“Now then,” said Wren. “I understand you want to join my company specifically. Why?”
Murtagh straightened further. “Everyone says it’s the best in the city, sir. And I’d like to be of some use again, aside from just guarding caravans.”
“Very commendable of you. Gert seemed impressed with your swordsmanship, and it takes a lot to pry a compliment out of that old goat. He also says you have some experience. So tell me, Task, where did you serve?”
It was a question with many meanings, and they both knew it. Murtagh noted that the captain had been careful not to ask with whom. “At the Battle of the Burning Plains,” he said quietly. “And I were also at Ilirea when it fell.”
Wren nodded, keeping his gaze fixed on the vellum. As Murtagh had expected, the captain didn’t inquire further. Most of the men in Galbatorix’s army had been conscripts forced to swear oaths of loyalty to the king in the ancient language. Since the king’s death, and since Eragon had used the Name of Names to break those oaths, the many thousands of soldiers had been free to pick their own path. The majority returned to their homes. But a significant portion opted to continue their profession as men-at-arms, and Nasuada’s current regime was not so well established that they could afford to turn away so many trained men.
Besides, there were plenty of people throughout Nasuada’s realm who still held sympathies for the Empire and who regarded the Varden with no small amount of ill will. It was possible that such was the case with the captain.
Either way, it would have been impolitic for Wren to press for more details as to Murtagh’s past service. Knowing that, Murtagh had avoided mentioning his presence at the Battle of Tronjheim, for the only notable human forces there had been among the Varden, whereas humans had fought on both sides at the Burning Plains and Ilirea.
Captain Wren said, “How were you trained?”
“As a footman, but I’m better with a blade than a spear or pike, and I’m more than passable with a bow.”
The captain nodded, making another note. “And why are you looking to serve again, Task? Yes, you wish to be of use. But why now? I assume you’ve not marched under a banner since Ilirea.”
“No, sir…I wanted to see my family. I’m from a village called Cantos, in the south. I don’t know if you’ve heard of it….”
Wren shook his head. “I can’t say I have.”
“Well, it’s not a big place, sir. Or, it wasn’t. There weren’t much left of it when I got there.” Cantos had been the village Galbatorix had ordered Murtagh to burn, raze, and eradicate; he’d fled before obeying, but he knew the king would have found someone to commit the crime all the same.
“I see. I’m sorry to hear that, Task.”
Murtagh shrugged. “It were a hard war, sir.”
At that, a flicker of some indefinable emotion appeared in Wren’s eyes. “That it was, Task. That it was.” The captain leaned back in his chair and gave Murtagh a thoughtful look. “Have you any of your old kit?”
Murtagh gestured at his bedroll. “A shirt of fine mail, sir, but that’s all.”
“It’s better than most, Task. There are some required items you will have to purchase of your own, but with your reward for Muckmaw, you have more than sufficient funds. The rest of your equipment can be provided, assuming…”
Murtagh cocked his head. “Assuming what, sir?”
Wren rested his elbows on the desk and placed one gnarled hand over the other. “If you’re serious about joining my company, Task, you’ll have to swear fealty to the queen, to Lord Relgin, and to this unit, with myself as its commander. Do you understand?”
A sick feeling formed in Murtagh’s stomach, and the back of his neck went cold. I should have realized. Something of his reaction must have shown, because Wren’s expression hardened. “Is that a problem for you, Task?” He picked up his quill again.
“That depends, sir. Does the queen require swearing in this tongue or…or…”
Wren’s expression cleared. “Ah, I take your meaning. No, the queen does not believe in enforced loyalty. After all, a man’s word should be an unbreakable bond, no matter what language he speaks. One’s honor and reputation are more valuable than the greatest of riches, as I’m sure you agree.”
“Yes, sir.” Murtagh couldn’t help but think of his own reputation among the common folk, and he suppressed a grimace.
The corner of Wren’s mouth quirked in a partial smile. “Of course, the reality isn’t always as pure or shining as the ideal, but we must trust in the goodness of our fellow men. And we must allow them to make what mistakes they will, without corralling them with magical enforcement.”
What are you playing at? Murtagh wondered. It sounded as if Wren were criticizing, if only indirectly, the means and methods of Du Vrangr Gata. Or perhaps he was trying to assess Murtagh’s own sympathies. Which reinforced his impression of the captain being a cautious, clever man.
“In that case, sir, I’ll be happy to swear.” He wouldn’t be, and wasn’t, but Murtagh couldn’t see a way to avoid it.
“Excellent,” said Wren, and started to shuffle through the sheets of parchment on the desk. “Pay is given on the twenty-first of every month. For that, you’ll have to see Gert. Leave is subject to our duties, but normally you will have every fifth day to yourself, and harvest days and queen’s celebrations are divided among the company. Someone has to stand watch, but you are guaranteed leave for at least half those days.”
“Yes, sir.”
Again, Murtagh found his gaze drawn to the masks on the wall, as if their empty eyes contained secrets worth learning. There was something odd about the masks that he couldn’t quite identify; looking at them was like looking at objects through a slightly warped mirror.
Wren noticed his interest. “Ah. You find my humble collection interesting, do you?”
“I’ve never seen anything quite like those masks before,” Murtagh confessed.
The captain seemed pleased. “Indeed. They’re not easily found in Alagaësia. It took me over ten years to acquire these few. The masks are made by the nomads who frequent the grasslands. Their artisans produce all sorts of arcane objects that are unknown to the rest of us.”
“They seem quite lifelike, in a curious sort of way,” said Murtagh.
Wren’s eyes brightened. “Oh, it’s more than that, Task. Look.” He reached out and pulled a mask from the wall, the one carved in the likeness of a bear. Wren placed it over his face, and in that instant, his appearance shifted and warped, and he seemed to swell in size—shoulders widening, growing sloped and heavy and shaggy—and the mask moved with his face as if it were made of flesh and bone, and not wood, and an overpowering sense of presence made Murtagh fall back a step. It was as if the essence of bear had enveloped Wren, burying the man beneath a bestial cloak.
Then the captain pulled the mask away, and the impression vanished. Once again, he was just a man sitting at a desk, holding a wooden mask in his twisted hand.
“That…What is that, sir?” said Murtagh.
Wren chuckled and rehung the bear mask. “A powerful glamour, Task. I don’t know why the tribes make them, but I can tell you they’re not for hunting. Animals react quite badly if they see you wearing one of the masks. Dogs and horses especially. They go mad with fear.”
“I see, sir.”
Wren went back to searching the contents of his desk and, after a moment, produced a sheet of parchment covered with lines of runes. “Ah, there we are.” He rang a small brass bell and then dipped his quill in the inkpot. “Let’s see. Task Ivorsson, was it?”