by Ulff Lehmann
“You have until Seed, at the latest. No, actually it’d be better if you got him ready mid-Thaw, this way he’ll be on his way to Herascor by the end of the year.”
“Do you think I have nothing better to do than teach your pet spy?” Coimharrin asked. Gone was the doddering old fool he had met when first introduced to the man. There was steel in the priest’s voice.
Duasonh paused and regarded Coimharrin. “He is not my pet spy, Upholder. And, no, I do not think you have anything better to do, because if we don’t kill this threat at its roots, we will have the Chanastardhians again laying siege to the city once their crops are planted.”
“And what do you want him to do once he’s there? Kill Drammoch and his High Advisor?”
“That’s the general idea,” Duasonh said.
Jesgar swallowed, felt his knees grow weak, but none of them so much as glanced his way. They wanted him to infiltrate the royal palace in Herascor and assassinate the two most powerful men in this part of the world? Not that he knew that many other parts of the world. Had Duasonh lost his mind? He couldn’t just walk in there; he would have to behave like he belonged there, play a nobleman’s part and mingle with the Chanastardhian elite. He, a simple lad from the street.
“The boy can hardly keep his mind on matters when reading a book,” Librarian Megan said in her brittle voice. “How the Scales shall we teach him when most of the stuff runs off of his mind like it is made of wax paper?”
That was not true. He wanted to protest, say how much he had learned in the few weeks he had spent with the priests, but so far, he had not been given permission to speak. And, surely, the Baron hadn’t invited him to hear his opinion.
“Is that so?” Duasonh asked. “I was told otherwise.”
“Oh,” Megan said.
“I told you, the boy was just playing the fool,” Coimharrin said, his doddering old man act resurfacing. Jesgar would have given an arm and a leg to be able to deceive people like the Upholder did.
“So what?” Megan countered. “So maybe he can act the imbecile, it won’t help him in Herascor. I tell you, he will be lost like a lamb among the wolves. My church can fill his mind with knowledge of Chanastardhian nobility, but where could he learn their etiquette?” He looked at the Baron. “No offense, milord, but this pigsty of yours is no royal court, and with your servants and other members your house is a well-mannered tavern, at best.”
Coimharrin sniggered. Even the Baron struggled to suppress a smile. “Pigsty, I like that,” the Upholder said.
Lord Duasonh must have noticed Jesgar’s urge to speak, because he gave a brief nod, allowing him to proceed. “I managed to get by fine in the enemy’s camp.”
“Son,” Coimharrin said, turning to face him. “An armed encampment has as many similarities to a royal court as a pound of iron does with a dove’s feather.”
Librarian Megan bobbed her head in agreement. “You’ve never seen a real court. Harail, even under that fool Lerainh, had a court that truly made us here look like bumbling drunkards, and Harail is nothing compared to Herascor.”
“He will learn,” Duasonh said.
“The Cirrain woman!” Jesgar exclaimed, finally understanding the Baron’s plan.
Coimharrin winked at him while Megan shook her head. “There is work to be done, Lord Baron,” she said. “His mind needs to be razor-sharp. So far he is a blunt instrument and looks the part.” She glanced at the Upholder who nodded. “We have work to do.” To Jesgar, she said, “You come with us, and don’t expect to participate in the Returning. Winter will last a whole lot longer for you.”
They had tested his wits? Gods, how many ways did those old geezers know to challenge his mind? Following the two priests, he wondered if he should have written off spying and thieving as a bad idea and instead stayed in the smithy.
To his surprise, the two priests led him to the audience chamber. He had expected to trudge through the slush and receive his training in one temple or the other. Instead he was caught completely off guard when they entered the well-lit hall. Its furniture had been removed, rushes covered the floor, and every candle and torch was alight. His confusion was complete when he spotted a trio of musicians on the dais. On each side of the cleared center, about ten yards apart, stood two chairs, and in the center of the room waited a man of middling age.
“What is this?” Jesgar spurted.
Coimharrin chuckled. Even stone-faced Megan snorted in amusement. Neither answered. The pair parted, and sat.
“This, young man,” the middle-aged man said, “is a ballroom. I am Cadwan, your teacher.” Jesgar swallowed, dreading to ask what kind of teacher Cadwan was. The man supplied the answer a heartbeat later. “You, young friend, will be taught dance and behavior at court. Not the tavern brawling you are probably used to. I have taught the finest squires and ladies of Kalduuhnean society, learned the graceful steps of elven dance and am quite familiar with what makes events at the Royal Court of Herascor such splendid affairs.” Jesgar didn’t bother to stifle his groan. “There, there, young friend, it isn’t as bad as you might think.”
He wasn’t so sure of that, especially when he saw the amused faces of Coimharrin and Megan. The Upholder seemed a tad preoccupied still, but he was obviously enjoying this.
“And while you strut about and worry which foot is which…” Megan said.
“He will not strut, milady Librarian,” Cadwan said indignantly. “He will glide, float about the floor.”
“Well,” Megan continued. “While you do that you will learn. We will teach your mind while he teaches your feet.”
“Not to mention his heart, dear lady.”
Megan scoffed. “You have to be able to do small talk while dancing. Once you mastered that, we… no, never mind, master this first, the rest will follow.”
“You may groan now, boy,” Coimharrin added with a cackle.
By evening he was surprised no one had ever gutted the fop Cadwan. Aside from his prissy, stuck-up voice, the constant corrections, given with a courtesy and elegance that made him feel less a man with every passing breath, grated on his nerves. To top it off, he had had to recite all the noble Houses of Chanastardh. He had forgotten most of them already. Whenever he had made a mistake, it mattered little whether it was academic or dancing, the music stopped and the dance was repeated in its entirety.
Even now, as he headed to his small quarters in the keep, he rehearsed the steps, while another part tried to piece all the House names together. Somehow, during the day, the part of him still concerned with how pathetic he must look had quit whining. He didn’t give much of a damn anymore. His feet ached, and still he went through the motions, what the servants and whoever passed his way thought didn’t matter. Finally, with a dancer’s flourish, he dropped onto his bed and passed out.
Someone was tugging at his shoulder, yanking it hard enough to wake him. By the feeling of wool on his skin, Jesgar knew he was naked. He had no memory of how or when he had undressed. Again, the tugging.
“Oi! Boyo, get up!” a voice hissed.
With a start he was fully awake, and he knew to whom the coarse, harsh voice belonged. He sat up. “What’re you doing here?” His mouth felt as if it was filled with dust. Hacking his throat clear, he tried again. “What are you doing here?”
“My work ain’t done,” the former thieves’ guild member said. “You still have a lot to learn and my head ain’t outa the noose yet.”
Pain shot through his muscles as he sat up, wiping the grime from his eyes. The room was still a smudge of darkness. “I’d a week’s worth of dancing lessons today, leave me alone.”
“No rest for the spy, boyo. Never. Get used to it.”
Groaning, he mumbled, “What do you want?” How the Scales could his arms ache when he had been hopping like a peacock all day? And why was he undressed? Hadn’t he just dropped into bed? Shocked, understanding dawned. “Have you…?” he let the question hang in the air. Not that he was shy. The Gods knew how many wom
en he had had, but he preferred to see their faces while they saw his body.
“Relax,” the thief said, chuckling. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.” The pause that followed implied much, but then she continued, “One of the servants did you the honors.”
Her explanation solved little. Then again, he realized, it hardly mattered. “What do you want?” he repeated.
“You’ll sleep when your soul’s weighed by her Scales; until then, you’ll learn.”
“More learning?” he groaned. As if the steps to numerous courtly dances and inane facts about Chanastardhian history and heraldry and nobility didn’t suffice.
“Well, one can never know enough, especially when your life depends on it.”
In the room’s murk he could barely make out the end of his bed, yet he had a feeling the thief, he still didn’t know her name, was smiling. “So, what now? Want me to dance a jig on hot coals?” he asked, not keeping the acid from his voice. Why bother with courtesy when this woman knew none?
“Not today,” she replied, the grating in her speech changed little. “Get this done, and I will tell you my name and you can sleep through until dawn. Fail and you will have another session in the barracks. We’ve improved them.”
“Get what done?” The blankets had fallen into his lap and now he felt the biting cold. He shivered, tried to keep his teeth from chattering.
“Deck out in nightwork-gear.” He fumbled for his tinderbox. Her hand stopped him. Surprised, he registered how soft her palm and fingers were. “No! You will get dressed in the dark.”
“What’s the point?”
“Aside from a thing you get poked with?” It was an old joke, but the cold certainty in her voice made him realize the thief was no one to be trifled with. He heard her take a deep breath and release it slowly. “Well, then. The point is that you might not want to draw attention to your nightwork. Especially when you’re in a well-guarded mansion. You will dress quietly, and when you’re done, I will tell you the rest. Understood?”
“Aye.”
“Good boy,” she replied. “Now, get dressed!” Arguing was pointless, so he began to search for his clothes.
The cell had been his for a day maybe, and unlike his room back home, he was utterly unfamiliar with it and where his stuff was. Thankfully he had done similar things back home when he had sneaked out without Ben knowing, so he knew by touch what his nightwork-clothes felt like. It was much harder, however, to find the bloody things in the first place. Again and again, he bumped into furniture. He suppressed the hisses and complaints such bruising usually provoked, while the thief talked.
“You may find yourself inside a place, as a guest, and there mayn’t be time for you to get to know your quarters. Understand, boyo?”
“Aye,” he whispered, keeping the glee from his voice. He had discovered a wicker trunk. Gently pushing the lid up, he discovered that his clothes had indeed been put here.
“Always know where your stuff’s at!”
His “aye” sounded muffled as he pulled the black shirt over his head.
“You may sleep in a room with others, no bloody idea what kind of shit those Chanastardhians are into. If you do, you’ll have to be as quiet as the dead.” He didn’t bother to reply. Instead, he slipped into his trousers. “Always make sure you know where guards’ll be posted, and when they patrol. Evading the bastards will be easier.” As if he didn’t know that already. Who did this woman think she was? Or who he was for that matter? He was the Hand, and had done so many break-ins that he had stopped marking them on his board.
She must have somehow sensed his resentment, because she said, “Listen, butch! You have no fucking idea what a well patrolled mansion or palace is like. Don’t think that this sort of thing is easy just because you were able to get in here unnoticed when a traitor ran the show. The guards back in Jathain’s day were drunken fools most of the time.” He slipped into the soft-soled black boots. “Have you really bothered to inspect this place since the bastard was sent packing? Probably not. No, not the dagger.” He stopped in mid-motion, the belt with the sheathed weapon still lose in his hands. “Lose the poker, you won’t be killing anyone.” He did as she asked. “Here take this.” She crossed the distance between them, as surefooted as a cat. An object was thrust into his gloved hands, and for a moment he had no idea what it was. It felt soft, yet solid at the same time. “Bunched leather, should you be detected or feel the need to murder someone, hit ’em, they know the rules.”
Rules? What rules?
“Now, are you ready?”
“Aye,” he replied, wondering what he should be ready for.
“Good. Your job is to reach the Baron’s study and retrieve a letter from the Earl of Bullshit.”
“The what?” he asked.
“Names don’t matter, so we made up one,” she said. “Find the letter and return here. Unseen and unheard, of course. If you are discovered, stop that person before alarm can be raised. You do that by being quick and tapping the leather to the guard’s throat. They know what to do. Dispose of any body, naturally, without drawing attention. Understood?”
“Yes, but how do I get to the study from here?”
“You need to commit the layout of every area to mind. You obviously haven’t done so,” she said derisively. “Not my bloody problem. Now go!”
The dismissal could not have been more obvious. Intent on proving his worth, Jesgar inched to the door. The only thing he heard was the soft rustle of his own clothes and his breathing. Outside, all was quiet.
A gentle tug loosened the bolt and the door swung open. A quick prayer to thank the gods the bugger’s hinges were well oiled. Then, following a darting glance to either side, he stepped into the corridor. The scant illumination, only every fifth sconce held a burning torch, indicated how deep into the night it really was. Had it been earlier the corridors would have been well lit. Now there was just enough light to guide people to the privy without bumping into walls. The gloom suited him just fine.
Jesgar crept along one way, to the right, staying alert for any sound. He always went right, had learned early in his life that sentinels usually patrolled in this direction. Maybe it was in honor of the path of Lesganagh’s glowing orb across the sky, or maybe coincidence. It didn’t matter. In this twilight he would still be able to spot anyone approaching. A door he passed stood slightly ajar, light spilling into the corridor.
He chanced a look inside, and saw a Caretaker checking on someone lying in their bed. The priest was so preoccupied with his patient he barely looked up. To prevent his shadow from falling into the room—there was a torch opposite the door—he moved to the other wall, stepping lightly on the rushes covering the floor. Once there, he hugged the stone and crept into the illumination of the flickering firebrand, and was gone.
Crisscrossing the corridor, he kept out of the light if possible, alert for any sound or movement from beyond the shut doors. A noise from up ahead made him stop.
Two voices, low but still audible.
Keeping to the shadows he approached the speakers. Two men, warriors he reckoned if the jingle of mail was any indicator. The corridor ended at a corner, he noticed. A torch embedded into the far wall illuminated the cross-section, and in its light stood the pair of guards. He couldn’t hear what they were saying. What he could tell, though, was they were sharing a bottle between them, passing it back and forth for a swallow each. They spoke easily, not the drink-slurred speech of the sentinels he had encountered when first breaking into the Palace, but the well restrained, disciplined talk of people who knew what they were doing. One of them hammered the stopper back into the bottle, the other complained loudly about the earthenware container not being able to keep things warm. Then they were off, heading the other way.
Jesgar breathed a silent sigh of relief, waited until the jingling sound of armor was muted enough, and then, keeping safe distance, he followed. The corridor fanned out into a semicircle and continued straight ahead. He had never bee
n to this part of the Palace, and suppressing his curiosity about the assorted doors, went on into the passageway. The ringing of chain was still audible, but no one else seemed about this time of night. Down a flight of stairs, past a privy that badly needed cleaning, up to an intersection he went, careful not to disturb any of the rushes too noisily. Reaching the crossway, he hesitated, held his breath, and listened. Which way had the guards gone? His gut told him they had gone right, but the lack of illumination in that direction told him otherwise.
He needed a familiar spot, the kitchen would do, also the main audience chamber. Where the Scales was he? The left-hand corridor and the one up ahead were as sparsely lit as the one he stood in. There! The rustle of feet on rushes and the jingle of mail came from the left. That the Palace was this big he became aware of only now; getting in before had been easy. The job then had taken half as long, but getting the general lay of the Palace was easier when one operated from the main entrance. Compared to the labyrinth these lower levels presented, the frontal approach was simple. How was he to know all the chambers and corridors? Had he stayed in the barracks, getting in would have been a joke.
Angrily grinding his teeth, Jesgar followed the guards who, by now, were out of earshot. Caution, he reminded himself, slowing his pace to the inaudible crawl he had adopted before. There was still enough of a chance that some other inhabitant would take a late-night piss, and then the mission would have failed. He would have failed not only the thief who was training him, but also the Baron. Sure, it was just for practice that he sneaked through the Palace, but the way the lessons had picked up momentum, he reckoned failure meant even more and tougher training.
Just outside a torch’s flicker he halted, spotting the two guardsmen. Or rather, one of them, the other was nowhere to be seen. The single warrior leaned against a wall next to a door, scrutinizing the nails on his right hand. Obviously, he was waiting on his comrade. His left foot tapped the stone floor, disturbing the rushes. Now he heard the soldier whisper, “Come on, you bastard.”
