“So that’s where we’re going?” Sofen’s voice squeaked on the last word.
“Look safe enough to you?” Rett joked.
“It’s a bloody fortress!” Belan said. The younger children looked up at the high stone walls and commanding towers with expressions of awe and fear.
“Which is why you’ll be safe,” Ridge said. He rode up to the gate, moving a little ahead of the others.
“I’m here to see the lady of the castle,” he announced to the guards. “Captain Joel Breckinridge, from the king’s guards.”
The soldiers eyed Ridge dubiously, then glanced at Rett and the six children. One of the soldiers opened a small panel within the side door and spoke to someone inside. The portcullis remained closed. Ridge looked up, acutely aware of the murder hole above, where defenders had once greeted unwanted visitors with scalding water, hot oil, or molten lead. Nothing about the castle itself was welcoming, and he hoped that their reception from its mistress would be different.
After a wait, a tap at the panel signaled the soldier to open it and listen to the response. He looked to his comrade and nodded. “They’re to be sent in, and wait in the bailey.”
Ridge went back to join the others, watching as men winched the heavy portcullis gate open. It hung above the opening like a jaw with sharp teeth, waiting to snap closed. Ridge led the way, and the others followed. He fought the urge to glance overhead as they passed beneath the gate, but could not fully repress a shiver.
Harrowmont’s weathered gray stone walls seemed even higher on the inside of the fortress. Within the outer walls sat the dependencies—kitchen, stable, storage rooms, forge—as well as chicken coops, a pigsty, a rabbit hutch, and a pen of sheep and goats. The barracks for the soldiers, like the keep in the center and the large main building where Lady Sally Anne and her “guests” resided were all built of stone. To one side lay a kitchen garden which would be filled with fresh herbs in the summer. Along the far wall were several tilled areas he guessed were gardens, along with a small stand of fruit trees. The smell of smoked meat carried on the wind, and Ridge’s stomach growled.
People bustled back and forth across the bailey yard, a mix of servants and the women to whom Lady Sally Anne gave sanctuary. A few paused to look at the newcomers, and Ridge had the distinct impression their interest lay with the children.
“Looks like Lady Sally Anne means for Harrowmont to be self-sufficient,” Rett noted under his breath. Their horses nickered and fidgeted as the group waited to be received. Sofen and Belan soothed the younger children in quiet tones, reminding them to be on good behavior.
“It’s a big open space, and they’ve got more use for vegetables than flowers. Still, there’s plenty of room to walk around,” Ridge noted. “And given the castle’s history—and Lady Sally Anne’s—I imagine self-sufficiency is worth more than gold.”
They dismounted and helped the children down. Ridge and Rett stood in front, while Sofen and Belan organized the others in a neat row. They were dirty from the ride, hair askew, and the children’s mismatched clothing showed wear from their captivity. Ridge doubted that he and Rett looked much better. Still, he smoothed his hair and endured a snicker from Rett, but he noticed his partner also brushed dirt from his coat and tried to tame the wild curls of his unruly chestnut hair.
“That must be her,” Sofen breathed. Lady Sally Anne of Harrowmont descended the stairs from the living quarters and headed across the green. Ridge guessed that she was probably nearing forty, and the winsomeness of her younger years had given way to a solid attractiveness that suggested character and determination. Lady Harrowmont’s blonde hair, shot through with strands of gray, was plaited and wound around the top of her head. Her dress spoke of practicality, not fashion, and had probably been woven here from the wool of their own sheep.
“Captain Breckinridge. This is a surprise.”
Ridge gave a deep bow, as did Rett. “M’lady,” he said, rising. “May I present my partner, Garret Kennard. And our…charges.”
One of the children coughed, and Lady Sally Anne’s eyebrows rose. “You’ve brought me children?”
Ridge cleared his throat. “It’s a bit of a special circumstance, and I was hoping for your help,” he said. “But if I might impose, we’ve come a long way, and it’s been more than a day since they’ve eaten much of anything.”
Lady Sally Anne motioned for her steward, who lingered a discreet distance away. He stood a bit stiffly, very proper, almost as if at attention, a man in his late middle years, with a balding fringe of gray hair and high, sharp cheekbones. He had a hawk-like gaze, but though the man seemed stern, Ridge thought he saw kindness in his eyes as he looked at the children.
“Harcourt, take our young guests to the kitchen and get them something to eat,” she ordered. “Then find them some clothing they might fit into, and have the maids give them a good scrubbing.”
Harcourt gestured for the children to come with him. Sofen looked to Ridge, who nodded, and then he and Belan organized the others to follow like ducklings.
“Let’s go inside, shall we?” Lady Sally Anne said, then turned, not waiting for a reply, sure of their obedience.
Ridge and Rett walked through an entrance hall and into a small salon. Lady Sally Anne spoke a word to a servant at the door, and the man went to do her bidding.
“Have a seat,” she said, sweeping a hand toward the chairs. “I’ve sent for food and drink. I’m sure you’re as hungry as your…charges.”
Ridge chose the chair he felt might be least soiled by his dirty clothing, and Rett did likewise, sitting near a small table. Lady Sally Anne’s residence, like the woman herself, spoke of breeding and practical wealth without the need to impress. Ridge had been to the palace in Caralocia many times and figured that its ostentatious show of wealth and power was designed to intimidate. These rooms were on a much more human scale, comfortable and expensive without overstatement.
“I don’t imagine they’re grooming new assassins quite so young,” Lady Sally Anne said, taking a seat on a divan where she could see both of them. “So tell me how you came to be in possession of them—and what you’re doing here.”
Ridge told the story, editing out any mention of Rett’s power. He had no way to avoid noting the children’s magic, and he knew that even if he warned Sofen not to mention Rett’s abilities, such a secret would be difficult to assure. All the more reason he wanted to win Lady Sally Anne’s favor.
When he finished, a servant knocked on the door. Lady Sally Anne called for him to enter, and soon two steaming bowls of venison stew sat before Ridge and Rett, along with a crusty loaf of bread.
“Eat,” she urged. “I need to think about what you’ve told me.”
It did not take long for them to finish the stew, and by the time they wiped their mouths and washed the food down with tankards of good ale, Lady Sally Anne sat back, eyes fixed on the windows, deep in thought.
“I believe that the Witch Lord is a danger,” she said. “He tried to worm his way into my confidence about a year ago. I met him at a dinner at Lord Tannerlyn’s manor. He made quite an impression,” she recalled. “Unfortunately for him, the impression was negative.”
“How so?” Rett probed.
Lady Sally Anne took a deep breath as she considered her words. “He styled himself like a beggar or one of those wandering holy men. Wild hair, unkempt beard, and a robe made out of sackcloth. Bare feet. But he spoke with authority, and he was educated. I didn’t care for him,” she said with a shrug. “He smelled bad. And I thought he seemed to be playing a part. It wouldn’t surprise me if he came from a minor noble house, a bastard, perhaps.”
“Others seem to find him quite persuasive,” Ridge replied.
She nodded. “He has a way about him when he speaks that draws people in. Most charismatic.”
“Magic?” Rett asked.
Lady Sally Anne gave an enigmatic smile. “No. At least, not the way magic is usually used. I know something about these
things,” she added. “And I always carry charms to detect magic and for protection. My amulets didn’t react to him. I think that whatever power he has is more subtle,” she said, frowning. “I don’t think he forces people to do his will. More like he finds the ones whose desires he can further, and they ally with him to get what he offers.”
“We think the two men at the caravan who were brokering the children intended to spread them among the Witch Lord’s loyalists and use their abilities for his ends,” Rett said. “Those that could send and receive thoughts would make a valuable, unbreakable, way to communicate in secret.”
She nodded. “Yes, they would. And the ones that can glimpse the future would be an unfair advantage in negotiations. What do you think he wants from it?”
Ridge leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Power. Maybe even the throne. If not for himself, then for one of his loyalists, someone he could control.”
She looked as if she debated the idea with herself. “That’s quite a stretch from his present means. Most think he’s little more than an amusement, or at most a cunning thief. But I fear he’s more than that. There was an edge to his words, a way of spreading discontent even as he gathered people to him. I believe that with powerful followers, he could pose a true threat.”
“Then we’re agreed,” Ridge said. “What about the children? Will you give them sanctuary? Their magic makes them valuable—and puts them in danger.”
She gave him a shrewd look as if she saw right through him. “I doubt they eat much,” she said finally. “And you make a good case. Perhaps once they’re properly fed and bathed, I can find out more about their abilities.”
“They might also prove to be useful allies, if the Witch Lord is as dangerous as we fear,” Rett said.
“Indeed. And what does King Kristoph think of this?”
Ridge fidgeted. “We haven’t exactly made an official report about the children,” he said, rubbing his neck. “I’d planned to report that the caravan had been kidnapping children and selling them as slaves. The King’s Shadows have authorization to stop slavers without a new warrant.”
She nodded. “A good approach. We’ll call it fostering, and since my lands are fairly close, and we are acquainted, it made sense to bring them here.” She shook her head. “You could hardly ride all the way back to the city with them.”
“Thank you,” Ridge said. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
Lady Sally Anne smiled. “None of that now. Once my other guests hear about them, they’re likely to be mothered more than they can stand. They’ll be safe, and if we need to utilize their abilities, if it comes to that, we’ll be ready.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t,” Ridge said. “But I fear it will.”
Chapter Six
The Black Wolf pub catered to a very particular group of customers. Tucked behind a nondescript butcher shop, across the street from a dodgy rooming house, the Black Wolf had no sign to attract passersby. The name was painted over a battered oaken door, but time and weather had blurred the sharp edges of the letters. Those who needed the Black Wolf knew where to find it, and those who didn’t were not welcome.
The Black Wolf existed as a sanctuary for King Kristoph’s spies and assassins, dangerous men and women who needed neutral places where they could meet and speak freely. Despite the liquor, none of the Black Wolf’s customers ever relaxed. Still, since the entrances were guarded, and entry strictly controlled, patrons could at least be assured that if harm befell them, it would be the betrayal of one of their own, not an outsider bent on vengeance. That passed for reassurance in the crowd that considered the Black Wolf to be their territory.
“Place looks rougher every time I’m here,” Rett muttered as he and Ridge leaned against the bar, taking the measure of the crowd before finding a table.
“Maybe you’ve just gotten used to a better grade of scum,” Ridge replied.
“Doubtful. I’m with you, aren’t I?” Rett’s grin took the sting out of his words.
Two days had passed since their return from Harrowmont Castle. Burke had listened to their sanitized version of what transpired with the caravan, taken them to task for recklessness, and then thrown up his hands, admitting that they had no real choice about freeing the slaved children. Then he had given them a new mission, to begin in the morning. But first, Rett steered them to the Black Wolf, to see what chatter their fellow Shadows might have overheard.
The barkeep eyed them warily. “Breckinridge. Kennard. Surprised you’d show up here, after the last time.”
Rett’s gaze flickered to a large part of the back wall that had been recently repaired. “That wasn’t all our fault.”
“What part of ‘safe haven’ don’t you understand?”
“Those guys were looking for trouble,” Ridge defended. “And they swung first.”
Roland, the barkeep, stood a head taller than Ridge, with a broad chest and thick arms that strained the seams of his shirt. If an ox could have been trained to tend bar, Rett imagined it would look a lot like Roland, who glowered at them as he plunked down their cups of whiskey hard enough to slosh.
“Hey, watch it!” Ridge complained. “Don’t waste the whiskey!”
“Just a warning. Last time, you were banned for three months. Cause trouble again, and I don’t have to let you back in—ever.”
“We understand,” Rett said, stepping on Ridge’s foot before he could open his mouth to argue. “No fighting.”
Roland looked doubtful, and his gaze bored into their backs as they moved to take a table. Rett recognized most of the customers. The Black Wolf was never crowded; spies and assassins were not that numerous, and many of them would be on assignment at any given time. Twenty people made a big night, and Rett guessed that was about how many people watched them as they moved away from the bar.
Some gave a nod in acknowledgment. Others turned away, pointedly not making eye contact. A few smirked in welcome, while two men leveled a glare that could only be interpreted as a warning.
“Breckinridge. You’ve got a lot of nerve. What are you doing here?” The speaker looked to be in his early thirties, with a scar that cut down across his skull through his short-cropped hair to where one ear was missing a notch. Rett recognized Skola, a thin, wiry man who had a long history of bad blood with Ridge and seemed to have extended that dislike to Rett.
“Same as everyone else, just here between jobs,” Ridge said, not slowing, trying to avoid a confrontation.
Skola looked at Rett. “Better keep an eye on him, or you’ll end up dead like his last partner.”
“I’m not an asshole,” Rett replied.
Skola started to rise from his seat. His companion grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him down, as Rett stepped back. Roland at the bar growled a warning. Skola said nothing more, though the look he gave Ridge spoke volumes.
This is why assassins don’t socialize, Rett thought. The nature of the work and the constant threat of danger made for an edginess that never went away. Given that few people from happy upbringings tended to choose to kill or deceive for a living, Rett supposed that everyone in the Black Wolf had plenty of dark memories and troubling dreams. It made for a tinderbox, and slights real or imagined could easily become the spark.
That, and the fact that Ridge had a gift for annoying people.
It didn’t help that Ridge and Rett had one of the highest kill records among the Shadows, which only served to wound the pride of people already inclined to handle problems with their fists. At the same time, it served to put their colleagues on notice that any attack was likely to end badly for the attacker. It went without saying that an attempt on one of them earned retribution from both.
Ridge managed to find a table without getting into a fight, and Rett was willing to call that a win. All of the tables at the Black Wolf ringed the walls and were turned at an angle so that no one sat with his back to the door. Ridge settled into his seat, leaning back against the wall and toying with his cup o
f whiskey. He might have appeared relaxed to others, but Rett read the current of tension beneath the cool facade.
“See anyone you were looking for?” Rett asked as the other customers went back to their conversations or card games.
“A few. Couple of folks I want to talk to, once everyone simmers down.”
Rett sipped his drink and made an appraisal of the room’s occupants. He recognized the other assassins from the training exercises Burke required periodically. He had no strong feelings one way or the other about most of them, but a few, like Skola, had earned his dislike. Others he mistrusted, and that meant a lot in a business where dangerous dealings sometimes required teamwork.
The spies he knew less about since they stuck close with their own kind and remained even more secretive than the assassins. While they all served King Kristoph, lies, subterfuge, and a healthy amount of distrust meant few people formed friendships rather than alliances. He and Ridge were a notable exception, with a record to silence any detractors. Rett did not want to think about what working the job alone would be like, or what that solitude would do to his soul.
“Only you’d have the balls to walk in here and see what happened.” A red-haired man approached their table, hands empty and out to his sides in a gesture of appeasement. Ridge nodded, and the man took the third seat at the table, all of them angled to have a view of the door. Rett had to search his memory for a name, but it finally came to him. Tuvan Rinstead. He was a little older than Ridge, and one of the Shadows who seemed to know the score about Ridge’s old mentor. One of the few assassins who didn’t look at him and Ridge like they were wondering when the order would come to take the pair of them out.
Ridge faked a cocky smile. “Well, you know me.”
Tuvan nodded. “And I’m still here.” He glanced from Rett to Ridge. “What do you have?”
Ridge pulled out one of the waybills with the odd sigil. “Ever seen this before?”
Assassin's Honor (Assassins of Landria Book 1) Page 6
