Kings of the North

by Elizabeth Moon

No! Put it on!

  Dorrin pulled out the lace-edged handkerchief that went with her court dress and laid the ring in the center; the cloth eased the temptation to put it on.

  “It looks like the same sort of work as that necklace Paks brought,” the Marshal-General said after a moment. “Oktar, did you see that when you were in Fin Panir?”

  “No, only the scrolls. I had heard the necklace might be elf-made.”

  “The elves said no, when I asked them,” the Marshal-General said. “They were quite firm about that, but then they would not say what they thought it was. Typical, I thought. Nor did the dwarves admit to it. They did want to buy it, though, if we chose to sell. The jewels, they said, were from very far away. That was all they could tell us.”

  “Paks wondered if the legends had been wrong and Gird had been crowned King at some time,” Dorrin said.

  “No,” Oktar said. “On that the records are clear. He wanted nothing to do with kings.”

  “We both thought—the colors being blue and white—”

  “Of course,” the Marshal-General said. “But our records tell that the peasants of Gird’s day were not allowed to wear blue. We think blue became his color out of defiance—probably clothes taken from lords during the war.”

  “Blue meant something to the magelords,” Dorrin said, thinking of the jewels and the embroidered cloth around the crown. “Wasn’t there a cloth found in the far west? Paks mentioned it.”

  “Yes … with a star symbol on it.”

  “The scrolls mention a Sunlord,” Oktar said. “It could be a sun symbol.”

  “The same design was on the cloth that wrapped the crown,” Dorrin said. “Paks saw it.”

  “I should look at that,” the Marshal-General said. “But first—what else in this house? Marshal Tamis?”

  “This was the worst upstairs, after the mess in the old Duke’s study. Duke Verrakai said she wasn’t sure she’d gotten all the traps out, but Veksin and I dealt with the bloodstain and removed the symbols of Liart. Haven’t had time to do more, with the coronation yesterday.”

  “The cellar,” Dorrin said. “I haven’t so much as touched the door yet.”

  “Then let us look there,” the Marshal-General said. “We can at least plan for its cleansing, if we can’t do it all today.”

  “Should we call in Marshal Veksin?” Marshal Tamis asked.

  “I don’t think so,” the Marshal-General said. “Duke Verrakai, lead the way if you will.”

  Dorrin led the way downstairs to the alcove near the passage out into the cobbled yard. There two iron-bound doors stood side by side.

  “I think one’s a simple root cellar,” Dorrin said. “The other … not.”

  “Which is which?” the Marshal-General asked.

  “I feel some malice from both, but much stronger here,” Dorrin said, not quite touching the right-hand door.

  The Marshals came nearer, and the Marshal-General nodded. “I agree.”

  “This is very like what we found in various lairs of Liart’s priests,” the Marshal-Judicar said. “And for that we wanted Marshals and knights both. I would recommend calling in another—and Duke Verrakai, are your escort sufficiently skilled in arms, or should we send for city militia or Royal troops as well?”

  “They’re not,” Dorrin said, “though they’re much better than they were a quarter-year ago.” If only she’d had some of her own cohort with her. “I am, however.”

  Oktar shook his head. “My lord duke, the king would not be pleased if you died here when more good troops could prevent it. I feel evil as strong as any we rooted out back then.”

  Would he not? It would solve several problems for him. But she must not think so of her king, the man to whom she had sworn fealty the day before, the man whose life she had saved and who had saved her from a traitor’s death.

  “You think there might be a priest of Liart hiding there?”

  “One, several, who knows? But I feel a great menace.”

  Dorrin stepped back and glanced into the kitchen, where Jaim was just emptying a bucket of water into a pot. “Jaim, do you know where Marshal Veksin’s grange is?”

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  “Run ask Marshal Veksin to come here. We’re going to cleanse the cellar and need his help.”

  Jaim paled. “My—my lord, do I have to come back?”

  “I need a message taken to the palace as well,” Dorrin said. “You can go on from the grange to the palace gates and guide the troops back here.” Not that they didn’t know exactly where Verrakai House was. “You can stay outside the house, but I don’t want you wandering around in the city. Wait a moment while I write the message.”

  Dorrin left the Marshals contemplating the door and ran back upstairs to find writing materials. She scribbled a quick note to the palace guard commander asking for assistance. When Jaim left, she took the opportunity to change from her court dress to her soldier’s garb and met Marshal Veksin at the front door, ready to fight if necessary.

  “This looks serious,” he said as he came in. He, too, had prepared for a fight, bringing swords as well as stout sticks.

  “Yes,” Dorrin said. She led the way down the passage. “Marshal-Judicar Oktar thinks there may still be a priest of Liart alive, in the cellar.”

  “I brought an extra sword in case Tamis didn’t have his today.”

  “Thanks,” Marshal Tamis said, and belted it on. “Are you going to clear the house?” he asked Dorrin.

  “You think it necessary?” she asked.

  “Prudent, perhaps. Your servants could wait in the stableyard.”

  Dorrin heard the clatter of boots at the front of the house and went to meet the servants and send them toward the back. Then she collected her household. “We’re about to cleanse the cellars, and that may be dangerous. For your own safety, you must do what I say. Efla, Jaim, I want you in the stableyard, with Gani and Perin to guard you and the horses. Inder, you stand outside the front door to warn away any visitors.” Not that she’d had many visitors she hadn’t brought home herself. “Eddes and Jori”—her two boldest, who had made the most progress in arms, according to Selfer and Bosk—“come with me. You will be my personal guards.”

  The five looked more eager than afraid and jogged off to get their swords. Efla put her hands on her hips, looking remarkably like Cook back at the domain. “I have two fowl in the oven.”

  “You matter more than supper,” Dorrin said. “Out with you now.” Jaim was already out the door, as close to the outer gate as he could get. “Keep Jaim calm, Efla.” That might keep her calm as well.

  When they were all disposed as she wished, she nodded to the Marshals. “Do you recognize any traps on this door?” Oktar asked her.

  “No. I can try the Verrakaien command words if you like.”

  “Do that,” Oktar said. “It may save us some struggle. But stay to one side, where we have room for our blades.”

  Dorrin spoke the words. Nothing happened at first, then a key materialized in the lock, as if condensing from the air itself. Dorrin eyed it warily, but when it finished solidifying, it looked like an ordinary key—which it surely was not. Marshals Tamis and Veksin advanced with the Relics of their granges. “Wait,” Dorrin said. “Let me try another—” She spoke again, and the key turned slowly in the lock with a metallic screech.

  Tamis shrugged at the noise. “We weren’t ever going to have surprise,” he said.

  Dorrin tried one command word after another; finally the door ground open, scraping on the stone flags of the passage. The air inside smelled stuffy and faintly sour. “Bring a lamp,” she said, annoyed with herself for not having lamps ready. In moments Jori was back with two lamps, both lit.

  By the lamps’ light they could see a large room stretching into dimness, its level stone floor lined with chests on the left, shelves above them. Cloths draped whatever was on the shelves—by the blurred shapes, bowls, pitchers, stacks of plates. Along the right wall they saw full sacks, s
ome plumply smooth as if they held grain or meal and others lumpy as if holding fruits or roots. In the middle of the room, a worktable with a stack of folded cloths and a hanging chain over it for lamps, though no lamp hung there.

  “That’s not what I expected,” the Marshal-General said. “I wonder …”

  Jori pushed past with the lamps. “I’ll hang these up so you can see better,” he said, and strode into the room.

  Dorrin had not even time to say “Wait!” before the floor dissolved before their eyes and Jori fell with a startled cry, flailing, into the darkness below. One lamp trailed a long stream of flame as it fell; the other went out. A moment later, a thud and a scream of agony from Jori, followed by the creak and clang of some machinery.

  Dorrin called on her magelight. Though feebler than Paks’s, it was enough to show the steep flight of stairs leading down to the left alongside the near wall, not out into the space. “Get lamps!” she said to Eddes, and started down.

  “Careful!” the Marshal-General called, but Dorrin heard others following her down the stairs.

  “Block that door open above us,” she called.

  At the bottom of the flight Dorrin turned back along the side of the stairs; ahead was a wall, a door opening on darkness. She could not see Jori, only hear his cries, feebler now. Her own magelight, none too bright, moved with her, showing the bare stone flags of the cellar floor.

  She looked through the door, her light revealing Jori sprawled awkwardly on a spiked frame; another had fallen on him, piercing him from above. A pool of blood spread from beneath him.

  “Jori,” Dorrin said. “Don’t move.”

  But he turned his head a little. “My lord—please—”

  Behind her, Oktar asked, “How bad?”

  Dorrin shook her head. Blood trickled from Jori’s mouth; his eyes were wide with fear and pain. “Can you heal him?” she asked.

  “Not until we get him off those spikes,” the Marshal-General said. “You?”

  “The same.”

  “Let us go first,” the Marshal-Judicar said. “These Marshals and I have seen a similar mechanism before in the Thieves’ Guild lairs. Is he Girdish?”

  “No. Will that make a difference?”

  Oktar did not answer. He, Tamis, and Veksin stepped around the frame; Veksin bent to Jori’s head and murmured something Dorrin could not hear. She closed her eyes, calling on Falk and feeling the all-too-familiar grief and guilt—how could anyone be so cruel, so determined to cause pain? And it was her family, her heritage … She could scarcely breathe for the misery and horror of it.

  No. Their guilt is not your guilt. Your heritage is honor.

  Tears ran down her face, but she could breathe again. When she opened her eyes, Oktar and Veksin had the upper frame lifted away from Jori. Oktar looked up at her and shook his head. She could see for herself that the spikes had dealt fatal wounds. Nor was it likely he would live long enough for a healing.

  “One last pain, Jori,” Oktar said, bending close to him. Dorrin could not tell if Jori heard it. “We’re easing it as much as we can. Be brave now.”

  They lifted him off the spikes, and more blood poured out. He did not make a sound or move, as limp as if already dead, and Dorrin hoped he was.

  They laid him on the floor outside, the whole front of his body soaked with blood. Dorrin knelt beside him, along with the Marshals. No breath, no pulse, no sense of life.

  “His suffering’s over—poor man—” the Marshal-General said.

  “He was just trying to help,” Dorrin said. “They—my people—were afraid to do anything on their own when I came, and I’ve tried to encourage them. Now this—”

  Oktar put a hand on her shoulder. “My lord, you did not build this trap, and you did not tell him to rush in. He knew there was evil magery in this house. It was his folly, not yours.”

  “I’ll send for the grange burial guild,” Marshal Tamis said. He took the cloth Eddes handed him and wiped Jori’s blood from his hands.

  “Burial guild?” Dorrin asked. She had not heard of such a thing.

  “They prepare the bodies and mount vigil until they’re buried. Though he was not Girdish, he died bravely, and with your permission we will give him what honors we can; he can be buried in the grange burial ground. You have no one trained in such, do you?”

  “No, I don’t,” Dorrin said. One more responsibility she had not thought of. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll tell one of your people upstairs to take a message to the grange—and to the city militia. They won’t make any difficulty, not with the Marshal-Judicar here.”

  Oktar nodded. “Their only concern will be sickness; burial must take place before midday tomorrow.”

  Jori’s death delayed their investigation of the cellars. When the four members of the burial guild arrived, they put Jori’s body on a burial board and carried it upstairs. Their grave demeanor reassured her; they handled the body as if it were precious.

  “If we delay now,” the Marshal-General said when they had disappeared upstairs, “whatever evil power is here will have more time to defend itself.”

  “You can trust the burial guild,” Marshal Tamis said, touching Dorrin’s arm. “They will prepare him for burial with all due respect and ceremony. Let us go on with the work.”

  Alert for more traps, they explored the cellars, a warren of alcoves and rooms, a maze impossible to clear quickly. They found Liart’s Horned Chain on every wall: graven, painted, or an actual chain. Two small rooms had clearly been used as cells; the doors had tiny barred windows, and shackles hung from the walls. An alcove between them held an array of torturers’ implements. In one of the rooms, they found signs of recent occupation: a bed with rumpled bedclothes, a pitcher with a little water in the bottom, and the end of a loaf of bread, now hard and dry. Under the bed was a red leather mask.

  “A priest’s lair,” Oktar said, grimacing as he held the mask gingerly. “And here until a few days ago. May have fled when you moved in, my lord.”

  “I’m surprised he didn’t attack her,” the Marshal-General said.

  Oktar shook his head. “That’s not how they’ve operated in Vérella, Marshal-General. We found last winter that they’d sooner live under a respectable house, never bothering the inhabitants, who knew nothing of them. When the new Duke moved in, he’d bide his time.”

  “Could he be somewhere else in here?” Dorrin asked. Although they had sent upstairs several times for more lamps, the pools of lamplight scarcely lightened the shadows.

  “Could be, but again, it’s their habit to flee when their lairs are opened and attempt a flank attack. We never found a connection to this house and, despite the former Duke’s reputation for arrogance and temper, never suspected that he was actually a Liartian until the assassinations.” Oktar shook the mask he held. “That priest will be missing this. Costume’s the way they terrify people. Without a mask, people can identify him.” Oktar grinned at the Marshal-General. “Maybe we can trap him. He might come back for it.”

  Dorrin felt a cold chill down her back. “Unless it’s a trap for us.”

  “What?”

  She nodded at it. “When I was a child, one of the times I was being punished, they hung such a mask on the cell wall and told me the priest could see me through the eyes of the mask. Maybe that was a tale to frighten a child, but it seemed that it talked to me. Were I you, I’d destroy it.”

  “That would explain one thing that cost two lives, back in winter,” Oktar said, and crumpled the mask in his fists. “Especially if it could also act as the priest’s remote ears. Well, not this one. Marshal-General, shall we see?”

  “Indeed.”

  Dorrin watched as all the Marshals prayed over the mask; it began to smoke and finally burst into flame, filling the chamber with the stench of burning leather. Dorrin felt a lessening of the pressure she associated with evil presence.

  “How did he get away?” she said when they had followed every passage to its end, explored
every alcove and room. “We have found no exit.”

  “Could he have escaped upstairs, as you came in the front?”

  “Certainly,” Dorrin said. “It’s a large house—he might have climbed out onto the stable roof from one of the back windows, for all that.”

  “Or we haven’t yet found the entrance to Vérella’s underworld,” Oktar said. “He would have more than one way out, and the underground entrances to this house are the ones we must find before we rest. Though we tried to eliminate all the Liartian priests and their followers, we knew that might not be possible. Marshal Veksin, you found several of those in that house over on Old Market Square, didn’t you?”

  “Yes—we’ll need to tap floors and walls both. Even the interior walls. There was one instance in which the interior cellar wall was more than an armspan thick and contained a hidden staircase.”

  Soon the cellar resounded with the tapping of staves and dagger pommels. Dorrin went upstairs briefly. In the front room, Jori’s body lay on the board, now resting between two chairs, swathed snugly in wrappings of white cloth except for his head. His eyes were closed under a blue strip of cloth; a blue pall lay over the white wrappings, and the older woman stood, staff in hand, at the foot. In the fireplace, a small pot smoked; the sharp fragrance of some herb competing with the faint stench of blood and death.

  “The others are in the stableyard, cleaning up,” the woman said.

  “Thank you for your service,” Dorrin said. “He deserves all honor.”

  “He died saving you?”

  “He died trying to serve—he was hasty, but I had not warned him—he rushed past us and fell.”

  “His wounds were deep. Whatever your rituals at home, by city rule he must be buried quickly to avoid disease.”

  “I understand,” Dorrin said. “Marshal Tamis offered to grant him a place in the grange burial ground.” She paused, then asked, “May I ask your name and those of your guild?”

  “I am Kosa,” the woman said. “And you will find Sef, Pedar, and Gath in your yard.”

  “I am Dorrin Verrakai,” Dorrin said. “And again, thank you.”