Dark Jenny

by Alex Bledsoe

  “All taken care of.” He produced a folded parchment, sealed with embossed wax. “Give this to Elliot. Show the seal to anyone who questions you. Bob’s already arranging the horse. There are messenger stations all along the route where you can change mounts.”

  “Awfully sure of yourself, aren’t you? Good thing I said yes, or you’d have looked pretty silly.” I pocketed the items. “Normally I get half my fee in advance.”

  He put one hand on my shoulder. The weight, both physical and moral, was considerable. “I don’t pretend to believe you’re doing this just for the money, Mr. LaCrosse. I’ve been lucky enough to encounter more decent men than not in my life. I’m glad you’ve continued that trend.” He paused. “And you’ll find your entire fee with Bob.”

  I didn’t laugh in his face, but the urge was pretty damn strong. Instead I said, “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “What if you go to all this trouble and Spears loses?”

  “Only someone from off this island would ever ask that. Thank you again, Mr. LaCrosse.”

  “Wait,” I said suddenly. “Since you’re getting my services so cheaply, I want you to throw in a favor.”

  “What?”

  “Ten minutes alone with the queen.”

  He blinked, and his expression subtly grew harder. I’d seen that same look on the faces of many irate husbands; it was nice to know that he was, deep down, so typical. “Why?” he asked with frightening calm.

  “Use your imagination.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “And I’m not joking. I’ve spent the last two days investigating a murder an awful lot of people believe the queen committed. I’d like some resolution just for my own sake.”

  “She won’t come.”

  “She will if you tell her to.”

  “And I’d pay for it for the next three weeks.”

  I wasn’t sympathetic. “Crowns are heavy, aren’t they?”

  He thought for a moment. “All right, I’ll send her. But she won’t be pleasant.”

  Neither, I thought, will I. But I kept that to myself.

  chapter

  TWELVE

  I poured two drinks and had just stoppered the decanter when the secret passage opened again and Queen Jennifer Drake emerged. She started to close it behind her, but I said, “Leave it open. That way I’ll know no one’s on the other side listening.”

  She stared at me with a mix of surprise and contempt. She looked soft and feminine in her casual finery, but the fire in her eyes was as sharp as ever. “I am yours for ten minutes, Mr. LaCrosse. Don’t waste it being clever.”

  “Occupational hazard,” I said, and offered her a drink. She looked at it and back at me, making no move to take it. I shrugged, put hers back on the bar, and sipped mine. “I overheard you and your serving girl Rebecca in the courtyard last night.”

  The reaction was so minuscule I almost missed it. “I was in a courtyard?” she asked coolly.

  I nodded. “And you were … underdressed.”

  She looked back at the open passage, then took a casual step toward me. Most men would’ve thought nothing about the movement. I said, “That’s close enough. Anyone can be dangerous if they get within arm’s reach.”

  “I merely wanted the drink you offered.”

  I mock-bowed and handed it to her. She turned it up and drank half of it. It got no more reaction than my revelation.

  “So were you skulking about in the shadows last night?” she said. “That’s what your kind does best, isn’t it?”

  “It was entirely an accident, believe it or not. But it did leave me with the nagging question of why a queen would let her lowly attendant rip her a new one that way.”

  Jennifer smiled slightly. “You turn a colorful phrase, Mr. LaCrosse. You didn’t ask why I chose to be naked.”

  “Didn’t have to. I’ve met moon worshippers before.”

  This time a red flush crept up her face. It could’ve been a delayed effect of her drink, of course.

  “And,” I continued, “I’ve met queens. But never one so demure to a lesser mortal.”

  “Will you accept,” she said after a moment, “that both my presence in the courtyard and the conversation with Rebecca have nothing to do with the murder of Sam Patrice? And therefore are no concern of yours?”

  I shook my head. “You’ve forfeited your right to be taken at your word, Your Majesty.”

  I’d basically called her a liar to her face, but she showed no reaction at all. At last she said, “What did Marc say?”

  “You know I haven’t told him.”

  “And why is that? I’d think the opportunity to bring down a queen would be too strong to resist.”

  “Oh, I’m good at resisting. Besides, you’re not my queen, so I really don’t have a knight in this joust. I just want to know why you let Rebecca talk to you that way.”

  “And how will that help solve this crime?”

  “I won’t know until I get an answer.”

  She chuckled without humor. “Very well. In all ways I am her superior, except in matters seen under the moon. Last night she came to me in that role, and in that role she had the right to speak to me as she did.”

  That made sense based on what I knew about moon priestesses. Their rank had nothing to do with age or their station in life, so a lady-in-waiting could have seniority over a queen. “Are you in league with your husband’s sister? She’s a moon priestess, too, I hear.”

  “Hardly. Megan Drake is a single-minded creature bent on revenge for a wrong committed against her mother by Marc’s father. For that reason, she’s been banned from the island. And for that reason, so has worship of the moon.”

  She took another drink, and anger fueled her words. “Oh, it still occurs; it always will. But it’s furtive now, hidden, disreputable. If the great King Marcus hates it, it must be a bad thing. That’s how the common thought goes.” She looked at me. “Can you imagine his reaction if he found out his own queen, his own wife, took part in it behind his back? That one day she would become a priestess able to lead rituals?”

  “Is that what Rebecca meant when she said you were ‘so close’?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know, Marc seems a pretty levelheaded guy. He might support it. And even if he didn’t, you are the queen.”

  “Make no mistake, Mr. LaCrosse. In Grand Bruan, Marc is the jewel; I am merely the setting. I can be replaced.”

  I raised my glass. “You turn a colorful phrase yourself.”

  She bowed slightly to acknowledge the compliment. Then she continued, “He allows me great freedom, but he expects his few absolutes to be followed. And one of them is that moon worshipping is forbidden.”

  “So if I tell him what I saw, you’re screwed.”

  “Pithy. And accurate.”

  “You also mentioned someone named Kindermord. Who is that?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a name that came up a lot back when Marc was first crowned king, but I never met the man. And Marc never talks about him anymore.”

  “He said it was old gossip. What about?”

  “I really don’t know. It’s been twenty years, at least.” She finished her drink. “Is there anything else?”

  “Did you really have those apples with you the entire time?”

  Her hard expression softened enough to show real fear. “Mr. LaCrosse, with the moon as my judge, I picked them myself, brought them in my personal baggage, and never let them out of my sight except for the five minutes prior to the actual banquet, when I left them in the extremely crowded kitchen in the care of some pretty young serving girl I’d never seen before in my life.”

  “Who got beaten up by your man Agravaine.”

  Her face darkened. “He is not my man.”

  “He’s one of the few knights who seems blindly loyal to you.”

  Through clenched teeth she said, “That may be. I have no control over his unhealthy obsessions. But whatev
er he’s done is at the whistle of his master, not me.”

  “Who’s his ‘master’?”

  The distaste in her voice was enough to sour milk. “Marc’s nephew. Medraft.”

  That name, spoken so casually, brought me up short. “Not Ted Medraft?” I asked softly.

  My reaction didn’t surprise her. “Yes. The infamous ‘Dread Ted.’ You know him, then?”

  This was unexpected, and unpleasant. And I should’ve thought of it myself. During my final campaign as a mercenary, just before I woke up as the only survivor of a whorehouse massacre and vowed to change my ways, we got a visit from a contingent of young Knights of the Double Tarn cadets. They were there to get a taste of actual combat, something no longer possible on Grand Bruan.

  I couldn’t tell you who the others were. But Ted Medraft stuck with me. Part of it was his youth: he was barely a teen, dark-haired and bare-cheeked. He was soft and rather overrefined for a knight, and the rumor was he’d got his commission through connections rather than merit. At the time, I could not have cared less.

  The exchange program ended before it really started, though. Our unit commander, a grizzled old soldier who’d seen more corpses than a village full of gravediggers, sent the cadets packing without even time to rest their horses. When they were gone, and the commander had got suitably drunk, he told us why.

  It seems young Medraft sat in on an interrogation and offered to help motivate the subject. What this involved was kind of vague, but it made one officer in charge pass out and then desert the unit. The other later beat someone senseless for merely asking about it.

  By now Medraft would be grown, and the talents he demonstrated as a youth would be refined and perfected. That’s not something I wanted to contemplate.

  And I had no idea he was Marcus Drake’s nephew. “By reputation,” I said to answer her question. “Then his mother is…”

  “Marc’s sister Megan.”

  I poured another drink. “If I’d known he was involved, I’d have raised my rates.”

  “Yes. Ted takes an ‘interest’ in me. The way a man takes an interest in a friend’s wife. I’ve never encouraged it, but he’s let me know that, should I ever be threatened, he will make sure the threat … goes away. And Agravaine, who’s always underfoot, is like the younger brother who fancies his elder sibling’s girlfriend. He makes sure Ted knows everything, secretly hoping Ted will lose interest and he’ll be able to step in.”

  “A charmer.”

  “Which one?”

  “Both.”

  “Indeed. Although Ted actually can be charming. And he has quite a flair for love poetry.” She paused. “Is that all?”

  “It’s all I know to ask. Is there anything you want to tell?”

  “I did not poison those apples. Nor do I know who did. That is all I can tell because that is all I know.”

  “Then I guess we’re done.” I bowed. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You have a surprising sophistication, Mr. LaCrosse. You haven’t always been a ‘sword jockey,’ have you?”

  “No, I used to be a shoemaker. But my sole wasn’t in it.”

  She smiled, lopsided and wry. Despite everything, I liked her; if she was stringing me along with lies, then maybe I should be a shoemaker. She left through the hidden door, which closed silently behind her. I finished my drink, considered another, then thought better of it. My observational skills had got bad enough without more help.

  There was a knock at my door. Before I moved the chair, I said, “Yeah?”

  “It’s Bob Kay.”

  The bolt slid aside and Kay entered. I held out my wrists for the manacles. He sighed, “Oh, stop it.” He closed the door behind him and said in a low voice, “Marc sent me to explain the plan for getting you out.”

  “Can’t I just walk out the door?”

  “Agravaine and his pals know you’re leaving. They’ll be waiting for you tonight at the main gate.”

  “How do they know?”

  “Because I told them. I want them waiting at that gate. They also know that Gillian’s asked for trial by combat. Unless they can pin the crime on you, specifically a dead you, they know the queen will be found guilty.”

  I scowled. These vaunted knights, purveyors of chivalry and all that was good in men, sure didn’t live up to their publicity. “How did you guys manage to get this shining-armor reputation again?”

  “There was a time,” he said sadly.

  “Do all the frilly important people still think I’m guilty?”

  He nodded. “The longer we keep them locked up here, the more certain they are, even after Marc’s little show. That’s why Agravaine wants to make quick work of you, so they can post your head at the gate and get Jennifer off the hook.”

  “So Agravaine’s after me, and that means, indirectly, that Ted Medraft is after me.”

  Kay’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know about Medraft?”

  “How does anybody?”

  “Well, lucky for you Medraft’s not here. Marc keeps him assigned to the northern posts, where his particular skills are best used. He may barely be a man age-wise, but just knowing he’s in the area gives a lot of raiding parties second thoughts.”

  I had to laugh. “And Marc thinks I can just waltz out and go fetch his pal Elliot.”

  “Marc asked me to make sure you get out of the castle without running into any problems, and I’ll do that.” Kay walked past me to the window and looked out. “Come here. See that hill right there, the one that lines up with that archery notch on the wall? When the moon touches the top of it, it’ll be well past midnight. Come downstairs into the banquet hall. It’ll be empty. There’s a serving-room entrance hidden behind the Battle of Tarpolita tapestry; can you find that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Go into the hallway behind it and find the grate in the floor. Lift that and climb down. It’s a drainage tunnel that runs under the castle so the cliff doesn’t erode out from under us. It’s mostly dry this time of year. I’ll meet you at the end of it with a horse.”

  “And then what?”

  He unrolled a small parchment on the bed. “This is a map of the route, although I doubt you’ll need it. The road from here to Blithe Ward is a major thoroughfare, and it’s practically a straight line right across the island. There are a few crossroads towns, but they shouldn’t confuse you. And here are the courier stations where you can switch horses. You can’t miss them, either.”

  “There’s one thing nobody’s faced up to,” I said. “What if Spears says no?”

  “He won’t,” Kay said with certainty.

  “But if he does?”

  Kay sighed, the weariness of a man carrying more than a single lifetime’s disappointment. “Then I hope you like heat, because this island will burn.”

  chapter

  THIRTEEN

  After Kay left, I locked the door again and walked to the window. It was dark now, and the shadows in the courtyard below told me the moon was just rising. It would probably not reach the hilltop for a few hours. Not only would that be past midnight, it would be awfully close to morning and wouldn’t leave me a lot of darkness to use. I figured I might as well try to get some sleep, and the drinks I’d guzzled during my interviews made that actually feasible.

  I stretched out on the bed, fully dressed down to my boots; I wasn’t quite ready to relax all the way yet. But with some forced deep breathing, I got calm enough that my mind drifted, and I assume I did sleep a little.

  Until another knock, softer than Kay’s, snapped me wide-awake.

  I slid from the bed, drew my knife with my left hand (I was getting better at that), and pressed myself flat against the wall beside the door. Mock-sleepily I said, “Yeah?”

  “It’s me,” a female voice said, too quietly to be recognized.

  “Me is half of what a cat says.”

  “It’s Iris.”

  I put the knife away and opened the door. She wore a dark cloak with a
hood. I could see only her lips, chin, and the hollow of her throat. But I recognized her just the same. The sweep of her shoulders and the little smile lines at either end of her mouth were unmistakable; I’d know her at a hundred yards in the fog.

  “‘Me is half of what a cat says’?” she repeated drily.

  “Ow is the other half.”

  “Oh, I got it,” she assured me.

  “Late for a house call, isn’t it?”

  “I go where the injuries are.” She pushed back the hood to reveal a serious, though no less lovely, face. “Bob Kay asked me to check your hand before you left. He said you might run into trouble and wanted to be sure you were as sturdy as we could make you.”

  “Really?” I did my best not to grin. I was only partially successful.

  “Aren’t you a little old to keep acting like a horny teenager?” she said, but with a smile. “This could just be a trick to get close enough to do you in.”

  I closed the door behind her. “A man’s got to die from something.”

  She slipped the cloak from her shoulders and tossed it over the back of a chair. “Truer words were never spoken.”

  My grin faded. She held a long, shining straight razor.

  She scowled when she saw my expression. “Oh, for God’s sake. I’m not going to slit your throat. I just thought that if you lost your beard, you’d be harder to recognize.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’re paranoid.”

  “It’s served me well.”

  “Yeah, well, not tonight it hasn’t.” She quickly arranged a pitcher and bowl on the table, turned a chair toward the lamp, and motioned for me to sit.

  “You’re going to shave me?” I said dubiously.

  She put one hand on her hip. It accented her curves, as did the long, low-cut dress, complete with black lace at the wrists. I suddenly realized that she’d dressed up for me. “The first surgeons were also barbers,” she said wryly. “Trust me.”