Chapter 14 Basten
Basten
The southern gate of Old Coros is a marvel of ancient engineering: a twenty-foot archway, the word “WISDOM” chiseled on the curved marble block, columns meant to stand as proud and tall as eternal oaks.
But today? All I can think is: What a fucking dump.
Tattered banners hang limp and soiled from either side of the open gate.
A line of bruised criminals sits against the wall in chains.
Dozens of travelers have set up a temporary encampment of pitiful campfires and strung-up tarps, awaiting entry into the city.
They’re blocked by a fleet of Golden Sentinels.
All their fine brass armor—the gleaming color giving them their name—can’t mask the filth they truly are.
Mercenaries.
Hang on. Scratch that. They’re worse, if that’s possible—they’re Rian’s mercenaries.
I know, because I was once among their midst.
Next to me, sitting on Myst, Sabine moves her cloak’s woolen hood back enough so I can see her nose wrinkle. She whispers, “It smells like cow piss.”
We’re on the horses, in the long line of people awaiting entry into the city.
Sabine wears a threadbare farm wife’s dress with a soiled cloak, the hem ripped and dragging in the mud.
I’m no prize, either, dressed as her potato-digging husband, complete with too-big boots and a ridiculously tattered straw hat.
I adjust the sack of potatoes over my shoulder—borrowed from a lakeside farm we passed this morning, along with the clothing—and mutter, “I wish it were only cow piss.”
If I could turn off my damn godkiss, now would be the time. The smells wafting from Old Coros are an assault to the senses. Moldy cheese. Rotting fish. Piss and shit from everything that walks on two feet or four.
“I thought Old Coros was supposed to be a model city of law and order,” she leans in to murmur, eyeing a sentinel as he ransacks through a woman’s purse for “entry taxes” as she sobs that she won’t have enough coins left to feed her children.
“Last time I was here,” I reply, keeping my voice low, “it was. Streets so clean you could eat off them. Not so much as a stray dog. As for the royal army, they had soldiers in spotless armor stationed at every street corner, holding banners that proclaimed the virtues of the city. Wisdom, Honor, you know the litany. This…” I motion to the filth and disorder, “…is all new.”
The sentinel finally allows the woman entry after he tucks her entire purse into his vest. He calls for another sentinel to confiscate her horse.
Sabine clutches a handful of Myst’s mane defensively.
“When we get to the front of the line,” I murmur, “tell the horses to limp as if they’re on death’s door. We don’t want the sentinels looking too closely at their manicured hooves.”
Finally, we’re next in line. Sabine draws her cloak’s hood higher, covering her hair, completely casting her face in shadows. She hangs back on Myst, shoulders slumped. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was identical to every other beaten-down farmer’s wife in line.
She did tell me her mother was an actress.
“Next. You there.” A heavyset sentinel in armor a few sizes too small beckons to me like calling cattle. He tugs on his breastplate uncomfortably, glancing at my sack of potatoes. “There’s a fifty coin tax to enter, and we’ll need to search your—”
“Barthy, Barthy, ho there! I’ve got this one.” Another sentinel cuts in smoothly. “The Captain wants me to evaluate all horses coming into the city. You take that family with the ducks.” He gestures to the farmer behind us with his daughters straining under wooden cages full of ducks.
The pot-bellied Barthy looks like he might object if it weren’t for the three attractive, if painfully thin, teenage daughters. He shifts from one foot to the other, hands resting on his too-small belt, and signals for the duck farmer to step forward.
The swarthy sentinel faces us, scratches his ass, and then raises his helmet’s visor an inch.
Well, well.
I grin.
Folke. The old bastard in the flesh.
I mask any recognition on my face by wiping away phantom sweat, and keep my head bowed as a humble farmer.
“Potatoes!” Folke makes a show of digging through my bag, tossing a rotten one on the ground. “We have root vegetables aplenty! And what’s this? A knife!”
With his deft hands, he draws his own hidden knife from the scabbard tucked into his waistband, flourishing it for all to see. “No weapons allowed—the punishment is imprisonment!”
I roll my eyes at his theatrics, wondering if this is necessary. But the other sentinels are watching, so I bow my head. “A thousand apologies. I only use it for potato peeling.”
“Off those horses!” Folke commands, grabbing Myst’s reins with a heavy hand. She jerks her head up, indignant, but she seems to recognize him enough not to bite his finger off. “I’m conscripting them into King Rian’s sentinel army. As for you and your wife, into the prison wagon with you!”
He jabs his elbow toward an enclosed wagon with barred windows. Another sentinel, this one young and slight, silently opens the wagon door for us.
Sabine raises her eyebrows toward me, and I nod for her to obey.
Folke roughs us up a little as we dismount, herding us at the knife’s point toward the wagon.
Its two benches are empty—we’re the only prisoners.
As I pass the slight soldier, something oddly familiar rings about him.
A scent in the air, delicate and spicy. I hold my gaze an extra beat, but the man scowls at me and gestures inside, remaining quiet.
Folke ties the horses’ leads to the rear of the wagon, then climbs in himself and swings the door shut. He gives a quick sweep of the street before knocking twice on the roof.
The quiet young soldier climbs into the driver’s seat, and the wagon rolls forward through the city gates.
Once cobblestone rumbles under the wheels, Folke tears off his helmet and tosses back his messy, gray-threaded curls.
“Here you are at last, you beast,” he exclaims. “We expected you two days ago! I’ve had to pretend to be one of those piss-stinking sentinels for far too long!”
He breaks into a grin and leans forward to grasp my hand in his, a brotherly handshake that feels like putting on a well-worn glove.
I give a half-grin in return.
“We had…delays.” I glance at Sabine. “There was a…fire outside of Bremcote. But anyway, what the fuck happened here?”
I gesture beyond the barred windows to the once-orderly city, where a pack of feral children runs wild.
Folke snorts. “Didn’t Maximan tell you everything’s gone to hell since our coup failed?
Rian’s disappeared. No one knows who to take orders from.
Half the city still obeys our royal soldiers.
Half obey the Golden Sentinels, run in Rian’s absence by a gang of criminals calling themselves the Cold Coins.
Hell, half the people are still listening to the fucking Red Church preaching the fae’s return, even after Beneveto’s corpse marched dead through the streets. ”
“That’s three halves,” I point out.
He groans. “Smartass.” He turns to Sabine instead, flashing that smile that dazzles the ladies and won Ferra’s heart. “Gods, is it ever good to see the face of someone reasonable.”
Sabine smiles, amused, though she keeps glancing out the rear door at Myst and Ranger in tow. “It’s good to see you again, too, Folke.”
He pauses, his keen eyes taking in the plump swell of her cheeks, the spark of light in her eyes. “Something different about you.”
I go rigid, forgetting to breathe for a moment—but her human glamour is still raised.
She clears her throat, waving away his words. “How is Ferra?”
“Ah!” His eyes light up. “You didn’t recognize my jewel outside?”
Sabine’s head cocks.
Folke points in the direction of the carriage driver outside—the quiet, slight soldier.
Sabine gasps. “I thought that soldier looked familiar!”
He grins wider. “She hates using her godkiss to make herself look like a man. Says we’re the lesser half of the species. Can’t say she’s wrong, either.”
Sabine hides a giggle behind her hand, and Folke rears back at the sight of her ring.
“Gods alive! Look at that rock! Are you crazy, entering the city with that jewel on your finger?”
Sabine quickly covers the ring with her other hand. “I forgot to take it off—it already feels like it’s a part of me.”
Folke leans back, pulling out a fat Wicked Weed cigar from his pocket. He lights the cigar, then motions it between the two of us. “So, you got hitched, eh?”
My chest swells a few inches. I nod. “A, uh, village preacher up north performed the honors.”
He snorts. “Sure, sure. One of those famous forest-wandering officiants. Don’t worry, I’ll tie up all the loose ends. This is good—it saves us a step. Planning a coronation and a wedding would have wreaked havoc on the poor archivists’ fingers.”
He takes a long inhale of the cigar, then offers it to me.
I shake my head.
“I’d congratulate you,” he says, “but we have a kingdom to keep from sliding straight into hell. With some luck, we can get this prison wagon through the gates into Hekkelveld Castle. Lord Kendan and the royal army still hold control of the castle—for now.”
Sabine peers through the window bars, studying the grimy streets. We pass a market with meager fare of rotted turnips. The pubs are packed with riffraff and those down on their luck, drinking down ale to numb themselves.
It’s still all new to her, I have to remind myself. After being locked away for twelve years, there’s still so much of the world she’s experiencing for the first time.
I feel a wave of tenderness—followed by protectiveness that burns like a brimfire.
Sabine could summon the ocean from its bed, but there’s still a part of her that’s my sheltered violet. Soft. Unweathered. And gods help anyone who tries to crush her under their boot.
“What news is there of Rian?” I ask.