Chapter Thirty-Nine
The Black Hills
Jerrold wasn’t surprised when the first one through the portal was a soldier. But from his muffled snort, Orval was.
Jerrold looked down from his horse at the Lord High Baron, perched on his goat cart. “Something?”
“Captain Ussin,” Orval muttered as he smiled and lifted a hand in greeting. “He’s known to me. A good man, but he follows his orders.”
“Ah,” Jerrold said, assessing the man. Armed with a mace and a shield. Wearing a tabard with the wyvern arms over leather armor. A warrior, intent on a mission.
More men emerged from the portal, ten more, all clearly warriors. All wearing tabards in red and black. They formed up behind Ussin, scanning for threats.
No matter; Jerrold’s people were well hidden.
There’d been long arguments about that, with Roth shouting quite a bit and stomping around.
But Lord High Baron Orval had stuck to his position.
He’d greet the visitors with Jerrold at his side, and no armed escort.
He’d be seen to expect peace and offer peace.
“It’s about statuary, not war,” he’d said.
Of course, that didn’t mean Jerrold couldn’t place people in the trees and along the road.
A wagon rumbled through the portal. Someone familiar to Jerrold was seated next to the driver, and five young lads seated among the parcels in the bed.
“Ah,” Jerrold sighed.
Orval glanced up. “Something?”
“Master Sculptor Muris,” Jerrold said. “He’s known hereabouts.”
“Well?” Orval asked as he gathered up his reins.
“No,” Jerrold muttered. “Not well at all.”
Orval gave a nod, then urged his goats forward, hailing the Captain.
The portal popped closed, which made Jerrold raise a mental eyebrow as he urged his horse forward. Just ten soldiers? He’d expected more. Maybe this was just an escort for the sculptor.
Maybe.
“Captain Ussin,” Orval called out, his voice warm. “Welcome. I would make you known to Jerrold, Mayor of the town of Waerington.”
“Lord High Baron, Mayor.” Ussin nodded his head. “This is Master Sculptor Muris.”
Master Sculptor Muris was looking around nervously, probably wishing he had more soldiers with him. “Lord High Baron,” he said. “Mayor Jerrold. My journeymen and I have come to select the stone for King Xyrath’s statue.” He cleared his throat. “The quarrymaster is not with you?”
“No,” Jerrold said. “Quarrymaster Selver awaits at the quarry.”
“Oh,” the Master Sculptor said. He was not doing a good job of controlling his grimace. His journeymen also looked unhappy. “Selver is still in charge, then?”
“Yes,” Jerrold said. “Many old faces await you.” He really did try not to take pleasure in watching the man squirm.
“Best we be about it,” Captain Ussin said. “The portal opens again at sundown.”
“Fair enough,” Orval said brightly, starting the process of turning the goatcart. “Follow us.”
Jerrold let the man take the lead, with Captain Ussin riding beside the cart. The wagon, with the Sculptor and his journeymen, followed, which left Jerrold to ride with the soldiers. They fell in around him silently.
Under his leather glove, Jerrold’s right thumb started to prickle.
Something was off.
Jerrold narrowed his eyes. He’d learned long ago to heed when his body knew something his mind didn’t. The Lord High Baron was talking, probably about the history of the quarrying of marble. Captain Ussin was riding stiffly, clearly uncomfortable.
Jerrold rubbed the base of his thumb and kept a wary eye open as they rode.
It didn’t take more than an hour to follow the old quarry road to where the long and winding trail up into the mountain quarry. As the road widened, Jerrold worked his horse forward to ride on the other side of the Lord High Baron’s cart.
He didn’t want to miss this.
Oxen were lowing in their pens, and men were seated nearby on scattered blocks of stone, working over their harnesses. Heads came up as they approached, faces turning grim.
Quarrymaster Selver started forward to greet them, scowling.
Orval was cheerful enough as he pulled his cart to a halt. “Quarrymaster Selver, this is Captain Ussin, of King Xyrath’s command. He’s brought—”
“You,” Selver’s face went purple. “You pig-sucker.”
Jerrold looked behind him. Master Sculptor Muris was white as the marble he carved. “Now, Selver, you can’t blame me. You—”
“Can’t blame you?” Selver sputtered through his beard. “You mare’s pizzle, you stinking, mass of vomit. I spit on you,” he spat on the ground. As one, all the men around him also spat.
“Er…” The Lord High Baron paused. “I take it you know one another?”
“Aye,” Selver sputtered. “This stinking pile of rat’s spunk ordered tons of stone, pure white and sized to a fare thee well, all to finicky, exacting standards, and did he pay for it?
” Selver put his fists on his hips. “No, he did not.” He turned back to face his enemy.
“I should have your balls in a sack,” he roared. “But I’ve no sack small enough!”
Master Sculptor Muris leaped down from his wagon and stomped over to Selver. “Think for a minute, you idiot. There was a war on. Think the royals and nobles in their striving paid me, ya daft git?”
The quarry workers started to gather.
“That matters not,” Selver roared. The two men were face to face, both shouting and gesturing wildly, getting angrier by the moment. The journeymen piled out of the wagon and moved forward to support their master.
Jerrold settled in his saddle and exchanged a glance with Captain Ussin. He shrugged. “This might take a while,” he said calmly.
Ussin shrugged and nodded. He glanced at his men.
Jerrold’s prickle grew stronger, but he wasn’t sure why.
The Lord High Baron interrupted his thought. “I’m not sure how to proceed,” Orval said under his breath.
“Wait for it,” Jerrold said, crossing his arms, his attention drawn back to the argument.
“You pot of cat’s piss,” Selver snatched Muris’s hat off his head, and stomped on it.
Muris roared again and punched him in the nose.
“There we go,” Jerrold said.
In a moment, the two old men were on the ground, wrestling in the dust and dirt, battering at one another. The men of the quarry and the journeymen gathered round, cheering them on. Ussin’s men, on the other hand, were all looking amused and rather…smug.
Something was off.
Ussin looked Jerrold’s way and raised an eyebrow, but Jerrold just shook his head.
“Should we—” Orval asked.
“No, no, give it a moment,” Jerrold sighed.
The two men parted, breathing heavily, both on their hands and knees. “You mountain of
oozing pestilence, you’ve not a brain in your head,” Muris panted. His eye was swelling, purple and black.
“You noxious, stinking puss-bucket.” Selver snorted blood out his nose, staining his beard.
They were clearly trying to gather themselves up for the next round, but as they struggled to their feet, they had to lean on each other in order to get up. By the time they were standing, each gripping the other’s shirt, they had started coughing and laughing, blood dripping on their clothes.
“You can still hit, you old fart.” Selver snorted again, mopping at his nose with his sleeve.
“Gave as good as I got, you old turd.” Muris put a hand to his eye and swayed on his feet.
“Here now,” Selver grabbed his shoulder. “You suppose those plague-sores will pay us this time? And what do they want carved, eh?”
Muris grabbed the quarrymaster’s arms and whispered in his ear.
Selver jerked his head back and roared with laughter. “Lads, lads, break out the bottles. We’ll toast to the dangly bits of the high and mighty. Ale,” he called out. “Ale for all.”
“I’ve brought mead in the wagon,” Muris said through a fat lip.
The quarrymen cheered, as did the journeymen. They all headed to the blocks of stone, and bottles appeared from nowhere.
“That’s done, then.” Jerrold nodded. “Think we can leave them to it, now.”
“If you’re sure,” there was doubt in Orval’s voice, but it was pretty clear that the craftsmen were all talking and drinking and had no mind for them. Orval turned his goat cart and Ussin called for his men to follow.
There was the prickle of unease again, as Jerrold watched their faces.
“We’ll get some food in you, and you can tell us all the news of Edenrich,” Orval said to Ussin.
“Not pease porridge, I hope,” Ussin said, his chuckle sounding forced.
“No,” Orval’s voice sounded a bit colder.
Ussin shifted in his saddle. Orval was not making it easy for the man. Jerrold had to admire him. The Lord High Baron was strong in his own way.
Orval continued. “Amari sets a fine table.” He cleared his throat. “But she won’t be able to join us. The twins have the croup and she’s in the nursery dealing with them.”
Hisself was not the best of liars, but Ussin seemed to take the news at its face. “Long ride to the Keep, as I remember,” Ussin said.
“Oh, we’re not in the Keep,” Orval said.
“We’ve a manor house, with farm lands attached.
The Keep is under repairs, which will take some time, well, you saw it, when you…
delivered us. What with all the craftsmen in the quarry, rebuilding the ramps, and what with Amari expecting again, we couldn’t have the babes crawling in the debris. ”
“A manor?” Ussin asked. “No walls?”
“No walls, but acres of land, and gardens,” Orval kept talking, keeping the goats at a steady pace. “Mistress Rosalind will be waiting the nooning for us. She said something about bean soup and fresh bread.”
“Ah,” Ussin said.
Jerrold knew that tone. The sound of every man who had to face a disgruntled woman.
Jerrold managed to hide his smile. That might be a sight worth seeing, having Rosalind’s ire directed at someone else for a change.
And she did make a fine bean soup.
He’d meant to break off where the roads met, if no troubles had emerged.
His watchers wouldn’t follow them to the manor.
There were other watchers there. The Lady High Baroness and the children were safe with Mother B, behind stout walls in Waerington.
Cirda and Dayva were there as well, guarding them. He was to take word to them.
But he hesitated as they approached the crossroads, his thumb prickling.
Just then, Ussin glanced back over his shoulder then, not looking at Jerrold, looking at his men, as if…
As if thinking they wouldn’t obey him.
The Lord High Baron must have seen his hesitation. “Jerrold, you’d be more than welcome to join us.” Orval called.
“Aye,” Jerrold said. “Think I will.”