by Hilari Bell
Granted, two seconds’ thought told him that his vague notion of two hundred men thundering down the road with the Falcon in the lead was … unworkable, to say the least.
Once they’d packed up their camp and hidden the bundles in the surrounding woods, the Falcon had asked Weasel to give the men directions for getting over the walls of the royal park and finding the statues that guarded the tunnel entrance. But to Weasel, her command to the men to “meet me there an hour after sunset” didn’t seem to be sufficient. And when it came to the most wanted road bandit in Deorthas’ history traveling in a public coach …
It worked, though. The respectable apothecary had drawn no notice, except for the attention men paid her striking face. And somehow, clad in skirts and a modest cap, her face seemed less remarkable. Even the inexpensive locket she wore, its gold coating rubbed through in places to reveal the brass beneath, fit pefectly with her disguise. Weasel would hardly have noticed the trinket, except for the way Arisa stared at it, then looked away.
He’d been startled when the Falcon told a curious coach passenger that he and Arisa were both her children, and twins, though they didn’t look alike.
“They wouldn’t, being boy and girl, now, would they,” said the middle-aged matron who’d asked. “But I can see the resemblance. They must take after their father,” she added, giving Arisa a sympathetic glance.
Arisa glared at her.
The Falcon confirmed this, adding that Arisa and “Willy” were good children.
Weasel knew that his name was distinctive, and he’d used Will or William himself when he was trying to avoid attention. But Willy? He glowered as fiercely as Arisa, undermining the Falcon’s description of “good children,” but the matron didn’t notice anything amiss.
When they reached the city, the Falcon let him lead the way. They found a deserted alley where she and Arisa changed back into men’s clothes. Arisa looked happier in britches, but the Falcon … it was like pulling the cloth off a lantern to reveal the light. Yet she’d seemed more comfortable in skirts than Arisa had.
Weasel didn’t have much time to think about women and skirts. He guided them over the wall and through the park to the small niche in the cliff where the great statues stood. Their white marble gleamed in the gathering dark, their faces inhumanly serene. While the Falcon greeted the men who’d already arrived, Weasel studied the statues. In those distant days the men had worn skirts too, though their robes were cut differently than the woman’s gown. And in this trio it was a woman who held the shield, while a man held the king’s sword. Yet he’d seen others with three men, and at least one with a woman holding the sword, and a man the—
“Dropped off to sleep?” Arisa asked.
“Sorry,” said Weasel. “When I’m”—panicking—“worried about something, my thoughts tend to scurry.”
“You don’t have to worry about the plan,” Arisa told him. “Mother may take risks, but she makes all the calculations beforehand. She knows what she’s doing.”
If Arisa really believed that, why did she look so worried? Weasel wondered again what she’d seen in the cards, but before he could ask, the Falcon came to join them.
“Almost three-quarters of the men are here, and the rest should arrive in the next half hour. A small army lingering in the king’s park is going to look suspicious if a groundskeeper comes by, so let’s get into this tunnel of yours.”
It was the moment Weasel had been trying not to think about all day, for if the passage had been sealed, there was no plan—and no hope. He stiffened his spine and worked his way between the statues and the cliff. There were fewer leaves on the trailing vines now, but the brush was just as thick. He had to search for the door.
It was still propped open, by the same rough stone Weasel had left there. Breath whooshed out of his lungs in explosive relief.
“We just won our first gamble,” he told the Falcon. “No one knows how we escaped.”
She got almost two hundred men into the tunnel with remarkable silence and speed, and soon the others arrived.
Arisa led the way in—not that there was much leading involved, for the passage left no choice of direction. It still smelled of mold, and the walls had the same damp chill. Weasel didn’t remember sweating so much the first time he’d gone through.
Justice Holis, he told himself firmly. I’m going to rescue the justice, with an army at my back, just like I planned.
He didn’t stop sweating.
The first half-dozen men who climbed down the rickety pile he and Arisa had used to reach the tunnel entrance dismantled it, putting up a sturdy stack of crates for the others. Weasel and Arisa went to retrieve the shield while the Falcon’s men emerged from the passage.
It was where he had left it, still wrapped in disintegrating cloth. Remembering the dizziness that had seized him last time, Weasel found himself reluctant to touch it—which was silly, for this time he was both rested and well fed. The metal was cool and rough with grit. It had no effect on him, and he breathed a sigh of relief and picked it up. It was cursed heavy.
When they rejoined the Falcon, she was standing at the locked door that led to the corridor, listening.
“I don’t hear a thing,” she said. “I think the boy’s right; there’s no one in the old wing. Even if there is, there’s no help for it.” She stepped aside. “Break it down.”
Large, muscular men were useful. The door that had stopped Weasel and Arisa yielded to the fourth blow of their improvised battering ram—but it wasn’t quiet.
As the echo of the last crash faded, they all stood, listening. Even the men who’d wielded the ram were breathing through their mouths to make less noise. The silence of centuries answered them.
The Falcon looked down the corridor, where a dozen doors opened off either side. A smile lit her harsh face. “It’ll do. The next bit’s yours, boy. Go on up, and remember—every man you send down here is one less we have to fight. And one less man to sink a dagger in your friend’s heart, if they see we’re winning.”
A surge of anger stiffened Weasel’s neck—as if he wouldn’t have lured as many as he could into the trap without hearing that! But what she said was true, and the Falcon had already turned away.
Arisa hadn’t. “Good luck,” she said. “But you won’t need it. This is the kind of thing you’re good at. I only wish …”
“You can’t come with me,” said Weasel. “There’s no reason for you to be there. It would make Pettibone suspicious, and we can’t have that.”
He couldn’t think of anything else to say, so he picked up the shield. It was heavy, and awkward as well. His arms would be aching before he cleared the first corridor.
“I’ll keep an eye out for the opportunity that card indicated,” Weasel told her. “I’ll be back soon.”
He walked down the corridor toward the modern part of the palace. The part that held light, and people, and danger, and enemies … and Justice Holis.
It took longer than Weasel liked to work his way through the twisting corridors, and the shield was as difficult to carry as he’d feared. He finally bent over and hoisted it onto his back like a turtle shell. It was still awkward, hut his arms didn’t ache quite so fiercely.
When rugs appeared on the stone floor, Weasel knew he was nearing his goal, and shortly after that he heard a man shout, “Hey, you! Where are you going?”
Weasel stopped and let the shield slide off his back. It clanged when the edge struck the floor. He rubbed his arms.
A footman stared at him, jaw sagging in astonishment. Possibly he recognized Weasel, or the shield. More likely, he was simply appalled by how dirty they were.
Time to change that. Weasel smiled.
“I have found the shield of the ancient kings,” he announced grandly. “I’ve come to return it to the prince. And claim my reward.”
The footman’s eyes all but popped out of his head. Weasel waited. When the man finally spoke, his voice quavered. “Master Gerand? I think we’ve got
a problem here.”
It took longer to persuade them than Weasel had expected. When they finally gave up and escorted him to the prince and Regent Pettibone, he was accompanied by Master Gerand, two footmen, and two palace guards, one of them the captain of this watch.
The guards made Weasel nervous. But his refusal to tell anyone how he’d gotten into the palace made them nervous, so they were probably even.
Now that the waiting was over, his dread had transformed itself into an exultant, controlled terror. It was a familiar feeling, one that sharpened his eye and lightened his touch on a purse.
It also made it easier to carry the cursed heavy shield. The footmen had offered to take it, but Weasel refused to give it up. It was his price of admission.
“I shall ask the prince and regent if they’ll see you,” Master Gerand repeated for the third time. “They’re dining with important men, discussing an important matter. You might have to wait, or come back at another time.”
Weasel remembered what the Falcon said about the value of the sword and shield to someone who wanted to hold power in Deorthas. “I’ll take my chances.”
The master of household cast him a worried look, but the door to the fancy dining room was looming before them.
“Wait here.” Gerand tugged down his waistcoat and lifted his chin before slipping through the door. Before it closed, Weasel smelled wine and brandy and heard the soft hum of voices in conversation. He could hear nothing through the door, but since he’d made no startling moves as they led him to the room where he wanted to go, the footmen, even the guardsmen, weren’t particularly alert—and Weasel had no intention of waiting.
He gave Master Gerand several seconds to make his way to the table and whisper in the regent’s ear. Then he opened the door and stepped into the room, dragging the shield with him, before any of his keepers had time to react.
“I have found the lost shield of the ancient kings.” If anything, the words got more dramatic with practice. “I’m here to return it to the prince and claim my reward.”
The dining room held a dozen men, clad in embroidered silk, with jewels in their lacy cravats. Every one of them was as goggle-eyed as the footman had been—including Prince Edoran.
Only Master Gerand, who’d heard it before, scowled at Weasel. And Regent Pettibone’s eyes were not wide, but narrowed with suspicion … and recognition.
“I remember you. You’re Holis’ clerk.”
“That’s right,” said Weasel grimly. He hauled the shield across the gleaming floor to the end of the table where the prince sat, and propped the dirty iron against royal knees—probably staining the pale gold silk forever. Weasel slapped both palms down on the shield and met the prince’s startled gaze.
“I demand King’s Justice for my master.”
“You demand what?” one of the richly clad nobles asked.
“King’s Justice,” the prince said absently. His attention was fixed on the shield. “He wants me to judge his master.”
“That’s right.” Weasel straightened to face Pettibone. “As is my right, by the ancient law. Which is still on the books.” It had better be.
“But that’s … Is there really a law like that?” another noble asked.
The prince took a napkin from the table, spit on it like a farmer, and began cleaning the face of the shield. The napkin came away black. Weasel considered the cost of snow-white linen and winced.
“King’s Justice is the law,” Pettibone admitted. “As this young clerk seems to have discovered.”
Their eyes locked, Pettibone’s alight with challenge. Weasel remembered that the regent himself had been a lawyer.
“However, as the prince’s regent, hearing the case and rendering judgment would fall to me, not to His Highness.”
Weasel didn’t flinch, for he’d expected that, and curiosity grew in Pettibone’s guarded expression. What’s your game?
“But all of this,” the regent continued, “including the reward, is contingent upon this shield proving to be the shield. An outcome I find unlikely. Where did you get—”
“It is the shield.” The prince’s voice was high with excitement. “It really is!”
“It is?” Astonishment stripped the cool control from Pettibone’s voice.
“It is?” Weasel realized he sounded more surprised than the regent. “I mean, of course it is.”
“It really is.” The prince turned the shield to face the room. Across the top, where he’d been cleaning, a scene had been embossed on the iron. Weasel couldn’t make out the subject, though he saw men, horses, and trees. A hunt? A battle?
“How do you know that it’s the shield? Highness.” Pettibone’s voice was thin with excitement. Excitement, and the beginning of passionate greed. He wanted it to be the shield.
The Falcon had been right, Weasel realized. If there was a chance of passing this off as the real shield, Pettibone would help them do it—even if he thought it was a fake.
“You know that my father’s hobby was studying the history of our family,” said the prince. Weasel hadn’t known it, but several men nodded. “Well, I’ve been reading his notes and papers.”
Pettibone frowned. “I didn’t know that.”
The prince met his guardian’s gaze defiantly. “Why shouldn’t I? He was my father.”
“Yes, very proper,” one of the gentlemen said. “But Your Highness was saying …”
“Well, he was interested in the sword and shield. I think he was looking for some clue to their whereabouts. He didn’t succeed, but he did find an account of some … marks that were put on both shield and sword to allow them to be identified. Marks known only to the royal family,” Edoran added firmly, as every man in the room opened his mouth to ask what they were. “So that no one could substitute some hastily forged copy. This shield bears those marks.”
“But if a forger made a careful copy he’d copy those marks, too, wouldn’t he?” one gentleman asked.
“He might,” the prince admitted. “It wasn’t foolproof. But to make a copy that good, the forger would have to study the original carefully. And if he had the original,” he nodded to Weasel, “why bother with a copy? It’s not like he could claim the reward more than—”
“Where did you get this?” The cold command in Pettibone’s voice made every spine in the room straighten reflexively.
Weasel bit down an equally reflexive answer. “I’ll tell you that when you bring Justice Holis here, to receive the King’s Justice.”
“Was the sword with it?” Pettibone demanded.
Weasel shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t see it, but I didn’t have time for a thorough search.”
Pettibone eyed him a moment longer, then rose to his feet. “Gentlemen, as you can see, a matter of some importance has arisen. I must ask you to allow us time to deal with it.”
Some of the men grumbled as they were politely herded from the room. The sword and shield! They wanted to see them, to hear the whole story. However, some of them left without a murmur of protest, and the pitying looks they cast at Weasel made him nervous.
But the prince was still present, and the guards, and the footmen, and the master of household. What could Pettibone do to him in front of so many witnesses? Witnesses who were all loyal to him? Thumbscrews, rack, hot pincers … Weasel licked dry lips and tried not to look as isolated as he felt.
When the nobles were gone, Pettibone sank back into his chair and regarded Weasel thoughtfully.
“I shall have your master brought here at once,” he said. “I understand that you wish to assure yourself of his well-being.” He flashed a glance at the watch captain. “See to it.”
“Not only Justice Holis,” said Weasel. “All the others who’ve been held with him on the same charges.” If he left them hostage in the cells, they might be used to force Justice Holis to surrender.
“That won’t be possible,” said Pettibone, before the captain could ask. “Those men have been charged with conspiring against
the life of their prince. There is no more serious crime, and we can’t have made too many mistakes when we gathered them in.”
An expert negotiator, he’d laid no emphasis on any part of that sentence, but Weasel recognized the opening offer; they might have made a mistake about just one justice. Still … how many of those men would be killed, if Weasel couldn’t get them up here before the Falcon’s men attacked?
But if they all came, wouldn’t all their guards come with them? You could slit a man’s throat in the dining room as easily as in a cell—the only difference was the price of the rug.
They could be used against the justice wherever they were. And if this didn’t succeed, they’d all hang anyway.
“All right,” said Weasel. “Justice Holis alone. But I see him before I tell you where I found the shield. And the King’s Justice had better be … just.”
“That’s understood.” Pettibone nodded to the guard captain, who slipped out of the room. “Though it might assist my deliberations if the sword could be found as well.”
“I can’t guarantee that.” Weasel’s heart was pounding, but he kept his voice even. “I didn’t find it, though I didn’t look very long. I was running out of time.”
“Then I fear that I cannot guarantee the results of my deliberations,” said Pettibone. He had the nerve to sound regretful, the bastard.
Anger firmed Weasel’s voice. “Then I fear my memory of where I found the shield may fail me. Overcome with concern about my master’s fate and all.”
Pettibone hesitated a moment, then made a dismissive gesture. His hands were small, Weasel noted. Neat and well manicured. “I have no need for your master’s death. And the sword and shield would be … useful in the current political climate. I think you can count on the King’s Justice being just.”
