Smells of home.
Where was home, though? This festering shagpile of people, all stuck together in this one little town like rats in a sewer, waiting for someone or something to flush them out? If Myrkentown was the best Myrkenwood had to offer, it was no wonder so many people passed through this town, like monks of the True Faith passing by a brothel.
"Ser Balca! Ser Balca!"
He turned to locate the familiar voice of the messenger boy, as did the storm-grey rouncey he sat upon, ears pricking upwards. The boy didn't have any food to eat though. Just a folded note, so the stallion snorted in disapproval, looking miserable once more.
The boy was a stunted lad, but he could sure run fast, and Serrus watched him tear across the mud-lined streets, note gripped betwixt fingers as if it were the lifeline to his heart. He wasn't sure where the lad was from. Heath, maybe. Perhaps even an outsider not from the mainlaind? Serrus supposed that might have explained why he could never pronounce his name correctly.
"Ser Balca! Message for you."
The boy handed him up the folded parchment, and it was easy to see how it differed from his usual correspondence, for this contained a royal seal of some sort, looking Trae Kelsan but he didn't know of the insignia. He sat back on the saddle, breaking the seal carefully, letting out a tired sigh. The journey to and from Heath had taken longer than his actual stay. He was exhausted from the ride, lips parched for ale, his loins burning for a cheap whore, and the last thing he felt like doing was reading. But read he did, as the boy stood by the horse's side and watched with expectant eyes, like a boy waiting for supper.
The sellsword finished the note, eyes turning to the lad. "When'd you get the note?"
"A week ago, ser," the boy replied.
The sellsword glared back. "A bloody week ago?!" he bellowed.
The boy shook his head, protesting. "I look for you, Ser Balca! Look in Castle. Look in brothel. Look in other brothel, too. They say you gone away, nobody know where. I try to look, but you gone!"
He'd been in Heath on 'business', gone for well over a couple of weeks. He hadn't told anyone, not even Nova, about this particular excursion. Fair call that a message wouldn't be received until the last minute.
"Well, can't be in two places at once, s'pose," the man muttered, reaching down to a pouch by his saddle and tossing the boy a copper.
The messenger looked the coin over, and pleading eyes glanced to the sellsword. "A farthing!?" he cried.
Serrus shrugged. "That's what y'get for bein' late," he replied. " 'alf of what y'normally get." And he kicked in his heels, the grey roan breaking forth into a trot, both man and horse leaving the protestations of the boy behind them.
* * *
He arrived at the town outskirts, leaving the war rouncey tied to a fence, the stallion happily munching on some dried grass as the sellsword walked amid the sights, sounds and smells of rank-and-file military; soldiers with little to do but while away the hours training, talking, laughing, eating, and gambling (for those lucky enough not to be caught). He presumed there was obvious contentment in the ranks, evident on the wide smiles and warm laughter that came from the multitude of men in their blue and gold surcoats. They were well equipped and well fed. Some he ascertained, given their sparring finesse, were well trained in the martial arts. The younger lads however, eager and foolish for war, appeared so green that Serrus wouldn't have been surprised if they untied their belts and pissed out grass.
Tents and pavilions abounded aplenty, soldiers walking to and fro. The loud clanging of blunted training swords rang to the eastern block of the encampment, but he hadn't come here to test his mettle -- he knew his expertise and his limitations, and he didn't need some stuck-up Trae Kelsan arsehole to tell him otherwise. He'd spent some time mulling over the rumours surrounding this Lady Egris, writer of the missive. She had a neat cursive hand. Much like most noble ladies, by his reckoning. If you'd seen one fancy way for a nobie to write 'fornication', you'd seen them all. Some of the rumours he'd heard of Egris were slightly credible, others incredible, sounding more like words of drunken louts and miscreants. The Crown's purpose here seemed clear enough, and the rumours surrounding the Baron and the Governor, sketchy as they were, were a clear enough indication that this army intended to stay for at least an extended time -- if not indefinitely.
He looked for soldiers -- not just any run of the mill pike-headed jackass, but the high ranking men. Commissioned Officers, Serjeants, Captains, Commanders. He found a larger pavilion a little distant from a group of cook fires, blue azures and deeper royals mixed with gold embroidery. Looked fancy enough. He made note of a well-equipped soldier, alert and sharp, who spotted him before he was even getting close to outskirts of the larger tents -- a noble's Constabale, a Serjeant, perhaps even a Commander. Given the steel breastplate he wore with surcoat and fine trimmings, he was anything but a low-ranking and inexperienced. Ginger hair hung down to the man's shoulders, and his grey eyes met Serrus' dark browns, eyes moving in the keen intent of one well-trained. A knight, perhaps. Serrus noted many things, the way he held his stance, the way his hand gripped the hilt of his longsword, fingers resting on the pommel. His eyes showed arrogance and overconfidence, a far cry from the blase, nonplussed overconfidence Serrus carried. When the soldier spoke, he even sounded like a snob.
"You there! Speak your name and your intentions, sirrah."
"Aye, an' a nice bloody evenin' to you, too, Ser," Serrus replied, a twang in the way he said 'Ser'. Arse. "Serrus Belcaw. I've business with t'Lady Egris. She 'appen' t'be about?"
"Business you say," the soldier replied, all stolid and stoic. "And what business, pray tell, would that be?"
None of your bloody business, you jumped up, pike-riding arsewipe. "I've a missive from 'er Lady's Person," Serrus replied in his usual devil-may-care overtones, much like he were talking of the harvest. "A brief note, requestin' a meetin' at 'er convenience. Or mine. Don't really matter which way, I s'pose." He reached into his leather brigadine and procured the folded note, seal broken but attached, and handed it over.
The soldier read the note, eyes glancing over it much longer than it would take even the most illiterate of men to read, peering over the note continuously in a manner that only fueled Serrus' dislike for the fellow, imagining the many colorful ways he could quickly end the man's life, but showing no inclination to do so, even hiding his discontent behind his usual wan smile and relaxed stance, leaning against an archer's target butt.
"Her Lady Egris is currently attending to important matters of State," the ranked soldier finally replied. "She may not be able to convene at your pleasure or arrive at the nonce. Especially when one considers your rather latent reply to her summons, sirrah."
Serrus kept his arms folded, wry smile widening as his eyes narrowed a slight. "Well now, there's only one bloody way t'find out, isn't there?"
The soldier frowned, and the sellsword took solace in seeing how the words bit into his hardened frown. But he remained dutiful, nodding once. "Wait here." And he turned back towards the larger pavilion, leaving Serrus to momentarily think about how ridiculous the man would look with his own longsword shoved up his backside.