“These men you were just talking about, you led them to his home and they killed him.” His flat face was red.
“No, no . . .” Josephine glanced over at Neko, but the woman just stood there without saying a word. “I lost them in the alleys long before I got anywhere near Edgar’s-”
“Edgar’s dead!”
“He died yesterday morning,” Josephine said. “Not today. I wanted to find you and tell you but there was no time. I was trying . . .” Excuses would be lost on Owen right now. “I’m sorry. I should have made the time.”
Owen considered her words. To Neko, he said. “I will not perform tonight. Tonight, I must bury my brother.” To Josephine, he said. “You will come with me. You will help me. You will tell me the story of my brother’s killer.”
Josephine glanced at Neko. The theater owner offered a nonchalant shrug, “Do what you must. I have a show to prepare for . . .”
Josephine gave Neko a quick peck on the cheek, grabbed her pack and slung it over her shoulder as she trailed after Owen. He stalked through the back of the theater, past Al who had apparently woken and decided to start sweeping again. The old stagehand arched an eyebrow at her as if to ask was everything all right? Josephine gave him a quick nod and a smile and continued after Owen. His posture was rigid, and his jaw was clenched and at any moment, she expected him to whirl around and confront her again, but he didn’t. He plowed through the theater’s back door and immediately whistled for a coach. When one arrived, he gave the driver Edgar’s address and climbed in first ahead of her. Josephine decided against calling him out on his lack of manners. He obviously had other things on his mind.
She had barely settled into her seat when Owen pulled a knife. It was a nasty-looking blade about a foot and a half long. He didn’t wave it around or press it against her skin or make any threats. He simply looked her in the eye, mopped the rain from his face and said, “Start at the beginning and leave nothing out.”
Chapter 3
Neko Blood waited until Jo and Owen were gone before she walked across the green room and rapped a knuckle against one of the wooden boards. “Tomm?”
A narrow section of the wall beside her slid open and a tiny man stepped out. He was bald and burly, dark and surly, and he barely came up to her mid-thigh.
“You heard?”
“I ain’t deaf.”
“Thoughts?”
“I’ve got a few.”
“Care to share them or am I wasting my time here?”
Tomm’s pinched up face pinched up tighter. “I see a way for us to get out from under some of our debt.”
“Our debt, Tomm?” She’d place an emphasis on the ‘our’.
“Are we having that conversation again, or would you like to hear my thoughts?”
“Continue.”
“Bolodenko has long searched for a way to get a hook into Lord Ian Weatherall,” Tomm said. “This could be it.”
Neko nodded. That thought had already occurred to her as well, but it wouldn’t do to let her half-sized spy know this. He liked to feel important. Big.
“Go on.”
“We send a warning to the Weatherall estate on Bolodenko’s behalf . . .”
“Which will put Lord Ian in Bolodenko’s debt . . .” Neko continued.
“And perhaps put Bolodenko in a mood to forgive us of some of ours,” Tomm finished with a smug smile.
Neko gave the impression of considering the little man’s words, but only for a moment. She didn’t want to leave him hanging without an answer for too long. He’d only get . . . surlier.
“I like it.”
Tomm ate up her scant praise. “And then we offer to sell Lord Ian the proof he needs to fight any rape charges leveled against him by Lord Ragget or anyone else in court.”
Neko arched an eyebrow. “But what proof do we have?”
Tomm gestured toward the door. “The girl. She said it herself, she wants to help him. We might as well profit from her well-intensions.”
My my, Tomm was full of ideas today, but she didn’t want to stroke his ego too much. His head might grow too large for his little body. “It’s weak . . . but it may play . . .”
Tomm snorted. “It’ll play, trust me. No nobleman wants to face those charges in this court. The penalty is too severe.”
“Point well taken,” Neko conceded while slipping in a pun. “However, Bolodenko may want to keep the girl for himself. You heard what she said about a grandfather living in Bel’yowlye. If she’s a descendant of . . .”
“There’s only one way to find out for sure.”
“But Bolodenko might not want that information to come out,” Neko said.
“That’s his problem, not ours.”
Neko considered. “You’ll have to go to Bolodenko this time. I have to prepare the understudies for the show.”
Tomm’s dark face darkened into a scowl. “Dammit Neko, can’t you forget the theater for one night? If we play our cards right on this, we won’t need this moldy old theater anymore!”
“But until that day comes,” Neko said, turning her back on the little man, “the show must go on.”
chapter 4
Lord Ian Weatherall had only fallen from a great height once before. As a boy, he’d slipped off a ladder while harvesting olives on his family’s plantation in Gyunwar and though the brief sensation of weightlessness had been exhilarating, the abrupt landing had quickly diminished the entire experience.
“Will you live?” his father had asked, towering over him, hands on his hips.
Ian nodded, still struggling to catch his breath.
“Anything broken?”
Ian shook his head. He didn’t think so.
His father offered him a hand up. “If the One had intended us to fly, he would have given us wings.” He pushed him toward the ladder. “Do you have wings?”
Ian managed to pull enough air into his lungs to offer a simple, “No . . .”
“Then get back up there and pay attention to what you’re doing.”
Ian nodded. While he brushed himself off, his gaze drifted over to the beautiful distraction which had caused him to fall in the first place. The water girl flashed him a coy smile and turned away, flipping her long, brunette hair back with a toss of her head. Ian’s face reddened. He wasn’t sure which hurt more, his bruised ego or his bruised backside.
Ian.
The sound of his name disturbed his memory and he shook his head refusing to listen to it. He had fallen in love with the water-girl that last summer in Gyunwar. Images of those stolen moments together flashed across his mind’s eye; sitting on the river bank talking for hours, sailing in her father’s boat at twilight, walking in the woods hand-in-hand and of course, kissing. She had been his first kiss, his first love, and under a starry sky with the crickets chirping all around them, she had been his first lover. When they had finished, they had lain together on the blanket, wrapped in each other’s arms, he on his back, she with her head on his chest and a leg casually thrown across his thighs. They’d stared up at the moon and the stars and had promised to keep their love alive somehow even after he had traveled to Belyne. Oh, how he wished now he had kept that promise to his sweet Lysette . . .
Ian!
The inner voice was stern like Wynston’s, but it wasn’t his butler calling for him . . .
IAN!
He opened his eyes and slammed into the ground.
The pungent scent of the loamy earth filled his nose and the brackish water splattered into his mouth. A grunt of air escaped him and the fiery pain in his left arm instantly sent a violent tremor throughout his body.
He had landed in a rather large puddle in the king’s garden, missing a stone bench and certain death by scant inches. Water soaked through his bloody clothing. His empty lungs ached, a deep inner pain from which he could not escape. Breathe, his brain screamed at him, breathe! He was trying, he wanted to scream back, but he had no air to do so. He couldn’t even manage a whisper of protest. I
t felt like he was drowning.
When the air did return finally, deliciously filling his chest, he couldn’t get enough of it. He tried to suck in more, to take a deep breath. Couldn’t. A great weight pinned him down. Was a giant standing on his back?
“He’s in the garden!” A voice shouted from high above him. “The king-slayer is in the garden!”
King-slayer? Ian put a hand on the stone bench and used it to lever himself onto his feet. Was the king dead?
And then it all came rushing back to him and Lysette was forgotten. He had been in King Henrik’s private chambers. He had pushed aside the curtains on the king’s bed. The king had been murdered! Ian remembered the dagger buried in the king’s chest. The dagger had a unique ornamental handle. It was familiar . . . It was . . .
You brought the dagger to the castle.
Ian frowned at the intrusive inner voice. No, he had brought his sword. He glanced down at his sheath. It was empty. Odd.
Weren’t you just using your sword moments ago?
Yes, he remembered now, he had used it to attack the prince . . .
To attack the prince? Why were you attacking the prince?
Because . . . because . . . Ian staggered toward the garden gate, sensing he should run away.
Why?
Because . . .! Something wasn’t right about being here. Was this some sort of nightmare? He glanced around at the castle grounds. Something was off . . .
Perhaps you are feeling guilty about killing the king?
No . . . No, he hadn’t killed the king!
But, it was your dagger, wasn’t it?
“King-slayer!”
The booming voice . . . the prince’s booming voice sounded again, shouting above him somewhere, somewhere in the darkness. Ian searched the shadows and finally found him. The bearish prince was glaring down at him from a broken window. Had he just fallen from way up there?!
How did you survive a fall from that distance? Did you use magic?
No! He had just been . . .
Lucky? Do you expect me to believe that?
Maybe . . .
He had fallen off a high ladder once before. The memory suddenly played out again. The water-girl Lysette had seen him, too. She had cried out, he remembered that. Her sweet voice echoed in his mind. Her scream of terror . . . Terror? No, not terror, that wasn’t right! What was happening to his memory?
“Get back up there and pay attention,” his father berated him. He remembered those words clearly . . . but the tone . . . no, that tone wasn’t right.
Pay attention!
Ian searched the dark, rain-filled night and couldn’t find the ladder. Nor were there olive trees here. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. Had the fall somehow confused the two realities? Merged the two memories? Odd. He wasn’t in Gyunwar; he was in the king’s garden. There should be a gate around here somewhere . . . he didn’t think he should stand around in the rain. It was cold and damp and . . .
And what?
Not warm like home. Home. He should go home now.
He found the gate and slipped through it, moving slowly but steadily around toward the front of the castle. Perhaps if he could reach the street, he’d find . . .
He rounded the corner and found a horse tied to a post near the royal stables. The horse looked familiar.
Didn’t you ride to the castle on your stallion?
No, he had taken a coach.
Are you sure?
A storm had struck the city and he had ridden in a coach to keep dry.
Are you sure?
Yes, of course, he did not ride . . . Ian approached the horse. He shook his head. No, this wasn’t right . . . this wasn’t right! And yet . . .
It was his stallion, Storm.
Are you sure a storm struck the city? Perhaps you rode Storm through the city to the castle . . .
Could that be right?
Who else rode with you to the castle? A friend?
No one. He had come alone in the coach . . . he shook his head . . . he had ridden alone. He wasn’t certain that was right.
An accomplice perhaps? Was it Kylpin Caleachey? Sir Lumist Tunney? Give me a name.
No . . . He shook his head again. This was all so very confusing. He couldn’t remember just now . . .
Think! Tell me, who came with you?
“I don’t know!” Ian shouted into the night.
Lightning streaked across the sky. Rumbling thunder followed. Ian untied his stallion and climbed unsteadily into the saddle. Sharp pain shot up and down his left arm.
You must have ridden Storm to the castle. Who rode with you?
Ian’s head ached. Were two different memories merging again? Had he ridden to the castle alone and had he taken the coach to Lord Ragget’s with Kylpin? Or had Kylpin ridden with him to the castle?
So, it was Kylpin Caleachey who accompanied you to the castle? Perhaps with Sir Lumist Tunney?
Ian squeezed his eyes closed. He couldn’t remember how he had come to be at the castle any longer. He kicked his heels and Storm galloped down the tree-lined boulevard. The ride home was a blur of rain, wind, pain and . . . and . . . black fleeting images . . .
What were those black images?
He didn’t know. Other carriages perhaps, or other riders, he couldn’t tell. He couldn’t remember. Quite a few were following him, though. Why was he being followed again? He glanced over his shoulder as he rode and saw . . . and saw . . .
What did you see?
The faces were obscured. He recognized no one. They just looked like a horde of shadows . . . the shadows were chasing him! Fly, Storm, fly!
Finally, the dark outline of his estate came into view as he galloped up the outer drive. He dismounted at the front door, wincing at the pain in his left arm, and rushed up the stairs.
Why? What is the hurry?
He needed to get out of the city before . . .
Before what? Before you were caught? Only the guilty run, don’t they? Are you feeling guilty now?
He couldn’t remember. Something had happened before the fall. Something before he dove out the window. Something he didn’t want to remember. Something that wasn’t good.
Remember the dagger?
He saw the dagger in his mind again. It was protruding from the king’s chest. It was an ornamental dagger. A very familiar dagger. His breathing quickened. It was his dagger!
Did you kill the king?
No.
No? Are you sure?
NO!
No, you’re not sure?
“ENOUGH!” Ian shouted. He shoved the door open . . . that was odd, the door should have been locked . . . and stalked through the dark foyer, stopping in the center. Something was wrong here too.
Where were Wynston and his home guard? He spun around. Someone was always by the front door. His mind raced.
Tyran?!
Ian ran up the stairs. Tyran’s bed was disheveled and empty. The sheets were still warm and nothing else had been disturbed. The old tear-stained, rag soldier doll, a remnant from Tyran’s childhood, stood sentry at the head of the bed watching over the silent room.
The estate was cold and empty.
Why? Did you send everyone away before you went to kill the king?
He didn’t know. He ran down to the vault calling Tyran’s name.
Why did you go to the vault?
The bells were ringing! He needed gold to escape the city.
You know why the bells were ringing, don’t you?
No, I . . . I don’t know . . . I don’t know. Tyran!
Your guilt is growing stronger now, isn’t it?
Tyran! The antechamber was empty too, but something was amiss with the vault door.
What is it?
The blue-tinged light was gone! The spell placed on his vault door by the locksmith was missing.
Are you sure?
Yes. Maybe. Where was Tyran? Tyran!
And only yourself could enter your vault, isn’t that true? Not even t
he Thief of Belyne could burgle your vault, isn’t that true? Isn’t that what you bragged?
That was true. He remembered that quite distinctly. He pulled two keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door.
What’s inside?
Ian opened the door and stared. Confused.
Why are you confused? You know who the Thief of Belyne is now, don’t you?
Ian opened his mouth, but no words came out.
You know who the Thief of Belyne is now, don’t you?
Ian shook his head. This cannot be!
Why? What do you see?
What do you see?
What do you see?
chapter 5
“That is all for tonight.”
“No. He must be ready by tomorrow. Try again.”
“His mind is strong, but it is weakening, cracking. I cannot push the magic, or he will fight it.”
“You claim to be the best in the world at extracting information, even better at inserting it.”
“I am, and that is why you should listen to me and allow me to do this MY way!”
“You claim your technique is better than those practiced in Bel’yowlye.”
“It is! But some things cannot be rushed!”
“He must be ready by tomorrow.”
“That is too soon.”
Silence.
“That is too . . . I will see what I can do.”
Silence.
“He’ll be ready by tomorrow.”
“Good. Please continue . . .”
Chapter 6
By the time their coach reached Edgar’s tiny apartment located above the tailor shop, Josephine had finished retelling her story. Or rather this time, an abridged version of her story. There was no reason to get into the finer points with Owen; they’d just be lost on him. All he really wanted to know was who he needed to kill.
“Edgar killed the man who killed him?” Owen’s bulbous forehead furrowed in thought.
“I’m not sure if he was a man, but yes, before he died, Edgar said he killed the . . . spidery man-like creature who knifed him.”
Stolen Justice Page 3
