Sibren ‘Solemn’ Maats

The Road Diaries

Part I

-Gut feeling-

There was bird shite on Ebenezer Framtond’s face. Weather had turned it white at first alike paint and then half washed it down his neck and shirt. Not that it had bothered him. The renowned adventurer still stood with his legs spread slightly apart, hands resting snugly on hips and eyes set firmly south. The line of sight, if extended on a map, leading to Flauegran, or Cediorum. Turtle Isles after that and even Split Isles next, if the tales were true.

Most tales told by the very man whose giant statue adorned Asturia’s main square.

Which made the whole thing kinda shadily convenient, Sibren Maats thought and pushed himself to stand up from the stone bench. The square relatively empty due to the bad weather and the cold wind sweeping over the Canlita Sea. It made the heavy humidity of the place unbearable for old bones such as himself.

Sibren wasn’t that old, at four and eight years, but the moment you reach fifty is much different than when you reached thirty, or even forty, the veteran adventurer mused. Sibren was one that much was true. As a matter of fact, an adventurer was all he had ever been. The thrill of it was in his blood and had slowly sipped in his bones. He knew it will never truly leave him.

He’d left Farvor, a modest town and port facing Ripel’s Island in the Shallow Sea more than thirty years back, the summer of one and sixty. Theun ‘the Cruel’ Eikenaar’s third year on the throne, after taking over from Arjan ‘the Old’. Sibren had gone south too at first like Ebenezer. From Trinir to Caspo O’ Bor. Quarterport and Issir’s Eagle after that, where he’d caught sight of the young handsome king atop his horse. Riverdor and then into Regia. Aegium where he’d his heart broken by a wench, then worked for a silver mine owner in Demames, afore heading to Cartagen. Over to Lesia and Cediorum where he’d created his first company with Vernon and Milton ‘Seven fingers’ in one sixty seven.

Across the desert to Armium and then the quest with ‘Red’ Atterton to find treasure at the Turtle Isles where Vernon had gotten himself killed. Back to Dokamna and up the Haggart River into the Stonemaze Peaks looking for the fabled silver cockatrice. The journey to Kadrek during the ‘warbands rebellion’ and Rifjordal where Milton had fought a giant and gotten his head cracked open on a shield. He sort of worked around that wearing a silver cap on it under his helm after that and the darn thing clanked ruining their ambushes proper many a times. All the way back to Anorum, where Jingo and Jester Grin had joined. Sibren had visited these places many times in the years that followed, went across the Shallow Sea twice and met the Duke of Raoz during a hunt. He had himself honored in five cities and three kingdoms, before he ran out of men and decided to call it a day.

“Are you sure?” the man to his right said, left side of his face burned from extreme cold, the skin there a darkened tan, almost black. “Kell’s warband never ventured so close to the cities.”

“Not much space left for ‘em lads free-roaming the north passages,” his friend replied, a Forester Sibren kinda knew since this was his second winter in the city.

“Rogues more like, bound to cause problems,” the first man corrected him and smiled at Sibren’s gruff unshaven face listening to them. “Thinking of giving it a try ‘Solemn’ Maats?” he asked him and Sibren grimaced at the moniker. The adventurer had always a serious air about him people said, but it was something Sibren never went for. It had kinda stuck on him with time and seeing too many friends going into the mud, or had their innards spilt, which was basically the same. Milton had gotten his cracked head chopped off by a Horselord in Raoz, Spurius died to a snake bite gone bad and Jingo and Grin had gotten themselves killed a couple of years later across the Shallow Sea trying to recover a wagon of silver bars.

“I’m long retired lad,” he grunted and turned to walk away from them and avoid the cold breeze blowing on his face from the docks. Sibren walked across the square, went under Ebenezer’s shite covered statue and reached the large Adventurer’s Guild building standing on the southeast corner all on its own. He crooked his mouth at a young man playing with a dagger on the sidewalk and went inside, his knees protesting half of it from cold and the other from arthritis, especially the left where he still had part of an arrowhead stuck in it.

Sisenna Gavros who had the day shift behind the counter, bald head covered in wrinkles moved the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other and slid a foamy goblet of beer his way.

Sibren stopped it from going over and making a mess on the tiled floor, his pale blue eyes scanning the large hall. Only a table was occupied by a well-armed young warrior. Another Issir, he thought. That’s a rarity so far east.

“New barrel?” he asked Gavros and the Asturian part-time leader of the Guild snorted.

“A payment,” Sisenna Gavros told him. “Mostly caravan work these days.”

“Uhm,” Sibren murmured tasting the cold beer. “Weather’s getting worse.”

“It’ll snow again,” Gavros explained and reached for his own goblet. “This time for good.”

“You said mostly caravan work,” Sibren noticed, eyeing the serious young man. Not that young, just a lot younger than Sibren, but really serious.

Sibren guessed the latter was also sort of like him.

“Mmm,” Gavros replied with a nod. “Had a southerner come looking for guide, or muscle earlier. Fixing to head up North.”

“Which is it? Guide, or muscle?”

“I guess both,” Gavros said and glanced at the Issir warrior with the fancy chainmail under his heavy coat. “Gave it to him, but he returned an hour later, so I don’t know how it went.”

“Uhm,” Sibren murmured. “What do you think happened?”

“Fuck I care? The man was weird, a snobbish prick.”

“How would you know?” Sibren teased him. “You thought I was a prick as well.”

“Never said you weren’t, nor did I change me mind,” Gavros deadpanned. “But having you around helps the Guild’s reputation.”

“Haha, is that right?” Sibren retorted and turned around to go talk with his compatriot.

“Ayup,” Sisenna Gavros replied. “You’re living proof adventurers can reach old age and retire. Most young fools believe that and pay the commission.”

Sibren eyed him sourly. “I may ask for more than cheap beer Gavros,” he warned him and the Guild leader shrugged his shoulders indifferently, afore replying with a smirk.

“Never said you shouldn’t.”

Sibren reached the table occupied by the well-put warrior sipping at his tea, long fingers clasping at the warm cup.

“Mind if I join you?” He asked him politely. “Name’s Sibren Maats, I can throw in a beer for the trouble.”

“Gratitude but I’ll stick to chamomile. Name’s Shane,” the man told him. “Are you from Farvor? Caught a slight North Grey Woods accent there.”

Only a native would after all those years Maats had been away.

“Spot on,” Sibren replied and took the chair across from him. “Midlanor?”

Shane nodded. Other than a cut on his forehead, he’d a clear face and intelligent eyes.

“We’re both away from home,” Sibren said after a while and sipped at his beer. “Are you in the Guild?”

“Working on it,” Shane replied. “Won’t call myself an adventurer yet though.”

“You seem to be doing alright,” Sibren noticed. The sword the man carried had a Chimera carved on its handle and he’d plate strapped on his chest over that mail regularly, judging by the marks on it.

No slouch could afford that unless he was an outlaw and Shane didn’t look the part.

“Squired for a knight for a time,” Shane replied. “But then life took me another way.”

Sibren nodded, his eyes on Uher’s Ankh gold pendant the man had hanging from his neck. A priest’s symbol. Shane saw his eyes lingering on it and hid the pendant under his gambeson again.

Obviously there was more to the story, but a man is allowed to have his secrets.

“Not the city for Uher,” Sibren told him with a nod of understanding. “Naossis has her fingers and toes sunk into the city the locals say.”

“That’s true,” Shane agreed a little relieved.

“Gavros told me you got the southerner job,” Sibren said after a moment of silent contemplation.

“You were looking to take it yourself?”

“Good grief no. I’m just an old man looking for gossip,” Sibren cracked his mouth into a smile to sell the 'sort of a lie'. “Came here to visit Valeria and learn to blow glass into shapes, but kinda hovered around the guild like a scorned wife these past couple of years and never got on that boat.”

Shane nodded. “Didn’t take the job,” he replied with a small grimace. “He wanted to travel to Kas with winter coming. I can’t be away for that long, nor take the risk.”

“Yeah, the north is all a mess these days,” Sibren agreed. “Then again Kaltha ain’t much better. The king is incapacitated, so your old Lord named himself regent and put a baby on the throne. Kinda fucked the Vanzon’s and the Crulls that were expecting a helping hand from the Throne, though he did help the Nords and Lucius aplenty.”

“The Council was split I heard,” Shane noted casually.

“Mmm, that they did. The Princess got votes, some say more, others deny it. Difficult to pick between a woman and a baby, but I can see the appeal of not wanting the Duke’s boot over your head.”

“Maybe there was a legitimate reason?” Shane probed and Sibren snorted.

“Bah, the royal lass is greedy, or more like the Khan found a way to weaken Kaltha in the war. Whether he’ll succeed in it, or not… who knows? Why couldn’t you take the risk?” Sibren asked him seeing his thoughtful expression. “I bet he offered good coin. Was he a merchant?”

“More an academic,” Shane replied. “He spoke very little. I’d say he was spooked, but I barely talked with him to form opinion. He found a couple of warriors at the East gates and went with them,” he sighed and glanced at Sibren. “I have a baby to take care myself.”

Ah.

“Mother ain’t around?” the veteran adventurer asked carefully.

“No. But I promised to take care of her,” Shane replied. “Can’t leave for the north right now. It’s difficult to come back they say.”

“They do say that and you did the knightly thing I guess,” Sibren agreed with a nod and stared at his empty goblet, the beer’s aftertaste in his mouth. “Were they adventurers? The men at the gates?”

Shane frowned and stood back on his chair, the armour he had on jingling.

“I couldn’t say. Maybe the guards know them,” he told him and Sibren got up with a sigh. Perhaps it is nothing, he thought and glanced at Gavros, toothpick in mouth, checking his blackboard with the adventurers currently on mission.

Yeah, it’s a gut feeling, but then again you don’t exactly have a stellar record there dude, not to mention it’s none of your fucking business. Right?

“Think I’ll take a stroll towards them gates,” he told Gavros and then gave a slight nod to the rather noble faced warrior still sitting at the table. “Nice meeting ye Shane,” he told him earnestly and put a small leather purse on the table. “Get the little lass something nice from me.”

“Mister Maats I’m not partial to charity,” Shane objected a little red in the face, but Sibren dismissed his protests with a fatherly wave of his arm.

“Uher is son. He guides people to it. You know that better than me, I reckon,” he told him and left leaving the purse behind.

The east gates guard, a Lorian with a flattened face, nose expanding almost to the corners of his thick-lipped mouth, as if he’d taken a spade to it repeatedly, grunted and tipped his helm back on his forehead.

“Never saw them afore,” he finally said and glanced at the sergeant slurping from a bowl of soup, with cut pieces of boiled fish in it. “Sarge ye were there earlier right?”

The sergeant raised his head, spillage on his mustache and eyed him.

“What of it?”

“Have you seen them?” Sibren asked him patiently, Sid snorting irritated under him. The horse would have rather preferred to spend the day munching on hay in the stable, than freeze his balls off carrying Sibren around. Sid was of the opinion he’d done it aplenty in the past and had earned his retirement at the very least, as much as his longtime owner had.

“They came in the city yesterday and left with the tourist.”

“Tourist?”

“Not much muscle on him to call him anything else, or wares to be a merchant and he’d an air about him I didn’t much like. So yeah, you got a problem with that Lord Maats?”

Sibren sighed and stood up straighter on the saddle. He’d packed the saddlebags judiciously with supplies for a week and brought his old satchel along with his weapons out of habit.

“No problem none so ever sergeant,” Sibren replied evenly. He didn’t remember his name, not that it much mattered. “Got a good look at them perchance?”

“Of course I did. It’s me fuckin’ job! A man from Lesia and a mix-breed wit one ear missing. Would have thrown them in jail just for looking like brigands, but they sort of behaved and I was fucking bored to think of something,” the sergeant replied curtly and dug in to his soup again. “Go away now old man. I’m bloody busy.”

Sibren grunted his mind made up and turned Sid around.

‘Cleaver’ Kell’s right hand man went by the name of Gand ‘One Ear’. The tourist had hired the wrong muscle for the job.

The gate guard waved as he went past him.

“They’re headed for Whitetiger Castle,” he told him, guessing the adventurer was set on going after them. “You cut across the plains and you’ll catch them at Anorum, or just after it.”

“Which direction would they head after that, if I don’t?”

“I don’t know, but my guess is they are heading for the mountains and not Picker’s River. The Lakelords have an intense dislike for their likes,” the guard said with a shrug.

Sibren nodded as it made sense.

Then again the Nords disliked anyone drifting into their lands equally.

So there was that to consider as well.

Nevertheless Sibren rode Sid outside the city gates and led him at a light trot towards the river Ruinal and Anorum. His intention was to satisfy his curiosity and make sure the man was safe. A short trip, he told himself and repeated the same words to his protesting horse. To clear our heads and fill our lungs wit clear air afore the heavy snows.

Clear away a bit of that rust accumulated while at it and we’ll be right back in Asturia in a week, two at the most.

While his assessment turned out to be dead wrong, both in the time needed and the type of involvement the ‘trip’ required, Sibren had been erroneous afore many-a-times, so in the end he wasn’t that surprised.

You go about searchin’ for thrills like a chump and trouble shall find ye nine times out o’ ten, Milton 'Seven Fingers' used to say to him and that dead bastard was rarely wrong on these matters.

Gambling on them races though, eh, that was a different thing.