golems. “Did you hear? Cats! You will love them. Trust me. I’ll bring them first thing tomorrow morning.”

  The golems stared back at him with their empty eyes.

  “Yes, well.” The old man gazed at his valise and the half-eaten sandwich. His appetite was gone. He set to sliding his tools back into their loops, then drew forth a small box. Smoothing down his shirt, he walked toward the far corner of the courtyard. His heart trembled, and he paused to take three steadying breaths before squatting beside a little shelf of rock that emerged from the wall at shin height.

  It was furred with viridian moss, so luxuriant it seemed to drink in the light. A slender plant grew from the shelf’s center, three stalks from whose ends hung bells of the lightest pink and gold, as if they’d somehow caught the most precious moment of dawn and folded it into their petals.

  There were, the old man knew, no other plants like it in the world.

  Carefully, he took up a trowel and dug the plant free, cutting a wedge of moss to go with it, and lifted it with bated breath into his small box. He only exhaled when he was done; no damage, no dropped petals, no beads of precious dew shaken free from their interior.

  That done, he dug into his pocket and pulled free the scrapings he’d removed from the golems. These he sprinkled into the hole he’d left on the small shelf, over which he then placed a thick pinch of loam. In a week or two the moss would have grown over it, and in time a new flower would bloom, born of the golem’s magic.

  His knees popped loudly when he stood, and he saw that the golems had wandered off once more. Most had returned to their corners. Hugo now stood by the maple tree, one massive hand extended as if to caress the bark. Ingot lay on his back once more, stubby fingers resting on his pot belly, three or four butterflies dancing over him.

  “Tomorrow, then,” said the old man. “I will return. And ah! The joy you will feel when you see your new companions. You shall have to take very good care of them.”

  He packed up his valise, buckled it tight, placed his hat upon his head and let himself out the door.

  ***

  The old man hurried through the streets of Caerleon, following a path as familiar as the seams in his callused hands. An apt comparison, he thought, for his own hand had grown strange to him over the years, the skin ever more delicate and thin, liver spots over the back, knuckles swollen, hair gray. In a similar manner, the streets had changed. Their layout remained identical, but time had not been gentle. Grand facades had grown dingy and chipped. The cobblestones wobbled beneath his feet. Open streams of sewage now ran down the center of not just the poorer streets, but even some in the palace quarter.

  Hard to believe his own memories of the place. Everything from his youth seemed to glow in his memory as if imbued with the radiance of innocence, a glory that had since faded from the world. A time when Caerleon had been the capital and the old royal family had resided in the palace. He passed a closed and boarded shop which forty years ago had been the Prince’s Favor, an elegant bar to which his father had brought him when he was but twelve years old.

  “We don’t serve children here,” the waiter had protested, pulling back his bottle of wine.

  The old man’s father had but smiled. “He is my son, and I am his father. If I say he may drink, then you shall pour.”

  The waiter had poured an inch of rich red, and the old man thought nothing had ever tasted finer, before or since. A taste of a finer time, a richer era, when there was yet dignity and order to the world.

  The old man flinched at the sound of shouts and running footsteps, and ducked into another alley. Cries, more shouts, and then the ring of metal on metal.

  Eyes on the muddy cobbles, the old man hurried on.

  Soon enough, he reached the docks. The harbor appeared almost empty. News of the impounding of the Fortune’s Smile had spread amongst the merchants, and it had been three weeks since a galleon or merchant vessel had dared tempt the exarch’s needs. A turn, and his view of the ocean disappeared as the old man finally reached his destination: a small curio shop with a dusty display window and faded sign hanging out front displaying a stack of coins and a quill.

  A bell rang as he pushed his way inside into that familiar, musty smell. No matter the weather or time of day outside, the curio shop always had its own constant form of illumination, a permanent amber glow from special lamps Mr. Gallows claimed were fueled by the souls of unrepentant weevils. Tosh and nonsense, but that was Mr. Gallows for you.

  “Hello?” The old man brushed off his coat and doffed his hat. “You hiding in the back, you old fraud?”

  “Tomas? Just a moment. One more line to this poem I’m writing. Be right with you.”

  The old man drifted forward till he fetched up against the broad counter behind which Mr. Gallows had spent his life. Carefully, reverently, he set his small box square on the deeply lacquered surface, then set down his valise, placed his hat atop it, and ran his fingers through his thinning hair.

  The woes of Caerleon seemed a thousand miles away from the depths of the shop. There was a magic to the stillness, to the dusty shadows and warm light, the smell of wax and old paper, the strange spices and the lamp smoke. It was a pocket of preserved history, unchanging and eternal. The old man felt himself relax by slow degrees, and when Mr. Gallows emerged from the back with cups carefully balanced on a tray, he smiled.

  “Tomas you old miser. Come to drink the last of my tea, you have. I mean that literally. This is the last of the Silvergray Leaf. A sorry state of affairs.”

  Tomas leaned on one elbow and took up a fine porcelain cup, holding the steaming liquid to his nose. “Then I timed my arrival with exquisite precision. I must say I’m delighted to be the last to drink this brew.”

  “Aye, well, at least one of us is pleased.” Mr. Gallows was eyeing his box. “I see you’ve brought me a present. Shall we say it's a fair exchange for the tea, and call it a day?”

  The old man smile
d. “Not for all the Silvergray tea in Methelen.”

  “Well, fair enough. May I?”

  The old man gave a casual, almost disinterested nod, and looked away as Mr. Gallows opened the box.

  “My word,” said the curio dealer. “My word.”

  A soft, pink glow emanated from the depths of the box. The old man felt a flush of pride, but of course made sure to give no sign. “The usual price, shall we say?”

  “I wish I could,” said Mr. Gallows, then held up a hand. “No, no chicanery on my part. No weaselly attempt at haggling. I’m short of funds, old friend. Desperately short. I can only offer you…” Mr. Gallows grimaced in thought. “But what am I to do with it? With no ships going to Caran, I can’t risk the aether to preserve it. Without the aether, it won’t last till a ship arrives to move your precious plant to my buyer? As beautiful as it is, I can’t justify spending gold on a blossom that will fade and die within my own shop.”

  The old man set his cup down. “Mr. Gallows. This is –”

  “I’m sorry,” said his old friend. “I truly am. I know its worth. And I know what its sale means to you. But I can’t, Tomas. Not with the harbor empty and the exarch strangling all trade.”

  The old man forced a smile. “Well, perhaps not full price then. A wager, on your part, that the exarch will bring peace before the flower fades.”

  Mr. Gallows frowned. “Ten crowns.”

  “Ten?” The old man fought to keep his voice down.

  “You heard anything from the exarch himself?” Mr. Gallows looked him right in the eye. “Heard any reason for me to think trade will resume?”

  “I – no.” The old man sighed. “Not as such. If anything, the golems are to become all the busier.”

  “Well, ten crowns is all I can offer, my friend. And with my apologies.”