12. Dimitri
12
DIMITRI
T he hood shadowed Dimitri’s face as he hunched in the corner of the tavern. It had been a long while since he had ventured out under such guises. No one approached him. He exuded hostility. He was quite looking forward to finding out the lay of the land, listening to the reports Rook and his other associates usually fetched. Rook, displaying a prominent limp, edged over to join him. They sat in near silence, breathing in the stale, smoky, sweaty air. There was much talk of discord, but little of war, and none of rebellion. The common peoples were not na?ve. They knew the king’s men had ears everywhere. That was as telling as anything. Dimitri stirred. If they’re not discussing war and rebellion here, where are they discussing it? He had caught a few grumbles about the king’s rising tithes from the group of mortals propping up the aged bar, but those had been swiftly quashed.
They moved through the city to even more unfavourable locations and ever worsening beer, until their tankards were just for show, their contents too bitter to stomach. The mood was noticeably sourer there. Right by the walls of Tournai, this inn held the lowest echelons of Pelenori society, and they were none too pleased with their load.
“If they raise those damnable tithes one more bloody time.” One of the men swore.
“Saradon-cursed greedy pig swill,” another growled.
Dimitri sidled closer to the group.
“Steady on, Fen,” one of the man’s companions said, having a strong southern accent from the farmlands. Unbeknownst to them, he was Dimitri’s man, Raven. “Ain’t no good mouthin’ off ‘gainst the king like that. His rats are everywhere! Yer want to watch yer tongue.”
“Says who?” Fen challenged, drawing himself up tall.
“Ah, nobody, lad. That’s who. I ain’t no better off than th’ lot o’ ye, but if ever I knew a thing, Saradon would ha’ brought us more fortune, goin’ by th’ old tales.”
A spike of appreciation rose in Dimitri. I could not have worded it better myself .
Fen looked around nervously. “Don’t be saying stuff like that in this city, man. The king will have you for that.”
“Not afore he ‘as you! I tell thee, Saradon would ha’ brought us better luck.” Raven muttered darkly to himself, almost unheard by the rest of them. They drew closer to listen. “Th’ ol’ tales say Saradon wanted peace for this land, but not the king’s version.”
Dimitri nodded to Rook—a signal. The man slid to the opposite side of the tavern, behind Raven.
“Hear, hear!” cried Rook in a city accent, then moved to one side before anyone could note him. “I’ve heard it. Tis true,” he said again, now with a sharp, stern voice.
“That’s codswallop,” said Fen dismissively, batting at Raven with a giant hand. Raven stepped back to avoid the clumsy Fen, jostling someone, who spilled his pint over the sticky, stone floor. Raven was repaid with a punch to the jaw, much to Dimitri’s regret. Before he and Rook could intervene, the entire tavern descended into a riot, with fists and furniture flying. None shouted in defence of the king, to Dimitri’s pleasure, but all were keen to affirm their true knowledge of the legend of Saradon—and claim recompense for the number of spilled pints soaking them all. Dimitri, Raven, and Rook dodged through the mess outside and into an alley, where Dimitri stopped, bent over in laughter. “Oh my. I forgot how much fun that sort of thing was.”
Raven grumbled, rubbing at his jaw.
“M’lord?” Rook raised a brow.
“Oh, lighten up, Rook. It’s not all treachery and treason. Sometimes, a good, old-fashioned fight is enough of a solution.” Dimitri grinned at his nonplussed associate. “Come on. We have other places to spread this malarkey before our night’s work is done.”
“I don’t follow, m’lord.” Raven’s dark brows creased with confusion.
“And you don’t need to. The king thanks you for your service,” reassured Dimitri. He dismissed Raven, who still grimaced and rubbed his jaw. As the man walked away, Dimitri beckoned to Rook, who followed him back into the higher levels of the city, to the tavern where he knew the guildsmen were to meet to discuss their latest business at home and farther afield. When they entered The Dragon’s Horn, the front of house was packed from wall to wall with a mass of bodies. Dimitri held back a gag as he pushed through their sweaty, unwashed ranks to the back, where he then settled by the open arch that led to the back room.
Inside it crowded more men, but the ale was thin between them, and they spoke of business and affairs beyond the ken of the drunkards on the other side of the wall. Dimitri and Rook lurked outside their ranks, the solid line of backs facing them, listening with care to what passed within. Dissent was clear within the merchant and craft guilds. It seemed none could escape the effect of the goblins closing Valtivar’s trade routes. Dimitri shared a meaningful look with Rook upon hearing that. Their unruliness grew with the flowing beer until their presiding head, the blacksmith master Dimitri could not name, stood and raised his hands to quiet them.
“I hear your concerns, my fellow guildsmen. Know that I respect all your views, and all said herein is held in confidence between us, as brothers in trade. Valtivar’s troubles are our own, it is true. Yet we cannot continue to pay the king’s tithes as our businesses wither.” His gaze passed across them all as they listened, waiting for what he would offer them in hope. Dimitri and Rook shuffled closer, peering over the shoulders before them.
“I will speak with the head of the Kingsguard,” the blacksmith offered. “I’ll tell him of our troubles, and ask that he escalate it to the king’s ears.” He was drowned out momentarily by a round of disgusted murmurs. “I know. I know, brothers. We have no love for the red cloaks, but might I remind you, they are a hearty source of business for us all.”
His warning glare raked over them, then flicked to the back of the group, catching sight of Dimitri and Rook lurking. His eyes narrowed, before he glanced away and continued. “I will also ask him the best way that we might approach the king most humbly to beg for his assistance with this matter, since it affects us all. I can only imagine that if the trade routes remain closed, the kingdom will struggle over winter at a time we need provisions more than ever.”
It was well-worded. Carefully worded. Dimitri wondered if the smith had recognised him. If he had, well-worded indeed. Discontent still rumbled through the sullen ranks, mutterings of the king’s greed and laziness, as well as their own complicit meekness in not acting more strongly. Yet a vote was taken and cast, and the smith’s words chosen as their way forward. Dimitri slipped away before the guilds dispersed, buzzing with euphoria at the prospects. The trade routes are closed. Pelenor would be crippled by the winter solstice if they were not to reopen, if the king did not act. It was another weapon to arm himself with.
By the end of the night, six taverns had erupted in riots over the king’s tithes, Saradon’s name ringing in curses upon Toroth and his greed. Moreover, Dimitri now knew the guilds might be receptive to his work, if it would allow them to continue trading in prosperity. It had been a productive night, Dimitri reflected as he sank gratefully into his sumptuous bed as the sun rose, with orders to Emyria for no one to disturb him.
Dimitri received little respite, however, for his brothers and father would not be denied.
“I don’t care that he’s been up half the night, probably skulking around with some whore. How dare you talk back to me, servant scum!”
Dimitri roused from sleep at once at the sound of his brother striking Emyria, who cried out in pain. He leapt from the bed and charged down the hall.
“Unhand her at once!” he thundered.
His brother released Emyria, who rose to her feet, gave Dimitri a reassuring nod that she was all right, and fled to her quarters.
“You are not welcome here,” he said flatly. “I will not have you in my home, manhandling my staff. Get out, Dahir.”
Dahir smirked at him. “Father orders you attend him at once.”
“ Father can shove his orders up his arse.” Dimitri turned away. “Get out, or I will see you cast out on your backside.”
“You cannot defy him, Dimitrius. He is the head of our House.” Dahir did not move.
“A House that my hard work gained him, let’s not forget.” Dimitri’s lip curled. “I’ll think about it. I need to sleep. Unlike you, I have a job to do. Get. Out.” Flames flickered to life in his palms.
Dahir scowled at him, but stuck his hands into his pockets and strode away, like he had owned the situation. They both knew he did not have the strength to match Dimitri. Scum , cursed Dimitri as the door slammed shut behind Dahir so hard that the room seemed to shake. He would attend his father—and make him squirm—but he would make Damir wait. First, sleep.