Exile's Children

by Angus Wells

  It was stark news Wyme had noted down: confirmation of Davyd’s dreams, Arcole thought. He studied the scrawled notes with a frown, snatching paper and pen from the governor’s desk. So many holdings ravaged. A troop of fifty mounted infantry slain, save for Corm. And worst of all, the final ragged notes:

  The demons vow to attack us. Slay us all. They shall come, they say, and kill us because it is their land. I do not doubt it. Too much has happened—we are not alone here. I must send to Evander for more soldiers. An Inquistor; my hexes are not strong enough. Surely an Inquisitor can defend us.

  Arcole stared at the alarming comments. The time had come, he thought, and they could delay no longer. No matter how difficult, they must find a way out of the city. He would discuss it with Flysse and set a date, and when next they spoke with Davyd, he would tell the lad to take the last of their provisions and stand ready to flee. He recorded Wyme’s commentary and the placements of the attacks, then dusted the paper and folded it into his tunic, set the desk in order, and pinched out the candle.

  As he went toward the door, it opened and Benjamyn said, “What are you doing here?”

  The majordomo held a candle in a brass holder. He wore a nightshirt and a tasseled sleeping cap. His legs were spindly and very white. He should have looked ridiculous were it not for the outrage on his lined face. Arcole saw Flysse standing a little way behind, her eyes wide with alarm.

  “Well?” Benjamyn demanded, advancing a step.

  Arcole took a pace back. His mind raced—this could mean the downfall of all his plans. He said, “I was tidying the governor’s study, Benjamyn.” It sounded unlikely to his own ears.

  To the majordomo it obviously sounded wildly improbable.

  “At this hour?” Benjamyn came another step into the room. He raised the candle, eyes darting around, returning accusingly to Arcole. “Did the master order it?”

  Arcole said quickly, “He did,” hoping Wyme’s memory should prove too fogged with brandy to contradict.

  Benjamyn’s tongue clicked vigorously. To Arcole it sounded like the ticking of a clock that measured the time to his sentencing.

  “What’s that?” Benjamyn pointed at Arcole’s chest.

  Arcole said, “Nothing.”

  Benjamyn said, “Show me.”

  Arcole looked down, and saw a corner of paper protruding from beneath his tunic. He cursed silently. As best he knew, Benjamyn could read no more than a few words, but the paper alone should be sufficient to undo him. Doubtless the majordomo would show it to Wyme, and Wyme would immediately know his secrets stolen. Arcole had no idea what punishment that might entail, but he was certain it must unravel all his plans and likely see him parted from Flysse forever. He hesitated, racking his mind for some plausible excuse.

  Benjamyn came another step closer, hand extended. Arcole saw Flysse framed in the doorway behind the majordomo.

  “I stole a sheet of paper,” he extemporized. “I thought to make a sketch of Flysse.”

  Benjaymyn’s tongue clicked louder. “Then show me,” he insisted.

  Arcole shook his head.

  “You augment your troubles,” Benjamyn warned. “I find you ransacking the master’s inner sanctum, and now you refuse to obey me? This shall go hard for you.”

  “It’s only a sheet of paper,” Arcole said.

  “Then show me,” Benjamyn repeated. “Or is it more?”

  Arcole was a gambler, but it was difficult to hold his expression calm. Perhaps it was lack of practice, perhaps it was the import of the occasion, but Benjamyn saw something that prompted his eyes to widen and his lips to thin.

  “It is, no?” he barked. Then: “God, of course! You lay claim to having been a gentleman. You can read, eh?”

  Arcole heard Flysse gasp. Benjamyn ignored her, his gaze intent on Arcole’s face. “You read the master’s papers!” His expression was horrified. “God, you spy on the master!”

  He darted forward, snatching at Arcole’s tunic; Arcole raised a hand to fend him off.

  This, even more, it seemed, than the original crime, offended the old man. He shouted as Arcole’s palm struck his chest, and swung the candle holder at Arcole’s head. Arcole deflected the blow, and the brass holder was knocked from Benjamyn’s grip. The candle came loose, rolling across the floor to drip wax and flame on the carpet. Arcole took hold of Benjamyn’s wrists, twisting aside as a bony knee rose toward his groin.

  He called, “Flysse—the candle!” And to Benjamyn: “For God’s sake, be silent.”

  The majordomo’s reply was a shriek of unalloyed rage. Arcole let go one wrist and struggled to clamp a hand over Benjamyn’s mouth. Benjamyn promptly employed his free hand in an attempt to claw Arcole’s eyes. Desperately, Arcole wondered how long it could be before the whole house was woken and come looking for the source of the disturbance. No less—and no less desperately—he wondered what to do with Benjamyn.

  Flysse stamped out the guttering candle and took up the holder. The room was dark now, save for the dull glow of the banked fire and what little light intruded from the hall. Benjamyn’s white nightshirt lent him the appearance of a specter, attacking her husband. She saw Arcole clutching the majordomo’s arm with one hand, the other seeking to shut off the old man’s outraged yelling even as Benjamyn sought to rake his face.

  She acted without premeditation. It was as it had been when Armnory Schweiz looked to steal her honor, save now it was Arcole—her husband—she saw threatened. She raised the candle holder as she had raised the pewter mug, and brought it down against the back of Benjamyn’s head.

  There was an ugly sound, sharp and soft at the same time, like an ax falling against rotten wood. Benjamyn’s shouting ceased abruptly, he grunted, and then the grunt became a failing whistle of breath. Flysse felt wetness on her hand.

  She stepped back, staring as Benjamyn went limp in Arcole’s grip. Her husband clutched at the majordomo, no longer fighting to hold him off, but only to hold him up. Benjamyn’s head lolled forward onto Arcole’s chest, and for a horrid moment Flysse saw the stain that spread across the wool of his nightcap. She dropped the candle holder. As it fell, she saw with terrified clarity that the edge was dented and turned back on itself.

  She said, “Oh, God, what have I done?”

  Arcole lowered Benjamyn to the floor and touched gentle fingers to the old man’s neck. “Killed him,” he said.

  Tears formed and began to spill down Flysse’s cheeks. A sob took shape in her throat, cut short by Arcole’s hands on her shoulders.

  “No!” His voice was soft, but nonetheless urgent. “Flysse, don’t cry! We’ve not the time.”

  She stared at him, then down at Benjamyn. She began to tremble.

  Arcole put his arms around her and pulled her tight against his chest. “Listen to me,” he said. “Flysse, do you listen to me? Our lives depend on it, and all our plans.”

  It was hard to stem the shaking that gripped her, but she heard such urgency in his voice, she did her best. She raised a tearful face to his, and when he kissed her—gently—she did not resist, only held him close, seeking the comfort of his arms.

  “I killed him,” she moaned.

  “You had no choice,” he said firmly. “He left you none. Besides, you didn’t mean to do it.”

  She said, “No,” as if the single negative were a prayer of forgiveness.

  “But if he’s found like this,” Arcole said, “we’ll both be blamed, both suffer. Listen to me, Flysse, we’ve likely not much time.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders again and pushed her back. She had sooner he held her close, but he kept her at arm’s length. Reluctantly, she looked into his eyes.

  He said, “First, we must carry him to the kitchen. Do you understand, Flysse?”

  Not sure she did, she nodded.

  “None must suspect we were here.” He loosed his grip just long enough to gesture at Wyme’s study. “All well, we can claim he fell. Yes! We’ll spill some grease on the floor and say
he slipped.”

  Dully, Flysse said, “The floor’s clean, Arcole. It always is; Dido has the scullions scrub it each night.”

  He cursed softly and said, “Then he only slipped. God, he’s old enough—and waking, he was likely doddery. But”—his grip tightened on her shoulders and he shook her gently—“does it come to accusations of murder, then I did it.”

  “No,” she said. “I killed him. The sin is mine.”

  “No sin!” Arcole snapped. “An accident, no more. Did you intend to kill him?”

  Flysse shook her head. “I saw him attack you. I wanted to stop him, only that.”

  “Then in the absence of intention,” he said, “you cannot be guilty. It was an accident! Is there sin, then I claim it. I came to Wyme’s study, I involved you in my plans. What sin exists, Flysse, is mine. And do any suggest it was murder, then I claim that too.”

  She stared at him aghast. “Do you love me so much?”

  Solemnly, he ducked his head. “Yes. Have I not told you? You own my life, Flysse. My life and my heart and my soul.”

  “But it was I hit him,” she said. “I cannot let you take the blame for that.”

  “God!” He smiled at her savagely and tenderly. “Think you I’d not have slain him? He left me little choice, eh? But do you say aught to contradict me in this, then we shall both likely go to the gallows, or be sold off apart to wilderness farms. And then what shall become of Davyd, eh? He needs the one of us, at least. Far best only I be blamed for this. And better still if we can conceal it.”

  She stared at him through eyes so filled with tears, his face was hazy. Could he truly love her so much? There now seemed little doubt. She said, “Arcole, I’m sorry.”

  “No time for apologies now,” he said. “And I’ve my share of those, beside. Shall you do as I …” Almost, he said, “Tell you”; amended it to “Suggest?” And when she nodded, let her go and said, “Then pick up that candle holder and the candle.”

  As she did that, he lifted Benjamyn. The old man’s corpse was light as he carried it toward the kitchen. Over his shoulder he said, “Close the door. And do any come, we were neither of us near the study.”

  Flysse obeyed as if she were a puppet, her strings tugged by his voice. A dreadful numbness gripped her. Her limbs felt heavy, her heart seemed to beat sonorous against her ribs, filling her with sluggish blood. Like that, she thought, that welled from Benjamyn’s shattered skull. She marveled at Arcole’s calm, and at his sacrifice. She thought she could not let him make it.

  She followed him to the kitchen and watched as he set the corpse upon the clean-scrubbed floor. A welling of blood came from the head, pooling slow and thick.

  Arcole surveyed his handiwork and said, “So. He came in and slipped. You”—he gestured at Flysse’s chair—“were sitting there. You dozed, and when you woke, it startled him. He slipped and fell.” He took the candle holder from her and set it close by Benjamyn’s head. Then thought to light the candle and drip wax over the floor; pinch out the candle and drop that nearby. “It may be enough.”

  “And is it not?” Flysse asked.

  “Then he found me at Wyme’s brandy.” Arcole crossed to where that was kept and swilled a mouthful. “He threatened me and we struggled. He fell.”

  “Arcole, I cannot let you do this.”

  He took her face in hands then and said, “Flysse, you can. You must! Do you not see it?”

  She shook her head. He took the incriminating paper from his tunic and gave it her. “Is this found,” he said, “then all is lost. We are lost. You and Davyd and I, all our dreams. If Wyme suspects we were in his study, then, like Benjamyn, he’ll likely remember I can read. And then he’ll find those other papers, the maps, and we shall both be found guilty. And Davyd will have no one, nor hope of escape from this place.”

  “Should that be so bad?” she asked.

  “Do you forget Davyd’s dreams?” he asked in return. And when she helplessly shook her head: “No? Then I beg you do as I say.”

  “You’re sure?”

  He nodded. “I’ve killed enough men that my hands are already bloody. Can I not escape this charge, then perhaps it’s a kind of justice. But I can at least know you and Davyd go free. And do you follow our plan, then you can likely use those maps to escape.”

  “Not without you,” she said.

  “If you must,” he replied. And when she shook her head: “You once extracted promises from me, no? Now I ask the same of you. As you love me, I’ll have your word you will flee this place if you safely can, and with Davyd. Your word, Flysse?”

  Brown eyes locked with blue: his intense, hers blurred by tears. Finally she nodded and said, “Is that your command, Arcole?”

  “No. My wish.”

  “Then,” she said, “I shall seek to fulfill your wish.”

  Then Chryselle entered the kitchen and began to scream when she saw her husband’s body.

  “Coffee, by God!” Governor Wyme gestured irritably and Nathanial sprang to fill the extended cup. “And brandy.”

  Wyme took the decanter and spilled a generous measure into his coffee. He sipped, then closed his eyes and sighed gustily. His head hurt abominably; and as if Danyael Corm had not delivered sufficient bad news the preceding night, he must now face the demise of his majordomo. He did not appreciate the disruption of his sleep or his household, and that did no more than the throbbing of his skull to improve his mood. He tugged his dressing gown tighter across his ample belly and surveyed the scene.

  It was, he thought with irritable amusement, rather like one of those tableaux the common folk found entertaining. The Death of the Old Retainer, or some such trite title. Benjamyn was the centerpiece, and most assuredly dead. Chryselle sobbed—the sound threatening to hurt Wyme’s ears—in Dido’s arms. Young—what was her name?—yes, Flysse, stood pale-faced beside her husband. Fredrik, Wyllem and Gylbert stood like guards to either side. Nathanial stood wide-eyed, staring at the corpse. The other servants hung back, still and silent as waxworks.

  Most definitely, Wyme decided, a tableaux. But of whose making?

  He studied Benjamyn’s body and the candle holder close by. Arcole had offered an explanation that was superficially plausible, but Wyme was not a stupid man and by nature suspicious. He hooked a finger in Nathanial’s direction and said, “Bring me that candle holder.”

  Nathanial obeyed, wincing as he saw the blood that discolored the dented edge. Wyme took the thing without qualms and turned it in his hands.

  Then he pointed at the corpse and said, “Fredrik, turn him over.”

  The head groom obeyed, his face impassive. Wyme said, “Drag him over here.”

  He ignored Chryselle’s renewed weeping as the corpse was hauled across the floor and leant forward to survey the wreckage of Benjamyn’s skull. Then he turned the candle holder around again and looked at Arcole.

  “He slipped, eh?”

  Arcole nodded.

  “And fell?”

  Another silent nod.

  “Onto this?” Wyme held up the candle holder.

  “I suppose so.” Arcole shrugged.

  “Because he was startled when Flysse woke.”

  Arcole nodded again.

  “And where were you?”

  “I was …” Wyme saw Arcole’s eyes dart round, and Flysse stiffen beside him. “I was … sampling your brandy.” He gestured to where the decanter was usually kept.

  Wyme sipped more of the fortified coffee. There was more to this affair than met the eye, but for now he had troubles enough to occupy him. It was definitely time Grostheim had an Inquisitor, he thought. An Inquisitor could unravel this in moments: his own magic did not extend so far. God, he was not even sure his hexing powers extended to protecting the walls from the promised arrival of the demons. But those were thoughts for another day; he shook his head and groaned regret of the movement. If he settled this affair swiftly, he might manage an hour or two’s more sleep.

  “You were stealing my
brandy,” he said. And even as Arcole voiced an affirmative: “And Benjamyn caught you at it. You killed him, no?”

  Arcole said, “No. He slipped and fell.”

  “Either way.” Wyme reached under his dressing gown to scratch his chest. “You are responsible.”

  Flysse said sharply, “No!”

  Arcole said, “Flysse …”

  Wyme looked from one to the other. The woman was involved in this, and by God she was a pretty thing. He wondered he’d not noticed her before. Likely Celinda had, and kept her from him. He glanced at Chryselle and a notion shaped: Had Benjamyn perhaps come seeking Flysse? And Arcole objected, and the two men struggled, and Arcole slain Benjamyn? Or perhaps it was all about stolen brandy. God knew, old Benjamyn was—had been—a disciplinarian, likely to castigate a man for small theft, but a most excellent majordomo. It would be hard to replace him—which irked the governor; and the more for the notion that Arcole should have been ideal as a replacement when Benjamyn died of natural causes or grew too old. He had the finesse, the manners: Wyme had entertained high hopes of Arcole.

  And now they were all dashed at the worst possible time. God, who could take Benjamyn’s place? The household would be in chaos; Celinda would undoubtedly blame him.

  The governor scowled and said, “I believe you killed him. I pronounce you guilty …”

  “Without trial?”

  Wyllem and Gylbert grasped Arcole’s arms as he lunged forward. Fredrik stood before him, a hand raised ready to strike. Praise God for loyal servants, Wyme thought.

  “Take him.” Wyme looked to Fredrik. “There’s a secure place? A shed or suchlike, that can be locked?”

  Fredrik nodded. “Do I clear out some tack, ’sieur.”

  “Then take him there and lock him in,” Wyme said. “Make sure he can’t break out, and I’ll deal with him later. Now the rest of you go to your beds. Nathanial—my crutches.”

  Nathanial hurried to obey as Wyllem and Gylbert took firmer hold of Arcole and Flysse began to sob. She clutched at him and Fredrik pushed her away. She could only watch and weep as he was led out.