DemonWars Saga Volume 1

by R. A. Salvatore

“But as I telled yer fellow priest, I’m not knowing where they sent me girl,” Pettibwa went on.

  “Fellow priest?” Father Abbot echoed. Had Brother Justice interrogated this woman already? he wondered, and hoped, for if that was the case, then Quintall must have also discovered the connection between Avelyn and the Chilichunks. “A monk, you mean? Of St. Precious, perhaps?”

  “No, I’m knowin’ most of them from St. Precious—me Jilly was married by Abbot Dobrinion himself, ye know,” Pettibwa offered proudly. “No, this one was wearing the darker brown robes, like yer own, and his accent was o’ the eastlands. St.-Mere-Abelle, ye said ye were from, and I’d be guessin’ that he was from the same place.”

  Father Abbot Markwart was pondering how he might properly identify this man—as Quintall, he suspected—without giving anything away, when boisterous Pettibwa rambled on.

  “Oh, and a great big fat man, he was indeed!” she said. “Ye must be feedin’ them well at yer St.-Mere-Abelle, though yerself could be using a bit o’ fattening, if ye don’t mind me telling ye so!”

  For a moment Father Abbot Markwart was confused, for there wasn’t an ounce of fat on the well-honed muscles of the first Brother Justice. But then, suddenly, he understood, and he could hardly contain his excitement. “Brother Avelyn?” he said breathlessly. “Brother Avelyn Desbris of St.-Mere-Abelle came to speak with you?”

  “Avelyn,” Pettibwa echoed, letting the name roll off her tongue. “Yessir, that’s sounding right. Brother Avelyn come a’askin’ about me Jilly.”

  “And she was with you?”

  “Oh no, but she was long into the army by then,” Pettibwa explained. “But he wasn’t looking to find her; he was asking about where she came from, and how she came to live with me and Graevis. Oh, a nice and cheerful fellow he was, too!”

  “And did you tell him?”

  “Oh, but for sure,” Pettibwa said. “I’m not one to be angering the Church!”

  “Keep that thought close to your heart,” the Father Abbot said dryly. It was all beginning to fit together, and quite nicely, he realized. Avelyn had met this woman, Pony or Jilly, outside of Pireth Tulme after the powrie invasion, and had traveled with her right through Palmaris and to the north, where they had then met the centaur. The woman had survived the explosion at Aida, Markwart believed, and so had this other mysterious fellow, Nightbird, whom Bradwarden had unintentionally described, and they now had the gemstones.

  Finding them would not be easy, obviously, but perhaps Markwart could find a way to bring Pony and Nightbird to him…

  “I could make ye a fine fattening stew,” Pettibwa was saying when the Father Abbot tuned back to the conversation. Of course she was preoccupied with such things, Markwart mused, considering her plump form.

  “I may just ask you to do that,” he replied. “But not now.”

  “Oh no, couldn’t be,” Pettibwa agreed. “But ye come by the Way tonight, or whenever ye’re getting the chance, and I’ll feed ye well.”

  “I am afraid that you will not be returning to the Way this day,” Markwart explained, rising from his seat behind Abbot Dobrinion’s huge desk and motioning to Brother Dandelion, who was standing in the shadows at the side of the large room. “Or anytime soon.”

  “But—”

  “You said that you did not want to anger the Church,” Markwart interrupted. “I hold you to that, Madame Pettibwa Chilichunk. Our business is most urgent—more so than the health of your pitiful inn.”

  “Pitiful?” Pettibwa echoed, growing concerned and angry.

  “Brother Dandelion will accompany—”

  “I’m not thinking so!” the woman snapped. “I’m no enemy of the Church, Father Abbot, but I’ve got me life and me family.”

  Father Abbot Markwart didn’t bother to reply, had grown quite bored with the woman, actually, and quite frustrated, since she really had only confirmed what he already knew. He motioned again to Brother Dandelion and the man stepped up to Pettibwa’s side and took her thick elbow in his hand.

  “Ah, but ye just be lettin’ me go!” she yelled at him, tugging away.

  Dandelion looked to Markwart, who nodded. Then he grabbed the woman again, more forcefully. Pettibwa tried to pull away, but the big man’s grip was like iron.

  “Understand, Madame Chilichunk,” Father Abbot Markwart explained in a deadly serious voice, and moved his wrinkled old face right near the woman, “you will go with Brother Dandelion, whatever tactics he must use.”

  “And ye’re callin’ yerself a godly man?” Pettibwa replied, but her anger was gone, replaced by simple fear. She tried to pull away once more, and Brother Dandelion tightened his fingers and popped her hard on the forehead, stunning her. Then the monk cupped his hand over Pettibwa’s, bending her fingers under his grasp, and pressed in, forcing the fingers back on their knuckles.

  Waves of pain washed over the woman, stealing the strength from her legs. Brother Dandelion hooked his free arm under her shoulder and easily held her up against his side, keeping the pressure on her fingers every step of the way.

  Markwart just went back to the desk, unconcerned with her pain.

  As the pair left the room, Abbot Dobrinion entered, looking none too pleased.

  “This is how you treat my congregation?” he demanded of Markwart.

  “This is how the Church deals with those who will not cooperate,” the Father Abbot coolly replied.

  “Will not?” Dobrinion echoed doubtfully. “Or cannot? The Chilichunk family are an honest and decent lot, by every report. If they could help in your search—”

  “Inmy search?” Father Abbot roared in reply, leaping to his feet and slamming the desk. “You believe that this is my search alone? Can you not understand the implications of all this?”

  Abbot Dobrinion patted his hand in the air as Markwart fumed on, trying to calm the old man. That condescending action only fueled the Father Abbot’s ire, though.

  “We have found Avelyn the heretic,” Markwart growled. “Yes, we found him, dead as he deserved in the devastation of Mount Aida. Perhaps his ally, the fiend dactyl, turned against him, or perhaps he merely overestimated his own worth and power; pride was ever one of his many faults!”

  Abbot Dobrinion could hardly reply, so stunned was he by the information, and by the sheer outrage in Father Abbot’s voice as he relayed it.

  “And that woman,” Markwart went on, pointing a skinny finger at the door Pettibwa and Dandelion had exited, “and her wretched family, may hold answers for us concerning the whereabouts of our stones. Our stones! God-given to St.-Mere-Abelle, and stolen by the thief and murderer Avelyn Desbris, curse his evil name! And such a cache, Abbot Dobrinion! If those stones fall into the hands of enemies of the Church, then we shall know war on an even greater scale, do not doubt!”

  Dobrinion suspected that Father Abbot might be exaggerating there. He had already spoken to Master Jojonah concerning the stones, and Jojonah wasn’t nearly as worried about them as was Markwart. But Dobrinion, too, was an old man whose time in this world was fast passing, and he understood the importance of reputation and legacy. That was why he was so desperate to see Brother Allabarnet canonized while he presided over St. Precious, and why he was able to accept Markwart’s need to retrieve the stones.

  He would have said as much, if he had been given the chance, but the Father Abbot was on a roll then, spouting Church doctrine, telling of Master Siherton, so good a man, murdered by Avelyn, and ranting about how the Chilichunks might be the only clue in getting to this treasonous woman and the cache of gemstones.

  “Do not underestimate my desire for this,” Markwart finished, lowering his voice to a threatening tone. “If you hinder me in any way, I will repay you a thousand times over.”

  Dobrinion’s face screwed up with incredulity; he was not accustomed to being threatened by one of his own Order.

  “As you know, Master Jojonah is already on his way to St. Honce to further Brother Allabarnet’s canonization,” Father Abbot Mar
kwart said calmly. “I can recall him in an instant, and kill this process altogether.”

  Dobrinion set his feet firmly in place and squared his shoulders. By his estimation, the old Father Abbot had just crossed a very tangible line! “You are the leader of the Abellican Church,” Dobrinion conceded, “and thus hold great power. But the canonization process is greater still, and an issue for all the abbots, not just the Father Abbot of St.-Mere-Abelle.”

  Markwart was laughing before the man even finished. “But the stories I could tell of Brother Allabarnet,” he said with a wicked chuckle. “Long-forgotten tales unearthed from the catacombs of St.-Mere-Abelle. The journal of the man’s passage through the eastlands, a journey filled with tales of debauchery and womanizing, of excessive drinking and even one case of petty theft.”

  “Impossible!” Dobrinion cried.

  “Quite possible,” Markwart replied grimly without hesitation. “To fabricate and to make them look authentic.”

  “The lie will not stand the test of time,” Dobrinion countered. “Similar lies were told of St. Gwendolyn of the Sea, yet they did not defeat the canonization process!”

  “They delayed it for nearly two hundred years,” Markwart not so gently reminded. “No, perhaps the lies will not stand the test of time, but neither, my friend, will your old bones.”

  Dobrinion slumped where he stood, feeling as though he had been physically beaten.

  “I intend to gather my information,” Markwart said evenly. “By whatever means necessary. As of this moment, Graevis, Pettibwa, and Grady Chilichunk are to be held under suspicion of treason against the Church and God. And perhaps I will speak with this Connor Bildeborough, as well, to see if he is a part of the conspiracy.”

  Dobrinion started to respond, but decided to hold the thoughts to himself. Connor Bildeborough was the favored nephew, treated practically as son and heir, of the Baron of Palmaris, a man of no small means and influence. But Father Abbot Markwart could find that out for himself, Dobrinion decided. The old wretch might just make a very powerful enemy in the process.

  “As you wish, Father Abbot” was all the abbot of St. Precious replied, and he gave a curt bow, turned on his heel and left the room.

  Markwart gave a derisive snort when the door closed behind Dobrinion, thinking he had put the man in his place.

  Dainsey Aucomb was not the brightest light in the sky, the dashing young man knew, but she was observant enough. And besides, Connor Bildeborough was often able to use her dim wits to his advantage. The Baron’s nephew had come to the Way that night, as he often did—though, in truth, the relationship between Connor and Pettibwa Chilichunk had been more than a little strained since the annulment of Connor’s marriage to Jill. Still, Grady Chilichunk was more than pleased to call the nobleman a friend, and even Graevis couldn’t really blame the man for the failure of the marriage; Jill had refused him his marital rights, after all.

  And so Connor continued to frequent Fellowship Way, for though a man of his station was welcomed at the most exclusive taverns in Palmaris, in those places Connor was just another nobleman. Among the common rabble in Fellowship Way, he felt important, superior in every way.

  He was surprised, as were many other regular patrons, to find the tavern closed that night. The only light showing through the windows came from two of the guest rooms on the second floor, from the kitchen and from a small room in the back of the building, the room that had been Jill’s but now belonged to Dainsey.

  Connor called to her softly as he knocked lightly on the door. “Do come and answer, Dainsey,” he bade her.

  No answer.

  “Dainsey Aucomb,” Connor said more loudly. “There are many patrons growing restless in the street. We cannot abide that, now can we?”

  “Dainsey’s not here,” came the woman’s voice, poorly disguised.

  Connor rocked back on his heels, surprised by the note of fear he detected in that voice. What was going on here?

  “Dainsey, it is Connor… Master Bildeborough, nephew of the Baron,” he said more forcefully. “I know that you are behind the door, hearing my every word, and I demand that you speak with me!”

  No answer came back, other than a slight whimpering.

  Connor grew more agitated, more frightened. Something very strange had happened, perhaps something terrible. “Dainsey!”

  “Oh, go away, I beg ye, Mr. Bildeborough,” the woman pleaded. “I ain’t done nothing wrong, and I’m not for knowing what crimes the mister and missus committed to so anger the Church. No sins on me own door, and me bed’s been slept in by none but meself—well, except for yerself, and just those two… three times.”

  Connor tried hard to digest all of that. Crimes against the Church? The Chilichunks? “Impossible,” he said aloud, then lifted his hand to bang hard on the door. He stopped himself, though, and reconsidered his course. Dainsey was frightened, and apparently with good cause. If he frightened her more, he doubted he would be able to get any information out of her.

  “Dainsey,” he said softly, comfortingly. “You know me, and know that I am a friend of the Chilichunks.”

  “The missus isn’t speaking so highly of ye,” Dainsey replied bluntly.

  “And you know that story,” Connor said, fighting hard to hold his calm tone. “And know, too, that I do not blame Pettibwa for being mad at me. Yet I still come to the Way, still consider the place as a home. I am no enemy of the Chilichunks, Dainsey, nor of you.”

  “So ye’re saying.”

  “Consider that I could be in there if I so chose,” Connor said bluntly. “I could have half the garrison with me, and that door would offer you little protection.”

  “Dainsey’s not here,” came the reply. “I’m her sister, and know nothing about what ye’re saying.”

  Connor groaned and banged his forehead against the door. “Very well, then,” he said a moment later. “I am leaving, and you should be, as well, before those monks now coming down the road arrive.” Staying in place right outside the door, Connor lifted his feet alternately, clunking his boots against the wood, more softly with each step so that it sounded as though he was walking away. Predictably, the door cracked open a few seconds later, and the young man was quick to stick his foot into the opening, bracing his shoulder against the wood and pushing hard.

  Dainsey was a spirited lass, and strong from carrying heavy trays, and she gave him a good fight, but finally he forced himself into the room, quickly shutting the door behind him.

  “Oh, but I’ll scream!” the frightened woman warned, backing away, taking up a frying pan as she passed it sitting on her night table, spilling the drippy eggs down her side in the process. “Ye keep yerself back!” she warned, waving the pan.

  “Dainsey, what is wrong with you?” Connor asked, advancing a step and then quickly retreating and holding up his hands unthreateningly as the pan started swinging. “Where are the Chilichunks? You must tell me.”

  “Ye’re already knowing!” the woman accused. “Suren that yer uncle’s part of it all!”

  “Part of all what?” Connor demanded.

  “Part of the arrest!” Dainsey cried, tears streaming down her soft cheeks.

  “Arrest?” Connor echoed. “They were arrested? By town guards?”

  “No,” Dainsey explained. “By them monks.”

  Connor could hardly speak, so amazed was he by this information. “Arrested?” he asked again. “You are sure of that? They were not just escorted to St. Precious on some minor business?”

  “Master Grady, he tried to argue,” Dainsey said. “Said he was a friend o’ yerself and all, but that only made them laugh, and when Master Grady moved to draw his sword, one o’ them monks, a skinny fellow, but so fast, got him good and hard, knocked him right to the floor. And then the old one come rushing in, and he was in a fit—”

  “Abbot Dobrinion?”

  “No, older than him by a cow’s life,” Dainsey said. “Old and skinny and wrinkled, but wearing robes like Dobrinion,
only more decorated. Oh, pretty things, those robes was, even on the old and wrinkled man, even with that ugly look he kept on his face—”

  “Dainsey,” Connor said suddenly and firmly, trying to get her back on track.

  “He, the old one, he yelled good at that skinny fellow, but then he just looked at Master Grady and telled him that if he did a stupid thing like that again, both his arms’d be torn off,” Dainsey went on. “And I believed him, too, and so did Master Grady! Went all white in the face, trembling all over.”

  Connor shuffled over and sat on the bed, thoroughly stunned and trying to sort it all out. He had been in the Way that night a couple of years before when an enormously fat monk, a man of St.-Mere-Abelle, he had heard, and not of St. Precious, had arrived and spoken with Pettibwa. That meeting had seemed calm enough, though the man had spoken of Jill, which somewhat upset the normally jovial woman. Still, on that occasion, the monk had been gentle enough and gracious enough.

  “Did they say why they had come?” Connor asked her. “Did they mention what crimes the Chilichunks were being accused of? You must tell me, I beg.”

  “They asked about the mister and missus’s daughter, that’s all,” Dainsey replied. “They said I was her at first, and then two young ones moved to grab me. But the old one, he said that it wasn’t me, and the mister and missus both said so, too.”

  Connor put his chin in his hand, trying hard, and futilely, to digest it all. Jill? They were looking for Jill? But why?

  “Then they said the mister and missus must be hiding her, and so they went through the whole place, makin’ a mess o’ everything,” Dainsey went on. “And then they took ‘em, all three.”

  Connor Bildeborough was not without resources. His network of friends and confidants included people from the palace to the abbey to House Battlebrow, the most notorious brothel—and thus, one of the most powerful houses—in all the city. It was time for him to put that network into action, he realized, time for him to get some answers.

  If the Church had come so forcefully for the Chilichunks on a matter concerning Jill, then Connor, too, might find himself under suspicion. These were, after all, dangerous times, and Connor, who had lived all of his thirty years in the presence of the ruling class, understood well how serious the games of intrigue could become.