Mulldoos chortled. “Wait, before that, did you just admit there was a topic known to all the tribes of the world that you weren’t some sort of expert on? Did you just say that? You said that, didn’t you? With witnesses and everything? Plague me, that’s a first.”
“Alright,” I said, excited to be getting some straight answers, but still floundering a bit in making sense of it all. “So what does this have to do with dusty tomes from other kingdoms? And Henlester?”
Mulldoos nodded in an exaggerated fashion. “See, real direct, boy. You’re learning. Slow, but you’re learning.” I wasn’t sure if he was mocking me. Well, of course he was, but it seemed slightly less biting than usual. That seemed like progress.
Hewspear answered, “The Syldoon are reviled for a number of reasons, as you well know, and employing the Memoridons while all other kingdoms hunt them to extinction certainly does us no favors. But the Empire is relatively young compared to most kingdoms. And the memory witches have been around for far longer, burnt and drowned and hated and feared. No one knows for sure where those powers come from. But some believe the Deserter Gods instilled it in men.”
Mulldoos said, “Before deciding they wanted nothing more to do with all these broken toys they were playing with and left us high and dry to fend for ourselves, that is.”
Hewspear gave Mulldoos a look that was equal parts paternal and pitying. “Such a shame to have such a narrow scope of imagination or appreciation.”
“Such a shame to be a prattling old windmill. But don’t let me interrupt your history lesson. Bleat on.”
Hewspear ignored him. “There are many regions who catalogued their experiences with hedge witches, for centuries. Mostly this consisted of anecdotes about what they were accused of, and how many were strung up or otherwise murdered and when, but some scholars in some parts of the world chose to actually investigate the witches. Compile accounts of their behavior, origins, descriptions of their unnatural abilities.”
It was my turn to interrupt. “Let me guess-you’ve discovered a higher concentration of them in Anjuria.”
Mulldoos whooped. Actually whooped. “There it is! All kinds of clever!”
I started to reply but thankfully Hewspear interceded. “That’s correct, Arki. The most useful of them are written in Old Anjurian, though some in Middle as well.”
“And you have reason to believe the Temple of Truth has such records, or something like that?”
“There you go, boy!” Mulldoos said. “Direct as a bolt to the face. Cleverer and cleverer.”
I forced myself to ignore him. “But why all this effort to obtain and translate these scrolls and reports in the first place? What could you hope to learn that you don’t already know? The Empire has used Memoridons for centuries now-certainly you have intimate and voluminous knowledge. You know far more than any peoples in the world about what the Memoridons are capable of.” Then I undermined the strength of the statement by asking, “Don’t you?”
Braylar nodded. “What they are capable of? Absolutely. But we are discussing origins. Original experiences and impressions of memory witches. And while most tried to destroy them, as Hew said, there were some very few who studied them. And the Syldoon are not the only ones to attempt to control them. Only the most systematic and successful. So, it is possible we might unearth some information that we don’t know, something ancient and buried and useful, some of those earliest efforts that might give us advantage now.”
“But… you already control them. Advantage how? Over whom? I don’t… I don’t understand.”
Mulldoos replied, and I expected him to belittle me, but he chose Hewspear as the target instead. “Not hard to see why. All that blathering puts me to sleep every time, too.”
Hewspear mostly ignored the jibe, saying only, “Limited,” before responding to me. “Each Tower controls its own Memoridons.”
I still must have looked painfully confused, as Braylar said, “What my circumspect lieutenant means is, we are trying to see if there is any way to gain control of those belonging to the other Towers. Not only controlling our own, but all of them. And the priests of Truth might prove useful in doing so. Or not. We speculate, based on limited information. But with any luck, your translations will push our examination of things in the right direction.”
I was about to say something else when I heard hoofbeats. We all looked up to see a rider coming down the road from the east. From the direction of Alespell. Not galloping, so if it was a Syldoon scout, it didn’t look like we were in danger. Not immediate, anyway.
Braylar and his officers stood and so I did as well as we waited for the rider to rein up. I wondered if the other soldiers begrudged me my position in the company. Until remembering that I was only a scribe, and likely barely registered in their field of view. Vendurro must have seen the rider as well, as he approached our group, burped, and announced, “What do you suppose, good word or bad?”
No one answered as we continued to wait.
The rider was one of the pair that had remained behind us. He halted his horse and saluted.
Braylar took a few steps forward. “Report, Syldoon.”
The scout pulled off his helm, face red and sweaty. “Our wagons made good time, Cap. Coming up behind us. Few miles back yet, but be here soon enough.” He looked around. “Didn’t expect to catch up to you so quick.”
Braylar twitch-smiled and replied, “One of the perks of being captain, soldier, is that you can occasionally goad a Memoridon without suffering severe repercussions. This is doubly true when the Memoridon in question is your sibling. Though sometimes half as true. But in either case, she provided me an excuse to slow down, appreciate the scenery a bit.” He extended a sweeping arm, taking in the generally unremarkable pines and uneven dirt road.
The scout didn’t quite seem to know what to do with that information. “Uh, just wanted to bring word to expect company soon, Cap.”
“Very good, soldier. Rest for as long as you need. Then return to the road and keep a vigil eye.”
“Aye, Cap.” He saluted again and rode off into the grass toward the other soldiers.
After he was out of hearing distance, Mulldoos did what he seemed to do better than anything besides killing people-questioning orders. “Cap, you know me. I got little love for any Memoridons.”
Braylar pivoted, clearly sensing what was to come. “Nor for crippled whores with Memoridon-like tendencies. Or reedy scribes. Or rusty mail. Or much of anything that does not involve ale, loose women, vulgarity, or the opportunity to carve up Anjurians. Go on.”
Mulldoos took that in stride. “But seeing as how she’s already likely to report you dawdling a fair bit, and parsing out an Imperial directive how you choose to, is it really smart to keep jabbing her with a sharp stick like you are? Maybe we ought to send a rider to let her know we’re waiting on the wagons, or-”
“Does my sister command this unit, Mulldoos?”
The lieutenant waved off a big bloated fly. “Course not, Cap. But-”
“Very good. So until I am forcibly relieved of duty, I will command as I see fit. And when our Memoridon escort storms off like a spoiled child, I am less inclined to do anything to appease, placate, or otherwise mollify her. We wait for the wagons. Here.”
Mulldoos looked at Hewspear, who sighed and grudgingly took the cue. “And like that, the escort returns.” We saw him looking down the road in the opposite direction, at two figures barely visible on a hilltop, leading some spare horses. “But might I suggest, Captain, that while feigned deference might be too difficult, cordiality might serve us well. In this instance. Given previous history and relations. Respectfully, Captain.”
“Your ‘respectfully’ is clearly feigned. You see, that is the difficulty with false pretense-it is so easy for a skilled and suspicious liar to see through. I will forge nothing false with my sister-that would serve only to heighten any hostilities and suspicions further. But your concern and suggestions are duly noted, the pair of you.”