SWORDS (The Paladin's Thief Book 3)

by Benjamin Hewett

  “I don’t,” the other Mitre snaps, though some of his heat is suddenly gone. “He’s done nothing but drag this abbey’s name through the mud, and now the offense is too obvious to defend. There is no excuse for these actions, and . . .”

  “And,” Father Loring cuts in, voice rising, “no logic strong enough to penetrate your thick skull!”

  Father Barrett stands up, the image of a baker with his red face, white frock, and his dough-pounding fists clenched at his side. “Perhaps we should have a second trial today!” he shouts.

  “You think he would defend himself?” the Mitre Loris snorts. “What a fine example we Mitres set this year. Death after death, and no one will listen to reason.”

  There’s a movement in the corner of my eye, and I catch a grim smile ghosting across Father Jeremiah’s face as he intervenes. “That’s enough, brothers. There is wisdom in both your words.” His voice is meant to be conciliatory, but it rings like iron in my ears. Finally Father Barrett nods, a bit shamefacedly at being called down. Father Loring simply turns in his chair back toward Cobalt, sniffing in disgust.

  “Call your vote, Hugues,” Jeremiah says again.

  Father Hugues glances around, disappointment plain on his face. His giant voice rolls out like thunder. “Then I call for the vote of the council, according to our bylaws. Mitre Lodgis, what is your sentence?”

  “Death.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Murder of innocents.”

  “Hardly innocent,” I can hear Cobalt muttering.

  “Mitre Procurus?”

  “Expulsion.”

  “Mitre Servitas?”

  “Expulsion.”

  “Mitre Animus?”

  Father Hugues answers his own call. “Expulsion.”

  “Mitre Tresorus?”

  “Expulsion.”

  “Mitre Tactus?”

  “Expulsion.”

  “Mitre Clinicus.”

  There is a slight pause as newly accepted Father Hawkwood shifts in his seat and glances at Father Jeremiah. “Probation.”

  “On what grounds?”

  Hawkwood clears his throat. “Additional evidence mitigating the severity of the charges. Evidence of aiding a brother in need. Desire to review the charges more fully, in conjunction with Brother Magnus’s testimony. And I am not as . . . familiar . . . with this cadet’s record.”

  “Mitre Loris?”

  There is a much longer pause as Father Loring stares over the dais at Cobalt, who stares back at him defiantly.

  “Mitre Loris?” Father Hugues probes again.

  “Probation.” The word is almost a whisper.

  “On what grounds?”

  Master Loring’s voice is even softer, directed straight at Cobalt. “Because I feel it should be so.”

  Around us, several of the brothers shake their heads, along with Father Barrett, but Father Hugues calls the final vote:

  “Altus Mitre?”

  “Probation.”

  There’s a ripple in the crowd, mostly frustration.

  “On what grounds?”

  “Pan’s Grace.” Father Jeremiah doesn’t even look at Cobalt when he says this. Instead he reaches for the ornate staff and pounds it on the ground. The light around Cobalt and the dais fades slowly, and only then do people seem to relax.

  Magnus looks relieved. “Not convicted,” he whispers to me.

  “But it was a vote,” Lucinda argues, confused. “One, Five, Three.”

  “In the Abbey, mercy only takes three witnesses,” Magnus responds.

  Without a word, Cobalt doubles over to retrieve his sword. The sound of it scraping across the stone at the foot of the dais grates against my ears. Without care or apology, he turns and stalks away, not waiting for any official pronouncement. Several people stand to bar his path, hands on swords, but a motion from the Altus Mitre clears the way. Cobalt’s sword is black with crusted blood as he sheaths the massive thing, dark and evil. The scabbard is bloodstained, as if the weapon was baptized in an ocean of it. It’s obvious the Mitres are uncomfortable with it. The word ‘unbecoming’ comes to mind.

  Cobalt scowls at everyone he passes, including Magnus.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” I whisper to no one in particular.

  Once out the double doors, I don’t go to the bathroom, though Pan might fry me for lying in his holy house.

  Instead I follow Cobalt.

  There’s a bit of Pale Tom in his ironic expression and it captivates me, worries me. He isn’t like Magnus or the others. He’s insightful and cynical, and the smile on his face is as sour as Pale Tom’s ever was. It screams of disappointment and betrayal, and something much more personal than just “charges unbecoming.” His demeanor spells trouble for my new allies. I’m not about relocate again just because some bitter cadet wants to stir up trouble in Fortrus.

  I tail him for a good hour, straight down into the streets of lower Fortrus. He looks back once or twice, but never with any real intent, and I’m able to maintain anonymity. Lucinda’s much more natural at tailing. She knows when to bend over a bolt of cloth or slip into an alleyway while pretending to have lost her way. She always breaks continuity, not just for the person being tailed, but for anyone else watching. You’d never know that she was following someone, not without searching for it carefully. Lucinda and her target just happen to end up at the same place, with her hand in his pocket. I try to do the same today. The cold, slushy streets don’t help, never mind that the sun is suddenly out and hot again. Craziest weather.

  “Cobalt, my man,” says a voice.

  I stop slowly, glancing from the corner of my eye while selecting (and paying for) a few carrots from the vegetable cart in front of me. For the last few minutes we’ve been wandering along a ring street that runs immediately parallel to the upper Fortrus wall. I’m startled to notice how far around the circle we’ve come, nearly half the distance to Westgate.

  I’m even more startled to notice a small gate in the wall at the end of an alley. It’s a short opening, just taller than me, and I realize that it could easily be hidden by a large pile of refuse or stones and used for sorties, if needed, in times of siege. I wonder how many people know of its existence. The man who has hailed Cobalt is at the mouth of the alley, behind a large pile of rope.

  The rope-man has a weather-beaten face, and the sun is in his eyes and making him squint. His beard is patchy and short with plenty of gray, and his stringy hair hangs past his ear, as limp as stewed collard greens.

  Cobalt’s face, half-turned, plays revulsion.

  “What do you want, Rope-man?”

  “I hear you got a mission.”

  “How would you know that? The tribunal probably isn’t even finished yet.” Cobalt doesn’t bother to hide his contempt. I take another three steps into earshot and then bend over in the shadows to fiddle with my boots.

  “Oh. Not from them.” The Rope-man spits. “You know who my friends are, and they’re a damn site more dangerous than those ninnies up the road.” He points to the abbey. “Sending their innocent off to be murdered? Ha! At least my friends know how to stay alive and share the spoils. Not like this abbey. ‘Cream to the Mitres,’ ya know?”

  I risk a glance to see how Cobalt is taking this, switching boots, irritated when a farmer pauses between us to examine the rope on the table. But I can see that Rope-man has struck a chord. Cobalt’s face is angry.

  “You think the Mitres benefit from this? You think anyone benefits from this war?” he growls.

  “The people benefit. We’ve had enough of the Abbey’s fancy talk about peace and healing. It’s time to pull down the lies and the pretendin’. You know there hasn’t been a healin’ in two months?”

  “That’s not such a long time, if it’s the likes of you asking,” Cobalt retorts. “I wouldn’t heal you either, even if I could.” But the timbre of the conversation seems to be disturbing to Cobalt, much more so than the trial. “There’s a new Mitre in town,” Co
balt says, regrouping. “Who is to say he won’t just pick up where Mother Ealeannor left off?”

  “I wouldn’t count on it.” Rope-man grins. “Didn’t some Hawkwood fella get a little friendly with your mother once?”

  Cobalt moves so fast I almost miss it, his giant hand catching Rope-man’s tunic, jerking him close. He growls something into Rope-man’s ear, but the man simply grins. “Suit yourself, Cobalt. But you’ve got a job to do before you gut me.”

  He pushes a worn rope into Cobalt’s chest. “Yours. Free of charge. Get it done, and your debt is repaid, and nobody comes looking for you ever again. You’ll know when to do it. One light if it’s done, and two lights if it ain’t. And bring me his head. If you don’t do that, I’ll never let you through this gate again.”

  Cobalt draws up to his full height and releases the man slowly, defeated. “I’ll bring you his head,” he sneers. “But don’t come asking me for any more favors, fungus-brain.”

  The Rope-man giggles and scampers away, leaving the rest of the rope unattended.

  “Hellfire take me, I will gut you if I see you again.”

  After that Cobalt wanders aimlessly and I give up following him. I know what I needed to know. Cobalt is a Nightshade, and he’s on the job.

  The banquet that night leaves nothing to be desired, besides the fact that Lucinda and I are supposed to sit with the other cadets. Timmy and Val join us, and mostly we listen to the cadets regale each other with tales of sparring, preaching, saving souls, and occasionally brawling. That’s when I mention Magnus. The others laugh a bit at that. “He’s a devil in a fight alright,” a cadet named Gunter says, chuckling, “but the only way you put yourself at risk is to frown and pull a knife on him, and no one in Fortrus is dumb enough to do that.”

  “The frown is essential,” says another. “You have to exaggerate a bit, like this!” He pulls a hideous face.

  The other warriors laugh. Magnus isn’t well regarded here either, it seems.

  Both Lucinda and I decide to leave early and are glad to get going, before we pick a few of our own fights. These men don’t understand what a breath of fresh air Magnus brings to a place like Lower Ector. His optimism and kindness are two of his most endearing qualities.

  But then we find Magnus sitting alone at his own table. A few people drift by to offer congratulations, but for the most part his defense of Cobalt seems to have been a bit unpopular. He’s supposed to be the one to see problems in black and white, to be naïve, and yet he’s the only one to say a kind word on behalf of the blackest among them. They don’t know how to receive it, and it seems to have shaken the establishment to its very core.

  When the last of his dubious well-wishers slip away to more jovial tables, Magnus stirs his food morosely. “This was supposed to be a triumph,” he says to no one in particular. “I’m smarter now. I’m a better judge of character than I was. But maybe I did the wrong thing today.”

  “Maybe?” I say. “I think Cobalt is a Nightshade.”

  Magnus looks up at that. “Why?”

  There’s too much noise in here for anyone else to hear me except Lucinda, and lip-reading isn’t the sort of skill that a good Paladin would have. I tell them about tailing Cobalt into the market after the tribunal.

  Magnus shakes his head. “He’s trouble, but he isn’t a Nightshade. We’ve been friends ever since his parents brought him to the Abbey. We even bunked together for a while.”

  “A friend who thinks your name is ‘Maggotus?’”

  Magnus frowns. “He’s called me that from day one. He calls everyone stupid names, except during ceremony. Says we need to be reminded of our humanity.”

  “He’s wearing a ring!” I insist. “It’s on the chain around his neck. Aren’t you supposed to turn those in to the Mitre Loris?”

  “Yes, but Pan’s Beard, Teacup! Cobalt’s never followed the rules. It’s a full-time job just keeping him in line. And you wear a ring sometimes!”

  I slam my tankard down on the table. “Magnus! Somebody inside the abbey murdered Jens and Yarla. The shoe fits. And I don’t doubt for a second that Cobalt could behead a man.”

  “He certainly can,” Magnus says slowly, but doesn’t elaborate. “But he can’t be a Nightshade, I prevented that. He wasn’t just joining for the rings. He said there were other reasons.” Magnus freezes, surprised like he’s let something slip.

  A chill spreads through me. “What?”

  “Nothing.” Magnus’s face flushes red, embarrassed.

  “Nobody ‘prevents’ someone from becoming a Nightshade.”

  Lucinda grabs Magnus by the arm. “Teacup’s right, mister. I didn’t come all the way to Fortrus to get stabbed in the back by a buddy you trust way too much for your own good.”

  Magnus looks genuinely anguished. “He told me not to tell anyone, least of all Paladins. He said they wouldn’t understand.”

  “We aren’t Paladins. And we’re your real friends.”

  From the head of the room, we can see a trio of Mitres headed our way, heaping plates in hand, sent by Father Jeremiah perhaps, to fellowship the newly accepted brother.

  Magnus leans in. “Cobalt and I didn’t go to Byzantus just to pilfer the ringery. We went to join. We went to bring them down from the inside.”

  I realize that Magnus has grown up since Ector. He may not be willing to lie yet, but he’s certainly learned to omit certain details. The plan has a certain grisly sense to it. It would be much easier, and maybe even safer, to join than to attempt to abscond with a bunch of relics, spitting in the face of the dark guild in its own headquarters. “Would you commit murder to maintain your cover?” I say.

  “No.” Magnus shakes his head. “It was foolish of me to even consider joining.”

  “Would Cobalt?”

  His silence is answer enough.

  We beg our leave when the Mitres arrive, go our separate ways, me to find my reveling twins, who don’t really understand the portent of the goings-on and are gathering with a few of the clerks in the kitchens. Lucinda promises to come find me once her schedule settles out. She’s been told to report to morning prayers with the rest of the abbey cadets. I’ve still got a day’s worth of work ironing out the apprenticeships Father Jeremiah promised for Val and Timmy before attending the daily prayer call. And if they think I’m going to learn to swing a sword or chant, they’ve got another think coming.

  There’s a fire in our fireplace when we arrive at our new home, and a scrap of paper on the mantle that Val slips into her pocket furtively when she thinks I’m not paying attention.

  I check it later, once she’s snuggled into bed—her very own—but all it says is “Welcome to Fortrus. Morning Prayers are at ninth bell.”

  That’s odd, because I know for a fact they’re at seventh bell.

  Ahh, well. . . Plenty of time to unravel this inaccuracy later. After weeks on the road, I don’t mind having a bed all to myself, too. I sink into a deep and holy sleep.

  SIX

  Settling in isn’t nearly as difficult as I had worried.

  It’s Father Loring himself that comes to interview me about the promised apprenticeships, saying that the quiet, dying tombs of both the library and the reliquary have grown too onerous. He glances around at our accommodations and smiles. “I remember living in the elder’s quarters,” he says, “before Aimée passed away.”

  “You were married?”

  “Yes. She was the finest Paladin this establishment has ever seen,” he says, sighing. “Says she saw something special in me when she found me, and wouldn’t let go until I’d promised to come here and give the Abbey a shot. She taught me how to read people. Said I had a gift.”

  There’s some truth to that. Every time he looks at me I have the odd feeling he’s learning something new. It’s a little creepy.

  “She brought you to the Abbey?”

  “Yes. She was always more devout than I.”

  “Did you ever have kids?”

  “Only one,” h
e replies sadly. “He died at a very young age. He would be older than Magnus now, if he were still living. It’s rare to find two people who both love the light as much as they love each other. Pan forgive me, I think I loved Aimée more. Children between Paladin couples are even rarer. Some say that stress and rigorous training make it difficult to conceive. Hugues and Fiodna are unusually blessed in that regard.”

  We talk some more, but I can tell this is a difficult topic for him, so I change the subject to business before his natural cynicism comes out. It really isn’t hard for us to place Timmy. His aptitudes and interests align perfectly, and there’s a boot maker just outside the Abbey gates who is open to an apprentice and has already met Timmy. He’s also a friend of the Mitres and comes highly recommended. A quick letter of recommendation and the deal is done.

  Val’s a bit more difficult. “She’s good with locks,” I say.

  Father Loring shakes his head. “I don’t think we want to go there yet, Mr. Steeps.”

  Timmy goes to work the very next day, and Val and I finally find a seamstress that we think might suit her. The seamstress isn’t like Carmen, but she seems kind enough, except when she notices Val’s stylish boots, and the way she gets distracted by the delivery boys coming and going in the back shop where we’re negotiating terms.

  After that, I have several full days of interviews with the other Mitres, except the Altus, whom I’ve already spoken with. They each want to know everything about me. Where did I grow up? Was I married when I had kids? How did my wife die? Am I sure I don’t intend to join the Order?

  Sometimes they even ask useful questions. What is your particular skill set? How did you meet Magnus, exactly? And from there, they all want to know every detail of every moment since that fateful wager in the Black Cat. It’s exhausting, stretching the truth so much, leaving out the bits about me robbing Tom to begin with, and about Lucinda being a pickpocket. In the end, they admit that swinging swords may be a little much for me, but that I still need to report to training for the physical benefits. For duties and general study, they assign me to the Mitre Procurus, Father Cartwright, and he seems genuinely pleased when I demonstrate that I can tell the difference between cut-rate leather and the well-cured variety. He’s twice as impressed when I describe the dominant styles of curing meats, identify flawed sackcloth, and pick the finest silk from a small bag of samples with varying quality.