“Yes, yes, come in.”
The office was resplendent, but the decor was markedly different from any other place Laedron had seen in the city. The room contained an Azuran banner at the center of the rear wall, but he couldn’t place the furniture or any of the other decorations. Looking past the desk, he also noticed the man wore dark armor with studs and spikes all over it.
“And who, pray tell, are you?” The man’s words were sharp and crisp, and his voice carried a throaty accent.
“Um… Laedron, and this is Marac. We’ve come to join the militia at Vicar Jurgen’s request.”
Greathis’s eyes widened. “Vicar Jurgen? Has our friend returned from the city of Balfan?”
Laedron handed him the scroll. “Yes, Master Greathis. I-”
“Dalton.” He read over the parchment, then stamped a small piece of paper with his signet ring and handed it to Laedron.
“Sire?”
“Any friend of Vicar Jurgen may call me Dalton, for we are friends by association. Just Dalton.”
“Very well.” Laedron glanced around the room again, taking in the strangeness of the place. “You’re not from the theocracy, are you? I feel as if I’ve journeyed to a new land just by passing through your door.”
Greathis laughed. “Not the first time I’ve heard that. I hail from Falacore, and these are my possessions.”
Falacore. The icy north, the land of the fabled warriors. “What is a Falacoran doing so far from home?”
“His duty, of course,” Greathis said. “We have a close relationship with the church, and it is not as uncommon as you might think. Many of my predecessors have also been Falacoran. Our skill in battle makes us apt at training men for patrolling streets or for service on the battlefield.”
“We won’t need any training,” Marac said.
“Won’t you? A wise man once told me that he who knows everything knows nothing. I’ve found it to be true.”
“He means no disrespect.” Laedron glanced at Marac before returning his eyes to Greathis. “To say it better, we are prepared for duty now and require no further instruction.”
Greathis dipped his head. “Very well. Jurgen wouldn’t have sent you unless he had faith in your abilities. What are your specialties?”
Laedron’s gaze fell to the floor. “My friend here is skilled with a sword.”
“And you?”
An array of weapons flooded his mind. Which one? What’s easiest to use? I carry none of them!
“No need to be bashful, friend,” Marac said, stepping past Laedron. “He fights with a dagger.”
“A dagger? Interesting…”
Though Laedron had only handled a knife for carving fish, he figured he could use it better than anything else. “Yes, daggers. I’m sorry. I know it’s an unusual weapon to master.”
“No, it’s quite all right.” Greathis clasped his hands. “I’ve seen wonders performed with the shorter blades.”
Laedron exhaled lightly so as not to appear nervous, then grinned at Marac.
“The armory is on the first floor,” Greathis said. “There you may acquire your tunics and arms from the quartermaster. Give that order to him once you find him.”
“Thank you… Dalton.” Laedron bowed, and Marac followed him to the first floor. Hearing shouting from down the hall, Laedron rushed forward and located the source of the racket, a man with a longsword at his hip and sergeant’s chevrons on his sleeve.
“On the left! Damned fools! No, the other left!” the sergeant yelled. “All the way against the wall and two high.”
Not wanting to draw the man’s ire, Laedron waited for the sergeant to finish his diatribe. “Are you the quartermaster?”
“Aye, Sergeant Wilkans. And who are you, boy?”
“New recruits, come for our tunics and weapons.” Laedron showed Wilkans the missive that Master Greathis had given him.
Wilkans put his hands on his hips. “Well, you’ll have to wait. We’re reorganizing the stockroom right now.”
“Perhaps we can help,” Laedron suggested.
“Maybe. Do you know left from right?”
“Sire?”
“It’s a simple question, boy,” Wilkans said with a sigh. “Do you know your left hand from your right?”
Laedron nodded.
“Good.” He turned to yell at the men inside the stockroom, “Maybe somebody with some sense about them can get this done!”
Laedron gestured for Marac to come with him, and they both grunted at feeling the weight when they lifted the crates. Per Wilkans’s detailed instructions, Laedron and Marac moved the heavy boxes across the storeroom and stacked them. Finishing, both of them heaved sighs and did their best to wipe the sweat from their brows.
Entering the room and inspecting the work, Wilkans said, “Good, many thanks. Let’s see about getting you some supplies.”
I can’t believe I’m doing this. Laedron eyed the symbol on his new tunic. Everything I’ve come to despise is embodied in this emblem, a symbol I will have emblazoned across my chest. He shook his head, then donned the garment over his shirt and pants.
“Need any arms?” Wilkans asked.
Laedron pointed at the daggers across the top of the weapons rack. “I could use one of those and a sheath.”
Wilkans obliged, then turned to Marac. “I see you already have a sword. You can use your own or one of mine. I care not.”
“I’ll keep my own, thank you.”
“All right. Have you a route yet?” Wilkans asked.
“A route? No,” Laedron replied.
Wilkans led them down the hall to a room with a large table holding a map of the city. He rubbed his chin and studied the map. “This here would be a good one.” With his finger, he traced a series of narrow streets near the Ancient Quarter.
“Anything we should know about it?” Laedron asked.
Wilkans cleared his throat. “Some have gone missing along this route before.”
“Gone missing?” Laedron raised an eyebrow. “How many?”
“Three, and the answer to your next question is two months.”
“Without a trace?”
“Nothing that we could find. No bodies, no blood, no witnesses.” Wilkans handed Laedron a pair of whistles, each attached to its own chain. “If you get in trouble, signal for help. We run patrols tighter since those disappearances.”
Laedron gave a whistle to Marac, then put the other around his neck. “Very well, Sergeant.”
“Get to it. Report anything unseemly to me or Master Greathis. Get a bit of sleep before you go out; you’re on the night patrols, and you start at sunset and keep on ‘til sunrise. The militia quarters are on the second floor.”
* * *
“I’m bored already,” Marac said, kicking a stone down the avenue.
The sun had just dipped below the horizon, and the lantern lighters were busy on their appointed rounds. They had done little more than eat a heavy meal at a nearby tavern and ensure that old women had no harassment or trouble when trying to cross the roads.
“You’re always bored.” Laedron swatted Marac on the arm.
Marac scoffed. “What are we doing? Walking along while waiting to be killed under mysterious circumstances?”
“Giving Jurgen peace of mind.”
“I’ve never seen a city so tight. What more could he need?”
Laedron grinned. “We got in, didn’t we?”
“Good point.”
“Loosen up, Marac,” Laedron said. “Creator! I never thought those words would cross my lips.”
“You’re telling me!” Marac rolled his shoulders. “Nothing a good night at a tavern wouldn’t cure.”
“Don’t even think about it. When we’re done with this, you can have as much ale as you can stand, but not before.”
“Yes, Da.”
“Oh, stop it. You know how important our task is. We have no time for loafing.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know.”
The night marched forward, and even Laedron felt ungratified and listless as the evening progressed. I pray we don’t have weeks of this ahead of us. They returned to the militia headquarters once Laedron caught sight of the first rays of the morning sun. Collapsing on his bed, he heard something crinkle against his hair. Reaching behind his head, he found a scroll held furled by a red ribbon and a bit of wax.