Carriers of the Cross

Anvard was a shithole.

Or to be precise, this part of Anvard was a shithole. By Amerigo's estimate, the capital of Archenland was nine parts beacon of civilization to one part shithole. Of those first nine parts, Archenland was paradise. A proud city with a proud people, a place of arts, learning, and culture. But as soon as you entered the city's slums, one realized that the brightest light cast the darkest shadow, and here, in the western side of the city, nuzzled up against its wall, things were very dark indeed. Little light reached this place, and as he made his way across the filth-encrusted streets, he saw that the same lack of light and abundance of filth had taken its toll on its people. Beggars, holding out their empty, weathered palms in the hope of coin. Women standing in doorways, offering their bodies in hopes of that same coin. Children running through the streets or playing in the dirt, their ribcages showing through their worn-out tunics. Oh, and the dogs, and the cats, and the rats that the cats had yet to eat. Anvard, by his estimate, was the nicest city he'd ever been in. But every city needed a receptacle for its waste, and this one was no exception.

"This place smells funny."

He looked at Ferdinand as the pair walked down the streets. "No. Really? I for one can't smell anything."

Ferdinand gave him a look. "You-"

"Yes, you simpleton, that is sarcasm. Maybe one day you'll pick it up."

Ferdinand sniffed. "Sure to pick up something here in this dump." He walked past a beggar, his right hand clutching his shortsword, his left sweeping the man's hand aside. "Why are we here again?"

"You know why."

"I know that you know. I don't."

Amerigo ignored him. Ferdinand couldn't be that stupid. But then again, in the months that had followed the death of King Caspian IX and his wife, it seemed that the entire court had suffered collective amnesia. That, or a condition that affected the spine. Still, if nothing else, Ferdinand had agreed to join him on this little journey. A journey that they were nearly at the end of, if his contact had given him the correct directions. And if not...

Amerigo clutched his nostrils and hastened his pace. Journey's end or not, there was still the damn smell.

His eyes darted to and fro as he and his companion continued to make their way down the street. Both of them were clad in black leather armour - good enough to stop a knife, not nearly enough to stop a horde wielding multiple blades. Because the two Telmarines stuck out in this place like a dancing mouse on a banquet table - something that people would look at with some amusement, before feeling the desire to get rid of the damn thing. Or, to be specific, they were two Telmarines on Archenland's table, and since the reign of Caspian the Conqueror, Archenland had wanted nothing to do with its northern neighbour. Which, for generations, suited the Kingdom of Narnia just fine. But now...

"We're here," Amerigo murmured.

But now, he was about to commit treason. That his treason was in light of much worse treason did little to ease his conscience. Coming in front of the wooden door, furnished with the knocker in the shape of a lion, he took a breath. Regretting it immediately of course, given that the smell of shit was still all-empowering, but also reflecting that he could still turn back. That there were some who said that sin begat sin, and if he carried down this road, his soul would be forever blemished.

Ferdinand gave him a glance. "Should I knock?"

Amerigo shook his head. "No," he said. "I brought us here. I lead us through the door." He gave Ferdinand a look and forced a smile. "Yes, that is a metaphor, in case you're wondering."

"...the hell's a metaphor?"

"It's where I do this," Amerigo said, as he took the lion's handle and gave three hard knocks. "And where we wait."

"That really doesn't sound like a metaphor."

Amerigo grunted.

"Sounds more like a-"

Ferdinand never got to finish his sentence as the door opened, revealing an old man before them. His tunic was white, which highlighted every stain on them. His beard was white, and filled with dust, spider webs, and crumbs. His skin was olive, which suggested to Amerigo that he carried the blood of both Archenland and Calormen. But most noticeable were his eyes. One shining with bemusement, the other with concern.

"Lazreth the Alchemist?" Amerigo whispered.

The man smirked. "Lion's mane," he whispered. "You actually showed up."

Amerigo frowned. "Believe it or not, when I send a letter asking for a meeting, I intend that meeting to take place."

"Quite frankly, I don't know what to believe," Lazreth said. He glanced at Ferdinand. "You're awfully quiet."

"Oh don't mind him, he's still trying to work out what a metaphor is." Amerigo put one foot inside the doorway. "So. May I enter? Or do I get to keep smelling shit?"

"Both." Lazreth stood aside. "Come in."

Walking inside the man's hovel, and hearing the door close behind them, Amerigo, Knight Constable of the Second Army of Narnia, Sworn Servant to Miraz, Protector of the Realm, and before him, King Caspian IX, reflected on two things. The first was that Lazreth's dwelling did indeed smell of shit. The second was that it smelt of everything else. Everything from soap, to soup, to all manner of things that began with S, and every other letter of the alphabet. The sulphur was coming from one set of bowels, and the soup from another set, which had drawn their share of flies. When Lazreth offered them water, both Telmarines politely refused. When he offered them Calormene tea, both men accepted. So when Lazreth wandered to his kitchen, it gave Ferdinand time to look at Amerigo and ask the obvious.

"Are you sure about this?"

Amerigo clutched the bauble at his neck, hidden mostly by his armour. "Course I am."

Ferdinand smirked. "Liar."

"What?"

"You always clutch that bauble when you're nervous."

Amerigo didn't contest the point, but still decided to play the game. "I can be sure that this will work and still be nervous you know."

"Perhaps. But there's one problem with that?"

"Which is?"

"You clutch that pendant even harder when you're lying." He glanced around the room, as if checking for spies, before whispering, "and you've been lying a lot recently."

Amerigo tore his gaze away from Ferdinand. He had, he reflected. But considering all the lies that surrounded the court in Narnia right now, what did it matter if his lies were added to them?

You know the difference. Your lies are for the greater good.

Ferdinand walked off and picked up a large book, one engraved with a lion's head on it.

And your lies could get you killed.

It came as no small relief when Lazreth returned with three cups of tea. Clearing the hovel's table of books, booze, and rotting fruit, the three men took their seats. It was with some trepidation that Amerigo sipped the tea, but it actually tasted quite nice. Sweet, but not too sweet. And warm enough to trick his nostrils into forgetting that the hovel still smelt funny.

"So," Lazreth said. "What brings you two to my humble abode?"

Ferdinand stared at him, then looked at Amerigo. "Didn't the letter say why?"

"It did," Lazreth answered. "But I'd rather hear it from the horse's mouth, so to speak." He glanced aside. "Not that you lot care about talking horses anymore…"

Amerigo put the tea on the table. "Are you really doing this, old man? I thought one in your position would appreciate good coin."

Lazreth's eyes narrowed as he looked back at the Telmarine. "My position?"

Amerigo gestured around. "Your house could use...refurbishment, shall we say?"

"Wait, we're calling it a house?" Ferdinand murmured.

"And considering your fallout with the clergy, I'd have thought you'd have extra motivation to take what circumstance offered you." Amerigo reached for his pocket and drew out a small bag, before putting it on the table. "Savvy?"

Lazreth sipped his tea. When he lowered it, Amerigo could see that the man was scowling.

"I see," he murmured. "A former priest of the Church of the Lion, cast out for his experiments in alchemy. So desperate that he'll accept any gift from Telmarines."

"Telmarines who are offering you two-hundred silver pieces in exchange for a single potion," Amerigo murmured. "Dependent on your ability to actually provide it of course."

"Oh I can provide it," Lazreth said. "But you have to provide me a reason to provide it."

Amerigo tapped the bag.

"I said a reason. Not pieces of silver like the whores in the alleys accept."

Ferdinand snorted. Earning a glare from both men, he sipped his tea, and took great interest in one of the books scattered around the place.

Amerigo got to his feet, clutching his short sword as he did so. He didn't think it would have come to this. True, Archenland had little love for Narnia (or at least the Narnia that had existed since the arrival of the Telmarines), but in his experience, coin outweighed principle. But then, that was Narnia. This was Archenland. Even dens of thieves could have saints, he reflected. Even those still carrying holy tomes of an order that had cast them out. Squinting through the gloom, he was able to make out some of the text of one of them...

When Adam's flesh and Adam's bone sits at Cair Paravel in throne,

The evil time will be over and done.

He snorted. Evil times. He couldn't see them ending anytime soon, lion or no lion, not to mention whoever the hell this Adam fellow was. But, seeing that Ferdinand was getting into his own book, and that Lazreth was nearly at the end of his tea, he decided to come clean.

"Miraz killed his brother."

Lazreth remained silent.

"Miraz killed his brother," Amerigo repeated. "And his wife."

Lazreth remained silent.

"He killed. His. Brother."

Lazreth sighed. "I know that."

Amerigo blinked. "You know that?"

"Course I know that. Half of Anvard knows it, and the other half suspects it." He sipped more of the tea, and put the empty cup on the table. "But what of it? The squabbles of Telmarines mean nothing to this country."

Amerigo sighed. "Lazreth, you're a smart man, despite your lack of hygiene. You know as well as I do that coups only lead to pain, misery, and suffering."

"Do I? The line of Caspian has been unbroken until now. Still unbroken, technically. If the second son of Caspian the Eighth takes the throne and declares himself Miraz the First, what of it? Until the four Kings and Queens of Old return to Cair Paravel, Archenland has no interest in what happens to the north."

Amerigo slammed his fist on the table. "Listen to me you old twat," he snapped. "I don't know what the hell you're on about, and I don't know what your church preaches, but listen to me. Miraz is a tyrant. Miraz is going to be a disaster."

"Why?"

"Why? Goodness sake man, he killed his brother. His sister in law. He's expelled everyone from court who could stand up for the king's son, and the only reason that boy is still alive is because Miraz hasn't got an heir from his wife's loins yet." He looked at Ferdinand, expecting some lewd comment, but the man was too engrossed in the book he was reading. "I can't let that happen. Narnia can't let that happen. Miraz knows how to lead an army, and wield a sword, and any number of things that can benefit the realm in some way, but he's no king. Even if not for regicide, a month or so ago, anyone with a head on their shoulders could say that."

"But now I assume there's a few heads who've parted with their shoulders," Lazreth said.

"Indeed. And Miraz being the soldier he is, a soldier that now sits on a throne that has been overshadowed by the deeds of Caspian the Conqueror, how long do you think it will be until he sets his sights southward?"

If Lazreth knew as much as Amerigo did, then the alchemist would have answered "a long time." Truth was, Amerigo wouldn't have put a war of conquest past Miraz (the man had engaged in enough border skirmishes after all), but he wasn't stupid. He'd have to secure his own realm before looking to expand it, and wars were expensive. Wars were bloody. But Lazreth didn't have to know that.

The alchemist looked at Ferdinand, who in the midst of all this, had picked up one of the alchemist's books and had started to read. It was thick, it had a red spine that was frayed, and like half the books here, it had a lion's head on it. Ferdinand however, was steadily moving from one page to the next.

"Young man," Lazreth said. "Would you leave us?"

Ferdinand looked at the former priest. "Excuse me?"

"Matters of state that I'd rather discuss alone."

Ferdinand looked at Amerigo. Amerigo gave him a nod. Ferdinand got to his feet, one hand on the hilt of his blade, the other on the book. He looked at Lazreth. "Mind if I keep reading this?"

"Take the book for all I care. I've got enough of them."

"Right..." Ferdinand tried to smile, failed, then exited the room. Amerigo waited for him to exit before speaking.

"Still trying to gain converts?" he murmured.

"I'm sorry?"

"There's a lion's head on half of these books. Narnia has little use for Archenlander teachings, but I know my history, and my culture." He picked up one of the tomes and tapped the image of the lion on it. "Church of the Lion? The god Aslan? Patron god of Archenland, as Tash is to Calormen?"

"There's only one god of this world, and his father is-"

"So you are still a priest, despite being cast out for asking too many questions." Amerigo leant back in his chair, not wanting to get into theological debates, but unable to stop himself from stinging the elephant. "Is that how you operate here, Lazreth? Potions in one hand, holy tomes in the other?"

Lazreth frowned. "It isn't wise to provoke the man who's offering you what you seek."

"You haven't offered it yet. But..." Amerigo leant forward. "You do have it, no?"

"Perhaps." Lazreth leant back in his chair, and Amerigo got the sense that he was being studied. Involuntarily, he started fingering the bauble around his neck. If Lazreth refused to trade, he could resort to more violent actions, but he wanted to avoid that. He had too much experience in such things back in Narnia.

"I must say," Lazreth said, "when one of my friends told me they'd talked to one of your friends, and what that friend had said you wanted, I was surprised."

Amerigo raised an eyebrow. "You're surprised that someone comes to you asking for poison?"

"Not in of itself. But when our shared friends said the type of poison you wanted, and whom it was for, not to mention what, I was surprised. And, I must confess, tempted to do the right thing and have no part of it."

Amerigo shrugged, trying to convey a sense of ease. "I'm sure even saints have their moments of weakness."

"You want poison, not to take a life, but to prevent life from forming," Lazreth whispered. "You want Tash's Claw, in order to prevent Lady Prunaprismia from becoming pregnant."

Amerigo sighed. "I do."

"Why? Assuming that you have the means to get her to ingest it, why? Why not kill Miraz and be done with it?"

Amerigo didn't have any problem answering, having given his arguments to those in court who knew the type of man Miraz was. "Miraz is a murderer," he murmured. "He's destabilized the country. But killing him now, before Caspian's son takes the throne will do more harm than good. I and my...friends, shall we say, will give Miraz a chance. See how his new ward turns out."

"But if Miraz has an heir,"" Lazreth murmured, "if Lady Prunaprismia gives birth to a son..."

"Then the future Caspian the Tenth's life is as good as over," Amerigo said. "Miraz will want him on the throne before a stranger, but he'd much rather have one of his own blood. Luckily for us both, there's laws against bastards sitting on the throne, and for all his faults, he loves his wife, so we simplify things. She ingests poison, we keep our mouths shut, she opens her legs, and she and her husband do their duties, not knowing that the bun will never get warm in the oven."

"In other words, murder."

"Not murder. I'm preventing murder. You want to know what murder in court looks like Lazreth? It's not pretty."

"And yet, you want to consign how many children in Prunaprismia's womb to death?"

"I'm not consigning any children to death. Those children will never exist." Lazreth opened his mouth to speak, but Amerigo interrupted him. "Please, spare me. The Church of the Lion can speak of the sins of Tash's Claw, and all other matter of means to stop mewling bastards entering the world. No doubt you can as well. But I'm interested in the people currently still alive. And if you were really so opposed to giving me this poison, if you were as high and mighty as you're portraying yourself as, you'd have never agreed to see me in the first place."

Lazreth remained silent. A fire danced in his eyes, but Amerigo could see that he'd cut through to the man's sense of practicality. A victory, but one he took little pleasure in. He was good at getting people to do heinous things, because in his experience, he'd justified those actions to himself more times than he cared to reflect.

"If I do this," Lazreth whispered, "I want something from you."

Amerigo tapped the bag of silver.

"No. Not that. The thing round your neck. The thing you've been clutching for the last three minutes."

Amerigo clutched it all the tighter. "Why?" he whispered.

"A curiosity. A passing fancy. Call it what you will." He extended his palm. "I have the ingredients for Tash's Claw, but it will take an hour to make the broth. I get to look at that bauble for an hour, and you get it back along with your potion."

"Why are you so interested in my bauble?"

"Like I said, a passing fancy. Question is, are you so attached to it that you can scarce bare to be apart from it?"

Amerigo took a breath, before unfastening the bauble and putting it in Lazreth's hand. "One hour," he said. He pushed the bag of coins to him. "And your payment if you still want it."

Lazreth grabbed the bag, but his eyes, widening, were focused on the bauble.

A small iron cross, akin to a t.

Lazreth was good to his word in that he spent an hour preparing Tash's Claw. In that hour, Amerigo waited in silence. He checked on Ferdinand, who was seated outside, engrossed in his book, the smell apparently no longer bothering him. He checked the hovel's cupboards, and found nothing to eat that didn't look like it would kill him. He even checked some of the books, but they were either alchemical texts that he couldn't understand, or more tomes with lion heads on them that were written in a text so flowery he expected daffodils to pop up at any moment. It came as a relief when Lazreth finally returned to the hovel's main room, even if he was clutching no vial of poison, but rather his bauble.

"Tell me about this," Lazreth whispered.

And the relief was gone. Amerigo stood up, his hand on his sword's hilt. "The poison?" he asked.

"Ready," Lazreth said. "But first, this. Tell me about this."

Amerigo frowned. "It's a trinket. What of it?"

"A lie. So before you tell me another one, consider what I might do to you."

Amerigo didn't laugh. He considered what Lazreth might actually do to him, which was nothing. He had no blade, no acid, no strength - he could kill the man with his bare hands if he wanted, take Tash's Claw, and be on his way home before the sun set. But there was a desperation in Lazreth's eyes that caught him off-guard. Possibly the same look in his eyes before he'd been expelled from the clergy for doing the wrong kind of science, or whatever had actually happened.

"My mother gave it to me," Amerigo murmured. "Before she died."

"And whom to her?"

"Her mother."

"And before that."

"I…think her mother?"

"And before-"

"Goodness sake man, I'm not a scholar with nothing better to do than research family history," Amerigo snapped. "It's old, alright? My mother told me that it came from Telmar. Probably hundreds of years old, and worth a small fortune. What of it? I've given you your silver, and-"

"It is old," Lazreth whispered. "Older than the world itself."

Amerigo snorted. "You been inhaling fumes from your work old man?"

"Perhaps, but irrelevant."

"Claiming something to be older than the world is hardly what I'd call irrelevant."

"And quite right too." Lazreth sat down and began fingering the cross in his hands, treating it with more reverence than Amerigo ever had. For a moment, the Telmarine wondered if the alchemist was going to give it back at all. And if that happened, what that would mean to him.

"I've seen pictures of this symbol before," Lazreth whispered.

If anything.

"Pictures from the First Book. Written by the children of Queen Frank and Queen Helen - the first man and woman of this world. Those who tried to recount from memory a holy text of a different world, before finding that their memory escaped them. Before Anvard, before Archenland, where the Great Lion was known by different name and form."

That lion again, Amerigo reflected. Always with that damn lion.

"Few in the clergy put stock in the First Book anymore," Lazreth continued. "And I can't blame them, in a sense, for there's enough wickedness in our own world without having to worry about the sins of others. But..."

"But?" Amerigo asked.

"But I look at you, and see my, and Archenland's shame reflected." He tapped his cheek. "I carry the blood of Archenland and Calormen. You, and many of your people, carry the blood of more than one as well. But that is not the source of strife between Archenland and Narnia, no. That strife comes from shame. For when Caspian the Conqueror took the kingdom to the north, we stood aside and did nothing. Focused on our own affairs, focused on our enemies to the south, and focused on so many other things that could hide our cowardice." He sighed. "Every king of Narnia has lived in the shadow of Caspian the First. Every king of ours since King Ram has lived in his shadow and been found wanting."

"Fascinating," Amerigo murmured. "And what does this have to do with pretty crosses?"

Lazreth handed the cross back to him. "The First Book speaks of things," he whispered. "Terrible things, done in the name of this cross. Things it claims are perversions. For my part, it matters little - I believe that deeds are to be judged by their own merit, whether they be in Aslan's name, Tash's, or any other's. But I can't believe it is a coincidence that I find this cross here and now."

Amerigo, after a moment of hesitation, pocketed it. "And what of Tash's Claw?" he said.

Lazreth grunted. "Not easily distracted then, eh?" He handed Amerigo a vial. "Here. Get Prunaprismia to drink this, and some of your woes will be abated." Amerigo took the vial, before Lazreth added, "for a time."

Amerigo raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"Tash's Claw will work, but for how long, I cannot say. A year, ten, fifteen, maybe more? The son of Caspian won't be having a little brother or sister anytime soon, but it may still happen one day."

"You-"

"That is the best I can do," Lazreth said. "Most of the people who take this only want this for a period of time, not their entire lives. You want Miraz's wife to not have children?" He glanced at Amerigo's sword. "There are other ways of doing that."

Amerigo clutched the vial, and after a moment, pocketed it. "I know what swords can do," he murmured.

"That I don't doubt." Lazreth looked at the Telmarine, akin to a father looking at a son, and passing judgement. "I fear that history will not remember you, Amerigo. For good or ill. But I know that there will be more than one choice in your life when the time comes for it. And when that happens..." He sighed. "I know what you'll do."

"Really, old man? And what's that?"

Lazreth smiled. "Clutch the cross."

"You enjoying yourself?"

The sun was setting by the time Amerigo exited Lazreth's hovel. Not that you could really tell in this part of Anvard. Still, there were fewer people on the street, and even the dogs looked ready to go back to their dens. But despite the scant light, Ferdinand was still able to read the book that Lazreth had given him. And so engrossed was he, that it required Amerigo to give him a small kick, to divert his attention where words had failed.

"I'm sorry, am I interrupting you?"

At least words were working now, he reflected.

"Oh, no, of course not." Ferdinand got to his feet, clutching the book by his side. "Did you get what you needed?"

"Maybe. Possibly. Potentially." He looked back at the hovel. At the door, and the lion mounted atop it. "Wish I could use the word certainty there, but that would be a lie."

"And would that be a problem?"

Amerigo looked back at Ferdinand. "Excuse me?"

"You'll be slipping poison into Prunaprismia's cup. That's a lie in a sense."

Amerigo snorted. "Don't tell me you've become a holy man, Ferdinand. What, that book replacing your sword?"

Ferdinand didn't say anything, but it wasn't his lips that Amerigo was looking at. Rather, it was the book, and more specifically, the finger he had inside it, as if saving a page. "Mind if I take a look?" he asked.

"I-"

"Thank you," Amerigo said. He took the book, and opened it at the page where Ferdinand had got to. "Let's see what's...so...interesting..."

He couldn't help but stare at the page's contents. Not words, but an illustration. One that showed a scene unlike any other he'd beheld.

Two armies upon a field. One side, under the light of sun, with all manner of creatures. Men with the legs of goats, or the bodies of horses. Women with hair like leaves, and bodies that were as elegant as twigs. Animals of all kinds, from the smallest mouse to the mightiest lion. The only two humans in the illustration were two boys. Both clad in armour, one bleeding from a wound in his belly, the other cradling his brother in battle. His helm removed, his forehead stained with blood, his eyes on the lion, and the being he was charging into. A woman with white skin - white as snow, fairer than even the palest Archenlander, but with lips the colour of blood, and armour covered in spikes. Behind her was another army of creatures. Creatures with one eye and one horn, creatures with the heads of bulls, creatures that looked like the stuff of nightmare. Creatures that, despite their might, were falling against the lion and his army. Above both, light and dark, as eagles and bats warred in the heavens. It was, Amerigo surmised, a basic depiction of light and dark. Good triumphing against evil. But the art had a beauty to it, an essence, that elevated the concept that gave even his weary eyes pause. Eyes that had for so long beheld only grey, and the darkness that writhed in that area, always out of reach of light.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Ferdinand gingerly took the book out of Amerigo's hands and looked at the cover. "The Chronicles of Narnia: Volume Two."

Amerigo grunted. "How many of them are there? And what happened to volume one?"

Ferdinand shrugged.

"You know that material would be contraband, don't you? Miraz doesn't want anything to do with Archenland, and that includes its holy texts."

"I can keep this hidden."

"Can you?"

"Can you?" Ferdinand repeated. "I mean, what you're carrying will-"

"Will stop battles like this from ever happening," Amerigo said. He laughed. "Though of course, I don't expect to see lions or goatmen anytime soon, regardless of what Miraz does."

A darkness danced in Ferdinand's eyes, but even he managed a small laugh.

"Come on," Amerigo said. "Let's find an inn. We set off in the morn." He forced his own laugh, much smaller, much quieter, than the last, as he clutched the bauble around his neck. "Lions," he said to himself.

In the heat of the moment, there was at least some humour to it.

Thirteen years later, the joke wasn't nearly as funny.