She felt the diamond on the right-hand side of the box give slightly at her touch. A firmer touch and it depressed a quarter inch, but nothing happened.
Only seconds had passed since the bell, but Argo would crack his box soon and Dorien was at work now too. Fin redoubled her search.
Another section of herringbone pattern on the front gave way, a third on the left-hand side of the box. She kept her ears sensed for the tell-tale clicking sound of a mechanism, blotting out the cries of the crowd, calling on their favorite. But she couldn’t hear anything. Why wouldn’t it open!
Fin rechecked the right side of the box, sliding her hand over the wood and the chevrons of the pattern shifted, moving into the empty space of the diamond. Quickly she slid the panels of the wood at random—each panel connected to the other with small perfectly crafted grooves like a child’s puzzle—unsure what would be revealed or what the answer would be. Finally, one panel slid to reveal a key hole.
She grabbed her roll of tools, pulling a slender pick, inserting it into the lock and feeling it pop with a simple flick. So the lock wasn’t the challenge, not judging by its simplicity; the trouble was finding the keyhole. But the chest did not open. There must be more. Shifting her attention she set to sliding the panels on the front of the chest.
Argo cried “yes!” as he flipped the lid of his chest in triumph and pulled a short sword from within. He drew it from its scabbard, throwing the latter to the floor.
Another keyhole! Fin inserted her pick as Argo assessed his options, looking in turn at her and Dorien.
Argo advanced toward her, sword raised in a fighting stance. She tried to put him out of her mind and concentrate on the box; it felt like time slowed as she focused fully on the challenge at hand. The lock clicked, but the lid would not budge. There must be still another lock. She began to slide the wooden panels around on the left side as Argo neared to within ten paces. Thoughts raced through her mind. Should she try to fight him hand to hand or focus on the box until the last minute?
Five paces.
Slick. Slick. Slick, went the panels as she flipped them around, trying to avoid becoming frantic.
Three paces. Still no key hole.
Argo was bearing down her. Suddenly, the blade of a rapier was being fended away from his stomach at the last moment. Dorien had freed his weapon and now flicked his longer-reaching rapier at Argo’s cheek, drawing a scratch. The scarred man smiled.
Predictable. Dorien should have joined with Argo to finish her off, but he had allowed himself to be influenced by his emotions.
Slick. Another keyhole appeared and Fin gratefully thrust her pick inside, catching the tumbler almost immediately. The lid to the chest popped up. Fin flung it open to reveal a pair of sai inside. She grabbed the weapons, exhaling in relief at the weight of the steel in her hands.
Now it was time to finish this.
Dorien and Argo fought frenetically, parry and thrust, dodge and riposte. They were an even match. But the odds had changed now.
Fin advanced toward Argo, one sai held high above and behind her head, the other held at the ready in front of her chest. Argo parried a thrust from Dorien, the heavier weight of the short sword deflecting the blow, leaving his side exposed to Fin. She struck, leading with her high blade toward his chest. He swayed away, the sharp tip narrowly missing, but his feet were twisted and he wasn’t able to easily avoid her follow up which pierced the triceps of his sword arm. Argo fell backward, rolled away and leapt back to his feet once more. Blood dripped to the sandy floor, but he wasn’t about to quit with just a scratch.
Dorien ran to re-engage, Fin a half step behind him. Argo backed up, attempting to keep his space as he defended against the attacks of the rapier. Fin rounded the wounded man, drawing his attention in two directions. She swung a couple of times lazily at his head, and she had to be impressed by how Argo could parry her attacks and keep Dorien at bay. At least for now.
She thrust high and low, extending her arms and her sai through his guard from a half-crouched position. Argo knocked the high attack aside, but the low scored his thigh and she saw the blood well. Dorien sensed his opportunity, and from the look in his eyes, she thought he may well kill Argo, even though that wasn’t required. Dorien was almost by her side, and she could sense him tensing to thrust once more, his blade held up in front of his face.
Fin twisted, and thrust the sai through the side of the man’s gut, above where the kidneys should be and away from the essential stuff in the middle. It would hurt like hell but shouldn’t be deadly.
Dorien fell to the floor, clutching at the wound with his free hands, his rapier lying on the sand next to him. Blood flowed freely. He looked at Fin aghast, his face awash with pain. Fin wondered what hurt more, the attack or the betrayal? Predictable.
Fin skipped back a couple of steps. Argo was wounded but not out of the game, and she wanted some space to play with. He came forward and Fin could see that he was trying his best to ignore his wounds. It was nothing more than many of her friends had received on the training field, but she doubted that Argo was used to fighting wounded—he had always been too good to be hit.
Argo’s weapon had the advantage of length; the short sword six inches longer than her sai, and its edged blade gave it more area to wound than her sharp-tipped piercing weapons. But she had the pair, her favored weapons, and it gave her confidence. He didn’t stand a chance.
The sword danced forward, Argo maintaining a duelists stance, the blade a blur from the speed of his attacks. Ting. Ting. The courtyard was silent except for the clash of metal on metal as the audience held their breath. The strikes came high, at her chest, her arms and her face. An overhand came at her head, and she dodged to the right, not wanting to block the attack from the stronger man and get tangled up at this stage.
And there it was. What she had been waiting for since fighting Barrag earlier that day. The low thrust following the high attack. The move that Barrag had been programmed to anticipate.
She could have stepped clear. She could have jumped over the slash, for Marlth’s sake. It would have looked good, but it wasn’t going to finish this fight. She blocked the short sword with one sai, meeting the blade in the air. He was strong though, and there was a lot in that swing. Though she took much of the momentum out of the attack, Argo’s short sword bit into her thigh. But no matter, because her other sai was already moving. It pierced his chest near the shoulder of his sword arm and she pushed with the weight of her body until the blade met resistance against his shoulder blade.
“Aaargh!” he roared.
The short sword hit the sandy floor with a thud, Argo’s backside doing likewise shortly afterwards.
It was only a couple of seconds, but the moment of silence seemed like an eternity. Fin breathed deeply, her heart pounding in her ears. She raised her bloody sai in the air, feeling as high as the Finger of Heaven on the Sanctum of Arloth in her home city. And then the audience erupted. Her fellow students cheered and pounded on the window frames. The Syndicate members standing on the balcony clapped enthusiastically.
“Bravo!” called Lady Chalice.
The afternoon was a whirlwind. The infirmary to stitch her leg and bind her wounds. A trip to the baths to ease her aching muscles. Congratulations from her fellow students that she found hard not to find pleasure in. She packed her belongings into her chest; now she could leave the dormitory and move into the House proper.
“Finabria, you may stop packing,” said Steppen from the doorway. “Lady Chalice wants to see you. Now.”
Wordlessly, she followed Steppen through the hallways of the school wing like a troublesome schoolgirl. Which could be exactly what she was. Had Chalice discovered her actions before the trial? They descended a long stairway to the entrance to the courtyard. Fellow students came out from their rooms and stopped what they were doing to watch her walk of shame. Fin’s face drained of blood, worry eating at her stomach. She had everything she wanted within reach, but now it co
uld all be taken away from her.
Steppen led the way across the courtyard and into the Hollow House. He led her through a sitting room—cushioned seats arrayed in clusters, portraits of past House leaders adorning the walls—to an oak doorway. Without knocking, Steppen opened the door and ushered her in. “Miss Bracaccia, Lady Chalice.”
“Thank you, Steppen,” she said. “Come in and have a seat, Finabria.”
Lady Chalice leaned against a desk and directed her to a chair in front of her. She looked as she had earlier that day; dressed in green trousers and white shirt, her long curly red hair tied behind her head. She looked nothing like the most feared assassin in the Jeweled Continent; Fin admired her disguise.
“I wanted to talk to you, Fin. You did well today. There hasn’t been an admittance to the Syndicate from someone who has not finished their studies for a long time. Since me, actually. Tell me, when did the trial begin?”
Fin blinked. Had she heard her right? “At the second hour of the afternoon?”
Chalice laughed. “Are you pretending to be the fool, Fin? When did your trial begin?”
She sat silently for a moment. From the open window Fin heard the sound of bells tolling in the city. Lady Chalice must have heard it too but she did not let Fin out of her gaze.
“It started when I raised my hand. Yesterday. In the courtyard,” she said, more afraid now than anytime this afternoon.
“Good,” said Lady Chalice. “That’s right. It was obvious, to me at least, that you had prepared.” She raised a hand to cut off Fin as she opened her mouth to defend herself. “I don’t need to know how. I don’t care—it was nothing obvious enough for others to detect. Right now you are probably feeling pretty good about yourself, am I right?”
“Yes, Lady Chalice,” she conceded.
“Well, you need to remember that you still have a lot to learn. And now you are answerable to me, and let me warn you, Miss Bracaccia,” Lady Chalice leaned forward, moving her face closer to Fin’s, her eyes narrowing. “You don’t want to disappoint me.”
Fin nodded as the door to the office opened again. Without acknowledging Fin, Steppen gestured to Lady Chalice for a word. She could not hear what they said. Their whispers did not carry and she was still trying to process what had happened. Chalice knew what she’d done! But she was still going to be in the Syndicate!
“Finabria,” said Lady Chalice. “Get prepared. It appears Kingshold is under attack. By pirates of all things. I don’t know what this place is coming to. But I’ll be damned if they’re going to take my city unharried.”
From the Desk of Lord Marchial Eden
20th Sixthmoon, 1085
Dear Amphrey,
I write this to you before I depart Kingshold for Aria, and I apologize for my tremulous script. I find myself unable to fully come to terms with what happened today.
You and I have been friends for many years, more decades than I wish to count; and I know the events of today were probably as great a shock to you as they were to me. I am still frankly aghast at how the younger Bollingsmead has been able to corrupt the sanctity of this election process. I smell the taint of that wizard.
My lands and titles have been passed down in my family for more than four centuries. I refuse to kowtow before Jyuth. I find it impossible to recognize his authority to strip me of mine in the absence of King or Queen. I ride for home to muster my good men and welcome others to bring their banners in support. I know I will be able to count on you to support me in this time of trouble and, once this meddling usurper is taught a lesson, I look forward to being able to work with you at my side to make Edland a shining beacon for the rest of the Jeweled Continent once again.
Yours faithfully,
Marchial
1st Seventhmoon, 1085
Dear Halton,
I sit here in the keep at Aria, your note in my hand confirming the election of that pretender Bollingsmead and the disappearance of the wizard. What a foul corpulent thief to disappear with the funds held in trust during this election. This truly proves to show that the whole process was little more than a confidence trick and a sham.
I assure you, I have no plans to flee Edland, a country that my family and subjects have sacrificed their life for in years past. Nathan, my beloved son, currently rides our lands raising the men to be ready for any assault that may come.
Can I count on your support in the coming months? You are one of my oldest friends, and my neighbor in the north. Have you discussed my need with others in the past weeks? I am sure their support in terms of letters and men are on their way.
My best wishes to you and Meredith. Keep the faith in these troubled times.
Yours,
Marchial
20th Seventhmoon, 1085
Dear Nathan,
Your reports of criers spreading the false news of my downfall to our villages and towns are of grave concern. It is of the upmost importance that you root out these peddlers of lies and base falsehoods where you find them.
Hang them from the trees and let them cry the truth about that disgusting bard as their tongues stick out from their mouths!
Already there has been one attempt on my life. Dirty bounty hunters from Ambrukkhar infiltrated Aria and fired on me with crossbows. The only reason I am still here to write this letter to you is the good actions of our selfless steward Rambotham (Arloth rest his soul) taking the quarrel in my place. Now the gates to our fair town are closed and all strangers have been expelled.
I have heard word that Uthridge has raised a force that is already marching north to our lands and we must be ready for their arrival. If you are able to harry them along the way then that will truly prepare them for what they are in for when they arrive in the north. I take no pleasure in fighting fellow Edlanders and I pray to Arloth that they will see sense as they face our defenses.
Remember, that you are an Eden through and through. You share the blood of strong military commanders like myself. Have faith my son. This will be the making of you.
Your father,
Lord Eden
20th Seventhmoon, 1085
To my dear Lady Chalice,
I do not know who gave you the contract on Bollingsmead during the election, but now I gladly commission the contract. I insist on only the best to execute the task. As we arranged for Hoxteth, only you are suitable for this job.
Additionally, I want those three thugs who accompany Bollingsmead to die slow deaths. And Lady Grey, obviously the brains behind both Hoxteth and the disgusting bard. I should have eliminated her previously.
It is no exaggeration to say that I will pay any price for this to happen. I will empty my coffers for the chance to dance on their graves.
I am prepared to forgive you for your public display of praise for the brawler that supported Bollingsmead in the duel. For what is more important in these times than friendship and loyalty?
Please confirm the acceptance of the contract at once, and provide me with details on logistics.
Your ever-grateful patron,
Lord Marchial Eden
20th Seventhmoon, 1085
To Guildmaster Wren,
Sir, I grieve for your loss during the recent election. The theft of thousands of golden crowns by that wizard Jyuth must be a significant loss to your house and those of your guild. Though I am sure you received adequate collateral in exchange for your demon-loans, the impact to the economy must be nothing short of a catastrophe! This kingdom only runs because of the deployment of capital by people such as I and the venerable institutions of your guild.
I have many thousands of crowns on deposit in your vaults, and my family have been valued and loyal customers for many generations. I trust that my funds remain readily available to me, though it would be appreciated, and of course adequately compensated, that my financial dealings remain discreet. Additionally, if you are able to assist in the sourcing and hiring of talented martial professionals then I know I will be doubly grateful.
Yours sincerely,
Lord Marchial Eden
5th Eighthmoon, 1085
Lady Chalice,
It was with great sadness that I received the news that my friendship and patronage is no longer good enough for you. I thought we had developed a strong understanding in recent weeks.
Has there ever been a customer more forthcoming in such a short space of time than I?
By your actions, it is clear that you have joined with the usurper. The collection of noble cast offs and petty murderers that make up the Hollow Syndicate have suddenly discovered ‘morals’?
Hah, I say to your hypocrisy.
Now that your country needs your services, and even when it would make your house wildly rich, you refuse to help, pleading patriotism with this ideologue bard.
Your lack of loyalty disgusts me.
Lord Marchial Eden
5th Eighthmoon, 1085
To the Duke of Northfield,
I apologize for the delay in sending my condolences for the death of your nephew, our rightful King, and his graceful Queen at the fell hand of the sorcerer. I truly understand the trauma you must have suffered and I feel your outrage that the proper rules of hereditary law have not been followed. I assure you, that had I been made Lord Protector, I would have seen it as only a short-term appointment enabling the transition of rule back to the royal family and yourself. Alas, my good intentions have been foiled by more foul scheming from Jyuth.
Tales of Kingshold Page 19
