‘Same,’ Haldan said. ‘Working for a fella from home, as it happens. Done well for himself down here. Hard getting work from southerners, not if you expect to be treated as anything more than an ignorant bone-breaker.’
‘True enough,’ Wulfric said, realising that was essentially what he was now.
‘Unless you’re one of these banneret fellas, they don’t think you know one end of a sword from another,’ Haldan said. ‘I’ve shown a few of them their mistake, but they don’t seem to learn from them. I’d go home if there was anything to go home to. They’re swallowing the Northlands up one village at a time. It’s all farms and mines now. I reckon there’ll be no forest left in a few years.’
‘Sad to think of it,’ Wulfric said. The thought gnawed at his gut like a hungry rat. What would the likes of his father, Belgar, or Angest think of it all?
Haldan drained his mug. ‘Nice talking with you, Wolfram. Always good to hear a voice from home. Now, there’s a pretty lass working upstairs, reckon I’ll go put a smile on her face.’ He gave Wulfric a nod, belched, and walked away.
The conversation, brief though it had been, made Wulfric feel keenly homesick. He wondered about his mother, whether she still lived, and if she did what type of life she had. He wondered what he could have done differently. He wondered what he should have done differently. How long would it be before he could settle Adalhaid’s Blood Debt?
He drained his mug and headed for the door, his taste for ale, stories, and conversation spent. A tavern was no place to be when in a melancholy mood. There were many who would disagree with him, but he knew the ale only made it worse.
It was dark outside, and there was a chill in the air. Even after the weeks being back, he had not fully grown used to the northern climate again. He pulled his cloak about him, wondering what had become of his two belek cloaks, then started back up the alley that led to the Northlander tavern.
At the far end of the alley, the southerners’ magical lamps lit the main street, bathing it in orange light that hinted at both warmth and safety. In the muddy alley, it felt like a world distant indeed. A figure stepped from the shadows, silhouetted against the lamplight.
‘It’s rude to lie to a fella,’ the figure said.
It was Haldan.
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Wulfric said. He had only brought a dagger out with him. Only the fancy southern warriors, the bannerets, were allowed to carry rapiers and sabres in the city.
‘Sure you do,’ Haldan said. ‘Ulfyr.’
Wulfric nodded. ‘So it’s like that?’
‘It is,’ Haldan said, pulling open his cloak to reveal a backsword hanging from his belt.
‘It’s against the law to carry one of those in the city, you know,’ Wulfric said.
‘So is murder, but I’ll not lose any sleep over that either.’
‘You seemed like a nice fella,’ Wulfric said, ‘so I’ll give you this chance to turn around and walk away.’
‘You seemed like a nice fella yourself,’ Haldan said, ‘but fifty crowns is fifty crowns, and down here that’s more than any man’s life is worth. To me, leastways.’
‘To most down here, I reckon,’ Wulfric said with resignation. ‘Let’s be about it then.’
Haldan drew his sword, and Wulfric felt a rush of anger. Who was trying to have him killed? Haldan had said he worked for a Northlander, but Wulfric hadn’t encountered any in the south, and certainly hadn’t angered anyone enough to have him killed. Might someone be looking to avenge Hochmark? Wulfric had been assured that Hochmark had no relatives to avenge him, but who else would seek to kill him? Maybe someone had gotten as tired of Jagovere’s stories as Wulfric had, and sought to put an end to them. He laughed at the thought, and Haldan gave him a curious look. Perhaps it was simply that Haldan was lying. Who could know? Wulfric pulled off his cloak and wrapped it around his hand, then drew his dagger.
Haldan laughed. ‘It’ll be quicker if you don’t put up a struggle.’
‘Do you really think that’s likely?’
Haldan shrugged. ‘No, I suppose not. Jorundyr wouldn’t think much of that.’
He slashed at Wulfric, left and right, his curved backsword swishing through the air. He had skill with the blade, and Wulfric wondered what village he had come from. He dodged out of the way of the sword, stepping back as he did. With the shorter reach of his dagger, he needed to get in close—but it had to be timed right, otherwise Haldan would cleave him in half. If he tried to parry, Haldan’s backsword was likely to do the same to Wulfric’s dagger.
He continued to dodge backwards as Haldan attacked. His face remained calm, showing none of the frustration Wulfric was hoping would build. He seemed content to drive Wulfric back to the dead end and finish him when there was no farther to go. Wulfric watched his every move, waiting for his chance, but knew that eventually he would have to force it.
‘You move well,’ Haldan said, pausing for a moment to catch his breath.
‘Southern living has made you slow,’ Wulfric said.
Haldan laughed. ‘Maybe. Won’t make any difference.’
The tavern door opened to their side, flooding the alley with light. A man stood in the doorway, and slammed it shut as soon as he realised there was a fight underway in the alley.
Haldan’s eyes flicked to the door and shrank from the light. Wulfric struck. He grabbed the sword blade with his cloaked hand and thrust forward with his dagger. It caught Haldan in the chest, below his throat. Wulfric pushed the blade all the way in and felt it strike Haldan’s backbone.
Haldan gurgled as he tried to look at Wulfric with his eyes alone, unable to move his head with his spine severed. His mouth opened and closed as Wulfric lowered him to the ground. Blood bubbled from his lips and nose as he struggled to cling to life. Wulfric pulled his blade free, then plunged it into Haldan’s armpit to speed his journey to Jorundyr’s Hall.
‘Tell Jorundyr that Wulfric Wolframson sent you.’ He held Haldan’s hand firmly closed on his sword until the life left his eyes. It was a sad thing, dying alone and far from home, doing work that you would otherwise hold in contempt if needs didn’t force it. When men had to sell their honour for a few coins, everything became too costly.
He stood and took a breath to calm himself. There was a police force in the city, the Watch, and there would be a great deal of difficult explaining to do should he be found standing over a freshly killed body. He took one final look at Haldan, then fastened his cloak back on and hurried away. He wouldn’t be able to go back to the tavern, which was a shame. At least he would have something to occupy his time over the next few days—working out who wanted him dead.
‘HAS anyone ever tried to kill you?’ Wulfric said. He had called back to Jagovere’s room on his return to the palace. Despite his best effort, he couldn’t stop his eyes from flicking to the door to the other room, and wondered if Varada was hiding in there. They would need to talk about that at some point in the near future, but he had more pressing matters to deal with first.
‘Many times,’ Jagovere said, raising an eyebrow.
‘For no reason, I mean,’ Wulfric said. ‘None that’s obvious, leastways.’
‘Not that I know of,’ Jagovere said, ‘although there are one or two husbands in Rhenning that might be inclined to try it if their wives are ever honest with them.’
‘Someone tried to kill me tonight,’ Wulfric said.
Jagovere raised his eyebrows. ‘Been dipping it in a pot that doesn’t belong to you?’ He blushed as soon as the words were out of his mouth.
‘No,’ Wulfric said, raising his eyebrows. ‘I haven’t. Can’t think of a reason why.’
‘Who was it?’
‘A Northlander. I’d never met him before. He shared a drink with me at that tavern out by the city walls. Was waiting for me when I got outside.’
‘He’s dead?’ Jagovere said.
‘He is.’
‘Did he say anything useful when you were having a
drink with him?’
Wulfric shrugged. ‘Said he was working for a successful Northlander down here. Could have been lying. Might not have been the Northlander boss who wanted me killed. So no, he didn’t really say anything useful.’
‘Well, that will make life at court a little more interesting,’ Jagovere said. ‘Revenge for Hochmark is the obvious answer, but given everything I know I’m not convinced that’s it. It could be anyone who doesn’t like the fact that the princess has hired new muscle who’s not afraid to get his hands dirty. We’ll have to keep our eyes and ears open. I’ll make some discreet inquiries in the meantime. I have some friends in the city who may be able to point us in the right direction. Assassinations at court are a way of life. Perhaps someone is simply jealous of the status you’ve gained here. Doesn’t mean it’s some grand conspiracy.’
‘Maybe,’ Wulfric said, ‘but it doesn’t mean they won’t try again.’
‘Expecting an attack around every corner isn’t the worst way to be at a court like this,’ Jagovere said.
‘I meant to ask earlier,’ Wulfric said. He saw Jagovere tense up. ‘Now that I’m stuck here for a while, are you still with me? If you want to get on with other things, I understand.’
Jagovere smiled. ‘Of course I’m with you. I’m sure Enderlain will be as well. There’s too much mischief here to want to leave.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Talking about earlier…’
Wulfric smiled, and was glad to not have to be the one to bring it up. ‘How long?’
‘I think it’s been heading that way for a while, but the night of the banquet.’
‘I can’t say I saw it coming.’
‘Neither did I until it happened. After it did, looking back, I can see some of the signs.’
‘Does she take her knives to bed with her?’
Jagovere threw a cushion at him, but Wulfric ducked out of the way.
‘No, she doesn’t. I’d appreciate it if you kept this to yourself for a little while. I’d like a chance to get used to the idea myself before Enderlain starts to test the boundaries of humour with it.’
‘My lips are sealed,’ Wulfric said.
CHAPTER 15
Adalhaid returned to the palace late. She hadn’t the heart to abandon Elsa or the clinic, so she kept up some of her duties there in addition to the hours she spent in the library. In truth, she was happy to be away from the palace. Although the Markgraf had told her she could remain there for as long as she desired in memory of his children, it was no longer somewhere she felt comfortable. The atmosphere had changed. It was not just the air of mourning that still hung over it like a dark cloud. Rodulf’s new position—he had taken to calling himself Lord Lieutenant—had brought other changes, and there was a dark energy there now, as though fear had filled the void left by the death of the Markgraf’s children.
It had always been a superficial place, over-brimming with jealousy and ambition. While the children had lived, she had been able to push that into the background and focus on them, but now that they were gone that was no longer the case. All she could see was what she hated about the place, the shameless self-promotion and rivalry, and the merciless fate awaiting those who fell afoul of the process.
It was frightening to see how much influence Rodulf had gained over the Markgraf. He had taken advantage of the Markgraf’s grief, and most likely used the Stone to further this. Half the court’s nobles loathed him, but were not in a position to do anything about it, while the other half saw his favour as a road to their own advancement and put themselves forward as fervent supporters. She couldn’t wait to be rid of it all.
The route back to her room took her through a hallway where the most important nobles were given apartments. Rodulf had his there, the grandest available, which had until recently been occupied by the Count of Geerdorf, who had now returned to his private house in the city. He was wealthy, powerful, and had been influential until recently. That had changed, and she suspected that Rodulf had something to do with it, though her knowledge of court politics was intentionally sparse. She had wondered if an ally might be found in him, but her mission was too important and dangerous to confide in a man she barely knew.
She was approaching Rodulf’s door when she heard it open, and froze on the spot. He was aware that she lived at court, but thus far their paths had not crossed, and she was hopeful that state of affairs would continue indefinitely. She steeled herself for an encounter that she had been dreading for months.
She breathed a sigh of relief when a girl in plain, functional clothes walked out. It seemed that Rodulf preyed not merely on the highest in Elzburg’s society. What made the situation intriguing was the fact that she was crying. The thought that Rodulf might have hurt her filled Adalhaid with rage. It was exactly the kind of thing she would expect of him, to take out his frustrations by beating on someone he considered beneath him. She clenched her teeth with anger; the sooner he got his comeuppance, the better. She did not have it in her to ignore an injured young woman, so she sped up to catch her as she walked down the corridor.
‘Are you all right?’ Adalhaid said.
The young woman turned, her face streaked with tears.
‘Yes, miss, I’m fine.’
‘Are you sure?’ Adalhaid said. ‘You’re not hurt?’
‘Oh no, miss,’ the young woman said.
‘Then what is it?’ Adalhaid said. She knew she was prying, and she hardly needed another reason to hate Rodulf, but she wanted it anyway.
‘It’s just that, well, he’s broken with me, miss.’
It came as a relief to know that he hadn’t been violent, and she felt a momentary guilt for having jumped to conclusions. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Adalhaid said, attempting to muster as much sympathy as she could. If anything, it was a lucky escape for the girl. ‘Do you live at the palace?’
The young woman nodded. ‘I work in the kitchen, miss.’
‘Come then,’ Adalhaid said. ‘I’ll walk with you back to your room.’
‘Oh no, miss. Thank you, but I couldn’t put you to the bother.’
‘It’s no bother,’ Adalhaid said. ‘It’s never a good thing to be alone with a broken heart. And you can call me Adalhaid. I’m not a lady. I work here too, or used to at any rate. What’s your name?’ She gestured for the young woman to resume walking, and joined her.
‘Gretta. You used to look after the little ones, didn’t you?’
‘I did.’
‘It was a terrible tragedy,’ Gretta said.
‘Yes, it was.’
‘We were all ever so sad down in the kitchens. They used to sneak in to pinch fruit pies from time to time.’
Adalhaid laughed. ‘I know. I used to bring them down to do it. I hope nobody got in trouble.’
Gretta laughed now too. ‘No, we knew what was going on. We let them get away with it.’
‘They loved those pies.’
‘Everyone does,’ Gretta said. ‘The recipe’s a family secret. I haven’t even told Cook exactly how they’re made.’
‘You could open your own pie shop on the back of them, if the recipe is yours,’ Adalhaid said.
‘Maybe someday. But now, everyone will think I’m a whore. He said he’d marry me, that he started poor too and would bring me with him as he rose. Now I’m ruined. What decent man will have anything to do with me?’
‘I’m sure it’s not as well-known as you think,’ Adalhaid said. ‘And in a place like this, every day there’s more rumour and scandal to give the gossips their fill. In a few days, it’ll not seem nearly so bad. I promise.’
‘It’s nice of you to say, but it’s all anyone in the kitchen’s been talking about since it started. I hear them talking, then all going quiet when I walk in. He’s ruined me. I’m a fool.’
‘You’re not the fool,’ Adalhaid said. ‘He’s a complete bastard. I’ve known him for a long time, and you’re not the first person he’s taken advantage of to get what he wants.’
‘He can’t get
away with treating people like that,’ Gretta said. ‘It’s not right.’
‘It isn’t, but that’s what he does.’
They had arrived at the servants’ quarters, drab, poorly lit corridors of bare brick and stone. It made Adalhaid glad her rooms were connected to the private family apartments.
‘A good night’s sleep will help you feel better,’ Adalhaid said.
‘Thank you for walking me down. You’re very kind.’
AS MUCH AS Adalhaid loved the university’s library, with shelf after shelf of books—some of which existed nowhere else in the world—it seemed she was seeing little of anything else. Her initial enthusiasm for the task she had assigned herself had given over to the hard graft it entailed. There were moments when focus was hard to come by, and she wanted nothing more than to walk the shelves picking and reading at random. The accumulation of knowledge there made her heart race. There were forgotten things contained in the old books that no living person knew. They waited patiently for someone to rediscover them, and bring them back to life. Every trip there felt like an adventure for her, but she no longer had the time to daydream and explore.
Anaesthetics and analgesics were her topic for the day, all contained in a well-thumbed volume of Hasterland’s Anaesthesia. It was a huge tome. She could have sat on it and nearly been at the same height she was in her chair. A librarian had wheeled it over to her in her usual quiet nook of the library before heaving it onto her desk.
Hasterland’s ponderous writing style seemed appropriate to the subject. It could easily put someone to sleep, and had Adalhaid not been so motivated to get through it, it would have done exactly that to her. She had to continually remind herself that this was the best reference on the subject to maintain her focus.
The majority of the book was taken up with the formulas used to make each of the individual tinctures, which she did not need to know by heart. Happily the names and applications of the main drugs were all she had to commit to memory, but it was made tedious by having to wade through all the information that was not relevant to her.
The Blood Debt: Wolf of the North Book 3 Page 11
