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I pressed on into more exclusive neighbourhoods where town-laws chased away the urchins and gave me looks that said they’d do as much for me if I were a touch less scary. By two turns and a bridge, past ever more impressive homes, I came to one of the four great roads that lead into the heart of Vyene: West Street. Here, still a mile from the palace, trading houses lined the margins. Not market stalls, or merchant shacks, but grand houses of stone, slate-tiled, opening to the road with wares set out for display and rooms within for negotiating the sale.
I came to one such house, a tailor’s, with the proprietor’s name laid out upon a board fully ten yards long between the first and second storey windows. ‘Jameous of the House Revel’, no allusion to his trade, not even a pair of cloth shears marked out. Except for a man going toward the rear door with two bolts of taffeta over his shoulders, and another coming out the front with a fancy house-cloak on some kind of hanger, I wouldn’t have know what business occurred there. Unlike the leatherworkers next door, and the silversmiths further along, Jameous had his shutters folded against the chill, or perhaps just against curious eyes. There is, after all, nothing like a sense of exclusivity to draw in foolish money. And yes, I too was drawn in, though I would claim it was my need that drew me. The need to adopt the same plumage as the local strutting cocks so I might start to play the role of king once more.
The door, a heavy oak affair, had closed behind the man leaving with his cloak, or rather with his master’s cloak since he wore servant garb, albeit of finer cut and better repair than my own garments. I walked up and gave a rap.
The door opened a hand’s breadth. ‘This is the House of Revel.’ The creature addressing me appeared to straddle both genders, doe-eyed, fine-boned, and soft-voiced, but with close-cropped hair and flat in the chest. A hand moved to close the door, as if simply identifying the place should be enough to see me on my way.
I put my foot in the door. ‘I know that. It’s written in letters larger than your head just above us.’
‘Oh,’ said the woman. I’d decided on woman. ‘Who told you that?’
I gave the door a shove and walked on in.
A well-appointed room, stuffed chairs that you could drown in, a single soft, thick rug covering the floor from wall to wall, crystal lanterns burning smokeless oils. A large man, balding, tending to fat, stood with his arms raised whilst a second man moved around him wielding a measure tape. A third fellow stood with a ledger, noting vital statistics. All of them looked my way.
The measuring man straightened up. ‘And who might this be, Kevin?’
Kevin picked himself off the rug. ‘Sir, I’m sorry, sir – this … gentleman—’
‘I forced an entry, shall we say?’ I shone them my most winning smile. ‘I need some suitable clothing, and in a hurry.’
‘Suitable for what? Labouring?’ the big man scoffed. Kevin covered his mouth to hide a smirk. ‘Get on with it, Jameous, throw him out and let’s have this finished. I’m to be at Lord Kellermin’s within the hour.’
I resolved to be at least half-civilized. I was after all in the empire’s capital city, a place where one’s deeds are apt to resonate, where one’s words can spread. I fished out a gold coin and played it from finger to finger over the back of each knuckle. ‘There’s no need or possibility of throwing me out. I merely require clothing. Perhaps something Lord Kellermin might approve of.’
‘Get him out. The villain’s mad, crawling, and Lord knows who he’s just robbed to get that coin.’ Red patches appeared high on the beefy fellow’s cheeks.
‘Of course, Councilman Hetmon.’ A quick bow to the councilman and Jameous clapped his hands, a summoning if ever I saw one. He turned back to me. ‘We’re very choosy about our clientele, young man, and I can assure you that a full set of clothes suitable for Lord Kellermin’s receptions would cost rather more than a ducet in any event.’
The coin flickered, gold across knuckles. In Hodd town I could empty a tailor’s with a single uncut ducet.
A pair of men emerged from the back of the shop, journeymen tailors by the looks of them, in neat black tunics. One held crimping shears, the other a yard rule. I took a deep breath, the kind we pretend will calm us down. Quality costs. Manners cost nothing.
‘Will this suffice?’ I drew out a handful of gold: ten, maybe fifteen coins. There’s a weight to that many gold pieces that lets you know what you’re holding is worth something.
‘Call the town-law on this one, he’s clearly murdered someone of consequence, or left them bleeding in an alley.’ Councilman Hetmon took half a step my way before realizing there was no one ready to hold him back.
Calm.
I took another of those deep breaths. The two tailors, with the shears and the rule, advanced, each trying to be the slower one, neither keen to arrive first.
Since Hetmon’s half-step did little to close the gap between us I closed it myself. Be calm, I told myself. Four quick strides and I had him by belt and shoulder. A hefty man but I managed to propel him with enough speed that he put a Hetmon-shaped hole through the shutters. I turned to find the shorter of the two journeymen swinging his rule my way. I let it break across the breastplate beneath my cloak. Behind me the remainder of the shuttering came free and fell with a crash. It turns out I don’t listen to good advice even when I’m the one offering it.
‘The choosing of good clientele is of course a priority,’ I told Jameous. ‘But since you appear to have no other calls on your time, perhaps you can schedule me in for an immediate fitting?’
The master tailor backed away, glancing at the hanging fragments of shutter. The journeyman with the shears promptly dropped them; the other seemed fixated by the splintered end of his broken rule.
‘Clothes!’ I clapped to summon a little attention, but Jameous kept glancing to the road.
I took a look myself, wondering if the town-law had turned up to lend the councilman a hand and try my patience. In place of the padded armour and iron-banded clubs of the town-law rank upon rank of bearded Norsemen marched past, the weak sun glinting on ring-mail, garish colours on their wide, round shields, helms set with ceremonial horns to either side. I made it to the window in time to see the centre of the parade approaching. Four figures on horseback, the warriors ahead of them encircled by the coils of serpent horns.
‘Damn me!’ I stepped out through the splintered wood. Councilman Hetmon crawled away at a good lick, but I’d lost interest in him, and indeed in all my sartorial ambitions. ‘Sindri!’ Riding high on that white gelding of his, a robe of white fur, hair now unbraided and confined instead by a gold band, but Sindri even so.
‘SINDRI!’ I bellowed it at him. Just in time as the two warriors marching before his horse winded their serpents and drowned out all other noise.
For a moment it seemed he hadn’t heard, and then he turned his horse, shouldering through the ranks, setting the marchers in disarray.
‘—ell are you doing here?’ His words reached me as the howl of the serpent horns died away.
‘I’ve come to see my throne.’ My cheeks ached with a smile that hadn’t needed me to put it there. It felt good to see a familiar face.
‘You look like hell.’ He swung down from the saddle, furs swishing, some kind of arctic fox by the look of them. ‘I took you for a Saracen at first. A sell-sword, and not one finding much luck.’
