Firebrand

Chapter 476: Belt and Breeches

Chapter 476: Belt and Breeches

Belt and Breeches

"Nordmark, are you in good health?" Maximilian watched him across the table.

Eating his porridge with his usual fervour, or lack thereof, Martel arrested his spoon mid-air and returned the look. "Just because I'm eating my food slower than you, it doesn't mean anything is wrong with me. On the contrary, it's your eating habits that should be called into question."

"Overlooking this insult for a moment, I am obviously referring to the fact that you were unavailable yesterday. I sincerely hope that will not repeat itself today when I take the field."

Right, Martel had forgotten about pretending to be ill. "Definitely not. I'll be there to watch you take a beating."

"With such encouragement from my friends, why do I even bother with enemies?"

"Just trying to balance your unbridled optimism. You and Eleanor fighting together? Assuming she's also participating."

"No, they spread it out according to age. I feel quite certain I explained this to you last year."

Martel gave his friend a sceptical look. "The other day, you couldn't remember the name of your own cousin when you pointed out all your family members, but you recall this conversation?"

Maximilian made some throat noises in protest. "A most distant cousin, and I have dozens of them! The harvest games are actually important."

"Well, I shall be there to cheer you on."

***

Martel took his regular seat by the festival square, dressed like any other noble, except perhaps his clothing was made from coarser fabric. But nobody bothered him or hindered his way; he was a familiar sight, even without Maximilian. The mageknight stood on the square in the company of his peers, all of them older than him. Another band likewise diverse in years stood opposite. The overseer of the games gave a signal, and the skirmish erupted.

The crowds cheered and jeered dependent on affiliation; this was especially true on the benches, where many of the noble houses had a family member participating in the contest. More than once, the conflict on the square almost became mirrored on the stands, with cooler heads forced to intervene before it came to blows.

Although Martel had his own allegiances, he kept quiet rather than invite any sort of attention. He watched both Maximilian and Eleanor advance, happy on their behalf. Similar to the archery contest, it would require numerous rounds before a group advanced to the final battle, where they might be crowned champion of the games.

Waiting for the next group of mageknights to get ready, Martel idly glanced around when his gaze caught something. At various places, usually at the end of the benches, servants to the nobles stood clustered. This allowed them to attend the needs of their masters while watching the contest.

But one of them caught Martel's suspicion. He had not seen the fellow before or at least did not recognise him, though obviously, it could be a failing of his memory, or the man had simply not given service on previous days. He wore an insignia that Martel did not know, but with all the minor nobility arriving in Morcaster for the festival, that was not strange either. Lastly, he stood a little apart rather than participating in the eager discussions like the other servants, though he might just be less sociable in nature.

All of it could be explained away, but put together, it made Martel uncomfortable. Making a quick decision, he got up and walked away.

***

He was good. As Martel walked towards the school, he barely caught a glimpse of his pursuer. If he had not already been suspicious, he would never have guessed that he was being followed. But since Martel had noticed, it was simple enough to plan accordingly.

Turning a sharp corner, Martel stepped into the shadows of the alley afforded by the tall buildings. It did not take long before the supposed servant made the same corner, finding himself face to face with a wizard.

Immediately, Martel blasted the man with air to make him fall flat on his back. He quickly let his magical sense check for gold; nothing came back. So not an assassin, but simply someone following him to notice his habits and weaknesses.

Martel could let the man go, but he decided to take advantage of the situation and add a parting message. "Tell your chief and all who serve him that he's done. I will burn everything he owns to the ground until he is left with nothing but ashes." To really drive it through, Martel summoned fire to dance across his hands, going up and down his arms.

The henchman crawled backwards with eyes full of fear before he pushed himself off the ground and ran as fast as his belt and breeches allowed.

In the distance, the roar of the crowds could faintly be heard. The contest was reaching its conclusion, and Martel would miss it. Accepting this, he continued on his path, going back to the Lyceum.

***

When he arrived, another message had been pushed under his door.

It's ready. They meet

tomorrow at third

bell. Be in good time

at Corvinus' square.

Harold

It seemed Martel's dramatics had been unnecessary; the thugs at the harbour had already been pushed enough to allow the final flourish. Losing a tavern, a ship, and a warehouse without the slightest retaliation had taken its toll. Burning the note, Martel prepared himself for the last push.

***

An unassuming house in the harbour district played host to the ruler of its criminal faction. Nothing about the building suggested wealth or the comforts that a person of means might enjoy. That was its main advantage, being inconspicuous. It lay next to a large insula that covered it in shadows and further made it an unremarkable location.

Inside, the chief ate his supper alone in the study when the door suddenly opened. "They brought the Khivan, master," the guard announced.

"Send him in."

Two other guards appeared, almost carrying a short man between them by the shoulders. The fellow had a bag over his head, and the sheath in his belt was bereft of its knife. One of them pulled the bag away to reveal the same Khivan who had met with Martel, providing him information.

Slicing up a tomato, Vitus let his eyes examine his guest. He was himself a man in his late thirties with unfeeling eyes and cropped hair, clean-shaven. He used his knife slowly, almost methodically on the tomato in his hand as he stared at the Khivan. "How much do you want for betraying your master?"

"Twenty crowns, master," the visitor replied, licking his lips. "Enough to buy me passage from here and start anew."

"And you can guarantee he'll show?"

"Master, I'll lead the wizard to your people myself. He won't suspect a thing." An awkward grin settled on the Khivan's sweaty face.

"If you lie, I will scour that pathetic district you call home. I will kill, slowly, everyone in your family, leaving you as the last."

The Khivan swallowed. "I understand, master."

Vitus exhaled. "Fine. Twenty crowns." He slid a slice of his tomato into his mouth. "You'll remain here until tomorrow as our guest."

"Yes, master. When – when will I be paid?"

The master of the harbour gave the Khivan a cold look. "When it's done. But if it goes wrong, you better pray the wizard kills you first."

The Khivan bowed his head, licking his lips again. "Of course, master."

Once he was gone, Vitus turned to the remaining guard. "Make sure he dies. Once this mage is dealt with, we burn down the entire enclave. A fitting end for the Fire Eater."