by Sam Ferguson
“Is it?” the prince asked.
Jonathan shifted in his seat and looked to Jason, but his older brother only gave a single shake of his head as if to dissuade Jonathan from saying anything further.
“If that were entirely true, then I am certain Orin Ingbrethsen wouldn’t have sent for you.”
“Your highness,” Jonathan began, “I may not be as familiar with the law as you are, but—”
“You most certainly are not,” the prince replied. “If you were, you would know that there are certain types of cases that fall under the inquisitor’s jurisdiction that are not subject to the king’s personal desires.”
“What kinds of cases are we talking about?” Jason asked in a quiet, yet bold tone.
The prince arched a brow. “Why, I thought you knew?”
“The summons didn’t explain the nature of the case, only that we were to meet with Orin Ingbrethsen,” Jason replied.
“Yes of course, but your brother knows, surely.”
Jonathan frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you are getting at.”
The prince cocked his head to the side. “I saw you outside speaking with the junior inquisitor on the case, what else could you have been discussing?”
Jonathan’s eyes widened and he looked to Jason.
His brother only sighed and put his hand to his face.
“I was only making small talk with her,” Jonathan replied. “She didn’t even know who I was when I approached.”
The prince smirked. “This won’t look good, I’m afraid. Coming to the king for help after trying to surreptitiously gain access to the junior inquisitor without formally introducing yourself.”
“What?” Jonathan asked. “What is this all about?”
The prince clapped his hands and five armed guards entered the library.
Jonathan’s first instinct was to fight, but he quashed the thought almost as soon as it came to him. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t recognize any of the guards in the room. There was no way he could either fight or talk his way out of what was happening. Trouble was, he still wasn’t sure why he was even here.
“Take these two to their holding cells to await Orin Ingbrethsen,” the prince ordered. “See that this one is given common clothes. No one on suspicion of treason should be allowed to make a mockery of an officer’s uniform.”
“Treason!?” Jonathan shouted. His right hand curled into a fist as he watched the prince sneer at him.
“Oh, and don’t bother calling out for your lizard. It’s sitting in a proper cage, waiting to share your fate.”
“This is ridiculous!” Jonathan shouted. He turned to Jason, who was still sitting in his chair with his hand on his face. “Say something Jason!”
“There’s nothing he can say!” the prince shouted.
Jason didn’t move until a pair of guards yanked him up and hauled him from the library. Jonathan stepped forward to fight them off, but the other three guards drew their swords. He was a good fighter, but going against three swords with only his hands was suicide.
“You’ve been gone for a long time,” the prince said to Jonathan. “Did you honestly think you could get away with it?”
“I haven’t done anything. Get your father, he’ll tell you the same!”
“My father can’t help you,” the prince snarled.
Something about the prince’s tone made Jonathan realize that the prince wasn’t just delivering a message on his father’s behalf. “Your father doesn’t even know I’m here, does he?” Jonathan asked.
“Even if he did, everything I said about the law’s limitations on his power is accurate,” the prince said. “You made your bed long before you ever took on an officer’s uniform,” the prince continued. “You pretended to be my father’s friend, and maybe he was too blind to see it, but I’m not. I know you for who you are!”
“If you knew anything about me, then you wouldn’t be doing this.” Jonathan locked eyes with the prince, but if he was expecting the prince to back down, he was mistaken.
“See if you can’t cool off his temper a bit,” the prince told the guards. “I don’t want Orin accosted by this… traitor.”
The final word rang in Jonathan’s ears as the guards bound his wrists behind his back and shoved him out into the hallway. During the long walk to an underground prison cell, he thought only of the prince’s smug face, and vowed he would come back and knock the twerp’s teeth out.
CHAPTER FOUR
The guards unceremoniously threw Jonathan into a four by four cell that was too small to even lie down in. At the point of their swords, they forced him to remove his uniform. Before long, he stood in front of them in nothing but his underpants, studying their faces in the dim light coming from the torches hanging outside the cell.
“Do you have any idea who I am?” Jonathan asked.
“I know who you were,” one of the guards replied.
A second guard moved in and delivered a heavy punch to Jonathan’s gut. “That’s for mouthing off to the prince,” he said. “Next time, you will show his highness the respect he deserves.”
By the time Jonathan rose up, the third guard rushed into the cell and sloshed a bucketful of water in Jonathan’s face. “That should help cool your temper before it gets you hanged.”
Jonathan lost control and lunged forward, but all he got for his attempt was a face full of iron bars as the guards slammed the cell door shut.
“Rest well. We’ll bring you some clothes tomorrow,” the first guard said.
Jonathan slammed his hand against the bars and snarled back at the guards, but all he had to show for it was a sore palm. After some time, he backed away from the door and sat against the wall in the driest part of the cell. What could possibly have caused all this? If there had been any real problems with going into Tanglewood Forest, then surely the inquisitor would have done something long before now. It had been years since the last time he had even spoken with Captain Ziegler.
So what could have changed?
“Jason, can you hear me?” Jonathan called out.
There was silence at first, followed by a heavy sigh. “Yeah, I can hear you.”
“What’s happening?” Jonathan asked.
Another sigh. “I have no idea.”
Jonathan leaned his head back against the cold stone wall and stared up at the rough-finished ceiling. “The prince wasn’t like that the last time I saw him.”
“You mean younger and less powerful?” Jason asked.
Jonathan shook his head, allowing it to roll across the stone. “No, I mean angry and…” Jonathan couldn’t find the right word to finish the sentence. “The way he acted was just so strange.”
“I told you, Orin Ingbrethsen isn’t to be trifled with,” Jason commented. “This could be his doing.”
“How so?” Jonathan pressed.
“It could be a tactic to set us off guard,” Jason explained. “We just have to go with the flow of things for now. But don’t worry, they’ll sort themselves out.”
Jonathan puffed a bit of air and shook his head. “Funny that now you’re the calm one and I’m stewing over everything, trying to understand why my life feels like it’s crashing down around me. Before we left Holstead, things were exactly the opposite.”
“Well, to be fair,” Jason began, “I still have my clothes on.”
Jonathan cracked a smile. “You bugger. Don’t sit over there and tease me!”
“You know what else?” Jason asked.
“If you’re about to say that your cell is dry, I don’t want to hear it,” Jonathan said.
Jason chuckled and Jonathan joined in on the laughter, but even as the smile widened on his face he knew that neither of them were half as confident as they were pretending to be. Not anymore. Jason was only putting on an act for him, cheering up his little brother in a time of need. In reality, Jonathan understood that Jason was scared for his life, and likely focused very much on whether he would ever see his wife again,
or get to meet their unborn child.
“Jason,” Jonathan called out after a while. “Whatever this is, I’ll get you through it. You’ll be home again soon, I promise.”
The only answer Jonathan received was silence. For all he knew, his brother had begun to cry. Not that Jonathan had ever seen Jason do such a thing, but given the circumstances it seemed likely. Either that or Jason had perhaps curled up into a corner of his cell and was trying to sleep everything off.
Jonathan was too agitated to pass the time by sleeping. Too wet also. He stared directly ahead at the stone wall and imagined that this all was some sort of mistake. The king would hear of how they were being treated, and he would come to set things right. Or perhaps the older prince would come. The older prince had never been around much during Jonathan’s time as an officer, but he had always thought the man fair and honest. Surely he wouldn’t allow any of this.
Or would they?
Jonathan took in a deep breath. Was it at all possible that this really was about Tanglewood Forest? A long time had passed, but Brykith had been quite the underhanded dog. What if this was some bid for power by one of the noble families? Jonathan tried to think who might benefit from making a stink over Captain Ziegler’s incursion.
He couldn’t remember every elf they had ever spoken too, but he was certain that no one living could twist what they had done and turn it into something nefarious. They had all followed Raven into the elven lands. The wizard had left a trail of clues that eventually brought them to Brykith, but the elven council itself benefitted from thwarting Brykith. Unless… could there be a son or some other relative who now sought vengeance?
No, that was too simple. Anyone after revenge could have simply come to Holstead and attacked. Why go through all this trouble to involve an inquisitor, and what kind of evidence could someone have used to set these things in motion anyhow?
Jonathan sighed, reaching up with his left hand to scratch the side of his head. The prince had called him a traitor. So perhaps the person, or persons, with the problem wasn’t foreign. If the elves had never brought a complaint, then what could cause the prince to accuse Jonathan of betraying the kingdom?
Trade dispute?
No. As far as Jonathan understood, everyone benefitted from the revitalization of elven and dwarven merchant caravans. According to the last time Jonathan had spoken with the minister of trade, exports were up and imports brought tariffs as well as exotic goods and foods. By all accounts, Jonathan had only helped boost every sector of the economy.
Jonathan grunted and rubbed a hand over his face, as if mushing and stretching his skin would help him remove some sort of unseen fog from his mind that clouded his judgment. Something was very, very wrong, and he had to figure out what that something was.
The trouble was, he couldn’t.
He sat in his cell for hours, but nothing he could think of explained what was going on.
It was a long time before he heard the sound of boots coming down the hallway. By then his stomach was growling louder than a borrean cougar, and he was just beginning to notice how numb his feet and legs had become.
“Up,” a guard ordered as he stopped in front of Jonathan’s cell. “Orin Ingbrethsen will see you now.”
Perfect. Jonathan pushed up to his feet, ignoring the shooting needles punishing him for sitting in one cramped position the whole time he had been in the cell.
A second guard arrived, holding a set of shackles that he secured around Jonathan’s wrists and ankles after the first guard opened the cell door.
“Do I get any clothes, or does the high and mighty Orin Ingbrethsen prefer people to wear nothing but their underpants during these kind of interviews?” Jonathan asked.
“If you don’t check your tongue, we’ll take what clothing you do have. How does that sound?”
Jonathan shook his head and stared at the floor. The guards then led him out from the cell and toward the exit.
“What about me?” Jason called out.
“Your turn’s coming!” one of the guards called out.
Of course. Jonathan should have realized that the inquisitor had no intention of bringing them in together. They would be questioned separately. Though Jonathan still had no idea what the case could possibly be about, he did know one thing; they were in far more trouble than he could have ever imagined.
*****
“It wasn’t there, Geno.”
Geno took a long pull on his cigar, letting the warm smoke fill his chest before he exhaled. He kept his eyes on the large Kuscan before him. The fighter was an excellent enforcer, but nearly useless in terms of intelligence. “Are you certain you looked everywhere?” Geno asked.
Guillim nodded. “I scoured the entire room. It wasn’t there.”
Geno stood up and moved to the newly repaired window in his office. He could still feel the lump on the back of his head that Tray Maloy had given him. He bit down on his cigar as his eyes narrowed on the alley beyond his window. “I know he had the key,” Geno said. “If it wasn’t on his person when we killed him, then he must have hidden it.”
“Like I said, boss, I didn’t find anything in his room.”
Geno held up a hand to silence the dumb brute. It was useless talking to Guillim about such things. Explaining himself to him would be as useless as talking to a dog about counting money, perhaps even less so. “You’re dismissed,” Geno said.
Guillim’s heavy steps thumped off toward the door. There was a quick squeal as the door was pulled open, and then a click of the latch as it was shut.
Geno took a final pull from his cigar and then turned away from his window. Blowing the smoke toward the ceiling, he took the cigar and set it into the crystal tray upon his desk. He needed someone he could trust to get the job done right. He exited his office and walked through the main hall. Guillim was quick to follow him. The Kuscan wasn’t much of a thinker, but like any well-bred attack dog, he was loyal and always close by in case of need. Only a few of the patrons dared to look up as the two made their way to the stairs on the far side of the hall. Geno’s knee popped on the third step, a quick and painful reminder of an accident that after many years still refused to heal, but he merely grunted and continued upward.
Reaching the second floor, Geno quickly walked to the end of the hallway and knocked on the last door on the right.
“It’s open,” a smoky voice called from within.
“Stay here,” Geno told Guillim. The large Kuscan nodded, then folded his arms and stood to guard the door as Geno slipped in.
The room was well lit, with a bed along one wall, a small table with two chairs near the door, and a long, narrow desk at the back of the room set away from the window for obvious reasons. At the desk, behind a thick book, sat a beautiful woman with hair so red that rubies would pale by comparison. Her green eyes looked up at Geno and she smiled.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Geno closed the door and moved around the table, dragging one of the wooden chairs along with him so he could sit closer to her. “I hope the accommodations are up to your standard.”
“You know they aren’t,” she replied evenly. Her tone was direct, but pleasant.
“Well, it’s the best room I have, and you were only coming for a couple of nights,” Geno explained.
“Next time, you should rent a suite at my usual place,” she insisted. “I’m not accustomed to checking for bedbugs.”
Geno smirked. “I needed you…closer. This particular deal is more important than most.”
She nodded. “I know, Geno. That’s the only reason I agreed to come here in the first place. Now, back to the reason for your visit, what do you need?”
“I need you to do a bit of digging around,” Geno said.
“Tray Maloy outsmarted you?”
Geno bristled. From anyone else he would never accept such a statement, but with Lyra it was just part of the game. If he wanted to use her skills, he knew he would have to endure a bit of prick
ly wit from time to time. “We both know that Tray is not a simple man,” Geno said.
Lyra smiled, her green eyes flashing above her ruby lips. “If that’s the best retort you have to offer, then you are losing your touch,” she said.
“Lyra, he hid the key.”
“Oh my,” Lyra said, a hint of mockery in her tone. “We are in a pickle then, aren’t we? I told you not to trust him. Now that he has outfoxed you, I am the one you want to clean up the mess? It’s going to cost double the usual fee.”
“No,” Geno said with a quick shake of his head. “Ten percent more than usual, and not a single copper more.”
Lyra laughed and reached up to pull a strand of hair from her face. “Very well,” she said, but Geno knew that she wasn’t finished negotiating just yet. She was giving him an easy victory before she unveiled what she really wanted. “I’ll need five hundred gold pieces for expenses,” she said.
“What kind of expenses?” Geno asked.
Lyra shook her head. “Better you not know exactly which wheels the grease is applied to,” Lyra replied evenly. “If I get caught, you will need plausible deniability.”
Geno smirked. Plausible deniability indeed! “If you ever get caught, that will be the day we are all ruined. Whether or not I know exactly what you do with an expense account will have little sway over my fate on such an occasion.”
Lyra nodded. “True, but a lady would never kiss and tell.”
“You mean bribe and tell,” Geno said. “I’ll give you four hundred, which is more than enough for any squeaky wheels in this town, and you can pocket the difference afterward.”
“Dear Geno, I always pocket the difference. Where do you think this came from?” Lyra asked as she straightened in her seat to display an emerald pendant hanging from a gold chain. Geno glanced at the necklace, and then shifted his eyes back up to hers rather than allow them to stare at her low-cut dress. Not that he personally had scruples about such things, but Lyra was not to be taken lightly. She was the one woman even he was too afraid to put the moves on.
