Chapter 2

The balcony had a beautiful view. The buildings of the Narrow Bay sprawled toward the cliffs that stood against the Fraelin Sea. The high walls of sandstone towered above a flat beach of sand, creating a rampart against the waves. The noise of bartering merchants and haggling townspeople could be heard clearly despite the docks being so far away.

Ships sprouted a forest of masts along the coast, carrying cargo destined for bustling markets and loose coin purses. Sails with symbols from the Kingdom of Casval decorated the docks. This luxurious border town was a popular retreat for nobles of Casval. The azure expanse of the sea seemed to stretch forever. It was the perfect place to relax and watch the waves lick the shore with a cup of fine wine.

But Putkin could not afford to relax. The poor coin master was breathing heavily as he leaned on the gilded railing, drops of sweat beading his brow. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his robe. Putkin was a portly, stout man. He only had a little bit of red hair left on his balding head. He had a beard that would have been suitable for a man of his position, were it not soaked in sweat. His legs barely held him upright, and his dark blue robes failed to hide the bulge of his stomach.

The brass door to the balcony swung open. Putkin snapped his heels together and brought his right fist straight up toward the sky—or at least he tried to. His arm lazily swung up and his legs buckled as he forced his body into a tired salute. An old man emerged through the doorway, carrying a massive leather-bound book under his arm. 

“Please take a seat, coin master. You have traveled far from the Kingdom of Casval to visit a city of the Free Baronies.” The request seemed more like a command despite the man’s wizened voice.

Putkin lowered himself onto the small stool across from his host.

He bowed his head with his hands at his sides. “I am terribly sorry for being late, High Scribe. I had trouble finding my way through town.”

The High Scribe set his book down on the table with a thud. He opened it up, placed a single finger on a page, and moved it slowly as he addressed Putkin. “The grand ledger says that you received your summons yesterday. Yet here you are, at midday, when the summons was meant for the morning.”

Putkin tried to swallow but found nothing. His breath became shallow as he struggled with his words. “Y–yes…well…I’d not had time to ask for directions. I am afraid I did not take the most ideal route.”

The High Scribe continued “I had to update the record for your reason for tardiness and have the following: You stopped by the local tavern as you exited the gate. After another hour, you were seen bartering with a baker in the market square. After realizing the time, you shoved a loaf of bread into your mouth and proceeded to sprint to the registry.” 

There was a lick of a finger followed by a page turn. “You arrived at the registry after running down Peddler’s Street. Several traders saw you trip on an uneven part of the road and injure yourself. You gathered yourself and hobbled the rest of the distance, where you collapsed halfway up the stairs. My attendants had to drag you up to the balcony. Now you are here. Sweaty, out of breath, and still late. Forcing me to record your reasons for delay into the ledger, delaying our meeting further.”

The old man looked up from the book. “In summary, it seems that your tardiness was caused by your own doing. Though you are new to my city, I must insist that you do better in the future to represent the standards expected from an official who has studied at the Tanidain Academy and served at the royal court of Casval.”

Putkin bowed so low he almost hit his forehead against the table. “Of course, High Scribe. I should have been more careful when I was trying to make haste to the registry.”

The High Scribe turned another page. “So long as you understand your mistake. Punctuality is important, but not at the expense of judgment, young man.”

Putkin gave another bow, which caused the chair beneath him to creak in protest. “Of course. Thank you for your wisdom.”

The High Scribe leaned back from his scrutiny of the book and locked eyes with Putkin. “Now for the matter at hand. I was notified by our harbor master that Lord Alistair Van Durin decided to lead an expedition to the southern ice flows. It appears he boarded the Ivory Lady two days ago, accompanied by a small entourage. However, our records are missing the documentation for those other passengers. I wish to understand what your lord intended to accomplish by circumventing our port authorities.”

Putkin cleared his throat. “Yes, of course. Before he departed, he told me he had given the proper travel documents of his companions to a Sentinel instead of the local harbor master.”

The High Scribe stiffened in his chair. “A Sentinel?”

Putkin pointed at the open ledger. “Yes, sire. I believe if you check the royal charter, you will see.” 

The High Scribe turned a few pages in his large book. He ran his finger down the rows of scribbles along each page, then moved on to the next methodically. Putkin could see rows of names within each column, followed by several numbers and notes. He shifted in his seat as he rummaged his hands beneath his robe, carefully watching each page go by. Finally, the High Scribe’s finger halted halfway down a page. 

“Why would the young lord clear himself with the local harbor master and have his companions cleared with a Royal Sentinel? Perhaps the young lord is attempting to misuse royal authority to allow for stowaways on his ship?” The High Scribe’s eyes wrinkled into narrow slits as he glared at the portly man who was barely holding himself atop the small stool below him.

Putkin hunched his back and moved his belly closer to the edge of the table. “As you might already be aware, the Treaty of the Barons made it illegal for freeblade mercenaries to travel between borders without reporting to an official of the crown. My lord wished for two freeblades to accompany him to the south. Had they been simple servants, there would have been no issue, but since they were mercenaries, they were subject to the crown’s jurisdiction, not the local harbor master’s.” 

Putkin moved even closer. “As for why my lord chose to avoid the Sentinel himself, you have already heard of the disagreement he had with Prince Cassius, I presume?”

“Of course,” the High Scribe said slowly. “Prince Cassius has made quite public his disdain for Lord Alistair being given command of the fortress at Widow’s Hearth.”

  “Exactly. This argument came just after his majesty King Kerdwin appointed the second prince to become the grand margrave, giving him control over travel outside my kingdom’s borders. The prince has been…passionate in his duties. The rates of incarcerations in Casval have been quite high. Some incarcerations involve members of the court who have disagreed with the prince’s behaviors.”

The High Scribe was not amused. “It is not your place to speak ill of your prince.”

“Of course not!” Putkin waved his hands defensively. “Prince Cassius has been the most dedicated margrave my kingdom has had in years.”

He leaned on an elbow as his voice lowered along with his body. “But we are both officials of the court. A wise scribe such as yourself can see why Lord Alistair wished to avoid involving this city in the affairs of Casvalan politics. Any report back to Prince Cassius could create a reason for the second prince to make my lord’s travel to the south…difficult.”

The High Scribe took his hands away from the ledger to stroke his beard. Putkin kept his eyes on the book as the two men sat in silence.

Finally, the High Scribe spoke. “Lord Alistair was required to report his mercenary guards to the Sentinel. He has been having issues with Prince Cassius in Casval, but he still wanted to conduct proper procedure to show records of his travel in the Free Baronies. So instead of reporting himself to the Sentinel, which could have led to conflict, he went to the local harbor master. Does that sound correct?”

Putkin regained eye contact with the old man. “Everything you said is true, High Scribe. Those were exactly my lord’s intentions.”

The High Scribe shook his head. “Of course. You use far more words than needed, young man. A sin you undoubtedly picked up from the capital, I’m afraid. You are fortunate I am skilled in deciphering a diatribe with unnecessary platitudes. I follow your lord’s logic, and I find it…acceptable.”

The old man ran his hand along the pages of the book as he returned his gaze down. Putkin followed every trace of the High Scribe’s bony finger as the lecture continued. “I can confirm from the ledger that your lord’s freeblades did indeed clear their departure with a Sentinel. I believe my inquiry can be concluded, for now.”

The old man lifted the cover of the book and closed it with a thud. A cloud of dust puffed from the ledger and into Putkin’s face, causing him to gag. He blinked his eyes and shoved his arms hastily back into his robes. 

The High Scribe shook his head with pity. “Due to the circumstances Lord Alistair is facing, and despite your long-winded explanation, I see no laws of the Narrow Bay have been violated by Lord Alistair. You are free to leave, coin master.”

Putkin stumbled up from his stool and bowed once again. He began to move for the exit.

“Master Putkin?”

The High Scribe’s words stopped the coin master from pulling the door open. Putkin slowly turned around. “Yes, sire?” 

The High Scribe silently scanned Putkin from head to toe. “Adopting a less hedonic lifestyle might be in your best interest. A scholar may live a sedentary lifestyle in Tanidain, but it would do you some good to stay away from the bakeries and spend more time walking to the libraries we have in town. Patience and moderation—virtues to live by.”

Putkin smiled nervously. “As always, your astuteness has allowed you to see what I lack. I hope that one day I will be blessed with a fraction of your perception.”

Putkin lingered for a moment to see if the old man was still watching him. He then exited the balcony, muttering a curse under his breath.

As the guards to the registry opened the doors, Putkin stepped outside into the cobbled streets. He barely had time to adjust his robe before a young woman stormed up to him. Her long dress fluttered as she hurried across the street. Several young townspeople followed her with their eyes. In a town like this, the beautiful golden-haired priestess Celles Senray was a sight to behold. Before Putkin could react, she grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him away from the registry. As he stumbled after her, Celles spewed a fountain of words into his ear.

“Is my lord in danger with the High Scribe?”

“No, Celles. He is not.”

“But you arrived late to the meeting. I told you not to stop at the tavern and the bakery! You could have put our lord’s life in danger!”

“Everything went as intended. I planned to be late to the meeting on purpose.”

“Planned? Why on earth would you plan to be late?”

Putkin could see some of the registry guards lean forward to look in their direction. He lowered his voice as he quickly explained, “I had to stop by the tavern to speak to the innkeeper and I was craving a nice loaf of bread to eat at the bakery. I needed to show up late, bloated, and exhausted at the registry for me to do what Lord Alistair requested I do there.”

Putkin felt his sleeve jerk back as Celles halted in the middle of the street. 

“How could getting food, seeing an innkeeper, and running so hard that you almost collapsed be in any way helpful in preventing our lord from being charged with illegal travel?” Celles snapped.

He gave a playful smile. “You think I was merely there to confirm our lord’s travel plans? He asked me to record all the names of the Sentinels and their guard rotation scheduled in the Narrow Bay.”

Celles was taken aback. “But…the summons you were sent said that…You were not there to clear the departure of our lord and our compatriots?”

“Our lord departed in such a way on purpose to draw suspicion from the High Scribe. I stopped by the tavern to confirm where the Narrow Bay’s royal ledger is kept. While some scribes separate their documents into various books, the High Scribe of the Narrow Bay has trouble organizing his ledgers. Therefore, he opts to keep them all in a single book. Excellent choice for convenience, but a poor choice for security.”

Putkin rolled his sleeves up from Celles’s loosened grasp. He reached in and handed her a piece of parchment. “Here. The old man almost shut the ledger before I could finish, but everything should be copied. My goodness, that dust is still in my eyes…” He blinked a few times.

Celles was silent. Then she spoke up. “If what you say is true, why did you stop by the bakery?”

“For bread, of course. No one suspects a fat, tired coin master filled to the belly with bread to be looking for information. Also, I was quite famished.”

Celles stared at him for a moment in disbelief, then breathed a sigh of relief. “I am glad our lord is not endangered anymore. I was worried all morning about your meeting with the High Scribe. Once we pay for Ophella and Yrgsen’s services today, everything should be much safer for our lord’s return.”

Putkin turned his gaze to the distant waters of the dock. His face mirrored the clouds beginning to gather along the horizon over the sea. “Oh, he is still in danger. I hope that Lord Alistair tries to not cause trouble for once in his life. For everyone’s sake.”