SWORDS (The Paladin's Thief Book 3)

by Benjamin Hewett

  “Watch the entrances, Sticky-Fingers,” he says to me in a contented sort of growl.

  “You’re probably poisoned,” I say.

  “I am poisoned. I did some of it myself. I planned to die tonight, saving Maggotus, and I needed a few pain-free minutes. Thanks to you and Luce, I might live a few more days, do a bit more good. Now. Watch. The. Door.”

  “Magnus.” Lucinda’s voice sounds sharp in the sudden silence. Her face is white, paler than usual. “The man that went upstairs was trying to send some sort of beacon signal!”

  “Of course he was,” Cobalt gasps in pain. “Was it a double-flash or a single?”

  Her worry turns to contempt. “You did this! You knew!”

  “Course’ I did.” Cobalt is struggling to breathe now, involuntary muscle contractions cross-purposes to his lungs. His whole body is tight as a knot and shaking even as Lucinda puts the tip of her sword to his neck, pinning him against the ground as if he hadn’t already had enough violence for one night.

  “Easy, Lucinda,” I say. “He’s been poisoned with Aenese.”

  “He’s going to get a lot worse from me,” she shouts, trembling in anger.

  Cobalt’s starts whining through clenched teeth in a way that sounds almost like words.

  “What did he say?” Lucinda glances at me.

  I concentrate, replaying the sound in my head even as he repeats it. “He said, ‘One flash or two?’ ”

  Lucinda thinks for a few seconds. “It happened too fast. Maybe one flash?” Her sword digs a little, but Cobalt just laughs, though his muscle spasms draw it out like a tortured moan.

  He gestures towards the stair and lays down a steady rhythm on the floor boards with his hand, flaring his fingers every three-count.

  “He wants you to run the mirror,” I say to Lucinda. “One flash every three-count.”

  “Why should I trust you?” she asks Cobalt, pushing Magnus away with her free hand when he tries to wipe down Cobalt’s wounds with wine from a half-empty wine-skin.

  But Cobalt can’t talk through his clenched teeth.

  “Because he saved my life twice tonight, Lucinda.” Magnus says gently.

  Cobalt holds up three fingers. Three times.

  What is he playing at? I wonder. Does he hate both Nightshades and Paladins? Is he pitting the two parties against each other?

  Cobalt is able to sit up by the time Lucinda returns, managing both his pain and the deadening Aenese much better.

  “The whole city is flashing,” she says awkwardly.

  Cobalt grimaces. “They’re attacking the abbey tonight.”

  “The Abbey? Like Southreach?” Magnus stares at him. “You just called an attack on the Abbey? You pulled me from the Abbey in its time of need?” His hand reaches involuntarily for his own sword.

  Cobalt returns the stare, unflinching. “Don’t be an ass, Maggotus. One more man at the Abbey tonight isn’t going to make a difference, no matter what Father Jeremiah thinks. I needed you to help me recover something far more valuable.”

  Magnus’s voice is cold. “Enough to pay for betrayal?”

  “Yes, Maggotus,” Cobalt snarls. “Evidence worth your weight in gold, and worth more than your measly haul of oath rings.” Cobalt coughs and spits up blue again. “Good thing I didn’t die. It was a mistake for me to assume your pea-size brain would ransack this place for evidence with me dead and gone.”

  “I might have.” I say.

  “Yeah?” Cobalt responds. “I wasn’t sure if you’d make it here, Sticky-Fingers. Please tell me you warned someone before following us?”

  I nod sheepishly. “How did you know?”

  “Because you’re smart. Who did you tell?”

  “I told Father Animus’s son. He said he’d have the clerks raise a silent alarm if we weren’t back within the hour. By twelfth bell, only decoys will be left in the beds.”

  “Ha!” Cobalt almost laughs. “I can’t buy help like that! Dammit! I should have gone to Ector, too.” Cobalt takes two deep breaths and struggles to his feet, grips his weapon, and limps toward a large chest in the corner of the room. “Business first, then?”

  “Wait!” I shout. Any Nightshade chest will be trapped to the gills.

  He lifts his greatsword high above the chest. “No time,” he mutters. “And any day I live beyond this is a day in Pan’s grace. I will die free.”

  I hit the ground just as his sword descends. There’s a small rumble and then the chest explodes, throwing out hundreds of green metal splinters. Lucinda takes cover in the stairwell. Magnus shields his face, but he’s far enough away that nothing touches him. Cobalt ducks and turns, but is still thrown back, dropping his sword. “Teacup, go!” he yells.

  I scramble forward, hand snaking into the gaping hole. I avoid the humming field in the center that makes my arm tingle and yank out a heavy satchel before the trap can reset itself.

  I dive away as the trap explodes again and I feel metal shards cut the soles of my feet.

  Magnus makes a move toward me but I wave him off and toss him the recovered satchel. No sense in having him in harm’s way. I feel the burn of aenese-coated metal shards in my back too, though only enough to make my life awkward for the next few hours. I scrabble away from the chest, which continues to reset itself and explode, demolishing itself further with each iteration. Soon the wall behind it begins to sag. Cobalt crawls away from it slowly, shivering from his second or third round for the night. Makes me wonder what it would take to get him drunk.

  “Why Aenese?” I ask.

  “Questioning,” Cobalt responds. “The subject doesn’t die until you want him to die.”

  When I get far enough away from the chest, I look to Magnus. He’s got the contents of the satchel spread out on a clear spot on the floor behind the table and his face is white like a ghost. Among other things, there’s a white-painted ring there, with black on the inside, a Paladin’s lapel insignia in the shape of a sword, and an ink drawing with a very familiar style.

  He half stands and then falls back into his chair.

  Lucinda tries to wave him up. “Magnus, we have to go. You heard Cobalt. They’re attacking the Abbey.” Lucinda starts pulling on his arm, trying to lift him.

  “I . . .”

  It’s hard to imagine something that would take the fight out of Magnus, who was so ready just moments before. Then I get a good look at the drawing. The figure in the foreground is familiar. “I should know him,” I mutter, leaning heavily against the table, looking closer.

  There is a shrieking headache in my head that I can’t clear, but through it I hear the strange cackle of Pale Tom and the pieces finally click into place: Father Jeremiah has been to Byzantus. Just like Magnus. Years ago. Only he left his companion. Now that I see it, I can’t get the haunting image out of my mind. I can see a much younger Pale Tom being dragged toward the Oath Altar, toward unbreakable oaths, one arm outstretched, begging for an intervention. But Jeremiah’s face is dark and impassive as he moves away.

  My mind rejects this. Hawkwood was the Nightshade. Anyone could sketch such a scene as fake evidence. Perhaps Cobalt intended to plant these relics in Jeremiah’s study to sow dissention in the ranks. But the ink sketch at least has an authenticity to it. Both men’s faces are unmistakable, though with fewer scars and wrinkles. I gasp out my theories as my own dose of Aenese takes hold.

  “This looks old! See how the ink has begun to fade and the lines thicken?”

  I can’t help being excited. This is great evidence, for anyone with eyes to see. “There’s a rusty halo on some of these letters and holes instead of lines. Right here by the hood, for instance, where the artist inked in the shadow? The acid in the ink has, over time . . .”

  “Father Jeremiah is evil,” Magnus croaks.

  “He is,” Cobalt wheezes. “It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  “Really, Cobalt?” I say. “That’s what it means when you insult everyone at the abbey and work extra hard to be s
uspicious? And I’m pretty sure you’ve been working for him this whole time.”

  “We need to go,” Lucinda says more loudly.

  “The Altus Mitre is a Nightshade,” Magnus says again, immobile.

  Lucinda yanks Magnus by the hair. “I don’t give a damn if it’s my own mother, Magnus. We’re leaving now. You can have your little crisis of faith later, after we’ve saved our friends, and Teacup’s kids.”

  I don’t bother mentioning that we’ll be far too late to do anything of the sort, but I do scramble about, picking up a few essential items that shouldn’t be left lying around. From Lucinda’s description of lights flashing through the city, we will be the very last to arrive. I’d be okay with that, if it weren’t for my kids.

  Getting down the cliff is much easier with the ladder. Cobalt refuses a safety line. “Don’t touch that rope again,” he says. “It isn’t safe.”

  At the bottom, as Lucinda and Magnus vault onto their horses, Cobalt looks around frantically. “Where’s your horse, Teacup?” he shouts over the waves on the sand.

  “Guess I should have tied it up better,” I say. He doesn’t know that I hate horses, or that I rode with Lucinda.

  “That’s not funny, Teacup.” Lucinda says. She whistles at Cobalt and points to the empty spot in front of her.

  He stumbles over and heaves me up in front of her without so much as asking.

  “I hate horses.”

  “And horses hate you. Don’t curse mine, though. He’s already carried you across the city once tonight.” She kicks the beast in the flanks.

  We surge forward. I hold on tight. Her daily rides with Magnus have certainly paid off. Her back is straight and she seems confident behind me, though she still moves like she’s stepping through a list of mental steps. Her feet in the stirrups rise and fall with the jolting but she stays steady.

  I do the best I can. Mine is going to be sore tomorrow.

  Magnus flows with the rhythm of his horse, natural and almost subconscious. Cobalt, too. Born horsemen.

  Behind us, on the cliff, the house erupts in flames as we gallop away. I’ve heard that some traps can overheat when damaged and I don’t doubt that this one has. I can still feel the hum of its magic on the arm that snaked past it.

  NINE

  There’s still one more obstacle before we reach home: the city gates. Magnus manages to talk his way past the guards at the Outer Gate, but the Inner Gate is locked up tight and no amount of cajoling will convince the guards to open it. They’re scared and point toward the Abbey, where several houses have taken flame and the smoke can be seen rising even though it’s still night. “Altus Mitre’s orders,” they yell back at Magnus. “No one is to enter or leave until dawn.”

  Magnus continues yelling at them until Cobalt pulls him aside. “I know another way,” he says.

  My gut clenches tight. I know which gate he’s talking about, and the price. Somebody’s head. Magnus’s? I tighten my hand on my dagger. What if this was his plan all along? Get Magnus alone in a dark alley, kill him, expose the Altus Mitre, and take his place? My mind is doing backflips, and I look at Lucinda frantically but I can’t get her attention without drawing Cobalt’s until he tries his hand at the closed gate ten minutes later.

  Of course it is locked.

  While his back is turned, I point to Cobalt and then to Magnus and make a slitting gesture. She frowns and shakes her head, but moves to stand between Cobalt and Magnus just the same.

  While the others argue our next move over the noise clanging belfries across the city—alarms—I try my hand at the door. Lucinda’s too busy staying between Magnus and Cobalt to give me cover, but Magnus isn’t paying attention anyway.

  Unfortunately, the gate lock is too complex for the tools I’ve brought with me. It’s a double-key thing: one to put the tumblers in the proper place, and one to trip the tumblers. With the right tool or an hour I could do it, but we don’t have either.

  “It’s no good,” I whisper. I could easily climb my way out of this mess, but I don’t want to leave Lucinda and Magnus alone with a Nightshade, even a confused one like Cobalt.

  Suddenly there’s a small cry and a flutter of movement from the mouth of the alley behind us.

  “Wait here,” Cobalt says, but Lucinda pushes me after him.

  Cobalt takes the low road, and I take the high, leaping from a rain barrel to a jutting stone, and from there pulling myself up to the roof from the eaves.

  I cross the roof and jump to another roof just in time to see Cobalt bolt headlong down an alley nearby. Man really does seem to have a death wish tonight.

  I crest the roof of the building in time to catch the tail end of a shady conversation.

  “I told you to use the rope I gave you.”

  “I used the rope you said, Rope-man.”

  “Then why is he still alive?”

  “You should be asking yourself that question.”

  Rope-man’s face twists. “They won’t believe it. I made that rope perfect.”

  “The Three don’t take kindly to failure, however well-intentioned,” Cobalt snickers.

  “You swore you’d bring me his head!”

  “I brought you his head. You didn’t say it had to be detached.”

  The rope-man curses, lashing out. “Tenebrous take ya!” His small stone knife flashes inches from Cobalt’s throat.

  Cobalt stiff-arms the scrawny man so hard he flies back against the stone wall, head whipping against the stone.

  “Not anymore, he won’t.” Cobalt’s boot descends on the stone knife and it shatters, smoking. The Rope-man jerks convulsively once more, untouched, and is dead.

  Cobalt bends over the form and cuts a small ring of keys from the man’s belt. “I figured out who I am, you bastard: someone who won’t kill his friends.”

  I scamper back to Lucinda and Magnus, dropping down from the roof half a second before Cobalt arrives with the keys.

  I give Lucinda the look that promises full explanation later.

  TEN

  Morning prayers look a bit different as we wander in, bedraggled. Magnus supports Cobalt while Lucinda and I guide the horses. Spattered with blood and gore, we aren’t out of place, though we’ve missed the last of the fighting here. There’s a heap of corpses—including Hawkwood’s—piled in the center of the prayer yard and twenty brothers laid out in row. Jonas. Arthur. Willem. Several I don’t recognize. The tenth isn’t a brother at all. It’s a clerk. Frédéric. Father Hugues’s son and Val’s friend. She’s weeping over him. I run to comfort her and she falls into my arms the moment I pull her up, almost too heavy for me to support. I do my best.

  Around me, plenty of other brothers are lying on their backs getting medical attention, some who likely won’t live another week.

  I don’t say anything, letting the minutes slip away. “Where’s Timmy?” I finally ask, because my heart won’t wait any longer.

  “He’s safe. He stayed with the Loris Mitre.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  More sobbing. “I wanted to help.”

  “Dad, I told him about you leaving to talk to Magnus when you didn’t come back. He woke the Southguard.”

  More silence. I don’t tell her that I told Frédéric to do pretty much the same thing, to rally the Paladins if something like this came on. And he didn’t rat me out.

  There is a shouting, roiling crowd around Magnus and Cobalt. Cobalt has fallen to one knee. He’s in no shape to be moving about, but he’s yelling at the Altus Mitre. He draws his sword and flings it at Jeremiah’s feet. Jeremiah jumps back, nimble for his age. The tip of his staff is bloodstained, though the head of the staff shines bright, trickling with light in the pale dawn.

  “You are called to court, Jeremiah Blackstar, for betrayal of the light, for consorting with the harbingers of Tenebrus, for bringing this tragedy upon our Abbey. You . . .” Cobalt’s voice is hoarse and he chokes for a moment, spitting up blood.

  Jeremiah’s face is impassive,
but his solemn eye twitches. “You have no authority here, Nightshade.”

  The crowd, the shouting, the sobbing, the myriad of activity suddenly ceases.

  Silence.

  “I am no Nightshade.” Cobalt rises to his feet. “I have wandered in the crimson forest, I have drowned in waves of blood, and I have known both lust and love. I have done evil things.” His barrel chest inflates and his voice comes out in a roar. “But I know who I am now. I am a Brother of Light, and unlike you, I need no ceremony. Father Jeremiah, you are called . . .”

  There’s the sudden sound like a thunder clap as Father Jeremiah’s boot descends on the discarded blade at his feet, shattering it, ringing in the air like metallic glass. For a moment Cobalt appears dumbstruck, unable to speak.

  Jeremiah’s voice carries through the gathering crowd. “This council doesn’t accept the testimony of traitors.”

  The other Mitres have gathered in a semi-circle, stern-faced and blood-stained, a testimony of last night’s ordeal. In perfect harmony with Father Loring’s assertions, Fortrus Abbey has been teetering on the brink. There are gaps in the Mitre’s ranks. The Mitre Animus is holding his fallen son. The Mitre Loris is in hiding, and Father Valoris, Mitre Tresorus, is nowhere to be seen. Sensible man, that one.

  Six Mitres stare down at Cobalt, full in fury.

  Magnus steps in front of his friend, defending him again. “I have told you. He isn’t a traitor. And this council will accept my testimony.” Magnus’s usually friendly voice cuts through the silence like a knife. I’ve never seen him so solemn before. He flings his sword at the Altus Mitre’s feet. “Will you break my sword too, Father?”

  The hint of a smile flits across Father Jeremiah’s lips and is gone. “You know I cannot break a pure sword.”