Fletcher (A Prydain novel Book 3)

by AJ Adams

  “Of course.”

  I got slapped on the back. “If anyone can tame that little she-wolf, it’s Ware Fletcher.”

  At this point the bear revived so further conversation was curtailed by more screams. As the thugs twisted and suffered, splattering us in vomit and blood, something was bothering me.

  I reviewed the way they’d attacked us, the way the little coward has threatened Lind and the constable telling me about the crime wave, including the thrall who’d had her throat cut. It all added up, I was certain of it, but with all the yelling, it was hard to think clearly.

  “Sir, the dead thrall. Who did she belong to?”

  “John Reaper, owner of The Giggling Goose, a cheap inn on the south side of the city.”

  I was picturing the robbery again, when the truth popped into mind. I turned to the constable. “Sir, I have an idea.”

  Eward waved for the torturer to stop. “Well, we’re certainly not getting anywhere with this. They always talk within a single bell. These two haven’t said a word.”

  “I’m doing my best,” the little torturer was aggrieved. “They’ll talk before dawn.”

  “Not if they really don’t know Ranulf,” I suggested quietly.

  Eward was staring at me. “But they wear his devices.”

  “Well, sir, what if they stole them?”

  “They’d say so. The punishment for robbery is a whipping but working for a rogue knight like Ranulf means death. It they stole the devices, they’d be screaming to tell us how, where and when.”

  “Murder is a death sentence, too. What if they raped and killed the person they robbed?”

  Eward sucked in his breath. “Now why would you think that?”

  “Because the little coward held a knife to Lind’s neck saying he’d have her and bleed her dry.”

  “Like the innkeeper’s thrall,” Eward exclaimed. “But what would a Caern-born slave know of a Tanweld rogue knight?”

  “Inns often keep packages for travellers,” I pointed out. “And a thrall might earn a copper coin running an errand for a customer.”

  Eward was nodding. “Ranulf or one of his agents was in the city. He asked the thrall to collect a parcel, and these thugs attacked her, intending to rob her of it.”

  “Right, but they went further, raping and killing the girl. They stole her bundle, too, and were stupid enough to wear the contents.”

  “Wotan’s hairy balls!” Eward exclaimed. “That’s why we’re getting nowhere.”

  “Yes, if they stay silent, they escape with some burns and a whipping for robbery.”

  “But if they talk, they hang for murder.”

  The torturer bristled. “Well, it sounds ridiculous to me. I insist I be allowed to continue without this Llanfaes fletcher interfering. This doesn’t sound like a security matter at all, Constable. The justiciar won’t like this, and I don’t know what our liege would say.”

  Eward hesitated, clearly wondering if his duke would be upset, so I pleaded my case quickly. “Please, I will work for you as agreed, but let me speak to them.”

  The constable sighed and then nodded. “I suppose it’s only fair.”

  I waited till both thugs were conscious and then addressed the bear. “I know what happened. You saw the girl with her rich bundle. You waited till she was alone, and then you robbed her.”

  He was silent, but his eyes told me I was right.

  “You wanted money, but your companion had other ideas.”

  The bear blinked.

  I dropped my voice, whispering, “You rob from need, but he’s different, isn’t he?”

  A slight nod. It was involuntary. The bear was listening intently.

  “He enjoyed hurting the girl. He bled her, too.”

  The little coward was realising there was trouble. “Shut up!” he croaked at the bear. “Don’t say a word!”

  At that, the bear was silent. There was nothing to be done. Unless he was encouraged. Visions of the funeral pyre impelled me to the next inevitable step. I picked up a coal. “Tell me when you want it to stop.”

  Unlike the torturer, I touched him lightly. He screamed, a high-pitched, ear-shattering wail. I stopped and let him take a breath. Then I did it again and again and again. I expected to feel sick or horror, but all I could see was that pyre. This man was the key to my revenge, and I’d burn him and the city to get it.

  I used the coal till it cooled, and then picked up another. The bear was breaking; I could see it in his eyes. So I gave him a little mental push. “You won’t faint. I won’t let you. We’ll do this all night long.”

  “Oh-gods-oh-gods!”

  I talked on, quietly, persuasively. “He has a sickness of mind. You’re an honest thief, but he must be stopped.”

  The bear broke. “He slit her throat while he fucked her.” He was sobbing. “There was blood everywhere.”

  “Shut-up-shut-up-shut-up!” The coward was too late. He was dead by the bear’s word. “You fool!”

  “She cried while she was dying,” the bear whispered. “I didn’t want her to die.”

  “But you were there,” Eward said. “You’re just as guilty as he is.”

  “No!” The bear was screaming, realising he was dead, too. “I didn’t kill her. It was him!”

  The torturer was rigid with disgust. “Constable, is this a security matter?”

  Honesty compelled the constable to answer, “No, it appears not.”

  “Then if I might continue the questioning?”

  “Go ahead.”

  It was pointless as they’d told us what they knew, but the torturer was determined to try and wring more out of them. From the questions that followed, it became clear he wanted to clear a load of unsolved crimes, from a house robbery to a stolen cart.

  It was sickening, the pincers being followed by the rack, because it was unnecessary. Having broken, the thugs confessed to every crime the torturer suggested, but it was patently false.

  I stayed to the bitter end, just in case. However, they didn’t say a word more about the thrall, the package or anything else. All they did was scream and cry for mercy. Blood, vomit and gore splattered the walls and all of us. By the time the four bells had passed, I was numb.

  “There,” the torturer was proud of himself, the fool. “A murder and ten robberies solved.”

  “Including one we know was committed by a woman,” Eward said dryly, but the torturer was blind to the sarcasm.

  We left, walking out into the cold night air. I breathed in the freshness, relieved after the oppression of the dungeon. “The thrall they killed: do we know who the package was for?”

  I was holding onto the hope that someone knew something, but Eward was way ahead of me.

  “No, her owner let her run errands so she could earn coppers. But he has no idea who commissioned her, and we couldn’t find out, either.”

  It was a dead-end all round.

  The constable was clapping me on the back. “Ware, you did well there.”

  “Thank you, sir.” My response was automatic, as was the bow that went with it. “It’s my honour.”

  “Oh, drop the politeness.” Eward was thinking. “Look, the duke’s home tomorrow, so we’ll be busy. Come and see me in three days’ time.”

  “I’ll stay at the Merry Troubadour.”

  “We’ll set you up in the cottage by the west gate. It has a workshop.”

  “Yes, sir.” A month’s service for no information was a poor bargain, as was the extra job of guard for his Tanweld convoy. Still, I’d given my word. “Is there space for Wolf?”

  “Of course. Look, it didn’t turn out well for you, but perhaps something will come up on the rogue Ranulf in the next few weeks.” The brown eyes were measuring. “I’ll see you in a few days. And Ware, try to stay alive.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “I’ll do my best.”

  It was late when I walked back to the inn. All the windows were dark, but a scullery maid was watching for me at the door. Lind was
sleeping in front of the fire. Looking at her, soft and clean, I felt the events of the night rush in on me. The screams, blood and vomit had soaked into my clothes. I could smell myself, and it was the scent of hell.

  The room with the bath was locked. Ten minutes under the courtyard pump washed it off, but my time in the eastern continent’s balmy climate had softened me: I was freezing.

  I went to bed, grateful for the thrall’s warm body. Lind was difficult at first, but then she welcomed me, twisting around me sinuously. I thought perhaps she’d warmed towards me, but I remembered how sweet she’d been the night before. So I chained her—and got a mouthful of abuse.

  “I’m not a bloody animal,” she grumbled.

  Amazing, right? It was as if she’d never been schooled at all. I didn’t let her see my anger, instead putting an arm around her and going straight to sleep.

  However, thinking it over the next morning, my thrall’s wicked ways did convince me I had to do something to keep her under control. If I left things as they were, Lind’s evil attitude would make me a laughing-stock. A master who can’t manage a single thrall, and a woman at that, can’t command any kind of respect. I couldn’t lock her up, either, as I had to bond with her.

  Sometimes, turning a problem into a feature can help. I sacrificed a silver teacup, spoils from war, and had it turned into a silver collar. Hopefully that would mark her as different and allow us some slack.

  Also, with a fortune round her neck, she wouldn’t be so quick to try and run away. Being clever, she’d soon realise that a single swing of a sword would make someone a very nice instant profit. In fact, it was enough to tempt even an honest citizen.

  It might have worked better, though, if she hadn’t seen the thugs and hadn’t figured out my role in their deaths. I saw the knowledge in her eyes, followed by the swell of fear and rage.

  “It’s so pretty. I love it.”

  My heart sank as Lind dropped her straightforward defiance for covert rebellion. That was much harder to deal with. Clearly Lind was cunning, capable of deception. It meant I’d have to work twice as hard to tame my thrall.

  I mentally steeled myself, but I didn’t show it. I stroked her hair, encouraging her, “I thought you would, tender beauty.”

  Lind bowed her head submissively, but I wasn’t fooled. This was going to be a battle.

  Chapter Six: Lind

  People had stared when Ware had eaten with me, but the silver collar had them open-mouthed. They gazed, pointed and gossiped as we left the smith and walked across the city. They couldn’t have made more of a fuss if I’d been the bearded Siamese twins of Haven.

  Ware pretended not to notice, but he was secretly pleased. I could tell by the slight smile that he enjoyed making a stir. Underneath, though, the fletcher was unhappy about something. His lips turned up, but his eyes were steel, just like the grip on my wrist. He didn’t seem to be inclined to take it out on me, but I remembered the thugs and decided to be careful.

  We made our way to the merchant quarter, and Ware headed straight for the Guild House. The thrall who opened the door was richly dressed and super snooty. She’d clearly been chosen for her looks: golden hair, blue eyes and skin the colour of milk. Even so, her eyes widened when she spotted my collar.

  Ware was straight into it, announcing, “I am Ware Fletcher from Llanfaes.” The pride was almost palpable. “I wish to speak with the steward. Is Master Duggard here?”

  “Master Ware, the master fletcher?” Yes, once again the name alone was the cause of crawling servility. “Please, sir, enter.”

  The steward was a lanky redhead with a bushy beard. I examined Jarvis’ cousin carefully. Like the pig, this one had a certain slyness around the eyes and a weakness of chin. He was sitting at a desk, counting money. Typical Guild.

  The nobles run the cities, but the Guildsmen own them. That’s because the Guilds control everything that makes us civilised: from the perfumed soap in your bath and the medicine for your colicky baby to the jewellery you buy. Anything useful or luxurious is run by the Guild. They control even the sale of honey.

  The Guilds are powerful and greedy. They infest the cities, creaming money off every trade that takes place and controlling who does what. You can’t be a smith, baker, tanner, mason, fletcher or any other kind of craftsman without being a Guild apprentice first and joining as a member after.

  And guess what? It’s practically impossible to be taken on as jobs go from father to son. And if you’re a woman, you’re dirt under their feet.

  So the Guilds are like thieving, bullying mercenaries, only legal ones with lots of power. They’re also avid thrall traders. My owners had included a baker, a tanner, and a smith, all Guildsmen, so my hatred for these money-grubbing whoresons ran deep. But with Ware being on edge, I kept quiet. I didn’t want to make him mad and get bashed.

  “Master Ware,” Duggard the beard was loud in his welcome, but his eyes were hard. “You honour us with your presence.” That was a lie. “It must be years.”

  “Seven,” Ware smiled nicely, but the word was ice, a declaration of war.

  The steward toyed with a letter opener. “You’re not with an army this time.”

  “There’s no cause for panic, Steward.” Yes, definitely war. “I see you rebuilt the Guild House.”

  There was an evil silence. Somehow Ware had been involved in the destruction of the Guild House. As rebuilding it would have meant leveraging taxes from Guildsmen, that made me smile. On the inside, though, just in case. Ware was furious still, even though he was smiling sweetly.

  “And you’ve been abroad these last two years.” Duggard showed all his teeth, but he was definitely gritting them. “You were in the far eastern continent. In prison, I understand.”

  That had me staring! Finicky Ware in a rat-infested hole? It seemed impossible.

  Ware just shrugged. “You shouldn’t listen to gossip, Steward.”

  So he hadn’t been in jail. Or he had, but wasn’t admitting it. It was impossible to tell, and I was dying to know the truth.

  As I was wondering what on earth Ware had been doing, the steward’s thrall came in, bearing a tray with two goblets made from the best Brighthelme glass. From the rich scent, she’d brought the best Caern vintage, too. Clearly she hadn’t picked up on the fact that her master loathed his guest.

  “Violet, what in the blazes—” The steward almost growled with frustration, but he collected himself and waved for Ware to sit down. “You will have wine?”

  “With pleasure.”

  Ware then pushed me into a seat, which had the steward pop-eyed because I should’ve been left at the front door like a hat or a parcel. The steward refused to say anything about having a silver-collared thrall dressed like a spoilt Guild princess sitting on his velvet chair, but it almost killed him. His hatred for Ware was clearly running deep, and it was mutual.

  I was wondering what the hell was going on. Clearly these two were sworn enemies, and at one point they’d battled. It must have been the Llanfaes-Caern dispute. That happened about seven years ago, when I was still with the jongleur.

  God knows what had started that particular war. The nobles are constantly battling each other. Caern is rich and stuck on a mountaintop, but with Llanfaes being mercenary central, they’d crushed their enemy in less than a week.

  Clearly Ware had been in the thick of it, and that was weird. Disputes are common, and Guild craftsmen supply arms so they can cream off profits from every bloody engagement, but they don’t get involved in dirty, dangerous work like fighting.

  Also, the Guilds always hang together, no matter who is disputing, because war destroys trade, which threatens their riches. If Ware had picked a side and fought, he would be seen as a traitor by his Guild brothers, especially seeing their headquarters had been razed.

  To defy the Guild was insanely dangerous. Yet Ware had done it. Also, he’d walked into Caern all by himself, yet he must have a thousand enemies here seeing he’d fought against them. The Gu
ild would hate him, as well as the old soldiers and anyone who’d lost someone during the fighting.

  I’d been right: Ware Fletcher was a complete and utter loon, capable of anything.

  “Lovely glass,” he was examining the goblet, admiring its beauty. “From Brighthelme?”

  “Indeed,” the steward was smug.

  “The wine is excellent, too.”

  The charm was flowing back. Ware was working his oily magic.

  “It’s ten-year-old Caern vintage, purple ribbon.” The steward plumped with pride and then spoilt it, remarking cattily, “You don’t have its like in Llanfaes.”

  “No, but that’s okay. We had our fill of it seven years ago.” Ware lifted the goblet, looking at the wine. “It’s fortunate you were able to buy some back.”

  Okay, Ware was bitchier than a she-wolf with pups.

  Duggard was shaking with rage, but he kept a rein on his temper. “You are passing through, back on your way to Llanfaes.”

  “I’ll be here a month, a commission for the duke.”

  “Our own fletchers serve him. We have no need of you.”

  “The constable arranged it.”

  The steward was stymied. He shrugged like he didn’t care. “You will tithe, of course.”

  See? The Guild take ten percent off the top of every deal.

  “Of course.” Ware was casual. “For this job, standard Guild rates apply.”

  “What?” Duggard was out of his chair and yelling. “You’re a master craftsman! What do you mean, standard Guild rates apply?”

  “The constable drives a hard bargain.”

  “This is unacceptable!”

  “And afterwards I’m conducting a group to Tanweld. As bowman.”

  “What?! A guildsman working as a common soldier?” The steward totally lost it. “Are you out of your mind? You can’t do that!”

  Ware just sat there, in his embroidered hose, richly cut tunic and with his shiny polished longbow at his side. The idea of him grubbing along like a common mercenary was ridiculous—except I was remembering the rippling muscles and the steel-edged boots. Ware could take care of himself, and he’d probably be an excellent escort, too.

  “I’ll be earning top rates as bowman.” Ware was pouring oil on fire. “Or they may appoint me as a ranger.”