by Dave Duncan
Stalwart said, “Pray inform the Sheriff that Sir Stalwart is here and would hold converse with him.”
The bottler bowed again, but to the space between the two, as if uncertain which was which. “I will see if his lordship is available, Sir Stalwart.”
Badger roared. “He had better be! We come on urgent business for His Majesty.”
Flustered, Caplin backed away a few steps, then turned and scurried indoors.
“I told you to keep your mouth shut!” Stalwart said bleakly, being careful not to shout. Wrong, wrong, all wrong! Badger’s blustering was how a royal official would normally behave, but Snake had sent Stalwart on this mission because he knew how to be inconspicuous. Badger’s bellow had been overheard by so many onlookers that the news that the King’s men had arrived would be all over the town in an hour. The Fellowship would be sure to have spies near the Sheriff.
8
The Sheriff of Waterby
As a page led the visitors across a gloomy dining hall filled with plank tables and benches, Emerald found her chance to poke Wart in the ribs. He nodded without speaking. The boy disappeared up a very narrow spiral staircase built into the wall of the keep. Wart gestured Badger to go first, then for her to follow. She held back until Badger had disappeared.
“He’s betraying you!” she whispered. “When he shouted at the bottler, that was deliberate mischief. Not quite a lie, but I’m sure he’s playing you false.”
Wart, surprisingly, did not look surprised. He pushed her forward and came up the steps after her, as close as it was possible for two people to go together in that cramped space. “What has he said that’s not true?” he asked her shoulder.
“I can’t be certain,” she told his hat. Badger’s dominant element confused her ability to detect falsehood. He had confessed to being a good liar; he might have been joking, but any death person must be a good liar. “But I don’t think he’s from Kirkwain. Why is he doing this?” She passed a loophole that let in a little light; she wondered if anyone had ever shot arrows out of it, and marveled at the thickness of the wall.
“He’s always been sort of surly,” Wart said sadly. “He may be jealous of my success. It can’t have anything to do with Digby, Sister. It just can’t! Any crimes Badger committed before he came to Ironhall are forgotten and will be automatically pardoned when he’s bound. For four years, he’s had no contact with the world, and why would he spend all that time there if he did not want to be a Blade?”
“Digby went there two years ago.”
“Just to give the Durendal Night speech. As I recall, his was even duller than most. Badger and I were only beansprouts then. They keep the riffraff away from important visitors.”
The logic seemed inescapable: Whatever was troubling Badger could have nothing to do with Wart’s mission. The sound of boots up ahead suddenly stopped. She hurried.
“There you are!” Badger said as she reached him. Did he suspect that she suspected him? The White Sisters did not advertise their ability to detect falsehood, but it must be known in Ironhall.
“The stair’s making me giddy.”
He turned to continue and she followed. It wasn’t the stair making her head spin, she realized—it was magic, growing stronger with every step she climbed. She opened her mouth to shout a warning. But then there was light, and an open door, with the page holding it for her.
Emerald followed Badger in and Wart came at her heels. The boy departed, closing the door. The solar was located high in the keep, with large windows facing safely inward, overlooking the bailey. Sunshine alone would have warmed it comfortably by that time in the afternoon, for it was a small chamber, but the huge fire blazing on the hearth had heated it almost beyond endurance. Incredibly, the sole inhabitant was hunched in a chair directly in front of this inferno. It seemed a wonder that he did not burst into flames himself. He was swaddled in thick robes, wrapped in blankets. His sparse hair was white; his face was hollowed by a loss of teeth, and wrinkled like cedar bark. Obviously Lord Florian was a very sick man; he was also the source of the magic.
Emerald detected healing spells as a sickly-sweet odor. They were all much the same—air and water, a little fire, and much love to nullify the opposing death element—but this mixture represented a very unbalanced octogram, and she always found it unsettling.
Wart was bowing and introducing himself. He did not name his companions.
The Sheriff turned his face from the fire to peer at him with dull, rheumy eyes. “So the King sends children now?” He spoke in a hoarse, painful whisper, barely audible over the logs’ crackling.
Wart, who was already turning pink from the heat, turned even pinker. “I repeat: I am a Blade in the Royal Guard, and on His Majesty’s business as a commissioner of the Court of Conjury. Here is my warrant.”
Florian waved the scroll away with a frail, age-spotted hand. Once he must have been a towering and imposing man, probably a very handsome one, for the bones of his face were craggy. Now he was a ruin, a heap in a chair.
“I care not for your fancy seals and parchment,” he whispered. “What does the King want of me now? I have kept his peace here these thirteen years, gathered his taxes, hanged men who took his deer. Must he harass me now, in my last days?”
Badger and Emerald had gone to stand beside the windows, but even there the heat was stifling. To see the Sheriff’s face, poor Wart must stay close. He shifted uneasily from foot to foot.
“My lord, the Warden of the King’s Forests visited here nine or ten days ago.”
“Digby. Known him for years. Comes around every year or two and makes a thorough nuisance of himself. He was underfoot during the rebellion, too. Don’t recall he ever did any good then either. He stayed two days and left by the Buran road. Get to the point.” Florian’s memory was in better shape than the rest of him.
“Day before yesterday he was murdered.”
Pause. The old man stared hard at Wart. “So?” he croaked.
“We have reason to believe that his death was connected with his visit here, specifically with the so-called Fellowship of Wisdom. “Wart’s face was streaming sweat.
“Why? Why do you think that, boy, eh?”
“I am not at liberty to reveal that information, my lord. Lord Digby visited Smealey Hole, or Hall, while he was here?”
“Yes.”
“And who went with him?”
“Rhys, one of my foresters. Sent him to make sure Digby didn’t get lost or cause trouble.” His voice sounded as if it were bubbling through gruel. Why didn’t he cough and clear it?
Emerald wished she could warn Wart about the healing magic. If it came from the sorcerers of Smealey Hole, then Lord Florian was probably in their power, just as her father had been bespelled in his final illness by the enchanters of Gentleholme.
“And what happened?” Wart persisted.
“He talked with the Prior and came back here.” Bubble.
“That’s all? Do you know what they discussed?”
“No. And I don’t care.”
“I want to speak with this Rhys Forester.”
“Well you can’t.” Bubble. “He went off somewhere—” gurgle “—couple’ a’ days ago. Want him myself. Can’t find him. Run off after some—” glug, glug “—girl, most like. Have him whipped when he shows up.” Gurgle.
Emerald watched Wart’s eyes light up.
“So two men went to the Hole. One has been murdered and the other has disappeared. Is Rhys in the habit of disappearing for days at a time?”
For a long moment the dying Sheriff just sat and made his horrible bubbling noises. Finally he said, “No.”
“Has he parents or friends who might know—”
“Pestilence, boy, you’re talking rubbish! Young mud-head! Just like Digby. He came back here frothing about raiding the Hole and arresting the brethren, lock, stock, and barrel!” Anger seemed to give Florian strength to ignore his drowning lungs. “Wanted me to call up my Yeomanry and send them in
! Had to tell him that Smealey Hole wasn’t in the forest, so he’d no authority over it. No one’s lodged any complaints of black magic, so can’t invoke the Suppression of Magic Act either. There’s laws in Chivial, I tell you! And they don’t allow arbitrary house…searches—” He crumpled into a long paroxysm of painful coughing and spitting. Eventually he gasped, “Stupid idiot!”
Emerald stole a look at Badger, beside her, but Badger was an earth person. “Inscrutable” didn’t begin to describe Badger. Wart was beaming, because Snake’s guess had been proved right. Digby had discovered something suspicious at the Hole. Perhaps he had just asked to buy black magic and the sorcerers had sold him something. Whether that something worked or not would not matter; purveying anything purported to be black magic was a crime. Emerald kept frowning warnings, still wanting to tell him about the healing spell on the Sheriff.
Then Wart showed that he had thought of it for himself. “Tell me about this Fellowship, my lord. You say it isn’t known for black magic. Does it do good works, then, like healing?”
“No,” Florian mumbled. “Mind their own business, don’t poach the King’s beasts, pay their taxes and their bills. I got no cause to bother them.” He still might have cause to protect them.
“I thank you for your time, my lord,” Wart said with a bow. “If I wish to go and speak with the Prior, who will provide me with a horse and a guide?”
Florian stared at the fire for a while as if he had not heard, but at last he whispered. “See Mervyn.”
The visitors left him as they had found him, huddled in his chair, slowly dying in front of the fire.
9
Stalwart Sends a Message
Wart halted at the bottom of the stairs, and for a moment just stood there, staring across the dining hall as if wondering where the stench of boiled cabbage came from. Maids were laying out wooden platters and mugs, but no one paid heed to the strangers. Emerald could tell he was excited; he was taut as a lute string.
“I have everything Snake needs for a raid on the Hole,” he said. “Digby wanted to do it, so he must have found something seriously wrong. The forester witness has disappeared. Lord Florian is incompetent and perhaps in the traitors’ power. That’s enough evidence.”
Badger groaned. “You only have Florian’s word for it that Digby wanted to stage a raid, and you admit that he’s too sick to be trusted. He may be hallucinating. Anyway, Digby had the brains of a pony; he probably wanted to play Old Blade all by himself. You have absolutely no reason to believe that Forester Rhys has been murdered.”
Wart pouted. Emerald tried not to grin. This was a classic case of an air person wanting to fly and an earth person holding him down. Yet Badger’s death dominant still troubled her. Death people were dangerous to both others and themselves. She could imagine him as a great rock that might stand a whole lifetime, poised but unmoving, or might come crashing down at any minute to destroy everything it encountered.
He was certainly persistent. “If Digby really did find evidence of treason or black magic at the Hole and the Sheriff blocked him, then why didn’t he rush home posthaste? Or write to Snake?”
“Maybe he did,” Emerald said. “Write to Snake, I mean. If you wanted to do that now, Wart, how would you send the letter?”
Wart’s scowl turned to a wicked leer of triumph. “I’d give it to someone here in the castle—the castellan or that bottler man or the steward. And he’d probably hand it to the marshal, who’d pass it on to the sergeant-at-arms or the stable manager…and eventually a boy on a horse would carry it down to the ferry at Buran. There he’d give it to the boatman, or perhaps take it across to Prail. It would go to the Royal Mail office in Lomouth, so it could travel on the mail coach or by special courier…. That’s if it ever left Waterby Castle! Or the courier died on the road, maybe. Digby’s letter never arrived!”
“And Digby?” she asked. “He wouldn’t think of that, but he would want to hurry home and deliver a report in person as well. But he daren’t neglect his duties, in case the King took offense at his meddling. On the other hand, he wouldn’t dally to socialize. So he’d make a very quick trip, but not posthaste. And that’s exactly what he did.”
Now it was Badger who was frowning, but he did not dispute her logic. “So what do you do now, Leader? Write to Snake?”
“That doesn’t work!” Wart said, grinning dangerously. “There are traitors right here in Waterby Castle. I send you, Brother Badger.”
Even an earth person could show astonishment sometimes. “Me? Grand Master will lay duck eggs!”
“Leave Grand Master to me. Go to Grandon, Candidate Badger, and find Snake, wherever he is. Failing him, report to Durendal—if a sheriff’s incompetent, that’s the Lord Chancellor’s business, isn’t it? And take care! You may need your Ironhall skills on the road. That sword will get you the best mounts in the—”
Badger’s always squarish face seemed to develop more stubborn planes and angles. “No. It won’t work, Sir Wart. I’ll never make it. The law says any man wearing a cat’s-eye sword must be able to show a scar over his heart. You’ve got that fancy commission with the King’s seal, but I don’t. I’m not wearing Guard livery. I’m not attending a ward. Why not go yourself?”
Emerald knew that that would never do. Wart wanted to snoop around Smealey Hole and get into trouble: fight monsters, kill traitors, be a hero again. He reached in his jerkin and brought out his precious star. “Then take this. That’s enough authority to get you into the King’s bedroom if you want.”
Badger stared at the glittering bauble with wide eyes. He took it as if it were a dangerous scorpion. “These jewels are worth a fortune, Wart! How do you know I won’t just steal it?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Wart strode off across the hall with fast strides, making the others run to catch him. “Let’s go find this Mervyn the Sheriff mentioned. Hope you don’t mind a few more days in those same clothes, because I’m going to sneak you out of here. We’ll say we’re all heading over to the Hole; when I give you the signal, you turn around and tear down the Buran road before anyone can move to stop you!”
Badger caught Emerald’s eye and now the two earth people were in complete agreement: Wart was flying.
10
Mervyn
Emerald knew that Wart could be almost as devious as his hero, Snake. It was no coincidence that the name he had given his sword, Sleight, was similar to Snake’s Stealth. She just hoped that he had some hidden purpose in giving Badger the star, because the more she saw of the man the less she was inclined to trust him.
After several inquiries, Wart was directed to an obscure corner of the bailey, to a tiny shed sporting a dozen or more sets of weathered antlers. Emerald and Badger peeked over his shoulders as he peered in the doorway. The gloomy inside was packed to the ceiling with bows, rods, spears, arrows, nets, mounted heads, horse tack, horns, stuffed birds, sample branches of a dozen different trees, a boar’s skull with tusks attached, stuffed birds, and mysterious sacks. Three white-muzzled dogs sprawled asleep underfoot, and the cubicle reeked of animal. In the center of this midden stood a small, bent, white-haired man wearing the green garments of a forester. He had the customary horn hung on his belt, too. What he could actually be doing in there was a mystery, because there was barely room for him to stand, let alone move anything.
“I was told to speak with someone called Mervyn.”
The ancient blinked at him. “Eh?”
Wart raised his voice. “The sheriff told me to see someone called Mervyn.”
“Ah, he ain’t the man he was ’fore his wife died.” The forester shook his head sadly.
“Who isn’t?”
“Ah, who is?”
“Are you he?”
“Who? What? Speak up, boy, you sound like a wood dove.”
The back of Wart’s neck was turning pink as he decided that the Sheriff had palmed him off on a doddering antique. He shouted, “Where can I get horses to go to Smealey Hall?”
<
br /> “Horses live in stables, boy.”
“And who’ll give them to me?”
“No one. You buy your own horses.”
“Do you know a forester named Rhys?”
“That’s a cheeky question, boy. Very cheeky. You think I’m so old you can come ’round here making fun of an old man who’s been at his trade these three score years and more, almost four score?”
Emerald was having trouble suppressing a snigger.
“I’m not making fun of you!” Wart howled. “Do you know where Rhys is?”
“Didn’t sell it! He was proud of it, you hear?”
“Proud of what?”
“Speak up, boy. Stop mumbling.”
“Tell him,” Emerald whispered in Wart’s ear, “that you think Rhys was murdered.”
“Eh?” said the old man sharply. “What’s that about murder?”
Deafness could only be carried so far, evidently.
“Rhys guided Lord Digby to Smealey Hall,” Wart said in quieter tones, “and Lord Digby has been murdered. The King sent me to find out why, and I want to speak with Rhys.”
“He’s disappeared,” the forester said sulkily. “But he’s a good boy and it ain’t right what Sheriff says about him selling the horn and going off drinking or chasing women. Wouldn’t do that, Rhys wouldn’t. He’s a fine lad and I says so even if he is my grandson.”
“I’m afraid he may have been murdered, too.”
Mervyn nodded sadly. “So’m I.” Suddenly he advanced on his visitors so that they backed away, into the light. He stood in the doorway and looked them over. “You’re the King’s men. They said the baby one was in charge. Name of Stalwart. A Blade.”
Wart showed his sword. “This is Badger—this is Luke. The King sent us, Forester. If your grandson’s been hurt, we’ll see that the criminals hang. What were you saying about a horn?”
