Gleeman's Tales Read online

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  Sometime over a decade before the present day.

  Dusk had come and gone, yet morning was still a way off. A clear night promised a sublime vista as the stars emerged from their daily hibernation. The lazy moon lugged itself over curling waves. It hesitated, not wanting to leave its embrace with the ocean.

  Jackal mounted the westward pointed bowsprit with one leg and gazed out at the infinite presence of the waves. A rogue gust brought salt from the sea to his tender eyes. He pulled his cloak tighter against his lean body and retreated under its dark cowl.

  He stood in silence over the rough-carved mermaid; it seemed to be the source of the large ship’s creaking and groaning as it anchored at sea. An intimidating expanse of the nocturnal ocean sat between him and the land that would soon welcome him as its usurper. He smiled, thinking of how his plan would undermine and work counter to Gideon’s conquest and liberation of the world’s first age knowledge.

  The distant thud of heavy footfalls roused Jackal from his contemplative daze. As he turned, another gust of wind ripped the cowl from his head, allowing the waning moon a chance to reflect silver light off his eyes like two untarnished pence. He replaced the hood over his head, wondering if the tension he felt had reflected itself in his shallow features

  “Relax, Jackal, you’re in my domain,” the approaching man said, chuckling. “You’re among my people and at the mercy of my tools: the ships and the waves under their boards. Why would I let something happen to you after every promise we’ve just made with Gideon?”

  The moonlight reflected white off Ren’s pale hair. It seemed to accentuate the softness of the sailor’s face. He pulled his hand from some hidden pocket on the inside of his coat, though the action was forced.

  The tone of Ren’s laughter at Gideon’s expense sparked the inkling of an idea that Jackal had been mulling over. A long month of sleepless nights separated him from the meeting with Gideon, yet the mutinous thirst for dissention wracked his bones now even more than when he was sitting across from the man, restraining an impulse to sheathe a blade in Gideon’s eye-socket.

  “You think you saw fear, did you, Ren?” Jackal asked, his voice low enough that the sea’s calm evening breeze could carry it away from unseen listeners. “I’m merely apprehensive for the trials to come. And frankly, I question your dedication to Gideon.” He glanced up and eyed one of the deck-hands climbing to the top of the foremast. “I have a proposition. One for your ears alone,” he hissed.

  Turning, Ren pushed back on his long mane of hair and scratched at his beard. “Finish dropping sails, and to below deck, you scab.”

  The deck-hand finished his task and shuffled below deck with a grunt of recognition and a nod in his captain’s direction.

  “Cig, come here,” Ren said.

  Was there yet another person outside with them? Jackal had thought the deck-hand had been the only one up there with him. He watched as a young girl, short of her first winteryear, approached from under an awning of knotted nets. In her hands, she cupped a rodent.

  “Make your way to my cabin with a bowl of slurry. I’ll be in shortly. It’d better be warm. And don’t you dare bring that rat into my chambers!”

  The urchin nodded without looking up from the gnarled wood deck and rushed inside. The small rat, placed with care on the deck, scrabbled out of sight.

  Ren kicked out, hoping to dash the rodent overboard, but it evaded his boot, diving into a mound of hempen rope. He cursed under his breath. “This had better be good, assassin.”

  “You know why we’re traveling to the west, Ren.” Jackal waited for a moment, but the leader of the Oceanmanes remained silent. “Somewhere in this land is the potential to reproduce all of the technology from the first age. One of many such locations scattered all over the world. And Gideon wants to destroy it. He wants to ensure that the knowledge stored at such locations disappears forever.”

  “Well, it should,” Ren butted in. “That much knowledge isn’t good for anyone,” he remarked, repeating the drivel that Gideon had spouted at them during their meeting a month earlier.

  “You’re missing the opportunity. What if we could tap that well for ourselves? Imagine if your fleet could run off some force other than the wind? A trip that now takes you months could, under the guise of this power, take days. The possibilities are endless.” Jackal pulled his words back into his mouth before he gave too much away. “You and I are alike, Ren,” he said after a moment of collecting his thoughts. “Aside from the war-monger, we two are the only ones from Gideon’s Pantheon who already lead a sizeable force.”

  “Yes, and your measly-dozens of minions sit scattered across my fleet, so don’t get any mutinous ideas or I’ll have ‘em all butchered.” Ren’s eyes strained as if to see beyond the cowl concealing Jackal’s intentions. “Where are you going with this?” he asked, his hand resting over the pocket from where it emerged earlier.

  “Why should we so needlessly destroy a brighter future for humanity when we have more power than all of the others? And we make the perfect team, Silentore and Oceanmane; Jackal and Ren; the assassin and the pirate.”

  “I’m listening,” Ren said as Jackal pulled a scroll from his sleeve and unrolled it. “It’s too dark,” he said.

  Jackal pulled a small stick from the same sleeve and clicked it in, causing light to explode out from its tip.

  Ren sucked in his breath. “You fool! Put that away. We both know there’s bound to be Luddites among the lions in my crew.” Ren’s hand seemed instinctually to tug at the interior pocket.

  “Hush, you buffoon. This. This light. It’s merely a fraction of my true power. And once I secure the technology that Gideon wanted destroyed, tapping into its infinite well of wisdom, I’ll have the power to press the entire continent under my thumb.” With gentle fingers, Jackal flipped the paper over, revealing a map. “I’ll start with Lyrinth, here, and shall make my base of operations on the coast of the South Lyrinthian Desert. It’s close enough to where Gideon believes the archive to be without drawing attention from the locals. Speaking of, I’ve heard that Lyrinth is solid, so it will take time to sew the discord I need to gain power.” With the inclusion of Ren into his scheme, Jackal’s mind worked warm to plan as he spoke. “We’re still thawing out from our last winteryear, so give me until start of the next, in a decade or so, before you begin looting the coastal cities of Lyrinth.

  “I need the Lyrinthians on their last wick before I can assume control and liberate the coastal peoples from you, the raiding marauders,” he continued. “Then, with the backing of the peasants and merchants, I’ll force the aristocracy to my side. For you see, I am not only the assassin of the Pantheon, but I am also the politician. The two are interchangeable really.” He paused, his eyes roving over the finer details of the map. “Finally, once I have Lyrinth under my command, finding the archive will prove no issue at all. And with the inclusion of the Lyrinthian army, we shall have a force to challenge Gideon himself.”

  “That’s an awful lot of ‘I’, but not a lot of ‘we.’ Where do I fall into all of this? What am I to be doing while you’re off gallivanting and digging your nose into the bosoms and arses of the west?” Ren spat onto the deck in disdain.

  “You can start here,” Jackal said, pointing to a faded area that hugged the southeastern coast and rode up the Old Maiden River. “In this vicinity is a swamp which sits vastly undisturbed, untapped, and isolated. Set up a colony there. Begin harvesting the wood from the area and build a fleet of ships,” Jackal explained.

  “Why would I do something as stupid as that when my ships are right as they are?”

  “Because,” Jackal said, swallowing an insult. “What do you think Gideon is going to do once he realizes that two of his western appendages have mutinied? If your mizzenmast breaks, you don’t repair it, you replace it. Do you think for one second that he would even hesitate before sending his armies barreling into the west, burning the land to smoke us out? The only equa
l footing we will have will be on the seas, and your ships number too few to pose a threat to them now.

  “No, we must plan for this eventuality,” Jackal warned. “I have no doubt that Gideon has spies amongst all of our men, yours and mine alike. These spies will report to him at the first noticeable whiff of our digression from his plan. As long as we stick solidly to what I’ve outlined on this page and a few others like it, we will be harmlessly overlapping with what he wants while still dividing ourselves from the rest of the Pantheon. Do not deviate an inch without conferring with me. If Gideon catches wind of our plan before we have a force, we will be snuffed out. Do you understand?”

  Ren leafed through the scroll, dragging his fat fingers alone to guide his dull eyes. “A prison?”

  “For political dissidents of course. This was something that Gideon wanted done anyway, but I’d rather not perform such a triviality myself. I have more pressing matters to attend to upon landing.”

  “Of course you do. So, what do I get out of this deal that I cannot buy with Gideon’s gold?”

  “Well for one, you won’t have to worry about my killing you once the world is Gideon’s.”

  “No! The scab was going to have me axed? How’d you know?”

  “He has detailed information pertaining to everyone in the Pantheon including where and how I should assassinate them, once their usefulness expires.”

  “That pisser!”

  “Additionally, I’ll let you lay claim to any and every island nation. Whatever you want to do with the peoples, the land, and the resources: it’s all up to you. Just allow my ships safe passage and we won’t need to interact at all.”

  Ren smoothed down the thick mustache and beard on his face. “You get the rest of the land I suppose?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ahh, what the hell. I’ve never cared for spending too much time on land anyway. And I admit, the prospect of having faster, stronger ships is appealing. You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  Jackal extinguished the light on his stick and the two men shook hands. “Our only witness to this grand scheme is the dark night sky. And let us keep it that way. If you need to ask me any questions while we are still aboard, come only at night here.” Jackal strode over to the hatch leading below deck.

  “Oh, and one more thing: if you are so worried about hidden Luddites seeing something you don’t want them to see, then I would suggest a better hiding spot for whatever it is you keep fondling in that breast pocket of yours.” Jackal laughed as he opened the hatch and descended into the cabin.

  ◆◆◆

  Ren clutched his hand to the hard object over his heart. “Such a small little weapon, yet with you,” he said, easing the weapon out of the leather lined pocket and fingering its smooth metal surface. “I can strike fear in the gnarliest sailor’s eye without being close enough to smell his dirty arse.” The polished handle briefly reflected the faint moonlight. He replaced it in its holster, then tucked it into the cuff of his boot. He pulled his breeches over his boots, protecting the weapon from peering eyes and the corrosive ocean air alike.

  ◆◆◆

  Present Day.

  “I hope I didn’t upset you. I was curious.”

  The girl’s voice roused Gnochi. He wanted to be mad; he wanted to be angry, but something about the sound of her voice pacified him and helped him see beyond his selfish suicidal thoughts.

  “Why are you still here, girl?” Gnochi’s voice sounded guttural and hollow.

  “Cleo. My name is Cleo. And I’m here to escort you to the dining hall.”

  Gnochi resigned from any further debate by rising from the floor and stepping towards the door. As he passed her, he spied Cleo’s downtrodden gaze. Looking out into the hallway, seeming to study the worn wood floors, he sucked in a lungful of warm stale air and said, “Bard.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m a bard by trade.”

  “What’s a bard?”

  “Shakespeare is turning over in his grave as we speak.” Gnochi’s face cracked into a rare smile but saw that Cleo was not amused. “No kidding?” he asked when she shook her head. “What kind of places were you working that had entertainers but no bards? Probably government, or Luddite, I suppose. Last thing they want is stories spreading among the masses.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “There was a time when the best seat by the fire was reserved for the storyteller. We as a species had sadly edged away from that reverence, but in this second age in which we live, the respect has returned. Without strumming my own chord,” Gnochi said, offering another rare smile. “I’m the best entertainer an inn like this could see for years.”

  “But why do stories make you so popular?”

  “Cleo, what do you know of the first age?”

  She pursed her lips and furrowed her brow. “Not much. It was different from our own time.”

  “That’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one.” He chuckled, but his face resumed its neutral look when she frowned at him. “In the past age, there were ideas and concepts that people today cannot even fathom. Not only did these ideas exist, but they were commonplace. And no more than a mere fraction of that which was in the first age, still exists today.

  “That’s why I’m so famous among entertainers,” Gnochi continued, “because I have a working understanding of that world and of the lives of first age people. From the famous and powerful to the average, I tell fractured stories coming from all different settings, encompassing their everyday lives before bombs fell and ended their history. I’ll tell a scene here or there, but nothing too extensive on one person or event so I can cover a larger blanket over the canvas that is, ‘the first age.’” He could tell there was a question forming itself in Cleo’s light grey eyes. Eyes that, he thought, look just a tad too much like Pippa’s. He questioned whether what he was seeing was true, or whether it was more hallucinations. “Come into the hall after I’m done tonight, and you’ll see why hoteliers and tavern-keeps love to have me for one night.”

  “So, what are you going to tell tonight?” she asked.

  Gnochi mulled over his luck for a few moments. He brought the pendant to his face and slipped it over his head, resting it under his poncho next to another pendant. Then he walked to a table in his room and donned a hat, the color of road-dust. “Something that will make the toughest man in the room cry. Or if it doesn’t, at least it’ll fill him with a pit only the dulling ache of warm mead can mend.”

  Gnochi and Cleo left his small room and headed towards the dining hall. Upon exiting the stairway, the mistress of the inn pulled Cleo away into the kitchen, grumbling about sacrifices and drunkards.

  Gnochi entered the dining hall to a low bustle of early-drinkers. He found Mirage sitting at the bar top with a guitar case by her side. “Staying for the show tonight?” He asked, sitting next to her.

  “Wouldn’t miss one of your stories, Gleeman. I’ve got your guitar here. The thing is a freak, but it is a well-made freak.” Mirage opened the case and removed the guitar, handing it to him. “It’s got all of your special requests, including a wider, winterbush headstock. The special neck. Well, you know what I’m talking about,” she whispered, cautious of eavesdroppers. “Good strong glue holding that to the body. Know that should you break it, I won’t be able to put it back together.”

  Gnochi understood her meaning. The blade was one-use only.

  “What’ll you name it?” she asked handing him a small tin of paint and a brush, “Something from the first age?”

  “A noble name is fitting for such a guitar, but I’ve yet to even consider names.” He pocketed the tin and slipped the paintbrush into his shirt.

  “Give it a spin,” Mirage urged.

  Gnochi tested the new instrument by strumming a few chords in quick succession. He winced over the slightest metallic twang that resulted from the blade protruding into the guitar body.

  “Noticed that as well,” she said. “It’s faint enough that only the finest musically tuned
ears will pick it up, so you should be fine. Not like you’re going to be performing for the king with it,” she added with a chuckle.

  “Thank you, Mirage. It truly is a beautiful guitar.”

  “You can thank me by filling this room and emptying her food stores.”

  “No promises.”

  Chapter 4

  Gnochi, perching himself upon a wooden stool atop the makeshift stage, nursed a steaming cup of tea and rested his new guitar on his lap. Peering into its hollow depths, he thought he could make out the edge of the short-sword within.

  The inn was a circus. Patron seating filled within minutes of opening for the dinner rush. Gnochi watched the mistress direct her staff from behind the bar. He noticed her favoring a hand that was wrapped in bandage and stained with dried blood. Three heavy kegs were brought from storage for the evening’s merriment. A ruckus wafted from the kitchen and sounded of cooks practicing the tools of their art. A bold hearth blazed in the center of the floor, attempting to ward off the crisp evening air. Gnochi managed to hear the hushed gossip of a pair of sailors from the north. They cursed the calming seas and chilling waters as a sign that the winteryear was coming. Combined with a demand from Blue Haven to ship more supplies in the capital’s direction, the men bemoaned the extra work and worsening conditions.

  At that moment, Gnochi felt a shiver run the length of his spine. His arms and neck burst out in goose-flesh. A part of his mind knew that cold nights this early were abnormal, but he hoped that it was not an indication of an early winteryear. Jackal’s timetable reared itself up in the forefront of Gnochi’s thoughts.

  ‘Winteryear or war,’ Jackal had warned. ‘Whichever comes first, your contract must be completed before then, Gleeman, or your family will not live to see the end of either.’

  Gnochi had taken to nursing his tea when he overheard two women conversing in their seats at a nearby table.