Our Own Correspondent

By James Hereward

"I know I frighten you, Mister Grey, but don't be afraid of me. Be afraid of the man who wants the truth buried."

It should all have been so simple: travel to the kingdom of Larence, learn more about the rumours of a war about to break out, and get back home to report on it. But Erasmus Grey is finding that his job is anything but simple i

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cranthorpe Millner Publishers
• Release date: Jul 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781912964741

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Our Own Correspondent

by

James Hereward

Copyright © James Hereward (2021)

The right of James Hereward to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover art by Katarzyna Horzela

First published by Cranthorpe Millner Publishers (2021)

ISBN 978-1-912964-74-1 (eBook)

Acknowledgements

To all my family and friends who’ve supported me, encouraged me and generally put up with my nonsense throughout this process. To Kat, especially, for her work on the cover; to Conor Kostick and everyone else who was there at the IWC to help hammer this book into shape; and to the team at Cranthorpe Millner who edited and put everything together … Thank you for making this possible!

1

Excuse me, sir, would you like to comment on…

Good morning, madam, I’m from the…

Hello, would any of you be interested…

The answer wasn’t always spoken, and it wasn’t always polite, but it always boiled down to no.

Erasmus Grey sighed and looked around at the village of Macorro with an air of faint, irrational accusation. He couldn’t blame anyone else for his decision to come here. He’d never even heard of Macorro before this morning – probably very few people had – but it was on the mail coach route, so he’d arranged to be dropped off here, and to return the same way when the coach came back later in the day. Now he felt like the coach couldn’t return fast enough.

It wasn’t as if he’d had a very positive impression of this place when he’d first arrived. When he’d passed the weathered old sign marking the village of Macorro, he’d wondered if the village itself was even still there. What he had eventually found was a circle of run-down houses surrounding a marketplace that had lain dormant for at least a generation. Thatch and timber, both badly rotten in some cases, were much in evidence. Those paths – one couldn’t call them ‘streets’ – that were more than just tracks worn in the dirt were lined with rough and battered cobblestones, a clear explanation for the broken cartwheels that lay slowly decomposing amid the other discarded refuse between houses. The grass, that grew so luxuriantly in the countryside beyond the village, here popped up in despondent patches. Grey was familiar with the expression ‘one-horse town’; this place might rate two-thirds of a horse at best.

And while he’d left Larentium, the capital city, because he felt he wasn’t learning anything much there, half an hour in Macorro had gained him nothing at all. Even now, the few people he saw out and about steered away, pointedly not looking at him. Except for those two men who were walking directly towards him, two rather large armed men…

Erasmus Grey started walking. Not too quickly, but quickly enough to outpace the two men who were now following. He turned a corner – not that there were many corners, the village was so small – and heard the heavy footsteps of the large men come around the corner after him.

Grey had some experience with situations like this. His job was to poke his nose into other people’s business, so it was only natural that they objected from time to time. He’d been followed through the streets of his home city often, and he’d picked up some useful instincts for getting himself out of danger. They were, however, instincts that assumed he was surrounded by several miles of urban sprawl, and not by a small village embedded in a mostly flat expanse of countryside.

He tried to keep a cool head. Never let them see you sweat, his colleague Caius had always said, when he was starting out. Your job is to fluster them, not the other way around. Well, Grey was now literally sweating – partly due to his brisk walking pace and partly from honest-to-goodness fear – but that didn’t mean he couldn’t turn this situation around. Somehow.

Those men were still following. Grey didn’t know who they might be, but his instincts told him they didn’t mean well. They didn’t pick up their pace, or slow down.

Grey tried to just keep going, but there wasn’t anywhere to go. No wonder his pursuers weren’t hurrying. They knew it was just a matter of time before ... he backed himself into a corner.

Grey stared at the wall ahead of him, then at the walls to his left and right, wondering for an insane moment whether he could scale any of them. Then something blotted out the light from behind him, and he turned with a sense of inevitability. The two men stood, impassive, their collective bulk effectively blocking off the entrance to the side street. Grey felt a chill, and the fact that he was standing in the two men’s shadow was only an indirect cause.

All right, Grey said to himself. Stay calm. This can’t be that bad. Don’t they say the pen is mightier than the sword?

He cleared his throat and gave the two men the best smile he could muster. Can I interest either of you gentlemen in an exclusive interview? he ventured. Your views on our … on our front page. Let the world know your opinions. How about it?

The men glanced at each other. One unslung a dirty oaken cudgel from his belt. Grey coughed, eyeing the weapon nervously.

That’s a no, then? he said.

Mister Rice wants to see you, one of the men growled.

Grey frowned. Who is Mister Rice? he asked.

Mister Rice is the man who wants to see you, the other man said. Now that he was seeing them from closer-to, Grey realised he was having trouble telling them apart. Brothers, perhaps … or was it just something about their identical, badly-tailored dark grey suits that drew the eye away from their faces? Grey was familiar with the power of a uniform to turn an individual into part of a group. Perhaps this Mister Rice was, too.

Grey allowed himself to be led – thinking of it that way made him feel a little better about the position he was in – back through the streets of Macorro. It didn’t take long. There weren’t very many streets. There wasn’t very much Macorro.

The sign of the town’s inn was so rotten as to be unreadable, and hung precariously on one rusted hinge. The interior, by contrast, was in better shape than any other building in town. Not, Grey imagined, because it did a lot of business as an inn. The large men ushered Grey inside, locking the sturdy front door behind them. Grey caught a glimpse of a pair of villagers nearby, who were studiously not noticing him or his captors.

The two men led Grey through the inn’s common room to an office at the back, which had probably belonged to the innkeeper before he was finally persuaded to give up on the place. One of the large men knocked, quietly.

The man who opened the door was also wearing a suit, but slightly better made than those of his larger associates. He was about the same height as Grey, which made him look small alongside his towering thugs. Where his men were heavily built, he was slim, wiry. And where they gave the impression of being slow, both physically and in the wits department, he had an air of fierce, predatory quickness. He grinned, in a way that showed a lot of teeth and not very much cheer. Gold teeth glinted in the lamplight.

I see my town has a visitor, he said, and one who has not yet been officially welcomed. I hear you’ve been asking all sorts of questions, mister…?

Erasmus Grey, Grey said, giving a small bow. "Of the Carentum Courier."

Mister Grey, then. The man returned the bow, in what seemed to Grey to be an ironic fashion. Yorick Rice is my name. So good of you to accept my invitation, eh?

Well, your two friends here delivered it in such… compelling terms, Mister Rice, Grey replied. I really couldn’t bring myself to refuse. He followed Rice through the door, noting that the two large men stayed outside.

Good, good. It’s hard to find decent help nowadays, don’t you find, Mister Grey? Mister Rice grinned again. Do have a seat, make yourself at home.

Grey sat in the indicated chair, in front of Mister Rice’s office desk. The desk was cluttered with various scraps of paper and writing implements; Rice seemed to be quite proud of his literacy, to whatever degree he possessed it.

Now then, Mister Rice said, taking his own, rather more luxurious seat behind the desk. He had a curious way of speaking, somehow forced, as if he were trying to mask his rural accent with what he thought of as sophistication. I’d like to hear all about you, Mister Grey, and why it is you’ve chosen to visit my humble little town.

I’ve already told you my business, Mister Rice… can I call you Yorick?

Mister Rice is fine. Rice sat back, peering at Grey over steepled fingers. Refresh my memory, then – who did you say you work for?

"The Carentum Courier, Grey said. I’m a reporter."

Rice frowned. A what?

A reporter, Grey said. "I write about what’s happening in the world, and then my newspaper – the Courier – prints it for people to read."

Rice looked at him silently for a moment. Are you trying to make a joke? he said. Should I be laughing?

I’m being quite serious, Grey said.

So that is your job, Rice said. Writing things.

I’m a journalist, Mister Rice.

For a… newspaper?

"The Carentum Courier, Grey said, yes. I’m here to write a report."

Rice narrowed his eyes further. What about?

On the political tensions building in this region.

Mister Rice gave Grey a knowing smile. ’Course you are. ’Course you are. I just want to make myself understood here.

Grey nodded. I’m all ears, Mister Rice.

I am a businessman, Rice said, leaning forward in his chair. I’m not a king or a viceroy or a … a whatever you call your bigwigs in Carentum and that. I’m not interested in political tensions. There’s none of that in my town. None at all.

But the rumours are of war on the horizon, Grey said. "If such a war were to break out, this town – ‘your’ town may well be caught in the fighting. I came here simply to find out how the local people feel about that."

So you say. Rice sighed. Mister Grey. I’ve got nothing against spies, you understand? Like I say, I’m not a political man. I don’t know what side you’re working for, or what they want you to spy on, but it’s none of my business. I’m not involved. I just want things here to proceed – smoothly. That’s why I want to know what you’re doing here. You can understand my concern, yes, no?

I’m not a spy, Grey said, calmly. He realised he’d said the same thing to a surprising number of people since arriving in Larence.

’Course you’re not. Slip of the tongue, you know how it is. Rice’s voice remained jovial, but his patience was visibly wearing thin. "But if you were … I’m sure we could come to some kind of agreement, yes? I am, after all, a man of means. Whatever you were hype-o-thetick’ly being paid, I could match it. For a little advance warning, you understand; for a better picture of the lay of the land."

Grey said nothing. There didn’t seem to be any point in repeating himself.

Rice leaned forward in his chair. So what can you tell me? he asked, staring directly at Grey across the desk. Who are the real players here?

I wouldn’t claim to be an expert on that, Grey said. In fact, being local to the area, I think you know better than I do. You are a Larence man, aren’t you?

Rice nodded. "But please … indulge me."

Well, as a Larence man, Grey said, you know that the kingdom of Larence is threatened by a large force of nomadic warriors from the north –

Call a barbarian a barbarian, Mister Grey, Rice muttered.

– led by a woman named Rhoanda, also called the Wolf Queen, Grey went on. She is opposed by the king of Larence, of course …

Opposed by him? Ha!

… and by Morhaal, your neighbour to the south. A force led by Duke Vernan Delaque is marching to reinforce the border – as you already know.

"As I do already know, Rice said, sitting back in his chair again. But barbarians don’t hire spies, and I don’t think you’re from Morhaal. Can’t imagine old Delaque is getting his spies from your part of the world. You really from Carentum?"

Yes, from Carentum. But I’m not a spy.

Can’t see Delaque going all the way to Carentum for his spies, Rice mused, half to himself. So you see, I find myself wondering if there’s a third party involved here. Because this is political, and I’m not a political man.

If I find out anything about other parties involved in this conflict, Mister Rice, Grey said, you’ll be able to read about it in my report.

"In the next issue of the … Carentum Courier?" Rice asked, his voice practically dripping scepticism.

Of course, Grey said.

There was a long moment of meaningful silence as Rice stared at Grey. Grey seriously considered just opening his mouth and talking – saying he was a spy, spinning any tale at all about his mission and what he’d discovered so far. Whatever Rice wanted to hear. But it wouldn’t get him out of this. In the short term, it might result in comfortable guest quarters instead of the beating he increasingly feared was inevitable, but when Rice found out that he was lying, well – he didn’t want to think about how that would end. He kept his mouth shut and stared back.

It was Rice who finally looked away, and sighed. All right, Mister Grey, all right, he said. I can see we’re not getting anywhere with this.

He stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled, loudly. The door opened, and the two large men moved in, seeming to expand to fill the space immediately behind Grey.

Take him to the stockade, Rice said, standing up and walking away from Grey to look out the window. We’ll give him some time to reflect on his future. Or lack thereof.

***

Grey followed his guards reluctantly, not sure what to expect from ‘the stockade’. Images of some kind of torture chamber flitted through his mind as they walked down a flight of uneven wooden steps, and so it was something of a relief when one of the men hauled open a heavy door to reveal a dirty, mostly empty cellar. As prisons went it was less than impressive, but the door was solid, and the only window was a tiny, barred semicircle near the ceiling. A prod in the back from one of the interchangeable large men convinced Grey to step inside and, with a squeal of rusty hinges, the door closed behind him.

With the door closed, the cellar was decidedly dingy, though there was some light from that single window, small as it was. The cellar was also damp; peering up at the grey sky outside through the slit, it occurred to Grey that this place could flood quite readily in a heavy storm. All the more reason to talk his way out of this predicament as fast as possible. If only he had someone he could talk to.

Good morning, a voice said.

Grey looked around sharply. His gaze passed twice over a large-ish bundle of dirty brown cloth lying against the cellar wall a little to his right, before it sat up and he realised there was a man inside. The face was that of a Bora, angular, with large, bright amber eyes; the bundle of dirty brown cloth in which he was swathed turned out indeed to be a dirty, brown and extremely lived-in robe or habit. The thin layer of white fur that covered his dark skin was spotted with dirt, and patches of it looked like they’d been singed fairly recently. He smiled faintly at Grey, though as usual for a Bora, the effect was a little unnerving, revealing more pointed teeth than most human heads contained. Grey, something of an expert at hiding unease, smiled back.

Good morning to you too, he offered. So what are you in for?

Bringing the Faith to the wrong town, the Bora replied. His voice, lightly accented as with most who hailed from the Steppes, was soft and surprisingly calm, given the circumstances. And yourself?

Asking questions, Grey said, feeling a little more relaxed. At least he didn’t seem to be dealing with a violent criminal. You’re not going to take offence to that, are you?

The Bora shook his head. Questions are an occupational hazard for a missionary, he said. In any case, I would happily answer some, just to have someone to talk to other than myself.

Grey sat himself down next to his fellow prisoner. I’ll start with an easy one. What’s your name?

Pavel Lebedev. A humble man of the cloth. Lebedev looked down at his mud-stained habit. Never humbler, in fact.

Grey smiled. Erasmus Grey. I’m a reporter.

Lebedev looked at him. A reporter, as in …

As in, a writer. Journalist. For a newspaper.

Lebedev sat silent for a moment. You’re serious, he said at last.

Grey raised an eyebrow. You believe me?

Lebedev nodded.

Hmm. Grey shrugged. Everyone else I’ve said that to thinks I’m a spy, he said.

You’ll admit, that’s almost more plausible, Lebedev said. But I believe you.

Grey leaned back against the cellar wall and looked up at the sky through the tiny window. He’d been in the Westfold for three weeks, and the first person who’d believed he actually worked for a newspaper was a priest locked up in a cheap prison in a run-down backwater town, hundreds of miles from home.

Any idea how I could convince them to believe me too? he asked.

Lebedev stroked his chin thoughtfully. Don’t, he replied, finally.

Grey raised an eyebrow. "They locked me in here because they think I’m a spy."

Yes, they did, Lebedev said. And because they think you are a spy, they will eventually take you back out.

Ah. Grey nodded slowly. How long have they kept you down here?

Three days. Or four, maybe, now, Lebedev said. My apologies for the smell.

You’re remarkably calm about this, Grey said.

There are priests where I come from who actively seek the isolation of a cell, to reflect and meditate , Lebedev said. And the food is better here. When they remember to feed me, that is.

Grey laughed despite himself. Lebedev’s religion was the Old Faith of the Bora people, so old that it didn’t really have a name in most people’s minds. It had a strong following back in the Free Cities, so the basic teachings were more than familiar: the Bright Lord who embodied all things good, and the Cold Lord who tempted mortals towards evil. It was one thing to hear a priest preaching about how the body is temporary and the concerns of the soul are all-important, though. It was quite another to see him actually living that belief.

Grey almost found himself wishing he was more of a religious man himself.

May I ask what brings a reporter to a town like this one? Lebedev asked.

Desperation, in a way, Grey said. The mail coach from Carentum took me to Larentium first, of course ...

He described how he’d arrived in the capital of Larence, the largest Hellat-built city in this little corner of the world. There weren’t many Hellat living there now, though, and Grey had stood out immediately; his clothing and his accent would have been enough for that even without his Hellat face, his skin that marked him apart from all but a few amongst the mostly paler Bretans. He’d begun to seek audiences with local officials and gather opinions from the locals, learning little of any value. Looking back, no doubt many of them had considered him a spy, too. Someone had mentioned the tiny town of Macorro, caught between the two armies, and with no sign that anyone was on the march yet, he’d seized the moment.

It didn’t take me long to realise that was a dead end, he said, but by the time I did, Mister Rice had taken an interest in the stranger asking so many questions in his town.

Lebedev nodded. I see how the problem arose.

I suppose they don’t have newspapers in these parts, Grey said. "The Courier was the first to start publication in Carentum again, since the cities were resettled. What kind of insane idea is a ‘reporter’, someone who basically spies and then tells everyone what he saw?"

Insane or not, Lebedev said, "it is a pretty good idea."

I used to think so. Grey lapsed into silence, staring out the high window, wondering if he could track the movement of the sun from here. The same sun would be shining down on the Free Cities to the east, on Carentum, Grey’s home that seemed so out of reach. Further still to the east, far further, it would probably be late afternoon on the Great Steppes, where Lebedev’s people lived, and where there were no cities at all. Their separate journeys had taken each of them almost to the edge of the world. Much further west than this, and you were out into the sea, among the Veras islands, or the Span – Lamache, Elca, Port Veras. After that, there was nothing but ocean and Sealander myths of a far-off, verdant land beyond; maybe some islands of the Hidden People still clinging to their ancient culture.

Technically Grey was closer to home now than he had been in Larentium to the west,

but amid all that Hellat architecture it had felt like home. This was more like some kind of limbo.

The two talked, on and off, to while away the hours. Grey spoke about his home, about life in Carentum and the recent political events there, none of them particularly dramatic. Lebedev spoke a bit about his own life as a nomad on the Steppes, of his gradual migration westward; he’d spent a little time living in the Free Cities himself, he said, but hadn’t lingered long.

You must be used to travelling, Grey said. I don’t think I could have made it here from Larentium on foot, let alone further than that. When you live your life in the city, you don’t need to know how to forage for food or make a fire.

You’d be surprised what you can get used to, Lebedev said. Though I make use of the coaches and caravans when I can, of course, and I don’t travel all the year round. I had hoped to find a place to stay when winter comes. Now I hope I get out of here before then.

I suppose you’ve already tried appealing to your captors’ better natures? Grey said.

Lebedev nodded. If they didn’t think I was some kind of spy, he said, they might have let me go. But Yorick Rice seems paranoid, for some reason, that he’s being spied on.

Paranoid is certainly the word, Grey thought. Rice’s wild guessing suggested he didn’t even know who he thought might be spying on him – just that somebody had to be. Perhaps he just thought highly enough of himself that the only inconceivable possibility was that nobody cared what he was up to…

Footsteps from outside broke the silence and Grey’s train of thought. Lebedev glanced at the door. They’re feeding us at last, he said.

Grey had just opened his mouth to reply when the cellar door was thrown open, and three of Rice’s men stomped inside.

You, one of them said, pointing at Grey. Come with us.

Grey decided to sit where he was for the moment. I only just got here. Does Mister Rice…

Mister Rice says we are leaving here, the man said. Mister Rice says you are coming with us.

Grey climbed hesitantly to his feet. Did Mister Rice say where we’re going?

What’s taking so long? Rice strode into the cellar, all purpose and determination. We need to be gone. Get him moving.

Lebedev raised his head. What about me? he asked, placidly.

What about you? Rice frowned. Who are you, anyway? What are you doing here?

Lebedev half-smiled. I was hoping that sooner or later, you would tell me what I was doing here.

He’s that priest, Mister Rice, one of the large men put in. You said to put him in here.

Right. Right, ’course I did, ’course, Rice said, though Grey would have bet that he had no recollection of doing so. Well. What about you, then?

You could let him go, Grey offered. He’s not involved in any of your business.

Can’t do that. Can’t have him going and … can’t have it. Rice shook his head.

Do we kill him then? one of the large men asked. The other lumbered forward. Grey considered stepping in front of him, thought better of it, then did it anyway. The man lumbered to a halt, confused by this chance of circumstances.

Now hold on, Grey blurted out, trying to buy time for his brain to catch up with his body’s ridiculous outbreak of courage. You, ah, you locked this man up down here for a reason, didn’t you? Instead of killing him right at the start? You’re an intelligent man, you had it all figured out. Rice nodded slowly. Yeah. Yeah, ’course I did, he said.

’Course you did. Grey nodded vigorously. So, right, you can’t kill him, because … because there’s a reason you want him alive. Right?

Rice narrowed his eyes. Then he waved irritably to the guards. We can’t leave bodies lying around and there’s no time for grave-digging, he said. Get them both upstairs. We need to be gone. He turned and disappeared up the stairs, muttering quietly to himself.

Thank you for your intervention, Lebedev murmured as they were led up the steps after him.

Journalist’s trick, Grey said. We specialise in making people want to believe things enough that they don’t care whether they’re true.

Ah. Lebedev nodded thoughtfully. We missionaries have a similar aim.

Grey glanced at his companion’s expression, which was still perfectly deadpan, inasmuch as Grey could tell through the fur.

As they emerged, blinking, into daylight, it was clear that Rice’s planned move was no small thing. A couple of dozen besuited men, now with an assortment of short swords, cudgels and cheap pistols openly strapped to their belts, had gathered around a large covered wagon, which – in keeping with Grey’s assessment of the town with regard to horses – had two sturdy oxen yoked to it. Rice was standing by, barking orders, while a handful of his men worked to load two large chests into the wagon. One of the chests was made of metal, and chinked as its carriers struggled to lift it inside. The second, wooden chest was lifted more easily; it obviously contained something much lighter, but the men still handled it with great care. Rice