Theft of Swords

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Did they also mention I left before the monks did? Or that I wasn’t there when the brutes grabbed them?” Arista pushed off the desk, causing her uncle to step back. She casually slipped past him and walked to the window, which looked down at the castle courtyard. A man was chopping and stacking wood for the coming winter. “I’ll admit it wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done, but I never thought they would escape. They were just two men!” She continued to stare out the window absently. Her gaze drifted from the woodcutter to the trees, which had lost all their leaves. “Now, is that all you wanted to know? Do I have the chancellor’s permission to return to my duties as queen of this realm?”

  “Of course, my dear.” Braga’s tone turned warmer. The princess left the window and moved toward the exit. “Oh, but there is one last thing.”

  Arista paused at the doorway and glanced over her shoulder. “What is it?”

  “Wylin also reports the dagger used to kill your father is missing from the storeroom. Do you have any idea where it might be?”

  She turned to face him. “Are you now accusing me of stealing?”

  “I’m simply asking, Arista,” the archduke huffed in irritation. “You don’t need to be so obstinate with me. I’m merely trying to do my job.”

  “Your job? I think you are doing much more than your job. No, I don’t know anything about the dagger, and stop pestering me with accusations thinly veiled as inquiries. Do it again and we shall soon see who rules here!”

  Arista stormed out of Braga’s office, leaving Hilfred to jog a step to keep up with her. She promptly crossed the keep to the residences. Asking Hilfred to stand guard, she rushed up the steps of her personal tower. She entered her room, slammed the door shut, and locked it with a tap from the gemstone in her necklace.

  Breathing heavily, she paused a moment, with her back pressed against the door. She tried to steady herself. She felt as if the room were swaying like a young tree in a breeze. She had been feeling that way often lately. The world seemed to be constantly swirling around her. Yet this was her sanctuary, her refuge. Here was the one place she felt safe, where she kept her secrets, where she could practice her magic, and where she dreamed her dreams.

  Although she was a princess, her room was very modest. She had seen the bedrooms of the daughters of earls, and even one baroness had a finer abode. By comparison, hers was quite small and austere. It was, however, by her own choice. She could have her pick of the larger, more ornately decorated bedrooms in the royal wing, but she chose the tower for its isolation and the three windows, which afforded a view of all the lands around the castle. Thick burgundy drapes extended from ceiling to floor, hiding the bare stone. She had hoped they might keep the chill out as well but unfortunately they did not. Winter nights were often brutally cold despite her efforts to keep the little fireplace roaring. Still the soft presence of the drapes made it seem warmer just the same. Four giant pillows rested on a tiny canopy bed. There was no room for a larger one. Next to the bed was a small table with a pitcher inside a washbasin. Beside it stood a wardrobe, which had been passed down to her from her mother along with her hope chest. The solidly made trunk with a formidable lock sat at the foot of her bed. The only other pieces of furniture in the room were her dressing table, a mirror, and a small chair.

  She crossed the room and sat at her dressing table. The mirror, which stood beside it, was of lavish design. The looking glass was clearer than most and was framed on either side by two elegant swans swimming away from one another. This too had once belonged to her mother. She fondly remembered nights sitting before it, watching its reflection as her mother brushed her hair. On the table, she kept her collection of hairbrushes. She had many, one from each of the kingdoms her father had visited on matters of state, including a pearl-handled brush from Wesbaden and an ebony one with fine fish-bone teeth from the exotic port city of Tur Del Fur. Looking at them now brought back memories of days when her father would return home with a hand hidden behind his back and a twinkle in his eye. Now the swan mirror and the brushes were all that remained of her parents.

  With a sudden sweep of her hand, she threw the brushes across the room. Why had it come to this? She cried softly; it did not matter. She had work yet to do. There were things she had started that must now be finished. Braga was getting more suspicious each day—time was running out.

  She unlocked and opened her hope chest. From inside, she removed the bundle of purple cloth she had hidden there. How ironic, she thought, for her to have used that cloth. Her father had wrapped the last hairbrush he had given her in it. She laid the bundle on her bed and carefully unfolded it to reveal the rondel dagger. The blade was still stained with her father’s blood.

  “Only one more job left for you to do,” she told the knife.

  The Silver Pitcher Inn was a simple cottage located on the outskirts of the province of Galilin. Fieldstone and mortar composed the lower half, while whitewashed oak beams supported a roof of thick field thatch, gone gray with time. Windows divided into diamond panes of poor-quality glass underscored by heldaberry bushes lined the sides. Several horses stood tied to the posts out front, with still more visible in the small stable to the side.

  “Seems like a busy place for so far out,” Royce observed.

  Traveling east, they had ridden all day. Just as before, the trip through the wilds proved exhausting. As the evening light had faded, they had reached the farmland of Galilin. They passed through tilled fields and meadows until at last they stumbled onto a country lane. Because none of them knew for certain where they were, they decided to follow the road to a landmark. To their pleasant surprise, the Silver Pitcher Inn was the first building they found.

  “Well, Majesty,” Hadrian said, “you should be able to find your way back to the castle from here, if that’s still your destination.”

  “It’s about time I got back,” Alric told him, “but not before I eat. Does this place have decent food?”

  “Does it matter?” Hadrian chuckled. “I’d be happy for a bit of three-day-ripe field mouse at this point. Come on, we can have a last meal together, which, since you have no money on you, I’ll be paying for. I hope you’ll let me deduct it from my taxes.”

  “No need. We’ll tack it on to the job as an additional expense,” Royce interjected. He looked at Alric and added, “You haven’t forgotten you still owe us one hundred tenents, have you?”

  “You’ll get paid. I’ll have my uncle set the money aside. You can pick it up at the castle.”

  “I hope you don’t mind if we wait a few days, just to make sure.”

  “Of course not.” The prince nodded.

  “And if we send a representative to pick up the money for us?” Royce asked. Alric stared at him. “One who has no idea how to find us in case he is captured?”

  “Oh please, aren’t you being just a tad bit too cautious now?”

  “No such thing,” Royce replied.

  “Look!” Myron shouted suddenly, pointing at the stable.

  All three of them jumped fearfully at the sudden outburst.

  “There’s a brown horse!” the monk said in amazement. “I didn’t know they came in brown!”

  “By Mar, monk!” Alric shook his head in disbelief, a gesture Royce and Hadrian mirrored.

  “Well, I didn’t,” Myron replied sheepishly. His excitement, however, was still evident when he added, “What other colors do they come in? Is there a green horse? A blue one? I would so love to see a blue one.”

  Royce went inside and returned a few minutes later. “Everything looks all right. A bit crowded, but I don’t see anything too out of the ordinary. Alric, be sure to keep your hood up and either spin your ring so the insignia is on the inside of your hand, or better yet, remove it altogether until you get home.”

  Just inside the inn was a small stone foyer, where several cloaks and coats hung on a forest of wall pegs. A handful of walking sticks of various shapes and sizes rested on a rack to one side. Above, a shel
f held an assortment of tattered hats and gloves.

  Myron stood just inside the door, gaping at his surroundings. “I read about inns,” he said. “In Pilgrims’ Tales, a group of wayward travelers spend a night at an inn, where they decided to tell stories of their journeys. They made a wager for the best one. It’s one of my favorites, although the abbot didn’t much care for my reading it. It was a bit bawdy. There were several accounts about women in those pages and not in a wholesome fashion either.” He scanned the crowd excitedly. “Are there women here?”

  “No,” Hadrian replied sadly.

  “Oh. I was hoping to see one. Do they keep them locked up as treasures?”

  Hadrian and the others just laughed.

  Myron looked at them, mystified, then shrugged. “Even so, this is wonderful. There’s so much to see! What’s that smell? It’s not food, is it?”

  “Pipe smoke,” Hadrian explained. “It probably was not a popular activity at the abbey.”

  A half dozen tables filled the small room. A slightly askew stone fireplace with silver tankards dangling from mantel hooks dominated one wall. Next to it stood the bar, which was built from rough and unfinished tree logs complete with bark. Some fifteen patrons lined the room, a handful of whom watched the group enter with passing interest. Most were rough stock, woodsmen, laborers, and traveling tinkers. The pipe smoke came from a few gruff men seated near the log bar, and a cloud of it hovered at eye level throughout the room, producing an earthy smell that mingled with that of the burning wood of the fireplace and the sweet scent of baking bread. Royce led them to an open round table near the window, where they could see the horses outside.

  “I’ll order us something,” Hadrian volunteered.

  “This is a beautiful place,” Myron declared, his eyes darting about the room. “There is so much going on, so many conversations. Speaking at meals wasn’t allowed at the abbey, so it was always deathly silent. Of course, we got around that rule by using sign language. It used to drive the abbot crazy, because we were supposed to be focusing on Maribor, but there are times when you simply have to ask someone to pass the salt.”

  No sooner had Hadrian reached the bar than he felt someone press up behind him menacingly.

  “You should be more careful, my friend,” a man whispered softly.

  Hadrian turned slowly and chuckled when he saw who it was. “I don’t have to, Albert. I have a shadow who watches my back.” Hadrian gestured toward Royce, who had slipped up behind the viscount.

  Albert, who wore a dirty, tattered cloak with the hood pulled up, turned to face a scowling Royce. “I was just making a joke.”

  “What are you doing here?” Royce whispered.

  “Hiding—” Albert started, but he fell quiet when the bartender came over with a pitcher of foaming beer and four mugs.

  “Have you eaten?” Hadrian asked.

  “No.” Albert looked longingly at the pitcher.

  “Could I get another mug and another plate of supper?” Hadrian asked the hefty man behind the bar.

  “Sure thing,” the bartender responded as he added another mug. “I’ll bring the food over when it’s ready.”

  They returned to the table with the viscount trailing them. Albert looked curiously at Myron and Alric for a moment.

  “This is Albert Winslow, an acquaintance of ours,” Hadrian explained as Albert pulled a chair over to their table. “These are—”

  “Clients,” Royce cut in quickly, “so no business talk, Albert.”

  “We’ve been out of town … traveling, the last few days,” Hadrian said. “Anything been going on in Medford?”

  “A lot,” Albert said quietly as Hadrian poured the ale. “King Amrath is dead.”

  “Really?” Hadrian feigned surprise.

  “The Rose and Thorn has been shut down. Soldiers tore through the Lower Quarter. A bunch of folks were rounded up and sent to prison. There’s a small army surrounding Essendon Castle and the entrances to the city. I got out just in time.”

  “An army around the castle? What for?” Alric asked.

  Royce motioned for him to calm down. “What about Gwen?”

  “She’s okay—I think,” Albert replied, looking curiously at Alric. “At least she was when I left. They questioned her and roughed up a few of her girls but nothing more than that. She’s been worried about you. I think she expected you to return from … traveling … days ago.”

  “Who are ‘they’?” Royce asked, his voice several degrees colder.

  “Well, a lot of them were royal guards, but they had a whole bunch of new friends as well. Remember those strangers in town we talked about a few days ago? They were marching with some of the royal guards, so they must be working for the crown prince, I would think.” Again, Albert glanced at Alric. “They were combing the entire city and asking questions about a pair of thieves operating out of the Lower Quarter. That’s when I made myself scarce. I left town and headed west. It was the same all over. Patrols are everywhere. They have been ripping apart inns and taverns, hauling people into the streets. I’ve stayed one step ahead of them so far. Last thing I heard, a curfew was ordered after nightfall in Medford.”

  “So, you just kept heading west?” Hadrian asked.

  “Until I got here. This is the first place I came to that hadn’t been ransacked.”

  “Which would explain the large turnout,” Hadrian mentioned. “Mice leave a sinking ship.”

  “Yeah, a lot of people decided Medford wasn’t so friendly anymore,” Albert explained. “I figured I would stick around here for a few days and then start back and test the waters as I go.”

  “Has there been any word concerning the prince or princess?” Alric asked.

  “Nothing in particular,” the viscount responded. He took a drink, his eyes lingering on the prince.

  The rear door to the inn opened and a slim figure entered. He was filthy, dressed in torn rags and a hat that looked more like a sack. He clutched a small purse tightly to his chest and paused for only a moment, his eyes darting around the room nervously. He walked quickly to the rear of the bar, where the innkeeper filled a sack of food in exchange for the purse.

  “What do we have here?” asked a burly fellow from one of the tables as he got to his feet. “Take off the hat, elf. Show us them ears.”

  The ragged pauper clung to his bag tightly and looked toward the door. When he did, another man from the bar moved to block his path.

  “I said take it off!” the burly man ordered.

  “Leave him alone, Drake,” the innkeeper told him. “He just came in for a bit of food. He ain’t gonna eat it here.”

  “I can’t believe you sell to them, Hall. Haven’t you heard they’re killing people up in Dunmore? Filthy things.” Drake reached out to pull the hat off but the figure aptly dodged his reach. “See how they are? Fast little things when they want to be, but lazy bastards if you try to put ’em to work. They ain’t nothing but trouble. You let ’em in here, and one day they’ll end up stabbing you in the back and stealing you blind.”

  “He ain’t stealing anything,” Hall said. “He comes in here once a week to buy food and stuff for his family. This one has a mate and a kid. Poor things are barely alive. They’re living in the forest. It’s been a month since the town guard in Medford drove them out.”

  “Yeah?” Drake said. “If he lives in the forest, where’s he getting the money to pay for the food? You stealing it, ain’t you, boy? You robbing decent people? Breaking into farms? That’s why the sheriffs drive ’em out of the cities, ’cause they’re all thieves and drunks. The Medford guard don’t want ’em on their streets, and I don’t want ’em on ours!”

  A man standing behind the vagabond snatched his hat off, revealing thick matted black hair and pointed ears.

  “Filthy little elf,” Drake said. “Where’d you get the money?”

  “I said leave him be, Drake,” Hall persisted.

  “I think he stole it,” Drake said, and pulled a dagger fr
om his belt.

  The unarmed elf stood fearfully still, his eyes darting back and forth between the men who menaced him and the door to the inn.

  “Drake?” Hall said in a lower, more serious tone. “You leave him be, or I swear you’ll never be served here again.”

  Drake looked up to see Hall, who was considerably larger than he, holding a butcher knife.

  “You wanna go find him in the woods later, that’s your business. But I won’t have no fighting in my place.” Drake put the dagger away. “Go on, get out,” Hall told the elf, who carefully moved past the men and slipped back out the door.

  “Was that really an elf?” Myron asked, astonished.

  “They’re half-breeds,” Hadrian replied. “Most people don’t believe pure-blood elves exist anymore.”

  “I actually pity them,” Albert said. “They were slaves back in the days of the empire. Did you know that?”

  “Well, actually, I—” Myron started, but he stopped short when he saw the slight shake of Royce’s head and the look on his face.

  “Why pity them?” Alric asked. “They were no worse off than the serfs and villeins we have today. And now they are free, which is more than the villeins can say.”

  “Villeins are bound to the land, true, but they aren’t slaves,” Albert said, correcting him. “They can’t be bought and sold; their families aren’t torn apart, and they aren’t bred like livestock and kept in pens or butchered for entertainment. I heard they used to do that to the elves, and sure, they’re free now, but they aren’t allowed to be part of society. They can’t find work, and you just saw what they have to go through just to get food.”

  Royce’s expression had grown colder than usual, and Hadrian knew it was time to change the subject. “You wouldn’t know it to look at him,” he said, “but Albert here is a nobleman. He’s a viscount.”

  “Viscount Winslow?” Alric said. “Of what holding?”

  “Sad to say, none,” Albert replied before taking a large drink of ale. “Granddad, Harlan Winslow, lost the family plot when he fell out of favor with the King of Warric. Although, truth be told, I don’t think it was ever anything to boast about. From what I heard, it was a rocky patch of dirt on the Bernum River. King Ethelred of Warric gobbled it up a few years ago.