Novel 2. Royal Justice

Novel 2. Royal Justice

Part One. Tipstaffs

Chapter 1

The sight of heavily laden carts rolling down the night road in the moonlight was quite unusual. The trade routes of the kingdom always came to a standstill at dusk. Even merchants who were caught in the darkness away from inns, villages, and outposts preferred to camp by the side of the road to wait for morning. But this little caravan of three carts, accompanied by four riders, crawled stubbornly through the night. The lanterns attached to the carts were unlit, and only the sentry in front was lighting his way, covering the box of a magic lamp with the flap of his cloak.

He was the first to spot the lone figure sticking out in the middle of the road. The rider laid down his horse and lifted the lamp. In its yellowish light the sentinel discerned a young man, whose rather fancy suit looked old and shabby. The man — of medium height, fair-haired, sturdily built — was standing precisely in the middle of the road, with his legs shoulder-width apart, wielding something like a club. On his belt hung a sword with a plain, old-fashioned hilt.

— Who are you? What are you doing here? — the horseman asked curtly, raising his arm with the lantern above his head. The cart behind him had come to a halt, and the other riders had moved closer to the carts to prepare for an attack. It looked very much like an ambush.

— Don Armando de Gorazzo, royal bailiff, — the man jabbed his "baton" at the sentinel with a disarming, white-toothed smile. It was a short metal rod with the coat of arms of the kingdom on its tip. — Bring me the master of the caravan.

The sentry hesitated for a few seconds, but turned his horse and rode toward the caravan. Leaning over in the saddle, he said something to the man sitting on the gantry of the first carriage, next to the carter. The man jumped down and walked briskly toward the calmly waiting bailiff. He had his right hand on the scabbard of a broad soldier's cleaver.

— Messire Albano! — The fair-haired official greeted the merchant as an old acquaintance. — What a meeting, isn't it? At a time like this, in a place like this...

— Armando... — the master of the caravan began angrily, but the bailiff interrupted him:

— Don Armando, messire. Do not forget.

— Don Armando, I should like to know what the devil you are doing here at night. — The merchant hissed through his teeth.

— As is my duty — to establish justice. — The bailiff yawned and patted his tipstaff on his palm. — In the glorious city of Daert, wise and fair laws have ruled for centuries. Royal laws, city laws, ecclesiastical laws, and various others — but all just laws, I repeat. And one of those laws says that contraband can only be brought into Daert by day, through certain outposts, and sold in certain places, after evaluation, by giving a certain share to worthy people.

— What the...

— Bribing a night-shift sergeant at the southern gate and conspiring directly with a couple of merchants to sell the goods to them in secret, Messire Albano, is a terrible violation of this law, — the bailiff did not let himself be interrupted. — Which must be stopped and punished. Which I, as a servant of justice, do now.

The merchant swore. He drew in air through clenched teeth and muttered:

— You found out... Who?

— Honorable sire Serpent, — Don Armando smiled again. — You have not been in town for a long time, but that has not changed — he is still in charge of smuggling.

— What does Serpent want?

— He wants me to escort a wagon train to his warehouses, where a third of the illicit goods and a fifth of the legal goods will be taken from you. After which you can sell the rest in the usual manner. Under the supervision of the sire's men, of course.

— But...

— But Don Gotech Ardano, my friend and colleague, will see to it that no one disturbs us on the way to the warehouses.

A huge black shadow protruded from behind the oaks along the road. The light of the moon touched it, but the shadow did not grow brighter. Don Gotech turned out to be a black-skinned desert giant, bald as a chicken's egg. The giant's dress was black, too, and the whites of his eyes gleamed, as did the rod in his right hand and the ominous-looking hook that replaced the bailiff's left wrist. The merchant swallowed, but found the strength to make a wry grin:

— I knew you two were doing business with Serpent, but I thought it was only in judicial matters. Running around on his payroll like that...

Don Armando snorted:

— I told you... Just defending justice in our spare time from royal service. Not sparing sleep and strength. Besides, we're not Mr. Snake's men, we're business partners. The crown pays our wages, and with the sire, we have... a combined income from our transactions. Can you feel the difference?

— I do. — The master of the caravan suddenly jumped back and whistled two fingers. The escort riders and the men on the carts rushed toward him. The first to arrive, of course, were the mounted men. The merchant raised his voice from behind the mounted mercenaries:

— The main thing I have understood is that you are not on duty. If my boys give you a beating, noble dons, you won't be complaining to your superiors, will you? He'd be wondering what you were doing here today, too. — He touched one of the mercenaries by the stirrup. — Captain, these men are threatening us. Count their bones.

There was a hiccup. The merchant's riders and servants looked at each other, in no hurry to rush into battle. Don Gotech stepped closer and stood shoulder to shoulder with Armando. He grinned grimly, causing a fair amount of commotion and whispering.

— What is it, Captain? — the merchant growled as the pause became too long.

— Messire Albano, on or off duty, these are the royal bailiffs, — said the rider, called the captain, in an overly level voice. — I don't want any trouble with the crown. Unless they try to kill you...

— God forbid! — Don Armando spluttered his hands.

— ...I see no reason to interfere in their affairs. — The mercenary folded his palms on the forelock of his saddle.

— Then... we'll do without you. — The caravan's owner panted, chest full, and shouted: — Whoever beats any of them to a pulp is double pay for the month! Whoever doesn't put up a fight is out of the service!

The five carters and the merchant's servants weren't too enthusiastic about the call. They exchanged uncertain glances and crumpled in place for a good half a minute before they made up their minds. Some drew a knife from their boots, some put their hands into their pockets for a lead weight for their fists. While the servants gathered their courage, the bailiffs attacked. Don Armando did not draw his sword. Instead, he slid forward, made a deep lunge with his tipstaff, as if wielding a sword. The massive steel crest at the tip of the staff and the forehead of the nearest servant touched. It was a weak blow, but the servant staggered back, gripping his head. The knife-wielding carriage driver tried to stab the don in the stomach — the bailiff struck his enemy in the fingers with the rod without any finesse. The man screamed, dropped his weapon, and fled to the side, cradling his bruised arm. Armando's partner was just as quick to finish off his part of the attackers. The big black man simply grabbed the first one by the neck, lifted him, and threw him into the bushes. The second, armed with a rusty knife, was kicked in the stomach by Gotech before he could take a swing. The third didn't wait his turn, flinging the rough shiv aside and running away. Armando shoved the bruised poor man with the rod, and he fell to the ground with a groan, keeping his hands on his head.

— And why was it so complicated, Messire Albano? — grinning, the fair-haired official tossed the rod into the special leather noose on his right thigh. — Only unnecessary expense. So if you had beaten us, so what? So we wouldn't have gone to court to complain... Messire Serpent would still be displeased with you. And his own men are not as polite as me and Don Ardano. Or do you no longer plan to do business in the city? Am I right? One last job in the capital and then you're off to faraway lands with a good deal? Huh?

The master of the caravan was silent. Then the bailiff turned to the commander of the mercenaries:

— It is a pleasure to meet a sensible man, captain. Please let your men help the wounded. The caravan is on its way. Beyond the outpost, I will show you the way to the necessary warehouses. If you and your men are free after unloading the goods, I invite everyone to drink. The great city of Daert, the heart of the world, welcomes you!

* * *

In the state Armando was in by morning, any sound louder than a mouse's squeak threatened him with an excruciating headache. So the insistent knocking on the window was interpreted by the young bailiff as an attempted murder. Mentally, having referred the case of an assassination attempt to the Royal Court, he forced himself to sit up and then to get out of bed without opening his eyes. As soon as he lifted his eyelids, something in his head burst, and de Gorazzo staggered. The pounding, meanwhile, did not cease. Its rhythm was familiar to the bailiff. And the fact that the second floor window was being knocked on was also suggestive. To the accompaniment of the annoying "knock-knock, knock-knock," Armando waddled to the barrel that replaced the washbasin, took a handful of ice-cold water. After admiring his reflection for a few seconds, he poured the water back and plunged his head resolutely straight into the barrel. This was almost the end of his life. Don barely had the strength to straighten himself up. The risk paid off, though, and it felt so much better. Not good at all, but lighter. After wiping himself dry and even risking a yawn, Armando finally went to the window. He unhooked the hook, pulled open the blurred sashes. He sighed when he saw exactly what he had expected. A dead sparrow was sitting on the tray, holding a note in its beak, rolled up into a tube. The sparrow had bones showing in places, and it smelled like rot.

— Give me that. — Armando took the note out of his beak. The dead bird spread its frayed wings, missing a good third of their feathers, jumped silently from the window sill, and flew off into the air. The scrap of paper it delivered read: "Armando, to the Hall of Executioners. Quickly." The signature was replaced by a round face showing his tongue. The face was stylized as a painted initial letter from an ancient manuscript. De Gorazzo could hardly suppress a chuckle. Crumpling the note, he began to dress.

It was not the first time Armando had woken up with a headache in a tavern room, and he had established a routine for himself long ago. Wash, dress, brine, walk. All the anguish and suffering that came with it was God's reward for yesterday's sins. They must be endured silently and with dignity.

Half of last night the bailiff sat in an ambush with Gotech, warmed only by wine from a flask. And even that was not worth the effort, because it was not the easiest thing to do. Returning to the capital and leaving the stubborn merchant and his contraband in the care of Serpent's men, the frozen Armando hurried to where three kinds of warmth awaited him — from the hearth, from the drink, and from the women's company. To put it simply, to the tavern. The mercenaries who had been invited soon arrived there as well. The bailiff spent the second half of the night in his own pleasure, for which he was now paying. Sipping brine at the bar in the main hall, de Gorazzo asked the host:

— Where is my friend?

— Which one, your nobility? There were many yesterday.

— The big one. The biggest.

— Ah. Master Gotech? He didn't spend the night here, he went to his place.

— Yes... — Armando stretched out respectfully, taking hold of a clay brine jug. — He had the strength...

It was no surprise, though. The black giant was very strong, of all things. Neither was he clever. Many knew that Gotech had been a soldier in the royal army during the war — that's where he lost his hand, that's where he earned his personal nobility, which paved the way for him to become a bailiff. But only good friends like Armando knew that the big man was not in the infantry, but in the Engineers, as a tenth officer. And at the very least, he knew better math than any of his current colleagues. Of course, this did not prevent Gotech from playing the illiterate desert ogre at every opportunity — it was very useful in his service at times.

— If you wish, your lordship, I'll send a boy to him with a message, — the tavern-keeper suggested. — What do you want me to tell him?

— It's okay, he's been summoned anyway, I'm sure. — Armando set the jug aside. — Do I owe you anything from the night?

— No, your lordship, you have been very... generous.

Appreciating host's smile, de Gorazzo felt for his wallet. There was a single coin left in it. Well, that's all right, it was only copper. And today or tomorrow the money would come from Serpent.

— Well, then... — The bailiff made an indefinite gesture with his hand and stood up. He went out into the street with a shaky step, but with every minute the don's gait was becoming more confident. Taking his horse from the stable, Armando did not saddle up but went on foot, leading the animal under the bridle. The note demanded haste, but de Gorazzo knew that to ride would be even slower than to walk. It didn't hurt to get the alcoholic aromas out of him either.

The hour was early, but the city was long awake. Carriages and wagons rolled down the cobblestone streets, ancient as history itself, and pedestrians huddled against the walls of buildings. Here, in the poor neighborhoods near the warehouses, the houses were almost new — but as he stepped toward the center, Armando felt as if he were sinking deeper and deeper into the past. A white house flashed through the gray stone, an empire-built multi-room house squeezed between the newer buildings. And ahead, on the famous Daertian hills, towered the thousand-year-old palaces from which emperors had once ruled the entire continent, and temples once dedicated to pagan gods, now crowned with the symbol of the One Creator. On the highest and steepest hill was the royal residence, adjacent to which was the Hall of Executioners, also known as the Hall of Justice.

Climbing the hill, Armando began to pant. A bad sign — it seemed worth paying attention to his health. The young bailiff had spent more time lately in drinking establishments than on the training ground, and it was beginning to take its toll.

— Gotech is good, — de Gorazzo was puffing under his breath as he climbed the scratched stairs. — And I am a fool. I must learn from Gotech...