Devlin's Honor

by Patricia Bray

  He wondered how long she had been standing there, watching him converse with empty air. Or had she come at his shout?

  It did not matter. Nothing mattered. He turned his back on the table and the useless reports.

  “Ale,” he said.

  She shook her head and bit her lip, plainly afraid of displeasing him. “We keep false ale for our own folk, but the governor drinks no ale himself. Wine we have in plenty, both red and the straw-colored.”

  “Then bring me wine. The red from Myrka.” Myrkan wine had always reminded him of the color of blood. It was a fitting drink for one such as he.

  “Bring it to my chambers,” he added. “And this time pass the word that when I am not to be disturbed, it means that no one is to bother me. For anything.”

  “Of course, my lord,” she said, bobbing a nervous curtsy. She could not leave his presence fast enough.

  Devlin woke the next morning to a pounding head and a foul taste in his mouth. Sitting up proved his undoing, for the room swayed and his stomach rebelled. He barely made it to the basin before heaving his guts up, a dark bile that told the tale of too much drink on an empty stomach. After a few moments the spasms subsided, and he was able to raise his head.

  This time the room stayed level, though his head continued to pound. He poured water from the pitcher into a cup and rinsed the taste from his mouth, then splashed water on his face to clear the grime of sleep.

  He found it hard to believe his idiocy. How could he, of all men, have drunk himself into a stupor? What if he had been needed during the night? What would the others have thought if they sought the Chosen One, only to find a drunken lout in his place?

  Never mind that he had been provoked beyond all measure, driven by Haakon’s ghastly prophecy. There were no answers to be found in drink. He had learned this lesson before. The last time he had drunk himself to the point of unconsciousness he had taken it in his head to serve as Chosen One. He was lucky that he had not committed some equal foolishness this past night.

  Only when the wash water turned gray did he realize that his hands were filthy, covered with black dirt of some sort. He scrubbed until the worst of the stains were gone, wondering what had happened during those missing hours. Try as he could, he could remember nothing after he had begun drinking the second bottle of Myrka red. Had he sunk so low that he had crawled on the floor to find his bed? He looked around his chamber, and saw that his pale gray traveling cloak was thrown carelessly on the floor. He picked it up, noticing that the sleeves of the cloak were filthy, and he smelled the unmistakable odor of soot.

  The room was chill, and the small fire in the grate had burned itself out. Devlin had been too drunk to tend to it, and the servants, following his orders, had left him alone. Perhaps he had tried to relight the fire, but when that failed had donned his cloak against the chill. He was fortunate that he hadn’t set himself on fire.

  There was a soft rap at the door. Devlin opened it, to find a chamberman bearing a tray on which sat a mug of kava and a bowl of porridge. Typical morning fare, but now the very smell of it threatened to make him ill once more.

  “No,” Devlin said, shaking his head and taking a step backward.

  “But, my lord, you did not join the others, so the minstrel asked me—”

  “My thanks but not today,” Devlin said, raising one hand to fend off the offending object. “Are Lord Kollinar and my companions awake?”

  “Yes, and already broken their fast. Chief Mychal is with them, and they wait upon your presence.”

  Devlin grimaced. So he had added oversleeping to his sins.

  “I will join them in the governor’s study. And see to it that I am brought sweet tea.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The chamberman nodded.

  Devlin finished dressing and joined the others in the governor’s study. It was not as late as he feared, merely a half hour past the time he had appointed for their meeting. They were too polite to mention his tardiness, though Kollinar’s lips were thin as he bade Devlin good day. As Devlin took his seat at the table, he wondered who had taken the time to tidy the bound reports, which he had left in such disarray the day before.

  He noticed that Stephen had chosen the very seat where Haakon had appeared, and he took a sip of the sweet tea to cover his unease.

  “Governor Kollinar, is there any progress to report?” Devlin asked.

  “No,” Kollinar said. “Our informants claim no knowledge of these doings. I was thinking of offering a reward—”

  “And I told you that would be folly,” Chief Mychal interrupted.

  “What harm can it do? Surely there is one of these scum who is willing to trade their honor for gold. Someone who can lead us to Annasdatter’s killer. Or don’t you want them to be found?”

  Chief Mychal braced both arms on the table and leaned forward. “I want justice. Can you say the same?”

  “Peace,” Devlin said. “Bickering among ourselves is useless.”

  “Of course,” Chief Mychal said, sitting back in his chair.

  Kollinar merely nodded.

  “Chief Mychal, have the peacekeepers found anything of interest?”

  “We are continuing to question members of the Metalsmiths’ Guild, as well as the nearkin of those members who had keys to the storeroom where the sword was kept. But we have turned up nothing yet.”

  It was as he had expected. If Chief Mychal had found any evidence that linked a guild member to the theft of the sword, he would have informed Devlin at once rather than waiting for this status meeting.

  “Lord Kollinar’s aide is working with my deputy to compare our lists of suspected members of the Children of Ynnis. Most of the names are the same; but the army has a few suspects that I had not spotted, so they are being included in the round up for questioning.”

  “How many?” Devlin asked.

  “Fifty so far, with perhaps another dozen or so that we need to hunt down. Tobias has the list, I’ll see that you get a copy of it.”

  “Sixty? Sixty rebels that you let walk the streets in freedom until now? How can this be?” Didrik could scarcely contain his astonishment.

  Chief Mychal shook his head. “Sixty folk who may have done no more than sing a forbidden song or been caught spitting at the governor when he passed. Doing those things makes them foolish, but does not make them criminals.”

  The act of spitting at someone’s footsteps was a profound insult in the Caer culture, but merely considered rude by the Jorskians. As such it was a time-honored form of expressing contempt for the conquerors, one which did not involve true risk.

  “Anyone we judged a serious threat has already been imprisoned or executed,” Kollinar declared.

  “You missed those who were stockpiling weapons under your very noses,” Didrik pointed out. “Those who took the sword are still out there, as is the person who killed Annasdatter. What will you do if they are not found on one of your lists?”

  “We will keep looking,” Chief Mychal answered. “But in the meantime we had best be on our guard, lest they seek to cause more harm. You heard of the tavern that burned last night?”

  Kollinar nodded. “I heard it was an accident.”

  Devlin’s heart quickened. “A tavern burned? Where? When?”

  “The Golden Crown, a tavern near the main barracks. It is frequented mostly by soldiers and travelers from Jorsk. No one was harmed. The tavern was already closed when the night-watch reported the fire. It may have been the result of carelessness, but these days I am suspicious of any misfortune that befalls one of Jorsk.”

  Devlin let loose the breath he had been holding, as he realized that no one had been injured. He knew the narrow twisting alley where the Golden Crown could be found, and could picture in his mind the gilded sign that hung above the door.

  He remembered his blackened hands, and the sooty cloak. He felt unclean, and rubbed his left hand against his thigh, trying to remove a taint that could not be seen with the naked eye.

  Had he
been at the tavern last night? Had he witnessed the fire?

  He looked toward Stephen, but it was not the minstrel he saw. Instead he saw the dark figure of the Death God, as he promised that Devlin would set the city ablaze. Was this what Haakon had meant? Had Devlin set the fire himself, driven by some mad impulse?

  If so, why couldn’t he remember? The entire night was a gaping hole in his memory. Two bottles of wine should not have been enough to cause such memory lapse. A half dozen bottles of wine would not have been enough.

  He could not shake the sense that the Death God was toying with him. If Devlin had set a fire at Haakon’s bidding, then surely he would have chosen a place that was filled with people, sending new souls to join the Dread Lord’s realm. Burning down an empty tavern made no sense.

  Unless the burning was an accident. Maybe Devlin had left his quarters last night, and ventured into the city in search of information. He might have seen something or found someone with knowledge of the sword. Perhaps the fire had been set not to destroy the tavern, but rather to destroy the evidence that it had held. Evidence that might have led him to the Children of Ynnis. Knowledge that might have helped him stop the escalating spiral of violence before more of his people paid with their lives.

  He ground his teeth in frustration, as he realized that Haakon had found yet another way to torture him. Whatever had happened last night, his memories of it were gone, and the uncertainty would continue to plague Devlin like an open sore.

  “Chosen One?” Kollinar’s voice was sharp-edged, and Devlin realized that he had missed whatever question had been asked.

  “I agree with Lord Kollinar that more patrols are in order, particularly around the barracks and the New Quarter where most of the Jorskians live,” Didrik chimed in, covering for Devlin’s lapse. “Though I know it will stretch your people thin, Chief Mychal.”

  Thin indeed. It would be hard for the peacekeepers to search for the sword, if they had to expend all of their manpower patrolling the city. “Do what you can Mychal, and I will give you gold to offer bonuses to those who take on extra duties. And if you think it will not stir up more trouble, the soldiers can join your folk patrolling the New Quarter, or take over the patrol entirely,” Devlin said.

  “I will consider your offer,” Mychal said. It was as much as Devlin had hoped for. The lines of responsibility between the peacekeepers and the Royal Army had blurred over the past days since Devlin’s arrival, and Chief Mychal was naturally wary of anything that would further erode his authority.

  “And as for the tavern owner, the Chosen One will pay for his losses,” Devlin said.

  He did not believe the fire was an accident. Even if his fears were groundless, and he had not been near the tavern last night, there was still truth in Haakon’s words. It was Devlin’s presence in the city that had stirred the population to unrest. And he knew the violence would not stop with a simple tavern fire. There would be more violence and more killings. If he did not find the Sword of Light soon, he might well destroy Duncaer in his quest to save Jorsk.

  Nineteen

  STEPHEN FELT HELPLESS. HE MIGHT AS WELL HAVE stayed in Kingsholm. Devlin had no more use for a minstrel than he did for a trained bear. Anyone else would have been a better choice than he. Captain Drakken. Major Mikkelson. Even the rawest Guard recruit would have been of more help than Stephen could possibly be.

  Stephen could fight by Devlin’s side, but he was not trained as a Guard. He did not know how to search a city for contraband or how to find traitors and thieves. In Kingsholm there would have been no limit to the amount of useful gossip a minstrel could pick up, but here in Duncaer his brown hair marked him as an outsider, and no one would confide in him.

  The only thing he had to offer Devlin was his friendship, but even this was not welcome. Devlin had made it clear that he did not want or need his companionship. Since Ensign Annasdatter’s murder, Devlin had gone out of his way to avoid both Stephen and Didrik, eating solitary meals in his room and seeing them only when duty required. It was as if a stranger had taken his place.

  Not that Didrik was much better. Indeed, the lieutenant was in his element, trotting back and forth between the peacekeepers’ compound and army garrison as he monitored the status of the search and relayed Devlin’s orders. The city might be foreign to him, but the task of searching for criminals was one Didrik knew well, and he threw himself into it wholeheartedly. He had no time to spare for Stephen. And if he shared Stephen’s concerns over Devlin’s growing strangeness, he refused to speak of it.

  At least Didrik had the comfort of duty and a task that required all of his energy. Stephen had no such distraction, so instead his mind was filled with dire imaginings. He tallied every incident over and over again. The times when he had observed Devlin talking to an empty room. The reveries that Devlin would fall into, unaware of his surroundings or companions. Devlin’s increasingly common flashes of anger. Not to mention the thrown knife that had nearly taken Didrik’s life.

  Taken alone, any one of these incidents was explainable. Understandable even. Taken together they indicated that something was gravely wrong. Even Didrik had admitted as much, though now he seemed to have forgotten his earlier fears. But what could Stephen do? If this was the power of the Geas, then the only thing that would help would be to find the sword. Once Devlin had completed his task, the demands of the Geas would ease.

  Which brought Stephen back to the source of his frustration. It was imperative that they find the sword, but there seemed nothing Stephen could do to help.

  “Flames,” Stephen cursed. He would drive himself mad if he stayed here, dwelling on everything that could go wrong and had.

  He left the study Devlin had taken as his office and returned to his room, where he selected the native cloak of faded blue wool that he had borrowed from one of the governor’s servants. With the hood up, he would not be immediately recognized as an outsider. Prudence dictated that he arm himself, but carrying a long sword would declare his origins as surely as if he wore the tabard of a royal messenger. Instead he compromised by thrusting a dagger through his belt.

  Misty rain was falling as he left the governor’s mansion. He turned right, down the hill and toward the center of the city. A few minutes of walking took him out of the New Quarter, with its population of transplanted Jorskians, and he became just another of the faceless mass, intent upon their errands.

  He was lost, of course, but it did not bother him. Kollinar had offered one of his servants as a guide, but Stephen had refused. He could hardly play the part of traveling minstrel if he had one of the governor’s servants dogging his footsteps. And though the city was crowded with narrow twisting streets that met at bizarre angles, he had but to glance up to see the garrison that dominated the city from its lofty perch on the highest of the many hills that made up Alvaren. He could always find his way to the garrison, and from there he could find his way back to the governor’s mansion.

  After a time he reached the central market, which was curved like a crescent moon, wide in the middle and tapering to the width of a single stall at either end. Here the folk of the city went about their business as if the weather were fine, despite the steady light rain. In Jorsk such open-air markets were a thing of the summer months, but here the elaborately crafted wood stalls showed signs of permanence, with waxed linen canopies protecting the goods from the ever-present rain.

  Stephen wandered idly among the stalls. There were woven goods, of course, from yarn to bolts of finely dyed wool to garments that the seller swore had had only one previous owner. Household goods were for sale as well, pots and utensils made out of copper or brass. There were even trinkets to be found, and while he passed over the cheap jewelry he could not resist buying a bone flute that had a surprisingly sweet tone, yet was small enough to fit in his pack.

  He noticed that a few stalls sold common food stuffs, tubers and the like. But there were no spices, and no meat of any kind.

  The streets surrounding t
he crescent were filled with small shops, whose stone walls protected the more expensive goods. Conspicuously absent were the Jorskian traders, who had their own enclave in the New Quarter. Unlike other cities where like congregated with like, here the merchants were segregated by their country of origin. A wine merchant might be flanked by a tailor on one side and an herbalist on the other.

  It was an unusual arrangement. But nothing about this city seemed normal to him. Even the landscape was oppressive. Accustomed to the flat plains around Kingsholm and the forests of his own father’s barony, Stephen was uncomfortably aware of the surrounding mountains that loomed over the city, hemming them in. It gave him the feeling of being trapped, a feeling reinforced by the twisting streets that made the city seem a stone maze. Even the very buildings, with their dull stone and lack of ornamentation seemed unfriendly, rejecting his very presence.

  Never before had he felt so unwelcome. Though Kilbaran had more than its share of Jorskian inhabitants, the residents of the border trading town managed to live side by side in peace. But here in Alvaren the air was thick with tension. It was as if it were a city under siege, an impression reinforced by the omnipresent patrols. Soldiers strutted by in their red-trimmed tunics, never in groups of less than four, and always with their hands firmly on their sword hilts. When they approached the crowds gave way, then muttered after they had passed.

  He wondered if the city was always like this, the residents grown accustomed to the threat of unrest that simmered below the surface. Or was he seeing the city at its worst, its normal rhythms disturbed by the presence of the Chosen One and the search for the missing sword?

  A display of woolen goods caught his eye, and he spent some time lingering over a basket of knitted socks. When he picked one up, he was surprised by its weight, for the sock was several times thicker than he was accustomed to.

  The young woman standing behind the stall offered him a practiced smile. “Keep your feet warm even when soaking wet,” she said.