“But she reached out real slow, unballed a fist long enough to close it around the bag, and said, quiet like, ‘Widowcoin, is it?’
“I nodded and replied, ‘Captain Killcoin-you remember him, of course-he takes care of the fallen and those they leave behind. Glesswik’s share-’
“She stopped me then. Said, ‘That’s the first you’ve called him by name. Since you rapped on my door. You know that, Ven?’
“I shook my head, though I knew she was right. And she pushed her child back behind her leg, stood a little taller, and said, ‘That’s the last time, too. Never going to hear another Syldoon bastard name him again. Anyone names him now, it will be me, on my terms. You had the best of him, the lot of you. Had the best years, the best Gless there was, left me with the rind. The rind and some coins. Now you get out of here, you son of a whore, and you step inside my door again, you better believe you won’t be stepping out again.’”
“That is harsh.”
“But true enough. I started to say something else, no idea what, as there weren’t nothing else worth saying, but she stopped me anyway with a ‘Go on. Get. Show me your backside, Syldoon, then never show me anything again.’ She started crying again, but the controlled sort, jaw clenched, eyes as forgiving as wet stones.
“Never felt as low in my entire sorry life. Gless was like my big brother, and she had the right of it-I knew Gless better than her, would be like to mourn him harder, even. And that rankled her as bad as anything. She was right, we left her next to nothing, even with the coins.
“So I walked out. And if I ever see that horsey woman again, it will be too soon for both of us.”
I wished there was something I could have said or done to lessen his load, but both of us knew there wasn’t.
Vendurro seemed to sense what I was thinking, as he shrugged. “Anyway. Sorry for yammering on about it.”
I suppose being a sympathetic ear while he unburdened himself was meager balm, but better than none at all. Unless talking about it made it worse. “I’m sorry you had to be the one to deliver the news, is all. But as you said, at least you put it behind you now. If you ever want to talk about it, or Glesswik, I’m always happy to listen.”
He nodded and started to ask me something when Braylar, Hewspear, and Mulldoos came into the captain’s quarters.
Braylar said, “It is time. Come.”
I asked, “The Caucus?”
Mulldoos replied, “No. Time to dig a privy. I got your shovel, you skinny bastard.”
I stood, and Vendurro and I followed them out. I suspected digging a privy might have actually been a preferable way to spend the afternoon.
We took the more circuitous circuit around the outer wall of Sunwrack, passing Towers large and small. Our own small company was the Tower Commander, three key captains, and a small number of lieutenants. I wondered if Soffjian or any of the other Memoridons would be attending, but then guessed the Caucus must have only been for the Syldoon soldiers. Which made me feel even stranger to be the only non-Syldoon in the group. Each of them had the same charcoal-colored tunic with a badge of the Jackal Tower on the left breast, and trousers, with a wide sash the shade of wine around their waists. And of course belts. With weapons. They never seemed to go anywhere without those.
I was a little surprised by that. In Anjuria and most any other civilized place in the world, men did not bear weapons in the presence of the highest lords, in particular kings and high priests, and I would have assumed this held true for emperors.
Mulldoos was the closest to me, and while I would have preferred posing the question to someone else, anyone else, I asked him.
He looked down as if surprised that he had forgotten actually buckling the thing on that morning. He tapped his falchion hilt. “What, this? Never go anywhere without one.”
“But with so much bad blood between the various Towers, doesn’t that invite, well, bad blood in the streets?”
“Bloodshed comes whether she’s invited or no. Pushy entitled bitch, bloodshed.”
I watched the leaders of another nearby Tower filing out and took care to lower my voice a little. Their color and cut of costume were essentially identical, although the badges were obviously different, marking them as men of the Elk Tower. “But isn’t it more likely, with everyone armed all the time? And isn’t the Emperor worried?”
Vendurro overheard and replied, “Good thing to be worried, when you’re an emperor. Guessing the blades remind him to take care and not sit easy. And as to the likelihood,” he thumbed a leather cord that was looped over the pommel and hilt of his sword. “Like to be inspired from tribes like Cap’s over there, but we got the peace cords on. Now, they only slow you down a short bit if you got intent to draw and slaughter somebody, but someone with a cooler head will work some sense into you as you struggle to unknot the plaguing thing. Course, there’s a way to tie the lash so it looks like the weapon is snug and secure, only it takes a quick flick to actually release the thing.”
Mulldoos added, “Course, anyone sees you using a false knot on that string, especially if it’s two or more someones to your one, well, you won’t be worrying about tying anything anymore.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
Mulldoos wiggled his fingers. “On account of you needing these to tie anything. Or hold a sword. Or a spoon. You see any poor bastard with a club hand and no fingers to speak of, it’s a good bet he got caught using a false string.”
Vendurro said, “I always wondered why Lloi’s folk left her with the nubs at the bottom there. No better than no fingers at all.”
“Crueler, truth be told,” Mulldoos replied. “Taunts you into remembering the fingers you once had. Better to have nothing left at all.”
“You thinking that’s why they didn’t chop them off in the entirety?”
“How should I know?” Mulldoos replied. “I’m not a plaguing pagan savage who wipes his ass with grass.”
Vendurro nodded, and then asked, “Do they do that? Wipe their asses with grass?”
Mulldoos looked at the younger man, shook his head, and said, “You sure do ask some queer questions sometimes, boy.”
We continued walking, most of Jackal Tower quiet. The other Towers walking before or behind, keeping a respectful distance in each case, were equally somber. Tense. You might have thought we were attending a funeral or an execution. Though I supposed it was possible we were, peace strings or no. The tale Braylar told about his father being murdered did nothing to quiet those fears.
Even with each Tower limited in the number of men going to the Caucus, with so many filing out into the streets, it was still a sizable group heading through the city. Some chose to walk away from the Avenue and its massive wall, but most Tower Syldoon hugged the rim of the city, careful to allow plenty of distance between them.
As we walked, I moved to catch up to Hewspear and his long legs, wondering if his visit had gone any better than Vendurro’s. I was almost reluctant to ask, but as ever, my need to know overrode other considerations.
“So,” I said, “Did your grandson appreciate the flute you brought him?”
Hewspear looked down at me, his namesake spear left behind at the Tower, his flanged mace hanging on his hip. It also had a peace string, though knotted differently. “He did. Though I did not have much opportunity to see him enjoy it.” He sounded melancholy enough that I instantly regretted prying. No wonder Vendurro and I got on fairly well-neither one of us seemed to know when to keep our mouths shut.
“His mother?” I asked, knowing the answer, but compelled by the inevitability of it all.