Masks

by E.M. Prazeman

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Every time Gale went to the open window, Mark paused in his labors.

  It was well after dark, long past two hours, and they were all under Grant’s careful watch. She looked out a while, then returned to him. He stroked her fur. They’d both eaten as well as they could—she on exotic rices and ground goat mixed with herbs Norbert swore were healthful, Mark on a half slice of bread and a half glass of milk. It took an hour for the pain in his belly to subside. His work helped distract him.

  Trudy had fallen asleep in a chair by his hearth. The hearth’s presence always amused him. As far as he knew a fire had never burned in it. It was always too warm for that amount of heat. They burned candles within it instead, now held on an elegant framework he’d purchased not long ago.

  The firm light of a lamp lit his papers. The letters mentioned the star, the moon, the cup, the face and the blade quite often. By context, though he didn’t want it to be true, he was certain Baron Kilderkin was the cup, and the baron was deep in some sort of conspiracy to cover the face.

  He’d translated them out of order, and it wasn’t clear what order they were supposed to lay in. Maybe Winsome had them in order initially, but he’d ruined that when his body seized up. One thing for certain, the blade was angry about revealing the face too soon. Without dates ... but these letters appeared to be months, maybe years old, too old to refer to Mark. Still, the covering of a face seemed ominous, and there were many parallels he could draw between his journey and the veiled events unfolding here.

  Obsidian had preceded him. In what role? Why had he come here?

  He’d so hoped to find the answers plain and clear, but the letters only raised more questions.

  At least the manifests were of some use. They named the captains, and those captains were well aware of their role. Two of them were Rohn’s.

  Gale went to the window again. Mark listened, but didn’t hear a horse. He made notes on the side paper and set a letter between two others where it seemed most likely to belong.

  No, there was a horse.

  Mark got up and looked. His heart leapt. They were both home. “Philip.” Mark went to the door, keeping his voice low. “It’s them. Let them in the back way. Let Grant know they’re here.”

  “Yes, sir.” Philip trotted off.

  Mark took a sip of water and let it roll around in his mouth. It hurt less to drink in little bits too small to swallow. He wet his mouth often though his thirst often urged him to gulp it down. He’d done it more than once, and paid in pain.

  The door opened downstairs. Gale hurried out into the hall and he soon heard her pattering down the stairs, panting. Human footfalls followed her back up.

  Rohn stepped into Mark’s room and Mark hugged him hard. He kept it brief, and they both stepped back to let Winsome in. She was shaking. “Philip, get her a blanket, please.”

  Trudy stirred and made a soft sound. Winsome’s gaze stopped on Trudy, then fell and her already solemn mouth softened with hurt.

  It would be better not to tell her the truth if she suspected that Mark and Trudy had an understanding.

  Trudy sat up. “Colonel!”

  “Hush. I told Grant to send all the new servants home. I don’t know how long it will be before the Kilderkin household realizes Winsome is gone, and I have no idea what they’ll do. They will come here first, however.” Rohn kept a protective arm around her. “Have a seat.” He helped her settle into the other chair by the hearth, then went to Mark’s desk. “How goes it?”

  “Slowly. But you should see this.” Mark showed him the damning manifests.

  “Oh no.” Rohn took them in hand, his gaze sweeping the pages over and over. “Could this be a lie?”

  “No,” Winsome said. “So ... you deciphered it?”

  Mark shook his head when Rohn opened his mouth to speak. “Where did you get these letters?” Rohn asked.

  Winsome’s eyes brightened. “Let him go. As soon as he realizes what’s happened he’ll run, and he’ll take Juggler with him. Just let them go.”

  “Who else?” Rohn demanded.

  Too sharp. Mark wanted to elbow him but Rohn stood just out of reach.

  “I don’t know.” Winsome drew the blanket closer about her shoulders.

  “Why didn’t you come to me sooner?” Rohn snapped.

  “I—believed. But then I started to have doubts and—”

  “You were involved?” Rohn spoke Mark’s own shock.

  “My father didn’t want me to be involved, but I found out. I didn’t realize how deep it went, what it truly entailed, until six months ago.”

  Mark kept his voice as calm and gentle as possible. “What’s really involved, Winsome?”

  “I thought it was the Church, but it’s ... it’s a conspiracy against His Majesty Michael of Cathret.”

  Her misery kept Mark from assaulting with her wild questions. “Which side is Gutter on?”

  “Gutter?”

  It seemed impossible that she didn’t recognize the name. She was in shock. “The King’s favorite, Lord Argenwain’s jester. Is he for or against the king?” He wished he could believe with absolute certainty that Gutter would never harm His Majesty, but he couldn’t.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What about Obsidian?”

  “I don’t know that name. I’m sorry.”

  Which side was Obsidian on? What had he done by coming here with this code? If Gutter was rightfully by the King, then Obsidian was against ....

  He couldn’t even think. His mind whirled in panic. “I have to get on board a ship as soon as possible.”

  “You are not sailing into the thick of this alone,” Rohn growled.

  “I have to. It’s never just about one man, though His Majesty is far beyond a man. His whole family may be in danger. The queens, his children, his last living brother.”

  “For all you know one of his own family members may be at the heart of it.”

  “I’ll forgive you that because you were at war with Cathret, but that family is sacred in its deepest sense. They can’t be assassinated because they are protected. Anyone with ill intent that goes near them goes mad. You’ve seen now. We’ve both seen now what is beyond this life. You know that protection like that would not be extended to anyone unworthy.” He shouldn’t have had to explain it. His irritation eased when he remembered how Grant had blushed to hear Mark speak ill of island ways.

  That seemed like a long time ago.

  “What can you do in any case? Expose these to your mainland friends?” Rohn waved the letters in his face.

  “I can’t expose anyone mentioned in those letters, not without knowing more. The letters, the manifests, everything has to remain absolutely secret, and Baron Kilderkin and Juggler must be put in doubt as to whether we have them. They may hope that even if we do, we can’t decipher them.” That gave him an idea. “Winsome, I want you to write a letter. I want you to be truthful except in one regard. I want you tell them that you’ve hidden those papers, and that you’ll show them to a certain friend you’ve made unless the baron leaves with Juggler for the mainland, never to return. Can you do that?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll ask one more question, and I hope you trust me enough tell me the truth. Do you know anyone with a seal like this?” He held up one of the envelopes.

  “No.”

  “You’ve never seen it anywhere else?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you.” He wished he could believe her. For now he would only allow that she was likely telling them the truth. “Trudy, can you put her in the guest room across from your room please?”

  “Yes, sir.” Trudy curtseyed and hurried to her work.

  “Philip, can you find me a place on a ship bound for Seven Churches by the Sea?”

  Philip looked to Rohn. Rohn stood tall and silent and too much like the man Mark had first met. “Do it,” Rohn said softly.

  Mark went out into the hallway for some
privacy, only to see Grant sitting at the top of the stairs, a sword in one hand, a pistol in the other. Rohn stepped out into the hall as well. “I’ll make doubly sure of the locks,” Rohn told Grant. “You’re relieved.”

  “I’m all right, sir,” Grant told him. He had a grim, tight look in his eyes and he hunched with weariness.

  “That’s an order.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Grant stood and went downstairs, his heavy steps sounding every crack and squeak in the staircase on the way.

  Gale came out and sat anxiously beside Mark, tail wagging, panting, her bright eyes not quite hidden by what would soon be long bangs.

  Rohn bent his face to Mark’s and kissed his cheek. Mark longed for so much more. How could they live in the same house and never be together again?

  By stepping back. Mark edged away, though he allowed himself to touch Rohn’s face. “Give her a chance,” Mark whispered.

  “Are you leaving because of what you’ve found, or because of her?” Rohn whispered back.

  “All of it. And more.” He wanted to stay more than anything, but he didn’t dare admit it. It would make it too easy for Rohn to convince him to stay.

  “You must come back.”

  “I know.” Mark took his hand and kissed it. “I waited for you to come back and it ... I won’t leave you waiting forever. I’ll come back.”

  “You swear?”

  Rohn had him there. The poison could still claim his life, or any number of accidents. “I’ll write you every day.”

  “The post from Seven Churches only reaches us twice a month.”

  “Then you’ll have a lot of letters at once. I promise I’ll send any urgent news by sacred messenger.” That would still be at least three weeks delay. Mark almost went to him again, but something warned him, perhaps a slight squeak in the floor. “I have work. Check the doors and windows, and then get some rest. It’s been a long night.”

  “Lock your door,” Rohn told him.

  Sure enough Winsome stood just inside the door, listening. He doubted that she’d heard much. “Have you started your letter?” Mark asked her.

  “I’ll write it in my room.”

  He understood her need for privacy. “Here.” He fetched her everything she’d need and carried it down the hall for her so she wouldn’t get ink on her hands. Trudy had done an admirable job of preparing the way, including some food and a pitcher of fresh water. “Lock the door. Ring the bell if you need anything.”

  “Don’t leave us. You should wait. My father may have already secretly engaged the next outgoing vessel, and I dread to think what might happen if you sailed on the same ship. Or what if the captain is part of the conspiracy that tried to end your life? You’ll be helpless.”

  “Help Rohn while I’m away. He doesn’t do well alone.” Mark left her before she could become even more overwrought. She’d probably still imagine the worst that might happen, but at least she wouldn’t feel compelled to create potential disasters that would make even the most seasoned soldier hesitate, never mind a boy out of his depth.

  Mark leafed through his notes before he set his mind to reading the letters again. Before long his head drooped and he braced it on his arms, just for a moment.

  Gale’s pacing woke him. She needed to be let out. He pushed up, his stomach pinched and burning, his throat raw.

  The lock turned on its own so slowly that at first Mark didn’t perceive the motion. He tried to make no sound as he crossed to the pistol he’d set carelessly on the table beside the door.

  The door swung wide and Mark dove for the weapon. The masked creature fired. The sound seemed to shatter the room. The mask drew a rapier as Mark put his hand on the pistol.

  He knew he was too late. He brought the pistol to bear and threw himself to the side—

  Gale grabbed the mask’s sleeve—

  —the rapier point stabbed the floor by Mark’s chest as he cocked the mechanism—

  —the pistol fired what seemed like an eternity after his finger squeezed the trigger.

  The mask thrust. Mark parried with his gloved hand. He heard a muffled voice somewhere in the house cry his name.

  The mask staggered. Mark caught the blade but didn’t manage to pull the rapier free of its hand. The whole face was covered with the death mask, but he knew who wore it.

  Blood splattered on the floor.

  Mark scrambled for Obsidian’s pistol and his rapier. The mask pursued him. Mark cocked the pistol as he turned and fired. He had to drop Obsidian’s pistol immediately to defend himself. The mask fought hard, as if it hadn’t been wounded twice, but it moved more laboriously as it engaged his blade. Nightmarish, the gorgeous stripes of emerald, ruby and sapphire revealed no mouth and the eyes were hidden by copper silk. Gale attacked it again, distracting it for the slightest instant. Mark forced the opportunity with a sharp deflection and thrust hard.

  The arms spread and then contracted around the blade where it penetrated high in the chest just below the throat. Mark tore his rapier free.

  The masked thing fell, lifeless. Mark yanked off the death mask and began to sing as he reloaded Obsidian’s pistol. He hoped his voice would help Juggler somehow.

  The whole house vibrated with subtle but terrible sounds. A pounding on a door, footsteps hurrying, men muttering to each other, someone on the main stairs.

  He’d barely finished reloading when a Morbai’s Kiss in a deep red uniform appeared, his face painted with smears of blood and ash. Mark fired and the Morbai’s Kiss flopped down bonelessly, an ugly red cavity where the point of his nose used to be. Mark sheathed his rapier and reloaded both pistols. His heart thundered but he felt only two things: a cold, unfeeling requirement to protect his fragile body, and deep concentration as his mind swept through countless calculations. He concluded his song and listened a moment. He couldn’t make out much. His ears had numbed somewhat from the sharp pounding they’d gotten when the pistols went off.

  He couldn’t feel Rohn’s heartbeat.

  A glance out the door one way revealed four of the blood-painted soldiers, two at the far doorway into the master suite, and two at the top of the stairs. A glance the other way—no one, but both Trudy and Winsome’s doors were open. He dashed toward the women first. One of the Morbai’s Kiss fired at him. He ducked in Winsome’s room, Gale on his heels.

  Winsome was gone. He ran across to Trudy’s. Blood everywhere, and Trudy had crumpled where her bed and the wall made a corner.

  He left Trudy. He’d been moving too quickly for any emotions to catch up. Something broke inside him and all emotion fell away into the dark crevasse beside Trudy’s body.

  The intensity of his hunt carried on without his heart. Two shots missed him on the way to his room. Mark readied himself by the door.

  “Get him,” one of the men said.

  That would make the hunt easier. He had to be careful, though. These men were experienced hunters themselves.

  “Sit,” Mark whispered firmly to Gale. “Stay.” Rohn’s heartbeat suddenly came to life within his chest, running faster than a gallop, but Mark kept his own breaths steady.

  At least he knew Rohn was still alive.

  He heard two approaching.

  Mark turned into the hall and fired both pistols. One man fell partway down the stairs, the other dropped and fired back. Mark ducked back into his room and reloaded. The man who’d dropped got to his feet and advanced. Two others joined him, their presence betrayed by the bare floor.

  Mark didn’t finish reloading in time. His hands didn’t shake but his fingers had gone clumsy. He dropped the pistol and grabbed the first man who came in the door. He pressed his rapier against the man’s neck and shoved with a slicing motion. The blade bit deeply, and the hot blood jetted out—

  The colonel’s door burst open. The remaining two in the hall fled for the little-used staircase beside Trudy’s room. Rohn took the main staircase down and Mark followed them down the back staircase. “Rohn, don’t!�
��

  But Rohn did. The men managed to make the bottom of the staircase, but then they cried out, fighting for their lives in a room in which there had once been food and dancing and laughter and wine. Their feet scrambled on the floor slick from blood. By the time Mark managed to make the bottom of the stairs, his legs wobbling, one lay dead and the colonel had a dagger shoved up so deep inside the other that his fist was buried inside the man’s gut.

  “Rohn.” Mark staggered to him. “Rohn, it’s over. Rohn. Rohn, Winsome is missing.”

  That finally got Rohn’s attention. The satisfied, predatory look on his face ebbed away to be replaced with open fear. “Missing?”

  “I hope she left before it started but they might have taken her somewhere. And Trudy ....”

  Grant.

  Mark stumbled toward the lower servant’s rooms, his legs barely able to carry him, all his cold calculations fracturing into panic. Norbert’s, Philip’s and Grant’s rooms were all open. He half-fell, half-leapt into the doorway.

  Grant lay on the floor on a rug soaked in blood, his throat gaping, white showing amid the red. That exposed throat was an architectural marvel, a graceful, open arch filled with crimson. Mark fell beside him and covered the wound. Grant was still warm. The morbai—

  He wouldn’t let them have him. “You can’t have him!” he screamed. He wouldn’t let Grant go into that horrible darkness alone.

  A crushing pain filled his chest. Mark grabbed the fishing knife Grant always kept at his belt. “I won’t let you have him!”

  Strong arms grabbed him. “No, Lark. No. You have to stay with me. You can’t help him.” Rohn crushed him until his ribs flexed and he could barely breathe.

  “He needs me! The morbai can’t have him he needs me. Please. Please oh please, help me.” He needed to sing, he had to sing, but he couldn’t catch his breath. He had to stop gasping, stop the pain ....

  It was too late. Grant was already gone. How long had he been gone? He’d died while Mark was sleeping ....

  “He was a good man. It has to be enough. You can’t help him. Please.” Rohn tucked his head close against Mark’s. “You promised yourself to me. Please. I need you, Lark. I need you.”

  Grant lay there, still handsome, the fall of his hair marred by blood, his broad shoulders slack, those clear, green eyes as lifeless as glass.

  Mark dropped the knife.

  Rohn relaxed his hold and drew Mark closer. “Don’t look.” He tried covering Mark’s eyes but Mark pushed his hand away.

  Grant is dead.

  Gone forever. Fodder for the morbai, the Cathretan Church claimed. He didn’t want to believe it. He wanted to believe as the islanders believed but he feared the Cathretan Church was right. He hated it; he couldn’t bear it. He wished he could die. He should have died. Then none of this would have happened.

  Mark finally looked away. He could see Grant in his mind, sitting at that rough table, drinking bad wine from a mug. He had such a beautiful smile. “He was a good man.”

  “I know.”

  The mad moment had passed. He knew he had to stay. “Let go,” he whispered. Rohn’s hold on him eased a little more, but he didn’t let go.

  He couldn’t touch Grant’s face. The big man wouldn’t like it. He’d flinch away if he could. Mark touched his sleeve instead.

  Grant had just learned to read small words. Mop. Spot. Lip. Man. He’d been so rightfully proud of that achievement.

  Rohn hoisted him to his feet, gasping, on the edge of sobs. “We have to find the others. Norbert?”

  Dead in his room as well, though he’d killed one. Philip had been stabbed through the heart in his bed. Rohn carefully checked them for any hope of life while Mark stood in the doorway both times, watching, nose and eyes running but too numb to weep.

  They went upstairs back to Trudy’s room. Rohn felt at her throat, and then gasped. “She’s alive.”

  The words shocked Mark back to life. “I’ll get the doctor.” Mark stumbled back downstairs, out to the stables, and saddled and bridled Bindart as quickly as he could manage. He felt little on the hard ride to the doctor’s house, and told the doctor to rush ahead of him as he couldn’t possibly keep up.

  He’d noticed something in the stables and he didn’t dare think too deeply upon that together with the possibility that Trudy would be dead by the time he got back.

  Winsome’s horse was missing.

  When he got home, Mark put Bindart back in her stall and sat heavily on the rock bench outside the stable door where Philip used to sit. In time a mist came in and the sun rose behind it. The gulls began to cry themselves awake.

  Rohn left the house, his shoulders bent and his clothes streaked with blood, Gale following close behind. The dog saw Mark and bounded to him.

  Rohn sat down on the bench just within easy reach. Gale sniffed at them and then roamed about.

  “Is Trudy alive?” Mark asked, too weak and too grieved to dare hope.

  “The doctor said she’ll survive.”

  He should have been overjoyed.

  The sea pounded on the rocks. Mark felt it through the bench. His hands were cold and his belly was filled with knives but he didn’t want to eat. He would rather starve.

  “Where do you think she is?” Rohn asked.

  It took Mark a moment to realize that he’d meant Winsome. “I don’t think they took her. I think she went to deliver the message to whoever was helping her at the house. I think it was that young man that helped me into the saddle. Maybe she wanted to bring him back here with her, so that he’d be safe.”

  “Do you think they caught her?”

  Mark jerked himself away from visions of Grant laying with his throat open. His skin had been so white. “It would explain the quiet attack in the middle of the night. If she’d been at Hevether they couldn’t risk her getting hurt. If they have her, they’ll have put her on one of the traitor ships by now.”

  Gale returned and settled on Mark’s feet.

  “Gale saved my life.” Mark stroked her leg. “More than once. More than I noticed, I’m sure.”

  Rohn took in a harsh breath. “Why did they do this? And why spare me? They had me around the throat.” He shuddered. “They could have killed me but they fought to restrain me instead, and I managed to break free.”

  “The blood and ash gives it away. The old ways. This came from the Church. You’re noble. They couldn’t kill you because you’re of noble blood, and therefore sacred. But they could destroy everyone around you.”

  “To stop me from becoming president? For all they knew I would fight for it just to fuck them.” He hissed the last words, and his hands scraped the rocks.

  “Maybe they didn’t believe you could win, with me gone, with everyone you trusted gone. You’d be alone with the dellai, or whoever is behind this.”

  “Not the dellai.”

  “We didn’t think it was Kilderkin either,” Mark reminded him.

  That quieted him. “But he was away. Dellai Bertram was away. It had to be Kilderkin. It was Juggler. It had to be them.”

  “Juggler made a point of introducing me to Gerson Wilden. It might have been him. And Dellai Betram may have left instructions. We don’t know anything. If we assume it’s over, we’ll be vulnerable.”

  Rohn took in another sharp breath, as if he’d stopped breathing and his body forced him to. “We have to fight back.”

  Mark agreed, but it wasn’t clear how. “We need to get Winsome back.”

  “I don’t trust her anymore.”

  Mark could imagine her screaming in rage and fear, pounding on a door or on a crate or wherever they had her confined.

  Assuming they let her live. If this was the Church, they could have forced Juggler to do far more than he’d be willing to do for even his master. Maybe it would be because of his master. Maybe they promised to save his soul. If his master had become a monster, there’d be no other hope for his soul. They could make an ugly argument that Winsome was no longer a n
oble in soul either, that she was too scarred from the war and in bed with their enemies. The Church always found some excuse in their fucking sacred poetry. “So you’ll leave her to whatever fate they have planned for her.”

  “If she wasn’t in on it from the beginning.”

  “You don’t believe that. I won’t let you push her away, not when you should be charging in to her rescue.”

  “She never needed rescuing. She rescued others.” Rohn put his head in his hands. Mark rubbed his back. “I’m so tired.” The colonel’s words verged on weeping, expressing a trace of the grief that threatened to overwhelm them both.

  Mark slumped over his strong back and held him, breathing in his scent all mingled with blood, ignoring the pain in his heart and in his gut, pretending that as long as they were together it would be all right. The sacred guard would be here soon, and jesters and barons and their servants, an army of gawkers ....

  Three riders galloped toward them. A beautiful young woman in an islander’s gray and black uniform, fashioned to fit a woman, led the way, followed by two servants. Winsome threw herself off her horse. “What happened? Are you hurt?” She knelt in front of the colonel and took his hands in hers. “Are you hurt?” she whispered. “Give me your orders, sir. I’ll do what has to be done.” When Rohn said nothing she stood, and her voice rang with a gentle but potent command. “Nils, go to the governor’s house and tell him to send every servant to Hevether Hall immediately. Tell him it’s an emergency. Barry, go in the house and see what aid you can lend.” She knelt in front of the colonel again. “Come to the pump,” she said softly. “Let’s wash off this blood.”

  They told Mark that he sang beautifully at Grant’s funeral. Mark couldn’t remember what song he’d sung until he read it in the gazette. They’d printed the lyrics.

  It would be the last island gazette he’d read for a long time. For the past two weeks there had been little news, or so it seemed since the Massacre at Hevether. Two children had been born, Bell was suspected of having a new lover, and a fisherman caught a sunken figurehead in his nets. He’d sold it to a shipyard, which hoped to restore it.

  Mark got up with the help of the table and his cane. Some days he felt stronger, but today the oldest of men could have outpaced him.

  Gale stayed close. In the last two weeks she hadn’t only grown visibly larger, but more somber.

  “May I help you, lord jester?” Richard, the governor’s butler, along with several other servants from the elder Evan household, had come over to clean up after the dead and help around the house. Richard left the doorway and walked alongside Mark on the side opposite of Gale.

  “No thank you.” Mark paused at the threshold. “If Gutter should arrive, there’s a letter waiting for him. Rohn knows where it is.”

  “I’m sure the famed jester will be sorry he missed you.”

  No sign of Winsome or Rohn. “All right, then.” Mark made his way down the steps. Gale stayed with him, though she loved carriage rides and usually ran ahead to leap in. “Tell—”

  He sensed Rohn’s quickening heartbeat and stopped. Rohn caught up with him. For a moment he faced Mark, tall and sober, and then he hugged him close.

  Mark sank against him. Rohn pulled Mark’s hat off and kissed his forehead, his cheek, his nose, and then they kissed with such sweet, painful brevity Mark almost changed his mind about going back to Seven Churches by the Sea. He felt vulnerable, exposed, and so in love ....

  He couldn’t stay. “Don’t sit in front of that portrait all day,” Mark admonished him. “And don’t have one done of me, either. I don’t want to have to worry about you. I can’t have the distraction. I need to know you’ll be working, and visiting with your friends, and meeting people. And I want you to—”

  “I know.” Rohn kissed his forehead again. Mark took his hat back and played with the brim. “But I don’t think it will ever be. She’s not you.”

  “That’s a good thing.” Mark touched Rohn’s face one last time, and then stepped up into the carriage. Gale bumbled up behind him and hopped up on the seat across from him. “I’ll write every day.”

  “I don’t care if you write. I just want you to come back home before it’s too late.” Rohn shut the door and their new driver took Mark away from love.

  He never wanted to see Pickwelling again. He didn’t want to face Gutter anymore. He just wanted to stay home.

  He turned his gaze away and closed his eyes. Gale hopped down from the seat and settled on his feet, pinning his legs.

  He stroked her soft ears. She was just a dog, but she made him feel as if he wasn’t completely alone.

  At the dock most of the island jesters had gathered. He moved down the line, shaking hands, saying goodbye knowing he wouldn’t miss a single one of them. Feather was gone, as was the mayor.

  And I killed Juggler. I cared about him, and I still killed him.

  They’d found a set of duplicate keys to Hevether just inside Mark’s room, the means for the deadly surprise that Juggler and his men had sprung upon them. Rather than risk the chance of another set’s existence they’d changed the locks throughout the house. It didn’t make Mark feel any safer there, but safety didn’t matter so much as that sense of home, and belonging, and longing that he’d grown to accept whenever Rohn was within reach.

  Fine stopped him. “He’ll still be here, and he’ll be safe when you get back. My master and I will see to it personally.”

  Jog shook his hand hard. “I’ll go with you if you want.”

  “Thank you for the offer, but no.” Jog found the servant who’d given Mark the poison, or rather he found his corpse. “I’ll keep looking,” Jog told him. Someone had to see something.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Sorry about your friend. We’ll look after the colonel while you’re gone.”

  It seemed everyone would look out for Rohn. It didn’t reassure him.

  Mark climbed on board Dainty. Captain Shuller shook his hand vigorously. “I was wrong about you,” the captain told him. “It’s a sure sign of a sailor when he grows thin rather than fat on island fare. We’ll soon put some meat on your bones with honest cooking.”

  “Thank you, captain.”

  The captain’s smile faded. “I’m sorry to hear about Mr. Roadman. He was a good man.”

  “Yes, he was.” Mark had taught himself various responses so that he didn’t have to think or feel when he said them, but somehow Captain Shuller made his heart ache with fresh pain.

  The jesters began to sing and the sailors threw off the ropes that bound Dainty to the dock. Rowers pulled her around and out, and the sails went up. Mark leaned against the rail, listening to the farewell song, wishing. Just wishing. Gale watched the retreating bay with alarm. She paced back and forth and whined. Mark stroked her head and she settled, sitting heavily on his foot.

  Someone joined him. He jumped with shock when he realized who it was. “Winsome?”

  She smiled wanly. “I’ll help you find him, but I won’t let you kill him.”

  She thought he was hunting her father. “Winsome, go home.”

  “It’s too late.”

  “Winsome—Captain—”

  “I’m paying my own way, and the captain won’t throw me off at the nearest island no matter how much you beg or threaten him. He remembers me from the war.” She leaned on the rail and closed her eyes. “I’ve missed this.”

  She’d sailed more than Mark ever would. He leaned on the rail again, her hair tickling his face. “I’m not going after your father.”

  “You’ll have to. You have to follow him to find the ones who started this.”

  “Why can’t I follow Feather and the mayor?” he argued. He didn’t want her to know about Gutter. For the first time in his life, he felt ashamed of his association with that great jester. He didn’t like the feeling. He preferred to be afraid, or wary, or proud. And Lord Argenwain ... what would she think when she found out what sort of services Mark performed for him?
>
  Maybe she wouldn’t find out. Or if she did, maybe she wouldn’t tell anyone. After all, it might reflect poorly on her future husband’s choice of jester.

  She scowled and knitted her fingers together. “You’ll need my help.”

  “I have Gale,” he pointed out.

  That made Winsome smile, though it faded fast.

  “And your reputation?” he pressed.

  She sheltered her gaze with her lashes. “Even if I cared, there’s nothing I can do to change anyone’s opinion of me for better or worse. Besides, it might be best if the colonel keeps his distance from me, at least until the situation with my family sorts itself out.”

  Would she kill her father? He wished he could say no for certain. “What about Colonel Evan’s heart?” Mark asked gently.

  She shook her head. “He doesn’t love me.”

  “He loves you,” Mark assured her. He touched his lip, remembering their short kiss, their last in the living world. “He just doesn’t know how.”

  Visit https://www.wyrdgoat.com or E.M. Prazeman’s Amazon page for more books in the Lord Jester series, information on other series, and more books published by Wyrd Goat Press.

  Link to E.M. Prazeman’s blog