Without a driver, Josephine was doomed.
chapter 49
“Jo, we’ve done all we can! We gotta jump!” Edgar called back to her.
Arrows dropped out of the sky. This time, most of them thudded into the side of the coach. A few struck the bench next to Edgar and one hit the roof inches from her left boot. Edgar was right. They had done all they could.
But that didn’t stop the droning inside her head.
“Jump!” Josephine shouted. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Edgar said something more, but she didn’t hear him. She’d listened to him plenty today. As the droning in her head increased to a high-pitched whine, the argument they’d shared during the long ride down from the Walpole flashed through her mind again. Something was troubling her about it. There was something there . . . something important she was missing. Edgar had tried to talk her out of confronting Lipscombe. This ain’t you, he’d said. You ain’t like him, he’d said. You ain’t a killer, he’d said.
“I’ve killed!” she screamed back at him.
The driver had pulled over and demanded they leave. He wouldn’t drive them any further. She’d tried to order him on, but he wasn’t buying the warden’s uniform any longer. She’d reached for her crossbow. Edgar grabbed her arm. They’d struggled.
“Josephine, no!”
He slapped her. She let go of the crossbow and slugged him. The blow knocked him back a step or two. He rubbed his jaw as they stood and stared at each other. She hated the hurtful look he had in his eyes.
“I don’t know what the hell’s the matter with you two,” the driver said, “but I’m done here.”
Josephine reached into her belt and pulled out a small gem. It might have been green. She didn’t care. She held it out for the driver to see. Her eyes never left Edgar’s.
“For the horses and the carriage.”
The driver snatched the stone and ran off without saying another word.
“Who are you working for?” she demanded.
“Where’d you get that gem?”
“I told you Lord Ian gave me some. Who are you working for?”
“I don’t know what you’re . . .”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“You’re one to talk, Jo.”
“We’re not having that discussion again! Who are you working for?”
“Why do you get to decide what we talk about?”
“Who are you working for?
“No one.”
“You’re not Lord Stronghold. You can’t afford the Walpole.”
“It looks like you can! How many more of them gems you got in that there belt?”
“We’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you. Who are you working for?”
“You don’t know . . . I could have money. Maybe I am Lord Stronghold and maybe I can afford the Walpole . . .”
“WHO ARE YOU WORKING FOR?!”
She reached for her crossbow.
“You gonna kill me too, Jo?”
She closed her eyes. It wasn’t better in the dark. It never was now. In the dark she saw her father. She saw her family. She saw the two collectors. She saw Owen.
She saw Lipscombe.
It always came back to Lipscombe. His face hovering over her face. His drool splattering on her lips. His tongue licking her tears. She shuddered. His memory made her itch all over again. Gods, she wanted to scream and cry and scream but most of all she wanted to make someone else hurt. She wanted someone else to feel pain!
And having those feelings only made her feel worse. Made her feel like a monster.
“Bolodenko.”
Josephine’s eyes snapped open. “What?”
“He found me in the Necropolis. I was burying Owen. He told me where to find you. He healed my wound. He said you needed a place to hide. He wanted me to help you break Lord Ian outta the dungeon. He wanted me to help you stop Lord Ragget. He wanted me . . .” Edgar hesitated. “He wanted me to stop you from killing Lipscombe otherwise . . .”
“Otherwise what?” Josephine demanded.
“Otherwise, I’m a dead man.”
Josephine growled in frustration. Why did Bolodenko have to be involved in this? Hadn’t he caused her family enough pain? She supposed it shouldn’t have surprised her much. The powerful moneylender always seemed to be mixed up in some way or another with the going-ons in the city. “Did he say why?”
“He ain’t particularly fond of failure . . .”
“No, I mean, did he say why he wanted Lipscombe alive?”
“He said he was sailing to Euclacia, but he didn’t say why . . .” Edgar shrugged. “He also said you should only kill a man when you can profit from his death . . .”
“The same holds true for letting a man live . . .” Josephine muttered. Dammit! Lipscombe must be working for Bolodenko too. Directly or indirectly. Regardless, there must be something on his ship that Bolodenko wanted delivered and his death would obviously interfere with that. But what could be so important?
“Yeah,” Edgar’s head bobbed. “Is that some sort of saying? I ain’t never heard it before.”
“I have,” Josephine said. “Neko Blood told me the exact same thing yesterday.”
“She did?”
Josephine nodded. “After I told her about what happened to me. She said the reason I didn’t kill Lipscombe the last time I had a chance was because at that time he was worth more to me alive than dead.”
“He’s definitely worth more to me alive than dead,” Edgar said. “Besides getting to keep my own life, if I help you the way Bolodenko wants, he’ll owe me a favor. A big favor.”
“You sure it’s besides?”
“What’cha mean?”
“I mean, are you sure the big favor isn’t just allowing you to live?”
Edgar’s expression darkened. “I . . . no, he . . . no! If I do what he says he owes me . . .”
Josephine pursed her lips in thought. “I’m sorry Edgar. I can’t just let him get away this time.”
Edgar’s shoulders sank. “Yeah . . . I kinda figured that’s what you’d say.”
“But . . .” Josephine dug in her belt and pulled out a few more gems. “I’ve got these. If you help me, you can come with me to Bel’yowlye.”
“Yeah?” Edgar’s face scrunched up. “I don’t know, Jo. That sounds a lot like I’d be your kept man or something.”
“You’d rather stay here and face Bolodenko?”
“You know that ain’t the case, it’s just . . . I think you should know up front, I’m an expensive gigolo. And as your gigolo, I’ll take my duties quite seriously.”
Josephine rolled her eyes. “Is that a yes?”
“I guess . . .” Edgar looked at his boots. “It sounds like a better deal than the shitty end of the one I got with Bolodenko.”
“I think most people regret the deals they make with him.”
“Yeah, I know. And I know better too, but at the time . . .” He trailed off with his palms raised skyward. “So, after you kill Lipscombe are we still going to try and save Lord Ian and stop Lord Ragget?”
“That is part of the deal.”
“I was afraid of that,” Edgar sighed. “And . . . are we still friends?”
“I never stopped being your friend.”
“Even when you punched me?”
“You slapped me first.”
“Maybe we should kiss and make up.”
“In your dreams.”
“No, in my dreams we have amazing sex for hours and make up.”
“That’s not going to happen now.”
“How about later?”
Josephine shook her head. “Let’s go.”
“That wasn’t a ‘no’ . . .”
He pestered her for an answer for a mile or so and then when she told him it would be a flat-out ‘no, never’ if he didn’t shut up about it, he wisely switched topics to Lord Ian and Lord Ragget. How were they going to save Lord Ian? How were they going to stop Lord Ragge
t? Unfortunately, she still had no answers for him. She couldn’t think past Lipscombe.
And that’s why she insisted on confronting him. That’s why she was still standing on top of the run-away carriage while it hurtled toward the hairpin, cliffside turn. She had to prove . . . she had to prove . . .
She had to prove to him that she wasn’t afraid of him!
She had to prove to him that she was still a strong, powerful woman!
She had to prove to him that he hadn’t taken anything away from her!
She had to prove to him . . .
She had to prove . . . to him . . .
To him?
NOTHING!
HE didn’t matter!
The only person she had to prove herself to . . . was herself!
She wasn’t afraid!
She was still strong and powerful!
He may have stolen her virginity, but that made HIM the lesser person, not HER!
Arrows filled the sky again. The hairpin turn was just ahead. The buzzing noise in her head was so loud she felt a vibration in her teeth.
Josephine leapt from the top of the coach onto the bench and snatched up the dropped reins. She hauled back on them while slamming her foot against the wheel brake. A metallic shriek filled the air. The team of horses shied away from the cliff. The carriage slewed sideways. In a split second, Josephine saw the inevitable. The coach was going over the edge and it was going to take her and the horses with it!
Arrows fell out of the sky.
Her teeth chattered. A drop of blood dripped from her nose. Josephine grabbed her crossbow. She had only a few seconds left. She saw it in her mind; the one chance left to save herself and the horses.
DO IT NOW!
Impossible . . .
NO! The droning intoned in her mind. DO IT NOW!
She raised the crossbow. The music began. Her finger twitched on the trigger in time with the allegro melody frenetically thumping through her. Bolts raced skyward intercepting arrow after arrow. She couldn’t get them all. She didn’t need to. The ones she missed rained down all around her.
Two metal pins held the hitch in place. She had to get them both. She got the first with one shot. Now loose, the hitch wobbled. The carriage rattled. Josephine fired at the second. Missed. Fired again. Missed. Dammit!
The music in her head swelled. A crescendo building toward an epic finish. Only a few notes remained.
BaBoom! Her thundering heartbeat matched the music. BaBoom! She had time for one last shot.
BaBOOM!
She squeezed the trigger. The pin shattered. She tumbled over the side of the carriage. The freed horses galloped around the corner. She hit the ground hard. Body jolted. Bounced. Rolled. The carriage flew over the side of the cliff. She slid after it. Rolling, rolling toward the edge. Three-hundred feet between her and the harbor below. She groped for something. Anything. Tumbling closer. Fingers scrabbling. Searching. She found nothing. Closer.
The music stopped.
chapter 50
“Wake up!”
A hard jab in his ribs jolted Ian out of his nightmare. A large, balding guard with a pockmarked face, and a missing front tooth stood over him, while a shorter guard, sporting an unruly mustache stood by the door holding a lantern.
“Am I being released?” Ian asked. His voice sounded gruff and was barely more than a whisper. He slid his feet over the side of the cot and noticed a pair of chained manacles already clamped around his ankles. The two guards chuckled.
“Put out your hands,” Pockmark grumbled.
Ian raised his right hand but kept his left close to his body. The guard glared down at him for a moment. “Are you gonna cause any problems?”
Ian shook his head. What kind of problems could he cause?
Pockmark tossed the extra pair of manacles to Mustache by the door. “He’s got a busted arm. ‘Sides, he ain’t gonna go far with the chains around his legs.”
“But the prince . . . er, the king said to chain ‘im up good,” Mustache muttered.
“Ah, hell. He ain’t got the strength to swat a fly, look at him,” Pockmark put his fists on his hips. “I could snap him in half without breakin’ a sweat.”
Mustache shrugged. “It’s your ass gettin’ chewed, not mine.” He turned and stepped out of the cell.
“Stand on up,” Pockmark ordered. “The king awaits.”
“The king?” Ian asked, rising slowly. “King Henrik . . .?” His question stuck in his throat when he saw the guard stiffen and his demeanor change. Briefly, an image appeared in Ian’s mind of a dagger being lifted over his head. They meant Prince Edmund. He was king now. Ian swallowed dryly.
“Get movin’!”
Another sharp jab in his ribs stirred him from his thoughts and he shuffled awkwardly toward the cell door.
“How long have I been in here? A week? More?”
“No talkin’ now,” Pockmark grunted and shoved him hard in the back.
Ian’s mind reeled. It had felt like a week at least, but his shoulder still ached from Ragget’s stab wound. Shouldn’t it have knitted closed by now?
He distinctly remembered waking up many times and pacing around the cell. He had eaten a couple of times, finally managing to keep the food down, but he began to feel tremendously hungry as he came further awake, or had that all been one long dream? He closed his eyes briefly and saw flashes of strange images flicker across his mind’s eye.
“How is my son?” Ian asked, pushing those odd memories aside.
Mustache whirled around and fixed him with a smoldering glare. “Not another word outta you or I’ll gag you.”
Ian opened his mouth to protest and decided it would be wiser to remain silent. He lowered his eyes. There was no point in upsetting the guards. If they were ordered not to tell him anything, then it was pointless to ask them questions. He knew the procedures. He just never expected to be on the receiving end of such treatment.
The three walked through the darkened tunnels, the only sounds that of the guard’s boots, and his length of chain clinking against the stone. When they reached the stairs, Ian struggled up them. Unaccustomed to having his stride shortened, he fell a couple of times banging his shins against the sharp, stony edges. Each time, Pockmark helped him back to his feet and then shoved him roughly onward. By the time they had reached the top, Ian was breathing hard.
“Give me a moment,” he gasped, grabbing at the painful cramps in his knotted side.
“Keep movin’,” Pockmark growled, jabbing him in the back.
Ian tried to ignore the pain in his side and the shortness of breath, but it wasn’t until he spied the two intricately carved oak doors leading to the courtroom that all his aches, great and small, were forgotten. Beyond those doors, he could hear the chatter of voices, hundreds of voices.
In the past, he had thrived on that energy, but now he found himself trembling. The roles had reversed and now he stood as the accused. He would not be walking confidently into the courtroom, head held high like he had done so many times before. Ian glanced down at himself. Instead, he would enter, bound in chains, unclean, unkempt, he ran a hand through his matted hair, and unwashed.
How far had he fallen?
Mustache stopped just short of the two doors and waited. Ian felt a band of sweat collect on his brow. What were they waiting for? Why weren’t they going inside?
Suddenly, a loud hammering silenced the room beyond the doors.
“Lord Oliver Orrington,” Ian heard Edmund’s stern voice, “this court has found you guilty of violating the king’s law. You are hereby sentenced to forfeit all wealth and properties to the crown. You are stripped of your title and lands. Your name is stricken from the List of Ascension, and you are banished forthwith from this country. You will be immediately escorted to the Dardynian border, ordered never to return to Yordician soil upon pain of death.” There was a protracted moment of silence. “Mister Orrington, do you understand your punishment as I have decreed it?”
&n
bsp; “Yes, your majesty,” Ian heard a cold, sinister voice reply.
“Take him away!” the king shouted. “Guards! Bring forth the traitor, Ian Weatherall!”
Ian’s stomach contracted, and he tasted bile in the back of his throat. Sweat trickled down from his armpits, the middle of his back. He cringed at his own stench.
“Move along,” Pockmark shoved him toward the two doors.
Ian shuffled forward suddenly fearful of the very same court he had faithfully served for over a decade. Mustache pushed the doors open, and Ian found himself standing in the vomitory staring back at a crowd of quietly angry men and women. The usual chatter that occurred between the removal of one prisoner, and the bringing in of the next, was missing. Ian swallowed and tried to keep his head up, fighting the urge to lower his eyes.
He glanced bravely around the large amphitheater as he shuffled forward. It was about half the size of the great coliseum, and for the first time, not an empty seat could be found. Even the usually empty third balcony was packed with commoners craning to get a look at him.
Pockmark prodded him forward, and Ian took another couple of hesitant steps. The clinking of his chains against the marble floor echoed loudly in the silent room. The hairs on his neck rose. Like a circle of eager predators waiting for the proper time to strike, the members of the gallery watched without making a sound. No coughs, no clearing of one’s throat, no creaking of a wooden pew, just the cold clanking of his metal chain as he dragged it slowly down the sloped aisle toward the center of the amphitheater.
Halfway to the accused box, he heard the first words.
“King-slayer . . .”
It was only a whisper, but it carried the length and breadth of the enormous courtroom.
“King-slayer.”
This time the word was spoken by someone on the other side, a deep male’s voice filled with anger.
Stolen Justice Page 27
