“Truly?”
“You won’t find none better, not if you searched the whole of the market thrice over. A man who had a pair of these could stand all day in a stream and not feel the chill,” she said.
He doubted that very much. Still, they were substantial and would be better than the army issue that Didrik had requisitioned to replace those items worn out during their journey.
“How much?” he asked.
Her eyes swept over him carefully, assessing the worn state of his cloak and boots against the features that marked him as one of their foreign overlords.
“For you? Two coppers. New style.”
He had already learned that new style meant coins from Jorsk rather than the smaller native coins that dated from the time of the last Duncaer Queen. The price was less than he would have paid in Kingsholm, but he suspected that if he had been one of her folk he would have been offered an even better bargain.
“I will give you five coppers, in return for three pairs.”
“Done,” she said, so swiftly that he knew he had paid too much. Still it was well within his means. He handed over the coins and selected three pairs of unbleached wool, which he rolled up and stuffed inside his belt pouch. If he were to make any more purchases, he would need to buy something to carry them in.
As he turned to leave, he found his way blocked by a small knot of people who were deep in earnest conversation.
“I swear it is true. My wife has farkin in Tirlaght. Or rather she had, for we learned just this morning that nigh unto all of them are dead,” declared the man whose back was to Stephen.
“Mother Teá defend us,” a woman prayed. “How many does this make? Seven villages taken by the madness?”
Stephen edged closer, straining his ears to listen. Could they be talking about the grain sickness?
“More like thrice seven,” another woman responded. “And not in just one region either. It started in the north, then the south lands, but now it is has spread to the west.”
Could this be true? Even now Stephen’s nightmares were haunted by images of the ruined hamlet and those who had perished there. Were the same acts of mindless violence being played out across the province of Duncaer? Governor Kollinar had mentioned that there had been other cases of the grain madness, but Stephen had thought the situation well in control, the blighted grain replaced by new stores. Surely rumor lied. It was not possible that the plague had been allowed to spread unchecked to dozens of villages.
“It is not right. It is not natural,” the man declared.
Another man said something Stephen could not make out, but which caused those gathered to nod their heads vigorously in agreement.
“They will kill us all if we let them,” the man closest to Stephen said, his voice dark with hate.
Another voice demurred.
“And what will you feed your children this night? Or tomorrow and the day after?” the strident man asked.
His listeners shrugged or shook their heads.
“Be sheep if you must,” the man said, turning his head and spitting on the ground to express his contempt. “But I will not wait tamely for my death.”
With that the man strode off, and the knot of people drifted apart. Stephen waited a moment, then followed the strident man as he made his way through the market. Twice more the man stopped to talk with folks he apparently knew, but neither time could Stephen get close enough to listen. The sound of shouted insults caught his ear, and the minstrel turned his head as an army patrol came into view. When he looked back, the man had vanished.
He hurried over to the spot where he had last seen the man, but though he looked in all directions, he could not see a trace of his quarry. Indeed he would be hard pressed to identify the man’s features, having had a better view of his back than his face. At the time he had been too worried that the man would recognize Stephen as a foreigner, but now his precautions were for naught. He could not even give a description of the man to the peacekeepers. A man of average height, stocky build, with a deep baritone voice, wearing a faded blue cloak that had been patched many times over. There must be a dozen men in this market right now who fit that description.
It was no consolation that he had no real grounds for suspecting the man of being anything other than an angry citizen, enraged by the death of his wife’s kin. The man’s words had been intemperate but not treasonous. And Stephen could hardly blame him for his distrust of those who had supplied the tainted grain.
And yet there was a part of him that felt a failure. Didrik would not have allowed himself to become distracted. Didrik would never have lost the man in the crowd. He would have followed him, and watched until it could be certain whether or not the man was a member of the Children of Ynnis.
The taunts grew louder as the army patrol drew near where Stephen stood. Even as he watched, the lead sergeant flinched, and the steady cadence of their boot steps faltered. Almost before Stephen could react, a second stone flew through the air and hit a soldier in the cheek, drawing blood.
The patrol halted, the two in the rear pivoting swiftly so they stood back to back with their comrades, facing the crowd.
“Killers,” a voice called.
“Murderous lackeys,” said another.
The soldiers drew their swords.
The crowd shifted, as some sought to leave the area, while still others pressed closer, calling insults. There was no way to determine who had thrown the stone, or indeed if more than one person had been involved. But the soldiers did not hesitate. As a youth was pushed within arm’s reach by the crowd behind him, the nearest soldier struck him down with the flat of his blade.
Stephen was stunned by the casual cruelty of the act. He watched frozen in horror as the youth fell to the ground. There was no way to determine if he was dead or merely insensible.
More objects were hurled at the soldiers, as those taunting them stayed just out of arm’s reach. He heard shrill whistles over their cries and those around Stephen began to melt away.
A woman standing next to him tugged at his cloak. “Fly, you fool, unless you want the peacekeepers to haul you off for questioning.”
Apparently she had mistaken him for a fellow countryman. With one last muttered curse at those who could not mind their own affairs, she took her own advice, climbing over a display of woven mats as she made her escape.
Stephen told himself he had nothing to fear. He had done nothing wrong. He was an innocent here, one whose character would be vouched for by the governor himself, if it came to such. But such reassurances rang hollow as he saw that there were now several bodies lying on the ground around the soldiers. A running man carrying a child in his arms barreled into him, nearly knocking Stephen off his feet, before taking off again. The whistles grew closer, and from close by he heard a scream that was suddenly cut off. Stephen took one last look, then he turned and ran.
Twenty
THE SEARCH FOR THE REBELS HAD TAKEN ON NEW urgency with Annasdatter’s death, but as their first week in Alvaren came to an end, they were still no closer to finding the sword than they had been on the day they entered the city.
Questioning the members of the Metalsmiths’ Guild had yielded no useful information. They had uncovered several minor infractions of the law, along with evidence that Amalia had been diverting money from the guild treasury to pay off her creditors after she had lost money investing in a trading scheme. But there was nothing that could be used to link any member of the guild to either the Children of Ynnis or the theft of the sword.
On his own initiative, Lord Kollinar offered a reward for information about the Children of Ynnis and the murder of Ensign Annasdatter. When there was no response, he doubled it—without any effect.
Devlin had half expected the Children of Ynnis to use the sword as bait to convince him to meet with them. Yet there were no further messages. It was as if they had disappeared into the mist.
That was not to say the city was quiet. On the contrary, each day there were more rep
orts of disturbances. Stephen had nearly found himself caught up in a street riot, provoked by news of the latest outbreak of grain madness. Stephen had made good his escape, but two soldiers and nearly a dozen Caerfolk had not been as lucky. Fortunately, their injuries were no more serious than cuts and broken bones, but he knew it was only a matter of time before the violence escalated into more deaths.
And there was nothing he could do to calm the city. Indeed, every action he took seemed to make matters worse. Faced with his impotence, Devlin’s temper grew shorter each day. The governor’s servants steered a wide berth around him, and the soldiers of the garrison grew pale whenever they caught sight of him. Yet no one, not even his friends, called him to task. Even his most outrageous outbursts brought him only blank faces or looks of sympathy.
He knew their forbearance was a measure of how deeply concerned they were about him—concerned that the fruitless search was wearing him down and that the Geas was weighing on his mind. He could see it, in the way Stephen and Didrik exchanged worried glances when they thought he was unaware, or how they would fall silent when he entered a room.
Haakon did not appear to him again, but he continued to taunt Devlin, feeding upon Devlin’s own self-doubts and fears. Even his dreams were no longer a haven, and Devlin felt himself beginning to slip deeper and deeper into madness.
More than once, he had found himself somewhere with no recollection on how he had gotten there, or why. And once he had found himself in the middle of a conversation with Didrik, with no idea what they were discussing, or even how long Didrik had been in the room. He had covered his lapse as best he could, but he knew that Didrik had not been fooled.
He wondered what it was like for his friends, sworn followers of a man they suspected was going mad? He could offer no reassurances. Even he did not know what would happen if the search continued to drag on.
Would the Geas release him? Would he be allowed to return to Kingsholm empty-handed? Already he felt pulled in two directions. One part of him needed to find the sword, no matter how long it took. The other part of him reckoned troop strengths and fortifications, worried about how swiftly the spring thaws would come, and whether the coastal regions had enough trained armsmen to repel an invasion force. Could Solveig and Lord Rikard keep the conservative council members in check? If he were delayed in his return, would Olvarrson lead the army into the field? Or would he do what Devlin most feared, abandoning the borderlands and retreating to the secure fortifications?
It was his duty to be in Jorsk. To do whatever it took to ensure that the Kingdom was prepared to meet her enemies.
But he knew it was also his duty to recover the sword, the symbol of his office. The one talisman that no one could deny. With the sword in hand, he could force the councilors to accept his authority and forever silence the nay-sayers who questioned his worthiness. And if he returned now, having tried to find the sword and failed, it would all be for nothing. His enemies would seize on his failure as evidence that the Gods had not truly chosen Devlin as their champion. He would be stripped of his titles, and with them would vanish any hope of leading Jorsk in her own defense.
In the end it all came back to the blasted sword. He had to find it. For the sake of the Kingdom and for the sake of what was left of his soul.
Throwing off his dark musings, he left his private chamber and sought out the receiving room, which had been turned into the headquarters of the operation. Someone could usually be found there at any hour of the day and night. As he approached he heard the sound of voices, and he entered to find Didrik, Stephen, and Kollinar all gathered around the desk, on which they had unrolled a map of the city.
“It is an old neighborhood, but respectable,” Kollinar was saying. His back was to Devlin, so he did not see him approach. “Neither rich nor poor. Unremarkable, really, which I suppose makes it a perfect place for him to hide in plain sight.”
“For whom to hide?” Devlin asked.
Kollinar abruptly straightened and turned to face him. “We may have a lead,” he said.
“Tell me.”
“An informant told one of my soldier that the leader of the rebels is a man calling himself Peredur Trucha, who lives on Green Alley off the Old One’s Way.”
“And can this informant be trusted?”
“The informant ran off as the soldier tried to take her into custody. He gave chase, but lost her in the crowded marketplace. On its own it is hardly convincing evidence—”
“But I also heard the name Peredur Trucha,” Stephen said. “I was at a tavern tonight, near the traders’ quarter, when I overheard three apprentices praising Peredur’s cunning and how he had humiliated the great champion of Jorsk.”
“I am surprised they spoke so freely,” Devlin said. Despite his misgivings, he had allowed Stephen to continue to seek out information in the taverns, more as a means to keep Stephen out from underfoot than from any real expectation that he would overhear anything useful. “Did they know you were there?”
Stephen shrugged. “I do not think so. The tavern was crowded and dimly lit. And it was just a brief snatch of conversation. They left as soon as they finished their drinks. I was going to try and follow them to find out where they lived, but all three split up as soon as they left. Rather than choose which to follow, I came here to report instead.”
“Wisely done.” Stephen had courage in plenty, but lacked the training and instincts of a professional. If those apprentices had been members of the Children of Ynnis, Stephen could easily have found himself in a trap. And his friends would know nothing of his peril until they found his bloody corpse.
“We should not wait. Stephen may have been recognized or the informant may repent and try to warn this Peredur,” Didrik said.
“Agreed.” Devlin felt his spirits lift at the prospect of being able to take action, any action, after these long days of waiting. It would be too much to hope that this Peredur did indeed hold the sword in his possession, but he could lead them to those who did. “Have you sent a runner to Chief Mychal?”
Lord Kollinar cleared his throat. “I would advise against that, Chosen One.”
“Why?”
“Because the last two homes we searched, the residents had already fled before we arrived. Someone is warning them. I have no reason to doubt the loyalty of my soldiers, but as for the peacekeepers …” Kollinar’s voice trailed off in silence.
“Mychal is an honorable man,” Devlin insisted.
“Can you swear the same for the peacekeepers? For all of them?” Kollinar insisted.
Devlin opened his mouth, then closed it as he realized he could not. There were nearly a hundred folk who wore the peacekeeper uniform or served those who did. Many of their faces were new in the years since he and Cerrie had left Kingsholm, and even those he had once known were strangers to him now. There could be rebels among them. Or it could even be as simple as one person speaking out of turn because they had kin-ties to one of those who had fallen under suspicion.
“We will try this your way,” Devlin said. “Bring a handful of your best soldiers. And make sure they understand that there is to be no bloodshed. We need this Peredur alive so he can talk to us.”
“Of course,” Lord Kollinar said. “If we move swiftly, we can have him in the garrison before anyone realizes he has been taken. And then, Chosen One, you will get the answers you need.”
Devlin hoped it would be that easy. It was time for their luck to turn.
Didrik cursed as he paced back and forth in the hallway outside Lord Kollinar’s office. The door was closed, but he could hear the faint murmur of voices from within. No doubt Devlin was apologizing. Again.
It had gone wrong from the start. Peredur Trucha had proven to be a wizened old man, startled to be awoken from his sleep by armed soldiers in his bedroom. But he displayed admirable composure, requesting that he be allowed to dress himself. Even fully clothed he was a mere shadow of a man, his limbs so frail that it seemed he would crumble at the sli
ghtest touch. But there was nothing wrong with his brain or his tongue.
Rather than being intimidated, he had scolded Didrik as if he were a foolish child. He insisted that his record scrolls be brought as evidence, and gave a list of seven people who could attest to his good character.
Chief Mychal’s name topped the list. It could have been a bluff, but in his gut Didrik had known that a mistake had been made. Still, they had to see this through, and a litter was summoned to take Peredur to the garrison, the old man being too frail to risk on the icy cobblestones.
When Peredur was brought before Devlin, the Chosen One’s eyes had widened in disbelief. Didrik and Lord Kollinar bore witness as Devlin patiently questioned the old man. To no one’s surprise, the man denied all knowledge of the Children of Ynnis. Peredur Trucha, it seemed, was what the Caerfolk called a lawgiver. A judge, in other words. A highly respected one at that.
When he arrived, Chief Mychal had confirmed his story. As did the other witnesses summoned. The record scrolls held no devious plots but rather years of Peredur’s judgments, including several examples where he had ordered stern punishments for those who disturbed the peace by inciting revolt or attacking Jorskian traders.
They had been played for fools. The so-called informant. The drunken apprentices. All part of a plot to make the Chosen One look foolish and to rouse further the anger of the people against their Jorskian rulers.
Didrik’s professional soul was outraged. This was no way to run an investigation. If they had stopped to consult with Chief Mychal they could have avoided the embarrassment. But their enemies had cleverly capitalized on the tension that existed between the soldiers and the peacekeepers.
Now they were no better off than they had been a week ago. Worse, in falsely arresting Peredur, they had further offended the city’s residents, putting an end to any hope of voluntary cooperation. Gloom sank over him as he realized that they might never find the sword.
Devlin had tried to warn them that it would be difficult, that methods that worked in Jorsk would not work here, where the web of family ties meant that not even the most wretched of the poor would consider turning informant. Here, it seemed, everyone was related to everyone else. Already three of the governor’s servants had resigned their posts in protest because they were somehow related to members of the Metalsmiths’ Guild.
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